The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Read online

  Steffan hid his smile. He preferred to lead from the back, manipulating from behind the curtains…but sometimes the citizens of Coronth needed to feel the Lord Raven’s stern hand. Thinking of the startled faces in the hallway, he nearly laughed…sheep trembling before the wolf…but the sheep would learn to bleat a different tune. The confessions would soon bear better fruit. He was looking forward to reading the acolyte’s scrolls. Suspicion had become a way of life in Coronth. The citizens would confess to save their own lives. He’d soon have the names of the rebels…it was only a matter of time.

  40

  The Priestess

  The Dark Lord’s voice thundered through her mind, “It is time!”

  The Priestess dismissed her servants, her heart leaping with anticipation. At last! Eager to answer the summons, she made her way through the marble corridors to the secluded garden at the rear of the villa.

  “It is time! Come to me!”

  Moonlight silvered the midnight blossoms. Clad in a sheath of sheer black silk, she walked barefoot through her garden, past the purple pendants of flowering nightshade and the white spiky flowers of baneberry and the elegant knee-high foliage of hemlock. Her garden was in full bloom, ripe with death. Subtle and sure, the blossoms and vines waited like their mistress for the chance to kill. “Soon, so soon,” she crooned to her dark beauties, reveling in their musky scent, a promise of death in the night.

  Beyond the garden, she reached the gnarled hawthorn trees. The creatures of the surrounding swamp serenaded the half moon but the sounds fell away within the grove, smothered to a dark solitude.

  A ring of basalt stones formed the Oracle, a black mouth gaping open to the night sky. The Priestess bowed low and knelt by the ancient well, leaning across the dark stones. The eternal cold of the stones sucked the warmth from her body, an offering to the god. She gazed into the water, her raven-black hair cascading around her face like a veil. “I am here, my Lord.” Her voice was a throaty whisper.

  “It is time!”

  Power spiked through her like a sword thrust. She arched her back, fingernails scraping against stone. Each thrust deepened her power, her heart quickening to the dark rhythm. A scream hovered on her lips. She threw her head back in tortured ecstasy, pain and pleasure becoming one. The moment stretched to an eternity.

  The Dark Lord withdrew. Her spasms slowly subsided…but the brimming power remained. The Priestess thrummed with potent possibilities. Taking a deep breath, she cast her power onto the dark waters. Images danced across the surface. She expected to see the Mordant weaving a trail of blood and chaos across the eastern kingdoms, but the waters of the well showed her something else, something unexpected. The image resolved into a courtyard of a great castle, scaffolds lining the far wall, a great black cauldron set to boil over a bonfire. The image sharpened, showing her the face of the prisoner. Her breath caught in surprise. She watched spellbound as the captured one struggled against the soldiers, only to be thrown into the bubbling cauldron. His death was messy. Flailing arms and parboiled skin, he screamed in agony. She held her breath and leaned forward, knowing that death would not be the end. The image did not disappoint. The floating corpse sat up, the eyes bright with the baleful red light of hell. But instead of triumph she witnessed eternal defeat.

  “Watch and be warned. This one failed me.”

  The Dark Lord revoked his favor. The horror of hell collapsed across the harlequin’s face, never to be reborn again, paying the ultimate price for his failure. Dread shuddered through her. She told herself that he was a young and inexperienced, but the lesson could not be denied. There were no excuses, no leniency with the Dark Lord. One served and succeeded or faced the eternal damnations of hell. Her voice was a low whisper. “I will not fail you, Lord.”

  “See that you don’t. Now watch and remember. There is much to be done to make up for the failure in Lanverness.”

  Images flashed across the surface of the waters, faces of those tainted by Darkness. She saw a young man, shackled and chained, screaming in the depths of a dungeon. She saw a turbaned prince, eyes dark with cunning, scheming for a chance to gain a golden throne. She saw the Pontifax walk through the Flames, the crowd screaming in religious ecstasy, seduced by the miracle.

  The scene shifted and she saw images of the future, ripe with dark possibilities. Some scenes were familiar, but others were new. The Dark Lord revealed his plans, a complex tapestry woven of dark deeds and darker details. She saw her part in the great design. Every image brought something new, a flood of complexities. She stared into the water, memorizing faces and places, marking turning points and triumphs, a myriad of dark details in the grand design.

  The images stilled, the colors fading to absolute black. Dark as a starless sky, dark as a tomb, the water lay mirror flat, an inky darkness laden with mystery and menace.

  The Dark Lord’s voice rumbled in her mind. “And now the test. Thrust your hand into the water.”

  Fear shivered down her back. She’d heard rumors about the nature of the water…none of them good. Yet she dared not fail, or even hesitate, she’d witnessed the consequences. Leaning forward, she lowered her right hand into the inky darkness. The water swallowed her hand like an offering, closing around her wrist like a hungry mouth.

  Cold bit her hand.

  A thousand daggers of freezing pain pierced her to the bone. She bit back a scream and willed her hand to endure. She tried to move her fingers, to clench her fist, but if her hand obeyed, she could not tell. The pain intensified. She felt the skin flayed from the hand, flesh peeled from the bone. Agony ripped into her. Fighting against every instinct, she refused to remove her hand. Sweat beaded on her brow. She clenched her teeth in defiance, knowing better than to ask for mercy from the Dark God. “Y-your…w-will…Lord.”

  Something grabbed her hand, jerking her further into the well. The dark water closed around her elbow. Pain ripped into her, like hungry mouths tearing at her flesh. The hand was gone, devoured by cold…and now the pain feasted on her lower arm, flaying away the skin, eating her by inches. She clung to the lip of the well with her left hand, panic in her grip, afraid of being pulled in…but her will held. Her right arm remained in the water, consumed by pain. A scream ripped out of her, but she kept her arm in the water. So much pain, she doubted there was anything left but bone dangling below the dark surface, the gnarled claw of a skeleton.

  A great power thrust her backward, flinging her from the water. She hit the ground hard, staring up at the half moon. Struggling to sit, she was afraid to look at her hand, afraid she’d find nothing but a bony claw…but she found flesh instead. Her hand was whole and unharmed, clasped tight into a fist. She stared at it in amazement, her beautiful hand…the pain only a searing memory.

  “Open your hand. You have gained the reward of obedience.”

  Her fingers refused to unclench. She willed them open. Lying on her palm was a smooth, oval moonstone, pale as a winter moon. She gasped with recognition, staring in wonder, a dark legend long thought to be lost. Her words were a whisper of reverence, “The Eye of the Oracle!”

  “Use it well. And now it is time for you to take up your role in the great dark design.”

  She clutched the pale moonstone to her breast. “I will not fail you, Lord.”

  “You are released from the duties of the Oracle. My Priestess is inflicted on the lands of Erdhe!”

  She knelt before the Oracle. “May your pleasure reign, Lord.”

  “See that you remember.”

  The thrust came without preamble. The Dark Lord claimed her for his own. Power spiked through her, deep and hard and relentless. Consumed by passion, the Priestess shuddered, overwhelmed by the ecstasy of absolute Darkness.

  41

  Katherine

  Kath walked with Duncan beneath the great trees. Domed tents glowed with lamplight, looking like giant mushrooms clustered around the massive trunks. A sparkle of fireflies blinked between the tents, weaving trails of tiny lights. Nigh
t had fallen, yet the sacred grove was alive with light and life. Kath drank in the sights, captured by the magic of the forest. She even thought she heard laughter coming from the green vault overhead. Stopping to stare into the heights, she whispered to Duncan, “Do you hear it? Even the trees laugh!”

  He echoed the laughter, a rich warm sound, full of depth and life. She liked his laugh; she wanted to hear more of it. He stood close behind her and pointed upward, guiding her sight. “It’s only the children.”

  She thought he was joking. “You jest!”

  “No!” He chuckled. “Watch and perhaps you’ll see.”

  “But it’s pitch dark and some of those branches are impossibly high.”

  “You underestimate them. Golden eyes see as well in the dark as you see at the height of day.”

  She turned and stared at his mismatched eyes, wondering what other differences lay undiscovered. “So why do they scale the trees at night?”

  “To capture birds while they sleep. It is the children’s task to collect the feathers for the capes of the clan chiefs. Only two specific feathers are taken, and then the birds are released, unharmed. The birds fill the forest with song and color while they re-grow their feathers. It takes a lot of birds to make a single cape…and by then, the children are grown sure-footed in the limbs of the great trees, one with the forest.”

  The simple tale matched the magic of the place. Kath smiled, “I can imagine you as a child among the tree limbs, the first to make a cape.”

  The smile fled from his face, replaced by something hard. “Feathers gathered by a half-breed are unworthy.”

  She gripped her sword hilt in anger; prejudice again, the thorn that ruined paradise.

  He pointed to the right. “This way.”

  The mood was broken. Instead of meandering, he led her straight to the tent they shared with their companions. A gift from the clans, the domed tent was large and spacious, a fire crackling in the center. Danya sat on one side, her arms wrapped around the wolf, crooning a wordless tune to the still form. The two knights sat across from her, the hilts of their great swords looming over their right shoulders, their silver surcoats glinting in the firelight.

  Kath stared at Danya, worried about her friend. Glazed eyes and a deathly pale face, she sat in a trance, as if her life dwindled with the wolf’s. Two days had passed and still the wolf did not stir. And every day that passed, Danya fell deeper into her malaise…and every day delayed gave the Mordant a greater lead. Kath felt torn between the needs of her companions and the need to pursue evil.

  She circled the fire and crouched beside the two knights. “Any change?”

  Blaine shook his head. “She sings a wordless tune and dribbles broth in the wolf’s mouth, but if there is any change, I do not see it.” His voice dropped to a whisper, worry written across his face. “It’s not natural. The girl is almost as far gone as the wolf. It’s as if she’s under a dark spell.” He made the hand sign against evil. “She doesn’t talk and she barely eats. Unless the wolf wakes soon, we may lose them both.”

  “No!” The word rushed out of Kath with fierce conviction. “We can’t lose either of them. The wolf saved Duncan’s life and Danya was chosen by the Grand Master. They’re meant to be with us. There must be some way to save them.”

  Blaine’s face was bleak. “I’ve never heard of anyone trying to heal a wolf.”

  Kath stared at the blonde-haired knight, finding wisdom beneath his words. She looked for the monk. “Where’s Zith?”

  Sir Tyrone answered, “Walking with the Treespeaker. Those two have grown as thick as moss on a shady log. Makes you wonder what they have to talk about.”

  As if summoned, the monk ducked beneath the tent flap. The old man stood tall in his robe of midnight blue, his face lined with determination. He seemed changed, as if he’d shucked off the cocoon of grief, becoming somehow stronger. Kath wondered if it was the influence of the Treespeaker.

  Zith nodded to Kath. “It is good to find you here.”

  He stepped aside and the Treespeaker entered. Tall and stately, with long silver hair and a serene face that belied her age, the Treespeaker’s presence filled the tent.

  Kath scrambled to stand, startled by the visit. “You honor us with your presence.” She felt the weight of the Treespeaker’s strange golden stare, eyes without pupils, eyes of the forest, old eyes, peering into her very soul. Images flashed through Kath’s mind, the crystal dagger, Danya and the wolf, the Kiralynn monastery, Duncan in the meadow. Suddenly released, Kath staggered backwards. She took a steadying breath, wondering what thoughts the tree-witch had plucked from her mind.

  The Treespeaker’s gaze passed to each of the companions, staring the longest at Danya and the wolf. Tension rippled through the tent. Her golden gaze returned to Kath, her face impossible to read. “The Kiralynn monk is owed a debt for the breaking of hearth welcome beneath the Mother Tree. The monk has asked that we attempt to heal the wolf.”

  Hope leaped in Kath. “Can you do it?”

  “Two are broken here, not just one. The girl is lost in the dreams of the wolf. Both are caught in the gray veil, in the realm between this life and the next. Something Dark holds them in thrall. Both will be saved or both will be lost.”

  “But can you help them?”

  “You have more enemies than you know.” The green diadem at her brow flashed in the firelight, as if to dispel the darkness. “There is more at work here than a simple injury. The woman and the wolf are both lost to the in-between, stuck between life and death, held captive by Darkness. A companion, someone familiar to the wolf and woman, must enter the veil and bring them back. One of you must take this risk…or there will be no healing.”

  Kath stared at Danya, at her gaunt face and the desperate way she clutched the wolf. She couldn’t let her slip away without a fight, but she wondered if Danya would respond better to Blaine’s voice. The two had grown close…or at least the knight was smitten if not the woman.

  *I know you hear me.*

  Startled, Kath stared at the Treespeaker.

  *The blonde knight cares for the girl but he has no affinity for magic. You are the one who must enter the veil.*

  *Why me?*

  *You carry the crystal dagger and your mind is attuned to magic. You are not of the Forest, yet you feel the rustling power of the towering green. The Forest stares at you and you stare back.*

  Kath shivered, remembering the golden eyes invading her dreams.

  *The woman and the wolf require a champion. Their bodies will die unless their souls are returned. The choice is yours to make.*

  *And the risk?*

  The Treespeaker gave her a knowing smile. *You are wise to ask, for magic always carries a risk.* She peered at Kath as if measuring her soul. *Something Dark reaches through the wolf to trap the woman. If you enter the wolf’s dreams you too may be trapped by the Darkness, your soul locked in the gray veil while your body dwindles and dies.”

  Kath gripped her sword hilt. This was a fight of a different sort, something she did not understand and could not predict.

  “I will do what I can to aid you, but the decision is yours.”

  Kath fingered the crystal dagger, certain that Danya and the wolf were both meant to see the quest to the end. “I won’t let them die. I choose to try.”

  The Treespeaker nodded. “Then come with me. Their bodies wear thin. We must call them back before they are forever lost.” She clapped her hands and a green robed attendant ducked to enter the tent. “Bring the wolf.”

  Blaine said, “I’ll carry him.” But the Treespeaker motioned him to stillness.

  The attendant crouched to gather the wolf in his arms, muscles bulging against the beast’s dead weight. Danya murmured a weak protest but then stood as if in a trance, her eyes glazed, her hand clutching the wolf’s fur.

  The Treespeaker spoke to the others. “The rest of you must wait here. Your presence will only be a dangerous distraction.” Her words were a command but
Duncan dared to step forward. “You named me a son of the Forest.” His gaze held the Treespeaker’s.

  “And so you are. But only clan leaders are called to the hidden grove.”

  Duncan’s eyes widened with something that verged on awe…or perhaps fear. Offering the Treespeaker a half bow, he stepped back to stand beside Kath.

  The Treespeaker slipped from the tent.

  Kath met the stares of her companions, the naked worry in Blaine’s face and Zith’s concerned glance, but it was Duncan she spoke to. “I’ll be back.”

  Duncan gripped her arm, lightning in his grasp.

  She met his mismatched stare. “I’ll do my best.”

  His smile was wry but his gaze intent. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  She felt awkward in front of the knights, but need won out. She gave him a quick kiss and then fled the tent.

  The Treespeaker waited outside, her golden gaze unreadable. Moonlight glinted on her silver hair and white-feather robes, anointing the lady of the forest in a pale white light. “Follow me.” Serene as a falling leaf, she wove a path through the mushroomed domes, moving beyond the tents and deeper into the sacred grove. Light from the campfires dwindled and the gentle hum of conversations fell away, replaced by the glow of fireflies and the serenade of tree frogs. Starlight filtered through the breaks in the canopy, a peaceful night, but Kath felt the forest watching, judging, as if something of importance would be decided this night.

  They passed through a stand of head-high aspens, the leaves of the saplings silvered by moonlight. The young trees formed a living curtain, dividing the campsite from the inner grove. Leaves brushed against Kath’s face and arms, as if they memorized her features.

  They emerged to walk beneath forest giants. Immense redwoods towered in two straight rows, massive columns forming a long hall roofed with living green. Between the trees, two bonfires crackled, filling the grove with flickering light and the soothing scent of pine. Flat moss-covered stones formed an oval of low seats around the fires. Feather-cloaked clan leaders sat waiting on the stones, their backs straight as swords. For a heartbeat, the clan leaders seemed like massive birds of prey, their hungry stares fierce and golden. Kath shook her head to dispel the illusion.