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

  They came across a burnt village, a flap of crows rising into a darkening sky, scavengers disturbed from a grim feast. Bryx loosed a mournful howl. Blaine found himself agreeing with the wolf. He stared at the blackened ruin, amazed that one man could cause so much desolation, yet there was never anything to fight, never any foe to face. It was as if they chased a dark shadow, following footprints of evil across the southern kingdoms, but never finding the source.

  Twilight descended, but none of the companions wanted to camp in the fire-ravaged land. The moon rose full, so they pressed on, riding by the silvery light. They reached the main road and turned north, holding the horses to a steady trot. The blackened hell gradually gave way to rich farmland, vineyards and fields of grain ripe for the harvest. The road passed through an orchard, the horses’ hooves churning the fallen apples into cider. Blaine breathed deep, relieved to be free of the burned stench, relieved to find a limit to the Mordant’s shadow.

  They stopped at the first inn, but kept to themselves, avoiding trouble, avoiding traps. On the tenth day, they came to the Snowmelt River, a cold torrent of slate-green water and white foam. A great stone bridge spanned the river, the proud banner of the Octagon flying from a tower turret, maroon on a field of silver.

  Blaine straightened at the sight of the banner, a flush of pride rushing through him. He’d been gone too long, almost a full year, chasing shadows with nothing to show for it, never once blooding his sword in combat, a waste of blue steel. Pride and regret warred within him. He was glad to return, hungry for the brotherhood of swords…but doubt gnawed at him, knowing he hadn’t earned his blue blade.

  They slowed their mounts to a walk, hooves ringing against stone.

  A knight holding a spear stepped from the shadows of the bridge. He wore a silver surcoat, a maroon octagon emblazoned on his chest, the hilt of a great sword looming over his right shoulder. Blaine did not recognize his face.

  The knight’s gaze passed over Kath and Duncan, settling on Sir Tyrone. “Brother, what brings you back to the Domain?”

  The black knight halted his charger and gestured toward Kath. “The princess of Castlegard would see her father.”

  “Her father?” The knight stared up at Kath, confusion on his face. “The Imp?”

  The guard did not recognize the girl…but then why should he? Blaine studied Kath seeing all the changes; the fit of leather to subtle curves, the axes strapped to her back, the sword belted to her side, the way she sat straight and proud in the saddle. The Imp had blossomed to a woman and bloodied her sword in battle; small wonder the knight did not recognize her. Blaine grimaced, thinking of the king’s reaction.

  Kath grinned at the knight. “Greetings, Sir Gentwell. Do we have permission to pass?”

  The knight’s eyes widened, “Yes, m’lady.” He shook his head. “I mean, yes, princess.” He gestured for them to ride through, a bemused look on his face.

  Kath urged her mount to a trot, a smile in her voice. “Thank you, Sir Gentwell.”

  Blaine saluted as he rode passed, but the knight made no acknowledgement, staring after Kath.

  They clattered across the bridge, through the gated archway and into the lands of the Domain. The farmlands looked much the same on the north side of the river, amber fields of grain interspersed with orchards and stands of pine, but beyond the fields the Dragon Spine Mountains loomed large. Castlegard’s Domain lay within the very shadow of the mountains, a constant reminder of the threat of war.

  Blaine studied the countryside, searching for signs of the Mordant’s passage, but he found none. The farmlands seemed peaceful and prosperous. Peasants worked the fields, harvesting the summer bounty. Great oxen-pulled wains clogged the road, struggling to bring the harvest tithe to the castle granaries, an annual store set against winter and war.

  Blaine spurred his charger forward, catching up to Kath. “If the Mordant’s passed this way, I see no sign of it.”

  Kath rode beside him, staring at the countryside. “It looks peaceful enough, I’ll grant you that, but I can’t help feeling we’ve come too late…that somehow the Deceiver is already at work, weaving treachery against the Octagon.”

  “Or perhaps he’s afraid to show his face.” Pride leached into Blaine’s voice, “He’s powerful but he’s only one man. Alone he’s no match for the might of the Octagon.”

  “In a fair fight, you’re right.” Kath shook her head, her face grim. “But evil never fights fair.”

  Her words set a splinter of doubt in his mind.

  A chill wind blew down from the mountains, tugging at Blaine’s maroon cloak.

  Kath shook her head. “Either way, we need to warn the king.” She flashed him a bright smile. “And besides, I would see home once more. We’ve been too long away.”

  Blaine returned her smile, eager for a glimpse of the great castle.

  49

  Samson

  Grandmother Magda sat in her rocking chair, her knitting needles filling the kitchen with a rhythmic clacking. Tempting smells of fresh baked cinnamon cake swirled from the hearth, adding a cozy comfort to the refuge. Samson breathed deep, tempted to believe, but he knew it was all an illusion, easily shattered by soldiers in the dead of the night. They were running out of time, he had to make the others see.

  Justin had called a council meeting to plan the next raid, the next act of defiance. The heart of the rebellion sat crowded around the kitchen table. Samson studied his compatriots; a bard, an ex-soldier, a silver-haired grandmother, a young man who led the orphan boys, a tanner rescued from the Flames, a man swayed by songs, and a skinny orphan lad who followed the bard like a shadow. A ragged handful of idealists pitted against all the might of the Flame God. Samson shook his head in despair. “You’re gambling with our lives!” His gaze circled the table looking for support. “The risks keep getting worse! It’s only a matter of time till they catch us.”

  “I don’t see it that way.” Justin pushed back from the table, the wood of the chair scraping against the flagstone floor. “We’re making a difference. I can feel it in the marketplaces, in the taverns, and even in the temple square.” The bard’s voice held the strength of conviction. “The proof is in the rumors and the back-street gossip. The people are starting to think there might be another way, a choice beyond the Flame God.”

  Samson did not agree; the bard was beguiled by his own songs. “If we’re making a difference, then why are there so few of us?”

  Jack answered, mumbling past a mouthful of cake. “The people are afraid. We’re not.”

  Samson shook his head, the boy had a bad case of hero-worship. “We can’t keep doing what we’re doing. We can’t trade two lives for every man we save!”

  Daniel, the big tanner, glared at Samson, his voice as hard as stone. “I know what it’s like to stand in the stocks, to wait for death in the Flames.” His knuckles cracked as his hands tightened into fists. “Innocent people are dying. I can’t sit back and let that happen, can you?”

  Samson felt his face flush red; he’d chosen the wrong argument, used the wrong words. Ignoring Daniel, he focused on the bard, his voice desperate. “They know about you, Justin. The soldiers are combing the city for bards and minstrels. They’re arresting tavern owners and putting them to the question.” He feared to say the words but someone had to. “The confessors will be the death of us.” Samson glared at the others. “It’s only a matter of time till someone talks. Our deaths won’t make any difference.”

  Justin scowled, staring into the candle flames.

  Ben crossed his arms, a stoic look on his weathered face.

  Jack fidgeted and reached for another piece of cinnamon cake.

  Grandmother Magda kept her head bent over her knitting; the rhythmic clacking and the steady creak of the rocking chair the only sounds in the kitchen.

  Samson glared at his friends, his stomach clenched in fear. Instead of being the only realist, perhaps he was the only coward among the brave.

  Red leaned forw
ard, scratching the stubble of his first beard, his voice apologetic. “It’s true, Harper, all the lads have heard the rumors. They’re rounding up the bards and the minstrels. Soon there won’t be any music left in the Flame God’s city.”

  It wasn’t the support he’d hoped for, but Samson took it as an excuse to leap back into the argument. “We can’t keep doing what we’re doing. The confessors will find us and then we’ll all be food for the Flames.”

  The bard’s voice held a touch of anger. “We can’t just give up. We have to discredit the Pontifax and his priests.” The bard pushed away from the table and began pacing in front of the hearth. “We have to change tactics. We have to do something spectacular. Something that will make the people take notice. Something we haven’t tried before.”

  Samson watched the bard, praying he’d find another way. Spectacular sounded dangerous, way too dangerous.

  “I say we kill the Pontifax.” Ben leaned forward, his gaze unyielding, offering a soldier’s practical solution. “We find a way to slip into the Residence and murder the holy bastard while he sleeps. One sword in the dark will solve all our problems.”

  “If only it were that simple.” Justin shook his head. “Kill him and you make him a martyr. As a martyr he’ll be even more of a threat. And then we’d have that beast, the Keeper, to deal with. There has to be another way.”

  Grandmother Magda looked up from her knitting, her stare keen despite her years. “Never forget we are fighting a religion. The people are seduced by the miracle of the Test of Faith. Reason alone will never be enough.” The rocking chair creaked, keeping time to the clack of her knitting needles. “It will take a miracle to defeat a miracle.”

  Daniel’s deep voice rumbled, “Fire to fight fire.”

  The old lady nodded, her steel gray eyes flashing in the candlelight.

  The bard stopped pacing. “But how? What kind of miracle can we achieve?”

  If the old lady had an answer, she did not say. The mood in the kitchen turned pensive. Justin resumed pacing, his face thoughtful. Samson slumped in his seat, watching the bard, resigned to his fate. Grandmother Magda kept to her knitting, her needles clacking to a steady rhythm, marking the slow passage of time. The candles began to burn down, melting to a waxy pool in the center of the table.

  A knock sounded on the outer door.

  Samson jumped, his heart hammering.

  Frightened stares raced around the kitchen.

  Ben reached for a cutting knife and stood poised by the kitchen entrance, his voice a whisper, “Expecting anyone?”

  Justin shook his head, his face grim.

  Samson cringed into his seat, waiting to hear the door crash open. Tension swirled through the kitchen but the knitting needles never broke rhythm.

  The knock came again.

  Ben sighed, “It can’t be soldiers.” He reached for a candle. “I’ll see who’s there.”

  They waited at the kitchen table, straining to listen.

  Ben returned; his face guarded. “We have a visitor.”

  A tall man with a fair face and graying hair stepped into the candlelight. The stranger wore a long robe of midnight blue. “I am seeking a song about the Rose and the Lion. Have I come to the right place?”

  Samson stared in surprise, recognizing the code but not the man.

  Justin answered, “I know a sea chantey or two, but otherwise we only sing songs about the Flame God.”

  Tension drained out of the kitchen.

  The stranger nodded. “I am Aeroth, a Kiralynn monk. I bring word from Queen Liandra. I have come to contribute the knowledge of the Kiralynn monks to your fight against the Flame God.”

  Relief flooded through Samson, desperate for any breath of reason.

  The bard offered the monk his hand, his smile infectious. “I am Justin of Navarre and your offer of help is welcome, especially if you come from the queen.”

  Introductions were made and a chair was found. Ben set a slice of cinnamon cake and a mug of ale in front of the monk, while everyone else crowded close, eager for news of life beyond the reach of the Flame God.

  “I’m afraid the tidings are grim.” The monk took a long drink of ale. “There has been a rebellion against the queen.” Gasps rippled around the kitchen table. “The queen is victorious but Lanverness will need time to recover from the bloodshed. And after seeing the army of tents surrounding the Flame God’s city, I fear the queen may have less time than she knows.” He leaned forward, his gaze circling the table. “What you do here in Coronth is of great importance.” His voice lowered. “I witnessed this morning’s Test of Faith. I saw the brutal murder of that poor woman…and the frenzy of the crowd.” The monk shook his head. “The religion of the Flame is an abomination. It reeks of the Dark Lord. Only the Dark God would countenance human sacrifice.”

  Jack gasped, “The Dark Lord?” The orphan lad stared at the monk, making the hand sign against evil.

  The monk nodded. “The red comet foretells the rise of the Dark Lord. He reaches through to the mortal world, twisting the souls of men, setting brother against brother. My Order believes the war has already begun.”

  Ben said, “The rebellion against the queen?”

  “Yes.” The monk nodded. “And the religion of the Flame. This abomination must be stopped.”

  “But how?” Justin burst from his chair and began to pace. “We’ve tried using songs to open the people’s eyes to the truth, but words are not enough. So we lead by example, freeing the sinners from the stocks, depriving the Flames of their grizzly feast. We’ve risked much to free a handful of sinners but the priests only increase the number of arrests.” Frustration seeped into the bard’s voice. “We save a few lives, but the dungeons bulge with innocent people waiting to walk in the Flames.” He stopped pacing and stared at the monk. “If you know of some way to defeat this religion, we would gladly hear it.”

  Grandmother Magda looked up from her knitting, candlelight reflected in her silver hair. “It will take a miracle to defeat a miracle.” The clack of the knitting needles underscored her words.

  The monk stared at the old woman, his face thoughtful. “You have the truth of it. Religions are beliefs. They defy logic. The people will only be free when their belief in the Pontifax is shaken. You must strike at the very foundation of this so-called religion.”

  “But how?” Justin’s voice exploded in frustration. “Unless the Lords of Light care to intervene, we are fresh out of miracles.”

  “The Lords of Light do not work that way.”

  “Then perhaps they should!”

  Samson had never seen the bard so bitter…or so angry. Perhaps the prince had always understood the odds, yet he fought anyway.

  The monk sighed. “The miracle of the Test of Faith is the heart of the Flame God’s religion, the source of the Pontifax’s power.”

  Justin nodded, his face still.

  “Then you must strike at this miracle.”

  “Yes, but how?”

  “From what I’ve seen, the most likely explanation is magic.”

  “Magic!” Ben made the word a curse. “But the wizards of old are long dead! Magic is gone from the world of men, wiped out during the War of Wizards.”

  The monk shook his head. “Not gone, just rare.”

  Ben stared, as if the monk had sprouted two heads. “You’re saying the Pontifax is a wizard?”

  “Not exactly. Does the Pontifax perform any other miracles? Does he do more than walk through flames?”

  Justin answered. “Just fire. He walks through fire and on occasion he carries a child through the flames, both emerging unharmed.”

  The monk nodded. “Then I suggest he works magic, not a miracle.”

  Samson did not understand. “What difference does it make? Magic or a miracle, how can we stop either one?”

  The monk smiled, but his face seemed weary. “It makes all the difference. A true miracle is the divine intervention of the gods, proof of their favor, proof of their e
xistence. Miracles are extremely rare. Magic is something else entirely.” The monk leaned forward, his voice thoughtful. “Magic is a latent talent carried by more than a few mortals. But in order to invoke that talent, most mortals need the use of a magical item, a catalyst that unlocks their hidden talent. These magical items are called focuses, rare artifacts leftover from the days of high magic. Since the Pontifax can only do one type of magic, he must have a focus keyed to fire.”

  Ben had a stubborn look on his face. “So how does all this help us?”

  “Without the focus, the Pontifax cannot work magic.”

  The rocking chair stopped. The knitting needles fell silent. Grandmother Magda stared at the monk, a shrewd look on her face. “Steal the focus and the Pontifax will burn like any other mortal?”

  The monk nodded. “Just so.”

  Grandmother Magda smiled, but it was a cold smile, full of death and revenge.

  A shiver slithered down Samson’s back; old women should never look that way.

  Ben asked, “So what does this focus look like?”

  The rhythmic clacking resumed, the vindictive smile banished beneath age, as if the old lady was nothing more than a harmless grandmother. Samson shuddered, wondering if the others had noticed.

  The monk stared at Ben, his voice solemn. “It will be something small, something the Pontifax can hold in the palm of his hand. It could be something precious or something common. There is no way to distinguish a focus by sight alone.”

  Ben’s voice was a low growl. “Then how do we find it?”

  “The Pontifax will always keep it close, something he jealously guards, something he is always touching, always holding…even when he sleeps, or baths. And he will need to be touching the focus when he works his magic, when he walks through the flames.”

  “When he bathes, you said.” The old lady pounced like a cat. “What about when he takes a woman? Would he keep it with him even then?”