The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 44

  The monk nodded. “Yes, even then.”

  Grandmother Magda nodded, a shrewd smile on her face.

  Justin’s voice was thoughtful. “There are rumors of orgies in the Residence. With the right accomplice, we might identify this focus…and perhaps even steal it.”

  The monk’s words were a caution. “The Pontifax is bonded to the focus by a magical link. He will know if anyone so much as touches it. Sleight of hand will not work.”

  “Yes, but we have to at least know what it is before we can try and steal it.”

  The monk agreed, “Just so.”

  Justin smiled. “Then we have the start of a plan. We will steal this focus, whatever it is, and deprive the Pontifax of his miracle, proving he is nothing more than a fraud.” The bard stared at the monk, his face thoughtful. “You’ve given us a way to steal his miracle. Perhaps the Lords of Light listen to prayers after all.”

  The monk kept his silence.

  “Will you stay with us? Will you help us defeat the Pontifax?”

  Samson held his breath.

  The monk raised his right hand, displaying a Seeing Eye tattooed in blue on his open palm. “I have been sent to share the knowledge of the Kiralynn Order. In the right hands, knowledge is stronger than swords.” The monk lowered his hand. “I can only tarry for a few days. Queen Liandra must be warned of the army ranged against her.”

  Samson had to ask, “But how will you get out? Soldiers seal the borders, arresting all who try to cross.”

  The monk stared at Samson, his hazel eyes giving little away. “The Order has its secrets.”

  Samson shivered; he did not want to know.

  Justin intervened. “Then we best use the time that we have.” The bard’s voice held the lilt of optimism. “Ben, pour the ale, Jack, get more candles.” He gestured to the dim glow in the center of the table. “We need more light. These have melted to nubs and we have much to discuss before the night is through.”

  Talk flowed around the kitchen table; full of plans, full of confidence…but Samson did not share the sentiment. He knew the monk’s knowledge was a godsend…but he could not shake the feeling that doom lurked just outside their door. That somehow the knowledge came to late…for all of them.

  50

  Steffan

  The city was full of sin, the confessions proved it. Steffan sat in the privacy of his solar, sipping Urian brandy and reviewing the confessors’ archives, searching for clues to the rebellion. The scrolls made for interesting reading, a litany of thefts, betrayals, lusts, lies, cheats, and even murders. So many sins, so much fodder for the Flames, Steffan knew the Dark Lord was pleased. Religion was a wondrous tool, but Steffan dared not drop his guard. He needed to find the rebels and feed them to the sacred Flames.

  Reading late into the night, he searched for patterns in the confessions, looking for an elusive figure, a bard who harped against the Pontifax. Rumors said he sang by night and disappeared by day, vanishing like mist in the dawn light. Such embellishments annoyed Steffan, making a myth out of a mere man. Like a hound to the scent, Steffan followed the whispers, plucking details from many different confessions, weaving an image of subtle rebellion. The people named him the ‘Dark Harper’, a bard dressed in robes of midnight blue or perhaps black. He appeared without warning in taverns scattered across the city, always arriving late and never staying long, hiding his face in the shadows of his cowled robe. None knew his true name, but many swore he had the gift of a master bard, that instead of strings his small harp was strung with pure emotion. Some even claimed the mysterious bard was Xel, the master harper reborn, a champion of the Light come back to walk the lands of Erdhe. Such superstitious prattle would have been amusing if the bard was not such a threat. Steffan knew the power of persuasion. He delved deeper, looking for answers.

  He finished the last scroll but found no clue to the bard’s true name. Setting the scrolls aside, he reached for a small ironbound chest. The chest held confessions of a darker sort, a chronicle of sins revealed through torture. Steffan had ordered the random arrest of tavern owners and bards, casting a loose net, hoping to catch a single prize. In the dungeon depths the priests worked late into the night, extracting truths with hot tongs and pincers, with iron maidens and wheels. The deep dungeons rang with screams while the acolytes scribed every pain-racked word. Confessions of the tortured were less coherent but far more damning. Pain yielded a torrent of secrets, a flood of hidden truths.

  Beneath the torturer’s tools, the tavern owners screamed their knowledge of the Dark Harper. They confessed to the Harper’s presence in their taverns but they swore on their children’s lives that they did not know his true name. To a man, they died without giving up the secret. Knowing the skill of the torturers, Steffan had to conclude that the tavern owners did not know his name. Somehow this bard slipped through the Flame God’s city, harping his songs of rebellion, and then disappearing like smoke. The Harper was a cunning foe, but Steffan would flush him out. It was only a matter of time.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Pip peered into the study. “Sorry to bother you, lord, but there’s a woman asking to see you.”

  “A woman?” Steffan wasn’t expecting anyone.

  Pip grinned. “Long dark hair, skin as pale as fresh milk…” the boy’s grin deepened, “and plenty of curves.”

  An image of the Priestess writhing naked in bed ambushed Steffan’s mind. He took a moment to savor the lust…but then he poured cold logic on his dream. The Priestess was far to the south, on the Isle of the Oracle…not waiting at his door. “Did this dark-haired beauty give a name?”

  “No, lord, but she begs for a moment alone.”

  Lust evaded logic. “Send her to me. And she best prove half as beautiful as you claim.”

  Pip flashed a grin, closing the door behind him.

  Steffan returned the scrolls to the ironbound chest and refilled his glass with brandy. He settled in the large stuffed chair, his thoughts lingering on his one night with the Priestess.

  A second knock sounded.

  “Come in.”

  She wore a green cloak over a blue wool dress, a tumble of dark curls cascading down her back. Her face was pale as snow, her curves ripe and round and lush…but this woman was petite not statuesque, young not mature…nothing like the temptress of his dreams. Steffan kept the disappointment from his voice. “You asked to see me?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  She curtseyed like a commoner but there was something charming in her wide-eyed innocence. “Do you have a name?”

  “Yes, lord, Lucy, lord…Lucy Jonson.” She stared at him with wide doe-eyes, as if her name was supposed to mean something, but it did not.

  “Should I know you, Lucy Jonson?”

  “Not me, lord, but perhaps my father?” She took a deep breath and then the story tumbled out. “My father’s a good man, a pious man, a tavern owner. He pays his tithes and goes to temple twice a fortnight, but the soldiers came today and arrested him.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “They dragged him off to the dungeons.” Her voice broke. “He’s all I have, my only family. I had to come and ask…to beg.” She sank to her knees, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Please, lord, free my father?”

  He sipped his brandy, staring at the girl, another grieving relative come to plead for a captured heretic…but few had the courage to approach the Lord Raven. “Why me?”

  “Why, lord?” She seemed confused by the question.

  “Yes, why come to me? Why not seek out the Pontifax or the Keeper of the Flame?”

  Her eyes widened. “The Pontifax,” her voice quavered, “would be like talking to a god.” She shook her head, as if it was too much to consider. “And the Keeper,” she shuddered, “the Keeper knows nothing of mercy.” Her eyes flooded with fear, her voice dropping to a whisper, “and they say he does not keep his word.”

  The girl was amusing if nothing else. “And the Lord Raven? What do they say about him?”

  She
hesitated, her voice soft. “The Lord Raven is the counselor to the Pontifax. A powerful lord, but not brutal like the Keeper…a man who might show mercy.” Her voice held a note of pleading. “And so I thought to try.” A second tear slid down her cheek.

  Her tears enhanced her charm, as sweet and beautiful as an unopened rosebud. “Yes, but heretics are only released for good reason.” His voice deepened. “What reason can you give me?”

  “I would do anything, lord.” Her cheeks bloomed red, her eyes downcast.

  And now they came to the anything. He smiled. “What do you have that I might value?” He sipped his brandy, waiting, enjoying the moment.

  Her voice was a rushed whisper. “I know about the Dark Harper.”

  “What?” He sat up almost spilling his brandy. “What did you say?” Perhaps his loose net had caught a fish after all.

  She cringed. “If I tell you what I know, will you release my father?”

  It was not his habit to negotiate with commoners…but he wanted the information. “Do you know the Dark Harper’s true name?”

  She shook her head. “No, lord, but I know where he lives. He hides in plain sight during the day.” She knelt at his feet, staring up at him with dark doe-eyes.

  He could break her and take what he wanted…but those who confessed willingly deserved to be rewarded…and the life of one tavern owner was a cheap trade for the Dark Harper. “For that information, I will see your father released…though I cannot vouch for his condition. The priests are never easy on sinners.”

  She grabbed his hand and kissed it, urgency in her touch, tears in her eyes. “Thank you, lord, thank you.”

  He extracted his hand, his voice stern. “First, the information.”

  She nodded, her face solemn. “He lives above a cobbler’s shop, on Rye Street, in the southwest quarter of the city.”

  “What does he look like?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never seen his face.” She shrugged. “I only know where he lives because…another rebel bragged about it.” Her face flamed bright red.

  He wondered what else she knew.

  “My father, lord?” Her voice held a note of urgency. “He’s all I have in the world.”

  “Your father’s name?”

  “Petyr Jonson.”

  He rose and went to the desk. He found a sheet of blank parchment and dipped a quill in the ink well. “I’ll send a note to the dungeons and have him released.” The nib scratched across the parchment. “But if you’ve lied to me, you’ll both dance in the Flames.” He finished the note and fixed his seal to the bottom, a raven imprinted in red wax.

  “Can you read?”

  “A little.”

  He handed her the parchment. “Then see for yourself that the Lord Raven keeps his word.” He went to the door and called for Pip.

  The redheaded lad came running. “Yes, lord?”

  Steffan retrieved the parchment and handed it to Pip. “Take this to the dungeons, to the chief priest on duty, and see to it that the tavern owner, Petyr Jonson, is released. Have a pair of soldiers escort him home and remain there on guard until they receive other orders.” The lad nodded. “Be quick about it, time is of the essence.”

  Pip tucked the parchment in his pocket and disappeared into the hallway.

  Steffan closed the door and turned to stare at the young girl. She remained on her knees, a sheen of tears on her face. He wondered what other secrets she harbored. Passion had a way of loosening a woman’s tongue, and his lust had already been aroused. Crossing the room with a predator’s glide, he stared down at her, his voice deep. “We were talking of anything.”

  Her voice was a hushed whisper. “Yes, lord, anything.”

  He used a single finger to brush the tears from her cheek, slow and gentle, a soft caress…a temptation and a question combined in a single touch.

  She trembled but did not pull away.

  He lifted her chin and traced the full curves of her ruby lips. He pressed and she took his thumb in her mouth with a gentle suck. Steffan smiled, stiffening with anticipation. Perhaps she was not as innocent as she seemed. Either way, he would give her a night of unbearable pleasure…and in the morning he would hunt a harper, crushing the rebellion beneath his boot heel.

  51

  Katherine

  Castlegard! Great mage-stone towers soared to the sky like swords thrust straight up to the heavens. Knights walked the ramparts, proud gleams of silver in the afternoon light. Drum towers crowned with catapults anchored the castle’s eight corners, commanding every approach. Between the towers, the massive outer walls stood like burnished steel, strong and stubborn and undefeated. Reflections of the battlements shimmered in the deep green moat, casting an image of enduring strength, an image that defied the very siege of time.

  Kath’s pride swelled at first sight of the sun-bright towers. A symbol of strength, a beacon of honor, the great castle called her home. Standing in the stirrups, she shouted the castle’s name like a battle cry, “Castlegard!” Urging her horse to a gallop, she surged ahead, racing across the vast greensward, the two knights and the monk trailing behind.

  Laughing, Kath reached the outer gatehouse and slowed her stallion to a walk. Two knights stood guard, maroon cloaks over silver surcoats. She recognized the older knight, his chestnut mustache drooping down past his chin. “Greetings, Sir Marin! A fine day to be alive!”

  The knight stared wide-eyed, his gaze bouncing from her face to Sir Tyrone’s and back again. “The Imp? Is it really you?”

  She laughed. “Only a stop in a long journey but home none the less.”

  “The king will not be believing it.” Sir Marin looked puzzled but he waved her through.

  They clattered across the drawbridge and beneath the portcullis, a menace of iron spikes poised above. Kath led her companions through the stone labyrinth of tricks and traps that separated the two concentric walls, a gated pass-through, an archery crossfire yard, and too many murder holes to count. Rumors claimed the castle held eleven built-in defenses, but when they reached the inner gate Kath still only counted ten. She shook her head in wry amazement; someday she’d discover the elusive defense.

  Passing through the ironbound gate, they entered the inner castle. The great yard rang with the clang of swords, the knight candidates hard at weapons practice. Kath studied the sparring pairs with a critical eye. The fresh-faced candidates still needed a lot of work. She shook her head and laughed; she’d learned a lot in her year away.

  Stable lads rushed to claim the horses. A blonde-haired boy with a gap-toothed smile took Dancer’s reins. “Is it really you?”

  “Yes, Val, I’ve come home, but not to stay.” Kath swung down from the saddle. “Give Dancer an extra ration of oats and an apple or two.” She claimed her saddlebag and patted the chestnut’s neck. “He’s earned it.”

  Word of her return spread like wildfire. Apprentices and masters from the forge spilled into the great yard, joining the knot of stable hands. The old veterans left their benches to crowd around. Greetings and questions came from every direction. “Show us your axes!” “Tell us how you killed the ogre.” “Tell us about the fight in the forest!”

  Tears crowded her eyes; she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed her friends.

  Burly and bald with thick sooty eyebrows, the master swordsmith bulled a path through the apprentices. “So, you’ve come back to us.” His deep rumbling voice matched his muscled bulk.

  Tears threatened but she forced them back. “I would not be here without the gift of the dagger hidden in my boot.”

  The big smith nodded, his voice a deep rumble. “You did the forge proud, putting our steel to good use.” His dark eyes twinkled like polished metal. “The tale of the princess defeating the ogre is oft told in the forge.”

  Kath remembered long hours spent in the forge, watching as the smiths fashioned new blades from raw steel, their hammers ringing to the cadence of their stories. “So you got my letter.”

&
nbsp; “And the purse. The lads appreciated the golds.” His voice deepened, the sound of rumbling boulders. “Few knights remember the hands that forge their blades. Both the deed and the remembrance were well done.” He gave her a deep bow. “Welcome home, Princess Kath of Castlegard.”

  Her throat closed tight, a single tear running down her cheek. Her friends accepted her, swords and all.

  A bellows boy broke the tension. “Tell us how you killed the ogre!” The clamor became deafening, a sea of smiles surrounding her.

  Otto winked. “They won’t be satisfied till they hear the tale from your lips.”

  Her grin was irrepressible. “Then I guess I better not disappoint them.”

  A ragged cheer greeted her reply.

  A single voice cut through the revelry. “The king will see you now.”

  The banter came to a sudden halt. The knight marshal stood on the edge of the gathering, his face stern, his one-eyed gaze pinning her like an eagle hunting a mouse. Kath flushed, feeling like she’d done something wrong.

  The marshal released her, his stare surveying the crowd. “Get back to work. There is nothing to celebrate.”

  Her friends dispersed, scattering to the forge, the stables, and the sparring yard. Only the two knights and the monk remained.

  The marshal raked her with his one-eyed gaze. “The king will see you now.” He turned, leading the way into the heart of the castle.

  Kath threw her saddlebag over her shoulder and followed the stiff-backed marshal across the yard. The marshal’s cold greeting shivered against her mind like a warning. Perhaps she’d made a mistake in returning home. Duncan had tried to warn her that the past had a way of biting the present, that home could become a trap, but she hadn’t wanted to listen. She needed to warn the king, but perhaps a bit of caution was due. Easing the crystal dagger from the sheath at her belt, she slipped it into the pouch of her saddlebag. Sir Tyrone saw and nodded, grim agreement on his face.