The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 47

  The soldiers bound the old woman and the boy, herding them out into the street. They collected their dead and their wounded, closing the shop door behind them, leaving nothing but bloodstains.

  Samson stood in the cupboard, staring through the knothole, staring into the empty kitchen.

  The knitting needles had stopped…the knives had come out…the nightmare had begun.

  53

  Blaine

  Swords clanged with a ferocious beat. Blaine attacked, giving in to a blind fury, the sparring sword becoming a blur in his hands. Stroke, cut, and parry, his anger raged, driving his opponent across the sparring yard in a relentless attack. Blaine pounded the other knight’s shield, angry that he’d had to choose between Kath and his king. Beating the knight’s sword away, he struck a flurry of blows, angry that Kath had left without him. Parrying a low slash, he leaped to the attack, furious that he’d been left to take the brunt of the king’s anger. Stroke, parry, and cut, Blaine remembered the fierce blistering the king had given him the morning he discovered his daughter missing. At least he hadn’t been able to tell the king where she went, spared that betrayal by ignorance. His anger blazed to a wild fury. Blaine threw himself into the fight, furious with his life. His sword crashed against the knight’s shield, a mighty two-handed blow. The shield buckled and splintered, cleaved in half.

  The battered knight threw down his sword. “I yield.”

  Blaine growled in frustration, “I’m done with this one! Who’s next?” He yanked off his helmet, a rush of cool air against his face. Sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He stood in the middle of the sparring yard, glaring at the other knights. He’d defeated five in a row, helmets and shields battered to ruin, but still his anger raged. “Come on, I’m just getting started.”

  No one took up his challenge.

  “Surely one of you will cross swords with the lowly farmer boy!” Blaine raked the yard with his stare but they all looked away. He shook his head in disgust and stalked to the benches; the Octagon was not what he remembered. He ripped at the bindings of his armor, needing to get free of the steel cage but his fingers were suddenly too thick. Feeling suffocated, he clawed at the armor.

  A squire rushed to help. Blaine let the boy loosen the bindings, removing the breastplate, gauntlets, and leg armor. Free of the weight, he retrieved his great blue sword, settling the harness across his back.

  The knight marshal approached, a stern look in his one-eyed gaze. “Five victories, Sir Blaine, not bad…but you should guard against too much rage. We train knights here not berserkers.”

  Blaine nodded, biting back an angry retort. He’d obeyed his king yet he felt like an oath breaker, damned by the gods and men alike. Blaine felt the other’s stares, a mixture of questions and recriminations. Turning his back on his brother knights, he settled his maroon cloak across his shoulders and stalked off.

  He prowled the inner castle, seeking another outlet for his rage. He’d thought that sparring would ease his rage, seeking solace in the dance of steel, but instead of a dance he’d turned the sparring yard into a battlefield, acting the berserker instead of the knight. The one-eyed marshal had seen the truth of it. Blaine did not like what he’d become. Trapped by the maroon, trapped by the king, he saw no way to keep both oaths.

  “Sir Blaine!”

  He pivoted to find the pudgy healer running to catch up. Blaine had no interest in talking to the healer, the man had meddled enough, but before he could walk away, the healer said, “I have an ointment that could help that cut on your arm. Come with me and I’ll see to it.”

  Blood seeped from a cut at his left elbow, a weak point in the armor. It was only a minor wound, but he hadn’t noticed it. Disgusted, Blaine shook his head, another sign of the berserker’s rage. “Let it bleed.” His voice was a low growl.

  He turned away but the healer grabbed his arm.

  Rage flooded through him. He unsheathed his great blue sword and turned on the healer.

  The pudgy little man stood his ground. “Do you want to kill me…or yourself?”

  His rage evaporated, replaced by shame. Blaine lowered the blue blade. “I don’t deserve this sword.”

  The healer leaned close, his voice a whisper. “The gods gave you a hero’s sword for a reason. Come with me and I’ll tell you how to keep your oath.”

  Blaine gaped at the healer, feeling like he’d just been pole axed. “But how…”

  “Shhh…” The master healer shook his head. “Not here. Come with me.”

  Walking like a man in a daze, Blaine sheathed his sword and followed. He did not believe the healer could help but he owed Quintus for turning on him with his sword. The least he could do was listen.

  Quintus opened the door to the healery and ushered Blaine inside.

  The scroll-cluttered antechamber was stuffed full of mismatched furniture. A large patch-ridden armchair sat in front of the cold fireplace, another chair sat in front of the desk, a cabinet filled one wall, stuffed full of scrolls, and a long workbench full of bottles and braziers stretched beneath the only window. A jumble of smells assaulted Blaine’s nose, potions, ointments, herbs, musty scrolls…and owl droppings.

  A giant frost owl perched by the scroll cabinet. Ruffling its feathers, it issued a greeting, “Whooooo.”

  The sound sent a shiver down Blaine’s spine. He stared at the owl. “I forgot about Snowman. I saw another frost owl deep in the Southern Mountains.”

  The healer shrugged. “They thrive above the snowline.”

  Blaine settled into an armchair while the healer sorted through a collection of bottles and jars. Sniffing a bottle, the healer set it aside. “Frost owls are quite remarkable. They can glide for long distances, utterly silent in flight, and they’re smarter than most people realize.” Selecting a small amber-colored bottle, he removed the stopper, releasing a bitter scent. “Yes, this will do. Roll up your sleeve and let me see that wound.”

  Blaine peeled back the bloody sleeve and watched as the healer cleaned the wound. The ointment stung, but Blaine kept his arm rock-still. “What did you mean about keeping my oath?”

  Smearing honey on the wound, the healer wrapped it with a strip of linen. “That should do.” He stoppered the bottle and returned it to the workbench, settling into the patched chair by the fireplace.

  Blaine’s patience was running thin. “Quintus, what did you mean about keeping my oath? What do you know?”

  The healer sighed. “The Lords of Light believe in free will, and so mortal men are given the chance to choose. Our lives are a series of decisions, to stay and fight or to run, to remain silent or to raise questions, to do the right thing or not. And sometimes the true measure of our lives comes down to a single decision. And that one choice defines us beyond all else.”

  Blaine shook his head, his voice stubborn. “No. There was never a choice. I am sworn to the king. War is coming. My blue blade is needed here.”

  “Then why don’t you believe that?”

  He hid behind his anger. “No! There was no choice.”

  “There is always a choice and always a consequence.”

  The frost owl shook his feathers. “Whooooo.”

  “I saw your rage in the sparring yard. You don’t believe you made the right choice.”

  Blaine glared at the healer, refusing to answer.

  “You must decide who you are.” The healer’s voice beat against him with a storm of words. “You can remain here, one of many knights protecting the southern kingdoms, or you can follow the princess north of the Dragon Spines and hunt the Mordant to his lair. You can stay here and obey orders, or you can take your hero’s blade to where it is most needed.”

  Blaine stared at the dark-eyed healer, torn by the healer’s words, torn by his own decision.

  “What chance will she have without your blue sword?”

  A knife twisted in Blaine’s gut. “But I swore an oath to the king!”

  “What about the oath you swore to Kath in the
ruins of the Star Tower?” The healer’s dark gaze bored into Blaine. “Can a sword be sworn to two masters?”

  The words triggered a storm of memories. Visions from the Guardian Mist assailed Blaine’s mind. He’d told the Guardian that he’d be true to Kath. He’d sworn to protect the bearer of the crystal dagger. “But I didn’t really think she’d leave Castlegard.” The excuse sounded weak to his ears.

  “She had to leave or fail her destiny.” The healer’s voice softened. “Before she left, Kath said to tell you that she still believes the two swords will be true.”

  The two swords will be true! A shiver raced down Blaine’s spine; she still believed in him.

  The healer leaned forward, his voice urgent. “Only you can decide. Will you be a knight or a hero?”

  “I dreamt of both.”

  “That is not the choice offered to you.”

  Blaine shook his head. Quintus spoke like some type of seer…or a messenger of the gods…not a simple healer. Blaine stared at the man, trying to see past the unruly black hair and the pale, pudgy face. “Who are you?”

  The healer shrugged and smiled. “A messenger, a catalyst, a friend…but the decision is still yours to make.”

  The giant frost owl ruffled his wings. “Whooooo.”

  Blaine sighed. “Even if I wanted to follow, I don’t know where she went.”

  “I know.”

  Hope sparked within him. “Where?”

  The healer shook his head. “If you decide to follow, then you must swear to use the way stations.”

  “Impossible! The way stations are for the sole use of the king’s messengers!”

  The healer’s face turned grim. “A fear has been growing in my mind, a fear that Kath walks into some kind of trap. If you go, you must find a way to reach her before the trap springs shut. You must ride hard, making up time by getting fresh mounts from the way stations. You must reach her before she crosses the Dragon Spines.”

  He’d been too late in the Guardian Mist; he’d sworn he wouldn’t be late again. “Then I’ll use the way stations.” His words sealed his fate. If caught, he’d forfeit his maroon cloak and be branded a traitor. But somehow the decision felt right. Perhaps honor was more than a maroon cloak.

  “And you’ll leave this afternoon? You’re already a day and a half behind.”

  The rage left him, replaced by resolve. “Yes, I’ll leave this afternoon.”

  The healer closed his eyes, relief washing across his face. He looked at Blaine and smiled. “Then ride for Cragnoth Keep and may the Light be with you.”

  Blaine nodded and rose from the chair. “I’ve a hard ride ahead.” He paused at the door and looked back at the healer. “Thank you…for the second chance.”

  Quintus smiled. “The gods gave you a blue blade for a reason. I knew you’d prove worthy of the sword.”

  54

  Samson

  Samson huddled in the cupboard, stunned by what he’d witnessed, afraid to move. Shadows lengthened, creeping across the kitchen floor and still he waited. At first his mind froze, refusing to accept what he’d seen, but then the guilt came, burying him like an avalanche. He stared through the knothole, into the empty kitchen, blood on the floor, the knitting needles abandoned, all proof of his guilt.

  Crouched within his hiding place, he watched the shadows grow, a seed of a plan forming in his mind. He wrestled with the plan, quelling his doubts, asking himself what the bard would do. It seemed a thin hope, but better than nothing, a way to atone for his many mistakes.

  Samson made his decision and opened the secret door, stepping into the kitchen. He stood frozen, listening, but no soldiers rushed to arrest him. The kitchen was empty, a hollow shell, a mockery of safety. The scent of apple bread still lingered, the ghost of Grandmother Magda.

  He crossed to the cold hearth, stepping around the telltale puddle of blood and the gleaming butcher knife. His gaze avoided the knitting needles, lying abandoned on the floor. Loosening the stone on the side of the hearth, he reached deep into the hidden space. His hand closed on a bundle of dark wool, the Dark Harper’s cowled cloak.

  Replacing the stone, he searched the kitchen, stuffing a sack with the things he needed, a scrap of parchment, a quill, a stoppered inkwell, and a purse of gold coins. Giving the kitchen a final survey, he snatched up the butcher knife and tucked it in his belt. He took a last look and retreated to the cupboard.

  The secret door opened onto the back alleyway. Samson peered left and right. The alley was empty of soldiers…or else they were hiding. Resigned, he took a deep breath and stepped into the alley, into plain sight.

  His heart thundered but no soldiers came running. It seemed the enemy did not know everything.

  Samson used the butcher knife to carve a crude x on the secret door, warning the others to stay away. Tucking the knife in his belt, he sped down the alley. Slinking through shadows, he threaded his way through the back lanes, always watching for the red of soldiers, the red of priests. Twice he doubled back, making sure no one followed; he carried enough guilt on his soul.

  A noon sun glared overhead by the time Samson felt confident enough to approach the abandoned stables. Charred from an old fire, the front was blackened and caved-in like an old man’s puckered mouth but the rear remained solid. Samson slipped around the side, searching for the loose clapboards. He knocked, using the code Jack had taught him, and then pushed the boards aside and slipped into the cool shadows. The stable smelled of burnt wood, moldy hay, and mouse droppings. His eyes adjusted to the dimness. A dark-haired lad stood guard, a pitchfork in his hands. Samson nodded. “Hello, Shiner. I’m looking for Willie and Red if he’s around.”

  The orphan-lad grinned. “Somethin’ for the Harper?”

  Samson replied, “Something like that.”

  “I’ll see who’s up there.” The boy leaned the pitchfork against a post and then scurried up a ladder to the loft. Most of the orphan boys slept in the stable during the day and prowled the alleys at night, serving as eye and ears for the Dark Harper. Samson hoped Willie was sleeping above.

  The floorboards creaked overhead and two lads, one tow-haired and the other dark, raced down the ladder. “Lookin’ for me, Samson?” Tall and skinny, all arms and legs, Willie was a roof-rat with a knack for climbing. The tow-headed lad knew the rooftops better than the other orphans knew the back alleyways.

  Samson nodded, relieved to see him. “I need your help.”

  Willie grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Somethin’ for the Harper?”

  “Something like that.” Samson looked at Shiner. “Is Red up there?”

  “Nope. Might be with the Harper.”

  Justin was most likely in the red lantern quarter, sweet-talking the courtesans, spying out clues to the magic behind the Test of Faith. Samson doubted Justin would take Red to the bordellos but he could not afford to wait. “Shiner, you’ll have to stand in for Red.”

  The dark-haired lad beamed a smile and stood straighter. “What for?”

  Samson hesitated, basking in their trust, like a drowning man clinging to a last hope. But time was against him. Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the bitter truth. He told them about Lucy and how he’d bragged about the Dark Harper, desperate to be a hero in her eyes. In grim tones, he explained about Lucy’s betrayal and the bloody scene in the kitchen. He confessed to hiding in the secret cupboard, watching while Grandmother Magda killed one soldier and wounded another, but in the end, both Jack and the old woman were taken prisoners, dragged off to the dungeons. Flushed with shame, he told them the truth, every damning detail. And as he talked, Samson watched as the light in their eyes turn to disbelief, then horror, then something cold and distant. His voice trailed to silence, condemned by the accusation in their stares.

  Shiner, the older of the two, was the first to speak, his voice blunt. “Did ya rat on us? Did ya give us lads away?”

  The boy’s question drove a nail through his heart. “No. I never told her about you lads or about t
he stables.”

  Shiner stared at him, his gaze rife with mistrust.

  The younger boy, Willie, still held a glimmer of hope. “If he didna tell, then the stables’ll be safe.”

  Samson held to the grim truth. “They have Jack.”

  Shiner hissed like a cornered cat, but Willie replied with a boy’s brash defiance. “Jack won’t turn rat!”

  Samson shook his head, his voice gentle. “They took Jack to the dungeons.”

  Willie looked uncertain, hovering on the edge of tears. Shiner’s voice was old for his years. “Them priests’ll make anyone turn rat in the dungeons…even Jack.”

  A stifled sob erupted from Willie, a single tear running down his cheek. Shiner crossed his arms, a brave front. Samson realized both lads needed an adult. He did his best to try. “I have a plan.”

  Shiner balked. “Ya ratted once, ya’ll rat again.”

  Another nail to the heart but he’d earned every one. “I don’t deserve your trust, but I’ve told you the truth…and I have a plan that might free Jack and Grandmother Magda.”

  “Why should we trust you?”

  “Because if you don’t they’ll die.”

  Shiner crossed his arms, his voice angry. “We’ll hear it.”

  Samson whispered his plan, showing them the dark cloak hidden in the sack. He explained the help he needed and told them what he hoped to achieve. Doubt shadowed their eyes, but it was the only plan he had. “So will you help?”

  Shiner studied him, his stare full of accusation, full of doubt. “Will ya do that? Will ya keep yer word?”

  Samson nodded, swallowing the fear churning in his stomach. “I have to. It’s the only way I can undo all the mistakes I’ve made.”

  He waited for the judgment of a fourteen year-old orphan boy, desperate for another chance. The waiting seemed to take forever. Shiner nodded, his voice neutral. “We’ll help ya. But we do it for Jack and Grandmother Magda.”