The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 48

  Samson hid his relief, knowing he did not have time to waste. “Willie, you know the rooftops. We need to pick a place. Someplace open, like a square, but the buildings need to be tall and close together and the alleyways near.”

  Willie nodded. “Tha green market’s yer place. Buildin’s on tha east are tall and close enough to jump. That’ll be tha place for ya.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “Sure.” The boy’s face grew defensive. “But um not stay’in.”

  “I’m not asking you to stay.”

  Willie nodded. Shiner said, “What ‘bout the rest of us?”

  “Wake the rest of the lads and send them into hiding. The stables won’t be safe unless we get Jack back.” Shiner nodded; his face grim. “Spread the word that the cobbler shop and the stables are no longer safe. Then send a runner to find the Harper. Tell him everything.” Samson hesitated. “But don’t tell him what I’ve got planned till after sunset…after sunset it won’t matter anymore.” Samson fell silent, waiting. He thought he saw a faint glimmer of respect in the older boy’s eyes.

  Shiner nodded, his gaze filled with an intensity beyond his years. “Get ‘em back for us.” The lad offered his hand.

  Samson stared, wide-eyed. The offer contained more dignity than he deserved, a chance to redeem his mistakes. They shook, sealing a bargain between men, a bargain Samson intended to keep.

  Samson’s voice was hoarse. “Come on, Willie, we have work to do.”

  The tow-haired lad led the way out of the stables. Samson followed, trusting the boy’s knowledge of the alleys. They threaded their way through the city, walking rather than running, trying to avoid notice. The vegetable market was crowded, wagons laden with the first harvest, the smell of ripe green hanging heavy in the air. Samson studied the timber and daub buildings surrounding the cobblestone square. Most were two floors high with workshops on the ground floor and homes above. A few had peaked roofs but most were flat, perfect for his plan. Samson nodded. “This will serve.”

  Willie led him to the eastern alley, pointing out a tall timber-framed house. “Easy climbin’ this one. See all tha handholds?”

  Samson shook his head, he’d never liked heights.

  “Watch.” Willie scaled the house like a spider, making it look easy.

  Samson secured his sack to his belt and started after the boy. He made it half way before getting stuck. Willie retreated back down, pointing out the handholds. With the boy’s help, Samson made it to the top, pulling himself up onto the flat roof. Sprawling on the sun-baked shingles, he caught his breath, and then crept to the edge of the roof. Perched some twenty-five feet above the market, the roof provided a perfect view of the square.

  Crawling away from the edge, Samson stood to survey the rooftops. The bird’s eye view was very different from below. Stretched out in a line to the left and right, the buildings appeared as rectangular islands separated by gaps of three to five feet. A few had peaked roofs, and many had chimneys, but otherwise it was a flat landscape of shingled islands. He looked to the boy. “You know the rooftops better than anyone, what do you recommend?”

  “Stay low and in ta middle. If ya can’t be seen, ya can’t be tracked.” He pointed to the right. “Five buildings over has a back wall good for climbin’. Six has a chimney ta shimmy down.”

  “Anything else?”

  Willie shrugged. “Stay low and be quick.”

  “Sage advice.” Samson knelt and opened the sack. He removed the parchment, spreading it flat on a shingle. Dipping the quill in the ink, he sealed his fate in writing. He blew on the parchment till the ink dried and then folded the note into a square. So much at stake, such a slim hope, he handed the note to Willie along with the purse of gold coins. “You know what to do.”

  The lad tucked both in the top of his breeches and then turned to go.

  Samson needed to hear a friendly voice to bolster his courage. “Wish me luck?”

  The boy turned and gave him a shy smile. “Luck.” Willie walked to the edge and began to climb down. Before disappearing below the roofline, he looked back at Samson and said, “Watch your feet on the steep ones, the shingles can surprise ya.”

  Samson nodded and then the boy was gone. Alone, he sat in the middle of the roof, battered by his own fears, cowed by his own shame. Desperate for a distraction, he pulled the dark cloak from the sack and put it on. Assuming the mantle of the Dark Harper, he gained courage from the disguise.

  He crept to the edge of the roof and lay flat, staring down at the market, staring down at people leading normal lives. A voyeur from above, he watched the crowd shopping for supper. People meandered around the wagons, dickering with the farmers, a few moving with purpose but most swept along with crowd. Samson realized he’d lived his life as flotsam, pushed and pulled by waves and tides. There had been a few choices along the way…and he hadn’t done well with most of those. Perhaps this choice would make a difference, perhaps he could save his friends. A strange peace settled over him. Lying on the sun-baked shingles, he must have dozed in the warmth.

  He woke to the sound of screams. Red tabards swirled through the market below. Soldiers with drawn swords flooded the square. The people panicked, running for side streets, scattering in all directions, trying to hide. A wagon overturned, spilling melons across the cobblestones, adding to the chaos. Women screamed and children cried, a stampede of fear. The soldiers gave chase…till a voice roared, “Let them go!”

  A dark figure strode through the red. A long black cape swirled behind him, a lock of white hair at his temple. The Lord Raven had come. Samson shivered in fear, watching as the lord claimed the center of the square, issuing orders like a general.

  Soldiers continued to pour into the market, the tramp of boots echoing against the cobblestones. They formed ranks around the Lord Raven, facing outwards, hundreds of wicked-looking halberds held at the ready.

  Samson groaned; he hadn’t expected so many. The numbers proved the Dark Harper was a true threat, but with so many soldiers Samson had little hope of escape. Muttering a prayer to all the gods, his gaze swept the square, desperate for a glimpse of his friends. Only one prisoner. His heart sank. Bound with ropes, Jack stood between two soldiers, but he found no sign of the silver-haired grandmother. He’d failed her. Perhaps the old lady was already dead, the knitting needles stilled forever…but there was still hope for Jack.

  The tramp of boots stopped. The soldiers stood in long ranks of burnished steel and red tabards, a threat waiting for an order. A grim hush settled over the square.

  The Lord Raven’s voice rang against the stillness. “The boy is here, Harper. Come and claim him…if you dare!”

  The dark-cloaked lord pivoted, staring in all directions…but he never looked up. Hope rushed through Samson; they weren’t expecting him to use the rooftops. Perhaps his plan would still work. Pulling the cowl of his cloak up to hide his face in the deep shadows, Samson stood, a dark sentinel staring down from the edge of the roof.

  A boy crouching under a wagon was the first to spy him on the rooftops. “The Harper!”

  A murmur of surprise rippled through the people as others looked upward.

  Samson waited for the Lord Raven’s stare. He took a deep breath, hoping his voice would pass for the bard’s. “The deal was for the boy and the old woman.”

  The Lord Raven laughed, confident and mocking. “There was never a deal…only an offer.” He held the folded parchment aloft as if in proof.

  “I want the old woman released.”

  “The old woman killed a soldier. She’ll pay for her crimes. But the boy,” the Lord Raven shrugged, “the boy I’ll trade for the Dark Harper.”

  At least his disguise was working. “Let the boy go.”

  “Come and get him.”

  “Where can I go? I’m a bard not a bird.” Samson stood still, waiting, hoping.

  “So be it, bard, we’ll play your game of cat and bird.” The Lord Raven issued orders. Soldiers rushed to obey
, surrounding Samson’s building with a ring of steel.

  The trap narrowed but he still had a chance to escape over the rooftops…but only if they released Jack. “Let the boy go.”

  The Lord Raven bowed, a flourish of black and crimson. “By all means. Children are beloved of the Flame God.” He gestured and a soldier released the boy, cutting his bonds.

  Jack shrugged off the ropes. He raised his hand in a silent salute…and then he ran. Samson watched as the boy slipped between the rows of soldiers, darting into a side street, a streak of dark hair and grimy clothes. He followed Jack with his stare, hope growing with every stride, watching till he disappeared into alley. Relief spiked through him, at least the boy was safe.

  “And now, bard, we have a deal to complete.” The Lord Raven’s words cracked like a whip. “The boy is released. The Lord Raven keeps his word. But what of the Dark Harper? You said you’d trade your life for his. Do you deal in lies or do you save those for your songs?” He gestured to the market square. “The people are waiting. Show us the value of the Dark Harper’s word.”

  Samson realized he had an audience. A thousand eyes stared up at him, watching from crowded doorways, from open windows, from storefronts, from the shadows beneath the wagons. Young and old, rich and poor, they witnessed the contest between the raven and the bard.

  “Come, Harper! Prove your worth!” Samson realized the Lord Raven played to the crowd, his words loaded with mocking. “Will you come down or must I send the soldiers up? Show us the value of a Harper’s word. Do you stand for truth or lies?”

  Samson staggered backwards, realizing the trap. He could run, and try to evade the swords, but he could never evade the words. The Lord Raven set a fine trap, laced with barbs as strong as steel. The Dark Harper had to keep his word or all of Justin’s work was undone. Samson had to decide who he wanted to be. He had to decide if the masquerade was worth his life.

  The Lord Raven’s voice struck like a goad. “Make your choice, Harper, before I make it for you.”

  Samson felt the weight of the people’s stares, he felt their hunger for a miracle…but he had none to give. He was just a simple man in a dark cape…but perhaps he could be more. He stepped to the edge and stared down at his fate. Faces stared upwards, full of desperate expectation. The hushed silence goaded him, making Samson realize he needed something to say, some words of wisdom or a clever rhyme to prove he was the bard. He’d never been good with words but somehow the words came anyway. “The Dark Harper speaks the truth.” His strength flowed into his voice. “You can silence one voice but you can never stop the truth, you can never stop the music.”

  The sun chose that moment to set, spreading a glory of red and gold across the sky. Samson smiled, choosing to be the bard for one brief moment, for one glorious sunset. “I choose to keep my word.” He took the long step. He took the long fall...and the Light reached out for him.

  55

  Steffan

  Steffan watched the Dark Harper take the long step into nothing, the dark cape fluttering behind like a broken wing. The harper tumbled in silence, a wet thud sounding as the body smacked face-first into the cobblestones. Blood spattered across the stones, red as a banner.

  Steffan swallowed his shock.

  A sigh rippled through the marketplace. A child cried and a woman sobbed. Steffan surveyed the crowd, pale faces peering from windows and shop doors. Too many witnesses, the Dark Harper had cheated, stealing victory from defeat.

  The Lord Raven crossed the square and nudged the body with his boot. The face was smashed to a bloody ruin, no way to distinguish the man behind the gory mess. “And so it ends. You sang the wrong songs, Harper.”

  He looked for the nearest officer. The man snapped to attention.

  “Erect a stake in the temple square. I want the body impaled upright. Make sure the dark cape is secured to the corpse, so there’s no mistaking it’s the Dark Harper. The body’s to stand on display till it drops from rot.” He raised his voice so the crowd could hear. “Let the people see what happens to rebels who dare oppose the Pontifax.”

  The officer saluted and two soldiers moved to obey.

  Steffan turned, a swirl of black and crimson. He strode from the square, anger in his stride. Soldiers and citizens scrambled to get out of his way. Dismissing his guards, he walked alone through the city streets, weaving his way back to his mansion.

  The mute giant, Olaff, snapped to attention, before rushing to open the door.

  Steffan paused. “No visitors tonight.”

  The giant nodded, his bushy black beard contrasting with his shaved head.

  Steffan passed through the door, his boots ringing on the marble floor.

  Pip appeared from the depths of the mansion. “Take your cloak, lord?”

  He let the lad remove his cloak. “Have Olaff bring the copper tub up to my bedchamber. I want a bath, Pip, and make it hot. And brandy. I’ll have a bottle of the best brandy.”

  “And something to eat, lord?”

  “No, just brandy.” He entered his solar and poured a glass of Urian brandy. The amber liquor was smooth and strong, leaving a trail of warmth down the back of his throat. He drained the glass and poured another. A pile of scrolls from today’s confessions waited on his desk but they could not hold his interest. He rose and stood by the window, watching the sunset sky. Streaks of red and gold fanned out from the west, a glorious display. The sky held the colors of the Pontifax, the colors of the Flame God. Steffan shook his head. The sky lied; the Dark Harper had won the day.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Your bath is ready, lord.”

  He followed Pip up the marble staircase to his bedchamber. The copper tub stood in front of the double doors leading out to the balcony. Steam rose in lazy curls, the scent of lemongrass filling the chamber.

  Steffan sat on silken sheets as the lad knelt to pull off his leather boots. He let the lad do all the work, nimble fingers easing bindings. Stripped of his clothes, Steffan stepped into the tub, the heat of the water easing his muscles. “Open the doors to the balcony. I want to watch the night fall.”

  The lad obeyed. A cool breeze blew in, carrying a hint of autumn.

  “Now pour me a glass of brandy and you can go.”

  Pip moved a small round table next to the tub. He poured a glass of brandy and set a full decanter within easy reach. The lad served the brandy and then bowed, closing the doors to the bedchamber.

  Steffan sank back into the heat, sipping the amber liquor. He watched the sky, waiting for the victory of night, the victory of Darkness. The day had not gone as he’d planned. He’d hoped to humiliate the Harper in front of the crowds. He’d expected the bard to run, trusting his soldiers to catch him in the end. Once caught, he’d planned to break the Harper in the dungeons, extracting the name of every rebel. He never thought the damned fool would jump. Draining his glass, he refilled it, the liquor taking a bite out of his thoughts. At least he’d broken the heart of the rebellion, spattered to a bloody pulp across the cobblestones.

  He must have dozed, succumbing to the heat and the liquor. A scent roused him. Crushed violets and the musk of sandalwood, the scent teased his mind…evoking memories of the Dark Lord’s Isle…memories of passion and pleasure.

  The water had turned tepid, the sky darkened to a deep shade of purple. A gentle breeze blew in from the balcony, renewing the scent of violets. A figure stepped through the open doors. Tall and statuesque, she stood silhouetted against the twilight sky…an image from his dreams.

  “Is it you?” His voice was deep and husky.

  She stepped through the doorway, a soft whisper of silk. Her thin diaphanous sheath accentuated every curve.

  “Is it really you?” He needed to hear her voice, to be sure he didn’t dream.

  She reached for a towel and stepped to the side of the copper tub. “Let me dry you.”

  Her throaty voice rippled across his skin, across his need. He rose, rampant, water falling like drops of rain. He tri
ed to think past the wanting. “How did you get in?”

  Her laughter rippled down his spine. “Your guard is a mute not a eunuch.”

  The touch of the towel was a tease, cool and gentle…when he wanted hot and hard. He stood statue-still, holding back, not trusting the temptress. “Why have you come?”

  “To bring you a message from the Dark Lord,” her voice deepened to a silken purr, “and to offer you an alliance.”

  “A message?” He tried to think past her touch.

  “The Lord Raven has done well. But to earn the rebirth of a harlequin, you must do more than twist a single kingdom. The Dark Lord rewards those whose reach is long.

  The Priestess licked a drop of water from his chest, a cat tasting cream.

  He suppressed a groan. “My army stands poised to march.”

  “Then let them march. The time is right. Lanverness stands weak with chaos.”

  She abandoned the towel, using hands and lips and tongue. The Priestess did not play fair. His body railed against his will, but he remained statue-still, stiff as stone. “And the alliance?”

  “The Mordant has crossed the Dragon Spines. We compete against a thousand years of evil. But working together, combining our strengths, we can conquer the heart of Erdhe before he can raise his armies.”

  She moved lower, doing something with her tongue, something that racked him with shivers, straining his control.

  When he could speak again, his voice was hoarse. “What do you bring to this alliance?”

  Her fingers trailed a line up his chest. Leaning close, her breath hot, she whispered the answer in his ear.

  His eyes widened at her audacity.

  She stepped away from him, standing within reach but not touching, a subtle torture. Her voice dropped to a deep husk, a verbal temptation. “Yours to decide. Shall I stay…or shall I go?”

  Steffan knew he shouldn’t trust her…but her plan had merit…and the ache of his manhood had grown unbearable. Desire dissolved doubt. He gave in and reached for her. Stepping from the tub, he carried her to the silken sheets. Her raven hair spilled across the pillow, her ivory skin bathed in moonlight. He drank her in, the softness of her skin, her lush curves, her scent, her deft touch. Everything about her was intoxicating, as if she wove a spell of desire...driving him beyond reason, beyond the edge of passion. He quenched his need in her, rough and hard…but she pressed him for more. Every touch was insistent, teasing, demanding, insatiable. His passion came in waves, better than any dream. Pain and pleasure melded into one, a maddening tidal wave of need. They spent the night sealing their alliance, straining every limit…all to the glory of the Dark Lord.