The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (11 page)

A rat scurried across the alleyway, brazen in the sunlight.
Rats
, Samson hated rats. The Flame God’s city was full of them, especially in the back alleys. He turned his head, not wanting to see the reason the rat risked daylight but his nose betrayed him. Something rotten, something more than the usual refuse, something dead laced with decay. He held his sleeve to his face and walked faster. The stench was another reason to hate the back ways, but the alleys were safer than the streets. He’d never seen a red robed priest in the alleys, or the bright-eyed faithful for that matter…the grime might tarnish their holiness. Samson chuckled but the sound was bitter. Compared to the priests, the rats were good company.

Samson threaded his way down the dirt lane, doing his best to avoid the yellow puddles. The alley narrowed, the buildings on either side becoming a better quality, stone instead of wood, a sure sign the back way was coming to an end.

He paused in the shadowy exit, scanning the intersecting street, searching for the telltale red of a priest’s robe or a guard’s tabard but found none. Relieved, he stepped into the cobblestones, joining the noon-time crowd, trying to look innocent; worried that he didn’t know what innocent meant anymore.

Hands in his pockets, he strolled the street of chandlers, wooden signs displaying tapered candles. He shook his head, amazed that merchants with the same wares flocked to the same street, as if they found profit in numbers. It was the same for cobblers. He wondered how their little shop would fare away from the other boot makers, but then they hadn’t returned to Coronth to earn golds…or to make boots. Samson sighed, wishing he was still in Lanverness.

He tried to blend in, making sure to walk at the same pace as the others, women returning from markets, merchants delivering bundles, boys running errands. His beard itched, too hot for the summer, but it was his only disguise; small wonder he preferred the safety of the back alleyways.

The street came to an intersection and he turned right, always scanning for red. Two more turns and he came to a small, open square lined with inns, taverns, and narrow stone houses, a respectable section of the city but not wealthy. The kind of place where people paid in silvers not golds.

Samson squinted at the sun and saw that he was early. He found a shadowy corner and leaned against the wall, staring at the tavern across the square. The well-kept wooden sign named it “the Jolly Penitent”. The name didn’t make any sense to Samson. In the Flame God’s city penitents were either burnt alive or in hiding, rarely jolly. He stared at the sign and realized the tavern’s name had never bothered him before, back when he had a normal life, back when he was a city guard, back before all the nightmares.

The tavern door opened and he saw her; long raven-black hair, skin as light and soft as cream, and a smile to brighten the sun, his Lucy. He drank in the sight like a man starved for food. Lucy was living proof of his past life, the girl he’d courted before the priests burned his father in the Test of Faith, before everything changed. He’d spied her in a crowd three weeks ago and had been following her ever since, trying to get up the nerve to meet. He longed to talk with her but he didn’t know if he dared, didn’t know if he should, now that he was a fugitive from the priests and a deserter from the guards. If truth be told, he wasn’t sure if she’d even remember him, but he didn’t want to think about that.

He watched from the shadows, waiting to see which way she’d turn. When she turned left, he knew she was heading for the spice markets; she went there once a week. He followed, not too close, not too far.

Once, just once, he dared get close enough to brush against her, to lean close and sniff her scent. A hint of lilac on her skin, the smell brought a rush of memories. He used to save his pay and buy her soaps infused with lilac, back before everything changed. Heady with her scent, he nearly said something, nearly whispered her name, but he kept walking past, brushing against her sleeve at the last moment. She glanced up at him but there was no recognition in her light brown eyes. Maybe it was the beard, or all the weight he’d lost, or maybe the lack of a uniform, she’d always liked his guard’s uniform.

Samson kept walking, circling the market, circling Lucy. Cinnamon, nutmeg, pepper, basil, a rush of smells pressed against him. He breathed deep, enjoying the rich mingling of scents while watching Lucy meander through the market, a feast for the senses.

The market was crowded, a crush of women and a smattering of men, haggling for small packets of spices. The haggling was heaviest around the salt merchants; everyone needed salt. He lost sight of Lucy in the press. Rushing forward, he tried to find her. He caught a flash of her dark hair to the left and angled in that direction. He broke through the crowd and skidded to a stop.

 
“
Alms for the temple!”
A short, bird-eyed priest glared up at Samson. “Ease your sins by giving alms to the Flame God.”

Fear strangled Samson’s throat. He stared at the red-robed priest, wanting to run but afraid to move.

The priest thrust a black lacquer bowl at Samson’s chest, his voice insistent. “You look like a man with sins on your soul. Give alms to the temple and lessen your burden.”

Samson struggled to breathe. Frantic to escape, he fumbled in his pocket, desperate for a coin. Without looking, he flung one into the bowl, praying it was silver.

The priest’s stare followed the coin till it chinked among the others. He glanced up at Samson, a neutral smile on his face. “Blessings of the Flame God be upon you.” He turned away, searching for another donor.

Samson sagged in relief; it must have been a silver. A copper coin and the priest would have harassed him for more. A gold coin and the priest would have fawned all over him. A silver was the only safe offering, the only way to escape.

Shaken by the encounter, he fled back to the market, seeking to disappear in the crowd. He scanned the stalls, looking for red; priests usually traveled in packs. Glimpsing red robes to the left, he ducked low and worked his way to the far edge of the market, slipping into the first alleyway. Free of the crowd, he found himself running, needing to get away.

He took two wrong turns but eventually found his way back to their cobbler shop. He paused, trying to still his ragged breathing; he didn’t want the others to see him this way. When his racing heart finally calmed, he straightened his jerkin and stepped out into the street. A fresh painted sign showed a gentleman’s black boot on a field of green. Samson opened the door and stepped into a workshop cluttered with tools and few pairs of finished boots. A whiff of fresh-baked apple pie competed with the smell of worked leather. Mouth-watering, he followed the smell past the stairs to the large stone kitchen at the rear. The soothing sound of knitting needles made him smile, the tension of the streets melting from his shoulders.

“Come in dear, there’s no sense hovering in the doorway.”

The silver-haired old lady had a habit of inviting poor folk home, offering them a meal at their table. She was always saying, “You need to feed their bodies before you can change their minds.” But today she was alone, sitting in a rocking chair by the hearth, her hands busy with knitting needles. Grandmother Magda looked harmless enough but Samson knew she had at least one sharp-edged butcher’s knife tucked away in the yarn bag at her feet. The old woman could take care of herself. She looked up from her knitting, her eyes keen, her voice warm. “Come and have some tea. The kettle’s on the fire and there’s corn bread in the warming pan.”

He never saw her cooking but there was always something fresh baked, waiting in the oven. Apple pie was his favorite, the smell of apples always made him feel safe. He took a mug from the hook and lifted the kettle from the fire. “Will you have a cup with me?”

“Thanks but I’ll wait for the others.” The knitting needles kept at a steady, rhythmic clacking, the sound of safety.

He settled onto the bench by the table and wrapped his hands around the mug. “When will they be back?”

“Ben should return soon, he’s delivering a pair of boots. Justin is harping at one of the taverns; he won’t be back till late.”

The mention of taverns sent a shiver of guilt down Samson’s back. He shouldn’t have followed Lucy, shouldn’t have gone to the Jolly Penitent. “Which tavern?”

“Oh the Thirsty Saint, or the Hungry Sinner, the names all sound alike to me.” Her gray eyes twinkled in the firelight.

He chuckled at the joke; the old woman was sharp as a knife, never missing a trick.

The rocking chair creaked in a steady rhythm, the knitting needles clacking. “How was your day, dear?”

The question brought a ration of guilt. Instead of searching out citizens who hated the priests, he’d squandered his morning following Lucy. He was supposed to be scouring the city for allies, but he found it hard to approach the ones with haunted eyes. So hard and so dangerous…so much easier to find other things to do. He hid behind the mug, taking a long drink of tea.

“Have you found anyone, dear?”

He sputtered and choked, his face turning red, the question too close to the bone.

The rocking chair stopped, but not the knitting needles, never the knitting needles.

He hid from her gaze, staring into the mug. “So much has changed. The city is worse than I remember.” He thought about Lucy, about the life he’d lost, about the way he felt when he followed her through the markets. The old woman knew what it was like to lose family. She’d lost everything to the Flame God; surely she’d understand his need to be loved. Samson raised his gaze and stared at the silver-haired grandmother, the shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, the lines of wisdom etched deep on her face. He wanted to tell her about Lucy, wanted to ask her advice. He leaned forward, struggling to find the right words.

Snap!
The fire cracked, spitting a spark.

Samson jumped, his heart hammering as if he’d seen a priest, his secret clogged in his throat. He shook his head, and tightened his grip on the mug. He couldn’t tell anyone about Lucy. The moment was lost.

The rocking chair started again, the low creak keeping time to the knitting needles. “Have a piece of pie, dear, you’ll feel better.”

Samson reached for the pie and cut a thick slice. He breathed deep, wrapping himself in the smell of cinnamon and baked apples. He needed to feel safe, needed to believe the kitchen was a haven. He knew it was an illusion, but he held tight to it anyway, otherwise the reality of Coronth was just too damn scary.
 

Mired in worry, the queen paced in front of the mullioned window. “Has he yielded the names?”

The Master Archivist bowed his head. “He spewed plenty of names when we first put him in the traitor’s hole, all of them false.”

The queen wore a path in the carpet. “You’re sure they’re false?”

“Prince Stewart? Myself? And then he started on more obscure names.”

“Such as?”

“Madam Stock.”

“A woman?”

The master grimaced. “The madam of an expensive bordello. The prince named half the whores in Pellanor.”

The queen shuddered. “More proof he is not worthy.” Liandra massaged the half-moon cuts on her palms, scars from the scene of betrayal. She forced the memory from her mind; she had a kingdom to secure. “So whom does he name now?”

“He’s fallen silent. Perhaps the dungeon is finally taking its toll.”

“Danly was always one to wallow in luxuries. We expected a single day in the dungeons to break him. He japes at us by naming whores.” Glancing out the window, she watched the sky darken, ominous with storm clouds. “We need those names. Time grows short. The ruse that Prince Danly has taken ill with the flux wears thin.” She tightened her hands into fists, aware of the rings on her fingers. “When the Red Horns learn the truth, they will have but two choices, retreat and try to escape, or to spring their trap and attack. Judging from the way the leader of Red Horns has so far played the game, we expect him to fight rather than flee.” The queen turned to stare at her spymaster. “We can feel it in the very air. We are but a hair’s breath away from bloodshed.”

The master nodded. “What would you have me do?”

“Your jailers have tried and failed. It is time for different tactics.” She fingered the string of pearls at her throat. “We will go to him.”

“No!”

The queen raised an eyebrow in warning.

The master’s face contorted in worry, a rare sign of emotion from the stoic counselor. “It is far too dangerous. The safety of the sovereign is paramount. My shadowmen can best protect you in the Queen’s Tower.”

“Time is running out. We have made up our mind.” Picking up a hand bell, the queen summoned her lady-in-waiting.

A petite blond-haired woman answered the summons. Curtseying, she waited for the queen’s command.

“Lady Sarah, is everything ready?”

Blanching, the woman replied, “Yes, your majesty, all is in order.”

Turning to her shadowmaster, the queen said, “See to it that the guards are waiting at the servants’ entrance in one turn of the hourglass and do not forget the password.”

His face grim, the master objected, “There is no need for you to do this. Let me try again. It is too dangerous for you to leave the Queen’s Tower.”

“The game is nearing checkmate; we must make a daring move to save our crown.”
 
The queen turned a gilded hourglass, setting the sands coursing. “You have an hour to prepare. We will go to Danly and get the traitors’ names.”

“Everything will be done as you have planned.” With a final bow the Master Archivist left the solar.

Turning to her lady-in-waiting the queen said, “Now you must help us with our disguise.”

Lady Sarah worked with quiet efficiency, divesting the queen of her royal raiment.

Liandra sat statue-still, enduring the transformation. She watched through narrowed eyes as the armor of her image was stripped away. The glitter of wealth was the first to be removed; pearl necklaces, gold bracelets, and diamond hair studs all divested, leaving the queen unadorned. The delicate swirls of her raven hair were next; combed out and tied back in a simple peasant’s knot. Layers of the finest silk were exchanged for a dull butternut frock of plain homespun wool. The artful powders accenting her cheeks, lips, and eyes were stripped away, revealing her inner face. As a final touch, a simple shawl was draped over her head and around her shoulders, the coarse brown wool scraping against her face.

The queen studied the results, feeling vulnerable. A commoner stared back from the royal mirror, a woman older than the queen and far less captivating. Liandra mourned her youth and the armor of her image. Suppressing a shudder, she steeled her resolve.
 
Desperate gambits often required extreme measures. Turning away from the harsh truth, the queen rose, ready to make her next move.

Lady Sarah curtseyed. “Pardon me, your majesty, but your rings?”

She stared at the royal rings gracing her hands. “You are quite right, Lady Sarah, but these rings shall never leave our hands…not till death takes them from us.” Twisting the Great Seal and the Royal Emerald, the queen adjusted the rings so that they appeared as two plain bands of thick gold. “That will have to do.” Looking closely at her lady-in-waiting, the queen said, “Do you understand your role in this play?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

The sands of the hourglass had run out. Outside the window, the sky was dark, the storm nearly upon them. “Then let us be away, and remember, once we leave this chamber you are to refer to us as your ‘cousin’. We cannot be the queen beyond this chamber.”

Turning pale, Lady Sarah bowed her head and murmured, “As you wish, your majesty.”

The queen paused, infusing her voice with warmth, “We are entrusting you with our life, Lady Sarah. Are you equal to this task?”

Color bloomed on the woman’s cheeks. “Yes, majesty.”

“Then lead the way. Your simple ‘cousin’ from the country follows behind.”

The queen hid her face within the shawl and slumped her shoulders, trying to shed her royal posture. With a final curtsey, Lady Sarah opened the door to the hallway, forsaking the safety of the queen’s solar. Guards snapped to attention but they relaxed once they saw the women, allowing them to pass without comment.

Using back passageways frequented by servants, they wound their way through the tower, trusting to the simple disguise of being merely women. The queen kept her face deep within the shawl while Lady Sarah chattered on, explaining the ways of the court to her country cousin. The queen, accustomed to having stares follow her every move, was amazed at the freedom of the disguise. Despite the presence of guards at most doors, the two women reached the servants’ entrance at the rear of the tower without challenge.

The evening was cool and full of shadows, dark clouds roiling above. The queen lingered in the doorway, watching as Lady Sarah ventured into the courtyard. Soldiers and young men loitered in the cobblestone yard, waiting for girlfriends and lovers to finish their shift of work. A handsome young man approached Lady Sarah, taking her arm. Words were exchanged and then the lady let out a peal of laughter that echoed against the walls of the castle.

Hearing the pre-arranged signal, the queen pulled the shawl tight around her head and dared to leave the safety of the tower. Her glance darted around the yard, wary of foes. Halfway across, a captain in the emerald tabard of the royal guards fell into step with her, gallantly offering his arm. Leaning his head toward her in a familiar fashion, the captain whispered, “White’s Gambit”.

Relieved, the queen took the captain’s arm, hoping the gesture looked natural. She studied her escort, pleased to find him tall and handsome as well as good mannered; her shadowmaster had chosen well.

The captain threaded a muscular arm around her waist, walking close as a lover.

The queen bristled but then forced herself to relax.

The captain whispered, “I beg your pardon for the familiarity, but the master’s orders were explicit. My name is Captain Durnheart of the Rose Guards and I will see you safely to your destination.”

His voice was soothing but the rigid tension of his arm screamed of danger. Keeping her voice to a whisper, the queen asked, “How many others are there?”

“Shadowmen lurk in every doorway along the route, protecting our back as well as the way forward. The Master Archivist leaves little to chance.”

The queen nodded, pleased with her spymaster, but her gaze never stopped raking the courtyard, trying to judge friend from foe.

They walked at a leisurely pace, blending in with servants leaving the castle. They followed the crowd toward the western gate, but before passing out of the inner yard, the captain steered her away toward the great kitchen. Avoiding the kitchen at the last moment, they ducked into an unlit passage linking the inner yard to the soldiers’ barracks. Pausing in the shadows of the covered passageway, they scanned for threats. A group of soldiers patrolled the barracks yard, marching in formation. When the soldiers reached the far corner, the captain tightened his grip around the queen’s waist and briskly walked her toward the short squat tower that marked the entrance to dungeons.

Castle Tandroth’s dungeons lay below ground, a deep delving of black cells and hidden chambers, a place of buried misery, the one place in the castle the queen had never been. Pulling her shawl tight, she bowed her head, hiding her face from the guards.

The captain whispered a word and the prison guard jumped to open the heavy iron door, giving the pair admission to the underworld. The queen shivered as she passed through the portal. Behind them, the ironclad door clanked shut like the jaws of a metal beast. The sound grated on the queen’s nerves. The captain released his hold and stepped away, giving her the space due a royal. She missed the comfort of his arm.

Cold stone closed in around them, dank and dark and menacing. The queen and the captain descended the ramp. A horrid stink smacked them in the face, rank with all the smells of human fear, a warning of the cruelties that lay below. The queen pulled her shawl across her face as if the course wool could insulate her from the stench.

Emerging from the sloped tunnel, they entered a well-lit guardroom, torches and weapons racks lining the walls. They found the Master Archivist in conversation with one of the jailors. Tension melted from the queen’s shoulders at the sight of her spymaster.

The master turned, barely flicking a glance in her direction. “There you are, Durnheart.
 
I see you’ve found the rogue’s doxy. Perhaps her pleading will convince him to talk.”

The master’s curt dismissal struck Liandra like a slap. It was all part of the ruse, yet it hurt to be ignored, especially by him. The queen bridled her temper, forcing herself to play the part of a mere woman. In the game of kings most women barely counted as pawns.

Turning his back on the queen, the master addressed the burly jailor. “Paulus, we’ll need the keys for the lower dungeon.”

Scratching an itch at his crotch, the pot-bellied jailor leered at the queen. “Lest she’s go’in to raise her skirt, a woman won’t much matter to the men in here.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” The master’s retort cut like sharp steel. “Now be quick about it, and get the keys.”

“No need to get angry, m’Lord,” the jailor groused as he selected a thick ring of keys from the rack along the back wall. “It’ll be darker than hell down there, so you may be want’in a torch or two.”

The master turned to two soldiers waiting in the shadows. “You two grab extra torches and bring up the rear. Captain Durnheart, follow me. Bring the woman along and watch your step, the floors are slick with slime.”

The captain moved to the queen’s side, tightening his grip on her arm.

This time the queen welcomed his touch.

He steered her forward, following directly behind the spymaster. Two soldiers with torches brought up the rear. Hinges creaked as the jailor unlocked a massive ironbound door. The door revealed a long stone passageway lined with cells. A low stone ceiling pressed down, cramping the space, swallowing light and life, strangling the senses. They walked into the belly of the dungeon, the air rank with the stench of urine and unwashed bodies. The queen fixed her gaze on the master’s back, trying to avoid any glimpse of the cells. Hairy arms thrust out from between iron bars making grabbing gestures. The prisoners jeered, hurling lewd comments. The queen refused to flinch. Shutting her ears, she kept to the center, walking a gauntlet of obscenities.

The jailor clattered his keys against the iron bars. “All right you scum, quiet down. They’ll be no skirt for the likes of you.” But the din continued, perhaps threats no longer mattered to these men.

An eternity later, they reached the second door. The jailor fumbled with the keys. Shadows danced in the flickering torchlight. The rusted hinges screeched, opening to a steep staircase, the stones coated in a green slime. They worked their way down the tight spiral, the air stagnant with the smell of festering mold. The queen lost her footing, but the captain was quick to catch her. She gripped his arm, grateful for his strength.

The stairway led to a second row of cells, only this time a pounding silence assaulted the queen’s ears. Her own heartbeat sounded loud, an intrusion of the living in a tomb of stone. The silence was chilling, as if any semblance of humanity could not survive the murky depths. The queen shivered, her gaze fixed on the Master Archivist, afraid to see what lay rotting in the cells.

The cellblock ended in a rusted door. Muttering, the jailor said, “Don’t use the torture chambers no more, pity that.” Jiggling the key into the lock, he added in a louder voice, “Only opened this section of the dungeon for the new prisoner. Must’ve done something really wicked to earn the hole.”