The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (2 page)

1

Katherine

A stubborn sun skulked above the snowcapped mountains. Kath trudged along the narrow path, bone-weary, feeling as if the very sun mocked her. It seemed an eon since this morning, so much had changed. Despite the bloody sun at dawn, the sky had turned a crystal blue. On such a clear day, Kath could see forever, yet the way forward had never been so treacherous. She threw a weary glance aloft. Even in the light of day, the comet was visible, a scorching red scar across the vaulted blue, proof the nightmare was real. Kath gripped her sword hilt and made the hand sign against evil. She’d come to the monastery for answers and now she followed death.

The funeral procession wound its way up the south face of the mountain. Such a long way to come for a burial, but Kath and her companions kept their silence, their breath frosting to white plumes in the harsh mountain air. Four blue-robed monks carried the body on a narrow litter while Master Rizel led the mourners in death’s wake. Kath’s gaze followed the body. Stripped of armor, surcoat and sword, the body was wrapped in a white winding sheet and bound to the litter. Borne aloft, it looked like a snowmoth’s chrysalis, like something waiting to be born instead of buried. Kath shivered at the strangeness of the thought.

A stone skittered off the ledge, falling to oblivion.

Death changed everything.

The monastery was supposed to be a haven not a trap. Kath wondered if the gods even cared. She trailed a hand along the rock face, trying to avoid the ice, but her gaze kept flicking to the heavens. The comet haunted her. She gripped the crystal dagger sheathed at her belt. After escaping the Mist, she’d sworn to carry it always, but a dagger seemed a feeble weapon against a thousand-year-old evil. Memories from the Mist assailed her mind, the battlefield strewn with corpses, and all the dead wore maroon. Somehow she had to warn Castlegard…to warn the king. She wondered if he’d listen. The knights scorned prophecy…and the messenger alone might doom the message. Her lord father was never one to heed the words of a daughter, especially a daughter who’d disobeyed. The thought opened a chasm in her mind. Willfulness in a son might win praise from the king, but never in a daughter. The distaff gender could be such a curse, but she had to make him listen, especially with so much at stake. Her boots slipped on ice.

Kath fell hard, sliding toward the precipice. She flailed for a hold.
 

A strong hand caught her arm. “Steady.”

Duncan
lifted her to her feet, holding her till her boots found purchase. For half a heartbeat, she leaned into his strength. Regaining her footing, she flashed him a grateful smile. “My thanks,” but the words were swallowed by the wind.

Duncan
leaned close, his one-eyed gaze intense. “Tread your own path. You will find a way.”

Her breath caught, as if he’d heard the worries plaguing her mind. “
How?
”

“Your gaze follows the comet instead of the trail. Beware the danger close at hand.”

Her face flamed red. Chagrined, she spared a quick glance for the two knights plodding behind and then turned and trudged up the steep trail, rushing to catch the monks. Skirting the ice, Kath tried to focus on the path, but her mind skittered like a wild horse. She’d asked Master Rizel why the burial was so rushed, but he just gave her a look that brooked no questions. So they followed the monks skyward, passing from the alpine spring of the monastery back into winter’s harsh bite. Kath walked with her head bent and her cloak pulled tight against the blistering cold. No one spoke. The small procession remained grief-quiet, nothing but boots crunching on snow. A bitter wind snatched at Kath’s long blonde hair, obscuring her vision, obscuring the tears that would not flow. The dead deserved grief, but all she felt was anger. She’d liked Sir Cardemir. Liked his ready smile and his honey-smooth voice, a master of sword and lute, a boon traveling companion…but more than that, she owed him a debt for saving Jordan at the glacier. And then she’d found them both felled on the monastery floor. Memories from the morning cut like glass. A bloody dagger and a bloody sword, as if the two friends had fought.
A bold-faced lie!
Anger roared through her. They should have been safe. She should have come sooner.

A cold wind slapped Kath in the face.

She staggered, realizing the path veered away from the mountain. A fist of stone jutted from the mountainside, nothing but snow-capped peaks and empty air waiting beyond. Duncan and the two knights crowded behind. She heard
Blaine
mutter, “We’re not going up that?”

As if in answer, a monk climbed the fist, his blue robes flapping against the gray granite. A rope snaked back down. They used the rope to haul the body up the stony fist. Kath watched in silence, thinking a stone cairn would be so much easier. And then it was her turn to climb. Deep footholds were worn in the rock.
Worn,
not carved. Kath wonder how many thousands of monks had trod this path, more proof the Order took the long view. A cold wind snatched at her cloak, buffeting her against the rock, but Kath clung to the handholds. She reached the top and learned she was wrong. It wasn’t a fist of stone, but a flat ledge, like an open hand held palm upwards to the sky. And in the center, chiseled deep in the stone, was a Seeing Eye. Kath shivered, as if she stood exposed to the gods.

The monks set the litter next to the Seeing Eye. Untying the lashings, they moved the shroud-wrapped body directly onto the carving. Kath half expected to see a flash of light or a spark of magic, but nothing happened.

Two monks moved to the far side of the ledge, to a shelf of stone that lay like a thumb along the side of the hand. Inset in the shelf was a long narrow wooden door, the size of a jousting lance. And the color of that door was midnight blue.

The monks opened the door and removed a horn, but it was like no horn Kath had ever seen. Long and tapered like a lance, the copper horn was ringed in silver, narrow at one end and flanged to a wide bell-shaped mouth at the other. Runes were etched into the copper, a delicate swirl running the length of the horn. A third monk unrolled a small, tasseled rug on the cold stone hand. The first monk sat cross-legged on the rug, holding the horn’s mouthpiece. The second used a small silver chain to suspend the horn’s bell out over the stone fingertips, pointing the sound towards oblivion. Kath and her companions watched spellbound, waiting for the voice.

The monk took a deep breath, his cheeks puffed full, and then he blew. A deep-throated drone hummed through the thin mountain air, powerful and otherworldly. Like the voice of a god, Kath felt the sound shake her very bones.

Master Rizel gave her a knowing smile. “Ragdon has a mighty voice.” He gestured towards the sky. “The horn calls the eagles.”

And then she saw them, great roc eagles, spiraling overhead, their wings spread wider than a man stands tall. Shadows swooped across the open palm, drawing a circle around the dead. “But why…” and then she understood. Her breath gasped in horror, “You’ll feed him to the eagles?”

The master watched the soaring wings. “It is a sky burial. It is our way.” But then he turned and saw her face. “We do this to honor him. His flesh will soar with eagles, one step closer to the gods, while his bones, his armor, his sword, and his lute will be returned to Lanverness. Sir Cardemir will be honored. He will be remembered.”

Kath could only stare, shocked by the barbarity.

The master’s gaze narrowed. “Would you rather be food for worms, or eagles?”

His rebuke made Kath reconsider. Put that way, the sky burial made a strange sort of sense. She turned to gaze across the stone palm, out towards the endless jumble of mountains crowned by a vast blue sky. The view was exhilarating, the heavens near enough to touch. A sense of awe flooded her. “I think I understand.”

The master gave her a solemn smile. “The gods are near.”

The great horn continued its deep-throated drone, her whole body quivering with sound. More eagles gathered overhead, carving majestic circles in the pale blue sky. Master Rizel lifted his hands and began to chant, his deep baritone weaving words around the thrum of the horn. Kath strained to listen, but the words hid their meaning, buried in an ancient tongue. Yet the more she listened, the more she felt a sense of enduring peace, like the balm of the gods. All too soon, the chant ended and the horn fell silent.

Master Rizel turned towards Kath. “It is time to say your farewells.”

Kath looked at the others, uncertain what to do.

When no one spoke, the master intervened. “Our customs are strange to you, so I will go first.” He turned and offered a deep bow towards the linen-wrapped body. “Sir Cardemir, we thank you for the words of your queen. Know that they will be answered in a way that matters.” He bowed a second time. “We ask for your pardon. Our monastery should have been a sanctuary not a threat. The Kiralynn monks honor you for facing the Order’s oldest enemy. A debt is owed to you and yours.” He bowed a third time. “Go in peace to meet the Lords of Light.”

The master retreated. Kath looked to the others. Sir Tyrone gave her a solemn nod and then stepped forward, his maroon cloak snapping like a banner in the wind. The black knight’s voice was steady and sure. “Sir Cardemir, I thank you for the gift of your music, and the way your lute made the leagues pass. You will be missed.”

Sir Blaine went second. He hesitated, as if uncertain what to say, but then he unsheathed his blue steel sword. Raising the gleaming blade to the heavens, he said, “I sparred with you on the way south and learned the worth of your sword despite the noise of your lute. Valin will claim you as one of his own, a warrior in life and in death.” Saluting the body, he sheathed his sword.

Kath thought
Duncan
would go next, but when the archer made no move, she realized it was her turn. Stepping forward, she stared at the shroud-wrapped body. Stripped of his armor and his seahorse surcoat, Sir Cardemir seemed diminished by death…but Kath swore his deeds would not be forgotten. “I too thank you for your music. But most of all, I thank you for saving my sword sister at the glacier.” Thinking of
Jordan
, a single tear escaped her eye, but then an image of the bloody dagger assaulted her mind. Her voice hardened, “and whatever evil befell you in the monastery,
I will not believe the lie.
” Kath shook with conviction, staring at the dead.

Duncan
put a warm hand on her shoulder. She gave the archer a heartfelt look and then retreated.
Duncan
took her place, standing before the dead. For a dozen heartbeats he remained statue-still, black leathers beneath a wolf-skin cloak, the wind tugging at his long dark hair. Eventually he spoke, his voice gruff, “
Jordan
was mine to protect. I thank you for the mountain pass but I question the monastery hallways.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper and Kath strained to hear. “But either way, you remind us to drink deep, for life is all too often cut short.” He turned and flashed Kath a look that she could not fathom, but then his face closed and he strode to confront Master Rizel. “We’ve honored the dead; now take us to the living.”

Sorrow creased the master’s sun-weathered face. “Her wounds were grievous, so close to death.”

A savage anger flared on the archer’s face. “You said your healers would save her.”

Kath’s breath caught, afraid to hear the answer.

“I said, our healers would do all they can.” The master glanced toward the pale sun skimming the mountaintops and then back to
Duncan
. “They’ve had time enough to try. Come. We’ve honored the dead. Let us return to the monastery.”

Numb from the cold, and battered by the events of the day, Kath followed the master back down the rock face. Behind them, the horn resumed its deep-throated sound, mourning the seahorse knight, but Kath refused to think about death. She pressed for speed, needing to know if
Jordan
still lived.

Threats crackled the air like summer lightning. Liandra, the sovereign queen of Lanverness, sat at the casement window in the Queen’s Tower, alone in the eye of the storm. Death stalked her, a queen’s intuition, yet even at this late hour, Liandra was unsure from whose hand the blow would come. Through a stroke of good fortune she’d learned of the Red Horns’ plot to steal her crown and put a king on the Rose Throne but the identity of the traitors remained undiscovered. To tease the Red Horns into the open she’d taken the risk of sending Prince Stewart along with her most trusted squad of the army to a distant corner of the kingdom…leaving her crown exposed as bait. It was now, when her throne was most vulnerable, that the Red Horns would strike.

She needed more information. The
Rose Court
swirled with political intrigue, much of it of her own making. She’d spun a number of webs, but she had yet to catch her intended prey. While her webs remained empty her throne was vulnerable.

A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts. With a nod she gave the page permission to respond.

The Master Archivist, a tall gray-haired man dressed in dour robes of black, entered the chamber and bowed low. The queen acknowledged her shadowmaster with a brief smile, the one man in the
Rose Court
whose intelligence and cunning nearly matched her own.

“Pardon your majesty, but there is someone here you should see.”

His excessive formality set off alarm bells in the queen’s mind yet her face remained impassive. With a regal wave she gave the master permission to continue.

He glanced pointedly at the page.

The queen dismissed the page, gaining a prudent privacy.

The master stepped close. “One of your loyal subjects has uncovered a plot against the crown. I think it best you hear the details.”

Liandra kept the hope from her voice, “Do the details provide a trail to the source?”

The master frowned, his dark eyes troubled. “It deepens the complexity of the plot.”

A fist of anxiety tightened within her; the leader of the Red Horns was too clever by half. “Perhaps complexity will be his undoing.” When her spymaster did not respond, the queen asked, “Who is this citizen who sees plots?”

“A goldsmith, your majesty. Master Saddler to be exact, the same goldsmith who designed your majesty’s Royal Ruby necklace.”

Intrigued, she raised an eyebrow asking for more.

“He approached one of my deputies begging an audience. The deputy was wise enough to bring the artisan to my attention. The man awaits your pleasure. I think it best you hear his tale.”

Schooled in the ways of remembering faces, the queen recalled the short stout goldsmith who had so admirably fulfilled the royal commission regarding the dark red rubies. Master Saddler was a fine craftsman and now it seemed an even better citizen. Having remembered the man, Liandra wondered how a simple goldsmith could uncover a plot that her own shadowmen had not detected. It seemed unlikely but not unwelcome; chance favored the nimble player. Determined to steal advantage from the opportunity, the queen rose from the window seat and moved to sit in the wood-carved throne. Ever mindful of her image, she arranged the folds of her beaded silk gown before nodding to her shadowmaster.

The master opened the door and ushered the short heavyset man into the queen’s presence. “May I present Master Saddler, a goldsmith and loyal citizen of Lanverness.”

Dressed in a green velvet jacket brushed to a shine, the stout goldsmith bowed his way across the floor. His final bow left him peering at the hem of her gown.

“You may rise.”

The goldsmith straightened but did not speak.

The queen took note of the fine sheen of sweat coating the goldsmith’s balding pate; the man feared to be the bearer of grim tidings. Knowing that truth seldom flourished under a cloak of fear, the queen chose a warm, regal voice to welcome the goldsmith. “We are pleased to see you, Master Saddler. We remember your excellent work on our Royal Rubies. Your craftsmanship transformed the dark gemstones into the prevailing fashion of the court. We thank you again for your service to the crown.”

The goldsmith flushed with pleasure, giving the queen a deep bow.

Having put the man at ease, the queen turned to the heart of the matter. “Now it appears that you have come to serve the crown a second time. We are told you have knowledge of a plot against the Rose Throne. We are keen to hear your news.”

The goldsmith swallowed, visibly gathering his courage. “I beg pardon for bringing this to your majesty’s attention, but it’s something a goldsmith would notice before all others. At least I haven’t heard any rumors in the marketplace, so there may still be time.” Shrugging, he said, “Best if I just show you.” Fumbling at his waistcoat he produced two gold coins and handed them to the queen.

Puzzled, the queen examined the coins. Both bore the twin roses of Lanverness on one side and a likeness of the queen on the other. Turning the coins, Liandra detected no discernable flaw. She checked the rims for illegal shavings but the edges were clean and uncut. The two coins appeared to be like any other coins of the realm…but then she noticed the subtle difference. Her breath caught in her throat. Liandra willed her face to remain still. Her gaze slipped toward the Master Archivist. Her spymaster’s normally opaque eyes flashed with anger, confirming that he understood the magnitude of the threat. Not only was Lanverness at risk but the plot threatened the stability of all the southern kingdoms. Wearing a mask of calm, the queen turned her penetrating gaze toward the goldsmith. “Where did you get this?”

The stout man took a step backward as if avoiding an onslaught. In a fearful voice he said, “S-so…you see the d-difference. The two coins bear the same face, yet one is pure while the other is tainted.” The goldsmith took a labored breath.
 
“I came across the first in a pub, the Green Briar, and then I began to notice more. I melted one down in my shop. One part in twenty is silver, causing only a slight dilution of the gold color. It is enough to devalue the coin without being blatantly obvious. But once you know what to look for, the muted color cannot be missed.” The goldsmith fell silent, a mixture of fear and pleading on his face.

In a level voice the queen asked, “To the best of your knowledge, have any others seen this difference?”

Trembling, the stout man cast his gaze to the floor and muttered, “I am ashamed to say that m-most of the other m-members of my guild have noticed. They plan to keep the knowledge to t-themselves, hoarding the true coins while using the diluted coins to pay their accounts. They seek to gain an extra measure of profit by knowing the difference.”

The queen sat back in her throne, stunned by the magnitude of the plot. Destroy the people’s faith in coins and the kingdoms would be driven back into barter. Debts would cause disputes. Chaos and suspicion could lead to war. The Rose Crown might even be blamed, yet one honest man had seen the danger and dared to speak up in the hope of making a difference. It was amazing how great events could sometimes turn on the decisions of a single soul. Perhaps the warning came early enough to turn the tide. Liandra prayed for it to be so. “Master Saddler, you have done the realm and the crown a great benefit by warning us of this threat. The
kingdom
of
Lanverness
is well served by loyal citizens of your honesty. We will see you suitably rewarded once the threat is averted. In the meantime, we need you to work in the service of the crown.”

“
Me?”
The goldsmith’s eyes widened. “But I am only an artisan…”

The queen gave the goldsmith a beguiling smile. “You are the best of our citizens, an honest man.”

The goldsmith flushed crimson.

“We would keep such honest men in our service.”

The stout goldsmith fell to his knee. “I am yours to command.”

The queen reached out and tapped him on both shoulders as if anointing a fresh-sworn knight. “Your fealty is accepted.” Having bound the man to her service, the queen said, “Now rise, Master Saddler, for we have much to discuss.” Liandra waited till he gained his feet. “We have a royal commission for our most honest servant. We command you to do the opposite of those in your guild.” Seeing the puzzlement on his face she explained, “You will hoard the diluted coins, exchanging them for coins of solid gold. It is imperative that the false coins be taken out of circulation, before the common people take notice of the difference. We would have you approach the guild and enlist their aid in quietly gathering the diluted coins. Assuming that the guild works in total secrecy, the crown will exchange seven coins of solid gold for every five that are tainted. If the dilution factor is as you say, then the exchange represents a profit of nearly fifty percent.” She paused to let the goldsmith consider the magnitude of the reward.

His eyes grew wide. “A very generous offer, your majesty.”

“We expect to be well served by the profit. You and your guild must work with the utmost secrecy. Panic in the marketplace will benefit no honest merchant or citizen of Lanverness.” She lowered her voice. “Panic will terminate our royal offer…and those who hold the coins will be the poorer.” She studied the goldsmith. “Do you agree?”

He blanched pale. “Hard but fair.” His face turned thoughtful, “But the guild won’t believe me.”

“You shall have our royal writ to convince them…in exchange for an oath of secrecy. Breaking the oath will be considered treason and we are not in the mood to extend clemency to traitors. Are we understood?”

The goldsmith swallowed. “Y-yes, your majesty. The guild knows how to keep a secret.”

“See that they do.” Adding a touch of gracious warmth to her voice, she said, “You have done well in bringing this scheme to our attention. Foil the plot and we shall see that you are richly rewarded. We would have men of your honesty elevated to the Peerage.”

A gasp escaped the goldsmith, a stunned look on his face.

“The Rose Crown rewards those who are loyal. We value honesty in our court.”

The goldsmith straightened, his face flushed with pride.

The queen extended her ringed hand. “You are dismissed with our thanks. The Master Archivist will see to the drafting of the writ and the administration of the oath. Go with our thanks.”

Bowing, he reverently kissed her emerald ring of office. With a dazed look, he followed the master from the chamber.

The queen sat wrapped in stillness, her mind plumbing the depths of the plot. Instead of unveiling the identity of the Red Horns, the dire news only served to deepen the complexity. The dilution of the coins had to be linked to the Red Horns. Such a devious plot was worthy of her adversary. With one fell stroke the traitors harvested gold from her royal treasury to fund their rebellion while threatening economic ruin across the realm. Simple yet elegant, the plot had far reaching consequences. Liandra seethed at the threat. Building the prosperity of Lanverness had been her lifelong goal. Everything she’d achieved could be undone by a single plot. Rage boiled within her. The threat had to be contained and the mastermind brought to the scaffold. It was time to end this treason.

The door to her solar opened to admit the Master Archivist. The fact that he had not knocked indicated the depth of her counselor’s unease.

“My deepest apologies, majesty, for not having seen the plot myself.”

“We were both looking elsewhere. Your shadowmen watch for people not coins. Now it appears they must look for both. Our resources will be stretched thin but it must be done.” The queen stabbed at the heart of the problem. “Clearly the royal treasury is compromised.”

“Do you suspect Lord Wesley?”

“No, our Lord Treasurer does not have the imagination or the subtlety for this plot.”

“I concur.” Lowering his voice, the master said, “The question now is whether to act on the knowledge and tip our hand to the Red Horns or to wait until we know the traitors’ identity.”

In a grave voice, the queen said, “There is nothing to debate. This plot goes beyond the threat to our throne. Lanverness provides the coinage for all the southern kingdoms. Should word of the false coins spread, it will spark panic and chaos across all of Erdhe. War and economic ruin are the surest outcomes.” Shaking her head, the queen said, “We must nip this plot in the bud, even at the risk of our crown.”

The master’s voice showed rare emotion. “You dare not take the risk!”

“The leader of the Red Horns has called our bluff. We must act before panic spreads across the kingdoms.”

The master grimaced, “Then we must stop the mint in a way that does not alert the Red Horns.”

Fingering the strand of pearls at her neck, the queen said, “We must act without seeming to act.”

Nodding, the master crossed his arms, his brow furrowed in thought, a pillar of shadow anchored to the center of her solar. Tugging on his thin gray mustache, he said, “I can think of only two ways to halt the production of the false coins. The first is to commission a new die for the royal coins, one with an updated visage of the sovereign. The minting of coins could be halted until the new die is cast.” Lowering his voice, he added, “The second solution is less eloquent. Assuming that those who work in making the false coins are equally guilty of treason, my shadowmen could arrange for ‘accidents’ to occur in the mint. Working with molten metal is very dangerous. The workmen could be replaced with men more loyal to the crown, ensuring the production of pure coins.”