The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (20 page)

Ben shook his hand.

Samson met the man’s stare, ashamed that he’d been afraid.

Jack rocked from one foot to another, his voice impatient, “We need to be hiding.” The boy tugged on the man’s soiled nightshirt, pulling him into a side alleyway.

Samson agreed with the boy, they could talk later. He turned and led Ben toward the east. He forced himself to walk at a measured pace, keeping his cloak closed to hide the sword. They met others using the back ways and always averted their gaze, obeying the unspoken law of the alleys, not to see or be seen.

The alleyways became increasingly familiar. They made a final turn and reached the narrow lane behind the cobbler shop. While Ben kept watch, Samson found the hidden latch and opened the secret door. He stepped into the cupboard and stooped to stare through the knothole. The kitchen was peaceful, Grandmother Magda sitting in her rocking chair, her knitting in her lap. Relief washed through him. Samson knocked on the door and entered the kitchen, Ben following behind.

“Welcome home, dears. I trust the morning went well.” The smells of bacon and cornbread drew them to the warmth of the kitchen.

Samson smiled, suddenly starving. “One less sinner for the Flames.”

A satisfied smile spread across the old lady’s face, her knitting needles keeping time to the creak of the rocker.

The men hung their cloaks on hooks and Ben collected the swords, hiding them under the third stair. Samson poured mugs of tea and heaped two plates with servings of bacon and bread. They fell to eating, talking between bites, taking turns explaining the morning while Grandmother Magda worked on her knitting. Food had never tasted so good, the bacon salty and the cornbread sweet. As they cleaned their plates, the tale grew bolder with the telling.

Still hungry, Samson rose to fix a second helping when a knock came from the cupboard door.

The talking stopped but not the knitting.

The door opened to reveal Justin and Jack, triumph on both their faces.

“Come in, dears, we were just talking about the morning.”

Justin swirled the cape from his shoulders and hid his sword. He joined them at the table, excitement shining from his face. “We’ve struck the first blow! Saved the first life!” He looked at Ben and then at Samson. “You both did well.”

Samson grinned, surprised at how much the bard’s praise mattered to him.

Justin winked, gesturing at Samson’s full plate. “I see you’ve found your appetite.
 
Saving a life is hungry work and Daniel was worth saving.” He turned to Jack. “Get yourself a plate, Jack!”

The boy pounced, grabbing a plate and heaping it with bacon and cornbread, a hungry smile on his soot-stained face. Ben made room for the boy on the bench, giving him his usual spot. The gang of orphans took turns joining them for meals.

Justin rose from the table and began prowling the hearth, as if the small kitchen could not contain him. He walked with a boundless energy, his face alight with determination…and something else, something Samson could not put a name to.

Justin talked as he paced, his voice filling the kitchen with rich undertones. “Today we did more than just talk, more than just sing. Today we took action and we made a difference.” The bard paused and turned, clapping Samson on the back. “Who’ll join me at this morning’s Test of Faith?”

The bacon suddenly sat heavy in Samson’s stomach.

Ben said, “Do you think it wise?”

The clack of the knitting needles seemed loud, counting the heartbeats of hesitation.

The bard nodded, a slow smile on his face. “We’ll just be a few among many, hiding in a sea of people, but I need to gauge the crowd’s reaction when there is no death. I need to see if the people will turn on the Pontifax and his red-robed priests.”

The rocking chair creaked. “One life saved will not be enough.” The old woman’s words had the ring of certainty. “The people see the Test of Faith as a miracle. It will take a miracle to defeat a miracle.”

Justin’s face stilled. “True enough, but I need to see for myself.”

Jack stared at the bard, mumbling past a mouthful of food, “I’ll go with you, Harper.”

The bard beamed a smile at the boy. “Stay and enjoy your meal, there’s not enough meat on your bones to interest an alley rat!” The bard’s piercing gaze turned to Samson. “Will you come?”

Samson studied his plate, his stomach roiling. “I’ll stay with the boy.”

Justin nodded, a hint of disappointment in his voice, “Then I’ll be going.”

The rocking chair stopped…and so did the knitting needles. “I’ll join you.” The old woman thrust her knitting needles into the bag of yarn at her feet. Pulling a worn shawl around her shoulders, she tucked the bag under her arm and stood. Her face was serene, her back unbowed despite her age.

Samson stared, slack mouthed.

Grandmother Magda met his gaze. “It’s what I’ve come for, dear. Revenge and justice, two things that are oft times the same, especially in the eyes of a bereaved mother…or a kinless grandmother.” She nodded, her eyes cold as steel. “It’s only the start, dear.” Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “I’ll have my share of justice and bear witness for all the women who grieve.”

Samson shivered; the old woman’s face was still kindly, still wisdom-worn, but an implacable hatred shown from her steel-gray eyes. He did not know how she intended to strike a blow against the Pontifax, but he was certain it would be something terrible, something he couldn’t imagine.

The bard intervened, rescuing him from the old woman’s unrelenting gaze. Justin offered his arm to the silver-haired grandmother, like a gentleman leading his lady to a dance. Samson watched them go, justice and vengeance walking arm in arm…moving to a dance that dared death.

The shop door closed and the silence seemed suddenly ominous. The knitting needles had stopped. The illusion of safety was shattered. They’d struck a blow for freedom, tweaking the tail of the dragon…but Samson shuddered, knowing the fiery breath of the beast was still to come.

The secret passage gaped open, a chance to defeat the rebellion. Captain Durnheart entered first, cutting a trail through the cobwebs and lighting the way. The queen followed close behind. The shadowman, Collins, guarded the rear, bringing a second torch. Torchlight flickered against narrow walls, a dance of shadows and light.

Just inside the secret door, the queen found what she was looking for, a small stone shield carved with a heraldic bee. Even here, in this hidden passage, the quality of the stonework was excellent. Her ancestors never stinted when it came to the castle.

The queen set the heel of her hand against the shield and pressed. A grating noise rumbled behind her. The secret door ground shut, closing off the scent of aging cheeses, leaving nothing but stale air and darkness. “The way is hidden once more. Castle Tandroth keeps its secrets.” She gestured and the captain continued up the narrow passage.

Cold and dark and long unused, decades of dust caked the passageway. They walked single-file, disturbing spiders and mice. The queen shrank from the narrow walls yet the cobwebs still found her, clinging to hair and clothes. Liandra shuddered; she’d need more than one bath to wash away the filth of this misbegotten day. Lifting her skirt, she followed the torchlight, her gaze searching the walls for more carvings.

The captain paused at a crossway.

The queen trusted her memory from childhood. “Keep straight.”

Darkness threatened to choke their torchlight. The walls narrowed, one of them weeping moisture. Liandra could almost feel the weight of the castle brooding above. They walked close, keeping within the circle of torchlight. Behind her, the shadowman sneezed, disturbing a quiet that rivaled a tomb.

They reached steps that spiraled upwards.

“Wait.” The queen’s command echoed against the stone. “Pass the torch along the wall.” The captain waved the torch, illuminating a carving, a king’s crown of roses. The queen caressed the stone crown. Carved for her grandfather’s great grandfather, the Tandroths were ever devious, hollowing their castle with secret ways. The queen nodded. “This way is right. The stairs lead to the Queen’s Tower.”

Their ascent was slow, a series of spiral steps, steep ramps, and narrow passageways honeycombing the outer walls of the tower. After the first spiral, faces began to appear on the inner wall. Carved from stone, each face was unique, a jester, a maiden, a prince. Young, old, happy, sad, each face was so expressive it seemed as if the stone might waken to smile or wink. Most had carved onyx insets for eyes. Several had keyholes cut into the recesses of their open mouths. The queen paused at the first face with onyx eyes. The captain shielded the torchlight while the queen gently pried loose an onyx plug. Peering through the eyehole, she gained a view of an inside corridor. What she saw chilled her blood. Torches guttered along marble hallways, revealing three soldiers crumpled in pools of blood. The rebellion had breached the outer doors to the tower. Worry gripped her.
“The enemy is in the tower.”
Replacing the onyx plug, she fretted over the floors above. Liandra prayed she was not too late.

Their progress slowed. The queen insisted on checking every spy hole, needing to understand the extent of the threat. The second floor revealed a shocking surprise. Peering through a spy hole, the queen found herself staring straight at the traitor. The Lord Turner stood tall and arrogant, issuing orders to soldiers of the rebellion. A pillar of command, he wore the uniform of the Royal Guard, the uniform he betrayed. Burning with anger, the queen stifled a hiss. Everything about the traitor screamed of ambition, from the arrogant tilt of his head, to the belligerence of his stance, to the way he gripped his sword hilt. Liandra wondered that she hadn’t seen it before. She’d trusted this man with her life, with her kingdom. Rage erupted within her, venom in her glare. If stares could kill he would be dead.

The Lord Turner whipped his gaze in her direction.

Liandra snapped her eyes closed, but kept her face pressed firm to the spy hole, lest the torchlight betray her. Trapped against the stone, she chided herself for the hatred of her stare. Her heartbeat thundered. Eyes closed, she waited, wondering if a dagger would pierce the spy hole, pierce her eye and pith her brain…a terrible way to die. Liandra strangled her imagination, refusing to move, refusing to succumb to fear. An eternity later, she dared a second glance. The traitor had turned away, conversing with his men. Her hands shaking, she replaced the onyx insert. She leaned against the wall, drinking up the coldness of the stone, struggling to still her racing heart.

“What is it, majesty?”

“The traitor…I saw him.” The queen shuddered, gripped by wild surges of relief and rage. Hatred boiled within her…but beneath the hate a plan brewed. She turned to the shadowman. “Collins, is it?”

The shadowman stood to attention. “Yes, majesty.”

“We have an important mission for you.”

The shadowman nodded, his gaze eager.

“Retreat back down the passageway and find the Master Archivist. Tell him, and him alone, that the Lord Turner lurks on the second floor of the Queen’s Tower. Tell him to rouse the troops and seal the tower. If we trap the traitor between us, we may force a swift end to this rebellion.”

“The Lord Turner is the
traitor?
”

She heard the disbelief in his voice. “Do you doubt your queen?”

Her shadowman flushed. “No, majesty.”

“Then do as we command.” She considered her plan, knowing it hinged on what she found above. “Tell him, the queen will play the anvil to his hammer, trapping the traitor between us.” She prayed her loyal men still held the top floors. “Now go with the Light, and see the message gets to our shadowmaster.”

Collins saluted and turned to make his way back down the gloomy passageway.

Captain Durnheart said, “You take risks, majesty.”

She raised an eyebrow in question.

“To rely on just one sword.”

Her voice softened. “One sword that we trust.”

“Two would be better.”

“Two will make little difference. If the message is delivered in time we may yet quell this rebellion.” She gestured up the passageway. “We must learn what lies above.”

The captain led the way, a single torch against the dark. They passed a dozen faces before the queen was willing to dare another spy hole. Steeling her courage, she removed an onyx plug and pressed her face to the cold stone.
Nothing…an empty sitting room.
Her questions remained unanswered. Three spy holes later she found the fighting. Swords clashed as her loyal men defended the hallway, a chaos of blood and death…but it meant the upper levels had not been compromised. Relief washed through her, there was still time.

Needing speed, she left the faces untouched until she reached the sixth floor. She tried the jolly face wearing a minstrel’s cap but it was not the right room. A cherub’s face was next, the eyeholes revealing a sumptuous sitting room. As the queen watched, a young dark-haired woman in a close-fitting gown of deep blue, swept into the room, a strung bow in her left hand, a quiver of arrows belted to her side. The queen smiled, Princess Jemma was the perfect protégé, a petite beauty with a scorpion’s sting. A wave of fierce affection swept through Liandra. Here was a daughter to replace the one who hadn’t lived, a daughter to make up for a traitorous son. Liandra made her decision. Replacing the onyx plug, she reached for the gold skeleton key cradled in her bodice. The key unlocked the secrets of the tower, a key she always kept close. Moving to the companion cherub with the deep laugh, she inserted the key into its mouth. She needed both hands to turn the key. The lock clicked and the outline of a narrow door appeared in the wall. Removing the key, the queen whispered, “Wait here.” Before the captain could answer, she slipped through the doorway, stepping from dust and shadows into the luxury of the sitting room.

Princess Jemma spun, a startled look on her face, her hand reaching for an arrow.

The queen’s voice rang with authority, “Princess Jemma, you know us.”

The princess stared, her eyes wide in astonishment. “Your
majesty?
”

“We have come to offer you safe haven.”

“They’re fighting in the lower floors, talk of a rebellion.” Her eyes narrowed. “A secret passage?”

“Even the walls of the castle aid us. Come, there is no time for talk. Bring your guards and anyone else you trust. We must be away.”

The princess nodded. She ran to the outer doors, returning with two Navarren guards. “There’s no one else.”

“Then come and bring your bow.” The queen led them to the doorway hidden in the wood paneling. They slipped into the dust-choked passage, pulling the door shut behind them.

“Captain Durnheart, lead us to the end.”

The captain climbed the narrow stairs, the torch sputtering against the dark. They passed the marker for the seventh floor and still the passage continued upward. The captain gave the queen a puzzled look. “Majesty, there are only seven floors in the tower of the queen?”

The queen smiled. “There only appear to be seven floors. The eighth is a secret space reserved for monarchs. From the eighth we will retake our castle.”

They rounded the final turn, the narrow passage ending in a stone doorway shrouded in cobwebs. Waving the torch, the captain set the cobwebs to sizzle. Released from the white shroud, a crowned king stared from the door. Liandra touched the stone-cold face. Legend said the visage was that of King Barrick, the first great king of the Tandroth line, a wily monarch known for devious strategies. Liandra hoped the old codger was still full of tricks. She inserted the gold key into the king’s mouth. Even using both hands the key would not turn. “Captain Durnheart, your strength is needed.”

The captain grasped the key and turned. The stone door shuddered opened.

“Come, we are nearly at the end.”

The thick stone door opened into a round, windowless chamber. The single torch cast glimmers of light into the gloom. The queen knew the chamber from memory, a secret hidden away for dire times. “You’ll find torches lining the walls, light them, and the candelabra over the table as well.”

Captain Durnheart moved from torch to torch, throwing the chamber into light. The stone ceiling was low but not confining. Six wooden doors ringed the chamber with an alcove leading to steps on the far side. A heavy oak table dominated the room, an iron chandelier full of candles hanging overhead. The round table had seats for twenty, a map of Erdhe painted in the center. A moth-eaten tapestry depicting the green and white shield of house Tandroth graced the north wall, the only sign of luxury in the spare room.

Princess Jemma ran her finger across the painted map, a look of surprise on her face. “It’s not dusty.”

In stark contrast to the narrow passageway, the chamber was fresh-swept and clean, as if waiting for a specific purpose. The queen smiled. “This chamber is always prepared for the worst. You’ll find provisions behind one of the doors and weapons behind another.”

Princess Jemma broiled with questions. “But what is this place? And why are you dressed like that?”

The queen had to laugh for fashion was suddenly the least of her worries. “This chamber is a legacy from our ancestors, a bolt hole for a beleaguered monarch, a secret sanctuary…and now, our war room. We have come to reclaim our kingdom from traitors. But first, we must assemble our loyal forces.” She turned to the captain. “Captain Durnheart, with me. The rest of you wait here. You’ll find supplies behind the first door on the right, casks of wine, water from the cistern above, and stores of food.”

She turned and led the captain to the far alcove where one set of steps led up and another down. She took the stairs leading down, descending to a second stone door. The door bore the carved face of another king, another ancestor, but this king had onyx eyes. Removing the onyx, she peered through the king’s eyes spying on the queen’s solar.

At first the room appeared empty but then a figure passed by the spy hole. Lady Sarah waited alone, pacing the chamber, her face a mask of worry.

The queen replaced the onyx eyes and unlocked the door.

Lady Sarah stifled a scream and then curtseyed when she saw the queen. “Your majesty! I feared you were
dead
!”

The honest concern touched the queen. “We are not dead yet.”

“But majesty, the rebels have attacked the castle! They hold the bottom floors. They say the fighting is terrible. Some whispered…” the Lady blanched, her voice going hoarse, “Some claimed the queen is dead!”

“Dead, eh?” Her mind churned with the implications. “The traitors will be disappointed.” Seeing opportunity in the rumor, the queen laughed, but her laughter had cutting edge. “We shall be a vengeful ghost! One they will not soon forget.” She gestured for the lady to rise. “But come, there is much to be done. Are the others waiting?”

Rising, Lady Sarah nodded, color returning to her cheeks. “In the sitting room, as you commanded.”

“Summon them. All are needed.”

Lady Sarah returned with two other ladies-in-waiting and six of the master’s shadowmen dressed as servants to the crown. Relief washed across their faces as they saw their queen.

Liandra infused her voice with royal confidence, “Come. Join us in the war room above, where we will hear your reports.” She did not give them time for questions. Turning, she led them to the secret door and up the narrow stairs. Over her shoulder, she said, “Captain Durnheart, see that the door is closed behind you.”