The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (4 page)

A chant rippled through the crowd. “
The Sinner! The Sinner!”

Bile rose in the back of his throat.

Soldiers dragged the woman from the wagon.

Understanding struck Justin like a hammer blow; the woman was the proof, proof of the potency of the flames! So clever and yet so evil, he wondered how many innocents had died to further the charade.

The soldiers prodded the woman towards the flames. She screamed for mercy, beseeching the people around her, but the crowd slavered for the kill. Justin did not want to watch…but he was a bard, a witness of life and of death. He stilled his face to a mask, determined to give the woman his best.

The captive sagged in the arms of the soldiers, dragging her feet, tears cascading down her face. The crowd enjoyed the show, clamoring for her death. Soldiers passed the dark-haired woman between them, half carrying her towards the flames. She screamed and writhed to no avail. A soldier thrust her into the flames, while the others prodded her with spears.

A hideous scream ripped through the temple square.

Her dark hair caught fire, a banshee screaming in the flames.

Justin looked away, turning his gaze on the crowd, measuring the depth of their depravity. The faithful capered around the fire pit, drunk on the spectacle of death, their faces twisted in religious ecstasy. Their reaction sickened him; he wondered if Coronth could be saved. The whole city deserved be put to the torch, but then he remembered the victim, a prostitute who had dared reject a priest. He had to find the ones worth saving.

A breeze blew through the square, catching the dark smoke billowing from the pit. Greasy and black, the smoke blew his way. Justin gagged. Bile pushed at the back of his throat; betraying his true feelings. He had to get out of the square, or the faithful might claim a second victim. Jumping from the wall, he pushed his way through the frenzied crush. Holding his cloak to his face, he tried to filter out the stench, but the reek of roast flesh was everywhere, in his clothes, in his hair, in his nostrils. A wave of nausea ripped through him, but he fought it down.

He staggered out of the celebrating masses, retreating down an empty side street. Gulping fresh air, he got as far as the first corner before his stomach gave out. Gripped by convulsions, he bent double, heaving his breakfast onto the street. Images of the woman’s death lashed at his mind, prodding his stomach to a second upheaval.

A man’s voice intruded. “You must be new here, minstrel.” Smooth and confident, the man’s voice carried an undercurrent of power.

The voice sent a shiver of warning down Justin’s spine. He caught a glimpse of expensive boots polished to a mirror shine. Swallowing, Justin straightened, struggling to regain a mask of composure.

The boots belonged to a tall, dashing nobleman in a long black cape, a silver-tipped walking stick in his right hand. Justin lifted his gaze to meet the man’s stare. Coal black hair framed an aristocratic face, a hawk nose, a generous mouth and thick black eyebrows. A single lock of white hair at his temple added a touch of distinction to a handsome face. The man’s smile exuded charm but his slate-gray eyes were dark and fathomless, menace cloaked in elegance.

Justin bobbed his head in homage, keeping his voice subservient. “I’m new to the city, m’Lord. Just a minstrel looking for an honest living.” He stole a glance toward the emblem blazoned on the man’s cape.
A black raven on a field of red
. Fear spiked through him, so this was the Lord Raven, the counselor to the Pontifax. Justin held his breath and kept his head bent, hoping the man would pass him by.

“Your first Test of Faith?” The voice was casual but the stare was keen.

Justin bowed. “Yes, m’Lord.” He fell silent, praying to escape.

“And what do you think of our ritual?”

Drawing on his bard’s training; Justin widened his eyes and infused his voice with awe. “A true miracle, m’Lord! I saw it with my own eyes! The Pontifax walked through the heart of the flames! Not a singe to his hair! Not a smudge to his robes.” He lowered his voice and threw an earnest glance at the man. “It’s what I came for Lord, a chance to set the miracle to song! To craft a ballad so others will believe the truth.” He added a touch of avarice to his argument. “A ballad that will line my pockets with gold!”

The Lord Raven’s stare narrowed, his hand gesturing toward the mess spewed on the ground. “And what of your breakfast? Minstrels are said to have silver tongues, perhaps the truth lies exposed on the cobbles?”

A fist of fear tightened in Justin’s stomach. He dropped his gaze and tried to look chagrinned, hiding behind a mask of embarrassment. “T-the smoke, Lord. The wind shifted and I got caught in the brunt of it…I couldn’t stomach the smell. I’ve always had a weak stomach.”

Feeling the man’s hard scrutiny, Justin kept his gaze on the ground, just a harmless minstrel beneath the notice of a wealthy Lord.

“Minstrels always have a favorite instrument, what’s yours?”

“The small harp, m’Lord.”

“Show me your hands.”

The command brooked no argument. Justin held his hands out, palms up. The Lord Raven knew what to look for. He ran his fingertips across Justin’s thumbs and the tips of his first two fingers searching for the ridged calluses that all harpers carry as a legacy of their music. Justin had earned the calluses before the age of ten; his hands confirmed his story, proving the value of hiding behind the truth.

A flicker of disappointment flashed in the lord’s gray eyes. “So you’ve come to raise a ballad about the Test of Faith?”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

“Minstrels are always welcome in the Flame God’s city. Sing well, harper, and help us spread the true faith.” His velvet voice lowered a notch. “But make sure you sing the right tune…or you’ll find yourself fed to the flames.”

Justin kept still, a hare hiding from the hawk.

“As to the smoke, well, sinners always smell like roast pork.” He chuckled. “Just a hearty serving of spit-roasted pork.”

The Lord Raven made a dismissive gesture and then turned and sauntered down the street, an elegant darkness gliding through the Flame God’s city. A shudder ran down Justin’s spine. Beneath his cloak, he made the hand sign against evil, watching as the Lord Raven turned the corner. Alone again, he leaned against the wall, his face slick with sweat. Justin thought he understood the Pontifax, but the Lord Raven was something else, something worse, a shrewd mind cloaked in a noble’s smooth elegance. For the first time, he wondered if music would be enough.

4

Katherine

The hike back down the mountain seemed to take forever. Kath and her companions followed close behind Master Rizel, shuffling down the knife-edged trail. The ice was treacherous, but they were keen for answers. Huddled beneath fur-lined cloaks, no one spoke. From the distant heights, the great horn Ragdon still blared. A shiver raced down Kath’s spine, but she refused to think about death, willing her sword sister to live.

They finally reached the base of the trail, only to face one more challenge, the wall of magical Mist. Kath dreaded passing through the Mist, but this time the white proved empty, nothing but cold fog. Perhaps the crystal dagger kept the spirits at bay, or perhaps they had nothing more to say. Either way, she emerged safe from the Mist, surprised to find two blue-robed monks stationed at the monastery gates. Grim-faced and watchful, the monks both bore stout quarterstaffs.
Guards at the gates, so magic is no longer enough.
It seemed an ill omen. Kath gripped her sword hilt, wondering if the gods would help.

Master Rizel coiled the guide rope while Kath and her companions stomped their boots, knocking clods of snow to the ground. Battered by wind and cold and loss, they climbed the hill to the monastery.
 
At a nod from the blue-robed master, the guards eased the great gates open.

They passed between the Seeing Eyes, a swirl of cold air following them inside. After the chill of the mountaintop funeral, the warmth of the monastery was shocking. Heat rose from the golden floors, warm and welcoming, but comfort could not dull Kath’s fear. As the others shrugged off their furs, Kath confronted Master Rizel, “We need to see
Jordan
.”

He gave her a solemn nod. “Follow me.” The master turned and led them into the depths of the monastery. Their jangle of weapons seemed at odds with the knowledge inscribed on the illuminated walls, but Kath kept her hand on her sword hilt. The beauty of the monastery remained undeniable, every wall a masterpiece of calligraphy, but the feeling of peace was shattered, every shadow filled with threat. Kath half expected to find blood still staining the floor.
The Mordant is reborn and the world is filled with shadows.

Spatters of snow fell from their cloaks, melting like teardrops on the warm floors. The monastery was a maze, adding to Kath’s frustration. Anxious to learn
Jordan
’s fate, she nearly trod on Master Rizel’s heels. The master turned and gave her a knowing glance, “Almost there.” Descending a long stairway, the air grew thick with the scents of herbs and ointments, the unmistakable smell of a healery. Kath took a deep breath, but if death lurked in the hallway, she could not tell.

The master led them to a small room, an antechamber with gold-colored doors set in every wall. Master Rizel gestured to a row of benches. “Please wait here.”

Duncan
snarled, “We’ve waited long enough.”

The master raised his hand in a gesture of peace. “I ask you to wait one moment more. You dare not interrupt the healing magic.”

The archer gave a terse nod and the master slipped beyond the far door.

Sir Tyrone and Blaine hovered near the outer door, while Kath stood statue-still, numb with worry. She gripped her gargoyle, silently beseeching Valin’s aid, watching as
Duncan
paced the small room. His every step tightened the tension of the chamber till Kath thrummed like a bowstring. The question burst out of her, “Surely they must know something by now?” but her companions had no answer.

The inner door opened and a pudgy healer in midnight-blue robes emerged. He gave them a weary smile. Kath was afraid to hope.

Duncan
stopped his pacing. “Will she live?”

The monk sighed, his voice weary. “I need to explain.”

“Will she live?” The archer loomed over the portly monk like a thunderstorm threatening to strike.

“I believe so, but I must explain.”

Kath sighed, and Sir Tyrone put a steadying hand on her shoulder, but
Duncan
was relentless. “What do you mean, you believe so?”

“Be at peace.” He raised his hands in entreaty. “Nothing is certain, yet there is much to be hoped for.” He gestured them towards a bench, but none of the companions sat. “The princess nearly died before she even reached the healery. Master Garth saved her life, but only because of his magic. The cost of such a powerful working is grievous, extracting a heavy toll on the wielder. Healer and healed have both fallen into a deep sleep, a sort of hibernation.” Pausing, the monk said, “Princess Jordan lives but she will not respond to touch or voice. We won’t know how well the healing has taken until she wakes.”

Duncan
hissed. “How long?”

“Given the severity of her wounds…six full turns of the moon or more.”

Duncan
swore, “By the nine hells! Why so long?”

“She was spared from the very brink of death, but such a great healing takes time.” The monk’s face softened with sympathy. “If you wish, you may see her now.”

They followed the monk through the golden door, into the depths of the healery, to a small windowless chamber. A second monk kept watch over two figures lying in narrow beds along the wall.

Kath gasped when she saw
Jordan
. So pale, her sword sister looked the same as when she’d found her lying in the corridor, soaked in a pool of her own blood. Ghost-pale and still as death,
Jordan
looked as if she’d already passed beyond the gray veil. A cold fear gripped Kath. “Is she?” The question clogged in her throat.

“She lives.”

Kath stared down. If
Jordan
still breathed, she could not tell.

Duncan
touched
Jordan
’s throat.

The monk whispered, “I assure you, she still lives.”

Duncan
gave a terse nod. “Thank the gods.”

An icy fist released Kath’s heart.

The monk approached the bed, his voice soothing. “You must see her wounds to appreciate the magnitude of the healing.” He eased back the blanket, revealing an angry v-shaped scar snaking across
Jordan
’s abdomen.

Kath shivered, recognizing a mortal wound, a soldier’s worst fear.
 

Blaine
muttered, “A bloody miracle.”

“Not a miracle, just magic.” The monk replaced the blanket. “When Master Garth uses his focus, the healing is usually so complete that no scar remains. This scar proves how close the princess came to death’s door. Had she been found only a moment later, she would have died.”

Kath shivered, knowing it was a gift from the gods.

The monk gestured towards the other bed. “Master Garth risked his life to attempt this healing.”

An old man with a mane of white hair and a kindly face lay beneath a thick blanket, both hands clutching an amulet on a chain around his neck. Still as death, his face was a mask of peace. Feeling the need to pay her respects, Kath was drawn towards the healer. She owed this monk a debt for saving her sword sister. It was a debt she would not forget. Kath bowed low in homage, “Thank you for saving my sword sister.”

Straightening, Kath noticed a swath of bright velvet crumpled on the floor, her sword sister’s cloak. Retrieving the cloak, she settled it across
Jordan
’s still form…a fallen warrior lying beneath the battle banner of
Navarre
. “Heal well, for your sword is still needed.”

Behind her, a familiar voice said, “We need to talk.”

Kath turned to find Master Rizel standing in the doorway. The blue-robed master had a knack for appearing unannounced. Kath searched his face for answers but the master was too hard to read. It was Duncan who understood, “What word of the attacker?”

A grim look claimed the master’s sun-weathered face. “Not here.”

Kath glanced toward
Jordan
and then followed the master to the outer chamber. Her companions crowded close behind like a pack of wolves starving for answers.

Gesturing to the benches, the master said, “Please be seated and I’ll try to explain.”

None of them sat.
Duncan
growled, “What’s to explain? Have you found the attacker or not?”

The master sighed. “We’ve sealed the town of
Haven
and our monks search the mountainside but it is too soon to tell.”

Duncan
glared, his hands balled into fists. “How did a murderer escape the Mist? I thought your monastery was safe.”

“He murdered a Guide and stole an amulet. More was lost this day than you can imagine.” The master made a weary sigh, sitting on a bench while the others stood. “Let me explain. To gain admittance to the monastery each of you had to pass a test with a Dahlmar crystal, but you may not have understood the reasons behind it. The greatest servants of the Dark Lord are rewarded with more life. Their life spans are lengthened and when they die, the favored few are reincarnated with full memories of their past lives. These reincarnated evils are called harlequins. Dahlmar crystals are the only known way to detect an Awakened harlequin.” The master paused staring at each of them. “Last night, a very ancient evil, the worst of the harlequins, awakened within the walls of the monastery.”

Duncan
voice blazed with anger. “By all the gods, how could this happen?”

“Not by all the gods, just one, the Dark Lord.” In a patient voice, the master explained, “The evil seed is planted at birth, but the Awakening does not happen until the host is mature. No parent would knowingly raise such an abomination. Instead the seed lies dormant until a time chosen by the Dark Lord. To the best of our knowledge, the Awakening occurs sometime between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. We believe the host is an innocent victim, crushed by the older soul.” Pausing, he added, “The Dahlmar crystal can only detect a harlequin
after
the Awakening has occurred.” A look of sadness cloaked the master’s face. “The Dark Lord chose a host who was already within the monastery, an accepted member of our community.”

“I saw him.”

Her companions turned, pinning her with sword-sharp stares. Kath flamed red. With all the death and confusion, she’d only told Master Rizel. “After I found Jordan and Sir Cardemir, I raced to the outer gates and saw him.”

Duncan
clutched the dagger sheathed at his belt. “Does this evil have a name?”

A shiver ran through Kath. “His name is Bryce, an acolyte of the monastery…but the Mist said otherwise.”

Master Rizel came to her rescue. “He wears the face of Bryce, a healer and an initiate of our Order, but in truth, he is the Mordant Reborn.”

Sir Blaine drew his great blue sword, a hiss of steel on leather, but there was no one to attack.

Sir Tyrone asked, “How can this be?”

The master sighed. “The Dark Lord plays a shrewd and terrible game. The Mordant now wears the face of one of our initiates.”

Sir Tyrone stared. “One of yours?”

“Yes.” The single word held a world of weariness.

Duncan
growled, “Will you kill him?”

The master said, “It is not that simple. Only the crystal dagger can truly slay a harlequin.”

Kath felt the weight of their stares. She fingered the crystal dagger, the call of duty warring with her sense of justice. “But Bryce wanted to be a healer! And now he walks with Death? The gods are cruel!”

The master whispered, “The gods have their own reasons.”

Kath glared at the master, not satisfied with his answer. “And now I’m supposed to kill him?”

“To slay the Mordant, yes, else the visions of the Mist will come to pass.”

His words struck a hammer-blow to her heart. The visions haunted her…the death of the Octagon…the death of her father. Her stare dropped to the floor, her hand gripping the crystal dagger.

Sir Tyrone intervened. “Can the Mordant claim the memories of this initiate?”

The master hesitated. “We believe so, yes. And therein lies the greatest danger. With the amulet in his possession, the Mordant can return through the Guardian Mist. For the first time in our long history, the monastery is vulnerable to evil.”