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

The small candle cast a feeble light but Kath was undaunted by the dank darkness. The secret passageways were her private domain. She’d grown up exploring the underground vaults, roaming the castle like an invisible ghost. And now they’d help her to escape. Kath shook her head at the irony.

Descending the stairs, she shielded the flickering flame, protecting her only source of light. Cobwebs choked the passage, dust lined the floor, and darkness crouched close. She pushed through the webs, threading her way through the twists and turns of the great labyrinth. As a young girl, she’d often dreamt of finding treasure hidden in the passageways. She’d found plenty of rusted swords and faded shields, and in one strange cubbyhole, she’d found her mage-stone gargoyle. Smiling, she realized her good-luck charm was treasure beyond her wildest dreams. Whatever the reasons for the ancient passageways, Kath was grateful for finding them.

Turning right, she took the next two lefts, hoping her memory proved true. The passageway led to a narrow set of stairs. If memory served, the steps should open onto the last stall of the stables. She climbed the steps and found the octagon set in the wall. Sending a quick prayer to Valin, she pressed the raised octagon.

A low grinding noise came from the wall. A three-foot high section moved back, revealing a soft light. Kath breathed deep, relieved to smell the rich scents of horses and hay. She scrambled through the opening, thankful the stall was empty. The secret door ground closed, disappearing into the rear wall.

Kath peered into the long corridor. Castlegard’s stables were a vast warren of stalls, holding over four hundred horses. Deciding brazenness was her best ploy, Kath walked down the hay-strewn corridor, her saddlebag thrown over her shoulder, trying to pretend she belonged.

Horses whinnied and nickered, munching on hay. Kath made her way toward the front entrance, listening for voices, hoping to find her friends. She rounded a corner and nearly collided with a stable lad carrying an armful of harnesses. The young boy issued a shriek, turned ghost-pale, and fled the other direction before Kath could say a word. The boy’s reaction made no sense. Kath quickened her step, afraid the lad might raise an alarm.

She found her companions saddling horses, near the front of the stables. Sir Tyrone elbowed a big black stallion, fighting to tighten the saddle girth, while the monk fastened saddlebags to a sleek gray mare. The pudgy healer led a saddled roan stallion out of a nearby stall. Kath stepped out of the shadows, glad to be back with her companions. “I’m glad to see you.”

Zith stared wide-eyed. “Why are you covered in cobwebs and dust? You look like a ghost.”

She looked down at herself and found it was true. She laughed, trying to brush the sticky cobwebs away. “So that’s why the stable boy took such a fright. The ghosts of Castlegard are rising from the crypts.”

“If the ghosts can fight, you might want to bring them along.” Sir Tyrone’s voice held a bitter edge. “We’re short one blue sword.”

“What?” The black knight’s words struck Kath like a douse of ice water. “Where’s Sir Blaine?”

The healer handed her the roan stallion’s reins. “I talked to him, but he refused to come.”

A cold hand gripped her throat. “But he swore his sword to me! He swore an oath in the ruins of the
Star
Tower
.” She couldn’t imagine taking on the Mordant without his blue blade.

The healer took the saddlebag from her shoulder and began fastening it to the back of the roan’s saddle. “
Blaine
said he swore an oath to the king. That war is coming and his blue blade is needed here.”

Kath shook her head in denial. “He’s supposed to come with us. He can’t desert us now.” She felt like someone had plunged a sword into her gut. First her father and now Blaine, too much betrayal for one day. She stared at the master healer. “Where is he? I need to talk to him, to convince him to come.”

Sir Tyrone gripped her arm. “You can’t risk going back. If the king orders the gates closed, you’ll never get out.” His dark stare drilled into her. “We have to leave now. We’ll make do without him.”

The black knight was right, but
Blaine
’s desertion felt like a deathblow.

The master healer said, “I’ll talk to
Blaine
. Perhaps I can convince him to follow you.”

It was a slender hope, but better than nothing. Kath nodded. “Tell him we need his strength, we need his blue sword.” She found it hard to believe that
Blaine
would not be coming. “Tell him, I still believe the two swords will be true.” Her stare pinned the healer. “Use those exact words, the two swords will be true.” Bitterness crowded her voice. “Perhaps the words of the gods will convince him to keep his oath.”

The healer nodded, his face solemn. “But which way will you ride?”

Kath considered the choices. “The king will expect us to ride north, through the valley, so that way is shut. Instead we’ll ride south and choose another way to cross.” She considered the eight strongholds held by the Octagon. “We’ll have to bluff our way into the north.” She whispered her choice in the healer’s ear.

“I’ll do my best to convince
Blaine
to follow.”

Sir Tyrone swung up into the saddle. “Tell
Blaine
to ride fast. We can’t wait for him.”

The healer gave Kath a leg up onto the roan.

She stared down at her friend and mentor, wondering if she’d ever return to Castlegard. “Thank you…for all your help.”

He raised his hand as if in blessing. “May the Light be with you.”

Sir Tyrone said, “Are we ready?”

Kath shook her head. “Just a moment.” Reaching back into her saddlebag, she reclaimed the crystal dagger, sheathing it at her belt. She also pulled a dark green cloak from the bag and settled it around her shoulders, pulling the deep hood up to hide her blonde hair. “You first, Sir Tyrone. With a silver surcoat leading, perhaps they’ll be no questions at the gates.”

The black knight urged his mount to a walk. They exited the stables and rode out into the great yard. The twilight sky had deepened to purple, shrouding the castle in shadows. Kath kept her head down, hiding within the cloak’s deep hood. So tempting to urge the horses to a gallop but they dared not draw unwanted attention. The ride across the great yard seemed to take forever, a trickle of sweat running down her back. Kath clutched her gargoyle, sending a prayer to Valin. They reached the great ironbound gate without incident and slipped out of the inner castle.

Sir Tyrone urged his stallion to a trot, entering the gauntlet of traps and tricks that separated the two concentric walls. Kath could feel the stares of sentries from the towers above, but if they navigated the gauntlet without a mistake, there would be no alarm.

Sir Tyrone led them unerringly to the gated pass-through. The clatter of hooves echoed in the pass-through, as if multiplying their numbers. Murder holes stared down like dark eyes watching from above. They passed beneath the last portcullis and clattered across the drawbridge.

A knight barred the final gateway. “Halt and declare yourselves.”

Sir Tyrone slowed his horse to a walk but he did not stop. “Sir Tyrone on the king’s business, escorting two travelers beyond the Domain.”

Kath kept her face averted, hiding beneath her cloak.

Sir Tyrone kept his horse to a walk. The black stallion bored down on the knight.

Kath feared the knight would raise the alarm, but at the last moment he stepped aside. “On your way.”

They rode through the final gateway and out into the greensward. Kath urged her horse to speed, desperate to get away. They galloped across the vast greensward, nothing but shadows in their wake. Reaching the forest’s edge, Kath pulled up and turned for a last look. Moonlight silvered the towers of the great castle, a vision of strength and honor and pride, a bittersweet sight. Returning had been a terrible mistake. She’d gained her freedom but lost her father, her friends, and her home. The losses ached like arrow wounds to the heart. Kath raised her fist in a final salute, “Honor and the Octagon,” and then turned and galloped toward her destiny.

52

Samson

Samson felt like his luck had finally changed. Full of restless energy, he couldn’t wait to greet the dawn. He rose and dressed before the others, avoiding the creaking steps on the stairs, slipping through the shop door and plunging into the cobblestone streets. He roamed the city with a brisk stride, basking in the freedom of the early morning, watching the sunrise colors climb the dawn sky.

The city came awake as he walked; the clop of hooves on cobblestones, the ring of a hammer from an open shop door, the creak of a merchant’s wagon, the smell of fresh baked bread, the rich tapestry of a city day. He took it all in, savoring every detail, feeling giddy or perhaps drunk, like a man who’d escaped a death sentence. He laughed, for the thought was close to the truth. The bard had finally listened to reason, agreeing to stop the raids while he investigated the source of the Pontifax’s magic. Samson had gained a reprieve from worry, a release from fear. He knew the reprieve wouldn’t last but he intended to make the most of his time…and that meant seeing his Lucy.

They weren’t supposed to meet till noon but Samson couldn’t wait. He roamed the streets, walking in aimless directions, waiting for a late enough hour to knock on her door. He thought about how they might spend the day, perhaps a meander through the spice markets or a stroll through the city’s herb gardens. Perhaps he’d seize the chance to pull her close and savor the scent of lilac in her lustrous dark hair. Perhaps he’d even dare another kiss. He smiled, deciding to stop by a bakery and purchase two of the flaky pastries with golden raisins that she loved so much, an early morning surprise. Turning toward the street of bakers, he caught a glimpse of dark hair cascading down the back of an emerald green cloak. His heartbeat quickened, eagerness overcoming his surprise. Lengthening his stride, he closed the distance. “Lucy!”

She whirled like a startled cat, face flushed, hair tussled like she’d just spilled from bed. Her dark gaze met his, her eye’s flying open wide. “Oh, it’s you!” The flush fled from her face replaced by a shock of pale white, as if she stared at a ghost.

And then he knew. Ice water rushed through his veins, freezing his heart. “What have you done?” His voice was a low rasp, parched of life.

She stumbled backwards, fear in her face. “I did what I had to…to save my father.”

He gripped her arm, his voice like iron. “What have you done?”

“I went to the Lord Raven.” Her gaze clouded, a deep blush blooming on her cheeks. “He was…” Her words trailed away.

His heart shattered. “I trusted you.” He shook her, desperate for details. “What did you tell him?”

She pulled away, her voice a low whisper. “It’s over Samson. Run and hide before they find you.”

Cold gripped him like an ice-shroud. He let her go, a flash of emerald running down the cobblestone street.

And then he fled. He raced into the nearest alleyway, running without thinking, looking without seeing, needing only to get away, to lose himself in the twists and turns of the back ways. Despite the pain in his side, despite his ragged breath, he pressed for more speed but he couldn’t escape himself. All of his nightmares came stalking, chasing him through the stink of the narrow lanes, catching him, consuming him.

He tripped and fell, sprawling face-first on the hard-packed dirt. Exhausted, he lay in a puddle of filth, a discarded man. His breath came hard and ragged from the long run…and then the sobs started. He cried a river. He shed tears for all of his mistakes for all of his shortcomings, a flood of regrets. When the tears came to an end, when the fear and grief were both exhausted, cold logic struck like a war hammer pounding a spike into his mind; he’d betrayed his friends.

A different fear settled over him. A cold hand twisted his guts; he couldn’t be the death of his friends. He’d made many mistakes but this one he could not live with. He stared up into the sky, a faint flush of pink still riding the clouds. Perhaps there was time.

Samson pushed himself to his feet…and then he ran, only this time with purpose. He took the shortest route, praying he was not too late. Scuttling between two burned out buildings, he dared a shortcut through the cobblestone streets before plunging back into the alleys. Rounding the final turn, he paused in the shadows, trying to control his gasping breath. He peered around the corner, afraid of what he might find…but there were no soldiers waiting in ambush, no red tabards. Hope flooded through him.

He raced down the narrow alley to the secret door. Releasing the hidden latch, he stepped into the cupboard. He stooped and gazed through the knothole, his heart thundering.

Soldiers crowded the kitchen.

Samson froze.

The captain barked a question. “Where’s the bard?”

Grandmother Magda sat in her rocking chair, her bag of yarn in her lap, her knitting needles clacking. She stared at the captain, her face a serene mask, a harmless old lady. “There’s no bard here, sir. Just a family of cobblers tryin’ ta get by.”

The orphan lad, Jack, cowered in the corner, his face chalk-white.

“I’ll have none of your lies, old woman. There’s been an informer. Now where’s the bard?”

Samson pressed his face to the door, staring through the knothole, unable to look away, afraid to watch.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, more soldiers. “There’s no one upstairs, captain.”

Samson sagged against the door; at least the others were still free.

One of the soldiers paused on the steps, his boots striking a hollow note. He knelt and pried up the floorboard, discovering the cache of swords. “Swords here, captain! They’re rebels for sure.”

The captain growled an order. “Cut the boy, one finger at a time, till the old woman talks.”

A soldier grabbed for Jack. The boy dodged behind the rocking chair. Grandmother Magda reached for her bag of yarn. Steel spun from the old lady’s hand. “Run, Jack!” The handle of a butcher knife protruded from the captain’s chest, the blade sunk deep. A scream sliced through the kitchen. The captain sank to his knees, a death mask on his face.

Chaos erupted in the kitchen.

Jack sprinted between the soldiers, lunging for the open door. Grandmother Magda yanked the butcher knife from the captain’s chest. Turning, she hurled the bloody blade into the knot of soldiers. A soldier screamed, blood spurting on the flagstone floor. The old lady reached for another knife.

A sergeant bellowed, “Get the boy!”

Hands reached for Jack.

The boy struggled and dodged but the soldiers crowded close, grabbing him by the back of his tunic. The boy kicked and bit like a wild thing but the soldiers held tight.

Samson watched from the cupboard. He bit his lip to stifle a sob, tears running down his face, the taste of blood on his lip.

Grandmother Magda brandished a second butcher knife, a wicked gleam of steel. “Let the boy go!”

A sword snaked out, striking the knife from her hand. Steel clattered against stone.

Jack kicked and struggled, but he was caught tight.

The sergeant growled, “That’s enough from you, old woman. I’d gut you like a fish, but the Lord Raven wants answers.” He grabbed the old woman by the arm, pulling her from the rocking chair.

Grandmother Magda seemed to wilt, aging a thousand years.

The sergeant snarled a cruel laugh. “We’ll have payment for our captain, bitch. You’ll scream in the dungeons and then die in the Flames.” He shoved her toward the other men. “Bind her hands and let’s get out of here. Maybe the others will be back later. We still have a harper to catch.”

The soldiers bound the old woman and the boy, herding them out into the street. They collected their dead and their wounded, closing the shop door behind them, leaving nothing but bloodstains.

Samson stood in the cupboard, staring through the knothole, staring into the empty kitchen.

The knitting needles had stopped…the knives had come out…the nightmare had begun.