S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

A bitter wind whipped around them, snow pelting their faces. Laden with packs, they stood in a huddle, waiting for the others to return. Jordan stamped her feet, trying to keep warm.

  Ellis, a stunning brunette with hawk-sharp eyes, handed her a flagon. “This will help.”

  Jordan took a long swig of mulled wine. A river of heat flooded through her, the taste of autumn apples lingering on her tongue. Grateful, she stoppered the flagon and returned it. “Thanks.”

  The other returned carrying large bundles wrapped in worn oilskins. They knelt to untie the bundles, revealing strange teardrop-shaped hoops.

  “What are those?”

  Rafe laughed. “They’re snow-walkers.” He took a pair and handed them to her. “You wear them on your boots.”

  The workmanship was amazing, staves of wood bent to a teardrop shape with wicker webbing strung across the center. She’d never seen their like. “But what are they for?”

  “For walking on snow.” Rafe set a pair on the ground and then stepped onto them, lashing the leather bindings across his boots.

  Jordan laughed. “You look like a furry duck!”

  He flashed a grin. “A duck that walks on snow.”

  And then she realized it was true. Like magic he walked atop the snow instead of floundering through it. “How do you do that? Is it magic?”

  “Not magic, but knowledge.” He gave her a slow smile, a gleam of pride in his gray-green eyes. “Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge, Share knowledge.”

  Jordan gave him a sloe-eyed glance; the monks were full of surprises. She’d lived amongst them for a short while, yet she’d barely plumbed their depths.

  “You best get those on.”

  She followed his example, stepping onto the strange teardrops and lashing them to her boots. At first they proved awkward, her stride hampered by the wide webbing, but she eventually settled into a waddling gait. The walkers proved a boon, much easier than plowing through the heavy snow. Jordan grinned, wondering what other surprises the monks harbored.

  Reveling in the snow-walkers, she set off at a brisk pace, but the steep trail soon took its toll. After two switchbacks, she moved to the end of the line. They walked until twilight, the gray sky seeming to merge with the snow-capped peaks as if they climbed towards oblivion. One of the monks called a halt. They gathered in a huddle, keeping their backs to the wind, sharing a flask of lukewarm cider while Yarl went exploring. Jordan sipped the cider, her gaze following the burly monk across the rugged slope.

  “Where’s he going?”

  Rafe answered. “To find a burrow.”

  “A burrow?” She studied the steep slope seeing nothing but tumbled boulders and snow.

  “You won’t find it.”

  “Then how do you know it’s there?”

  “We passed another cairn, the rocks indicate a nearby burrow.”

  She scowled, realizing she hadn’t noticed it.

  He laughed. “No, you wouldn’t”

  It was as if he read her mind. Before she could say anything, he explained. “The mountains are our fortress, our first line of defense. We know them like you know the battlements of your home castle.”

  She nodded; more proof the monks were shrewd, turning even the mountains to their advantage. They’d make formidable allies for Navarre if they weren’t so damn reclusive.

  A sharp whistle drew their attention. Yarl waved, beckoning them forward. One at a time, they left the trail for a narrow footpath. They scrambled across a steep scree slope, loose rock beneath snow, a dangerous passage. Jordan took her time, careful to walk in the other’s footsteps. Rounding a boulder, she found Rafe waiting for her. “You’ll need to remove your pack and snow-walkers.” A dwarf-sized doorway was set into the mountainside. A door into the mountain, Jordan smothered her surprise. Shrugging off her pack, she knelt to unlace her snow-walkers, and then pushed her pack and the walkers ahead of her before crawling through the tiny doorway.

  Warmth greeted her like a welcoming hug. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, revealing a single chamber with a very low ceiling, thick rugs spread across the floor. Snug as a rabbit burrow, the small room delved into the mountainside, the timbered ceiling just a finger’s width above her head. The low ceiling provided enough height to crawl or sit but not to stand. Stacking her snow-walkers near the door, Jordan shrugged off her boots, and then joined the others, finding a space for her bedroll along the far wall.

  Rafe joined her, worming into the narrow strip between her and the earthen wall. “It’s tight but cozy. Better than risking death on the mountain.”

  Once again, the monks surprised her. “How many of these burrows do you have?”

  “Enough”

  Always a cryptic answer, but she let him keep his secrets. Lulled by the warmth, Jordan leaned against her bedroll, content to take her ease.

  With so many bodies crammed into such a small space, the burrow soon heated to a toasty haven. Shucking her furs, she watched as Yarl worked a small stone hearth in the outer wall, setting a paddy of dried dung to smolder. Sweet smoke swirled through the chamber, adding a pungent smell.

  The dung fire surprised Jordan, something a peasant would use. She leaned towards Rafe. “Why dung instead of tinder?”

  “Dung’s really just dried grasses pressed together. Easy to carry and easy to store, a single large paddy will smolder all night. And if this were springtime, the smoke would keep the biters and bloodsuckers at bay.”

  “How do you know so much…” but then she checked herself, mentally answering her own question.

  He flashed a grin but then sobered. “Knowledge is not just a weapon, it makes life easier. Another reason the monastery must never fall.”

  “But why do you hide? Most people consider the monks a legend.”

  His face stilled, as if a thousand thoughts swirled through his mind, but he did not answer.

  “Tea?” Yarl handed her a brimming cup.

  Her hands cradled the earthenware mug, letting the fragrant steam bathe her face. Breathing deep, she inhaled the delicious scent. Sitting cross-legged, she sipped the tea. Warmth spread through her, a subtle brew of mountain herbs with a hint of lemon thyme.

  “Do you like it?” The big monk stared at her, dark eyes set in a head as smooth as an eggshell.

  She’d never liked tea before the monastery, but she’d come to appreciate the subtle flavors. “It’s very good.”

  Yarl grinned and filled the other cups, serving the rest.

  Rafe leaned close, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You’ve just made a friend. Yarl prides himself on his brews.”

  She stared at the monk, a beefy chunk of a man hunched over the tiny hearth. Baldheaded with hands the size of shovels, he looked more like a brawler than a scholar. “A good man to have around.”

  “More than you know. Yarl is the quarterstaff master for the monastery.”

  So many contradictions, she wondered if she’d ever understand the blue-robed monks. “And what about you? What are you a master of?”

  “Me? I’m just a fledgling by comparison, not really a master at all.” But in his eyes she saw a host of secrets. She gave him a searching stare and then looked away.

  Yarl crouched over the cook pot, adding ingredients like an alchemist. A rich savory smell swirled through the burrow, waking a ravenous hunger. Jordan leaned forward, her mouth watering, willing the pot to simmer.

  Beside her, Rafe said, “I guess it’s true what they say about a watched pot never boiling”

  Jordan laughed, tearing her gaze from the pot.

  It seemed a small eternity before Yarl handed her a bowl. “Eat well.”

  She spooned a mouthful of hot stew, nearly swooning with pleasure. Chunks of potato and tender venison in a savory gravy, so filling and warm and perfectly salted. Perhaps it was the altitude, but everything tasted delicious. She finished the last spoonful and then licked the bowl clean. With her stomach satisfied, she leaned back on her bedroll, succumbing to exhaustion.

&nb
sp; Yarl collected the bowls and everyone crawled into their bedrolls. Lying close like rabbits snug in a den, Jordan felt safe and protected. Too weary to fight sleep, she succumbed to the cozy warmth. At first her dreams were welcoming. Entwined with Stewart on the snowcat fur, she remembered their first night together. She moaned with pleasure, enthralled by his touch, but her dreams quickly turned to nightmares. Visions intruded, full of bloodshed, deceit, and death. Like a grim foretelling, she watched Darkness tightened like a noose around those she loved…and they did not see the threat. They did not see it! Terror strangled her, holding her down, forcing to watch as her loved ones died. She railed against the visions, desperate to intervene. Her heartbeat hammered as she tried to run, but something held her back, binding her legs.

  A scream shivered out of her.

  A weight pinned her down. She woke to find a man on top. Thrashing against his weight, she reached for her sword.

  “Shhhh, you’re safe. It’s just me, you’re safe.”

  In the dim light, she saw Rafe’s face close to hers. “You screamed in your sleep.”

  “Oh.” Soaked with clammy sweat, she knew he spoke the truth. “I’m fine now.”

  He rolled onto his side, still within his bedroll.

  She blanched, embarrassed by her nightmares. A quick glance proved most of the others still slept, a chorus of soft snores filling the burrow. Blankets shifted and a few tossed and turned, perhaps they feigned sleep. She bit her lip, hoping they wouldn’t think less of her.

  Rafe’s voice was close, an insistent whisper. “What haunts you?”

  She avoided his stare but he was persistent. “Was it the attack in the monastery?”

  They all knew about the attack, about the dagger in the dark, but they did not know she hadn’t seen the Mordant, hadn’t sensed a thousand-year-old evil lurking in the shadows, near enough to touch. A shudder raced through her. Jordan thought of herself as a warrior of the Light, yet she’d never sensed the true threat. “No, not that.”

  Rafe was persistent. “Then what troubles you?”

  He sounded so sincere, and she needed a friend. Sighing, she tried to explain. “The dreams started after I woke from the healing sleep. Dreams like none I’ve ever had, so real but all of them terrible.” She’d fled the monastery, obeying the urgency of the dreams, but it seemed they wanted more from her. “I must get across the mountains. I must go back.” She looked at him, hoping he’d understand.

  “Why?”

  The single word held a thousand questions. But the answer was just as complicated, a wild tangle of visions. “I have to…make a difference.” It seemed a thin answer, but it was all she could give.

  Rafe nodded. “So do we all.”

  His answer surprised her.

  He leaned close, his voice a whisper. “Dire prophecies rush to be born in the southern kingdoms, yet some of us believe in your visions. We’ve come to help.”

  So she wasn’t alone, the offer of aid nearly brought tears to her eyes. She stared at him, needing someone to confide in. Her fear blurted out of her. “Do you think a warrior of the Light can meet evil and not know it?” She held her breath, wanting to withdraw the question, yet anxious for his answer.

  He met her gaze, his voice a low whisper. “Evil deceives.”

  The truth of his answer echoed in her soul.

  “It’s what evil does best.”

  “Just so.”

  “But having met evil, you will know it better the second time.”

  “May the gods make it so.” She gave him a grateful nod, praying his words proved true, and then she turned away, burrowing into her bedroll. Jordan closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. A deep urgency throbbed within her mind, prodding her to cross the mountains and return to the southern kingdoms. Darkness threatened the ones she loved, and only she could save them.

  20

  Liandra

  The queen consulted the royal archives, but her recollections proved true. Over eighty years had passed since the last delegation from Ur. The empire chose an odd time to come calling, as if they somehow sensed her kingdom’s vulnerability, but Liandra intended to show no weakness. In times of war, pomp and ceremony seemed a trivial concern, but the queen knew the value of appearances. She decreed a royal welcome, summoning the full splendor of the Rose Court.

  Ur had long been the wealthiest trading partner to Lanverness, very wealthy, very distant, and very mysterious. Rumors ran wild about the distant empire. Merchant caravans traveled for more than twenty moon turns to reach the veiled kingdom, a long and arduous journey around the southern mountains, but the goods they brought back were beyond compare. Exotic spices, the finest brandy, the rarest healing brews, and the most vibrant silks all came from Ur. Liandra could ill afford to offend the royal delegation. Ever curious about her fabled trading partner, she’d dispatched six shadowmen to Ur early in her reign, but only one returned, stricken with a terrible wasting sickness. She’d listened to his report; never certain if the tales were true or the delusional rantings of a fever-racked mind. Thwarted by her shadowmen, the queen quizzed returning merchant caravanners, but they proved even less helpful, spinning wild tales of orgies and magic. The queen knew full well their fantastic tales only increased the value of their goods. Considering their prices, perhaps she should spin a few tales of Lanverness, something to consider. Liandra drummed her fingers on her throne, struggling to contain her curiosity. Rumors of the delegation had swirled through her capital city like a bonfire, raising a fevered-interest in the formal welcome. The queen found she was not immune to the rampant curiosity.

  Liandra surveyed the audience hall. Lords and ladies bedecked in rich velvets and stunning silks preened like peacocks before the throne. Candlelight shimmered through the great hall, reflecting off marble floors and gilded mirrors, a jewel box setting for her court. Musicians played in the corner, providing a stately melody full of pomp and ceremony. Expectation thrummed through the hall.

  She caught the sharp-eyed stare of her loyal lords, a pretentious contingent swirling around Lord Mills. They hid their daggers well; keen to oppose her policies on the war, yet for the sake of trade they wore their best courtiers’ smiles. Greed pulled them to the surface, like sharks after chum. She nodded in their direction, a veiled warning in her glare.

  Liandra shifted upon the golden throne. Bedecked in a low-cut gown of emerald velvet, she wore all the jewels of state. The Rose crown gleamed upon her brow, rings glittered on all her fingers, and the royal scepter sat nestled in the crook of her arm. Clad in the armor of state, a vision of wealth and majesty, she’d come to impress, knowing the importance of appearances when it came to trade negotiations.

  Her two advisors stood closest to the throne. Master Raddock stood three steps down on the left. Swathed in somber robes of black, he looked like a crow squatting on her dais. At least his wits outshone his looks, but he proved a poor substitute for the master archivist. Oh Robert, she bit her lip, refusing to think of him. Seeking distraction, the queen turned her gaze toward Sir Durnheart. Her knight protector stood tall with broad shoulders, resplendent in shimmering mail, the hilt of his great blue sword rearing above his right shoulder, a vision of knightly splendor.

  The stage was set. Like a rose in full bloom, Liandra sat between her two thorns, one stalwart and the other sneaky, both deadly in their own ways, another message for the delegation. Impatient, she tapped her fingernails against the throne. “Where are they?”

  Her shadowmaster heard her whisper. “Shall I go and hurry them along?”

  Before she could answer, the gilded doors opened to a blare of trumpets.

  Her lords and ladies moved aside, opening a path across the checkerboard floor.

  Tumblers erupted from the doorway. Three jesters in green and white motley tumbled the length of the checkerboard floor, executing daring leaps and thrilling summersaults. Bells affixed to their boots and hands chimed with every movement. Tossing ribbons to the crowd, they cavorted the length o
f the hall, providing a sprightly entertainment. Delighted applause rippled through her court, but Liandra considered it a strange opening to a foreign delegation. She watched in puzzlement as they came to rest below her throne. Two were dwarves, their teeth filed to nasty points, while the third had the face of an older man, yet his muscle-sculpted body was stunted like a lad of twelve years. She wondered at the message hidden beneath the jesters.

  The three jesters bowed in unison and said, “Oh great Queen of Lanverness, we bring tokens of esteem from the Prince of Ur. Please accept these gifts in the spirit in which they are given.”

  A rumble of drums came from the doorway. The crowd gaped as a procession of muscle-bound bearers entered. Tanned bronze from the southern sun, they wore flowing skirts of white linen, their naked torsos glistening with oil. Silver cuffs gleamed at their wrists and around their necks a silver collar bore the symbol of Ur, a mystical Ouroboros, a dragon eating its own tail. Kohl lined their eyes creating a strange mix of masculine and feminine, but despite their exotic appearance, the bearers were outshone by their gifts. Balanced on their heads, they bore wooden casks branded with the mark of Ur. Liandra assumed they held Urian brandy, the finest liquor in all of Erdhe, known to merchants as liquid gold. After the brandy came bolts of silk, saffron and cinnamon-colored, the rarest of hues, laid like tribute at her feet. And finally, four bearers struggled to carry an immense wooden chest, their bulging muscles betraying the great weight of their burden. A hum of excitement rippled through the crowd. Her lords and ladies craned to see, but the chest remained closed, an intriguing tease set at the foot of her throne.

  Trumpets sounded and three nobles emerged from the double doors. Tall men draped in flowing robes of darkest purple, the great dragon of Ur gleamed in silver on their chests, but their faces were strangely pale, as if they shunned the sun. One walked in front of the others, gliding across the checkerboard floor, his head shaved smooth as polished marble, a silver ring piercing his left nostril. A chain ran from the nose ring to a silver collar at his throat.

  Liandra suppressed a shudder. She’d heard whispers of the Chained Servants of Ur, but she always considered them a myth, a merchant’s exaggeration. She wondered what other myths might walk through her doors.