S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  A chill wind snatched at her short blonde hair, a breath of winter at her back. Jordan pulled her checkered cloak close and sat perched atop the cold stones, staring out across the treetops.

  Footsteps came from behind. Thad climbed the fallen blocks, taking a seat by her side. “A good view of the countryside,” he gestured to the ruined keep. “The tower is broken but still defensible. The ancients built well.”

  A flock of crows cawed as they winged above the forest, throwing a shadow across the land.

  “Too many crows.”

  Thaddeus nodded. “They’ve come to feast on a kingdom.”

  “But we can’t let them.”

  “No, we can’t.” He gave her a measured look, but he did not push. He was good like that, still waters beneath leather armor. They sat in companionable silence, keeping watch over the forest. Thad twirled the ring on the smallest finger of his right hand. All his men wore them, a simple silver signet inscribed with a fist holding a rampant sword.

  “I’ve noticed your ring.”

  He covered it self-consciously. “A vain conceit.”

  “No, it means something. All your men wear them.”

  He hesitated, but then he answered. “The symbol of the Zward, sons of monks who find other ways to serve. We choose the sword over the scroll.”

  “Are there many of you?”

  “Never enough.”

  She knew better than to pry, the Order held its secrets close.

  “So lass, what will you have of us?”

  She sighed, feeling the weight of decision fall on her shoulders. “Wait, watch, be ready.”

  He chuckled, “Sounds like the Order,” yet he stared at her, waiting for something more.

  Jordan shook her head. “It’s all I know. I’ve obeyed the vision. We’ve reached the red tower before the first snowfall. We’re in the hands of the gods.”

  “A tenuous position.” Thaddeus stood. “We’ll keep watch, and we’ll be ready.” He stepped onto the lower stone. “Yarl will soon have the quails roasting. I’ll send Rafe up with your share.”

  “Thanks.” She gave him a wane smile.

  He took his leave, making his way down the giant stairway.

  Wrapped in her checkered cloak, Jordan sat still as stone, staring out over the forest. So much depended on her visions. “Wait, watch, and be ready”…and pray I haven’t made a mistake.

  40

  Liandra

  Liandra abhorred weakness, yet for the sake of the child she remained abed. The confinement chaffed at her, but her healers had been adamant. Rest in bed or risk the child, her hands laced protectively across the growing swell. Liandra sighed, wanting this child so badly, and desperately needing another heir, but work beckoned. Queens could not afford to appear frail lest the wolves circle, but she took the healer’s advice and endured the pampering of her women. Propped with a mountain of pillows, an ermine shawl draped around her shoulders, Liandra held court from her bed. “We will see him now.”

  They ushered the petitioner in. A slight man with pale white hair, he wore the clothes of a merchant, a velvet doublet and a thick wool cloak of autumn russet. “Majesty, thank you for seeing me.” He made a courtly bow. “Master Numar at your service.”

  “They tell me you were quite persistent.” Sir Durnheart and Master Raddock hovered close behind the merchant, vigilant as shadows. “A matter of great urgency, they said.”

  “Yes,” he paused as if considering his words. “My associates grew concerned when Master Fintan did not make his appointment.”

  So he comes about the monk.

  He took a step toward her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “May I speak in private?”

  “You may speak plainly.”

  An annoyed look flashed across his face, his voice blunt with warning. “Treachery stalks your court. Master Fintan was not without resources.”

  Resources, an interesting choice of words. “Whom do you represent?”

  “I come on behalf of the Kiralynn Order.”

  Another monk. “Yet you are a merchant within our capital city? An apothecary by trade?”

  He gave her a half smile. “It is said that you are a queen who appreciates the value of knowledge.”

  “Knowledge yes, but spies are another matter.” She’d always envied the monk’s web of spies.

  “A debate rages within our Order. Some argue for openness while others say the time has not yet come. With the death of Master Fintan you understand why I am reluctant to wear the blue.”

  “Yet you come anyway.”

  “The Light must be served.”

  “And your purpose?”

  “A pair of wagons has reached your city. They bear a gift from the Grand Master.”

  Beware monks bearing gifts. “A gift?”

  “A weapon from ancient times, ninety-two flasks of Napthos, a fire potion that burns with the heat of hell. Nothing will quench it. Legends say it will even burn on water. Unstoppable, it burns until it consumes itself, destroying everything it touches, eating flesh and bone, even cracking stone. It is a fearsome weapon, not to be used lightly.”

  A weapon, so the monks brought her hope. “And how is this weapon used?”

  He removed a scroll from his belt pouch, handing it to her.

  She fingered the scroll, a shiver of recognition running through her. The wax seal bore the signet of the Grand Master. “What is this?”

  “Knowledge, a way to use the Napthos.”

  She broke the seal and found detailed drawings inside. It looked like a giant crossbow mounted on a wagon bed.

  “It is called a scorpion, another weapon from ancient times. It can hurl a steel bolt twice the distance of the best catapult. With slight modifications it will hurl clay flasks of Napthos, raining hellfire on your enemies.”

  “Hellfire?” She gave the monk a shrewd smile. “A fitting end to the Army of the Flame.”

  “Just so.” He nodded. “But be warned, there is only enough for one battle. One chance to turn the tide of war.”

  “You cannot make more?”

  “The recipe is lost to us.”

  So the monks have their limits. “Yet you give us this weapon, to use as we see fit?”

  “To strike a blow against the Dark.”

  “Yet your Order hides in the shadows?”

  He gave her a knowing look. “You are a queen who understands the value of shadows.”

  “Just so.” She felt an accord with the monks, a blaze of intellect driven by purpose and protected by subterfuge. “We thank the Grand Master for his most generous gift.” Her voice dropped a notch. “And we deeply regret the death of Master Fintan.”

  “Be warned, Darkness stalks your court.”

  It was a warning she knew all too well. “Shall we see you again?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “I trust your shadowmen will know how find me.” He sobered. “But send only your best men, for Darkness hunts us as well. In the meantime, we will watch and we will do what we can.” He gave her a courtly bow, a swirl of russet, and then he left.

  Her glance shot towards Master Raddock. “Have him followed, discretely. Send your best men, this is an ally we cannot afford to lose.”

  “As you wish.” The master turned to leave, Sir Durnheart on his heels.

  The queen sat abed, fingering the scroll. Such an impressive gift, a chance to turn the tide of battle, but only if she chose the right moment. She weighed the scroll, wondering what other secrets the monks held, what power they might wield if their Order ever came out of the shadows. But that thought was for another day. Liandra caressed the swell of her unborn child. She’d gained an ally and a powerful weapon. For the first time in a long time, Liandra felt hope, a slender chance to defeat the Flame and preserve her kingdom.

  41

  Steffan

  “Your ruse worked, Counselor.” The general poured himself a goblet of ale.

  Ale in a silver goblet, always the barbarian, Steffan stifled a grimace.
“Lingard fell with nary a fight, proving deceit is stronger than swords.”

  The general stabbed a hunk of roast duck, eating it from his dagger, grease staining his beard. “You need both, Counselor. Deceit won’t work without swords to back it up.”

  “Then it’s good I have both.”

  A grunt was the only reply.

  Steffan tasted a puffed pastry filled with sticky apricots. “You’ve posted guards on the food supplies?”

  “The granaries are full, the larders overflowing, and the wine cellars well stocked. Lingard is full to bursting with women, loot, and a fat harvest.” The general grinned past a mouthful of duck. “We’ve gained enough supplies to feast our army all the way to Pellanor.”

  “But first we secure Lingard.”

  “Aye,” the general refilled his goblet. “You best keep an eye on the Bloody Bishop. Those damn pyres of his burn day and night. Makes the converts nervous.”

  “The bishop is another matter. The Flame God must have his due.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Before Steffan could reply the Priestess burst into the chamber, three Black Flames in tow.

  “You need to see this.” She crossed to the table, luscious curves sheathed in a shimmering gown of dark purple. He might have been distracted were it not for the warning in her voice. “What is it?”

  She gestured and one of the Black Flames set a sheathed sword upon the table.

  The sword looked ordinary enough, the hilt wrapped in black leather. “So?”

  She flashed a triumphant smile. “Unsheathe the blade.”

  The general reached for the sword, but Steffan felt the need claim it first. Quickness beat brute strength. Steffan snatched the sword and tugged on the hilt.

  The general gasped, “Blue steel!”

  The sapphire blade gleamed beautiful in the candlelight but Steffan guessed there was more to the sword. Unwrapping the black leather binding, he revealed the hilt. The details were breathtaking, roses crossed on the hilt, a crown on the pommel, and etched in the blade, he read the name aloud. “The Thorn of Roses.” Steffan held the blade aloft, shimmering lethal in the candlelight.

  The general stared like a love-struck swain “A hero’s blue blade. A fitting sword to lead our army to victory.”

  Steffan flashed a sly grin. “You think too small, general.” He set the sword onto the table, a flash of sapphire blue across the oak grain. “It’s not just a blue steel sword. It’s victory.” He snapped an order to Pip. “Bring the prince.” His gaze turned to the Priestess. “How?”

  She gestured to one of the Black Flames, a big hulking sergeant with a fresh scar on his face. The soldier stood hunched, as if trying to hide.

  Steffan drilled him with his stare. “How?”

  The other soldiers stepped back, opening a space around their comrade, like a gaping chasm to hell. “It was only booty, plunder taken from a prisoner. We always loot the prisoners…”

  Steffan cut him off. “Where’s the prince that goes with this sword?”

  The soldier looked befuddled. “Prince, lord?”

  “Fool!” Steffan erupted in anger. “Does an ordinary soldier wield a blue steel sword? And why wasn’t this brought to my attention? Did you think to keep it for yourself?”

  The Black Flame cringed. “No, my lord, I didn’t think.”

  “Start thinking or you’ll lose more than your useless head.” Steffan swept the blue sword from the table. The Black Flame flinched backward, but Steffan only used the sword as a pointer, punctuating each word. “I want the prince found. Dead or alive, I want him brought to me. And I’ll have his signet ring, and anything else of value. Bring me the prince or I’ll slice you to bits, starting with your manhood.”

  The Black Flame fled, the door banging behind him.

  Steffan glared at the other two. “And if the rest of you know anything about the crown prince, I’ll hear it now.”

  Neither man answered.

  “Does the prince still live?”

  Their silence echoed through the chamber like a grim rebuke.

  Pip opened the door, ushering Danly into the room.

  “Prince Danly,” Steffan lifted the sword. “Is this your brother’s sword?”

  Danly stared wide-eyed, drawn toward the blade. “The queen commissioned three blue steel blades…but I never saw them.” His gaze fixed on the hilt. “Crossed roses and a crown…it must be my brother’s.” His voice caught, a shrewd gleam in his gaze. “But how did you get it? Is Stewart captured…or killed?”

  Steffan grinned like a cat tasting cream. “The how is not as important as the having.”

  General Caylib leered at the sword. “A blue steel sword should be wielded by a warrior worthy of the blade.”

  “Like you, my general?”

  The general stood his ground. “Every soldier dreams of a blue steel blade. Wondrous and rare, lighter than steel, the blade forever sharp, a legendary sword forged for the best warriors.”

  “Why general, you sound like a bard.”

  “Blue steel is meant to be wielded in war.”

  “And it will be. But you think too small.” Steffan shared a knowing glance with the Priestess. “You understand, don’t you my dear?”

  “Of course,” her voice purred with delight, “with one blow, this sword will claim a kingdom.”

  “Exactly,” Steffan hefted the blade, marveling at its feel. “Why risk an army when a single sword can wield the fatal blow? I want a troop of heralds outfitted with the fastest horses. I’ll have this sword delivered to the Spider Queen.”

  A nasty hiss came from the general. “You’ll give it back to the enemy?”

  “I’ll strike a heart-wound at the queen, sending a message that I’ve captured both her heirs. If the message does not kill her outright, then it will surely bring her to her knees, after all, she’s merely a woman, with all the foibles of a mother.” Steffan grinned. “With a single sword thrust, I’ll gain a kingdom. Worth the cost of one blue blade, wouldn’t you say, general?”

  The general scowled. “I like it not. You give advantage to the enemy.”

  Steffan snorted. “I see advantages and I multiply them. A pity my councilors are so blind.”

  The general glowered.

  “Don’t you see the beauty of it? Once we take Pellanor, the sword will be plunder once more.”

  A grin spread across the general’s face. “And then I’ll wield it.”

  Steffan did not answer. “Go and assemble the heralds. I want them dispatched at once.”

  The general sheathed his table dagger. “As you wish.”

  The others turned to follow.

  “Not you, my prince. I need your help crafting a message to the queen, something aimed at her heart, something from both her sons.”

  Danly took a seat at the table. “The Spider Queen doesn’t have a heart.”

  “Nevertheless, we must find it.”

  Pip approached with a quill and parchment, setting them before the prince.

  Danly took up the quill, a sly look on his face. “With Stewart dead, I’ll be the sole heir of Lanverness.”

  “A crown prince sitting at my table,” Steffan grinned, “it seems the dice always roll in my favor.” Victory was so close he could taste it.

  42

  Jordan

  Jordan found herself returning to the broken tower, drawn by the past as much as the view. Sunset brought out the color, the stones glowing a burnished red in the fading light. She passed beneath the archway, wondering what tales the tower could tell. Murky shadows and gleaming legends surrounded the history of the Star Knights, a patchwork past, difficult to tell the truth from a bard’s fancy tales, yet she yearned to know. Her hand trailed across the red stones, feeling a strange kinship with the ruins. An owl hooted in the forest, announcing the onset of twilight. She climbed the giant staircase and found Rafe keeping lookout on the topmost stone.

  “What do you see?”

  “A land riven by war.” He p
ointed west across the treetops. “No smoke rises from the nearest farmhouse, yet this is the time of day when families should be gathered around the hearth for supper.” He pointed toward the gloom on the northern horizon. “While in the north, whole villages burn, scorching the sky with smoke.” Rafe scowled. “Smoke’s become a signal for war instead of hearth and home.”

  She sat cross-legged beside him, pulling her checkered cloak close. “I’ve never seen war before.”

  “Nor have I, but the histories are full of them.”

  She gripped her sword hilt, the words whispering out of her. “The Battle Immortal.”

  “What?”

  “My father always says that life is a battle immortal, an eternal struggle between Light and Dark.”

  “And now it’s our turn to fight?”

  Jordan nodded. “Just so.”

  “At least you chose a good place to camp, as if the past keeps watch.”

  She stared at him, so you feel it too, but she did not say the words. “I’ll take the first watch if you like.”

  “No need.”

  “What?”

  “Once darkness falls, Ellis will seal the woods to intruders.”

  “Seal the woods, how?”

  “Magic of course.” He gave her a knowing smile. “You’ll see tonight, Ellis is a moon weaver.”

  Magic, the word shivered down her spine, she’d gained such strange allies. “Why tonight?”

  “Our first night with a defensible position. Magic is never used lightly. There’s always a price.”

  She chewed on his words, another layer of mystery. The monks were cloaked in riddles. Jordan wondered if Rafe carried a magic of his own.

  “What’s that?” Rafe stood, pointing toward the northwest.

  Jordan squinted into the gathering dusk. “Riders, two sets, a mob of twenty chasing three.” Her heartbeat thundered, wondering if this was the reason the gods had brought her here.

  Rafe put his fingers to his lips, whistling a trill of notes, a signal to the others.

  Jordan watched the riders, straining to make out their colors, but twilight was tricky, bathing the land in a dusky lavender and the figures were still leagues away. “I can’t tell their colors.”