She shook her head. “They’re always a jumble, one image jumping to the next, never the same order.”
“But always the same images?”
“Yes, except for Stewart.” Jordan shivered. “My dreams of Stewart are always different, as if his fate is uncertain, shifting in the wind.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, revealing her secret fear, “or perhaps they’re just nightmares, not visions at all.”
“But the images of this tower, of these ruins, they’re always the same?”
“Yes,” she let the images claim her, “a shattered tower, red as blood, rearing above a winter forest.”
Thaddeus leaned toward the tower’s edge, gazing down at the crumbled ruins surrounded by a skirt of forest. “A shattered tower, red as blood, rearing above a winter…” he stopped and turned to stare at her, “…a winter’s forest!”
Jordan nodded. “Bare trees without a single leaf upon them.”
“And snow? Is there snow in your visions?”
Her eyes widened. “A light dusting.” She turned to look down at the forest, at a thousand shades of brown. “No snow!” Joy flooded through her. “We’re meant to wait till it snows!” She leaped to her feet, too excited to sit, but then she saw the sharp look in his eyes and knew there was something else. “What?” Jordan stilled, settling her hand on her sword hilt, as if his gaze threatened her conviction.
His words were solemn. “We don’t know if your vision shows the first snow, or something deeper in winter.”
She sank back down to the stone.
“Jordan,” his words seemed to come from a thousand leagues away, “we’ll wait till the first snow, but we cannot tarry longer. We dare not risk an entire kingdom, and the crystal blade-bearer for the sake of a single prince.”
“No, of course not.” But her voice sounded dead.
He grabbed her, his strength flowing through his hold. “Jordan, don’t give up, have hope. Perhaps he’ll come with the first snow.”
She took a deep breath, coming back to herself. “You’re right, we can only hope.” She gave him a tentative smile and he released her. “But there’s something else you should know.”
He turned, his full attention centered on her.
“In my dreams, in my nightmares, Stewart is always fleeing enemies, sometimes red-cloaked soldiers, sometimes mercenary rogues…but they always outnumber us, two or three to one.”
He gave her a feral smile. “Good to know.”
“You’re not worried?”
“To be forewarned is to be forearmed.”
“But two or three times our numbers?”
“Knowledge is a sword.” He grinned like a wolf chasing prey. “We have the ruins, and the forest, and we’re forewarned. We’ll build traps and tricks to even the odds. The Zward is not without teeth.” He stood and stretched, as graceful as a forest cat. For a heartbeat he reminded her of Duncan.
“Come.” He offered her a hand up. “We’ve much to discuss with the others.”
Jordan rose to follow him but he sensed her reluctance, giving her a warm smile. “Don’t lose hope. The gods can be merciful.”
“I’ll never stop hoping.” She followed him down the stairway, his words ringing in her mind, the gods can be merciful. But in her heart, she knew the gods could also be cruel.
50
The Priestess
The Priestess chose a cloak of midnight black, a whisper of wool gliding across the cobblestone streets. She kept the deep cowl pulled forward, hiding her face, nothing more than a silhouette in the dead of night. Braxus led the way, Otham and Hugo at her back, three of her most trusted men.
Torches glittered in the main streets, mostly empty save for a few drunken soldiers returning from a late night revel. Refuse littered the cobbles and the night air stank of piss and spilled ale. So much had changed in the once-proud city, everything turned topsy-turvy with the coming of the Flame. Bishops and clerics claimed the wealthiest homes, enjoying the luxuries gained by divine right. Officers and soldiers barracked in fine inns and taverns, while the townsfolk, those who evaded the Flames by taking the brand of conversion, found other places to live, refugees haunting their own city. Someone always paid for the power of others.
They reached a home of modest wealth, probably once owned by a merchant of sorts. Braxus knocked. The door was opened by a red-cloaked officer. After a murmured conversation, Braxus slipped inside, his hand on his sword hilt.
The Priestess waited, knowing Braxus would be thorough.
The door re-opened, casting a sliver of light, and Braxus returned. “He’s here, mistress, awaiting you.”
She nodded. “Lead the way.”
The house smelled of wood smoke and leather, cavalry officers playing dice in the front parlor. They paused in their game, turning to stare, but the Priestess ignored them, remaining hidden in the depths of her cowl. Braxus led her up the stairs and down the hallway to a closed door. She nodded and he opened the door without knocking.
A single officer waited inside. A solidly built man with a barrel chest, strong arms, and thick black beard, but the feature she liked best about him was his dark eyes, keen and intelligent. “Major Tarmin?”
“Yes.” He stood before the fireplace, dressed in the leathers of a cavalry officer.
She lowered her cowl and he gasped, his dark eyes lighting with interest.
“They said you would come…but they failed to describe your beauty.”
Courteous as well as intelligent, she liked that in her men. “You have just been promoted to general.” She gestured and Braxus offered the general a sealed scroll.
“Examine the seal.” She watched as he studied the waxy imprint. “These orders come direct from the Lord Raven, you are to be given command of two thousand mounted soldiers and four thousand foot. You and your men are to be placed at my disposal. You can read, can’t you?” He nodded. She waited while he read the parchment, his lips moving with the words.
“This scroll is the last time you will obey an order that comes from another.” At her gesture, Hugo stepped forward, placing a bulging sack on the oak table. The sack clinked with the sound of gold. “A bounty for your service, to be shared among your men.”
The general’s eyes widened at the largess. The Priestess smiled. “You’ll find I’m a generous master to those who serve me well.”
“My lady, what would you have of me?” His voice was deep and rough, accustomed to command.
“Select and equip your men. But I will have no clerics or bishops among them, and weed out the devout. I want soldiers not fanatics.” Her voice dropped to a purr. “When it comes to worship, I’ll not have religion clouding men’s minds.”
His eyes darkened at the stroke of her voice.
“And send one of your men to Dyers’ Alley. Most of the shops have been looted but one has bolts of blue wool hidden away in the back bins, a deep blue the color of the sea. Have your men cut a square of blue, a double hand span by a double hand span, and sew it to the center of their cloaks. From now on, you’ll wear my colors.”
“As you command.” His keen eyes raked her face. “And then?”
Braxus produced a second scroll, this one bearing her seal.
“And then you ride. The route is marked on this map.”
He broke the seal, studying the map. “But, my Lady, six thousand men will be stretched to take a kingdom.”
“But they can take a city, especially one as poorly defended as Seaside. Take the capital city, take the royals, and you have the kingdom.”
“And the castle? It’s said to be damn near impregnable.”
She gave him a sultry laugh. “Leave that to me.”
He gave her a searching look, but then he bowed his head. “As you will.”
She liked her new general, stalwart and honest, honest men always made the best tools. “Take plenty of provisions, for I’ll not have you ransacking the countryside. This will be a different kind of war, not as wasteful as the one waged in Lanve
rness. I mean to have a kingdom worth ruling when I’m done.”
“As you command, my Lady.”
“And now that we have an understanding,” her voice deepened, full of suggestion, “I’ll take your oath of fealty.”
The general’s eyes widened, his gaze fixed on her face.
Braxus and Hugo disappeared, slipping outside to stand guard in the hallway. The fire snapped and crackled, the air suddenly close and warm and charged with heat. The four-poster bed loomed large in the small room.
“All of my men swear a different kind of oath, a special oath.” Her gaze traveled the length of him, a slow and sensual inspection. Smiling, she watched the hunger rise in his face, knowing his body was primed for the task. “I call upon you to take my oath of fealty. Swear with your body as well as your soul, eternally binding your fate to mine.” Loosening the tie of her cloak, she shrugged it from her shoulders, a puddle of dark wool at her feet. She stood naked in the firelight except for a sparkle of diamonds at her throat, a pear-shaped gem dangling between her breasts. “Will you take my oath?”
The general groaned, falling to his knees before her. “My lady!”
She took him in front of the fireplace, once with his leathers on, and once without. A big hairy man, he did not have the finesse or stamina of Steffan, yet he had a soldier’s rough eagerness, an earthy lustiness she enjoyed. Her newly made general rutted like a bull in season, plowing her with fervor. His groans of pleasure shook the room, but all too soon they turned to snores. Sated with sex, he sprawled in front of the fireplace. The Priestess smiled, writing her true name in the sweat of his chest. Gathering her cloak, she slipped from the room, one step closer to claiming her destiny.
51
Danly
Danly became adept at slipping his minders. All it took was slumped shoulders, downcast eyes, and a change of clothing, an ordinary red cloak, the type any soldier would wear, and a brown jerkin stolen from a servant. So easy for the prince to become the peasant, it rankled his sensibilities. He despised the stolen clothing, reeking of another man’s sweat, but he despised being watched even more, like a dog on a chain. So he endured the stink, slipping down the stairs and across the courtyard, fleeing the tower.
Rage smoldered within him, a rage so hot he was surprised others did not see it. His world was sundered, turned upside down, every advantage lost. His mistress offered him poisoned apples, while his ally, the Lord Raven, treated with traitors, promising them his throne. His throne! And then there was his royal mother, seeking to supplant him with another a child. A child at her age, such a scandal! Laughter erupted from him, a wild barking laugh tinged with madness. He couldn’t imagine his royal mother big with child. The scandal would be incredible. Always so prim and proper, and now the queen was caught rutting like a common whore, Danly shook with laughter.
Sharp stares turned his way. Passing soldiers looked at him as if he were a crazed cur. Danly knew stares were bad, so he stifled his laughter and took the back ways, slinking through piss-puddled alleys.
It took him half the day, visiting seven taverns before he found the man he sought. A big man slumped at a corner table, empty flagons littering the tabletop like a field of dead soldiers. Danly watched from the shadows. His red beard had grown wild and his skin turned sallow, but it was the same man, yet somehow diminished and shrunken, his shoulder’s hunched, his head bowed. Perhaps diminishment was the price of being a traitor, but Danly shied from the thought. Girding his courage, he lowered the hood of his cloak and approached the table. “Share a drink with me?”
“If you’ve got the coin, I’ll drink the swill.” Bloodshot eyes stared up at him, growing wide with alarm. “You!”
“Calm yourself.” Danly hissed the order, flinging a fist full of gold coins on the table. “Barkeep, another flagon of your best red.” He pulled his hood back up, hiding in the cowled shadows.
The barkeep grumbled till he saw the gold. “Yes, m’lord.” The fat man hustled to set another flagon on the table, scooping the coins into his fist before retreating across the room.
Danly sniffed the captain’s cup, sour ale, a poor-man’s swill. “What happened to your gold?” He emptied the dregs on the floor and then poured a rich red, setting the cup before the captain. “The Lord Raven always pays well.”
“Lost some in a fight. Drank the rest. Not enough wine to drown in. Not enough ale to forget.” He wrapped his big hands around the cup, making it look small. “Why are you here? No one else can stand your stink?”
Danly ignored the slur.
“Can’t stand my own stink.” Leonard Vengar sniffed at his own armpits, a loud snuffling sound. “I reek,” he frowned in disgust, “the sour stench of a traitor.” His voice turned whiny, “but Lord Rognald was already dead, killed by poison, killed by that bitch.” Hatred slurred his words. “What was I to do? City already lost, enemies inside the gate, my own lord dead at my feet, nothing for a man to do. So I took their gold.” He glared across the table, a spark of defiance in his voice. “Any man would have done the same. Take the gold or die.”
Danly’s words were low and soothing, wondering if he could use the man. “I know. I was there.”
“So you were.” His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “That bitch offered you a bite of the apple. Could have been poisoned. Could have died like my lord. Should have been you instead of him.” He raised his cup, downing the wine in one long swallow, pounding the empty back on the table. “So why you here? No one else can stand your stink?”
The captain was becoming a bore, but Danly needed an ally, someone who knew the city, someone who knew how to fight. Urgency made him desperate. Danly filled the captain’s cup to the brim. “I want out.”
“Out? Try the bottom of a wine cup.”
Danly stayed the man’s hand before he could swill another. “I want out of the city and I want you to take me.” He set a purse on the table, heavy with the clink of gold. “Are you my man?”
“More gold.” The captain’s voice steadied, as if he was not quite as drunk as he let on. “Why me?”
“Because you’ve learned the same lesson I have.” His voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “They duped us, and then they used us, and now they’ll discard us like three-day-old fish.”
The captain snuffed. “Red cloaks won’t even drink with me. Can’t stand the sight of me.”
“That’s why we have to get out, before they decide we’re better dead.”
Vengar gave him a sobering look. “And go where?”
“To Pellanor, to the queen.”
“You!” Vengar snorted a laugh. “You’re daft! As if she’d take you back!”
“I was captured, held against my will.” Danly tasted the lie, noting how easily it rolled off his tongue. “They used me, just like they used you.” Disbelief stared from the captain’s bloodshot eyes, but Danly ignored the look. Leaning forward, he pressed the argument, the words rushing out, filling the silence with excuses. “The queen values knowledge even more than gold.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “I know the enemy’s plans. I know what they’re going to do.” He leaned closer. “And better yet, I know their lies!” Danly nodded, reassuring himself as much as the captain. “The queen will pay well for what I know, and better yet, we’ll have the queen’s gratitude. With her protection we won’t be looking over our shoulders for a knife in the back or poison on an apple.” He drilled the captain with his stare. “Do you want a second chance?”
“Rognald was a good lord, he deserved better than to die of poison.”
“We all deserve better than we get.”
“Do we?” The captain’s stare held all the torments of hell.
Danly did not look away. “Do you want a second chance?”
“Yeah, I do.” Vengar sneered, his voice full of self-loathing. “I guess you’re the only lord I deserve. You’ve got yourself a captain.” He reached across the table and scooped the purse into his hand.
“It’s not for drink. I need you sob
er, or I don’t need you.”
Vengar scowled. “A little for drinks. I need to cut the pain. But most of it will be for bribes. We’ll never get out of here without plenty of bribes.”
Danly nodded, watching the gold disappear into the captain’s jerkin.
“We’ll be needing plenty more.”
“I can get it.”
“When are you wanting to leave?”
Relief washed through Danly. “Lady Cereus leaves in three days time.” Just saying it made Danly tense, for he trusted Lord Raven even less than his dark-haired mistress. “I mean to be gone just after she leaves.”
“How many days?”
“Five or less.”
“Five days doesn’t give me much time.”
“It’s all the time we have.”
Vengar nodded. “I’ll find a way then.”
“Good. Where will I meet you?”
“Here.” Vengar made a sweeping gesture toward the flagon-strewn table. “Here I’m nothing but a drunken sot. So meet me here on the morning of the fifth day and I’ll tell you the plan.”
Danly nodded, hoping he could trust the captain. “On the morning of the fifth day.” He stood to leave.
“And bring more gold,” Vengar flashed an ugly grin, “this won’t be nearly enough.”
“It’s always about gold.” Danly turned his back on the captain and made his way to the door, wondering how much his life was worth, but he knew the answer. Steffan’s trick with Lingard would only work once, and the queen would never bargain for a eunuch second son. He had to escape the Flame or his life wasn’t worth a beggar’s copper.
52
Stewart
A prisoner once more, anger turned to rage as Stewart struggled against the ropes. Bound to the saddle, he fought to keep his balance. So foolish to trust a brigand like Skarn, but what choice did he have? He’d made a deal with the devil, and now he had to find a way to escape the price. He couldn’t let Skarn sell him to the red cloaks, couldn’t risk being held like a knife to the queen’s throat. As crown prince he was supposed to protect the kingdom, not threaten it. Bound and gagged, Stewart clawed at his bonds.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 37