The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  “Enough!” The old woman glared.

  “No, it will never be enough.” The young man spat on the ground and turned his back on the leader, pushing his way through the crowd. A murmur of disapproval followed but none barred his way.

  Ignoring the outburst, the clan leader picked up his whittling knife. With a quick slash, he cut Kath’s bonds. Pain assaulted her hands as the ropes fell away. Villagers reached out from behind to help her stand.

  The clan leader stood with the lithe grace of a warrior despite his age. “The winds are choked with burning and death, but this white-eyes speaks the truth. There will be no tauth claimed against these strangers. Release their bonds.”

  Kath resumed her place among her companions, trying to work some life back into her pain-pricked hands.

  The white-haired leader stared at her. “The question remains, why have you come to the Deep Green?”

  Kath stared at the leader, fumbling for an acceptable reason, unsure how to answer. The monk saved her. Holding his open hand up to display the dark blue tattoo, Zith said, “I am Master Zith of the Kiralynn Order. My companions and I seek an audience with the Treespeaker.”

  Protests rippled around the fire. A woman’s voice hissed, “Blasphemy!”

  The feather-cloaked leader lifted his hands, stilling his people. Peering at the monk, he said, “You speak a name not mentioned outside of the Deep Green.”

  “I speak a name whispered to me by the Grand Master of my Order.”

  The leader shook his head. “By Leaf and Bark the five of you pose a strange riddle. You ride out of the burnt lands speaking a name you should not know. A woman leads claiming friendship of the dead, one knight bears a sapphire-blue blade, and another has skin the color of soot. If the wind did not tell me otherwise, I would mark you as dangerous enemies. You are not of the Green yet we grant you hearth welcome, but no more than that. The Treespeaker will decide your fate.”

  The monk nodded. “We accept your welcome.”

  “In the meantime, you will have food and shelter and healing if you need it.”

  Blaine said, “Return our weapons.”

  “As a gesture of peace, we will keep your weapons till the Treespeaker decides.”

  Kath said, “You may hold our weapons of steel in safekeeping, but return the crystal dagger.”

  “What is so special about this dagger?”

  “It is a weapon of the Light, meant for a specific evil. I won’t be parted from it.”

  He stared at her as if peering into her soul.

  She met his golden gaze, shocked by the rush of green power rising behind his eyes. It was the same power that thrummed through the forest, something proud and untamed…and sentient. That power stared back at her, the golden eyes widening with recognition…and warning.

  An owl hooted in the depths of the forest.

  The clan leader broke his stare and nodded.

  Kath staggered backwards, released from the power.

  The clan leader’s voice was rich with undertones. “The forest agrees. The crystal dagger is best left in your care.” He glanced at her companions but his gaze returned to Kath. “My name is Cenric, leader of Clan Hemlock. You will be given the courtesies of the hearth until the Treespeaker decides your fate.” He gestured to the bearded ranger. “Jenks will show you to the stone house and will see to your needs.” Staring at Danya’s limp form he added, “Do you need a healer?”

  Cradling Danya against his chest, Blaine shook is head, “Just rest and food.”

  “That you shall have.” Cenric’s stare roved the crowd. “Sefforth, return the dagger.”

  An archer pushed through the crowd, anger in his eyes, yet he offered the crystal dagger to Kath.

  She snatched it from his hand and sheathed it at her belt, her fist locked on the hilt.

  “Jenks?”

  The bearded archer appeared at Cenric’s side.

  “Show our guests to the stone house and provide for their needs. Put a guard on the door for our safety as well as theirs.”

  The archer inclined his head and turned to the companions. “This way.”

  The villagers parted to let them pass, their stares a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. More than one made the hand sign of evil.

  Jenks led them away from the fire and through the cluster of cabins to the far side of the clearing. On the edge of the underbrush they found a small stone building half covered in vines. Three steps led down to an open doorway. Jenks ushered them into a small, rectangular room of white marble with no windows, only a door, as if the building had once been a tomb. A caved-in hole in the center of the ceiling provided the only light. A scattering of leaves, twigs, and broken stones littered the floor. A musty scent of wild animals lingered in the air. The room was barren of furniture but timeworn carvings covered the four walls, hinting at an ancient glory.

  Blaine settled Danya on the floor, spreading his maroon cloak across her. Kath was drawn to the walls. The carvings depicted a royal hunting party, subtle yet beautiful in the dim light. One of the figures wore a crown. She traced her fingers across the stone frieze. “What is this place?”

  Jenks shrugged, “Something best forgotten.”

  Zith said, “The past may be forgotten, but the present is always shaped by what has gone before.”

  Kath looked at the monk, but his face provided no explanation for his words.

  Footsteps clattered down the stone stairs. Cat-eyed men entered the room bearing the companions’ saddlebags and bedrolls. Another brought wood and tinder, starting a small fire in the center of the stone floor. Their golden cat eyes glowed strangely bright in the firelight.

  Jenks said, “Food and water will be provided. If you need anything, ask the guards at the door.”

  Blaine said, “Our weapons?”

  “If the Treespeaker decides.” Pausing, he added, “You picked a poor time to claim a hearth welcome.”

  Zith asked the question that had been nagging at Kath. “Who stared the fire?”

  “White-eyed cowards!” Hatred flashed across Jenk’s face. “The deed was done in the small hours of the morning. The dawn sky was clear of lightning, just a hard wind blowing east. There was no reason for a fire, yet a wall of flames roared into the forest, destroying everything in its path. The fire burned so fierce and was so widespread that it must have been started by torches and oil, a coward’s weapons.” His voice turned bitter. “Raging flames consumed an entire clan village while they slept. Women, children, and homes…all destroyed, reduced to nothing but cinders.” The archer’s eyes narrowed in hate. “But the Goddess of the Green intervened. The wind changed direction and the flames turned away from the forest, feeding on the farmlands of the white-eyes instead. The Goddess turned the wrath of the fire against those who set it. Evil was repaid in kind. The inferno ravaged the farmlands of the white-eyes, leaving the rest of the forest untouched.” Making the hand sign against evil, the archer’s voice dropped to an angry hiss. “It was a dark day when those fires were lit, dark and cowardly.”

  Zith nodded, “Darker than you know, archer. An ancient evil is loose in the lands of Erdhe. It will not respect the borders of your forest.”

  “Our arrows bite deep, old man. Next time we’ll be waiting.” The archer turned his back on the companions, striding through the open door, unaware that his words rang hollow in the ancient tomb.

  Zith shook his head. “And so it begins.”

  Kath stared at the monk. “What begins?”

  “The Dark Divide.”

  She gave him a puzzled look.

  The monk took a deep breath. “It’s what the Mordant does. By setting fire to both the forest and the farmlands he pits two peoples who should be allies against one another. Hatred is a bitter divide.”

  Kath whispered. “Divide and conquer.”

  “Just so.”

  The monk’s words sounded like a doom. Kath gripped the crystal dagger. “We’d best make ourselves comfortable.” The companions a
rranged their bedrolls around the fire. Little was said, for the guards listened at the door. They shared a meal of roast venison and pan-baked flat bread provided by the villagers. The venison was juicy but Kath had little appetite. She ate but there was no heart in it, like sitting at a fire that had no warmth. Thoughts of Duncan haunted her.

  Blaine coaxed Danya into drinking some water but the young woman refused any food. She sat slumped against the knight, her face pale and her eyes glazed as if staring at something in the distance, something only she could see. Kath wondered if Danya saw the ridge where Duncan stood against the sellswords. Perhaps the girl saw the battle using her link with the wolf. Kath leaned toward her, needing to know. “Danya, what do you see?”

  The question hung in the marble tomb like a ghost. Kath swallowed, fearing to hear the answer but needing to know.

  The other companions sat statue-still, faces frozen, waiting.

  Danya stared over their heads, as if seeing another world. Kath thought she wouldn’t answer, or hadn’t heard…but then Danya spoke, her voice haunted by grief. “I can’t feel him.” Her face was full of despair. “Only darkness…all is lost.”

  A cold hand clutched at Kath’s heart. She found it hard to breath.

  Blaine wrapped a blanket around Danya’s shoulders but the girl seemed oblivious to his care.

  The fire snapped, spitting sparks.

  Questions hung in the air but so did weariness. Numb from the trials of the long day, the companions sought their bedrolls.

  Kath burrowed into her blanket but sleep was elusive. Troubled by Danya’s words, she stared at the ancient hunting scenes. Duncan was an excellent tracker; he should have caught up to them by now. She banished the traitorous thought. If she believed it hard enough, surely the gods would let him live. A single tear slid down her cheek, betraying her fear.

  26

  Samson

  The Flame God’s city baked under the summer sun, the cobblestone streets radiating heat. A trickle of sweat ran down Samson’s back, but it wasn’t due to the heat. The city was full of spying eyes. Every stare seemed suspicious, every glance hostile, a city of watchers, all of them spying for the priesthood. The confessors changed everything. Samson scanned the street, trying to blend in. Everywhere people watched people, an entire city caught in a sticky web of deceit and betrayal. The confessors ensnared both the rich and the poor, the devout and the skeptical, everyone looking for a way to avoid the Flames. If they couldn’t find a sin to confess, they invented something. No one was safe.

  Samson mingled with the crowd, trying to hide among the citizens heading to market, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. His neck prickled in warning but he did not turn. He’d have to get used to the feeling…but old habits died hard. Everyday it grew harder to tell the innocent from the faithful. The confessors gave everyone an equal chance to betray. The price of salvation was the confession of your neighbor’s sins. Most of Coronth thought the price was cheap. Neighbor turned on neighbor. Families broke apart, betraying secrets to garner favor with the priests. Betrayal was rampant. The proof came in the night; a knock on the door heralding prison and then a fiery death; no one ever came back. Samson shuddered, staring at the people around him, knowing they were all conspirators to murder. Balor had become a waking nightmare with no way out but death.

  Samson quickened his stride, desperate to find Lucy. He needed a refuge, a haven of sanity, someone to go to when the knitting needles stopped. Lucy filled his dreams like a talisman against the madness of the city. Perhaps today he’d finally find the courage to speak to her.

  The market was crowded. A pungent scent of green hung over the stalls, vegetables over-baked in the sun. The price of food was dear. Many came to the market late, hoping to save coppers by purchasing vegetables ruined by the heat. Samson tried to blend in, just another hungry citizen looking for a bargain.

  He caught snatches of gossip as he wove his way through the stalls. The street gossip had changed and not for the better. Talk of love or money was replaced with tales of false accusations and injustice. People feared the confessors, but no matter the complaint, Samson heard the same words whispered over and over again, “If only the Pontifax knew.” They chanted the phrase like a prayer. Blame was placed everywhere, on the priests and the temple, on the Keeper and the confessors, everywhere except the Pontifax. People deluded themselves into trusting the father figure, the benevolent miracle worker. The depth of the delusion scared Samson. It made him feel as if their fight against the Flame was hopeless, as if they fought to douse a raging inferno with only a teacup of water. The sense of futility compounded his fear. All the more reason he needed to find Lucy.

  He came to the end of the stalls and rounded the corner. Passing a wagon of cabbages stinking in the sun, he caught a glimpse of her raven black hair. His breath caught in his throat. He followed the blue-black hair like a shimmering beacon, his heartbeat quickening with hope.

  She wore a simple dress of brown wool. It clung to her figure in the heat, accentuating every curve. Her long hair was tied back with a green ribbon, giving him a glimpse of the milk-white nape of her neck. She looked fresh and lovely, better than any dream.

  Following, he threaded his way through the crowd. She paused at a stall selling carrots. She selected a small bunch and paid for it, laughing at something the merchant said. Samson envied the merchant, wishing he’d overheard the comment, wishing he had a chance to make her laugh.

  She moved on to other stalls and he followed, not too close, not too far. He drank in every detail while his stomach churned with indecision. He didn’t know how to approach her, didn’t know if he should. He couldn’t imagine what to say…or how she’d react…but he knew he needed her, like a drowning man needs air.

  She stopped at a stall selling apples and he took it as a sign. He closed the distance without thinking and stood close behind her, close but not touching. He breathed deep and smiled at her scent, lilac and soap, fresh and clean, just like his memories.

  Her voice was soft and lilting, sending a shiver down his spine. “How much for your apples?”

  “Two coppers apiece or a dozen for two silver.”

  Lucy returned the apple to the crate. “Why are apples so dear?”

  The merchant shrugged. “These come from cooler climes and times are hard. If only the Pontifax knew how much the temple tithes hurt the farmers and the merchants.” He shook his head. “A man has to eat.”

  Samson leaned past Lucy. “I’ll take a dozen apples for the lady.”

  She gazed at him, her face a mixture of surprise and puzzlement. “Do I know you?”

  He nodded, staring into her dark eyes, willing her to remember.

  The merchant interrupted. “That’ll be two silvers.”

  Samson fumbled with the coins, paying with coppers, knowing any other coin aroused too much attention. Handing the merchant his due, he turned to Lucy. “Help me pick them out?”

  They lingered over the apples, searching for the plumpest fruit. She kept glancing up at him, puzzlement on her face. He savored every moment, enjoying her company but saying nothing of consequence. They placed the apples in her basket, hands inadvertently touching. He gazed down at her, and for once, he wasn’t afraid. “Walk with me?”

  She nodded, a shy smile on her face.

  He had to laugh. “You always did like presents.”

  Her face was puzzled but her dark eyes sparked with questions. “Do I know you?”

  He steered her toward the edge of the market, looking for a less crowded street. “I used to bring you soap laced with lilac.” He’d courted her for half a year but he’d always known he was one suitor among many. “And flowers. Daffodils in the spring and roses in the summer, pink roses not red, your favorite color.” A blush crept across her face but her eyes remained puzzled. “And on your naming day I gave you a rosewood box to hold the combs and ribbons for your glorious hair…”

  She came to a sudden stop, her eyes wi
de in disbelief, “Samson?”

  He nodded, searching her face, praying for acceptance, hoping for more.

  “But I thought…we all thought…that you were dead!”

  He felt other people beginning to stare. A thread of fear shivered through him. He leaned toward her, urgency in his whisper. “Walk with me and I’ll explain everything.

  She nodded but her eyes were tinged with fear, her face ghost-pale.

  “This way.” He shepherded her away from prying eyes, into a street less crowded, walking close to her but not quite touching. No public place was truly safe, so he kept walking, hoping to limit the watchers to nothing more than a passing glance. Staring down at her, he fumbled for a way to start. “I’ve missed you. When I saw you in the market I just had to talk to you.”

  She stopped and stared at him. “We all know about your father. He was burnt as a heretic!”

  The word seemed to echo in the street.

  Samson broke out in a cold sweat.

  A hunchbacked old woman stared at Samson with eyes that were too interested.

  Needing to escape, he grabbed Lucy’s arm and propelled her into the nearest alleyway. She tried to pull away, but he kept a tight hold. “Don’t say that! You’ll get us both killed!”

  She stared up at him, her dark eyes wide with fright.

  He released her and stepped away, shamed by his actions. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He shook his head. “I just wanted to talk with you. I guess I’ve made a mess of it.”

  She took a step away from him, but she did not run. “Tell me what happened. Where have you been?”

  “They burnt my father, so I had to run.” His voice was thick with emotions. “I had to get my mother out of the city. We left that night, escaping in a farmer’s wagon.” He shrugged. “We walked most of the way, hiding during the day and traveling by night. The journey was a nightmare but we made it to Lanverness.”

  “Lanverness?” Her face was skeptical, her eyes wary. “Then why did you come back?”