The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  An urgent tension gripped Castlegard. Veterans kept their swords sharp and the knight candidates trained with renewed vigor. Even the raw recruits felt the looming shadow of war. The red comet affected them all. Rumors whispered it was a sign of war, an omen of bloodshed to end to the long, uneasy peace. The marshal was not a superstitious man. He did not believe in omens, but he could feel the coming war in his bones, in the throbbing ache of old war wounds. Battle was coming, fierce and terrible, glory and honor, his last war.

  The marshal walked the length of the practice yard, barking criticisms when needed but most of the time a stern look was sufficient. He drove the new candidates hard, honing their skills. There could never be too much preparation for war…and time was drawing thin.

  Hearing someone approach on his blind-side, he turned and waited, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

  Sir Malvoy was a fresh-sworn knight, resplendent in his new silver and maroon surcoat, his First Weapon, a battleaxe, belted to his side. The knight saluted, fist against chest. “Sir, there’s a man at the west gate, requesting an audience with the king.” The young knight extended a sealed scroll.

  The marshal studied the scroll’s unbroken seal, knowing he held the harbinger of war. “Describe him.”

  “A tall man in his late forties, dressed in a dark blue robe, carrying no weapons…or at least none that can be seen. He says his name is Aeroth. He claims to be a monk of the Kiralynn Order and asks to see the king.”

  “He came alone, without any entourage?”

  “Not even a horse, sir.”

  The marshal raised an eyebrow. Rumors said the monks hid their monastery deep in the Southern Mountains, a long way for a man to walk. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He tapped the scroll against his palm. “Find Sir Abrax and have him escort the monk to the king’s solar. Tell him to keep a close watch on our visitor.”

  The knight thumped his chest in salute. “As you command.”

  The marshal strode across the practice yard, passing into the heart of the great castle. Soaring towers and crenellated battlements marked the inner castle, all made of impossibly smooth mage-stone. The marshal appreciated the military value of the inner castle but the wonder had long since worn off. He made his way to the King’s Tower, accepting the crisp salute of two knights stationed at the outer doorway.

  A spiral staircase wound through the tower’s thick walls, the mage-stone steps smooth and even despite more than thirty generations of use. Spears of sunlight lanced through the arrow-slit windows casting stripes of light across the stairs. Even here, in the King’s Tower, military advantage dictated the castle’s design. Castlegard was built for war.

  The marshal reached the twelfth floor, breathing easy despite the long climb. A knight snapped to attention and opened the door to the antechamber. The room was small and spare, steeped in the proud history of the Octagon Knights. Passing beneath tattered battle banners, he knocked on the inner door.

  “Come.”

  The marshal obeyed the voice of his king. He found the silver-haired king of Castlegard seated at a round table, pouring through the latest dispatches. The warrior-king wore battle-scarred leathers and burnished mail, his great sword always by his side. The king looked up and smiled, years of decision etched deep in his tanned face. “Ah, Osbourne, have you seen the dispatch from Raven Pass?” The king’s steel-green gaze raked across the marshal. “But you did not come to discuss the dispatches. Why such a grim look on such a fair day?”

  The marshal raised the scroll in response and offered it to his king. “A messenger at the west gate, a monk from the Kiralynn Order.”

  King Ursus handled the scroll as if it contained a viper. “It’s been a long time.”

  A chill feathered down the marshal’s spine. “A long time between scrolls, but never a monk messenger.”

  “The comet has flushed them out of the mountains.”

  The marshal nodded. “A harbinger of war.” A knowing look passed between the king and his marshal. “We’ll be ready, sire.”

  The king nodded, breaking the scroll’s seal.

  The marshal waited, wondering. The king’s face gave nothing away.

  The scroll rolled shut with a snap. “There’s nothing here but an introduction. The monk must carry the message.”

  “I’ve ordered Sir Abrax to escort the monk to your solar.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “Sir Abrax is one of our best, quick with a sword but even of temperament. What’s spooked you about this monk?”

  “He arrived without a horse.”

  “Magic!” The king made the word a curse.

  “Only a guess, but it’s a long walk from the Southern Mountains.”

  “We trust in the truth of steel, never the trickery of magic.” The king stroked his silver beard, a stern frown on his face. “Bring him here rather than our solar.”

  “Here, sire?”

  The king gestured to the arms and armor lining the walls, to the tattered battle banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling. “We will meet him here, among the glories of war. What better to place to learn why the monks have come down out of their lofty mountain?”

  “As you wish, sire.”

  “And find my squire, Baldwin, and have him bring bread and salt and wine.”

  “And Sir Abrax?”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “Osbourne, the two of us should be more than enough for one monk.”

  “Our swords are sharp but our quickness is long tarnished. You’ve often said that quickness is the only remedy to magic.” The king scowled but the marshal persisted. “Sir Abrax should stand guard.”

  The king waved his hand in dismissal. “Then make it so.”

  The knight marshal bowed and retreated before the king could change his mind. He went in search of Baldwin, knowing the lad would not be far. Tall and skinny, with a shock of bright red hair, he found the king’s squire burnishing a helmet that already gleamed. He gave the lad his orders and then made the rounds of the tower, checking on the alertness of the guards. He ordered two additional knights to stand guard inside the king’s antechamber, one could never be too cautious, especially when it came to the monks.

  Judging that he’d delayed long enough, the marshal turned his steps toward the king’s solar. He found Sir Abrax standing guard just inside the door. Broad of shoulder but lean of waist, Sir Abrax had a lightning quickness that made him one of the deadliest swordsmen to wear the maroon. The knight saluted the marshal, his gaze never leaving the blue robed monk.

  The monk stood with his back to the door, staring out of an arrow-slit window. Tall and lean, his shoulder-length hair carried more gray than black, his robe a deep midnight blue.

  The knight marshal kept his voice neutral. “Welcome to Castlegard.”

  The monk turned, showing a lithe grace even in such a small movement. His face was fair as a nobleman’s, his smile open, his hazel eyes deep but warm. If there was something magical about the monk, the marshal could not see it.

  The monk bowed. “Thank you for your welcome. I am Aeroth, a master of the Kiralynn Order.”

  He felt the monk’s gaze studying his face, the crisscrossed scars and the empty eye socket. At least the monk did not gape like so many others who had never seen war. The marshal’s voice was gruff with pride. “Scars of battle, taken against the Mordant’s forces. I wear them with honor.”

  “As you should.”

  The marshal listened but he heard only honest respect in the monk’s voice. “I am Sir Osbourne, the Knight Marshal of the Octagon. I will escort you to King Ursus.” He gestured toward the door.

  The monk obliged. Sir Abrax followed behind, a silent sentinel. The marshal led the monk down the hallway to the antechamber, guards snapping to attention at the door. They passed beneath the bloodstained battle banners and entered the inner council chamber.

  The king stood on the far side of the round table, sword-straight, shoulders square, his maroo
n cloak brushing the floor. King Ursus wore no crown or sign of rank, only burnished fighting leathers, his sun-weathered face etched with lines of decision. His blue-steel sword, Honor’s Edge, lay unsheathed across the center of the table, the point facing the door. A single shaft of sunlight spilled across the sword, causing the sapphire-blue blade to gleam like a naked threat…or an open promise.

  The king stared across the table, across the sword, his steel-green gaze fixed on the monk.

  The monk bowed and then held his arm straight out, his hand open, a blue Seeing Eye tattooed across the palm. “Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge, Share knowledge.” Balling his hand into a fist, he lowered his arm. “My name is Aeroth and I bring a message to King Ursus of Castlegard from the Grand Master of the Kiralynn Order.”

  “I would hear this message, but first let me offer bread and salt and wine, as a sign of peace between us.”

  “You honor me.”

  The king gestured and his squire stepped from the shadows. Dressed in a plain gray tunic the color of unpolished steel, the lad bore a tray laden with two golden goblets, a small loaf of bread, and a plate of salt. The squire offered the tray to the monk.

  The monk tore a small piece of bread from the loaf, dipped it in salt, and ate. He reached for the goblet and drained the wine, accepting guest’s rights. A small measure of tension leached from the chamber.

  The squire circled the table and offered the tray to the king. The king completed the ritual, partaking of everything offered. Draining the goblet, he dismissed his squire, waiting until the door closed before speaking. “Now that guest’s rights have been offered and accepted, we would hear your message.”

  The monk nodded, his face solemn. “I bring a warning from the Grand Master of the Kiralynn Order.”

  The king smile was full of irony. “Of course you do.”

  “The Mordant has been reborn in the southern kingdoms. Look for him to cross the Dragon Spine Mountains, seeking to regain his power in the north. If he can be stopped before he reaches the Dark Citadel, a terrible war may be averted.”

  The king raised his hand, interrupting the monk. “You said, reborn? What do you mean, by reborn? The Mordant is a title, like a king, or an emperor, the ruler of the Dark Citadel.”

  “If the Octagon has forgotten then the Order has stayed hidden for too long.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “Forgotten? What have we forgotten? You speak in riddles.”

  “Forgive me, your majesty. I will do my best to explain.” The monk paused, a look of concentration on his face. “An immortal battle is being waged between the Light and the Dark. The Lords of Light reward their followers in heaven, in the after-life, but the Dark Lord offers something different. To those who please him, the Dark Lord offers tangible rewards in this lifetime, wealth, power, and long life. But to the few who serve him best, the Dark Lord offers more than one life.”

  Sir Abrax gasped, disbelief on his face. The marshal rebuked him with a stern look.

  The monk continued as if he had not heard. “A select few are reborn back into this world…with full knowledge of their past lives. These monsters that walk in the guise of men are called Harlequins.” The monk’s voice deepened. “The Mordant is the oldest of the Harlequins. We believe he has seen more than a thousand years of life…more than a thousand years of evil.”

  The king’s voice cut like a sword. “This is madness!”

  The monk parried the king’s words. “Magic is rare, but it exists. You want to deny it, but you need only look to the walls of Castlegard to know it is true. If magic exists, then so can the Harlequins.”

  “What proof do you have?”

  “None save my word.”

  “The word of a monk.”

  “The gods meddle in the mortal world. You dare not ignore the Grand Master’s warning.”

  “I dare not?”

  The marshal knew the monk’s words curdled in the king’s mind. “Sire, perhaps we should hear him out.”

  The monk raised his right hand, exposing the Seeing Eye. “I swear by the Light and by the Seeing Eye that what I have told you is true. Knowledge of the Harlequins is one of the core teachings of the Kiralynn Order.” He closed his hand and lowered his arm. “I am the herald of forgotten truths.”

  “Why now?”

  “The coming of the red comet portends a terrible war. The Order seeks to avoid that war.”

  The king reached for his great sword, lifting it with a single hand. “Now we come to it.” The sapphire-blue sword gleamed in the fading light, beauty and death crafted into steel. “War we know very well. Tell us, monk, how can you help us stop a war?”

  “The Knights of the Octagon patrol the Dragon Spine Mountains, but all of your eyes face north, watching for the Mordant’s hordes. We ask that you spare some men to look south, to stop the Mordant before he crosses the mountains.”

  “And what guise does he wear, this evil of many lives?” A trace of mockery rode the king’s words.

  The monk scowled. “The Mordant was reborn as one of our own. He wears the guise of a young monk-initiate, a young man of twenty-two, tall and fair of face, with short blond hair and pale blue eyes. He left the monastery wearing the golden robes of a monk-initiate but clothing is easily changed. He will seek to cross the Dragon Spine Mountains and reclaim the power of the Dark Citadel.”

  “So, you have lost one of your own.” The king gripped the hilt of his sword, his voice as keen as his blade. “And does this Mordant-monk know the secrets of your Order?”

  “Bryce was trained in our ways of thinking. He studied in our outer libraries, training to become a healer, but he was not a full monk. He never had access to our true secrets.”

  “…or your powers?”

  The monk bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You see beneath the words.”

  “So you would have us kill this Mordant-monk, doing your work for you, protecting your secrets?”

  “Not kill but capture.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed.

  “If you kill the Mordant, he will only be reborn in another body. The unknown may be worse than the threat that is known. The only way to stop this evil is by using a weapon of the Light, a dagger made of Dahlmar crystal. Capture him and the bearer of the crystal dagger will be sent to you.”

  “And where is this wondrous weapon, this crystal dagger?”

  “The bearers of the crystal dagger always choose their own path.”

  The king scowled. “Magical weapons and reborn ghouls, this sounds like a mummer’s farce!”

  “I assure you, it is not. The Grand Master merely asks that you keep a watch for a young blonde-haired man trying to make his way into the north.”

  The marshal said, “It seems a simple enough request.”

  The monk nodded. “If you capture him, you would do well to gag him and hold him in your deepest dungeon lest he find a way to turn brother against brother.”

  “Lest he tell your secrets.”

  The monk stared, “Caution is advised.”

  “Your caution, our blood.” The king’s eyes flashed steel-green. “What else should we know about this Mordant-monk?”

  “He carries an amulet the size of a man’s fist, a golden oval incised with runes along the edge and the Seeing Eye and the eight-pointed star in the center. It was stolen from our monastery and is dear to the Order.” The monk’s voice softened to a request. “The Order would be most grateful to see it returned.”

  “Now we come to the truth of it. You’ve lost one of your precious secrets.”

  “The amulet is no threat to you or yours. The magic is of no use away from the monastery.”

  The marshal studied the monk’s face, looking for deception but found none.

  “And if we capture this Mordant-monk, how will we get word to you?”

  “Fly a blue pennant from the highest tower and word will reach us.”

  The king’s gaze flashed to the knight marshal, understanding passing between
them. The king set his sword on the table, the point facing the monk. “The Dragon Spine Mountains are vast. To find and stop a single man from crossing into the north will take the luck of the gods. As a favor to your Grand Master, we will turn a few eyes south and look for a stranger seeking to cross. If we catch anyone similar to your description, we will fly a blue pennant from our ramparts.” The king narrowed his gaze. “Meantime, we prepare for war…for that is the true message of the comet, is it not?”

  “If the Mordant crosses the mountains, look for war from the north.”

  The king glared across the table. “We doubt your story, but we will do what we can to catch this rogue monk.”

  “You have the thanks of the Grand Master.” The monk bowed toward the king. “May the Lords of Light be with you.” His voice deepened. “There is a second part to the message. A warning and an offer of aid.”

  The king waited, his face like chiseled stone.

  “The Mordant may not be the only Harlequin to walk the lands of Erdhe. The Dark Lord is stingy with his favors, so there are never more than a handful of the reborn. Given the magnitude of the coming battle, there may be more than one monster loose in the lands of Erdhe…though none are as old or as potent as the Mordant.”

  “And how does this warning apply to Castlegard?”

  “Castlegard is said to be invulnerable to attack…but what if a traitor lurked within, waiting to lower the drawbridge, to open the gates when an army waits outside the walls? What if one of the Awakened wore the surcoat of the Octagon Knights?”

  The king’s voice cut like steel. “The knights are loyal to a man.” His voice dropped to an angry growl, a bear baited in his own den. “Be careful who you name traitor.”

  The monk raised his hands in a placating gesture. “It is not a matter of loyalty. Harlequins are awakened within the minds of men in their early twenties. The host has no choice in the matter, a victim crushed beneath the older mind, subsumed by a great evil. Once awakened, the Harlequin can masquerade as the host knight until the time of the Dark Lord’s choosing.” Reaching within the pocket of his midnight blue robe, the monk extracted a milk-white crystalline shard, the length of a small dagger. “This is a Dahlmar crystal, a gift of the Lords of Light. In the hand of an awakened Harlequin, this crystal will glow bright red.” The monk set the crystal on the table. “The Order uses Dahlmar crystals to test monk initiates, ensuring that no Harlequin ever gains access to our deepest secrets.” He gestured toward the crystal. “You have heard the second half of the warning. This crystal is the Order’s offer of aid. If your majesty so wishes, I will use the crystal to tests the knights in your service before I leave.”