The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  The king stared at the crystal as if it were a coiled snake. “And why should we trust this tale of magic? Why should my loyal knights submit to this test?”

  The monk’s face saddened. “Because our warnings have always born the weight of truth.”

  A perilous stillness settled over the chamber.

  The king lanced the monk with his stare. “Is there a traitor among us?”

  The words coiled like venom in the small chamber.

  “It is a possibility, not a certainty. Hosts for the Harlequins are chosen to give the Dark Lord every advantage. To place one of his minions among the Octagon Knights seems logical.”

  The marshal said, “The Dark Lord targets his strongest enemies.”

  The monk nodded. “Just so.”

  The king gestured toward the crystal. “What is involved in this…test?”

  “Each knight need only hold the crystal in his hand. If a Harlequin lurks within, the crystal will glow cherry-red.” The monk picked the crystal up and held it in his fist. “It is a simple test, with no harm or ill effect to mere mortals.”

  Seeing the king’s doubt, the knight marshal stepped forward. “I’ll take this test. Try your magic on me.” He looked to his king for permission. “We need to understand how it works.”

  The king gave a grim nod, his hand on his great sword, his eyes wary.

  A fine tension threaded through the chamber.

  The monk handed the marshal the crystal. “Hold it in your fist so that half the crystal is exposed. By tradition, the person taking the test proclaims their name and their position.”

  The marshal accepted the crystalline shard. It seemed nothing more than an ordinary crystal. “My name is Sir Osbourne and I am the knight marshal of the Octagon.”

  There was no change in the crystal.

  The monk retrieved the shard. “You have passed the test. There is no Harlequin within you.”

  The marshal shared a glance with his king.

  The king turned his stare to the monk, his voice grave. “We need time to consider your request.”

  “As you wish. But Dahlmar crystals are rare and I must take this with me when I leave.

  The king nodded. “We will talk more about this in the morning, but only behind closed doors. I’ll not have rumors of traitors dividing my men, especially on the eve of war.”

  “As you command.”

  The king fingered his silver beard. “Will you share meat and mead at my table tonight?”

  “I would be honored, your majesty, but I can only stay a few days. Others need to be warned of the threat.”

  The king nodded. “Sir Abrax will see you settled into a guest chamber in the Marshal’s Tower. He’ll see to your needs while you remain at Castlegard.”

  “Thank you, your majesty. Your welcome is most generous.”

  The king waved his hand in dismissal. The monk turned to follow the knight. When they reached the door, the king said, “One more thing.”

  The monk turned.

  “We received a scroll from Lanverness. My daughter, Princess Katherine, was invited to your monastery for fostering. Is she there? Is she safe?”

  The monk turned ghost-pale. “The monastery is vast. I know of your daughter but we never met.”

  A slow anger burned in the king’s eyes. “This fostering was arranged without my blessing. She is only a girl, but she is a daughter of Castlegard. Her marriage will bring an alliance and a wealthy dowry to the Octagon. I will have a proper accounting of this fostering from your Grand Master or I will have the girl sent home. Am I understood?”

  The monk bowed, his eyes wide. “I will see that your message is conveyed to the Grand Master.”

  The king nodded. “You have our leave to go.”

  The monk bowed and followed Sir Abrax out the chamber.

  The marshal secured the door and then waited, watching his king. The king went to the sideboard and poured a goblet of wine. He drained it in long pull and then refilled it with more merlot. He gestured toward the marshal, “Don’t just stand there stone-faced. What do you think?”

  “It’s a strange tale, even for the monks.” He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a goblet. “It’s a hard tale to swallow…but the monks’ warnings have always carried weight.”

  “The monks are like crows, carrion birds with a sixth sense for the carnage of war.” The king took a seat, his face thoughtful. “But they’re only telling us a fraction of what they know.”

  “Always.” The marshal nodded. “They want their amulet back. Whatever it does, it is precious to them. But do you believe their tale about a renegade monk being the Mordant reborn?”

  “Impossible…yet it might explain the long peace.”

  The marshal stared, startled by the idea. “It might at that…but it’s still sounds like a bard’s folly.” He lowered his voice. “And what of this talk of a traitor among us, one of these Harlequin devils?”

  “The monk slights our honor.” The king banged his fist against the table. “The rumors alone would ruin morale, making brother distrust brother.” He scowled. “And he wants to test my knights with his magic! It is an insult, an outrage!”

  The marshal risked his king’s ire. “But what if it’s true? What if this crystal is the only way to know?”

  “A grim choice. I would sooner trust to swords.”

  “So would we all, but that is not the choice.” The marshal refilled the king’s goblet. “I watched the monk’s face when he told his tale. I swear he believes it is true.”

  The king swirled his goblet, taking a long drink. “The monk seemed open and honest…except when it came to Katherine. But why be evasive about a mere girl? And why invite her to their monastery? Do you think they hope to gain leverage over Castlegard?”

  “If it’s an alliance they want, they should have approached you directly. Whatever the monks want, it is nothing simple.” The marshal shook his head. “The monks are a riddle unto themselves. They make uneasy allies.”

  The king shook his head. “No, Osbourne, the monks are never allies. Allies share the risk; they fight at your side, risking their blood with yours. The monks hide in their mountain monastery and watch, hoarding their secrets. They give warning but they do not take risks. They’ve endured for centuries while so many others have fallen to dust.”

  “If they are not allies, what are they?”

  The king stroked his silver beard, his face thoughtful. “Messengers. They seem to me like messengers of the gods…”

  “So do we trust the gods?”

  The king barked a laugh, a mixture of defiance and amusement. “We trust in steel, Osbourne, steel and honor and courage.” His voice sobered. “But we’ll listen to the gods, when they care to speak.”

  “So we’ll search for this Mordant-monk?”

  The king nodded. “We’ll search for their renegade. If we catch the devil, perhaps we’ll squeeze the truth out of him. Prepare a dispatch for each keep and castle in the Domain. Order the captains to keep a sharp lookout for anyone who tries to cross.”

  “And what about this test of crystal?” The marshal shrugged. “I felt nothing when I held it. It seemed harmless enough, no more than an ordinary quartz shard.”

  “If the monks are truly messengers of the gods, then we must take their test.” The king’s voice hardened. “But it will not be a test of loyalty. I’ll not let the monks impugn our honor.” He rubbed his forehead in thought. “We’ll make it a dedication to the Light, a blessing against the threat of the red comet, a talisman for safe-keeping. Anything but a test for traitors. Hell, it might even improve morale, an antidote to the red comet.” The king stood. “Meantime, we gird for war.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I can feel it in my bones, Osbourne. If it comes to war, it will be like none we’ve yet seen. A war that eats men like a ravenous beast.”

  The marshal nodded. “I feel it too, sire. Even the young ones look at the comet and know that time is running thin.”

 
; “The monks know it too. The threat must be dire to chase them down out of their mountains.” The king gave the marshal a knowing look. “No man wishes for war…but,” a fire burned in the king’s steel-green gaze, “we’ll have one more chance, Osbourne. Instead of fading into old age, we’ll have one more chance at honor and glory.”

  The marshal saluted his king who was also his friend. “You have my sword, sire. Lead the way and we will sweep our enemies before us.”

  The king nodded. “Like the battle of Raven Pass, when a few stood against many and won.” He raised his goblet in salute. “To honor and the Octagon…and whatever the gods throw our way.”

  29

  Katherine

  Yellow cat-slit eyes stared back at Kath. Eyes of the forest, full of knowledge and wisdom and warning. Kath struggled against the golden scrutiny, but she could not move, caught by a power she did not understand. The yellow eyes peered down at her, close enough to touch, close enough to strike. Startled, Kath woke to find a cat-eyed archer looming over her. She reached for her sword…but there was none to grasp. Fighting off sleep, she stared up at his golden gaze, trying to separate dreams from reality.

  “Don’t be afraid.” The words were a whisper.

  Putting a name to the bearded face, she recognized Jenks, the captain of the cat-eyed archers. “What do you want?”

  He sat back on his haunches, studying her. His eyes glowed like lamps in the firelight, making him seem otherworldly. “You must all rise and bring your belongings. You are summoned to meet with the Treespeaker.”

  Kath heard awe in the archer’s voice. “But we only got here late yesterday.”

  A knowing smile spread across his face. “The summons came before Cenric had a chance to send a message bird.”

  Kath shivered, remembering the mysterious power that invaded her dreams.

  The archer nodded. “The Treespeaker is one with the forest. Now wake the others, there is no time to waste.” The archer rose with a lithe grace and moved toward the open doorway. He glanced back at her, a flash of golden eyes in the dawn light, and then he was gone.

  Kath roused her friends, explaining the summons. With a bit of coaxing, Danya woke as well. Pale-faced and haggard, the girl seemed well enough to walk, but the pain in her eyes held the companions at bay. The young woman paid a great price for her magic, grieving for her wolf.

  No one mentioned Duncan.

  Kath kept her hope to herself.

  The five companions ate as they worked, stuffing belongings into saddlebags and binding up bedrolls. Kath’s mind raced, caught off-guard by the sudden summons. Needing to know more, she sidled close to the monk, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Who is this Treespeaker and why do we want an audience with him?”

  An ironic smile creased his face. “Her not him, the Treespeaker is a woman, a very old woman, steeped in ancient power.” Zith tugged on his silver beard, his face apologetic. “My knowledge of the Deep Green is limited. It was never one of my areas of study.” His voice took on the pedantic tone. “The Deep Green is in many ways a riddle. It is both an old and a new power, one that arose with renewed vigor from the ashes of the War of Wizards. Some say it is something more than mere magic, almost a god. As the Order understands it, the Treespeaker is the mortal manifestation of that power. A priestess, a witch, a seer of sorts, she is revered by the Children of the Green. Her word is law within the forest.”

  “So why did you ask to meet with her?”

  “Aside from avoiding bloodshed at the forest’s edge?”

  Kath had the grace to blush.

  “You flatlanders are always quick to violence.” Zith sighed. “Before we left the monastery, the Grand Master spoke of the Deep Green. He said that if we found ourselves within the forest’s boundaries, we should ask for an audience with the Treespeaker.”

  “So what are we meant to do at this audience?”

  “Seek and offer aid.”

  Kath rocked back on her heels, surprised by the answer. “But what aid can we offer the Treespeaker?”

  “Knowledge is a sharp sword in the right hands.”

  She stared at him waiting for an explanation.

  “Perhaps we are meant to warn the Treespeaker of the Mordant’s return.”

  Kath considered his words. “So the Grand Master foresaw this? He expected us to come to the Deep Green?”

  “Expected, no. A possibility, yes.” Zith buckled his saddlebag and said, “The bearers of the crystal dagger always choose their own path. You charged down the ridge and we followed in your wake. Did you lead us here or was it chance that brought us this way? The hands of the gods are often cloaked in chance and happenstance. Perhaps we were meant to come here.”

  His words sparked anger within her. “Not at the cost of Duncan’s life!”

  Zith dropped his gaze, crushed once more by a mantle of sorrow.

  Too late, Kath remembered the monk’s son.

  Sir Tyrone intervened. “There are always risks and always sacrifices, especially in war. It is the duty of the living to turn the sacrifices of those we love into advantages for the Light.” Shouldering his bedroll, the black knight added, “We should join the villagers. I, for one, am curious to meet this Treespeaker. Let’s see what we can gain from this meeting, chance met or otherwise.”

  The black knight’s words set Kath to thinking, stoking her curiosity.

  Gathering up their saddlebags and bedrolls, the companions abandoned the marble tomb, their guards trailing behind. The village roiled like a kicked anthill. Banked cook fires sent wisps of smoke into the canopy. Men shouldered bows and large packs while women groomed children in their best clothes. It seemed the entire clan scrambled to answer the summons. Kath took the presence of children as a reassuring sign. She hoped the Treespeaker would be more benevolent than the eyes staring in her dreams.

  They found Cenric at the heart of the village, a commanding presence in his long cape of emerald-green feathers. His cloak shimmered in the dawn light, the feathered-eyes dancing with every movement, making him appear like some mystical lord of the forest. Cenric acknowledged them with a nod. “The Treespeaker has granted your request for an audience…an honor rarely given to white-eyes.”

  Kath gave the clan leader a half bow. “We look forward to the meeting.”

  Cenric studied her with his golden gaze. “One wonders at the urgency of the summons. It is almost as if you were expected.”

  Kath kept her face neutral, unsure how to reply.

  Cenric’s stare narrowed. “You and your companions are to march at the front of the line with an escort of archers.”

  “Are they escorts or guards?”

  “That depends on the Treespeaker.”

  Prisoners or guests, Kath felt naked without her weapons, but there was nothing to do but comply. The bearded captain, Jenks, approached and directed Kath and her companions toward the front. They took their place, surrounded by a dozen leather-clad archers.

  The swirling chaos quickly resolved into a long line of people, women and children, young and old, each with a pack on their back, many with strung bows in their hands. Cenric strode to the head of the procession. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he made a bird-like trill that echoed against the canopy. Waving a carved staff, Cenric led his people into the forest.

  They left the clearing, heading east toward the rising sun. The forest crowded in around them, the thick underbrush narrowing the trail. The brush was dense despite the dappled shade, massive trees supporting a soaring ceiling of green. Branches and leaves rustled overhead, giving the impression of whispered words. Kath gripped her gargoyle and stretched her senses, straining to listen but the green language eluded her.

  Golden eyes stared into her mind.

  Shocked, Kath staggered backwards, releasing her gargoyle. Sir Tyrone put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Are you well?”

  “Yes.” Kath tucked her gargoyle beneath her jerkin, deciding not to pry.

  They walked in twos dow
n a well-worn trail, all talking left behind. The dawn-song of woodland birds rose to fill the forest. The floodtide of song surprised Kath. A hundred villagers marched along the trail yet their passage did not disturb the birdsong. Listening for the sounds of marching, she realized even the babes in arms were quiet. The extreme stealth amazed Kath until she puzzled out the underlying message. The cat-eyed people were used to being hunted. Stealth in the forest was their protection. The understanding made Kath more forgiving of their hostility, but she still felt naked without her weapons.

  The path wound through the forest, threading through a maze of green. Kath tried to keep track of the twists and turns but there were no clear landmarks, just endless trees. She kept glancing backwards, hoping Duncan followed. Scuffing her boots as she walked, she held to the belief that the archer still lived…and somehow he’d find her.

  The path seemed endless. They walked for the better part of the morning, always heading east. Sunbeams pierced the canopy, sending shafts of light slanting to the forest floor. Birdsong trilled from the upper branches, flashes of bright colors flitting among the dense green. The underbrush thickened and the girth of the grandfather trees spread to immense proportions. Kath saw several trees wide enough to hide a horse. She marveled at the lushness of the forest and the gigantic scale of the trees. Dwarfed beneath the towering green, the lives of men seemed insignificant. Humbled by the trees, Kath appreciated the cat-people’s reverence for their forest home.