The monk was as slippery with his words as a greased weasel, offering aid but not an alliance. The queen studied the monk, wondering how much she could trust the mysterious Order. Perhaps beggars could not be choosers. If the Dark Lord truly sought her throne, she would need all the help she could get.
43
Steffan
Religion proved a powerful tool but Steffan needed to ensure the faithful did not stray from the Dark Lord’s plan. Of late, he’d sensed a change in the tension of the crowds, something more than the daily struggle for food, or the paranoid fear of the confessors. Perhaps the rebels stirred discontent, or it could be something else. Steffan needed to keep a careful watch, for religions had a way of running amok.
Sifting through the back alley whispers, he found one that snared his attention. Rumors told of a preacher, a holy man, come to spread the word of the Flame God. No one knew where the preacher came from. He just appeared one day, preaching in the back alleyways, ministering to the beggars, whores, and thieves. At first, the preacher was little more than a curiosity, a sideshow in the back alleys, but if rumors were to be believed, this so-called holy man had gained a following in the city’s shadows. Fanaticism was good, but only if it conformed to Steffan’s plans.
Steffan needed to see this preacher for himself and determine if the man was a threat. He followed Pip to the back of the mansion, to the servants’ quarters, where a trunk of castoff clothing was kept. The redheaded lad opened the trunk, rummaging through the odd assortment. “What will you be, m’lord? A peddler, a drunk, a tanner, a priest, a…”
“…beggar.” Steffan settled on a straight-backed chair and began to strip down to his breeches. “A beggar will blend in best. After all, we go to see a beggar-priest.”
The lad smirked, his blue eyes full of mischief. “Yes, m’lord.” The boy delved through the trunk, choosing a baggy tunic the color of mud, a filthy patch-worked cloak and a leather bag stuffed full of rags.
Pip knelt to ease off Steffan’s knee-high boots. Steffan watched as the lad did his work. He’d fished the orphan-boy off the streets of Balor, buying his services for a fist full of silvers. A sometimes thief and a frequent beggar, Pip had proved quick of hand and mind and grateful for a better life. The lad served as a valet, a messenger, a collector of rumors, and a spy; a useful servant well worth the silvers. “What rumors chase the back alleyways?”
“Much the same, m’lord. Grumbles ‘gainst the cruelty of the Keeper and fears ‘bout the confessors and worries ‘bout the rising price of bread. You already know ‘bout the preacher. Most think he’s a holy man sent by the Flame God to purge us of our sins.” The boy began wrapping Steffan’s bare feet in a collection of rags, creating beggar’s boots. The lad wrinkled his nose. “Phew! These stink to the clouds. Are you sure I can’t be getting’ you cleaner rags, lord?”
The rags reeked of sweat and dung and piss, the perfume of the back alleys. Steffan shook his head. “The smell is a potent part of the disguise. The stench alone will turn away the gaze of the wealthy or divert the interest of thieves and soldiers alike. A healthy reek is nearly as good as invisibility.”
The boy nodded, wrapping a length of twine around the rags, creating a diamond pattern to hold them in place. “I’m hearin’ more and more whispers about that Dark Harper. They say he appears and disappears at a blink of an eye, playin’ his harp in the taverns late at night, always harpin’ against the Flame God and the Pontifax. Singin’ songs ‘bout heroes who steal sinners from the Flames.”
Steffan had heard reports from the confessors about a bard who sang songs of sedition, stirring the people to rebellion. The confessors didn’t have enough specifics to act…but it was only a matter of time till one of the wretches in the dungeon sang a different tune. “Do they say who this harper is, or where he hides?”
Pip wound the rags to the middle of Steffan’s thigh, high enough to hide the breeches beneath. “Nobody seems to know, lord. Some say the harper’s a phantom, disapperin’ like smoke in the night. Other’s say he has a thousand bolt-holes, places the soldiers never look.” Pip quirked a smile. “And some say he sleeps with a different woman every night. Them bards are lucky that way.” The lad finished with the rags and stood. “What color for your hair, lord?”
“Make it gray, and be sure to hide the white streak in front.” He tilted his head back and let the boy work the alchemist’s potion into his hair, adding streaks of gray to his dark locks. “I’m interested in this harper, Pip. Bring me his name and a purse of golds is yours. If you can’t find the name, then bring me a list of the taverns where he plays. I’ve a burning interest to hear his music.”
The lad grinned. “I’ll find him for you, lord.” The boy finished adding the color, wiping his hands on a rag.
Steffan stood and pulled on the mud colored tunic and the patchwork cloak, completing the disguise. The coarse wool scratched against his skin. He hoped the itching was only the wool, he couldn’t abide lice. “Bring me the dirt.”
The boy brought him a basin of dirt. Steffan plunged his patrician hands into the soil, working the dark loam under his fingernails and smearing some on the side of his face. “That should do.” The boy took the basin away and Steffan melted into his role. His back curved and his shoulders hunched. He hung his head down, gritty gray hair falling across the side of his face. Holding out his palm, he made his voice a weak quaver. “Alms for the poor?”
Pip laughed. “With that stink, you’re likely to get a kick instead of a coin.”
“Is there no charity in the Flame God’s city?” Steffan tucked a second dagger into his belt and pointed toward the door, his voice sobering. “Lead the way. I want to see this back alley preacher for myself.”
They slipped out the back door into the afternoon sun. Pip led the way, familiar with the tangled maze of narrow alleyways. Steffan followed at a discrete distance, walking with a limp, his head hung low, nothing more than a beggar of the back ways.
They found the preacher in the alley behind the vegetable market, the stink of rotting green hanging heavy in the air. The lane was crowded with people, mostly the poor, but he saw a few tradesmen in leather aprons, and even a soldier in the red tabard of the Flame.
Steffan threaded his way into the crowd, the stench of his clothes opening a space around him. He wormed his way into the knot of people until he had a view of the preacher. The old man stood on a crate, a skinny scarecrow in a soiled sackcloth, using a branch for a staff. Painfully thin, with a bald head and a long gray beard that fell in tangle to his knees, the old man looked one step away from the grave. Frail and old, the man looked inconsequential till Steffan heard his voice. The preacher had an orator’s voice, deep and compelling, the kind of voice that could sway a crowd.
“Children of the Flame, you must repent! A dark time is coming, death and chaos and suffering. Only the love of the true god can save you from the torments of eternal damnation!”
Steffan watched the crowd. They seemed entranced by the mad man’s ravings.
The preacher pointed to the soldier standing in the rear of the crowd. “You there, a soldier of the Flame! You wear the holy symbol of the Flame God! Your first duty must be to protect the faithful! Only sinners must burn, never the innocent. Can you tell a sinner from a saint? Beware, lest those you love burn in the Flames.”
The soldier blanched pale, but others crowded forward. “Choose me! Tell me what you see!”
The preacher’s hand roamed back and forth above the heads of the crowd, like a divining rod searching for water in a desert. The hand came to a stop, the finger pointing at a peasant woman with a gaggle of children clutching her skirt. “You woman, the Flame God sees you! Stand by your husband or your children will go hungry! The trials ahead will test us all, but if we believe, if we follow the truth, then faithful will survive!”
Steffan hid a smile, the old man put on quite a show, part preacher part fortuneteller, a perfect mummer’s farce.
The preacher
’s hand resumed roaming, only this time, the hand pointed directly at Steffan. For the first time, Steffan got a good look at the preacher’s eyes. Pale milky-white eyes, clogged by a film of blindness…yet the man stared straight at Steffan. The blind man looked at him. “You, beggar! You are not what you seem!”
A shiver raced down Steffan’s spine, as if some meddling god of Light sought to unmask him.
“You wear the rags of the alleyways but you are more than you seem!”
Steffan reached for the dagger hidden beneath his tunic.
“The god’s hand lies heavy upon you, yet those who lie are often themselves deceived. A crossroad is coming. Follow the light and your life will be spared! Fall to evil and you risk eternal damnation! Darkness is coming! Darkness to smother the Flames!”
The milky gaze passed Steffan by, looking for another victim.
Steffan released his dagger, angry at his own reaction. The old fool was nothing more than a charlatan. Determined to unmask the showman’s secrets, he shuffled to the front, seeking a better view. As he suspected, the truth was in the details. An urchin-lad sat huddled at the preacher’s feet, his fist holding tight to the man’s sackcloth tunic. Clearly the boy was acting as the old man’s eyes. It was all an elaborate con. Little wonder the peasants thought him a holy man.
Steffan listened long enough to be sure the preacher was not a threat. Having seen enough, he eased his way out of the crowd and signaled to Pip. The lad peeled away from the crowd and led the way back through the maze of alleys.
Steffan kept to his disguise, shuffling at a beggar’s gait, mulling the words of the preacher in his mind. Easy enough to have the old man rounded up and consigned to the Flames, but the charlatan seemed harmless, no need to deprive the people of the show. Still, for a moment he’d felt something, as if the Lords of Light meddled. Steffan shook his head at the absurd thought. Everything was going according to the Dark Lord’s plans. If there was any impediment, it was the rebels and their elusive bard. Steffan wasted his time chasing back alley rumors when he should be chasing songs. He’d find this dark harper and feed him to the Flames. Then they’d be nothing to stop him, nothing to impede the Dark Lord’s plans. Steffan smiled; may the Dark Lord’s pleasure reign…over all the lands of Erdhe.
44
Katherine
A song pulled Kath from sleep. But it wasn’t really a song, more like a deep, rich hum. The melody hovered on the edge of hearing, teasing her mind, tugging her to wakefulness. She cautiously opened her eyes. Tree bark formed a low vault overhead, burls, and knots, and swirls of patterned wood, the smell of cedar strong in the air…as if a tree had swallowed her. Confused, she looked for the source of light. She found the Treespeaker sitting cross-legged, tending a small fire ringed by stones.
“Ah, she wakes.”
Kath tried to make sense of her surroundings. The space was no bigger than a small tent, cozy and warm like a well-sealed cabin, but the walls and the low vaulted ceiling were made of rough burled wood. “What is this place? Am I dreaming?”
The Treespeaker’s voice was full of warmth. “This is the Heart Tree. You have slept within the hollow of the tree’s trunk for three days, held safe within the dreams of the great tree.”
Kath tried to make sense of the Treespeaker’s words. “The humming?”
The Treespeaker smiled. “So, you can hear the tree. Your experience in the gray veil has drawn you closer to the Forest.”
She remembered the cave and the dark wolf, the glowing red eyes and the snapping fangs…her arm! Kath flexed her left hand and felt the fingers obey…only a faint memory of pain. “But how?” Half afraid to see the truth, she tugged the blanket away from her arm. An ugly mangle of white scars crisscrossed her forearm…but the flesh was healed, the arm was whole. Staring in wonder, she flexed her hand. Relief washed through her. She had a shield arm, she was still a warrior. “How?”
“You came back to us covered in blood, your left sleeve in tatters. But when we searched for a wound, we found only scars. The Lords of Light must have intervened on your behalf.”
Kath remembered the flash of bright light and the sudden warmth. “But I don’t understand.” She sat up and the blanket slipped down, revealing her nakedness. Suddenly vulnerable, Kath clutched at the blanket.
The Treespeaker laughed, a sound like rustling leaves. “Child you amaze me. You defeat a demon in the in-between yet you fear to be naked!”
Kath felt her face blaze red.
“Your clothes were bloody and torn. They have been washed and sewn.”
She remembered her missing weapons. “My sword and axes?” Her throat tightened. “The crystal dagger?”
“There, beside you.”
A small pile of belongings sat against the far wall. Her twin axes in their harness of tooled leather sat on top, the red hawk embossed with wings wide and talons extended. Next to the axes lay her short sword of good Castlegard steel…and the crystal dagger in a leather sheath. She reached for the dagger and found her mage-stone gargoyle, the leather cord tangled in the sheath. Kath snatched up the gargoyle. “I thought I’d lost this!” Relieved, she settled the leather loop over her head, the small figurine nestled between her breasts…and then she remembered the amber pyramid. She searched among her things but it was not there. A frantic fear gnawed at her. “There’s something missing. Did you find a small amber pyramid?”
“They tell me a dagger was found hidden in your right boot, but there is nothing else.”
“But I had it in the cavern, in the gray space.”
“Then perhaps it is still there. Perhaps it was the price of your return.”
The Treespeaker’s words made a strange sort of sense…but Kath felt as if something of great value had been taken from her. Magic had become more important than she’d ever imagined.
Clutching her gargoyle, she stared at the small fire, remembering the fight in the cave, a thousand questions flooding her mind. “But what happened? What was that place? And the wolf with the red eyes? What was that thing? And why did I have the crystal dagger but not my sword?” The image of Danya crouched on atop the boulder flashed through her mind. “And what about Danya and Bryx? Are they safe? Is the wolf awake? Is Danya back to being herself?”
The Treespeaker held her hands up in supplication. “You chatter like a squirrel! Be at peace and I will try to explain.”
Kath settled back, snug beneath the blankets, watching the firelight reflected in the Treespeaker’s strange golden eyes.
“You needn’t worry about your friends. The wolf is awake and the girl is healing. Given rest and food and warmth, they will be both be fine.”
Relief flooded through Kath, she couldn’t bear to think of them trapped in that awful place. “But what happened? How could a wolf have glowing red eyes? What was that thing?”
The Treespeaker shook her head. “Youth is always so impatient.”
Kath tried to contain her questions, but it was hard.
The Treespeaker’s voice took on the rhythm of a storyteller. “The elder trees of the Forest are thousands of years old. Their roots grow deep…and so do their thoughts. The great trees are rooted in the mortal world, but their thoughts delve into the gray veil, into the space between this life and the next. The trees dream deep, they dream long. But of late, a dark taint has crept into the space between, a poisonous strangler vine choking and distorting the dreams of mortals. The great trees are immune to the nightmares of mortals, but they warn of a growing evil, of a shadowy threat that could spill into the waking world. The Dark Lord seeks to influence the dreams of men by invading the gray veil.”
Kath sat bolt upright. “That wolf was the Dark Lord?”
“A minion or a demon, but not the Dark God himself. He sends his minions into the gray veil to corrupt the minds of men, to bend their dreams to Darkness. To the great trees, this threat appears as a strangler vine, in the wolf’s dreams the threat appeared as a great wolf, both are manifestations of the Dark.” T
he Treespeaker added a sprinkle of herbs to the flames, a flare of golden light filling the hollow. “This war is waged for hearts and minds, not just for golds and swords.”
The Treespeaker’s words struck a memory in Kath’s mind. “In the monastery, when I learned to use my magic, Master Rizel said much the same thing.”
The Treespeaker nodded. “The monks have their own wisdom, rooted in a deep history. You do well to heed their counsel.”
Kath stared at the Treespeaker, trying to read beneath her words. The tree-witch was no different than the monks, full of partial answers and cryptic replies. Kath felt as if she was caught in some grand design, a great tapestry of events, but she could only see the smallest portion of the weave, and yet so much depended on her choices. She needed better answers; she was tired of groping in the dark. Frustration spilled into her voice. “I don’t understand. What was that place? What happened?”
“Your friends entered the gray veil, the wolf because of a head injury, the woman because of her magic. The Dark Lord used his minion to trap your friends within the veil. If they’d remained trapped much longer, their mortal bodies would have succumbed to starvation, their spirits forever bound to the gray realm. But chance, or fate, brought you to the Forest, one of the few places where a mortal might influence the gray veil.”
Kath leaned forward, holding the blanket tight. “There are other places?”
The Treespeaker nodded. “A few. They say the gray veil is thin on the Isle of Souls, where fortunetellers can see the future and priests can hear the voice of their chosen god.”
Kath shivered, remembering her visit to the Isle, the brightly colored tarot cards and the deep, raspy voice of Valin. She tightened her grip on her gargoyle. “So the Forest is like the Isle of Souls?”
“No, not at all.” The Treespeaker smiled. “The veil is no thinner here than most places in Erdhe…but the trees are the difference. The great trees know the way to the gray realm. The trees dream deep, they dream long, their roots soaking up wisdom from both sides of the veil.”
The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 39