The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Kath remembered falling into the golden stare of the Forest. “So the trees showed me the way to the gray realm?”

  “The trees and your magic.”

  “But why didn’t I have my sword or my axes?”

  The Treespeaker shrugged, an elegant gesture, firelight rippling along the length of her silver hair. “Who can say? Perhaps steel is not as potent in the gray realm. Or perhaps the gods gave you the weapons you most needed.”

  Kath’s voice was a whisper. “The crystal dagger.”

  The Treespeaker nodded, her voice solemn. “Long have I yearned for such a weapon, for a chance at vengeance, but it comes too late for me.”

  Kath clutched the dagger. “What do you mean?”

  “Having lost much, I gained more, becoming a part of the Forest, a servant of leaf and bark, yet I cannot forget the debt of the past.”

  “Then you knew of the dagger before I came?”

  “The great trees have always known.”

  Another cryptic answer, Kath unsheathed the crystal blade, held it to the light. The milk-white crystal reflected the firelight but it did not glow from within. Kath wondered if she’d imagined the light. “In the cavern, in the gray realm, this dagger glowed like a shard of frozen moonlight…yet now it seems no more than ordinary quartz.”

  “Some items of great power exist in more than one realm, waiting for a hero’s hand. The crystal dagger is steeped in the Light. It glows like a beacon in the gray realm.”

  Kath stared, astonished. “You saw it?”

  “I saw some but not all.”

  Kath considered all that she’d learned. “Ordinary steel would not have killed the demon-wolf.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “You learn well. The wolf was a thing of Darkness. It takes courage and free will and the Light to defeat the Dark.”

  Kath shook her head, struggling with her thoughts. “When the wolf died and I was stuck in the void, all I could think of was returning the crystal dagger to the world of men, back where it could make a difference.”

  “Perhaps the wielder is needed as much as the blade.” The Treespeaker’s words dropped to a whisper. “But guard the blade well, for friends and foes will both be drawn to its power.”

  A shiver ran through Kath despite the fire’s warmth. She sheathed the crystal blade, keeping it close at hand.

  “You should rest for you have done well. The trees dream easier. The mortal realm will not be enslaved by nightmares…at least not this time.”

  Kath felt the need for her companions, one in particular. “Where’s Duncan?” Her face flushed red, but she had to ask.

  The Treespeaker laughed like a rustle of leaves in the summer sun. “That man paces like an angry tree-leopard. I had to forbid him from the Heart Tree else you would not have healed.”

  A smile crept across Kath’s face.

  The Treespeaker added a handful of herbs to the fire. The flames flared bright green, releasing the scents of pine and spruce and cedar, and something else, something musky. “You have accomplished more than you know. The clan leaders witnessed the fight in the gray veil. They saw for themselves the threat of Darkness. Your bravery has swayed them. The next clan gathering will yield a different answer. The Children of the Forest will aid the white-eyes in the fight against the Dark.” She bowed her head. “You have gained an ally for the Light. Perhaps in time, the wounds of enmity will heal.”

  Hope flooded through Kath, but then a strange languidness crept upon her. She felt suddenly tired, barely able to keep her eyes open.

  “Sleep, warrior of the Light. You have won a great battle in the gray realm, but the true war will be fought in the mortal world. Having lost one battle, the Dark Lord will be even more ruthless in this realm.” The Treespeaker made a sign of blessing. “Sleep with the peace of the Forest. Rest and prepare for the trials ahead. For in the moral battle, you will need both the sword and the dagger if you are to be victorious.”

  Sleep claimed her. Kath surrendered to the deep hum of the Heart Tree, a brief respite before the coming storm.

  45

  The Mordant

  Snowcapped peaks reared overhead, jagged and sharp as a gore hound’s toothy maw. The Dragon Spine Mountains made a fierce barrier, dividing north from south, but the Mordant knew every barrier had its weakness. The knights put too much faith in their walls, man-made or otherwise. Walls were no stronger than the men who held them. Twist the right man and the drawbridge would fall, the gates thrown open wide. The Mordant laughed, his mirth echoing against the mountaintops. He’d stopped fighting for walls many lifetimes ago, now he fought for men’s souls, a much more interesting game.

  He rode alone, his horse picking its way up the chiseled switchbacks. A bitter wind howled down out of the mountains, carrying a breath of snow. The Mordant shivered, bloodstains clinging to his back, sticky and cold. He pulled the maroon cloak close, hiding the stains and the jagged hole in the silver surcoat. Clad in the armor of a dead man, he went in search of his enemies. The irony appealed to him, for his enemies provided all the right disguises, first the Kiralynn monks and now the Octagon Knights.

  His servant, Sir Raymond waited in a small cave at the base of the switchbacks with the bulk of their provisions and the extra horses. The Mordant would have preferred to bring the knight along, servants were always useful, but there was no easy way to disguise the traitor’s marks branding his face. So the Mordant rode alone, eager to sow one last seed of chaos before crossing into the north.

  Rounding the last switchback, he found the frozen keep looming overhead. An ugly piece of work, Cragnoth Keep was a single, stubby tower, thrust like a blunt finger pointing towards a frozen sky. The keep had none of the elegance of Castlegard, no soaring towers of mage-stone or fancy gargoyles, only brute stone wrested from the mountains. Made of massive blocks of granite, the squat tower straddled a tunneled passageway that led to the far side of the mountains. Legends said a single knight could hold the narrow passageway against all the hordes of the north. The Mordant shook his head at the absurdity. The knights loved their dreams of heroism almost as much as they loved their honor, both would be their undoing.

  His horse plodded to the base of the tower, blowing twin plumes of mist into the cold. A knight clutching a spear approached. Hoarfrost clung to his thick brown mustache, his maroon cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, a thin shield against the cold. “Welcome, brother. What brings you to the frozen crag?”

  The Mordant dismounted, making sure the wind did not tug his cloak away from his back. “My new posting. I’m here to report to the prince.”

  The knight sneered. “What deed earned you a posting to this frozen hell?”

  The Mordant stamped his feet against the cold. “I fell afoul of the marshal. Guess I spent too much time whoring with the women at Bell’s, so he ordered me to the crag.” The Mordant shrugged. “I was gaining a fearsome reputation with the ladies. Maybe the marshal didn’t like the competition.”

  The knight snorted. “That one-eyed bastard visiting Bell’s? Hah! The marshal’s only mistress is duty, a cold bitch like the crag.” He gestured toward a cave opening chiseled into the mountainside. “Give your horse to one of the stable lads and then get yourself up to the great room. The prince is most likely there for the noon meal. He likes to eat with the men.” The knight gave a half-hearted salute and returned to his post by the tunneled passageway, standing guard beside a great bronze bell.

  The Mordant led his mount toward the narrow cave. The warmth of horses and the rich smell of hay offered a welcome relief from the bitter cold. A copper-haired stable lad rushed to accept his horse. The Mordant fussed with a saddlebag, taking stock of the stables. He counted stalls for two-dozen horses but only a handful were occupied. The numbers were deceiving. Sir Raymond had warned that the bulk of the horses were stabled below the tree line, leaving only a few for scouts and messengers. Cragnoth Keep was a defensive post. The knights of the crag fought on foot…safe behind t
heir walls of stone, never guessing who walked among them.

  The Mordant threw his saddlebag over his shoulder. “Where might I find the prince?”

  The lad stroked the neck of the chestnut mare. “Prince Lionel is most likely in the great hall, supping with the men. You’re lucky not to miss mealtime.”

  The Mordant smiled; pleased to gain the name of the resident prince, Sir Raymond hadn’t been sure which brother held the posting. “You’ll find a few apples in the other saddlebag, for you or the horse, whoever’s hungrier.”

  The lad flashed a broad smile. “My thanks! Your name, Sir?”

  “Sir Alynt of Wyeth.” He chose a simple name, a common name, one that was easily forgotten. “And see that you take good care of my horse.”

  The lad bobbed his head and the Mordant strode into the biting cold, careful to keep his maroon cloak close. He crossed the small yard to the keep, surprised to find the ironbound door unlocked and unguarded; the knights grew lax with peace. Shouldering the door open, he startled a blonde-haired knight dozing on a bench. A gust of cold wind blew in behind the Mordant but the knight miss-read the omen.

  “Shut the bloody door.” The knight coughed and sputtered, covering his laziness with a stern look. “Haven’t seen you before. A new one, huh? Who you here to replace?”

  The knight’s voice held a thread of hope, proving the crag was a punishment posting, just as Sir Raymond had said. The Mordant kept to his simple tale. “No one. I got on the wrong side of the marshal and found myself posted to Cragnoth. Nearly froze my manhood off just getting up here.”

  The blonde knight barked a rude laugh. “Wait till you take your turn standing watch atop the tower. Try taking a piss up there and it’ll freeze solid.” The knight’s laugh held a cruel edge. “Welcome to the bloody crag.”

  The Mordant nodded. “Where do I find the steward and the prince?”

  “Steward Ballard will be in the great room oversee’n the noon meal. Prince Lionel will most likely be there as well.”

  “Which way?”

  “Only one way up and one way down.” He gestured to the stone stairs. “The ground floor is for stores, the armory and supplies. The next three floors are the sleeping cells. The fifth floor is the great room and the kitchens.”

  “What lies above the fifth?”

  “The sixth is for the prince and above that is the signal tower. You’ll see plenty of the tower soon enough. Fresh knights always draw the coldest postings.” The knight settled back on his bench, a lazy grin on his face.

  The Mordant muttered, “Thanks,” and made his way down the hall to the stairs. The tight stone spiral threaded up through the heart of the tower, the steps worn deep with centuries of use. Countless knights had tread this path, defending the southern kingdoms against his armies…and now the Mordant walked those same steps, unopposed…even invited, all for the sake of a silver surcoat and a maroon cloak. He shook his head. Time and decay had eroded a once worthy opponent; the Octagon did not deserve to survive the coming war.

  The Mordant breathed deep, testing the air for Darkness. Such a potent mix of ambition, anger, cruelty and malice, all fertile ground for his plans. One thread in particular drew his attention, darker and stronger than the others. The thread he’d followed up the mountainside, the thread foreseen by the Dark Lord, his reason for coming to Cragnoth Keep.

  He climbed to the fifth floor, following the Dark scent to the great hall. Heat and the tempting smells of spit-roasted meat announced the hall. The room took up half the tower, heat roaring from two stone fireplaces at either end. Trestle tables and benches ran the length of the room, crowded with knights in silver surcoats, great swords, axes, and weapons of all sorts kept close at hand. The bristle of weapons suggested the knights were not quite as lax as they seemed.

  The Mordant paused in the arched doorway, studying the men, unraveling the tangled threads of Darkness. He counted thirty-seven knights, an even mixture of young men and graybeards, sitting in clusters at the tables. Six knights sat at the head table, but none of the threads of Darkness led to the leaders, making his task all the more challenging.

  One knight interested him above all others. He sat at the far table, a large mountain of a man holding court with seven of the younger knights, each with their own Dark taint. The Mordant smiled, he’d found his fertile ground. But first he needed to pay his respects to the prince.

  He entered the hall and crossed to stand before the head table. The dull murmur of conversation fell to a hush, the weight of stares following the newcomer. The Mordant stood before the table and saluted, fist to chest, keeping his stare on the blonde-maned knight seated in the ornate chair. “Lord prince, I’ve been posted to Cragnoth Keep by orders of the knight marshal.”

  The prince wore no token of royalty, just a silver surcoat like any other knight, but he had the air of command, this youngest son of his enemy. “Do you come with a name, sir knight?”

  “Sir Alynt of Wyeth.”

  Smooth-shaven with dark green eyes, the prince had a ready smile. “And your orders, Sir Alynt?”

  The Mordant opened the pouch on his belt and handed the prince a folded parchment, the wax seal lifted from a message carried by the murdered knights. Fortunately the knight marshal had a simple hand, easy to mimic.

  The prince gave the seal a cursory glance and then opened the parchment.

  The Mordant hid his smile; mortals always saw what they wanted to see.

  “Another disciplinary posting,” the prince shook head in dismay. “And it says you have a shoulder injury. You’re to be excused from arms practice for a fortnight.”

  The Mordant nodded, a necessary ruse, his skill at arms would not pass scrutiny.

  “You’ll be excused from practice, but we’ll have no shirkers here. You’ll take your turn standing guard along with the others.”

  The Mordant kept his voice humble. “As you say, m’Lord.”

  “Cragnoth Keep is a minor posting, but I expect you to serve with honor.”

  The prince had the voice of command…but the Mordant had the voice of deceit. He thumped his fist to his chest in salute and infused his voice with fervor. “Honor to the Octagon. I am yours to command.”

  The prince flashed a ready smile. “Then be welcome, Sir Alynt, every sword is needed at the crag.” He gestured to a chair. “Join us for the noontime meal. I would know the men who serve me.”

  The Mordant took a seat and the murmur of conversation resumed like a slow tide. A steward brought a goblet and a plate heaped with roast venison, fried potatoes and leeks, all smothered in gravy. The hearty meal was welcome after the long cold ride. The Mordant plied his table knife, keeping his mouth full and his answers short. He made a point of knocking over a wine goblet, a show of clumsiness to support his tale of an injured shoulder, but otherwise he made himself small, a man of little note and less consequence. Talk at the table flowed around him, rumors of war, speculation about the red comet, and tales of skirmishes in the northern steppes.

  The meal passed without incident. Afterward, the steward showed him to a cell on the second floor. Small and spare, it had a simple cot and a chamber pot, hooks on the walls for weapons and clothing. The steward issued him a sheepskin liner for under his cloak and a pair of leather gauntlets lined with fur, weapons against the cold. He talked the steward out of a spare surcoat, eliminating the need to hide the telltale bloodstains.

  Safely disguised, the Mordant melted into the simple routine of the crag, eating with the other men, taking his turn walking the walls. He spoke little and listened always, biding his time, waiting for a chance to plant his seeds of chaos.

  He drew lookout duty on the tower top, the cold wind biting his face like a pack of hungry wolves. Huddled beneath his maroon cloak, he stared for long hours into the north, watching for an enemy that had already breached the tower’s walls. Amused by the irony, he walked the tower ramparts, circling the wood kept dry by thick tarps, wood that waited for a flame to announce th
e start of war…as if the comet in the sky was not warning enough. Mortals were so blind.

  On his second watch, the Mordant got the chance he waited for. The big knight sought him out, Darkness drawn to Darkness. Built like a mountain, he stood over seven feet tall, broad shoulders, a square jaw, cruel eyes, a huge battle-axe strapped to his back. Given the man’s enormous size, the Mordant wondered if the knight carried the blood of a Taal, another irony.

  “Do you know who I am?” The knight’s voice was a menacing rumble, a bully seeking to establish dominance.

  “Few in the maroon do not know of Sir Trask and his great battle-axe.”

  The knight’s eyes narrowed, his stare spearing the Mordant.

  “I meant no offense. Your skill with the axe is legend, as is your strength. You have a following in Castlegard, especially among the younger noblemen. You should be a champion and a commander of the Octagon, not exiled to this frozen tower.”

  Trask grunted, his eyes burning with interest.

  “Too many good men are wasted by the Octagon, wasted by the king and the knight marshal.”

  Trask grumbled. “Dullards lulled by honor.”

  The Mordant took the opening. “The Octagon is a hollow promise. We come from noble families, yet what do we have to show for it? A maroon cloak and a silver surcoat?” The Mordant scowled. “How dare they exile us to a frozen rock without even a woman to warm our beds?” The Mordant leaned close to the big knight, his voice flush with quiet outrage. “We are the third and fourth sons of barons and dukes and even kings. Nobility runs in our veins. We deserve better than this.” He made his voice a whisper. “We have the skills to take what we want. Gold, women, land…it is all ours for the taking…if only we dare.”

  “You speak of treason.”

  “I speak the truth.”

  Trask grunted; his face guarded.

  “You’ll die here, you know. The knight marshal will never release you from Cragnoth Keep. You’re too much of a threat. You’ll die guarding this frozen midden heap.”