The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1)

by Karen Azinger

  The lords gave their reports, covering everything from farm yields to taxes collected. No detail was too small. The queen grilled her counselors, dissecting each report. Satisfied, she focused her gaze on the Master Archivist, a tall scarecrow of a man draped in somber robes of black. He was the one man in the court the queen considered her intellectual equal, and as such, he served as her spymaster. “Lord Highgate, what news from your shadowmen?”

  The other lords leaned forward, an eager flock of vultures. As rehearsed, the queen’s spymaster played his part well. “Our sources tell us that Castlegard has struck another vein of blue ore. We await the formal announcement to start the bidding for blue steel weapons.”

  “That is good news.” The queen fingered the strand of pearls at her neck. “Decades have passed since the last auction of blue steel weapons. We will not let this opportunity pass us by. Lanverness must have its heroes. We order the royal treasury to purchase three blue steel blades.”

  The lord treasurer, a short, rotund man with retreating gray hair, let out a strangled gasp, “B-but your majesty, the price will be staggering! Surely one would be enough. After all, it is a time of peace!”

  The queen studied her treasurer with narrowed eyes. “Blue steel weapons are held in awe by the people. They say that blue steel is the weapon of heroes. We, of course, do not succumb to this myth, but we see no harm if the people apply this legend to our royal sons.”

  “But…”

  The queen lifted her bejeweled hand. “We consider it a small price to pay for the love of the people.”

  The treasurer wilted under her stare, bowing his head in capitulation. “Yes, majesty.”

  “Besides,” continued the queen, “we cannot think of a better place to spend Lanverness gold than Castlegard. King Ursus and his Octagon Knights are the first and best defense against the forces of the Mordant. The purchase of these swords will be a long-term investment in the defense of Lanverness. Prepare a scroll for our royal signature. Bidding wars are never to the buyer’s advantage.”

  Nods of assent rippled around the table, all except for Lord Turner. Tall and blond and strikingly handsome, Lord Turner’s stare bordered on insolence. “Why three blue blades when you have but two sons?”

  The queen hid a smile. Lord Turner was one of the overly ambitious ones, always making overtures that were carefully deflected. Free of the yoke of a wedding ring, Liandra intended to avoid a second entanglement, but by design she let her counselors hope. “A good question, Lord Turner. Two swords for our two royal sons and one for the queen’s protector.”

  “And who better to wield the third blade than the commander of your royal guard?”

  She gave him a coy smile. “Perhaps, Lord Turner, perhaps.”

  He smoldered under her gaze, and she let him stew. She turned toward a wiry lord with a flamboyant shock of red hair. “Lord sheriff, we have heard troublesome news about our neighbors to the north. It seems the kingdom of Coronth has fallen under the thrall of a new god. This rabid fever for the so-called “Flame God” has the potential to spill across our borders and infect our people. This cannot be allowed. We expect your office to be vigilant on this matter.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” replied the lord sheriff. “May I ask if you want the army involved or just the constable force?”

  Liandra liked to keep a deliberate tension between the army and the law-keeping sheriffs. “Just use the constable force. We prefer to keep this matter as low key as possible. History tells us that religions flourish when their adherents are persecuted. There will be no persecutions in Lanverness, merely an assisted exodus. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, your majesty. Perhaps the Rose Court should send inquiries to the kingdoms of Radagar and Navarre since they also share borders with Coronth.”

  “An interesting suggestion.” The queen turned to the Master Archivist. “Lord Highgate, we would have your opinion on this matter.”

  His answer came sharp as a dagger. “The kingdom of Radagar exports only treachery in the form of sellswords and poisons. Tension between the southern kingdoms is a business opportunity for Radagar. Better to let the jackals slumber in ignorance. But Navarre is a different matter. The seaside kingdom shares our passion for peace and prosperity.”

  The queen inclined her head toward her spymaster. “We will take the lord sheriff’s advice and send a scroll to Navarre enquiring about their experience with this Flame God. Prepare a letter for our signature.”

  The master bowed, “As you wish.”

  “And now we have other duties to attend to.” The queen rose and extended her hand. The lords scrambled to their feet, vying to be first to kiss the great emerald ring. One at a time, they took their leave, but Lord Turner lingered the longest. “I’ll have that third sword.”

  Her only answer was a suggestive smile.

  Sweeping out of the council chamber, she found a crowd of courtiers lurking in the hallway, waiting to pounce. They followed her through the castle hallways, providing a constant chatter of suggestions, petitions, and advice. She gave them smiles, seldom replying, listening instead for subtle nuances hidden beneath the chatter. Undeterred by her silence, her entourage kept pace, following her to the very doors of her private quarters, where a pair of guards with crossed spears kept them at bay.

  Shorn of her courtiers, the queen swept into the small dining room, but even here she was not alone. Servants scurried about, lighting candles and making final adjustments to the crystal goblets and silver service that graced the central table. Tempting smells of oven-roasted river trout and fresh baked bread swirled through the chamber.

  The queen took her place at the round table and with a wave gave permission for her sons to be admitted. Two strapping young men in the green and white livery of House Tandroth joined her at the table. Crown Prince Stewart was nineteen and Prince Danly seventeen. They both had dark hair and chiseled features reminiscent of their father’s dashing good looks.

  The queen settled into her chair, resigned to a conversation limited to sword tourneys, the latest stallion standing stud, and the most recent hunt. Quite proficient in these topics, she never let her sons suspect she was bored; instead she watched and listened, judging them as a queen rather than as a mother. They both had the impressive physique of their father, but unfortunately they also had his brains, or lack thereof. It was past time to select their brides. She would have to take a close look at the daughters of the other royal houses of Erdhe. Intelligence, beauty, cunning, and a gift for multiplying golds were the attributes needed for a daughter-in-law. Her lifetime of work must not be wasted. One of her sons would one day wear the king’s crown, but it would be a queen of Liandra’s choosing who would continue her rule.

  10

  Sam

  The ordeal started in the small hours of the morning. A fierce banging on his shop door pulled Sam Springwater from a dreamless sleep. Before he could untangle himself from his wife and the bed sheets, soldiers of the Flame were pounding up the stairs to his bedroom. Bursting through the door, they grabbed him by the arms and dragged him down the stairs. His scream echoed through the house. “I’m innocent! Let me go!”

  The soldiers ignored his plea. Outside, they forced him into a set of wooden stocks mounted on the open bed of a wagon. Cold iron shackles snapped tight around his wrists and neck, bitter proof that the nightmare was real. Quaking with fear, he searched the soldiers’ faces for a shred of mercy. Recognizing one pockmarked face, a seed of hope bloomed. “You’re Sergeant Villars, aren’t you? A friend of my son, Samson! You know I’m no heretic!”

  The sergeant leaned close, garlic on his breath. “The Flames need a sinner and you’ve been chosen.” A wicked light flickered in his eyes. “But I’ll give you a choice, sinner, I’ll take you or the old woman. You decide.”

  Sam felt the blood drain from his face. “Not my wife!”

  The sergeant laughed and clicked the last lock closed. The soldiers unhitched the draft horses from the
wagon and then marched off, leaving Sam chained to the stocks, screaming at the top of his lungs. He knew the waiting was a kind of torture, a lesson to his neighbors, but Sam could not keep silent. His dignity fled in the face of panic. Screams howled out of him, beating against the stone-faced houses.

  None of his neighbors came to help. None of them even looked out their windows to see what was going on. They just slammed their wooden shutters closed to keep out his screams. His wife, pale-faced and shaking, peered out of their shop door. Seeing the soldiers gone, she pulled herself up onto the wagon and tried to free him. Her fingernails tore, clawing at the iron shackles till her hands dripped blood. Defeated by the heavy locks, she dropped to her knees, sobbing. Sam begged her to run and find their son, a sergeant in the city garrison. Surely his son could right this wrong. He watched as his wife ran toward the garrison, her white nightshirt flapping like a specter in the empty street. When she disappeared from sight, he slumped against his chains, left alone in a world gone mad. Everything was turned upside down, the innocent taking the place of the sinner, yet he prayed to all the gods that his son would return before the soldiers and set things right.

  They came back for him at dawn, a dozen soldiers in the red livery of the Flame. They brought a team of horses and hitched them to the wagon. Two soldiers drove the wagon while the rest marched alongside. He begged them to tell him his crime. He asked if they knew his son, but the one thing he didn’t ask was about the fate that awaited him. As a member of the temple he’d avoided the ritual “Test of Faith”, but he’d heard enough about it from his neighbors. Sam paid his tithe and went to worship; there was no reason for him to be treated as a heretic. Struggling against the shackles, he yelled, but no one listened.

  People emerged from their homes and shops. Lining the streets, they watched the procession pass. Some tossed rotten fruit. One leaned out of a second story window and emptied a chamber pot over his head. Others jeered at him, their faces contorted in hate. He knew most of them, either by face or by name. “I am Sam Springwater, the baker! You know my shop! I’ve been a loyal citizen of Coronth for more than sixty years! You’ve bought my bread! You know me. I’m your neighbor! You know I’m a humble servant of the Flame! This is wrong! Help me!”

  His words fell on deaf ears. The mob celebrated, drunk with thoughts of the coming spectacle. Numb with shock, Sam lost his voice as the wagon lurched into the center of the city, into the great square just below the Temple of the Flame. Packed with screaming citizens come for the weekly spectacle, the noise was deafening. The wagon forged a path through the faithful, lurching to a halt next to the charcoal pit. Soldiers released him from the stocks. His legs gave out, as if his bones had turned to water. Soldiers grabbed his arms. Chaining his hands in front of him, they stood him on his feet.

  Great drums of the temple began their rhythmic pounding. The crowd quieted in anticipation, hypnotically swaying to the rhythm.

  Through tear-filled eyes, Sam scanned the crowd, desperate for a savior. The massive brass doors of the temple opened, disgorging a procession of red-robed priests. At the rear of the procession, the burly Keeper of the Flame bore a great golden torch lit with holy fire, a beacon to the faithful.

  The crowd screamed in adulation. The Keeper reached the heart of the square and lowered the torch to the pit. Flames whooshed to life, roaring to three times the height of a tall man. Fierce heat forced the crowd back, opening an island of space around the flaming pit. Sam flinched away, but the soldiers held him tight. One whispered in his ear, “It won’t be long now, sinner.” The drums stilled and the crowd turned to stare at the temple. A glittering figure emerged to stand on the temple steps. A hush swept through the crowd. Tall and stately, dressed in cloth of gold, the Pontifax descended the steps, making his way toward the sacred flames. His great ruby amulet flashed in the sunlight, a symbol of his holy office. Adoring followers reached out to touch the hem of his robe as he passed. Mothers held their children out hoping for a blessing. Moving with stately grace, the Pontifax made his way through the crowd. Mounting the raised dais above the flaming pit, he lifted his arms to the heavens, his voice filling the square. “My people! Hear me and know that the Flame God loves you. Walk his Fires and be freed of your sins!” The crowd roared, but the Pontifax stilled them with a single gesture. “A sinner stands before us.” He pointed an accusing finger at Sam. “This brother has fallen from grace. He worships false idols. Even here, in the city of the Flame God, he maintains a carving to the winged one, Marut, on the lintel of the door to his shop. But the Flame God loves him and will give him a chance to redeem his sins. Shall we give him his chance?”

  The crowd roared their reply. “Yes!”

  Hearing the accusation, Sam tried to shout over the crowd. “But that old carving has been there since before I bought the shop! It has nothing to do with me! Let me go! I’ll carve out the lintel myself. I’ll donate all my earnings to the temple! Please let me go!” But the crowd roared, drowning his words.

  The Pontifax held up a hand. “We will not ask something of our followers that we will not do ourselves. Therefore, I will take the Test of Faith. Let my sins be cleansed. Let me demonstrate my love for the Flame.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. Even Sam fell silent, enthralled by the promise of a miracle. The Pontifax knelt in prayer before the flaming pit while an acolyte reverently removed the sandals from his feet. Barefoot, he grasped his ruby amulet with both hands, and strode into the towering flames. Fire crackled around the Pontifax, fierce with heat, but the flames could not touch the holy man. Minutes seemed like an eternity. The crowd stared transfixed. Even Sam could not look away, caught up in the wonder, desperate to believe.

  The bonfire snapped and crackled as the Pontifax strode through the flames. His face serene, the holy man emerged on the far side without even a smudge on his golden robe or a singe to his long gray hair. Women rushed forward, swooning at his feet. The crowd screamed with religious ecstasy, celebrating the miracle. Sam slumped in his chains, slick with sweat, overcome by a desperate mixture of hope and fear.

  The Pontifax climbed the steps to the dais and gazed down at Sam, his face full of benevolence. “Now my brother, repent your sins. The faithful have no fear of the Sacred Flames. A true heart will pass through untouched. A false heart will be cleansed of sin, consumed by the Holy Fire. Now walk the Test of Faith!”

  Quaking with fear, Sam appealed to the Pontifax, “Spare me! I’m innocent!” but the soldiers drove him forward, their swords poking into his back. Heat beat against him. He teetered on the edge of the pit, flames singeing his hair. Sam clawed at the iron shackles and tried to back away but the swords were relentless. Desperate, Sam searched for the courage to believe. The Pontifax had proven the miracle of the Flames; perhaps if Sam believed he could survive the fire. He stared into the Holy Fire, seeking salvation, seeking the face of god, but all he saw were the roaring flames of hell. Surely this was the work of the Dark Lord, not a benevolent, loving god. A sword jabbed in him in the back, thrusting Sam into the flames. Understanding came too late. He screamed as Darkness reached for him in the form of fire.

  #

  Oily black smoke belched to the heavens, another sinner taken by the Flame God. The Pontifax leaned toward the Keeper of the Flame and asked, “Who was that peasant anyway?”

  “Just a baker. A citizen who paid his tithes but tried to ignore our temple rallies. His death should put the fear of god in those who avoid the Test of Faith. Beside, his business wasn’t all that good so the temple won’t miss the tithe.”

  The Pontifax nodded. “Excellent. Thorough as always.” They walked back toward the temple in companionable silence. Watching the crowd, the Pontifax added, “Have the acolytes invite some of the prostrating women from the ceremony to the Residence tonight. There are other ways they can worship.”

  Smiling, the Keeper replied, “It shall be done.”

  The Pontifax clapped his brother priest on the back. “And we’ll need a
fresh sinner for next week’s ceremony.”

  “Don’t worry, Enlightened One, there are plenty of sinners in Coronth, plenty of fodder for the Flames.”

  11

  Blaine

  Blaine forced the battleaxe away from his face and retreated two steps trying to catch his breath. His armor baked him like an oven-roasted partridge. Sweat dripped into his eyes and his ragged breathing echoed in the confines of his helmet. Seven sparring rounds in one afternoon and still they taunted him. Caged by his own pride, Blaine refused to give up. Lifting the heavy training sword, he settled into a fighting stance, wondering how many more days of sparring he’d have to endure. He’d asked to be assigned to patrol the steppes but so far his requests were all denied.

  A mace swung towards his face. Ignoring his screaming muscles, Blaine raised his sword for the parry. Steel clanged against steel. The ferocity of the blow staggered him. The second blow dented the crown of his helmet and sent him sprawling.

  From the sidelines, someone sneered, “That’s it, pig farmer, wallow in the dirt. You’re not worthy of a maroon cloak, let alone a blue blade.”

  The jeer cut Blaine to the core. Struggling to his knees, he levered himself upright. Swaying, he lifted the blade. “Who’s next?”

  Ringing laughter met his challenge. “You’re not worthy, pig farmer. Try us tomorrow, or better yet, give up the cloak and save yourself the beating.”

  Blaine tightened his grip on the sword, trying to ignore their barbs. He’d learned the hard way that it was better not to respond.