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

by Karen Azinger

  Kath’s gaze narrowed. “Insight or shrewdness? He does come from the queen.”

  Jordan shrugged. “Either way, I think I like him. He’ll make for an interesting traveling companion.” A thought occurred to her. “And he might make Duncan jealous.”

  Kath rolled her eyes. “Jealous! I’d settle for interested.”

  “Duncan is more interested than you know. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  Kath’s gaze turned hungry. “How?”

  “Like something rare, something he never expected to find, something he can’t quite believe.” Kath’s eyes misted over. Jordan gathered up her shield, pleased with the way it fit her arm. “Come on, we have a soup night to plan.” Kath fell into step beside her. They’d gained a traveling companion, and perhaps a riddle wrapped in chainmail, but either way, Jordan expected the journey to be interesting.

  65

  Samson

  Like wildfire in a bone-dry meadow, the songs of the bards swept through the inns where the refugees stayed. Most of the ballads stirred the people’s courage, rousing them to take up swords against the Flame God, but other songs touched at the heartstrings, reminding the refugees of loved ones lost. Samson walked through the inn, listening to the songs, humming bits of melody. The music of the bards proved infectious, lodging deep in the hearts of the refugees, giving them a way to express their anger and their grief. The songs became both a soothing balm and a rallying cry.

  Before the songs, Samson would have bet golds that none of the refugees would ever return to Coronth. Yet the songs worked like magic, proving a pebble truly could start an avalanche. In the wake of the bards’ performance, the queen’s constables received a mob of volunteers. Samson shook his head in amazement, relieved and humbled to know he would not be alone.

  He joined the other volunteers in the inn’s common room, waiting for the first day of instruction from the queen’s men. Having worked with the recruiters, Samson knew most by face if not by name. They were good people, filled with a conviction forged of great loss. Sixty-two men and seven women, including one silver-haired grandmother agreed to return. The constables objected when wives and mothers first began to volunteer but the women’s unbridled fury caused the constables to back down. The recruiters begrudgingly agreed to let the women attend the first meeting, leaving their fate to be decided by a senior lord. Knowing the stubbornness of the women, Samson expected the first meeting to be interesting.

  He took a seat at a front table, joining two men and the silver-haired grandmother. He knew the men but the old woman remained a mystery. Grandmother Magda kept to herself, a tattered shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, her head bent over a pair of knitting needles. Samson wondered if she truly intended to return to Coronth, but despite his curiosity, he did not pry. By common agreement, refugees never asked a fellow survivor for their story; the recent past was still too raw and painful. Samson nodded to the old woman, finding a homey comfort in the rhythmic clacking of her knitting needles.

  A wave of excitement rippled through the tavern. Samson peered through the crowd, searching for the source. Dressed in commoners’ clothes, Prince Justin slipped through the back door, taking a seat among the refugees. Rumors had circulated for weeks that the bard who was also a prince would be joining the volunteers in returning to Coronth. Radiating an aura of optimism, the royal bard had become a sort of talisman of luck for the refugees. His presence confirmed the rumors, stirring hope and excitement in the crowd. Samson wondered if Justin understood how much his presence meant to the refugees. He felt honored to call the bard his friend.

  A pair of guards tramped into the tavern followed by Lord Kitteridge, a deputy minister to the queen. The lord trailed a pair of scribes and two constables. Clad in bright velvets, his face round with soft living, Lord Kitteridge strode to the front of the room. Samson stared at the aging dandy, wondering if he was the best choice to lead the meeting.

  Clearing his throat, the lord said, “Welcome to the first meeting of the free people of Coronth. My name is Lord Kitteridge and I am here on behalf of her majesty, Queen Liandra.”

  The crowd responded with a stony silence.

  Undaunted, the lord said, “Before we start, take a moment and look around the room. The person sitting next to you could be a hero.”

  The lord’s words caused a rustle of surprise and amazement. Samson wondered if he’d been too quick to judge the velvet-clad dandy. When quiet returned, Lord Kitteridge said, “You have all seen the true face of the Flame God and having seen that evil you volunteered to return. In daring to return, you are all true heroes. Her gracious majesty, Queen Liandra, salutes you.”

  An avid stillness settled over the room.

  “The people of Coronth have been duped by a false religion. They follow their religious leaders down a path to oppression, slavery, and death. You refugees know this better than anyone. You have seen the underlying evil that is the Flame God. As living witnesses to the truth, it is hoped you will return to Coronth and open the ears and the eyes of your fellow citizens. By revealing the truth, you will change Coronth from within.”

  From the back of the room someone shouted, “Free Coronth!” The chant spread till the room shook with conviction.

  The lord smiled, raising his hand for silence. “Coronth is your home. It is up to you, the survivors of this evil, to start the change, but you will not be alone. The resources of Lanverness will stand behind you. For those of you who have families, the Rose Throne will care for them in your absence.”

  A weak smattering of applause broke out. Samson knew the clapping would have been louder but most volunteers had lost their entire families to the Flame God.

  Raising his hands, the lord continued, “For those who return to Coronth, we will give you training with the sword and with the knife. We will teach you methods of the shadow so you can identify and communicate with your fellow witnesses by means of hand signs and passwords. We will work with you to seed you back into the villages and cities of Coronth where you can best make a difference.” Lord Kitteridge paused, surveying the room. “Before we go any farther, I need to ask if any of you wish to change your minds and remain in Lanverness. Returning will be dangerous. Each of you must make your own decision. All we ask is that you make this decision before the training program starts. I will give you a moment to consider.”

  A quiet murmur filled the room. Samson’s gaze flicked across the crowd, finding his own fear reflected in too many faces. Everyone knew the dangers of Coronth. He watched the others wrestle with the choice. The moment passed and not one volunteer left the room. A quiet pride flowed through the refugees.

  Lord Kitteridge focused his gaze on Grandmother Magda. “What about you, madam? Surely it would be better if you remained in Lanverness?”

  For the first time since the lord’s arrival, the silver-haired grandmother raised her head from her knitting, but the rhythmic clacking of her needles never stopped. “Young man, I know what I’m doing. I will return to my home and use my final days to defeat the Pontifax.” As if the discussion was over, the old lady turned her attention back to her knitting.

  The lord tried again. “This is important and dangerous work. We do not wish to send women, especially grandmothers, into harm’s way.”

  The clacking of the knitting needles stopped.

  Everyone in the room caught their breath.

  The old woman glared at the lord, her voice full of steel. “Let me tell you about harm’s way. My husband and I had many children but only one lived past childhood. Our son, Martin, followed in my husband’s footsteps and became a butcher. Savings his golds, Martin opened his own shop on the north side of Balor where he met a woman of extraordinary beauty. Jumping the Flame, they married and had a child, our beautiful granddaughter, Lily. My son made a decent living and he was happy with his family. They were good law abiding citizens who prayed at the temple and paid tithes to the priests. They even attended the Tests of Faith in the temple square,
but none of that mattered.” The old woman lowered her voice. “You see, in Coronth, beauty has become a curse. The Keeper of the Flame spotted my daughter-in-law in the temple square. He invited her to the Residence but she refused. Acolytes of the Flame followed her home with invitations but again she refused. At first we feared for her safety but nothing happened. Just when we thought she was safe, the soldiers came knocking on their door. They dragged my son from his house and chained him to the sinner’s wagon to await the Test of Faith. They took my daughter-in-law to be sold in the slave market. By the time the rumors reached us, my son was already dead on the pyre, nothing but ashes. We rushed to their home only to find it ransacked by neighbors. Our three-year-old granddaughter, abandoned as worthless, was found huddled in a basket of dirty clothes. Shocked from the ordeal, she’d lost all ability to speak. While I cared for Lily, my husband rushed off to the slave market to try and save her mother but the Keeper was already there. He toyed with my husband, letting the bidding climb till the price reached an outrageous sum. My husband bid every gold we had but it was not enough. In the end, our daughter-in-law was led off in chains to service the Keeper. The cruelty and the strain of it were too much for my husband. The dear man returned to me, but then crumpled to the floor clutching his chest in agony. He died later that day. Numbed by it all, my only thought was to get my granddaughter away from the curse of the Flame God. I gathered what I could and we left that day. It took most of my golds just to get a ride in a wagon leaving Balor. Traveling was hard, the weather was bad, and there was no help along the way. My granddaughter came down with a terrible fever but no one would give us shelter. She died in my arms just a stone's throw from Lanverness.” Taking a deep breath, the old woman said, “The Keeper and the Pontifax have taken everything from me. I will return and spend my last breath fighting against this evil. So do not preach to me about harm’s way, young man, for I know it all too well.”

  A shocked silence settled over the room. The old woman resumed her knitting. The sharp staccato clacking punctuated the silence, as if to drive home her point.

  In a quiet voice, Lord Kitteridge said, “My condolences for your losses, but we do not want your life to be added to those claimed by the Flame God. A grandmother cannot be trained in the way of the sword or even the knife. We cannot, in good conscience, send you back. It would be suicide. Surely you understand our position?”

  The knitting needles stopped. The old woman reached down, fumbling with a bag of yarn by her feet. The crowd stilled, watching. The old lady sat up and flicked her hand forward. A loud thunk echoed in the room. A vicious meat cleaver quivered in the tabletop, inches away from the lord’s hand. Grandmother Magda’s voice cut through the silence, “My husband was a butcher. I know meat cleavers very well.”

  Lord Kitteridge took a step backwards, staring at the cleaver.

  The knitting needles returned to their rhythmic clacking. The old woman said, “I trust the issue is settled.”

  The lord nodded, his face pale.

  From the back of the room, a male voice said, “Never argue with a woman holding a meat cleaver.”

  A wave of laughter swept the room. Even Grandmother Magda allowed a smile to cross her face.

  Struggling to recover his dignity, Lord Kitteridge tugged on his doublet. “Your training will start tomorrow. In the mornings you will learn to use swords and knives. In the afternoon, you will receive training from the queen’s shadowmen, learning how to disappear into a crowd and how to communicate with simple hand signals. We will do the best we can to prepare you.” Nodding towards Grandmother Magda, his voice turned conciliatory. “Madam, given your skills with the um…butcher knife, we will, of course, not expect to see you until the afternoon session.”

  Grandmother Magda glanced from her knitting, giving the lord a nod of approval.

  Samson could have sworn he saw a look of relief on Lord Kitteridge’s face.

  Clearing his throat, the lord said, “That concludes the business of the day. Give your name and home village to the scribes before you leave. Good luck with your training.” Turning, he strode from the common room, his guards trailing behind.

  A hum of conversation seeped back into the room. Lines began to form in front of the two scribes while a small crowd gathered around the silver-haired grandmother. The worth of the training remained to be seen, but everyone agreed that Grandmother Magda was a force to be reckoned with.

  66

  Jordan

  The sands of time had run out. Jordan spent her last night with Stewart. They talked almost as much as they touched; promising they’d find a way to be together once her Wayfaring was done. Neither wanted the night to end but they both had responsibilities.

  The tenderness of the night blurred into day. In the small hours of the morning, Stewart finally fell into an exhausted sleep. Ignoring her own tired eyes, Jordan gently smoothed the hair from his face and watched her lover dream. She etched his image deep in her mind, refusing to yield a single moment to the greedy demands of sleep. As the dawn’s first light crept through the window, she softly kissed Stewart and reluctantly left his bed.

  Pulling on her clothes, she gathered up her saddlebag and met her companions in the courtyard of the castle. The others were ready to ride. In addition to Kath and the two knights and Sir Cardemir, Duncan had decided to bring two Navarren guards. Besides providing extra swords, the guards would act as couriers carrying messages back to Navarre once they reached the Kiralynn monastery. Jordan was pleased by the addition of the guards, knowing she’d have a chance to write Stewart before being locked behind monastery walls.

  Tightening the girth on her saddle, Jordan thought about her last night with Stewart, committing every moment to memory. Given the terms of her Wayfaring, it’d be two long years before she’d see him again. She’d have to survive on memories for a long time to come. Listening to her own thoughts, Jordan chided herself for being so gloomy. Her Wayfaring was supposed to be an adventure. Across the courtyard, she heard Kath’s laughter. Her sword sister was in high spirits, eager to be on the road, hoping to find her own place in the world. Watching Kath, Jordan knew she should feel the same. Perhaps the excitement would come once Tandroth Castle was behind them.

  Satisfied with her mount’s tack, Jordan secured the horse’s reins to the hitching post and went to say goodbye to her siblings. Jemma gave her a fierce hug and whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry sister, I’ll look after Stewart. We’ll both be waiting when you get back.”

  Jordan could only nod a wordless reply. Releasing Jemma, she turned to Justin. Her musical brother had always been her favorite. Hugging Justin close, she whispered, “Promise you’ll stay safe in Coronth.”

  Justin returned her hug. “I promise.” Stepping back, he gave her one of his irrepressible grins. “I expect to hear about all the monks you defeat in the sparring ring. I’d love to see their faces when they lose to a woman!” Justin gave her one last hug, whispering encouragement in her ear. “You’re going on a grand adventure, Sis, riding into mystery. Bring back some stories for my songs. And make sure you remember to enjoy yourself!”

  Releasing him, Jordan turned toward her horse, hoping her brother didn’t see the tears crowding her eyes. Glancing around the courtyard, she looked for one more face but he wasn’t there. Perhaps it was better this way.

  “Jordan!” Stewart raced across the courtyard, his long black hair in disarray, his shirttail hanging out the back of his hose. He scooped her into his arms, pressing his lips to her ear. “You left without waking me! I almost slept through the morning!”

  Not knowing what to say, she answered him with a kiss. Feeling the stares of everyone in the yard, they finally broke apart. She stared at Stewart, memorizing his face. It was time to leave.

  Stewart pushed a thick bedroll bound in oiled leathers into her arms. “This is for you.”

  She hugged the bedroll to fill the void in her arms. “What is it?”

  “It’ll keep you warm at nig
ht.” Leaning close, he whispered, “Remember the inn where we spent our first night? I went back and bought the snowcat skin spread before the fireplace. You’ll find it sewn into the lining of the bedroll.” Reaching out to brush her wayward hair back behind her ear, he whispered, “Think of me when you sleep in it at night.”

  A sob escaped her. She had to leave or she’d start crying. Biting her lip, Jordan tied the bedroll to the back of her saddle. Turning back to Stewart, she gave him one last fierce kiss before mounting her horse.

  The others were already mounted. The horses pawed at the thin covering of snow, impatient to be off. Duncan nodded toward Jordan. “Time to ride.” The leather-clad archer took the lead, nudging his horse to a trot. The others formed a line behind.

  Jordan gazed down at Stewart, drinking in the lines of his face.

  Stewart smiled, touching the cloak pin at his shoulder, her Midwinter gift to him. “Promise to come back to me, my Lady of the Seashell.”

  Unable to hold back the tears, she said, “I promise.” Spurring her horse, she followed the others out of the castle and into the streets of Pellanor.

  67

  Blaine

  They were traveling to a place that could not be found on any map of Erdhe. It was almost as if all reference to the monks and their mountain monastery had been carefully erased from written records. Blaine knew this because he’d searched through the racks of maps in Queen Liandra’s library of scrolls, all to no avail. The library held stacks of maps both old and new and even some of foreign lands, but none of the maps contained a single reference to the Kiralynn monastery.

  Blaine knew enough to look for the monastery beyond the end of the great southern road, but the maps only showed a track wandering off the edge of the parchment, lost in the depths of the mountains. As he unrolled each map, Blaine half expected to see the age-old words “There be dragons here”. Everyone knew dragons were the stuff of legends, but it seemed as if the monks were nearly as mysterious. He found it passing strange that no one ever bothered to record the monastery’s location. It made him wonder what type of monastery the monks were running, but then the mystery only added spice to the adventure. Either way, he was sworn to follow the princess to whatever destiny the gods had in store, even if that destiny led to the very edge of the known world. Perhaps blue steel swords were meant for adventures that ran off the edge of maps. Blaine was keen to finally earn a name for himself and his sword.