THE POISON PRIESTESS
BOOK FOUR OF
THE SILK & STEEL SAGA
Karen L. Azinger
The Silk & Steel Saga
Book One: The Steel Queen
Book Two: The Flame Priest
Book Three: The Skeleton King
Book Four: The Poison Priestess
Forthcoming books by Karen L Azinger
Book Five: The Battle Immortal
Additional books by Karen L Azinger
The Assassin’s Tear
Published by Kiralynn Epics L.P. 2012
Copyright © Karen L. Azinger 2012
First published in the United States of America by Kiralynn Epics 2012
Front Cover Artwork Copyright Greg Bridges © 2012
Celtic Lettering used with permission of Alfred M Graphics Art Studio
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
PRINT ISBN 978-0-9835160-8-8
e-book ISBN 978-0-9835160-9-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921237
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
ACKNOWEDGEMENTS
My dream of an epic fantasy continues,
and like the first three books, it takes a lot of people to make the saga come true. First and foremost, to my husband Rick, who is always keen for the next adventure and always believes no matter the odds. To my best friend, first reader and sword sister, Danae Powers, who listened from the very first chapter. To my writer friend, Peggy Lowe, a critique circle of one. To my alpha readers, Mike and Nick, your enthusiasm kept me going. To Greg Bridges for the totally awesome front cover and the book spine. To Peggy Lowe, graphic artist extraordinaire, for the back cover, the two maps and the logo, well done! To all of my readers who eagerly followed the saga to the third book, I write for you. If you like the saga,
please write a review and tell your friends! And to my mom, for everything, I so hope you know.
Prologue
The summons from the Grand Master came in the form of a whisper. “Come!” A subtle hand signal drew Rafe down the cloistered corridors towards a shadowy alcove, the whispered message passed with the barest of nods. “The Grand Master bids you to bear this.” The monk opened his fist, revealing a fine-linked chain…and from that chain dangled a plain iron ring.
Rafe gaped like a novice. He’d heard of such rings, though he’d never dreamt of seeing one. Just a simple iron band inscribed with the All Seeing Eye yet this ring was the key to long guarded secrets. In any village marketplace it would fetch a single copper, nothing more than a worthless trifle, yet it was old and of incalculable worth, an heirloom of the monastery. He longed to accept it yet the truth could not be denied. “I’m not worthy.”
“None of us are, yet you are called.” The monk smiled, his face a crease of wrinkles. “Your protest proves your worth.” He placed the ring and chain into Rafe’s open hand, closing his fingers into a fist for safekeeping. “Bear it well.”
Rafe clutched the ring. “Why me? I’ve worn the blue for less than a handful of years?”
The monk nodded, giving Rafe a kindly look. “Fresh perspectives are always needed, especially in times of prophecy.” A chill shivered down Rafe’s back, like a spectral hand leaving its mark. “Only twelve such rings remain to us. Eight are held by the wisest of the Order, masters in their fields of study. Two are reserved for the wanderers, monks who spend more time in the southern kingdoms than they do in the monastery. And two rings are rotated among the young, those with more promise than proof. By order of the Grand Master, this is yours to bear.”
Rafe struggled to contain his excitement. “For how long?”
“Till you are unbidden…or until you leave the monastery.”
Rafe hadn’t yet made his decision regarding his future, whether to stay in the monastery and deepen his studies, or to become a wanderer and serve in the southern kingdoms. Both choices held their own allure, but to be asked to join the conclave was an honor undreamt. To sit among the wise, to have his voice heard in conclave, a chance to change the future, he clutched the ring, realizing how badly he wanted it.
“Your first conclave is tonight, at midnight.”
Rafe gasped.
“Meet the others at the ironwood doors.” The monk nodded. “Bear the ring well and tell no one. Secrecy remains one of our greatest strengths.”
Astounded by the turn of events, Rafe slipped the slender chain around neck, hiding the ring beneath his midnight blue robes. Setting his hand to his robe, he pressed the ring against his heart, struggling to believe it was true. Tonight, at midnight! His first conclave, yet it seemed an ill-omened hour. But then he realized the frost owls flew at night, and all their messages brought grim tidings. Of late, the owls flew thick as starlings, bearing coded messages from monks seeded across the southern kingdoms. Knowledge flowed towards the Kiralynn Monastery like a river in flood, warning of ancient prophecies that rushed to be born. Rafe wondered if anything could stem the Dark tide.
The waiting proved hard. He paced his cell, seeking to meditate but inner peace proved elusive, his thoughts skittering like wild hares. At the appointed hour, he drew the slender chain from his neck, and set the iron ring upon his finger. Such a simple ring, yet it gave him access to the wise. He bowed his head, asking the Lords of Light for guidance. Raising the deep cowl of his midnight blue robe to signal a desire for seclusion, Rafe left his sleeping cell, his eagerness warring with his apprehension.
Like stepping from darkness to enlightenment, the change was always startling. Lamplight flickered along the hallway, cunningly set to illume the walls, so different from the simple austerity of his sleeping cell. Shimmering with gold and jeweled tones, vibrant swirls of intricate script filled the walls, a celebration of the written word. History was written upon the walls of the monastery, ancient truths mingled with pages of prophecy, the past and the future set side by side. As always, Rafe found the hallways intoxicating, seductive with knowledge and art, like living in the pages of an illuminated manuscript.
His gaze caressed the text as he made his way through the labyrinth. Each masterpiece held layers of meaning, from the words, to the entwined images, to the convoluted script. Legends said that if you stared at the script long enough, the complex patterns would unlock the mind’s hidden doorways, revealing deeper truths. Rafe had long sought such enlightenment, yet for all his striving he’d never gained a deeper awareness.
The sweet scent of incense intensified and so did the silence, as if the hallways were steeped in thought. Stairs took him to the lower level, to the oldest part of the monastery, a relic built before the War of Wizards. Doors became scarce while the calligraphy lining the walls grew more ominous, depicting the darkest pages from the Book of Prophecy. Torchlight flickered along the mage-stone walls, casting shadows in his wake. Rafe felt as if he traveled backwards in time, to the very origins of the Order.
The long hallway came to an abrupt end. Two towering doors of ironwood painted a deep midnight blue blocked the way forward. Cold seeped through the ancient wood like a warning, casting a chill on the corridor.
Rafe found the others already assembled, eleven blue-robed masters, their hoods raised in seclusion. No words were spoken, for none were needed. He bowed towards them and then extended his right hand, revealing the iron ring. One at a time,
the others mimicked his action, till each revealed a ring twin to his own, the twelve rings of conclave.
“By tradition, the oldest goes first.” From a basket, the wizen master selected a candle as thick as a man’s wrist and as long as a sword. Lighting it from a glowing brazier, he held the candle aloft and approached the double doors. A pair of iron Seeing Eyes adorned the wood. Pitted with rust, the ironwork was old and brittle; a testament to a thousand years of use, yet the workmanship was superb. Inset in the elaborate handle was a Dahlmar crystal, gleaming pale as chiseled ice, a warning and a test.
Rafe shivered to see the crystal, knowing the Order’s oldest enemy had Awakened within the very walls of the monastery. He wondered if the ancient builders had foreseen the threat.
The master grasped the handle with his ringed hand, setting his bare palm against the crystal.
Rafe tensed, but the crystal remained dormant.
The master stepped back, waiting.
The ancient doors shivered opened of their own accord, just wide enough for a single man to slip through. A wintery gust burst through the narrow opening, snatching at braziers. Shielding the candle, the monk stepped into the beyond.
The doors shuddered closed, swallowing the monk whole.
Peace returned to the hallway, yet anxiety settled like a mantle on Rafe’s shoulders. The monastery had ways of protecting its secrets; he wondered what trials lay ahead. Staring at the others, he silently pleaded for answers, but no one spoke. Rafe stifled the urge to pace, trying to mirror their apparent calm. Locked in silence, he waited as the others took their turn at the door.
One by one, the masters passed the test of crystal and stepped beyond the ironbound door. The last master, a woman with rich auburn hair, gave him a smile before gliding through the doorway. “Watch your step and do not falter.” The door closed behind her and Rafe was left alone. With no one to watch, he began to pace, fidgeting with his ring, silently counting the beats of his heart.
A chime sounded signaling Rafe’s turn. Choosing a tall candle, he lit it, and held it upright like a sword. He approached the doors, setting his ringed hand to the crystal. For half a heartbeat he wondered what would happen if the crystal flared red. Perhaps the door had a way of slaying harlequins, but thankfully his question went unanswered.
The crystal remained dormant and the ironbound doors shivered open.
Rafe muttered a prayer and stepped boldly into the unknown.
His boots slipped on ice. “Bloody hell!” He struggled to keep his footing. The doors closed behind him with a solid thud. His heart thundering, Rafe shuffled backward, clinging to the ironwood. Winter snatched at his robes. A cold wind howled around him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He stood outside the monastery, on a narrow ledge. A slender stone causeway, barely wide enough to hold a single man, arched across a bottomless abyss. Darkness lurked on either side, like a hungry maw waiting to be fed. Rafe leaned against the doors, a solid haven against the fatal drop. Refusing to look down, he stared aloft. A narrow slice of stars glittered overhead. Cold as ice chips in a moonless sky, the stars offered little comfort. In the dead of night, his candle provided the only light, a frail pinprick guttering in the wind. Fingernails digging into candle wax, Rafe took a steadying breath and stepped forward.
“Seek knowledge…Protect knowledge…Share knowledge,” he whispered the Order’s creed like a mantra, his words snatched away by howling wind. One foot in front of the other, he edged his way forward. Halfway across he wondered why the builders had not added a railing, but then he remembered something from his novice year. Rumors spoke of a stone bridge that would reject anyone who dared cross without the proper token, flinging the intruder to a terrible death. He wondered if this was the bridge. The monastery had ways of protecting its secrets…and testing the mettle of its monks, as if knowledge alone was not enough to join the conclave.
Rafe shuffled across the narrow span, wary of ice. A cold wind battered against him, pushing him towards the edge. Hunched forward, he rushed the last few steps, cursing the ancient builders.
A single door waited on the far side. Ancient ironwood, painted a deep midnight blue, perfectly fitted into the sheer cliff wall. Chiseled above the door, a pair of massive Seeing Eyes stared down at him. Icicles hung from the right eye, the frozen tears of winter. Rafe touched the door with his ring hand and it opened. Relieved, he rushed inside, pushing the door shut against the winter wind. A cold gust followed him. Candles guttered, sending the light dancing across midnight blue walls.
Silence returned with the closing of the door. A solemn stillness washed across Rafe, making his hasty entrance seem like a sacrilege. He bowed and smoothed his robes, trying to collect his dignity. Taking a deep breath, he raised his stare and was sundered by a sense of awe. Star constellations shimmered above each master like a halo. In the dimness of the rock-hewn chamber, the celestial lights hovered over each monk as if the very stars guided their thoughts.
The wind battered the door like a knocking ghost and Rafe realized he was gawking like a traveler fresh-come to the monastery. Embarrassed, he shuffled forward, not knowing what to do.
A kindly voice said, “The first seat to your left. Set your ringed hand against the backrest to awaken your star sign.”
Rafe walked to the appointed platform, the one closest to the door. Eighteen raised wooden platforms circled the oval chamber. Five were forever shrouded in shadows, a testament to their lost rings. One glowed with a brilliant star sign, the one at the head of the chamber, yet the seat stood empty. Blue cloaked masters claimed the others. Sitting cross-legged, they remained statue-still, their blue robes puddled around them like still waters, their star patterns glowing overhead like guiding lights.
Humbled to be among the wise, Rafe set his ringed hand against the backrest. Crystals inset in the wood blazed alight, awakened by ancient magic. Placing his candle in a niche on the floor, Rafe took a seat beneath the glowing Hourglass, the symbol of time and the ever-changing seasons.
A solemn hush settled over the chamber.
“Each conclave starts with meditation. May the wisdom of the Lords of Light fill your minds.”
Seeking to mimic the others, Rafe sat cross-legged, his blue robes pooled around him in warm folds. He tried to meditate, but his gaze leaped around the chamber, drinking in the details. Carved from sheer rock, the walls were painted a deep midnight blue, devoid of calligraphy or any adornment. A subtle cold seeped through the chamber, proof of the mountain’s chilly embrace. Rafe shivered. So different from the mage-stone monastery, the chamber reeked of age and ancient intent, a secret hollow hidden from the world. And then his gaze found a deeper riddle, a small blue door cunningly set into the chamber’s floor. A trap door, perhaps to a hidden vault, he wondered what it held. A chill shivered down his spine. Riddles wrapped in secrets, such was the Order’s way, but sometimes it made him uneasy. His gaze sought the glowing star patterns, a comfort in the dark. Water dripped in the depths, like the pluck of a single harp string…or the heartbeat of a mountain. Lulled by the gentle sound and the soothing light, Rafe’s thoughts drifted.
“A young one has joined us, a new ring bearer.”
Rafe startled alert.
The oldest master spoke, his voice a dry rasp beneath the star sign of the Hermit. “As this is his first conclave, he must hear our rules. Within the Star Chamber, we have no names. We are known only by our star signs, a symbol that we leave personal ambitions behind.” The Hermit gestured toward the empty seat. “As always, we serve at the bidding of the Grand Master.”
Rafe stared at the empty chair with its glowing star pattern. As with all things in the monastery, the vacant seat held another, deeper meaning. By its very emptiness, the platform bestowed a unique power upon the Grand Master, the power of anonymity. Anonymity was something the southern kings would never understand and certainly never value; yet in many ways it defined the very nature of the Kiralynn Order. Cloaked in secrecy, the monks took the l
ong view, using subtle means to achieve their ends. Staring at the empty chair, Rafe wondered how the Order’s deep seated desire for concealment would influence the coming war.
The oldest among them struck a small gong. The sweet sound shimmered through the chamber like a blessing. “This conclave is now sealed.”
The others made a graceful gesture, closing their hands in front of their mouths as if to catch their words and then pressing their fists to their chests, a silent vow of secrecy. Rafe hastily copied the gesture.
Rafe watched the others. He knew most of their names, but he followed the conclave’s edict, thinking of them by their star signs. It said much that the oldest monk sat beneath the constellation of the Hermit.
The Hermit spoke first, his voice a dry rasp, full of age and authority. “The Grand Master has called a conclave to hear your wisdom. Another owl has come to the monastery, turning a page in the Book of Prophecy. The watch fires of the Octagon are lit.”
Rafe swallowed a gasp, tasting his own fear. He’d never expected that prophecy to be fulfilled in his own lifetime.
“And what of the crystal dagger?” The question came from the Hunter, an auburn-haired woman of middling years. “We hoped to stop the Mordant before he came to his power. Has the blade bearer failed?”
“Yes and no.” The Hermit answered. “A wanderer resides among the Octagon knights. It was his owl that brought warning this very night. The bearer of the crystal blade has crossed over the Dragon Spine Mountains, following the Mordant into the north.”
The Hunter eased back in her seat. “Then there is still hope that the Mordant can be stopped.”
The Weaver shook her head. “Do not be deceived by false hopes. The Book of Prophecy is clear.” Her voice deepened, quoting the ancient text. “When the red comet tears the sky and the watch towers of the Last Knights are lit, then war will come like a dark plague to Erdhe, even to the very gates of the Seeing Hand.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 1
