Such an ill omen, Rafe shuddered to hear it spoken aloud.
“War at our gates.” The Scorpion’s voice was grim. “Darkness threatens to swallow all knowledge. But even if the southern kingdoms fail, the monastery will protect its own.”
Rafe thought of the bridge he’d just crossed and realized the ancient builders had prepared for this very threat.
“Walls of Mist will not save us.” The Weaver shook her head, her silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. “Never forget that the Mordant escaped with an amulet keyed to the Guardian Mist. Our best defense is lost.” Her gaze circled the chamber. “The Kiralynn Order has ever fought the Darkness but we must also be prudent. The knowledge entrusted to us must not fall to the Dark. We must move deeper into the mountains, claiming a new sanctuary.”
The Scorpion said, “The Dark Lord will loose more harlequins.”
A grim pall settled across the chamber.
“The southern kingdoms have forgotten the harlequins.”
The Hunter said, “They are learning, though it is a grim lesson.”
“We must expose the reborn before they can betray those who serve the Light.”
The Archer said, “A harlequin was seeded into the court of Lanverness, a traitor to lead the Red Horn rebellion…and we did not see it.”
“They say his eyes glowed red when he was boiled alive.” The Dragon scowled. “Boiled alive in front of half of Pellanor.”
“I was there.” The Hunter spoke, her voice grim with remembering. “While the rest of you hide in the mountains studying ancient lore, I have roamed the southern kingdoms seeking the enemy. I stood in the crowd and watched as the queen ordered the traitor’s execution. The Lord Turner was the last to die. His parboiled corpse capered in the cauldron, his eyes glowing with the red light of hell. The queen caught more than she expected.”
Rafe stared at the Hunter, unable to imagine the horror of meeting a harlequin.
The Hunter pressed her point. “A harlequin sat at the queen’s council and none here suspected it.”
“We are not infallible.”
The truth sent a spike of fear through Rafe.
“Prophecies have a way of twisting to their own purpose.”
“Yet we cannot afford mistakes, not when it comes to the reborn.” The Hunter’s gaze pierced the gloom like a hawk. “The Archer has the truth of it. The Dark Lord calls all his minions to battle. This will be no ordinary war. We must find the demons before they twist the future to Darkness.”
“And there will be a dark heart hidden among the princes of the sword.” Everyone turned to stare at the Weaver. “The Book of Prophecies is rife with warnings of harlequins hidden among the royal houses. One quatrain in particular points toward the Octagon Knights. The Order must do more to expose the hidden evil.”
The Hermit answered, “Aeroth was sent to Castlegard and the knights passed the test.”
“Castlegard was not enough.” The Weaver’s voice snapped with warning. “The knights have holdings all along the Dragon Spine Mountains.”
The Archer said, “And now an owl brings word that the Mordant has escaped into the north. Our most dire prophecies rush to be born. If the Mordant brings an army south, the Octagon must hold.” His words fell like a threat, choking the air from the chamber like a hangman’s noose.
The Hermit broke the silence. “The hidden harlequins must be found, starting with the Octagon Knights. The Grand Master will be so advised.”
“So be it.” Words of agreement circled the chamber.
Rafe huddled beneath his robes, feeling a sudden chill.
“The harlequins are not our only problem.” The Archer spoke with grim certainty. “History tells us that the Mordant craves the powers of the ancient wizards.
The Hunter whispered what others refused to say. “Soul magic.”
“Just so.” The Archer nodded. “The Mordant is patient. Long has he scoured the land for lost magic, collecting focuses and hoarding them toward a dire future. Now, after a thousand years of preparation, the second cataclysm is nearly upon us. The Mordant has waited till all other magic has faded from Erdhe. With a single focus he can strike terror into the hearts of men.” The Archer’s gaze roved the chamber. “Swords alone will not defeat him. We must find a way to counter his magic or Erdhe will fall.”
The Weaver shook her silvered head. “But most of our magic is peaceful in nature.”
“Then we must be creative. And we must have a second testing.”
Silence thundered through the chamber.
The Archer leaned forward, his voice intense. “You know of what I speak. The Order holds many focuses that remain unclaimed. We must test every monk, acolyte, and novice, hoping to waken more bonds.”
“And what of the relics?” The Scales voice sounded like a doom.
For a dozen heartbeats no one spoke.
“We don’t dare.”
The Archer exploded in anger. “How can we not dare!” His dark gaze challenged the others. “The time of destiny is upon us. We must test the relics. We need to know if anyone here can wield them.”
The Scorpion hissed, “Such power should not be wielded by mere men.”
“The Mordant will not hesitate to use all his powers.”
“And if we fight power with power the Order will become just as evil as the Mordant!” The Scorpion glared at the Archer. “Magic is dangerous and unpredictable. Once unleashed, it has a way of bringing unintended consequences. Remember the Deep Green…and the foul tales of the Pit.”
The Hermit nodded, his voice reluctant. “In the War of Wizards, the Order underestimated how far evil would go to win. We must learn from our mistakes and prepare for the worst.”
“But the relics?” The Scorpion shook his head. “I fear for Erdhe if the relics are unleashed.”
“True, but the Mordant must be checked or Darkness will cover Erdhe.”
The Scale’s voice rang like a portent of doom. “Who knows what ancient magics the Mordant has hidden in his lair? We may face legends ere this war is ended.”
“But the relics?” The Dragon entered the discussion. “I agree with the Scorpion and counsel for caution.”
The Archer answered, “We’ve all read the prophecies and seen the signs. We are way past caution.” He shook his head. “I’m not arguing for their use, only that we be prepared. Even the oldest relics may be needed…if any here can wield them.”
The Hermit intervened, sounding the gong to end the discussion. “Is it the will of this conclave that the unclaimed focuses be tested?”
“So be it.” The replies echoed through the chamber. Rafe lent his agreement with the others.
The Hermit nodded. “The focuses will be tested. And what of the relics?”
No one spoke.
Rafe’s gaze was drawn to the seat reserved for the Grand Master. The star constellation of the Hierophant glowed bright above the empty chair. In the celestial hierarchy, the Hierophant served as heaven’s guide to knowledge and wisdom, a fitting star sign for the leader of the Kiralynn Order. But the Hierophant also had a second, more obscure meaning, the wielder of arcane mysteries, the master of magic. Rafe wondered how much magic the Grand Master wielded…and if it would be enough to stop the Mordant.
The voting commenced but the conclave was evenly divided. The Hermit nodded. “The relics will remain untouched.”
Rafe was secretly relieved, but he wondered if he’d cast the right vote. He glanced at the Archer, not surprised to find frustration glowering on his face, but he did not protest the outcome.
The Weaver said, “We should have done more to aid the bearer of the crystal dagger.”
The Swan said, “Do not give up on the blade bearer. That one started as a pawn amongst knights but she will not remain a pawn for long. She has dared to cross into the north, into the very lair of the Mordant. The north will change her. She will become more…or she will fail.” The words fell like a stone, like a prophecy…or a doom.
/> The Archer frowned. “She has gone beyond our reach. But I believe she will surprise us all, even surpassing the prophecies. Everyone save the Grand Master overlooked the princess of Castlegard. We all expected the crystal blade to choose a different bearer.”
“The princess from Navarre.”
“Just so.” The Archer nodded. “That is why she was called here for her Wayfaring.”
Rafe had watched the princess at weapons practice, spending long hours wielding her sword. He’d seen her determination and liked her for it.
“The Mordant attacked her when he made his escape, as if he recognized the threat.”
“He could not have known what he did.” The Scales shook his head, his gray hair peppered with a hint of black. “It had to be an accidental meeting, or the cursed luck of the Dark Lord.”
“Either way, the girl survived. Recovered from her wounds, she petitions the Grand Master to be released from her Wayfaring.”
“Yes, she speaks of visions, or are they merely an excuse to leave?”
The Archer glared at the Weaver. “You should know better than most. Perhaps the gods have gifted us with a second seer.”
“But we’ve barely had time to train her.” The Hermit’s voice lashed with protest. “You’d loose another pawn into the great game?”
“The princess is bound by her Wayfaring. She must finish what she has started.”
“But the Order owes her!” The words burst out of Rafe.
The others turned to stare.
Rafe swallowed, realizing he’d spoken out loud.
The Hermit said, “The Hourglass wishes to add his voice to this conclave.”
The old man’s glare could melt granite but Rafe refused to be cowed. “We invited her here. We promised her sanctuary, yet she was brutally attacked within our halls. A debt is owed to the princess of Navarre.”
“And are you the one to pay it?”
Such an odd question from the Weaver, Rafe did not know how to reply.
The Archer said, “The Hourglass has the truth of it. She was attacked under our protection, a debt is owed.” His stare circled the chamber. “I believe the Navarren princess has a part to play in the coming war. I served as the girl’s inquisitor when she first arrived at the monastery, taking her interview in the garden of contemplation.” His voice dropped to a hush. “So few women dare to take up the sword, it is almost a sign of greatness. Like the princess of Castlegard, I believe she is another touched by the gods. I agree with the Hourglass and lend my voice to those who petition the Grand Master to release her. Loose the Osprey and see what damage she can do.”
The Weaver said, “But she should not go alone.” Her gaze turned to Rafe. “Since you petition the conclave on her behalf, will you join her quest?”
“Me?” Rafe was shocked by the question.
The Hermit said, “You should know that if you choose to leave the monastery you must forfeit the iron ring.”
Rafe’s hand curled into a fist.
The Dragon said, “Be warned. If you give up the ring it may never come your way again.”
The Hermit smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Do you stand by your convictions?”
Rafe bowed his head, studying the iron ring. He felt the other’s stares pounding against him, felt the weight of decision crushing his shoulders. He’d just gained the iron ring, a door to wisdom, a key to so many riddles, yet he felt the Order owed a debt to the princess. He’d always yearned to make a difference, perhaps this was destiny’s way of pointing him in the right direction. “I will give up the ring to aid the princess.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the chamber.
Rafe pulled the iron band from his finger.
The Hermit said, “Not yet.” This time his voice held a measure of respect. “You will need the ring to safely cross the chasm.
So the rumors are true, Rafe settled the ring back on his finger. Stunned by his own decision, he heard little of the discussion. He was leaving the monastery for the chaos of the southern kingdoms. Dire prophecies stalked Erdhe, but perhaps he’d find a way to serve the Light. Regret warred with his sense of duty. He twirled the iron ring, wondering if his sacrifice would make a difference.
1
Steffan
Campfires swarmed the valley, setting the countryside alight. Twilight painted the darkening sky red, a fitting backdrop for the Army of the Flame, the red comet blazing overhead like a victory banner. So many campfires, enough to rival the gates of hell, Steffan studied the view, pleased by the numbers. The long march through Coronth had turned into a triumph. Village elders vied to feast his officers while the women threw themselves at his soldiers and the men gave up their plowshares for swords. Steffan took them all, the farmers and the blacksmiths, the devout and the ambitious, swelling his army of religious fanatics, an unstoppable force marching south to Lanverness.
They camped on the very border of queen’s kingdom, just a short march away from first bloodshed. Expectation filled the night, the blessed eve before the holy war. Sixty thousand whetstones rasped against steel, filling the valley with a threatening hum like an infestation of angry wasps. While the soldiers prepared, the red-robed priests danced a frenzy around the bonfires, predicting victories for the Flame God. The valley throbbed with deadly intent, a horde of fanatics eager to be unleashed.
Steffan sipped brandy while waiting for the general. As the counselor to the Pontifax, his pavilion was set apart from the army, claiming the highest hilltop, the crimson silk glowing by torchlight. The deliberate distance created mystique…it also served as protection in case the Dark Lord chose to come again. Steffan preferred to avoid rumors caused by his screams. He rubbed his chest, remembering the agony of a fortnight past. He’d felt his god’s displeasure, a molten fist squeezing his heart with a hellish heat, imprinting a warning and a threat. Something had gone terribly wrong in Balor, upsetting the Dark Lord’s plans and drawing his ire. Steffan swore it would never happen again. He needed a victory in Lanverness, one lifetime was not enough.
Pip emerged from the pavilion, carrying a carafe of brandy. An orphan-thief rescued from the back alleys of Balor, the skinny red-haired lad had proved a valuable retainer, serving as a squire, a messenger, a collector of rumors, and a spy. “More brandy, m’lord?”
“Yes, and when the general arrives we’ll sup outside. I like the view.” He gestured to the inferno of campfires. “What’s the temperament of the men?”
Pip flashed a smile. “Eager, m’lord.” He carefully refilled Steffan’s goblet with the amber liquid. “They’re awed by the pyromancer’s show. Most believe the god himself appeared in the flames, assuring every soldier salvation through victory. They’re keen to wet their swords with the blood of infidels.”
“Good.” Steffan knew that war made soldiers superstitious. Hungry for omens from the gods, he gave them what they wanted most, the very reason he’d brought the pyromancer on campaign. Bonfires constructed with special reagents spewed sparks and erupted with colors, belching sulphur-laden smoke at just the right time, providing portents for the priests to read. And all the portents pointed to victory. Religious fervor was truly a beautiful thing. “With the Flame God on our side, how can we lose?”
Pip grinned. “Just so, m’lord.” The lad moved to the spit and gave the handle a turn, ladling sauce over the goose. Grease dripped into the fire, releasing a rush of flames and a cloud of mouth-watering scents.
A horse galloped toward the hill, drawing Steffan’s stare. Guards snapped to salute, holding the horse while a tall figure dismounted. General Caylib stalked up the hillside. A large brute of a man with short iron-gray hair, a pockmarked face, and an old scar that twisted the right side of his mouth into a perpetual scowl, the man looked more like a barbarian than a general. But looks could be deceiving. Steffan chose the man for his ruthlessness, his strict discipline, and his fervent loyalty. So far, he’d lived up to his reputation, but the first battle would tell all.
&n
bsp; The general reached the pavilion, towering a full head over Steffan, a shadow in dark leathers. He offered a nod, his only sign of deference. “Evening, Lord Raven.”
Steffan raised his goblet in salute. “An evening to celebrate, the eve of a holy war.”
The general barked a laugh. “Save your devout blather for the men. Blood and plunder are good enough for me.” He sprawled in a chair on the far side of the table, his boots stretched toward the fire.
“We’ll have plenty of both before this war is done.” Steffan took a seat across from the general. “Are the men ready?” He’d walked the camp in the guise of a simple soldier, but second opinions were often insightful.
“The priests have whipped the men into a holy lather. Give the order and they’ll storm the very gates of hell.”
Steffan chuckled. “Hell is safe from me, but not Lanverness.”
“Aye,” the general gave a wicked grin, “a kingdom ripe for the taking, the richest prize in all of Erdhe. And to think, it’s ruled by a woman.”
“Not for long. The queen will be their undoing.”
While the two men talked, Pip laid the table, setting the roast goose on a platter next to a bowl of fried onions, potatoes, and leeks. The lad carved the bird into succulent slices but before he could serve the carvings, the general leaned forward twisting a leg from the goose.
Hefting the leg like a prize, Caylib grinned. “Good eating.” He bit into the drumstick, grease running from the side of his mouth.
Steffan hid his annoyance. The general had the table manners of a pig. Perhaps the man truly was a barbarian but he had his uses. “So it starts tomorrow.”
The general grunted, talking around a mouthful of goose. “The scouts report a village three leagues beyond the border, a prime place for our first assault.” He reached for a tankard, taking a long swig of dark beer. “Bishop Taniff has asked to lead the vanguard. The mace-wielding cleric is frothing at the mouth for a taste of infidel blood.”
“Then give him the honor. The men will see it as a sign of the Flame God’s favor.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 2
