THE FLAME PRIEST
BOOK TWO OF
THE SILK & STEEL SAGA
Karen L Azinger
Books by Karen L Azinger
The Silk & Steel Saga
Book One: The Steel Queen
Book Two: The Flame Priest
The Assassin’s Tear
Forthcoming books:
Book Three: The Skeleton King
Book Four: The Poison Priestess
Book Five: The Battle Immortal
Published by Kiralynn Epics L.P. 2011
Copyright © Karen L. Azinger 2011
First published in the United States of America by Kiralynn Epics 2011
Front Cover Artwork Copyright Greg Bridges © 2011
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 978-0-9835160-2-6
Digital ISBN 978-0-9835160-4-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011960619
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 book, 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 first editor, Bill Johnson, a story really is a promise. To my alpha readers, Mike, Nick, Diane, Mary, John, Stewart, Tanya, Chris, Cheryl, Bob, and Gina, your enthusiasm kept me going through all the bleak times. 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 Violet Lowe for my author photo. To all of my readers who eagerly followed the saga to the second book, I write for you. And to my mom, for everything, I so hope you know.
Prologue
A voice seared her mind, “Come to me!”
The Priestess of the Oracle stirred in her sleep, a sheen of sweat beading her naked body. A breeze laden with the sweet scent of flowering nightshade blew in through the marble columns, yet it did little to sate her heat.
“Come to me!”
Awakened by a god’s call, the Priestess rose flushed with ardor. Slipping into a robe of sheer purple silk, she ran her fingers through her raven-black hair. Silk against skin, every movement became a caress, deepening her need. Barefoot, she followed her master’s command. Guards snapped to attention and torches sputtered as she passed. Hungry stares followed but none dared interrupt. Reaching the rear of the villa, she stepped from the confines of cultured marble into the tangled wildness of the garden.
Night prevailed. A silver crescent rose low in the east, marking the lateness of the hour. Shadows and darkness painted the garden with mystery, but her footsteps were sure. Moon-blooming flowers lined a path to the grove, their musky scent providing a heady perfume. The tangled blossoms crowded close, as if yearning for her touch. Deep-throated foxglove and spiky-white baneberry set amongst the gray-green leaves of bloodroot, and nestled along the back, her favorite, the lush purple pendants of nightshade. She knew them all, by name and by nature. Some were aromatic, others beautiful, but all were poisonous, her garden of deathly delights. The Priestess smiled, appreciating the dual nature of her dark garden. Beauty could be so deceiving.
Gliding through the blossoms, she reached the grove of hawthorn trees. Gnarled and twisted, the ancient trees stood as guardians to the Oracle, their limbs raised like tortured hands grasping at the night. Tangled branches swallowed the sounds of the surrounding swamp, the croak of frogs smothered to an expectant stillness. The Priestess followed the path to the inner sanctuary, intent on the summons from the Dark Lord.
The trees fell away to reveal a small clearing. A ring of black basalt stones waited at the center. So old, the ancient well reeked of unimaginable Darkness. The Priestess shivered, feeling the pull of the Oracle.
She bowed low in homage and then knelt, leaning across lip of the well. Cold from the stones seeped through the thin robe invading her flesh. Shivering with anticipation, she stretched forward, peering into the Oracle. Her raven-black hair cascaded around her face, forming a veil to block out the feeble starlight. Mirror-flat, the water of the well was deep, and dark, and mysterious.
Infinite Darkness beckoned.
“I am here, my Lord.”
A throbbing power emanated from the waters, seductive as sin. Her heart pulsed to the dark rhythm. Her breath plumed to a cold mist, the warmth of humanity surrendered as an offering. She felt a sharp tug deep within her soul. Her hands clutched at the lip of the well, fingernails scrapping against black stone. Her back arched as power spiked through her. A groan of ecstasy escaped her lips. The Priestess writhed across the cold stones, consumed by passion laced with pain. A scream ripped through her, but then the spasms subsided, leaving her thrumming with power. Gasping for breath, she gloried in the fullness of the Dark Lord. More than mortal, she was the Priestess of the Oracle, a vessel of Darkness…and now her cup runneth over.
The Dark Lord withdrew.
She reclaimed control, feeling the power centered in her loins. Staring into the well, she cast her powers upon the waters. The well awoke. Images danced across the water. Colors and shapes stilled to clarity, giving her a birds-eye view. She leaned forward, keen to scry the secrets of Erdhe. A stranger’s face appeared on the waters, a young man with close-cropped blonde hair lying asleep on a small cot. He seemed ordinary enough, plain of face, wearing simple woolen robes, but the Priestess watched, knowing the Oracle held some deeper purpose. The young man stirred. His eyes flew open, releasing the red light of hell. The Priestess recoiled, a gasp on her lips. Understanding pierced her surprise. Intrigued, she leaned forward to memorize his face.
The voice of the Dark Lord rumbled through her mind, “Witness the Awakening! My servant, the Mordant, is reborn!”
Her heartbeat quickened. “So, the time is at hand!”
“Behold my Emissary to Erdhe. He comes to divide my enemies, watch and learn.”
The Priestess stared into the well, watching as the night gave birth to the Dark Lord’s grand design. The oldest harlequin, a thousand years of evil hidden beneath an innocent face…and she knew his secret! Spellbound, she watched as the Ancient One left his cell. He walked through strange hallways, unlike anything she’d ever seen. The floors were colored a rich golden hue, the walls illumined in flowing script, but it was the Mordant who consumed her gaze. Young of face, his eyes still rimmed with a hellish light, yet he dared to stride through the corridors, shunning stealth. Fascinated, she watched as he encountered a knight in a powder-blue surcoat. She yearned to hear the exchange, but the Oracle’s power yielded only sight. A blonde-haired woman approached, sleep-tousled and unsuspecting. The Priestess watched as the knight slew the woman and then slew himself, and all the while the Mordant looked…indifferent. The Priestess shuddered, appreciating the coldness of the kill. She studied his face, wondering at the power hidden beneath the youthful visage. Leaving the dead puddled in their own blood, the Mordant roamed the golden corridors. Avoiding the midnight-blue do
ors, he made his way to the cell of a dark-haired woman. He slit her throat as she slept, removing a golden chain from her neck. The Priestess craned forward, watching as the Mordant held the amulet aloft. Even blood-spattered the rune-carved gold was clearly a thing of power. Covetous, she watched as he slipped it in his pocket. Making his way back into through the corridors, he strode towards the outer gates.
A ripple disturbed the Oracle, marring the view. The waters clouded, the vision blocked by a strange, impenetrable whiteness, like staring into the milky eye of a blind beggar. She hurled a command at the waters. “Sianth tabeth anous!” The ancient words hissed from her tongue. The very air crackled with power but the Oracle remained clouded.
“Sianth tabeth anous!” A burnt smell hung over the well, but the view remained obscured. A finger of fear trickled down her back; she’d never before been denied.
Swallowing her alarm, she kept a wary vigil; more than one power was at work this night. Clutching the stone rim, she stared into the well, a contest of wills. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the first hint of an approaching storm, but the Priestess remained vigilant, striving to pierce the white shroud. Black tendrils slowly crept across the water, repulsing the white. The Oracle began to clear, the vision sharpening to clarity. The Mordant emerged from a dense fog. A white mist swirled behind him yet he seemed unscathed, the golden amulet shining at his breast. The Priestess sighed, the Light had meddled but Darkness prevailed.
The view widened. Like a bird of prey hovering in the sky, she watched as the Ancient One made his way down a mountain path, melting into the wilderness. The Priestess smiled. Wherever his starting point, she knew the Mordant would make his way north, to his fortress-city beyond the Dragon Spine Mountains. Laughter bubbled from her ruby lips. Death was loose in the lands of Erdhe and only a handful knew it. The images from the Oracle were bound to turn bloody. The Priestess had much to look forward to.
Curious to see what other Darkness plagued Erdhe on this night of destiny; she invoked her powers, willing the scene to change. Her thoughts turned toward Coronth. A single ripple shimmered across the water. Snowcapped mountains disappeared, replaced with a view of the Flame God’s capital city. Since his visit to the Oracle, the Priestess had studied Steffan’s rise in power. As the counselor to the Pontifax, he used the religion of the Flame to twist the people of Coronth toward the Dark, building an army of fanatics. The use of religion to work the will of the Dark Lord was a stroke of genius, a genius worth watching.
Concentrating, she willed the image to focus. The Oracle showed her an opulent bedroom. A familiar dark-haired man slept entwined in silken sheets. Even in sleep, his handsome arrogance was apparent. A predatory smile crossed her face as she remembered the night of Steffan’s initiation. She’d pushed him past the bounds of his imagination, taking as much pleasure as she gave. She’d only had one night with him…but one night was all she ever needed. She purred with delight, knowing her hooks were sunk deep. Steffan’s choice of lovers told her that he still dreamt of her. She smiled, knowing that he would never find her equal. When the time was right, she would set his desire ablaze. Passion was such a relentless power…and such an ultimate pleasure. The thrill of the hunt coursed through her. She had much to look forward to…once her work on the Isle was finished.
Darkness blazed across the Oracle.
The Priestess hissed, singed by the backlash of power. Gripping the cold stones, she watched as the Dark Lord claimed Steffan with a taste of hell. Pain twisted his face. His back arched, his mouth stretched in a wordless scream. He writhed across the bed, clutching his chest, the silken sheets sodden with sweat. The Priestess gave a throaty laugh, enjoying the show. Pain and pleasure had so much in common, but all too soon his torment ended, leaving him gasping in bed.
The Dark Lord withdrew and her interest waned. Reaching for her power, she caused a ripple in the waters. She wondered about the enemy, the servants of the Light, but the Oracle only revealed acts of Darkness. She found plenty to watch. Faces and distant places flickered across the waters, revealing fresh souls bent toward the Dark. Most of the young ones never knew the direct touch of the Dark Lord, yet they served anyway, they all served. The followers of her god were legion. Erdhe was rife with seeds of Darkness. The Priestess memorized their faces, tracking their deeds, deciding how best to use them. Sensing the possibilities, she yearned to join in the dark dance of destiny, to take her turn at manipulating the young.
Leaning forward, she breathed upon the waters, her voice husky with desire. “When, Lord? When will you release me?”
She held her breath, not expecting an answer.
The Oracle throbbed with Darkness. A deep voice rumbled in her mind, “Not yet. You are my Dark Huntress, groomed for the kill. Watch and prepare. Each of my servants has their appointed task. All will be needed for the coming war.”
The Priestess bowed her head in acceptance, but plans churned in the back of her mind. She was eager for her chance at immortality.
The voice of the Dark Lord boomed within her mind. “Look to the night sky. Behold the sign of my coming!”
Breaking her gaze from the Oracle, she looked toward the stars. A red comet tore a bloody gash across the heavens, a sign of the Dark Lord’s ascendancy. A hungry eagerness thrummed through her. The Priestess whispered a fervent prayer, “May the Dark Lord’s pleasure reign…over all the lands of Erdhe.”
1
Katherine
A stubborn sun skulked above the snowcapped mountains. Kath trudged along the narrow path, bone-weary, feeling as if the very sun mocked her. It seemed an eon since this morning, so much had changed. Despite the bloody sun at dawn, the sky had turned a crystal blue. On such a clear day, Kath could see forever, yet the way forward had never been so treacherous. She threw a weary glance aloft. Even in the light of day, the comet was visible, a scorching red scar across the vaulted blue, proof the nightmare was real. Kath gripped her sword hilt and made the hand sign against evil. She’d come to the monastery for answers and now she followed death.
The funeral procession wound its way up the south face of the mountain. Such a long way to come for a burial, but Kath and her companions kept their silence, their breath frosting to white plumes in the harsh mountain air. Four blue-robed monks carried the body on a narrow litter while Master Rizel led the mourners in death’s wake. Kath’s gaze followed the body. Stripped of armor, surcoat and sword, the body was wrapped in a white winding sheet and bound to the litter. Borne aloft, it looked like a snowmoth’s chrysalis, like something waiting to be born instead of buried. Kath shivered at the strangeness of the thought.
A stone skittered off the ledge, falling to oblivion.
Death changed everything.
The monastery was supposed to be a haven not a trap. Kath wondered if the gods even cared. She trailed a hand along the rock face, trying to avoid the ice, but her gaze kept flicking to the heavens. The comet haunted her. She gripped the crystal dagger sheathed at her belt. After escaping the Mist, she’d sworn to carry it always, but a dagger seemed a feeble weapon against a thousand-year-old evil. Memories from the Mist assailed her mind, the battlefield strewn with corpses, and all the dead wore maroon. Somehow she had to warn Castlegard…to warn the king. She wondered if he’d listen. The knights scorned prophecy…and the messenger alone might doom the message. Her lord father was never one to heed the words of a daughter, especially a daughter who’d disobeyed. The thought opened a chasm in her mind. Willfulness in a son might win praise from the king, but never in a daughter. The distaff gender could be such a curse, but she had to make him listen, especially with so much at stake. Her boots slipped on ice.
Kath fell hard, sliding toward the precipice. She flailed for a hold.
A strong hand caught her arm. “Steady.”
Duncan lifted her to her feet, holding her till her boots found purchase. For half a heartbeat, she leaned into his strength. Regaining her footing, she flashed him a grateful smile. “My thanks,” bu
t the words were swallowed by the wind.
Duncan leaned close, his one-eyed gaze intense. “Tread your own path. You will find a way.”
Her breath caught, as if he’d heard the worries plaguing her mind. “How?”
“Your gaze follows the comet instead of the trail. Beware the danger close at hand.”
Her face flamed red. Chagrined, she spared a quick glance for the two knights plodding behind and then turned and trudged up the steep trail, rushing to catch the monks. Skirting the ice, Kath tried to focus on the path, but her mind skittered like a wild horse. She’d asked Master Rizel why the burial was so rushed, but he just gave her a look that brooked no questions. So they followed the monks skyward, passing from the alpine spring of the monastery back into winter’s harsh bite. Kath walked with her head bent and her cloak pulled tight against the blistering cold. No one spoke. The small procession remained grief-quiet, nothing but boots crunching on snow. A bitter wind snatched at Kath’s long blonde hair, obscuring her vision, obscuring the tears that would not flow. The dead deserved grief, but all she felt was anger. She’d liked Sir Cardemir. Liked his ready smile and his honey-smooth voice, a master of sword and lute, a boon traveling companion…but more than that, she owed him a debt for saving Jordan at the glacier. And then she’d found them both felled on the monastery floor. Memories from the morning cut like glass. A bloody dagger and a bloody sword, as if the two friends had fought. A bold-faced lie! Anger roared through her. They should have been safe. She should have come sooner.
A cold wind slapped Kath in the face.
She staggered, realizing the path veered away from the mountain. A fist of stone jutted from the mountainside, nothing but snow-capped peaks and empty air waiting beyond. Duncan and the two knights crowded behind. She heard Blaine mutter, “We’re not going up that?”
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