The door to her solar opened to admit the Master Archivist. The fact that he had not knocked indicated the depth of her counselor’s unease.
“My deepest apologies, majesty, for not having seen the plot myself.”
“We were both looking elsewhere. Your shadowmen watch for people not coins. Now it appears they must look for both. Our resources will be stretched thin but it must be done.” The queen stabbed at the heart of the problem. “Clearly the royal treasury is compromised.”
“Do you suspect Lord Wesley?”
“No, our Lord Treasurer does not have the imagination or the subtlety for this plot.”
“I concur.” Lowering his voice, the master said, “The question now is whether to act on the knowledge and tip our hand to the Red Horns or to wait until we know the traitors’ identity.”
In a grave voice, the queen said, “There is nothing to debate. This plot goes beyond the threat to our throne. Lanverness provides the coinage for all the southern kingdoms. Should word of the false coins spread, it will spark panic and chaos across all of Erdhe. War and economic ruin are the surest outcomes.” Shaking her head, the queen said, “We must nip this plot in the bud, even at the risk of our crown.”
The master’s voice showed rare emotion. “You dare not take the risk!”
“The leader of the Red Horns has called our bluff. We must act before panic spreads across the kingdoms.”
The master grimaced, “Then we must stop the mint in a way that does not alert the Red Horns.”
Fingering the strand of pearls at her neck, the queen said, “We must act without seeming to act.”
Nodding, the master crossed his arms, his brow furrowed in thought, a pillar of shadow anchored to the center of her solar. Tugging on his thin gray mustache, he said, “I can think of only two ways to halt the production of the false coins. The first is to commission a new die for the royal coins, one with an updated visage of the sovereign. The minting of coins could be halted until the new die is cast.” Lowering his voice, he added, “The second solution is less eloquent. Assuming that those who work in making the false coins are equally guilty of treason, my shadowmen could arrange for ‘accidents’ to occur in the mint. Working with molten metal is very dangerous. The workmen could be replaced with men more loyal to the crown, ensuring the production of pure coins.”
The queen gave her spymaster a sharp glance. “We will not loose assassins against our own people.”
Her spymaster had the grace to blanch at the rebuke.
The queen stared into the hearth. “But suddenly announcing the commission of a new die is too blatant. The Red Horns would spring their trap before we are ready.” She shook her head. “We must hide our actions beneath subterfuge. Halting work in the mint must be blamed on chance and happenstance rather than calculated design.” The queen paused in thought, considering her own words.
Lightning cracked outside the casement window, startling both the queen and her advisor. A storm raced across the spring sky, dark clouds on the horizon.
The queen stared at the open window, considering the inclement weather. “We need a fire in the heart of the mint, a fire that is caused by accident rather than a deliberate hand. Something fierce enough to put the mint out of commission until the plot of the Red Horns is foiled.” Gesturing toward the window, the queen said, “A lightning storm could provide the perfect spark for the blaze...assuming it strikes the proper place.” The queen stared at her spymaster. “The sooner the minting of the false coins is stopped the better.”
Bowing, the master said, “It shall be as you command. In the meantime, my shadowmen will keep a close watch on those who work within the mint. Perhaps they will lead us to the Red Horns.”
“Pray that something leads us to our enemies. Time grows short and the leader of the Red Horns has proven to be a most cunning adversary. It is past time your shadowmen found the clues needed to unmask this traitor.”
“I shall do my best.” The master bowed. “With your majesty’s permission, I shall see to your ‘lightning bolt’.”
The door clicked shut and the queen sat in silence, the spring storm thundering outside her window. Unclenching her hands, she stared down at the mismatched coins. The motive for the false coins screamed of avarice but Liandra sensed an underlying stench of Darkness. Her opponent was both dangerous and cunning, but this plot reached beyond a single kingdom, threatening chaos on a grand scale. Staring at the coins she realized her opponent was more than dangerous…he was evil, as if she faced the Dark Lord himself.
Outside the casement window, lightning cracked across the evening sky as if to confirm the queen’s suspicions.
3
Justin
The sun was warm and bright and half way across a brilliant spring sky, too fair a day for murder. Justin kept his face composed, guarding his thoughts, following the crowd through narrow cobblestone streets. He’d heard the refugees’ horror-filled tales so many times that he knew them by heart, but now that he was in Coronth, he had to see the worst for himself. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
Clad in an emerald-green jacket accented with faux gold piping and matching hose, he wore the gaudy plumage expected of minstrels, but the fabric was poor, even threadbare at one elbow, all part of the disguise. The prince hid in plain sight, just a poor struggling minstrel, trying to earn a living and advance his craft. The threadbare garments disguised his royal lineage, his skill with the harp hiding his intent to topple a false religion. He laughed at himself but the sound held little mirth. He expected a lot from music, but he believed in his craft…and in the justice of his cause.
The street grew crowded, citizens pouring out of houses, stores, and taverns, heeding the call of the priests. Justin joined the crowd, a short, plain-faced man in a sea of many, following the human tide toward the city’s ash-filled heart. He was a stranger to Balor, but no one gave him a second look.
Minstrels and bards were welcome across the kingdoms of Erdhe, even in the Flame God’s city. To the common people, bards meant music to cheer the soul and ease the chill of life, harp and song, lute and lyre. But there was more to being a bard than just playing songs. A secret throbbed at the heart of his craft, a secret that turned a mere musician into a true bard. All great bards were witnesses, first, foremost, and always. Witnessing life, and sometimes death, bards studied commoners as well as lords, searching for the pivotal moments that mattered most, moments that brought a tear to the eye or hope to the heart. Life was the secret ingredient true bards wove into their songs, the secret that made each listener feel the song was meant for them alone. Life was the magic that made a soul resonate with melody, a heart beat to the rhythm, or a mind soar to the lyrics. It was past time Justin witnessed the ritual that beat at the heart of the Flame God’s religion. He’d come to witness the Test of Faith.
For two weeks he’d avoided the ritual, exploring instead the cobblestone streets and back alleyways of Balor, spending as much time in the rich sections as the poor. He took short engagements playing his harp in taverns where the patrons paid in coppers not golds. He strummed his small harp and sang popular, well-known tunes, always playing to observe never to influence or impress. His craft served him well, letting him play in all the city’s taverns, just middling minstrel trying to earn a meal. He made contacts and earned a few coins, but mostly he learned about life in Balor.
What he learned chilled him to the bone.
Balor was flush with the faithful, the chosen, the beloved of the Flame God. They carried themselves with a righteous confidence he’d rarely seen outside of royalty. More than arrogance, it was almost a feeling of invincibility, as if the Flame God himself intervened on their behalf. The faithful of Coronth believed they deserved everything and that nothing was beyond their grasp. It was a dangerous combination, reinforced by the rabid rantings of the red-robed priests.
It was the perfect combination for a holy war.
Chilled by his observations, Justin explored the
city, searching for an antidote to the Flame God. Just as the refugees had said, he discovered another side to Coronth, a side that lurked in the shadows fearing to be seen. Most hid in the alleyways and the poor quarters of the city, but others tried to mingle with the faithful. They ate in taverns, worked in shops, and some even attended temple services, but to a bard’s knowing stare their eyes always gave them away. At best their eyes were dull, annealed to the dangers around them. At worst their eyes were haunted, reflecting the cruelties of the Flame God. Justin kept a lookout for the ones who lived on the fringe, making note of the taverns and taprooms where they dared to be seen. When the time was right, he hoped to rouse them with his music and change Coronth from within. But first he needed to witness the worst of their fears.
The pace of the crowd increased, eagerness flashing through faithful like summer lightning, spreading an infectious excitement. They pressed against him, rich and poor, old and young, a relentless tide of people sweeping him toward the temple square. Justin angled sideways, moving with the flow but trying to stay on the edge. He didn’t want to get too close to the flame pit. In truth, he didn’t know if he could stomach watching such a gruesome death. Besides, he’d come to observe the crowd as much as the ritual, a place at the back would do just fine.
Breaking away from main stream, he made his way to a stone wall on the north side of the square. Others had the same idea, already sitting perched along the top. Justin flashed a smile, plying a bard’s charm. “Is there room for one more?”
His minstrel’s garb earned him more than one welcoming smile. A large, beefy man with a calloused grip offered a hand up. Justin accepted, taking a seat perched between the man and a matronly woman holding a fidgeting boy on her lap. The presence of the youngster bothered Justin, but he buried his concern beneath a voice pleasant. “Your son, madam?”
The woman blushed like a maid. “Oh no, ‘tis my grandson, Simon, and a right fine lad he is.”
“He’s lucky to have his grandmother’s eyes.”
The woman’s blush deepened; her dimpled smile hinting at younger days of beauty.
Justin risked his question, keeping his voice light. “Does Simon often come with you to the Test of Faith?”
“Oh by heaven, yes! The good priests say the young ones need ta see the miracle for themselves.” Pride filled her voice. “Only in Balor, the Flame God’s own city, can ya see the true miracle of the Test of Faith.” She gave him a knowing nod. “We’re blessed ya know, truly blessed by the presence of the Flame Priest.” The woman wrapped her arms around her grandson, a pious smile confirming her beliefs.
Justin wondered how long her beliefs would hold if one of her loved ones was condemned to the flames…but he hid his thoughts behind a polite smile, now was not the time.
The drums of the temple began a rhythmic pounding, a monstrous heartbeat thundering through the square. The crowd stilled to a hush. Expectant faces turned toward the temple doors, bodies swaying to the rhythm of the drums.
The brass doors opened, disgorging a procession of red-robed priests. Incense burners swayed as they walked, spewing clouds of holy smoke. The double line of priests snaked through the crowd, making the sign of blessing while chanting, “Feed the Flames…Feed the Flames.”
The crowd took up the chant, the words throbbing through the square. “Feed the Flames! Feed the Flames!”
Justin watched, appalled by the intent, but awed by the showmanship. The audience was primed, ready for the main players.
A large man appeared on the temple steps, a burly priest draped in rich red robes, holding a flaming torch aloft. From Samson’s description, this had to be the Keeper of the Flame. Justin studied the high priest. A square jaw, a smooth-shaved head, a thin slash for a mouth, he carried the massive torch with ease, prowling through the crowd with a brawler’s muscle-bound stride. The Keeper was physically intimidating, an enforcer of the faith, but Justin knew this man could never mesmerize a crowd; the master puppeteer had yet to make an appearance.
The Keeper made his way to the charcoal pit and lowered the torch.
Fire erupted from the pit, sucking air like the inhalation of a dragon. Flames roared skyward, five times the height of a tall man. The faithful nearest the pit pushed back, retreating from the pulsing heat.
The temple drums stilled.
Expectation seethed through the crowd, every face turned towards the temple.
The great brass doors swung open. A single figure emerged. Tall and stately, with long white hair and a flowing beard, the patriarch stood arrayed in robes of gold, an enormous red ruby sparkling at his breast. His robes caught the sunlight, the gold cloth competing with the brilliance of the flames, creating a dazzling vision. Justin leaned forward; so this was the Pontifax, the showman who came to mesmerize a kingdom.
The Pontifax descended the temple steps making the sign of blessing. He moved with a stately dignity, benevolence shining from his face.
The crowd fell to its knees as the Pontifax passed. Adoring followers reached out to touch the hem of his robe. Mothers held their children up, hoping for a special blessing. Women swooned as he passed. The puppet master had arrived.
The Pontifax took his time, working the crowd. He wound his way to the fire pit and then climbed the dais, gaining a vantage above a sea of heads. Spreading his arms wide in blessing, his voice carried to the farthest corner of the square. “My people! We come here in humility to worship our beloved Flame God! Feel his boundless love wash across each of you! Feel his love pulse like the heat of a flame! Know that you are all worthy.”
Justin reeled backwards, almost falling from the wall. The man had the voice of a bard! But he used the gift to subvert, to deceive, to enslave. Justin gripped the wall, fingernails scrapping against stone, appalled by the corruption of his craft. He took a steadying breath, struggling to keep his face composed. Closing his eyes, he blocked out the charlatan’s words, focusing on the voice instead, studying the rhythm, the pitch, the cadence…the undertones of deceit. The voice was rich and complex, the pitch perfect, the cadence seductive…but there was something not quite right. Justin strained to listen. The voice changed from seductive to strident revealing a subtle flaw; the transitions were slightly off, not as smooth as they could be, leaching some of the power from the oratory. Justin shook his head, amazement mingling with relief. The man had the gift but he wasn’t bard trained. Justin opened his eyes to study his adversary. The Flame Priest played his part well. The benevolence of his face reinforced the power of his voice, while the richness of his robes lent him a royal authority. The Pontifax was a consummate showman, a master of religious seduction.
A commotion on the edge of the crowd drew Justin’s attention. A flatbed wagon surrounded by a small troop of soldiers trundled into the square. A figure in white was chained to the stocks mounted on the wagon bed. Justin’s jaw dropped. A woman! They were going to burn a woman!
Justin glanced at his neighbors, expecting to see his own horror reflected in their eyes…but what he saw sickened him. They leered at the woman with a fascination bordering on naked lust.
An elbow jab Justin in his ribs. The man beside him leaned close, his voice rich with triumph. “I know this one!” He winked, a conspirator sharing a secret. “My cousin’s in the priesthood.” He pointed toward the chained captive. “This one’s a prostitute! She refused to share her bed with a priest!” He barked a laugh. “Imagine, a prostitute refusing a priest! Now she’ll get what she deserves!” He raised his voice to a yell. “Burn, sinner, burn!”
Justin stared at the man, stunned as much by his cruelty as his twisted logic. A priest and a prostitute; virtue where you’d least expect it. Justin looked away lest his eyes betray him. He sent a silent prayer to the Lords of Light, wishing there was a way to save the woman.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, drawing Justin’s attention back to the heart of the ritual.
The Pontifax knelt by the flames, an acolyte removing his gilded sandals.
Justin leaned forward, needing a better view. Samson had told him about the miracle of the Test of Faith, but there had to be a trick, an illusion, some grand slight of hand. He studied the charlatan, determined to uncover his secret.
Barefoot, the Pontifax stood before the bonfire, his face solemn. The flames snapped and crackled, towering into the afternoon sky, an inferno of heat beating against the faithful. A hush fell over the crowd. The Pontifax gripped the ruby at his breast and marched into the flames.
Justin stared slack-mouthed. He walked into the inferno! If there was a trick, he could not see it.
The flames enfolded the Pontifax, turning bright crimson surrounded by gold.
Beside Justin, the matron cried, “It’s a sign! A sign of his blessedness!”
Minutes passed. The Pontifax walked the length of the fire pit, immune to the blaze. He emerged on the far side, unscathed, not a hair on his head singed. Women swooned at his feet. Men reached out to touch the hem of his robe. The crowd celebrated the miracle, an electric tension in the air.
Justin shook his head in denial. He refused to believe that this charlatan had the divine favor of a god. A cold thought gripped him. If a god meddled in Coronth, it had to be the Dark Lord of hell. Only the Dark Lord would pervert worship into human sacrifice. Justin shook his head in denial, but then he had another thought. If not a god, then it must be magic! But this brazen display was unlike any he’d ever heard of, an abomination, an obscene perversion of power. As a prince of Navarre, Justin was no stranger to magic, but the magic of Navarre was both secret and subtle, allowing the queens of Seaside to give safe birth to the tuplets required for the royal succession. The Test of Faith had to be magic. Justin studied the Pontifax. Somehow he’d find away to discredit this charlatan and free the people of their religious delusion.
The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 3
