The queen watched as terror claimed the face of her second son. Danly’s gaze raced around the Throne Room, a mouse frantic for a bolt hole. Finding no escape, his stare fixed on the queen. A wounded animal desperate for help, he wailed, “Mother please? I am your son!”
She made her voice as hard as stone, “And such a filial son you are. You were given much yet squandered everything.” The queen stared up at her second son, as if seeing a stranger. She’d long overlooked Danly’s frivolous spending habits and his addiction to the bordellos, unwittingly blinding herself to the hate that simmered just beneath the surface, a hate that had been easily twisted into treason. Now she paid the price for her mistakes. Another mistake, another sacrifice, Liandra knotted her fists in anger, her nails biting into her palms, drawing blood. As the sovereign queen, it was her bitter duty to witness Danly’s fall, but she would leave the interrogation to the Master Archivist. Drawing a deep breath, she gave a grim nod to her shadowmaster.
Stepping up to the prince, the Master Archivist pressed, “Relinquish the royal regalia.”
Danly shrank backwards, but his dark eyes held a shrew glint. He pointed an accusing finger at the shadowmaster and hissed, “You’re the one! You bewitched my mother with your austere habits, worming your way into her confidence, and then you hatched this plot against me.” He drew himself up, his voice ringing with righteous indignation, “What evidence do you have to stage this mummer’s farce against a royal prince?”
The master’s voice was cold with reason. “The testimony of a courtesan. She overheard you plotting treason in the bordello.”
Shock convulsed across Danly’s face. His hand covered the telltale scratch marks on his cheek but his voice was full of bluster. “Ha! You’d take the word of a whore over a prince?”
“With a plot of high treason, the testimony of one citizen is more than enough reason to put the question to the test. But the damning evidence came from your own mouth. You are condemned of treason by your own words and actions.”
“No!” The prince lunged for the master, but the soldiers were quick to intervene, sword tips holding him back.
Constrained by steel, Danly’s voice was a low hiss. “The Red Horns will rise.”
“More evidence of your guilt.” The master removed a scroll from the pocket of his robe. “And now we come to the heart of the matter…the sentencing.” Snapping the scroll open, he read, “Prince Danly Tandroth, second son of the sovereign queen, you have been found guilty of high treason against the Throne of Lanverness. In accordance with the laws of Lanverness, you are hereby sentenced to die a traitor’s death.”
“Nooooo!” Danly’s scream echoed in the cavernous room. He looked toward the queen, his eyes begging.
Liandra kept her face a mask of stone.
“The traitor will be hung by the neck until nearly dead. Revived from this ordeal, four horses are used to stretch the limbs toward the four directions of the kingdom. After the stretching, the executioner uses blunt knives to quarter the body while the heart still beats. The butchering is prolonged for as long as possible. The heart is the last thing to leave the body. The remains are then burnt, so that nothing is left to contaminate the soil of Lanverness.” The scroll rolled snapped with a grim finality.
Danly swayed, his face ghost-pale, his eyes desperate. “Mother, please!”
Liandra remained rigid as stone, her clenched fists drawing blood.
The master leaned toward the prince. “A horrible way to die. A death that befits only the vilest of traitors.” The master tapped the scroll against the prince’s chest. “Of course, the crown could be persuaded toward leniency, if you provide the identity of the Red Horns. Give us the leader’s name and things will go much easier for you.”
Fear and panic warred across Danly’s face. “You’re bluffing. Such torture hasn’t been used in Lanverness in generations!”
“There has never been a traitor prince.”
Danly threw a desperate look toward the queen, “Mother please!”
Steeling herself, the queen replied, “You will receive justice from the throne, nothing more.”
“But I am your son!” The cry echoed through the Throne Room.
Stepping between the prince and the queen, the master said, “Give us the names!”
Danly snarled, “I pray to all the gods that the Red Horns rise! I will spit on your dead bodies when I take my rightful place on the throne!”
“Bind the prisoner!”
Two burly prison guards stepped out of the shadows and approached the throne. Working around the swords, they seized the scepter and crown, handing them to the shadowmaster. Iron chains clanked as the first guard placed heavy manacles on the prince’s wrists while the second seized the prince’s throat forcing a leather gag into his mouth. Danly squirmed but he was no match for the guards. The stench of hot urine flooded the dais. With the prisoner bound and gagged, the guards stepped away awaiting further orders.
In a low voice, the Master Archivist said, “I will have his signet ring as well. This one has no further right to the royal symbols of house Tandroth.”
One of the guards twisted the prince’s gold signet ring, yanking it from his hand. The master pocketed the ring.
Danly stood trussed in shackles, a leather gag stuffed in his mouth. His eyes wide and wild, his hose wet with urine, he panted through his nostrils like a cornered beast.
The queen stared at her fallen son, willing him to give up the names.
The master stepped close to the captured prince, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Time is of the essence. You have but two days to yield the names. To help you think, you will be taken to the deepest dungeons of Castle Tandroth. Your gag will be removed and you will be chained and lowered into the traitor’s pit. You will find the pit a dark, snug fit, with only rats and other vermin for company. If you decide to yield the names you need only call to the jailor. The jailors have orders to summon me.” The master paused, “Lest you hold to silence hoping for rescue by your traitorous friends, you should know that only a few loyal men will ever know your exact location. If the Red Horns rise, you will likely starve in the pit.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “If you stay in the pit, death is inevitable.” Glancing toward the prison guards, the master said, “Take this traitor away, the rats of the dungeon are waiting.”
A hood of rough leather with slits for eyes was yanked over the prisoner’s face. The guards emptied his pockets and used a knife to cut the royal emblems from his clothes. A soiled cape of homespun wool was draped around his shoulders, covering the emerald green of his garments with peasant brown. When the guards were done, nothing royal remained.
Caged in a ring of naked steel, the hooded traitor was escorted from the Throne Room. The queen watched the exodus, her back rigid, blood streaking the palms of her hands.
The doors of the Throne Room clanged shut.
The queen wavered. Her resolve exhausted, she swayed with strain.
The Master Archivist rushed forward. Strong arms reached for her, offering support.
She leaned into him for a moment, just a heartbeat of stolen comfort, and then she stepped away, her face a mask, her royal resolve hardened once more. She told herself it had to be done. One son lost, stolen by traitors. The Rose Crown had many thorns, but she had a kingdom to save, a crown to protect…and the leader of the Red Horns remained a mystery. She stared up at the empty throne, her voice full of steel. “And so it begins.” Time was not her friend.
11
Katherine
The world was vertical. Harsh and stony, the snow capped mountains thrust against a pale blue sky. The horses blew hard, struggling to pick their way up the last of the switchbacks, steam rising from their sweat-streaked flanks. Rivulets of ice-melt trickled across the trail, confirming the spring thaw. Heeding the warning, Kath scanned the sky to gauge the hour. A silver half moon rode among thin fingers of clouds, a welcome sign that morning still lingered.
Six riders
and two packhorses raced the sun to the mountain pass. Driven by the threat of the red comet, they dared risk Drumheller Pass despite the dangers of springtime, but none wanted to tempt fate by crossing at noon.
Stretched out along the trail, they rode in pairs; four companions with two strangers bringing up the rear. Duncan and Blaine rode in the lead, black leather and the silver surcoat of the Octagon. Kath kept to the middle with Sir Tyrone, her throwing axes strapped to her back, a sword of good Castlegard steel belted to her side. She stared across the valley, trying to catch a last glimpse of the Kiralynn monastery, but too many clouds intervened. Perhaps it was the Mist. She shivered, remembering.
Her horse snorted and shied sideways. Kath firmed her grip on the reins. The wonders of the monastery were behind them, the dangers of the prophecy lay ahead. They chased an ancient evil across the mountain pass, returning to a world where swords mattered more than words. Staring across the distance, Kath felt the keen loss of Master Rizel’s wisdom, but even more, she missed having her sword sister at her side. “Heal well, sword sister.” Raising her hand, Kath saluted the far mountains and all that lay hidden in their distant peaks.
“She will be well cared for.”
Surprised to hear own thoughts echoed, Kath glanced over at the black knight riding even with her mount. Dark ringlets of shoulder-length hair framed an ebony face lined with leagues of experience. Sir Tyrone wore the silver surcoat of the Octagon Knights, the hilt of a great sword jutting over his right shoulder.
“We all miss her, but the monks are Jordan’s best hope.” His voice hardened with resolve. “Jordan needs to heal and we need to catch the spawn of hell who attacked her.”
Kath nodded, the attack on Jordan made the hunt personal. “The Mordant will be hard to catch. The trail’s gone cold, even for Duncan.”
“True, but if the monks have the truth of it, we race to confront the demon in his lair not to catch him on the road. Still, I’d rather slay him before he crosses the Dragon Spine Mountains. I’ve seen the Dark Citadel from a distance and I’d just as soon avoid the dark-cursed fortress.”
Kath glanced at the black knight, surprised once again by his travels. “At least we have the advantage of knowing the Harlequin’s face…though it’s hard to believe the Mordant lurks within Bryce.”
“You know his face. To me he was just one monk among many.”
Falling silent, Kath thought back to her first day in the monastery. She’d liked the young monk-initiate. Bryce had wanted to be a healer and now he walked with Death. Kath shook her head, angry at the unfairness of it all. What had Bryce done to deserve such a fate? Or Jordan for that matter? Did the gods even care? It seemed so unfair…but at least her sword sister still lived. Kath took heart from the thought…and from the all she’d learned at the monastery. She gripped the small gargoyle tied by a leather cord around her neck and then checked the amber pyramid nestled deep her pocket, but the weapon that suited her best was the sword. Magic and steel, she wondered if it would be enough. The monks had solved the riddle of her gargoyle, but her time in the monastery had fled with so many questions unanswered and so many more unasked. The last days were a fevered blur of advice, pouring over scores of maps, studying obscure passages from the Book of Prophecy. If knowledge was a sword against the Dark, Kath had left a whole army of weapons behind. She felt naked despite the sword belted to her side and the axes strapped to her back.
“I was surprised that Master Rizel didn’t join us.” Sir Tyrone intruded, his baritone voice carrying above the steady clop of the horses. “Given the store the monks put in their Book of Prophecy, I thought he’d come.”
The unspoken meaning in the knight’s words drew Kath’s gaze to the rear of the column. Two strangers from the monastery rode at the rear, both thrust on them at the last moment, an old man and a girl, one sullen and the other reluctant. With the rush to leave, there’d been little chance to learn much more than their names. At least Zith wore the midnight blue robes of a master. Kath hoped the old man harbored some vital store of forgotten knowledge, but he did not radiate the confidence she’d come to expect from the wise. Riding hunched in the saddle, his chin tucked down against his silver-streaked beard, the old man seemed broken and withdrawn, wrapped in a cloak of misery. Of all the monks in the monastery, Kath wondered why the Grand Master had chosen this sullen old man to join them on the quest north.
His companion was even more of a puzzle. Of a similar age to Kath, Danya kept to the rear, huddled beneath a brown cloak of plain homespun wool. The small, dark-haired woman wore a brown tunic and a peasant’s wool leggings, but as far as Kath could tell, she rode without a single weapon belted to her side. Neither a monk nor a warrior, it remained to be seen how she’d contribute to the fight ahead. At least the girl had a good seat on her horse, which was more than Kath could say for the monk.
Turning back to the black knight, Kath muttered, “I know what you mean. I don’t know why the monks saddled us with those two.” After a pause she added, “Before we left, I asked Master Rizel to join us.”
The black knight raised an eyebrow.
“He spoke of wars not battles…that the Dark Lord will draw on every resource of hell to claim all of Erdhe. He said that the battle against the Mordant is key, but while we travel north, others must stay behind to fight the war.”
Sir Tyrone nodded. “Makes sense. Generals seldom fight from the front.”
Kath’s eyes widened at the insight. Master Rizel had always seemed like a learned chess master, full of wisdom and insights, but perhaps a chess master was just another name for a general. If the prophecies did indeed herald a great war, Master Rizel would make an excellent general…though she would miss his counsel and his friendship.
The switchbacks leveled off marking the summit of Drumheller Pass. The horses blew hard, struggling to catch their breath, pulling against the reins. Hooves stamped and bridles jangled in protest. The horses wanted a rest but the riders held them to the pace, not daring to waste the last hours of morning.
Kath glanced skyward, checking the sun’s passage, but her gaze was snared by the red comet. Time was against them. She’d felt it in the monastery, the need to learn warring with the need to leave. She wondered what the delay would cost them. “The Mordant has more than a full moon-turn lead. Do you think we’ll catch him?”
The black knight shrugged. “All we can do is try.”
His answer left her unsettled. Her hand crept to the crystal dagger. “How much havoc can he cause in a single moon-turn?”
“Depends on the man…or the fiend.”
And that was the problem, for none knew the Mordant’s true powers.
A sharp bend in the trail brought them into the throat of the pass. Overhead, a great fist of sapphire-blue ice shadowed the trail, death poised in frozen form. Kath shivered at the sight, remembering Jordan’s peril. The glacier glinted in the sunlight, the sparkle of a thousand diamonds, but instead of a frozen beauty, they found a beast wakened by spring. The vast ice field stretched and groaned like a bear roused from winter sleep. Melt dripped from the overhang, teardrops plunging into the chasm with the sound of harp strings plucked one note at a time. Kath’s breath caught in her throat, it would have been achingly beautiful if not for the threat.
Kath angled her horse next to Duncan’s, her gaze moving from the glacier to the narrow pass. What she saw made her gasp. Spring had claimed the pass. Great swords of blue ice impaled the bridge of stone, creating a gauntlet of frozen death.
A sundering sound split the air, like the crack of broken stone. Kath’s horse shied, but she held him firm. As the companions watched, a great sword of ice split from the glacier, plunging down, narrowly missing the pass.
Kath stared, awestruck by the power of the ice swords.
Beside her, Duncan said, “We’ve come too late. Spring is already here. The pass is a death trap.”
Kath said, “If there’s any justice in the world, the body of the Mordant should lie cr
ushed beneath one of those ice-swords, felled by the hand of the gods.”
“Why should the gods lift their hand when they have men to do their dirty work?”
His voice was bitter, but Kath refused to give up hope. Her stare searched the pass for signs of a broken body but she found only rock and ice. Disappointed, she conceded the archer might have a valid a point.
Glancing at the sky, Duncan said, “At least we’ve beaten the sun to the pass, we shouldn’t tarry.” His stare turned to the two strangers among them. “Does anyone wish to go back? Best decide before we risk the crossing.”
No one spoke.
“Then let’s cross before the danger deepens.”
No one argued.
“Sir Tyrone, you take the lead followed by Kath. Once you two are safely across, I’ll send the monk and the girl with their horses. Sir Blaine and I will bring up the rear with the packhorses.” Turning toward Sir Tyrone, Duncan said, “Walk your horse across, but if there’s any problem, leave the horse and get yourself to safety. Horses can be replaced.”
The companions dismounted, waiting to take their turn at the crossing. Sir Tyrone checked the tack on his horse and then gathered the reins, giving his horse a reassuring pat. All eyes watched as he advanced under the threat of the glacier. The steady drip of melt water sounded like a celestial harp, seductively peaceful, belying the danger. Kath held her breath, but the black knight and his horse made it to the far side without incident.
Kath led Dancer out onto the thin finger of rock. Ignoring the threat of the twin chasms, she stared at the great shards of ice impaling the pass. Standing twice the height of a tall man, the shards resembled great blue swords. Kath could imagine Valin wielding the swords against any who dared breach the peace of the mountains. She shivered as she neared the first. The ice radiated a bone-numbing cold but the deep sapphire-blue was mesmerizing. Kath blinked and forced her stare away, leading her horse around the frozen swords. They passed three more ice-swords before stepping out from under the glacier’s shadow. Grateful for the sun’s warmth, Kath stood next to black knight, watching as the others crossed the chasm.
The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 9
