The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Cold stone closed in around them, dank and dark and menacing. The queen and the captain descended the ramp. A horrid stink smacked them in the face, rank with all the smells of human fear, a warning of the cruelties that lay below. The queen pulled her shawl across her face as if the course wool could insulate her from the stench.

  Emerging from the sloped tunnel, they entered a well-lit guardroom, torches and weapons racks lining the walls. They found the Master Archivist in conversation with one of the jailors. Tension melted from the queen’s shoulders at the sight of her spymaster.

  The master turned, barely flicking a glance in her direction. “There you are, Durnheart. I see you’ve found the rogue’s doxy. Perhaps her pleading will convince him to talk.”

  The master’s curt dismissal struck Liandra like a slap. It was all part of the ruse, yet it hurt to be ignored, especially by him. The queen bridled her temper, forcing herself to play the part of a mere woman. In the game of kings most women barely counted as pawns.

  Turning his back on the queen, the master addressed the burly jailor. “Paulus, we’ll need the keys for the lower dungeon.”

  Scratching an itch at his crotch, the pot-bellied jailor leered at the queen. “Lest she’s go’in to raise her skirt, a woman won’t much matter to the men in here.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” The master’s retort cut like sharp steel. “Now be quick about it, and get the keys.”

  “No need to get angry, m’Lord,” the jailor groused as he selected a thick ring of keys from the rack along the back wall. “It’ll be darker than hell down there, so you may be want’in a torch or two.”

  The master turned to two soldiers waiting in the shadows. “You two grab extra torches and bring up the rear. Captain Durnheart, follow me. Bring the woman along and watch your step, the floors are slick with slime.”

  The captain moved to the queen’s side, tightening his grip on her arm.

  This time the queen welcomed his touch.

  He steered her forward, following directly behind the spymaster. Two soldiers with torches brought up the rear. Hinges creaked as the jailor unlocked a massive ironbound door. The door revealed a long stone passageway lined with cells. A low stone ceiling pressed down, cramping the space, swallowing light and life, strangling the senses. They walked into the belly of the dungeon, the air rank with the stench of urine and unwashed bodies. The queen fixed her gaze on the master’s back, trying to avoid any glimpse of the cells. Hairy arms thrust out from between iron bars making grabbing gestures. The prisoners jeered, hurling lewd comments. The queen refused to flinch. Shutting her ears, she kept to the center, walking a gauntlet of obscenities.

  The jailor clattered his keys against the iron bars. “All right you scum, quiet down. They’ll be no skirt for the likes of you.” But the din continued, perhaps threats no longer mattered to these men.

  An eternity later, they reached the second door. The jailor fumbled with the keys. Shadows danced in the flickering torchlight. The rusted hinges screeched, opening to a steep staircase, the stones coated in a green slime. They worked their way down the tight spiral, the air stagnant with the smell of festering mold. The queen lost her footing, but the captain was quick to catch her. She gripped his arm, grateful for his strength.

  The stairway led to a second row of cells, only this time a pounding silence assaulted the queen’s ears. Her own heartbeat sounded loud, an intrusion of the living in a tomb of stone. The silence was chilling, as if any semblance of humanity could not survive the murky depths. The queen shivered, her gaze fixed on the Master Archivist, afraid to see what lay rotting in the cells.

  The cellblock ended in a rusted door. Muttering, the jailor said, “Don’t use the torture chambers no more, pity that.” Jiggling the key into the lock, he added in a louder voice, “Only opened this section of the dungeon for the new prisoner. Must’ve done something really wicked to earn the hole.”

  The queen shuddered, unable to imagine what type of hell lay below.

  The door opened onto a balcony of heavy wood beams. Stepping onto the balcony, they gained a view of a cavernous room hewn from bedrock. The air held a cold dampness that leached the soul. Liandra shivered, longing for the warmth of her solar.

  Torches lined the walls along the wooden staircase, casting flickers of light into the gloom. She clutched the railing as they descended, staring down into the cavernous void. Strange devices lurked like misshapen monsters on the crowded floor, threatening the imagination with the stuff of nightmares. The queen consoled herself with the knowledge that torture had not been used in more than three generations of Tandroths. She prayed to the Lords of Light that it would remain that way.

  Skirting the main floor, the jailor led them to a side room where two guards sprang to attention, their swords drawn. Seeing the Master Archivist, they sheathed their weapons. The queen kept her face hidden within the folds of her shawl, as much a disguise as a refuge from the stench.

  Turning to the jailor-guide, the master said, “Paulus, you can wait for us here, Barkley will take us the rest of the way.”

  Shrugging, the jailor slumped into a chair and said, “As you wish m’Lord.”

  “Barkley you lead the way, Collins, stay here and keep watch. I do not wish to be disturbed for any reason. Do you understand?”

  The older of the two guards nodded while the younger unlocked an ironbound door. Waving them through, he locked the door behind them. The quiet was otherworldly, the weight of stone pressing down like a sepulcher. No one spoke. The guard led them past a row of solid iron doors, finally stopping at the door at the end of the narrow passageway. Rust coated the iron door like a sheen of dried blood. A pair of grim-faced guards stood at attention. The queen shivered, finding the cold dankness oppressive.

  The master said, “Durnheart, you and the others remain here on guard.”

  Nodding, the captain relinquished the queen into the care of the Master Archivist.

  In a curt voice, the master said, “Open the door.”

  The hinges protested. The door swung open. The queen and her spymaster stepped through. A single guard with a drawn sword met them on the other side. Recognizing the spymaster, the guard sheathed his sword, closing the door behind them.

  The metal clang reverberated in the small spare chamber. The queen felt buried alive. Swallowing her unease, she studied the chamber. Iron chains dominated the room. Heavy links ran from a rectangular grate set in the floor, up through hooks in the ceiling and then over to a huge winch built into the wall. A shiver ran down the queen’s back. She’d expected to find her prisoner-son, but instead found only chains and rough rock walls. Her mind froze, unwilling to speculate on the function of the chains…or the apparent absence of her son.

  While the queen surveyed the chamber the marshal interrogated his man. “Has he said anything?”

  “Not today.”

  “Has he received food and water?”

  “He is raised three times a day and offered both. He takes the water but has so far refused the food.”

  With a curt nod the master said, “Raise him up, I would speak to him.”

  The guard’s stare slid toward the queen.

  “Just do as you are ordered and then leave us alone with the prisoner.”

  Bowing, the guard took up a position by the winch. He unlatched the wheel and began to wind the iron chains, the muscles on his arms and neck bulging with strain. The wood of the winch creaked in protest. The chain grew taut, slowly hoisting the metal grate from the stone floor like a sword eased from a scabbard. Two pale hands appeared, manacled to the underside of the plate. The queen gasped, suddenly understanding the meaning behind the words, “traitor’s pit”. The slit in the stone floor was just wide enough for a man to stand. The queen watched in horror as her second son was raised from the traitor’s tomb of cold stone.

  Naked except for a filth-encrusted loincloth, Danly was manacled in a spread-eagle position against an iron plate. His eyes were sunken
, his face haggard, open sores on his legs hinted at vermin within the pit. He reeked of stench but the queen refused to flinch. Three days in the pit and her son no longer looked the prince. The prisoner screwed his eyes shut, wincing at the sudden light, but otherwise he gave no reaction.

  The guard latched the winch and threw a bucket of cold water on the prisoner. As Danly sputtered, the guard held a dipper to his lips, letting him drink his fill. When the dipper was empty, the guard bowed toward the master and then retreated to the outer corridor. The door clanged shut, leaving them alone with the prisoner.

  The Master Archivist stared at the queen, waiting for orders.

  The queen lowered her shawl and stepped forward to stare into the face of her second-born son. She steeled herself to his suffering, remembering that Danly had planned to murder his brother and anyone else who blocked his path to the Rose Throne. This second son had been nothing but evil since the day of his birth.

  “Danly, how did it come to this?”

  At the sound of her voice, he squinted into the light. “Is that you mother?”

  “Yes, we are here.”

  Straining to see, Danly said, “It cannot be. The queen would never soil her gowns with the prison’s stench. It must be a dream. My royal mother even invades my worst nightmares.”

  “Open your eyes and believe.”

  He peered at her, studying her face. “So it is you, plucked of your royal plumage. Beneath the paints and powders you’re quite an ordinary woman, best stick to being queen, mother.”

  She ignored his barbs. “We have come to you, even to the depths of the dungeon, to convince you that this suffering is senseless. End this agony by giving us the names of the traitors.”

  Danly barked a laugh. “My dear mother, you ordered me here.”

  “Actions have consequences. When you chose the way of the traitor you tempted a traitor’s fate. What consequence did you expect?”

  “I expected a throne, mother, and a crown on my head. Surely you can understand the all-consuming need for power.” He lunged toward her, rattling the chains but unable to reach more than a few inches.

  “You had power and wealth as a prince of Lanverness. If you wanted more then you need only earn it through service to the people.”

  He groaned. “Spare me your lectures on service, mother. Monarchs rule they don’t serve. Perhaps your crown would be more secure if you understood that. But either way, you would never have given more to me. You never gave me anything but the scraps from your plate. It was all for my brother, the shiny knight, none for me, none for Danly the despised second son.”

  Slap! The sound echoed through the chamber.

  She’d forgotten about her rings. The great emerald left a gouge on his cheek, opening the claw marks of the prostitute. Puss oozed from the side of his face, as if he rotted from within. She’d learned much about her son in the last three days, all of it ugly, too ugly for a mother but she was the queen. The evidence of Danly’s perversion only increased her ire. “Does your brother, Prince Stewart, still live?”

  Danly gave her an insolent smile. “Why should I bother answering? What will you do, mother, cast me into the dungeon?”

  From behind her, the Master Archivist growled, “Answer the queen if you care for your life.”

  “Madam, your dog barks.” Danly shrugged as much as the chains would allow. “If my dear brother’s head does not grace the portcullis then it may still be on his shoulders. But that would be a pity.” His voice dropped to a malignant hiss. “Think about it mother, if the shiny knight loses his head, then I am your only heir.” He railed against his chains, his voice rising to a shout. “And this is how you treat your son, your spare heir. Nothing for me, mother, never anything for me!”

  Liandra staggered backward, the pain of the past erupting within her. Anger and hurt poured into her voice, “Why should I give more to you when all you have ever done is take from me?”

  “When have I ever taken anything that mattered to you?” His voice was incredulous. “I spent plenty of your precious golds at the dicing tables, yet you never seemed to care.”

  The queen struggled for composure, but the long buried secret erupted. “You killed my only daughter!”

  “What?”

  In a strangled voice, the queen whispered, “You were born a twin. But your selfish, evil nature prevailed even in the womb. You emerged healthy but your twin sister was blue, your birthing cord wrapped tight around her neck. She died before ever taking her first breath, before ever feeling the arms of a mother’s love. You killed my only daughter! You strangled your sister in the womb!”

  Danly gaped. “A womb killer…and I never knew.”

  “I saved your life that day.” Liandra choked on the words. “The midwives wanted to smother you in the cradle lest a seed of the Dark Lord chance to sit on the Rose Throne, but I stayed their hand. Having lost a daughter I could not bear to also lose a son. I swore the women to secrecy on pain of death. I gave you life twice in one day…and you repay me with betrayal.”

  Danly sagged in the chains. “Blamed from birth…”

  “I spared you from the taint of your first foul deed, your first murder, yet now I rue my mercy. Instead of a son, I nurtured a viper at my breast!” Liandra turned away, sickened by the sight of her traitorous son. Struggling with the past, she fought to regain her composure. When she turned back to the prisoner, she was once more the queen. “We have come to claim payment for the life of our daughter. Give us the names of the traitors.”

  “You never told me.”

  “We spared you the knowledge, hoping that you might grow straight and true. But instead you turned to the Dark, raping women and plotting to steal the Rose Throne.”

  Danly’s eyes widened, his guilt written upon his face.

  “We have learned much of your true nature in the last few days.” The queen lowered her voice, “Give us the names of the traitors.”

  His voice was small, “Did you ever love me, mother?”

  He stabbed at her heart, but she kept her face stony.

  When she did not answer, something hardened in his eyes. His voice sank to a sneering whisper, “I dreamt of you mother…with every whore.”

  The Master Archivist intervened, his fist smashing against the prisoner’s face.

  Danly’s head snapped back, a trickle of blood at the side of his mouth. “Your dog hits hard.”

  “You are speaking to the queen!”

  “Oh, I thought she was my mother.”

  The queen forced herself to study the true face of her son, but she saw only the traitor. He belonged in chains. “Spare yourself this agony and give us the names.”

  “I see the queen is back…if there ever was a mother.” Danly strained against the chains but fell back, defeated. “You win, mother. You always win.” His words said one thing but a sly look hung in his dark eyes. “What if I told you that the leader of the Red Horns is none other than your own precious spymaster?”

  Slap!

  Her hand stung from the blow. She’d never struck him as a child but twice the man had goaded her to violence. The queen felt as if she was unraveling. “Spare us your lies.”

  A trickle of blood ran from Danly’s mouth. He shook his head. “I bring out the best in you, don’t I mother?”

  She glared, unrelenting. “Give us the names.”

  “Or what? I’m your son, your spare heir, mother!”

  He pushed her too far. “Enough of this liar! Put him back in the hole!”

  Her shadowmaster moved to unlock the wench mechanism. Chains rattled and the iron platform began to descend.

  Fear scrawled across Danly’s face. “No! Don’t do this!”

  The queen watched, unrelenting. Danly lunged against his chains but he remained caught. Howling in fear, his stare became frantic as the device lowered him into the stone tomb. “I’ll tell you!”

  The queen signaled and the mechanism came to a halt. Danly’s face and bound hands remained in
the light, the rest of him sheathed in cold stone. “I’ll tell you, but don’t put me back!”

  “Speak and do not lie, for we shall know.”

  Danly craned his neck to stare up at her. His gaze was wide and wild. “Lord Turner. The leader of the Red Horns is Lord Turner, the Knight Protector, the man charged with the safety of the queen.” He rattled his chains. “Now let me out!”

  The queen looked to her shadowmaster, shocked by the depth of betrayal.

  The master nodded a grim assent.

  “Let him up.”

  Chains clanged as the platform emerged from the stone floor. The metal rack lurched upwards, slowly drawing even with the queen. Drenched in sweat and ripe with fear, Danly hung spread-eagle in his shackles. His face rippled with emotion, finally settling on a twisted sneer. “Isn’t it ironic, mother? The man charged with your protection is the one man who cannot stomach to serve a mere woman. He sits on your council controlling the royal guards, perfectly positioned to lead the rebellion.” A mocking laugh erupted from him, spittle flying from his lips. “He may yet beat the vaunted Spider Queen!” Danly rattled his chains. “Careful, mother, or you could end up dangling in another’s webs.” Laughter bubbled from the fallen prince, a laughter that skirted the edge of madness.

  The queen took no triumph in the revelation, only shock at the depth of betrayal.

  Danly giggled, hanging like a fly caught in a metal web.

  Liandra wondered if they were all nothing more than flies, caught in a cruel web of fate. She tightened her fists in anger, her rings of office biting deep into her palms. The pain reminded her of her duty; she had a kingdom to care for. Turning to her spymaster, she ordered, “See to it that he is freed of this device. Clean him up and put him in a better cell. His identity must remain hidden but there is no need for this barbarous cruelty. We would have him treated with dignity despite his crimes.”