The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  When the two men reached the door, the queen said, “Lord Highgate, we would speak with you for a moment.”

  The Master Archivist closed the door and returned to stand before the queen.

  She made him wait, studying him through hooded eyes. He stood tall and straight, his arms behind his back, his face carefully neutral but his dark eyes burned with a fierce intelligence, and beneath the intelligence, a deep wanting. There had always been a tension between them but before the rebellion it had remained subtle, manageable, teasingly enjoyable, always proper…but now the tension had grown to a bonfire. She felt its heat and feared its ruin. She chose her words carefully. “Lord Highgate, you have always been our ablest advisor, our wisest counselor, our most trusted confidante…but during the rebellion you came to mean even more to us.”

  “You will always have my sword, majesty.” The tension in the chamber thickened.

  “In the days to come, we shall reward loyalty with blue steel swords, with promotions and titles, with land grants and manses, and with purses of gold. Yet, our ablest advisor asks for nothing. How shall a grateful queen reward you, Lord Highgate?”

  The mask of neutrality fell away, revealing the steel, the intellect, and the raw passion hidden beneath. “Once an eagle has flown free it can never again be trained to hunt from the fist. I have served other masters, and in serving those others my wings have always been clipped because the one who held my tether had limited intelligence, limited vision, and no taste for daring.” His voice deepened to a rough husk. “But under this queen, whose intelligence and daring exceeds my own, I soar!” He dropped to his knee. “Madam, I will never serve any other prince. To be held in your confidence, to serve as your shadowmaster, is all the reward I shall ever need.”

  His words said one thing but his dark gaze seared her.

  Heat flashed through her. She gripped the arms of the chair, seeking a safe anchor.

  He reached for her ringed hand. Lightning leaped between them.

  She sat statue-still, struggling for control, struggling to be solely the queen. “You must understand,” her voice betrayed too much. “We will never again accept the yoke of marriage. And we will never put off our crown, never be less than queen.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “And the queen must always be proper.”

  He cupped her hand, kissing the hollow of her palm, tender and ardent.

  The kiss shivered through her, threatening her control.

  He closed her hand into a fist, as if to hold the kiss tight, and then backed away and stood, placing a wall of distance between them. His face closed but his voice was a rough whisper. “Given the choice between the queen or the woman, I will always choose the queen…for only the queen allows me to soar, and having known the joys of flight, I will never be tethered.” His dark gaze burned. “But if ever the queen ever wishes to be a woman, even for a single night, I would be there for her.”

  His words sizzled in her mind, the perfect answer, the perfect temptation. He understood her so well…even choosing the queen over the woman…but it could not be.

  He saluted, his fist to his heart, his face once more the neutral mask of her shadowmaster. “If your majesty has no further need of me, there is much to be done.”

  She waved him away, not trusting her voice. The door closed and she was once more alone. So alone.

  She sat in the chair long after he was gone, feeling the weight of her crown, fighting against her own desires. She’d long ago buried the needs of the woman beneath the imperatives of the crown…but those needs were still there, clamoring for a taste of life. She reached for the steel within her soul. The needs of her kingdom must always come first.

  Having regained a measure of calm, she rose and went to the window, drawn to the view of her kingdom, the splendor of the castle, the sprawling city, and the green fields beyond. Except for the pyre of smoke, it looked peaceful enough, sunlight glinting off of stone and field…but a storm was coming, something terrible and sure, a darkness on the horizon. She’d worked hard to bring peace and prosperity to Lanverness…but now she must use her wiles and her golds to forge swords. She shook her head. It always came back to war, the eternal struggle of plunder over production, of the Dark over the Light. But perhaps she’d outfoxed fate when she’d ordered three blue steel swords. The kingdom of Lanverness would soon have need of heroes…heroes to push back the threat of Darkness. Liandra hoped three blue blades would be enough.

  36

  Duncan

  Duncan strode through the sacred grove, past the domed tents and green-robed attendants, his mind fastened on a single goal, an arrow seeking a single heart. Hope warred with doubt as he climbed the trail to the high meadow. She was a princess, he was a half-breed bastard, it could never work, yet he found himself lengthening his stride. He rushed to see Kath, ignoring his doubts. He’d had many lovers but only one love. This new chance had taken him by surprise.

  The path wound upward, through cedars and spruce and pine, the trail familiar despite his long years away. Slanting beams of afternoon sunlight filtered through the canopy releasing the rich musk of cedar and the sharp scent of pine, the smells of summer in the deep forest. Sunlight played across the leaves, creating a thousand shades of green…but for once, he saw none of it. He walked with both eyes open, the white and the golden, but his gaze was turned inward, wrestling with a thousand questions and a single hope.

  The trail crested and he rounded a bend…and found Kath in the heart of a sun-warmed meadow. She sat on a fallen log in a sea of knee-high wildflowers, the last rays of sunlight gilding her hair to a silken glow. He paused in the shadows, watching her face, searching for answers. She sat sharpening her sword, the steady scrape of stone against steel, her face deep in thought. The sword was a part of her, like the talon of an eagle. And the thoughtful look on her face was achingly familiar, reflecting a soul deeper than her years…but he wondered if she would spurn him now that she knew the truth.

  Bracing for scorn, he deliberately stepped on a twig. The crack sounded loud to his ears.

  Her sea green eyes snapped to his face, meeting his mismatched stare without flinching. “Duncan!” She leaped from the log and ran towards him.

  Elation swept through him. Racing towards her, he scooped her into his arms, and kissed her, long and deep.

  Her arms wrapped around him, hungry with need. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  He kissed her back. “You’ll never lose me.” He laid her in the meadow, on the sun-warmed grass, wildflowers tangling in her hair. One kiss led to another. She melted into him. He held her close, feeling the beat of her heart. His hands caressed her, memorizing every touch, the softness of her cheek, the silkiness of her hair, the tenderness of her lips. She moaned with pleasure and he deepened his kiss. His hand found the gentle curve of her breast.

  She stiffened beneath him. “I’ve never…”

  “I know.” He caressed her face. “There’s no need to rush. We have all the time between us.” He kissed her again, taking care to keep the bulge in his leathers well away from the press of her body. His restraint only made him harder, but he refused to give in. Kath quivered beneath his caress, tentative at first, but then his fingers roused her passion, till he felt his own heat reflected in her. She moaned beneath his touch, her back arching. Lithe and graceful, she molded herself to him, leather against leather, heat to heat. Her flaring passion excited him. “Duncan,” she moaned his name. He covered her mouth with a kiss.

  #

  Later, much later, they lay in the wildflowers, watching the sun set on the forest. Duncan leaned on an elbow and stared down at her. Her clothing was rumpled, her face flushed, her hair tussled, a wildflower tangled in the golden strands. He longed to stay in the haze of pleasure but the words needed to be said. “There’s a chasm of differences between us.” He stared at her, looking for rejection but her leaf-green gaze never wavered. “You’ve seen the reaction of my kin.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “I am bas
tard-born, a half-breed, a child of rape, despised by both peoples.”

  “Yet noble enough to stand alone on a ridge and buy the lives of your companions.”

  “A bastard’s life is not that dear.”

  Her green eyes deepened. “It is to me.”

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  Her voice never wavered. “I see you, Duncan Treloch. I see a man who risks his life for his companions. I see a man who would not abandon the wolf to die. I see strength, and courage, and purpose.” Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “I look at you and I see the man of my dreams.”

  Hope burned within him, yet he kept his voice hard. “You are royal born.” He shook his head. “A bastard half-breed and a royal princess, it cannot be.”

  She looked up at him, her green eyes wide with honesty. “I was born to the sword.”

  He waited for the meaning beneath her words.

  “My mother died birthing me. I never knew her touch, never knew her voice. I soon learned that there was no place in Castlegard for a girl. Growing up in the shadow of swords, I was nearly invisible, always yearning for a blade but never allowed to hold one.” She reached through the wildflowers till her hand found her sword. Sunlight glinted along the edge. “My father is the king of Castlegard, the king of swords…yet he never granted me a blade. He never saw me.”

  Her voice reflected the loneliness of her choice… and the mountain of prejudice set against her. He shook his head at the king’s folly. Better to take the claws from a lioness. “You were meant to hold a sword.” His voice betrayed more than he intended.

  “And holding a sword, I do not belong.” She stared at him as if trying to see into his very soul. “Except, perhaps, with you…”

  A shiver passed through him, but he held himself rigid, tight behind his walls. “I am a half-breed bastard without a home.”

  “A cat-eyed archer saved my life.”

  She ambushed him with surprises. “When?”

  “In a meadow, in the wilds of Wyeth, before I met you.” A strand of golden hair fell across her face. She brushed it back behind her ear. “He told me that among the Children of the Green, women are free to choose their own path in life, to choose the bow…or the sword…or even to lead.”

  Duncan nodded

  “Do you know how much that choice would mean to me?” She leaned toward him, her green eyes ablaze with light. “Don’t you see? To me, your heritage is a boon not a burden!”

  His walls crumbled. Only once before had a woman accepted the whole of him, the white eye and the golden.

  She smiled, her eyes bright with promise. “I felt it the first time I saw you, that early morning on the rampart of Castle Tandroth. I did not even know your name, or anything about you, yet I knew.”

  He held her close, needing to make the words real. “What would you have of me?”

  “Everything.”

  The single word shivered through him, leaving a blaze of heat, but Duncan refused to give in. “Your father will never approve.”

  Kath sighed. “No, he will never approve.” She sat up and plucked the wildflower from her hair, tugging at the petals. “I’ve always disappointed him. He never approved of the sword…and he will never approve you.” She stilled, her gaze drinking him in. “Perhaps like the sword, I should make my own choice?”

  He saw determination in her face…and just a touch of fear. She was brave, and lovely…and young.

  She looked away. “But there are other obstacles.”

  “What?”

  “Duty.” Her green eyes pleaded for understanding. “On the ridge, when I thought I’d lost you, I rode away in a blind fury. I forgot about my companions…I forgot about duty…I fled without thinking…” her voice faded to a hush, “I can’t lose you again.”

  He waited, sensing there was more.

  “Yet I have sworn to slay the Mordant.”

  He nodded. “So have we all. We take a warrior’s risk, and in return, are given a chance to make a difference, a chance to defeat a great evil. Isn’t that what you want?”

  Steel returned to her voice, “Yes.”

  He smiled and whispered, “My Lioness!” He did not want to lose this second chance, this chance to be whole. Taking a deep breath, he made a decision for them both. “The gods made us to be warriors, you with the sword and me with the bow.”

  She nodded, her face solemn.

  He made his voice certain. “Then we’ll chase the Mordant north, as warriors, as comrades in arms…and when the task is done, we will have each other.”

  A glint of doubt remained in her eyes.

  He thought he understood. “You needn’t fear for me.”

  She whispered, “How can I not?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Because a cat has nine lives…and after the ridge I’ve at least eight left!”

  She smiled then, a smile to rival the sun. “I’ll hold you to that!” Her gaze flicked to the twilight sky. “The others will be wondering.” Her smile turned shy. “I’d rather stay.”

  “But duty calls?” They reclaimed their weapons, sword and axes, dagger and bow. For a moment it seemed as if the world came between them. But then he offered her his hand. “Walk with me?” Her hand slipped into his, their fingers entwining, a perfect fit.

  37

  Samson

  Samson huddled in the alleyway, crouched next to Justin, one of seven men daring the risk. They hid in the dark, cloaks covering swords, faces darkened by lampblack, lying in wait for a chance to save a sinner.

  A keening wail cut through the darkness, clawing at nerves already frayed.

  Samson held his breath, straining to listen past the sinner’s lament. The cobblestone street seemed sleepy enough but somewhere out there soldiers lurked, ready to pounce, a game of cat and mouse. Samson hated being the mouse. He gripped his sword for courage, feeling that his luck was running thin. He’d tried to talk the bard into laying low for a few days but Justin refused, arguing that words alone would never be enough. The bard needed daring deeds to shake the people out of their religious torpor, and so the raids continued…and each raid the risks got worse.

  This time there were seven men; a bard, a refugee, an ex-drill sergeant, three men rescued from the stocks and one swayed by songs, a ragged handful of idealists pitted against the soldiers of the Flame. Samson shook his head in despair. They didn’t have the numbers for a fair fight, so they relied on tricks and sleight-of-hand. Problem was, each ruse only worked once…and Samson knew the bard’s bag of tricks was running low. They’d lost three men on the last raid, three lives lost to free one man. Freedom wasn’t cheap. Samson tightened his grip on his sword, wondering when it would be his turn to pay the price.

  A tow-haired boy emerged from the shadows, tall and skinny, all arms and legs, one of the orphan boys. Willie had a knack for climbing; using the rooftops like the other orphans used the alleyways. He nodded to Samson but his gaze sought Justin, hero-worship written across his freckled face. “You were right, Harper.” Admiration filled the boy’s hushed voice. “They put a sentry up on the roof this time, but I found him.”

  “Just one?”

  The boy nodded. “Just one, Harper, easy to see the red even in the dark.”

  “What about the rest of the soldiers?”

  “There’s a troop of thirty over on Cobb Street, reckon they’ll come from the west once the hammers start.”

  Samson shuddered, seven against thirty; he prayed the bard had the good sense to retreat but he wasn’t hopeful.

  “Good work, Willie.” Justin turned to the men crouched behind. “Ben?”

  The ex-drill sergeant stepped forward and crouched at Justin’s side. He moved like a stalking cat, his hand on his sword, his gaze sharp. Samson envied the big man his confidence, wishing he felt like a predator instead of prey.

  The bard kept his voice to a whisper. “Willie’s found a sentry on the roof.”

  Ben nodded. “I’ll take care of him.”

 
Justin gripped Ben’s arm. “Be careful, my friend, and return when you’re done. We’ll need your sword.”

  “I’ll be quick about it, Harper. Just be ready for my signal.” Ben turned to the boy. “Lead the way, Willie.” Man and boy melted into the shadows.

  A sick feeling settled in Samson’s stomach; the bard would take the risk despite the grim odds.

  Justin turned and faced him. “Samson?”

  He nodded a wordless reply, his mouth suddenly dry.

  The bard must have sensed his unease, placing a steadying hand on Samson’s shoulder. “We’ll need our secret weapon.” He prodded the bulging leather sack at Samson’s feet. “Willie says the soldiers will come from the west. For the surprise to work, the soldiers will need to see us. Set the cord in front of the chandler’s shop. Blanket the street with our surprise and then join us at the wagon.” Justin gripped his arm. “But wait for Ben’s signal.”

  They waited, crouched in the stink of the alleyway. Samson’s heartbeat measured the moments, loud in his ears. He clung to thoughts of Lucy, remembering the light in her eyes when she named him a hero. The memory gave him courage. He clung to it like a talisman against the grim odds.

  The waiting seemed forever. A faint blush of color painted the eastern sky, a warning of the coming dawn. Samson shuddered, wondering if Ben had failed.

  The harsh caw of a raven filled the street.

  Justin stood, his hand on his sword. “Ben’s taken the sentry! Now be quick about it, each to his task, and we’ll free the sinner before the soldiers know we’re here.”

  The others followed the bard into the street, running for the wagon, leaving Samson with the bulging leather sack. Wary of the iron spikes, he hefted the sack away from his body, running with a swaying lope. His arms ached with strain by the time he reached the chandler’s shop. He dropped the bag, the clink of iron muffled by leather. Removing a hammer and two iron spikes, he knelt, searching for a place to set the spike. The baseboard of the timber-framed shop was perfect. He placed the spike low to the ground and held the hammer poised, sweat dripping from his forehead. Samson hesitated, his stomach clenched with fear. Killing the sentry bought them time but the sound of hammers would bring the soldiers running. Samson shook his head and swore; he had no choice. He swung the hammer, putting the weight of fear into the blow. A single blow set the spike. Looping a braided cord around the spike, he played the line out to the far side of the street. Setting the second spike, he pulled the trip cord taunt.