The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (36 page)

A grim silence settled over the chamber.

The queen rose from her chair and walked to the window, needing to feel the warmth of the afternoon sun. “And there is no other way? No other choice?”

“For lesser crimes, nobles are executed by beheading, but this is said to be a relatively painless death. Commoners are executed by hanging; an insult to a nobleman but such a sentence would seem light for the crime of treason. The people expect a grisly spectacle, something more than a mere hanging.” The master’s voice softened, carrying a note of concern. “Majesty, I understand the importance of image, and your desire to avoid barbaric acts, but you cannot be seen as lenient. The crown must be strong and decisive. The punishment must be dire, befitting the crime.”

She turned towards the window and stared at the summer sky, a perfect blue vault scarred by the pillar of black smoke. The sky needed to be cleansed, the kingdom set to rights. “The traitors need to be punished and justice served.” Making her decision, she turned to face her two advisors, her back sword-straight, her voice as hard as duty. “By royal decree, the traitors will be stripped to loincloths and paraded in chains through every street and alleyway of Pellanor. Let the people see how low the traitors have fallen. After the parade, the lesser traitors will be hung by the neck until dead. The Lord Turner will be the last to die. After witnessing the death of his supporters, he will be boiled alive. Their bodies will be thrown on the pyre and burnt rather than poison the soil of Lanverness.” She looked to the Master Archivist. “We charge you to arrange the proceedings. We want the executions accomplished within four days.”

The master bowed; a grim set to his mouth.

The queen stood tense, waiting for the storm to come.

The master cleared his throat. “Majesty, there is one other traitor to be dealt with.”

Liandra raised a finger in warning. “We know of whom you speak. We have not forgotten the traitor-prince.”

“Majesty, even in the depths of the dungeons, Danly is a threat.” The master’s voice became insistent. “The soldiers of the rebellion, the ones whose oath you took in the castle yard, they know of Danly’s involvement. It is only a matter of time till the people know as well.”

She willed herself to stone.

“Justice will not be complete until Danly pays for his treason.” The master’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Majesty, you cannot forget or forgive the way he behaved in the audience chamber!”

“We have not forgotten.” Her words struck like a whip. “We know our duty…but he is still our son.” She fought to keep her voice level. “Death is very final.” She looked toward her first child, her soldier-son, her heir. “What say you?”

The prince met her gaze, his face solemn. “The Master Archivist speaks the truth; the soldiers know. Danly is a traitor to the throne and must pay for his crimes.” He shook his head. “But boiled alive…”

The master interposed. “For the prince, beheading would be sufficient.”

She gave the master a cold stare. She’d heard all the reasons, all the logic, but she was not yet ready to make the decision. Sentencing her own son to death seemed monstrous…despite the foulness of his deeds. Liandra shook her head, her voice firm. “Danly will remain in the depths of the dungeon.” She gave her shadowmaster a commanding stare. “Proceed with the other executions and leave the traitor-prince in chains.”

The master shook his head in warning, a thunderstorm behind his dark eyes.

The queen knew she’d only delayed the argument…but for now that was enough.

Liandra crossed the chamber and resumed her seat, artfully arranging the folds of her gown, wishing her problems could be smoothed as easily as silk. Forcing her voice to calm, she turned to the next issue. “Punishment accounts for only half of the debts owed. We also have loyalty to repay, a happier duty. The crown will not stint when it comes to recognizing loyalty. Even those who serve in the great kitchen and kept our secret will be rewarded.” She paused, considering the cost. “But we need not beggar the treasury. Titles, lands, and holdings will be stripped from the traitors and distributed to those who are worthy.” She fingered the rubies at her throat. “We want the names of soldiers who served bravely and the names of citizens who rushed to our defense.”

The prince nodded and the master said, “It will be done.”

“We intend to host a great victory feast, open to all the people of Pellanor. An abundance of wine and roast ox and suckling pig, something the people will talk about long after the traitors are forgotten.”

The master nodded. “As you wish. But there is other news worthy of consideration. A contingent of Octagon Knights has arrived in the city, requesting an audience with the queen. The smiths of Castlegard have completed their commission.”

“Ah, the blue steel swords.” The queen sat back in her chair. It seemed another lifetime when she’d ordered the blue blades.

Prince Stewart leaned forward, his face blazing with interest. “Blue steel blades will help us rally recruits for the army. The blades could not have come at a better time.”

Even her royal son was not immune to the hero’s spell of blue steel. “We will award the blades at the victory celebration. The people need signs of hope to banish the evil of the rebellion.” She turned to the Master Archivist. “Arrange a meeting with the knights. We look forward to receiving the blades.”

The master nodded.

“And now we each have tasks of great import which need attending.” She held her ringed hand out, ending the meeting. Both men bowed and kissed her ring of office before taking their leave.

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.

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 bastard-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.