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  Slow Burn

  Book two of

  The Chronicles of the Blue Flame

  by Tamara Vincent

  Slow Burn & The Chronicles of the Blue Flame © 2018-2019 Tamara Vincent

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction, and all characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination.

  Dedicated to my mother.

  What went before

  This is the second volume in a planned trilogy called The Chronicle of the Blue Flame. I strongly recommend you read the first volume, called Into the Fire, to pick up the story from the beginning.

  But anyway, here’s a quick recap of what happened so far.

  A mysterious herald of Chaos known as the Hierophant is waging a Black Crusade against the forces of light. His armies, marching under the flag of the Five Stars, have so far conquered, pillaged and burned vast stretches of the kingdom, and no force seems capable of resisting them.

  After the good Duke of Bellegarde is killed in combat, his family estate is sacked and abandoned by the servants and the guards, leaving only the Duchess Adele and her three daughters, and a handful of retainers, waiting for the Five stars army to come and do away with them.

  Faced with humiliation, rape and murder, the women decide to try and recover the fabled Blue Flame, a weapon that in the past helped the Dukes of Bellegarde vanquish their enemies.

  Adele’s oldest daughter, brash Liane, together with her aunt Gisla, the late Duke’s half-sister and librarian, succeed in finding the Flame, and tap into its power.

  It turns out the Flame is a force of evil and corruption, capable of awakening the core of darkness and ruthlessness in the hearts of the scions of the Bellegarde blood. This is the fabled weapon: a force that makes the Bellegarde much more evil and perverted than any of their enemy.

  Now a blue-haired, blood-thirsty warrior, Liane takes command of a band of wild beast-men, killing their chieftain. Meanwhile, Gisla uses her new sorcerous powers to bring the Flame to Belegarde, and corrupt Adele and the rest of the households.

  Liane and her sister Coline lead the war-band of beast-men against a vanguard of the Five Star army, annihilating them. Meanwhile, embracing her new personality, Duchess Adele, now a debauched wanton, would rather bed the Hierophant than fight him, manipulating him with her sexual charm to become his mistress and the power behind his throne.

  When the Hierophant refuses her offer, Adele has his emissary killed, and the Duchy sets out to wait through the long winter, making ready for the invasion that will come with spring. Meanwhile, the Duchess and her daughters ease themselves into their new lifestyle and look for new weapons and allies.

  And here we are.

  And oh, this being the second book in a trilogy, it’s likely there will be a little less action and a little more playing around.

  I hope you enjoy this story all the same.

  Tamara Vincent

  March 2019

  Prologue

  “The only reasonable thing to do,” Bossu the Hostler said, nodding wisely, “would be to welcome the Hierophant and his crusade. It’s not like we can do anything against the Five Stars army anyway, we might as well join the winning side before we are swept away.”

  The early winter sun had fallen, and the regulars had gathered in the Bossu’s tavern for a wine and gossip. Now that the market had been shut down because of the war, this was the major social gathering in Saonne

  “They are close, now,” Bossu said. “The winter snow will keep them on the other side of the passes, and the spring rains will make swamps of the roads, but as soon as the season’s dry enough, they will be at our throat. We have not much choice.”

  Genovefa laughed, and collected a few empty cups. “Aren’t you afraid the Hierophant will force you to close your shop?”

  “He won’t force yours closed,” Bossu replied. Genò was the tavern’s serving wench, but she also doubled as the resident whore.

  “He might force you to join his army,” Genovefa said. In fact it was common knowledge that the Five Stars armed pressed into service both men and women. One of the Hierophant’s generals was indeed a woman, the feared Ghita of Abbrix.

  “Better to march with a victorious army,” Bossu said, “than be a slave or worse, end up burned at the stake.”

  “The men that were in Tavin would have a different opinion,” Prio the Blacksmith said. He ran his thick fingers on his equally thick mustache, cleaning it from the remains of his beer. “The She-lion of Bellegarde—”

  Bossu snorted. “That’s bullshit. Traveler’s tales. The Duke was no warrior, and we all know how he ended, and as for his daughters,” he snorted, “they are just three pampered aristocratic bitches.”

  The door to the tavern opened, and a chill wind blew in. A man stood on the doorstep, tall and bearded, olive skinned. Everyone watched him as he came in. He was wearing a black cloak, and rider’s boots.

  “Are we in time for a bowl of soup?” he asked the hostler. A southerner, by his looks and his accent.

  “Who and who else?” Bossu retorted.

  The man undid the clasp at the neck, and folded the cloak over his arm. “My men are taking care of the horses,” he said, lifting two fingers. He was wearing gloves, and carried a rapier and a long dirk on his belt.

  “You are welcome, sir,” Bossu said, still cautious but much more friendly.

  The man took a table, placed the folded cloak on the bench by his side, and looked around, pulling his gloves off. His hands were slender and long-fingered. Genovefa came over, and leaned on the table, running a rag over the top and offering the stranger a good look at her tits. “Anything you like?” she asked him.

  The man chuckled. “Let’s start with some mulled wine,” he said, placing four silver coins, stacked, in front of himself. She winked at him and went to fetch the wine.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” one of the regulars asked.

  “No, not from around here.”

  “You from the south?” Bossu asked.

  The man looked up at him. “Arelles,” he said.

  Prio whistled. “That’s a long way south. You’re keeping ahead of the Five Stars, uh?”

  The man smiled. “In a way, yes.”

  “You came in through the Griffon pass?” Genovefa asked, placing a flagon of steaming wine in front of him. “You’ve been through Tavin?”

  “I was in Tavin, yes,” the man said. He placed his hands around the flagon.

  “Is it true what they say?” Prio asked, eyeing the hostler.

  “What do they say?” the man asked.

  “That the Five Stars had taken the city, and Bellegarde won it back?”

  The stranger took a sip of the wine. He nodded appreciatively. “It is true,” he said. All eyes in the common room were on him. He stretched the legs under the table. “The Hierophant planned to hold the town, and with the town the pass.” He clicked his tongue, and shook his head. .”He underestimated the Duchess and her daughters.”

  Murmurs ran through the crowd. Bossu snorted.

  “They attacked the town at dawn,” the stranger said. “The two daughters of the Duchess, blue-haired Liane and red-headed Coline, with a force of beast-men and retainers backing them.”

  At the mention of the savage beast-men voices rose among the men.

  “This is ridiculous,” Bossu said.

  The door opened again, and two men in black cloaks came in, nodding a greeting. One of them was tall enough he needed t duck his head to pass through the door. The one by his side was much shorter, and had an insouciant smirk upon his copper face. They both pulled their cloaks off, and while the big one leaned on the counter and ordered a beer, the short one joined the stranger at his table. They carried swords and
daggers like their master.

  “Why ridiculous?” the stranger said.

  “The beast-men don’t serve no master,” Bossu said. “And here you come and tell us they followed the two spoiled Bellegarde bitches in Tavin?” he placed a stein of beer in front of the big man, and grinned. “I beg your pardon, stranger, but you are telling us a load of rubbish.”

  “I was in Tavin,” the stranger said quietly, “and I know what I saw. The beast-men call blue-haired Liane their chieftain, and follow her in battle.”

  “The She-lion of Bellegarde,” Genovefa said. She gave a full display of her cleavage to the small guy too, and took his order for a cup of mulled wine.

  “More like the vixen,” Bossu smirked.

  The foreigner gave him a look. “The Five Stars soldiers never had a hope in hell,” he said, and finished his wine. “You are free to believe ,e or not, as you please. What you believe will not change the facts.”

  “Many died in Tavin,” the big man leaning on the counter said, his voice a low rumble. “They piled their heads in the square, like the beast-men do, and the She-lion killed their commander personally.”

  Bossu laughed. “And did she eat his heart, too?”

  A few of the customers laughed.

  “She did,” the short man said, accepting his wine and patting Genò’s ass, “because that’s the way of the beast-men, and now she’s one of them.”

  Bossu threw his head back, and laughed aloud. “Yeah, sure. And the other one, Coline? Did the Red-haired Cow of Bellegarde eat his dick?”

  Before he could understand what was happening, the big man had grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and dragged him over the counter. Bossu screeched.

  “You are not good at handling your business, man,” the giant said, his face in his, his voice low.

  Prio and some others had jumped up from their benches, to pull the two men apart, but found the short man standing in their way, two long glinting dirks in his hands and a cruel smile on his face.

  The stranger rose to his feet and walked slowly to the counter.

  “I know what I said, and I will not accept any insolence about the lady Coline,” he said. From inside his jacket he pulled out a heavy gold ring, and put it on his finger.

  “You better make your excuses, man,” the big one said to Bossu, “because by the ring on his finger, my master is Gerard of Vacluse, captain of the Guard of Bellegarde, and husband to the lady Coline.”

  A deadly silence fell on the gaggle of men in the common room. The short man twirled his dirks around in silver arcs. “Never a good idea,” he said, “pissing off the man who’s here to save your ass.”

  Part 1 - Awakenings

  One - Sisters

  The snowfall was thickening as the sun disappeared beyond the crest of the mountains.

  Sister Armelle sighed and pulled on the mule’s halter. The animal brayed, and pulled, but the cart won’t move, its wheels sinking even deeper in the patch of mud that had trapped them.

  “It is useless,” Sister Maeva said. She and Sister Auriane had been pushing the cart in the back, and were disheveled, wet and splattered in mud. “It won’t budge.”

  “Soon it will be dark,” Sister Auriane said. She was the younger of the three, and her voice was barely a whisper. She wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering.

  Sister Maeva held on to her cowl, a gust of wind causing its wings to flap wildly. “We must find a refuge,” she said. “That log house we passed this morning—”

  “It was a ruin. And we’ll never be there before dark,” Sister Armelle said. “And who knows what dangers haunt these woods at night. Wild beasts, certainly—”

  “The beast men,” Sister Auriane whispered, her eyes widening.

  “We must pray to the Holy Claire of the Hearth,” Sister Maeva said. “She will keep us safe.”

  “There are no beast men in these woods,” a voice said.

  The three Sisters of the Heart turned and stared at the woman walking to them through the snowdrifts. She was like an apparition, wrapped in a dark blue cloak trimmed in golden fur. Her face was a pale oval, half of it hidden behind a cascade of black hair.

  “None that would harm you anyway,” she added.

  Sister Maeva took a step forward. “Who are you?”

  The woman looked at her, and arched an eyebrow. A silver ring sparkled in her brow. Her lips were full and dark, pierced with silver rings, and curled in a disdainful, amused smile.

  She walked past the sister, and grasped the mule’s halter. Her hand was covered in a filigree of black tattoos, and her fingertips were as black as her hair and her long fingernails.

  The beast heehawed and took two steps forward, and the cart was free of the puddle.

  “There,” she said.

  The sisters traded glances.

  “I am Bélise of Bellegarde,” the woman said. She pointed up the path that snaked between the black, bare trees. “That way,” she said, “stands the tower of Beaubois. Ask the lady Gisla there for hospitality. This is going to be along night, and cold.”

  And without another word, she turned on her heels and started up the path. In a few heartbeats she was lost behind the veils of falling snow.

  “The late Duke had a daughter called Bélise,” Sister Armelle said. “But this one looks older and—”

  “She is beautiful,” Sister Auriane said.

  Sister Maeve shrugged, and sighed, her breath coalescing in a cloud in front of her face. “She offered us safe haven in this storm, and we must be grateful to Claire of the Hearth for sending her our way. Let us go, and make haste.”

  The wheel creaking, they started up the path, keeping their heads low.

  “I am Gisla of Beaubois,” the woman said, her voice deep and thick like warm honey. She stood at the foot of the staircase, in a blue dress that hung from the silver rings in her nipples, her ample bosom exposed. Her hair was a wild shock of black curls, and there was a amused expression on her dramatically made-up face.

  “I am Sister Maeva of the Hearth,” Maeva said, cautiously. “And these are my sisters Armelle and Auriane. We come from the monastery of Tarelle.”

  The lady Gisla nodded a greeting. “It is not advisable to brave the mountains in winter,” she said.

  “War is coming to the lowlands,” Sister Maeva said. “And we were looking for a safe place—”

  “To hide,” Gisla smirked. There was spite in her dark voice.

  Sister Maeva stretched her back. “We are women of peace, we venerate Claire of the Hearth—”

  “Anyone worshiping fire and warmth is welcome in my house,” Gisla cut her short. “Come, I have made ready for you.”

  She turned. Her blue dress left her back naked, and was cut so low that the upper curve of her buttocks peeked from the fabric. She started up the stairs, hips rolling, her long dress’ train brushing the wooden steps. “Follow me,” she said.

  They climbed the spiraling staircase, careful not to step on the lady’s train, and Gisla led them into a large round room, that occupied a whole level of the tower.

  “I am afraid you will have to adapt,” she said.

  The three sisters were staring, wide eyed in surprise.

  The floor was covered with thick carpets. Three couches, their gilded frames sculpted in curls and ivy leaves, had been arranged along the wall, farther away from the door. Each couch was loaded with a mismatched assortment of pillows and furs, and soft glinting sheets, some of which had spilled on the floor. There were side-tables by the couches, and a larger, low table in the center of the room.

  “I had some refreshments brought for you,” Gisla said.

  On the table sat a large, long-necked bottle of cut crystal, filled with a bright blue vintage, and three matching goblets. Bowls were filled with nuts, dates and other dry fruit, and one with bright blue berries, like perfect glass marbles. On the same table, a large hookah was steaming gently, the pipes coiled around its body like long thin snakes.

 
; “To keep the cold away,” Gisla said.

  There was a single large window in the room, and it was closed with a simple blue curtain.

  “I am not sure we are used—” Sister Maeva said, eyeing the water pipe.

  “It is easy,” Gisla said.

  She picked one of the mouthpieces between thumb and forefinger, and held it up to the sister’s face. Her fingernails were long and blue like her dress. Her lips were the same color, a single silver ring glinting in the lower lip.

  “You just take it in your mouth,” she said, pushing the mouthpiece between Maeva’s lips. “And then you suck on it.”

  Maeva’s eyes goggled, and she surprised herself as she took a big mouthful of smoke. She was wracked by a coughing fit, smoke escaping through her mouth and nostrils. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “It takes some time to get used to,” Gisla smiled cruelly.

  She pointed to a door. “There is a rest room, with hot water for you to clean yourselves from the dirt of the road.”

  She turned, and walked back to the door and the staircase.

  “I wish you a good night,” she said over her shoulder.

  Sister Maeve stared at her as she exited and closed the door. Only then she realized she was still holding the mouthpiece of the water pipe.

  “What a strange woman,” Sister Auriane said.

  She sat down heavily on one of the couches, with a sigh.

  She frowned, and rummaged between the furs. She came up with a glass cylindrical thing. It was about fifteen inches long, and as thick as her wrist. It was slightly curved, and it tapered at both ends.

  “What is this?” she asked, turning it in both hands.

  Sister Armelle took it and weighed it. “Probably it’s used to crack the nuts open,” she said.

  “They are absolutely scrumptious,” Gisla grinned as she closed the door to her quarters.