Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  But what was the yethu doing here, of all places? Tithian stared at the animal, which faced the gates, as intent as any hunting beast he’d ever seen, its opalescent teeth bared.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. “Come here, you.”

  The platinum hound paid him no mind. With a sudden yap, it leapt forward, and passed through the bars… emerging on the other side. It started to run on, then stopped, turning back again to whine at the knights.

  “What?” grumbled Xenos, “Does it expect us to do that too?”

  There was a chain holding the gates shut, and a lock on it. The captain of Chidell’s city guard would have the key, and probably Lord Dejal, too. But they were both back at the palace, and Tithian’d be damned if— He stopped, starting. The lock was open.

  Warrior’s instincts prickled his scalp. His sword hissed as he drew it out of its scabbard, and his men followed his lead. Biting his lip, he reached out with his free hand and pushed on one of the doors. Creaking, it swung open. The yethu took off again.

  He could feel the slaves’ eyes on him as he entered. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation. The Hammer had brought them into slavery in the first place, in most cases, and they didn’t forget. More than a few would gladly seize the chance to take revenge. If the cages were unlocked …

  The yethu yapped again, halfway down the market. There were other sounds, though—a woman’s cry of alarm, an angry shout, a curse. Tithian halted, signaling to his men, and peered ahead into the moonlight.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  “Tithian?” called Wentha MarSevrin. “Gods, is that you?”

  “Get this thrice-damned thing away from us!” snapped another voice—one of her sons, Rath most likely.

  The yethu had them both pinned up against a relief-carved wall, liquid lips peeled back in a snarl Lady Wentha looked terrified, Rath somewhere between that and anger. He had his saber out, and held it before him to keep the hound at bay. Tithian wondered what good the blade would be against the beast, if it came to that.

  As he and the other knights drew near, the yethu backed down, looking at him with expectant eyes. He held up a hand, ignoring its answering whine as he turned to Wentha.

  “Milady, I apologize if the creature frightened you,” the Marshal said. “It means no harm to friends of the Kingpriest.”

  The yethu seemed to think otherwise. It gave Rath a vicious look as he sheathed his saber again, growling deep in its throat.

  “I’m glad for that, Lord Tithian,” Wentha said, shaken. “And I’m glad you’ve come. We need your help. It’s—it’s my brother.”

  Tithian wanted to ask her why she was here, why the gate to the market had been unlocked—but no. Answers could wait until he found Cathan.

  “Where is he?” he asked.

  She led them to him, the yethu padding along beside. Soon more shadows came into view, huddled against the wall. With a ringing screech, the platinum hound leapt toward the shapes, then stopped an arm’s length from them, raised its head and howled, then exploded in a spray of silver droplets.

  Tithian stumbled and the others cringed as the bits of the yethu rained down. The creature had been summoned for a purpose, and that was to find the Twice-Born and his family. After fulfilling that purpose; it had vanished.

  Tancred crouched at the base of the wall, staring at where the hound had been a moment before. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, his face as white as the vestments he wore. He saw Cathan, sitting with his back against the wall, his chin on his chest. His eyes were closed. For a horrible moment, the Grand Marshal thought he was dead—then the Twice-Born opened his mouth and let out a deafening snore. “He’s drunk!” Tancred said.

  Tithian could smell the wine from where he stood. There was an empty skin next to Cathan, and dark red stains on the front of his tunic. A thin dribble ran from the corner of his mouth.

  “Gods,” Tithian said, and turned to Wentha. “How did he end up here?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea. We saw him leave the feast, and followed him. He was already in a bad state, yelling like a madman, and we couldn’t turn him around. He passed out here. We were going for help when you showed up.”

  He met her gaze, his eyes narrowing.

  “How did he unlock the gates?” Sir Xenos pressed.

  “How should we know?” Rath snapped back. “They were open when we found him.”

  “Lord Tithian,” Tancred pressed. “Did he know about the slaves?”

  Tithian blinked, then shook his head. No, he supposed, Cathan wouldn’t have known.

  “No wonder he got so upset,” Wentha said pointedly. “Come on. You have to help us.”

  He looked down. Cathan was about to slump over on his left side. Tithian bent down and steadied him before he could fall. The reek of wine made his eyes water.

  “Please,” Wentha pressed, “he doesn’t deserve this humiliation. He’s your friend, Tithian. If someone should spot him in this state—”

  Tithian sighed. She was right—Cathan didn’t need the shame of being discovered drunk in the slave quarters. They could fill in the details later.

  “All right,” he said, and slid his arm around his former master’s shoulders. Straining, he helped him up. “Come on, then. Let’s get him home.”

  Chapter 11

  The rocking of the Kingpriest’s gilded barge made Cathan’s stomach lurch. There wasn’t even any chop on Lake Istar, and the boat—a wide, square-sailed vessel with a dragon-shaped prow and a high viewing gallery at the stern—skipped lightly over the littlest of waves. To Cathan, however, it seemed as if it were about to capsize at any moment. He gagged, putting his hand to his head.

  He hadn’t been so drunk … or drunk at all… since his time in the Hammer. He couldn’t recall ever having a hangover so bad. But drinking a whole skin of raw wine in a little over a minute had worked: He and his family were here, on the god-cursed barge, and Idar and his rebels remained hidden from the Lightbringer and the Hammer. Beldinas was none the wiser.

  It was a damp morning, gray mist swirling across the lake’s surface, fine drizzle darkening the water to the color of slate. A canopy of white oilcloth stretched over the afterdeck, warding off the rain. A young sailor perched on the bow, blowing low notes on a long, silver trumpet to warn off any boats that might not see them in the mist. Cathan saw the Kingpriest’s glow out of the corner of his eye, started to turn his head, then thought better of it when white lights exploded in front of his eyes. He slumped, breathing hard, his face clammy with sweat. “Here,” whispered a voice in his ear. A face bent over him—Tancred. Rath was beside his brother, as usual. “Take this.”

  Something pressed into Cathan’s hand. He looked at it: an amulet, made of what looked to be a small slice of malachite. He turned it in his hands, then glanced at his nephew.

  “For the Araifas,” Tancred answered. “It will cloud your thoughts if they try to read them.” Glancing around, he opened the neck of his robes. Between his collarbones, next to the silver triangle he wore as a holy sign, was a similar medallion, made of lapis. “You’ll need it.”

  Nodding, Cathan slipped the necklace over his head. He had to lift his head to do it, which made him feel like several trolls were trying to bash their way out of his skull, but he staved off the urge to pass out. He felt a strange sensation, like an itch in his mind, as he tucked the malachite into his tunic.

  Suddenly Wentha was there, bending over him, smoothing back the hair he hadn’t had in years. “It’s magic, yes,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” Cathan asked, and laughed ruefully. “After all that’s happened? Magic’s a little thing beside that.”

  “You look like the Abyss,” she said, smiling, then bent close to murmur in his ear. “Thank you. Tithian was suspicious, but he helped us anyway. I don’t think Beldinas suspects anything.”

  He nodded, then lay back, closing his eyes. “Don’t expect any answers out of me yet, Blossom. I helped you b
ack there because I had to. But the other thing…”

  She kissed his forehead. “I know. I’m not asking you for anything you don’t want to do.” She closed his tunic, hiding the medallion from view. “I think you’ll choose the right thing.”

  With that she rose and was gone, her sandals clacking against the barge’s deck. Tancred and Rath trailed after.

  Cathan lay quietly for a while, trying not to think of anything. The pain in his head made it easy. He shut his eyes—

  the burning hammer fell toward the city

  —and woke to the sun bearing down on his face. He blinked, pushing himself up on his elbows. The pain in his head had settled down to a low throb, making file seem worthwhile again. He’d been sleeping a while, evidently; the mist and rain were gone, and except for a few wispy clouds, the sky was clear. The crew had taken down the canopy and were working hard to furl the sails. Below decks, more sailors—or would they be slaves?—took to the oars, taking power over the barge away from the winds And ahead …

  The Lordcity looked exactly as he remembered it—the crystal towers, the marble manors, the lush green of trees and riot of flowers, the harbor an explosion of bustling color. The God’s Eyes, the Bloody-Fingered Tower, the many-bannered Arena, the Hammerhall perched on its hilltop. And the Temple, above all, with its seven golden spires, its silver rooftops, and its great, shining dome. Looking on the city, though, he knew it was a different place. Thought-readers walked its streets, hidden among the populace. Slaves had supplanted servants—there was a whole market of them, somewhere. And beneath the city, the tunnels must be packed, men and women like Idar’s gang in Chidell. Istar was a flawed jewel, a rose full of spiders, a lovely melody played just out of tone He had loved It once, and his heart had soared whenever he came back to it.

  Not any more. Shuddering, he lowered his gaze.

  “As beautiful as the first day we came to it, is it not, my friend?” asked Beldinas, appearing beside him. The vividness of his aura lanced Cathan’s skull “And yet, so tainted.”

  Cathan turned, his eyebrows rising. He looked at the Kingpriest’s face, serene amid the brilliance, end thought of the frightened visage he’d glimpsed back at Losarcum. He couldn’t reconcile the two.

  “Tainted, Holiness?”

  The Kingpriest nodded gravely. “Stained by the evil of men. Can you not see it? The darkness that lurks beneath the surface?” His voice turned sad, wistful. “There can be no true beauty—no pure beauty—as long as it remains so. But we will change that. I will change it. There will be light everlasting, and evil shall flee the world forever.”

  He believes what he says, Cathan thought, staring at the Lightbringer. He thinks he can do this thing. Maybe he can.

  He turned his gaze back to the Lordcity.

  *****

  The people of Istar were waiting at the foot of the Imperial Jetty, the broad stone pier lined with statues of Kingpriests long dead. It seemed half the city had come down to the harbor, to cheer and wave their arms in the air and throw rose petals. The din was horrendous, drowning out the choir of priestesses who had assembled with the rest of the clergy to sing hymns of welcoming.

  Emissary Quarath came forward, his youthful face— Cathan couldn’t get over how unchanged he was, when everyone else was so much older—creased with annoyance at the commotion. He signed the triangle as Beldinas stepped off the barge, then bent forward and spoke in the Lightbringer’s ear. He gave Cathan a long look when he was done, then turned and waved the entourage on toward the wharf.

  A huge, golden chariot, pulled by a dozen white stallions, awaited on dry land. Beldinas stepped astride the vehicle, raising his hand to the crowds, who erupted into even louder cheers. He then turned beckoned to Cathan. Cathan hesitated, and the Kingpriest nodded.

  “They’re chanting for you today, too,” he said. It was true. Word had reached the Lordcity before them, and it had spread through the markets and wine-shops and chapels, so that everyone in Istar knew where the Kingpriest’s processional had gone, and why. Now amid the usual cries of “Cilenfo! Pilofiro!”—the Healer, the Lightbringer—some were calling another word, over and over: “Dubagno!”

  Twice-Born!

  “Wave to them,” Beldinas said as Cathan stepped, stunned, onto the chariot.

  Cathan took his place in the chariot, the men and women of the Lordcity burst with emotion. Some wept; others fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before him. Cathan flinched, his face reddening at the sudden outpouring. Beside him, Beldinas accepted the display with ease. Cathan could only grimace. This isn’t just adulation, he thought. This is worship. He could tell them to kill their own children, and they’d sing his praises as they did it.

  The chariot rumbled forward, preceded by Tithian and an honor-guard of knights. Quarath followed behind, with the rest of the processional. The Divine Hammer rode through the mobs, using their horses to clear a path. A lane opened up, leading through the wharf and uphill toward the Temple.

  The crowds packed the alleys and balconies and rooftops on all sides. Everyone in the Lordcity had come out today, many of them expressly to see Cathan. Some had climbed the trees, or shimmied up statuary, and clung like apes, whooping and hollering. Banners bearing the burning-hammer sign of the knighthood fluttered above the mobs. And none of the citizens could meet his gaze: Whenever he looked straight into the crowds, they turned away.

  Of its own accord, his hand rose to his throat, where the malachite amulet lay hidden. There had to be scores of thought-readers out there, hidden among the crowds. Once, he even thought he saw a young woman signal to several nearby knights, who moved in at once to seize an elderly man next to her. She melted back into the crowd and disappeared, and Cathan swallowed with uncertainty. Had she been an Araifo? How bad would it get if one of them penetrated the medallion’s magic, and uncovered his memories of Idar and his sister and the white-masked rebels beneath Chidell? The uprising would end before it began.

  The chariot rumbled on, up the streets to the Barigon. The square before the Temple was packed to bursting. Grown men broke down and sobbed at the sight of the Lightbringer and the Twice-Born, together again. Waxen icons of Beldinas, as he had looked in his youth, waved in the air. Horns blew, and the bells in the Temple’s central spire sounded a joyous carillon.

  They pulled up at the Temple steps, where the imperial court had gathered. The empire’s princes and high priests were all clad in their finest raiment, all satin and cloth-of-gold and glittering jewels, their faces powdered and their bodies perfumed, men and women both. One by one they came forward to kneel before Beldinas as he stepped from the chariot, and he placed his hands upon their heads, blessing them with words only they could hear. Finally, he climbed the steps to the portico, gestured for Cathan to follow, and raised his hands for silence.

  The shouting and clamor turned to stillness so suddenly that the echoes were still fading from the alcoves when the Lightbringer raised his voice to speak.

  “Usas farnas, people of Istar,” he declared, his soft, musical cadences carrying across the entire square. “We have been a wounded realm, these past years. We have been missing one of our greatest heroes, one of those who has striven hardest in the war against evil. Thus darkness has shadowed our progress, and continued to hide among us, no matter how hard we fought.

  “Those days are over. By holy providence, the one who was lost has been restored to us, and a new era is at hand! With his help, we shall drive the shadows from this sacred land forever! Usas farnas, the Twice-Born is returned!” The crowd exploded into a gale of cheers as Beldinas gestured toward the foot of the steps. Cathan stood still, his face pale, as the adoration of an entire city washed over him. He had never felt anything so wonderful—or so horrifying. They were all calling his name, stamping their feet, clapping their hands. He had to respond somehow. Feeling worse than ill, he climbed the steps to stand beside the Kingpriest, in the glow of the Lightbringer’s aura.

  Chapter 12


  THIRDMONTH, 962 I.A.

  The philosophers of old had a phrase for what Cathan felt over the next three weeks. Lombo Par: the strange feeling that one had already lived through something in a previous life. Such ideas were heretical now—the notion spirits were reborn in the world was against the church’s teachings that after death every soul went either to the Abyss or Paladine’s realm beyond the clouds. But the phrase remained.

  The celebration of the Twice-Born’s return to the Lordcity lasted three days, with food and wine and festivities that made Lord Dejal’s court seem paltry by comparison. After that, however, life in Istar returned to normal, and the Lombo Par set in. The rhythms of the city, of the Temple, of the imperial court had changed little in all of Cathan’s time away. The bells above the basilica sounded every hour, with longer chimes at dawn, midday, and dusk. The courtiers still gathered in the Hall of Audience twice each day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The monks and priests still bustled about the Temple’s airy halls, just as merchants and pilgrims churned the streets outside, and the Lightbringer’s worshipers flocked in ever-greater numbers to the Barigon, chanting for him and holding candles at night. At the Hammerhall, where Tithian gave him quarters, the knights drilled and prayed and marched beneath the Grand Marshal’s watchful eye.

  Much of it had the eerie feeling of familiarity, but there was a difference to it, too, and that troubled Cathan even more. He felt an outsider, apart from both the Hammer and the church in a way he hadn’t been before. In the time before his self-imposed exile, he had been at the heart of things, a part of the Lightbringer’s inner circle. Now he had no role, no true place. He spent his days practicing swordplay with the knights, riding in the hills, or walking the gardens of the Temple.