“Scafo casi scafam boniat.” Beldinas’s voice was solemn. “A gray shadow remains a shadow, my friend.”
Cathan bowed his head. He thought of the priests, the faithful, who had gone to death or slavery because of that proverb. He and Ebonbane had sent their share howling to the Abyss—but their foes had been evil, Chemoshans and Sargonnites and Hidduki. The gray ones, the Sirriites and Shinareana and Chislev-kin… had they deserved the same fate? He thought of Idar and his family, who had suffered because they placed their faith in Zivilyn, and he remembered what Tancred had told him in the tunnels, what he must see here.
“Fan-ka-tso,” he whispered.
Beldinas looked at him sharply. “What did you say?” Cathan turned to gaze at him. “Fan-ka-tso. I want to see it.”
“Where did you hear of that?”
“Some of Tithian’s knights were talking about it,” Cathan replied evasively. “They wouldn’t tell me what it was—only that it was here.”
He had never lied to the Kingpriest before. As the eyes within the silver glow stared at him, he was sure the deceit showed in his face. He sweated, his heartbeat grew quick. Beldinas knew, had to see through him … then, against his breastbone, he felt the malachite amulet tremble, just slightly. It must have masked his thoughts, as Tancred had promised, for the Lightbringer bowed his head with a sigh.
“Very well,” he said. “I will show you. Better that you learn the truth, rather than hearing nothing but rumor and lies. Follow me.”
He turned and strode past the idols, toward a white door studded with sunstones. Cathan gave the heathen idols one last look, shuddered, and hurried after, following the Kingpriest’s light.
*****
The statue had been large, towering more than twice the height of a man. It was hewn of golden jade, a stone found only in the jungles of Falthana, which the natives of that province claimed was made from the frozen tears of the last gold dragons. Cathan had never seen so much of the stuff, which glistened as if warmed from within. It was sculpted into a mannish form, though it differed from a human’s in several ways. For one thing, it had six arms, two of which held a chisel-tipped sword and a beaked war axe; three of the others had broken, and the weapons that remained were only hilts and stubs; the last was gone at the elbow. It was covered with scales: Armor or flesh, it was hard to tell. But the strangest thing of all was its head.
Fan-ka-tso had three faces, arranged about its head, each sharing one eye with the next. They all had different expressions: one laughing, one pinched with sorrow, one contorted with rage. Their eyes were chips of some deep blue stone Cathan didn’t recognize. Their teeth were sharp, almost tusks, and their tongues were pointed like spears.
The Hammer had not been gentle in pulling down the idol. It was broken in half across the waist, and the pieces stood side-by-side in the upper Hall. Its feet were missing—probably still attached to it’s plinth, somewhere in the depths of the jungle—and chips were missing from its lower half, where the knights had attacked it with hatchet and sledge.
Cathan stood before Fan-ka-tso, wondering. To his eye, it was yet another false god, some demon the Falthanans had elevated beyond its place. He’d seen many such icons in his time, but this statue was different, somehow. There was no blood on it, and there was something strangely familiar. Tancred had told him to seek it out: would he have done that if Fan-ka-tso were simply another beast of the Abyss?
“Its name,” he said. “I don’t speak Old Falthanan. What does it mean?” The Kingpriest signed the triangle, warding against whatever spirit might still dwell within the statue. “ ‘Ever-Watcher’” he said.
Cathan stiff an image came to his mind: Sir Marto, the big, blustering Falthanan knight who had been under his command and who had died at Losarcum. Marto had spoken a great deal about his homeland, about the great cities of Karthay and Yerasa, about the gods of his fathers: the Mirrorsnake who was an aspect of Paladine … the Lady of Tears, who was Mishakal the Healing Hand … and the Ever-Watcher, who was—
“Jolith,” he murmured, his blood turning cold.
Kiri-Jolith, the lord of battle, was one of the Divine Hammer’s patrons. Every culture gave him a different form, but the one venerated by the Istaran church was that of Carnid, the Horned One, a massive warrior with horns upon his helm. Fan-ka-tso was a different manifestation of Jolith, but it was still the same god. Yet they had pulled it down and ravaged it.
He turned to stare at Beldinas. “Why?”
“Some of the Falthanans rejected the gods’ true forms,” the Kingpriest replied. “They refused to convert to the Horned One. It had to be stopped.”
“So you sent the Hammer after them. What about the priests?”
The Kingpriest sighed. “Not all of them surrendered. There was nothing else to do.”
“Nothing else…” Cathan put a hand to his mouth, turned away as his eyes began to sting. In his mind, he could see it: The Divine Hammer wading into the fray, swords and maces flying, bringing down the last of the diehards. He had done it often enough, against those who walked in shadow. The clerics would have burned their bodies, purifying them with holy oil. As for the rest, those who surrendered … Karthay must have a slave market, too.
“But this was a god of light,” he breathed.
Beldinas’s hand rested on his shoulder. “It was a corruption. Carnid is the one true form of Jolith. The rest is trickery, distortion.” He gestured at the broken statue. “Evil is subtle, my friend. It is the scorpion hiding within the orchid’s bloom. They may have worshipped Fan-ka-tso as a good thing, but it was one of the dark ones’ tricks. If we are to defeat evil forever, we must destroy it in all its manifestations. The skin of holiness cannot disguise or protect it.”
There were other shapes in the gloom of the chamber. Cathan couldn’t bring himself to look at them, for he now knew they would be familiar: Habbakuk and Branchala, Majere and Mishakal… . Paladine as well. All of them as they had been worshipped in the old kingdoms, Seldjuk and Dravinaar, even Taol. The church had wiped out the dark gods, smashed the gray. Now it pursued the light.
“But who determines what are the true forms, and what are false?” he murmured. “Who decides?”
“I do,” Beldinas replied. “I am the gods’ chosen, remember?”
Cathan said nothing, only bowed his head. He felt old again… old, and tired.
“It is hard to accept, I know,” the Kingpriest said gently. “You’ve been gone a long time. The war with darkness is not as it was when you left. The fewer places evil can dwell, the more it is wont to hide, and no more than in men’s hearts. Every man’s … even yours, and mine.”
“Yours?” Cathan looked up, surprised, and he saw through the aura again, saw the man within. The surprising fear in his eyes.
“Mine,” said Beldinas. “I feel it, Cathan. All around me … and within me. It gnaws at my soul, like some beast of the netherworld. For a long time I thought I would never be free of it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. His grip on Cathan’s shoulder grew tight, claw-like. “But I’ve found a way. I know how to win the war, to drown the shadows in light everlasting!”
In that moment, looking into those haunted, hunted eyes, Cathan understood: the Kingpriest was mad. Fear and fervor had stripped away his mind, leaving something else. Brother Beldyn, the young monk he had sworn to so long ago, was gone, devoured by this creature who made enemies of good gods and enslaved those who did not agree with him. Cathan mourned for him.
He knew, then, what he had to do.
“I’m listening, Holiness,” he said. “Tell me.”
*****
It was nearly morning when they left the Tower, heading back to the Temple. Beldinas smiled when they parted, and clapped Cathan on the shoulder. “Spring Dawning,” he said. “Remember, my friend. We set forth the day after Spring Dawning.”
“I’ll remember,” Cathan said. “Don’t worry.”
They parted then, the Kingpriest returning to his manse. Catha
n stood alone in the Garden of Martyrs, staring at the names of men who had died for Beldinas. Following the orders of a lunatic. His own name had been carved there, and removed.
The air in the garden grew cold. Frost appeared on the leaves, on the obelisks. Cathan didn’t turn, didn’t need to. He could see the black-robed figure clearly enough in his mind.
“You understand, now,” said Fistandantilus. “It is nothing so simple as good against evil. Not any more.”
“You could end this,” Cathan said. “You could bring him low with a word. Why haven’t you?”
The dark hood whispered as the archmage shook his head. “What would that accomplish? It would make him the greatest martyr of all. Evil cannot strike the blow that must fall, Twice-Born. No, this time it must be good that fights against the light.”
Cathan understood, and it sickened him. Every instinct, deep in his bones, screamed at him that the Dark One was lying, that this was some elaborate trick… but he had seen it with his own eyes: the tunnels, and the cages, and the broken idols in the dark. And he knew the truth about Beldinas. It terrified him, even more than Fistandantilus did.
“Good,” the sorcerer said. “We will speak again, when this is over.”
Then he was gone, and the cold with him. Cathan stood alone, watching the mist of his breath vanish, until he felt the tears dry on his cheeks.
Chapter 14
The bells of the Temple sounded a carillon the moment the sun’s lip rose above the waters of Lake Istar. It was a delicate melody, and beautiful, and for a moment it made Cathan’s heart lurch with fear; he froze in mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder, toward the crystal dome that rose above the Lordcity’s rooftops. Even now, Beldinas would be in the basilica, leading the morning prayers. The clergy were there, too, and the masters of the city. In other times, more innocent days, he would have gone to the ceremony as well, but now he couldn’t stomach the thought. The bells were a clangor to his ears, and the loveliness of the Temple was to his mind as forbidding as a tomb.
He thought of the dream he’d had in the Garden last night, of the burning hammer falling toward the city. He understood it, now. It was the god’s wrath; about that, the Kingpriest had been right. But he’d been mistaken about its purpose. They all were mistaken. And now they were almost out of time.
He turned around, looked back down the street. He was in the city’s north quarter, the Hill of Lords. Here the boulevards ran spear-straight, lined with flowering trees, past the sprawling manors of Istar’s wealthy. The homes were walled, their gates watched by armed guards, their courtyards wide and lushly appointed. Each was larger and grander than the last: here was another wing, a bigger atrium, taller columns on the front portico. None could touch the imperial manse for sheer grandeur, of course, but in other realms some of these houses could have been the palaces of kings.
Wentha wasn’t the richest woman in Istar, but she was close. Her manor stood near the hill’s crest, on a rocky outcrop that gave an impressive view of city, Temple, and lake: On a clear day one could see the far shore, and the great foundries of Bronze Kautilya. Today mist clung to the water, obscuring it not far beyond the harbor’s breakwater. The guards—bare-chested Seldjuki warriors, each of whom could have picked Cathan up with one hand, and who carried fantastically curved sabers the size of barge-poles—saw him coming, and nodded their shaven heads, parting without a word. The silver gates opened, and he stepped into the cool of the Weeping Lady’s grounds.
There were many fountains in Wentha’s garden; she’d acquired a taste for them, and had spent a small fortune in amassing them here. Everywhere Cathan looked, there was a spray, a jet, a glittering shower. The centerpieces were warriors and maidens, dolphins and sea dragons, capering satyrs and beautiful nymphs. And there—here, of all places—was even one with the Lightbringer himself standing in its midst, tall and beautiful as he once had been. There was no trace of madness, no sign of fear in his face. It made Cathan sad to see it.
The manor had seven steps, a broad flight leading to doors of rich-grained vallenwood inlaid with gold and onyx. Those doors alone had cost more than his and Wentha’s whole village had been worth, back in Taol. Another time, he would have felt a surge of pride at his sister’s prosperity. Now, though, he barely paused on the top step to lave his hands in a golden bowl before going in.
His hands were on the doors when they opened of their own accord, and there was his sister, standing in the shadowy cool of the atrium, another fountain bubbling behind her. She was dressed for the day in a gown of crimson samite, with a necklace of blood-red jasper around her throat—her own protection against the thought-readers. She smiled when she saw him, but even her beauty couldn’t break the pall that had settled on his heart.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her brows knitted. “Has something—oh,” She bowed her head. “You saw it, didn’t you? Fan-ka-tso.”
Cathan nodded. “He showed me. Why didn’t you just tell me yourself that he’s turned on the gods of light?”
“Would you have believed me if I had?”
He thought about that, and shook his head. “Will you help us, then?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, and glanced over his shoulder. There was no one around; even the manor’s guards were hidden by the trees of the garden. Even so, he felt strangely exposed, vulnerable. This was no place to plot sedition.
“Let me in, Blossom,” he said. “There is something else I must tell you first.”
*****
Tancred was the last to arrive, and found the rest of his family in an open-air dining hall at the heart of Wentha’s manor. Jewel-colored dragonflies hummed over a pool in one corner, and blossoming lemon trees filled the air with their scent. Cathan sat at a table of polished blue-gray marble, with Wentha on one side and Rath on the other. They all looked at Tancred, their faces grim.
“Shut the door,” Wentha said.
He did. “I’m sorry I took so long to answer your summons,” Tancred said, smoothing his vestments. “The dawn-calling was longer this morning than usual. His Holiness was in a particularly sacred mood.”
Rath chuckled a little, but Wentha cut him off with a look.
“Sit,” Wentha bade. “Your uncle has something to say.”
He got himself a drink first, pouring water and wine in a jeweled goblet. He sat, took a sip, and looked at Cathan—or tried to look at Cathan, without actually meeting his searing eyes. “So, you’ve made up your mind. About time.”
“Hush;” Rath said.
Tancred’s eyebrows rose at his brother’s seriousness, “What’s happened?”
“Yes.” Wentha looked at Cathan. “Tell them what you told me.”
Cathan took a deep breath. “I spoke with Beldinas last night, at the Hall of Sacrilege, He told me everything. What he hopes to do, to rid the world of evil once and for all.”
The brothers exchanged worried looks. Cathan looked down at his hands, folded on the table. Wentha shut her eyes as if wracked by pain. Rath and Tancred leaned forward, their troubled expressions so identical it was almost funny.
“His Holiness,” Cathan said, “means to command the gods.”
“What?” Tancred asked. “Command them? Surely you mean—”
“I mean command. He has asked them to remove the darkness from the world. He has cajoled, pleaded, begged. None of it has worked. He still sees evil wherever he looks. Hence the thought-readers. Hence Fan-ka-tso. So now, he intends to demand it of them, to force the gods to do his will.”
Rath laughed aloud. “That’s folly! No man has ever commanded the gods. No man can.”
Cathan didn’t answer. Wentha put a hand to her forehead.
“Can he?” Rath asked.
“He’s done it once already,” Cathan said. “When he brought me back from death. Now he means to try again.”
“But how?” Tancred asked. “And why hasn’t he done it already, if it’s within his power?”
“It isn’t within his power
. Or at least, he isn’t certain how he did it, the first time. But he thinks he’s found a way, something that will reveal the secret he seeks. The Peripas Mishakas.”
Rath spread his hands. “The Disks of Mishakal? But there are transcriptions of them everywhere. The monks in the sacred chancery are making new copies all the time. If that’s all he needs, then why—? ”
“You assume the transcriptions are complete,” Tancred said.
Everyone looked at him—Rath in startlement, Wentha with pride at his knowledge, Cathan with sorrow. “That is correct, Tancred,” Cathan said. “Beldinas thinks the lost chapters of the Disks hold the key. He believes the way to recapture what he did when he resurrected me lies within their pages. And so, he wants me to accompany him to the Vaults of the Kingpriests, to recover the true Disks, the originals scribed by the gods themselves.”
“But the Vaults are sealed,” Tancred said. “No man may enter them and live. So it is written.”
“Not quite,” Wentha murmured.
Cathan smiled, but without mirth. “The ban on the Vaults says that no living man may enter,” he said. “That’s where I come in.”
*****
No one knew how the Disks of Mishakal had come into the world; their origins were lost to history. The sages knew they were very old, predating the Kingpriests and Istar by a long margin. They were already ancient in the time of Huma Dragonbane, a thousand years ago. There were mentions of them in the accounts of the first emperors of Ergoth. Legend had it that the gods themselves had written the Disks—or at least Mishakal the Hand had—and had given them to the first men to break free of slavery under the ogres, that they had been the tools humankind had used to learn the arts of reading and writing. But there was no proof, one way or the other; all that remained from those dark times were stories and legends, passed down over the millennia.
What the scholars did know was that the Disks—called Peripas in the church tongue—had been thought lost in the second Dragonwar; that they were captured in the Battle of Gods’ Tears, when the forces of evil had all but wiped out the defenders of light. Even after the defeat of the Queen of Darkness, the Disks were not recovered, and the churches of Ergoth and Solamnia had given up their search.
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