“No,” Cathan said. “I’m all right. Just need to get away from the noise.”
“Are you sure?”
Forcing a smile, Cathan patted his old squire’s arm. “Watch the Games and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in a while.”
With a reluctant nod, Tithian sat back down. Cathan turned and hurried away, back up the aisle of the imperial box. He tasted bile the whole way.
*****
Six-Sword Square was empty. Nothing moved in the windows and balconies overlooking it, and only a single gray cat skulked in the alleyways that led away from it. Its center-piece—a fountain with a circle of half a dozen arms holding blades up out of the waters—made the only sound within. The muted roar of the Arena could still be heard in the distance, though the square was more than a mile away.
Cathan stood at the square’s edge, fists clenched. He shrank back against a red-tiled wall, holding his breath as the shadow of one of Quarath’s griffins swept overhead. He’d tried not to draw the beasts’ attention as he made his way here. The griffin was gone in a heartbeat, banking away as it continued to circle above the Lordcity. Cathan breathed easier.
“Blossom? he whispered. “Rath? Tancred?”
Nothing.
He crept forward, pulling off his mask to get a better view. As he did, he spotted something strange: a scrap of white cloth, snagged on one of the fountain’s swords, fluttering slightly amid the spray. At once he knew what it was for. Reaching out, he touched the marble stump of the blade. It gave slightly, then pivoted when he put his weight behind it. There was a click, and a soft grinding sound behind him. Turning, he saw a narrow opening in the red-tiled wall, where there had been none before. A short figure lurked in the darkness.
“You’re late,” growled Gabbro. “Get in here. And bring that cloth.”
The secret passage was narrow and tight, even for the dwarf. Cathan had to stoop to follow Gabbro down a flight of steps. The secret door clicked shut behind them, and it took a while for Cathan’s eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“More tunnels,” he murmured.
“You say that like its a bad thing,” the dwarf said, grinning. “Go on. Your sister and her lads are down there already.”
They were waiting for him in a room at the end of a long, vaulted passage. Armed guards watched the door, one of whom was huge and sallow. Cathan guessed he had some ogre blood in him, and marveled at how that did not surprise him. Little would surprise him, any more.
Then he stepped through the door, and gasped with shock.
“Well, good,” said Idar. “I’m glad you hadn’t guessed.”
He sat at a long table in the room’s midst, a wine-cup in his hand. Wentha was there, too, and Tancred and Rath, their masks laid on the table before them. Another man was there, too: a man in white robes fringed with scarlet. He had a high brow and thinning, dark hair. His graying beard was braided, with beads of amber threaded through it. Jewels sparkled on his fingers, and a silver circlet, studded with sunstones, rested on his head.
“Sweet Paladine,” Cathan breathed.
Rath and Tancred both grinned, and Idar laughed aloud. Even Wentha’s eyes sparkled. “Not quite,” she said. “Brother, meet the leader of our movement.”
The bearded man rose, his vestments whispering about him. “Well met, Twice-Born,” said Lord Revando, First Son of the holy church.
Chapter 17
I should be kneeling, Cathan thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to do what was expected. The First Son said nothing, staring at him with one eyebrow raised. Wentha came forward and touched his arm. “Cathan…”
“You didn’t tell me about this,” he said. “Gods, how is it possible?”
“Through careful planning,” Revando replied. “It took a lot of work to insinuate myself into His Holiness’s court. A lot of work, and a lot of patience. I had to keep myself hidden—from him, from the elf, from the Araifas. No one in the church knows.”
Cathan stared at the high priest, noting the calm expression on his face. Nobody in the empire, save Quarath, had greater claim on the Kingpriest than this man. “Who—who are you?” he asked.
“Why, the head of the Revered Sons of Paladine,” said the First Son with a smile that would ruddy beatific in other circumstances. Here, in the hard orange lamp-light, it clung to his lips, sinister. “Or, do you mean before? I was head of a small church in southern Ismin, in a town called Pedrun. It was a little village, so small we had only two temples… one to Paladine, and one to Gilean of the Book. This was years ago, not long after the war with the wizards.
“The Lord Ascetic, a man named Lethar, had been a friend of mine since we were children. We shared knowledge, we drank wine together, we were welcome in each other’s churches. He was wise, and he cared for the people of our village. He may have worshipped a gray god, but he was a good man.”
Cathan bowed his head. “I’ve heard this story,” he murmured. “Or others like it. Did they burn Lethar’s temple?”
“Not just that,” Revando replied. “They burned Lethar, too—no, not they. We did it, the men of the Divine Hammer and of the holy church. We burned him, along with his books … all because he followed the wrong god. It didn’t matter that he gave food to the hungry, or shelter to those in need. Someone spread lies about him, and the knights and priests descended on him like jackals, leaving nothing but ashes! And I stood and watched, and did nothing while my dearest friend died at the hands of my brethren!
“Before long, I learned this was happening all over the empire … that the faith I’d always believed in was responsible for murders like Lethar’s in every corner of Istar. And not just the gray gods’ followers, either.”
“He has seen it, Your Grace,” Wentha interjected. “He has seen Fan-ka-tso.”
Tears shone in the First Son’s eyes. “It was all I could do to sing the Lightbringer’s praises, the day they dragged that prize through the city gates.” He shook his head ruefully. “Once I’d heard enough tales, I decided to do something. I would avenge my friend, and all those like him. But I had to be patient, and careful. I did all I could to make a name for myself in the church, rose through the ranks. I curried favor with those who would give it, bribed those who wouldn’t, and built a reputation as a good Revered Son … until just last year, when I came to Istar to sit next to the Kingpriest. And all the while, I’ve organized these tunnel-rats, made a proper force of them with help from Idar and others.”
“All of it to bring down Beldinas,” Cathan breathed.
Revando nodded. “And now, thanks to what you have told us, we must risk acting now. He didn’t even tell me his plans for the Peripas. I fear what will happen if he succeeds. Lady Wentha has told me of your dreams, of the burning hammer. But with your help, we can stop this foolish war on evil, and bring back the doctrine of Balance before it’s too late. We can end the nightmares.”
“And put you on the throne,” Cathan said.
There was a stirring behind him, a growl of resentment. He thought it might be Idar, but, turning, to his surprise, he saw it was Rath, whose eyes had narrowed and mouth had turned lipless. Tancred shook his head at his brother, bent to whisper in his ear. Rath drew away, still glowering.
Revando raised a beringed hand. “Be still, young man,” he cautioned. “It was a proper question. Yes, Twice-Born, the Lightbringer’s fall would put me on the throne. But you helped overthrow Kurnos and put Beldinas in his place … this is old business for you. And I would abdicate if the Miceram were to pass to me. I have no desire to rule.”
It was true. Cathan could see it in the First Son’s weary face, hear it in his voice. All he wanted was peace for his old friend, lost to the stake and torch. Revando would sit the throne only long enough to choose an heir, no longer.
Cathan pressed his fingers to his lips, and stayed like that for a minute, then another.
“Cathan?” Wentha asked.
“What would you do with him?” he asked slowly. “Beldyn was my fri
end, once. I won’t lead him to his death.”
“He deserves no more,” Rath muttered. Tancred shushed him again.
The bits of amber in Revando’s beard clacked together as he shook his head. “I am no murderer, Twice-Born,” he said. “I do not mean to kill His Holiness—only to strip him of the Miceram, and with it his vested power. There are many places he can be taken after that, through the tunnels. He can live out the rest of his life in exile, in a place where he can do no more harm.”
Cathan met his eyes, his gaze hard. “Do you swear to that?”
“Why do you think I have waited this long?” the First Son replied, calmly. “I’ve had a thousand chances to put a knife in his ribs, or poison in his cup. No … I will not be like him. I will not call for the death of those who don’t believe as I do.”
“And your men?”
“Ask us yourself, Twice-Born,” Idar replied. “We’ll do what we’re told… as long as things go smooth. But if we lose this chance, things might change.”
“We need you, Cathan,” Wentha put in. “Beldinas needs you. We won’t get another chance to do this without bloodshed.”
He turned, staring at her in shock.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’ll back an assassination, if it comes to that. One way or another, the Kingpriest must come off the throne.”
Assassination. His sister speaking of such a deed. Cathan felt the room sway around him. It must have shown, for Revando reached out to steady him, but he recovered his balance before the First Son could intervene. Cathan swallowed.
“What must I do?” he asked.
*****
The eighteenth bout was just beginning when Cathan returned to the Arena. Rath and Tancred were already in the imperial box; Wentha would arrive shortly. Tithian gave him a look at he sat down on the bench he’d left almost an hour ago.
Down below, the Red Minotaur twisted his meaty paws around the haft of his trident, hoofs stamping the ground as he and the Barbarian circled each other. The Minotaur was good—Cathan could tell from the leer on his bestial face that the creature fought for the sheer pleasure of it—but the Barbarian had improved as well. To the delight of the crowds, he made two quick feints, then struck a grazing blow to the Minotaur’s shoulder. Blood flowed—just a shallow cut, but enough to anger the creature. It snarled, horns gleaming in the sunlight.
“You were gone quite a while,” Tithian remarked.
Cathan made a face. “I thought about not coming back at all. I keep seeing Valeric, the one who—”
“I know.” The Grand Marshal sighed. “There’ll be an official investigation, I promise you, but in the end we’ll be able to prove nothing. We never can. Rockbreaker’s too quick to dispose of the bodies—and who’s to say he’s dead if we can’t find his corpse? It’ll be kept quiet, and nothing will happen.”
The crowd cried out again as the Barbarian’s saber scored another red slash across the Minotaur’s thigh, making him stumble. Cathan glanced down and saw the beast trip his foe with his trident, then viciously drive the point down. The Barbarian twisted out of the way, made a clumsy kick, and hooked the Minotaur’s leg, sending him sprawling. The trident skittered away. The roars grew deafening.
“Why?” Cathan asked, raising his voice to make himself heard. “Why keep it quiet? If you raise the suspicion that some of these fights end in murder—”
“Then what? What do you think will happen?” Tithian demanded, jabbing his hand toward the crowds. “Look at them, Cathan! That’s real blood the Minotaur’s bleeding, and they’re cheering for it! If we told them some of the deaths were real, too—” He clenched his fist as his words sputtered to a stop, glaring at a point in the sky above the far side of the stands.
The Barbarian twisted to his feet, flourished his saber, and lowered its tip to the Minotaur’s throat—a thoroughly scripted move, one any competent warrior should have been able to avoid. When the Barbarian lifted his sword from the Minotaur and helped the creature up—loathing in its glinting eyes—Cathan knew these Games had been concocted to give birth to a new champion. He would have bet a hundred gold falcons that the Barbarian would be the last one standing when the sun set. A newcomer, fighting past overwhelming odds to win the adulation of the masses… it was the oldest tale beneath the moons.
Sure enough, the final bout of the day had the Barbarian fighting the reigning champion, Pheragas—and the battle was a consummate performance. It ebbed and flowed with perfect rhythm, first one man gaining the upper hand, then the other. They each took cuts. They even grappled and switched swords, something Cathan had never, in twenty years as a knight, seen happen in a real duel. Finally, shining with sweat, Pheragas came on hard, forcing the Barbarian back, back, until he was teetering at the brink of a pit filled with swinging blades. The boy hung there, teetering as the audience gasped. His sword dropped into the hole, and disappeared into the machinery with a metallic crunch. Then, his face tightening—a look that even made Cathan want to cheer, though it was all part of the act—the Barbarian threw himself forward, somehow avoiding Pheragas’s sword and ramming his shoulder into his opponent’s gut. The air went out of the big Ergothman, and with two quick punches the Barbarian had him on the ground, senseless. With a Taoli battle cry, he drew a dagger from his belt and held it with two hands above Pheragas’s breast.
“Istolud!”
The crowd’s cries of encouragement and glee suddenly ended. All eyes turned toward the imperial box, where the gleaming figure had stepped forward to stand at the gilded balustrade. Beldinas raised his hands, gazing down upon the battlefield. The sawdust was dark with blood and sweat. The single word he’d shouted had resounded back and forth across the Arena.
Stop!
“Spare him,” the Kingpriest went on. “Do not strike the final blow, brave warrior. There is no need, for you are the victor of this contest!”
Even those who wore the blue of Pheragas’s faction shouted jubilantly: a novice in the Arena had risen above all others to claim the highest honor a gladiator could achieve! Golden roses showered down onto the sands. Rockbreaker appeared, but could not make himself heard above the thunderous applause. A beautiful young woman with an iron collar came out to place a wreath of laurel-leaves on the Barbarian’s head. He caught her before she could withdraw and kissed her hard on the mouth, raising new cries from the onlookers. She resisted a moment then swooned—all of it as rehearsed as the fighting.
Cathan watched as the Lightbringer walked by, Quarath at his side. He found, as they passed, that he could not bring himself to meet Beldinas’s gaze.
*****
Sword met sword, and Tithian shoved with all his might, sending Sir Bron stumbling back. The younger knight grunted, nearly lost his footing, then recovered, keeping his shield up the whole time. He came back with a hard flurry, battering away so that Tithian’s arms burned from the parrying and blocking until the two men finally parted, their feet covered with mud.
It had started raining a little after nightfall, but neither seemed to notice or care. They were sparring alone, in the courtyard of the Hammerhall, with no crowd to watch them. It was a better fight than any the Grand Marshal had watched today.
Another death in the Arena, the third in the past two years. Quarath and Lord Onygion’s feud was getting out of hand, but what could he do to stop it? Speak to the Emissary? To the Kingpriest? Neither would do anything. Rockbreaker would laugh in his face, but only if his mouth was too dry to spit. And the people would mock him—the last thing the head of the Divine Hammer needed.
Here came Bron again, high left, then low to the right, then low right again … each blow simple, economical, not the great sweeping swings of the gladiators. Tithian caught each stroke in succession, with shield and sword, and shield again, turning them aside, then hooking the pommel of his sword around and clouting the younger knight in the ear.
Bron caught most of the blow with his helmet, but he reeled just the same. Groaning, he slumped halfway to his knees.
Tithian went at him again, this time with blunted blade, and caught the lad in the stomach with its full outward edge. Bron doubled over, whimpering, then dropped to the ground and stayed there, retching up his supper. Rain plastered his dark hair to his face.
“Watch your hilt-work up close,” Tithian said. “A good swordsman uses every part of his weapon, not just the blade—and expects his opponent to do the same.”
Bron grunted, started to rise, then thought better of it and stayed on his knees, gasping. Tithian watched him. He’d be a great fighter someday, if he could overcome his sloppiness. If not… well, the knighthood was full of passable warriors. There were few great ones anymore.
The thud of hooves in the mud drew his eye away, toward the gatehouse. A rider came through, protected against the rain by a gray, hooded cloak. He stopped for a moment to speak with the gate ward, who nodded and stepped aside. Then he rode on toward Tithian. The Grand Marshal eyed him, marking the anonymity of the man’s garb, and felt a sinking feeling. There was only one who would approach him at this hour with such nondescript garments. He watched as the man reined in, then swung down from his saddle, handing the reins to a squire who came running through the muck to serve him.
“I thought you might come tonight,” Tithian said to the hooded man. “I guessed as much, when I turned around and saw there were no MarSevrins to be found.”
“You think the whole family is in on this?” asked the rider in return.
Tithian angled his head, water running off his helm. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
The man harrumphed, but didn’t answer.
“So,” Tithian said. “It’s really happening?”
“It’s happening,” the rider replied. “The day after the morrow, at the Vaults. They mean to take him, and the Crown.”
The Grand Marshal nearly spat, a sudden ferocity coming over him. “And Cathan?”
“The Twice-Born is a part of this conspiracy,” said the voice within the hood, “as much as I am.”
Sacred Fire Page 16
