Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  The land rose, changing from rolling hills to time-worn downs fringed with olive trees. To the south, Cathan caught glimpses of the gray sheet of Lake Istar, and once, as evening fell, he thought he could spot the lights of Calah, the island-city where Idar’s ruffians waited in their tunnels. Then they went deeper still into the hills, and the pall swallowed the city, lights and all.

  After dark, they stopped for shelter—at a monastery of Paladine the first night, a lord’s cliff-top villa the second. It was impossible to say whether the abbot or nobleman fawned more over the Lightbringer. At dawn, they started again. The olives gave way to spruce, then oak and pine. Rainwater poured in runnels down the slopes.

  As the third day was growing dark, Beldinas raised his hand.

  “Halt,” he said, his voice so soft Cathan could barely make it out above the rain.

  The knights heard him, though, and the Scatas too. As one they stopped, looking to the Lightbringer for orders. Cathan glanced around. There was no sign of anything different about this place … just trees and thick undergrowth on either side, climbing uphill and down. In the distance rose the faint humps of still more crags. He laid a hand on Ebonbane, glancing at the Kingpriest.

  “What is it?” he hissed.

  Beldinas’s head turned toward him. “We’re here.”

  Cathan heard a rustling. He turned toward the sound, Ebonbane coming halfway out of its scabbard. Nothing was moving in the brush; no, the brush itself was moving, vines parting and slithering aside, saplings bending out of the way. When it was done, a new path led up into the woods. A statue of a woman stood beside it, made of alabaster that the elements had long since worn faceless, and spotted with rusty moss. Whether the statue honored a queen, priestess, or goddess, there was no sign. At its base, inlaid in onyx, was a line of faded words.

  Sa, Oparbor, they read. Tair apod ni, iufubud, partum ana bolio tam unfifat.

  Hail, Traveler, Turn back, if thou art not righteous, for only death awaits thee.

  “Come, my friend,” Beldinas said. “The Peripas lie ahead.”

  The knights and Scatas formed a protective ring, crossbows ready, as they climbed the path. The woods grew thick, but the trail remained clear, blanketed with pine needles. The going was never difficult. Nary a tree root hindered their way. Cathan wondered what lay ahead. Robbers had come this way in the past, to plunder the Vaults. What end had they suffered? Would he meet the same fate? He was a secret traitor, after all… how could he pretend to be the righteous traveler demanded by the mysterious statue?

  Beldinas walked on, confidently, as they passed deeper into the wild, across a small stone bridge that spanned a spring-swollen brook, then through a cleft in a cliff of pink stone, steadily up and up, the chasm so narrow at one point they had to walk single file, turning sideways to maneuver around bulges in the rock. Cathan began to wonder whether Idar’s men could ever hope to find this place—even though Revando claimed to have a map, and had sent them overland.

  Then they reached the end of the crevice, and the Forino Babasom stood before them.

  At first it was a feeling more than anything else—only the sense of some great structure looming before him in the gathering night, perched on a shelf of rock among the trees. As the company drew closer, two tremendous pyramids of white stone emerged from the dark, their stepped sides eroded to curving humps. Hanging creepers were draped around them, dotted with golden, night-blooming flowers the size of shields. Cathan had never seen their like before. It took him a moment to realize why he could see anything at all: The blooms glowed softly, like the moon-crickets kept by Karthayan nobles.

  The portico between the two pyramids was wide, and he saw that a stream flowed beneath it, spilling in a series of short cataracts before pouring over the cliff in a rope of silver foam. The columns flanking the Vault’s doors were old, stout, and plain. And there were two statues, strange figures he’d never seen before, carved in crude ancient fashion from crimson stone: lionesses with the bodies of women sprouting from their necks. Their arms were gone, and one had lost its head; the other’s face was beautiful and frightening, wild-featured, and sharp-toothed, with discs of gleaming turquoise for eyes. Staring at the statue, Cathan found himself thinking, oddly, of Fan-ka-tso, the six-armed in the Hall of Sacrilege, and all the icons he had destroyed back when he was counted among the Divine Hammer. Several of the knights signed the triangle, whispering prayers. “Nomas cefud op coitas e sifasom fupulfo…”

  Protect us from heathens and their idolatry…

  “Be still,” said Beldinas. “These are no heathen idols. They are the Iudulas, the guardians set by Symeon to watch over the gates of the Vault They are blessed by power of the Kingpriests.

  “You must approach them, my friend.”

  Cathan looked at the Lightbringer, saw only the light that mantled him, then peered up to the Forino’s entrance. The statues loomed; the one head seemed to be staring at him… seemed almost to smile. Every part of him wanted to refuse.

  As he started shakily up the steps, he glanced at the surrounding trees and suppressed the thought that Revando’s shape-shifting magic must already be at work. He saw no sign of his confederates. He steadied himself and moved on. There was no way of knowing if all the elements of the plot were in place. Besides, he couldn’t take his eyes off the smiling statue for long. He reached the balcony and looked past the statues, trying to see through to the doors beyond.

  The statue blinked.

  He didn’t have enough time to reach for Ebonbane, for already, the creature had risen and leapt from its pedestal, moving with a grace that belied its stone form. It hit the ground to his left with a knee-weakening thump, then swiped its paw lazily, slamming him face-first to the ground. The breath left his lungs in a whoosh, and he lay gasping, clutching his side. Below, he heard the knights shouting, but what they were saying he couldn’t guess. The ringing in his ears made their words indistinguishable.

  Wait, he tried to say. All he could manage was “Whh-hhh.”

  “Thief!” the statue spoke, in a voice equal parts snarl and earthquake. He sensed it standing over him, felt its slit-eyed stare, its killing hunger. He wondered how long it had been since the creature had a foolish intruder to hunt. It pinned him down with one paw, then lifted another, baring obsidian claws. “None who live may enter this place! For all who dare, there is only one fate.”

  Cathan couldn’t draw breath to speak. The pressure of the lioness’s weight upon him made white stars burst in his head. Its eyes blazed like blue suns, boring into him. There was no malice there, no cruelty; only deadly intent. It had been waiting here for centuries; this was its only purpose, the reason the clerics—and mages—had crafted it. Even now, worn by age, its arms long gone, it clung to its responsibility. The stars in Cathan’s vision shifted to black. The Iudulo’s fangs gleamed in the bloom-glow. They took on the color of blood.

  No, he thought. Not like this. Paladine, if ever you favored me, give me strength.

  Summoning every last bit of energy, he managed to wrench his body slightly out from under the lioness’s grasp. Whooping like a drowning man, he dragged in a breath. “Don’t,” he choked. “Remember your geas! What did Symeon say?”

  The creature’s polished brow creased. For a moment it didn’t respond. Then, with a shuddering snarl, the statue spoke—not in the voice it had used before, but in that of an old man. It must be the voice of Symeon himself, relating his own words through this warden beast.

  “Nisi firno at ifeso big pironit e nisit. Sifat.”

  No living man or woman shall enter and survive. So be it.

  Cathan nodded, part of him wanting to shriek with relief: The legends had been accurate, after all. He saved his breath, however. Every word was precious, and he chose them with painstaking care.

  “Look … at me,” he gasped. “Are these the … eyes … of one … who… lives?”

  That was all he could manage to say. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and p
ray, and focused his stare on the lioness. The statue gazed back, its puzzlement growing as it met the empty gaze of the Twice-Born, the gaze no man but Beldinas had been able to meet for more than a brief moment, for the past forty years. In his eyes was death, a shadow of the after-world that clung to him… the afterworld he’d lost when the Lightbringer resurrected him. Now the Iudulo peered deep into him, searching behind the forbidding surface.

  Silence. The statue wavered… wavered…

  “No,” said the Iudulo, lifting itself off him. “They are not living eyes.”

  Air had never hurt so badly. Cathan curled into a ball, retching as his breath slashed his lungs like razors. It was a long time before he could draw a proper breath again, longer still before he retrieved the strength to raise his head. When he did, he saw that the lioness was back on its perch, exactly as before. Its eyes were stone once more, coldly staring sightlessly into the night.

  He shivered. It had been waiting here for him, all this time. He could sense it. He had never felt so much like a pawn on the gods’ khas board.

  A hand touched him, nearly scaring him to death. But the hand glowed, and he saw Beldinas, bent over him, head bowed. The Kingpriest murmured a prayer, summoning Paladine’s power to speak the healing prayer. “Palado, ucdas pafiro…”

  Cathan felt warmth, and light, and all the pain went away.

  *****

  It came back when he awoke, but as a dull ache that flared as he pushed himself up on his elbows. There was a great deal of blood—his blood—on the balcony, and looking around at it made him feel weak and nearly pass out again.

  A glowing hand pressed a cup to his lips. “Drink.”

  It was watered wine, and his strength returned as he sipped it. His ribs still hurt, there were livid claw-marks showing through the rips in his robes. “You didn’t heal me completely,” he said.

  “You would have slept too long,” Beldinas replied. “We must enter the Forino, or the Guardian will awaken again. Can you stand?”

  Cathan got to his feet, waving off the Kingpriest’s help. As he did, he felt the malachite amulet slide against his skin, and swallowed at the thought of how close Beldinas had come to touching it when he healed him. When he was upright again, he cast an eye at the Iudulas. They were lifeless, unmoving.

  “Come,” Beldinas said, and they stepped past the lionesses, to the gold-scaled doors. The doors parted at a touch, and the Lightbringer and the Twice-Born entered Symeon’s Vault.

  It was dark within, but the Kingpriest’s light filled the air around them, driving the shadows back. The walls were covered with mosaics rendered in a crude style that artists had abandoned years ago, showing images of gods and priests alike. The plaster had crumbled in places where vegetation invaded the Forino. Now and then, a faint, glassy plink broke the stillness as another tile stirred loose and fell to the floor. What remained on the walls glimmered with a hundred colors as it caught Beldinas’s glow: red and green, blue and violet, gold and flame, all coming together to make a coruscating white.

  Beldinas wasted no time, moving down the wide entry hall to an archway on the far side. There were similar arches to the left and right, but he knew where he was going, and moved as if pulled by forces beyond his control. Cathan had seen him like this before, in the lowest catacombs beneath the Pantheon of Govinna, where the two of them had discovered the Miceram. Drawing his sword, watching the shadows between the winking tiles, Cathan followed just behind Beldinas without a word.

  Through the arch was a passage, also covered with glittering tiles. It angled downward, and the air grew noticeably cooler as they descended into the rock of the cliff. Silver light seemed to glimmer farther on, luring them toward shallow stairs, then steeper ones. Soon they were climbing more than walking, past dusty side passages where rats chattered and many-legged things scuttled to hide out of sight. Down, down…

  Their descent halted, and Cathan caught his breath, staring. The stairs gave way to a broad, tall chamber, its jeweled walls ablaze, its ceiling decorated with a chipped, faded fresco of Paladine. It was an older rendition of the god, black-bearded and battle-fierce, rather than the gentle old man the imperial church currently espoused: a harder deity for harder times, Cathan thought. A helm crowned with gold shone upon his head. The same god had looked down on them in the Govinnese catacombs, such a long time ago. This was the god of the burning hammer, the one whose wrath Cathan felt every time he tried to sleep.

  The ceiling wasn’t the most remarkable thing about the room, though. That honor belonged to the pedestal of white marble in its midst, and what rested upon it.

  The Peripas Mishakas were larger than Cathan had expected. Each platinum disk was the size of a small plate, and there were thousands upon thousands of them, each stamped with tiny cuneiform letters. The golden ring that held them all gleamed brilliantly, untouched by time. He suddenly had no doubt the Disks were the writings of the gods, in their own hands, with no prophet to interpret them. He imagined Mishakal’s hand, etching each letter into the platinum with painstaking care, and Majere’s… and Jolith’s and Branchala’s, Solinari’s, and Habbakuk’s … above all, Paladine’s. Paladine’s band was vital, for the Disks were said to be his scales, prized from the platinum dragon’s hide to bear his commandments to the mortals who worshipped him.

  Wordlessly, Cathan knelt and laid Ebonbane on the floor. This was the holiest relic in the world: greater than the Miceram, greater even than the dragonlances Huma Dragonbane used to defeat the Queen of Darkness. A feeling of deep unworthiness came over him: He did not feel and fit to look upon the flesh and word of the god, so he averted his god-touched eyes.

  At first, all was silent. Then he heard a strange sound, from beside him. It was something he’d never heard before, and it took him a moment to understand what the noise was. Beldinas Lightbringer, Kingpriest of Istar, was weeping.

  He turned to stare. “Holiness?”

  The glowing figure stood, head bowed, shoulders hunched. He trembled with every shaking breath. “Oh, Cathan,” he murmured. “I’m so afraid. I’ve spent my whole life bringing light to this world, and every day, I see a new darkness, waiting for the chance to undo all that I’ve fought for.

  “I’ve dreamed of this day for so long, the day the gods would show their trust in me at last, and let me guide the world beyond the night. They call me Lightbringer, but I have not fulfilled that promise. I have not used the fullness of my own power.

  “I have been afraid for so long, but the time for that is over. With the Disks in my hand, my friend, and with you at my side, there shall be no more fear, ever again.”

  Cathan felt his heartbreak. “Beldyn…”

  The Kingpriest strode to the pedestal and gazed upon the Peripas. The platinum caught his light, flaring ferociously. With a sigh, he reached down, seized the golden ring, and took them up.

  Still kneeling at the room’s entrance, Cathan found himself weeping too. What he saw before him was beautiful: the figure of light, the man he had loved more than anyone—more than his own kin—holding the gods’ words, inscribed on Paladine’s own scales. It hurt to look upon it

  Then he shut his eyes, seeing other things. Slave markets. Thought-readers. Broken idols. Men murdered for sport. And hanging over it all, the omen of the burning hammer.

  He understood, then, without doubt, what lay ahead. The gods would never let Beldinas do what he meant to do. The hammer would fall upon the Lightbringer. It would smash the Temple, shatter the Lordcity, bring Istar and all its glory to ruin. The Balance would not be denied—not even by Paladine’s chosen one.

  He reached to his belt, found what he sought. The Serpent’s Tooth fit into his hand easily, the needle protruding between his index and middle fingers, the bladder in his palm. A bead of bloodblossom oil appeared at its tip, then fell to the floor. He stared at his hand, then looked at the Lightbringer, and rose to his feet. He had to act now, while his will was strong. If he waited until the appointed time, he knew his
courage would fail him. Fistandantilus had warned him.

  “No more fear!” Beldinas rejoiced, raising the Peripas high. “No more darkness!”

  Cathan hit the Kingpriest as he was turning around. Beldinas jerked away, hissing between his teeth, and dropped the Disks. He stared at his shoulder, where the Lonfas Dudo was still lodged. The bladder drooped, deflated. With a snarl, Beldinas swatted the thing to the floor, leaving the tiniest wound—only a pinprick of blood.

  But it was enough: the drug was in him, and already beginning to work instantaneously. He sagged where he stood, his knees buckling. Cathan grabbed him as he fell. Beldinas groaned muzzily. The Miceram clanged to the floor. His holy aura flickered and dimmed, at last revealing the face beneath.

  Cathan caught his breath when he saw his old friend clearly, for the first time in almost twenty years. The beautiful youth he’d known was gone, the long, the once-thick locks now ran gray and thin above a high hairline. Deep lines etched Beldinas’s brow, and also the corners of his mouth. His beautiful skin was ashen, beaded with sweat. But it was the Kingpriest’s eyes, the blue eyes that had always been filled with such terrible certainty, that chilled Cathan the most. They were the eyes of a haunted man now, eyes full of fear, the pupils dilating wildly as the drug took him. They met Cathan’s own, not understanding.

  “I’m sorry, Holiness,” Cathan said. “Forgive me.”

  Beldinas stared at him for three long heartbeats, the shock in his gaze shaking Cathan to the core. Then, with a despairing moan, Beldinas let his eyelids flutter closed. The Kingpriest’s holy light went out.

  Chapter 20

  It was dark in the Forino. Cathan found a torch still in its sconce, and with some effort got it lit. In the fire glow he turned to stare at Beldinas’s senseless form. How had the clear-eyed, purposeful youth he’d met, all those years ago at Luciel, become this wretched, terrified old man? What had changed him?