Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  Power, he thought. Fear. Too many enemies, too few friends. People only loved the Lightbringer because of what he could do for them. They revered him in the god’s stead. And this reverence for power was what had transformed him.

  His eyes blurred with tears, and he had to steady himself against the plinth. “At least this way you’ll live, my friend,” he murmured. “They might have done worse, in the end, if I hadn’t helped them.”

  Beldinas groaned, his face contorting. The bloodblossom was coursing through him; it was a small dose, though, and would wear off before long. Cathan had to get the Kingpriest out of this place, had to give him over to Idar and Rath and Tancred and the others. They would bind him, gag him, maybe drug him again—but none would dare harm him. They would answer to Ebonbane if they tried.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re going.”

  Beldinas’s body was light; the Lightbringer was frail and gaunt. His bones slid beneath his skin, and Cathan hoisted him easily onto one shoulder, then took up the Miceram and held it in his hands. Site ceram biriat, abat, the old proverb went—whoever wears the Crown, rules. It had tempted him before, and did so again, its rubies glittering in the fire-light. With its power, even he could be emperor of all Istar. He could change everything, end slavery, put a stop to the Games, lift the bans and interdicts. All he had to do was set the Miceram on his brow.

  But the temptation quickly faded. He would hold on to the Crown, to make sure Idar or someone else didn’t decide to wear it, but he didn’t want to rule. Revando could have the Miceram. All Cathan wanted was to go some place quiet, and live in peace. He turned to go.

  Then he stopped, catching a glimpse of another glimmering, and his heart leapt The Peripas!

  The Disks lay on the floor, where Beldinas had dropped them. Cathan realized he had no idea what to do with them. Should he leave them here? Bring them out to the rebels? They held the secrets that would let Beldinas bring down the gods’ wrath… he stood rooted, torn.

  Take them, said a voice in his head.

  It was Fistandantilus, he thought, his blood freezing—but no, it wasn’t. There was warmth in this voice, a gentle but firm insistence that made him think of his own father, dead all these years. Cathan dropped the torch, letting it gutter and flicker out; but before its light failed, he bent down and lifted the Disks from the floor.

  It was hard going, back up the stairs and tunnel with no light to guide him, carrying the weight of Kingpriest and Crown and Disks all at once. Halfway out, a terrible thought began to form in his mind: Something had gone wrong up above, outside the Vault. What if Idar’s men had failed? What if he stepped out the doors, Beldinas unconscious in his arms, and the knights and Scatas were waiting? He could claim that Beldinas had lost consciousness when he touched the Peripas… it had happened when they first found the Miceram… but the moment anyone got a closer look at the Kingpriest, the lie would he exposed.

  I should have waited, he thought. That was the plan. Wait

  In his heart, though, Cathan knew he had had to act, down below, or he never would have gone through with it.

  He reached the doors, standing shut before him. Rays of moonlight swirled in, around and between them, making the bright mosaic walls gleam silver and red. Gritting his teeth, he kicked the doors open, letting the glow of Solinari and Lunitari flood in.

  There were no knights or Scatas. There were only trees, and dark stains on the ground that had to be blood. His heart started beating again.

  Another thought hit him as he was crossing the portico, toward the stair where the Iudulo had confronted him. It had let him pass because it judged him righteous. Was he still? He half-expected the stone lioness to hit him from behind, finish him off. There would be no pleading with it this time.

  But the statues stayed stone cold.

  Down the steps he went, as Beldinas stirred again, mumbling something incoherent through lips that didn’t work right. Cathan stumbled, nearly fell. The moment he reached the bottom, he let the Kingpriest slide off his back, onto the damp, needle-strewn ground. His side flared with pain as he did so.

  “Crrthrrrrn,” Beldinas groaned, his eyelids flickering, showing white through the slits. “Muh frrrrrrrr.”

  “Yes, Holiness,” Cathan said, touching his sweat-slick face. “I’m your friend. You’re going to be all right. We must get you away from here, though.”

  There was a shimmering sound around him, like many gongs made of glass. With it came a tremendous groan of wood, the noise of a forest in a windstorm. He looked around in time to see the trees around him in the midst of transformation. Their bark swelled and split, the reaching limbs grew short and thick, needles dropped off, and skin and hair grew in their place. Roots pulled free of the earth, becoming feet. Trunks swelled and contorted, becoming faces. The trees became men, thirty men with daggers and shortswords and crossbows. Beside him, Beldinas whimpered in horror.

  Then Idar was beside him, and his nephews, bent over the Kingpriest while the rest moved to stand watch. Some were wounded, and Cathan judged ten to be missing, probably dead. Rath had a deep cut under his left eye.

  “What happened?” Tancred asked. He was very pale. “You were supposed to do it out here, not down there.”

  “I acted because I had to,” Cathan replied. “It couldn’t wait.”

  “It’s all right,” said Rath calmly. “Everything’s as it should be.”

  Tancred was shaking his head. “But this wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”

  “No harm done, lad,” said Idar. He touched Beldinas’s throat, nodded when he felt the life-beat. “You didn’t do us any favors, though, Twice-Born. He’ll have his wits back too soon, before we’re moving again.”

  “It’s all right,” Rath repeated. “Come on, let’s get him tied up—Tancred? What’s the matter?”

  Tancred was looking around furiously, his eyes wide. “They’re here!” he cried. “They found us!”

  Idar’s men cast about, blades and bows quivering in their hands. Cathan felt it, too—a new presence here in the woods. Ebonbane hissed from its scabbard. Idar drew his own blade, dropping a knife into his left hand as well. A voice rang out across the clearing, chanting in the church tongue:

  “Cie nicas supam torco, Palado, mas bodoram burtud.”

  Though I walk through night’s shadow, Paladine, be thou my light.

  The silver moon hung low in the sky, its rays slanting in at a steep angle. Now, a different beam struck them, streaking down from above: god-light, bright and beautiful. Seeing it, Cathan felt physically ill. He knew what it meant.

  Idar’s men cast about, swearing, even before the first of the armored figures appeared on a rise to the east. It was a knight, the badge of the Divine Hammer burning on his breast, a heavy crossbow cocked. He paused, face hidden by his gleaming, horned helm, and stared at them, waiting for his comrades to join him—three, then ten, then many more, closing in to surround the Forino. A Revered Son appeared among them, young and robed for battle, with chain mail underneath his vestments. He kept his hands in the triangle position, controlling the light that bathed everyone. And beside him…

  “Cathan Twice-Born,” said the knight in the crimson surcoat. “In the name of the god and the empire, you and your comrades are under arrest for sedition and assault against His Holiness, the Kingpriest of Istar.”

  Cathan stared at Lord Tithian. All around him, he could feel men tensing, preparing to die. Idar’s followers would not give themselves up without a fierce struggle. Arrest meant slavery—the mines or the sands, most likely. Cathan held Ebonbane very still. No one—knight or rebel—moved, for several long minutes.

  “Lay down your arms,” Tithian said, “or my men will shoot. Don’t let things end this way, Cathan.”

  Idar stepped forward. “You’ll not take us alive, son of a whore. We—”

  Three crossbow strings snapped, Idar spun to the ground, shafts in his chest, throat, and left eye. His men stared,
then looked at the knights with fresh venom. “Lay down your arms,” Tithian demanded again, raising his hand to call down more quarrels.

  “Wait!” Cathan replied. “If you loose, the Kingpriest might get hit. Do you want to explain that to Lord Revando?”

  Tithian laughed bitterly. “Lord Revando would be happy to hear such a thing, don’t you think? Or he would, if my men weren’t moving in on him right now. He’ll be in irons long before we bring you back to the Lordcity.

  “You do have a point about His Holiness, though. Tancred, get him out of there.”

  It took Cathan a moment to register what the Grand Marshal said. He turned to look at his fair-haired nephew. His face coloring, Tancred stared down at the Kingpriest’s unmoving form. Beside him, Rath stared in disbelief.

  “Brother? What is he talking about?”

  Tancred said nothing at all. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  “He sold you out, Rath,” Lord Tithian said. Another man might have gloated, but the Grand Marshal only sounded sad, tired. “He told us everything. We never would have known about any of this, otherwise—your plans for the Kingpriest, Lord Revando, the tunnels … and the perfidy of Lady Wentha.”

  “Our own mother?” Rath shouted, his face dark. “You betrayed her, too?”

  “I am a cleric of Paladine,” Tancred murmured. “My first duty is to the holy church. You should have understood that, brother.”

  Rath began to sob. There might have been a spear twisting in his stomach, from the agony on his face. Cathan felt the same pain, worse than any he’d ever known. “Your duty is to your family,” he said. “And to your god. What is the church next to these?”

  “You’re ruined us,” Rath gasped. His eyes were red, his mouth an anguished gash. “You ruined your family … all of us… for what? A better station in life? Do you think the Kingpriest will name you First Son for this?”

  Tancred was shaking now, his hands covering his face. Everyone was staring at him. Cathan looked up at Tithian, saw the scorn on his former squire’s face. As happy as he was for the chance to block this coup, the Grand Marshal too loathed Tancred for this treachery. But as his attention was distracted, Rath’s face turned from misery to diamond-hard rage. His eyes became flat things, like shards of glass. He glanced down at the dagger he was still holding in his hand.

  Cathan reached out, too late to stop him. “No, Rath, don’t—”

  With a cry, Rath leapt at his brother. Tancred turned, started to raise his own knife—then suddenly he was fallings Rath’s blade buried to the hilt in his side, under his left arm. Blood poured from the wound onto the ground.

  “Brother,” Tancred said, bubbles frothing on his lips—then he died.

  His own dagger had landed but a grazing blow to his brother’s leg. Rath pressed a hand to the wound, then seized the hilt of his knife and pulled it free of his brother’s body. He stood still, staring at the streaks of red on the blade.

  “Oh, gods,” he wept.

  The knights nervously held their fire.

  “That was just,” Tithian declared. “Now—”

  Screaming, Rath raised his dagger again and dashed toward the Grand Marshal. A dozen bolts whirred through the air. Again Cathan was too late, and Rath lay sprawled on the ground. He hadn’t made it three steps. The knights who had fired worked their crossbows, cranking back the strings to reload.

  Cathan stared hopelessly at his nephews, lifeless things among the pine needles. How would he ever face Wentha again? Would he ever see his sister again, anyway? He fell to his knees, Ebonbane dropping from his hand.

  “Good,” Tithian said. “Now, the rest of you follow Cathan’s lead, and there will be no more bloodshed today.”

  Idar’s men glanced around. An invisible signal passed among them, a grim look the knights didn’t miss. They shifted nervously. Cathan sighed, part of him wishing he could pick up his sword and join them in their fight, but Tancred’s and Rath’s deaths had robbed him of willpower. He could only sit, his arms limp at his sides, and watch as the rebels charged the Hammer, weapons held high.

  Of the band of thirty, twenty died in the first few heartbeats, cut down beneath a hail of crossbow bolts. The rest fell in sword fighting, one by one, until their bodies lay scattered before the Forino like a child’s playthings. Lord Tithian, standing back from the close fighting, never even had to draw his blade.

  Cathan bowed his head. He felt dead inside.

  “Damned fools,” Tithian said. “Throwing their lives away. There was no glory in that.”

  Beldinas writhed with a groan. The bloodblossom was wearing off. Tithian knelt beside him for a moment, then signaled to his lieutenant. “Bron, get him out of here. The Miceram as well … and these.” He picked up the Disks, handed them to the young, horse-faced knight. “Get them away from this… scene.”

  Murmuring assent, Sir Bron did as he was told. Half a dozen knights descended into the gully and picked up the Kingpriest and carried him and his relics away. Tithian lifted up Ebonbane, and knelt down beside Cathan. He rested a hand on his former master’s shoulder “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Are you?” Cathan asked, looking up. “Do you really regret this slaughter, Tithian?”

  “The need for it,” Tithian said. “Yes.”

  “Then promise me, before you take me away. Promise you’ll do two things for me, for the friendship we once shared.”

  The Grand Marshal flinched, but nodded. “If it is in my power. What do you want of me?”

  “Wentha.” Cathan caught hold of Tithian’s arm “She must never know about Tancred. Never.”

  “You didn’t need to ask that. She will not know that pain, I swear it”

  “Thank you,” Cathan said, tears forming in his eyes.

  “And the other thing?”

  Cathan drew a long, shuddering breath. “What will happen to my sister?”

  “She’ll be sold into slavery,” Tithian replied evenly. “Nothing menial. There are many families who would buy her for a house-servant. I’m sorry, Cathan, she has betrayed the Kingpriest—I can’t change our laws.

  “She mustn’t stay here,” Cathan pleaded. “Not in the Lordcity, not in the heartland. See to it, Tithian—make sure that when she’s sold, she’s sent far away.”

  Tithian frowned. “Why?”

  But Cathan didn’t reply. He only leaned back, lay one over his burning eves, and let sorrow and sleep wash over him.

  Chapter 21

  Gabbro tightened his grip on the haft of his axe, squinting in the darkness. He was chewing khog, a dried fungus from faraway Thorbardin, and when he spat it made a black stain on the floor tit the tunnel. He stared through the peephole of the secret door, which led out of the catacombs through a buttress at the base of one of Calah’s many bridges. It was night out, and the canals that ran through the island-city gleamed like ribbons of silver in Solinari’s light. The sounds of drunken singing from the waterfront taverns echoed across the canel.

  Idar was late. That worried the dwarf. He’d followed the man for nearly ten years now, moving back and forth between Chidell and the Lordcity and all the cities of Istar’s heartland, and in all that time Idar had never been more than an hour behind schedule. Once, when they’d raided the slave pens at Kautilya’s bronze foundries, and Idar had taken an arrow in his side, he’d still made it back to the tunnels on time. But now, by Gabbro’s best guess, it was over two hours since he and the rest were due to show up with the Kingpriest in tow—and still not a sign. They should now be making their approach by boat, moving stealthily into Calah and up to the bridge. But there was nothing… no boats, no sign of anything.

  Gabbro spat again, darkening the floor even worse. Behind him, he heard the faint murmur of voices, then the flapping of goblin feet. He fought back a ripple of disgust at the stink of the hunched, snaggle-toothed creature that lurched up next to him.

  “You should be at your post, Akku,” he growled. “I told you I’d shout if I saw anything.”

/>   The goblin’s beetle-brow lowered. The creature glared at him with murderous yellow eyes. Akku hated Gabbro; only their common enemy kept them from going for each other’s throats. Gabbro already had plans for killing the creature once Beldinas was kidnapped and safely put away, and Lord Revando on the throne. He suspected Akku planned the same for him.

  “Man no coming,” grunted the monster. “We wait long. Tired.” He yawned, baring a mouth full of brown-crusted fangs.

  Gabbro rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a kender’s damn if you’re tired,” he shot back. “You get back to where you belong now, or I swear—”

  He stopped. He heard something—a soft thump, as of a boat pulling up to the bridge’s base. He lost interest in Akku immediately, turning back to the secret door. There they were: two rowboats, each loaded with cloaked men, without any lanterns. A third drifted up behind. Gabbro frowned; there were supposed to be four boats. Had Idar met up with trouble, lost that many of his men? He lowered his axe, his bearded face splitting into a grin. Whatever … the loss would be worth it, to uncrown the Lightbringer, at last.

  “Come on,” he muttered, watching the figures get off the boats. They were certainly taking their time. “Hurry it up, before someone sees you.”

  Then Lunitari slid out from behind a drifting cloud, and his smile vanished. Its red light hit the cloaked men sidelong, revealing not the drab greens and browns of Idar’s force, but surcoats of white, over glinting chain mail. He glimpsed the burning sigil on their breasts, and all at once felt as he had the time he’d fallen into a frozen lake as a child. “Hammer!” he bellowed, whirling so fast he almost cut Akku in half with his axe. “It’s the Reorx-be -damned Divine Hammer!”

  The goblin’s ruddy face turned pale with fear. He stood very still for a moment, then turned and ran, his feet flapping away in the shadows. Farther down the passage, other voices picked up Gabbro’s cry. Some of the rebels might flee; but others would stand and fight. Staring out the peephole, the dwarf had no illusions that any of them would get out of the tunnels alive. Someone had betrayed them, and he spent what he figured would be the last moments of his life dreaming up innovative curses against them. Old High Dwarven was a very versatile language when it came to curses.