Beldinas was back in his bed, huddled under goose-down in a frame of bejeweled snowwood, swamped in great drifts of cushions and pillows. The sheets appeared in disarray, tangled and sweat-soaked. The Kingpriest trembled as Quarath stepped toward him. He still wore the Crown, which half-obscured his face.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, Holiness,” the elf declared, gesturing around him. “It is you and me only. No one else is here.”
Beldinas shuddered, radiating mistrust, and didn’t answer, though he slowly sat up. It was all Quarath could do not to gnash his teeth. It had been like this every morning, since the Kingpriest’s return from the Forino.
He suffered night terrors—and often day terrors too, if truth be told.
“Sire?” Quarath pleaded. “Will you not come here?”
Hesitantly, the Kingpriest nodded, then rose from the bed.
“He’s close, isn’t he?”
“I’m sorry, Holiness?”
“Lord Cathan,” Beldinas declared. His voice caught, with something between relief and disappointment. “Has he not come?”
This again, Quarath thought, biting his lip to keep from speaking aloud. Quarath had been sure the episodes of terror would pass, but if anything they were getting worse. This was the third time this week he had come here, while the sky still held no promise of dawn, to soothe Beldinas’s mind.
“What did you see in your dreams this time, Holiness?” he asked. “Tell me.”
Beldinas’s band rose to his mouth, stayed there a moment, then fell. “Trees,” he said. “Trees… with daggers. I tried to run, but my legs would not move… .” He bowed his head, gasping.
Quarath reached out, penetrating the holy aura, to rest a hand on the Kingpriest’s arm. He’d heard Lord Tithian’s report, of the charms the traitors had used to make themselves seem as trees, so they could hide in wait for him. The bloodblossom oil the Twice-Born had given him had burned this image into Beldinas’s mind. No doubt that explained his ravings about Lord Cathan, as well—ridiculous, when the man was locked away for good, in a place from which there was no escape.
“It is all right, sire,” the elf said soothingly. “There are no trees here, and no daggers either. There is only you and me, don’t you see?”
Beldinas shifted, pulling away from Quarath’s touch, but just then something flashed on the floor beside his bed, a metallic gleam catching his glow. The elf frowned, then leaned in to peer closer. His breath caught when he saw rune-stamped platinum: the Peripas! The gods’ true words, the manifestation of their very will, and here the Disks lay in a heap, as if the Kingpriest had simply cast them aside. A rush of indignance flooded Quarath, its vehemence surprising even him.
“I can’t find it,” Beldinas muttered, following his gaze. “I can’t find the answer.”
“You’ve been looking for only six months,” Quarath responded mildly, as though to a child, while stooping to lift the Disks from the floor. “Scholars could pore over these for half a lifetime, and still not read them all.” He set them gently on the foot of the bed. They made delicate music as they left his grasp.
The Kingpriest stared at the Peripas. “It didn’t take Huma Dragonbane this long to find the gods’ power. He had their help, and I do not.” He rapped his knuckles twice against his temples, hard, then crept over pillow and blanket to kneel before the Disks. “Why do they hide their grace from me? They must reveal to me their insights and power! They must—I am their chosen!”
“Certainly, Holiness,” Quarath replied, shrugging inwardly. He had heard this speech before; his irritation matched the Lightbringer’s frustration. The Disks required patience—anyone could see that. “Will you not be leaving the manse today, to see to affairs at court?”
“Court?” the Kingpriest shot back. He grabbed up the Peripas, which clanked and clattered unpleasantly as he raised them. “When I still haven’t found what I need from these? No, Emissary—of course I won’t be leaving the manse today. I have too much reading to do.”
“I understand, sire.”
Beldinas half-rose, turning away. “Good. Now go, and do not interrupt me again!”
Part of Quarath rankled at being dismissed so abruptly, but it was something of a relief as well. In truth, he told himself as he walked back to the door, he preferred days when the Kingpriest stayed in his room, when he could govern the empire without distraction. There would be no court today ; he would spend the day in his own study, reading reports from across Istar, issuing decrees and writs and proclamations in the Kingpriest’s name. He had spent many years waiting patiently for the chance to rule, and he relished every opportunity.
Quarath eyed Beldinas from the doorway, his brow faintly furrowed. He’d seen one Kingpriest go mad, when Lord Kurnos’s allies had abandoned him and embraced the Lightbringer. Now, regarding the frenzied way Beldinas was leafing through the Disks, he knew it was happening again.
“I will return after evening prayers,” he declared solemnly. “Please eat something before then, Holiness.”
Beldinas ignored him, his attention fast upon the Peripas. He muttered to himself as he read, searching for the secrets. One eyebrow raised, the elf withdrew, easing the door shut behind him. The bolt quickly shot home behind him.
Quarath glanced back, then shook his head and looked down. He ignored the young acolyte’s questioning look as he passed him, his mind already on the day ahead. The Lightbringer was meditating, he would tell the courtiers. Perhaps he would attend to them tomorrow. They would be disappointed, but he didn’t particularly care. Istar could go on perfectly well without the Kingpriest, with him in charge.
Out the front doors of the manse, and down the garden path in the predawn darkness, his mind traveled ahead of him. His thoughts were so intent, he never saw the shadow watching him from the shelter of the Garden of Martyrs.
*****
Cathan crouched low in the Garden of Martyrs, watching Quarath. He’d found sandals and a clerical habit in a wardrobe near where Lady Ilista had left him. With the hood drawn low to hide his eyes, and his scabby hands hidden in huge sleeves, he looked no different from the other priests in Istar—and there were hundreds of priests. He could move about the Temple with freedom—until the guards in the dungeon noticed he was missing, and raised the alarm. With luck, it would be hours before that happened.
When he’d seen the Emissary emerge from Beldinas’s manse, however, he’d scrambled for cover. Quarath’s senses might pick up on something the human clerics missed. Cathan knew that if the elf got a good look at him, his disguise might not matter. So he hunkered down, losing himself in the shadows, keeping quiet. Finally, when Quarath disappeared into the basilica, he let himself breathe again.
He also relaxed his grip on the wooden cudgel he’d managed to procure from a storeroom. He would have preferred a sword, but he felt lucky enough to find any weapon. He would have used the club on Quarath if it came to that. The thought sickened him, but he recognized that the elf would be dead soon anyway, with or without his help. So would everyone else in the Lordcity. He glanced at the sky, feeling the hammer hanging above him, and shivered.
The manse was guarded as always: two knights, armed with halberds, stood watch, and more than a dozen others would materialize at its front gates in a heartbeat, if the call went out. Fortunately, there were other ways in, besides the gates. There was a servants’ entrance that the acolytes used, but it too had guards. The upper levels had many windows and balconies, but he would be spotted if he tried to climb in from below. There was even a covered walkway that ran directly to the basilica, but there was no way he could reach it from the ground.
Still, there was one way known only to the Kingpriest’s innermost circle. He walked gently on the crushed-crystal paths, around to a quiet bower in the southernmost part of the grounds. Silvernut trees grew there, their drooping branches heavy with their long, white fruit, and a reflecting pool ringed with benches stood in its midst. The place was deserted, though one small,
gold-furred monkey that was perched on the back of a bench watched him with curiosity.
He prayed to Paladine for luck.
Clenching his teeth, he edged forward. The monkey watching him suddenly shrieked; there was a shudder all around him, and the monkey’s cry was cut off. He felt for a moment as if he were pushing through warm liquid, then the air around him changed, from cool and breezy to warm and stifling. The scent of silverfruit changed to faint incense. He opened his eyes, and saw he was inside.
Symeon, the first Kingpriest, had ordered this entrance put here when the Temple was built. In those days, the Orders of High Sorcery had still been friends to the church, and so the imperial manse was built with an open archway on its south side, hidden from view by magic. The Kingpriests and their advisors used this way only rarely, and then only in times of trouble. Fortunately, though wizards were long gone from Istar, the enchantment remained.
He found himself in a small meditation room, dark but for one candle burning before an icon of the platinum dragon. Ruddy light spilled from beneath a door. Swallowing, he moved to the door and cracked it open, just an inch.
There were stairs on the other side, and nothing—no one-else. They led up into the Kingpriest’s private chambers. Blue carpet cushioned each step. Cathan climbed them quickly, as silent as dust falling, and stopped when he reached the doors at the top. They were gilded, marked with the imperial sigil. He held the cudgel ready, praying that he would not have to use it, and bent to listen.
No sound came from within: no voices, no prayers, not even the bustling of servants. Cathan’s breath came quick and sharp. He didn’t know how he knew the Peripas would be in here, in the Kingpriest’s own chambers, but even so he had never been so certain of anything in his life. Holding his breath, he pushed on the doors. They opened without a sound.
The chamber was dark, completely still. And now there was a slight sound. It came from the bed, set in its midst. The Lightbringer was snoring softly.
Cathan almost smiled as he crossed the chamber, club in hand. He stopped when he drew near, however, sucking in a startled breath. The Kingpriest lay curled up like a child, wrapped so tight in his satin blankets that they might have been funeral windings. His face was pinched with fear, twitching with every breath he drew. Cathan barely recognized him at all now—he seemed to have aged twenty years in the past six months. A film of sweat glistened on his face.
Cathan raised the cudgel. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until it was poised above the bed like a headsman’s sword. His face turned grim: it would be a mercy of sorts, putting an end to Beldinas’s fear—his ill-fated life.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make his hand move, couldn’t kill this old man who had been his friend. He stood there for more than a minute, club held high. In the end he gave up, bowing his head as his arm lowered to his side again. The Kingpriest went on sleeping, unaware.
Cathan spied the Disks then, lying on the floor. He blinked for a moment, stunned that they should be in plain view like that. Then he swooped down and picked them up. They jingled as he did so, but the figure in the bed did not stir. Clutching them to his chest, Cathan turned and looked at the Kingpriest one last time. He knew he would never see Beldinas again—not in this life, anyway.
“Oporum, Pilofiro,” he murmured.
Farewell, Lightbringer.
Then he was gone, back the way he’d come. The golden doors shut noiselessly, the stairs flew by in a blur, the meditation room was still dim and empty. He paused there, long enough to regard the Peripas in the candlelight. They glimmered like silver water. He steeled himself, tucked them into his robe, then walked straight into the room’s south wall…
… back out into the cool of the garden again…
… and stopped, staring at the golden monkey lying dead on the ground, its fur rimed with ice.
“Well done, Twice-Born,” said Fistandantilus from the bower’s far side.
Chapter 24
“Go away, damn you,” Cathan said. “You said you were finished with me.”
The grove was dying even as he spoke, the silvernut trees dropping brown leaves in showers, their white fruit turning black and shriveled. Ice grew on the surface of the reflecting pool. Cathan’s breath fogged in the air as the cloaked figure stood watching him.
“No one has damned me in hundreds of years,” the archmage said. “I’m not certain whether that’s bravery or foolishness. But think twice before you do it again, MarSevrin—I could call the guards, and I wouldn’t even have to shout.”
“You could,” Cathan said. “But you won’t, because you brought me here. You wanted me to turn against Beldinas, and you nudged me every step of the way. You have foreseen the burning hammer. Isn’t that right?”
The wizard’s shoulders rose and fell.
“You speak with me only because I’m useful to you,” Cathan went on. “You still have use of me. That’s why you won’t call the guards.”
A dry chuckle escaped from the hooded figure. “Very good. But in this case, I am useful to you as well. Without me, your little adventure here is doomed to fail. It is almost dawn—the guards will check your cell soon, and see that you are gone. They will raise the alarm, and every Araifo in Istar will turn his mind to you. You will not escape, Twice-Born—and they will not take you prisoner again. You’ll die, and the Peripas will perish with the Kingpriest and his empire.”
“And you?” Cathan asked.
The archmage only laughed. For a moment, something tugged at Cathan’s memory that he couldn’t quite recall. Then it went away. He shook his head.
“What do you want, Dark One?”
Fistandantilus spread his hands. “Do you know where you are taking the Disks? Did Lady Ilista tell you where to go with them?”
Cathan shook his head. All he knew was that he had to get them out of the empire, and that he had intended to take them in the direction of the kingdoms in the west. Not to Solamnia—that realm was too friendly to Istar. No… a place like Kharolis in the south was where he must go; there the Disks would he safe. One of the great cities there, Tarsis or Xak Tsaroth, would provide a sanctuary.
“Good enough,” said the archmage, reading his mind. “That will do. I know some magic that will help you flee this city, and I can throw up a protection spell to baffle His Holiness’s thought-readers.”
“If help you.”
“If you help me.”
Cathan shut his eyes. He knew that once he was found missing from the dungeon, the Hammer would seal the Lordcity’s gates, chain off the harbor, and begin to scour the city in search of him. There was no one left in Istar who was friend to him, nowhere he could find succor. Without the wizard’s aid, indeed he was doomed. But hadn’t Ilista thought of that? Wouldn’t she provide a way out?”
“Perhaps I come from her,” said the Dark One. “It is a sign of how desperate things have grown that Paladine and I work toward the same ends—to preserve evil in Krynn. Polas ongud bonas ongud borgant, as the proverb goes.”
Strange times make strange friends. Cathan turned the thought over in his mind. Fistandantilus liked to speak in riddles—but could he be telling the truth? Is it possible that Ilista and the Dark One were working in such dose concert?
“I ask you again: What do you want?” he murmured.
The Dark One’s beard twitched. “Only one simple thing.”
He held out a hand. A book appeared out of nowhere, bound in night-blue leather, with runes of silver decorating its spine. The writing was slippery and spidery, and it made Cathan’s head hurt even to look at it.
“It is a tome of spells,” Fistandantilus explained. “It will not harm you, so long as you do not try to read it.”
Cathan stared at the book as though it might poison him. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“Only take it with you. I want it out of Istar, and I need to know it is safe. Believe it or not, I trust you to do that for me, in return for your own safety.”
>
“I’m flattered,” Cathan said. He stared at the book, wondering what dark secrets it must contain. With his powers, the wizard could hide the book away easily enough. There must be some reason why he wanted Cathan to carry it with him—and then, all of a sudden, he knew. “You want this book to accompany the Peripas. You need them to be together.”
“You continue to impress.”
“Why?”
“My reasons are my own,” Fistandantilus declared. “I need not tell you everything. Now decide, Twice-Born—will you do me this service, or shall I leave you here for the Lightbringer’s men to find? Your time grows short.”
Glancing east, Cathan saw the sky was bright pink now; in moments, the sun would appear over the horizon. The bells in the Temple’s central spire would sound the call to Udenso, the morning prayer. He stared at the wizard, and then in his mind heard the voice again—the voice that had told him to bring the Peripas out of the Vault.
Take the book.
Doubt lifted away like the mist that rose from the gardens in the day’s gathering warmth. Cathan reached out, took the book from the age-gnarled hand. It felt like a block of ice, stung his fingers. He tucked it away quickly.
“Good,” the wizard murmured. “Now, do as you have agreed, or I will not be pleased.”
Cathan’s mouth went dry. “I’ll hold to my end of the bargain. Now you hold to yours.”
“Of course.”
The wizard reached into a pouch at his belt. From it, be produced something small, green, and very familiar to Cathan. It was the malachite medallion, the same one Tancred had given him as they sailed into Istar. He took the medallion from the archmage without a word, slipping it over his head.
“I don’t suppose you have Ebonbane in there, as well,” he said.
Another laugh from Fistandantilus, who seemed full of mirth this morning. “I fear not, Twice-Born. Your sword belongs to another now.”
Sacred Fire Page 22
