Cathan nodded. He tucked the amulet beneath his habit as the first rays of sunlight kissed the Temple, turning its golden spires to flame red. The bells began to chime.
“You will never see this place again,” the Dark One said, almost sympathetically. “Good-bye, Twice-Born. Palado tas drifas bisat.”
Paladine guide thy steps.
“E tas,” Cathan replied, out of reflex.
And thine.
“Oh, I very much doubt that,” the archmage said.
He spread his hands and began the spell, wearing ancient fingers in complex gestures. His cold voice recited words that crawled in Cathan’s mind, drawing down the power of the black moon. Cathan felt magic streaming through the dead grove, coiling around the leafless trees. A cloud of silvery motes sprang up around him, rotating slowly, then gathering speed as they grew brighter and brighter. Soon they were whirling, each speck becoming a streak of pure white light. The gardens, the Temple, the shape of the Dark One all became sun-bright blurs that swam before his eyes. There was a sound like shattering crystal.
He drew a breath, scented with the flowers of Istar…
… and let it out again in a place that smelled of pine and rain. The Lordcity was gone. Glancing around, Cathan saw he now stood on a wooded hillside—from the looks of the trees and the rocks, in the highlands north and west of Istar, not far from the Forino. Dawn light streaked between the trees.
The Dark Ones spell tingled in him for a moment, then faded away. He was alone. He looked at the trees and saw a vision of them burning, the hills crumbling, and tears flooded his eyes. Why did it have to come to this? he wondered.
Sighing, he pulled down his hood and started walking west. He had a long way yet to go, and still much to do.
*****
“Escaped?” Quarath echoed, his eyebrows arching. “You cannot be serious.”
Tithian shifted uncomfortably. The Lightbringer’s inner circle had gathered to hear his tidings. He would have preferred to tell Beldinas alone, but His Holiness had insisted that Quarath and Lady Elsa be present. Now the three clerics regarded him with disdain, disgust, confusion, and shock. Though the Kingpriest radiated his usual serenity from within his glow, Tithian was sure he could feel fear there, too. That troubled him almost as much as Cathan’s disappearance.
“I have never been more serious, Eminence,” he replied. “The guards found his cell empty when they went to check this morning.”
“But I thought no one had ever escaped from the imperial dungeons,” said Elsa.
“No one ever has,” Tithian agreed. “The doors are triple-locked, and the walls are solid stone. There are warding glyphs to paralyze anyone who tries to get out. And a dozen men stand watch over the only exit.”
“Then how—?”
He shook his head, cutting off the First Daughter’s question. “I don’t know, Your Grace. My men are investigating, and the Araifas are questioning everyone who works in the dungeon, in case one of them aided him.”
“I can’t believe no one saw anything,” Quarath said. The corners of his mouth were pinched. “Perhaps the Hammer are not the ones we should trust with this task.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Quarath answered with a half-smile, “that the Twice-Born was once one of your order. Despite his treachery, it is not unlikely that there are some who still honor him, and would aid him in his flight.”
Tithian bridled. He favored the elf with a cold look. “Are you accusing me?”
“You?” Quarath blinked, as though surprised. “Who said anything about you, Grand Marshal? You may have been his squire once, but I would never cast doubts upon your loyalty to the crown.”
“Wait,” Elsa tried to cut in. “Don’t—”
“I don’t have to take such an insult from you, elf,” Tithian shot back.
“Let go your sword, knight,” Quarath snapped. “Unless you truly intend to use it, that is.”
Tithian started. His hand had indeed drifted to the hilt at his hip. He felt the elf’s sly smile before he looked up.
“That’s his blade, isn’t it?” Quarath asked. “What was its name… ?”
“Ebonbane,” Tithian said, releasing the hilt
“Enough.”
The word, though softly spoken, rang out across the chamber. All three of the Kingpriest’s advisors started, turning to look at him. He had been so silent that Tithian had forgotten he was there. Now he felt Beldinas’s gaze bore into him. It hurt, like staring into the sun.
“This bickering does no good,” Beldinas said calmly. “Cathan is gone. We should be seeking him, not someone to blame.”
“We’re searching for him, Holiness,” Tithian said. “Quietly, so as not to cause a panic. I’ve doubled the guard on the Temple, and trebled it here at the manse. There’s nowhere for him to go.”
“There was no way out of the dungeons, either,” Quarath muttered.
The Lightbringer raised a hand. “I said be still, Emissary. Grand Marshal, I doubt he is still within Istar’s walls. It seems clear he had sorcerous help in his escape.”
Tithian looked down at his feet, nodding. He’d considered that very possibility. “But who, sire?” he asked.
“I do not know,” Beldinas answered. “Though he and the other traitors had sorcerous help when… when they tried to abduct me. Perhaps there is still a wizard among us.”
“Another wizard, you mean,” Quarath noted. “Besides the Dark One, Holiness.”
The Kingpriest nodded, regarding the elf. “Yes. Have Fistandantilus sent for at once, Emissary. I would speak with him about this matter. This meeting is ended. There is nothing more to say now. You may go.”
Quarath hesitated, his brow creasing, then bowed. “As you wish, Pilofiro,” he murmured, then left the chamber. Lady Elsa curtseyed and followed after him. Tithian bowed and started to leave as well.
“Not you, Grand Marshal” the Kingpriest said. “Stay a while.”
Tithian turned back toward the throne. “Sire?” he asked. “What more do you wish of me?”
“I think you know,” Beldinas answered, steepling his fingers.
Tithian’s eyes widened. “You want me to pursue him?”
The Kingpriest nodded. “No man I trust knows him better than you, Grand Marshal. Who else would I send on this hunt?”
“But, Holiness,” Tithian reasoned, spreading his hands, “we don’t know where he’s going, and there won’t even be a clear trail to follow.”
“He is heading west,” Beldinas said. “This I know. I know Cathan, Grand Marshal… he will not go back into the south, and there is nothing to the north and east. Take a party of knights with you, travel light and fast. If you move quickly enough, you will catch him, even with whatever sorcerous aid he has.”
“Why is it so important?” Tithian ventured. He didn’t want this duty; his place was here, in Istar, at the Lightbringer’s side. “If you think he’s going somewhere else… he might just be hiding out again. Why bother to hunt him?”
“Because,” Beldinas said, “he has the Peripas.”
Tithian started. “What?”
“He came here, before the dawn,” the Kingpriest replied sadly. “I thought it was a dream, but it wasn’t. And the Disks were missing when I awoke.”
Tithian stared, aghast.
“You will not speak of this to anyone,” Beldinas declared. “Not even Quarath. No one must know the Peripas are missing. It is a catastrophe.”
“Of—of course, sire,” Tithian mumbled, numb with shock. Cathan had stolen the gods’ word. What had happened to his old master, his old friend, to commit such an impiety?
“Darkness guides the Twice-Born now,” Beldinas said ruefully. “You must bring him back … alive, if possible.”
“And if it isn’t possible, sire?”
The Kingpriest sighed, bowed his head, and gave no answer.
Chapter 25
ELEVENTHMONTH, 962 I.A.
Curiously, Beldi
nas showed a dramatic improvement after the Twice-Born’s disappearance. It was a gradual process, but day by day he recovered from the madness that had gripped him while he pored over the Peripas. He emerged from the manse for the first time in months, often walking in the gardens, lost in thought. He returned to the basilica, to lead the prayers and hold short audiences. Soon he was appearing on the steps of the Temple once more, to receive the adulation of the masses. They cheered for him as he stood upon the steps, and he pronounced blessings upon them and all who followed his light.
Three weeks after his first public appearance, he invited his court—save for Lord Tithian, who had departed the city—to a grand feast. It was the day before the month-long preparations for Yule were due to start. There were fried goose livers, and greenfish crusted with salt, and sweets made from the honey of the Temple’s rare, ruby-hued bees. There was claret, and moragnac brandy. A shaven-headed boy from West Dravinaar sang and played a plucked dulcimer called the cimbello.
The hierarchs didn’t come for food, drink, or song, however—even if they did savor such pleasures. They came with questions, many to do with the day-long closing of the city’s gates a month ago, and the increase in the Scatas and knights who walked its streets. Beseechinging eyes watched the flowing figure at the head of the table.
Quarath watched the Kingpriest too, wondering what His Holiness was up to. Beldinas had to answer the many questions, but didn’t dare tell the truth. It was a delicate matter, one Quarath would have preferred to handle himself—no chance of that, now. He sipped his wine, watching everyone until finally the soft scrape of a chair against the floor brought conversation, dining, and music to a halt.
The Lightbringer had risen.
He stood there for three full minutes, saying nothing. The dining hall seemed to roar with silence; the courtiers froze where they sat, afraid to make the slightest noise. Quarath watched with admiration as the hierarchs waited and waited, respectfully. The presence of the man was awe-inspiring. Staring intently down the table, radiating benevolence, he exuded power. Even the elf felt it. This was the chosen of the gods; who could doubt it?
“The time,” said the Kingpriest, “has come.”
The words hung there until, directed by some imperceptible signal, the hierarchs leaned forward, their faces intent. Beldinas continued.
“The forces of darkness have struck at me this year. They came not cloaked in hatred and fear, but in a guise far more disturbing and terrible. They came as friends to the empire. They seeped into the hearts of those we once loved. I speak, of course, of First Son Revando, and the MarSevrin family, and the many others who plotted and schemed to steal my Crown, and undo all the good work this church, and this empire, have done.”
A murmur of disapproval echoed around the table. What had nearly happened at the Forino was well-known by now. In the wine-shops and marketplaces, men spat whenever Revando’s name was mentioned. This was, however, the first time Beldinas had spoken openly of the plot, outside his inner circle.
“This is the guise evil takes,” the Kingpriest went on. “As the shadows dim, it finds new places to dwell—even within the light. We could fight it for a thousand years, until not a single goblin or wizard remains on the face of Krynn, and still it would find places to hide, and thrive. It is cunning, insidious.
“I will not have it so. Yule is coming, and it will be a merry season regardless, and all must know this: it will be the last while evil survives in Istar. For on the last day of this year, I shall go into seclusion, and gather my strength. For three days I shall remain so, cleansing my spirit. And then on the third day of the new year, when the sun is at its acme in the sky, I shall call upon the gods themselves, and thus banish the darkness from the world forever!”
The dining hall might have been a tomb, for all the noise the hierarchs made now. Tears streaked their faces, and their lips parted in silent rapture. Only Quarath breached a slight smile.
The feast ended soon after, the courtiers’ many questions not only unasked but forgotten. The guests left with amazed faces, speaking little. Quarath studied each as they left, looking for signs of doubt, or fear. He saw nothing of the sort.
Only when they were alone, looking out from the balcony of the Kingpriest’s parlor over the dusklit city, did Quarath himself ask a question.
“You found the answer you sought?”
Beldinas remained silent. Moths fluttered about his light.
“Holiness?” Quarath urged. The secret… was it in the Peripas?”
“The Peripas do not matter.” Beldinas replied blandly. They never did. I understand now—I was guided to them, but not to learn the secrets of the gods. No… it was to uncover the traitors, to lure them into the open. The Disks were only a means. They were not an end.”
Quarath blinked, startled. “Then… ?”
“Here,” the Kingpriest said, laying a hand over his heart “The answer is here, and it has been all along. I was too blind to see it… but now, it has come to me. I will call the god’s name, and he will answer. I will command him, and he will obey. The power is here.”
He thumped his chest again, and his radiance flared, forcing Quarath to blink, then look away with pained eyes. The Kingpriest briefly shone like a star … and Quarath wondered. Neither man spoke again, for quite some time.
*****
It was almost midnight when the elf finally left the manse, and Beldinas retired to his bedchamber. With a word, Fistandantilus let his spell of cloaking slip away.
“I had wondered when you might show yourself, Dark One,” the Kingpriest said, greeting him without the slightest surprise.
Fistandantilus allowed himself a brief smile. Revealing himself like this usually unnerved people. Beldinas must fear him—how could he not, knowing what powers the wizard could summon with a mere twitch of his finger?—but he showed none. Now, he drew himself up with head held high. Fistandantilus admired him for that, even though he rarely admired a cleric of the light.
“Well?” asked the Kingpriest. “Have you come to pour poison in my ear and call it honey? How will you try to pervert me, Black Robe?”
The archmage shrugged. “How long have I served in your court, Lightbringer? Nearly twenty years, by my count. And have I ever sought to corrupt you, in all that time?”
Even Beldinas had to admit that was true—the few times Fistandantilus the Dark had given counsel to the imperial ear, it had been for the general good of Istar. Usually, the Dark One simply sat and observed the affairs of state. That didn’t stop tongues from wagging—but then, Fistandantilus had learned long ago that the only thing that stopped tongues from wagging was a good, sharp knife.
“You have not abused your position,” the Kingpriest said. “But things are different now. You know what I intend to do, when the new year comes?”
“I do.”
“Do you not fear the gods’ wrath?”
No more than you do, the wizard thought “That is between the gods and me.”
“Then what is it you want?”
Fistandantilus had lived for centuries, feeding off the life-essences of lesser mages. Istar had been a bundle of squabbling city-states in his youth. Now, looking at Beldinas, he felt a stab of impatience. After all this time, after all he had done to bring this man to Istar, to put him on the throne, and to keep him there. He’d brought down the mighty, orchestrated wars, caused the deaths of thousands, all to have the Lightbringer at his disposal, when the time came.
He didn’t care about Beldinas’s plans to command the gods, for that would never happen. The Kingpriest was powerful, but Fistandantilus’s power was greater still; he would use his magic to bedevil the man. Together, they would recite the words the mages of old had written, in the certainty that no one would ever speak them. The Portal would then open, and they would enter the Abyss. And the Dark One would take his place among the shadow gods.
“I want you to come here,” Fistandantilus said.
There was nothing out
of the ordinary about his voice, no echo, no volume, no depth. But the hidden energy of it flashed across the room like an invisible whip, ensnaring the Kingpriest in its coils. The Miceram’s light flickered faintly. Fistandantilus smiled. The Crown of Power was a mighty relic, but he owned dozens just as mighty in his collections. Blinking as though suddenly tired, Beldinas leaned forward, and began to walk across the chamber.
“Good,” the wizard said. He waited until they were nearly face to face. “Now stop, and remove your Crown, Holiness.” Despite his best attempts, the last word still came out as a sneer.
Dreamily, the Kingpriest reached up and lifted the Miceram from his brow. The holy light dimmed, fading into shimmers of silver about a tired, frightened face as Beldinas set the Crown down on a nearby table.
“Is this enough?” the Kingpriest asked. “Will it satisfy you?”
Fistandantilus savored the moment, letting the magic flow out of the black moon and into him. It sang in his blood, like sweet wine or bloodblossom oil. He raised his hands, the fingers bent and spotted with age, held them still a moment, then reached forward and laid them on either side of the Kingpriest’s balding head. Then he shut his eyes and let himself slip gently into Beldinas’s mind.
They were standing together on a mountaintop, the cliffs on all sides assailed by monsters, sorcerers, and demons. There were men among the attackers, too—Lords Revando and Cathan, Wentha the Weeping and her sons, among many others. Fistandantilus floated in the air, untroubled, but Beldinas was on the verge of panicking, clinging to a pinnacle of stone like a shipwrecked sailor to flotsam. The wizard glanced at him, saw the terror writ plain on the man’s face, and knew at once something was wrong. This was not the calm, self-assured man who had assumed the throne years before. Something had changed in him—what had once been pure, sweet music now evinced a sour discord.
As Beldinas’s foes closed in on all sides, Fistandantilus understood. This was what the world looked like to the Kingpriest: danger all around, and no way out. He was only holding on to gather more power; then he would unleash it, and bring the mountain down. His enemies would be destroyed.
Sacred Fire Page 23
