Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  But so would he, and he didn’t realize this.

  The image vanished, and Fistandantilus let go, stepping back in astonishment Beldinas was not the pure vessel he required—not any longer. He’d wielded too much power for too long. He had wrath and envy in his soul—and pride, worst of all. The very means the wizard had used to get close to him had brought his ruin. He was not right for the ritual; the Portal would never open to him.

  Softly, the Dark One began to laugh. It was strange laughter, tinged with self-mockery. What a fool he’d been, all this time! Pulling the puppets’ strings, making them dance—and never noticing that those strings and the Kingpriest’s were growing entangled. So many years, wasted on a hope that was false…

  Fistandantilus laughed and laughed.

  “Very good,” he said, glancing up to the heavens. “Oh, clever indeed!”

  Beldinas only stared, still under the charm.

  “So be it, then,” Fistandantilus murmured. “Let him smash the empire. It matters not.”

  He passed a hand in front of Beldinas’s face, allowing a burst of magical energy to pass through as he chanted spidery words, “You will sleep,” he said with a hint of bitterness. “When you wake, you will have no memory of this.”

  The Kingpriest nodded. Following Fistandantilus’s command, he climbed up onto his bed and lay down his head. In less than a minute he was snoring.

  The Dark One stood over him a moment, then nodded to himself and let the cloaking spell slip over him once more. He still had work to do.

  Chapter 26

  Squatting in the mud, the rain dripping down from the ash trees, Cathan remembered being here, in almost this very spot, in a ditch by the side of the road, deep in the highlands of Taol. He’d been young then—little more than a boy, really—though he’d become a man that year. He’d lost his family to plague, all except Wentha, and sunk into a life of outlawry, hiding from the Kingpriest’s men in the wilds. He couldn’t hold back a grim smile; so much had happened in his life, and here he was again. Perhaps life was a circle, as certain heretics claimed.

  The journey west had taken longer than he’d expected— twenty-five days to travel what he could have done in fifteen, or ten on horseback. The roads were busy, and he had to be cautious, taking care never to raise his head so that others might notice his eyes beneath his hood. And that was just for commoners and tradesmen; when he spotted priests or Scatas—or the Hammer—he quit the road entirely, found the nearest wood or gully, and hid until they passed.

  Peering up from the ditch now, he watched six mounted knights, riding from the south, dressed in battle armor rather than simple riding gear. He ducked down again with a curse; the men weren’t simply on their way from one town to the next. They were a search party to find him; Tithian was no fool.

  The sounds of rattling armor and hooves clopping against the paring stones got closer. His hand went beneath his robes, touching the cudgel he still carried. Six swords against one club didn’t make for promising odds at all. He pressed himself flat in the mud, felt it soak through his robes, and shivered at the cold against his skin. He wasn’t well enough concealed, he knew.

  Then the sounds of the knights receded toward the north. Risking another look, he saw they had moved on toward Govinna. He allowed himself a sigh of relief, then waited for them to vanish altogether. Only then did he rise from the muck. The wind blew through his sodden robes, making him shiver: winter came early to the highlands. If only he could risk a fire—yet the smoke would draw attention. This part of Taol had been deserted for years, ever since Kingpriest Kurnos’s men came through, burning and killing in their efforts to find the Lightbringer. Except for the occasional trapper or charcoal-burner, no one dwelled in southern Taol any more, and certainly not near Luciel.

  His heart quickened at the thought of his old home. When he’d been a knight, he’d come back here every year, to honor the mother, father, and brother whose disease-wracked bodies he’d burned. It was here that Beldinas—just Beldyn, then—had first revealed his powers. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Perhaps it was, he thought. It was before I died, after all.

  He dug at his belt and pulled out a flask of brandy—crude stuff, far from the moragnac they enjoyed in the Great Temple. He took a deep swig, and the warmth suffused his body again. It also awakened his stomach, which let out a peevish grumble. Food and drink had been scarce on the road, and here in the wilderness he’d been surviving on nuts and roots and berries.

  He would eat again at dusk, and not before, he told himself as he put the flask away. His hand went automatically to a bag that hung at his hip, as it did a hundred times each day, and he fingered the Peripas through the leather. The Disks weren’t safe yet—they wouldn’t be, until he was out of Istar and across the Khalkist Mountains, into Kharolis. He also touched Fistandantilus’s spellbook, which, though it radiated cold and malice, somehow made him feel secure. He felt certain nothing evil would harm him as long as he carried that grimoire.

  He glanced down the road again—there was nothing as far as his eyes could see, And yet, there was something, a presence he had felt constantly since his escape from the Lordcity. It never went away, and grew stronger every day. He signed the triangle, knowing it must be the gods. They were close now; the weight of the burning hammer was heavy on him. It still haunted his dreams.

  “The end is near,” he murmured, and blessed himself again. Then he climbed out of the ditch and moved on down the road.

  *****

  Tithian had never been to this place before, but he recognized it the moment he saw it. He’d heard about it often enough, back when he was Cathan’s squire, and life was simple. It once had been a prosaic cluster of thatched cottages in a valley close to the Imperial High Road, overlooked by a simple lord’s keep. Little remained of Luciel now. The Scatas had burned it to the ground almost forty years ago, and it had never been rebuilt. All that was left were foundation stones and the odd stub of a chimney, scattered like bones among thick bracken and furze. Badgers and ground-hawks ruled the ruins. But for the shell of the old keep—also weed-choked now, its walls crumbling and mantled in vines—one might never know that Luciel had once been home to several hundred souls.

  Standing upon the wall of that keep, his shoulders hunched against the wind, Tithian stared down at the skeletal remains of Luciel and shivered. He was cold to the bone; he and his men hadn’t lit a campfire for days. That order had some of the other knights muttering bitterly, but he knew he was right to play it safe. No point in setting a trap, just to give away his position to anyone within ten miles.

  The cold wasn’t the worst part. The sky was wrong. There was no other way to put it—there was simply something strangely unpleasant about its colors. To the west it was a filthy orange, as if the Khalkists were burning; to the east it was almost black, and flashing with lightning. Overhead, the clouds were bruise-purple, and they seethed and roiled like an angry sea. Tithian gripped his sword more tightly, seized by the irrational feeling that he might at any moment be sucked upward. Indeed the gods must be angry, he thought.

  And then he shook his head, clearing thoughts such folly from his brain. Folly, that was all it was: folly and nerves, brought on by too many nights on the Twice-Born’s trail. His mind was muddled, and each thought came to him as though he were slogging through a swamp. He had been here, at the keep formerly belonging to Lord Tavarre—once the baron of this vale, who had gone on to become the Divine Hammer’s first Lord Marshal—for five days. He’d sent most of his men out to search the roads, but he’d kept a few here with him, at Luciel.

  Conno cun polbit, the proverb went. Conno prum soidit

  The poor hunter chases. The good hunter waits.

  As he and his men had galloped across the plains of Ismin, he’d decided that his particular quarry would end up here. His gut told him, and told him this clearly. But Cathan had not yet come, and the other knights were beginning to doubt their leader’s instincts. They gr
umbled to one another when they thought Tithian wasn’t listening, exchanged pointed glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. They were sure Tithian had been rashly mistaken, and he was beginning to believe that too. The Twice-Born wasn’t coming to Luciel—and, in a way he would never care to admit, part of Tithian hoped he never would. It would be easier, in some ways, if Cathan simply vanished, and no one ever saw him again.

  Sighing, Tithian glanced away from the vale below the keep and looked down into the courtyard behind him. The knights’ camp stood amid the rubble that had once been the manor house, and three of them were huddled there, keeping out of the ceaseless wind. To one side he spotted Sir Bron, trapping near the graves at the yard’s edge of what had been Lord Tavarre’s household; his family had been plague-dead before the Lightbringer arrived. A fresher mound stood beside them: Tavarre himself had been returned here twenty years later, to join his kin.

  Bron glanced up, his gaze meeting Tithian’s, and he raised an eyebrow in question. Then he made a stoic face when the Grand Marshal shook his head. He had proven a good choice as second on this mission, for Bron had grown steadfast since the massacre at the Forino, and his loyalty helped keep the other knights in line. But Tithian knew that this mission was taking its toll, and surely the strange sky troubled Bron as well.

  Tithian was just turning away when the call sounded: a sharp, rising whistle, a noise like that made by one of the bluefinches that lived in the highlands. The hairs on the back of his neck stood erect, and he clapped a hand to his sword as he stared out toward a fair-haired, sharp-eyed knight named Sir Girald, whom he’d posted at watch atop a half-collapsed watchtower. Girald was clambering down from his purchase, and moving with reckless speed across the wall to salute before Tithian. Bron and the other knights ran across the courtyard, their faces eager.

  “One man,” gasped Girald, his face flushed with excitement. “On foot, alone. I think it must be him, milord!”

  Of course it’s him, Tithian thought. Who else would he out here, in this forsaken place? He felt an odd twinge of disappointment that this confrontation would have to happen after all. The wind stinging his eyes, he stole a glance down into the valley. There was indeed a shape moving down there, blurred by distance.

  “Down,” he whispered.

  He and Girald descended a flight of age-worn steps into the courtyard. The rest of the knights had gathered—six in all, with weapons ready—and met their commander at the bottom. “Milord?” Bron asked. “What are your orders?”

  “We do as we discussed,” Tithian replied, gesturing around him. “To your places, and wait. Let him come to us, then move when I give the signal. And no crossbows—this is a former knight, not some Sargonnite heathen. If it comes to fighting, we will do so with honor. Any man who feathers him loses his spurs.”

  This earned more muttering and eye rolling. Most of these knights had no personal experience of Cathan MarSevrin. They didn’t know him like Tithian did.

  The plan was simple. When Cathan arrived at the keep— for Tithian had no doubt that he would never leave Luciel without visiting Tavarre’s burial place—the knights would be hidden among the rubble. The moment he knelt by the grave, the ambush would begin. Tithian offered a silent prayer to Paladine that Cathan would be sensible and surrender, but an itch in his mind told him otherwise.

  Bron took charge with admirable efficiency, urging the men to their appointed cover. The two youngest knights moved quickly about the courtyard, scattering gravel and pine needles to cover their tracks. Then they, too, hid themselves away. Tithian and Bron went last, perching in prime spots by the keep’s toppled north wall nearest the cemetery. The rain spat in the groaning wind, beneath the horrible sky. Silence covered the old fort like a shroud.

  Then, softly, came footsteps, scuffing against stone. A mad urge rose in Tithian to jump up and tell his former master to run; confused, he fought it down. This was the Kingpriest’s will, and he was sworn to carry out the Lightbringer’s orders. To his left, Bron silently loosened his sword in its scabbard.

  Cathan came closer. Now Tithian could see him, through a crack in the stone: an old, hooded, road-weary man with a wooden cudgel dangling from his belt. If not for the glimpse he had of white, empty eyes, Tithian never would have recognized his old friend. He watched as the Twice-Born walked to the stone marking Lord Tavarre’s grave. Cathan pulled back his hood, revealing a bald head spotted with age marks, and a face gaunt and lined with suffering. A sad smile appeared amid his ragged beard. “Come out, Swordflinger,” he said aloud. “Your men, too.”

  *****

  Cathan had heard them among the rubble—the soft jingle of mail behind the ragged stub of a wall. He knew Tithian well, could guess that he might have raced to Luciel to wait for him. Yes, there, in the shadows by what had once been a statue of one of Lord Tavarre’s ancestors—now shreared from the waist, its legs cloaked in ivy. Cathan held up his hands, keeping them away from his cudgel.

  “I know you’re there,” he said. “I have smelled you and heard your bluefinch call.”

  “And still you walked into our trap.”

  Tithian rose from his cover with the barest trace of a sheepish grin. Another half-dozen knights stood up around him. Swords hissed from their scabbards and in an instant, he was ringed in steel. Tithian, however, did not draw his own blade. Cathan wondered whether that was a good sign or not.

  “There’s no way out,” the Grand Marshal declared.

  Cathan shrugged. “You could let me go.”

  A couple of the younger knights laughed, their voices thick with scorn, Cathan ignored them. Tithian frowned in irritation.

  “You know I can’t do that. The Kingpriest ordered me to take you… one way or the other.”

  Cathan sighed, lowering his hands. “The Kingpriest gives many orders, Tithian. He ordered us to Losarcum, remember? Would you have obeyed, had you known what would come of that disastrous day?”

  “The defeat of the wizards, you mean?” sneered a young knight beside Tithian. Cathan struggled to remember his name: Bron. “I for one would have obeyed, though it cost my life. The gods will reward me in the afterworld.”

  “You assume it was the god’s will.”

  “Assume?” Sir Bron echoed, flushing angrily. “The Lightbringer is Paladine’s voice!”

  Cathan shook his head. “No. No. Beldinas makes his own voice, and no other.”

  A rumble came from the knights. “Blasphemy!” exclaimed Sir Bron. “How dare you—”

  “Bron. Be still,” Tithian ordered. The young knight’s eyes widened, but he swallowed any farther tirade. “Cathan, I can’t let you go, in spite of our old friendship. The Kingpriest would brand me a traitor. I’d lose my knighthood, my holdings … I’d be lucky if he didn’t declare me Foripon. Surely you understand—”

  All at once, the words died on his lips. Cathan’s hand, which had been resting on his pack, suddenly pulled out the Peripas. The Disks made a musical sound as he raised them, flashing with bright streaks of light. Several knights cried out at the sight of them; others averted their eyes. Sir Bron’s face turned ashen. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing among the crags.

  Tithian’s eyes widened. Then he composed himself, keeping his face blank. “I know you have the Disks, Cathan. Why do you think it’s so important that we find you? His Holiness needs them to—”

  “His Holiness will bring ruin upon the empire, and the world,” Cathan shot back angrily. “I have seen a vision of his failure. The god showed me long ago, but I didn’t understand then. Now I do, and we’re almost out of time.”

  “Blasphemy,” Sir Bron growled again. Lightning flashed overhead. The young knight spoke up fiercely. “You’re a heretic and a thief. Twice-Born.”

  “Yes, I am,” Cathan answered, his face set like stone. “But I was a better knight in my time than you will ever be. Any of you—except one.”

  He looked back at Tithian, who stared at him ruefully. Above, the sky seethed and roi
led. His former squire’s face tightened as he struggled to master his emotions.

  “You know what I say is true, Tithian,” Cathan said. “I can see it in your eyes. I told you once that you were a good man—will you not prove it true?”

  Tithian stood very still. The knights watched him, confused, awaiting their orders. One word, and they would fall on Cathan. They had been sent; it was their duty. A single tear swelled in Tithian’s eye, dropped onto his cheek, and rolled down, “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “I can’t lot you go. But you were a good knight, once.”

  With that, he reached to his belt, drew out his sword and tossed it across the distance, to land at Cathan’s feet.

  “I think you’ll recognize my gift to you,” he said.

  The blade of Tarsian steel, the golden hilt, the shards of porcelain that once had been his family’s holy symbol of Paladine: Ebonbane. Looking back up at Tithian, Cathan saw a cold determination in the man’s eyes, and caught his breath. Thunder boomed, closer now.

  Tithian’s face was as an expressionless mask. “Bron, give me your sword.”

  Sir Bron didn’t respond. He, like the other knights, was staring at Ebonbane in open-mouthed shock. Here they had their quarry, unarmed save for a club, and the Grand Marshal had just handed him the finest blade in the empire.

  “Bron!” Tithian snapped

  Blinking, the young knight looked up. Then he shook himself, bowing his head and proffering his weapon, hilt-first, to the Grand Marshal. Tithian took it, weighing it in his hand, and gave it a few practice swipes. He made a face.

  “This,” he declared, “is merely a passable blade. But no matter.”

  “No, my friend,” Cathan said. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Tithian smiled, sadly. “Pick up your sword,” he said. “The Divine Hammer has its laws, and I must follow them. We will settle this by the trial of combat.”

  Chapter 27

  The storm crashed down on Taol with a fury that felled trees and flooded rivers all across the province. The rain lashed at Tithian’s face, but he kept his visor open, relishing; the feel of it— for the rain washed away his tears.