Odd. He’d heard a footstep.
Denubis’s eyesight was nearly gone—the younger scribes sniggered that a dragon could perch on his nose, and he’d only know by the smell of brimstone—but his hearing remained sharp. Years spent alone in silence had honed it to the point where he could make out a whispered word halfway across the library. He set his pen down, and twisted around in his seat. Somewhere behind him, he’d heard the whisper of robes. He squinted, peering into the shadows, but couldn’t see a thing. “Is someone there? ” he croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Brother Morr, are you having trouble sleeping again?”
He heard the sound again, even closer than before. His mouth going dry, he squeaked his chair back and rose from his desk. He lifted a silver candlestick, almost wholly encased in melted wax. He had no illusions of being able to defend himself, but its heft still felt comforting in his grasp. The glow spread into the gloom, and suddenly there was something there. He pushed up his spectacles, trying to make out the fuzzy, dark shape in the shadows.
“Hello?” he asked, shivering. When had it gotten so cold?
“Denubis,” whispered the shape.
The scribe blinked. “Who are you?”
“You should know,” said the shadow. “How many men in the Temple wear black, Brother?”
Riddles had never really interested Denubis. He shook his head. “Only one,” he answered, wondering what kind of trick—
—and then he realized there was only one who dressed in black. His mouth went dry, and he jumped back. The candle’s flame went out, drenching the room in shadow. He lost sight of the dark figure … of the wizard, he thought with a shudder… but he could still feel a stab of cold amid the room’s heat. The cold drew close, and his feet moved without command, propelling him back until he struck a bookshelf with a thud. Several tomes tumbled from the stacks, splaying on the floor. He winced with their pain as he heard the bindings crack.
“You needn’t flee,” whispered Fistandantilus. He was so close that Denubis could have reached out and touched him. “If I meant to harm you, I wouldn’t have to come here. I have killed men by merely thinking their names.”
It was very hard not to gibber. “Wh-why have you come here, then, Dark One? C-can I help you f-f-find a b-b-b-”
“A book? No. I have read most of the books you keep here, at least the ones that aren’t rubbish—even the banned ones,” the sorcerer replied. “No, Brother. It isn’t the lore in this place that interests me. It’s you.”
“Me?” Denubis tried to ask. His voice failed him, however, so all that came out of his mouth was a squeak.
“Yes, you,” Fistandantilus said, chuckling. “All this time, I thought the Lightbringer was the one. But no, those who rule are never fully truly pure of heart. No, I had to come here to find the one I sought.”
“I’m sorry?” Denubis asked. Conversations often rode away without him. “I don’t understand—”
“You don’t need to, Brother,” Fistandantilus declared, “Not yet. But there will come a time of great despair, and the hearts of many will fail. Yours must not. You will know what to do when that time comes.”
With that, he was gone. The cold went with him, letting the heat pour back in. Denubis stood motionless, staring into the blackness, the candlestick still clutched in his hand. What in Paladine’s name had just happened? Had Fistandantilus the Dark actually come to the chancery and spoken to him? Him, a humble copyist?
No, that made no sense. He sighed, suddenly feeling quite sad. Imagining wizards in the middle of the night. If that sort of thing kept up, before long he’d be just like old Brother Forto, lying in his bed, and drooling and muttering all day and night. Wincing, he signed the triangle against such thoughts.
“Well,” he muttered aloud, turning back toward his desk, “best get back to work, then. Don’t want to go all funny in the head before—aaagh!”
There was someone standing there, no more than three paces away. It wasn’t the wizard, though—this was an elf, elderly, balding, with a long white beard. He was dressed in snowy robes, and the medallion of Paladine—no, of E’li, for it was shaped like a pine tree—hung about his neck. There was a look of such sadness on his face that, though he didn’t know why, Denubis felt his eyes burn with sudden tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said huskily. “I-I didn’t see you come in. Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”
“No, I have found the one I seek,” the elf said. His sorrowful expression did not change. “If you are Denubis.”
Denubis put a hand to his head. He’d spent entire decades working in the chancery without anyone looking for him. Now two visitors in one night: the Dark One, and then… who was this stranger? Wait, there was something familiar about him, but Denubis’s memory wasn’t what it had once been.
“I am Denubis,” he replied, mystified. “But, forgive me, I can’t place you—”
“My name is Loralon.”
Denubis gasped. He remembered now—he had known Loralon in his youth. The Emissary loved books and had come here sometimes, in the night. They had talked sometimes. But that had been, what? Forty years ago? Kurnos had cast the elf out, and Quarath had taken his place. What was he doing here now?
“Surely, you seek the Kingpriest,” Denubis stammered.
“I’ll—”
“No, there is only one in this Temple I seek and that is you, Denubis,” Loralon said. “Come, now. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“Journey!” Denubis repeated. That was the end of it—he must be going mad. “That’s impossible. I’m still not finished with my work—”
“Your work doesn’t matter,” Loralon said gently. “Not any more. Come along, Brother.”
He reached out his hand. Denubis stared at it, bewildered. For a moment, the world seemed to split in two. He saw himself take that hand, saw himself burst into tears as light spilled around him. Loralon had invited him on a journey—and suddenly he wanted to go, desperately. He wanted it so much, it hurt.
But he didn’t take Loralon’s hand. He felt a stab of cold, heard a voice whispering in his ear. “You will know when the time comes…”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t go with you.”
Loralon shut his eyes, the sorrow on his face deepening. Slowly, he lowered his hand to his side. When he spoke, his voice was hollow as a cave. “Very well. I see now what holds you here. But you will make the journey one day, Denubis. I promise you.”
Then he, too, vanished.
Denubis stood alone, shivering, waiting for what would happen next. Another visitor—or vision? Nothing. After a while he started breathing again,
“Funny in the head,” he said, sitting down at his desk again. He reached for his pen, dipped it in the ink, and—
A single drop fell from its tip onto the paper, spattering it with black. Denubis stopped, stared, and sighed. Then he set the stylus down, picked up a brush, and daubed the page’s corner with red. He’d known something like that would happen.
He didn’t waste any tears over it, though. Setting the blemished page aside, he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, picked up his pen, and started anew.
*****
That night became known in later history as the Night of Doom, the night the last true clerics left Krynn. Where they went and what their ultimate fate may have been, never became known. Their passing went all but unnoticed at first, for few remained whose faith was pure, and those few were little missed—minor monks and clerics like Denubis, living in obscurity. The rest of the world continued on, certain the Kingpriest would deliver them from darkness.
Far off, deep in the night sky, something began to move.
Chapter 29
Quarath awoke covered with sweat, his bedsheets soaked through and sticking to him. It was not yet dawn, but already it was hotter than yesterday—oppressive, muggy heat. His bedchamber felt like summer in the jungles of Falthana; the elven plants he kept, used to cooler clime
s, were wilting. He felt grimy. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and muttered a curse.
He would have to send word to the Arena, postponing the Games; Rockbreaker’s gladiators wouldn’t be able to put on a proper show tomorrow, in this torrid air. He’d been looking forward to watching the Barbarian fight again, too; the big brute had proven quite popular, second only to the great Pheragas. He’d been a good investment. As soon as the heat broke, he vowed, the Games would go on.
He glanced at the windows. He kept them shuttered these days, so the room could stay in shadow, but even so, light leaked through. Something about the light today wasn’t right; the foredawn glow seemed wan, weak, somehow unclean. And now that he paid attention, the sounds he heard were all wrong, too. The choirs should be practicing the Morningsong, but the delicate harmonies that greeted him when he awoke every morning were not there. In their place his were shouts and strangled cries, unpleasantly discordant to refined ear.
“What now?” he muttered, rising from his bed. He folded a robe about his body, went to the windows, cracked open the shutters—and stiffened, sucking in a horrified gasp.
Less than a minute later, he was standing outside with what seemed like the entire population of the Temple—priest and acolyte, knight and monk. Like them all—and the thousands who massed in the Lordcity’s streets beyond the great church—Quarath stared upward, and what he saw made him shiver.
The sky normally, at this time of day was a deep, brilliant blue, the color of sapphires. Now, however, it was a distinct green … a putrescent green, like the color of decaying flesh. Not a cloud marked the sky, from horizon to horizon. No breath of wind stirred the trees and banners. Everywhere there was the reek of ordure, raised by the heat from the city sewers.
Murmurs ran among the clerics. “The end is come,” whispered some. “The dark gods have awoken,” said others. Still others simply spoke one word, echoed across the Lordcity:
“Doom.”
The word resonated in Quarath’s heart, arousing animal fears. He tore his gaze from the firmament to look around for the other hierarchs. Before long he spotted Lady Elsa, who was out front of the Revered Daughters’ cloister, gaping upward with terror-filled eyes. He went over to her, grabbing her arm.
“Snap out of it, Efisa,” he barked. “We are the high clergy of Istar. This sort of thing is what common folk do, not the Kingpriest’s trusted ones!”
Elsa blinked, her eyes meeting his blankly. He shook her, but she still didn’t seem to recognize him. Giving up in disgust, he shoved the First Daughter away and swept onward toward the imperial manse. There, on a balcony overlooking the gardens, stood Beldinas’s glowing figure. Pushing his way through the crowds—they grew thicker every moment, as more and more clerics came out to watch the dreadful sky—Quarath dashed up the front stairs, past the knights on guard, and before long he found himself out on the balcony beside the Lightbringer.
“Do you see, Emissary?” asked the Kingpriest, gesturing skyward. “Do you see what the enemy does, when its defeat is imminent? Behold—even the dawn is poisoned.”
He waved his arm toward the east. There, above the Temple’s silver rooftops, the sun had risen. Rather than a bright orange disc, however, it was a smudge of olive-green. Quarath felt sick to his stomach.
“I’ve never seen its like, Holiness,” he declared. “I can call for an astronomer, if you like. They may have some answers.”
“I have the answers,” Beldinas said feverishly. “Evil sees its doom, and fights back however it can—I do not need star-watchers to tell me what is obvious. And it does not do such things in parts. There is worse to come.”
“Worse?” Quarath echoed, staring at the dim sun in the green sky.
Beldinas nodded. “I saw it in my dreams last night. A terrible wind, cutting through stone like parchment. It will strike the Temple soon.”
Quarath’s eyebrows shot up. “The Temple?” he echoed. The Kingpriest nodded. “But then, shouldn’t we hasten to evacuate?”
“Not the whole thing,” Beldinas said, thinking. The Durro Jolithas only. See that it is cleared at once, Emissary. No one may set foot in there again until I say it is safe.”
The Temple of Istar boasted seven golden spires. The tallest, the Durro Paladas—the Tower of Paladine—rose from the top of the basilica, where the bells were sounding the call to morning prayer, even now. The other six ringed it round, and rose from the corners of its walls. At the tip of each spire was the symbol of a god of light: the twin teardrops of Mishakal, the harp of Branchala, the rose of Majere, the wings of Habbakuk, the disc of Solinari, and the horns of Kiri-Jolith. Quarath’s eyes fixed on this last, and a shudder ran through him. Ordinarily, he didn’t believe in premonitions, having never communed with the gods himself. But if Beldinas said the Durro Jolithas was in danger, then…
“Hurry, Emissary,” the Kingpriest murmured. “It will not be long now.”
Then Quarath felt a change in the humid air, a rising heaviness and tension. Below, fingers were rising, pointing up at the venomous firmament. Following the crowd’s eyes, Quarath felt his heart lurch in his chest.
A black cloud had appeared directly overhead, turning slowly, like some kind of living monster. No lightning played within it, and no rain dropped from it—but the wind had shifted now, and began to pluck furiously at Quarath’s robes. The almond and citrus trees of the gardens began to tremble, then sway.
Quarath left Beldinas at once, splinting down the steps of the manse and out into the courtyard again. He called several elder priests and knights to him. They hurried over, looking to him for answers even as the wind unsettled their hair and robes. Quarath felt their fear, like his own, rising up into his throat
“The Durro Jolithas,” he declared, pointing. “It is in danger; the Lightbringer says so. It must be cleared at once.”
Without hesitating, the men of the Divine Hammer plunged into Jolith’s tower headlong, while the priests herded the crowds away. Quarath watched as monks and servants emerged from the Durro; running across the gardens. Above, the black cloud filled the sky, dark as smoke and as large as the Temple itself. A low, howling drone filled the air, pierced by the shriller sounds of screams from all over the Lord city. Slowly, like a serpent rising from a Seldjuki charmer’s basket, a tendril began to extend downward from the cloud. Down… down…
The clerics from Falthana, Taol, and the deserts of Dravinaar had never seen a tornado before, so they stood rooted, fascinated with horror. The ones from the provinces where the plains ruled—Ismin, Gather, Midrath, and the heartlands—recognized the whirlwind, and scattered with their hands raised to protect their heads.
Quarath wasn’t from the plains, but he threw himself flat, hitting the ground hard. The world swam before his eyes for a moment; and when he looked up again, he saw the knights he’d sent into the Durro emerge from the temple, armor clattering and faces gray with terror. Then hell descended.
The whirlwind struck the northern edge of the gardens, barely fifty paces from where Quarath lay. Trees and bushes uprooted themselves, sucked up into its hungry maw. Statuary and fountains cracked, and stained-glass windows exploded into clouds of sparkling dust. And then there was something strange … it looked like someone had flung a handful of torn white rags into the air.
With a rush, Quarath understood. There were vestries just next to the Durro, where the Temple kept a large supply of clean robes. Then the howl of the wind drove all further thoughts from his mind. The noise of the tornado rose higher and higher, until Quarath thought his ears might soon begin to bleed.
The tornado cut a swath across the gardens, destroying everything in its path. Broken branches and masonry peppered the ground. The black cloud slithered toward the Durro, where first cracks appeared in the walls, and then the horned spire atop the temple began to twist and warp. With a tremendous roar, the entire building blew apart, ripped asunder by the battering wind. As soon as it was gone, the tornado lifted off the ground and howl
ed away to the south, above the city. When it reached the harbor, it suddenly, inexplicably, collapsed, tearing itself to shreds and leaving not a trace of itself in the still green sky.
It rained marble over Lake Istar that day.
*****
The strange windstorm terrified the folk of Istar. Some fled to their homes, huddling in cellars. Many more, however, made for the Barigon. They crowded around the Temple’s front steps, and also at the breach in its walls, where the Durro Jolithas had been destroyed. There was nothing there now but a hole, surrounded by shards of marble and shredded wood. The Divine Hammer had to move in, making a fence of their shields to hold the frightened citizens back, and keep the crowd from pouring in through the gap. All the while, the swelling mob—hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands, all shiny and sweat-stained in the sweltering heat—kept chanting, over and over, calling for the Kingpriest.
“Cilenfo…Pilofiro…Babo Sod…”
At midday, the Temple’s golden doors swung open, and a hush fell over the throng as the hierarchs of the church emerged. The knights standing guard gripped their halberds warily. The Barigon was filled with tinder today, and one spark might provoke a riot. When Beldinas finally appeared, the sparks fell like rain.
The crowd went berserk as the glowing figure appeared. He walked to the very edge of the steps, and looked out over his subjects, his worshipers. They now filled the square, seething and rolling like a storm-tossed sea.
“The gods are angry!” cried some.
“The end it near!” shouted others.
“Death to the unbelievers!” roared still more, turning on the doomsayers.
Fights began to break out, all over the Barigon. Men and women argued and shoved and spat at one another. But the melee stopped the moment Beldinas raised his hands. His light blazed like a silver beacon, and with it came a wave of peace, rolling across the square, calming the hearts of everyone. In time the light crossed the whole city, and the silence descended over all Istar. The fighting, the cursing, the yelling stopped, and the eyes of the people turned as one to the Lightbringer.
Sacred Fire Page 26
