Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  “You are right,” Beldinas declared, his musical voice filling the Barigon. “The gods are angry. But it is the gods of evil who strike at us, and they do it out of fear. They do it because the end is near—their end. They think that, by terrorizing our hearts, they can keep their place in the world. So they sent the storm, and smashed this Temple with it.

  “Ask yourself, though—what harm did they truly do? How many were killed in this calamity? None! How many were hurt? None! The storm destroyed stone … some glass … a few trees. But the Durro was empty when it was hit, because I saw the doom coming.

  “We are still strong, and evil grows weak. It will grow weaker by the day, and soon I will cast it from the world utterly! Paladine will hearken to my voice, and he will heed my words. The darkness will fail, and we shall live in light everlasting! What can our enemies do to stop us?”

  “Nothing!” cried the crowd.

  “What harm can befall us, if we have faith?”

  “Nothing!” Fists rose into the air, a forest of defiance.

  “What will keep us from victory?”

  “Nothing!” The walls of Istar sang with the people’s voices.

  Beldinas let his hands drop, the Miceram shining like a star on his brow. “Yes, my children,” he said. “We are the righteous, the gods’ hammer. We cannot be stopped. And no power the darkness can command will keep us from changing the world forever.”

  *****

  In the coming days, clockwork falcons came winging in from all corners of the empire, and the realms beyond. They carried messages of calamities of all kinds.

  A dark fog spread over the realms of Balifor and Hylo, where the kender lived. The little folk, normally fearless and merry, were found cowering under their beds.

  The skies grew dark as the black moon Nuitari, hitherto unknown to any but star-watchers and servants of evil, devoured Solinari’s silver eye and the red candle of Lunitari. The eclipse lasted a full night, and dark magic danced in the air.

  The black flame—a shapeless monster that killed with a touch, and had been long thought moribund—burned anew in the halls of Thorbardin and spread death among the dwarves.

  In Solamnia, noble and peasant alike went cold and hungry when all hearth-fires failed, and would not light again.

  Abanasinia’s grasslands, left yellow and fragile by drought, caught fire, driving the barbarians from the plains and threatening the cities of Kharolis.

  At the castle of Dargaard Keep, a renegade knight named Loren Soth turned against his fellows, and brought that ancient brotherhood to the brink of civil war.

  White mist, so thick that it was impossible to see one’s own outstretched hands, settled on the harbor of Palanthas, paralyzing the ships and stopping the scribes at its great library from doing their everlasting work.

  In Silvanesti, the elves wept, for great gashes opened in the bark of the trees, and what ran from those wounds was not sap but blood.

  The elves of Qualinesti despaired as well, for the animals that shared their woodland realm turned wild and dangerous, hunting them in their own homes.

  In Pesaro, Tucuri, and the other ports of Istar’s north, the fishermen’s nets came up empty, and the tides turned high and red, washing through the streets.

  And in the Khalkists, the earth itself seemed to revolt as volcanoes erupted all up and down the range. Black smoke and ash belched into the air, and burning cinders rained down as far away as Taol.

  Each catastrophe brought new murmurs to the Lordcity, where the sickly green sky gave way to constant violent thunderstorms, through Yule and on toward the new year. Yet the belief of Beldinas’s faithful remained strong. Those who spoke of doom found themselves cursed at, shouted down, even chased and pelted with stones. This was evil’s last gasp, and the people of Istar refused to let themselves—or their neighbors—show fear. Thus did the Thirteen Warnings, sent not by the gods of darkness, but by the gods of light, go unheeded.

  Quarath, though he recognized the signs, did nothing to warn Beldinas of the prophecy that had been left to him by Lord Revando. Even the elf’s faith remained strong. Good would triumph over evil, and nothing would stop it.

  High above, still unseen by the star-watchers, a new red star burned across the heavens.

  Chapter 30

  Most years, winter came hard and early to Kharolis. Nestled in the south, far from the balmy breezes that kept most of Istar warm year-round, its plains and mountains caught the brunt of the cold that blew in off the Icereach Sea. Normally, the air turned chill in the first days of autumn; by early winter, Kharolis was accustomed to slumbering beneath a blanket of snow.

  Not this year. The festival of Yule had come and gone four days ago, and still Kharolis baked as though it were high summer. Not a flake of snow had fallen. People slept on rooftops or under the stars, to escape the stifling indoors. The province of Abanasinia had become a blackened waste with fires raging across the grasslands. The people of Kharolis—be they barbarians of the wilderness or civilized city-folk—prayed to the Lightbringer that the terrible time would soon end.

  Xak Tsaroth, the Serpentine City, stood at the edge of the ravaged plains, looking down from its perch in the foothills of the Eastwall Mountains. Though a dozen of Istar’s cities were bigger, it was a vast metropolis by Kharolian standards, forming a ring around a lake of crystal blue water, fed by foaming waterfalls at both ends. The pillared rich and mighty halls of built in the block style of ancient Ergoth, their rooftops lined with dragon-headed gargoyles—glistened pale green in the sunlight, winking with inlaid gold and silver. Its palace and two great temples—one of Paladine, the other of Mishakal the Hand—crowded along the cliffs at the lake’s eastern shore, where the land was highest. They were sprawling, many-towered structures, paneled with green and white jade, their roofs sharply angled to shrug off the snows that had not come this year.

  The elders who ruled Xak Tsaroth enjoyed their privilege and power, using the town guard mercilessly to preserve order. Before this year, there hadn’t been a riot within its filigreed walls in seven generations; even tavern brawls were seldom. Tsarothan justice was swift to those who broke the peace. Lately, however, things had changed. Fleeing the flames that consumed their grassland homes, many of the Plainsfolk had come to the hills. The guards had tried turning them away, but the tribesmen just kept coming, until finally the elders had to open the gates. The barbarians and the city-dwellers didn’t mix well; hardly a day went by without some scuffle coming to blows, some fracas in the streets. All that kept things from exploding were the clerics, who preached and led prayers in the city’s plazas and marketplaces. All of Kharolis, savage and cultured, had long ago converted to the Istaran church, and the faithful gathered in great masses, exhorting the Kingpriest to save them from the evils surrounding them.

  Amid the bedlam and fervor, a lone man in gray, road-stained robes drew little notice. The guards—rough men with green tassels on their helms and carrying broad-headed glaives—noted a bulge beneath the man’s cloak that could only have been a sword, but they made no move to frisk him. Kharolis was a dangerous place, and most travelers went about armed—particularly in dire times such as these. More concerned with a band of Qué-mun tribesmen that followed behind the lone man, they dismissed him as a pilgrim and let him pass. So Cathan MarSevrin came, unheralded and unnoticed, to the Serpentine City.

  It had been a long, hard journey, first through the Khalkist mountains and across the marshes of Schalland, then into the Eastwalls. Cathan had spent most of the trip cold and tired, and hunger had left him even weaker than before. His wounded leg had healed, but his shoulder throbbed where he’d been stabbed, and it was a miracle the cut hadn’t festered. Every time he moved his arm, lances of pain drove deep into his spine.

  Still, that wasn’t the worst. The hardest part of the journey had been the memories. Not an hour went by when he didn’t see Tithian’s face, pale and red-lipped, staring at him as his life slipped away. He’d killed the one ma
n left in the world he truly cared for, who had been his squire, his companion, his friend.

  Cathan walked a while with no destination in mind, borne along by the currents of the crowds packing Xak Tsaroth’s streets. After so long on the road, the city smells—unwashed bodies, roasting meat, nameless ordure—battered his senses. A young plainsman in beads and buckskins jostled him, looking for a fight; moments later, an older man with an embroidered coat and oiled hair gave him a belligerent shove. Both backed off when he opened his robes to reveal Ebonbane’s hilt. Every place had its bullies who lost interest in prey that fought back.

  Finally, he reached the lake’s edge, where jetties poked like fingers out toward the far shore. Fish dead from the heat floated on the surface, adding to the general stink. Putting a hand to his brow, Cathan leaned against a railing of green stone and stared out across the water at the looming temples. This was the Lightbringer’s birthplace. The priesthood had wanted little to do with him when he was a mere, unordained orphan who could heal the sick with his touch; they cast him out as a heretic, forcing him and his disciples to live in a secluded abbey somewhere in the mountains to the north, where Ilista had found him years later.

  Now a huge statue of milk-white stone, some fifty feet high, stood before the church of Paladine. It was not of the god, but of the Lightbringer, as people imagined him: beautiful and benevolent, not prematurely old and frightened. Cathan shivered under the icon’s beatific smile. He couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, Beldinas could see him through the statue’s blank stone eyes.

  Subconsciously, as he had countless times over his weeks-long trek, he shifted his good hand to touch his pack. Even through the well-worn leather, the shape of the Peripas was reassuring. He tried not to think of the spellbook.

  “Well,” he murmured to himself, “I made it this far. What now?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Cathan started, his hand shifting to his sword as he turned to face a short, obscenely fat monk. The man was silver-haired, with a red, cherubic face. His white robes—which, given his girth could have sheltered a small family—were shocking against the smoke-blackened sky to the west. His eyes twinkled with light, though the sun was behind him and the moons had not yet risen.

  Cathan stared, remembering. He’d seen this man once before, a lifetime ago. That had been in the Garden of Martyrs, on the eve of his dubbing—the first time he’d experienced the vision of the burning mountain. This monk bad been with him at the time. He struggled for the man’s name then found it.

  “Brother Jendle…?”

  The monk chuckled heartily. “That would be one of my names, yes. Lady Ilista always used it. Speaking of which, she sends her regards. We knew you’d make it to this place, Twice-Born.”

  At once, all doubt left Cathan’s mind. This must be Paladine, the god taken mortal form. Funny, he looked nothing like the images men made of him—either a wise and gentle old man, or a warrior grim and fierce—but still there seemed no doubt Cathan could feel the divine power surging in this unlikely form. Reflexively, he began to lower himself to his knees.

  “Don’t you dare!” said Jendle, his jowls quivering. “No groveling here. Someone might see.”

  Cathan blinked, then nodded. “Forgive me.”

  “And quit apologizing. Come on, old fellow—we must talk, but somewhere discreet.” Reaching out a pudgy hand, he took hold of Cathan’s elbow. His grip was deceptively strong. “As it happens, I know just the place.”

  For one of his girth, Brother Jendle moved with remarkable alacrity. It was all Cathan could do to keep up as the monk waddled down Xak Tsaroth’s green-paved streets. The crowds parted before Jendle like gossamer, but jostled and bumped Cathan, jolting his wounded arm. Now and then, he cast a furtive glance behind, looking for signs of the town guard—or the Divine Hammer. There were probably a handful of knights stationed here, to accompany the Kingpriest’s legate to the elders’ court. But he saw no guards or knights among the shouting, arguing throngs. No one paid them any undue attention.

  They were passing a fountain where jade dolphins frolicked amid the spray when the monk caught him looking over his shoulder. White eyebrows rose. “What’s the matter?” Jendle asked. “You act like somebody’s following us.”

  Cathan reddened. “Just nervous,” he muttered.

  “Oh?” Jendle replied, his eyes twinkling. “You might have cause. Look over there.”

  The monk nodded to his right. Cathan looked—and saw him right away: a grubby, scrawny boy of maybe ten summers. He regarded Cathan with narrow eyes, then quickly paled and darted away into the crowd. Jendle’s hand caught Cathan’s wrist, stopping him from any thoughts of pursuit

  “Don’t bother,” the monk said. “You’d never catch him, and you’d just draw more attention.”

  Cathan muttered a curse.

  “He’s been shadowing you since you first walked through the gates,” Jendle noted dryly. “Probably a spy for the city elders. They’ve learned to make good use of their urchins, ever since one of them grew up to be Kingpriest.”

  Then he was off again, and Cathan had to hurry to keep up. The elders would learn he was here, soon enough. The gods knew what would happen then.

  “Nothing will happen—not right away, anyway,” said Jendle. “Relax, Twice-Born—you’re safe for the nonce. Now keep up, will you?”

  They moved farther away from the lake, into Xak Tsaroth’s southern quarter, the Old City. At last the crowds thinned. The buildings here were crumbling and run-down, and some showed scorch marks and missed their roofs. There wasn’t a single unbroken window. Rubbish littered the streets and faded graffiti covered the walls. Cathan was startled to see that what was scrawled there was far from the profanity and lewdness youths wrote on buildings in other places. It wasn’t even in the vulgar tongue. Pilofiro, it said, and Beldinas Babo Sod. A few triangles and crude falcons and hammers accompanied the words.

  “Worshipers of the gray gods once dwelt here,” the fat monk explained. “The church drove them out… the ones that were lucky, anyway. They say this place is cursed now, so hardly anyone comes to this part of the city any more. Ah, here we are.”

  He stopped so abruptly Cathan nearly piled into him. Brother Jendle pointed to a low, square building with pointed turrets and a curving flight of steps leading to its entrance. The pillars had raptor’s claws for capitals, and above the door, etched into the marble, was a relief that had been mostly chipped away. It had been a griffin, rampant and roaring; Cathan could still pick out a wing, the tip of a beak, and a leonine foot

  “Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed.

  “Yes?” asked Brother Jendle.

  “This is a temple of Shinare.”

  “Was,” replied the monk. Now it’s a wreck. The pious saw to that some time ago.”

  Shinare, the patron of commerce and industry, belonged to neither the light nor the darkness. The Kingpriest had declared Shinare’s followers Foripon thirty years ago, claiming they were greedy and hoarded wealth that should have gone to the needy, or to Istar. At the time, Cathan had believed Beldinas wholeheartedly, and had even helped clear out a few Shinarite sects as one of the Hammer. Now … what did he feel? Sorrow? Shame? Regret? No, all he felt was anger—at the Kingpriest, at the church, and at himself for letting this happen.

  “Come on,” said Jendle, puffing as he climbed the steps. “We’ll be safe there.”

  Cathan blinked. “Wait. Can you go in?”

  The monk stopped, glancing over his shoulder with wide eyes. “Why not? It’s not like this place ever belonged to Takhisis, you know. Shinare and I have always been on good terms, despite what your Kingpriest insists. Although,” he added in a loud whisper, “I’m certain Shinare cheats at dice.”

  In he went Cathan shook his head, which was beginning to throb a little. Within, the temple was cool and dark, lit only by shafts of twilight that stabbed through its windows. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but the place was empty
… unnaturally so, even for a ruin. The altar and pews had been removed, leaving only a few chunks of stone behind. There were no fonts, no scraps of tapestries, not even sconces left on the walls. Someone had painstakingly chipped away every last tile from the mosaics that had once covered the ceiling. The Revered Sons were thorough at cleansing the churches of forbidden gods. Cathan had seen their handiwork many times, and looking upon the result now made him wince.

  “Not pretty, is it?” Jendle asked. “Nearly every Shinarite house is like this now, from Seldjuk to Ergoth. The same for temples of Gilean, Sirrion the Flowing Flame… even Reorx of the dwarves. The gods aren’t pleased about that, I can tell you.”

  Cathan suddenly felt other presences in the room—a weeping woman in blue, a horned warrior with swords in six hands, and others. The gods of light had assembled here, at Jendle’s call—even Solinari of the White Robe mages. The gods didn’t speak, and they faded quickly from his sight, but they remained here just the same. And there were darker presences, too—gray and black shadows.

  “This is why we must do what we’re going to do,” Jendle finished, waving a pale, pudgy hand. “The Balance isn’t just in danger. It’s collapsing.”

  “And so you have decided to smash Istar… ?” Cathan said. He was appalled to hear the tone of accusation that had crept into his voice.

  “Huh! Decided?” the monk replied. He drew himself up, suddenly furious. “Do you honestly believe I would choose to kill so many? I do not want this, any more than you wanted to kill your squire, Twice-Born. But I do it for the same reason Lord Tithian lies dead today—it must happen.

  “Everyone who believes the Kingpriest can destroy evil gives him the power to do so.”

  “Surely there must be another way,” Cathan said, shaking his head.

  Jendle shrugged. “We try to warn the people even now, all across Krynn. That is why Abanasinia’s grasslands burn, why brother turns against brother in Solamnia, why the northern ports run red with blood-water. We have sent the folk of Krynn many, many signs … but those who should heed them do not understand. Did you, when you first saw the fiery hammer fall on the Temple?”