:Stop.:
The command jolted through her body, staying Liana’s hand and silencing her screams. She blinked, clearing her eyes as if wakening from sleep.
“It’s going to be all right,” the Herald said.
She glanced around, confused to find herself in a small cabin . . .
:A Waystation.:
. . . with a strange man . . .
:Herald Reneth. You need to walk.:
Liana frowned down at her hands and slowly let go of her shift.
The Herald smiled at her, his emerald eyes gleaming. “If Bolan says you should walk, you should probably walk.”
Walk? “Tell Bolan, that ’e can go—” Again, pain grabbed Liana in its white-hot grip, crushing her belly into a boulder. Pressure mounted between her legs, and she found herself squatting in the middle of the room.
“It’s killing me . . .” she gasped. Not only was she giving birth to a monster, her own body had turned traitor. Too much more of this, and her guts would be joining the wet puddle on the floor.
Suddenly she had an insane vision of Grunt as tall as the trees, reaching down through the roof of the cabin, grabbing her around the belly, and squeezing the life out of her.
The beast had killed a chicken in front of her. Picked the poor bird up in one hand and squeezed its neck until its wings stopped flapping and its feet stopped kicking and the bird dangled lifelessly in his hand.
Then he’d carelessly tossed it in her lap and left . . .
Liana’s throat closed. She took a great, shuddering breath and almost choked on her own stench—the stink of sweat mingled with a terror she could barely contain. Her hands tingled, and she couldn’t catch her breath, and suddenly she was living the nightmare she’d had ever since the baby’s first kick—giving birth to a monster that looked like Grunt, only it had two heads and a forked tail, a monster that would follow in the footsteps of its father, growing up to pillage villages, raping children and devouring babies . . .
:You worry for naught,: the voice said. :I would teach you to let go of your fear, but there is no time. I will help—if you’ll let me.:
A knot untied somewhere inside her, and Liana felt herself drifting. A soft blanket draped down over the nightmare, blotting out the terror and wrapping her in warmth.
And through the warmth she felt a presence . . . innocent and scared. And behind that presence was another, also innocent and scared.
:Not a two-headed monster. Twins.:
Twins?
Time melted into a blur of muted pain, interspersed with flashes of Herald Reneth bending over her. The voice kept her calm and somehow helped with the pain.
When she heard the first weak cry, Liana mumbled something about not being able to do it again, and once again everything blurred.
She’d almost given up hope when she finally heard the second cry.
Then the crying stopped.
Liana fought to clear the fog from her mind, frantic to find—to hold—her babies.
A warm bundle slipped into her arms, then another.
She felt the innocence deep in her bones.
Looked into one wrinkled red face, then the other.
And slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.
A Brand from the Burning
Rosemary Edghill and
Rebecca Fox
The western heights of Karse were poor and windy. Fields were small, their yields meager. The few scattered villages of the district eked out their livings through the sheep and goats they herded, and the Sunpriests who lived among them lived as simply as they.
Save for the Hierophant. The Hierophant Virtulias’ Palace was an enormous manor house, and the attached Chapel of the Sun had a roof covered in pure gold. And yet, for all the pomp and glory of the Hierophant’s Palace, all Virtulias’ flock knew that a bowl of bread and milk would be readily given to any who asked at the kitchen door, and his household was filled with foundlings he had rescued.
He did it because he was a good man, even though he was a Priest-Mage. He did it because he believed that the Writ and the Rule were simple truth. He did it for love of Vkandis Sunlord. And he would never know that in saving one child, he had saved not only all of Karse but perhaps all of Velgarth as well . . .
* * *
It was early on a midsummer’s morning when word reached Hierophant Virtulias that Artiolarces, Son of the Sun, lay dying. The message summoned Virtulias to Sunhame at once, for the Conclave must gather to choose Artiolarces’ successor.
The messenger had come to the refectory, where Virtulias was presiding over the household’s morning meal: priests and servants and novices and postulants and acolytes. In the evening, Virtulias dined off linen and gold, as custom said a Sunpriest was entitled to. In the mornings, he ate from wood and pewter and looked happier.
When Virtulias dismissed the messenger to his rest and his household to their daily tasks, three souls remained: his housekeeper, Hettes, and the two youngest novices under his care. Every Sunpriest had a responsibility to gather up the promising young boys in their domain to train them up as the next generation of Vkandis’ priesthood—Virtulias (said his colleagues) took the responsibility of training new Sunpriests to unreasonable extremes. Virtulias simply smiled and went on sheltering the weak and the helpless.
“Is it true we’re all going to Sunhame?” Solaris asked eagerly. Even though she was a girl, not a boy, somehow no one spoke out against Solaris being taught among—and as—one of the novices.
“Not all of us,” Virtulias said with a fond smile.
“But—” Solaris protested.
“But,” Virtulias went on, “I see no reason why you and Karchanek should not come with us. It will teach the acolytes humility, if nothing else. Now off with the both of you, before Father Aetius takes a switch to you for dallying when you should be at your lessons.”
* * *
Hettes gave Virtulias a long look when they were alone. She had been the first of his foundlings. Decades ago, a very young Sunpriest had saved an even younger orphan girl from the Fires; he had sworn (regardless of whether it was true or not) that Hettes had no visions and heard no voices and was merely a termagant girl.
For the gift of her life, she had rewarded him with years of loyalty and devotion. Far more than a mere housekeeper, she had agents throughout his domain and allies beyond, and there was no gossip, no bit of information Virtulias needed to hear that Hettes did not bring to him.
“I don’t suppose you could just not go to Sunhame, Father,” Hettes offered. “I’m sure the Conclave wouldn’t miss you.”
Virtulias chuckled softly and shook his head, a sad smile creasing his weathered face. His brown eyes were filled with kindness. He patted the bench beside him, just as he had when Hettes was a little girl. She sat down carefully and looked up at him, wondering when he—when they—had gotten old.
“It will make no difference, in the end, if I stay home,” Virtulias said gently. “If Lastern or Siralchant or Lumillian takes the Sun Throne, I will be summoned to Sunhame to face charges of heresy. Vkandis Sunlord may call Priest-Mages to his service, but the Solarium as a whole trusts us even less than we trust each other.”
“Not that Lastern or Siralchant or Lumillian—or for that matter, half the Solarium Excelsis—aren’t black-robes as well,” Hettes grumbled.
But there was a deeper reason Virtulias meant to go to the Conclave in Sunhame, for they both knew charges of heresy could be bribed away—if one knew whom to bribe. Virtulias’ presence certainly wasn’t wanted in Sunhame, for he’d been a thorn in the Solarium’s side for decades now, quietly but firmly holding to the Writ and the Rule. For that reason, the hopeful, the naive, and the desperate among the ranks of the Sunpriests and their adherents now hoped to see him chosen as Son of the Sun—and it was for that reason Virtulias intended to go. The rot among th
e priesthood had been growing for generations, deafening both red-robes and black-robes to Vkandis’ whispered words. Only the Son of the Sun—a Son of the Sun—could have the power and authority to sweep it all away.
“All the more reason for me to go,” Virtulias said brightly, patting her knee. “And who knows? By Vkandis’ grace, I might be the next ruler of the Solarium.”
“Just as you say, of course, Father,” Hettes said sourly. By Vkandis’ grace? It will take all His grace to let us survive the election, let alone win it!
* * *
Sunhame was exactly as it was described in the scrolls Karchanek had read and nothing at all like he expected.
Even from a distance, Karchanek could see the great Temple of the Sun rising like some vast gold-gleaming Presence over the city. Upon closer approach, the broad, marble-paved avenue leading to the Hierophant’s Palace in which Virtulias and his party were to be lodged (one of twelve, all identically broad and fine) did indeed radiate out from the Temple like a ray of the Sun in Glory. The air was filled with spices and incense, and the avenue was indeed lined with the great, gleaming bronze statues.
Karchanek gawked at all of it, until Father Aetius frowned terrifyingly and the acolytes riding in the cart with them snickered and nudged each other. But somehow, it was still a disappointment. Whenever Father Virtulias spoke of Vkandis, Karchanek always imagined the Sunlord—and Sunhame—filled and surrounded by the same sort of warm, golden light that softened the wheat fields in the fall just before the harvest. (Maybe, he’d once whispered to Solaris while they sat sleepily waiting for the dawn service to begin, Vkandis was light.) But the light that filled Sunhame wasn’t like that at all.
This light was cold.
Unsettled, Karchanek looked over at Solaris. Her eyes were hooded, and she was frowning. It was one of those weirdly grown-up looks she sometimes got. In spite of the heat of the day, his arms prickled with gooseflesh.
“‘And lo, I was a stranger, and in a strange realm, and no man knew me,’” Solaris murmured softly.
“It’ll be different when Vkandis makes Father Virtulias Son of the Sun,” Karchanek said loyally. “You’ll see.”
“Little Novice Karchanek thinks Vkandis picks the Son of the Sun.” Acolyte Tobias smirked. “Boy, does he ever have a lot to learn!”
Even the younger Sunpriests riding with them looked amused, and Karchanek glanced at Solaris in surprise.
She looked sad.
* * *
The Hierophant’s Palace is very grand, Hettes thought, but like any place with no master, what belongs to many is the responsibility of none. She had barely terrorized the kitchens into some semblance of order when word came that Virtulias was entertaining an important visitor and had called for refreshment.
Not trusting any of the Palace staff, Hettes took charge of the matter personally.
She would have anyway.
* * *
“How good it is that you have come back to Sunhame in our hour of greatest need, Father,” Lumillian said smoothly.
Hettes fought back a smile as she cleared away the delicate glassware. Lumillian’s annoyance hung between the two men like a cloud of smoke. He’d been a thin-skinned, sour-faced child in the days when he served Virtulias as an acolyte, and he hadn’t changed much since.
“It is the duty of whole of the Solarium Excelsis to attend the Conclave,” Father Virtulias said after taking a sip of his tea, “and to act in Vkandis’ name to choose a new Son of the Sun.”
“Ah,” Lumillian said, “but with the right backing, you know, you might become Son of the Sun. These are dark times in Karse. Holy war looms over us. We are in grave need of good men to lead us. Good men like you, Father.”
Hettes had heard whispers that Karse meant to declare a holy war upon neighboring Valdemar and take its lands for her own (all in the name of Vkandis, Prince of Peace, of course). It was disturbing to hear Lumillian speak of it so openly.
“Eh,” Virtulias said with a phlegmatic shrug, “with the right backing, the village priest’s goat could become Son of the Sun.”
“I come offering the hand of friendship to my old teacher, yet he mocks me.” Lumillian’s tone was light, but there was a dark undertone to his voice. “Who else can lead us with the consent of all? Siralchant is ambitious, but he’s young—who wants a Son of the Sun barely out of priests’ robes? Cronturin is greedy and hasn’t the brains Vkandis gave a sheep—you know as well as I do he’s nothing but a puppet of the old men who pretend to advise him. And Lastern . . . well. The streets of Sunhame would be crawling with demons inside of a year. Our true choices are few.”
“Hm,” Virtulias said noncommittally. “And what would the Solarium Excelsis see in an old man from the country—one who is widely thought to be entirely too traditional for his own well-being?”
Lumillian sighed softly. “I’m only trying to help you help us all, Father. Out of respect.”
It was a lovely show, but that was all it was. Outwardly, the priesthood bewailed their God’s long absence: they declared fasts, made sacrifices, demanded penance from the people. But no Good power would ever intrude where it wasn’t asked and wanted, and it had been a very long time since the Sunlord had appeared to his people. Hettes was sure that if Lumillian got his way, the wait would be longer still.
“You’ve always been a good boy,” Virtulias said in the same gentle voice he used on particularly difficult children and frightened animals. “And certainly you’ve given me much to think about.”
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” Lumillian said in clipped tones.
Hettes waited until the sharp report of his footsteps had faded before she dared to look up. There were lines of worry in Virtulias’ face, but he found a small smile for her when she met his eyes.
“Lumillian never did like being told he couldn’t have what he wanted,” he said gently. “What did you think of his offer?”
Hettes raised her eyebrows. “That depends, Father. Would you prefer the politic answer or the honest one?” she asked, settling the tiny glass plates on a silver tray.
Virtulias laughed. “Always so careful, is my Firecat. If I wanted the politic answer, I could ask almost anyone here. I’m asking you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Hettes said without rancor. It had been a very long time indeed since a true Firecat had walked the streets of Sunhame. She spared a moment to wish they still did; Father Virtulias could certainly use the help right now. But there were ways, Hettes supposed, that she could be of more use to Father Virtulias than a Firecat might have been.
“There are forty-eight Hierophants of the Solarium Excelsis, and according to the Writ, any one of you might become the next Son of the Sun,” she said, seemingly at random.
“The Writ teaches that such decisions are in the hands of the Sunlord,” Virtulias answered placidly.
Hettes couldn’t help but snort softly. “In reality, only five Hierophants have any chance at all of getting enough backing, and that includes you. I think that worries Lumillian a great deal. He was a lying weasel as a child, and he’s a lying weasel still. He’d make you into another Cronturin, only instead of being the voice of many, you’d be the voice of . . . Lumillian.”
“I did not come to Sunhame to speak the words of another,” Virtulias said simply.
* * *
As a girl, she’d dreamed endlessly about coming to Sunhame, about seeing the gleaming Palace of the Sun, about standing in the ancient temple where Vkandis Sunlord’s voice had once echoed. Now that she was here, all Hettes wanted was to go back to bleating goats and grazing sheep and fields of wheat waving in the endless west wind.
Virtulias still had not returned from the Conclave. It was late enough—well past the end of the midnight service—that Hettes had dismissed the acolytes who served him as well as the other servants. She was starti
ng to worry that the Conclave would run all night when at last the door opened and Father Virtulias appeared. The lines around his mouth looked deeper than they had even a sennight ago.
“There’s tea ready,” she said, taking his heavy embroidered mantle, “and bread and fruit and cheese. You should eat.”
His smile was both tender and rueful. “Ah, my little Firecat. I’m not entirely sure how I’d survive without you to look after me.”
“You’d have to rely on novices to bring your supper and fetch your slippers,” she said dryly, pouring two cups of tea. “Certainly you’d either die of starvation or exposure before the year was out.”
That at least drew a weak chuckle from him. “Perhaps I was too hasty in dismissing Lumillian’s offer.” He picked up a piece of bread and was regarding it as if he weren’t sure what to do with it. “If nothing happens to break this deadlock, we’ll be here another six months, and there will still be no Son of the Sun.”
“Perhaps then the Sunlord will grow tired of waiting and simply choose someone Himself.” Hettes took the bread from Virtulias’ hand, spread it with soft cheese, and handed it back. “Eat.”
“We can but hope,” Virtulias said with a sigh. “The way things are going, no one has any chance of getting a majority. If it weren’t for Lumillian and Siralchant, Lastern would already be Son of the Sun, and we’d be going home. If it were a choice between me and him, there would also be no question; no one really wants Lastern, but what they want even less is a moralizing old man. But Siralchant and Lumillian give the ones who can’t quite stomach Lastern other options. And so we endlessly debate.”
Hettes glared meaningfully at him. Looking somewhat abashed, Virtulias took a bite of the bread he was holding, smiled, and took another.
“Lumillian is still willing, so he says, to withdraw and back me,” Virtulias went on, “which might give me a majority. But I’m fairly certain I’d never be able to conscience whatever he’ll undoubtedly want in return.”
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