Sunlancer

believe that the Lord of all Life would ever countenance taking life, that is all! It is the priests and their minions that I mistrust and fear! I believe they serve themselves, not Vkandis! And I fear that they use magic, and call it 'miracle', to order to puff up their own importance!'

'Well, then bugger them all, Captain!' Esda grinned, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. 'Whatever you decide to do, just remember that poor, overworked, old unappreciated Esda will be there to pick up your soiled linen!'

The roar of laughter that followed made the rest of his personal guards turn their heads, wondering what outrageous thing Esda had said to him this time.

Esda moved quietly among the guards, speaking with them one at a time, over the next two days, while Clarrin pretended that he did not notice. And over the next two days, every one of his men approached him quietly, one at a time, to offer their personal fealty to him. Clarrin was touched and humbled by their trust. But he still did not know what he was going to do. In ten days, Clarrin was back in command of his troop of Temple Lancers. In fifteen days, they paraded for the Ceremony of Cleansing, conducted by Red-priestess Beakasi. The Temple square was crowded with worshipers and spectators at two sides, behind the lines of the temple guards. Clarrin's Lancers dosed the third side of the square. The low Sun Altar, flanked by priests and priestesses in order of rank, filled most of the fourth side.

At damn's signal, the lancers knelt as one at their horses' heads, lances grounded, with the shafts held stiffly erect. The red pennons at the crossbars moved lazily in the warm afternoon air.

Red-priestess Beakasi, flanked by her torch-bearers, mounted the altar-platform, and turned to face the crowd and the setting sun behind them. Her arms stretched out toward the sun, and her red robes matched the red clouds of sunset.

At that signal, lesser priests brought the two who were to be cleansed to the steps: a boy who looked to be hi his early teens, and a girl somewhat younger, dark-haired, with a pretty, gentle face.

damn's breath caught in his throat. She could be Liksani, he thought in anguish. The words of his niece's dream kept repealing, over and over, in his head.

The flame is the blessing and not life's ending. Children should live, and laugh, and play,

The boy was shoved forward onto the platform. He stood there looking frightened and confused.

'Vkandis! Sunlord!' Beakasi sang. 'Grant your miracle! cleanse this tainted one with your holy fire!'

She brought her hands together over her head, closing them on the iron shaft of a torch held there by a Black-robed priest. He let it go, and she held it high above her head, flame flickering.

'Witness the Sunlord's miracle!' she sang. 'Tremble at his power!'

The torch flame flared, and grew suddenly to man-height, then bent toward the boy. He started to scream, but remained where he was, frozen with fear. Another Red-robed priest pointed, and the boy's scream was cut off; he remained where he was, a wide-eyed, open-mouthed, living statue. Flames flowed from the torch to the boy, arching overhead like water from a fountain, in a long, liquid stream. They touched him, then engulfed him, turning him into a column of searing, white-green fire that grew to three times the boy's height. A vaguely human-shaped form turned slowly in the upper half of the column of fire, as if bathing in it.

Clarrin's heart spasmed, and his gorge rose.

Slowly the flames diminished and flowed back into the torch, until it burned normally once again.

The boy was gone, and there was only a small pile of ashes to mark where he had stood.

The priestess waited until the original bearer had his hands on the torch, before she removed hers, spreading her arms wide. Looking somewhere above the heads of the onlookers, she called out into the silence.

'Hail Vkandis, Sunlord!'

'Hail Vkandis, Sunlord!' the crowd roared in response. Beakasi signaled for the girl to be brought forward.

'The flame is the blessing and not life-ending,' Clarrin murmured, his eyes bright with tears. 'Children should live, and laugh, and play!'

He was standing now, moving to his saddle in slow, sluggish motion, warring within himself.

The flame is the blessing, and not life-ending. He reached for the saddle-bow and swung up into place, feeling as if he were trapped in a fever-dream. Children should live, and laugh, and play!

His hand was on his lance; his horse jerked its head up m astonishment at the tightening of his legs, then