Sacred Fire

“No harm came of it, Mother,” said Tancred.

“How can you be sure?” Wentha shot back. “Your brother called attention to himself, behaving like a heretic. It is the last thing we need now, when we’re so close to-”

She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening as she looked at Cathan. He looked back, his brow furrowing. A blare of noise from his other side startled him: Tithian, winding a silver horn, announcing the coming of the Kingpriest. The crowds chorused raucously in return, pennants dancing above them.

Then they closed in, surrounding them on all sides, a sea of noise and color and love. Cathan looked once more at Wentha, who flushed and turned away. He watched her a while longer, wondering, then rode on.

There was, of course, a feast. No matter where the Lightbringer’s processional stopped for an evening, from the grandest city to the simplest country farm-villa, there was always a feast of prayer and celebration.

Here in Chidell, the fare was wild boar, roasted and served with a sauce of gray-ghost mushrooms and Ismindi ale. The lord of the city, a talkative but dull-and immensely fat-merchant-prince named Dejal, spoke at great length about the Kingpriest’s magnificence, benevolence, and generosity … much the same speech every lord gave, it seemed to Cathan, judging by their experiences on the journey so far. Several men and women in need of healing were brought forward, and Beldinas laid hands on them all: a lost arm regrew before the assembly’s eyes; a huge blue-black growth on an old man’s face shriveled and dropped off, revealing healthy pink skin beneath; a baby born deaf heard noises for the first time and began to shriek from the terror of it-provoking laughter from all around the feast-hall, which only made the shrieking worse.

After the meal-seven courses in all, from a fiery broth called Nine Pepper Stew to a sherbet made from blood oranges and ice stored in caves beneath the city-the party withdrew to an open-air parlor strewn with cushions and tables, where jugs of wine and water sat. Ribbons of silk-dyed flame-red and lemon-yellow-hung from the ceiling, rustling in a breeze manufactured by shaven-headed girls waving fronds. Lord Dejal made another speech, to which only a few people paid any attention, then raised his jeweled goblet in a toast to the Lightbringer.

“Sas riso lob udud,” Lord Dejal proclaimed, “e sas bisto nomas ofurbat op scafam.”

Let his reign be long, and his wisdom shield us from shadow.

Cups rose all over the hall, pointing toward the bright-glowing figure of Beldinas. The Kingpriest raised his own-filled with water, tasted first by one of Dejal’s daughters to assure it wasn’t poisoned-and spoke his reply: “My thanks, Your Honor. But shielding the world from shadow is not enough. Even if my reign is as long as you desire, I will not live forever. And the day I die, the darkness will seek to creep back into the empire. For this reason, I must do more than shield against it. Usas farnas, the greatest of my warriors has now been returned to me-” he gestured toward Cathan, as the Chidelli stared and whispered to one another “-after many long years of exile. It is a sign from the gods themselves: the time has come for the final struggle against evil. Our victory is at hand. Before another year has passed, I shall drive darkness from the face of Krynn forever!”

The assembly responded with applause, and a few chanted the name of Pilofiro. It was only a polite response, however, not an enthusiastic one, for the Chidelli’s eyes had already turned toward a sweep of broad, marble steps that curved down from the floors above. Music was playing from that direction- shawms and long-neck lutes and hand-drums, making a serpentine melody. Lithe figures were coming down the steps: the wind-dancers, a troupe of acrobatic, veil-clad women with chimes on their fingers, wrists, waists, and ankles.

They stepped lightly down the stairs, to the shouting approval of the Chidelli. Cathan had to chuckle at the inappropriateness of the seductive dance, given the nature of Lord Dejal’s guests; the clergy and the knighthood were chaste, which meant the only man of the entourage who could truly appreciate the display was Rath … who wasn’t even watching. He sat with his brother and mother, speaking in whispered voices, glancing now and then at Lord Tithian or Beldinas.

Brow furrowing, Cathan rose and started toward his family, but Tithian caught his arm. “We should talk,” he said, nodding toward an alcove away from the charming, leaping dancers.

Cathan nodded and followed his former squire to the recess. There was more wine there, and Tithian took a moment to mix it with water, then poured goblets for Cathan and himself. He drank half of his in one swallow.

“We’re almost home,” he said, wiping his lips. “Tomorrow night we’ll stop at Odacera-another feast-and the next morning we sail to the Lordcity.”

“I know,” Cathan said, sipping his own wine. He clapped the Grand Marshal on the arm. “My memory’s just fine, you know. I’ve come this way many times before, and recall the land and the people.”

Tithian chuckled half-heartedly. “That wasn’t my point,” he said. He hesitated a moment longer, then threw back the rest of his wine. “I have an offer to make to you.”

At once, Cathan understood. “No,” he said. “You don’t need to, Tithian.”

“Yes, I do.” Tithian shifted, looking down at his feet. “You were Grand Marshal before me, before Olin. You lost your place unjustly … His Holiness would be the first to say so. Your old position awaits you. Lead the knighthood, Cathan.”

For a moment, all Cathan could think to say was yes. Beldinas needed him again. With him as Grand Marshal, the knights would surely be renewed and energized. But at last he shook his head, resting a hand on Tithian’s shoulder. A look of deep disappointment spread over the Marshal’s face, and he opened his mouth to speak his arguments, but Cathan cut him off.

“I left the Divine Hammer long ago, lad,” Cathan explained. “I am no longer one of you. Besides, you’ve been leading the order for years. I was only Grand Marshal for a few weeks, before we marched to Losarcum. Thank you, Tithian … but the knighthood doesn’t need an old relic dug up from a tomb.”

“You aren’t that ” Tithian protested. “Never that.”

“The Lord Cathan you once knew is dead,” Cathan said. “But don’t fear … any time you want a lesson in swordplay, I’ll gladly cross blades with you.”

A laugh burst from Tithian’s lips. “We’ll see just who learns the lesson, old man.”

They talked together a while longer, swapping stories of old-and some new ones-before heading back into the hall. The dancers were finishing their act, spinning and undulating to the delight of Lord Dejal and his people. There was applause when they were done, from the Kingpriest and his followers as well as the Chidelli.

Cathan clapped too, though he’d missed most of the performance, then turned as the second round of entertainers-fire-eaters and knife-jugglers-materialized. His eyes went to his sister and Tancred and Rath … then he stopped, frowning. Wentha and her sons were no longer there.

He glanced around the room, past gouts of flame and blades dancing through the air-the performers were enacting a fanciful version of a battle between the Hammer and the High Sorcerers-but there was no sign of his kin.

Then he saw a curtain swaying close to the corner. Someone had passed through, just moments before. With a quick look toward Beldinas-who was watching the show, unreadable within his cocoon of light-he crossed to the curtain and stepped out of the parlor, into the cool mid-winter night.

Fog had settled over the hills, blanketing the city. Cathan’s hand reached reflexively for Ebonbane, finding nothing. He swallowed a curse: the blade was still resting on the floor by his seat. He stepped away from Lord Dejal’s hall, and its seven-tiered walls faded into the misty whiteness behind him. Other large, dark ziggurats loomed before him and, to his right, older ruins-lone columns and jagged buttresses-appeared out of the gloom. The old city was all but deserted on most nights, and completely so tonight; anyone influential enough to dwell in the ancient part of Chidell was in the festival hall.

Cathan saw the swinging lanterns of the town watch, and hunkered down behind a shard of fallen masonry until they passed. It was easier than answering questions about why he was out here when it was wearing on midnight.

Now he remembered, from his pre-exile days, that Chidell was notorious for its impenetrable mists. He would have to be careful not to get lost. As long as he didn’t step outside the Vanished Wall, into the neighborhoods of virtually identical streets and white buildings, he’d be fine. He walked on, the clack of his boots against the cobbles sounding unnaturally loud in the mist. What could Wentha be doing out here with her sons?

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Ahead, just barely visible, was a familiar, stately, womanly shape.