Sacred Fire

“How did he unlock the gates?” Sir Xenos pressed.

“How should we know?” Rath snapped back. “They were open when we found him.”

“Lord Tithian,” Tancred pressed. “Did he know about the slaves?”

Tithian blinked, then shook his head. No, he supposed, Cathan wouldn’t have known.

“No wonder he got so upset,” Wentha said pointedly. “Come on. You have to help us.”

He looked down. Cathan was about to slump over on his left side. Tithian bent down and steadied him before he could fall. The reek of wine made his eyes water.

“Please,” Wentha pressed, “he doesn’t deserve this humiliation. He’s your friend, Tithian. If someone should spot him in this state-”

Tithian sighed. She was right-Cathan didn’t need the shame of being discovered drunk in the slave quarters. They could fill in the details later.

“All right,” he said, and slid his arm around his former master’s shoulders. Straining, he helped him up. “Come on, then. Let’s get him home.”

Chapter 11

The rocking of the Kingpriest’s gilded barge made Cathan’s stomach lurch. There wasn’t even any chop on Lake Istar, and the boat-a wide, square-sailed vessel with a dragon-shaped prow and a high viewing gallery at the stern-skipped lightly over the littlest of waves. To Cathan, however, it seemed as if it were about to capsize at any moment. He gagged, putting his hand to his head.

He hadn’t been so drunk … or drunk at all… since his time in the Hammer. He couldn’t recall ever having a hangover so bad. But drinking a whole skin of raw wine in a little over a minute had worked: He and his family were here, on the god-cursed barge, and Idar and his rebels remained hidden from the Lightbringer and the Hammer. Beldinas was none the wiser.

It was a damp morning, gray mist swirling across the lake’s surface, fine drizzle darkening the water to the color of slate. A canopy of white oilcloth stretched over the afterdeck, warding off the rain. A young sailor perched on the bow, blowing low notes on a long, silver trumpet to warn off any boats that might not see them in the mist. Cathan saw the Kingpriest’s glow out of the corner of his eye, started to turn his head, then thought better of it when white lights exploded in front of his eyes. He slumped, breathing hard, his face clammy with sweat. “Here,” whispered a voice in his ear. A face bent over him-Tancred. Rath was beside his brother, as usual. “Take this.”

Something pressed into Cathan’s hand. He looked at it: an amulet, made of what looked to be a small slice of malachite. He turned it in his hands, then glanced at his nephew.

“For the Araifas,” Tancred answered. “It will cloud your thoughts if they try to read them.” Glancing around, he opened the neck of his robes. Between his collarbones, next to the silver triangle he wore as a holy sign, was a similar medallion, made of lapis. “You’ll need it.”

Nodding, Cathan slipped the necklace over his head. He had to lift his head to do it, which made him feel like several trolls were trying to bash their way out of his skull, but he staved off the urge to pass out. He felt a strange sensation, like an itch in his mind, as he tucked the malachite into his tunic.

Suddenly Wentha was there, bending over him, smoothing back the hair he hadn’t had in years. “It’s magic, yes,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Cathan asked, and laughed ruefully. “After all that’s happened? Magic’s a little thing beside that.”

“You look like the Abyss,” she said, smiling, then bent close to murmur in his ear. “Thank you. Tithian was suspicious, but he helped us anyway. I don’t think Beldinas suspects anything.”

He nodded, then lay back, closing his eyes. “Don’t expect any answers out of me yet, Blossom. I helped you back there because I had to. But the other thing…”

She kissed his forehead. “I know. I’m not asking you for anything you don’t want to do.” She closed his tunic, hiding the medallion from view. “I think you’ll choose the right thing.”

With that she rose and was gone, her sandals clacking against the barge’s deck. Tancred and Rath trailed after.

Cathan lay quietly for a while, trying not to think of anything. The pain in his head made it easy. He shut his eyes-

the burning hammer fell toward the city

— and woke to the sun bearing down on his face. He blinked, pushing himself up on his elbows. The pain in his head had settled down to a low throb, making file seem worthwhile again. He’d been sleeping a while, evidently; the mist and rain were gone, and except for a few wispy clouds, the sky was clear. The crew had taken down the canopy and were working hard to furl the sails. Below decks, more sailors-or would they be slaves? — took to the oars, taking power over the barge away from the winds And ahead …

The Lordcity looked exactly as he remembered it-the crystal towers, the marble manors, the lush green of trees and riot of flowers, the harbor an explosion of bustling color. The God’s Eyes, the Bloody-Fingered Tower, the many-bannered Arena, the Hammerhall perched on its hilltop. And the Temple, above all, with its seven golden spires, its silver rooftops, and its great, shining dome. Looking on the city, though, he knew it was a different place. Thought-readers walked its streets, hidden among the populace. Slaves had supplanted servants-there was a whole market of them, somewhere. And beneath the city, the tunnels must be packed, men and women like Idar’s gang in Chidell. Istar was a flawed jewel, a rose full of spiders, a lovely melody played just out of tone He had loved It once, and his heart had soared whenever he came back to it.

Not any more. Shuddering, he lowered his gaze.

“As beautiful as the first day we came to it, is it not, my friend?” asked Beldinas, appearing beside him. The vividness of his aura lanced Cathan’s skull “And yet, so tainted.”

Cathan turned, his eyebrows rising. He looked at the Kingpriest’s face, serene amid the brilliance, end thought of the frightened visage he’d glimpsed back at Losarcum. He couldn’t reconcile the two.

“Tainted, Holiness?”

The Kingpriest nodded gravely. “Stained by the evil of men. Can you not see it? The darkness that lurks beneath the surface?” His voice turned sad, wistful. “There can be no true beauty-no pure beauty-as long as it remains so. But we will change that. I will change it. There will be light everlasting, and evil shall flee the world forever.”

He believes what he says, Cathan thought, staring at the Lightbringer. He thinks he can do this thing. Maybe he can.

He turned his gaze back to the Lordcity.

The people of Istar were waiting at the foot of the Imperial Jetty, the broad stone pier lined with statues of Kingpriests long dead. It seemed half the city had come down to the harbor, to cheer and wave their arms in the air and throw rose petals. The din was horrendous, drowning out the choir of priestesses who had assembled with the rest of the clergy to sing hymns of welcoming.

Emissary Quarath came forward, his youthful face- Cathan couldn’t get over how unchanged he was, when everyone else was so much older-creased with annoyance at the commotion. He signed the triangle as Beldinas stepped off the barge, then bent forward and spoke in the Lightbringer’s ear. He gave Cathan a long look when he was done, then turned and waved the entourage on toward the wharf.

A huge, golden chariot, pulled by a dozen white stallions, awaited on dry land. Beldinas stepped astride the vehicle, raising his hand to the crowds, who erupted into even louder cheers. He then turned beckoned to Cathan. Cathan hesitated, and the Kingpriest nodded.

“They’re chanting for you today, too,” he said. It was true. Word had reached the Lordcity before them, and it had spread through the markets and wine-shops and chapels, so that everyone in Istar knew where the Kingpriest’s processional had gone, and why. Now amid the usual cries of “Cilenfo! Pilofiro!”- the Healer, the Lightbringer-some were calling another word, over and over: