Sacred Fire

“Dubagno!”

Twice-Born!

“Wave to them,” Beldinas said as Cathan stepped, stunned, onto the chariot.

Cathan took his place in the chariot, the men and women of the Lordcity burst with emotion. Some wept; others fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before him. Cathan flinched, his face reddening at the sudden outpouring. Beside him, Beldinas accepted the display with ease. Cathan could only grimace. This isn’t just adulation, he thought. This is worship. He could tell them to kill their own children, and they’d sing his praises as they did it.

The chariot rumbled forward, preceded by Tithian and an honor-guard of knights. Quarath followed behind, with the rest of the processional. The Divine Hammer rode through the mobs, using their horses to clear a path. A lane opened up, leading through the wharf and uphill toward the Temple.

The crowds packed the alleys and balconies and rooftops on all sides. Everyone in the Lordcity had come out today, many of them expressly to see Cathan. Some had climbed the trees, or shimmied up statuary, and clung like apes, whooping and hollering. Banners bearing the burning-hammer sign of the knighthood fluttered above the mobs. And none of the citizens could meet his gaze: Whenever he looked straight into the crowds, they turned away.

Of its own accord, his hand rose to his throat, where the malachite amulet lay hidden. There had to be scores of thought-readers out there, hidden among the crowds. Once, he even thought he saw a young woman signal to several nearby knights, who moved in at once to seize an elderly man next to her. She melted back into the crowd and disappeared, and Cathan swallowed with uncertainty. Had she been an Araifo? How bad would it get if one of them penetrated the medallion’s magic, and uncovered his memories of Idar and his sister and the white-masked rebels beneath Chidell? The uprising would end before it began.

The chariot rumbled on, up the streets to the Barigon. The square before the Temple was packed to bursting. Grown men broke down and sobbed at the sight of the Lightbringer and the Twice-Born, together again. Waxen icons of Beldinas, as he had looked in his youth, waved in the air. Horns blew, and the bells in the Temple’s central spire sounded a joyous carillon.

They pulled up at the Temple steps, where the imperial court had gathered. The empire’s princes and high priests were all clad in their finest raiment, all satin and cloth-of-gold and glittering jewels, their faces powdered and their bodies perfumed, men and women both. One by one they came forward to kneel before Beldinas as he stepped from the chariot, and he placed his hands upon their heads, blessing them with words only they could hear. Finally, he climbed the steps to the portico, gestured for Cathan to follow, and raised his hands for silence.

The shouting and clamor turned to stillness so suddenly that the echoes were still fading from the alcoves when the Lightbringer raised his voice to speak.

“Usas farnas, people of Istar,” he declared, his soft, musical cadences carrying across the entire square. “We have been a wounded realm, these past years. We have been missing one of our greatest heroes, one of those who has striven hardest in the war against evil. Thus darkness has shadowed our progress, and continued to hide among us, no matter how hard we fought.

“Those days are over. By holy providence, the one who was lost has been restored to us, and a new era is at hand! With his help, we shall drive the shadows from this sacred land forever! Usas farnas, the Twice-Born is returned!” The crowd exploded into a gale of cheers as Beldinas gestured toward the foot of the steps. Cathan stood still, his face pale, as the adoration of an entire city washed over him. He had never felt anything so wonderful-or so horrifying. They were all calling his name, stamping their feet, clapping their hands. He had to respond somehow. Feeling worse than ill, he climbed the steps to stand beside the Kingpriest, in the glow of the Lightbringer’s aura.

Chapter 12

THIRDMONTH, 962 I.A.

The philosophers of old had a phrase for what Cathan felt over the next three weeks. Lombo Par: the strange feeling that one had already lived through something in a previous life. Such ideas were heretical now-the notion spirits were reborn in the world was against the church’s teachings that after death every soul went either to the Abyss or Paladine’s realm beyond the clouds. But the phrase remained.

The celebration of the Twice-Born’s return to the Lordcity lasted three days, with food and wine and festivities that made Lord Dejal’s court seem paltry by comparison. After that, however, life in Istar returned to normal, and the Lombo Par set in. The rhythms of the city, of the Temple, of the imperial court had changed little in all of Cathan’s time away. The bells above the basilica sounded every hour, with longer chimes at dawn, midday, and dusk. The courtiers still gathered in the Hall of Audience twice each day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The monks and priests still bustled about the Temple’s airy halls, just as merchants and pilgrims churned the streets outside, and the Lightbringer’s worshipers flocked in ever-greater numbers to the Barigon, chanting for him and holding candles at night. At the Hammerhall, where Tithian gave him quarters, the knights drilled and prayed and marched beneath the Grand Marshal’s watchful eye.

Much of it had the eerie feeling of familiarity, but there was a difference to it, too, and that troubled Cathan even more. He felt an outsider, apart from both the Hammer and the church in a way he hadn’t been before. In the time before his self-imposed exile, he had been at the heart of things, a part of the Lightbringer’s inner circle. Now he had no role, no true place. He spent his days practicing swordplay with the knights, riding in the hills, or walking the gardens of the Temple.

He dined in the imperial manse most nights, but Beldinas spoke little to him. Other matters, of church and of state, occupied the Kingpriest, and when he was not paying ear to these, he withdrew to meditate in private. Quarath kept the Kingpriest close, watching Cathan with a rival’s suspicion whenever they were in the same room. And Beldinas declined Cathan’s requests for a private audience, while speaking to him little at those rare times when they were together. He didn’t understand why, but the Lightbringer would speak with him when he was ready, and not before.

Sometimes, Cathan ventured out into the Lordcity’s streets. He never went far before he drew a crowd, the same sorts of open-mouthed gawkers who had driven him into hiding in the first place. They followed at a distance, staring, pointing, muttering to one another. When he went into the mudubas, the open-air wine shops-he was happily surprised to find the Mirrorgarden, one of his favorites, still open and run by the old publican’s widow. Everyone watched him drink with fascination, but no one would sit near him.

It was on his fifth sojourn in the city that he found the slave market. On this day he was out by the waterfront when he came across a string of men and women, chained together with iron rings around their necks and ankles, and shambling toward the main marketplace. Curious, he couldn’t help but draw closer, trying to ignore the uneasy expression on the guard’s face.

“What did they do?” he asked.

The man chewed on some sort of leaf for a moment, then shrugged and spat a stream of rust-colored juice in the gutter. He shifted his grip on his halberd, prodding a straggler with the weapon’s butt. “Dunno, exactly,” he said. “Heretics, I’d say. It’s all heretics these days… no more good, strong minotaur and half-ogre backs to sell. Maybe they didn’t sacrifice part of their crops, or they think the local hedge-witch can tell their fortunes. Filthy thing to believe, some scabby old hag knowing more than a proper priest.”

Cathan grunted agreement, and edged away. The guard shrugged, then muttered something to one of his comrades. He nodded at Cathan, and both of them laughed.

The slaves said nothing-nor could they, their mouths held shut by the iron masks the church called Coi Tasabas, the Heathen’s Jaws. Cathan followed them as they made their slow, shuffling way through the streets, on toward the marketplace. There, tucked in the easternmost corner of the sprawl of tents and stalls and shouting, cursing buyers and sellers, was a simple wooden platform, the same type he’d seen in Chidell. Around it stood more shackled groups of miserable-looking slaves, unshaven guards, and a handful of merchants and nobles, haggling as if over fresh fish.