He had never lied to the Kingpriest before. As the eyes within the silver glow stared at him, he was sure the deceit showed in his face. He sweated, his heartbeat grew quick. Beldinas knew, had to see through him … then, against his breastbone, he felt the malachite amulet tremble, just slightly. It must have masked his thoughts, as Tancred had promised, for the Lightbringer bowed his head with a sigh.
“Very well,” he said. “I will show you. Better that you learn the truth, rather than hearing nothing but rumor and lies. Follow me.”
He turned and strode past the idols, toward a white door studded with sunstones. Cathan gave the heathen idols one last look, shuddered, and hurried after, following the Kingpriest’s light.
The statue had been large, towering more than twice the height of a man. It was hewn of golden jade, a stone found only in the jungles of Falthana, which the natives of that province claimed was made from the frozen tears of the last gold dragons. Cathan had never seen so much of the stuff, which glistened as if warmed from within. It was sculpted into a mannish form, though it differed from a human’s in several ways. For one thing, it had six arms, two of which held a chisel-tipped sword and a beaked war axe; three of the others had broken, and the weapons that remained were only hilts and stubs; the last was gone at the elbow. It was covered with scales: Armor or flesh, it was hard to tell. But the strangest thing of all was its head.
Fan-ka-tso had three faces, arranged about its head, each sharing one eye with the next. They all had different expressions: one laughing, one pinched with sorrow, one contorted with rage. Their eyes were chips of some deep blue stone Cathan didn’t recognize. Their teeth were sharp, almost tusks, and their tongues were pointed like spears.
The Hammer had not been gentle in pulling down the idol. It was broken in half across the waist, and the pieces stood side-by-side in the upper Hall. Its feet were missing-probably still attached to it’s plinth, somewhere in the depths of the jungle-and chips were missing from its lower half, where the knights had attacked it with hatchet and sledge.
Cathan stood before Fan-ka-tso, wondering. To his eye, it was yet another false god, some demon the Falthanans had elevated beyond its place. He’d seen many such icons in his time, but this statue was different, somehow. There was no blood on it, and there was something strangely familiar. Tancred had told him to seek it out: would he have done that if Fan-ka-tso were simply another beast of the Abyss?
“Its name,” he said. “I don’t speak Old Falthanan. What does it mean?” The Kingpriest signed the triangle, warding against whatever spirit might still dwell within the statue. “ ‘Ever-Watcher’” he said.
Cathan stiff an image came to his mind: Sir Marto, the big, blustering Falthanan knight who had been under his command and who had died at Losarcum. Marto had spoken a great deal about his homeland, about the great cities of Karthay and Yerasa, about the gods of his fathers: the Mirrorsnake who was an aspect of Paladine … the Lady of Tears, who was Mishakal the Healing Hand … and the Ever-Watcher, who was-
“Jolith,” he murmured, his blood turning cold.
Kiri-Jolith, the lord of battle, was one of the Divine Hammer’s patrons. Every culture gave him a different form, but the one venerated by the Istaran church was that of
He turned to stare at Beldinas. “Why?”
“Some of the Falthanans rejected the gods’ true forms,” the Kingpriest replied. “They refused to convert to the Horned One. It had to be stopped.”
“So you sent the Hammer after them. What about the priests?”
The Kingpriest sighed. “Not all of them surrendered. There was nothing else to do.”
“Nothing else…” Cathan put a hand to his mouth, turned away as his eyes began to sting. In his mind, he could see it: The Divine Hammer wading into the fray, swords and maces flying, bringing down the last of the diehards. He had done it often enough, against those who walked in shadow. The clerics would have burned their bodies, purifying them with holy oil. As for the rest, those who surrendered … Karthay must have a slave market, too.
“But this was a god of light,” he breathed.
Beldinas’s hand rested on his shoulder. “It was a corruption.
There were other shapes in the gloom of the chamber. Cathan couldn’t bring himself to look at them, for he now knew they would be familiar: Habbakuk and Branchala, Majere and Mishakal…. Paladine as well. All of them as they had been worshipped in the old kingdoms, Seldjuk and Dravinaar, even Taol. The church had wiped out the dark gods, smashed the gray. Now it pursued the light.
“But who determines what are the true forms, and what are false?” he murmured. “Who decides?”
“I do,” Beldinas replied. “I am the gods’ chosen, remember?”
Cathan said nothing, only bowed his head. He felt old again… old, and tired.
“It is hard to accept, I know,” the Kingpriest said gently. “You’ve been gone a long time. The war with darkness is not as it was when you left. The fewer places evil can dwell, the more it is wont to hide, and no more than in men’s hearts. Every man’s … even yours, and mine.”
“Yours?” Cathan looked up, surprised, and he saw through the aura again, saw the man within. The surprising fear in his eyes.
“Mine,” said Beldinas. “I feel it, Cathan. All around me … and within me. It gnaws at my soul, like some beast of the netherworld. For a long time I thought I would never be free of it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. His grip on Cathan’s shoulder grew tight, claw-like. “But I’ve found a way. I know how to win the war, to drown the shadows in light everlasting!”
In that moment, looking into those haunted, hunted eyes, Cathan understood: the Kingpriest was mad. Fear and fervor had stripped away his mind, leaving something else. Brother Beldyn, the young monk he had sworn to so long ago, was gone, devoured by this creature who made enemies of good gods and enslaved those who did not agree with him. Cathan mourned for him.
He knew, then, what he had to do.
“I’m listening, Holiness,” he said. “Tell me.”
It was nearly morning when they left the Tower, heading back to the Temple. Beldinas smiled when they parted, and clapped Cathan on the shoulder. “Spring Dawning,” he said. “Remember, my friend. We set forth the day after Spring Dawning.”
“I’ll remember,” Cathan said. “Don’t worry.”
They parted then, the Kingpriest returning to his manse. Cathan stood alone in the Garden of Martyrs, staring at the names of men who had died for Beldinas. Following the orders of a lunatic. His own name had been carved there, and removed.
The air in the garden grew cold. Frost appeared on the leaves, on the obelisks. Cathan didn’t turn, didn’t need to. He could see the black-robed figure clearly enough in his mind.
“You understand, now,” said Fistandantilus. “It is nothing so simple as good against evil. Not any more.”
“You could end this,” Cathan said. “You could bring him low with a word. Why haven’t you?”
The dark hood whispered as the archmage shook his head. “What would that accomplish? It would make him the greatest martyr of all. Evil cannot strike the blow that must fall, Twice-Born. No, this time it must be good that fights against the light.”
Cathan understood, and it sickened him. Every instinct, deep in his bones, screamed at him that the Dark One was lying, that this was some elaborate trick… but he had seen it with his own eyes: the tunnels, and the cages, and the broken idols in the dark. And he knew the truth about Beldinas. It terrified him, even more than Fistandantilus did.
“Good,” the sorcerer said. “We will speak again, when this is over.”
Then he was gone, and the cold with him. Cathan stood alone, watching the mist of his breath vanish, until he felt the tears dry on his cheeks.
