Sacred Fire

The Disks still lay within, the only copy of the gods’ full word to the mortals of Krynn.

Waiting.

Chapter 15

In ancient times, the festival of Spring Dawning had been a time of wildness, a day when the people of Istar’s cities indulged their every whim and desire. Men and women alike donned masks to hide their identities, and paraded through the streets, eating, drinking, dancing, and singing. It was also a fertility rite, marking the start of the rains that opened the growing season, and it wasn’t uncommon for the revelers to shed everything but their masks, or for couples-even small groups-to entwine in the gardens, becoming groaning jumbles of arms and legs, sliding fingers and exploring lips.

The church had put an end to that sort of thing long ago. The first Kingpriests had declared the more ribald parts of Spring Dawning to be pagan licentiousness, and the rituals had changed. The abandon was gone from the festival, though people being people, they still ate too much and got far too drunk, and if some still tore off their clothes and groped played, they were sure to do it in the deepest shadows, where the clergy wouldn’t spot them.

One part of the day that did remain was the masque. No one in the Lordcity-or other cities throughout the empire-went about during Spring Dawning wearing his own face. Many simply covered their faces with strips of cloth, with holes cut for the eyes, but there were also more fanciful disguises: dragons and griffins, tigers and antlered stags, laughing fey folk and snarling ogres, the red and silver moons. Some bore plumes of exotic feathers, or were studded with sticks of smoldering incense, or carried long trains of bright silk that fluttered in the warm breeze off the lake. Even the clerics took part, though their guises were more staid, to stave off the temptation of idolatry. And the song and the dance, the feasting and the rivers of wine, persisted to this day.

The festivities lasted three days. The first began with a benediction from the Lightbringer himself, who appeared on the steps of the Great Temple. Standing before the throngs of the Barigon and masked by his own aura, he performed the familiar ritual, first signing the triangle and blessing the people, then pouring out three urns before him: one of water, to beckon the rains; another of barley, for the growing times; and a third of ashes, for those who had perished that winter. Then, light streaming from him in waves, he led the folk of the Lordcity in prayer that they be kept safe from evil for yet another season.

When that was done, he raised his hands for silence, and all eyes turned to him. Beldinas made a special pronouncement, every year at Spring Dawning, speaking of what lay ahead for Istar. This day he looked out over the crowds, who were craning in anticipation, then threw back his head and laughed.

“Do not fear, usas farnas,” he proclaimed, when the people looked at one another in puzzlement and alarm. “I am only thinking of our enemies, and how many they once were. It was only a thousand years ago, in the time of the last Dragonwar, when the candle of good was guttering, ready to go out forever. But goodness rallied, and threw down the dark gods and all their nightmare minions, and in the end light prevailed, as it must.

“Now the wheel has turned, and it is evil that faces the end. Nothing remains of the dark ones’ churches, and almost nothing of the gray heathens that abetted them through their very acceptance of the ‘need’ for evil in the world. The wizards have fled, the monsters of old are slain or driven so deep beneath the earth that they must wander forever in shadowed caverns, never again to experience the sun.

“Now, I say this to you. In three days’ time, when the festival is done, I shall embark on a pilgrimage into the hills … one last journey to gain the power I need, the knowledge to put an end to evil forever. Once and for all, I will show the Doctrine of Balance, which this very church accepted for so many years, to be the lie that it is.

“Good does not need evil to define it. A white robe is still a robe, even if it has no stains. A melody with no sour notes still sounds sweet. The sun still shines at noontide, when the shadows fade. And when darkness is gone forever-yea, even from the depths of your own hearts-this world, this realm, this city will still stand, shining bright as the sun itself!”

The crowd erupted, roars of joy resounding all over the Lordcity and rippling out across the lake. The cry echoed across the empire, from nearby cities like Chidell and Calah, to Lattakay and Karthay and other far-off places. Beldinas had sent clockwork falcons winging to all corners of Istar, bearing copies of his proclamation for the patriarchs to read. Now millions of Istarans answered him, from the mob standing before him to throngs hundreds of leagues away.

The festival went on, full of laughter and song. The celebration lasted on into the evening, when Istar’s lamps kindled and turned the city into a warm sea of light. A rain shower swept in off the lake, quick but potent, leaving the revelers drenched in its wake. They didn’t care. Wine flowed on, bodies twirled and cavorted, voices called out from behind masks the whole night long.

Then dawn came, and it all began again-or rather, it continued.

The second day of the festival was one of storytelling: Poets stood on the rims of fountains in a hundred courtyards, reciting their latest epics and odes. Singers and actors performed melodramas from all corners of history: the death of Huma Dragonbane, the rise of Symeon the first Kingpriest, the corruption of Kurnos, the battle of Govinna and the Silver Dawn, when the Lightbringer had donned the Miceram for the first time. Some of the tellings were excellent, many more were middling, and a few were awful. The crowds broke the worst up with catcalls, pelting the players with fruit. In a couple places, this escalated to brief melees that left everyone laughing and covered with pith and juice.

The greatest of the performances that day took place at the Arena, where men, women, and children filled the stands to watch the latest work of a playwright acclaimed as a genius, Gendellis of Edessa. Gendellis specialized in Baponnas, melodramas told in rhyming verse that were filled with songs and spectacle. Today, to a crowd of eighty thousand who gathered beneath the Arena’s blue and gold banners, he and his company were performing the Stone City’s Doom, a telling of the battle for the Tower of High Sorcery in Losarcum.

The people cheered as Lord Cathan Twice-Born-or, rather, the actor who played him-led his company of knights into the Stone City. They laughed at the boisterousness of Sir Marto, and more than a few women swooned at the dashing figure of Sir Tithian, the young knight always standing by his captain’s side. They stamped their feet when the wizards of the Tower-Black Robes, all-defied Lord Cathan’s demand that they quit the city at once. They hissed when the wizards tried to kill Tithian with foul sorcery. They applauded when Cathan rallied his men with a stirring song of valor and glory, before leading them forth on the final assault. Gasps and cries of alarm resounded through the stands when the battle was joined, and Gendellis’s play gave way to a storm of fireworks and flashing swords as knights and sorcerers met. There were even a few minotaurs involved in the show, playing demons called forth by the wizards to join the battle. The watchers hissed all the more when the mages decided to destroy the Tower-“and damnation unto the City of Stone!”-and wept when Sir Marto fell, trying to thwart them. Finally, the Tower exploded, and the masses erupted in a howl of outrage that turned to joy when the Kingpriest himself appeared, stepping through the smoke to spirit Lord Cathan and faithful Tithian to safety. The play ended with Cathan-saddened by the events of Losarcum-resigning his place as Grand Marshal and quietly walking from the stage. Not a single murmur was heard from the crowd in the stands.

Then came a final soliloquy from the Lightbringer himself, and everyone surged to their feet and cheered so loudly the noise was heard as far away as the Hammerhall. The play was a triumph, undeniably Gendellis’s finest work to date. Word quickly spread after the audience filed out the Arena’s many arched gates: This would be a drama for the ages, one of the best ever to grace a stage in Istar, and surely there would be many more performances of it in the years to come.

That night, masked folk shouted and capered in the streets. Then, when the first light appeared over the Lordcity’s eastern gates, all eyes turned back to the Arena again.

The Games would begin on the third day.

Cathan swallowed, staring up past the Arena’s white walls, where statues of warriors stood with swords and spears held high. The sky overhead was clear, the blue of Zaladhi sapphires. Griffins wheeled across its cloudless