Sacred Fire

knowledge, we drank wine together, we were welcome in each other’s churches. He was wise, and he cared for the people of our village. He may have worshipped a gray god, but he was a good man.”

Cathan bowed his head. “I’ve heard this story,” he murmured. “Or others like it. Did they burn Lethar’s temple?”

“Not just that,” Revando replied. “They burned Lethar, too-no, not they. We did it, the men of the Divine Hammer and of the holy church. We burned him, along with his books … all because he followed the wrong god. It didn’t matter that he gave food to the hungry, or shelter to those in need. Someone spread lies about him, and the knights and priests descended on him like jackals, leaving nothing but ashes! And I stood and watched, and did nothing while my dearest friend died at the hands of my brethren!

“Before long, I learned this was happening all over the empire … that the faith I’d always believed in was responsible for murders like Lethar’s in every corner of Istar. And not just the gray gods’ followers, either.”

“He has seen it, Your Grace,” Wentha interjected. “He has seen Fan-ka-tso.”

Tears shone in the First Son’s eyes. “It was all I could do to sing the Lightbringer’s praises, the day they dragged that prize through the city gates.” He shook his head ruefully. “Once I’d heard enough tales, I decided to do something. I would avenge my friend, and all those like him. But I had to be patient, and careful. I did all I could to make a name for myself in the church, rose through the ranks. I curried favor with those who would give it, bribed those who wouldn’t, and built a reputation as a good Revered Son … until just last year, when I came to Istar to sit next to the Kingpriest. And all the while, I’ve organized these tunnel-rats, made a proper force of them with help from Idar and others.”

“All of it to bring down Beldinas,” Cathan breathed.

Revando nodded. “And now, thanks to what you have told us, we must risk acting now. He didn’t even tell me his plans for the Peripas. I fear what will happen if he succeeds. Lady Wentha has told me of your dreams, of the burning hammer. But with your help, we can stop this foolish war on evil, and bring back the doctrine of Balance before it’s too late. We can end the nightmares.”

“And put you on the throne,” Cathan said.

There was a stirring behind him, a growl of resentment. He thought it might be Idar, but, turning, to his surprise, he saw it was Rath, whose eyes had narrowed and mouth had turned lipless. Tancred shook his head at his brother, bent to whisper in his ear. Rath drew away, still glowering.

Revando raised a beringed hand. “Be still, young man,” he cautioned. “It was a proper question. Yes, Twice- Born, the Lightbringer’s fall would put me on the throne. But you helped overthrow Kurnos and put Beldinas in his place … this is old business for you. And I would abdicate if the Miceram were to pass to me. I have no desire to rule.”

It was true. Cathan could see it in the First Son’s weary face, hear it in his voice. All he wanted was peace for his old friend, lost to the stake and torch. Revando would sit the throne only long enough to choose an heir, no longer.

Cathan pressed his fingers to his lips, and stayed like that for a minute, then another.

“Cathan?” Wentha asked.

“What would you do with him?” he asked slowly. “Beldyn was my friend, once. I won’t lead him to his death.”

“He deserves no more,” Rath muttered. Tancred shushed him again.

The bits of amber in Revando’s beard clacked together as he shook his head. “I am no murderer, Twice- Born,” he said. “I do not mean to kill His Holiness-only to strip him of the Miceram, and with it his vested power. There are many places he can be taken after that, through the tunnels. He can live out the rest of his life in exile, in a place where he can do no more harm.”

Cathan met his eyes, his gaze hard. “Do you swear to that?”

“Why do you think I have waited this long?” the First Son replied, calmly. “I’ve had a thousand chances to put a knife in his ribs, or poison in his cup. No … I will not be like him. I will not call for the death of those who don’t believe as I do.”

“And your men?”

“Ask us yourself, Twice-Born,” Idar replied. “We’ll do what we’re told… as long as things go smooth. But if we lose this chance, things might change.”

“We need you, Cathan,” Wentha put in. “Beldinas needs you. We won’t get another chance to do this without bloodshed.”

He turned, staring at her in shock.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ll back an assassination, if it comes to that. One way or another, the Kingpriest must come off the throne.”

Assassination. His sister speaking of such a deed. Cathan felt the room sway around him. It must have shown, for Revando reached out to steady him, but he recovered his balance before the First Son could intervene. Cathan swallowed.

“What must I do?” he asked.

The eighteenth bout was just beginning when Cathan returned to the Arena. Rath and Tancred were already in the imperial box; Wentha would arrive shortly. Tithian gave him a look at he sat down on the bench he’d left almost an hour ago.

Down below, the Red Minotaur twisted his meaty paws around the haft of his trident, hoofs stamping the ground as he and the Barbarian circled each other. The Minotaur was good-Cathan could tell from the leer on his bestial face that the creature fought for the sheer pleasure of it-but the Barbarian had improved as well. To the delight of the crowds, he made two quick feints, then struck a grazing blow to the Minotaur’s shoulder. Blood flowed-just a shallow cut, but enough to anger the creature. It snarled, horns gleaming in the sunlight.

“You were gone quite a while,” Tithian remarked.

Cathan made a face. “I thought about not coming back at all. I keep seeing Valeric, the one who-”

“I know.” The Grand Marshal sighed. “There’ll be an official investigation, I promise you, but in the end we’ll be able to prove nothing. We never can. Rockbreaker’s too quick to dispose of the bodies-and who’s to say he’s dead if we can’t find his corpse? It’ll be kept quiet, and nothing will happen.”

The crowd cried out again as the Barbarian’s saber scored another red slash across the Minotaur’s thigh, making him stumble. Cathan glanced down and saw the beast trip his foe with his trident, then viciously drive the point down. The Barbarian twisted out of the way, made a clumsy kick, and hooked the Minotaur’s leg, sending him sprawling. The trident skittered away. The roars grew deafening.

“Why?” Cathan asked, raising his voice to make himself heard. “Why keep it quiet? If you raise the suspicion that some of these fights end in murder-”

“Then what? What do you think will happen?” Tithian demanded, jabbing his hand toward the crowds. “Look at them, Cathan! That’s real blood the Minotaur’s bleeding, and they’re cheering for it! If we told them some of the deaths were real, too-” He clenched his fist as his words sputtered to a stop, glaring at a point in the sky above the far side of the stands.

The Barbarian twisted to his feet, flourished his saber, and lowered its tip to the Minotaur’s throat-a thoroughly scripted move, one any competent warrior should have been able to avoid. When the Barbarian lifted his sword from the Minotaur and helped the creature up-loathing in its glinting eyes-Cathan knew these Games had been concocted to give birth to a new champion. He would have bet a hundred gold falcons that the Barbarian would be the last one standing when the sun set. A newcomer, fighting past overwhelming odds to win the adulation of the masses… it was the oldest tale beneath the moons.

Sure enough, the final bout of the day had the Barbarian fighting the reigning champion, Pheragas-and the battle was a consummate performance. It ebbed and flowed with perfect rhythm, first one man gaining the upper hand, then the other. They each took cuts. They even grappled and switched swords, something Cathan had never, in twenty years as a knight, seen happen in a real duel. Finally, shining with sweat, Pheragas came on hard, forcing the Barbarian back, back, until he was teetering at the brink of a pit filled with swinging blades. The boy hung there, teetering as the audience gasped. His sword dropped into the hole, and disappeared into the machinery with a metallic crunch. Then, his face tightening-a look that even made Cathan want to cheer, though it was all part of the act-the Barbarian threw himself forward, somehow avoiding Pheragas’s sword and ramming his shoulder into his opponent’s gut. The air went out of the big Ergothman, and with two quick punches the Barbarian had him on the