Sacred Fire

It was dark in the Forino. Cathan found a torch still in its sconce, and with some effort got it lit. In the fire glow he turned to stare at Beldinas’s senseless form. How had the clear-eyed, purposeful youth he’d met, all those years ago at Luciel, become this wretched, terrified old man? What had changed him?

Power, he thought. Fear. Too many enemies, too few friends. People only loved the Lightbringer because of what he could do for them. They revered him in the god’s stead. And this reverence for power was what had transformed him.

His eyes blurred with tears, and he had to steady himself against the plinth. “At least this way you’ll live, my friend,” he murmured. “They might have done worse, in the end, if I hadn’t helped them.”

Beldinas groaned, his face contorting. The bloodblossom was coursing through him; it was a small dose, though, and would wear off before long. Cathan had to get the Kingpriest out of this place, had to give him over to Idar and Rath and Tancred and the others. They would bind him, gag him, maybe drug him again-but none would dare harm him. They would answer to Ebonbane if they tried.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re going.”

Beldinas’s body was light; the Lightbringer was frail and gaunt. His bones slid beneath his skin, and Cathan hoisted him easily onto one shoulder, then took up the Miceram and held it in his hands. Site ceram biriat, abat, the old proverb went-whoever wears the Crown, rules. It had tempted him before, and did so again, its rubies glittering in the fire-light. With its power, even he could be emperor of all Istar. He could change everything, end slavery, put a stop to the Games, lift the bans and interdicts. All he had to do was set the Miceram on his brow.

But the temptation quickly faded. He would hold on to the Crown, to make sure Idar or someone else didn’t decide to wear it, but he didn’t want to rule. Revando could have the Miceram. All Cathan wanted was to go some place quiet, and live in peace. He turned to go.

Then he stopped, catching a glimpse of another glimmering, and his heart leapt The Peripas!

The Disks lay on the floor, where Beldinas had dropped them. Cathan realized he had no idea what to do with them. Should he leave them here? Bring them out to the rebels? They held the secrets that would let Beldinas bring down the gods’ wrath… he stood rooted, torn.

Take them, said a voice in his head.

It was Fistandantilus, he thought, his blood freezing-but no, it wasn’t. There was warmth in this voice, a gentle but firm insistence that made him think of his own father, dead all these years. Cathan dropped the torch, letting it gutter and flicker out; but before its light failed, he bent down and lifted the Disks from the floor.

It was hard going, back up the stairs and tunnel with no light to guide him, carrying the weight of Kingpriest and Crown and Disks all at once. Halfway out, a terrible thought began to form in his mind: Something had gone wrong up above, outside the Vault. What if Idar’s men had failed? What if he stepped out the doors, Beldinas unconscious in his arms, and the knights and Scatas were waiting? He could claim that Beldinas had lost consciousness when he touched the Peripas… it had happened when they first found the Miceram… but the moment anyone got a closer look at the Kingpriest, the lie would he exposed.

I should have waited, he thought. That was the plan. Wait

In his heart, though, Cathan knew he had had to act, down below, or he never would have gone through with it.

He reached the doors, standing shut before him. Rays of moonlight swirled in, around and between them, making the bright mosaic walls gleam silver and red. Gritting his teeth, he kicked the doors open, letting the glow of Solinari and Lunitari flood in.

There were no knights or Scatas. There were only trees, and dark stains on the ground that had to be blood. His heart started beating again.

Another thought hit him as he was crossing the portico, toward the stair where the Iudulo had confronted him. It had let him pass because it judged him righteous. Was he still? He half-expected the stone lioness to hit him from behind, finish him off. There would be no pleading with it this time.

But the statues stayed stone cold.

Down the steps he went, as Beldinas stirred again, mumbling something incoherent through lips that didn’t work right. Cathan stumbled, nearly fell. The moment he reached the bottom, he let the Kingpriest slide off his back, onto the damp, needle-strewn ground. His side flared with pain as he did so.

“Crrthrrrrn,” Beldinas groaned, his eyelids flickering, showing white through the slits. “Muh frrrrrrrr.”

“Yes, Holiness,” Cathan said, touching his sweat-slick face. “I’m your friend. You’re going to be all right. We must get you away from here, though.”

There was a shimmering sound around him, like many gongs made of glass. With it came a tremendous groan of wood, the noise of a forest in a windstorm. He looked around in time to see the trees around him in the midst of transformation. Their bark swelled and split, the reaching limbs grew short and thick, needles dropped off, and skin and hair grew in their place. Roots pulled free of the earth, becoming feet. Trunks swelled and contorted, becoming faces. The trees became men, thirty men with daggers and shortswords and crossbows. Beside him, Beldinas whimpered in horror.

Then Idar was beside him, and his nephews, bent over the Kingpriest while the rest moved to stand watch. Some were wounded, and Cathan judged ten to be missing, probably dead. Rath had a deep cut under his left eye.

“What happened?” Tancred asked. He was very pale. “You were supposed to do it out here, not down there.”

“I acted because I had to,” Cathan replied. “It couldn’t wait.”

“It’s all right,” said Rath calmly. “Everything’s as it should be.”

Tancred was shaking his head. “But this wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”

“No harm done, lad,” said Idar. He touched Beldinas’s throat, nodded when he felt the life-beat. “You didn’t do us any favors, though, Twice-Born. He’ll have his wits back too soon, before we’re moving again.”

“It’s all right,” Rath repeated. “Come on, let’s get him tied up-Tancred? What’s the matter?”

Tancred was looking around furiously, his eyes wide. “They’re here!” he cried. “They found us!”

Idar’s men cast about, blades and bows quivering in their hands. Cathan felt it, too-a new presence here in the woods. Ebonbane hissed from its scabbard. Idar drew his own blade, dropping a knife into his left hand as well. A voice rang out across the clearing, chanting in the church tongue:

“Cie nicas supam torco, Palado, mas bodoram burtud.”

Though I walk through night’s shadow, Paladine, be thou my light.

The silver moon hung low in the sky, its rays slanting in at a steep angle. Now, a different beam struck them, streaking down from above: god-light, bright and beautiful. Seeing it, Cathan felt physically ill. He knew what it meant.

Idar’s men cast about, swearing, even before the first of the armored figures appeared on a rise to the east. It was a knight, the badge of the Divine Hammer burning on his breast, a heavy crossbow cocked. He paused, face hidden by his gleaming, horned helm, and stared at them, waiting for his comrades to join him-three, then ten, then many more, closing in to surround the Forino. A Revered Son appeared among them, young and robed for battle, with chain mail underneath his vestments. He kept his hands in the triangle position, controlling the light that bathed everyone. And beside him…

“Cathan Twice-Born,” said the knight in the crimson surcoat. “In the name of the god and the empire, you and your comrades are under arrest for sedition and assault against His Holiness, the Kingpriest of Istar.”

Cathan stared at Lord Tithian. All around him, he could feel men tensing, preparing to die. Idar’s followers would not give themselves up without a fierce struggle. Arrest meant slavery-the mines or the sands, most likely. Cathan held Ebonbane very still. No one-knight or rebel-moved, for several long minutes.

“Lay down your arms,” Tithian said, “or my men will shoot. Don’t let things end this way, Cathan.”

Idar stepped forward. “You’ll not take us alive, son of a whore. We-”

Three crossbow strings snapped, Idar spun to the ground, shafts in his chest, throat, and left eye. His men