Sacred Fire

the words. “They spread woe in the name of righteousness, hatred in the name of virtue. They are blind to you, dazzled by the Kingpriest’s light. Please, in the name of all who have suffered falsely in your name… in the name of the darkness and the light… let it end. Let me set it aright, once and for all.”

Revando shut his eyes. He had never heard Paladine’s voice, had never felt his presence. That did nothing to stifle his belief. He ached for his god, and what had been wrought in his name.

“First Son,” said a soft voice.

Revando started snapping out of his trance. He turned, rising from his knees, and saw the one who had spoken: a shining figure, clad in robes of silver that shimmered like moonlight on water. He had an elf’s face, but with deep lines of age, of caring and regret. A wispy, white beard hung down over his chest.

He knew this elf, but only by reputation. He’d been a young priest, still an acolyte at the temple in Pedrun, when Loralon of Silvanesti departed Istar. Loralon had been Emissary before Quarath, a just and wise man by all accounts, and Kurnos the Deceiver had exiled him as a traitor. There had been no word of the ancient elf since, and Revando had assumed he was dead. He had been more than five hundred summers old when he left the Lordcity, older than any of his kind. Now Loralon stood by the window, his kind eyes heavy on the First Son. Looking closer, Revando shivered as he noted the veins of the marble wall shining through the elf’s body.

“I am not here,” Loralon said. “My spirit dwells now with E’li, whom you call Paladine. He sent me to you, Aulforo, so that you will understand.”

Revando gaped, stunned. “Understand what?”

“That he loves you, as he loves all his true servants,” Loralon replied. “You must know this, so you will not despair.”

“Despair… oh, no.” The First Son fell back, nearly tripped over the altar. One of the candles toppled to the floor and guttered out. Hope died with it. “They failed… didn’t they?” The elf-ghost nodded.

Revando put a hand to his head. The world swayed. “How?”

“They were betrayed by the youngest of the MarSevrins. Do not hate him, First Son. Young Tancred worked the will of E’li, though he did not know it.”

“Paladine’s will?” Revando demanded. Fury boiled up in him. “That all our effort should end like this? That the Lightbringer remains on the throne, and the Balance continues to slide? How can this be what the god wants?”

“It is not for us to question” Loralon answered, shaking his head solemnly. He moved forward, and Revando noticed for the first time that his feet did not touch the floor. “But I will show you something, if you will let me.”

Revando opened his mouth to spit blasphemy, to denounce this whim of Paladine and all he had ever believed in… then his gaze flicked back to Loralon, and his voice died. Tears streaked that ancient face. The elf was hurting for him, hurting for everyone who suffered this night. And, Revando realized, the god did too. He lowered his eyes, his face coloring with shame.

“Show me,” he said.

Loralon reached out, long fingers grasping. They passed through Revando’s robes into his chest, and he felt them and yet did not feel them as they curled around his beating heart.

And he saw everything that would transpire.

When it was done, he crumpled to his knees, sobbing. There was relief in knowing what the god foresaw … but there was also grief, so much grief. He looked up, the enormity of what Loralon had just shared echoing in his soul.

“Must it happen this way?” he asked.

“The Balance has shifted too far,” Loralon replied. “If there were any other road, do you not think E’li would prefer it?”

Revando took a moment to compose himself. He was breathing hard. He hated himself for his foolish pride … he’d felt so sure of his plans, so in control of everything, but now he knew better. He did not sit in charge of the khas table; he was only another piece on the board. “What will happen to me now?”

“They are coming to arrest you,” the elf answered simply. “They have already taken or killed everyone else. The rebellion is over, and the Lightbringer shall keep his throne. They will sell you into slavery.”

The First Son glanced at his desk, then back at Loralon. “No,” he said. “They will not.”

Loralon studied him a moment, then nodded. “It is your choice, First Son. But the god does not look well upon those who take this decision.”

“I know,” Revando said. “But I must choose my path anyway. If Paladine will accept my decision, though, I would like to redeem myself first.”

The elf’s brow furrowed. “How?”

“Let me be his prophet.”

The ancient eyes widened a little bit, and Revando felt a little pleasure at having surprised Loralon the Wise. His face grew distracted momentarily, as if his attention had been drawn away. Then, smiling, the elf-ghost nodded. “E’li agrees,” he said. “But be quick, Aulforo. They are nearly here.”

Then he was gone-no flash of light, no glimmering. He simply vanished. Revando stood alone, the elf’s after- image fading from his sight. His heart ached terribly for what had happened tonight, and what would shortly follow. But there was also relief, and peace. The game was not quite over for him.

Calmly, he walked back to the desk, found a sheet of parchment, and lifted a quill from an inkwell. He wrote quickly, in bold, sure strokes, the scratching of pen on paper the only sound in the room-until he was done, and another sound arose: the distant rapping of boots on stone, coming from the hall outside. He listened for a moment as the footsteps grew closer, then smiled.

“Palado,” he murmured. “Mas pirhtas calsud. Adolasbrigim paripud, e me bisud com, iudun donbulas. Sifat.”

Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought, and guide me home, beyond the stars. So be it.

The footsteps reached his door. A fist pounded on it, calling on him to open in the name of the Divine Hammer. Revando smiled, and reached for the goblet.

The knight pounded on the door for the third time. Quarath rolled his eyes in irritation. It was clear that Revando would not obey. It would have been clear to a child.

“The coward will not heed you, Vansard,” Quarath said.

Sir Vansard of Gamesh bristled. He had a thick moustache that made him look like some sort of exotic sea creature. “We must give him three warnings,” he huffed. “It is written in the laws that-”

“Yes, yes,” Quarath said, waving his hand. “It is written, but that is three. So will you get on with it?”

Vansard eyed him coldly. He had little use for elves, and would have rejoiced to see them leave the Lord city. For his part, Quarath was not terribly happy with the Divine Hammer just now. Lord Tithian hadn’t even told him what was afoot tonight-any of it! He’d had to find out from his own sources in the knighthood. He’d managed to catch up with Sir Vansard’s party as it was on its way to Wentha MarSevrin’s manor, just in time to pronounce the decree of arrest on her. She was in custody now, in the dungeon beneath the Temple-soon to be joined by the First Son, if the blasted knights ever knocked down the door.

His true annoyance he saved for Lord Revando. That the man had managed to orchestrate all this- right under my nose, Quarath thought angrily-rankled the elf deeply. The Kingpriest had been betrayed by his inner circle. That circle ought to be narrowed to one. With the First Son and Twice-Born gone, and the First Daughter in his camp, there would be only the Grand Marshal left to challenge Quarath. And he would find a way to deal with Lord Tithian, soon enough.

The doors of Revando’s apartments were strong, but the knights brought forth a small ram, wrought of iron, with handles so four men could wield it. They did so, at Sir Vansard’s command, plunging it into the doors once… twice…

On the third stroke, the bolt shattered, and the doors flew inward. Crossbows and swords at the ready, the knights surged in. Quarath followed discreetly behind them, the words of the arrest decree on his lips.

He never got a chance to speak them. Lord Revando sat slumped at his desk, his head on one shoulder, his eyes open. A smile had frozen on his face. His right hand hung down at his side, and a goblet lay on the floor. A dark stain marked the carpet where wine had spilled from it.

A shudder of revulsion worked its way through Quarath. His people saw self-murder as an ignoble act, an