Sacred Fire

happened once already, a thousand years ago. Then, the Queen of Darkness and her minions nearly destroyed Krynn with their evil, and only Hums Dragonbane saved it.

“Now, it is good that threatens the Balance. Beldinas must not triumph, Twice-Born. Fear and power have corrupted him. He never should have become Kingpriest.”

Cathan blinked, his mouth working a moment before any words came out. “But you were the one who discovered him. You wanted him on the throne!”

“Not at first,” she answered. “He believed he was destined to rule Istar, and he made me believe, as well. After all, I thought, better him than Kurnos. But I was wrong, Cathan- Paladine showed me how wrong I was, after I died. Yes, he wanted me to find Beldyn, but not to put him on the throne. He was not meant to rule. Better someone else should wear the Crown, rather than him.”

For a moment Cathan saw himself as a young man, back beneath Govinna, in the fane where the Miceram had been hidden for so long. Only he-and the gods-knew that Pradian had offered the Crown to him, but he had turned it down-and then turned it down again three days later, when the enemy laid siege to the city walls. All out of loyalty to Beldinas. He slumped back onto his cot.

“I know,” Ilista said tenderly. “At first I despaired too, when I realized the truth. He was so good, so pure, it seemed… but he was also susceptible to power. The temptations were too great, and he was too naive. Now, all Istar must pay the price, if the world is to be saved. But there is something you must do, to make sure the light survives what is to come.”

He only stared, not comprehending her. He was too numb with shock. I could have been Kingpriest, he thought. If I had donned, the Miceram, none of this would have happened. Paladine, how was I to know?

Ilista stepped toward him, reaching out with her slender hands. He started to draw back out of trepidation, then stopped. This has to be, a voice within him said-the same kindly voice he’d heard in the Vault. Let it happen.

Gentle as falling snow, she set her fingers upon his brow.

He awoke with a cry, in darkness once more. He stumbled and fell to his knees, retching. The world spun around him.

The images were a whirl and a blur, smeared across his mind like a fresco whose colors had run. He could remember little clearly, but something inside, some deeper part of him, understood what Ilista had shown him. One thing stood out: the Disks. He needed to find the Peripas. No matter what, the teachings of the good gods had to survive Istar’s destruction.

No matter what.

The disorientation passed. The nausea went away, the pounding in his head settled down to a dull ache. He sat up, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, and gazed around. “Ilista?” he asked. “Efisa, are you there?”

She was not.

Perhaps I imagined her, he thought. Perhaps I’ve gone mad. She had seemed so real, standing here in the cell… the cell…

The cell was gone. The floor beneath him was marble, the walls paneled in snowwood. A cool breeze blew through an open window, carrying silver moonlight. Stunned, he got to his feet and looked out-onto the Temple gardens, far below.

“Palado Calib,” he breathed, offering a quick prayer of thanks. He was free of the dungeon, in some empty room within the Temple’s many cloisters. Ilista had rescued him; now, standing in the shadows, he swore he wouldn’t let her down.

He looked out the window. It was autumn now. He’d been in the dungeon for over half a year. He saw himself clearly in the starlight: He was gaunt; his time in the dungeons had wasted his muscles, leaving skin and bones. He looked older than his years. His beard was long and shaggy, much of his hair had fallen out. But there was still strength left in him, and he knew it came from the god.

His face grim, Cathan turned away from the window. He had a job to do, and there was little time left.

Chapter 23

TENTHMONTH, 962 I.A.

Quarath padded up the steps of the imperial manse, moving as quickly as decorum allowed. His face betrayed no emotion, none of the worry or irritation he felt. He had awoken to the sound of knocking at his chamber door. His steward, an elf named Melias, had apologetically handed him a scroll with the falcon-and-triangle seal of the Kingpriest. Quarath hadn’t even bothered to break that seal; he knew it was an imperial summons. He’d received many these past few weeks.

The frequency of the summonses was about annoyed him. The worry was over what awaited him when he arrived.

It was still a little more than an hour before dawn, and the windows at the top of the stair were dark. A young acolyte whose name the elf neither knew nor cared to learn stepped onto the landing to greet him.

“Eminence,” the boy said, signing the triangle. “We are glad you could come-”

“What is it this time?” Quarath snapped. “Can’t you people deal with these episodes?”

The acolyte flushed, bowing his head. “We have tried, Eminence. He locks himself in, and will not let us enter. He says he is waiting for one he trusts.”

Quarath rolled his eyes, waving the boy out of his way. “All right, then. You may go.”

The boy was gone in an eyeblink. Quarath pushed through a door at the top of the stairs into a parlor decorated with brocaded tapestries showing scenes from legend, including the forging of the dragonlances, the surrender by the Khan of Dravinaar to Kingpriest Theorollyn I, the crowning of Beldinas before the Pantheon of Govinna. The hangings rippled as Quarath swept up to a second door at the room’s far end. It was plated with gold, etched with the eleven-pointed shape of the Miceram. The elf stopped, smoothed his robes, and tugged a silk cord beside the door. A soft chime, bells made of silver, sounded within.

“I told you to go away!” came the muffled reply. “I will not see anyone!”

Quarath sighed. He heard the tightness of that voice, the tremor in its tone. “Holiness,” he replied, “it is I. Will you not let me enter?”

There was a silence. When it came, the voice was closer. “Emissary? Are you alone?”

“Of course, sire. I wish only to enter, and to speak with you alone,” Your servants have all fled, he added silently.

Again, the voice didn’t answer right away, giving Quarath time to reflect. I should be glad, he told himself. The Kingpriest would not dare meet with anyone else when he was like this-not First Daughter Elsa, not Grand Marshal Tithian. There was no First Son these days, for none had been named to replace Lord Revando, but if there had been, the elf knew Beldinas wouldn’t trust him, either. But Quarath had been the Lightbringer’s right hand throughout his reign. The Kingpriest-all Istar-could not function without his guidance.

“Holiness?” Quarath ventured again.

The answer was a soft click, a bolt opening. The door made no other sound as it swung open an inch; the hand that opened it darted back into the shadows of the room beyond. That hand glowed with inner light, but the fingers trembled like leaves in an autumn wind.

Quarath entered without pause. He shut and bolted the door behind him, his hand lingering on the latch, then bit his lip and turned to face the source of the only light in the room. The windows were covered over with satin drapes, and the candles on the bedside table and the corner shrine stood untouched.

Beldinas was back in his bed, huddled under goose-down in a frame of bejeweled snowwood, swamped in great drifts of cushions and pillows. The sheets appeared in disarray, tangled and sweat-soaked. The Kingpriest trembled as Quarath stepped toward him. He still wore the Crown, which half-obscured his face.