Sacred Fire

word, Fistandantilus let his spell of cloaking slip away.

“I had wondered when you might show yourself, Dark One,” the Kingpriest said, greeting him without the slightest surprise.

Fistandantilus allowed himself a brief smile. Revealing himself like this usually unnerved people. Beldinas must fear him-how could he not, knowing what powers the wizard could summon with a mere twitch of his finger? — but he showed none. Now, he drew himself up with head held high. Fistandantilus admired him for that, even though he rarely admired a cleric of the light.

“Well?” asked the Kingpriest. “Have you come to pour poison in my ear and call it honey? How will you try to pervert me, Black Robe?”

The archmage shrugged. “How long have I served in your court, Lightbringer? Nearly twenty years, by my count. And have I ever sought to corrupt you, in all that time?”

Even Beldinas had to admit that was true-the few times Fistandantilus the Dark had given counsel to the imperial ear, it had been for the general good of Istar. Usually, the Dark One simply sat and observed the affairs of state. That didn’t stop tongues from wagging-but then, Fistandantilus had learned long ago that the only thing that stopped tongues from wagging was a good, sharp knife.

“You have not abused your position,” the Kingpriest said. “But things are different now. You know what I intend to do, when the new year comes?”

“I do.”

“Do you not fear the gods’ wrath?”

No more than you do, the wizard thought “That is between the gods and me.”

“Then what is it you want?”

Fistandantilus had lived for centuries, feeding off the life-essences of lesser mages. Istar had been a bundle of squabbling city-states in his youth. Now, looking at Beldinas, he felt a stab of impatience. After all this time, after all he had done to bring this man to Istar, to put him on the throne, and to keep him there. He’d brought down the mighty, orchestrated wars, caused the deaths of thousands, all to have the Lightbringer at his disposal, when the time came.

He didn’t care about Beldinas’s plans to command the gods, for that would never happen. The Kingpriest was powerful, but Fistandantilus’s power was greater still; he would use his magic to bedevil the man. Together, they would recite the words the mages of old had written, in the certainty that no one would ever speak them. The Portal would then open, and they would enter the Abyss. And the Dark One would take his place among the shadow gods.

“I want you to come here,” Fistandantilus said.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about his voice, no echo, no volume, no depth. But the hidden energy of it flashed across the room like an invisible whip, ensnaring the Kingpriest in its coils. The Miceram’s light flickered faintly. Fistandantilus smiled. The Crown of Power was a mighty relic, but he owned dozens just as mighty in his collections. Blinking as though suddenly tired, Beldinas leaned forward, and began to walk across the chamber.

“Good,” the wizard said. He waited until they were nearly face to face. “Now stop, and remove your Crown, Holiness.” Despite his best attempts, the last word still came out as a sneer.

Dreamily, the Kingpriest reached up and lifted the Miceram from his brow. The holy light dimmed, fading into shimmers of silver about a tired, frightened face as Beldinas set the Crown down on a nearby table.

“Is this enough?” the Kingpriest asked. “Will it satisfy you?”

Fistandantilus savored the moment, letting the magic flow out of the black moon and into him. It sang in his blood, like sweet wine or bloodblossom oil. He raised his hands, the fingers bent and spotted with age, held them still a moment, then reached forward and laid them on either side of the Kingpriest’s balding head. Then he shut his eyes and let himself slip gently into Beldinas’s mind.

They were standing together on a mountaintop, the cliffs on all sides assailed by monsters, sorcerers, and demons. There were men among the attackers, too-Lords Revando and Cathan, Wentha the Weeping and her sons, among many others. Fistandantilus floated in the air, untroubled, but Beldinas was on the verge of panicking, clinging to a pinnacle of stone like a shipwrecked sailor to flotsam. The wizard glanced at him, saw the terror writ plain on the man’s face, and knew at once something was wrong. This was not the calm, self-assured man who had assumed the throne years before. Something had changed in him-what had once been pure, sweet music now evinced a sour discord.

As Beldinas’s foes closed in on all sides, Fistandantilus understood. This was what the world looked like to the Kingpriest: danger all around, and no way out. He was only holding on to gather more power; then he would unleash it, and bring the mountain down. His enemies would be destroyed.

But so would he, and he didn’t realize this.

The image vanished, and Fistandantilus let go, stepping back in astonishment Beldinas was not the pure vessel he required-not any longer. He’d wielded too much power for too long. He had wrath and envy in his soul-and pride, worst of all. The very means the wizard had used to get close to him had brought his ruin. He was not right for the ritual; the Portal would never open to him.

Softly, the Dark One began to laugh. It was strange laughter, tinged with self-mockery. What a fool he’d been, all this time! Pulling the puppets’ strings, making them dance-and never noticing that those strings and the Kingpriest’s were growing entangled. So many years, wasted on a hope that was false…

Fistandantilus laughed and laughed.

“Very good,” he said, glancing up to the heavens. “Oh, clever indeed!”

Beldinas only stared, still under the charm.

“So be it, then,” Fistandantilus murmured. “Let him smash the empire. It matters not.”

He passed a hand in front of Beldinas’s face, allowing a burst of magical energy to pass through as he chanted spidery words, “You will sleep,” he said with a hint of bitterness. “When you wake, you will have no memory of this.”

The Kingpriest nodded. Following Fistandantilus’s command, he climbed up onto his bed and lay down his head. In less than a minute he was snoring.

The Dark One stood over him a moment, then nodded to himself and let the cloaking spell slip over him once more. He still had work to do.

Chapter 26

Squatting in the mud, the rain dripping down from the ash trees, Cathan remembered being here, in almost this very spot, in a ditch by the side of the road, deep in the highlands of Taol. He’d been young then-little more than a boy, really-though he’d become a man that year. He’d lost his family to plague, all except Wentha, and sunk into a life of outlawry, hiding from the Kingpriest’s men in the wilds. He couldn’t hold back a grim smile; so much had happened in his life, and here he was again. Perhaps life was a circle, as certain heretics claimed.

The journey west had taken longer than he’d expected- twenty-five days to travel what he could have done in fifteen, or ten on horseback. The roads were busy, and he had to be cautious, taking care never to raise his head so that others might notice his eyes beneath his hood. And that was just for commoners and tradesmen; when he spotted priests or Scatas-or the Hammer-he quit the road entirely, found the nearest wood or gully, and hid until they passed.

Peering up from the ditch now, he watched six mounted knights, riding from the south, dressed in battle armor rather than simple riding gear. He ducked down again with a curse; the men weren’t simply on their way from one town to the next. They were a search party to find him; Tithian was no fool.

The sounds of rattling armor and hooves clopping against the paring stones got closer. His hand went beneath his robes, touching the cudgel he still carried. Six swords against one club didn’t make for promising odds at all. He pressed himself flat in the mud, felt it soak through his robes, and shivered at the cold against his skin. He