Sacred Fire

mooring lines, and would have rushed out onto the docks had the Divine Hammer not been there to restrain them. Lord Tithian’s men locked shields to hold the mob back, swords drawn to warn the more zealous agitators. All around them voices called out curses, or invoked the Lightbringer to protect them from the doom-bringing ship.

Then, as suddenly as if some calamity had struck them all dead, the crowds fell silent. A figure appeared at the prow of the ship, clad in a gown as ashen as the sails: a tall, regal woman of some fifty summers, her golden hair now running to silver. She had been beautiful once, but age had hardened her face, turning once-laughing eyes to glittering stones, and freezing her mouth in a dour pinch. A blue X-the Seldjuki sign for widowhood-adorned her forehead, and she wore no other adornment: no bracelets or necklaces, no rings on her fingers or dangling from her ears. She leaned on a short staff of gray wood, with an ivory handle carved to resemble a dragon’s wing. The sailors lowered a ramp, bowing low as she stepped up to its edge and swept the crowd with the severest of stares.

“Prubo broudon,” someone in the crowd murmured, signing the triangle. Others quickly picked up the call, turning their eyes away from her gaze.

The Lady Who Weeps.

Wentha MarSevrin did not, in fact, weep, though tears often glistened in her eyes. She had earned the name many years ago, and to many its origin was as obscure as the fear of gray sails. To most, she was a figure of legend: the first Istaran to feel the healing power of the Lightbringer, whose touch had saved her from plague. Beldinas had cured thousands of the afflicted since, but Wentha had always held a special place at the imperial court, even after she married and moved to the city of Lattakay, far to the east. There, she had built the Udenso, an enormous statue of bronze and glass, built to resemble the Kingpriest-only to see it fall to ruin in the first days of the holy war between the church and the Orders of High Sorcery. In the years since that war she had not once returned to the Lordcity.

Everyone knew why that was, but no one would speak of it. There were some names it was not wise to speak aloud.

Lord Tithian strode down the pier, his mail jingling with each measured step. His eyes flicked to the other members of the Weeping Lady’s entourage, standing just behind her, but mostly they remained fixed on Wentha. She studied his face a moment, then smiled-a sad look, with no joy in it.

“I had heard you were Grand Marshal now,” she said, as Tithian hurried up the ramp to take her arm. She kissed his cheek graciously. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, Efisa,” he replied, keeping his voice low as he escorted her. “But why have you come? And why fly that sail?”

He waved his hand, and she smiled again as she followed the gesture. “Gray is my color now, Tithian,” she replied. “And the curse upon it is nonsense-talk for the wine-shops, at best. In fact, the news I bring should be enough to disprove it.”

“News, milady? Of what sort?”

“Of the sort the Kingpriest must hear,” she said, “and none before him. Even you, my old friend.”

He studied her hard, but her face remained a mystery. At length, he shrugged. “Of course. The court awaits you, Efisa.”

They walked on together, away from the gray-sailed ship, their eyes turning uphill to the shining Temple.

The crystal dome of the Hall of Audience buzzed with the drone of voices in the room below. Word had spread of the gray ship’s arrival, and the place had filled with courtiers, all of them jostling for a glimpse of the Weeping Lady. Powdered and perfumed, clad in robes of rich velvet and shimmering silk, the nobles, high clerics, and merchant-princes of Istar whispered to one another of what her coming might portend. Like the commoners at the docks, few considered it a good thing.

Roses hung about the Hall, mimicking its walls. These were shaped of layers of lacquered wood, lovingly carved to resemble wine-dark petals that unfurled upward to cup the dome. Golden censers stood about the room, issuing threads of sweet, heavy smoke, and white tapers flickered on platinum candelabra, though the crystal above shone as bright as day. The floor was silver-veined marble, polished gleaming-bright, wide enough that it took several minutes to cross the Hall at a suitably respectful pace. At one end it gave way to a mosaic, crafted of lapis and turquoise tesserae to resemble flowing water. This pooled around a dais of pure white stone, atop which stood the golden, satin-cushioned throne of the Kingpriest.

That throne was empty now. While the rest of the court had assembled, Beldinas remained in his private antechamber. All over the Hall, anxious eyes turned toward that chambers door; the Lightbringer always meditated before coming to court, seeking wisdom to govern the empire, but today he was taking longer than usual. This wasn’t a good sign, either.

Nor was the presence in the alcove to the left of the throne. There were many such niches around the Hall, most filled with tables laden with rich food and wine, for refreshment during courtly recesses. This one, however, was different: a pool of shadow hung within, and preternatural cold emanated from the alcovel; those few who dared look directly into the place found themselves shivering as if the winds of Icereach had just clawed up their backs. Within, all but invisible in the gloom, lurked a tall, broad-shouldered shape. The man wore robes of deepest midnight, defying the shimmering silver of the clergy and the bright hues of the nobles. A deep, black hood covered his face, such that only the tip of an iron-gray beard emerged from it. No one in Istar had ever glimpsed the face of Fistandantilus, and for that the courtiers were abundantly glad.

There were many stories about the wizard called the Dark One, and how he had come to be a part of the Lightbringer’s court. The church’s official explanation, attested by Quarath himself, was that Beldinas had called him here to keep an eye on him, following the old Ismindi saying about keeping one’s enemies even closer than one’s friends. In truth, though, Fistandantilus had come voluntarily, bringing with him the means to win the war with the mages. In exchange, he had demanded a place in the Kingpriest’s innermost circle. Quarath had gone to great pains, these past eighteen years, not to make an enemy of him.

In time, a soft chime sounded, the dome echoing its ring. The courtiers straightened, folding their hands respectfully as the antechamber door snicked open for the Kingpriest.

Scores beheld Beldinas Lightbringer each day, but no one truly saw him, not any more. His holy power, already strong when he first took the throne, had grown immensely over the passing years. As it had, so did the aura of silver light that surrounded him. Once, it had been a mere shimmer that appeared whenever he invoked Paladine’s power. Now, however, it was a constant glow, one not even elven eyes could claim to fully penetrate. Those who looked upon him saw the Kingpriest through their own memories of how he had appeared in his youth: thin and austere, with long, flowing locks and eyes as blue and dangerous as glaciers. As one, the men and women who filled the Hall of Audience lowered their eyes before his heartbreaking beauty.

The whisper of Beldinas’s slippers was the only sound as he crossed to the dais. He climbed the steps slowly, then paused atop the dais and turned to face the assemblage. Within the dazzling light, ringed hands rose to form the sacred triangle, a simple benediction without words. “Sa Pilofiro, gasiras cilmo,” declared Quarath, bowing. The rest of the courtiers echoed the words, the dome above turning a hundred voices into one. Hail Lightbringer, lord of emperors.

Beldinas nodded. “Sa, usas farnas,” he intoned. Hail, children of the god. “It is good to see you here this day-all of you.”

He glanced toward Fistandantilus’s alcove. Within the shadows, which even his shining aura could not penetrate, the hooded head inclined. Satisfied, Beldinas looked back out at the court as he lowered himself onto his throne.

“You are nervous,” he said. “You have reason to be. This is a strange day, and heavy with history. But do not fear. I have seen the Weeping Lady’s purpose, and it is a good one-one that might heal wounds even I am unable to cure.”

The priests and nobles glanced at one another, confused. There was no malady the Lightbringer could not ease-no sickness or injury his touch wouldn’t lift. He had even defeated death once, in the first days of his reign. Before anyone could do more than puzzle at his meaning, however, a deep bell sounded from the gilded doors at the Hall’s far end.

Eyes throughout the room turned toward the sound, and the courtiers craned and jostled to see. The Kingpriest raised his hand, signaling to the knights who stood guard. Tapping the shafts of their halberds on the