Sacred Fire

buildings in other places. It wasn’t even in the vulgar tongue. Pilofiro, it said, and Beldinas Babo Sod. A few triangles and crude falcons and hammers accompanied the words.

“Worshipers of the gray gods once dwelt here,” the fat monk explained. “The church drove them out… the ones that were lucky, anyway. They say this place is cursed now, so hardly anyone comes to this part of the city any more. Ah, here we are.”

He stopped so abruptly Cathan nearly piled into him. Brother Jendle pointed to a low, square building with pointed turrets and a curving flight of steps leading to its entrance. The pillars had raptor’s claws for capitals, and above the door, etched into the marble, was a relief that had been mostly chipped away. It had been a griffin, rampant and roaring; Cathan could still pick out a wing, the tip of a beak, and a leonine foot

“Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed.

“Yes?” asked Brother Jendle.

“This is a temple of Shinare.”

“Was,” replied the monk. Now it’s a wreck. The pious saw to that some time ago.”

Shinare, the patron of commerce and industry, belonged to neither the light nor the darkness. The Kingpriest had declared Shinare’s followers Foripon thirty years ago, claiming they were greedy and hoarded wealth that should have gone to the needy, or to Istar. At the time, Cathan had believed Beldinas wholeheartedly, and had even helped clear out a few Shinarite sects as one of the Hammer. Now … what did he feel? Sorrow? Shame? Regret? No, all he felt was anger-at the Kingpriest, at the church, and at himself for letting this happen.

“Come on,” said Jendle, puffing as he climbed the steps. “We’ll be safe there.”

Cathan blinked. “Wait. Can you go in?”

The monk stopped, glancing over his shoulder with wide eyes. “Why not? It’s not like this place ever belonged to Takhisis, you know. Shinare and I have always been on good terms, despite what your Kingpriest insists. Although,” he added in a loud whisper, “I’m certain Shinare cheats at dice.”

In he went Cathan shook his head, which was beginning to throb a little. Within, the temple was cool and dark, lit only by shafts of twilight that stabbed through its windows. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but the place was empty… unnaturally so, even for a ruin. The altar and pews had been removed, leaving only a few chunks of stone behind. There were no fonts, no scraps of tapestries, not even sconces left on the walls. Someone had painstakingly chipped away every last tile from the mosaics that had once covered the ceiling. The Revered Sons were thorough at cleansing the churches of forbidden gods. Cathan had seen their handiwork many times, and looking upon the result now made him wince.

“Not pretty, is it?” Jendle asked. “Nearly every Shinarite house is like this now, from Seldjuk to Ergoth. The same for temples of Gilean, Sirrion the Flowing Flame… even Reorx of the dwarves. The gods aren’t pleased about that, I can tell you.”

Cathan suddenly felt other presences in the room-a weeping woman in blue, a horned warrior with swords in six hands, and others. The gods of light had assembled here, at Jendle’s call-even Solinari of the White Robe mages. The gods didn’t speak, and they faded quickly from his sight, but they remained here just the same. And there were darker presences, too-gray and black shadows.

“This is why we must do what we’re going to do,” Jendle finished, waving a pale, pudgy hand. “The Balance isn’t just in danger. It’s collapsing.”

“And so you have decided to smash Istar…?” Cathan said. He was appalled to hear the tone of accusation that had crept into his voice.

“Huh! Decided?” the monk replied. He drew himself up, suddenly furious. “Do you honestly believe I would choose to kill so many? I do not want this, any more than you wanted to kill your squire, Twice-Born. But I do it for the same reason Lord Tithian lies dead today-it must happen.

“Everyone who believes the Kingpriest can destroy evil gives him the power to do so.”

“Surely there must be another way,” Cathan said, shaking his head.

Jendle shrugged. “We try to warn the people even now, all across Krynn. That is why Abanasinia’s grasslands burn, why brother turns against brother in Solamnia, why the northern ports run red with blood-water. We have sent the folk of Krynn many, many signs … but those who should heed them do not understand. Did you, when you first saw the fiery hammer fall on the Temple?”

Cathan bowed his head, saying nothing. For most of his life, he’d believed the vision was only a dream. He sagged against a column.

Jendle laid a remarkably strong hand on his shoulder. “The people are blind, and they refuse to see. Believe me, I will weep when I do what I must. I take no joy in any of this, Lightbringer.”

Cathan felt as if a thunderbolt had struck him in the forehead. He stiffened, looking up at the monk in astonishment, “What did you call me?”

“Lightbringer,” repeated Jendle, smiling slightly. He waved his hand. “Yes, yes. Astounding, incredible, and so on. Certainly not what Lady Ilista expected, when she read the prophecy. She too was quite surprised when she found out the truth. You see, she went to seek a new Kingpriest … and to find the Lightbringer foretold by prophecy. She found Brother Beldyn, and thought he was the Lightbringer, and everyone believed that was true, naturally. But the prophecy wasn’t about him, Twice-Born. It was about you.”

The monk gestured, and words appeared on the dusty floor, burning white as they etched themselves into the stone:

From the west, the setting of suns,

In troubled times, with Istar endangered,

Carrying lost riches he comes,

Lightbringer, bearer of hope.

And though the darkness shall fear him,

Hunt him, seek his destruction,

He is the savior of holiness,

And the gods themselves shall bow to him.

“There,” Jendle said, as Cathan stared in shock. “Just as I revealed to poor, addled Psandros the Younger. Ilista read it, and thought it was about Beldyn. So did he, more’s the pity, but who can blame either of them? It fit. He brought the Miceram to the Lordcity, after all, and defeated the false Kingpriest.

“But in truth, you also came from the west, when you rode out of the borderlands. And now you bear the Peripas, lost riches indeed. Not to mention the wizard’s spellbook.” He winked. “Yes, I knew about that. Don’t worry about Fistandantilus, Twice-Born. We have plans for him. “And as for god bowing…”

The fat monk lowered himself to his knees, chins bulging as he bowed his head.

“Pilofiro,” he intoned.

Cathan’s hand reached for the Disks within his pouch. He could feel the other presences prostrating-Mishakal and Jolith and all the rest. This wasn’t right-Beldinas was the Lightbringer. He was just Cathan MarSeverin. The Twice-Born.

Jendle looked up. “Ah, but you’re more,” he said. With much grunting and sweating, he heaved his bulk upright “Why would I restore your life, Cathan, when you died untimely? You have a divine purpose, and it is to be here, in Xak Tsaroth, when the mountain falls. For you are not merely the Twice-Born…”

There was a shimmering, and a flash of silver light Cathan averted his eyes, gasping. The smell of honey and roses filled the air.

“You are the Lightbringer, and the light is my word.”

The voice had changed, grown deeper, with an edge like a sword. When Cathan looked up, he felt no surprise at all to see that Brother Jendle was gone.

In his place was a dragon.

An enormous, serpentine shape coiled around itself again and again. Its scales gleamed like silver … no, platinum … its eyes were glistening amber, full of wisdom and regret. Its teeth and talons were twice as long as