Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  “Not bad,” the Marshal said tersely. “Another ten, fifteen years of this, and I might make a fighter of you.”

  Sir Bron’s eyes flashed. “Another ten years, milord, and you’ll be too old to lift your sword.”

  The Marshal laughed lustily, though the gibe was off the mark. He was only thirty-five; in ten years he would be a little past his prime, but he’d still be a fierce fighter. Lord Olin, his predecessor, had been nearly seventy when he’d died of heart-burst while sparring in this very yard. With few true enemies left to fight in the world, more of the Divine Hammer’s veterans fell to old age than battle these days.

  “We’ll see, lad,” he said, and shoved Bron back. The two of them parted, circling behind their shields, each seeking some opening, some weakness.

  Sir Bron’s greatest disadvantage, however, was not technique but impatience. The Grand Marshal used it against him, feinting several times but never bringing the fight to a clash. Each time, Bron grew more tense and unsettled, until finally he growled and came on hard, sword spinning in a low backhand cut. Grinning behind his visor, the Marshal caught the swing on the rim of his shield, then slid away, letting momentum carry the young knight past him. Nimble as a Zaladhi fire-dancer, the Marshal wheeled around and slammed his sword home. It hit the back of Bron’s neck with a horrible crash.

  In a plain fight, it would have been a decapitating blow. Fortunately for Bron, though, the two knights were fighting with blunted swords, and his gorget saved him. Even so, there was enough strength behind the strike to leave the younger knight down on his knees, his sword lying in the dust ten feet away. Retching, Sir Bron fought to pull off his helm.

  The Grand Marshal did the same, revealing a fair, youthful face sprayed with freckles. Golden hair, gathered in a long ponytail, spilled out and down his back, and a coppery beard covered his chin, the only aspect of his appearance that made him look older than the sixteen he’d been on his dubbing day. He eyed Sir Bron—now vomiting loudly, his dark hair hanging over his eyes—then turned to look at the young knights and squires ringing the battlefield.

  “There’s today’s lesson, lads,” proclaimed Tithian, Lord of the Divine Hammer, with a wry grin. “Keep your head, or you’re bound to lose it.”

  Laughter rang out across the Hammerhall’s inner bailey, echoing off the labyrinth of yellow walls and battlements, turrets and towers. Half the knighthood was less than twenty-five summers old, and most were untested in battle. Tithian and his lieutenants staged these mock fights regularly to keep the art of arms alive. Now the Grand Marshal straightened his tabard—crimson instead of the other knights’ white, denoting his rank—and wiped a smudge of grime from the burning-hammer sigil emblazoned on his breast. Raising his blade in salute, he walked to Sir Bron’s side and offered his hand to help him up.

  Angrily, Bron waved off the knightly courtesy and got up awkwardly on his own. He was a small, lithe man with a face like a horse’s. His cheeks burned red as he wiped spittle from his lips. “I should have had you,” he grumbled.

  “The last words of many men,” replied Tithian, clapping his shoulder. “You’re a fine strong fighter, but even the best iron needs refining to become steel. Control that temper of yours, or it will cost you.” Giving the barest of nods, Bron sulked off. Tithian sighed—some men just didn’t want to learn—then turned to face the rest of his knights.

  “All right,” he announced, flourishing his blade. “Who’s next?”

  The others looked away: at the ground, at each other, at the golden, flame-wreathed hammer mounted atop the castle’s main keep. None of them were keen to face the Grand Marshal, especially after his thorough trouncing of Bron. Tithian couldn’t blame them—he’d hated sparring with his betters when he was young, too—but neither was he going to let them get away that easily.

  “Come on, lads,” he coaxed. “If one of you doesn’t fight me, we’ll have a melee instead.”

  The young knights groaned. Mass melees always meant plenty of work for the knighthood’s Mishakite healers afterward. They were good training, though; Tithian remembered many such battles from his youth, and no one-on-one duel could prepare anybody for having allies and enemies all around. He fixed his men with a steel-blue glare.

  “Well?”

  Still the others hesitated, and Tithian almost spat out of annoyance. Things hadn’t been this in the old days, the days of now-legendary men like Tavarre of Luciel, and Marto of Falthana, and … and many, many others. But most of those heroes were dead now, casualties of the war against sorcery, and this was what remained—mostly the younger sons of nobles and merchant lords, sent into service so they wouldn’t burden their families. The burning zeal of the Hammer’s early days had faded to a flicker.

  “Very well,” the Grand Marshal said, making no effort to hide his disappointment. “Arm yourselves and form your sides. North and west barracks against south and—now what’s the matter?”

  A commotion had broken out behind the crowd, in the direction of the castle’s main gates. The knights were murmuring and shifting, getting out of someone’s way. Tithian caught flashes of white: a priest from the Temple. His annoyance grew—he’d never had a great deal of use for the holy church, even if he was the head of its military wing. More often than not, a visit from the clergy meant sending his men to fight, and die, in some far-flung region of the empire.

  But then his eyebrows rose as Lady Elsa stepped through the crowd. He tried to remember the last time a First Daughter—or any Revered Daughter—had come to the Hammerhall. He couldn’t think of a single occasion.

  His men bowed, and Tithian signed the triangle. He knelt to no one, save the Kingpriest himself. “Efisa,” he said. “What brings you into these hills?”

  “Lord Tithian,” Elsa replied. “I come at the behest of the Lightbringer.”

  A mutter ran through the knights. Tithian silenced them with a gesture, though he felt his insides clench. Usually, the Kingpriest sent summonses with one of the young acolytes who served as the Temple’s couriers. This was indeed unusual.

  “What does His Holiness wish of me?” he asked.

  Two minutes later, he was on horseback, riding out through the Hammerhall’s barbican beside the First Daughter’s chariot. The melee would have to wait for another time.

  Chapter 2

  No one knew when gray sails had become a sign of ill luck, or even why. It was a superstition older than the empire itself, its origins lost to history. The fact remained, however, that Istarans believed gray sails brought disaster, and not without good reason; the last time a vessel sailed into the Lordcity’s port under such colors, the Kingpriest, Giusecchio the Fat, had perished by an assassin’s blade the very same day. That had been nearly a century and a half ago, and in that time no ship—not even those from the western realms, which held no such beliefs—had raised a gray sail within Istar’s harbor.

  No ship, that is, until today.

  The crowds were thick at the wharves by the time the vessel pulled up to the Lordcity’s marble jetties. They shouted vituperations and forked their fingers at the sailors who jumped over the gunwales to make fast the 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 g
ray 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 floor, they stepped aside and the doors swung soundlessly open. Silence covered the room like a shroud.

  Wentha MarSevrin stood in the entrance, Lord Tithian in his gleaming mail beside her. She swept the court with her gaze, an imperious look for one who had been a poor villager in the empire’s borderlands when the Lightbringer healed her. Now, almost
forty years later, she looked a queen as she stepped into the Hall.

  Three men followed her and Lord Tithian as they crossed the floor. The first two walked on her left: one, darkly handsome and muscular, shirtless in the Lattakayan style; the other, fair-haired and plain, dressed in the robes of a Revered Son of Paladine. The third, walking slightly behind them on the right, wore a scholar’s robes, worn and frayed at the hems. The courtiers paid the others only passing attention; their gazes remained on the Weeping Lady as she stepped onto the mosaic before the dais. Bowing her head, she genuflected toward the throne. None missed that her knee did not quite touch the floor.

  “Lady Wentha, beloved of Paladine,” Beldinas declared, his voice like golden bells. “You are welcome back to my Temple. It has been too long.”

  “Holiness,” she declared without feeling. “Allow me to present my sons, Rath and Tancred.”

  The two young men stepped forward, bowing. “Pilofiro,” they murmured together.

  “Ah, yes,” said Beldinas, signing the triangle to the priest. “I know Tancred well, of course … the Patriarch of Falthana speaks highly of you. And Rath—” his gaze turned to the other, whose chest puffed out proudly “—I remember you too, though you were but seven when we met last. You have grown into a fine man.”

  “Thank you, Aulforo,” said Wentha’s sons.

  Beldinas’s head turned toward the scholar. “But who is your other companion, Efisa? You do not have a third son … ?”

  Wentha shook her head. “He is not of my family, sire. This is Varen, formerly of the university at Tucuri.”

  The scholar shifted uncomfortably as hundreds of eyes, from all over the room, settled on him. “H-Holiness, ” he murmured.

  “I have brought him here because he has a tale to tell,” Wentha continued. “One I think you will find interesting to hear.”