Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  He sidled his horse over to his sister, wary that Tithian didn’t follow. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Them,” she said, nodding at the masses, close enough now that they could see the rapturous smiles on their faces. “They have no minds of their own, not any more. Their love for Beldinas has blinded them. He could tell them to stab themselves in the heart, and by sunfall there wouldn’t be a one of them left alive.”

  Cathan grunted, surprised by how closely her thoughts matched his. “But not you,” he said, and saw her nod. “Is that why Rath refused the healing?”

  “Yes,” she said. “People have grown addicted to the Kingpriest’s power, like the men of Karthay do to their dream-pipes. But it can be dangerous to reject it. I’ve seen men dragged away for less. Rath was foolish to act as he did.”

  She said the last just loud enough for her sons to hear. They exchanged pained glances, shaking their heads. “No harm came of it, Mother,” said Tancred.

  “How can you be sure?” Wentha shot back. “Your brother called attention to himself, behaving like a heretic. It is the last thing we need now, when we’re so close to—”

  She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening as she looked at Cathan. He looked back, his brow furrowing. A blare of noise from his other side startled him: Tithian, winding a silver horn, announcing the coming of the Kingpriest. The crowds chorused raucously in return, pennants dancing above them.

  Then they closed in, surrounding them on all sides, a sea of noise and color and love. Cathan looked once more at Wentha, who flushed and turned away. He watched her a while longer, wondering, then rode on.

  *****

  There was, of course, a feast. No matter where the Lightbringer’s processional stopped for an evening, from the grandest city to the simplest country farm-villa, there was always a feast of prayer and celebration.

  Here in Chidell, the fare was wild boar, roasted and served with a sauce of gray-ghost mushrooms and Ismindi ale. The lord of the city, a talkative but dull—and immensely fat—merchant-prince named Dejal, spoke at great length about the Kingpriest’s magnificence, benevolence, and generosity … much the same speech every lord gave, it seemed to Cathan, judging by their experiences on the journey so far. Several men and women in need of healing were brought forward, and Beldinas laid hands on them all: a lost arm regrew before the assembly’s eyes; a huge blue-black growth on an old man’s face shriveled and dropped off, revealing healthy pink skin beneath; a baby born deaf heard noises for the first time and began to shriek from the terror of it—provoking laughter from all around the feast-hall, which only made the shrieking worse.

  After the meal—seven courses in all, from a fiery broth called Nine Pepper Stew to a sherbet made from blood oranges and ice stored in caves beneath the city—the party withdrew to an open-air parlor strewn with cushions and tables, where jugs of wine and water sat. Ribbons of silk—dyed flame-red and lemon-yellow—hung from the ceiling, rustling in a breeze manufactured by shaven-headed girls waving fronds. Lord Dejal made another speech, to which only a few people paid any attention, then raised his jeweled goblet in a toast to the Lightbringer.

  “Sas riso lob udud,” Lord Dejal proclaimed, “e sas bisto nomas ofurbat op scafam.”

  Let his reign be long, and his wisdom shield us from shadow.

  Cups rose all over the hall, pointing toward the bright-glowing figure of Beldinas. The Kingpriest raised his own—filled with water, tasted first by one of Dejal’s daughters to assure it wasn’t poisoned—and spoke his reply: “My thanks, Your Honor. But shielding the world from shadow is not enough. Even if my reign is as long as you desire, I will not live forever. And the day I die, the darkness will seek to creep back into the empire. For this reason, I must do more than shield against it. Usas farnas, the greatest of my warriors has now been returned to me—” he gestured toward Cathan, as the Chidelli stared and whispered to one another “—after many long years of exile. It is a sign from the gods themselves: the time has come for the final struggle against evil. Our victory is at hand. Before another year has passed, I shall drive darkness from the face of Krynn forever!”

  The assembly responded with applause, and a few chanted the name of Pilofiro. It was only a polite response, however, not an enthusiastic one, for the Chidelli’s eyes had already turned toward a sweep of broad, marble steps that curved down from the floors above. Music was playing from that direction—shawms and long-neck lutes and hand-drums, making a serpentine melody. Lithe figures were coming down the steps: the wind-dancers, a troupe of acrobatic, veil-clad women with chimes on their fingers, wrists, waists, and ankles.

  They stepped lightly down the stairs, to the shouting approval of the Chidelli. Cathan had to chuckle at the inappropriateness of the seductive dance, given the nature of Lord Dejal’s guests; the clergy and the knighthood were chaste, which meant the only man of the entourage who could truly appreciate the display was Rath … who wasn’t even watching. He sat with his brother and mother, speaking in whispered voices, glancing now and then at Lord Tithian or Beldinas.

  Brow furrowing, Cathan rose and started toward his family, but Tithian caught his arm. “We should talk,” he said, nodding toward an alcove away from the charming, leaping dancers.

  Cathan nodded and followed his former squire to the recess. There was more wine there, and Tithian took a moment to mix it with water, then poured goblets for Cathan and himself. He drank half of his in one swallow.

  “We’re almost home,” he said, wiping his lips. “Tomorrow night we’ll stop at Odacera—another feast—and the next morning we sail to the Lordcity.”

  “I know,” Cathan said, sipping his own wine. He clapped the Grand Marshal on the arm. “My memory’s just fine, you know. I’ve come this way many times before, and recall the land and the people.”

  Tithian chuckled half-heartedly. “That wasn’t my point,” he said. He hesitated a moment longer, then threw back the rest of his wine. “I have an offer to make to you.”

  At once, Cathan understood. “No,” he said. “You don’t need to, Tithian.”

  “Yes, I do.” Tithian shifted, looking down at his feet. “You were Grand Marshal before me, before Olin. You lost your place unjustly … His Holiness would be the first to say so. Your old position awaits you. Lead the knighthood, Cathan.”

  For a moment, all Cathan could think to say was yes. Beldinas needed him again. With him as Grand Marshal, the knights would surely be renewed and energized. But at last he shook his head, resting a hand on Tithian’s shoulder. A look of deep disappointment spread over the Marshal’s face, and he opened his mouth to speak his arguments, but Cathan cut him off.

  “I left the Divine Hammer long ago, lad,” Cathan explained. “I am no longer one of you. Besides, you’ve been leading the order for years. I was only Grand Marshal for a few weeks, before we marched to Losarcum. Thank you, Tithian … but the knighthood doesn’t need an old relic dug up from a tomb.”

  “You aren’t that ” Tithian protested. “Never that.”

  “The Lord Cathan you once knew is dead,” Cathan said. “But don’t fear … any time you want a lesson in swordplay, I’ll gladly cross blades with you.”

  A laugh burst from Tithian’s lips. “We’ll see just who learns the lesson, old man.”

  They talked together a while longer, swapping stories of old—and some new ones—before heading back into the hall. The dancers were finishing their act, spinning and undulating to the delight of Lord Dejal and his people. There was applause when they were done, from the Kingpriest and his followers as well as the Chidelli.

  Cathan clapped too, though he’d missed most of the performance, then turned as the second round of entertainers—fire-eaters and knife-jugglers—materialized. His eyes went to his sister and Tancred and Rath … then he stopped, frowning. Wentha and her sons were no longer there.

  He glanced around the room, past gouts of flame and blades dancing through the air—the performers were enacting a fanciful version of
a battle between the Hammer and the High Sorcerers—but there was no sign of his kin.

  Then he saw a curtain swaying close to the corner. Someone had passed through, just moments before. With a quick look toward Beldinas—who was watching the show, unreadable within his cocoon of light—he crossed to the curtain and stepped out of the parlor, into the cool mid-winter night.

  *****

  Fog had settled over the hills, blanketing the city. Cathan’s hand reached reflexively for Ebonbane, finding nothing. He swallowed a curse: the blade was still resting on the floor by his seat. He stepped away from Lord Dejal’s hall, and its seven-tiered walls faded into the misty whiteness behind him. Other large, dark ziggurats loomed before him and, to his right, older ruins—lone columns and jagged buttresses—appeared out of the gloom. The old city was all but deserted on most nights, and completely so tonight; anyone influential enough to dwell in the ancient part of Chidell was in the festival hall.

  Cathan saw the swinging lanterns of the town watch, and hunkered down behind a shard of fallen masonry until they passed. It was easier than answering questions about why he was out here when it was wearing on midnight.

  Now he remembered, from his pre-exile days, that Chidell was notorious for its impenetrable mists. He would have to be careful not to get lost. As long as he didn’t step outside the Vanished Wall, into the neighborhoods of virtually identical streets and white buildings, he’d be fine. He walked on, the clack of his boots against the cobbles sounding unnaturally loud in the mist. What could Wentha be doing out here with her sons?

  He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Ahead, just barely visible, was a familiar, stately, womanly shape. He recognized his sister when he saw her. He opened his mouth to call out to Wentha, then momentarily stopped when he spotted two other shapes creeping toward her from his left; they were cloaked and hooded, and he saw something at one man’s hip that was unmistakably the hilt of a sword. The other had some kind of mace or cudgel in his hand.

  Cathan’s blood turned to ice: He wished that he’d remembered Ebonbane. He searched around, looking for some hunk of crumbled stone he might throw, but everything was either gravel or huge chunks. He could take one of the pair down by surprise, but the other would almost certainly get past him.

  “Get down!” Cathan bellowed, running at Wentha. She started to turn toward him, but he barreled into her, knocking her away from the two men. She sprawled backward on the ground, the air leaving her with a whoosh.

  The two men stopped, startled. They were both beardless, and wore white masks over the upper halves of their faces. Young, by their looks, but that was all Cathan could tell. One drew his blade—a short stabbing weapon, just a bit too long to be called a dagger—and they came at him.

  He saw the sword’s tip coming and leaped away from the blow, directly at the man with the cudgel. He felt the club glance off his left shoulder—but that didn’t stop him from ramming the man in the stomach. At the same time, he got a hand around the man’s wrist and twisted, feeling the crunch of bones as they went down in a heap together.

  The cudgel came out of the man’s suddenly limp hand, and Cathan grabbed it up without a moment’s pause, twisted halfway to his feet, and brought the weapon around to parry another stab. He spun and blocked another blow before swinging back, feinting, then diverting his blow and slamming the club into the man’s cheek. The sword clattered down. The man dropped to his knees and swayed a moment before sprawling face-down on the ground.

  The other one was getting up again, the mouth below the mask drawn back in a snarl, a bit of blood on the lip. Cathan kicked him in the jaw, snapping his head back and dropping him like a sack of grain. This time he didn’t get up.

  Wentha was groaning, struggling to rise. He’d hit her harder than he’d meant to. “Hang on” he said to her, reaching for the dropped sword. “I’ll be with you in—”

  There was a ping, and the blade leaped into the air, spinning out of his grasp. A crossbow bolt clattered away across the pavement. He blinked, then whirled, cudgel at the ready… and stopped, his eyes widening when he saw half a dozen more masked men, all of them aiming crossbows at him.

  “Please drop that, Uncle,” said a voice to his right.

  He turned, his jaw dropping open. It was Tancred who had spoken. He wore a gray cloak over his priestly vestments. Bare-chested Rath was with him. They both wore the same white masks. Cathan’s thoughts bounced around wildly as he regarded the brothers. His mouth tried to make words.

  “Why—what are—this—”

  “Do as they say,” Wentha said. “They’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

  He looked back at his sister, and the cudgel fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. She stared back, her mouth a cold, hard line. As she stood up, he saw that above her mouth, tied tight about her head, was another white mask.

  Wentha nodded to the crossbowmen, and one of them lowered his weapon, ran forward, and kicked the club away. Cathan barely noticed. He could only look at his sister as she stepped forward, a ghost in the mist

  “You always were trouble,” she said. “You shouldn’t have followed me, Cathan.”

  Chapter 8

  Cathan could only stare at his sister and the mask she wore. He felt like the world had dropped away beneath him, leaving him hanging above a yawning chasm.

  “Blossom?” he asked.

  The crossbowmen shifted, glancing at one another, then over at the swordsman Cathan had put down. The man groaned as Rath and Tancred helped him up, then limped forward, cradling his injured hand in the other. The side of his face, where Cathan had clouted him with the cudgel, was a purple mess, and his eye had swollen shut. The other was sharp, however, and glinted as he looked first at Cathan, then at Wentha.

  “You know him?” he growled. His voice was harsh, made mushy by his mashed face.

  “Of course I do,” Wentha replied. “Look at him. Closely.” Scowling, the ruffian turned and did as she asked. A bloodstain at the edge of his mask grew larger. Then he started, his eyes meeting Cathan’s. He swore with great skill. “The Twice-Born! What in the blue Abyss is he doing here?”

  “Rescuing me,” Wentha said, her mouth crooking slightly. She glanced at her sons. “I thought you said no one saw us leave.”

  “I said I didn’t notice anyone,” Tancred replied. “Once we were past the curtains, how was I to know?”

  The ruffian cursed again. “You mean he followed you? Gods damn it, what if he’s not the only one? You could have led half the imperial court to us!”

  “I don’t think—” Rath began.

  “Shut up, boy,” the ruffian snapped, then raised his hand to his men. “Scatter. Back to the hole.”

  Rath stepped forward, his hand straying toward his sword, but stopped as two crossbows swung toward him. He turned a sulky look on the ruffian, saying nothing more.

  “What in Paladine’s name is going on?” Cathan finally managed to ask.

  Wentha opened her mouth to answer, but the ruffian raised a hand. His men were backing away, melting back into the mist. Two took the other one Cathan had knocked out, each with an arm about his shoulders. The lead ruffian shook his head, his long black hair swaying.

  “Questions later,” he said, catching his sword when one of his men lobbed it his way. He gestured with it, at the fog. “Right now, we need to disappear.”

  Wentha took Cathan’s hand. Her dark eyes pleaded with him, through the holes in her mask. “Come on,” she said. “If the Hammer finds us, we’re all dead.”

  What in the gods have you gotten into? Cathan asked, aiming the question at both his sister and himself. But he got no answer—only a wrenching pain as Wentha yanked him toward her, then began to run.

  Mist and shadow flowed past them, and then the towering shapes of the ziggurats. They turned a corner, then another, and soon he had no idea which way he was pointed any more. He lost sight of the others—the ruffians’ injured leader, his nephews, everyone but Wentha, who held his wris
t tightly, her slipper-shod feet making no sound against the cobbles. He clomped along behind in his hard boots, feeling like an ox in a Micahi glassblower’s shop.

  Suddenly there was something in front of them, and he stumbled to a stop just in time to avoid barreling into Wentha. Ahead, half masked by the fog, was the Vanished Wall: ancient, huge stone blocks rising anywhere from waist-high to ten feet, the top crumbling and crusted with mortar. The swordsman was here already, along with Rath and several of the crossbowmen. Tancred and the others hurried up behind, making no sound.

  The leader of the band was studying a statue, set in a recess in the wall. It was headless and armless, clad in segmented armor no man had worn in seven centuries. The plinth at its feet simply proclaimed KELOSTIS, a name Cathan didn’t recognize. There were relics like it all over Chidell, remnants of times forgotten to all but sages. But the ruffian paid the plinth close attention, his good hand resting on one of the statue’s sandaled feet as his men watched behind, crossbows ready.

  ‘“Who—” Cathan began.

  Wentha put a hand over his mouth. “Later.”

  The ruffian studied the statue a moment longer, then reached up, as high as he could, and touched the buckle of the forgotten warrior’s belt. It moved inward, a quarter-inch maybe, with a faint click. Then, with a low rumble, statue and pedestal alike rose up from the ground and swung outward. The ruffians’ leader stepped aside, then leaned forward when it was done.

  There was a hole in the ground where the plinth had stood, wide enough for a man to fit through. Cathan leaned forward, seeing iron rungs, dark with rust, descending into the gloom. Then, suddenly, a grotesque face appeared: hook-nosed and ruddy-cheeked, with a shiny pate and a long, braided beard the color of granite. It wore a white mask, too, and regarded the ruffians’ leader critically, then looked past him.