“More so, I think,” Tithian replied. “He isn’t playing both sides of the game, for one thing.”
The cloaked figure stayed very still for a long moment, then held out a scroll case made of carved ivory. “At the Vaults,” he said.
Tithian took the scroll, waving the man away. With a creak of leather, the gray figure climbed back onto his horse, wheeled it about, and left again, out through the gates. As he did, Tithian opened the case and slid out the scroll within—vellum, sealed with the crimson wax of the First Son. He bowed his head.
The man had first come to him in Chidell, the morning after Cathan’s strange disappearance. He’d told him everything: about the secret roads beneath Istar’s cities, the insurgents hidden away, Lord Revando’s involvement, and Lady Wentha’s surprising participation. The conspirators had been planning to depose Beldinas for weeks now, but Tithian had been slow to discover all he needed to know. He read the scroll, noting all the names, the vast network of support. His mind started to turn, planning out how he must counter this treachery.
Cathan, he thought, you of all people.
When he finished reading, he crumpled the message, walked to the nearest torch, and set it ablaze. As he watched it burn, he sensed Bron coming up on him. He glanced toward the younger knight.
“My lord,” Bron said. “What was that about?”
Cathan let go of the burning parchment. The last of it turned black, falling to the ground like a dead bird. He stared at it, then pivoted on one heel and started toward the knights’ barracks.
“You’ll see, Bron,” he said more harshly than he intended. “Soon enough, you’ll see.”
Chapter 18
The MarSevrins supped together in the courtyard of Wentha’s manor, the night before the Kingpriest was due to leave for the Vaults. The food was sumptuous—shrimp and squid and rice spiced with saffron in the Pesaran style—but they ate little and barely tasted what they did. The servants smiled when they cleared away the leavings, for the leftovers were more than enough to make a good evening meal for themselves. Wentha dismissed them after they brought wine and water. The four conspirators sat quietly, staring into their goblets.
“You know,” said Rath, “this could well be the last time we ever sit together, all of us.”
“Rath!” Wentha exclaimed reprovingly.
“You shouldn’t speak that way,” Tancred insisted. “We’ve planned this out well. Idar’s sent his best men to help us. Nothing will go wrong.”
Cathan chuckled, grimly. “Those are cursed words. Men have spoken them all through history, and history is filled with failure.” He sighed. “Something always goes wrong, Tancred. We must hope it’s nothing big.”
Tancred looked about to argue, but instead glanced up at the stars shining down on the Lordcity. Cathan followed his gaze, picking out Ariddo the Valiant Warrior, Fino the Great Book, Croino the Vulture, Carno the Horned One… constellations patterned after the gods’ signs.
“I do wish you weren’t all going,” Wentha said. “I know Cathan has to, but—”
“Mother, we’ve been over this before,” said Tancred. “Even Idar’s best men aren’t completely trustworthy. Gods, Idar himself might put a dagger in the Kingpriest, first chance he gets. Rath and I need to be with them, if for no other reason than to keep them in line.”
Wentha bowed her head, sighing. “I understand that, Tancred. But I still don’t like the risk.”
Tancred shook his head, looking to Cathan, who leaned close. “She’s sending her sons and her brother off into danger,” Cathan whispered. “She’s allowed to worry.”
There was another silence, none of them wanting to speak, nor wishing to leave the table. Finally, Rath drained his goblet and set it down with a loud clack.
“We should go over the plan again,” he said. “Just to make sure.”
They’d done nothing but discuss the plan, it seemed to Cathan, in the day and a half since the Games. They knew what had to happen and when. There was precious little reason to discuss it again. But Rath was earnest, and Tancred willing, so Cathan let it go and finished his own wine with one long swallow.
“Beldinas and I are traveling to the Vaults, with an armed escort,” he said tonelessly. “Twenty Scatas and knights, according to Revando. Only he and I will enter the Vaults, and then we will do whatever we must to get the Peripas. Once we have the Disks, we’ll come out again, and you’ll be waiting ”
“We’ll already be there when the entourage arrives,” Tancred continued. “Idar and forty of his best men, as well as Rath and me. The land around the Vault is heavily wooded, and well also have these to help us stay out of sight.”
He held up his hand, displaying a silver ring set with a piece of petrified wood in place of a gemstone. At the same time Rath fingered a similar earring, dangling from his left ear. Revando had provided such magical items for everyone in Idar’s party, claiming they had the power to make men appear as trees.
Cathan reached to the malachite at his throat. “How is it you have so much magic at your disposal?” he’d asked the First Son, down in the tunnels.
“Ah,” Revando had replied, smiling. “Do you truly think the wizards simply went to hide in Wayreth, after the war? The Orders of High Sorcery have been very useful allies … they want the Lightbringer off the throne as much as we do.”
Rath spoke up, bringing Cathan back to the present. “When you and His Holiness go down into the Vault, well take care of the Scatas and such. Outnumbered, with surprise on our side, we shouldn’t have much trouble.”
Cathan bit his lip, knowing that Rath understated the risks. The regular soldiers might be easy targets, but the Divine Hammer was another matter. Even if standards in the knighthood had slipped, they would still put up a devilish fight. He offered a silent prayer for forgiveness for the good men who might die. But the burning hammer was still bright in his dreams, a warning that he had to act.
“We’ll hide any bodies,” Rath went on. “And be waiting disguised as trees when you come out. And that’s when you should make your move.”
Cathan said nothing. Tancred and Rath glanced at each other. Wentha leaned forward.
“Brother?” she asked.
This was the hardest part. “Beldinas will suspect something’s amiss—he has an instinct for danger,” Cathan said. “But he’ll be confused. He’ll turn to me. And I’ll hit him with this.”
From his belt, he produced a tiny needlelike object with a bladder of rubber on one end. It was a device used by Seldjuki assassins of old, called Lonfas Dudo, the Serpent’s Tooth. The bladder could hold a liquid, such as poison. One good jab, a squeeze, and the needle would inject the liquid into a victim. “It will be filled with bloodblossom oil,” Cathan said. “The Lightbringer’ll be out cold in a few seconds.” And he’ll know who betrayed him. The rest of his life, he’ll know it was me. That knowledge twisted in his gut like a spear.
“We’ll be waiting to help, in case something goes wrong,” Rath continued, meaning in case you can’t do your job. “Once he’s drugged, we grab him, hide him in a nearby cart, and make for the closest tunnels at Calah. Once we have him in a safe place, the danger will be over.”
“If no one knows about the tunnels,” Cathan noted.
Tancred and Rath laughed. “Uncle,” Tancred said, “stop fretting, will you?”
Cathan nodded. Still, a voice kept whispering to him. It’s too easy. You’re missing something. He stroked his beard, thinking back over the plan.
Across the city, the bells of the Great Temple chimed the Midwatch toll. They looked at one another in surprise. “That late already?” Wentha wondered aloud.
Rath rose, consulting a water clock in the corner of the courtyard. “So it seems. We’ve tarried here long enough. It’s time Tancred and I were going—Idar will be waiting.”
They all got to their feet. Tears shone in Wentha’s eyes as her sons—clad in plain Istaran garb—each clasped hands with Cathan.
“S
oido ti, Aumo,” the brothers told him. Luck to you. Uncle.
Their farewells with their mother were wordless. As each embraced Wentha in turn, their faces betrayed their fears. There was a chance one—or both of them—would not return. Wentha kissed her sons on the brow, then turned her back, waiting until they were gone before slumping against the table and start to cry.
Cathan caught his sister and held her as she sobbed into his arms. “It’ll be all right, Blossom,” he reassured her, smoothing her silver hair as he’d done when they were children. “You’ll see. We’ve made it through this much.”
She nodded, but when she looked up, her eyes red and swollen, he saw that she didn’t expect to see him again either. It made him tremble, suddenly.
They held each other for a while, then she raised her head and kissed him on the lips. “I must go to bed,” she said. “Farewell, Cathan. I won’t see you off.”
That hurt him, but his emotions were now in check. “Farewell, Blossom,” he said, touching her cheek.
Then she was gone, a billow of gray slipping into the shadows of her manor. Cathan poured himself another cup of wine—and drank it down unwatered.
“That was a touching scene.”
He nearly laughed at the sound of the voice, so frigid a voice cutting through the warm spring air. He felt the chill, heard the water dock make a tormented sound as its contents turned abruptly to ice. Turning, he watched as several of Wentha’s prize flowers withered and died. A shape stirred in the shadows.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Cathan said. “You must be very pleased with all this.”
Fistandantilus didn’t budge. “Not at all,” he stated. “In fact, I’ve come to ask you not to go through with it.”
“What?” Cathan stared at the wizard. “But we’re trying to stop Beldinas from destroying evil… .”
“And no one lives who is more evil than I,” the Dark One replied, proudly. “But still, the fact remains, the Kingpriest must remain on the throne.”’
Cathan frowned, puzzled. Then understanding dawned. “It’s because he made you part of his court, isn’t it? And Revando won’t keep you around.”
“No, no, Revando will take no action against me. What choice does he have? I’m too powerful to banish. But I need the Kingpriest around, just a little while longer.”
“Why?”
Fistandantilus paused, considering, then stepped forward. “Very well—I will show you.”
He moved too quickly for a man so old and withered. He moved too quickly for any kind of man. Swift as a scorpion’s tail, his hand lashed out, touched Cathan’s forehead. He spoke a spidery word. The world flashed away.
They were elsewhere now, a place Cathan thought oddly familiar, though he knew he had never been there before. It was a massive chamber, vast and dark, appointed with all sorts of magical accouterments. Beakers of viscous fluids smoldered on workbenches. Crystals and skulls lay scattered on stone tables. Shelves upon shelves of night-blue spellbooks lined the walls, their magic strong enough to make the air around them writhe and throb like a living thing. Cathan’s eyes slid past all of it, however, the moment he saw what stood at the room’s far end.
It was a door made of steel, large enough that an ogre could have walked through without having to stoop his head. It stood on a dais of black marble, shimmering with light. Around it twisted a framework of gold, formed into the shape of five leering dragon heads. They were the faces of the Enemy, Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness. Cathan averted his eyes, signing the triangle.
Fistandantilus chuckled. “Your god will not protect you here, Twice-Born. Only the powers of darkness hold sway in this place now. Look upon the Portal.”
Cathan didn’t want to look, but his gaze rose anyway. The dragons’ eyes were glowing, each a different color, the five hues of evil wyrms that had once darkened Krynn’s skies: white and black, red and blue, venomous green. They seemed to be staring at him, each as malevolent as the Dark One himself.
“The Orders of High Sorcery built this Portal, long ago,” Fistandantilus said. They had hoped to forge a way to commune with one another—a permanent gateway through which they could speak and travel. They failed, and instead the result was a door leading to the Abyss.
“Many great wizards died before they were able to shut it again. Try as they might, however, they could not destroy it as they hoped, so they laid a geas on it instead, hoping it would make the Portal impossible to open. Only the blackest wizard could work its magic, they declared… but even then, he would need help—a cleric of true goodness. Such an alliance, they believed, would never happen.
“Many years ago, I decided to test that belief. Since that day, I have dedicated my life to this goal. First, I corrupted Kurnos to usurp the throne and give himself over to darkness, paving the way for Beldinas’s rise. Then I tricked the church into going to war with the Orders of High Sorcery, so my brethren would be forced into hiding—and leave this place, the Tower of Palanthas, free for my experimentation …for years I have had the freedom to come and go in the Temple, as part of the court.
“Now the time has come to enter the Abyss, and Beldinas Lightbringer will be at my side. Together… together, we will face Takhisis herself, and I will lay her low and take her place!”
Cathan stared at the dark-robed, hooded sorcerer. “And you expect me to help you in this? I’m not Kurnos, Dark One—I’m no puppet to prance for your pleasure.”
The black-robed shoulders shook. “I know, Twice-Born. You are god-touched, and your own man. But I don’t have to compel you, Cathan MarSevrin. You will fail, in the end.”
… and suddenly the Portal was gone, and the vast chamber with it Cathan found himself back in the manor, huddled and shuddering against the table. The Dark One still stood beside him, croaking with laughter.
“Very good, my brave friend,” rasped the wizard. “Now we are done, you and I. Farewell… and forget.”
A wave of darkness crashed down on Cathan, smothering him. When it lifted, Fistandantilus was gone. Cathan reached for the memory of what he’d just seen, what the wizard had told him, and felt it slipping away, like a dream upon waking. The harder he tried to hold on, the faster it receded, vanishing until it was gone from his mind. All he could recall was the wizard telling him not to go through with his plans. Why? Not knowing only strengthened his resolve.
Nodding to himself, Cathan walked away, into the manor and his waiting bed, where he dreamt of the burning hammer.
*****
The Kingpriest’s entourage gathered at the western edge of the city the next morning, cloaked in rain and mist. The city’s gates, topped with statues of lapis and sard and chalcedony—each an image of the Lightbringer, replacing the heroes and clerics who had stood there before—towered over them. The crowds had gathered early, chanting Pilofiro and swaying on their knees. As Revando had promised, the Kingpriest’s armed escort numbered twenty: eight knights and a dozen Scatas, each armed with crossbow, spear, and sword. There was not a horse among them: this was a sacred pilgrimage, and they would make the journey on foot. Looking the party over, Cathan thought of his nephews, already well on their way, and prayed to Paladine for their safety.
Wentha was missing. If they failed, she would be in danger too. And that, more than anything, bolstered Cathan’s determination to go through with it and succeed.
To his surprise, Tithian wasn’t there. He’d hoped his old squire would see him off, but instead he sent a proxy, a lieutenant whose name Cathan heard and immediately forgot. The Grand Marshal had pressing business to see to, the lieutenant explained; Tithian sent his apologies. Cathan wondered what could be more pressing than this occasion but he had led the knighthood himself, and knew there were endless crises and tasks.
The Kingpriest’s inner circle were at the gates as well: Lady Elsa, whom Cathan did not know; Quarath, who watched with aloof eyes, clearly happy to be left running the empire in the Kingpriest’s absence. And Revando … Cathan tried
not to stare at the First Son, but their eyes did meet briefly, and the urgency in the high priest’s gaze drove through him like an arrow. The man’s life had been leading up to this moment. Cathan winced and glanced away as if stung.
“My friend,” said Beldinas, noticing his odd reaction, “are you all right?”
Cathan felt his cheeks color. “I’m fine,” he lied, “it’s just strange, riding out again with you, after all this time.”
For the last time.
The Kingpriest smiled. It showed through his aura, and the beauty of it made Cathan want to weep. After today, one way or another, he knew he would never know that smile again. Reaching out, Beldinas laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re with me, Cathan,” he said.
Tears started in Cathan’s eyes. Angrily, he blinked them away. “Thank you, Beldyn,” he murmured.
Beldinas chuckled to hear his old name, the one he’d worn before he donned the Miceram. Only the oldest of his friends even knew it, and few spoke it ever. He beckoned toward the gates. “Shall we go?”
Cathan nodded. Together, friends of old, they turned and strode out of Istar the Beautiful.
Chapter 19
It was a three-day journey from Istar to the Vaults, and it rained the whole way. The knights and Scatas rode silently, or chanted hymns muted by the drumming of the rain on their armor. Their cloaks and the plumes of their helms drooped and darkened. The sky hung heavy; everything seemed the color of lead. Every slow mile they walked, Cathan gave thanks to whatever long-dead Kingpriest had commanded the paving of Istar’s roads: growing up in the borderlands, he’d seen trails washed out or turned to sucking mires by this sort of weather. It would have been the Abyss to make the journey on such roads.
Beldinas was as hard to read as ever. He hardly spoke, only stared ahead, as if he could see past the distance and the gloom to where the Disks lay waiting for him. The rain didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. As he dripped and shivered, Cathan wondered if the weather penetrated the Kingpriest’s aura at all. He imagined he could see drops turning to vapor as they struck him, little wisps of steam that vanished in an instant.
Sacred Fire Page 17