Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  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 swords, and a hundred times as sharp. This was Draco Paladin, as they called him in Ergoth… E’li, in Silvanesti… Thak among the dwarves … the Great Dragon in Solamnia. Paladine.

  The golden gaze bore straight through him, piercing flesh and bone, right into the depths of his soul. Cathan wept, overcome with awe, terror, and inestimable joy.

  “You know what to do,” said the god’s voice in his mind.

  All at once, he did.

  Laughing, crying, he fell senseless to the floor, and slept well. He did not dream of burning hammers.

  *****

  Bron heard the rider approaching well before he came into view. He gestured to his men—a dozen in all, young knights who had never seen true battle before—and they moved into position quickly. Crossbow strings were cocked, helmet visors lowered. His own sword rattled as he loosened it in its scabbard. The Eastwall Mountains were wild, full of dangers. He wasn’t about to take any chances.

  He’d figured out, early on, that Cathan was bound for Kharolis, not Solamnia or Ergoth. The Lightbringer was well known, and would be spotted easily in civilized lands. In this rougher country, he might pass without notice. Bron and his force had arrived a little over a week ago, making camp in the mountains. From here, he’d dispatched messengers to the nearby cities—the Plainsmen were eager to please, if given gold—and telling them whom to look for.

  The clatter of hooves drew steadily nearer. He held up a hand, and the crossbowmen tensed, sighting down their quarrels. Holding his breath, he waited… waited…

  When the rider rounded the last bend, Bron’s hand started to jerk downward… then stopped, and stayed up as the man reined in. He was young, rangy and tan, wearing the feathers of the Qué-kiri, one of the Abanasinian tribes. Panic whitened his face as he saw the crossbows aimed at him.

  “Weapons up! He’s one of ours!” Bron commanded.

  The knights lifted their sights away from the Plainsman. He let out a sigh of relief, but stayed where he was, eyeing the Hammer warily.

  “Come here, lad,” Bron beckoned.

  It took some coaxing, but the young barbarian finally got down off his horse. His hands shook as he bowed, offering Bron a jade scroll-tube.

  “Message,” he said, his accent thick enough to mangle the word.

  Bron took it, then turned away from the Plainsman as he pulled out the parchment inside. He read it, then read it again … and then a third rime, making sure he had it right. When he looked up again, the barbarian had skulked away—but no matter. He had what he needed. He turned to his men, and nodded firmly.

  “Make ready at once,” he said. “We ride for Xak Tsaroth.”

  Chapter 31

  FIRSTMONTH, 963 I.A.

  The storm began the morning after the whirlwind smashed the Durro, and did not relent for thirteen days. Black clouds closed in, illuminated by flashes of crimson lightning. Thunder battered the Lordcity, a constant hammering like the din of a thousand blacksmiths. Wind tore away banners and awnings, uprooted trees, and threatened to knock the sentries off the city walls. Rain pounded down in sheets. By the end of the first day, many of Istar’s streets were veritable rivers, running a foot or more deep; its plazas became large ponds. The waters of the harbor rose so high that the piers and wharves disappeared. Hail pelted the city, stripping the leaves from gardens and smashing windows and glass domes.

  Yule came and went without celebration. So did the New Year. The people of the Lordcity huddled indoors while the cellars of their homes filled with water. Although the citizens prayed for salvation, their prayers were half-hearted, for in their hearts they already believed it wouldn’t be long before the Lightbringer called on the gods. This was a final test of their faith, nothing more.

  Babo dolit, they told one another.

  The Kingpriest will provide.

  Then, on the third day of the year, the storm stopped.

  It ended so suddenly, it was hard to believe. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the clouds simply vanished, the rain ended, and the thunder gave way to the calls of night birds. The winds dropped to nothing. When the day dawned, the sky was neither black nor the strange green that had heralded the whirlwind, but sapphire blue, clear and lovely. Even the heat seemed less—still warm for early winter, surely, but not as stifling as before. It was a glorious morning.

  The first people to step out of their homes gazed up at the sun—a gold coin once more. They murmured thanks to the Lightbringer, kissing their fingertips as they looked to the Temple. There was no mistaking the timing: this was the day the Kingpriest would call upon the gods. In years to come, the folk of Istar believed, they would tell their children of the
storm the dark gods had sent to frighten them, and how their faith in Beldinas had saved them. The children would not understand, though—not really. They would never know evil.

  Soon after sunrise, more good news came. The Games of Yule, postponed for so long by the weather, would take place today. Rockbreaker sent criers out all over the city, and before long, crowds had begun to gather at the Arena. The Barbarian would be fighting today, and the Red Minotaur, and Pheragas of Ergoth too—all the greatest gladiators in the land. By midmorning, the air was filled with the clash of steel as men and monsters dueled upon the sands. And from the Temple, voices rose in song, praising the Kingpriest in his sacred task.

  It would be a day to remember.

  *****

  The ceremony would not take place in the Hall of Audience, the Kingpriest declared after morning prayers. Many of the hierarchs were dismayed, disappointed even, but Beldinas remained adamant, immune to their pleas.

  “This is a private rite between man and god,” he declared. “Not some pantomime for a crowd to cheer, not like one of Rockbreaker’s blood-shows. No one will be present for this solemn occasion but Paladine and myself.”

  An hour after dawn, he rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais, sweeping out of the Hall. A flight of marble steps led beneath the basilica to a private chapel. This was the Kingpriest’s personal sanctuary, a room of gilded walls and silken tapestries, lit by candles of white beeswax. A mosaic of the night sky—flecked with stars, the silver moon soaring—arched above a platinum altar, on which stood an idol of Paladine, in his form as the Great Dragon.

  Beldinas walked to the altar, but did not kneel. He stared at the icon, the amber eyes staring out of the wise, serpentine face. The light of his aura made them gleam. He stood there a long time, lost in thought, then glanced up at the ceiling.

  “What do you think of that, Emissary?” he asked.

  Quarath froze. He hadn’t even finished coming down the steps yet, and had been so quiet, he was sure the Kingpriest— his back to the entrance—couldn’t hear him. Beldinas never failed to surprise him, though, and he smiled slightly as he walked to the Kingpriest’s side. He followed the man’s gaze to the mosaic.

  “It is fine work, Holiness,” he declared. “One of Pelso of Edessa’s best.”

  “No” Beldinas declared. “It is terrible, Quarath. Look at it closer—do you see that star, there? It is askew. It throws off the play of the light, and spoils the whole thing. Ruins it completely.”

  Quarath narrowed his eyes, trying to spot the offending tile. There was one star, at the tip of Majere’s rose, that looked a little off-kilter. Even staring at it, though, he couldn’t see anything really wrong. If there was a slight flaw it did nothing to harm the beauty of the piece. Pelso had crafted it nearly three hundred years ago, for Symeon the First. In all that time, no one had remarked on any flaw.

  “I shall have it torn down at once,” the Kingpriest declared. “Find me an artisan who will craft one better.”

  Quarath stared at him in shock. An ache flared in his heart at the thought of destroying such a fine work of art. And merely because of one tiny imperfection.

  Still, Beldinas was the Lightbringer. His word was law— and he spoke with the god’s voice, especially after today. Quarath sighed.

  “Sifat, Holiness,” he said.

  The Kingpriest bowed his head, pressing the knuckles of his clasped hands to his brow. He spoke no prayers—for what he was about to do, his own strength must be enough. Slowly, the glow from the Miceram began to brighten. It held the power of every Kingpriest who had worn it before him, and he drew it all in, adding his own. Quarath averted his eyes; it hurt too much to look directly at Beldinas now.

  “Leave me. Emissary,” the Lightbringer said.

  Quarath paused, angling his head. A strangeness had come over the Kingpriest’s voice—a new tension. To Quarath’s sensitive elven ears, he sounded almost afraid.

  “Holiness?” he ventured. “Are you certain?”

  “I must be alone,” the Kingpriest insisted. “Go.”

  The odd tremor was still in his words, but Quarath bowed his head. “As you wish, Holiness ” he declared. “The god be with you.”

  Beldinas nodded. “He shall. Emissary. He shall.”

  Quarath turned and left. The Kingpriest’s glow vanished behind him when he shut the door to the chapel. He took a deep breath, thinking of the mosaic, then shook his head and walked up the stairs.

  That was when the first tremors struck.

  *****

  Denubis was so intent on his work that he scarcely noticed when the ground rumbled beneath him. He only realized something was wrong when he went to dip his pen into the inkpot and discovered it wasn’t there any more. Blinking behind his spectacles, he looked up to see the pot had moved halfway across his desk. His eyebrows shot up as he glanced around him.

  The other monks were just as bewildered. Some had risen from their seats, and were bustling down the aisles of the chancery. A few had gone to the windows, and were craning their necks to see out. Denubis rolled his eyes—young pups, they were, too easily distracted from their sacred tasks—then he picked up the inkpot, put it back where it belonged, and returned to writing.

  He’d written just three more words when the second temblor struck, this time violent and unmistakable. It seemed as if the ground dropped away beneath him, just for a moment, then leapt up to slam into him from below. The inkpot leapt off the desk entirely and smashed onto the floor, spattering black droplets across the tiles and his cassock. Books tumbled from the shelves, some breaking their spines, loosing storms of parchment into the air. The monks crowded in the aisles now, while some bolted for the doors, exclaiming.

  “The Eyes!” someone cried. “The Eyes have fallen!”

  His brow furrowed, Denubis set down his pen. He was so close to finishing his translation—only a few dozen more pages to go, a month or two more and then he could rest. But even he could see that something was very wrong. He shuffled across the room, to look out one of the smaller windows.

  “Make way, make way” he grumbled, pushing through a knot of younger scribes at the casement. “What is all this nonsense about—?”

  He stopped, his voice foiling him. Through the window, he could see the city outside, stretching away south toward the still-flooded harbor. Even from where he stood, the damage from the quake was obviously extensive: toppled walls and columns, yawning holes were some roofs had been, plumes of smoke and dust rising all across Istar. Worst of all, the God’s Eyes, the twin beacons that had shone above the waterfront all Denubis’s life, were gone. They had toppled over, crashing docks and ships beneath their weight. One had sparked a large fire that was consuming the storehouses along the wharf.

  “Palado Calib,” the monks breathed. “What do we do?”

  Denubis froze, for he too had no idea what was going on. How could he? This had nothing to do with books, with the Peripas, with—

  The third quake was stronger still, lasting far longer. The ground bucked hard, and Denubis would have fallen had there not been a shelf to stagger against.

  It rained books all over the library, and one monk who had been up high on a ladder fell with a scream, hitting the stone floor with a horrible crunch. Copyists, binders, and illuminators all cried out, running every direction. The chancery, an island of serenity for centuries, dissolved into noisy bedlam. Windows shattered in bursts of glass. Men shrieked, clutching at cut faces and ruined eyes. Rows of shelves collapsed against each other, crushing men beneath the lore they had dedicated their lives to preserving. Lamps crashed down from their sconces and shattered, spreading burning oil among the loose paper. Some scribes scrambled to gather up what scrolls and tomes they could; others rushed for the doors. Still others stood rooted, too amazed to move.

  A wild-eyed acolyte, bleeding from a gash in his shaven pate, nearly bowled Denubis over. He clutched at the old scribe’s sleeve, his fingers like claws. “It is the gods
of darkness!” he cried. “They mean to stop the Kingpriest!”

  Denubis stared at the youth’s crazed, white face, unable to reply. Flames whooshed into the air as a stack of papyrus went up. The fear-maddened acolyte let go of him and dashed off, screaming that the end had come, and they were all doomed. He hadn’t gone ten paces when the ceiling gave a great crack and a golden chandelier slammed down on him from above, ending his bleating.

  The earth shook a fourth time. There were shrieks now from all over—not just the chancery but a roar of fear from the Temple outside and the city beyond. Clerics started to knock each other down, trample each other. They clogged the doors, shoving and screaming as walls collapsed and flames spread.

  A crash sounded behind Denubis, and he turned, already knowing his desk would be gone, buried beneath a balcony that had given way and fallen from the walkways above. He fell to his knees, hot tears spilling from his eyes as his work—the work of more than forty years—vanished in clouds of dust and smoke. Better if I’d still been sitting there, he thought. Better than to live, knowing all I’ve done has come to nothing… destroyed in an instant. He wept like a child as destruction rained down around hint

  Denubis.

  The voice was like a spike of ice driven through his skull. He gasped, looking up to see who was speaking, but there was no one there. All the living monks had abandoned the place, leaving the chancery to the dead and the dying. Black fumes choked the air, and curls of burning paper floated like ghosts.

  Yet he knew who had spoken, though he was loath to admit it. He remembered the shadowy figure who had visited him on the Night of Doom. The words of Fistandantilus rang in his memory. There will come a time of great despair. You must not falter.

  Denubis choked on tears and smoke. He was faltering. It took all his will but he fought back the urge to surrender and die. “What must I do?” he breathed.