A Chorus of Fire

by Brian D. Anderson

  Lem nodded. “Yes. And you are?”

  “It doesn’t matter. But I’ve heard your name.”

  Lem, surprised by this, wanted to press her, but given how fragile the situation was, thought it better to simply recount his meeting with the Archbishop.

  The woman placed the book on the floor at her feet, keeping her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Lem until he was finished. She then lowered her head in silent thought for what felt like hours. “Were I to accept your word, what you are asking me to do is … complicated.”

  “I realize this. And I understand your reservations. But the fact is, you’ve been lied to. The Archbishop did not send you to kill the High Cleric.”

  “He’s speaking the truth.” A figure stepped forward from beyond a potted fern on the floor beside a glass display cabinet as if emerging from thin air.

  The woman sprang from the chair. Dorina rose as well, albeit much slower.

  “Your Holiness,” Dorina gasped.

  Lem was aware the High Cleric could use magic, and had presumed Sister Dorina knew that as well. But from her baffled expression, he was obviously mistaken.

  “Lem is my Blade. He only comes here when he must. You should know this better than anyone, young lady. And if Rupardo has fled Ralmarstad, killing me will ensure your master’s death. My replacement will be chosen by our enemies. And doubtless he will hunt the Archbishop down. Where I will not.”

  The woman’s muscles were taut, ready to explode into action. Lem was not in a good position to intervene. Rothmore’s magic might protect him … if he could cast it fast enough.

  “And I know this how?” the woman asked.

  “I would hope my word is enough. But I can see that it’s not.” He regarded her carefully. “And I can also see that you have at this point resigned yourself to dying. You know that to kill me means Lem will kill you.”

  “I’m resigned to nothing,” she said defiantly. “Lem may or may not kill me. If it is Kylor’s will, I’ll kill you both. If not … so be it.”

  “Rupardo chose his Blade wisely,” Rothmore said, his voice and bearing strangely calm given the extreme danger.

  She let out a contemptuous snort. “That’s more than I can say for your church’s choice in leaders. A heretic wielder of magic! I should end your life for that reason alone.”

  From the corner of his eye, Lem saw Dorina bow her head and begin muttering a prayer. He did not blame her for being frightened. The murderous glare the Blade was giving the High Cleric was enough to test the courage of a seasoned soldier, particularly when also faced with a weapon that could end a life with no more than a tiny cut.

  “I implore you to see reason,” the High Cleric said. “Killing me will only bring about the end of everything. Your master knew this. Which is why he sent Lem to warn me.”

  “You are vipers,” she spat, her face gradually contorting with rage. “The lot of you.” She spun to face Lem. “You most of all. Your lies and deceit will see you in a pit of flames. I see now why I was warned about being among you. You’re a disease.”

  Lem broadened his stance. “Please, listen to me.”

  “No! I will not be poisoned by your words. You’re lying. You lied to the one you love. And you’re lying to me.”

  “Mariyah? How do you know her?”

  “She knows nothing of who you really are,” the Blade hissed, ignoring the question.

  “What have you done to her?”

  The Blade’s lip curled. “To her? Nothing. But she was born into innocence. Her denial of Kylor can be forgiven, and her soul redeemed. But you … you pretend to serve our Lord, while offering your prayers to false spirits. And you expect me to believe my master has fallen prey to heathen gods? That his own clerics have turned from the true church?”

  By her stance, this woman was experienced in combat. And while his larger frame would give him a strength advantage, she would have speed and agility as allies. With a vysix dagger in her hand, this meant Lem was almost definitely outmatched. Or at best equally. Which was the same, given the weapon involved.

  “Your Holiness!” Sister Dorina screamed. “No.”

  The Blade turned back to Rothmore, but he had not moved. It was a distraction. With her arm raised high, Dorina ran toward the Blade, who tried to step away, but not anticipating an attack from someone as old and seemingly weak, was badly off balance. Lem caught the glint of steel in Dorina’s hand just as it plunged into her foe’s flesh. The Blade’s arm shot out as their bodies collided, sending both women to the floor. Blood gushed from the bottom of the Blade’s neck; the wound was severe, but possibly not fatal. Rothmore tried to rush in and help his Light Bringer, but Lem intercepted him and shoved him several feet back.

  The Blade was struggling to lift Dorina off her as Lem spun and sprang forward. He dove, dagger extended, and the tip sliced across the Blade’s left shin. Her eyes widened, and she gasped a shallow breath. Lem scrambled away, the threat still real in his mind until he could look into dead eyes and know the danger had passed.

  The High Cleric had recovered and was starting toward the two combatants. Lem managed to put himself in his path, wrapping his arms tight around the High Cleric’s chest. “You can’t!” Lem shouted. Until the woman was confirmed dead, she could still inflict lethal harm. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  The High Cleric struggled for a few seconds before relenting, tears spilling down his cheeks as the motionless state of his long-time friend made it plain that the death magic had done its work.

  Lem waited a full minute before releasing his hold and kneeling over the bodies. After pulling Sister Dorina from the Blade, he tossed the vysix dagger aside and searched her pockets. All he found were a few gold pieces and a slip of parchment with the High Cleric’s name written upon it—nothing indicating how she knew Mariyah or what had happened to her.

  Rothmore sat on the floor beside Dorina, holding her hand and weeping softly as he muttered a prayer. “Farewell, my friend,” he said, and gently closed her eyes.

  Lem stood and hurried to the door, a single purpose dominating his mind.

  “Where are you going?” Rothmore called after him, wiping his face.

  “To Ubania.”

  “Wait. Please.” He pressed himself up.

  Lem stopped at the door. “We’re finished. Send whoever you want after me. I’m done with you and your blasted church.”

  “I’m begging you. Please wait.”

  “The church’s enemies are your responsibility now. I’ve killed enough in your name. I’m going to save Mariyah.”

  Rothmore ran up and grabbed Lem’s arm. “You cannot hide from what is coming. Abandoning me will not save her.”

  He wrenched his arm free and pulled the door open. “Maybe not. But I won’t waste another minute on you. If the end is coming, I’ll face it with the one I love. Not in the service of those who care only about power. Your god is false. And so are you.”

  She knows nothing of who you really are. The words of the Archbishop’s Blade were like a knife to his heart. He would find Mariyah and tell her everything. And if she rejected him or hated him for what he’d become, at least it would be the truth. He would lay himself at her mercy. And unlike last time, he would not be turned away.

  The High Cleric followed him into the hallway. “I know Kylor was a man, Lem. But then so was Belkar. In fact, I know everything: about Kylor, Belkar, the Thaumas, the bards…”

  “I don’t care what you know.”

  The High Cleric sighed, drawing to a halt as Lem strode away. “Very well. I do not release you from your service. But I will not call on you again. Not until you ask it of me. You will remain the Blade of Kylor in the eyes of the church.”

  Lem reached inside his shirt and ripped off the pendant. “Then this is the last time we’ll speak.” He tossed it to the floor.

  The High Cleric lowered his head once Lem rounded the corner. “I doubt that. Very much.”

  18

  THIS MAN, THIS G
OD

  A painful truth is far better than a soothing lie. A seed cannot grow buried in the soil of deception.

  Book of Kylor, Chapter Five, Verse Seven

  Where am I? Why is it so dark?

  She was unsure if she’d spoken or had thought the words. She opened her mouth. It felt dry, her tongue sticking to her teeth.

  “Father? Where are you?”

  This time she could feel the vibrations of speech in her throat.

  “Why am I in the dark? Am I not worthy of heaven? Please, Father. I am sorry if I offended you.”

  With each moment, her panic grew. Where were the lights, the music, the sensation of peace she’d been promised?

  “I beg you, Lord. Do not forsake me. Do not leave me in darkness.”

  “You are not in darkness,” called a voice.

  She caught her breath. “Father? Is that you?”

  “I am no one’s father,” the voice replied.

  Physical sensation slowly crept in. She could feel that she was sitting in a chair. Something was covering her eyes. Her hands were secured to the chair arms, and her feet were tied together. And there was a dull pain in her neck where the Light Bringer’s blade had sunk in. This was not heaven. And the voice was not that of Kylor.

  “Where am I?” she demanded.

  “So you’ve figured out that you’re not dead, I see.”

  She knew that voice. “How am I not?”

  She felt a hand touch her cheek and pull the blindfold from her eyes, and squinted against the light of a lamp held in her captor’s other hand.

  Rothmore stepped back and sat in a chair facing her, placing the lamp on the floor by his feet. “I suppose I should tell you that I brought you back by praying to Kylor,” he answered. “But the truth is, you were never dead.”

  “That’s not possible. Lem … he cut me with a vysix dagger. I saw it. I felt it.”

  Rothmore smiled. “Yes, you did. And had you not been ignorant of the power of your own weapon, you’d understand what happened. You see, having taken life with a vysix dagger, you are granted immunity from it. The magic is extremely powerful, so you’re still rendered unconscious, but spared death.”

  She glared at the High Cleric. “What do you want with me?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted. “You have been told lies that are deeply rooted in who you are as a person. It’s usually impossible to tear someone free from that. Their pride is too fragile.”

  “If you think to turn me from my faith, you’re wasting your time.”

  “I don’t have that power,” Rothmore said. “Faith cannot be given or taken by another. It can be manipulated and altered. But faith is something deeply personal—a spark you ignite within yourself.”

  “I don’t need a sermon from the likes of you,” she snapped.

  Rothmore chuckled. “Yes. A heretic wielder of magic.”

  “You deny it?”

  “Not at all. At least, not that I wield magic. As for being a heretic, that is a matter of perspective.”

  The Blade sniffed. “You would say that. Your kind always finds ways to excuse your own evil.”

  “You’re not wrong about that. But sadly the same is true for most people. Even my dear friend Rupardo.” He reflected for a moment. “Especially him, actually.”

  “Do not speak of the Archbishop, dog!”

  Rothmore held up a hand. “Calm down. I’m not trying to upset you. I need you levelheaded if there is to be any hope of getting through to you.”

  “I already told you,” she said, turning her head and refusing to look at him. “I will not listen to your lies.”

  “Actually, you said you didn’t want a sermon,” he retorted. “And I have no intention of giving one. You know the Book of Kylor as well as I, albeit from the … updated version. Still, there is no need for me to convince you of anything.”

  “Just get on with it,” she said.

  “Very well,” Rothmore said. “I want you to tell me about how you ended up in the service of the Archbishop.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I want to know if Rupardo was being honest with me.” He fished a folded letter from his robe pocket. “According to him, you grew up in Lytonia with your father and his second wife, along with a younger sister.”

  She turned back to the High Cleric. “You could have found that out through your spies.”

  Rothmore rolled his eyes. “If only my spies could gather such details. Unfortunately, the Archbishop has been most effective in weeding them out. But no, my dear. This letter arrived four days ago. The information about you makes for interesting reading.”

  The Blade snorted. “You reveal your lie with your stupidity. If you knew I was coming, I’d have never made it to your apartment.”

  “You’re right to assume I didn’t know you’d been sent here, and that you’d have never made it so far if I did. But as you have been unconscious for nearly three weeks, the explanation is clear.”

  “Three weeks?”

  Rothmore nodded. “Even with protection, the vysix dagger has a powerful effect. If not for my heretical ways, you’d be dead. Not from the dagger’s magic, but buried alive.” He chuckled softly. “You should have seen the look on the healer’s face when I insisted you were still breathing. He thought I’d gone mad. Kept insisting that the wound to your neck had killed you. Until a few hours ago, you were in bed.”

  She was unsure whether or not to believe him. It seemed a pointless lie. Still …

  “It also says,” Rothmore continued, “that you were forced to leave home and move to Ralmarstad to live with your mother. He doesn’t say why, but I suppose that’s not important. Uncommon that a man from Lytonia would wed a woman from Ralmarstad.”

  “She wasn’t from Ralmarstad,” she corrected. “She moved there once she discovered the true word of Kylor.”

  “I see. And I take it your father felt differently.”

  “My father was a heretic. A worshiper of Mannan. I curse his name and that of his false god.”

  “It pains me to hear you say that. Such estrangements are very damaging, to both involved. And your sister and stepmother?”

  “That is none of your affair.”

  Rothmore tapped the letter. “According to Rupardo, you killed them—your sister for trying to steal away with your mother, and your stepmother for helping her.”

  She stiffened. “I didn’t kill my sister.”

  He ran his finger down the page. “I know that. But it is strange the Archbishop doesn’t. You only killed your father’s wife. Your sister makes this an … interesting situation. Remarkable. Simply remarkable.” He looked up and smiled. “I know this must be upsetting. But I insisted Rupardo tell me what I wanted to know in exchange for sanctuary, and he was more than willing to accommodate me. Frankly, I had no interest in harming him. So long as he kept hidden and quiet, I would have left him alone. Though I’m sure he would not have extended me the same kindness.” He folded the letter and placed it on the side table, then picked up a glass of brandy. “But then he lives in a different reality than I do, one where control and dominance must be maintained at all times. So I suppose I can forgive him for that.”

  “The Archbishop is a great leader of the church,” she contested, “which is more than I can say for you. He keeps us on the path of the true word. Whereas you permit the heretic to run free among you.”

  “We are all heretics, my dear. Even your precious Archbishop.”

  She spat, but the spittle fell far short. “Demon.”

  Rothmore shook his head. “It’s amazing that you can look so much like your sister and yet be so very different.”

  This got her attention. “How do you know about her? Not even the Archbishop…” She paused, fury boiling up. “She’s one of yours.”

  “That she is,” Rothmore admitted, “though I couldn’t claim I know her well. Still, it is quite the coincidence, don’t you think? That is, if you believe in coincidence … w
hich I do not.”

  She locked eyes with the High Cleric, searching for a lie but finding only confidence staring back at her. “My sister has nothing to do with this. But you’re right. We’re nothing alike. We never were.”

  “I see.”

  Her eyesight was adjusting to the dim light, and she could now see that they were in a sitting room. On a long table against the right-hand wall was a pile of old books that seemed oddly out of place with the rest of the décor.

  Rothmore stood and approached her chair. “Do you know what a truth stone is?”

  The Blade nodded.

  “Then you know not to be afraid.”

  “I have no intention of lying,” she said. “And I’m not afraid.”

  Rothmore smiled. “I don’t doubt it. And I am sure that you have no intention of revealing what you don’t want to tell me. But don’t worry; I only use it to prove it is real.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Why would you care if I believe you?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  He pressed a red gem into her right palm and retook his seat. “Now, then. Did you love your father?”

  “Yes.” The word erupted before she could think.

  “If you could, would you kill me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  For perhaps the next ten minutes the questions were about nothing exceedingly personal. Then there was a long pause, and his expression hardened.

  “Tell me what really happened with your mother.”

  “She was convicted by the Hedran as an apostate and sentenced to death. I turned her over when she attempted to leave with my sister.”

  “Why did she want to leave?”

  “My sister convinced her that she was better off in Lytonia.”

  Rothmore gave her a scolding look. “There’s more to it than that, I wager. Turning someone from their faith is exceedingly hard. How was it done?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

  Rothmore leaned back, elbow on the armrest and chin cradled in the crook of his finger. “That’s enough. It would seem Rupardo was forthcoming with his information. The letter does contain more, but there’s no sense in going over it now.”