Chapter 6

Cathan woke with a gasp, streaked with sweat. It was dark in the ruined bathhouse. A few candles flickered here and there, casting just enough glow to see the sleeping forms around him—his family, Tithian, a few of the senior knights and clerics whose names he’d been told but couldn’t recall. The rest of the party was slumbering in the street outside, and Beldinas was in the mansion, the new holy site he had made with a prayer. There had been other rituals later, the priests insisting the rites of the church be followed: burning of incense, reciting of orisons, aspersing the glass wall. But those were the formalities; it was the Lightbringer who had blessed it, not spice-scented smoke and drops of holy oil.

After-images swam before Cathan’s eyes. The burning hammer, the heart of Istar… the dream again. Two nights in a row, he had dreamed the same dream he hadn’t had in years. And the Kingpriest was back in his life. Cathan had seen too many strange things in his time to consider it a coincidence, even for a moment. Paladine was trying to tell him something… but why was the dream so arcane? What did it mean?

“I can tell you,” whispered a voice close by, “but you would not believe me, even if I spoke the truth.”

Cathan didn’t need to look. He knew the voice, the sudden chill in the air. He turned his head anyway, shifting to peer at the hooded shape, the only still patch of darkness among the candle-dancing shadows. Moving without thought, he reached for Ebonbane.

“Oh, not this again,” said Fistandantilus. “What do you think you can do with that?”

He stopped, his fingers just short of the sword’s hilt “What do you want, wizard?”

“To congratulate you, Twice-Born,” said the archmage, stepping forward. The darkness moved with him, and the closest candles snuffed out as he drew near. “You got to them just in time. Well done.”

Cathan glanced around, nervous. If anyone saw him with the Dark One… but no one stirred. Even the guards Tithian had set at the doors were lying on the floor, still clad in their armor… as though they had simply fallen where they stood. He turned back to look at Fistandantilus, his eyes blazing.

The Dark One chuckled, a dry mirthless sound. “Don’t worry, they’re not dead. Just a simple spell. When it breaks, they won’t even remember that they slept. Killing them would have led to too many questions, of course.”

“The others won’t wake either, will they?” Cathan asked.

“Shake them if you want,” the sorcerer said. “Kick them, even, I’d rather we weren’t seen together, my friend—a sentiment I’m sure you agree with.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“No? I’m so disappointed.” The shadows moved again. More candles went out. “There is a question you want to ask me, Twice-Born, and not about your dream.”

“If you know what it is already, why not just tell me the answer?” Cathan couldn’t keep the annoyance from his voice.

Fistandantilus paused, considering this. “Because I’m so cruel and capricious, I suppose.”

He fell silent, watching Cathan, who sighed. “All right, fine. Why did you want me to save them? I’d think you’d be happy if Beldinas died.”

“Oh, no. If the Kingpriest’s death was something I desired, I’d have taken care of that myself, long ago. Believe me, there have been enough chances. No, Twice-Born, he is much more interesting to me alive… and what better way to get you back into his esteem than to have you save him?”

“Then this was a way to get me to go back to Istar,” Cathan said. “It was you who summoned the worm, wasn’t it…?”

The wizard shook his head. “I told you, that was only a happy circumstance… though I could have summoned the real Catyrpelio if it came to that. I will confess I was the one who told Varen about this place, though. Poor fool. He never knew. But then, the puppet is seldom aware of who is working his strings, isn’t he?”

“And if I don’t go back to Istar?” Cathan asked.

Black-robed shoulders shrugged. “I never said that was my aim. You did. Perhaps I don’t want you to go to Istar, but want you to think I do. Or perhaps, it’s the other way around. Can you really know for sure?”

Cathan muttered a foul word as the wizard laughed.

“Ease your temper, my friend,” he said, leaning close. The cold became intense, almost unbearable, making Cathan’s teeth chatter. “I am done with you… for now. We will meet again, but until then, do as you will. And don’t worry about the hammer. Your dreams will become clear in time.”

The shadows swelled, and with a sound like a dying breath, the Dark One was gone. The candles his darkness had snuffed sprang back to flickering life… and at the bathhouse’s door, the guards got up, dazed, glanced around in confusion, then grabbed their halberds and took up their posts once more. As Fistandantilus had promised, they didn’t seem aware that anything was amiss.

Cathan couldn’t help but shudder. What did the Dark One want? He lay awake in the candle glow for the rest of the night, wondering.

The next morning, as the processional was making ready to depart, one of the high priests came out of the glass-walled manor and motioned to the MarSevrins. Cathan looked up from sharpening his sword and saw Wentha go to speak with the man, a short, pale fellow with a black beard that hung to his belt, then look back at him and nod.

“He wants to see you,” she said. “Before we go. Rath too.”

Cathan glanced over at his nephews, who were looking at him and their mother. Rath moved stiffly, and the bruises the worm had given him showed purple on his brown skin. Cathan was sure, from the way he winced when he shifted his weight, that he’d cracked at least two ribs, but Rath refused to complain. Tancred leaned over and spoke a few words in his brother’s ear, and Rath looked for a moment like he might argue, finally raising his eyebrows and giving a resigned nod.

The long-bearded priest had moved on and was speaking with several of the knights now. One by one, they walked toward the manor. Each was bloody or battered from the fight with the worm. Seeing them, Cathan understood. It was the same as always—the Lightbringer calling the sick and wounded to him to feel his healing touch. He glanced at Wentha, who nodded.

“Go on,” she said. “You’ll need your strength for the journey.”

Sighing, Cathan fell in beside Rath. His crippled leg burned with each halting step. Seemingly from out of nowhere, Tithian—who had his sword-arm in a sling—hurried up and offered his shoulder. Cathan took it, too pained to be proud.

“He still does this?” he asked.

“Whenever he finds the need,” Tithian replied. “The ailing come to him, at the Temple and when he travels beyond its walls. He doesn’t rest until they’re all cured.”

Cathan nodded. He’d seen it often enough, first in Luciel when Beldinas was still Brother Beldyn, then later in Govinna, the Lordcity, and all across the empire. Thanks to the Lightbringer’s powers, thousands lived who otherwise would have died.

It was bright in the manor. The injured knights—there were a dozen, besides Tithian—stood facing the Kingpriest, their shadows huge against the far wall. Beldinas cast no shadow of his own, surrounded as he was by his own lambency. Behind him, the glass wall blazed with the color of sunrise. Within, the shapes of the bodies that had been trapped there remained. Cathan stared at them as, one by one, the injured knights knelt before the Kingpriest.

Beldinas signed the triangle. “Bogudo, usas farnas,” he declared. Arise, children of the god.

With a rattle of armor, they obeyed. Cathan watched from the back of the crowd, saw the fervor on the faces of the young knights—knights who had been only boys when he left the Lordcity. They adored him with the same zeal he’d once felt, and he knew he would never feel it again. It made him feel old.

“Sir Bron,” spoke the Lightbringer. “Come forward, and receive my blessing.”

One knight close to Tithian stepped forward, his chin lifting as his fellows cast him envious glances. Like the Grand Marshal’s, his arm was in a sling, and he favored his left leg as well. A large, scab-encrusted gash ran down his face, from the middle of his forehead down his nose and around his cheek to his jaw. He squinted as he neared the Kingpriest, knelt down, then drew his sword and laid it at the glowing figure’s feet.

“Cilenfo, Pilofiro,” he spoke. “Mas sobolo tarn fat.”

Healer, Lightbringer. My life is thine.

Inside the aura, Beldinas smiled—or so it seemed, for all the light. He spread his hands over the young knight, who bowed his head so he could rest them upon his pate. Beldinas gazed down at him and drew a breath.

“Palado,” he intoned, “ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis biram cailud, e tas oram nomass lud bipum. Sifat.”

Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this man, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.

Cathan found himself mouthing the words as the Kingpriest spoke them; having heard them hundreds—maybe thousands—of times before, they burned bright in his memory. He knew this ritual, and counted the beats of his heart… one, two, three, four, five… before the god answered Beldinas’s prayer.

The silver light flared. It flowed down his arms like water, rippling over Sir Bron. The young knight stiffened when it first touched him… it was always shocking, the first time… then relaxed again. Bron vanished, swallowed by the Lightbringer’s power, shimmering music filling the air. All around the room, the knights brought their hands to their lips, kissing their knuckles in reverence, a new gesture Cathan had never seen before.

The light blazed around Bron for half a minute… then it brightened, and Cathan was just about to look away when Bron let out a rapturous sigh, a sound of release. The light drained away, raining down in droplets that vanished into the floor. Beldinas lifted his hands from the knight’s head.

The gash on Bron’s face was now a faint crease, now a white line, now gone, leaving smooth skin behind. Blinking, Bron shrugged off his sling and flexed his arm. When it gave him no pain, he smiled a large-toothed, horsey smile. The injury to his leg had disappeared as well. He looked up at the Kingpriest with love in his eyes. Then, without a sound, his eyes drooped closed and he pitched forward.

Several of the more callow knights gasped as Bron collapsed, but the older ones, who had seen Beldinas heal before, only nodded. Two of them, apparently unharmed, moved in quickly, lifting up Bron’s limp form and bearing it away. They left the sword at the Kingpriest’s feet, easing the unconscious knight down on the floor. The life-giving sleep would last a few hours, brought on by the holy power that had, for a few moments, overwhelmed his body. He would wake refreshed, as if he had slumbered for a whole day, with no sign he had ever been hurt.

Beldinas turned back to the others. “Sir Alados,” he bade. “Come forward.”

So it went, one knight after another pledging himself to the Kingpriest, then receiving his touch, to pass out and be carried away. The pile of swords at Beldinas’s feet grew large: short leaf-shaped blades from the empire’s heartland; long chisel-tipped ones from Falthana; a broad hand-and-a-halfer from Taol; a graceful Dravinish scimitar. Cathan let the rhythm of the ritual take him; the gentle cadences of the Lightbringer’s words lulled him into a trance. This was a good man, the man he had sworn his life to, so long ago. This couldn’t be the same man who had let Losarcum die. Could it?

His eyes flicked to the grim shapes in the wall. Yes, he thought, it could.

“Lord Tithian,” said the Kingpriest.

Cathan roused from his daze, watched the Grand Marshal stride up, kneel, lay down his sword, and receive the healing light. His broken wrist fixed, he was still clenching and unclenching his sword-hand when sleep overtook him. The unhurt knights took him away, with even greater care than they had shown their brethren.

Only Cathan and his nephew remained. Beldinas looked out at them. “Rath MarSevrin.”

Rath stepped forward, one hand on the hilt of his Seldjuki saber. When he reached Beldinas, however, he did not kneel. Instead, he slipped his sword from its scabbard with his left hand and held it up to the light. For a wild moment, Cathan thought he was going to strike the Kingpriest down. Rath, however reversed his grip on the saber, and set its edge against his open right hand. With a sudden jerk, he cut open his palm.

“I will bear my own wounds, Lightbringer,” he announced, clenching his fist. Blood oozed between his fingers, dripped onto his sword and the pile of others. “I shall not let you heal me.”

Cathan’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. He watched in surprise as Rath sheathed his saber again.

Beldinas was every bit as surprised. In nearly forty years, this had never happened before. “Do not fear, child,” he said. “It is not dangerous.”

“Holiness,” Rath replied, “it is not danger I fear.” And with that, he turned and walked away from the Lightbringer.

Cathan watched him go, but Rath wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was still looking at the doorway when Beldinas drew a breath and spoke again. “Cathan MarSevrin… called Twice-Born.”

Continuing as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, Cathan turned back to face the Kingpriest and found his feet were moving unbidden. Suddenly he was in front of Beldinas, the silver aura narrowing his pupils to pinpricks. The man within was tall, majestic—nothing like the stooped, anxious man he’d set down the day before. He couldn’t help but kneel before this mighty lord, and before he knew it Ebonbane was on top of the other swords, the white porcelain on its quillons glistening.

He didn’t swear his life. He had already done that once, long ago. He only bowed his head, wait. The Kingpriest’s hands on his scalp in a strange feeling; gave the last time he had done this, he’d still had hair.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro…”

He counted heartbeats. One… two… three… four… five.

The great hammer surged past him, wreathed in flame. Burning furiously, it streaked down, down…

Cathan caught his breath, jerking as the vision plunged through his brain like a diamond arrow, even while the Kingpriest’s power spread over him in a torrent of silvery light. Then, all at once, his strength gave out and he was falling. With the suddenness of a thunderclap, the world went black and he knew no more.