Chapter 15

In ancient times, the festival of Spring Dawning had been a time of wildness, a day when the people of Istar’s cities indulged their every whim and desire. Men and women alike donned masks to hide their identities, and paraded through the streets, eating, drinking, dancing, and singing. It was also a fertility rite, marking the start of the rains that opened the growing season, and it wasn’t uncommon for the revelers to shed everything but their masks, or for couples—even small groups—to entwine in the gardens, becoming groaning jumbles of arms and legs, sliding fingers and exploring lips.

The church had put an end to that sort of thing long ago. The first Kingpriests had declared the more ribald parts of Spring Dawning to be pagan licentiousness, and the rituals had changed. The abandon was gone from the festival, though people being people, they still ate too much and got far too drunk, and if some still tore off their clothes and groped played, they were sure to do it in the deepest shadows, where the clergy wouldn’t spot them.

One part of the day that did remain was the masque. No one in the Lordcity—or other cities throughout the empire—went about during Spring Dawning wearing his own face. Many simply covered their faces with strips of cloth, with holes cut for the eyes, but there were also more fanciful disguises: dragons and griffins, tigers and antlered stags, laughing fey folk and snarling ogres, the red and silver moons. Some bore plumes of exotic feathers, or were studded with sticks of smoldering incense, or carried long trains of bright silk that fluttered in the warm breeze off the lake. Even the clerics took part, though their guises were more staid, to stave off the temptation of idolatry. And the song and the dance, the feasting and the rivers of wine, persisted to this day.

The festivities lasted three days. The first began with a benediction from the Lightbringer himself, who appeared on the steps of the Great Temple. Standing before the throngs of the Barigon and masked by his own aura, he performed the familiar ritual, first signing the triangle and blessing the people, then pouring out three urns before him: one of water, to beckon the rains; another of barley, for the growing times; and a third of ashes, for those who had perished that winter. Then, light streaming from him in waves, he led the folk of the Lordcity in prayer that they be kept safe from evil for yet another season.

When that was done, he raised his hands for silence, and all eyes turned to him. Beldinas made a special pronouncement, every year at Spring Dawning, speaking of what lay ahead for Istar. This day he looked out over the crowds, who were craning in anticipation, then threw back his head and laughed.

“Do not fear, usas farnas,” he proclaimed, when the people looked at one another in puzzlement and alarm. “I am only thinking of our enemies, and how many they once were. It was only a thousand years ago, in the time of the last Dragonwar, when the candle of good was guttering, ready to go out forever. But goodness rallied, and threw down the dark gods and all their nightmare minions, and in the end light prevailed, as it must.

“Now the wheel has turned, and it is evil that faces the end. Nothing remains of the dark ones’ churches, and almost nothing of the gray heathens that abetted them through their very acceptance of the ‘need’ for evil in the world. The wizards have fled, the monsters of old are slain or driven so deep beneath the earth that they must wander forever in shadowed caverns, never again to experience the sun.

“Now, I say this to you. In three days’ time, when the festival is done, I shall embark on a pilgrimage into the hills… one last journey to gain the power I need, the knowledge to put an end to evil forever. Once and for all, I will show the Doctrine of Balance, which this very church accepted for so many years, to be the lie that it is.

“Good does not need evil to define it. A white robe is still a robe, even if it has no stains. A melody with no sour notes still sounds sweet. The sun still shines at noontide, when the shadows fade. And when darkness is gone forever—yea, even from the depths of your own hearts—this world, this realm, this city will still stand, shining bright as the sun itself!”

The crowd erupted, roars of joy resounding all over the Lordcity and rippling out across the lake. The cry echoed across the empire, from nearby cities like Chidell and Calah, to Lattakay and Karthay and other far-off places. Beldinas had sent clockwork falcons winging to all corners of Istar, bearing copies of his proclamation for the patriarchs to read. Now millions of Istarans answered him, from the mob standing before him to throngs hundreds of leagues away.

The festival went on, full of laughter and song. The celebration lasted on into the evening, when Istar’s lamps kindled and turned the city into a warm sea of light. A rain shower swept in off the lake, quick but potent, leaving the revelers drenched in its wake. They didn’t care. Wine flowed on, bodies twirled and cavorted, voices called out from behind masks the whole night long.

Then dawn came, and it all began again—or rather, it continued.

The second day of the festival was one of storytelling: Poets stood on the rims of fountains in a hundred courtyards, reciting their latest epics and odes. Singers and actors performed melodramas from all corners of history: the death of Huma Dragonbane, the rise of Symeon the first Kingpriest, the corruption of Kurnos, the battle of Govinna and the Silver Dawn, when the Lightbringer had donned the Miceram for the first time. Some of the tellings were excellent, many more were middling, and a few were awful. The crowds broke the worst up with catcalls, pelting the players with fruit. In a couple places, this escalated to brief melees that left everyone laughing and covered with pith and juice.

The greatest of the performances that day took place at the Arena, where men, women, and children filled the stands to watch the latest work of a playwright acclaimed as a genius, Gendellis of Edessa. Gendellis specialized in Baponnas, melodramas told in rhyming verse that were filled with songs and spectacle. Today, to a crowd of eighty thousand who gathered beneath the Arena’s blue and gold banners, he and his company were performing the Stone City’s Doom, a telling of the battle for the Tower of High Sorcery in Losarcum.

The people cheered as Lord Cathan Twice-Born—or, rather, the actor who played him—led his company of knights into the Stone City. They laughed at the boisterousness of Sir Marto, and more than a few women swooned at the dashing figure of Sir Tithian, the young knight always standing by his captain’s side. They stamped their feet when the wizards of the Tower—Black Robes, all—defied Lord Cathan’s demand that they quit the city at once. They hissed when the wizards tried to kill Tithian with foul sorcery. They applauded when Cathan rallied his men with a stirring song of valor and glory, before leading them forth on the final assault. Gasps and cries of alarm resounded through the stands when the battle was joined, and Gendellis’s play gave way to a storm of fireworks and flashing swords as knights and sorcerers met. There were even a few minotaurs involved in the show, playing demons called forth by the wizards to join the battle. The watchers hissed all the more when the mages decided to destroy the Tower—“and damnation unto the City of Stone!”—and wept when Sir Marto fell, trying to thwart them. Finally, the Tower exploded, and the masses erupted in a howl of outrage that turned to joy when the Kingpriest himself appeared, stepping through the smoke to spirit Lord Cathan and faithful Tithian to safety. The play ended with Cathan—saddened by the events of Losarcum—resigning his place as Grand Marshal and quietly walking from the stage. Not a single murmur was heard from the crowd in the stands.

Then came a final soliloquy from the Lightbringer himself, and everyone surged to their feet and cheered so loudly the noise was heard as far away as the Hammerhall. The play was a triumph, undeniably Gendellis’s finest work to date. Word quickly spread after the audience filed out the Arena’s many arched gates: This would be a drama for the ages, one of the best ever to grace a stage in Istar, and surely there would be many more performances of it in the years to come.

That night, masked folk shouted and capered in the streets. Then, when the first light appeared over the Lordcity’s eastern gates, all eyes turned back to the Arena again.

The Games would begin on the third day.

Cathan swallowed, staring up past the Arena’s white walls, where statues of warriors stood with swords and spears held high. The sky overhead was clear, the blue of Zaladhi sapphires. Griffins wheeled across its cloudless expanse, their lion-eagle shapes strange to his eyes. Quarath and his elves kept them at an aerie in the hills north of the city; they let them out, every day of the festival, to thrill the people. Cathan didn’t think griffins were wondrous; he’d seen the winged creatures before, and knew their purpose for the festival. They were watchers, their keen eyes searching for signs of trouble. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable, guilty. His hand went to the malachite amulet, hidden beneath his clothes.

“Please don’t do that,” murmured a voice to his right, half-muffled by the drooping nose of a troll. One of Wentha’s sons—both were wearing the same fearsome masks, so it took a moment to recognize Tancred—touched his elbow, gently forcing him to lower his arm. “Do you want to give yourself away?”

“You’re safe. Uncle,” said Rath, appearing on his right, nodding at the mobs that were inching their way through the Arena’s gates. “None of them know. None of them could know. Unless you go acting suspicious, of course.”

Cathan made a sour face, lost behind his own wolf mask. The crowd was full of thought-readers, each one searching the minds of those around him for evil notions. He’d already seen the Scatas move in and take three people away—discreetly enough, so as not to cause a stir. He told himself, as he’d done many times before, that if the Araifas could sense what he had decided to do, they would have taken him away by now. It didn’t make him feel any less helpless.

There was already a rumbling from within, the Arena, of feet stamping and voices chanting names Cathan didn’t recognize Every now and then, a muted explosion of cheers rang out, followed by the blare of horns.

“I know I shouldn’t be surprised by anything by now,” Cathan murmured. “Not after all I’ve seen since Chidell. But gladiators? When I left, there hadn’t been blood sport since Kingpriest Sularis’s time.”

“And there still isn’t,” said Wentha. Her mask was a Seldjuki stormhawk, with a plume of glittering blue feathers that trailed to the small of her back. “There’s no blood spilled at the Games.”

“Well…” Rath said, chuckling.

“Not intentionally,” Tancred explained. “It’s all show… a pantomime, really. Collapsible swords, chicken blood, and a lot of overacting. Now and then someone gets hurt, but only when there’s an accident”

“At least, that’s what they say,” Rath added. “There’ve been a few deaths, over the years. No one seems to mind, though. The gladiators are all slaves, anyway. Why should good people care what happens to them?”

Wentha shook her head. “Watch your tone. You sound bitter.”

“I am bitter,” Rath said. “Everyone knows the nobles buy the gladiators to pit against each other. Is it just a coincidence that one of them always seems to have an ‘accident’ whenever there’s a power play? They’re all giving Rockbreaker bags of gold to make sure their boys are safe, or their enemies’ aren’t.”

Cathan blinked, completely lost. “Rockbreaker?”

“Him,” Tancred replied, pointing.

Cathan looked, and saw a podium near the main gates where a small, stocky figure stood, long black beard tucked into his belt. He was gesticulating to the crowd and shouting something, but Cathan was too far away to make out the words. Cathan shook his head; another dwarf, even uglier than Gabbro. Even stranger was the figure beside him, nine feet tall and stoop-shouldered, with a stupidly cruel expression carved into his sallow face.

“Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed. “That’s an ogre!”

“They call him Raag,” said Tancred. “He was Rockbreaker’s partner, back when they fought in the Arena. Now they run the School of the Games.”

“The dwarf’s the one who came up with all the fakery,” Rath put in. “He even convinced His Holiness it was a good idea. Putting on a show right in the Hall of Audience, sticking Raag in the gut with one of those false swords. Blood everywhere. Half the courtiers fainted before they revealed it was all a trick.”

He laughed, and Cathan did too, imagining the scene. True blood had only ever been spilled once in the heart of the Temple—his own, at Kurnos’s hands. Quarath would surely have suffered paroxysms to the see tiles awash with red.

“But why have the games at all?” Cathan asked.

“That was my fault, I fear,” Wentha laid. “I arranged the knights’ tourney in Lattakay, remember?”

Cathan nodded. He’d fought in that tourney, along with most of the Divine Hammer. It was a terrible day—a terrible memory. They’d been ambushed by quasitas, winged imps who slaughtered many good men before they were driven off. That had been the opening salvo in the war with the wizards.

“They started holding tourneys every year after that, Wentha went on. “Crime in the city dropped off to nothing for a few months after each one. The priests couldn’t help but notice that, and they convinced the Kingpriest to start having tourneys all over the empire. Even here, in Istar. But there weren’t enough knights for every occasion—so why not encourage gladiators?”

“His Holiness didn’t want to do it at first,” Tancred added, “but… well, there were fewer beatings, fewer murders in Lattakay. Watching slaves fight on the sands made people less likely to fight each other in the streets. One of the hierarchs likened it to steam escaping a volcano, and stopping it from exploding.”

That made sense, Cathan had to admit. “So they brought back the Games?”

“Thirteen years ago,” Rath said. “They used blunted swords for a while, but a gladiator got killed three years later—‘accidentally’ took a dagger in the throat, over in Ideos. There was a riot, the crowd damn near tore down the arena before the Hammer put a stop to it. And Beldinas banned the Games again.”

“Let me guess what happened next,” Cathan said. “The volcano boiled over?”

“No way to let out the steam any more,” Tancred agreed with a grim smile.

Wentha sighed. “It was bad. Six months after the ban, there was festering violence all over the empire. Brawls, looting, even a small riot right here in the Lordcity. That autumn, half of Tucuri burned… and there were rumors of underground fights held in caves and the like. The hierarchs argued for days about bringing the Games back on official occasions. That was when Rockbreaker showed them how to do it safely.”

“Except for the occasional ‘accident,’ ” Rath noted, chuckling. “But the dwarf knows how to keep those things quiet. If someone dies, they carry on, pretending it’s all an act. The body is carried off, and the dwarf just tells the crowd that the man’s been freed, so no one wonders why they never see him again. They’ve been doing it like that all over the empire, ten years now.”

They were almost at the gates now, bodies pressing in on them from all sides. Cathan eyed the dwarf and the ogre—Rockbreaker was yelling about the contests to be fought today, listing the past victories of the various gladiators. One warrior, a man named Talim Two-Blades, would not be appearing, having won his freedom at the Yule tourney.

“Everything’s in place?” Cathan asked his sister in a whisper as they passed through the gates into the cool shadows of the Arena. They started up a broad, shallow stair, leading to the nobles’ boxes high in the stands. Several knights stopped them to check their identities, then let them pass without comment when Wentha lifted her mask. “Have you talked to Idar?”

She shook her head. “We’re meeting with him today after the seventh bout. You can join us if you like. Tell the Kingpriest you need to be excused—Idar’s message this morning said he would be waiting at the Square of Six Swords.”

Cathan nodded. “The seventh bout,” he murmured. “I’ll be there.”

“Don’t let anyone follow you,” said Rath.

“And stop playing with that thing,” Tancred added.

Cathan realized his hand had strayed back to the amulet. He lowered his band, clenched it into a fist at his side as they reached the top of the stair. A long tunnel curved ahead of them; it was lined with archways with sunlight shafting through, dancing with dust. The shouts of the crowd were loud, bloodthirsty.

Gritting his teeth, Cathan followed his sister out into the heat and open air of the imperial gallery. With little enthusiasm, he waited for the first bout to begin.