Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

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.

SECONDMONTH, 962 I.A.

Chidell was the oldest city in Istar’s heartland, the first place where men had risen above barbarism in the east, nearly two thousand years ago. Its walls had been already worn with age in the time of Huma and the Third Dragonwar. Now they were little more than a memory, a worn stub large enough to step over, ringing the tall ziggurat-palaces of the Old City, where only the lords dwelt any more. The people had pulled them down before the first Kingpriest took the throne, for once Chidell outgrew them, their only use was as material for new homes.

Beyond the Vanished Wall was the true city: a mass of white, square buildings with alabaster roofs, running evenly along arrow-straight roads. Except for the holy church’s temples, and a few inns catering to outsiders, these buildings were all virtually identical, indistinguishable except by size. There were no plazas, no gardens, no colonnades or statuary; the Chidell had learned to build from the ogres, long ago, and clung to that style with stubborn pride. Forbas Duid , outsiders called it: the Toothed Hills.

Only two things broke up the white sameness of the place. One was the Market of Dye-Makers, near the north gates, where hundreds of silken banners-each a different brilliant shade-fluttered in the breeze, brightly proclaiming the skills of Chidell’s artisans. The other was the people themselves, who wore flowing gowns and tunics of those same hues, in satin and samite. They flowed like rainbow-hued rivers among the looming, pale edifices of their homes.

Word spread that the Lightbringer was on his way. This was far from the first time Beldinas had come to Chidell, for he traveled about the heartland at least once each year, visiting all the old cities, but that mattered little to the people. They crowded along the road as they did every time he visited.

Riding at the fore, with Tithian on his left and Wentha and her sons on his right, Cathan felt his throat go dry at the sight of the multi-colored mob. He hadn’t seen more than a dozen people in one place in many years, and here were thousands, cheering, chanting, and waving brilliantly dyed pennants in celebration of the Kingpriest’s coming. He stiffened, suddenly wanting nothing more than to run back to Dravinaar and hide in his cave again. But that part of his life seemed over, and in his heart he knew he would never go back to Losarcum again.

Without realizing what he was doing, he probed his teeth with his tongue. He’d lost several, in his years in exile, and one had been going bad for months, its ache so familiar he hadn’t noticed it any more. Beldinas’s healing touch had cured the rot, and made new teeth sprout where the gaps had been. The inside of his mouth still felt strange … but every time he chewed without pain, he felt grateful.

The other pains were gone, too; his crippled leg was fine now, as limber as ever. The twinges he sometimes got in his back had stopped. The occasional throbbing in his joints … gone. He hadn’t had so much as an ache since they’d left the Tears. Hair had even begun to grow again on his bald dome-first thin and downy, but thickening day by day. He felt half as old as he had two weeks ago.