Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

It had been all he could do not to bow down and worship the Lightbringer as the others did. Every time the urge came over him-and it had been happening daily, on the long trek north, over desert and grassland and downs-he had forced himself to remember the hideous, man-shaped bubbles in the glass wall.

He and Beldinas had spoken little during the ride. Actually, he’d hardly talked to anyone, even his sister. They seemed content to leave him to his thoughts, and he had little to say. The miles had slipped by slowly, his thoughts drifting without aim, from one question to the next. What would happen to him when they reached the Lordcity? What was his place there? Why did the dreams of the burning hammer come every night now? And what did Fistandantilus want of him?

There were no answers. Only more miles.

Now he heard the shouts of the throngs as the procession neared Chidell- Pilofiro! Babo Sod! He shook his head at their devotion. If Beldinas commanded them to tear one another to pieces, they would do it gladly. If he told them to rip down their homes, in two days the city would be gone. Once, when he had felt a measure of that fervor himself, it had comforted him. Now he found it frightening.

He wasn’t the only one. He also sensed Wentha’s discomfort, and glanced over to see her twisting the reins of her horse in her hands. Tancred and Rath-the ghost of a bruise still marking his side-shared her blank, thin-lipped expression.

He sidled his horse over to his sister, wary that Tithian didn’t follow. “What is it?” he asked.

“Them,” she said, nodding at the masses, close enough now that they could see the rapturous smiles on their faces. “They have no minds of their own, not any more. Their love for Beldinas has blinded them. He could tell them to stab themselves in the heart, and by sunfall there wouldn’t be a one of them left alive.”

Cathan grunted, surprised by how closely her thoughts matched his. “But not you,” he said, and saw her nod. “Is that why Rath refused the healing?”

“Yes,” she said. “People have grown addicted to the Kingpriest’s power, like the men of Karthay do to their dream-pipes. But it can be dangerous to reject it. I’ve seen men dragged away for less. Rath was foolish to act as he did.”

She said the last just loud enough for her sons to hear. They exchanged pained glances, shaking their heads. “No harm came of it, Mother,” said Tancred.

“How can you be sure?” Wentha shot back. “Your brother called attention to himself, behaving like a heretic. It is the last thing we need now, when we’re so close to-”

She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening as she looked at Cathan. He looked back, his brow furrowing. A blare of noise from his other side startled him: Tithian, winding a silver horn, announcing the coming of the Kingpriest. The crowds chorused raucously in return, pennants dancing above them.

Then they closed in, surrounding them on all sides, a sea of noise and color and love. Cathan looked once more at Wentha, who flushed and turned away. He watched her a while longer, wondering, then rode on.

There was, of course, a feast. No matter where the Lightbringer’s processional stopped for an evening, from the grandest city to the simplest country farm-villa, there was always a feast of prayer and celebration.

Here in Chidell, the fare was wild boar, roasted and served with a sauce of gray-ghost mushrooms and Ismindi ale. The lord of the city, a talkative but dull-and immensely fat-merchant-prince named Dejal, spoke at great length about the Kingpriest’s magnificence, benevolence, and generosity … much the same speech every lord gave, it seemed to Cathan, judging by their experiences on the journey so far. Several men and women in need of healing were brought forward, and Beldinas laid hands on them all: a lost arm regrew before the assembly’s eyes; a huge blue-black growth on an old man’s face shriveled and dropped off, revealing healthy pink skin beneath; a baby born deaf heard noises for the first time and began to shriek from the terror of it-provoking laughter from all around the feast-hall, which only made the shrieking worse.

After the meal-seven courses in all, from a fiery broth called Nine Pepper Stew to a sherbet made from blood oranges and ice stored in caves beneath the city-the party withdrew to an open-air parlor strewn with cushions and tables, where jugs of wine and water sat. Ribbons of silk-dyed flame-red and lemon-yellow-hung from the ceiling, rustling in a breeze manufactured by shaven-headed girls waving fronds. Lord Dejal made another speech, to which only a few people paid any attention, then raised his jeweled goblet in a toast to the Lightbringer.

“ Sas riso lob udud ,” Lord Dejal proclaimed, “ e sas bisto nomas ofurbat op scafam .”

Let his reign be long, and his wisdom shield us from shadow.

Cups rose all over the hall, pointing toward the bright-glowing figure of Beldinas. The Kingpriest raised his own-filled with water, tasted first by one of Dejal’s daughters to assure it wasn’t poisoned-and spoke his reply: “My thanks, Your Honor. But shielding the world from shadow is not enough. Even if my reign is as long as you desire, I will not live forever. And the day I die, the darkness will seek to creep back into the empire. For this reason, I must do more than shield against it. Usas farnas , the greatest of my warriors has now been returned to me-” he gestured toward Cathan, as the Chidelli stared and whispered to one another “-after many long years of exile. It is a sign from the gods themselves: the time has come for the final struggle against evil. Our victory is at hand. Before another year has passed, I shall drive darkness from the face of Krynn forever!”

The assembly responded with applause, and a few chanted the name of Pilofiro. It was only a polite response, however, not an enthusiastic one, for the Chidelli’s eyes had already turned toward a sweep of broad, marble steps that curved down from the floors above. Music was playing from that direction-shawms and long-neck lutes and hand-drums, making a serpentine melody. Lithe figures were coming down the steps: the wind-dancers, a troupe of acrobatic, veil-clad women with chimes on their fingers, wrists, waists, and ankles.

They stepped lightly down the stairs, to the shouting approval of the Chidelli. Cathan had to chuckle at the inappropriateness of the seductive dance, given the nature of Lord Dejal’s guests; the clergy and the knighthood were chaste, which meant the only man of the entourage who could truly appreciate the display was Rath … who wasn’t even watching. He sat with his brother and mother, speaking in whispered voices, glancing now and then at Lord Tithian or Beldinas.

Brow furrowing, Cathan rose and started toward his family, but Tithian caught his arm. “We should talk,” he said, nodding toward an alcove away from the charming, leaping dancers.

Cathan nodded and followed his former squire to the recess. There was more wine there, and Tithian took a moment to mix it with water, then poured goblets for Cathan and himself. He drank half of his in one swallow.

“We’re almost home,” he said, wiping his lips. “Tomorrow night we’ll stop at Odacera-another feast-and the next morning we sail to the Lordcity.”

“I know,” Cathan said, sipping his own wine. He clapped the Grand Marshal on the arm. “My memory’s just fine, you know. I’ve come this way many times before, and recall the land and the people.”

Tithian chuckled half-heartedly. “That wasn’t my point,” he said. He hesitated a moment longer, then threw back the rest of his wine. “I have an offer to make to you.”

At once, Cathan understood. “No,” he said. “You don’t need to, Tithian.”