Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

“Yes, I do.” Tithian shifted, looking down at his feet. “You were Grand Marshal before me, before Olin. You lost your place unjustly … His Holiness would be the first to say so. Your old position awaits you. Lead the knighthood, Cathan.”

For a moment, all Cathan could think to say was yes. Beldinas needed him again. With him as Grand Marshal, the knights would surely be renewed and energized. But at last he shook his head, resting a hand on Tithian’s shoulder. A look of deep disappointment spread over the Marshal’s face, and he opened his mouth to speak his arguments, but Cathan cut him off.

“I left the Divine Hammer long ago, lad,” Cathan explained. “I am no longer one of you. Besides, you’ve been leading the order for years. I was only Grand Marshal for a few weeks, before we marched to Losarcum. Thank you, Tithian … but the knighthood doesn’t need an old relic dug up from a tomb.”

“You aren’t that ” Tithian protested. “Never that.”

“The Lord Cathan you once knew is dead,” Cathan said. “But don’t fear … any time you want a lesson in swordplay, I’ll gladly cross blades with you.”

A laugh burst from Tithian’s lips. “We’ll see just who learns the lesson, old man.”

They talked together a while longer, swapping stories of old-and some new ones-before heading back into the hall. The dancers were finishing their act, spinning and undulating to the delight of Lord Dejal and his people. There was applause when they were done, from the Kingpriest and his followers as well as the Chidelli.

Cathan clapped too, though he’d missed most of the performance, then turned as the second round of entertainers-fire-eaters and knife-jugglers-materialized. His eyes went to his sister and Tancred and Rath … then he stopped, frowning. Wentha and her sons were no longer there.

He glanced around the room, past gouts of flame and blades dancing through the air-the performers were enacting a fanciful version of a battle between the Hammer and the High Sorcerers-but there was no sign of his kin.

Then he saw a curtain swaying close to the corner. Someone had passed through, just moments before. With a quick look toward Beldinas-who was watching the show, unreadable within his cocoon of light-he crossed to the curtain and stepped out of the parlor, into the cool mid-winter night.

Fog had settled over the hills, blanketing the city. Cathan’s hand reached reflexively for Ebonbane, finding nothing. He swallowed a curse: the blade was still resting on the floor by his seat. He stepped away from Lord Dejal’s hall, and its seven-tiered walls faded into the misty whiteness behind him. Other large, dark ziggurats loomed before him and, to his right, older ruins-lone columns and jagged buttresses-appeared out of the gloom. The old city was all but deserted on most nights, and completely so tonight; anyone influential enough to dwell in the ancient part of Chidell was in the festival hall.

Cathan saw the swinging lanterns of the town watch, and hunkered down behind a shard of fallen masonry until they passed. It was easier than answering questions about why he was out here when it was wearing on midnight.

Now he remembered, from his pre-exile days, that Chidell was notorious for its impenetrable mists. He would have to be careful not to get lost. As long as he didn’t step outside the Vanished Wall, into the neighborhoods of virtually identical streets and white buildings, he’d be fine. He walked on, the clack of his boots against the cobbles sounding unnaturally loud in the mist. What could Wentha be doing out here with her sons?

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Ahead, just barely visible, was a familiar, stately, womanly shape. He recognized his sister when he saw her. He opened his mouth to call out to Wentha, then momentarily stopped when he spotted two other shapes creeping toward her from his left; they were cloaked and hooded, and he saw something at one man’s hip that was unmistakably the hilt of a sword. The other had some kind of mace or cudgel in his hand.

Cathan’s blood turned to ice: He wished that he’d remembered Ebonbane. He searched around, looking for some hunk of crumbled stone he might throw, but everything was either gravel or huge chunks. He could take one of the pair down by surprise, but the other would almost certainly get past him.

“Get down!” Cathan bellowed, running at Wentha. She started to turn toward him, but he barreled into her, knocking her away from the two men. She sprawled backward on the ground, the air leaving her with a whoosh .

The two men stopped, startled. They were both beardless, and wore white masks over the upper halves of their faces. Young, by their looks, but that was all Cathan could tell. One drew his blade-a short stabbing weapon, just a bit too long to be called a dagger-and they came at him.

He saw the sword’s tip coming and leaped away from the blow, directly at the man with the cudgel. He felt the club glance off his left shoulder-but that didn’t stop him from ramming the man in the stomach. At the same time, he got a hand around the man’s wrist and twisted, feeling the crunch of bones as they went down in a heap together.

The cudgel came out of the man’s suddenly limp hand, and Cathan grabbed it up without a moment’s pause, twisted halfway to his feet, and brought the weapon around to parry another stab. He spun and blocked another blow before swinging back, feinting, then diverting his blow and slamming the club into the man’s cheek. The sword clattered down. The man dropped to his knees and swayed a moment before sprawling face-down on the ground.

The other one was getting up again, the mouth below the mask drawn back in a snarl, a bit of blood on the lip. Cathan kicked him in the jaw, snapping his head back and dropping him like a sack of grain. This time he didn’t get up.

Wentha was groaning, struggling to rise. He’d hit her harder than he’d meant to. “Hang on” he said to her, reaching for the dropped sword. “I’ll be with you in-”

There was a ping , and the blade leaped into the air, spinning out of his grasp. A crossbow bolt clattered away across the pavement. He blinked, then whirled, cudgel at the ready… and stopped, his eyes widening when he saw half a dozen more masked men, all of them aiming crossbows at him.

“Please drop that, Uncle,” said a voice to his right.

He turned, his jaw dropping open. It was Tancred who had spoken. He wore a gray cloak over his priestly vestments. Bare-chested Rath was with him. They both wore the same white masks. Cathan’s thoughts bounced around wildly as he regarded the brothers. His mouth tried to make words.

“Why-what are-this-”

“Do as they say,” Wentha said. “They’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

He looked back at his sister, and the cudgel fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. She stared back, her mouth a cold, hard line. As she stood up, he saw that above her mouth, tied tight about her head, was another white mask.

Wentha nodded to the crossbowmen, and one of them lowered his weapon, ran forward, and kicked the club away. Cathan barely noticed. He could only look at his sister as she stepped forward, a ghost in the mist

“You always were trouble,” she said. “You shouldn’t have followed me, Cathan.”

Cathan could only stare at his sister and the mask she wore. He felt like the world had dropped away beneath him, leaving him hanging above a yawning chasm.

“Blossom?” he asked.

The crossbowmen shifted, glancing at one another, then over at the swordsman Cathan had put down. The man groaned as Rath and Tancred helped him up, then limped forward, cradling his injured hand in the other. The side of his face, where Cathan had clouted him with the cudgel, was a purple mess, and his eye had swollen shut. The other was sharp, however, and glinted as he looked first at Cathan, then at Wentha.