Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

Sir Bron’s anger was too great for tears.

“Track the Twice-Born,” he said. “He will pay for this.” Girald looked at him, wide-eyed. “But, sir… he won the trial by combat…”

“To the Abyss with the trial!” Bron raged, advancing on the younger knight. “I am your commander now, and I say Cathan MarSevrin is no true knight. He murdered your Grand Marshal. Now, track him!”

“Y-yes, sir,” Girald muttered, and hurried away, followed by his men.

Bron watched him go, then reached out and yanked his blade from Lord Tithian’s grave. The Twice-Born had tricked them. He had a day’s head start-maybe more. But the knights had horses, and they were many while he was one. Bron intended to catch up with him, sooner or later. And Cathan would pay.

TWELFTHMONTH, 962 I.A.

It was late, and the sacred chancery was quiet. One of the world’s largest libraries-smaller only than the collection in Palanthas and the underground Archives of Khrystann in Tarsis-the Great Temple’s scriptorium was a seemingly endless labyrinth of bookshelves and scroll-racks. It was said that every word ever put to parchment-or papyrus, paper, even clay tablet-in the gods’ name could be found there, as either an original, or as a copy laboriously inscribed by the Temple’s scholars. The place was so vast that a man could get horribly lost-as, indeed, some of the elder clerics did now and then. By day the library bustled with activity, with scribes and illuminators and binders and archivists all working in the sunlight that streamed through its many tall windows. At night, however, the chancery emptied, its twisting aisles and huge copy-rooms swallowed by shadow. No one in the library worked after sunset-except one man.

Brother Denubis sat alone, his head bent low over a book. Of all the Temple’s scholars, he preferred to work at night. Fewer interruptions that way-less nonsense. The clerics who came here during the day spent all their time yammering and arguing and drinking wine, Brother Denubis thought. That was all right for philosophers, but not for a copyist … certainly not one whose life’s work was so urgent.

The book before him was thick and heavy, more than two thousand pages long. He was a translator, and had spent more than forty years bringing the Peripas Mishakas into the Solamnic vulgate. It was unspeakably tedious labor, yet Denubis, a man for whom the word meticulous seemed inadequate, reveled in it. The other scribes rolled their eyes when he shuffled past them, entering the chancery as they were all leaving. He knew they called him a boring old drudge, and perhaps they were right. But he didn’t care. This was his mission, done in the gods’ name-if others didn’t grasp that, it was their problem, not his.

His pen scratched across the page almost incessantly now. When he was young, his hand had been uncertain, his Solamnic primitive. He’d redone most of the oldest pages in recent years, unsatisfied with the quality of the original work. He took few breaks, stopped only now and then to dip the stylus in his inkwell, or to push up his spectacles-an unfortunate inconvenience, the price for having worked in half-light for decades. When he finished a page-something that, counting illuminations, might occupy a whole evening or more-he would pause to reread and check his work. If he found he’d made a mistake, as was sometimes the case, he would daub the corner with red, marking it for the binders to remove the next day. Then, either way, he would sprinkle sand to dry the ink, and get himself some watered wine, perhaps some fruit and cheese. Denubis subsisted on little else.

Tonight was going well. He was setting a swift pace, each letter well formed and straight upon the paper’s ruled lines. The ink-mixers had given him good colors, too. The flourishes of crimson and violet, green and gold were all richly vibrant-almost too much so: he worried the previous page’s illuminations would look watery beside the new ones. And the translation, for a change, felt utterly effortless and natural: no odd declensions, no brow-knuckling idioms. It was the kind of night that made most scribes rejoice, but it only made Denubis nervous. It was too good to be true. Any moment now, he was bound to make some monumental error that would force him to scrap the lot. He prayed to Paladine that wouldn’t happen. On the southern slope of seventy, he knew he didn’t have many days to spare for mess-ups, and he had to get this done before his old heart finally gave out. Had to-or what had he sacrificed his life for?

His source was the Reductionist text of the Disks. Denubis, a Completist if ever there were one, had nearly wept when he heard the Kingpriest had recovered the originals, and he yearned for even a glimpse of them. But His Holiness hadn’t yielded the Peripas to the chancery, so Denubis redoubled his work. He had a job to do, and while the thought that the true Disks were just across the Temple grounds was enticing, he wasn’t about to let it distract his progress.

A bead of sweat formed, trickled, and hung on the end of his nose. Horrified, Denubis leaned back, blotting the moisture with an ink-stained sleeve. By Paladine, it was hot tonight-strangely so, for the time of year. Istar seldom truly turned cold, but it was nearly Yule, and usually the evenings evidenced a bit of chill to them. This year, however, it was as though the summer had never truly ended. If anything, the air had grown balmier, closer. He dabbed at his expansive forehead-his hairline had been in retreat since his eighteenth summer, and now had quit the field entirely-and ran a hand down his face.

His eyes went to the water clock in the corner. Two hours till dawn-till the chancery filled up with noise again and he would pack up his bag and leave. But he could get this page done, surely. He reached for the inkwell, the nib of his pen disappearing into its black depths-and stopped, his brow furrowing.

Odd. He’d heard a footstep.

Denubis’s eyesight was nearly gone-the younger scribes sniggered that a dragon could perch on his nose, and he’d only know by the smell of brimstone-but his hearing remained sharp. Years spent alone in silence had honed it to the point where he could make out a whispered word halfway across the library. He set his pen down, and twisted around in his seat. Somewhere behind him, he’d heard the whisper of robes. He squinted, peering into the shadows, but couldn’t see a thing. “Is someone there? ” he croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Brother Morr, are you having trouble sleeping again?”

He heard the sound again, even closer than before. His mouth going dry, he squeaked his chair back and rose from his desk. He lifted a silver candlestick, almost wholly encased in melted wax. He had no illusions of being able to defend himself, but its heft still felt comforting in his grasp. The glow spread into the gloom, and suddenly there was something there. He pushed up his spectacles, trying to make out the fuzzy, dark shape in the shadows.

“Hello?” he asked, shivering. When had it gotten so cold?

“Denubis,” whispered the shape.

The scribe blinked. “Who are you?”

“You should know,” said the shadow. “How many men in the Temple wear black, Brother?”

Riddles had never really interested Denubis. He shook his head. “Only one,” he answered, wondering what kind of trick-

— and then he realized there was only one who dressed in black. His mouth went dry, and he jumped back. The candle’s flame went out, drenching the room in shadow. He lost sight of the dark figure … of the wizard, he thought with a shudder… but he could still feel a stab of cold amid the room’s heat. The cold drew close, and his feet moved without command, propelling him back until he struck a bookshelf with a thud. Several tomes tumbled from the stacks, splaying on the floor. He winced with their pain as he heard the bindings crack.