Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

Amid the bedlam and fervor, a lone man in gray, road-stained robes drew little notice. The guards-rough men with green tassels on their helms and carrying broad-headed glaives-noted a bulge beneath the man’s cloak that could only have been a sword, but they made no move to frisk him. Kharolis was a dangerous place, and most travelers went about armed-particularly in dire times such as these. More concerned with a band of Que-mun tribesmen that followed behind the lone man, they dismissed him as a pilgrim and let him pass. So Cathan MarSevrin came, unheralded and unnoticed, to the Serpentine City.

It had been a long, hard journey, first through the Khalkist mountains and across the marshes of Schalland, then into the Eastwalls. Cathan had spent most of the trip cold and tired, and hunger had left him even weaker than before. His wounded leg had healed, but his shoulder throbbed where he’d been stabbed, and it was a miracle the cut hadn’t festered. Every time he moved his arm, lances of pain drove deep into his spine.

Still, that wasn’t the worst. The hardest part of the journey had been the memories. Not an hour went by when he didn’t see Tithian’s face, pale and red-lipped, staring at him as his life slipped away. He’d killed the one man left in the world he truly cared for, who had been his squire, his companion, his friend.

Cathan walked a while with no destination in mind, borne along by the currents of the crowds packing Xak Tsaroth’s streets. After so long on the road, the city smells-unwashed bodies, roasting meat, nameless ordure-battered his senses. A young plainsman in beads and buckskins jostled him, looking for a fight; moments later, an older man with an embroidered coat and oiled hair gave him a belligerent shove. Both backed off when he opened his robes to reveal Ebonbane’s hilt. Every place had its bullies who lost interest in prey that fought back.

Finally, he reached the lake’s edge, where jetties poked like fingers out toward the far shore. Fish dead from the heat floated on the surface, adding to the general stink. Putting a hand to his brow, Cathan leaned against a railing of green stone and stared out across the water at the looming temples. This was the Lightbringer’s birthplace. The priesthood had wanted little to do with him when he was a mere, unordained orphan who could heal the sick with his touch; they cast him out as a heretic, forcing him and his disciples to live in a secluded abbey somewhere in the mountains to the north, where Ilista had found him years later.

Now a huge statue of milk-white stone, some fifty feet high, stood before the church of Paladine. It was not of the god, but of the Lightbringer, as people imagined him: beautiful and benevolent, not prematurely old and frightened. Cathan shivered under the icon’s beatific smile. He couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, Beldinas could see him through the statue’s blank stone eyes.

Subconsciously, as he had countless times over his weeks-long trek, he shifted his good hand to touch his pack. Even through the well-worn leather, the shape of the Peripas was reassuring. He tried not to think of the spellbook.

“Well,” he murmured to himself, “I made it this far. What now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Cathan started, his hand shifting to his sword as he turned to face a short, obscenely fat monk. The man was silver-haired, with a red, cherubic face. His white robes-which, given his girth could have sheltered a small family-were shocking against the smoke-blackened sky to the west. His eyes twinkled with light, though the sun was behind him and the moons had not yet risen.

Cathan stared, remembering. He’d seen this man once before, a lifetime ago. That had been in the Garden of Martyrs, on the eve of his dubbing-the first time he’d experienced the vision of the burning mountain. This monk bad been with him at the time. He struggled for the man’s name then found it.

“Brother Jendle…?”

The monk chuckled heartily. “That would be one of my names, yes. Lady Ilista always used it. Speaking of which, she sends her regards. We knew you’d make it to this place, Twice-Born.”

At once, all doubt left Cathan’s mind. This must be Paladine, the god taken mortal form. Funny, he looked nothing like the images men made of him-either a wise and gentle old man, or a warrior grim and fierce-but still there seemed no doubt Cathan could feel the divine power surging in this unlikely form. Reflexively, he began to lower himself to his knees.

“Don’t you dare!” said Jendle, his jowls quivering. “No groveling here. Someone might see.”

Cathan blinked, then nodded. “Forgive me.”

“And quit apologizing. Come on, old fellow-we must talk, but somewhere discreet.” Reaching out a pudgy hand, he took hold of Cathan’s elbow. His grip was deceptively strong. “As it happens, I know just the place.”

For one of his girth, Brother Jendle moved with remarkable alacrity. It was all Cathan could do to keep up as the monk waddled down Xak Tsaroth’s green-paved streets. The crowds parted before Jendle like gossamer, but jostled and bumped Cathan, jolting his wounded arm. Now and then, he cast a furtive glance behind, looking for signs of the town guard-or the Divine Hammer. There were probably a handful of knights stationed here, to accompany the Kingpriest’s legate to the elders’ court. But he saw no guards or knights among the shouting, arguing throngs. No one paid them any undue attention.

They were passing a fountain where jade dolphins frolicked amid the spray when the monk caught him looking over his shoulder. White eyebrows rose. “What’s the matter?” Jendle asked. “You act like somebody’s following us.”

Cathan reddened. “Just nervous,” he muttered.

“Oh?” Jendle replied, his eyes twinkling. “You might have cause. Look over there.”

The monk nodded to his right. Cathan looked-and saw him right away: a grubby, scrawny boy of maybe ten summers. He regarded Cathan with narrow eyes, then quickly paled and darted away into the crowd. Jendle’s hand caught Cathan’s wrist, stopping him from any thoughts of pursuit

“Don’t bother,” the monk said. “You’d never catch him, and you’d just draw more attention.”

Cathan muttered a curse.

“He’s been shadowing you since you first walked through the gates,” Jendle noted dryly. “Probably a spy for the city elders. They’ve learned to make good use of their urchins, ever since one of them grew up to be Kingpriest.”

Then he was off again, and Cathan had to hurry to keep up. The elders would learn he was here, soon enough. The gods knew what would happen then.

“Nothing will happen-not right away, anyway,” said Jendle. “Relax, Twice-Born-you’re safe for the nonce. Now keep up, will you?”

They moved farther away from the lake, into Xak Tsaroth’s southern quarter, the Old City. At last the crowds thinned. The buildings here were crumbling and run-down, and some showed scorch marks and missed their roofs. There wasn’t a single unbroken window. Rubbish littered the streets and faded graffiti covered the walls. Cathan was startled to see that what was scrawled there was far from the profanity and lewdness youths wrote on buildings in other places. It wasn’t even in the vulgar tongue. Pilofiro , it said, and Beldinas Babo Sod . A few triangles and crude falcons and hammers accompanied the words.

“Worshipers of the gray gods once dwelt here,” the fat monk explained. “The church drove them out… the ones that were lucky, anyway. They say this place is cursed now, so hardly anyone comes to this part of the city any more. Ah, here we are.”

He stopped so abruptly Cathan nearly piled into him. Brother Jendle pointed to a low, square building with pointed turrets and a curving flight of steps leading to its entrance. The pillars had raptor’s claws for capitals, and above the door, etched into the marble, was a relief that had been mostly chipped away. It had been a griffin, rampant and roaring; Cathan could still pick out a wing, the tip of a beak, and a leonine foot