Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

He’d figured out, early on, that Cathan was bound for Kharolis, not Solamnia or Ergoth. The Lightbringer was well known, and would be spotted easily in civilized lands. In this rougher country, he might pass without notice. Bron and his force had arrived a little over a week ago, making camp in the mountains. From here, he’d dispatched messengers to the nearby cities-the Plainsmen were eager to please, if given gold-and telling them whom to look for.

The clatter of hooves drew steadily nearer. He held up a hand, and the crossbowmen tensed, sighting down their quarrels. Holding his breath, he waited… waited…

When the rider rounded the last bend, Bron’s hand started to jerk downward… then stopped, and stayed up as the man reined in. He was young, rangy and tan, wearing the feathers of the Que-kiri, one of the Abanasinian tribes. Panic whitened his face as he saw the crossbows aimed at him.

“Weapons up! He’s one of ours!” Bron commanded.

The knights lifted their sights away from the Plainsman. He let out a sigh of relief, but stayed where he was, eyeing the Hammer warily.

“Come here, lad,” Bron beckoned.

It took some coaxing, but the young barbarian finally got down off his horse. His hands shook as he bowed, offering Bron a jade scroll-tube.

“Message,” he said, his accent thick enough to mangle the word.

Bron took it, then turned away from the Plainsman as he pulled out the parchment inside. He read it, then read it again … and then a third rime, making sure he had it right. When he looked up again, the barbarian had skulked away-but no matter. He had what he needed. He turned to his men, and nodded firmly.

“Make ready at once,” he said. “We ride for Xak Tsaroth.”

FIRSTMONTH, 963 I.A.

The storm began the morning after the whirlwind smashed the Durro , and did not relent for thirteen days. Black clouds closed in, illuminated by flashes of crimson lightning. Thunder battered the Lordcity, a constant hammering like the din of a thousand blacksmiths. Wind tore away banners and awnings, uprooted trees, and threatened to knock the sentries off the city walls. Rain pounded down in sheets. By the end of the first day, many of Istar’s streets were veritable rivers, running a foot or more deep; its plazas became large ponds. The waters of the harbor rose so high that the piers and wharves disappeared. Hail pelted the city, stripping the leaves from gardens and smashing windows and glass domes.

Yule came and went without celebration. So did the New Year. The people of the Lordcity huddled indoors while the cellars of their homes filled with water. Although the citizens prayed for salvation, their prayers were half-hearted, for in their hearts they already believed it wouldn’t be long before the Lightbringer called on the gods. This was a final test of their faith, nothing more.

Babo dolit , they told one another.

The Kingpriest will provide.

Then, on the third day of the year, the storm stopped.

It ended so suddenly, it was hard to believe. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the clouds simply vanished, the rain ended, and the thunder gave way to the calls of night birds. The winds dropped to nothing. When the day dawned, the sky was neither black nor the strange green that had heralded the whirlwind, but sapphire blue, clear and lovely. Even the heat seemed less-still warm for early winter, surely, but not as stifling as before. It was a glorious morning.

The first people to step out of their homes gazed up at the sun-a gold coin once more. They murmured thanks to the Lightbringer, kissing their fingertips as they looked to the Temple. There was no mistaking the timing: this was the day the Kingpriest would call upon the gods. In years to come, the folk of Istar believed, they would tell their children of the storm the dark gods had sent to frighten them, and how their faith in Beldinas had saved them. The children would not understand, though-not really. They would never know evil.

Soon after sunrise, more good news came. The Games of Yule, postponed for so long by the weather, would take place today. Rockbreaker sent criers out all over the city, and before long, crowds had begun to gather at the Arena. The Barbarian would be fighting today, and the Red Minotaur, and Pheragas of Ergoth too-all the greatest gladiators in the land. By midmorning, the air was filled with the clash of steel as men and monsters dueled upon the sands. And from the Temple, voices rose in song, praising the Kingpriest in his sacred task.

It would be a day to remember.

The ceremony would not take place in the Hall of Audience, the Kingpriest declared after morning prayers. Many of the hierarchs were dismayed, disappointed even, but Beldinas remained adamant, immune to their pleas.

“This is a private rite between man and god,” he declared. “Not some pantomime for a crowd to cheer, not like one of Rockbreaker’s blood-shows. No one will be present for this solemn occasion but Paladine and myself.”

An hour after dawn, he rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais, sweeping out of the Hall. A flight of marble steps led beneath the basilica to a private chapel. This was the Kingpriest’s personal sanctuary, a room of gilded walls and silken tapestries, lit by candles of white beeswax. A mosaic of the night sky-flecked with stars, the silver moon soaring-arched above a platinum altar, on which stood an idol of Paladine, in his form as the Great Dragon.

Beldinas walked to the altar, but did not kneel. He stared at the icon, the amber eyes staring out of the wise, serpentine face. The light of his aura made them gleam. He stood there a long time, lost in thought, then glanced up at the ceiling.

“What do you think of that, Emissary?” he asked.

Quarath froze. He hadn’t even finished coming down the steps yet, and had been so quiet, he was sure the Kingpriest- his back to the entrance-couldn’t hear him. Beldinas never failed to surprise him, though, and he smiled slightly as he walked to the Kingpriest’s side. He followed the man’s gaze to the mosaic.

“It is fine work, Holiness,” he declared. “One of Pelso of Edessa’s best.”

“No” Beldinas declared. “It is terrible, Quarath. Look at it closer-do you see that star, there? It is askew. It throws off the play of the light, and spoils the whole thing. Ruins it completely.”

Quarath narrowed his eyes, trying to spot the offending tile. There was one star, at the tip of Majere’s rose, that looked a little off-kilter. Even staring at it, though, he couldn’t see anything really wrong. If there was a slight flaw it did nothing to harm the beauty of the piece. Pelso had crafted it nearly three hundred years ago, for Symeon the First. In all that time, no one had remarked on any flaw.

“I shall have it torn down at once,” the Kingpriest declared. “Find me an artisan who will craft one better.”

Quarath stared at him in shock. An ache flared in his heart at the thought of destroying such a fine work of art. And merely because of one tiny imperfection.

Still, Beldinas was the Lightbringer. His word was law- and he spoke with the god’s voice, especially after today. Quarath sighed.

“ Sifat , Holiness,” he said.

The Kingpriest bowed his head, pressing the knuckles of his clasped hands to his brow. He spoke no prayers-for what he was about to do, his own strength must be enough. Slowly, the glow from the Miceram began to brighten. It held the power of every Kingpriest who had worn it before him, and he drew it all in, adding his own. Quarath averted his eyes; it hurt too much to look directly at Beldinas now.

“Leave me. Emissary,” the Lightbringer said.