Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

That throne was empty now. While the rest of the court had assembled, Beldinas remained in his private antechamber. All over the Hall, anxious eyes turned toward that chambers door; the Lightbringer always meditated before coming to court, seeking wisdom to govern the empire, but today he was taking longer than usual. This wasn’t a good sign, either.

Nor was the presence in the alcove to the left of the throne. There were many such niches around the Hall, most filled with tables laden with rich food and wine, for refreshment during courtly recesses. This one, however, was different: a pool of shadow hung within, and preternatural cold emanated from the alcovel; those few who dared look directly into the place found themselves shivering as if the winds of Icereach had just clawed up their backs. Within, all but invisible in the gloom, lurked a tall, broad-shouldered shape. The man wore robes of deepest midnight, defying the shimmering silver of the clergy and the bright hues of the nobles. A deep, black hood covered his face, such that only the tip of an iron-gray beard emerged from it. No one in Istar had ever glimpsed the face of Fistandantilus, and for that the courtiers were abundantly glad.

There were many stories about the wizard called the Dark One, and how he had come to be a part of the Lightbringer’s court. The church’s official explanation, attested by Quarath himself, was that Beldinas had called him here to keep an eye on him, following the old Ismindi saying about keeping one’s enemies even closer than one’s friends. In truth, though, Fistandantilus had come voluntarily, bringing with him the means to win the war with the mages. In exchange, he had demanded a place in the Kingpriest’s innermost circle. Quarath had gone to great pains, these past eighteen years, not to make an enemy of him.

In time, a soft chime sounded, the dome echoing its ring. The courtiers straightened, folding their hands respectfully as the antechamber door snicked open for the Kingpriest.

Scores beheld Beldinas Lightbringer each day, but no one truly saw him, not any more. His holy power, already strong when he first took the throne, had grown immensely over the passing years. As it had, so did the aura of silver light that surrounded him. Once, it had been a mere shimmer that appeared whenever he invoked Paladine’s power. Now, however, it was a constant glow, one not even elven eyes could claim to fully penetrate. Those who looked upon him saw the Kingpriest through their own memories of how he had appeared in his youth: thin and austere, with long, flowing locks and eyes as blue and dangerous as glaciers. As one, the men and women who filled the Hall of Audience lowered their eyes before his heartbreaking beauty.

The whisper of Beldinas’s slippers was the only sound as he crossed to the dais. He climbed the steps slowly, then paused atop the dais and turned to face the assemblage. Within the dazzling light, ringed hands rose to form the sacred triangle, a simple benediction without words. “ Sa Pilofiro, gasiras cilmo ,” declared Quarath, bowing. The rest of the courtiers echoed the words, the dome above turning a hundred voices into one. Hail Lightbringer, lord of emperors.

Beldinas nodded. “ Sa, usas farnas ,” he intoned. Hail, children of the god . “It is good to see you here this day-all of you.”

He glanced toward Fistandantilus’s alcove. Within the shadows, which even his shining aura could not penetrate, the hooded head inclined. Satisfied, Beldinas looked back out at the court as he lowered himself onto his throne.

“You are nervous,” he said. “You have reason to be. This is a strange day, and heavy with history. But do not fear. I have seen the Weeping Lady’s purpose, and it is a good one-one that might heal wounds even I am unable to cure.”

The priests and nobles glanced at one another, confused. There was no malady the Lightbringer could not ease-no sickness or injury his touch wouldn’t lift. He had even defeated death once, in the first days of his reign. Before anyone could do more than puzzle at his meaning, however, a deep bell sounded from the gilded doors at the Hall’s far end.

Eyes throughout the room turned toward the sound, and the courtiers craned and jostled to see. The Kingpriest raised his hand, signaling to the knights who stood guard. Tapping the shafts of their halberds on the floor, they stepped aside and the doors swung soundlessly open. Silence covered the room like a shroud.

Wentha MarSevrin stood in the entrance, Lord Tithian in his gleaming mail beside her. She swept the court with her gaze, an imperious look for one who had been a poor villager in the empire’s borderlands when the Lightbringer healed her. Now, almost forty years later, she looked a queen as she stepped into the Hall.

Three men followed her and Lord Tithian as they crossed the floor. The first two walked on her left: one, darkly handsome and muscular, shirtless in the Lattakayan style; the other, fair-haired and plain, dressed in the robes of a Revered Son of Paladine. The third, walking slightly behind them on the right, wore a scholar’s robes, worn and frayed at the hems. The courtiers paid the others only passing attention; their gazes remained on the Weeping Lady as she stepped onto the mosaic before the dais. Bowing her head, she genuflected toward the throne. None missed that her knee did not quite touch the floor.

“Lady Wentha, beloved of Paladine,” Beldinas declared, his voice like golden bells. “You are welcome back to my Temple. It has been too long.”

“Holiness,” she declared without feeling. “Allow me to present my sons, Rath and Tancred.”

The two young men stepped forward, bowing. “ Pilofiro ,” they murmured together.

“Ah, yes,” said Beldinas, signing the triangle to the priest. “I know Tancred well, of course … the Patriarch of Falthana speaks highly of you. And Rath-” his gaze turned to the other, whose chest puffed out proudly “-I remember you too, though you were but seven when we met last. You have grown into a fine man.”

“Thank you, Aulforo ,” said Wentha’s sons.

Beldinas’s head turned toward the scholar. “But who is your other companion, Efisa ? You do not have a third son …?”

Wentha shook her head. “He is not of my family, sire. This is Varen, formerly of the university at Tucuri.”

The scholar shifted uncomfortably as hundreds of eyes, from all over the room, settled on him. “H-Holiness, ” he murmured.

“I have brought him here because he has a tale to tell,” Wentha continued. “One I think you will find interesting to hear.”

Beldinas studied the scholar a moment longer, then nodded.

“Very well, then, Varen. Speak, and let none interrupt until you are finished.”

The courtiers leaned forward, imperceptibly. The scholar licked his lips, the look on his face saying he wanted nothing more than for the floor to split open and swallow him up. It took Varen several tries to find his voice.

“It happened six months ago, at midsummer,” he began.

No one spoke for several minutes after Varen ended his tale. In the silence, the Hall seemed to roar with every quiet cough, every rustle of robes. Many of the elder courtiers’ mouths had dropped open, while the younger ones looked confused. Tithian stared at Varen with wide eyes. Tears coursed down Lady Wentha’s cheeks.

It was impossible to tell what the Kingpriest was thinking or feeling. The holy light obscured him, hid any sign that what the scholar had just told troubled him. He looked down from his throne, one hand stroking his chin. Rath MarSevrin glowered around the room. “Someone say something,” he muttered.

That drew scandalized looks from the courtiers. Quarath stepped forward, a dark line appearing between his brows. “Be still, boy,” he declared. “That is not how to speak in the Lightbringer’s presence.”