It was cool to the touch, heavier than he’d imagined-not gilded bronze, but solid gold. He weighed it in his hands a moment, then bent forward, pressing his lips to its central ruby-a gem so precious, it could buy a lifetime of comfort. His gem. Reverently, he lifted the Miceram, raising it toward his brow-
Suddenly, he stopped. His reflection, warped by the crown’s curves, stared back at him from its golden surface. He saw his own eyes, wide and wild. There was madness in them, a crazed streak he hadn’t seen since the dark days when he’d forsaken the god, before his world had changed. Before Beldyn.
Slowly, he lowered the crown again. “No.”
He’d thought the ghost would say something, implore him to put it on. Instead, Pradian remained silent, watching him intensely. With an effort of will, Cathan tore his gaze from the crown and shook his head, stepping back.
“Beldyn asked me to come with him because he believed I was loyal,” he said. “I won’t betray him.”
Pradian stared. “You would give up an empire?”
“The empire isn’t mine to give,” Cathan replied. “Beldyn is the Lightbringer. The Miceram belongs to him. Now take me to him, and no more games.”
The white light in the specter’s eyes flared, and for a moment Cathan feared he’d chosen wrongly, that Pradian would attack him for his impudence. Instead, though, the ghost turned aside, and glided toward the wall behind the altar. Sighing, Cathan followed him.
“The true Kingpriest must have his subjects’ love,” the ghost said as they reached the wall. He turned, fixing Cathan with his colorless gaze. “Only a man who inspires such devotion is worthy of the Crown of Power. Remember this.”
Pradian was gone, so suddenly his image remained burned on Cathan’s eyelids. Before he could wonder about the apparition’s disappearance, however, a soft click came from the wall before him. He looked and saw a crack had opened in the wall, glowing golden to match the crown. Now, as he watched, it widened and lengthened until it defined a doorway. It flared brightly, and the stone within it disappeared, revealing a shadowed passage beyond.
Holding his breath, Cathan stepped through the opening. On the other side was a small chamber, hewn from the living rock. On its far end was a simple shrine to Paladine, surmounted by the platinum triangle and dozens of white candles. Spectral, white flames flickered on each taper, without consuming them. Before the shrine, a body lay in repose: Beldyn, his robes dirt-smudged and flecked with blood. His face was white, his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling slowly.
Surrounding him were the legion of dead priests.
They filled the room, dozens of them, staring down at his motionless form. Then, sensing Cathan’s presence, they turned, ancient sinews creaking. Their empty eye sockets seemed to stare right through him, utterly black. The stench of perfumed decay hung heavy in the room, half-choking him. He froze, his spine turning to ice, as he realized he’d left his sword leaning against the altar. All he had was the crown and his bare hands. If the corpses attacked him, they would rip him apart.
They did no such thing. Instead, seeing the crown in his hands, they bowed their heads and backed away, clearing a path to Beldyn.
Cathan stared at them, his nerves jangling. Cold sweat trickled down his back. Swallowing, he stepped forward, carrying the Miceram to the shrine where Beldyn lay.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tavarre huddled behind the battlements while an endless hail of arrows poured down. All around him, men screamed and fell as the shafts pierced their breasts, throats, skulls. Bodies littered the catwalk, some still moving, others not, and blood poured in runnels down the wall to the street below. Any moment, he knew, an arrow would find him- and, indeed, he was watching one shoot toward him out of the crimson sun when the nightmare tore apart and he woke, damp with sweat, to someone rapping at the door.
He sat up, reaching for the dirk he kept at his bedside. Kicking at the blankets that had tangled about his ankles, he got to his feet. The stone floor was freezing as he padded toward the door.
His first thought was the Scatas were attacking again. Whoever led the Kingpriest’s forces would guess the city couldn’t withstand a full assault. Tavarre was also well aware of that fact, as were a growing number of the men under his command-a potential morale problem there. More than just the dead and wounded had quit the wall after the battle. The desertions would only grow worse in the days to come.
When he flung the door open, he found himself looking at a young Mishakite priestess, a pretty thing of maybe eighteen summers, whose golden hair lay hidden beneath the hood of her blue robes. She gasped as he loomed before her, and he flushed as he realized he’d greeted her wearing nothing but a breechclout-to say nothing of the blade he was still flashing in his hand.
He lowered the dagger. “What is it? Have we lost more of the wounded?”
In the aftermath of the skirmish by the south gate, he’d ordered his men to bring the casualties back to the Pantheon. Now the church’s worship hall stank of death and agony as the Mishakites tended the fallen, but there was little they could do for most but give them bloodblossom oil to soothe their pain as they died. Nearly half of the gravely wounded had perished since the battle-among them Vedro, who had hung on for hours, then expired an hour before sunset, brave fellow. More deaths would surely follow, though some would linger for days before succumbing to their wounds.
The Mishakite bowed her head. “Eight more, since evensong, my lord,” she murmured, “but that isn’t why I woke you.” She lowered her eyes, signing the twin-teardrop sign of her goddess.
Tavarre frowned, then he knew, with a jolt. “It’s the Light-bringer, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, lord,” the priestess said, nodding. “He has returned. Only he…” She stopped, her sandaled feet shifting.
The hope that had kindled suddenly in his breast died just as quickly as he looked at her. She would not meet his gaze, so he reached out, cupping her chin and lifting it to make her look him in the eye. “What is it?” he demanded. “Is he… dead?”
“No, lord,” she said. “Not dead. But…”
She trailed off, and he had to fight back the urge to grab her shoulders and shake her. “Tell me!” he demanded, his voice rising to a shout. “Tell me what’s happened!”
Tears spilling from her brimming eyes, she told him.
The Miceram shimmered in the candlelight within Beldyn’s chambers, its rubies glinting with crimson fire. It sat upon a cushion, which lay on top of a pedestal in the midst of the room. Neither Cathan nor Tavarre looked at the crown, however. Instead, their gaze was fixed upon the bed beside the pedestal, where the shell of the Lightbringer lay.
Beldyn’s face was smooth, showing no signs of pain. Bruises darkened his flesh where the dead priests had seized him, and a few scratches on his arms had scabbed over, but he showed no other signs of injury, nothing that would threaten his life. The holy medallion on his breast rose and fell, rose and fell, his breathing was slow and deep, and his hands did not move. He might have been asleep, in the grasp of some pleasant dream-were it not for his eyes. They remained wide open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Though the room was dim, his pupils had shrunk to tiny points. Tears tracked down his temples, into his long, thick hair.
“I found him like this,” Cathan murmured. “I tried to make him wake up… shook him, yelled at him… even slapped him. Nothing worked, so I carried him out of there, him and the crown, and brought them here. I did the best I could.”
Tavarre stroked his beard. “You did well, lad,” he murmured.
Cathan wanted to believe so, truly did, but still he felt sick. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Beldyn should be awake, not in this strange trance. The dying men in the worship hall needed him, and so did the living. He should have walked out of the catacombs with the Miceram shining on his brow, not come slung over Cathan’s shoulder, arms and legs limp, head lolling like a dead man’s. That wasn’t part of the prophecy.