Now he rose, knees popping, and walked to where it lay. Standing over it, he felt an ache inside him, like he hadn’t felt since the fane, when he’d fought off the urge to put on the crown. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to put the temptation out of his mind.
“You’ll lose without it, you know,” said a voice he recognized.
He gasped, opening his eyes as he whipped around. There, standing-or rather, floating-beside the hearth was Pradian. A knowing smile lit his face as he glided forward, the firelight, making him glow like a cloud at sunset. He made no shadow on the carpeted floor as he went to where the crown lay.
“You,” Cathan said. “Damn it, what did you do to him?”
The ghost shook his head. “That makes no difference now. You need the Miceram’s power to win the coming battle. Without it, you will die-along with everyone else who still stands against the Scatas. You don’t have the strength to hold the defense, and you know it.”
Cathan didn’t answer; he only stared at the crown, aglis-ten in the firelight. He reached out, brushing its surface with his fingertips. It was cold to the touch, but there was something else, too: a strange new sensation, like the crackling air before a summer storm. It made him jerk his hand away, and he stepped back from the pedestal.
“It’s all right, lad,” Pradian said, leaning forward. “It feels strange, I know, but you’ll get used to it. You’ll have to, if you’re going to stop the Scatas.”
“Me, stop the Scatas?” Cathan repeated, then looked at the ghost. “How?”
The spectre only smiled. “I can’t tell you. Only the crown can do that.”
Cathan swallowed, feeling the truth of the specter’s words. He reached out again, and this time nothing stopped him. The crown lifted off the pedestal easily and quickly warmed in his grasp. Cathan turned, raising it high.
“Go on,” Pradian urged, his blank eyes shining. “All you have to do is put it on.”
Cathan held still, the Miceram poised above his own head.
He took a deep breath. Then, with a slow smile, he brought it down…
… and set it on the bed beside Beldyn.
Pradian’s swarthy face had been exultant. Now it changed: “Fool!” he thundered. “The Scatas will take it back to the Lordcity and give it to the false Kingpriest who sits the throne there! Do you want that?”
“No.” Cathan smiled slyly. “Neither do you. It will be the end of your claim to the throne. You’ll have lost your war at last… unless you wake Beldyn.”
The ghost scowled. For a long moment, neither of them moved… then, slowly, Pradian nodded. “Very well,” he said, “but remember what you’re giving up, boy.”
“It was never mine in the first place.”
With one last glare, the ghost turned away, gliding to Beldyn’s bedside. His eyes lingered hungrily on the Miceram, then he bent low, his mouth seeking the Lightbringer’s. Their lips met, and light blazed, the crown’s gold and Beldyn’s silver aflame together. Cathan fell back as the light stung his eyes, throwing up his arm to block it out-and it was gone, and Pradian with it, the ghost vanished into the air.
Beldyn’s eyes flickered open.
Uttering a wordless cry, Cathan ran over and seized the monk’s wasted hand. He pressed it to his cheek, laughing and weeping at the same time. “Palado Calib” he said, and could say nothing more.
Weakly, the Lightbringer smiled. His eyes went to the crown, lying beside him. His free hand reached out, shaking, to brush its central ruby. “Site ceram biriat, abat,” he whispered, then turned to look at Cathan. “Thank you, my friend. I’ve been through a lot, but now I know how I can stop the Scatas. Help me up. Let me show you.”
Beaming, Cathan helped lift him from the bed. Beldyn was weak still, his legs trembling as he got to his feet, but he refused any help. Instead, he nodded to the Miceram, his eyes gleaming in its golden light.
“Bring that,” he said.
Cathan laughed, reaching for the crown-then stopped as a sound broke through the air, jarring him: a clarion war-horn. He listened to it, not believing, then bowed his head with a moan. He knew the call.
They were too late. The battle was beginning.
Sathira swept across the highlands, skimming over the rocky ground. It was easy to keep hidden in the night’s shadows, so she could move swiftly across the land, unimpeded by broken ground, tangled bracken or the white-frothed streams that tumbled through cuts on their way to the thundering Edessa. She flowed over them all, hissing with anticipation. She could smell the monk’s reek on the wind.
At last, she reached the crest of a tor crowned by a tall, mossy boulder. She perched atop the stone, her green eyes flaring as she beheld Govinna. There it was, sprawled on its twin precipices, sparkling with lamplight. In its midst, high-towered and copper-roofed, loomed the Pantheon. Loathing swelled within her at the sight of it. She had failed here, thwarted by the thrice-damned priestess. The pain of her banishment flashed hot in her memory.
The priestess was dead now, though. She could protect Brother Beldyn no more.
Sathira became aware, suddenly, of a commotion to the south. Born of shadows, she could see in darkness as well as day and now beheld a great dust cloud, rising beyond the city. The Kingpriest’s army, she realized, letting out a harsh, hissing laugh. The siege was about to begin. The notion that those on both sides of the coming battle were servants of Paladine-or believed themselves to be-amused her greatly. The dark gods would be pleased indeed.
She crossed the remaining miles to the city in minutes. As she expected, most of Govinna’s sentries had left its north gates, to face the approaching Scat as, hut a few still remained. She killed three of them as she streaked over the wall, barely slowing as she ripped them open with her wicked talons. Hot blood dripped from the battlements as she dove into the narrow streets, leaving the other guards to stare in horror at the tattered remains of their fellows.
Getting into the Pantheon was even easier. Searching, she found an open window and glided through it into the dark halls. Bloodlust surged within her as she slid through the church. The Lightbringer’s stench was everywhere, making it hard to tell which way to go. It was strongest in the cloisters, though, so she headed that way, her claws opening and closing eagerly.
Finally, she came to a closed door, where the stink was stronger than anywhere else. The stench came from within. These were Beldyn’s quarters. She snarled a laugh, then her eyes flashed bright green, and the door blew off its hinges. Splinters rained onto the floor as slipped into the study. Glancing around to make sure the room was empty, she swept through to the bedchamber, where the reek was strongest. She stopped, letting out a furious growl.
The monk was gone.
Frustration boiled within her as she glared around the room. The Lightbringer’s odor lingered over the bed, but no one was in the room. Furious, she streaked about, shredding tapestries and smashing the shrine to Paladine in its corner, then turned and shot back out into the study… and stopped.
She was no longer alone. A young acolyte stood in the doorway, staring at the smoldering ruins of the door. Now his gaze lifted, and the color drained from his face. He froze, his eyes wild with terror.
In an eyeblink she had him, seizing him with claws locked around his neck, pricking his flesh. She shuddered with pleasure. He twitched in her grasp, choking.
“Where is he?” she barked. “The Lightbringer! Where has he gone?”
The boy didn’t answer. She saw, in his wide, frightened eyes that he really didn’t know. She tightened her grip, her talons digging deeper, and he struggled a moment longer then fell limp, blood pouring from the savaged ruins of his throat. He crumpled to the floor when she let him go and lay twitching and bleeding in the dark.