White stars burst in his head, and fire blossomed as her claws furrowed his chest, ripping through his armor like wet parchment. It wasn’t a death blow, although he cried out, tumbling in a heap, the wind exploding from his lungs. Sathira glided after him, cackling, talons outstretched-
And flinched, letting out a hiss of pain.
Cathan stared from where he lay, his eyes wide. She glared at him from a few feet away, her eyes aglow with loathing, but though she clearly wanted to kill him, something stopped her. He furrowed his brow, then looked down and saw what it was.
Whether her claws had done it or whether it was from the force of hitting the ground, the little leather pouch he used to hold slingstones had burst open, spilling out the pieces of the holy sign he’d smashed after Tancred died. He stared at the bits of white porcelain, fanned out upon the rooftop, then glanced up at the demon. She stared back, her green eyes blazing with hate, then turned with a hiss and swept toward Beldyn.
“No, you don’t,” Cathan said, and threw one of the pieces at her.
It struck her in the back, bouncing off as if she were solid flesh, rather than shadowstuff. Sathira gave a terrible scream, writhing in agony, and he wasted no time, pelting her with more bits of the holy sign until she fell back, crumpled in on herself, and shrank into little more than a ragged cloud of blackness with two motes of green fire suspended in its midst. All the time she shrieked curses upon him, upon Beldyn, upon Paladine himself. Cathan didn’t let up until he’d run out of pieces, and they lay scattered about her shapeless, howling form.
On the far side of the roof, Beldyn rose to his feet. He regarded Sathira for a long moment, helpless and seething, then went and picked up the Miceram. Cathan watched, holding his breath, as Beldyn turned back to the demon.
“Scugam oporud,” he spoke softly.
Demon begone.
With that, he set the Crown of Power on his head.
Sathira froze, her eyes flaring wide. A terrible shriek, the worst yet, like metal tearing a hole in the sky, erupted from her shadow mouth. Beldyn cried out too, howling in pain and ecstasy. He flung his arms out, the Miceram blazing with the fires of dawn.
And the world filled with light.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the years to come, poets wrote that the light that ended the Battle of Govinna came from the heavens, a bright, shining beam streaking down from the firmament. The poets weren’t there, though. To the bordermen and Scatas who were, the light came from atop the patriarch’s spire, rising up into the night-black sky.
Those closest saw it best, and none was closer than Cathan. He saw the Miceram flare brightly, its glow shifting from red-gold to Beldyn’s brilliant white. Then the light burst forth, engulfing monk and demon alike. Sathira let out a final tormented howl that choked off into silence, and she was gone, destroyed by the crown’s holy power, sobbing back to the deepest pits of the Abyss in burning agony.
The light did not disappear with her death, however. It burned brighter still, a lance of silver that shot up into the heavens, so high goatherds looked upon it twenty leagues away and wondered what it was. It stayed that way a long time, drawing awestruck stares from soldier and bandit alike as flares of holy power pulsed along its length. Finally, with a watery pealing sound, it burst open, spilling light across the city.
Cathan flinched as the glow swept over him, expecting it to burn the flesh from his bones, but this radiance was cool, smelling of rain and rose petals. As it bathed him, he felt it ease his mind, driving out despair, fear, rage. His pain- strong where Sathira’s claws had torn into him-faded away. Joy welled up within him, deeper than any he’d felt in his life, even at Wentha’s healing. He wanted to laugh, sing, fling up his arms and shout with bliss.
The holy power passed, spreading outward through the Pantheon and into Govinna beyond. It overtook the Kingpriest’s forces, stopping them in their tracks, stunned. It flowed from street to street, courtyard to marketplace, through windows and around statues. It leaped across the gap that split the city’s east half from its west and scoured the green roofs of Govinna’s temples, leaving shining copper in its wake. On the curtain wall and beyond, men gaped as it rushed toward them, then flung up their arms when it struck, passing by in a rush, washing over both armies like an eldritch wind.
It healed as it went, leaving the wounded stirring in its wake, exclaiming in wonder. Men who had lain dying on the ground moments before, their life-blood seeping from ghastly wounds, drew breaths suddenly devoid of pain and rose, their fevered minds calm once more. Flesh mended, bones set straight and true, severed hands and arms appeared anew where bloody stumps had dangled moments before. Even those who had been on death’s hard edge smiled as they rose to their feet, their injuries gone as if they had never existed. When it was over, only the dead remained, scattered on the stony ground, but even they seemed different. Their faces had smoothed, even those who had perished in agony, now at peace with the god.
The chanting began on the walls, among the borderfolk who had fought in Beldyn’s name, but it spread quickly, clamoring across the city and echoing from the hills. Both sides lent their voices now, joining in a chorus of joy. Never before, in all of Istar’s history, had such a cry arisen, weapons and fists punching the sky as both sides bellowed together: “Cilenfo’ Pilofiro! Babo Sod!”
The Healer! The Lighibringer! The True Kingpriest!
The next day, as the turquoise sky dimmed in the east, the plaza outside the Pantheon filled once more. This time, however, it wasn’t only the folk of Govinna who crowded there. Alongside them, blue cloaks flapping in the evening breeze, stood the Scatas of the imperial army. Men who had sought to kill one another only scant hours before now jostled for a better view, looking toward the temple’s broad steps.
Lord Holger stood at the rear of the crowd, Loren at his side. He glanced back at his officers, arrayed behind him, and his moustache twitched with sorrow. There were breaks in their ranks, for not everyone had lived to see the holy light. Sir Utgar and other friends of Holger’s were dead. It would be hard explaining things to the dead men’s families. Holger wasn’t even sure he understood it himself yet.
Coughing into his gauntleted hand, he stood erect and started across the plaza, the other Knights marching behind. The crowd parted before him, Scatas saluting and bordermen staring as he and the others strode toward the Pantheon. Holger had expected, when he’d ordered the attack yesterday, that he would soon make this very march. At that time, he’d thought it would be to accept the rebels’ surrender. Now, however, he went for a wholly different reason. He went to make peace.
As the Knights approached the church, a second party emerged from the portico. At its head stood Tavarre of Luciel, his scarred face grave, his mail shirt tattered from the fighting. With him were the other bandit chiefs, men Holger had sworn to hunt down and destroy. Instead, the old Knight stopped on the temple’s steps, bowing deeply to his former enemy. His officers followed suit, then the bordermen repeated the gesture.
Gravely, Tavarre stepped forward, drawing his dagger from his belt. Holger held his breath, his old campaigner’s instincts sending his hand to his sword, but he held back.
This was a highland ritual, one the Taoli had performed since their barbarian days. Tavarre tugged off his left glove, set the blade to the palm so bared, and drew it swiftly across his flesh. The baron’s face twitched as blood welled out, bright red, dripping upon the steps. He sheathed the dirk again, extending his injured hand toward Holger.