Fistandantilus paused, considering this. “Because I’m so cruel and capricious, I suppose.”
He fell silent, watching Cathan, who sighed. “All right, fine. Why did you want me to save them? I’d think you’d be happy if Beldinas died.”
“Oh, no. If the Kingpriest’s death was something I desired, I’d have taken care of that myself, long ago. Believe me, there have been enough chances. No, Twice-Born, he is much more interesting to me alive… and what better way to get you back into his esteem than to have you save him?”
“Then this was a way to get me to go back to Istar,” Cathan said. “It was you who summoned the worm, wasn’t it…?”
The wizard shook his head. “I told you, that was only a happy circumstance … though I could have summoned the real Catyrpelio if it came to that. I will confess I was the one who told Varen about this place, though. Poor fool. He never knew. But then, the puppet is seldom aware of who is working his strings, isn’t he?”
“And if I don’t go back to Istar?” Cathan asked.
Black-robed shoulders shrugged. “I never said that was my aim. You did. Perhaps I don’t want you to go to Istar, but want you to think I do. Or perhaps, it’s the other way around. Can you really know for sure?”
Cathan muttered a foul word as the wizard laughed.
“Ease your temper, my friend,” he said, leaning close. The cold became intense, almost unbearable, making Cathan’s teeth chatter. “I am done with you … for now. We will meet again, but until then, do as you will. And don’t worry about the hammer. Your dreams will become clear in time.”
The shadows swelled, and with a sound like a dying breath, the Dark One was gone. The candles his darkness had snuffed sprang back to flickering life … and at the bathhouse’s door, the guards got up, dazed, glanced around in confusion, then grabbed their halberds and took up their posts once more. As Fistandantilus had promised, they didn’t seem aware that anything was amiss.
Cathan couldn’t help but shudder. What did the Dark One want? He lay awake in the candle glow for the rest of the night, wondering.
The next morning, as the processional was making ready to depart, one of the high priests came out of the glass-walled manor and motioned to the MarSevrins. Cathan looked up from sharpening his sword and saw Wentha go to speak with the man, a short, pale fellow with a black beard that hung to his belt, then look back at him and nod.
“He wants to see you,” she said. “Before we go. Rath too.”
Cathan glanced over at his nephews, who were looking at him and their mother. Rath moved stiffly, and the bruises the worm had given him showed purple on his brown skin. Cathan was sure, from the way he winced when he shifted his weight, that he’d cracked at least two ribs, but Rath refused to complain. Tancred leaned over and spoke a few words in his brother’s ear, and Rath looked for a moment like he might argue, finally raising his eyebrows and giving a resigned nod.
The long-bearded priest had moved on and was speaking with several of the knights now. One by one, they walked toward the manor. Each was bloody or battered from the fight with the worm. Seeing them, Cathan understood. It was the same as always-the Lightbringer calling the sick and wounded to him to feel his healing touch. He glanced at Wentha, who nodded.
“Go on,” she said. “You’ll need your strength for the journey.”
Sighing, Cathan fell in beside Rath. His crippled leg burned with each halting step. Seemingly from out of nowhere, Tithian-who had his sword-arm in a sling-hurried up and offered his shoulder. Cathan took it, too pained to be proud.
“He still does this?” he asked.
“Whenever he finds the need,” Tithian replied. “The ailing come to him, at the Temple and when he travels beyond its walls. He doesn’t rest until they’re all cured.”
Cathan nodded. He’d seen it often enough, first in Luciel when Beldinas was still Brother Beldyn, then later in Govinna, the Lordcity, and all across the empire. Thanks to the Lightbringer’s powers, thousands lived who otherwise would have died.
It was bright in the manor. The injured knights-there were a dozen, besides Tithian-stood facing the Kingpriest, their shadows huge against the far wall. Beldinas cast no shadow of his own, surrounded as he was by his own lambency. Behind him, the glass wall blazed with the color of sunrise. Within, the shapes of the bodies that had been trapped there remained. Cathan stared at them as, one by one, the injured knights knelt before the Kingpriest.
Beldinas signed the triangle. “Bogudo, usas farnas,” he declared. Arise, children of the god.
With a rattle of armor, they obeyed. Cathan watched from the back of the crowd, saw the fervor on the faces of the young knights-knights who had been only boys when he left the Lordcity. They adored him with the same zeal he’d once felt, and he knew he would never feel it again. It made him feel old.
“Sir Bron,” spoke the Lightbringer. “Come forward, and receive my blessing.”
One knight close to Tithian stepped forward, his chin lifting as his fellows cast him envious glances. Like the Grand Marshal’s, his arm was in a sling, and he favored his left leg as well. A large, scab-encrusted gash ran down his face, from the middle of his forehead down his nose and around his cheek to his jaw. He squinted as he neared the Kingpriest, knelt down, then drew his sword and laid it at the glowing figure’s feet.
“Cilenfo, Pilofiro,” he spoke. “Mas sobolo tarn fat.”
Healer, Lightbringer. My life is thine.
Inside the aura, Beldinas smiled-or so it seemed, for all the light. He spread his hands over the young knight, who bowed his head so he could rest them upon his pate. Beldinas gazed down at him and drew a breath.
“Palado,” he intoned, “ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis biram cailud, e tas oram nomass lud bipum. Sifat.”
Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this man, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.
Cathan found himself mouthing the words as the Kingpriest spoke them; having heard them hundreds-maybe thousands-of times before, they burned bright in his memory. He knew this ritual, and counted the beats of his heart… one, two, three, four, five… before the god answered Beldinas’s prayer.
The silver light flared. It flowed down his arms like water, rippling over Sir Bron. The young knight stiffened when it first touched him … it was always shocking, the first time… then relaxed again. Bron vanished, swallowed by the Lightbringer’s power, shimmering music filling the air. All around the room, the knights brought their hands to their lips, kissing their knuckles in reverence, a new gesture Cathan had never seen before.
The light blazed around Bron for half a minute… then it brightened, and Cathan was just about to look away when Bron let out a rapturous sigh, a sound of release. The light drained away, raining down in droplets that vanished into the floor. Beldinas lifted his hands from the knight’s head.
The gash on Bron’s face was now a faint crease, now a white line, now gone, leaving smooth skin behind. Blinking, Bron shrugged off his sling and flexed his arm. When it gave him no pain, he smiled a large-toothed, horsey smile. The injury to his leg had disappeared.as well. He looked up at the Kingpriest with love in his eyes. Then, without a sound, his eyes drooped closed and he pitched forward.
Several of the more callow knights gasped as Bron collapsed, but the older ones, who had seen Beldinas heal before, only nodded. Two of them, apparently unharmed, moved in quickly, lifting up Bron’s limp form and bearing it away. They left the sword at the Kingpriest’s feet, easing the unconscious knight down on the floor. The life-giving sleep would last a few hours, brought on by the holy power that had, for a few moments, overwhelmed his body. He would wake refreshed, as if he had slumbered for a whole day, with no sign he had ever been hurt.