“Those days are over. By holy providence, the one who was lost has been restored to us, and a new era is at hand! With his help, we shall drive the shadows from this sacred land forever! Usas farnas, the Twice-Born is returned!” The crowd exploded into a gale of cheers as Beldinas gestured toward the foot of the steps. Cathan stood still, his face pale, as the adoration of an entire city washed over him. He had never felt anything so wonderful-or so horrifying. They were all calling his name, stamping their feet, clapping their hands. He had to respond somehow. Feeling worse than ill, he climbed the steps to stand beside the Kingpriest, in the glow of the Lightbringer’s aura.
Chapter 12
THIRDMONTH, 962 I.A.
The philosophers of old had a phrase for what Cathan felt over the next three weeks. Lombo Par: the strange feeling that one had already lived through something in a previous life. Such ideas were heretical now-the notion spirits were reborn in the world was against the church’s teachings that after death every soul went either to the Abyss or Paladine’s realm beyond the clouds. But the phrase remained.
The celebration of the Twice-Born’s return to the Lordcity lasted three days, with food and wine and festivities that made Lord Dejal’s court seem paltry by comparison. After that, however, life in Istar returned to normal, and the Lombo Par set in. The rhythms of the city, of the Temple, of the imperial court had changed little in all of Cathan’s time away. The bells above the basilica sounded every hour, with longer chimes at dawn, midday, and dusk. The courtiers still gathered in the Hall of Audience twice each day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The monks and priests still bustled about the Temple’s airy halls, just as merchants and pilgrims churned the streets outside, and the Lightbringer’s worshipers flocked in ever-greater numbers to the Barigon, chanting for him and holding candles at night. At the Hammerhall, where Tithian gave him quarters, the knights drilled and prayed and marched beneath the Grand Marshal’s watchful eye.
Much of it had the eerie feeling of familiarity, but there was a difference to it, too, and that troubled Cathan even more. He felt an outsider, apart from both the Hammer and the church in a way he hadn’t been before. In the time before his self-imposed exile, he had been at the heart of things, a part of the Lightbringer’s inner circle. Now he had no role, no true place. He spent his days practicing swordplay with the knights, riding in the hills, or walking the gardens of the Temple.
He dined in the imperial manse most nights, but Beldinas spoke little to him. Other matters, of church and of state, occupied the Kingpriest, and when he was not paying ear to these, he withdrew to meditate in private. Quarath kept the Kingpriest close, watching Cathan with a rival’s suspicion whenever they were in the same room. And Beldinas declined Cathan’s requests for a private audience, while speaking to him little at those rare times when they were together. He didn’t understand why, but the Lightbringer would speak with him when he was ready, and not before.
Sometimes, Cathan ventured out into the Lordcity’s streets. He never went far before he drew a crowd, the same sorts of open-mouthed gawkers who had driven him into hiding in the first place. They followed at a distance, staring, pointing, muttering to one another. When he went into the mudubas, the open-air wine shops-he was happily surprised to find the Mirrorgarden, one of his favorites, still open and run by the old publican’s widow. Everyone watched him drink with fascination, but no one would sit near him.
It was on his fifth sojourn in the city that he found the slave market. On this day he was out by the waterfront when he came across a string of men and women, chained together with iron rings around their necks and ankles, and shambling toward the main marketplace. Curious, he couldn’t help but draw closer, trying to ignore the uneasy expression on the guard’s face.
“What did they do?” he asked.
The man chewed on some sort of leaf for a moment, then shrugged and spat a stream of rust-colored juice in the gutter. He shifted his grip on his halberd, prodding a straggler with the weapon’s butt. “Dunno, exactly,” he said. “Heretics, I’d say. It’s all heretics these days… no more good, strong minotaur and half-ogre backs to sell. Maybe they didn’t sacrifice part of their crops, or they think the local hedge-witch can tell their fortunes. Filthy thing to believe, some scabby old hag knowing more than a proper priest.”
Cathan grunted agreement, and edged away. The guard shrugged, then muttered something to one of his comrades. He nodded at Cathan, and both of them laughed.
The slaves said nothing-nor could they, their mouths held shut by the iron masks the church called Coi Tasabas, the Heathen’s Jaws. Cathan followed them as they made their slow, shuffling way through the streets, on toward the marketplace. There, tucked in the easternmost corner of the sprawl of tents and stalls and shouting, cursing buyers and sellers, was a simple wooden platform, the same type he’d seen in Chidell. Around it stood more shackled groups of miserable-looking slaves, unshaven guards, and a handful of merchants and nobles, haggling as if over fresh fish.
He stopped where he stood, staring as a big trader dressed in furs spoke with an effete Seldjuki lord clad in bright crimson silks and a broad-brimmed hat to ward the sun off his powdered face. The pair waved their arms and shook their heads, a dance found in every market in the world. They called each other thieves, then a bag of gold falcons dropped from the lord’s pudgy hand into the slaver’s callused one. They laughed together, and the trader waved to one of his men. The guard went to a chain of young boys-none looked older than fourteen summers-and at the Seldjuki’s direction, removed a thin, dusky-skinned lad from the line and stripped the mask off his face. The lord inspected the boy, checking biceps, eyes, and teeth, then nodded in satisfaction. The trader gave him an iron key, and they clasped arms, concluding the deal.
Cathan watched the swarthy boy as the Seldjuki led him away. What fate awaited him? Toil in some venture owned by the lord? Or would he be a house-slave, catering to his masters whims? The boy moved as if still chained to his fellows, shoulders hunched and face turned down toward his bare feet. Soon both of them were gone, melting into the crowds of the marketplace.
Sighing, Cathan ran a hand down his face. Already the fur-clad slaver was speaking with another customer, an elderly matron wearing a fortunes worth of jewelry. A girl house-slave stood beside her, her face sullen and joyless.
“What’s your pleasure?” growled a scratchy voice close by. Cathan turned, saw a man with a sapphire-studded eye-patch and a cape fringed with bright green feathers. “Say, you’re that Twice-Born, aren’t you? Are you looking to buy? Want a strong arm for protection, or maybe a girl for a lonely bed? How about a gladiator? I got that old Rockbreaker at the arena could whip into shape fair enough. What do you say ab-”
The next thing Cathan knew, the eye patched man was lying flat on the ground, swearing in several languages; blood streamed from the man’s broken nose, and Cathan’s own fist hurt like the Abyss. All around the marketplace, folk stopped in mid-conversation, staring as the slaver struggled to his feet-feathers falling from his ludicrous cloak-and skulked away. The slavers and their customers edged sway from Cathan, avoiding his eyes.
He stood still, glowering at them all, then turned and hurried away, across the market and down the street He didn’t walk with any conscious destination in mind, yet his feet carried him inward along the curving boulevards toward the Temple. The guards at the side gate nodded to him, then stepped aside as he swept through into the gardens, and the imperial manse behind it.