It would be a day to remember.
The ceremony would not take place in the Hall of Audience, the Kingpriest declared after morning prayers. Many of the hierarchs were dismayed, disappointed even, but Beldinas remained adamant, immune to their pleas.
“This is a private rite between man and god,” he declared. “Not some pantomime for a crowd to cheer, not like one of Rockbreaker’s blood-shows. No one will be present for this solemn occasion but Paladine and myself.”
An hour after dawn, he rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais, sweeping out of the Hall. A flight of marble steps led beneath the basilica to a private chapel. This was the Kingpriest’s personal sanctuary, a room of gilded walls and silken tapestries, lit by candles of white beeswax. A mosaic of the night sky-flecked with stars, the silver moon soaring-arched above a platinum altar, on which stood an idol of Paladine, in his form as the Great Dragon.
Beldinas walked to the altar, but did not kneel. He stared at the icon, the amber eyes staring out of the wise, serpentine face. The light of his aura made them gleam. He stood there a long time, lost in thought, then glanced up at the ceiling.
“What do you think of that, Emissary?” he asked.
Quarath froze. He hadn’t even finished coming down the steps yet, and had been so quiet, he was sure the Kingpriest- his back to the entrance-couldn’t hear him. Beldinas never failed to surprise him, though, and he smiled slightly as he walked to the Kingpriest’s side. He followed the man’s gaze to the mosaic.
“It is fine work, Holiness,” he declared. “One of Pelso of Edessa’s best.”
“No” Beldinas declared. “It is terrible, Quarath. Look at it closer-do you see that star, there? It is askew. It throws off the play of the light, and spoils the whole thing. Ruins it completely.”
Quarath narrowed his eyes, trying to spot the offending tile. There was one star, at the tip of Majere’s rose, that looked a little off-kilter. Even staring at it, though, he couldn’t see anything really wrong. If there was a slight flaw it did nothing to harm the beauty of the piece. Pelso had crafted it nearly three hundred years ago, for Symeon the First. In all that time, no one had remarked on any flaw.
“I shall have it torn down at once,” the Kingpriest declared. “Find me an artisan who will craft one better.”
Quarath stared at him in shock. An ache flared in his heart at the thought of destroying such a fine work of art. And merely because of one tiny imperfection.
Still, Beldinas was the Lightbringer. His word was law- and he spoke with the god’s voice, especially after today. Quarath sighed.
“Sifat, Holiness,” he said.
The Kingpriest bowed his head, pressing the knuckles of his clasped hands to his brow. He spoke no prayers-for what he was about to do, his own strength must be enough. Slowly, the glow from the Miceram began to brighten. It held the power of every Kingpriest who had worn it before him, and he drew it all in, adding his own. Quarath averted his eyes; it hurt too much to look directly at Beldinas now.
“Leave me. Emissary,” the Lightbringer said.
Quarath paused, angling his head. A strangeness had come over the Kingpriest’s voice-a new tension. To Quarath’s sensitive elven ears, he sounded almost afraid.
“Holiness?” he ventured. “Are you certain?”
“I must be alone,” the Kingpriest insisted. “Go.”
The odd tremor was still in his words, but Quarath bowed his head. “As you wish, Holiness ” he declared. “The god be with you.”
Beldinas nodded. “He shall. Emissary. He shall.”
Quarath turned and left. The Kingpriest’s glow vanished behind him when he shut the door to the chapel. He took a deep breath, thinking of the mosaic, then shook his head and walked up the stairs.
That was when the first tremors struck.
Denubis was so intent on his work that he scarcely noticed when the ground rumbled beneath him. He only realized something was wrong when he went to dip his pen into the inkpot and discovered it wasn’t there any more. Blinking behind his spectacles, he looked up to see the pot had moved halfway across his desk. His eyebrows shot up as he glanced around him.
The other monks were just as bewildered. Some had risen from their seats, and were bustling down the aisles of the chancery. A few had gone to the windows, and were craning their necks to see out. Denubis rolled his eyes-young pups, they were, too easily distracted from their sacred tasks-then he picked up the inkpot, put it back where it belonged, and returned to writing.
He’d written just three more words when the second temblor struck, this time violent and unmistakable. It seemed as if the ground dropped away beneath him, just for a moment, then leapt up to slam into him from below. The inkpot leapt off the desk entirely and smashed onto the floor, spattering black droplets across the tiles and his cassock. Books tumbled from the shelves, some breaking their spines, loosing storms of parchment into the air. The monks crowded in the aisles now, while some bolted for the doors, exclaiming.
“The Eyes!” someone cried. “The Eyes have fallen!”
His brow furrowed, Denubis set down his pen. He was so close to finishing his translation-only a few dozen more pages to go, a month or two more and then he could rest. But even he could see that something was very wrong. He shuffled across the room, to look out one of the smaller windows.
“Make way, make way” he grumbled, pushing through a knot of younger scribes at the casement. “What is all this nonsense about-?”
He stopped, his voice foiling him. Through the window, he could see the city outside, stretching away south toward the still-flooded harbor. Even from where he stood, the damage from the quake was obviously extensive: toppled walls and columns, yawning holes were some roofs had been, plumes of smoke and dust rising all across Istar. Worst of all, the God’s Eyes, the twin beacons that had shone above the waterfront all Denubis’s life, were gone. They had toppled over, crashing docks and ships beneath their weight. One had sparked a large fire that was consuming the storehouses along the wharf.
“Palado Calib,” the monks breathed. “What do we do?”
Denubis froze, for he too had no idea what was going on. How could he? This had nothing to do with books, with the Peripas, with-
The third quake was stronger still, lasting far longer. The ground bucked hard, and Denubis would have fallen had there not been a shelf to stagger against.
It rained books all over the library, and one monk who had been up high on a ladder fell with a scream, hitting the stone floor with a horrible crunch. Copyists, binders, and illuminators all cried out, running every direction. The chancery, an island of serenity for centuries, dissolved into noisy bedlam. Windows shattered in bursts of glass. Men shrieked, clutching at cut faces and ruined eyes. Rows of shelves collapsed against each other, crushing men beneath the lore they had dedicated their lives to preserving. Lamps crashed down from their sconces and shattered, spreading burning oil among the loose paper. Some scribes scrambled to gather up what scrolls and tomes they could; others rushed for the doors. Still others stood rooted, too amazed to move.
A wild-eyed acolyte, bleeding from a gash in his shaven pate, nearly bowled Denubis over. He clutched at the old scribe’s sleeve, his fingers like claws. “It is the gods of darkness!” he cried. “They mean to stop the Kingpriest!”
Denubis stared at the youth’s crazed, white face, unable to reply. Flames whooshed into the air as a stack of papyrus went up. The fear-maddened acolyte let go of him and dashed off, screaming that the end had come, and they were all doomed. He hadn’t gone ten paces when the ceiling gave a great crack and a golden chandelier slammed down on him from above, ending his bleating.