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Catching his breath, he looked back at Beldyn, who smiled quietly within his radiance. For a moment all he could do was stare, caught by the monk’s piercing gaze, then he eased his steed aside and waved toward the city, the green roofs of its temples rising above the walls.
“Come on, then,” he said. “We have need of you.”
When they first entered the city, the crowds were so thick, they could barely get out of the gatehouse. Folk pressed in on all sides, jostling and craning to see the newcomers. Many were sick or maimed. The blind, the lame… men afflicted with palsies, women stricken by barre
When they saw the refugees for the first time, a great cheer rose from the crowd, hands rising to punch at the sky, a few throwing flowers or copper coins as Tavarre and Ossirian’s men formed a wedge and started shoving their way into the throng. A mighty shout rose from the mob’s midst, a cry that spread so fast that suddenly everyone seemed to take up all at once.
“Beldinas!” they cried. “Beldinas! Praise to the Lightbringer!”
Ilista stared in amazement as the party inched its way into Govi
Beldyn did nothing to quell her apprehensions. He hadn’t been in a city of any size in years, had lived in a crumbling monastery since he was a child. He should have blanched at the sight of so many shouting people-particularly when what they shouted was Ms name-but instead he looked about, tall in his saddle, and nodded to the swarming throngs, signing the triangle over them. Somehow, a young woman pushed through and threw herself at him, clutching at his cassock, but when Cathan moved to shove her back, Beldyn shook his head and clasped her hand in his, then gently nudged her away. She melted into the crowd again, her face glowing with joy.
They adore him, Ilista thought. Do people throng and yell for Kurnos this way?
She shook her head, shivering.
It took more than an hour at such a slow pace, but finally they reached the Pantheon, its high towers and slanted, copper roof looming at Govi
The mob filled the courtyard before the church-a plaza not as large as the Barigon in Istar but nearly so-even spilling up the long, broad stair leading to its great, dragon-carved doors. Only after those doors boomed shut behind them, shutting them inside the temple’s dim, cool halls, did the shouting fall away and the press of bodies stop. Ilista pressed her medallion to her lips, her ears ringing.
The Pantheon’s vestibule was dim and cool, the frescoes and tapestries on its walls all but lost in shadow. Clouds of pungent incense filled the air, glowing ruddy about the flames of candles. At the far end, another pair of doors gave onto the main worship hall, a vast, pillared space lit by stark shafts of light from high windows. Gold and silver gleamed all about, and though it bore little resemblance to the basilica in Istar-the hall was oblong, not round, and an altar, not a throne, stood at its head-its opulence still brought a pang of homesickness to Dista’s heart. After so long in the wilderness, she was back in the church’s embrace. It was nearly enough to make her forget she was Foripon.
Beldyn looked around, eyes shining, and nodded to himself.
Ossirian led them out of the worship hall-the priests within watching with raised eyebrows as they passed through -and down a carpeted hall to a long circular stair. Up they went, through an archway marking the entrance to the Patriarch’s Tower, past parlors and prayer rooms, up and up and still higher up, until at last they stopped before a pair of brass-bound doors, where two men in chain jacks stood watch. The guards dipped their spears to Ossirian, then stared at Beldyn as they opened up and let the group pass through. Ilista heard them whispering to each other as the doors thudded shut again.
They entered a study with a broad snowwood desk, velvet-cushioned chairs and shelves lined with dusty books. A door opened on the far end, letting out an old, haggard woman in blue vestments. Ilista watched, thinking how long it had been since she’d seen a Mishakite healer. The woman spoke softly with Lord Ossirian, shaking her head at his questions. Finally she stepped back, her face grave, and led the way into the Little Emperor’s private bedchamber.
The smeU of bloodblossom hung heavy in the room. Its heady, soothing scent told Ilista all she needed to know. The Mishakites were sparing with the precious oil, for it was both expensive and dangerous. More than one rich lord had become addicted to the smoke that came from burning it, lost in a blissful haze while the gold vanished from his coffers. If the healer was using so much, Durinen’s pain must be terrible indeed.
“He sleeps,” the old Mishakite said. “He was screaming earlier, so I eased his suffering.” She kissed her fingertips, then pressed them to the corners of her eyes to sign the goddess’s twin teardrops.
The room was well appointed, jewels glistening on its walls, silken curtains hanging across a walk to a balcony outside. Mosaics of wild animals cavorted on its ceiling. The bed was a mound of furs and cushions in its midst. Once more curtains had surrounded it, but they were gone now, torn down and cast into a corner. There was blood on them and in the bed as well. Looking at the Little Emperor, Ilista caught her breath.
Durinen was shirtless, his bare skin white and shining with sweat that soaked his graying hair as well. His proud face was smooth, unlined by pain-the bloodblossom’s work, surely-but muscles still jumped in his neck, and his fingers clutched the blankets like talons.
Worst of all, though, was the wound itself. The quarrel still lodged in his belly, surrounded by bandages that bloomed scarlet where his blood soaked through. The quarrel moved as he breathed, rocking back and forth with each exhale, and the drug’s fumes could not hide the bilious stink coming from it.
Calmly, Beldyn reached to the neck of his cassock and withdrew his medallion. He brushed his fingertips across the patriarch’s brow, then reached out and touched the bolt’s iron shaft. Durinen’s face tightened, a gurgle of pain bubbling up his throat.
“Don’t,” the healer warned, grabbing Beldyn’s wrist. “That quarrel’s the only thing keeping him from the gods.”
Beldyn regarded her, his eyes piercing, until she paled and drew back. Head bowed, he went to stand at the head of the bed and gazed down on Durinen’s face. Then, shutting his eyes, he tightened his grasp about his medallion and began to pray. His lips moved silently, and the air about him shivered then began to glow. A spasm of discomfort passed over his face, the corners of his mouth tightening as he reached out to touch Durinen’s face. A groan escaped his lips, and he swayed like a drunk man, sweat beading on his forehead and ru