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“Open your eyes, child.”
Ilista knew the voice. She did as it bade.
She stood in Durinen’s study, surrounded by carnage. The Little Emperor and Lord Ossirian lay side by side like broken dolls. Before the doors, the bloody tatters that once had been the men who guarded the room, glistened red. At her feet…
She felt an awful rushing within her, like falling in a dream. The thing that lay before her was her own body, torn asunder by the shadow demon’s talons. Beldyn sat beside her, his fine robes smeared with her blood, cradling her head in his arms. He had his own medallion in his hand and was praying over her, and with sick understanding she knew that he was trying to heal her. Even if he’d still had the strength, though, it was too late. Finally, after a long moment, he slumped forward, pressing his face against her lifeless forehead, and began to sob.
She felt a wistful ache at that. She had never seen him weep before.
“Here, child,” said the voice again.
She looked up, at the bedchamber’s window. It was open now, the silver moon glowing behind it. Standing before it was Brother Jendle. The fat monk smiled at her, his eyes shining.
Turning from her own corpse, she stepped toward him, then knelt on the blood-slick floor, bowing her head. “My god,” she said. “I have tried to work thy will.”
“I know, child.” He rested a pudgy hand on her head. “It’s time for you to rest now.”
She looked up then, and sudden, joyful tears sprang to her eyes. Brother Jendle was gone, and in his place stood a great dragon, its scales gleaming like mirrors in the moonlight. Glancing around, she saw the bedchamber, too, had vanished. She was on a mountaintop now, bare stone and snow beneath the stars. There was something familiar about the scene, she thought, and then she knew. It was the same place she had seen when she tested Beldyn, months ago, when he had pulled the stars down from the sky.
“Come,” said the platinum dragon. “We have a long way to go.”
Ilista stared at the heavens a moment longer, then signed the triangle. “Farewell, Beldinas,” she whispered.
She turned again and climbed onto the dragon’s broad, glistening back. It vaulted into the air, rising up and away, toward the silver moon.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cathan shoved through the crowd outside the Pantheon, forcing people out of his way with shoulders and elbows, stepping on feet and drawing dark looks and curses. He didn’t slow, though, didn’t look back, even when he sent people sprawling. Nor did he shout, or even speak. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth the sound that came from it first would be an uncontrollable shriek.
He’d been with his sister only a quarter of an hour ago at an i
He’d been ru
I should have been there, he thought as he neared the temple steps. I swore to guard him with my life. If I’d been with him…
You’re no warrior, a cooler voice replied within his head, not like Tavarre and Ossirian are, or like Gareth was. You call yourself a protector, but you’re not. You’re just a boy playing grown men’s games.
With a snarl, he shut that voice out, dashing up the stair. The guards outside the doors lowered their spears and let him pass into the shadows of the Pantheon. His footsteps echoed loudly as he sprinted down its halls.
He found Tavarre at the foot of the stair to the Patriarch’s Tower conferring in hushed voices with a handful of the bandit leaders. They were all ashen-faced, he saw, and worse, a couple had been weeping. Cathan made for the knot of men, shoving past Vedro as the big man tried to hold him back.
“Where is he?” he demanded. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, like a harpstring tightened too far. “Is he dead?”
Tavarre looked up, surprised, as the bandits glowered at Cathan. “Who?”
“Beldyn!” Cathan pressed, waving his arms. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
The baron’s mouth twisted into a bitter knot. “No,” he said, “but he’s just about the only one.”
Cathan felt a worse dread. “What do you mean?”
Tavarre told him. Ossirian. Durinen. Ilista.
“Gods,” was all Cathan could say. “Oh, gods…”
“He’s up there with her now,” the baron said, nodding toward the stair. “He refuses to let us enter, but he has been asking for you.”
Cathan blinked. “Me?”
Tavarre laid a hand on his arm, his scarred face pinching as he fought tears. “I think you’re the closest thing he has to a friend, lad. Go to him.”
Up he went. It was a long way, and he was breathing hard when he reached the gilded doors at the top. There was a smear of blood on one door and spatters on the landing as well. The stink of it was thick in the air, and Cathan fought back his rising gorge as he stepped forward and tried the door. It was locked. He knocked instead.
“It’s me,” he said.
For a time there was no reply. He heard a something at last, the soft click of the doors’ bolt sliding back. With a soft groan, the doors swung inward, revealing the Little Emperor’s study.
Cathan took one look at the remains of the men who had died in the room, then turned and vomited on the floor. His throat was raw as he turned back, looking past the bodies by the door. There was more blood pooled around the desk. The door to Durinen’s bedchamber was open, and “light flared within. Biting his lip, Cathan stepped over the corpses and went toward the glow.
The First Daughter lay upon Durinen’s bed, her white face flecked with red, a blanket pulled up to her breast. Her hands lay folded atop the blanket, her eyes shut. It hurt terribly to see her dead, and he looked away toward the Lightbringer.
Beldyn sat on the bedside, his head in his hands. The god’s holy light still glimmered silver around him, but within it his new, snowy vestments were crimson-wet Cathan stepped toward him, his mouth opening, as he realized the blood was Dista’s. Hearing his footfalls, Beldyn looked up. His eyes were red and puffy.
“Who did this?” Cathan demanded, his face burning with rage. “Say the word, and I’ll bring you his head.”
“I nearly think you would.” Beldyn’s voice was thin, hoarse. “The one responsible is far away, and I need you here, my friend. There is something we must do, if Ilista’s death is not to be in vain.”
Cathan knelt, the marble floor hard beneath him. “Name it.”
The Lightbringer nodded, then lifted something from the cushions beside him-a scroll, spattered with blood like everything else. He ran his hands over it for a moment, then unfurled it, looking up at Cathan.
“What do you know of the Miceram?” he asked.
The red moon was high and half-full over Istar, washing the city with sanguine light. Midnight had come and gone, and while the Great Temple was never entirely still-there were always Knights on patrol and acolytes tending the gardens-it was as quiet as it ever was. Most of the lights were dimmed, and the only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the warble of night birds as they flitted among the almond trees. Cords of mist drifted across the lawns and pools. Beyond, the Lordcity slumbered as well. In another hour, the fishermen would meet their boats at the wharf, and the bakers would make the day’s first bread, but for now Istar slept.