Страница 79 из 80
Beldinas had listened to the old Knight’s arguments, his face blank behind the Miceram’s glow. Then, leaning forward on his throne, he had made his reply.
“Est Sularus Oth Mithas,” he’d said. “The Solamnic oath-My Honor is My Life. Who better to swear it than one who has already given his life?”
In the end, Holger had relented, consenting to Cathan’s admission to the Knights of the Crown, the lowest of the orders. By the time Cathan himself learned of their decision, it was far too late for him to object. Now he kept silent vigil, the dawn still hours away, unable after all this kneeling to sense anything from the knees down-not even prickling.
How long, he wondered, could a man’s feet feel asleep before they turned black and fell off? What would happen if he couldn’t walk properly when the time came? Had Huma Dragonbane limped to his dubbing?
“He used a cushion, you know.”
Cathan stiffened, his heart lurching at the sound of the pleasant, jocular voice. He turned, looking over his shoulder, and saw the man who had spoken. It was a short, corpulent monk in a white pavilion of a habit. He leaned against another cenotaph, hands folded across his vast belly, a little smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Cathan blinked, confused. He hadn’t been in Istar long, but he was certain he would remember such an odd fellow. Yet he was sure he’d never seen the man before.
“What?” he exclaimed.
The monk smiled. “You were wondering how Huma got through his vigil. He knelt on a pillow. The Knights didn’t start this bare-ground nonsense until a few hundred years later. Idiotic, if you ask me.”
“What?” Cathan managed to repeat. “Who are you?”
“Always the same question,” the monk replied, his enormous belly jiggling as he waddled closer. He looked up at the moonstone slab, sorrowful. “Lady Ilista asked the same thing. She knew me as Brother Jendle, but that’s not important-you’re the one who matters. If you’d kindly remove your tunic…”
A pudgy hand reached out, plucking at the plain gray shift Cathan had do
“Don’t you know any other words?” Jendle asked, his brow creasing. “Your tunic. I need to make sure you’re who I think you are. I have a message, and I’d hate to give it to the wrong man. On your left side, please-there should be a scar.”
When he met Brother Jendle’s eyes, he froze. They were an odd color, a golden brown dancing with silver light. There was something about them that reminded him of Beldyn, and as he looked into them his doubts faded. Swallowing, he reached up and unlaced the neck of his shirt, then pulled it up, over his head. Beneath, towards his left side, was a large patch of puckered flesh, hairless and shiny, the kind of mark burns left. It was the only sign that remained of the lightning blast that had killed him.
Jendle bent forward, squinting and grunting as he examined it, then straightened with a satisfied nod. His eyes lingered on the scar.
“How did it feel?” he asked. “To die, I mean?”
Cathan sighed. Everyone-even Beldyn-asked him that question. “Everything went dark,” he said. “Then there was a bright light, and I opened my eyes. Nothing else.”
The monk nodded, chins bunching. “Probably best, that. Now hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.”
“Wh-” Cathan started to say again. Before he could say anything more, though, the monk reached out, extending a bulbous finger to touch his scar.
The world wrenched about him. Suddenly, he was no longer in the garden, but floating above it, staring down at the trees and stones below. There, in its midst, were Brother Jendle… and him. His own body knelt before the monument, where he’d been a heartbeat ago. He tried to cry out at the sight, but no sound came from his lips.
You have no lips, he thought, staring at the fleshly form he’d left behind.
He began to rise. Soon he was gazing down at the whole Great Temple-vast and magnificent, the basilica glittering at its heart-then the entire Lordcity, its lights aglow along Lake Istar’s shore. Higher still, he floated over the other cities of the heartland: island-bound Calah, crowded Odacera across the water, Kautilya’s glowing bronze foundries. The other provinces came into view next, from the jungles of the north to Dravinaar’s southern desert. Shifting, he looked west… yes, there was Govi
He felt himself shifting away toward the sky. There were the moons, red and silver, and the constellations his father had taught him: the Book of Gilean, the Fivefold Serpent, the Platinum Dragon that was Paladine’s emblem, all laid out in their patterns across the velvety night. And there, among them, was something unusual. Something moving, streaking swiftly among the stars, flames raging around it. He squinted-or would have, if he’d had eyelids-and tried to look closer, make out its shape.
A hammer?
Yes, that was it. A great, burning hammer, flashing toward him, toward the blue ball of Kry
Then it was past, plummeting now, wreathed in fire as it dove toward Ansalon. Toward Istar.
Cathan shut his eyes, crying out, as it struck…
He snorted, his head snapping up, thunder echoing in his ears.
Cathan glanced around. He was back in the garden, before the cenotaph, but of Brother Jendle there was no sign. Above, the sky was the color of plums, heralding the sunrise-hours had passed, the silver moon set, the night gone by. A dream, he told himself. You fell asleep-on your vigil!-and dreamed of fat monks and burning hammers.
Then, why wasn’t he wearing his tunic?
Looking down, he saw it there, wadded on the ground before him. He gaped a moment, then snatched it up and dragged it over his head again.
He was still wondering when he’d taken it off when a soft cough sounded behind him. Starting, he turned to see a dark-haired youth standing down the path. Lord Holger’s squire. He looked sullen, but Cathan expected that. Loren Soth had trained since childhood for the honor he was about to earn. Half a year ago, Cathan had been a god-hating outlaw, and today he would be made a Knight.
“It’s time, sir,” the squire said.
He did not look at Cathan’s eyes; the scar was not the only mark death had left behind. In the days since, Cathan had found that few people could meet bis blank gaze for long. Even Wentha couldn’t keep from glancing away. Cathan knew it would be that way for the rest of his days, and it hurt to think of it-but it was better, he told himself, than the alternative.
He bowed his head, signing the triangle, then rose and started forward. Three steps later he stopped, staring at his feet. He could feel them fine! No pain, no numbness… not even prickling. He lifted one, shaking so it rattled in his boot.
“Sir?” Loren ventured again. “Are you well?”
Cathan flushed, lowering his foot again. “Yes. I’m fine.”
Perplexed, he followed the squire away from the cenotaph, toward the gleaming basilica. The ceremony would soon begin.
First, though, he had to speak with someone.