Realm of Light (53 page)

“Get me a
breastplate,” Caelan said. “And a sword.”

“None of the
breastplates will fit you.”

Caelan almost
smiled. “I forgot. The sword then, and a dagger.”

Orlo hesitated.
“The army stands guard in the square to keep order. They won’t let you near
Tirhin.”

“Give me a sword.”

Orlo unbuckled his
own belt and handed it over, but when Caelan reached for it, Orlo held it fast.
“Why did you lie to me?”

“About what?”

“Groveling as a
slave all that time, letting yourself be whipped and degraded. Why? If you are
a lord—”

Caelan stared at
him, and remembered how the dream walker had addressed him. He laughed bitterly
and shook his head. “I am no lord,” he said. “For a few days I thought I might
become one, but—”

“The Penestricans
don’t lie,” Orlo said suspiciously. “Whatever else they do, they don’t lie. She
said—”

“Forget what she
said!” Caelan shouted. He wrested the sword scabbard from Orlo’s grasp and slapped
the belt around his bare waist. “I’m a fighter, nothing more.”

“I don’t believe
that.”

Caelan
concentrated on the buckle. “Believe what you like.”

“Tirhin will never
fight you,” Orlo said desperately. “Listen to me, just this once. You’ll never
reach him before the soldiers cut you down. This revenge is pointless.”

Caelan ran his
thumb inside the belt, frowning. The sword’s weight seemed wrong. He could not
get it adjusted over his hip the way he wanted. Orlo was completely mistaken
about everything, but Caelan did not intend to explain. That would take too
long, and he doubted Orlo would believe him.

“You’re getting it
wrong,” Orlo said gruffly. He brushed Cae-lan’s hands aside and rebuckled the
belt for him. He took extra care to slide the leather belt below the bandage.

Bare-chested,
Caelan gripped the hilt of the sword and half drew it, then let it slide back
into its scabbard. He felt cold and detached, yet awareness of the shifting
stamp and noise of the crowd overhead ran constantly through his mind. A
fanfare of trumpets made him jump, his heart suddenly racing.

“Why did I save
you?” Orlo muttered angrily to himself. “Why did I fret and worry over your
miserable hide? You’re going to destroy yourself.”

Not listening,
Caelan picked up a cloak lying across a stool and started for the crude wooden
steps leading out of the cellar.

“Caelan!” Orlo
called after him.

Without stopping,
Caelan glanced back.

Orlo threw him a
gladiator’s salute, his face twisted with grief. “Fight long and die well,
Giant!”

Caelan smiled and
raised his hand in farewell.

Outside, the
midday sun hung high over the city, appearing as an orb veiled in gloom. It
looked like twilight, the air murky and evil, infinitely depressing despite the
torches burning like beacons. The square looked larger by day than it had last
night. Much of the rubble had been removed from it, piled instead in tall heaps
of stone and wood at the edges. The proud statue of Kostimon on a charger lay
in broken pieces atop the rubble. On the east side of the square stood what was
left of the arena, with its yawning entrance that led down into the dungeons.
On the west side, the square opened into the Street of Triumph, a broad avenue
that had once been used for civic parades. The center of the square had been
cleared of spectators by the soldiers, who stood at attention in their ragged
cloaks and unpolished armor, holding back the motley crowd that had assembled.
More soldiers lined the avenue, their faces impassive, their hands on their weapons.
People stood huddled in nervous groups, looking pinched with cold and hunger.

A wagon rolled
along the street, and a pair of soldiers tossed loaves of bread into the crowd
to elicit noise and cheers.

Picking his way
over the rubble at the back of the crowd, Caelan wrapped his cloak close around
him to conceal his sword and merged with the people. Being in
severance,
he could see their threads of life as well as follow the furtive movements of
shadow creatures lurking in concealment. Despite the pervasive gloom, the
demons did not quite venture forth openly at midday.

Caelan looked
again at the sky, at the sun so cloaked and veiled, as though Beloth had put it
in chains. Once again Caelan felt ashamed of his own selfishness and
resentment. If he alone could stand as some kind of sentinel against the dark
god’s return, then who was he to shirk from such a task, or even to complain
about it in his heart?

The trumpets
sounded again, catching his attention. He saw the wedding party approaching on
horseback. A tawdry little open-sided pavilion had been erected in the square,
and a Vindicant priest waited there in his brown and saffron robes. Smoke from
burning incense boiled into the air, adding to the murk. Beyond the pavilion
stood a small contingent of Penestricans. Past them were more women,
dark-skinned and exotic, in garments that shimmered with power. Caelan thought
they might be Mahirans. The people of Gialta, Albain among them, stood guarded
by soldiers. Albain looked old, pale, and grim, his shoulders slumped in
defeat.

Tirhin rode into
the square to the cheers of the people. Smiling and waving, he was richly
attired in heavy velvet and a fur-trimmed cloak. The cuffs of his gauntlets
sparkled with jewels. His eyes glowed with excitement.

Caelan stared at
him, feeling the temptation to cut this man’s threads of life. How black and
snarled they were already. He could reach out like the hand of Mael herself,
and snip them. Thus would the reign of Tirhin the Usurper end in a sudden,
pathetic sprawl on the paving stones.

With a wrench,
Caelan closed off the temptation, afraid of it, afraid of the darkness that
rose inside himself. Instead he turned his gaze toward Elandra, while the man
in front of him stepped on his toes, and someone to his left elbowed closer in
an attempt to see her.

She rode a white
horse with queenly grace, gowned in pale sky blue and adorned with jewels. Her
veil had been pinned back to let the people see her face. They cheered for her
lustily, waving and shouting her name, and she waved back with somber dignity.

Blue did not suit
her. She looked pale and unwell. Shadows ringed her eyes, as though she had not
slept. Caelan watched her ride past, ducking his head at the last moment so she
could not see him. His heart twisted inside him, and it was all he could do not
to push his way forward and pull her from the saddle into his arms.

This could not be
allowed. She was his. He was hers. They belonged together. He wanted to yell
her name. He wanted to draw his sword and smite everyone who stood against
them. Most of all he wanted to wipe that evil smirk off Tirhin’s face.

Tirhin is not
your enemy,
the Magria’s voice whispered in his mind.

His heart burned,
but Caelan held his
severance
and his oath. He must not lose his temper.
He must wait, no matter what the cost. But the cost was so damned high.

The chancellors,
not as fat and sleek as they used to be, not as many in number, ringed the
pavilion as witnesses. A guard stood nearby, watching over a wooden box that
must contain Tirhin’s crown.

Waving once more
to the crowd, Tirhin took Elandra’s hand and led her into the pavilion. He
barely limped at all, and Caelan could see the potions within his body,
disguising the dark disease that riddled it. It was not the poison that had
nearly claimed Elandra, but something different, something darker and far more
foul.

Frowning, Caelan
shifted his gaze to a still figure in the crowd, a man in white healer’s robes.
In
severance,
Caelan could see a thread stretching between Agel and
Tirhin. Caelan realized that Tirhin was nothing more than a puppet for the
forces of darkness, manipulated, and probably unaware of it. Moreover, Tirhin
was dying. Caelan could see death within him, held at bay by Agel’s potions.

Pity melted away
the anger in Caelan’s heart. Tirhin might be mad, might be twisted with
ambition and selfish conceit, but he had once been someone decent, strong, and
kind. He was not worthy of hatred for the mistakes he had made. He alone was not
to blame for what had befallen Imperia.

The priest lifted
his hands and began a droning chant over Tirhin and Elandra.

A low rumble came
through the earth, growing in volume and intensity. The ground shook and
cracked. The pavilion swayed dangerously. People cried out in fear, horses
reared and shied, and some of the soldiers broke ranks. Toppled off his feet by
the heaving ground, Caelan fought to keep himself from being stepped on. A
youth fell on top of him, and Caelan rolled clear. Then the quake ended.

Stunned silence
lay over the square. The bells had even stopped ringing.

He pushed his way
clear, wincing and holding his side as he staggered to his feet. The air
smelted of dust. Slowly people picked themselves up. Some were crying. Others
prayed aloud. Sergeants bawled out orders, restoring the ranks of soldiers.

Elandra still
stood inside the pavilion with Tirhin, but the prince was gripping the hilt of
his sword and gesturing angrily as he spoke to the priest, who shook his head
in answer. The chancellors picked themselves off the ground, slapping dust from
their clothes. Fearfully, they looked at each other. One of them spoke to
Tirhin, who argued with more vehemence than before.

The earthquake was
a terrible omen for a wedding. People standing next to Caelan shook their heads
at each other.

“We ought to go,”
a man said to his wife.

“And miss the food
they’ve promised us for coming?” she retorted.

Tirhin emerged
from the pavilion and lifted his hands to the crowd. “My people, be of good
heart!” he called. His melodic baritone rang out over the square, quieting the
uneasy crowd. “There is nothing to fear. The earth is at peace again, and all—”

A terrible screech
interrupted him.

Two
shyrieas
came flying from the entrance to the dungeons. Their black wings beat the air.
Their misty, half-seen faces bared fangs of death. Fleeing, stumbling,
screaming, the crowd pushed and shoved in panic while the
shyrieas
sailed over the square, circling and shrieking.

“Close ranks!”
bawled a sergeant, and the soldiers blocked the exit into the street.

Some people went
scrambling over the piles of rubble, clawing their way out. Others milled and
jostled where they were, calling on the gods for mercy.

Caelan pushed his
way forward, trying to get through to Elandra. A boy careened into him, shoving
him into the back of a soldier, who turned with a drawn dagger and a snarl.

Caelan struck the
soldier’s chin with the heel of his hand, snapping back the soldier’s head and
knocking him sprawling. Caelan tried to jump through the break in the line, but
three other soldiers rushed him, thrusting him bodily back into the crowd.
Caelan found himself pressed on all sides by people, hemmed in and shoved back
and forth. Cursing to himself, he tried to get clear.

A dreadful,
bellowing cry came from the dungeons. It rose over the general pandemonium, and
people stopped shoving long enough to look at the entrance.

A figure appeared
there, emerging from that yawning darkness to stand between the burning
torches. “My people!” it bellowed again. “Welcome me, for I have risen!”

Uneasy silence
fell across the crowd. The soldiers turned around and stared. One of the men
dropped his dagger. Others reached for their amulets.

The soldiers
nearest the dungeons shrank back, their eyes wide with fear. Then hesitantly
one man slapped his fist against his shoulder in salute, followed by another,
then another, then another. Suddenly half the army seemed to be shouting, their
cries growing lusty and triumphant.

A ripple of sound
passed through the crowd.

“Kostimon?”

“It’s Kostimon!”

“The emperor
lives!”

Disbelief and
astonishment filled Caelan. Like so many others, he stared, forgetting
everything but the apparition before them.

A smoky mist
coiled out from the doorway, obscuring Kostimon’s feet. He stood there,
surveying them all. His face was the same as it had always been—ruthless and
imperious. He wore his embossed breastplate, a cloak of rich purple hung from
his shoulders, and a wreath of ivy leaves entwined through his white curls.

It seemed as though
a miracle had appeared in their midst. The impossible had happened. Kostimon
the Great had risen from the dead, to lead them once again.

More of the
soldiers took up the cheer, many of them pounding their spear butts on the
ground, or beating their swords against their shields, until the noise echoed
off the ruins and swallowed up all other sound. Across the square, the Lord
Commander sat upon his horse with a face like stone. He made no move, nor did
the officers with him.

Caelan glanced
across the sea of faces, seeing every expression from naked adoration to relief
to astonishment to fear. Women were weeping into their shawls. Grown men
stretched out their hands like suppliants.

“Kostimon!” they
shouted. “Kostimon!”

The mist spread
ahead of Kostimon, swirling around his sturdy legs and gliding among the
kneeling soldiers. The
shyrieas
flew back to land on the carved lintel
over the doorway. Folding their wings, the creatures glared at the transfixed
crowd. More demons crept forth in Kostimon’s wake, small and ratlike, looking
like Legion. They peered out from behind Kostimon, blinking and hissing to each
other.

And as though
chains dropped from Caelan’s mind, he looked at the emperor with deeper
severance
and saw that Kostimon’s eyes were red, not yellow. The ivy crown
upon his head was withered and black. Faint curls of smoke came from his
nostrils with each breath.