Realm Of Light Part 50

"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.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

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 a.s.sembled. More soldiers lined the avenue, their faces impa.s.sive, 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, 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. 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 G.o.d'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 l.u.s.tily, 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. the Magria's voice whispered in his mind.

His heart burned, but Caelan held his severance severance and his oath. He must not lose his temper. He must wait, no matter what the cost. But the cost was so d.a.m.ned high. and his oath. He must not lose his temper. He must wait, no matter what the cost. But the cost was so d.a.m.ned 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, 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. 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 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 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 shyrieas sailed over the square, circling and shrieking. 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 G.o.ds 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 l.u.s.ty and triumphant.

A ripple of sound pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.ts 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 st.u.r.dy legs and gliding among the kneeling soldiers. The shyrieas 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. 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 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. 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.

Fear struck deep within Caelan. This was not the emperor. This was no man who stood before them. He saw no threads of life, but instead a terrible dark aura surrounding Kostimon's form, an aura that flashed and crawled with miniature streaks of lightning. At his side, Kostimon held a sword with a blade of black metal. Evil swirled across the blade in a constantly shifting pattern of death and destruction. Horror spread through Caelan, and he did not want to believe his own eyes.

"Kostimon!" he shouted with all his might.

The figure did not react. Kostimon's terrible eyes swept the crowd again, and a slow smile spread across his face. He lifted one hand to the crowd, and fresh cheering broke out.

Caelan could no longer doubt the truth. This creature might wear Kostimon's exterior form, but the emperor did not live behind those dreadful eyes. What had Kostimon done, in his last moments of life? Had he tried to bargain yet again with the shadow G.o.d? Had he given his body to Beloth, thinking he could yet achieve immortality? Instead, Kostimon had only provided Beloth with the final means of stepping into the world from the realm of shadow. The last chains had been broken, and Beloth stood free while these poor fools cheered.

"Beloth!" Caelan shouted, and this time the creature heard his voice among the others.

Turning his head, Beloth looked right at Caelan. His red eyes glowed, and the false smile faded from his face. Beloth started walking across the square, coming straight toward Caelan.

The people surrounding Caelan cried out. Some of them surged forward with outstretched hands. Others drew back, trying to flee.

"No!" Tirhin shouted. Unexpectedly he came rushing out from the pavilion. His face was contorted with rage. "You are dead, Kostimon!" he shouted at the thing that resembled his father. "You are dead! Foul thing, go back to the grave where you belong!"

Beloth's attention swung back to the prince, and he laughed. The sound boomed loudly enough to drown out the cheering, which faltered and died.

But when he spoke it was with Kostimon's familiar voice, sounding both amused and contemptuous. "My son, am I spoiling your day of triumph?"

"d.a.m.n you!" Limping now as he crossed the square, Tirhin struggled to draw his sword. But something seemed to be wrong with the scabbard, and he was unable to draw the weapon. "You are dead. You cannot live forever. You will not not return. I forbid it." return. I forbid it."

"But I have returned."

"No! I'll see you driven back to h.e.l.l where you belong!"

Kostimon/Beloth raised his black sword, but Tirhin still could not draw his sword.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught Caelan's attention. He saw Elandra emerging from the pavilion with a sleeve knife in her hand.

Alarm filled Caelan. He knocked people flying, clearing a path for himself, and shoved past the soldiers into the cleared s.p.a.ce. "Elandra, stay back!" he called in warning. "It's not Kostimon."

Her eyes flashed to him, and she stopped in her tracks. She stared at him, her face disbelieving at first, then filling with fierce joy. "Caelan!" she cried out. "You're alive."

Tirhin whirled around so fast he almost lost his balance. He stared at Caelan with bulging eyes. "Impossible," he breathed.

"You're dead. My father is dead." Flinging his hands to the dark heavens, he shouted, "I deny this! Both of you, go back to your graves!"

Ignoring him, Elandra came running in Caelan's direction, her face aglow.

Beloth looked at her and shouted. His words were incomprehensible, but fire burst in the air and fell in a shower of sparks. People screamed and shoved backward. Even Tirhin cried out and cringed from the flying sparks.

"Agel!" he shouted. "Send the Vindicants over here. They must work a spell and stop this-"

Beloth strode past Tirhin, brushing him aside as though he did not exist. The G.o.d aimed straight for Elandra.

"Elandra!" he shouted. "Empress of mortals, bow to me in acclaim."

Caelan reached her first and stepped between her and the G.o.d. Elandra clutched Caelan's cloak, breathing hard, her eyes full of emotion. "Is it true?" she asked, drinking him in. "You live? You are not spirit?"

His hand closed over hers, and he brushed her lips swiftly with his. "I live," he said. "Tirhin lied to you."

Her eyes grew steely, and she glanced at Tirhin as though she meant to hurl her knife at his chest. But Beloth was almost upon them, and neither of them could afford to ignore him.

"Elandra!" he bellowed. "Bow to me now!"

Elandra's face turned white with fear. "The vision," she said fearfully. "It knows my name. I cannot resist-"

Caelan gripped her arm hard. "Don't bow to it. Don't bow!"

She twisted, arching back as though struck, and screamed. The knife dropped from her fingers.

"Leave her alone!" Tirhin shouted. He whirled and came running at Beloth's back, an upraised dagger in his hand, his useless sword swinging at his side.

Just as Tirhin reached him, Beloth turned and swung the black sword. It hit Tirhin at the base of his neck and cleaved him from shoulder to hip. Blood spurted in the air, and both halves of the prince crumpled to the ground.

People in the crowd screamed. On the other side of the square, Albain roared terrible curses and drew his sword, as did the Gialtan warlords. The Lord Commander snapped out orders, but the soldiers were in disorder, breaking ranks, refusing to listen.

Beloth roared and blew flames in a circle around the square. Men and women turned into sudden blazing torches, spinning in their death agony as they screamed and fell.