Six Celestial Swords (46 page)

At some length he decided to ask their host a question, and in so doing interrupted part of a speech on why D’mitri’s role as brother of the next Priestess of the Flame was so important. He asked seriously, “Do all Phoenix Elves have red hair?”

D’mitri, who’d been gesticulating while he lectured, slowly lowered his hand and scowled with such genuine, highbred umbrage it was almost obscene. It was Song Lu all over again, only more fun because he didn’t have to tread carefully around him—at least, not too carefully.

“What if the dragons come back?” Tarfan asked, reminding the elf of his presence.

D’mitri finished glaring at Fu Ran, then said, almost as an afterthought, “We are not concerned with dragons.”

“Maybe you will be, if they come home and find out there’s been an infestation,” the dwarf grumbled.

“Why
are
the furnaces burning, by the way?” Taya finally asked.

“They are eternal flames,” the elf sighed, as if more bored now than bothered by his sister’s guests. “Cast by dragon magi. They can never go out, and anyway they help to heat the city. In case you’d forgotten, we are in a cold mountain region.”

The lady dwarf mimed his last statement behind his back, then showed him her tongue, which he utterly failed to notice.

THE TEMPLE OF Healing was an enormous structure consisting of one main level with an intermediate second story forming a balcony around it. There were at least a dozen support pillars running the length of the hall, slender columns of smooth stone.

Tristus stood beside one of them, looking down at the center of the great room, which lay several feet below, open and unobstructed with the exception of a solitary stone altar. The room was entirely constructed of gray stone with a polished, marble sheen. Orb-shaped lanterns of stained glass hung on brackets on the pillars, casting a green hue over much of the hall.

The second story mezzanine was as far as Tristus had been allowed to go. The griffin had landed on the edge of a great archway, leading into the building on the second level and shortly thereafter, Xu Liang had been whisked away by flame-haired elves in black robes, as if they’d been expecting him. Shirisae arrived just in time to convince Tristus to proceed to the mezzanine and watch from there. It had been several minutes since she left to be part of the healing ceremony. So far, the hall remained empty except for Tristus, who was beginning to worry, in spite of Shirisae’s reassurances. They didn’t really know the fire elves. But then, he had to remind himself, Xu Liang and the others hadn’t known him either.

Tristus stood close to the second floor’s railing, almost in the shadow of one of the pillars. He felt like a child who’d crept into the temple at Eristan to watch a knight receive his rank in full, religious ceremony. Though there was feasting and celebration afterward, the ritual itself was actually very lonely, consisting of the one to be knighted, no more than three clerics—two attending the one who would perform the ceremony—and long hours of silent prayer.

It was said that a Knight of Andaria never communed more closely with God than during his entrance into knighthood. Tristus could testify to that. After the donning of various symbolic robes throughout the cleric’s part in the ceremony, then being left alone to fast and to pray for a full day before receiving the sword and armor that, in his case, would one day be taken from him, he experienced two visions and heard a voice he had not before—and never again—heard the like of. A knight did not speak of his communion, and so he would never say openly that it was God’s voice, but to this day he believed within himself that it could have been none other. He had been humbled then in the sacred silence. He found the silence in this temple unnerving.

Worry was set aside for curiosity when a line of black-robed figures entered the chamber below, their crowns of flame hair hidden almost entirely by deep hoods. They approached from the south end, breaking into two rows as they reached the altar. Tristus watched almost a dozen pass before he saw the pair with the litter between them, which bore Xu Liang. The mystic’s colorful silk robes had been replaced with a long black garment similar to those worn by the elves, making him look paler as he lay unconscious with his hands folded upon his chest.

He looked dead. Was this a healing ceremony or a funeral?

Tristus gripped the balcony railing tighter, then slid away from the pillar for a better view as the two figures bearing Xu Liang walked the litter to the altar and transferred the mystic onto the stone bed, almost without disturbing a hair, so smooth were their actions. When they were finished, they lined up with the others, adding one to each row flanking the altar. They stood in silence, their hooded heads bowed. Were they praying?

Nothing’s happening.
Tristus bit his cheek to keep from hollering down at them and demanding to know what they were doing, or why they weren’t doing anything.

And then, two more figures entered the room from the north end. Both wore robes without hoods. Their long, flowing red hair gleamed with a curious hue in the greenish lighting. Both were women, one wearing a black feathered mask that concealed all of her face but her chin and her bright red lips. The other was Shirisae, carrying
Firestorm
. Tristus presumed that the masked elf was the clan’s priestess; Shirisae’s mother, Ahjenta. The manner in which they stopped at the head of the altar seemed to confirm it.

Shirisae knelt down, pivoting to face the priestess as she glided to a halt beside her. She bowed her head and presented
Firestorm
. The priestess took it and held it upright, tapping the butt upon the stone floor once. A small crack of thunder filled the chamber, drawing Tristus’ gaze irresistibly toward the ceiling and walls as the sound resonated deeply. When he looked down at the altar again, Shirisae had carried herself to the foot of it, and was standing with her head bowed like the others.

Another long silence filled the chamber.

And then the priestess stepped closer to the altar. Holding her slender hand above Xu Liang’s head, she spoke in a tongue Tristus had no hope of understanding. Her voice carried strong and crisp, though it did not lack the softness of her feminine grace. Recognizing prayer, even though he did not recognize the words, Tristus was inspired to bow his head. Closing his eyes, he reflexively recited his own prayer in his mind. And then, in the same tranced manner, he performed the solemn gesture of respect to God and the Angels, his hand lingering over the insignia on his breastplate as he opened his eyes again and saw the priestess stepping back from Xu Liang.

Tristus watched in awe and suspense when the priestess lifted
Firestorm
in both hands, holding the great spear above her head as if in supplication to her own god. She began speaking abbreviated phrases that were answered in humming monotone by her disciples. As she spoke,
Firestorm
began to glow. Not as it had before, but strangely different.

The bright blade did not crackle with a luminous silver light, but seemed to catch fire. Emerald flames licked the still air and spread along the weapon’s shaft, over the priestess’s unprotected hands and down her arms. The fire stopped at her elbows, looking like gauntlets of green flame.

The priestess continued her chant, oblivious to the magic blaze, her disciples answering. The rhythm of the ritual intensified, as did the green flame encompassing
Firestorm
.

A sensation of horror filled Tristus when the flames leapt down onto the priestess, engulfing her fully, then rising back up into the air, as if fueled by the body it was burning. But it wasn’t burning her. Tristus could scarcely breathe, watching her stand motionless and now quiet in the jade inferno, that was rising upward and... was it taking shape?

With a suddenness that made Tristus crouch down to avoid being blasted, the green flames shot outward in three directions. Two bands of fire spread across the chamber like great wings, and a third column lifted toward the high ceiling, curving and somehow gaining dimension as it plunged into shadows, dashing them away with its eerie radiance. The whole chamber glowed as the beaked face formed of jade flame glared down at the figures beneath it. No, it was of silver fire. The lighting in the room had cast jade upon it.

For a heart-stopping instant the Phoenix hovered in the air, still connected to the priestess who had summoned it. And then, like a hawk sighting its prey, it dove for the altar.

Tristus was too terrified to do anything but stare as the flaming bird threw itself at Xu Liang, narrowing in its rapid descent until it appeared more a shaft of fire than a bird. It shot into the mystic like a bolt of unholy lightning, seeming to drive itself directly into his heart.

It was over in an instant.

The fire died upon impact, or pulled itself entirely into the mystic’s body. The chamber darkened, and a terrible silence settled.

Unable to breathe, Tristus raised himself slowly, peaking over the banister at the altar below, expecting to see ashes where Xu Liang once had been, to find that the healing ceremony had actually been a glorified cremation. He watched the priestess lower
Firestorm
slowly, her golden eyes fixed on the motionless form still lying on the altar.

Tristus wondered now if the ceremony had been a genuine attempt to heal, but failed.

And then, slowly, the mystic’s pale hands moved. They only just lifted and fell back down upon his chest, but it seemed enough for the priestess. She spoke a single word and stepped back from the altar, then turned and left. The others fell into motion after she’d gone, including Shirisae, who presided over the careful handling of Xu Liang as he was placed back on the litter and borne away.

“What’s happening?” Tristus asked, when he finally gained the voice and courage to speak.

Shirisae looked up at him, her golden eyes seeming to smile again. She said proudly, “Ahjenta has restored him. He must sleep now, while the sacred flame runs its course.”

Tristus wasn’t aware of the tears in his eyes, until they spilled onto his cheeks. “Thank you, Shirisae.”

The Phoenix Elf smiled with her lips this time and said, “You must go to your companions and relay this news. I am sure they are eager to hear it.” Then, before he could ask it, she answered his question. “I will bring you to him after the sun has risen and you have rested some yourself. Go for now, Knight of Andaria, and know that Ahjenta has bestowed upon your friend her most sacred gift.”

FU RAN STOOD on a balcony overlooking a busy section of Vilciel’s indoor city. Behind him, the rest of the group wandered about a posh suite of rooms, finding various places to sit for only a moment at a time while they waited for Tristus. Food and drink had been brought to them, but no one could eat. The knight had been gone for hours. The sun must have been almost up outside, but the district they’d been brought too was too far in to tell. Great braziers hung from decorous outcroppings, illuminating a dragon-sized palace that was beginning to feel more like a cave, or a crypt.

A sudden stir of voice and movement rose suddenly from within the room, and Fu Ran wheeled away from the balcony, striding just into the suite before coming to an uncertain halt as he looked upon Tristus’ tired and tear-streaked features.

The knight stood with his back to the door, his moist eyes taking in everyone, breaking everyone’s heart, just before he said, “He’s...alive.”

For an instant everyone was too stunned by this news to react. And then, as if suddenly realizing what he’d just said, the knight brought one hand to his face and began to weep with relief.

Taya went to him and Fu Ran filled with such elation he couldn’t contain himself. Grinning and laughing, he scooped up the nearest body to him in a great bear hug meant for Xu Liang. Tarfan protested at once, kicking his feet and grumbling oaths through his own tears of joy.

The guards, who didn’t understand what Tristus had said before breaking into tears, but feared the worst, understood now. Smiles shattered their stone countenances, expressions that were also softened by relief.