What was worse, the riders had hurt them badly. Looking along the wall, Tavarre saw men lying on the catwalk, some writhing and moaning, others ominously still. By his count, a hundred of his men had caught an arrow, and surely half of those were dead. His gaze settled once more on Vedro, sprawled at his feet, wheezing wetly. His men had killed more Scatas than they’d lost, but the Kingpriest’s soldiers could afford to lose such numbers. The rebels didn’t have them to spare. The next time the Scatas attacked, they would come in greater numbers. Far greater numbers.

Sighing, Tavare looked back across the city, toward the Pantheon. “Damn it, MarSevrin,” he muttered. “Where are you?”

I’m dead, Cathan thought.

He’d woken lying on bare stone, surrounded by silence, his nostrils thick with the spicy smell of the dead. After several faltering tries, he’d convinced his eyes to open… and looked into Paladine’s black-bearded face, glowering down on him from above. Though he knew it was only a painting, he cringed, remembering how often-and how recently-he’d spoken hateful words about the god.

When he thought about it, though, he realized death shouldn’t hurt so much. His flesh burned in a dozen different places where the corpses’ claws had scratched him, and a dull throb filled his skull. He’d bitten his tongue, too, and a swollen knot formed there, aching terribly. There was a sharper pain, besides, a jabbing at the small of his back. He reached down underneath him to find out what it was and pulled out a shard of skull, scraps of hairy scalp still clinging to it. He shuddered, flinging it away.

He pushed himself up, but the pain in his head stabbed harder, making him slump down. Nausea whirled in his stomach, and the darkness closed in again, flickering in the corners of his eyes. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out again, but he managed to stave off collapse, taking deep breaths of the musty air until the pain in his skull settled down to a dull roar. He sat up again, slower this time, and looked around, wondering how long he’d been unconscious. The way he felt, it had to be a good while.

He was still in the fane, lying in the same spot where the dead priests had dragged him down. Bits of the corpses he’d cut down lay strewn about him, and not far away-he had to look twice to believe it-was his sword. The torch he’d carried had long since guttered out, but the golden glow that suffused the room was plenty of light. He felt a thrill as he realized that the Miceram must still be there in the room with him.

But Beldyn wasn’t.

He struggled to his knees and cast about. The young monk was nowhere to be seen-and the other mummies, the ones he hadn’t destroyed with his blade, were gone as well. Reaching out, he snatched up his sword and heaved himself to his feet. There was no one down by the altar, though the crown still rested atop it, its rubies flashing crimson. He leaned against a statue, staring. There it was, the treasure he and Beldyn had come for-but what use was it, if he couldn’t find the Lightbringer?

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a rough voice.

Cathan yelped, then whirled, his sword rising.

The man stood a few paces from him, clad in the flowing white robes of Paladine’s clergy, and for a heartbeat he thought it was Beldyn. It wasn’t. The priest was older, around forty summers of age, his skin was dusky, and his hair was cropped short, a black stubble instead of the Lightbringer’s long, flowing locks. There was a hardness about his face, too, that was different from the otherworldly intensity of Beldyn’s eyes. On his head rested a platinum diadem, studded with winking emeralds.

“Who-who-” Cathan stammered.

The swarthy man didn’t look at him. His gaze was fixed on the Miceram.

“You see why I took it,” he said softly. “I couldn’t bear to see it on another man’s brow.”

Cathan blinked. There was something not right about the priest. The robes made it hard to tell, but he had the unsettling feeling the man’s feet weren’t touching the floor, and he was wavering a little, like smoke in a breeze. Looking closer, Cathan swore he could see through the cleric to the stone of the far wall. It came to him, with a feeling that was part excitement but mostly terror, that this was no living man, but a spectre of someone long dead.

Then he knew-the scroll. Beldyn had shown him the illumination.

“Pradian?” he asked in a quavering voice.

The first Little Emperor inclined his head toward Cathan. His eyes were pupilless, empty and white.

“Ah, good. You do know me. That will make this easier.” He turned back to the Miceram. “I still remember bringing it here, you know. I was sure, then, that I would come back to claim it. So very certain. So very wrong.”

Looking at the ghost, who was staring longingly at the Crown, Cathan felt a wave of sorrow wash over him. He knew of Pradian the Great-everyone in Taol had heard the tale of his rise and tragic doom. Cathan could see, beneath the ghost’s arm, the dark stain where the arrow had slain him, as he rode back victorious from battle. How different things would have been, but for that one errant shot!

After a moment Cathan shook his head, raising his blade.

“Where’s Beldyn? What have you done with him?”

Pradian stared. Either he didn’t notice the sword pointed at him, or he didn’t care. For a moment he said nothing, then waved a spectral hand. “Oh, him,” he said. “The guardians have him… but he is of no concern. No, young Cathan- you’re the one I’ve been waiting for.”

“Me?” Cathan blurted. He stopped, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” the ghost replied, “that you are the one I foretold, so many years ago. Not your friend, the monk.”

Cathan stiffened in shock. He followed the specter’s gaze back to the Miceram, which glittered on the altar, its rubies dancing with light. He could feel something, an undeniable pull, like a lodestone tugging at him. He looked back at Pradian and swallowed. It felt as though the crown was trying to draw him toward it.

The urge to dash down to the altar flared, almost overwhelming him. He nearly gave in to the temptation, took one step forward, but in the end he staved it off, sweat beading on his upper lip as he stared at the crown. “But,” he breathed, “that can’t be. Beldyn’s the one. Ilista saw him wearing it, and Durinen too. He opened the door.”

“No,” said Pradian. “It opened to you. As for the First Daughter and my successor… a trick, that. Easier for me to show the monk wearing the crown than to show you. They were more apt to follow that way. You were more apt to follow.”

The pull strengthened. Cathan’s whole body trembled, the hairs on his arms standing erect. It wasn’t right, he knew that. It was some kind of trick. Beldyn was the rightful King-priest, wasn’t he? And yet… if anyone knew who should claim the Miceram, wasn’t it Pradian? He had put the crown here in the first place, after all.

All at once, Cathan was no longer standing by the row of statues, but rather right before the altar itself. The marble slab gleamed coolly in the Miceram’s light, free of the dust that mantled the rest of the catacombs. The crown glittered atop it, the rubies pulsing with their own inner vibrancy.

Cathan stared at it, his lips parted. He had never wanted something so much in his life.

“Take it,” Pradian whispered gently. “Set it on your brow, and Istar is yours to rule, as it should have been mine. All who see you will bow before you-such is its power. Your enemies will surrender, your allies swear eternal fealty…”

His breath coming in quick gasps, Cathan laid down his sword, leaning it against the altar. He could see nothing now, nothing but the Miceram, and the power it could grant him. He imagined himself sitting on a golden throne as men and women from all over the empire knelt at his feet-priests, warriors, merchants and nobles all waiting to do his bidding. Everything he had ever dreamed of could be his: wealth and might. All he had to do was take the crown.