Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(85)

As a child, Adare had marveled at the scope and the color, but now, as she dismounted from her palanquin with what seemed like half of Annur crowded about, it was the armed soldiers ringing the walls and flanking the tall doors that drew her eye and stoked her fears. Il Tornja had insisted that a thousand guardsmen accompany the odd procession from the Palace to the temple, more than twice the number of the waiting Sons of Flame, probably enough to overwhelm them if it came to an open battle. Of course, if it came to blood, there was also the mob to consider. In addition to the hundreds formally attached to the trial, thousands more had gathered—some from curiosity, others indignation—and already rumors and anger had grown ripe in the restive crowd.

A battle on the Godsway, Adare thought. Sweet ’Shael, my father’s barely cold in his tomb and already the empire is pulling apart at the seams.

If il Tornja was concerned, he didn’t show it. The kenarang sat his horse in a casual half slouch, clearly more comfortable there than he had been back in the Palace. He might have been out for a ride in the country, only there was something in his eyes Adare had not noticed before, something alert and predatory, as he surveyed the crowd.

Uinian, for his part, looked triumphant. He raised his manacled hands to the mob in a gesture of blessing or defiance. With the wrong words, he could start a riot right now. And yet, after what seemed like an eternity, he turned to enter the temple.

The inside of the Temple of Light was, if anything, more impressive than the exterior. The light flooding through those tall windows danced on the surface of vast reflecting pools, scribbling bright shapes on the walls and pillars. Worshippers had dropped coins into those pools: copper flames, silver moons, even a few golden Annurian suns from the most wealthy. Another source of revenue for Uinian, Adare thought, only now fully realizing the extent of the priest’s reach and influence, and another one we do not tax. Each of those suns could keep a soldier in armor for the better part of half a year, a soldier who might well choose to fight against the Unhewn Throne.

The Aedolians accompanying the party had ringed off a small space in the center of the temple, holding back the press of those eager to witness a death or a miracle, and it was into this space that Adare stepped along with il Tornja, the other ministers, and Uinian himself.

“Here,” the Chief Priest said, casting a defiant smile to the crowd, “I will face my Trial.”

Of course. The entire vault of the temple was a glass and crystal hymn to light—panes and facets reflecting and refracting a thousand hues—but the most striking sight of all was the enormous lens set into the ceiling directly above the nave.

Old Semptis Hodd had explained the principles of lenses to Adare when she was only a child, showing her how she could use a circle of carefully ground glass to ignite a small fire in the Palace courtyard. Adare had wanted to see how some ants would stand up to the treatment, but her tutor refused, assuring her that they would burn as readily as the grass but insisting that a princess should not sully herself with such crass pursuits. Adare was glad now that she had spared the ants, but she wished she’d paid more attention to Hodd’s lectures on lenses.

There, on the floor at the center of the nave, a square foot of stone glowed a sullen red, shivering the air above it where the lens began to focus the noon rays of the sun. The effect would not last long; the sun would peak, then start her slow descent, and the stone would cool. For about ten minutes, however, that beam of liquid light could boil water, char wood, or blacken flesh in an instant, and it was there that for centuries priests had made offerings to Intarra.

“This,” Uinian said, gesturing to the smoldering stone, “is where I will face my goddess.”

A collective gasp went through the crowd.

He can’t survive it, Adare told herself. It’s impossible.

Il Tornja looked skeptical. “It’s not a flame.”

Uinian shook his head in scorn. “This is the pure kiss of Intarra. If you doubt her power,” he continued, stripping the amice from his shoulders in one fluid motion and hurling it into the light, “observe!” The cloth caught flame in midair before landing in an ashen heap on the stone. A stir of excitement ran through the mob. Adare thought she might be sick.

“No!” she shouted, stepping forward. “The regent is right. This is not a flame. The man has demanded Trial by Flame. Let there be a flame.”

“How little the princess understands,” Uinian sneered, “of the nature of the goddess. Of the many forms she may take. When I step into her burning sight and do not burn, the world will know who is the true servant of Intarra. Your family claims descent from the goddess, but her ways are ineffable. Her favor has shifted. And without her favor, you are what? Not divinely ordained protectors, but simple tyrants!”