Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [171]
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