“Well, lad, this is the crux of it-that building, yonder, now held by Imperial troops-by men under my command-is the focus of their faith. Every fire temple in all this land, even in the great cities of Ctesiphon and Selucis, has a living flame drawn from this, the first flame of their faith. In that building is a fire that has never died, not since their great man, this Zoroaster, lit it to drive back the darkness and corruption of the world of woe.”
Dwyrin looked back across the valley, seeing the vast size of the building, the rich gleam of the marble and woods that formed the walls and floors. Monumental reliefs and carvings decorated its surfaces. The sky continued to darken and the faint roar of the fire in the cylinder could be picked out among the sound of night birds and the muttering of the troops around him.
“Why am I here, sir? The courier said you needed an expert, but I know nothing of this god or these priests. My talent is to call fire…”
“Exactly,” the Greek officer said. “Come, and I will show you what you must do.”
A great ramp of steps rose a hundred feet from the bottom floor of the building to the entrance at the base of the cylinder on the top floor. Marble panels decorated with bas-reliefs of religious acts lined the corridor. Red-cloaked guardsmen with axes and spears stood along the stairs, holding torches to illuminate them. The Greek officer led, his long legs taking two steps at a time, and Dwyrin trotted along behind him. The man seemed tireless, though Dwyrin guessed that he had been spending long days in the saddle. At the top of the stairs, there was a great vaulted archway, leading into a long arcade that stretched off to the left and to the right.
The pillars of the arcade were carved into the semblance of flames licking up from stolid bases. The round supports at the floor were further carved with figures in torment, lashed by demonic creatures with cruel faces and men without eyes. Above, at the, capitals, winged figures with beatific expressions looked down, helping the figures of men and women rise up in the draft of the fire. Dwyrin shivered. There was something odd about the air in this place. He felt a strange sense of memory crowding around him. They walked forward on floors of red-veined marble, through two more doorways, each more massive than the last, past squads of Germans and Sarmatians. The barbarians seemed nervous, and their eyes darted to the shadows as the Greek and Dwyrin passed. It was very quiet, with only the distant roar of a fire filling the air.
The hallway opened out into a vast round room, filled with a stepped platform like an amphitheater that led down to the edge of a great pit. Around the circumference, more great pillars, each thicker at the base than a tall man, rose up to support the round ceiling. That ceiling was painted with a night sky, filled with constellations and moons and planets. The stepped platforms were lined with seats, enough space for thousands to sit, facing the pit and the flame.
Behind the fire a statue rose, crouched on bended knee. Its face was the face of a dreadful king, majestic and wise. Its limbs were mighty, like the sinews of Hercules, thick with muscle. On its back it bore planets and the heavens, cast in bronze and cunningly painted. Its thews were covered with a kilt of pleated metal. Dwyrin had never seen such a gargantuan work of art.
“They worship Atlas?” His voice seemed faint and small in this place.
“No.” The Greek laughed, looking aside at him. “That is
Chrosoes, King of Kings. He does not lack ambition, I will warrant.“
Below the figure of the godlike king, in the pit lined with black-faced obsidian, a fire roared. It was white-hot and radiant, yet it did not fill the great room with a terrible heat. Dwyrin stepped forward without thinking, to the edge of the top ring of seats. The Greek officer followed him, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his cavalry saber. The pillar of fire did not touch the floor of the pit; it was suspended a dozen feet above the floor. It leapt up, unquenched, fuelless, to roar in the cylindrical opening in the top of the domed room. Rings of mirrors filled the inside of the opening, reflecting the light of the eternal flame upward out of the temple. The clouds above roiled in the draft, glowing, a sight to be seen for miles and miles.
Dwyrin felt his perception peel away, and this time he did not resist. The flame filled his sight, his entire perception, everything in the universe. In his sight, it expanded to fill the room, then the world. He was suspended at the center of a whirling maelstrom of fire. A great oblate sphere filled his sight, seemingly far away. Long tendrils of fire lurched across its surface, some licking out in long, soaring arcs that sprang away from the surface of the sphere and then plunged back into the unguessably vast surface. The thing, this sphere, this universe of light, was alive. He could feel the incredibly complex pattern of forms and energies that boiled and smoked at the center of the light.
He rushed toward it. Where before he had been consumed by fear and had felt that he would be destroyed by the attenuation, by the dissolution in something so vastly greater than himself, now he accepted it. He entered the outer shell of the burning light, feeling some etheric wind rush past him. The surface of the sphere contorted, opening before him like an unfolding lotus blossom. Something bright was inside. He rushed closer.
He snapped awake, feeling a heavy hand shaking his shoulder. Dwyrin looked around, blinking dizzily. The face of the Greek officer was close to his. “Can you make this fire die?”
“What?” Dwyrin shook his head. It was hard to hear the man; he seemed far away, his voice echoing as if he stood at the bottom of a deep well. Dwyrin realized that his ears were ringing.
“You can call fire from dead stone-I know, I was at Tauris. Can you send it back as well?”
Dwyrin stared at the man, then back at the pillar of fire, then he looked around, seeing for the first time the grim-faced guardsmen and soldiers that loitering among the pillars. He did not see a single priest. The Greek shook his shoulder again, turning Dwyrin to face him squarely.
“Can you do this thing?” The brown eyes were intent and focused. “It must be done.”
Dwyrin felt a tightness in his chest. He could feel the will of the officer beating upon him, driving him to obey. At the same time, the beauty of the infinite flower called to him, singing in his mind. Here was a thing that he had long sought but had not realized he craved like water in a desert. He stared back af the officer, only peripherally aware that the German guards were edging closer, their faces bleak and terrible. The thought that such a thing as this could die, be put forth from the world, tore at his heart. What will happen to the light?
“Can you do this thing?” The officer had a hand on either shoulder now, his eyes fixed on Dwyrin’s. “Tell me, boy. It is incredibly important.”
“What will happen?” Dwyrin had trouble speaking, but he managed. “What will happen when the fire goes out?”
“Then,” the officer said, straightening up, “the will of the priests of Ahura will die with it. We are a long way from home, MacDonald, in a hostile land, surrounded by enemies. Their faith, their priests, give them the will and focus to resist us. If we show that our power, our gods, are stronger than theirs, then many will bow down before us.
Others will lose heart. The Emperors need every advantage that can be crushed from rock and stone. This is one. Can you kill this fire?“
No! cried part of Dwyrin’s mind, grappling for control of his tongue, his voice. This fire cannot die-must not die! Should it fail, darkness will creep across the land, unleashed from the chains that Zoroaster bound it with!
“Yes,” he said, though he blinked in surprise to hear it. Other powers crept through his mind. His left shoulder burned with a cold like rotten ice. He tried to force words, his own words, out, but they did not come. “I will kill this fire.”