PROLOGUE

Tenthmonth, 935 I.A.

The folk of Krynn thought it was a moonless night. Silver Solinari, a slender crescent at this time of the month, set soon after sunset, and Lunitari, the red moon, would not rise until dawn. In their absence, the sky—clear this cool autumn eve, unmarred by clouds—seemed empty of all but stars.

It was not.

Most folk could not see the third moon. Unlike its bright sisters, Nuitari was black as a dragon’s heart, blending with the night. Only a few—astronomers and madmen, mostly—marked it as a hole in the sky, tracing it by the stars it blocked as it passed. Others, however, could see every crater and scar, even—though it reflected none of the sun’s light—its phase, and thus gauge its power.

A thousand years ago, dragons, monsters, and dark-hearted men had all but ruled the world, and Nuitari had shimmered with their power. That was the past, though. The dragons were gone, banished from the world, and the followers of the gods of light had hunted down those who served the shadows, beast and man alike. In all the world’s realms–crumbling Ergoth, proud Solamnia, wild Kharolis, the kingdoms of elves, dwarves, and kender–the disciples of evil were few, scattered, forced to hide if they wanted to survive.

The place of faintest shadows was the Holy Empire of Istar. The Kingpriest who ruled the empire, a man folk called Lightbringer, had commanded his people to destroy all evil in the name of the god Paladine. For more than a decade, pyres had burned beneath stakes, gibbets had groaned and creaked, and blood had caked thick on headsmen’s blocks and warriors’ swords.

Still, despite the purges, vestiges of darkness survived.

Monsters still skulked in the wildlands, and cults of evil gods worshiped in secret haunts. There were those who could not only see the black moon but could draw down its power to spin into sorcery. The Kingpriest detested these dark wizards, and so the mages who wore the Black Robes seldom ventured out into the open.

The black moon was strong tonight, not just full but close, large in the sky. Its power crackled in the crisp air, so charged that children the world over squirmed as they slept, in the throes of formless nightmares. In this night, dark sorcerers walked out in the open.

Andras crouched in the darkness, his breath coming short and quick. He was a tall man, slender and golden-haired, the sort who might have made maidens swoon had he wielded a blade or played the lute. No maidens pined for those whose tools were the staff and the scroll, though—or for those whose faces were half burnt away. The strange tightness of Andras’s ravaged flesh was a constant reminder of the sacrifices he had made to become a mage. The Test, which every wizard had to undergo in order to join the Order of High Sorcery, often left its mark. Barely a year ago, it had left the left side of his face ridged and glistening with scars as a warning against vanity. The warning had worked: not even the enchantresses who served Nuitari could look at him without wincing, so he had devoted himself all the more to the magic and his dark god.

“Boy,” rasped a voice in the gloom, “Get your head about you.”

Andras started out of his reverie, glancing to his left. Stooped beside him, small and bony beneath his ebon robes, was his master. Nusendran the Voiceless–the Test had ravaged his throat so badly he could only speak in a dry growl—was a powerful Black Robe and would one day serve on the Conclave that governed the High Sorcerers. His gray-bearded face was pinched with annoyance.

“It’s time,” Nusendran said. “Cast the spell as I taught you.”

A smile crept across Andras’s disfigured face. He had been waiting for this moment for half his twenty-four years, ever since his first lesson in magecraft. Until today; he had cast only minor spells, under his master’s supervision. Tonight, though, he would finally wield true magic. He felt the black moon’s power bathing him, hot and strong.

Eye of Night, he prayed, watch over me.

As his master watched, he delved into a small pouch at his belt and produced a wad of Yerasan gum. Rolling it into a ball, he reached up with his other hand and plucked out one of his eyelashes. He stuck this into the gum, tears running down his cheek, then squeezed it in his left hand. With his right he wove a complicated gesture through the air, fingers dancing as he chanted soft, spidery words.

“Ristak pur koivannon, sha pangit felori.”

The feel of magic recalled the bliss of loveplay, lost to him since the Test. His body went rigid, his nostrils flaring as the magic surged through him. A quiet groan slipped from his lips. The air around him shuddered, as it might on a summer’s day—then stilled again—and Andras vanished.

Nusendran hardly ever smiled, but now a proud grin split his wispy beard. “Well done, lad,” he said. “Keep it up, and one day you’ll make your mark on the world.”

He cast the invisibility spell as well, barely blinking as he plucked his eyelash, and spoke the incantation in half the time it had taken Andras. Then he was gone as well.

“Now,” Nusendran rasped, “let’s go.”

Together, they crept out of the shadows, beneath the black moon’s gaze.

*****

The farm was like any in Ismin, the breadbasket of Istar. The family who owned it were wealthy landholders, overseeing several hundred workers who tended fields of barley and wheat, herds of cattle, and scattered orchards, olive groves, and vineyards. The villa, a sprawling, whitewashed building with a red-tiled root, perched on a ridge overlooking the farmers’ thatched cottages. A simple shrine of Paladine, surmounted by the god’s silver triangle, stood watch on the village’s other side. It was wearing on midnight, and the farmers were asleep, the rich folk above finishing their evening meal and perhaps listening to a wandering poet’s latest epic or playing at khas in their parlor.

Two guards stood watch at the hamlet’s edge, rough men who held their spears awkwardly, more accustomed to the feel of a flail or scythe. They muttered together in hushed voices, and one laughed, lifting a jug of wine. He drank deeply, then passed it to the other.

The two wizards stood ten paces from them, cloaked by magic. Andras had worried there might be dogs to pick up their scent, but the only one around was an old bitch asleep beneath a wagon. He looked a question at his master, whose eyes glittered.

“I’ll take the one on the right,” whispered Nusendran. “The other is yours. Be swift.”

Andras nodded, a dark, sweet thrill running through him. He hadn’t expected he would have the chance to kill with sorcery tonight. Swallowing, he looked back to the guards, and began to gesture, pointing. “Obrut ku movani, yatho viskos daldannu. ”

The man on the left was still drinking when the spell took hold, and so, when the wine sprayed from his mouth and the jug crashed to the ground, his fellow started to pound him on his back, sure he was choking. Andras smiled, reaching out with magic to squeeze out the man’s breath. He clenched his fist, and the guard collapsed, eyes bulging, clutching at his collar. The other man gaped as, with a last, twitching kick, the guard fell limp.

Nusendran grunted approvingly, then spoke, and all at once the darkness around the second guard began to writhe. In a heartbeat it coalesced into a black serpent, with eyes of jet and a mouth of obsidian fangs. The guard stared, his mouth opening to scream. In a flash, the shadow-snake struck, ripping out the guard’s throat. A fan of blood shot through the air as he collapsed.

Nusendran sent the serpent to kill the sleeping bitch as well, just in case. Then the shadowy monster shivered and dissolved back into the night. The two mages held still a moment longer, watching and listening. All was silent.

They met no one else as they crept around the village, finally drawing up before a small pasture to the south, surrounded by a low, stone fence. Within, the pen was filled with small, woolly shapes: yearling lambs, all of them asleep. Andras glanced up at Nuitari: the dark moon was near its zenith now, fat as a summer plum. Nearly time.

Several lambs stirred as he and Nusendran hoisted themselves over the fence and dropped down into the pen, but none of them woke, and after holding still a moment, the two mages moved again. They split up, carefully stepping over the sleeping animals, eyes darting this way and that. Andras bit his lip as he went, feeling the black moon’s weight upon him.

“Boy! Over here!”

The whisper cut through the night, making Andras jump. He glanced across the pen. An orange tree rustled by the fence. Smiling, he started toward it.

There, surrounded by a sea of white fleece, was a single animal that was as dark as his robes. Teeth bared, Andras threaded toward the black lamb. As he went, he pulled a small opal vial from his sleeve. Unstopping it, he crouched beside the animal and waited.

Black Robe wizards used certain magic the other orders wouldn’t touch: spells that could make moldering bodies rise again or cause a man such agony he would smash his own skull to escape the pain. Others treated with the foul spirits of the Abyss. Demons, however, didn’t aid mortals for free.Without the proper offering of appeasement, they would rip apart any sorcerer who dared disturb them. Nusendran had been preparing for months to make contact with such a fiend, but the spell demanded the lifeblood of a black lamb, stolen when Nuitari soared full in an empty sky. A night like tonight.

A soft word hissed, and Nusendran shimmered back into being. In his hand was a long knife of cold-forged iron. Andras ended his invisibility spell as well, holding out the vial.

“Hold it steady,” the elder mage said. “This will be over quick.”

Andras nodded. Nusendran bent low over the lamb, set the blade’s tip behind the animal’s ear, whispered a prayer to Nuitari, then drove the dagger home.

The lamb shuddered, kicking, but made no sound as it went limp. Nusendran jerked the blade free, then opened the veins in the animal’s throat, freeing a crimson torrent to soak the earth. Andras moved quickly; the warm blood poured into the vial and soaked his hands. He rose, replacing the cork with fingers that glistened red.

For the second time that night, Nusendran smiled. He wiped the knife on the dead lamb’s wool and sheathed it again.

“Good,” he said. “Now let’s go, before—”

Another voice rose, clear and loud and close. “Cie nieas supam torco, Palado,” it intoned, “mas bodoram burtud.”

Andras looked up, his breath catching. Like any lettered person in the empire, he knew the tongue of the Istaran church. Though I walk through night’s heart, Paladine, be thou my light.

A shaft of light, bright as the silver moon, lanced down upon the pasture. Nusendran and Andras froze as around them the lambs began to wake. The elder mage whirled, and Andras followed his master’s gaze, his lip curling. There, beneath a poplar tree, stood a man in a white cassock. In his hand, gleaming as it reflected the holy light, was a platinum medallion. A Revered Son, one of the servants of the Kingpriest of Istar.

The cleric wasn’t what made Andras’s eyes widen and his flesh crawl, though. Rather, it was the men flanking him: a dozen knights in mirror-bright armor and horned, visored helms. Half of them cradled loaded crossbows. The rest gripped swords. Emblazoned on their white shields and snowy tabards was an emblem that made hate surge in Andras’s heart: a golden hammer, limned with scarlet flames.

“Ten eyes of Takhisis,” he swore, staring. “Master—”

“Run!” Nusendran shouted, shoving him.

The lambs bleated madly as they fled. Behind, the knights shouted for them to halt.

Andras heard the click of crossbows. He shut his eyes, waiting for the pain of quarrels burying themselves in his flesh, but his master was quicker. Beside him, Nusendran twisted a garnet ring on his finger, and a sphere of golden light burst about them. The bolts struck the light as if it were a wall of stone and spun away, sparking. The knights’ shouts turned to curses, and Andras laughed.

Armor clattered after them as they vaulted the fence again. Andras stumbled over a tree root, nearly fell. Nusendran made no effort to help him. Righting himself, he ran on, catching up to his master as they reached the village’s edge.

Suddenly, there were more knights in front of them as well, swords bristling, Nusendran snarled a vile curse as he skidded to a halt. Andras staggered up beside him. His hood had blown back as he ran, as had his master’s, and his heart dropped when he saw how pale Nusendran was. Even the old man’s lips were the color of bleached bone. Andras had never seen his master afraid before. Now both men were terrified.

The knights clattered nearer, surrounding them. Snarling, Nusendran flung out his arm, and darts of violet light struck three of them with a thunderclap. The reek of burnt flesh filled the air as boneless bodies rattled to the ground. Nusendran wasted no time, dashing toward the gap in the knights’ ranks….

A quarrel hit him in the back, spinning him around. He fell, gasping and clutching at the bloody point sticking out of his breast. Andras stared, his jaw slack. Nusendran glared up at him, his teeth clenched.

“Do something, damn you,” the mage wheezed.

It was too late. Andras was winded, and the magic he’d wielded tonight had drained him. He had no strength to fight, nowhere to run. The knights closed in—

Something strange happened.

At first, Andras thought his eyes were playing him false, but after a moment he knew it wasn’t so. There was a cloud of silvery motes in the air, surrounding him, growing brighter with every breath he drew. The knights saw the cloud too and halted their advance, glancing warily at one another. Nusendran’s eyes went wide.

With a noise like shattering crystal, the motes flared sunbright. Andras saw his master’s shocked face, saw the knights fling up their shields to protect their eyes—then the light blinded him, and he saw no more.

*****

Andras awoke in a bower of acorn-heavy oaks, propped against a gnarled, mossy stump.

It was dark, and the world swam before him as he struggled to sit up. He knuckled his eyes, trying to get them to work. What had happened to him? He could remember the knights, his master falling, the silver light … and now, this place. Where in the Abyss was he?

“Get up, lad. You’re just in time to watch.”

The voice was like none Andras had ever heard before. In his training as a Black Robe, he had met scores of dark-hearted mages, and more than a few priests of the evil gods. He had even listened while Nusendran communed with minor demons. None of them, however, had sounded so eerie, so cruel. It seemed the air actually filled, with frost at the sound.

Shivering, he twisted, looking for its source.

There were many tales of the man his brethren called the Dark One, the mightiest of all the Black Robes, but few were privileged to encounter him. Now, though, Andras found himself staring at a tall, broad-shouldered form whose plain black robes made him all but invisible in the bower’s gloom. His hands were age-spotted and almost skeletal, his face mercifully lost in his hood’s shadows. Only the tip of a long, gray beard emerged from that darkness. Magical power seemed to seethe about him, rippling the air.

“Fistandantilus,” Andras breathed.

The hooded head inclined. “You know me,” said the cold voice. “That will save time. Come, boy. You should see this, before it is done.”

With that, the archmage turned and strode away, into the shadows.

Andras hesitated, torn. His instincts screamed at him to flee: even the highest among the Black Robes feared Fistandantilus. But he knew, too, that the Dark One was not the sort of man from whom one escaped. It would only make the archmage angry if he fled, and tales of Fistandantilus in his wrath were the sort that robbed necromancers of sleep.

Shuddering, Andras rose and followed the robed figure into the night.

He emerged from the oaks at the edge of a cliff, above a narrow ravine. In the distance, on another ridge, was the farm—villa, lights now blazing in all its windows. And below, near the creek that snaked through the ravine’s heart, were the knights.

There were thirty of them and three clerics whom he could see—the Revered Son of Paladine in his white vestments, a Mishakite healer in pale blue, and a war-priest of Kiri-Jolith in gold. They were all singing a hymn in the church tongue. He couldn’t quite make out the words. Many of the knights had doffed their helms and held the hilts of their swords to their lips as they stared past the clerics toward a bonfire that burned beside the stream.

It was a high blaze, flames snapping and popping ten feet tall, cinders billowing to soar away on the night wind. Andras frowned, wondering why the knights would build such a fire—but only for a moment. Then he saw the form amid the flames and knew.

Little remained of Nusendran but a charred husk hanging from manacles affixed to a stake. His hair and robes had burned away, his flesh peeled and bubbled as the fire caressed it. The wind was wrong for the stink to reach him, but Andras’s mind fooled him into smelling the stench of death anyway. Groaning, he bent forward and vomited over the cliffs edge. When that was done, he leaned against a tree, gasping.

Fistandantilus was right beside him, cold coming off him in waves. His voice held no sympathy whatsoever.

“Poor Nusendran, the old fool. He died cursing them, you know.”

Andras didn’t look at the archmage. Instead, he stared at the flames, his eyes shimmering with their light. He clenched his fists, fighting down his rage. If he didn’t, he knew, he would charge at the knights now. Perhaps he would be able kill one or two before they brought him down, but bring him down they would.

He took a deep breath. “I have to tell the Conclave.”

“The Conclave are useless,” Fistandantilus replied. “Do you think this is the first time this has happened? The White Robes and the Red Robes have heard this tale many times, and still they do nothing to help those who wear the Black.”

It was true, Andras knew. Nusendran had known several mages who died at the hands of the Kingpriest’s men. Even one of the wizards who had administered the Test for Andras had perished thus. The Black Robes who served on the Conclave demanded that the orders take action, but the White and the Red held them in check, too leery of the Kingpriest’s power to act. They would do nothing for Nusendran.

“You want vengeance,” Fistandantilus murmured, “and well you should. Not just for Nusendran. For all our brethren who have died in the Kingpriest’s pogrom. I can give you that power. Come with me, Andras, and if you are patient, one day you can show the Knights of the Divine Hammer the meaning of grief. Or deny me, and—”

He pointed down into the ravine, then turned and strode away. Atop the cliff, Andras stared at the flames, the charred form of his former master drooping as the Revered Son quenched the fire with holy water—and saw something else. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the sight of it lodged a dagger of ice in his heart.

A second stake.

Andras stood rigid, his stomach twisting. The stake had been put up for him. If Fistandantilus had not cast the teleport spell that brought him here, his withered form would be hanging beside his master’s, even now. He wore the Black, so they wanted him dead. His rage crystallized within him, turning diamond-hard.

His blasted face dark with hate, he turned and strode after the Dark One.

CHAPTER 1

Eleventhmonth, 942 I.A.

Folk called the rock the Hullbreaker, and as he squinted through the lashing rain, Cathan MarSevrin could see why. It was a sea captain’s nightmare, a great spire of dark stone half a mile from shore, jabbing up from the angry sea like the talon of some ungodly beast. The stub of an old lighthouse jutted from its peak, but it was dark as a skull, abandoned to weeds and the gales. Any mariner who plied the seas off Istar’s northern coast knew well enough to give it a wide berth, but if the fisherfolk were to be believed, the sea floor about the rock ran thick with ancient shipwrecks. The young and foolhardy, craving riches and adventure, sometimes went diving out by the Hullbreaker, seeking treasures lost for centuries. Few returned with any booty of value. Some didn’t return at all.

Cathan hadn’t come to the Hullbreaker for wealth. The rock held other promises for him. He ran a hand up his face, pushing water into his dark hair—thinning now as he neared his fortieth year, and graying at his temples to match the frost in his beard—and reached down to touch his sword, Ebonbane. Its hilt, gold encrusted with shards of white ceramic had seldom been far from his reach in the twenty years since he’d first buckled it on. A Knight of the Divine Hammer seldom went anywhere without blade or bludgeon at hand.

Lightning forked across the sky, pink and jagged. Thunder followed an eye blink later, loud enough to set Cathan’s ears ringing. He didn’t flinch, though some of the other knights standing nearby did. There were better places to be during such a violent storm than standing on the edge of a high sea cliff, particularly clad in heavy armor.

“Abysmal night,” said Sir Damid Segorro. He was a small, wiry man whose nut-brown skin and beaded hair marked him as hailing from the province of Seldjuk. He wore glistening scale mail in place of the other knights’ plate, and his sword was short and curved. He scowled at the clouds, which seethed with flashes of light.

“Dragon weather. I’d sooner do this when we’re less apt to get smashed to flotsam.”

Cathan didn’t glance at his second in command. He’d fought beside the little easterner for more than a year—long enough to know Damid was no coward, only cautious. He may have a point, Cathan thought, glancing over the cliffs edge at the rocks below. Surf exploded against them and about the Hullbreaker in great white blossoms. Beyond, the sea heaved and chopped like a living thing. Audo conib, mariners called it, from the safety of harbor taverns. Hungry water. Those who sailed it called it worse.

Cathan shook his head, a smile curling his lips. “Where is your faith, friend?” he asked.

“The god will protect us.”

Damid met his gaze, but only for a second, then looked out to sea. Despite all the months they had served together, the Seldjuki still couldn’t look into Cathan’s eyes for long. Few men could. Cathan’s were no ordinary eyes, but were dead white, empty. In the storm’s coruscating light they seemed to flash with their own inner fire. They had been so for more than half his life, and Cathan had long since gotten used to men and women averting their gaze. No other man on Krynn had eyes like his.

But then, no other man on Krynn had died and lived to tell the tale.

He looked past Damid to his fellow knights. They were all mailed and armed, white surcoats plastered to their breastplates by the rain, golden hammers burning upon them. A few had donned their helms, closing the visors against the weather, while others let the storm’s fury buffet them. They were thirty in all, a smaller force than Cathan was used to commanding. A senior marshal in Istar’s holy knighthood, he usually led regiments of a thousand men or more, both knights and Scatas, the common footmen of the imperial army.

Tonight, though, a thousand men would not do. He only needed these few to bring down the Skull Brethren.

Cathan had been hunting the Brethren for more than a season now, following one clue to the next. They were followers of Chemosh, among the last of the death god’s cultists left in the empire. They practiced their foul rites in secret, stealing corpses from beneath the earth and live folk from above it to sacrifice to their unholy deity. Week after week, month upon month, Cathan and his men had searched in vain, finding only a few abandoned fanes with altars rusty with old blood. Finally, however, their quest had led them to the Hullbreaker. The Chemoshans’ main temple was there, far from the eyes of common folk, where they could practice their foul rituals in safety.

That will end tonight, Cathan thought, touching Ebonbane again. By the god, it will.

“Sir? Sir!”

He blinked, snapping away from his musings to face the man who had spoken. It was his squire, a boy of sixteen summers with a wide, freckled face and a mane of straw-colored hair that he had gathered into a long ponytail. His armor was simple chain mail, the hammer on his blazon silver, reflecting the fact he had not yet been dubbed a knight. The eagerness in his eyes made them shine nearly as bright as Cathan’s own.

“What is it, Tithian?” Cathan asked.

“Sir, the boats are ready,” said the youth, who was Cathan’s squire. “Shall we go now?”

Cathan glanced at Damid, who shrugged, a grin twisting his lips. Tithian’s enthusiasm amused the Seldjuki, and Cathan had to fight back an answering smile. A Marshal of the Hammer didn’t mock his men, least of all for zeal. Besides, his own blood was beginning to warm a little, as well. After many years fighting evil in the Kingpriest’s name, the song of battle still rang within him.

“Very well,” he said: “Let’s attend the clerics first, though. We need our blessings before the battle.”

There were four priests in Cathan’s company, and now the knights gathered before them, heads bowed. Serissi, a silver-haired, iron-jawed woman in Mishakite blue who served as the band’s healer, prayed to her goddess to keep the knights safe from harm.

Revic, a mountain of a man with Kiri-Jolith’s golden tabard over his mail, cut the palm of his hand with a dagger, pouring his blood on the ground in the hopes that it would be the last they would shed that day. Athex—swarthy, fat, and draped in the purple of Habbakuk the Fisher—daubed the knights’ foreheads with blessed saltwater, reciting prayers of protection from the sea. Last, stooped by age and snowy vestments made heavy by the rain, came white-bearded Ovinus, Revered Son of Paladine, who sanctified them in the name of the holy church.

“Ucdas pafiro,” Ovinus prayed, signing the sacred triangle of Istar’s highest god, “nomas cridam pidias, e nos follas ebissas. Sifat.”

Father of Dawn, bring us glory, and guide our swords true. So let it be.

“Sifat,” the knights echoed. Each drew his weapon—sword, mace, or hammer—and laid a gentle kiss upon it. Then they turned and started down the cliff face.

The men who had once tended the Hullbreaker’s lighthouse had carved a long, narrow stair from the stone here. Wind and water had worn the steps smooth, and they were slick with rain, so the knights had to move slowly, creeping down to the rocky shore. Spray from the bursting surf billowed high above them. Most of the younger men, and a couple of the older ones too, stared at the water with dread—all the more so when they beheld the pair of boats that would carry them to battle.

They were puny things, six-oared shorecraft that bobbed and thudded against each other in the shallows. Damid coughed and sucked on his wispy moustache, and Tithian’s eyes were so wide, it seemed they would pop out of his skull. Cathan, however, merely nodded to himself, staring past the seas to the pillar of rock that was their destination. The storm was bad, but there would be no better time to assail the Chemoshans’ temple. The cultists would not see them coming in the tempest.

“Get in!” he shouted, above the storm’s roar. “As we arranged! Go!”

Several of the men were pale, their faces looking green in the lightning’s glare, but they all obeyed. They had taken oaths when they became knights, so on they went, sloshing through knee-deep water, then hoisting themselves over the gunwales. Cathan went last of all, clambering up to the prow of one vessel. It bucked beneath him as the sea swelled and dropped, but he kept his footing. He reached to his belt again, but this time his fingers didn’t find his sword. Rather, he pulled free a string of glistening pearls, letting them slide and dangle among his fingers. Drawing a deep breath, he held them out, pointing toward the rock.

“Palado Calib,” he said, “me iromas, tus ban abam drifo.”

Blessed Paladine, clear my path, that I may walk it without fear.

With that, he broke the string and flung the pearls away. A tiny hailstorm of pearls pattered down into the water before the skiff. Cathan held his breath, waiting. The sea swallowed them and continued to seethe for a time. Then silver light flared beneath the surface, and the water began to change.

Legends spoke of ancient priests, so rich in Paladine’s power that they could calm whole oceans with a prayer. This invocation wasn’t so strong. Beyond the foam-drenched rocks, the waves kept hurling themselves madly toward destruction. Around the two boats, however, the surface grew smooth, like a great sheet of Micahi glass. It didn’t even ripple when the oarsmen dipped their blades into it. The knights regarded it for a good while, wonder in their faces, then looked to Cathan again.

He smiled, his silver eyes flashing as a bolt of lightning struck the ruins atop the Hullbreaker. Slamming down his visor, he drew Ebonbane and pointed it forward.

“On, then! In the Kingpriest’s name!”

“For the Lightbringer!” the knights replied as one. Then the oarsmen set to, and the boats shot away from the shore.

*****

The Chemoshans had set watchers on the rocks at the spire’s foot: six men with leather cuirasses under dark cloaks, and helmets made from the skulls of goats and wolves. In the storm’s fury, though, they didn’t notice the boats gliding toward them on patches of smooth water until they had pulled up to the Hullbreaker itself. The knights began to pour out even before the skiffs bumped to a stop, shouting the names of Paladine and the Kingpriest as they clambered up the slippery rocks. Shocked, the cultists hurried to block them, five brandishing sickle-bladed swords while one scrambled back toward a fissure in the stone, is robes flapping behind him.

The guards died quickly, in a clamor of steel. They were too few, the Divine Hammer too well trained. The followers of the death god fought without fear of being killed, but that didn’t stop steel from sliding between their ribs or opening their throats. Less than a minute after the battle began it was over, their bodies sprawled in tidal pools, the water billowing red about them. One young knight won a fresh scar on his chin from a sickle-blow, but other than that the knights escaped unharmed.

Still, the cultists achieved at least one goal: the last of them escaped, disappearing into the fissure, shouting madly. The knights tried to give chase, but the ground was too treacherous, and he was gone before they, could stop him. Cathan cursed.

“So much for surprise,” said Damid.

Scowling, Cathan waved his sword, then plunged ahead toward the cave. “Quickly, men!” he shouted. “Take the fight to them!”

In the knights went, Cathan at the fore, Damid at his side. The tunnel was rough and close, its walls smeared with bloody handprints. Torches guttered in wall sconces, making the shadows dance. The way sloped down, a trickle of rainwater flowing along its midst as it twisted deep beneath the spire. As they left the din of the storm behind, a new sound rose, seeming to come up through the rocks beneath their feet. It was a deep thunder, the pounding of drums. Cathan signed the triangle. The Chemoshans skinned their instruments with hides flayed from living men. They made pipes of bones, too, but the knights were too far away to hear those yet.

All at once, the drumming stopped. For a heartbeat, the tunnel was horribly quiet, save for the clatter of the knights’ armor. Then came a chorus of angry shouts, punctuated by ululating howls that echoed up the tunnel. Biting his lip, Cathan glanced over at Damid.

The Seldjuki’s eyes were closed, his lips moving in silent prayer. Cathan offered a quick entreaty to the gods as well.

The smell hit them.

It was sickeningly sweet, like the attar of some terrible flower, with a meaty, greasy stench beneath: the reek of rotting flesh. Several knights choked as it clogged their nostrils, and toward the rear a squire was noisily sick. Cathan focused and held firm. He had fought Chemoshans before. He’d been expecting this, and he tightened his grip on Ebonbane as the shadows down the tunnel began to move.

The fane’s defenders wore no skull helms, wielded no sickle swords. They walked unsteadily, the scuff of feet dragging across the floor the only sound of their approach. They did not speak, growl, nor even breathe. The Chemoshans’ protectors were dead.

The stench grew unbearable as they staggered into the torchlight. They were horrible to behold, all rancid flesh and glistening bone, slack-hanging mouths and clutching, clawed hands. The Chemoshans’ rites gave the dead power to move but not to think. They were as mindless as the creatures that scuttled among the shipwrecks outside. They shambled on, seeking warm flesh, every step an affront to all that was holy.

The first of the dead was a big man who had clearly died by drowning. His flesh was swollen and blue, and there were hollows where the crabs had taken his eyes. Cathan cut him open with a stroke of his sword, slitting his belly to let his entrails slide out. The wound barely slowed the lurching horror, though, and it took a second slash from Damid to drop it, its bloated head spurting free of its shoulders and smacking against the corpse behind it. The creature went boneless, hitting the floor with a wet smack.

The second ghoul had died more violently, a gash in its throat gaping like a second smile. The cut did not bleed, nor did its arm when Damid’s scimitar took it off at the elbow leaving ragged strips of sinew behind. Cathan finished it with a thrust through its mouth, turning it as limp as a Pesaran puppet with the strings cut off.

On they came, one grisly wight after another: one with the side of its skull staved in, another with a broken spear shaft still sticking from its belly. Cathan’s eyes watered at the stink as Ebonbane rose and fell, rose and fell, in concert with Damid’s weapon. After a time, they began to tire, their blows becoming slow and clumsy, so they fell back, letting the next two knights take over the gruesome butchery.

It was one of that pair, a young knight named Sir Alarran, who became the first of the Divine Hammer’s casualties. He was fighting his fourth corpse, his blade dancing in tandem with the mace of the man beside him, when somehow the enemy got past his defenses and buffeted the side of his head with its’ fist. His helm came off, clattering against the wall, and he staggered to one knee, jabbing his sword through the corpse’s gut as he dropped. The ghoul did not fall, however. Even as the other knight rained blows down upon it, it lunged at Sir Alarran, broken yellow teeth clamping down on his forehead.

Alarran screamed. There was a sickening crunch.

A heartbeat later, the other knight’s mace struck the corpse in the ear, crushing its head to a pulp. It was too late, though. Alarran was dead. Another knight rushed forward to take his place.

The knights pressed forward. By the time the tunnel’s slope began to level, six more of their number had fallen and more than half a hundred corpses lay in their wake, hacked and crushed, a few still twitching. Finally, the numbers of the dead began to thin, and the tunnel opened out into the enormous cavern that was the Chemoshans’ fane.

The cave was vast, fifty paces across. A great, dark pool filled half of it, fed by dripping stalactites above. Firelight painted the walls, leaping from copper braziers festooned with skulls—animal and human alike. The dreaded drums towered atop the broad stumps of two broken stalagmites, and more skins hung upon the walls, stretched on wooden frames and painted with unholy sigils. Skull-helmed Chemoshans, two score and more, filled the fane, and more ghouls lurked in the shadows. On a stony outcrop above the pool was the altar itself, the huge skull of a long-dead dragon, cut open so its brainpan formed a bowl for sacrifices. Beside it, clad in midnight robes and a bear-skull headdress encrusted with scarlet and black gems, was the head of the cult, the Deathmaster.

Seeing the knights from across the cave, the high priest raised a hand—dark with blood from whatever offering he’d been preparing in the altar—and roared for his men to attack.

They obeyed, charging at Cathan and his men with sickle swords and wavy-bladed knives.

The remaining ghouls lurched behind. The knights raised their shields to repulse the charge, and for a time the cavern filled with the crash of steel against steel. The wounded and dying shouted out the names of gods both light and dark.

The knights were outnumbered, but they fought hard, and again the cultists were no match. Men died on either side, but the Divine Hammer slew three for each of their own. In time, the Chemoshans’ lines faltered, then gave way entirely.

The battle broke up, the Chemoshans’ lines unraveling into small pockets that soon fell before the knights’ swords. They died howling curses at their killers, their eyes blazing with hate. Cathan and Damid pushed past, Tithian and a half-dozen other knights on their heels as they charged the altar. Another knot of priests awaited them there, and these diehards fought even more furiously than their brethren had, desperation and fury fueling their strength. Even so, they were no match for the Hammer.

The Deathmaster had stayed by the altar, no weapon in his hand, his long-bearded face twisted into a cold sneer. There was no fear in his eyes, though his own end was surely at hand. He had made his pact with Chemosh, Cathan knew. His only desire now was to take his foes into death with him as many as he could. Cathan led his men up the steps of the fane’s makeshift dais, Ebonbane flashing red in his hand.

Smiling, the Deathmaster raised a finger to point at him.

Cathan froze, feeling the death god’s presence surge through the fane. Seconds became centuries as he watched the high priest’s eyes flare blood red, and crimson light swell around the man’s fingertips. A strange, itching heat spread across his skin, swiftly gathering into pain….

Something hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground.

Damid.

Cathan felt the Deathmaster’s spell leave him, saw his fellow knight freeze, scimitar upraised. “No!” he shouted, reaching out. “Get—”

With a sound like claws scratching slate, the crimson light around the Deathmaster’s hand became a whip, a scarlet strand that lashed out and wrapped around and around Damid. The Seldjuki screamed, dropping his sword, then shuddered as his cry rose into agony, muffled by the magical cocoon. Cathan clutched at him, but the webs burned where he touched them, and he snatched his hand back with a hiss.

For an instant, everything was still. Then the magical fibers sprang loose, and tore Sir Damid Segorro apart.

Bits of flesh spattered the stones, splashing down into the pool below. Steel armor ripped apart like tin. Red mist filled the air. Amid it all, Damid’s ghastly skeletal remains collapsed in a ruin of bone and tendon.

A mocking laugh burst from the Deathmaster’s lips as the knights stared at what remained of their fellow. Eyes blazing with madness, he reached out toward Cathan again—

—and stopped, staring at the sword that had just buried itself in his stomach.

Cathan blinked, turned, and saw Tithian. His squire no longer held his blade.

Recklessly, he had hurled it at the Deathmaster, and somehow the throw had struck true, burying the blade halfway to its quillons in the Chemoshan’s gut. It was hard to say whether he or the cult’s leader looked more surprised.

The Deathmaster fell to his knees, still gaping at the weapon. Furious, Cathan got to his feet, reached down, and lifted Damid’s scimitar. Setting his own blade aside, he walked to the high priest, grabbed the bear’s skull, and wrenched it from the man’s head. The Deathmaster was old, his face scarred by some long-ago pox. There were finger-bones woven into his hair and beard. He looked up, his dark eyes shining with fanatical hatred.

When he opened his mouth to curse Cathan, though, only a dark rope of blood spilled out.

“By the Divine Hammer,” Cathan pronounced, raising his dead friend’s blade, “in the name of god and Kingpriest, I condemn thee. Du tas usam, porved.”

Go to thy god.

The blade fell.

CHAPTER 2

The Knights built two pyres the morning after the attack, on the cliff tops overlooking the Hullbreaker. The storm had broken, yielding to gray skies fringed with blue in, the south, and the sea had lost its rage. Gulls wheeled above, and crows as well, drawn by the smell of the dead. Far off, well beyond the stone spire, the dark speck of a lone caravel plied the waves.

The first pyre was a jumble of driftwood and scrub, thrown in a crude heap. Sprawled upon it, arms outflung and, often as not, eyes staring wide, were the Chemoshans and the stinking corpses who had served them. A few of the death cult’s ghouls still twitched, clinging to their horrible unlife. The knights had spent the better part of the night dragging them back from the Hullbreaker, The Church mandated that servants of evil be purified with flame, and so Cathan threw first torch onto the pyre as the company’s priests flicked oil upon the bodies. The conflagration leaped high, the trailing black smoke across the sky.

The second pyre, placed upwind of the first, was smaller—Paladine be blessed, Cathan thought as he looked upon it. It was carefully stacked, cut from a stand of goldleaf trees that stood inland. The bodies upon it were more orderly, each laid upon his shield, his hands grasping his weapon upon his breast. The dead knights’ eyes were closed, the more ghastly wounds covered with white linen. Here the priests took greater care with the rites of sanctification. They laid blocks of sweet incense among the dead, carefully daubed—each with oil, and recited the Ligibo, the ritual for those who died fighting in the god’s name.

“Porasom, usas farnas,” the clerics prayed, “e bonasom iudun donbulas, Palado fi.”

Go, children of the god, and dwell beyond the stars, at Paladine’s side forevermore.

As one, the surviving knights—twenty in all where thirty had stood the night before—drew blade and mace, and raised them high in salute. “Sifat,” they murmured.

Here, too, Cathan lit the first brand. He had lost count of how many men of the Divine Hammer—and boys, for that matter—he had burned over the years. Too many faces to remember, all of them martyrs in the Kingpriest’s name. Today, though, it was harder to light the fire. Damid, whose body lay shrouded to conceal how the Deathmaster had ruined him, had been more than just a comrade at arms. They had spent many good days together, drinking in wine shops and laughing at each other’s tales. They had journeyed from one end of the empire to the other. Now those days were done, and Cathan felt tired and old. It wasn’t like losing a brother, as some men said—Cathan’s own brother was twenty years gone, victim to a terrible plague, and that loss was still a thorn in his heart—but it hurt all the same.

“Farewell, my friend,” he said, as he set the pyre ablaze.

He walked away, not bothering to look back as the other knights added their own torches to the pile. He went to the cliffs edge, staring out at the caravel with his colorless eyes. The wind snapped at his white tabard, and fine rain began to fall. Sighing, he reached to his belt and pulled forth a talisman of bones and teeth, tipped with a rat’s skull. Black sapphires glittered in the empty sockets. He had pulled it from the Deathmaster’s neck, as proof the old man was dead. There was still blood on it. Now he stared at it, drawn into its ebon gaze.

Behind him, someone coughed. Cathan started, closing his fist around the talisman, and glanced over his shoulder. Tithian stood there, freckled, shaggy, and gangly.

Confronted with his master’s strange stare, he flushed deep red and looked down at his boots. The other knights and squires had taken to calling him Sword flinger after the battle.

Though Cathan had been only slightly older when he first became a knight, Tithian still looked little more than a boy.

“This war,” he said, scuffing the ground with his foot. “It never will end, will it, sir?”

Damid would have laughed at the question, in his infectious way. Just remembering it made Cathan chuckle. Seeing Tithian’s flush deepen, he laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“This is no war, lad,” he said. “We fight the battle every pious man fights, to rid himself of evil—only we fight it for the empire. Our task is to keep the darkness at bay, not to destroy it utterly.”

In its early days, the Divine Hammer had sought to eradicate all evil in Istar. It remained the knighthood’s stated policy, even now. The Kingpriest still spoke of his promised kingdom of eternal light, where the sun would burn so brightly there would be no need for shadow. After so many years, however—so many lives lost—Cathan had found that as weak as the servants of darkness grew, there were always more of them. Perhaps there always would be.

Tithian coughed again, still studying his toes.

“What is it?” Cathan asked.

The squire squirmed beneath his stare. “Well, sir. I mean. It …” He stopped, took a deep breath. “The men say I’m to be knighted for … for what happened.”

Cathan scowled. Those dolts, he thought. I’d been hoping to keep it a surprise.

“Of course,” he said reassuringly. “You don’t do what you did and just get a pat on the head, lad. When we get back to the Lordcity, Grand Marshal Tavarre will dub you himself.”

He paused, frowning as he studied the boy’s grimacing face. “You’re supposed to be happy about that news, Tithian.”

“I know, sir,” Tithian said. “And I’m glad. But…well, I’d hoped you would…”

Pride surged in Cathan’s breast. He’d had four squires before Tithian—all of them knights now, two already dead and burned—but none had asked such a thing of him.

Rightly so, too: the code of the Divine Hammer was clear that the only men who could confer knighthood were the order’s Grand Marshal and the Kingpriest himself. There was something different about Tithian, though. The boy doted on him. He’d been an orphan when the order first took him in, had never known his father, didn’t even have a family name. If Damid had been almost a brother to Cathan, Tithian was nearly his son —and as close as anyone would be, since as a holy order, the Divine Hammer demanded chastity of its members.

Cathan smiled. “Kneel, then.”

Grinning like a kender, Tithian obeyed. His mail rattled as he lowered himself to the rocky ground.

“You understand this isn’t the official ceremony,” Cathan said. “Tavarre will still take care of that. You’re not getting out of your vigil that easily.”

Tithian nodded, still beaming. Chuckling, Cathan reached across his body and drew Ebonbane. The rasp of metal drew the other knights’ attention, and they looked on in surprise as he raised the blade, then set it down on his squire’s shoulders in turns—left, then right, then left again.

“All right,” Cathan bade, sliding his sword home again. “Get up. You’re not a true knight yet, lad, but you’re one in my eyes.”

Any wider and Tithian’s smile would have split his head in two. Leaping to his feet, he clasped Cathan’s arms. “Thank you, sir,” he gushed. “Thank you!” He dashed off, back toward the other squires, who were eyeing him jealously.

Cathan shook his head, watching him go. Then his gaze drifted along the bluff, taking in the two pyres, and his smile faltered. He signed the triangle. Tucking the talisman back into his belt, he turned and stared out to sea once more.

*****

The sky was filled with jewels. Diamond and ruby stars sparkled on black velvet. The two moons, disks of chalcedony and sard, glided over constellations Cathan knew well: the Valiant Warrior, horned Kiri-Jolith, the five-headed Queen of Darkness, and still others, each the sign of a god of light or darkness. There, amid it all, was the greatest gem of all: a globe of turquoise, fringed with wisps of cloud. The world. Krynn.

Cathan winced in his sleep, groaning. He knew this dream. It had plagued his sleep since the night before his dubbing. Not a month went by when he didn’t find himself floating here, among the stars. Every time, it was the same.

Small wonder it’s happening tonight, he thought. Once the pyres guttered out, the cultists’ ashes scattered and the knights’ gathered into a golden urn to be brought back to the Lordcity, his company had ridden inland, away from the Hullbreaker and the fierce sea winds. When they camped at nightfall, in a copse of swaying birches, the men of the Divine Hammer had all but fallen from their saddles. Cathan had forced himself to stay awake until the fires were lit and the watch set, then had climbed into his bedroll and fallen asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

Now in his dreams he looked upon Krynn from high above, marking the continent of Ansalon amid the ocean’s blue. He saw each of its realms: Ergoth, Solamnia, Kharolis…the woods of the elves and the mountain fastnesses of the dwarves…the meadows where the kender dwelt, and the frozen barrens of Icereach…and there, larger than any, Istar the Holy, the Kingpriest’s glorious Lordcity shining at its heart.

Now something else. Something behind him, coming closer.

He turned, knowing already what he would see. The burning hammer was as much a part of the dream as the stars and moons, a great flaming mass streaking across the night.

It had been there the first time the dream came, the eve of his dubbing. The Divine Hammer took its name from the vision. As Cathan watched, it grew larger and larger against the night. Closer, closer…then streaking past him in a silent rush, close enough that its heat seared him, its light made his eyes sting.

Still he watched it go, fire trailing in its wake, diving now toward the turquoise orb.

Toward Istar. It was the god’s justice, come down to crush evil from the world. He ground his teeth, tensing as he waited for it to strike, the terrible roar of noise as it fell upon the empire….

*****

“Sir? Sir, wake—”

Cathan’s eyes snapped open at once. A dark shadow loomed over him, a hand touched his arm. He sat up, reached for Ebonbane beside him, and had the sword halfway out of its scabbard before the shape resolved into Tithian. The boy straightened up, taking a step back, unafraid. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken his master from the throes of the dream.

It was dim out, and cool—it never got truly cold this far north. Fine rain, almost mist, dripped down through the boughs. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but it was trying, the sky and everything beneath it gray. The campfires had burned down to cinders, and most of the other knights were still asleep in their bedrolls. Off in the shadows, the horses whickered.

In the other direction, Ovinus’s low voice chanted. The Revered Son prepared to greet the dawn, such as it was.

Ebonbane hissed back into its sheath.

“Early,” Cathan muttered. ”What’s the matter?”

Tithian tugged at the collar of his tunic. “The lookouts spotted something.”

“Something?” Cathan raised an eyebrow.

“In the sky, sir.”

That was interesting. Throwing off his bedroll, Cathan rose to his feet. He ached worse than when he’d gone to sleep; but he put it from his mind. His squire handed him a horn of wine, warm from mulling over the fire, and he gulped it down as he slung his baldric over his shoulder. Ebonbane bumped against his thigh, reassuring. Tithian offered his helm next, but Cathan waved him off.

“Which way?” he asked.

The boy led him south from the camp, to where the wood gave way to hilly grasslands draped in cords of mist. Two of Cathan’s sharper-eyed knights stood just inside the tree line, staring at the clouds. One, an amiable hulk named Sir Marto, glanced back, then raised his hand in salute. He put a finger to his lips as Cathan and Tithian crunched through fallen leaves toward them. His partner, a lean, flame-haired fellow called Pellidas, continued to stare skyward.

“Strange thing, sir,” Marto whispered, his voice thick with the accent of the jungle province of Falthana. He tugged at his beard, forked in the style of his homeland. “Pell saw it not long ago. It’s been circling ever since. I think it’s looking for something.”

Pellidas nodded, saying nothing. He had been born mute.

Cathan frowned, looking up. His eyes were not as good as they’d once been. He couldn’t make anything out against the slate-colored pall. He muttered a curse. “Tithian, get my farglass,” he hissed.

The boy cleared his throat, Cathan glanced at him, and saw the boy already had the contraption he’d asked for—a brass tube with lenses of Micahi glass at both ends. He’d been thinking ahead, evidently. With a sheepish smile, Tithian held out the farglass.

Cathan took it, and held one end up to his eye, peering through it at whatever it was Marto and Pell had seen.

There weren’t many flying beasts left in Istar. The dragons were long gone, and such—wicked creatures as manticores and wyverns were few, all but unknown in the northern provinces. Perhaps it was a griffin, like the tame ones the elves in the Kingpriest’s court kept. Maybe even a winged horse. Legend said such creatures had once run wild on the empire’s grasslands and in the skies above. He’d never seen one, and the thought that one of the beasts might be above him now made him shiver. He tracked the farglass back and forth, searching, searching…

Then his lips tightened with irritation. ”Jolith’s horns, Marto,” he said, lowering the farglass. “That’s a bird.”

“That’s what I told Pell,” the big knight said, “but he made me look again.”

Cathan glanced at Tithian, who shrugged, then looked at Pellidas. The redheaded knight was still watching the circling shadow, the one that had looked to Cathan’s eye like some kind of common raptor. Falcons were widespread in Istar, which was why the first Kingpriests had chosen one for the imperial emblem. Frowning, Cathan raised the farglass back to his eye.

He found the bird again and studied it more carefully this time. There was something unusual about it, something not quite right about the way it moved. Its wings moved jerkily, and its tail feathers didn’t ruffle on the wind. There was something else, too—an odd glint in the gray morning light. It was almost as if…

“What in…” he began, then stopped, frowning. “Is that thing made of metal?”

Pellidas nodded. Marto tugged his beard. “Looks like it, doesn’t it, sir? That’s why I thought you might want to see. I’d reckon the thing’s magical.”

“Good guess,” Cathan muttered. Metal birds were something new, although Cathan had heard tales of animals and even men that wizards made of bronze or iron. He shuddered at the thought. He’d never had much use for sorcery. Marto had even less and was biting the heel of his hand to ward against magic.

He gestured to Tithian, not taking his eye off the hawk, and the boy dashed off, back toward the camp. The bird was searching—he could see its head swiveling this way as it wheeled above. He wondered what the mage who’d sent it was up to. Nothing good, he was sure.

Tithian was back before long, holding a crossbow and a quiver of quarrels. He strained to cock the weapon, loading it before handing it to his master. Cathan shook his head, though. “I can barely see the blasted thing from here,” he said, and looked to the other two knights. “Which one of you is the better shot?”

“That’d be Pell,” Marto said.

Sir Pellidas took his eyes off the hawk long enough to take the crossbow from Tithian, then looked back up, sighting along its length. He licked his lips, tracking the hawk across the sky, tightened his grip, and squeezed the trigger.

The string snapped forward, and the quarrel streaked away. Cathan followed its flight until he lost sight of it—then there was a faint, high clang. Marto laughed, clapping Pellidas on his shoulder; the redheaded knight smiled slightly as he handed the crossbow back to Tithian.

Cathan saw the hawk again a moment later, without the farglass. It was dropping now, plummeting earthward like a spent arrow. He watched it fall, wings hanging loosely. It hit the ground with a thud, fifty paces away.

Ebonbane made it all the way out of the scabbard now. Pellidas and Tithian drew their own blades, and Marto pulled a beaked war axe from his belt. Together they crept out of the trees, toward where the bird had hit.

It was half-buried, having dug a furrow in the grassy earth. Now it lay motionless, one wing snapped off, the other bent out of shape. It was a falcon, Cathan saw, but its plumage was copper and silver, its beak made of gold. Its eyes were yellow gems—sapphires, maybe, or topaz. The quarrel, made of hard steel, had caught it mid-breast and punched out its back. Pellidas nudged it with his boot, then reached down and yanked the bolt free. As he did, more bits of metal spilled out of the hole: tiny, toothed gears and springs knocked loose by his shot.

“Karthayan clockwork,” said Marto, who would know. He was from a small town near the fabled capital of Falthana, a rich city known for its tiered gardens and fine tinkers.

Some said the Karthayans had gnomish blood, such was their fondness for mechanical inventions.

Never having seen one, Cathan doubted the existence of gnomes. The thought of a race of mad engineers was altogether strange to him. There was no doubting, though, that the bird wasn’t magical at all. It was some sort of curious machine.

“Have you seen anything like this before?” he asked.

Marto shook his head. “Haven’t been back to Karthay in ten years, though. Gods know what they’ve been up to there.”

“There’s something tied to its leg,” Tithian said.

Cathan raised his eyebrows, then looked closer. His squire was right. Affixed to the hawk’s leg was an ivory tube, the sort of thing couriers used to keep scrolls safe from bad weather. There was something more—a platinum plaque attached to it. Etched into the metal was a symbol Cathan knew well: a noble falcon, clutching Paladine’s sacred triangle in its talons.

Marto roared with laughter. “The imperial arms!” he bellowed. “Branchala bite me, Pell—that’s the Kingpriest’s toy you killed!”

Sir Pellidas winced, his ruddy face turning bright crimson. Cathan had to fight back a chuckle. “It’s all right,” he told the mute knight. “You did it by my order.”

He tapped the broken bird with Ebonbane’s tip, making sure it wasn’t going to spring back to life, then bent down and pulled the scrolltube from its leg. Even before he broke the seal that covered the cylinder’s cap—blue wax, with the falcon-and-triangle stamped in it as well—he guessed the missive inside was for him. Sure enough, it was.

Cathan, the scroll read—in the Common tongue, for Cathan had never been very good at reading the language of Istar’s church—my old friend:

I write this epistle with mixed feelings in my heart. I had hoped to be joyful, for the twentieth anniversary of my coronation draws nigh. Indeed, I meant to summon you to my side anyway, to celebrate that glorious day. Sadly, though, I have heavier tidings to tell.

Marwort the Illustrious, who has long served me as envoy of the Order of High Sorcery, has died.

I know you have no love for wizards. Nor do I, be sure: The Black Robes remain a blight in the god’s sight, and those who wear the White and Red shame themselves by associating with such fiends. Marwort, however, has remained a steadfast part of my court for as long as I have ruled. I may not have approved of his sorcerous ways, but he was still a friend to the empire, and I mourn him.

For this reason, my friend, I am summoning you back to the Lordcity. Soon the Conclave will send a new wizard to take Marwort’s place. I would like you at my side, as you were in olden days, when they do. Return to Istar at once.

Beldinas Pilofiro

Voice of Paladino and true Kingpriest of Istar

PS: I hope the bearer of this missive amuses you. It is a new device, a gift from the Patriarch of Falthana. I am eager to hear what you have to say about it.

Cathan read the scroll twice, then rolled it up again and tucked it into his sleeve. The Kingpriest was right, he cared nothing at all for Marwort. The old wizard had seemed harmless enough, had even sided with the empire against his own order a few times. More than a few, actually. But he was still a sorcerer, and not to be trusted. With the Conclave sending a new wizard to take his place…

Cathan’s eyes went back to the broken hawk sprawled in the soil and wet grass. He sighed, then turned back toward the knights’ camp.

“Bring that,” he said to Marto and Pellidas as he strode into the wood, Tithian at his heels. “The pieces, too, and be quick about it. We ride for the Lordcity within the hour.”

CHAPTER 3

Twelfthmonth, 942 I.A.

There were five Towers of High Sorcery in the world, each of them old beyond telling and alive with the power of the moons above. Four stood within the cities of mortal men, constant reminders of magic’s might. They loomed over Daltigoth, the Capitol of Ergoth, and Palanthas, the greatest city in the knightly realm of Solamnia. Istar, for its part, had two—one in the Lordcity itself, and one in Losarcum, the fabled Stone City, which had been the heart of the kingdom of Dravinaar before war and annexation made that proud realm into the Holy Empire’s two southernmost provinces.

Mages of all robes—the White of good, the Red of neutrality, and even the hated Black—dwelt within the Towers studying and teaching magic, united by their love for their Art.

Each held artifacts and lore of inestimable value, as well as vast laboratories where the most learned wizards toiled to discover new uses for the magic. Those few common folk who had been inside the Towers spoke of countless wonders: demons imprisoned in shards of crystal, hallways and rooms that changed size and shape without warning, windows through which one could gaze out upon lands hundreds of leagues away. Statues got up and moved when no one was looking, and flashes of light and eerie sounds came from nearly every door or window. Even in Daltigoth, where they tolerated magic, folk gave wide berth to the Tower, and to the surrounding grove of enchanted pine trees. In the other cities, where people viewed magic and its practitioners with suspicion, they gave the lofty spires dark glances, signing the triangle or Jolith’s horns or the twin teardrops of Mishakal against whatever evils lurked within.

Of all the Towers, however, the greatest was the one folk didn’t see. It stood not in any city, but deep, deep in Wayreth Forest, an eldritch wood in the north of Kharolis. The forest appeared on few maps, for it tended to move, bordering the fabled elf realm of Qualinesti one day, tucked among the hills near the city of Xak Tsaroth the next. Such was Wayreth’s curious power that none saw the Tower except those the mages wished to see it. From everyone else, the Tower hid.

It was a strange-looking structure of a style seen nowhere else on Krynn. Surrounded by triangular walls, it consisted of a pair of obsidian cones, raised from the earth’s bones by forces of forgotten power. Narrow slits of windows broke up its black, gleaming surface. It had no battlements, no turrets. Hidden by the forest and protected by the power of sorcery, it had no need of mortal sentries. Within dwelt the mightiest wizards in an Ansalon: men and women whose power in the Art knew no equal. Even Fistandantilus the Old, the legendary archmage called the Dark One by his fellow Black Robes, kept apartments at the Tower, though—to general relief none had seen him there in centuries. There was no place in all of Krynn more alive with magic.

Leciane do Cirica stared up at the two towers, reaching up toward the stars like the claws of the great dragons that once had filled Ansalon’s skies. Solinari, round and bright, made the northern tower gleam with silver light. Lunitari, also full, made the southern one seem dipped in blood. Nuitari was up there somewhere too, Leciane knew, but she could not see it. She was no Black Robe, but rather wore the Red of those who walked the path between light and shadow.

The night wind gusted, cold enough to make her shiver. Around the Tower the forest remained green, but the tang of winter was in the air. It blew back her hood, momentarily uncovering a dusky face that had been breathtakingly beautiful when she was a girl. Even now, with her fortieth year behind her, she made most women half her age seem plain. The lines around her eyes and mouth, the threads of silver that crept through her long black curls, only accentuated her loveliness. Her green eyes sparkled with equal parts amusement and annoyance as she grabbed for her hood and pulled it down over her face again.

She had been at Losarcum’s Tower when the summons found her. She had residences both there and at Daltigoth, where she had taken the Test to become a full-blooded wizard.

The message had come not as words written on parchment or vellum but rather as a pair of disembodied lips, which had appeared before her and bidden her come at once to Wayreth.

She had obeyed, and now she was here, the mouth still floating in the air beside her. It was hard to tell but she thought it had a smug look to it.

“Well?” she asked. “No one to meet us?”

The pointed tip of a tongue poked out, running over the ruby lips. “Be patient,” the mouth said. “The Conclave are in discussion now. They will call you soon.”

She scowled. The Conclave, the rulers of High Sorcery, consisted of the orders’ strongest wizards, its most influential. A powerful sorceress in her own right, Leciane hoped one day to ascend to their ranks. For now, though, she was as bound to do their bidding as any neophyte fresh from his Test. Still, that didn’t keep her from glowering at the twin spires.

She’d spent a great deal of energy getting here, using the Art to speed her travel. Now, to be kept waiting…

The mouth twitched, then curled into a grin full of pointed teeth. At the same time, the air around Leciane shivered, shimmered with silver sparks. They fell upon her, cold where they touched her dark skin. She didn’t flinch at them, or at the sinking in her stomach as the spell took hold. This wasn’t the first time someone had cast a teleportation spell on her.

“Go, then;” said the magical lips, still smiling. “The Conclave welcomes you, Your Excellency.”

Excellency? Leciane thought, glancing at the lips. The lips chuckled, then disappeared.

With a silver flash and a shimmer of noise, so did she.

*****

The Hall of Mages was a vast, dark chamber in the heart of the South Tower, its full dimensions lost amid shadows. No lamps or candles lit it; only a dim, blue-white glimmer in its midst. Darkness hid its walls, ceiling, and much of the floor. Neither did the hall have any doors. The only way in was by magic, and powerful wards kept out all but the Conclave and those they allowed to enter. Once, an ambitious Black Robe had tried to force his way past those wards. Sometimes, it was said, the echo of his howls could still be heard through the Tower’s halls.

In the room’s midst, at the edges of the pool of light, a half-circle of chairs stood atop a raised platform. There were twenty one in all—seven each for the followers of the three moons. Wizards sat in each of them, clad in hooded robes, their faces drenched in shadow.

On the left, seven dressed in the White of Solinari—two of them elves from ancient Silvanesti, the rest human. On the right, an equal number of Black Robes, serving Nuitari, among them a gray-bearded Daergar dwarf. Between the two groups were seven of Lunitari’s Red Robes, all of them human. In their midst, the only one among the Conclave who did not wear a hood, sat Highmage Vincil, the leader of all Krynn’s sorcerers.

He was an Ergothian of more than sixty summers, his skin as dark as polished mahogany. His head was smooth-shaven, save for a white ponytail at the back, and his beard was long and shovel-shaped. He steepled his fingers, saying nothing as he gazed down from his seat. His gray eyes might been hewn of granite.

Leciane stood before him, unafraid. She had known Vincil before he became highmage, even before the Red Robes had invited him to join their delegation on the Conclave. She had been his apprentice, both before and after her Test. She had also been his lover. All that was in the past, ten years and more, but they had remained friends since.

She raised her eyebrows, arms folded across her chest.

“What do you mean, ‘excellency’?”

The archmages glanced at one another, stirring slightly. She looked to either side.

Neither the Black Robes nor the White seemed happy. Ysarl, the most-powerful of the evil mages—Fistandantilus did not serve on the Conclave, fortunately—let out a snort, his wizened features contorting. Jorelia, on the side of good, shot the aged Black Robe an imperious look.

Vincil ignored them, his gaze never leaving Leciane. “Marwort is dead,” he said.

Leciane knew she should have felt sadness at that news, but she did not. Indeed, if anything, she felt relief. Marwort the Illustrious had been a sore spot among the three orders. A White Robe of no small power, he had served in the imperial court of Istar for some forty years. At first; he had proved a capable emissary, but as the years passed he had come to side more and more with the Kingpriest against the wishes of the Conclave—particularly since the empire’s current ruler, the one they called Lightbringer, took the throne. Given the Lightbringer’s rejection of the Doctrine of Balance and his quest to destroy all evil in the world, the Black Robes understandably had come to loathe Marwort.

The Red Robes had been no more comfortable, for the place of those who followed the neutral path was uncertain in Istar these days. Even many who wore the White had been disenchanted with Marwort, a creature they could not control. When a Conclave appointed an ambassador, though, it was for life, so the archmages had had little choice but to wait for Marwort to die—something he had stubbornly refused to do. Until now.

It had been quick, Vincil said. A blood vessel in his brain had burst while he slept. That made it clear the Black Robes hadn’t finally carried out their threats to have Marwort killed. They would not have made it so painless—not when the regime he’d supported made a point of burning every dark-robed mage it could find. The White Robes had claimed his body, entombed it beneath the Tower in the Lordcity, not far from the Temple where he had served for so long. The Conclave, meanwhile, had convened to begin the important step of naming a replacement.

Leciane smiled, imagining what those “discussions” must have been like. Each order wanted the new ambassador to be one of their own: the Black Robes as an act of defiance, the White Robes for amelioration, and the Red as, perhaps, a bit of both. In the end, the White Robes would not accept a Black Robe ambassador to the Great Temple of Paladine, and the Black would not allow another White to take Marwort’s place, so Red was the compromise. Nobody was happy, to be certain—Ysarl’s grumbling and Jorelia’s glare made that much clear—but it was the only course that wouldn’t crack the orders’ tenuous solidarity.

“And so, Leciane,” Vincil concluded, “I have called you here. All know you are trustworthy and devoted to the Art. All know you will speak on the orders’ behalf, even if it makes those around you unhappy. After much discussion we have chosen you to represent us at the Kingpriest’s court.”

Leciane’s breast swelled. She did her best to hide her joy, but she could tell by the way the corners of Vinci1’s mouth twitched that he had spotted the gleam of pride in her eyes.

“I am honored, Most High,” she murmured. “I would think you might choose one of greater years, however. I am younger even than Marwort was when he first went to Istar. If I should prove a poor choice, you’ll be stuck with me there for quite a while.”

Ysarl of the Black chuckled at that, and Leciane shivered. She didn’t miss his meaning.

The dark mages would not suffer another displeasing envoy for long. If she crossed them, it wouldn’t be long before she found a viper in her bed or poison in her goblet. It had happened before, and only Vincil’s iron hand had kept them from doing the same to Marwort these past few years.

“We know you, Leciane,” Vincil repeated. “You have always been loyal. We trust you shall continue to be so, whatever may come. Do you accept this honor?”

They were all looking at her, all twenty-one of them, their eyes heavy with portent.

Leciane stood erect beneath their heavy gaze, and for a mischievous moment considered saying no. It might be worth it, for the look on their faces. In the end, though, they knew she would accept. With solemn grace, she lowered herself to one knee before the Conclave, her long hair spilling forward as she bowed her head.

“I consent,” she murmured. “Beneath the three moons, I swear I will do thy will.”

*****

After, when the ritual was done—when the heads of the three orders had each extracted an oath of service from her and smeared her forehead with white ashes, red blood, and black soot—she went to Vincil’s study atop the North Tower and kissed him hard on the mouth when he opened the door.

That surprised him, his eyes showing round and white when she was done. She laughed, striding into the room.

The Highmage’s study was a wonder to behold, so filled with magic that the air all but sizzled. It raised the fine hairs on Leciane’s arms as she looked about the room. It was a comfortable place, tastefully appointed in Ergothian style, all dark wood panels and stone-tiled floors, padded armchairs and couches. Enchanted glass globes hung from the ceiling in silken nets, aglow with golden light; bookshelves lined the walls, groaning under the weight of thousands of tomes, scrolls and wax tablets. Unlike some mages, Vincil didn’t fill his study with gewgaws—there were no gaudy displays of magical jewels and wands here—but there were some interesting things: A blackwood staff tipped with a star sapphire leaned in the corner, and a jade orb stood on a pedestal, limned with green fire.

A wide lapis bowl filled with water sat on a table in the room’s midst. Seeing it, Leciane smiled. In her days as his apprentice, she’d often helped Vincil with scrying spells that let him see things happening a thousand leagues away. She walked over and dipped her fingers in it, rippling its still surface, then pulled them out, sucked them dry, and grinned at the Highmage “Nepotist,” she said.

He chuckled dryly. “Hardly. We’re not related.”

“And a good thing,” she said, laughing again as his dusky face grew darker still. “You know what I mean, though you need a new envoy, and you recommended me? I’m surprised the others didn’t call you worse.”

“They did,” Vincil said. He shrugged. “They know you too, though, Leciane. They know you’ll do what we ask of you, whatever the risk.”

Leciane had turned to admire a model of a sailing ship on a sideboard—a model enchanted so that its sails rippled as if under full wind, and tiny, illusionary sailors scrambled about its deck and rigging. Now she frowned over her shoulder at the Highmage.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Vincil didn’t answer right away; instead, he motioned for her to follow, out onto a balcony that looked down upon the Tower’s grounds. Below, Wayreth’s forest stretched out on all sides, red-silver beneath the moons’ glow. Strange cries and growls rose from the wood, and a pair of winged wildcats skimmed low over the hissing leaves, either fighting or mating. The air was crisp, smelling faintly of musk. Vincil leaned against a railing of twined gold and iron, gazing over the mages’ enchanted realm. Leciane watched him, waiting for him to speak.

“Something is wrong,” he said, sighing. “I don’t know what, but there is a new danger in Istar. The others have felt it too. The Black Robes say it’s this Kingpriest, this Lightbringer, but…” He stopped, staring at his hands.

Leciane laid a hand on his shoulder, “You think it’s something else?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. His brow wrinkled with frustration as he looked out over the treetops. “I’ve tried and tried to divine what it is, but it is hidden from my powers. Still, I can sense it out there.”

She bit her lip. “This danger,” she murmured. “You think it threatens the order?”

Silently, he turned. Their eyes met, and Leciane’s insides tightened at what she saw.

She tried to remember a time when she’d seen Vincil frightened before. She couldn’t.

Shuddering, she bowed her head.

“All right,” she said. There was steel in her gaze when she looked up again. “Tell me what I must do.”

CHAPTER 4

The Lordcity of Istar went by many names. Istar the Mighty, Istar the Beautiful, Istar the Holy. It was all of these and more: the greatest city in all of Krynn, outshining such grand metropolises as Palanthas and Xak Tsaroth. A quarter of a million souls dwelt within its soaring, gold-chased walls, spread out over seven hilltops along the northern shore of the shining waters of Lake Istar. It was a city of delicate towers and mighty arches, broad plazas and lush gardens, alabaster domes and gleaming mosaics, fountains and statues of lapis, serpentine, and bloodstone. Its streets, markets, and wine shops teemed with folk from all over the empire—towering natives from the Sadrahka Jungle, stout highlanders from the hills of Taol, slender, graceful Dravinish ladies, all dressed in a riot of colors and making an incessant din of shouting, song, and laughter. Exotic smells—spices and citrus, camphor and jasmine—filled the air, mingling with the music of dulcimers. The sight of Istar from afar had been known to bring even the grimmest warriors to tears.

To Cathan MarSevrin, it was home.

He sat his horse on a hilltop a mile west of the city, his men arrayed behind him. Huge Sir Marto wept at its beauty, as did several others. At Cathan’s side, Tithian gripped his horse’s reins, his eyes wide. Some of the other squires, who had never seen it before, gasped aloud when they crested the hill, but the city’s beauty smote Tithian almost like a physical blow.

Cathan smiled, remembering the first time he had seen the city. It had been twenty years ago and he had come at the head of a conquering army. He had been one of Beldinas’s first followers—before that, the Lightbringer had been Brother Beldyn, a poor monk from the mountains of Kharolis far to the west. He had seen the healing miracles worked by Beldinas and had helped him recover the fabled Miceram, the long-lost Crown of Power that solidified his claim to Istar’s throne. They had come at the head of an army of thousands, and the hierarchs of the church had opened the gates to them, to overthrow the false Kingpriest, Kurnos the Deceiver.

Thoughts of Kurnos made Cathan’s lips thin. Once the First Son of Paladine, he had seized control of the throne through trickery and dark magic when the previous Kingpriest, Symeon IV, died. Some folk even whispered that Kurnos had killed Symeon. Cathan was inclined to believe such rumors, for he had seen firsthand the demon Kurnos had summoned to slay the Lightbringer. With Cathan’s help, Beldinas had thwarted the demon, but not before it had murdered many good people—including First Daughter Ilista, who had discovered Beldinas in the first place. Even cornered, with no one left to support him, Kurnos had tried one last time to murder the Lightbringer with sorcery.

Instead, he had killed Cathan.

At that memory, Cathan’s hand went unbidden to his chest. He still bore the scar, a puckered spot where magical lightning had ripped into him. People asked him even now what death had been like, what he had seen after the mortal world lifted from his eyes. The clergy, in particular, had been understandably curious. He could remember nothing, though—before Beldinas brought him back.

There were many legends of the clerics of old, and what their powers allowed them to do.

They had conjured enough bread to feed nations, made blighted deserts lush and green, summoned storms of wind, water, and flame to destroy their enemies. In the thousand years since Huma Dragonbane drove the Queen of Darkness and her minions from the world, however, such miracles had disappeared. With darkness broken and scattered, there was little need for them any more. These days, most clerics could not even perform the simplest of wonders.

Despite their power, however, even the mightiest clerics of yore had not been able to restore a soul after it departed the flesh. Such things, philosophers claimed, were simply not possible. The Lightbringer had proven them wrong. Focusing his will amid his grief, Beldinas had beseeched—demanded, to hear some tell it—that Paladine work his will.

Paladine had listened and obeyed—and so Cathan drew breath once more, though forever marked with his strange, unsettling eyes…

“Master?” A hand touched his shoulder.

Cathan started. He glanced toward the voice. Tithian was looking at him, his brow wrinkled with worry. So were most of the other knights. Self-conscious, he lowered his hand from his scarred breast.

“Sir,” Tithian murmured, “are you all right? You look pale.”

Swallowing, Cathan shook his head. All those memones were old now: Kurnos was long dead, and though he had tried several times, the Kingpriest had been unable to perform any more resurrections since that day.

“I’m fine, lad,” he murmured. “Come on. Let’s waste no more time here.”

Clucking his tongue, he nudged his horse down the hill. He didn’t ride straight to the city, though—not yet. He had somewhere he wanted to go first.

*****

Even in a city of marvels, some places stood out. In Istar, the foremost of these was unquestionably the Great Temple at its heart, With its vibrant gardens and silver-roofed cloisters, its seven golden spires and vast dome of frosted crystal, it was the most splendid church the world had ever known, the sight to which every Istaran’s gaze gravitated—not just when its bells called the faithful to prayer, but constantly—affirming that the Lordcity was indeed the favorite of the gods.

There were other wonders in Istar, though. At the mouth of its harbor, where sails of a hundred hues billowed in the balmy breeze, the two beacons called the God’s Eyes blazed silver in the sunlight. Across town, on the slopes of the northern quarter, the palatial homes of the city’s nobility gleamed, all marble columns and shining rooftops. In the west stood the School of the Games, a sprawling arena that could house half the city’s populace in its seats. Gladiators had fought there once, though now the games were all play: epic tragedies and mock melees that drew cheers that could shake the city’s foundations. In the east, drawing wary glances; was the Tower of High Sorcery, a slender minaret of sparkling white stone, topped with crimson turrets. An ivory hand with fingers bloody, the poetess Trella of Yandol had once called it. It had stood longer than any of the Lordcity’s other landmarks, old even when the first Kingpriest donned his crown.

If the Tower was Istar’s eldest marvel, the Hammerhall was the youngest, but no less grand for it. It did not stand within the city’s walls but rather on a hill just to the north, overlooking the land for leagues around. It was a massive fortress, hewn of granite the color of sunrise, with high, crenellated walls that surrounded more than a dozen great manor houses. Atop the largest of these stood a sculpture of a hammer, thirty feet high and washed in gold, its head covered with braziers that made it appear a mass of flames. This was the home of the Order of the Divine Hammer, an inescapable reminder of the holy war the Kingpriest had declared against the forces of evil.

So vast was the Hammerhall that even now, twenty years after the order took over from the Solamnic Knights as the empire’s chief protectors, it was still unfinished. It had grown constantly over the years, as more and more young men joined the Hammer. Even now the clamor of mallet and chisel rivaled the clash of knights training at swordplay in the bailey.

Another sound rose louder still, above all else—a sound every knight knew and dreaded.

It was the sound of Tavarre, Grand Marshal of the Order, roaring in full-throated anger.

“You great, hulking idiots! What in the name of Huma’s silver arm do you think you’re doing?”

Though nearing sixty, Tavarre was still a fearsome man, short and stocky, a scar running from beneath his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His white hair and beard waved in the wind, matching the wildness in his eyes. He was dressed in full armor, topped with a crimson tabard that denoted his rank, and held a cudgel in his hand, with which he’d been schooling several young squires in combat. Now his students stood gaping behind him as he stormed across the courtyard.

The targets of his wrath were two minotaurs, brawny, bull-headed creatures that overtopped Tavarre by head, shoulders, and half their chests. Between them, they carried a block of marble that would have taken ten men to lift. To an outsider, they might have looked more than a match for an old man, but the creatures shrank back at his approach, setting down the block and backing away. Their wicked horns dipped as they bowed their heads in submission.

“Look at this!” the First Marshal thundered, pointing his club. “You’re not supposed to be carrying stones this big without a harness, you know that! Marble isn’t cheap, you damnable cow-headed dolts. If you drop it and it breaks, it’ll cost more gold than—

Minotaurs are hot-blooded creatures, seldom able to control their own tempers. Now one of them, a red-furred brute with gleaming yellow eyes, let out an angry snort and grabbed for Tavarre with a fist the size of a ham.

Moving with speed belying his years, the old knight spun away from the minotaur’s reach. In the same motion, he whipped the cudgel around in a vicious backhand, snapping his wrist at the last moment to drive it hard against the side of the bull-man’s leg. The club splintered, but so did bone. The minotaur went down with a roar, clutching at his shattered knee-cap. Tavarre drove an armored boot into the side of the creature’s head. Its howl of pain choked off, and it fell in a senseless heap.

The other minotaur looked from his fallen fellow to the old knight. Red-faced but not even breathing hard, Tavarre reached for his sword and drew it an inch from its scabbard.

The bull-man flinched and hurried away.

The courtyard was silent. Everyone—knights, squires, servants, and other minotaur workers—had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at the confrontation. The Grand Marshal in a fury was as good a show as any mummer’s play at the Arena … as long as one wasn’t the target of his wrath. Now, slamming his blade home once more, Tavare swept the bailey with a glare that could have melted gold. Everyone looked away, thinking of something better to do. With a satisfied grunt, Tavarre turned his back on the unconscious minotaur and started back toward his nervously waiting students.

“No one likes a bully, you know,” called a voice across the yard.

Tavarre stopped in mid-stride, his face darkening as he whirled. Seeing who had spoken, his rage disappeared, and a broad, toothy grin split his face. “Branchala bite me!” he swore. “MarSevrin?”

Cathan stood in the shadow of a colonnade, arms folded across his chest. Across the courtyard the squires gawked with open mouths, elbowing and whispering to one another.

They knew who he was. He let them stare. He’d long since gotten used to folk looking at him with that kind of fearful awe. His attention remained on Tavarre as the old knight lumbered forward.

“You should really try picking on someone your own size,” Cathan said when he drew near.

Tavarre growled out a laugh. “What, like you?” he asked, rapping a finger against Cathan’s breastplate. “Don’t forget, lad—everything you know about fighting, you learned from me. You can’t even guess what I held back.”

Cathan chuckled. He’d known Tavarre longer than anyone else in the Lordcity. Once, the old knight had been his liege-lord, baron of the highland village of Luciel. After hard times fell on the border provinces-famine and plague that cost Cathan his parents and brother and Tavarre his wife and son—they had become bandits for a time. Then the Lightbringer had come, and they had both followed. Cathan had been the first Knight of the Divine Hammer, and Tavarre the second. He’d been the order’s Grand Marshal ever since.

The old knight regarded Cathan with a stern eye. “You’re balder than I remember,” he said. “How long has it been?”

“Six months,” Cathan replied. “And you’re fatter.”

Tavarre guffawed, slapping his stomach, and gestured for Cathan to walk with him.

They started down the colonnade together, the training squires forgotten.

“Try living on what they serve at the Temple, and see how fat you get,” the old knight shot back. “I swear, I don’t know how His Holiness can stay skinny. What brings you back here?”

“His Holiness,” Cathan said. Reaching to his belt, he produced the missive from the mechanical hawk. Tavarre read it, then handed it back, nodding.

“I should have known he’d call you back,” he said. “You brought your men with you?”

“The ones who are still alive,” Cathan replied.

Tavarre gave him a sharp look. “Ah, no. Not Damid?”

Cathan sighed, nodding.

“Blood in the Abyss,” Tavarre muttered, and signed the triangle. “He was a good man. We’ll hoist a jug of Seldjuki wine to him later.”

Cathan clapped Tavarre on the shoulder. “There’s another one I want knighted too, as soon as possible.” He related how Tithian had killed the Deathmaster.

The gloomy expression that had settled on Tavarre’s face broke back into a grin.

“Swordflinger, eh? Well, the boy better not make a habit of it—usually, throwing your sword’s just a creative way to disarm yourself. I’ll dub him though. Any man who saves your life is good by me, lad.”

They kept on, across the grounds of the Hammerhall until they came to the keep’s looming gatehouse. There they stopped, and Tavarre threw back his head and roared with laughter as he saw what lay on the cobbles there.

“Great gods!” the First Marshal exclaimed when he could breathe again. “You killed the bird.”

Cathan couldn’t help but laugh too. The clockwork hawk rested on the ground in a metal heap, alongside Cathan’s shield and helm.

“Think he’ll mind?” he asked.

Tavarre snorted, glancing at the sky. The sun had passed its zenith and begun to wester. The sound of bells rang out from the city. “Come on,” he said. “The court reconvenes in half an hour. You can tell His Holiness about it yourself.”

CHAPTER 5

They could hear the chanting drifting through the city long before they reached the Temple grounds. The low drone, sounding not unlike the bellows-pipes the shepherds of Gather sometimes played, repeated the same two words over and over. The words were in the church tongue, but even the most unschooled Istaran knew them.

“Cilenfo,” the voices sang. “Pilofiro.”

The Healer. The Lightbringer.

Cathan raised his eyebrows at Tavarre, who shrugged. “More of them all the time,” the old knight said.

The Barigon was a broad plaza, large enough to hold half of Istar’s population: a vast, open space designed to make the Temple seem even bigger than it was. Cathan had seen it filled before, on the day the Kingpriest made him knight and perhaps a dozen times after. It wasn’t full today, but the crowd gathered before the Temple’s broad marble steps was by no accounting small. Two thousand, maybe more—all of them kneeling, hands extended to form the triangle as they chanted.

Cathan shook his head in silent awe. It wasn’t even a holy day. No other Kingpriest was Beldinas. People came from all over the empire to see him, many of them sick. All knew how the Lightbringer could cure the greatest ills with a word and a touch. Countless folk had felt that touch, heard his voice, over the past twenty years. Disease hadn’t yet fled the empire, but it was in steady retreat.

What better reason to revere him? Cathan thought. He had felt the same way the first time they’d met, when the man upon the throne had been just a boy in a monk’s habit.

He’d stood and watched the Lightbringer lay hands upon Wentha, his younger sister. She’d been nearly dead, past any hope—and Beldinas had come and lifted her suffering. Cathan had sworn himself to the Lightbringer that night. Others in Luciel had done the same, then the folk of the nearby city of Govinna, and even the Scatas Kurnos had sent to fight them.

These particular worshipers, however, were blocking his way. They were thick as Sadrahkan mud flies, and even Tavarre’s booming voice couldn’t get them to clear a path to the Temple’s golden doors.

“For the love of Jolith,” Tavarre swore, giving up at trying to shove through the crowd.

“Fine, then. We’ll go in another way.”

Cathan nodded. More than a few heads had turned toward him, staring, then looking away as soon as they noticed his eyes. A few plucked at the hem of his tabard or clutched at his hands. He bore it all, even the occasional one who tried to kiss his fingertips. The people of Istar had treated him thus for twenty years. He was, after all, something of a holy relic, the living result of Beldinas’s greatest miracle.

They left the crowd behind, a few dogging their steps as they traced around the buttressed walls that enclosed the Temple. There were other ways in, and soon they found a servants’ entrance, barred and guarded by a pair of broad-shouldered knights. The guards lowered their spears in salute as they recognized the two men coming toward them, then lifted bar and stood aside without a word.

In they went, into a garden where golden starbloom shrubs blazed around lime and almond trees, where a fountain of malachite sprayed water in arcs that looked like ropes of diamond. A lizard the length of Cathan’s arm, bred to look like a silver dragon—it even had horns, and the tiny stubs of wings rising from its shoulders—froze in the midst of a path of crushed rose quartz, stared at them for a heartbeat, then hissed and skittered away. The bushes rattled as it vanished.

Cathan jumped as the guards boomed the doors shut behind him, and for a moment his heart clenched. He was on holy ground now—the holiest in the world. His heart should have sung at the prospect of returning here, but it never did. No matter how much he looked forward to seeing Beldinas again, setting foot within the Temple always made a shiver run through him. He’d died here once.

A strong hand clasped his shoulder, and he looked over to see understanding in Tavarre’s eyes. The old knight had been there that day, had wept once with grief, then again with joy. Once lord and subject, the two were friends now. Cathan managed a weak smile.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The basilica rose in the Temple’s midst, its crystal dome gleaming brighter than mere sunlight could explain. Around it, the other buildings—the vast chancery, the sprawling cloisters, even the towering imperial manse with its broad balconies and rose-hued windows—looked tiny by comparison. The Temple’s central spire, a needle so high it seemed apt to prick the sun flashed with golden fire above. The basilica side doors shone too, and Tavarre led the way in. Cathan’s breath quickened as he strode through the high, sunlit halls of the world’s mightiest church. Birds the color of rubies and amethysts sang in silver cages above, and garlands of flame-colored roses as big as a man’s fist draped the walls.

Silver-robed clerics and acolytes in-gray turned to stare as they passed, many of them bowing their heads or signing the triangle. Cathan flushed beneath their wondering gaze, nodding as they passed. Finally, they reached a platinum door, inlaid with the falcon-and-triangle in lapis. On the other side was a dim antechamber, lit with white tapers, with a curtain of sapphire velvet on the far wall. Running down the room’s length was a table of lacquered wood draped in satin and laden with rich food and drink. The air too was heavy with tempting scents, Cathan couldn’t keep his stomach from snarling.

Tavarre laughed. “You sound like an ogre with tooth rot,” he said. “How long’s it been since you’ve eaten well? Never mind. I’ve got to go announce you. Get some food in you while I’m gone.”

He disappeared through the curtain. It was embroidered with silver thread, showing an image Cathan recognized: the Lightbringer’s procession through the Lordcity’s gates. The table all but groaned beneath the weight of the fare laid there: warm, herbed bread; soft cheese; steaming shellfish drenched in garlic butter; cold pheasant glazed with quince jelly.

There was a bewildering array of strange, tropical fruits as well, brought in from the empire’s northern jungles. He took a ball of bloodmelon and popped it in his mouth, savoring its explosion of tartness while he loaded a gilded plate.

He proved hungrier than he’d thought, and had demolished two heaping platefuls of delicacies, as well as three goblets of watered claret, when the curtain pulled back and Tavarre leaned through, nodding at Cathan’s unasked question.

Smiling, Cathan downed the last of his wine and followed old knight into the Hall of Audience.

*****

Silver light wreathed Kingpriest Beldinas. It never left him, this nimbus like silver moonshine that flared sunbright ever he called upon the god’s power. Once, it had only been there when he prayed to Paladine. His power had grown since then, however—heightened, certainly, by the Miceram, the Crown of Power that gleamed gold and ruby on his brow.

There was no mistaking the way the corners of the Kingpriest’s mouth curled with amusement. Beldinas often smiled, but usually out of pious joy; mirth was something he didn’t experience much. Now, though, he actually chuckled as looked down upon Cathan, kneeling before the throne.

“Shot it?” he asked.

Cathan’s face felt hot enough to melt the snows of Icereach. “I’m sorry, Holiness,” he said. “I will pay for the bird out of my own coffers.”

The Kingpriest cut him off, raising a hand that sparkled with gems. He wore jewels everywhere, from his rings of office to his encrusted breastplate, to the sparkling slippers upon his feet. Only the sleeves of his robes were devoid of ornamentation. Even his eyes—a strange, pale blue that met Cathan’s blank gaze without blinking—seemed like a pair of precious stones within the divine aura that enveloped him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sir Cathan,” he said. “The Church can afford the loss. You were only trying to protect your men. In truth, it’s helpful to know the bird might seem dangerous to those who don’t know it’s coming. The tinkers in Karthay will have to beware of that, should we choose to make further use of their wonders. Rise—tam fas paripeis.”

Thou art forgiven.

Cathan did as the Kingpriest bade, taking the chance to glance around as he did so. The Hall of Audience was immense enough that a small church could have fit inside it, spires and all. It was a perfect circle two hundred paces across, its floor shining marble, its walls lacquered wood rising up into the shapes of rose petals to embrace the dome above. The crystal rang with every sound and filled the hall with magical light that made the many candles there seem useless—wasteful, even.

There were courtiers everywhere in the hall: nobles, knights, merchants, and priests, the men and women alike powdered and perfumed, dressed in silk and ermine. The gold they all wore could have bought grain enough to feed a city for a year. Cathan recognized a few faces among them. The hierarchs, high priests of the other gods of light, stood in a cluster to his left, resplendent in the crimson of Majere, Mishakite blue and Jolithian gold, Branchala’s green and Habbakuk’s violet. Marwort should have been near them representing Solinari as well as High Sorcery, but the place where he’d stood since before Cathan’s birth was empty now. Cathan wondered whom the wizards would send to replace him.

On the other side were the Kingpriest’s innermost circle, the highest clerics of Paladine.

Farenne, the First Daughter, was a lovely young woman, just past thirty, her short, raven hair framing a face that looked as if it were, made of porcelain. At her side was Adsem, the First Son. He was old and stooped, his swarthy pate covered with many spots and very little hair. A frail man, he leaned on a stick of polished ivory.

Then there was the elf. Quarath of Silvanesti was more beautiful than Farenne and older than Adsem by more than a century, a tall, slender figure who had hair the color of honey and a sharp-angled face whose hazel eyes missed nothing at all. He was the only one in the hall who was not a citizen of Istar, being Emissary of the Silvanesti elves, but he was Beldinas’s closest advisor nonetheless. He had been the first to welcome the Lightbringer to the Lordcity when the hierarchs finally turned away from Kurnos. Now he had the Kingpriest’s ear, and the haughtiness in his face told Cathan that the seas would swallow the empire before he gave it up.

Cathan’s gaze drifted on. A blue mosaic, carefully laid to resemble rolling waves, spread across the floor beneath his feet, washing up against the dais before him. The dais had seven steps, leading up to a massive throne of gold, flanked by smoldering censers and wreathed around with white roses and sprays of tiny blue flowers called Mishakal’s mist.

Twenty years on the throne had changed Beldinas little. The lines of his jaw were sharper, and wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes, but otherwise he might still have been seventeen. Even his hair remained the same, all brown and no gray, tumbling from beneath the crown in long, thick waves. Cathan felt a ridiculous twinge of jealousy at that, his hand straying to the spot on his pate where scalp had started showing through.

“You are welcome back here, my friend,” Beldinas intoned, the dome chiming with every word. “We praise your victories and mourn your losses. Come to the manse tonight. We shall dine together, and talk of what will come. Is that well with you?”

Cathan blinked. He’d been expecting more, perhaps even for Beldinas to call a recess to the court—certainly not such a swift dismissal. But then, Beldinas had both the church and the empire to run. Cathan could wait a few hours.

“Holiness,” he said, bowing.

The Lightbringer inclined his head. Turning, Cathan stepped away from the throne and walked back across the hall, toward the antechamber. Halfway there, he glanced back.

Beldinas had turned away, to listen to Quarath as the elf whispered in his ear.

*****

That night, Cathan regretted having eaten so much while he waited for his brief audience with Beldinas. The feast the Kingpriest’s servants laid upon the long marble table in the manse’s cavernous dining hall made the fare in the basilica seem like tavern food: silver mushrooms from the wild woods of Kharolis, red olives stuffed with Dravinish peppers, pies of lamprey fed on the blood of yearling calves … and, most remarkable, a whole basilisk, roasted slowly and served with a sauce made from the fruit of vallenwood trees. Cathan stared at the beast—which stared back at him with empty eye sockets, its fangs glistening in the twilight that shone through the hall’s rose windows—and wondered where it had come from. There had been no basilisks in Istar for more than a century.

Still full from earlier, he ate little, though he tried a bit of everything. He spoke little during the meal—eating was eating, and talking was talking, his parents had taught him before the plague took them—and listened instead to others: Tavarre’s booming laugh and Adsem’s stern pronouncements, Farenne’s demure murmurs, Quarath’s silky interjections.

They spoke of tax levies from Ismin, newly consecrated shrines in Taol, and a new Patriarch who had just risen to power in Gather. He let it all wash over him, sipping claret and looking past the courtiers to the head of the table the table, where the silver light glowed.

Beldinas ate little, as well. Raised as a monk, he had grown up on plain, spare meals and seldom actually partook of the rich banquets, though like Cathan he sampled each dish in turn. Nor did he join in the conversation any more than was expected of him, instead letting Quarath speak on his behalf. His pale eyes looked straight at Cathan every now and then, mostly they peered away into the hall’s shadowy corners, as though searching for something. Cathan knew what the Kingpriest sought: any sign of the shadow demon the Usurper had summoned to murder him, long ago. Beldinas had turned the god’s power upon the monster, destroying it, but even after so many years he still studied the darkness as if sure it would return.

At last the meal ended, the servants clearing away the remains of the dessert—a pudding of cake soaked in moragnac brandy, laced through with iceberries, golden cherries and thick cream—and bringing in black-veined cheeses and bowls of lemon water for the diners to cleanse themselves. Adsem and Farenne both excused themselves, the First Son and Daughter of Paladine departing to tend their own orders. Quarath stayed, however, as did Tavarre, who with Cathan accompanied the Kingpriest from the dining hall to a broad balcony that overlooked the temple grounds. Mist rose from the gardens, and the basilica’s dome glowed like a ripe blood orange in the last rays of sunset. Beyond the Temple walls, lanterns shimmered all over the Lordcity, already mirroring the stars that would soon gleam above. Somewhere below, someone played a plaintive tune on a reed pipe.

“And the pearls?” Beldinas asked.

Cathan started. It was the first time the Kingpriest had addressed him directly all evening. It took him a moment to understand the question. “Oh,” he said. “They worked as you said they would, Holiness. My thanks.”

Beldinas nodded. His parting gift to Cathan, before the knights rode north to hunt Chemoshans, had been the string of pearls Cathan had used to calm the waters as they rowed to the Hullbreaker. Cathan had been confused, certain that he wouldn’t need such a token, but Beldinas had insisted. And he had been right.

Now the Kingpriest smiled, folding his hands before him. A dragonfly the color of amethyst and the length of a dagger flew near, inspected him, and buzzed away.

“So the Deathmaster is no more.”

“Ashes, Holiness,” Cathan agreed. “Burned and gone.”

“Si, po usas ladas,” said Quarath, smiling. Thus to all the god’s foes.

Beldinas inclined his head. “Indeed, Emissary.”

“Your message said the High Sorcerers were sending a new envoy,” Cathan ventured, “but I didn’t see any at court today.”

As if the mere mention of wizards might make one appear, all four men made warding gestures. Even Quarath, whose people revered those who wielded magic, interlaced his fingers to form the eleven holy sign. Unlike most elves, Quarath shared humans’ opinion of those who drew their power from the moons. He had spent nearly fifty years in the Temple, first as aide to his predecessor Loralon the Wise, then as Emissary himself. He returned to the land of his people once a year, to give homage to King Lorac there, but these days he belonged more to the empire than to the glades of Silvanesti.

“The envoy has not arrived yet,” Beldinas replied. “These wizards are proud, so they make us wait, though they could send their representative here any time. Still, we received word from the order just this morning. She will be here in a week. When she comes, I want you to be the one who accompanies her here from the Tower.”

Cathan had already raised one eyebrow when the Kingpriest mentioned that the new envoy was a she. Now the other one shot up, “Me, Holiness?”

“You, my friend,” Beldinas replied. “You are to watch this sorceress for me, Cathan. That is why I called you back here. There are few in this empire I trust as much as you … and they are all on this balcony right now.”

Both Tavarre and Quarath were looking at him—the old knight with a knowing smile, the elf with a tiny crease of irritation between his brows. The sky was the color of plums, shading toward black. The wind shifted, blowing cool off the lake, bringing the scent of jasmine up from the gardens. Cathan bowed his head.

“Of course, Holiness,” he said. “I am yours to command.”

“This is no command, Cathan,” the Lightbringer said. “I am asking you. You can say no.”

“No, Holiness. I cannot.”

Beldinas smiled at that, just for a moment.

“You should tell him the other reason he’s back here” Tavarre interjected, grinning like a carved gourd at Harvest Come.

Cathan looked at the old knight, then at Beldinas. The Kingpriest spread his hands.

“Very well,” he said. “This month marks the twentieth anniversary of my arrival in the Lordcity.”

“I know,” Cathan replied.

“Well I remember that day,” Quarath added.

“Cathan has even better reasons to remember it, Emissary,” Beldinas murmured. “Don’t you agree?”

The elf pursed his lips and looked out at the stars.

“I have been offered an opportunity to celebrate that anniversary,” Beldinas added. “On the first day of the new year, there is to be a tournament in my honor.”

“A tournament?” Cathan asked, still uncertain where this was all leading.

“Oh, for the love of Paladine,” Tavarre grumbled, still smiling. “Stop tormenting the boy and tell him who’s throwing the bloody thing.”

Quarath sucked in a sharp breath. People did not talk to the Kingpriest of Istar that way. Beldinas only chuckled, however. “Very well. The tournament is to be held in Lattakay,” he said, looking at Cathan, “at the courtesy of your sister.”

CHAPTER 6

The next week passed in a blur. Lord Tavarre knighted Tithian the day after Cathan’s arrival, in a quiet ceremony within the Hammerhall. The Divine Hammer had taken its dubbing rite from the more ancient Knights of Solamnia. Tithian spent a long night in silent vigil within the keep’s chapel, praying to Paladine and Kiri-Iolith and refusing food and wine, When dawn came, he emerged from the church, clad in long white robes, and walked the length of the bailey to the High Keep, where the heads of the knighthood waited.

A guard of honor went with him—blustering Sir Marto, carrying a pair of silver spurs; silent Sir Pellidas, bearing a new white shield with the hammer ablaze; and last, Cathan himself, carrying a sword of Tarsian steel. Cathan handed the blade to Tavarre, who touched it to Tithian’s shoulders.

“Fe Paladas cado,” the First Marshal intoned, “bid Istaras apalo.”

In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might.

So Cathan lost his squire.

Of course it was Marto’s idea to head to the mudubas. The Lordcity’s wine shops were famous throughout the empire and were completely unlike the dark, smoky taverns Cathan remembered from his youth. They were open to the air, white-walled courtyards where the tables and benches stood among flower beds and marble statuary. Tiled fountains bubbled in their midst, and covered colonnades provided shade for those who wished it. The servants—men and women who never spoke—brought jugs of wine and water from stone urns and mixed them with spices in bowls of sparkling crystal. Each wine shop had its own ambience. In one, turquoise silk draped from pole to pole across the yard; in the next, green-furred monkeys chattered among the branches of the lemon trees; in another, the courtyard floor was a mosaic of the empire itself, with miniature replicas of its mighty cities, carved from ivory and rosewood, standing on plinths throughout. There were hundreds of them, all different, and it seemed to Cathan that he visited them all that day.

Cathan led the party at the start, but it wasn’t long before Sir Marto took over. When it came to carousing, the big Karthayan knew no match. He had a stomach for the grape that would have toppled a minotaur, and his great, booming voice drew attention whether he was shouting for more food, laughing at his own jokes, or singing bawdy songs. He knew a great many such songs, and while his ability to stay in tune was often lacking, he more than made up for it in gusto. The men sang along, echoing the choruses, while Sir Pellidas played on a short-necked lute. Every now and then, the crash of crockery rang across the taverns, sending the servants and other patrons scattering. Together the knights smashed enough cups and pitchers to keep the city’s clayworks busy for a week. The mudubas’ owners didn’t complain, though, nor did they ask for payment. The Divine Hammer protected the realm from evil, after all. What god-fearing tavernkeeper could object if their revelry ate up some of his profits?

Somewhere in there, amid the wine and the noise, the sun decided to set. The shadows across the city deepened as the sky grew dark, and linkboys made their way about the city, setting light to countless lanterns that made the streets glitter.

The Mirrorgarden, the mudubo where the Divine Hammer had ended up, was one of Istar’s grander ones. Its walls, tables, and pillars were covered with beaten silver. Cathan sat at the end of a long table, a flagon in his hand, his head spinning as his men cheered Sir Marto on. The big Karthayan was telling the tale of the Hullbreaker, gesturing often to Tithian. The young knight turned bright red whenever Marto called him Swordflinger … which he did with practically every other breath.

Cathan sighed, shaking his head ruefully. It was maybe the sixth time Marto had told the story today, and every time his boasts grew more preposterous. The Chemoshans numbered two thousand now, to listen to him, and fought like a wild ogres, led by a dozen sorcerers of the Black Robes. They’d be riding dragons next, the way things were going.

Chuckling at Marto’s bravado, Cathan pushed himself to his feet, waited for everything to stop swaying, and went outside to relieve himself into a sewer grate. Afterward, he made his way back into the mudubo, his eyes fixed on the huge, blustering figure of Marto, now bellowing a chorus of “My Horse, My Wife, and My Sword,” while standing on a table-top.

The other knights carried the refrain, stamping their feet and thumping their cups on the tables. Cathan smiled, watching them—and so he didn’t see the drink coming until it hit him in the face.

The wine struck him like a cold slap, soaking his tunic. Sputtering, he wiped at his burning eyes, trying to clear them. All sound in the tavern stopped, except for a few scattered gasps and the thud of chairs falling over as the knights rose from their seats, their hands fumbling for their swords. Cathan held up a dripping hand to stay them, looking down at his attacker.

His eyes widened in surprise. It was a woman, stout and somewhere past sixty from her looks, dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak and a red wimple that marked her as hailing from the city of Jaggana. Her face drawn into a contemptuous sneer, she spat on the floor at Cathan’s feet.

“Bastard!” she snapped.

Another gasp. Rumbling deep in his chest, Marto clambered down from the table and started forward until Cathan looked at him and shook his head. All eyes fixed on the old woman.

“Mafura,” Cathan began, bobbing his head respectfully,“if I have done anything to offend you—”

“Offend me?” the woman repeated, her eyes blazing. “Offend me? Your kind murdered both my sons, knight!”

Cathan blinked at her, unsure what to say. He didn’t get the chance to do anything more. Marto was stomping forward again, his wine-flushed face darkening from red to purple.

“The Divine Hammer does not murder,” he declared. “We smite darkness at the Lightbringer’s will!”

“Marto,” Cathan said, “stay back.”

Marto looked ready to grab up the woman and pitch her over the mudubo’s wall. More than a few of the other knights had the same spark in their eyes. If this went much more wrong, they’d tear the tavern down. Swallowing, he laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“My man speaks truly, I fear,” he explained, as patient as he could manage. “There is much evil in Jaggana, a great many dark cults. If the Hammer killed your sons, it must have been because they were involved in one.”

“That’s what the priests told me,” the woman shot back. “I came here to plead to the Church, but they said Ettel and Meras would not have died if they had been free of sin. Arrogant filthmongers, the lot of them—and you too, for saying the same!”

Glancing across the wine shop, Cathan saw that Tithian and Pellidas were both holding Marto back. No one who wasn’t looking to be arrested called a knight or a priest such a vulgar name.

“Mafura,” he insisted, “you must listen—”

“No,” she snapped, rapping at his chest with a bony finger. “You listen. My sons weren’t evil. They were devout Shinereans, nothing more. They never harmed anyone—until you knights stormed their chapel and put them all to the sword! Burned their bodies and scattered the ashes—and all for worshiping Shinare! Do you call that evil?”

Shinare was one of the gray gods who served neither light nor darkness. Until recently, the empire had tolerated Shinareans, allowing them to worship in the open. The Lightbringer had put an end to that a year ago, declaring that anyone who didn’t serve the good gods opposed Paladine’s will. As a result, the knights had expanded their crusade. If the woman’s sons had been worshiping Shinare, they were breaking the law. He wanted to tell her that made them enemies of the church and that they deserved what had happened to them—but looking into her eyes, at the anger shimmering beneath the tears, he found he couldn’t do it.

“I am sorry for your loss, Mafura,” he said. “I will speak to the Kingpriest, if you like. The church can make remuneration … whatever you ask.”

She slapped him.

“I don’t want your Kingpriest’s cursed gold!” she shouted as he recoiled, one hand touching the red mark on his cheek. “Give me back my sons!”

“Enough!” Marto roared. Furious, he shook off both Tithian and Pellidas; a moment later his meaty hand locked around the woman’s arm, and he dragged her toward the mudubo’ s gates.

“You’ve insulted our honor enough, you old hag,” Marto growled as they went. “Not to mention soiling the Lightbringer’s name with your serpent’s tongue. Your sons deserved what they got—and if you’re not on your way back to Jaggana in the morning, you’ll get the same!”

Many of the other knights shouted their support. The tavern’s patrons joined as Marto flung the gates open and shoved the woman out. With a squawk she disappeared, and applause rang out around the courtyard. Marto—smiling now, having avenged the knighthood’s reputation—made his way back to the rest of the Divine Hammer. The other knights welcomed him, thrusting a fresh flagon into his hand and clapping him on the back. Obliging, he climbed back onto the table and resumed his song, bellowing at the top of his voice.

Cathan didn’t join in. He stood quietly, his tunic stained and his eyes dark.

He looked to the gates, waiting for the woman—the grieving mother—to reappear. When she didn’t, he pushed his way across the courtyard and stepped out into the street, but there was no one there.

*****

The rest of the week Cathan divided between training at arms at the Hammerhall and attending court at the Temple. In the evenings, he stayed at the imperial manse, helping Tavarre and Beldinas plan the journey ahead. They would set forth once the High Sorcerers’ new envoy arrived, sailing on the Kingpriest’s golden barge across Lake Istar, then take to chariot and horse, across the grasslands of Midrath to the hilly shores of Seldjuk, and the white-arched walls of Lattakay.

Where Wentha dwelt.

Fifteen years had passed since Cathan last saw his sister. Once, the two of them—all that remained of the MarSevrins of Luciel—had been close. She’d been thirteen when they followed the Lightbringer to Istar, and Cathan had looked after her, finding her a place where she could live among the Revered Daughters of Paladine. Like everyone else, he’d felt certain she would become a priestess. She’d learned all the rituals and could read and write in the church tongue. It was only fitting. Wentha had, after all, been one of the first to feel the Lightbringer’s healing touch. The Kingpriest favored her; one day, she would be a fine First Daughter.

Wentha, however, had other plans. She had always been willful, even as a girl, and while she kept up the appearance of a dutiful acolyte, she stole out of the cloisters at night to meet suitors in the city’s moonlit gardens. Even had she been plain, men would have sought her hand, for the prestige of wedding one of the Kingpriest’s most favored, but Wentha had grown from a scuff-kneed tomboy into a lovely young woman. There was no shortage of young nobles willing to tryst beneath the silverwood trees.

After years of hiding her rendezvous from Cathan, the day drew near when she was to take her vows as a priestess. Instead, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, she announced her plans to marry.

His name was Jarlath. A handsome, devout young man, he was the only son of Lattakay’s wealthiest merchant. Cathan couldn’t have found a better husband for his sister. Even so, it was still a betrayal, and Cathan and Wentha had quarreled bitterly. No matter what he said to her, however, she would not be swayed.

“You have given yourself to the Kingpriest,” she’d said to him. “Your seed will never make an heir to bear the MarSevrin name. I won’t let our father’s blood die with me, too.”

The words had stung Cathan like barbed darts. He had left her and ridden out of the Lord city with a company of knights the next day. He had not seen Wentha since—hadn’t attended her wedding to Jarlath or laid eyes on the two sons she’d had by him. The older boy, Tancred—named for the brother they had lost to the plague—would be eleven now. Or was it twelve? Cathan wasn’t sure. In fifteen years, he had avoided going to Lattakay.

He had nearly gone to her once, for the funeral. Jarlath had died three years ago, lost at sea when his ship, the Treasure of Taol—named for Wentha—sailed into a brutal storm and didn’t return. A widow at thirty, Wentha had sent a message begging Cathan to come, and he had been saddling his horse to go, but at the last moment his heart had failed him. He hadn’t heard a word from her since, though he heard about her sometimes—from Tavarre in particular, who had gone to wedding and funeral both. Refusing to remarry, she had inherited her husband’s wealth, holding it until Tancred came of age. She had become a figure of power in Lattakay. It was enough to make a brother proud—but whenever Cathan thought of her, even today, his face grew dark and troubled.

Now, at last, he was going to see her again. There was no avoiding it. The greatest warriors in the Divine Hammer would all be there, and Beldinas wanted him to go. For some reason the Lightbringer wanted him to reconcile with his sister. That, more than anything, was why he would be on the imperial barge when it sailed past the God’s Eyes onto the lake’s crystal waters.

“It will be all right, Cathan,” Beldinas told him one night in the manse, after Tavarre and Quarath had both left. Within his mantle of silver light, his pale eyes were kind. “She wants to see you again, my friend. Once you’re there, I think you’ll find you want to see her too.”

Cathan smiled at that, dutifully. He would not gainsay the Kingpriest in this or anything else. When he took his leave, however, the smile disappeared. Fifteen years, he thought as he stood among the night-blooming flowers of the Temple’s gardens. Will I even know her any more?

Sighing, shaking his head, he walked away from the manse, back to the shelter of the Hammerhall.

*****

At last, on the seventh day after Cathan’s return, word arrived. It came suddenly, alarming half the court, for the messenger was a pair of disembodied lips that appeared amid the mosaic before the throne. Priests and nobles shrank back as the blue tiles magically parted, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth. Cathan and Tavarre, who had been standing near the head of the room, started toward it with hands on their swords, but stopped at a gesture from the Kingpriest.

“Let it speak,” Beldinas bade calmly.

The lips smiled. “Hear me, lords of Istar,” they hissed. The basilica’s dome, which rang with even the faintest of whispers, could not echo these words. “The envoy awaits you in the Tower. Send the one you have chosen, and do not stray from the path.”

That was all. Clicking softly, the mosaic slid back together, and the mouth vanished.

The courtiers stayed in place, eyeing the floor as though it might try another trick at any moment. A few touched their foreheads to ward off evil. No one since Kurnos the Usurper—not even Marwort—had dared to use sorcery in the Hall of Audience. Was it sacrilege? No one seemed sure.

The Lightbringer, however, was unperturbed. Rising from his throne, he looked down at Cathan. “Go, then, child of the god,” he pronounced. “Paladas tas drifas bisat.”

May Paladine guide thy steps.

The Tower of High Sorcery loomed before Cathan as he made his way through Istar’s streets. Its white walls glittered in the sunlight, its turrets gleaming scarlet. It was beautiful to behold. All the Towers were, or at least all the ones Cathan had seen—he had been to Losarcum and Palanthas, but not to Daltigoth, and hoped he would never lay eyes on the cursed forest of Wayreth. Beautiful or not, the Towers were havens of magic, homes to Black Robes. For that reason alone, Cathan would have been happy if they vanished from the world forever. Better still, if the mages vanished with them.

The open square that surrounded the Tower was nearly as large as the Barigon, but unlike that holy plaza, it was empty. No one wanted to build their homes or shops near the sorcerers’ haven, and certainly no one came here to pay homage, as the faithful did on the Great Temple’s steps. Here and there, weeds peeped between the paving stones. Even those who cared for Istar’s roads kept away.

Cathan paused for a time at the square’s edge, staring up. There had been a barrow in the hills near Luciel that children swore was haunted. He’d gone to it once, on a dare, and touched its stone door. He’d fought the dead since then—the ghouls at the Hullbreaker had hardly been the first—but memories of the barrow still made him shiver in his sleep, sometimes. Staring at the Tower, Cathan felt as he had then. His scalp prickled, the hair on his arms stood up. A sour taste flooded his mouth.

It was an odd building, to be sure, unlike the rest of the Lordcity’s columns and domes: a solid slab of milky crystal, all sharp angles, faceted so that it threw off shards of rainbow light when the sun’s light struck it just right. It bore no carvings or ornaments, and its windows were all but invisible. Its five red turrets were like the bloody fingers in the poems, bent slightly so that they looked like a grasping claw. They were crystal, too: solid garnet, their value inestimable. Sometimes eldritch light shone from their tips while shadow moved within the Tower’s translucent walls, but not today. Today it stood quiet, bright but ominous, a thing of beauty that made Cathan shudder to be so close.

His shivering grew worse when he saw the grove. All the city Towers had groves, though the trees in each were different: oaks in Palanthas, pines in Daltigoth, swaying cypresses in Losarcum. Istar’s was of olive trees, perennially heavy with black and green fruit that never seemed to fall. Songbirds twittered from branch to branch, and the bushes rustled as unseen animals shambled about. Though wilder than the Temple’s gardens, it still should have been a beautiful place—but like the Tower itself, there was something wrong about it, as insidious as a scorpion in a basket of roses. Magic dwelt within the wood.

Just as the trees differed, so did the enchantments the mages placed to keep men from passing through their groves. In Palanthas, one couldn’t take three steps without becoming overwhelmed by mindless terror. Even doughty Solamnic Knights fled, screaming of claws in the earth and faces in the trees. In Daltigoth, the whispering of the wind through the branches lulled folk’s wits, plunging them into deep slumber. When they woke, they found themselves lying just outside the forest’s edge. In Losarcum, the exotic scents that hung within the grove drove men mad with passion, muddying their wits with illusions of their hearts’ greatest desires, then leading them away from Tower, back out of the grove again.

The grove in Istar clouded the mind, too, but in a different way. Those who entered disappeared without a trace—sometimes for hours, sometimes days. They always emerged again, but when they did they had no idea what had happened to them or even why they had entered in the first place … only a deep certainty that they did not want to return.

Cathan regarded the grove with narrowed eyes as he approached, the clack of his armored boots against the cobbles unnaturally loud in his ears. His hand kept straying to Ebonbane’s hilt. That, he knew, was pointless. Whatever lurked within the sorcerers’ wood, no mere sword would help against it.

He’d been hoping the wizards’ envoy would be waiting for him outside the grove, but there was no sign of her. By the time he reached the trees, his whole body was tingling with apprehension. He stopped, close enough that had the idea not horrified him so, he could have reached up and plucked the fruit from the olives’ boughs. He tried peering through the grove, but it was too dense.

“H-hello?” he asked. “Is any—”

It happened so swiftly, he had no time to react. At the sound of his voice, the trees before him drew apart, creaking like a hundred drawn bows. The ones behind them did the same an eye blink later, and so on, deeper and deeper, the grove splitting like cloth tearing in two. The rip revealed a path of dark, moist earth, leading all the way through to the sparkling stone of the Tower.

Cathan shuddered, remembering what the magical lips had said. Do not stray from the path.

“Bloody right, I won’t,” he muttered.

He was nearly a third of the way through when he felt the first urge. It wasn’t very strong, but it still unsettled him, for he knew it didn’t come from his own mind. It only dwelt there, a tiny breath of a voice, whispering in his ear.

Turn, the voice said.

He bit his tongue, trying to ignore the strange voice. His task was simple. All he had to do was walk from one end of the path to the other, find the sorceress, then go back. Leave the path? He chuckled. Why? What possible reason—

Turn.

For an instant, his body tried to disobey him, twisting sharply to the left. His feet took two steps off the path, into the trees. With a gasp, Cathan caught a trunk at the trail’s edge to steady himself, then stood still, breathing hard. He was halfway there now. Surely he could make it the rest of the way. Carefully, he pushed himself back onto the path, then began to edge forward again.

“TURN!”

“No!” he shouted, pushing back against the voice. “Damn you—”

“Turn turn TURN turrrrrn …”

Snarling, he threw himself into a run, hurling himself toward the Tower. He squeezed his eyes shut, beating his knuckles against the sides of his head. He would not listen. He would not give in. The voice was some kind of test.

“Tuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnn—”

“Shut up!” he shouted. “Stop it! Shut up shut up shut—”

A branch cracked under his foot.

He stopped, his heart lurching. There were no branches on the path. His mouth tasting like it was full of copper coins, he cracked his eyes open and groaned. He was surrounded by olive trees.

Whipping around, he saw where he had stepped off the path, arrowing through the wood, maybe a dozen steps behind him. Spitting an oath, he started back.

Even as he moved, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Something had invaded his mind, a presence like the edge of some great shadow, darkening his thoughts. Each step was harder than the last, as if someone had tied weights to his feet … weights that grew steadily heavier as he went. Tears made trails of frustration on his cheeks.

“No,” he groaned.

He tried to lunge forward, but the magic had caught hold of him. His knees buckled, and then he was falling … falling …

*****

“Blast,” Leciane muttered, watching the knight go down.

She’d been watching him, marking his progress along the path, and had realized he was in trouble the first time he hesitated. The magic had fought him harder than she’d expected. It could be like that—often, the grove seemed to have a mind of its own. It particularly went after folk who had little love for sorcery. Which, she thought with a smirk, was just about everyone these days.

She glanced around. There were no other mages outside the Tower. The others who dwelt there had remained within, in case their presence made the Kingpriest’s man even more nervous. They would be watching, though, through windows and scrying glasses.

Some would be amused at the knight’s fate. She scowled, wondering if the Black Robes might have added power to its enchantment. They would rejoice in having bested one of the Kingpriest’s men.

Leciane wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. Rolling up her sleeves, she hurried down the path, to where the knight had blundered off into the brush. Taking a deep breath, she wove her fingers in the air, tracing a complicated pattern that ended with a sharp forward shove, aimed at the trees.

“Ka movani delarang,” she chanted, “ejaran su fuwato.”

The olives resisted, like a child refusing to give up a plaything. Delving deeper, she tightened her grip on the magic that coursed through her and shoved a second time. This time, motes of silver-blue light swept out from her palms in waves. When the pulse of power reached the trees, they shuddered aside. She could feel the grove’s resentment as it pulled back from the knight.

“You shouldn’t have taken him in the first place,” she snapped, hurrying down the new path.

He lay on his side, curled in a ball, eyes clenched shut. His whole body was shivering.

Dropping to one knee, Leciane leaned over him. “Enough. Wake up.”

“Gng,” he replied, curling up tighter.

“I said wake up,” she insisted, grabbing his shoulder to shake him.

At her touch, he sucked in a deep breath, and his eyes flew open. Leciane stumbled back, nearly falling. They were empty, pupilless. Confusion creased his face. The grove had done its work. He had forgotten why he was here.

“Well, well,” she said. “Cathan Twice-Born.”

“What… what in the Abyss—” he sputtered.

Smiling, she offered him her hand. “Come on, get up. Let’s get you out of here, and I’ll explain everything.”

CHAPTER 7

Cathan followed the strange woman out of the wood, questions roiling in his mind. Who was she? What was he doing here, at the Tower of High Sorcery?

“I’m Leciane do Cirica,” she explained once they were beyond the olives, back in the square that surrounded the Tower. “The order’s new envoy. Unless I’m mistaken, you came here on behalf of your Kingpriest.”

That sounded right, more or less. He could recall parts, dimly. Magical lips in the floor.

He put a hand to his head, wishing his thoughts would stop darting around like bloodflies. “And I don’t remember any of this because …”

“The grove,” the woman said. “It stole your memories.”

“Ah.” Cathan frowned, still not sure what to believe. “I don’t suppose you—”

“Can bring them back? No. The magic doesn’t work that way.” She gave him a sympathetic shrug. “You’re lucky I was there. Once, they say, the grove stole fifteen years of a man’s life before it was done—and he was only twenty at the time.”

Cathan shuddered. Everything before today he remembered; it was only his time in the grove that was lost. He glanced back at the olives, rustling in the wind, and winced.

He looked at the strange woman … Leciane. She was from Ergoth, judging by her dusky skin, and a bit older than him, with silver in her long black hair. She was smiling, her teeth very white. Her eyes were green. It wasn’t any of those colors, though, that made him start. It was the hue of her silken robes.

“You’re the envoy?”

Leciane nodded.

“But your robes—you—they’re red!”

“Are they?” The sorceress looked at herself, her eyebrows rising.

Reflexively, Cathan took a step back, but stopped his hand before it touched Ebonbane.

The Conclave had sent a Red Robe to live among them … how would the court react to that? For that matter, how would Beldinas?

“Sir Cathan?” Leciane asked. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“What? Oh,” Cathan blurted, snapping back to himself. He stared at Leciane. “How do you know my name?”

She laughed—not the polite giggle of a high-born lady, but a hearty chuckle that made him think of Sir Marto. “Your eyes,” she said. “We wizards hear the same tales as everyone else, Twice-Born.”

At once, Cathan realized the other thing that had been troubling him about the Red Robe. She was looking him in the eyes, without turning away. Even Wentha hadn’t been able to do that, back when the two of them were still speaking to each other. Until now, he’d been sure the only person who could was the Kingpriest himself. Cathan flushed and looked away. The sorceress’s unremitting gaze made him uncomfortable.

“We should … we should go,” he mumbled. “His Holiness will be expecting you.”

“Yes,” Leciane agreed, gesturing west, where the Temple’s golden spires rose above the rooftops. “Lead on, then. Take me to your Lightbringer, Sir Knight.”

*****

The courtiers reacted to Leciane as he’d expected. Some stared in shock, and one or two shrank away in fear. Many signed the triangle, horns, or twin teardrops of the gods. A few, First Son Adsem among them, looked as if they would have spat on the ground, were it accepted at court. A good number of the people in Istar’s streets had done just that as Cathan and Leciane made their way back to the Temple. Cathan hadn’t even tried to get her through the adoring throng in the Barigon, but had brought her in through a side entrance. Now, standing amidst the Hall of Audience, he could feel the hierarchs’ eyes on him—or rather, on his charge. It wasn’t the hateful glare they would give a Black Robe, but neither was it in any way friendly.

Either the Red Robe didn’t notice or she didn’t care. Her attention was on the man who sat upon the throne, and him alone. Cathan followed her gaze, peering through the Kingpriest’s radiance, trying to read his mood.

It wasn’t easy. He could have been one of the statues that peopled the Temple’s gardens for all the reaction he showed when he beheld the color of Leciane’s robes. He sat still, fingers steepled before him, and said nothing for a long time. Silence—a rare thing, when court was in full session—stole across the hall as the courtiers turned to await his judgment. Finally, he shifted slightly, inclining his head.

“My thanks, Lady, for rescuing Sir Cathan from the spell that ensnared him,” he declared, the dome ringing to echo his musical voice. “I can already see the wisdom in your Conclave’s choice. Many among your order would have left him there.”

The courtiers murmured at that. Beldinas ignored them, as did Leciane, who bowed.

“Your Holiness is kind. I only hope that should the need present itself one day, he would return the favor.”

She flicked a glance at Cathan, who reddened. The idea that he owed anything to a Red Robe bothered him.

Quarath stepped forward, favoring Leciane with an icy stare. The Silvanesti had many mages, but all were White Robes. Donning the Black, or even the Red, was a quick and certain path to shame and exile.

“Majesty,” he said, looking to the throne. “If this woman is the choice the sorcerers have made, she should be inducted into the court at once, before anything else is said here.”

Beldinas nodded. “Thank you, Emissary. Your counsel is fair, as ever. Very well, Lady do Cirica,” he went on, rising from his throne, “if you will kneel …”

“No.”

Everything stopped. A few people gasped, and a few scowled, but mostly they stared, stunned, as Leciane’s voice echoed through the hall. Cathan gaped at Leciane with open-mouthed shock.

“No?” Beldinas repeated, hesitating halfway down the steps from the dais.

“No,” Leciane replied. “I do not wish your blessing, Lightbringer.”

Quarath had just resumed his place with the other high priests of Paladine. Now he stepped forward again, brows knitting in outrage.

“Lady,” he said, “His Holiness did not ask you to kneel. It is his command.”

Leciane met the elf’s glare with a steely look, drawing herself erect before him. “I am not His Holiness’s to command,” she said. “My only masters are the Art I wield, and the Conclave who sent me here. I will kneel before no other—and neither should anyone who serves another sovereign.”

The elf’s face turned pale, his eyes flaring indignantly. The barb had struck deep.

“How dare you—” he began.

“Emissary, this is no time for hot words,” Beldinas said quietly. Abashed, Quarath stepped back, but the glower didn’t vanish from his face. The Kingpriest turned back toward Leciane, his brow furrowed.

“Marwort knelt, milady.”

“Yes, he did,” she replied. “Now he is dead. I shall not repeat his mistakes.”

Cathan looked from Leciane to Beldinas and back again, not sure what to do or what might happen next. The hall felt like the air before a lightning strike. A few more courtiers quietly edged away.

The Kingpriest stroked his chin for a long moment, considering, then, to Cathan’s astonishment, he nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said. “You are right—you do not need to swear to me, although no one who has should be ashamed of that. Will you at least give me your oath that you will be faithful to those you do serve?”

“You have it, Holiness,” Leciane said, clasping her hands before her. “By the Art and the crimson moon, I shall.”

More murmurs greeted that, from priests uncomfortable with mention of Lunitari in a house of the gods of light. Beldinas ignored their consternation, walking down the last few steps to stand before the sorceress. Cathan tensed.

Leciane smiled, however, and offered the Kingpriest her hand. Beldinas looked at it for a moment, eyebrows raised, then clasped it in his. As he did, he leaned forward, so that his mouth was near her ear, and whispered something to her.

Her smile broadening, Leciane nodded and stepped back.

“This court is in recess,” Beldinas declared. “I must meditate on this. We will resume after noontide.”

With that, he departed the hall, through a door to his private apartments. His advisors followed, Quarath shooting one last wintry glance at Leciane before he left. When they were gone, the courtiers all turned to stare at the Red Robe, making little effort to conceal their contempt. She looked back at them mildly, then turned and walked toward one of the room’s many antechambers. Cathan accompanied her, feeling every pair of eyes that followed them.

“What did he tell you?” he ventured to ask.

Leciane laughed, shaking her head. “Do you think he’d have whispered it if he wanted everyone to know?”

Cathan had no answer for that. “You should have sworn,” he said instead. “No one says no to the Kingpriest.”

“Maybe not,” Leciane replied, pushing aside the curtain to the antechamber and striding through. “Would it be a bad thing if sometimes, people did?”

Cathan stopped, frowning, as the curtain closed in front of him.

*****

Andras awoke with a cry, his heart thundering against his ribs as he sat up in his bed.

It was dark in the room—a little, windowless cell of gray stone, hidden far beneath the earth. The floor was cold against his bare feet as he swung his legs out. The smell of mildew hung in the air, and something the size of a rat, but with far too many clacking legs, skittered away from the sound of his breathing. Normally, he would have killed the thing, sending it shrieking to its doom with a spell, but today he let it escape. Nor did he speak the incantation that would summon ghostly light for his room. He needed to save his magical energy for what he must do today.

Seven years. He had lived in this same room for seven years—or rather, slept there, for the rest of his time he was elsewhere in the cavernous dungeon that served as one of Fistandantilus’s many homes. Not once in that time had he breathed fresh air or seen the sun. His lungs had been steeped in a miasma of arcane scents: the sweetness of crushed rose petals, the rancid reek of rotten flesh, the acrid tang of alchemical tinctures. The heat that warmed him came from the burning ache for revenge. One day, the Dark One had promised, he could assuage that ache at last. Until that day, Andras had gladly immersed himself in lessons, learning the spells he would need to unleash his wrath.

Now, as he hurriedly pulled on his midnight robes, he knew the day had come.

Torchlight stung his eyes when he threw open the door, and he flung up his arm, squinting as he strode down the passage outside. The walls glistened with moisture, and his breath plumed. He wondered if it was day or night, then decided he didn’t care. After seven years in the cold and dark, time had grown meaningless to him.

He heard the banging and howling as he neared the hall’s end. When he’d first come here, the noises—shrieks of agony, mindless snarls, the scrape of bony claws against stone—had driven him half-mad with terror, but since then Andras had learned to ignore the din. Today he paid it no mind even as he entered the place where it was loudest: a long room with a vaulted ceiling, lined with steel-barred cages. Within those cages lurked strange, misshapen forms, mercifully hidden by shadow. A pool of blood was spreading beneath one. A long, sucker-tipped tentacle reached through the bars of another, writhing like a dying snake.

These were the Accursed, Fistandantilus’s greatest failures. They had been born centuries ago, the Dark One said, in an illfated attempt to create living beings. Only a few had survived, half-alive and in constant pain: misshapen, gibbering things that begged for death in languages no sane man could speak. When he’d actually seen one for the first time—shone a light into the cage where the archmage kept his failures—he hadn’t slept for a week. The memory of that fleshy mass of viscera, twisted bones, and rheumy eyes still haunted his dreams.

One of the cages was open and empty. He grimaced. Fistandantilus was experimenting again.

The door at the far end of the Chamber of the Accursed was tall and strong, made of layers of lead, silver, and cold iron, engraved with hundreds of spidery sigils that pulsed with sickly green light. Anyone—human or otherwise—trying to enter through the door without the Dark One’s leave would be torn apart like so many red rags. Andras walked up to the door, lifted the latch, and pulled it open without fear, letting himself into the Dark One’s inner sanctum.

The laboratory was huge and dark, its shelves lined with thousands upon thousands of dark books and vials of every kind of putrescence imaginable. A broken, antique scrying orb sat on a pedestal in one corner. The mummified head of a giant was mounted on a bronze stake in another. Other things hung from the ceiling: dried flowers and herbs, enormous cocoons, and the flayed corpses of all manner of beasts—two elves and a dwarf among them. There were several wooden desks where black candles burned, and in the middle of it all a massive stone table surmounted by all manner of glasswork, some of it holding greasy fluid that bubbled over ghostly flames. Also on the table, in a pool of black blood, was the twitching body of the missing Accursed, its gnarled limbs affixed to a wooden rack with spikes, its belly cut open to leak out innards that looked like clusters of fish eggs. The stink from that offal was horrendous, like a corpse rotting in a sewer.

There, towering over the hideous corpse with a slime-drenched sickle in his hand, was the Dark One himself.

Fistandantilus had not changed at all in the past seven years. When one lived for centuries, as the archmage had, most of a decade made little difference. His hooded head, bent low over the vivisection, shook back and forth in disappointment. He reached inside the gash with a pair of tongs and pulled out some kind of many-lobed organ, covered with wet, bristly hair. Bile surged up Andras’s throat at the wretched sight, but Fistandantilus didn’t balk, cutting it free and dropping it into a jar of brownish brine. That done, he looked up, staring toward the door from the shadows of his cowl.

“Master,” said Andras, lowering his eyes. “It is time.”

Fistandantilus’s beard—the only part of his face Andras had ever seen—moved in a way the younger mage had come to recognize as a smile.

“Yes,” he said, then raised his head as if to sniff the air. He dropped his gore-streaked instruments on the table. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I’m not sure, Master. I just woke up and knew today was the day,” Andras said. His voice trembled with excitement.

“Excellent,” Fistandantilus replied. “Come, then. We’ll begin.”

In the five years that he’d studied under the Dark One, Andras had never gone past the laboratory. The glyphs upon the doors at its far end barred even him from passing through.

Now Fistandantilus strode up to those doors and, raising a withered hand, willed them to open. They swung outward without a sound, and the archmage stepped through. Quivering with anticipation, Andras followed.

Another passage stretched out into the gloom, lined with still more rune-encrusted doors, before giving way to a winding stairway that snaked even deeper into the earth. At the bottom, one more door opened to Fistandantilus, giving onto a little round room with rough-hewn walls and a ceiling where fat, pallid slugs left pearly trails of slime. Beneath, in the middle of the floor, was a circular pool filled with water that glowed red from something far beneath the surface. Andras peered into it but could not see the source of the light. The pool looked to be bottomless.

“The Pit of Summoning,” Fistandantilus said. “Your revenge begins here. You remember the spell?”

Andras nodded. He remembered every spell the archmage had taught him. He had practiced them, day after day, for years. He muttered the incantations in his sleep.

“Begin,” the Dark One said and stepped back.

Andras licked his lips, stepping close to the pool. Its surface was still, like a sheet of Micahi glass. His heart raced as he stared into its fathomless depths. He shut his eyes, concentrating, calling the spell to his mind. As he did, his right hand dropped to his belt, drawing out a long, wavy-bladed knife. Clenching it in his fist, he began to weave the fingers of his left hand through the air.

“Suvet kajanto asofik yabengis zo,” he chanted. “Daku faban harga, ben odu lamorai! ”

As he recited the incantation, the red glow beneath the water grew brighter, like metal pulled from a forge. The surface began to move as well, churning as some great heat welled up below. The water hissed where it splashed upon the rocky floor, evaporating into steam.

Andras smiled—the spell had begun to work. The rush of it through his body intoxicated him, but there was one thing he still had to do, to make it complete. With ritual slowness, he lifted the wavy-bladed knife, then placed its blade between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. Clenching his teeth, he tightened his grip on the hilt, then drew it sharply down, toward the heel of his palm.

Blood sprayed. His little finger dropped into the pool with a splash.

The pain was so intense that he nearly vomited, spoiling the spell. At the last instant, however, he fought back his gorge and jammed his maimed hand into the crook of his other arm. The dagger dropped, clattering on the ground. Gnashing his teeth, he bent down over the water, watching, waiting …

The first body bobbed to the surface soon after. It was small, the size of a human baby, with long, spindly limbs tipped with hooked claws. Its skin was the pallid color of a serpent’s belly, shot through with writhing blue veins. Tiny, batlike wings drooped from its shoulder blades, and a bony tail snaked out from its backside, tipped with a stinger the size of a spearhead. A caul covered its oversized head, stretched tight over sunken eyes, upturned nose, and a mouth full of jagged fangs. The body floated on the surface of the pool, arms and legs flopping as the roiling water rolled it over and over.

Quasito, the bestiaries called it: an imp from the pits of the Abyss. Andras had brought it here.

Andras stared in horror. He had not known what would come out of the pit, only that something would. Now that he knew, part of him wanted to send the hideous thing back to whatever depths it had risen from.

He didn’t. Stooping down, he reached out over the pool and caught hold of one of its legs. The imp was clammy and rubbery and hung limp as he dragged it from the water.

Cringing, he reached out and pulled away the caul. It came off the quasito’s face with an awful sucking sound, and he flung it away.

As soon as it was off, the creature began to choke. Water sprayed from between its teeth, then it took a raspy breath, its arms and legs moving listlessly. Its eyes opened—cat’s eyes, glowing yellow in the gloom. They were eyes that hated and knew nothing else.

It will kill me, Andras thought, watching venom drip from the stinger as the tail twitched. It will kill me if I don’t do something.

He knew what that was. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he lowered his maimed hand to the quasito’ s mouth. It sniffed at the bleeding wound for a moment, then made an awful cooing sound, wrapped horny lips about it, and began to suckle.

Fistandantilus chuckled. “Well done. How does it feel to be a mother?”

Andras could make no reply. The sensation of the thing drinking his blood made it impossible to form a thought. All he managed was a low groan.

“I will leave you now,” said the Dark One. “I have my own work to do. You can see to the rest, when they come.”

When the archmage had gone, Andras pulled his hand away from the quasito’ s lips. It leered up at him, its face smeared with blood. Its eyes had changed—they still hated, but there was something else in them now. A connection—an ungodly bond had formed between him and the tiny monster.

A bubbling sound caught his attention. Another body had risen to the pool’s surface. As he watched, a third came up to join it. Looking down, he saw more pale shapes beneath the surface.

Andras picked up the first quasito and moved it away from the pit. Wearily, he turned back to the pool and began to fish out the others. The rest of his children.

CHAPTER 8

Leciane was in the Lordcity for less than a week before she departed again, accompanying the Kingpriest and the rest of his court. That suited her fine—she was glad to leave. Not that Istar wasn’t every bit the wonder she’d heard it was. Its citadels and gardens made mighty Daltigoth seem squalid by comparison. She could have gladly lived the rest of her life within its walls without tiring of it.

The problem was, if it were up to the good folk of Istar, the rest of her life would be decidedly short.

When she first realized the knight His Holiness had sent to her was to be her personal escort, she’d nearly laughed aloud at his paranoia. To think the Lightbringer was so worried she might be a danger that he had assigned a watcher to her … now, she knew different. Sir Cathan kept near her side not for others’ protection but for her own. Even with him present, folk glared at her and made warding signs wherever she went. Witch, they called her, and godless whore. Some even spat, and once, in a crowded marketplace, someone had hurled a rotten persimmon in her face. That worse hadn’t followed was more Sir Cathan’s doing than her own. The knight had been able to talk the people into backing down—just barely. That was good, because she could not defend herself. Using magic against the mob would turn Istarans against all sorcerers, no matter what color robes they wore. With persimmon juice stinging her eyes and dripping from her chin, however, it had taken an effort of will to hold her temper.

After that incident, she’d kept more to the Temple, but while no one there threw fruit, it was no more hospitable. The clerics, from the lowest acolyte to First Son Adsem, all looked nervous or suspicious whenever she was around. Quarath glowered at her practically every moment they were within eyesight of each other. The Divine Hammer were no better. In fact, only three in the Temple ever spoke to her directly: Sir Cathan, Grand Marshal Tavarre, and the Lightbringer himself. The rest tried to avoid her as much as possible.

Things didn’t improve much once they were on the road. The Kingpriest’s entourage were mostly the same priests and knights who had despised her in the Lordcity, and the people of the cities and towns they passed through thought no better of her than anyone else. In Bronze Kautilya they had turned her away from the towering bathhouses, and at one smaller village in the province of Gather she had woken in the middle of the night to find a straw effigy dressed in crimson swinging from a tree near her tent, a noose tight about its neck.

“It’s not even as if I’m a Black Robe,” she protested to Vincil the next night, staring at his image in a jade-framed mirror within the shelter of her tent.

The silvered glass shimmered, sparks dancing across its surface, just as his scrying bowl would be doing, back in his study at Wayreth. She reported to the Highmage every evening, focusing on the mirror until his image appeared. It was easy magic she knew well.

If the pious Istarans saw her doing it, though, she figured the next thing hanging from a noose would be her.

“They’ve truly come to despise everything that isn’t righteous,” she went on. “Just the other day, we passed the ruins of an old chapel. I asked what god it was to, and Sir Cathan said Zivilyn. Zivilyn, the Tree of Life! But they burned down his church because he isn’t their idea of goodness.”

Vincil’s mouth pinched at the corners. “Marwort never said anything to me about this.”

“Marwort never left the Lordcity,” she replied. “Even if he had, I don’t think he’d have mentioned it. He was too much the Kingpriest’s dog.”

“True,” the Highmage admitted. “At least they haven’t done you any harm yet.”

“Yet.”

He closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way, Leciane. All I’m saying is watch yourself. Things are obviously worse than I thought.” He paused, running a hand over his scalp. “If you believe you have no real allies among these people, Leciane … perhaps you should find one. That knight they have nursemaiding you, perhaps.”

Leciane glanced toward the flap of her tent. Sir Cathan would be standing right outside it now, watching for trouble. Later on, when night came, his bedroll would lie in the same place.

“He’s not a friend, Vincil,” she said. “He’s the Twice-Born, the Lightbringer’s man. If the Kingpriest says to put his sword in me, he’ll do it.”

“Then you should make him your friend.”

Leciane scowled, a cold feeling running over her. Cathan spoke to her, yes, but he was still aloof, diffident. There were ways, though. “All right. I’ll consider it,” she said, and sighed. “What about the danger you spoke about? Have you learned any more?”

He shook his head. “Half the Conclave is reading omens, but we’ve found nothing. All we get is the same feeling—something awful is going to happen. Whoever’s behind it, they know how to hide themselves.”

Soon he bade her good night, and the mirror flashed bright as the spell of contact broke.

When the light died again, Leciane stared back at herself from the glass’s depths.

She turned away, her mind whirling. Whatever was going to happen, whatever Vincil’s fears were about, it was going to happen soon. She didn’t need magic to know that. She could feel it in her bones. Most likely, it was waiting for them at the end of their journey in Lattakay. All the more reason to heed Vincil’s words. If she was going to be of any help, she had to have someone she could trust. Surely, there was no harm in that?

She got up from where she’d been kneeling and went to the flap of her tent. She pushed it aside a little, just wide enough to look through. Sure enough, there he was, facing away from her, the hammer burning on his back. She let the flap fall back into place.

The preparations for the spell took time. She had to root through her pouches first, looking for the components—the right ones always seemed to be at the bottom, no matter how carefully she arranged them, and this was a spell she hadn’t cast since … she couldn’t remember. Finally, though, she found what she needed: half a dozen sticks of rosewood incense, a wooden case from which she produced a tiny silver bell, and a needle of ivory inlaid with gold. She lit the first of these, the scent of the incense quickly turning cloying in the closeness of her tent, then palmed the others, turning them over and over in her hand while she read the spell from her book, committing it to memory. That alone took an hour and a half, and she was yawning so her jaw cracked by the time she was ready.

She went to her washbasin and splashed water on her face, then turned toward the flap, her mouth a hard line.

Leciane knew enchantresses who swore by charm spells. Some even used them to find lovers. A man ensorcelled was always willing to come to bed when asked and, more impressively, only when asked. The White Robes frowned upon it, but the other orders—including her own—turned a blind eye. She had tried it once, at the urging of several fellow Red Robes. She’d found the experience distasteful in the extreme, and while the lovemaking was pleasant at the time, she’d felt like a slattern later. That had been years ago, and she could no longer remember the man’s name or his face, which was just as well. She had resisted using charms ever since.

There are times when they’re needed, she told herself. Quit being squeamish.

Again she opened the flap, staring at Sir Cathan’s back. He would never know. Once the spell was lifted, it would vanish from his memory. Carefully, focusing, she rang the bell. It seemed to make no sound, being pitched too high for the human ear. Somewhere nearby, a dog began to bark as she wove her hands through the air.

“Yasanth cai mowato, i shasson gamidr,” she whispered, drawing the power of the red moon to her. “Dolazjatran olo nedrufis.”

There it was, welling up, suffusing her—the sharp-sweet pleasure-pain of a spell ready to break loose. She held it as long as she could, savoring it, but the power would not stay where it was. It needed an outlet, or it would burn her. She reached out a finger, the magic humming, and pointed at Sir Cathan’s neck. With her other hand, she brought the needle up. Biting her lip, she plunged it into her fingertip.

It was the tiniest of wounds. At first, it didn’t even seem to be there. Then, slowly, a dark red bead formed, hanging. She looked at Cathan. All she had to do was prick the back of his neck and press her finger against it so their blood mingled. The magic would do the rest. She positioned the needle, tensing to strike. He would think it a mosquito, maybe a horsefly… .

A minute passed. She didn’t move. The drop of blood fell from her finger, staining his collar. Relentless, the magic tried to push free, battered against her mind. There was no more pleasure, not any more. Gods, it hurt—

“No,” she breathed.

Lowering her arm, she let the magic flow … harmlessly, down into the ground.

Sir Cathan shifted his weight, his armor clanking. Catching her breath, she drew back into her tent. The flap closed.

The spell was gone, failed, useless. She felt spent and knew she wouldn’t have the strength to cast it again for some time. Probably she would fail then, too. She couldn’t impose her will on the knight without his knowledge. It felt wrong.

Wrong is for White Robes to worry over. Vincil had told her that once, as they lay together, spent in a different way. Perhaps he was right—the magic should be more important to her than anything, after all—but she just couldn’t do it. Maybe she should have worn the White, after all.

Whatever. She had to lie to Vincil and the Conclave now, tell him she’d cast the spell, that the knight was under her control.

Sucking on her bleeding finger, she turned from the flap and began to put out the incense.

*****

You know you have a spot of dried blood on your tabard?” asked Tavarre.

Cathan craned over his shoulder, though he could not see where the Grand Marshal was pointing. “Yes,” he said. “It happened a week ago, I think—while we were crossing Gather. I don’t know how.”

Shrugging, Tavarre turned to peer ahead. The wet season was on the empire, and while that meant snow in their home of Taol and rains in the heartland, here close to the Seldjuki coast it came as fog. Ripudo, the locals called it: the Mantle. It was pearl-gray and thick, dampening hair and cloth, swirling around their horses’ hooves, making it impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. The Kingpriest’s entourage numbered thirty priests and a hundred knights, but Cathan could only see a few clearly: Marto and Pellidas riding to his left, Tavarre and Tithian to his right, Beldinas and Quarath behind him, and Leciane before. The rest were murky shapes at best, the jingle of their harnesses and the rattle of their mail muffled by the mist.

“We’ll run ourselves up against the city gates before we see aught,” Marto grumbled. “Or else we’ll step off this blasted cliff and fall into the ocean. Right, Pell?”

Beside him, Sir Pellidas gave a solemn nod.

Cathan half-grinned at the big knight’s bluster. Marto had a point. They were close to Lattakay now—the last marker stone they’d passed had proclaimed it a league and a half away—and the road was treacherous here, running along the edge of the high chalk bluffs.

He could hear the thunder of surf far below, but there was nothing to see but gray.

Cathan glanced back at the Kingpriest. Standing astride his golden chariot, Quarath at his side, Beldinas, gazed into the fog as if he could see right through it. Perhaps, with his strange pale eyes, he could. His aura made the mist sparkle around him.

“Holiness,” Cathan ventured, “is there anything you can do?”

The Lightbringer’s gaze flicked to him, and he shook his head. “It will tax my strength, and I shall need it when I get to Lattakay.”

“I can help,” offered Leciane. “There are spells—”

“No,” Cathan said, his voice loud in the fog. “No magic.”

He said it for her protection as much as for any other reason—with so many clerics and knights about, unsure what was around them, the sound of someone chanting spidery words could cause serious trouble—but the glare she shot him was no less annoyed. He flushed, feeling foolish and angry.

“It’ll pass,” Tavarre said. “It’s still early.”

Cathan nodded, feeling a sting as he remembered Damid. The little Seldjuki had often chattered fondly about the fogs around Lattakay. “Even in the middle of winter, the sun burns them off by midday,” he’d said.

Indeed, the fog seemed lighter an hour later, when the entourage came to a halt, the outriders galloping back to report that the city gates lay ahead. Peering through the mist, Cathan could just make out a looming shadow, in the shape of a mighty arch. Poets wrote odes about the arches of Lattakay.

Although he had never seen it, Cathan knew the city called the White Crescent was two-tiered, half standing on the top of the bluffs, and the other half on the beaches and long piers below, with long, sloping paths leading between the two. It hugged the edge of a round bay, a natural harbor with a narrow neck, its square buildings and thick walls hewn of the same pale stone. Decorative arches towered above it, carved with ancient images of men and minotaurs at war. Centuries ago, Lattakay had belonged to the bull-men—Nethosak, they called it then—and the Seldjuki warrior-kings had besieged it for more than a decade before driving them back across the sea. Istar had since conquered Seldjuk, and the only minotaurs who remained within the empire were slaves like the ones working to build up the Hammerhall.

Because of its heritage, Lattakay dwarfed those who dwelt within it, its buildings massive and its avenues wide and spear-straight. Even the mightiest galleys looked like toys beside its looming stone quays. In the midst of the harbor stood an island, home to the grandest structure of all, one that dwarfed even the temple to Paladine the church had built on the edge of the cliffs: the Bilstibo, the city’s arena.

For the minotaurs, gladiatorial games had been as much a religious rite as entertainment, and the Bilstibo gave proof to that. It could have held three of Istar’s arenas within it, vast enough to contain every man, woman in child in the city and still have seats to spare. This was where Wentha would hold the tourney in the Kingpriest’s honor, where the Divine Hammer and other warriors from across the empire would engage in three days of mock battle to determine the realm’s champion. A thrill ran through Cathan at the thought of it.

For now, though, there was nothing to see but the arched gates. They were opening now, and several figures emerged, like gray ghosts in the fog.

There were ten in all, seven men and three women. One of the men wore the silver robes of a cleric of Paladine, a plumed circlet on his head: Suvin, the provincial Patriarch. The other men dressed in traditional Seldjuki garb: bare chests crossed by wide sashes, flowing silken trousers, and beads that rattled in their hair and long moustaches. They were short and olive-skinned, the young ones lean and hard, the elders showing off broad bellies. The women, meanwhile, wore sleeveless gowns and dozens of silver bracelets, their foreheads painted to show their status: a green circle for unwed maids, a red cross for married women, a blue X for widows—Cathan sucked in a breath. There was one he recognized in this group … a widow a head taller than the rest, with golden hair.

He hadn’t seen Wentha for half her life. She had changed—the softness of youth was gone, leaving hard edges behind. There were lines around her mouth, and she had cropped her glorious hair short, a sign that she did not mean to remarry, but in her eyes, still, Cathan saw his sister, the girl she had been.

He wondered what she should see in his.

“Sa, Pilofiro, ” said Revered Son Suvin, signing the triangle. Hail, Lightbringer. “We are honored to welcome thee to our city.”

Heads turned to the Kingpriest as he descended from his chariot, a beacon in the fog.

He strode forward, stopping before the Patriarch, and signed the triangle in return.

“The honor is mine, Your Worship,” he said, and bent forward to touch his lips to Suvin’s.

“There is one among you who ails,” Beldinas said. “Let her come forward and be made whole again.”

This was a new ritual, one that had arisen since the Lightbringer’s ascent to the throne.

Over the years, Beldinas had visited every city in the empire, to spread his healing touch among the people. After the first year, they had taken to greeting him at the gates with a single person touched by sickness or injury, who stood for all those who yearned to feel his gentle hands upon them. The woman who stepped forward—a girl, a green circle on her face—was clearly ill. Her skin was the color of whey, stretched taut over her bones. Her hands shook, and a young man had to hold her arm as she shuffled forward. She looked up at Beldinas with pain-dulled eyes, but there was something else in them, a fragile hope that put an ache in Cathan’s breast.

“H-Holiness,” she gasped. “I am n-not worthy of—of thy grace.”

Beldinas smiled kindly. “All are worthy, child, if they are righteous in their hearts. Do you forsake the darkness that hides among us?”

She nodded. “I d-do, blessed one.”

“Then kneel, usas farno.”

Cathan had seen the ritual many times, but he still held his breath as the girl let her escort ease her down onto the stony ground. Whatever wasting disease she had, it was nearly done with her. Another week, at most, and she would be dead. Still, she managed to smile as she bowed her head before the Kingpriest. Beldinas’s right hand reached out, touching the crown of her head. His left went to his throat, pulling out his sacred medallion, the platinum triangle of the god. The silence was even heavier than the fog as he closed his eyes and began to pray.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis mibam cailud, e tas orarn nomass lud bipum. Sifat. ”

Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this girl, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.

The light began as a flicker, a wisp of silver flame where his hand touched her. It grew quickly, however, brighter with every heartbeat until in enveloped them both. With it came a sound, a sweet, pure tone like a dulcimer with crystal strings, and the scent of rose attar amid the damp. The men and women—both the Lattakayans and the Kingpriest’s entourage—first stared in wonder, then had to look away, unable to bear the brilliance of the glow. Cathan’s eyes met Wentha’s, and darted away. He remembered a night, twenty years ago, when that same light had enfolded her, changing his life forever.

“Blossom,” he murmured, weeping.

The light flickered, then, and grew dim. Wiping away his tears, Cathan turned to look, though he already knew what he would see: the same girl, still weak but whole again, color back in her cheeks, the pain smoothed from her face. Eyes closed, she sank back. Her companion caught her gently, easing her down. At the same time, Beldinas also staggered, his strength depleted by the miracle—strength he would regain in moments, but now his knees buckled.

Cathan took a step toward him—in the old days, he had been the one to bear the Lightbringer up, more often than not—but Quarath was quicker. The elf put a slender arm about the Kingpriest’s shoulders, helping him walk back to his chariot.

With the fog eddying around them, they rode into Lattakay.

*****

The tiny, winged form clung to the rocks, its talons sunk into the cracks. Its fanged face leered as it watched the columns of knights and priests pass through the arched, chalcedony gates. With its preternatural eyes, it saw through the fog easily, yet those it spied on could not see it. Its tail twitched back and forth, dripping venom.

For a moment, the desire to bite, to kill, to feed, nearly overwhelmed the quasito. It saw itself falling upon those below, tearing flesh, gnawing through tendons, sucking the marrow from broken bones. This was what it wanted to do, the thirst that had burned within it since it first drew breath.

It tensed, wings spreading, ready to spring …

Then stopped. The master had promised it blood, but only at the right time. If it attacked before then, the master’s fury would be great. Even more than it wanted to feed, the quasito wanted to please the master. It was here to spy only, and to return when the men in metal skin arrived at the white city. Now they were here.

Hissing as the last of them passed through the gates, the quasito leaped from the rock and soared away through the mist.

CHAPTER 9

“Come, Holiness,” said Revered Son Suvin as he led the Kingpriest and his entourage between the white slabs of the city’s buildings. There were secrets in his smile. “There is something you must see.”

They walked through the city’s streets unhindered. Ordinarily, folk crowded and clamored when the Lightbringer appeared. Today, however, though the knights formed their accustomed protective ring about him and the hierarchs, the people stayed back.

They turned out by the thousands to watch the processional pass up the broad avenues, but instead of thronging they simply lined the road, half-hidden in the mist, their faces solemn and their voices silent.

The road ran on, passing beneath one looming arch after another until it widened into a courtyard where a broad reflecting pool lay. The plaza was a semicircle. Beyond, there was nothing but the fog, billowing as the morning sun fought to burn it away. They were at the edge of the Upper City, where the cliffs dropped down toward the wharf.

The entourage stopped, knights and clerics spreading out around the pool. The mist was lifting. Cathan looked at Leciane. She stood alone, her brow furrowed as she stared into the mists. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, her lips forming soundless words … not praying, he realized, but running through her spells. His scalp prickling, he touched his sword—then jerked his hand away, irritated. His sister was one of those who had brought them here. This was no ambush.

Keeping one eye on the sorceress—she was alone, the Lattakayans giving her a wide berth as well—he edged to his left, toward Wentha.

“What is this place?” he whispered. “Why have you brought us here?”

She laughed, the same musical sound he remembered. “You’ve waited long enough to come here, brother. The Kingpriest bides—you should too.”

Cheeks reddening, Cathan flicked a glance toward Beldinas. He had come down from his chariot again, Quarath at his side, and stood with the Patriarch, gazing out past the cliffs edge. His eyes shone with such intensity, it seemed they might burn through the fog.

Frowning, Cathan followed his gaze.

Suddenly, there was something there, where there should be nothing at all: a huge shadow, looming through the murk.

Cathan sucked in a breath, yanking Ebonbane from its sheath. Around the courtyard, the other knights did the same. Lord Tavarre looked fierce as he brought up his blade before him. The ring they’d formed around the Lightbringer tightened. Leciane raised her hands, ready to cast whatever spells she might need. Cathan took a step toward her. The Kingpriest had ordered him to protect her, after all.

“It’s all right,” Wentha said, putting a hand on his arm. “Look at the others.”

The Lattakayans were smiling broadly now, their eyes gleaming with pride. So was his sister. The tip of Cathan’s sword wavered uncertainly, then lowered.

The mists swirled. Then, unable to withstand the sunlight, they parted.

“Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed.

It was a statue, the largest he had ever seen. It was made of glass.

It stood at the mouth of the harbor, straddling it with one foot on the northern limb of the land, and the other on the southern. It was hard to tell from this far away, but Cathan was sure it was at least two hundred feet tall—a man’s form, facing toward the city, hands clasped to form the sacred triangle. It had a skeleton of bronze, a latticework that gave support to pane after pane, tempered and stained in the Micahi style. The robes it wore were silver, the jewels on its breastplate many-hued, and the gems surmounting its mighty crown sparkled like the rabies they were meant to mimic. Amid the familiar face were two motes of blue, so pale as to seem otherworldly. The artists who crafted the statue had captured the look and majesty of Beldinas. It glittered in the sunlight, bathing Lattakay’s white walls with color.

“A gift, from a grateful people,” proclaimed the Patriarch. “No Kingpriest ever had a monument so grand.”

Beldinas strode forward as though sleepwalking, bathed in the statue’s light. For a moment, it seemed he might step right over the cliffs edge, and Quarath’s hand rose to stop him, but he halted at the last moment and stood still, staring at the statue. All eyes followed him, measuring him against his image across the harbor. At length the Lightbringer turned to face the dazzled assemblage.

“Whose idea was this?” he asked.

“Mine, Holiness.”

Cathan started, looking to his left as Wentha stepped forward. Her smile had always been the most beautiful thing about her, and as she walked across the plaza, Cathan thought it was lovelier than ever. Her face aglow, she knelt before the Kingpriest. He looked down at her, his own expression unreadable.

“Lady Wentha,” said Beldinas softly. “This was not necessary.”

“Pardon, Holiness,” she replied, “but neither was curing me of the plague—nor giving my brother back his life. Yet you did both. If I built a thousand statues, it would not be the tiniest grain of what I owe you.”

He looked at her, long and hard, then, smiling, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “Your love,” he said, “is payment enough.”

Extending a beringed hand, he helped Wentha rise.

*****

The knights in the Kingpriest’s entourage were not the only ones to attend the tournament. Others were already there, and dozens more arrived as the days passed. The Yule festival came and went, and still they poured into the city, riding through the gates or sailing into the harbor aboard ships whose sails bore the blazing crest of the Divine Hammer. As the new year drew near, their numbers swelled to the hundreds. There were those who did not belong to the knighthood, too: sturdy warriors from Taol, masked swordsmen from Dravinaar, fighters from every other province in the empire. For a week and more, Lattakay became a place of laughter, shouts and ringing steel as fighters sparred and trained beneath the gaze of the glittering statue.

The court, meanwhile, moved into the cathedral, a broad-buttressed building of white stone and gold, draped with flowering ivy and looming at the highest point in the city.

Revered Son Suvin gladly ceded his place, standing alongside Quarath, Adsem, and Farenne while the Lightbringer sat upon his throne, dispensing mercy upon the people of Lattakay. Day after day the sick, the wounded, and the crippled came. He welcomed each, his touch gentle as he beseeched Paladine’s help. His healing light flared, again and again, driving out disease, pain, and sorrow. The Lattakayans, normally so reserved, laughed and sang as they left the temple, their suffering forgotten. Soon a crowd of adorers filled the square before the temple, as they had in Istar.

Meanwhile, Cathan moved into his sister’s manor, a sprawling estate on the edge of the cliff, not far from the plaza. The manor, a sprawling mass whose elegant style was more Istar than Lattakay, had thirty rooms—bedchambers and parlors and sunlit atria that sometimes caught a glint of crimson or azure fire from the direction of the harbor. Its outbuildings alone housed more than twenty servants and guardsmen. Wentha’s gardens were terraced, five levels cut into the chalky cliff face. The trees and bushes were a riot of color—winter cherries in rosy bloom, violet dusk-blossoms heavy with golden pollen, and more kinds of roses than Cathan could count. He spent many hours there and in the manor’s solarium and baths, talking with Wentha. At first they were like strangers, so much time had passed, but after a few days they were brother and sister again. They were both adults now, and things between them would never be as they once were, but Cathan swore he would never again be away from her for so long.

To his joy, he met her children for the first time. Tancred, now twelve, was the most like her, fair of hair and skin, with the same gentleness in his face. At seven, raven-haired Rath had the dark complexion and laughing voice of a Seldjuki—the very image of his dead father, Wentha vowed sadly. When he first saw Cathan’s eyes, he yelped in terror, and the nursemaid had to take him away.

For most in Lattakay the days passed quickly as the tournament drew near. For one, however, time grew leaden, the hours stretching until they never seemed to end. Leciane do Cirica attended the Kingpriest’s court and slept in a room at Wentha’s manor, but there was little in either place to interest her. She passed some of the time in study and spoke daily with Vincil using her enchanted mirror. His face grew grim when she described the statue in the harbor.

“They call it Udenso,” she told him. “It means ‘gigantic.’ ”

“I know the church tongue,” Vincil replied, and shook his head. “These people never would have built a statue that large to Paladine.”

Leciane thought about that, rubbing her temples.

“The threat we have discussed … the signs grow stronger now,” he told her in a low tone, “but we still can’t discover its source. I fear that you are in danger.” Vincil ran a hand over his scalp. “I’m sorry, Leciane.”

“If it’s here in Lattakay, maybe I can find something out.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t answer.

“I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“Very well,” he said after a moment of deliberation. “Just don’t do anything foolish, Leciane. I mean it.”

She smiled. “Now, Vincil. You know me.”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I suppose I do.”

*****

At last, the eve of the new year arrived. Wentha’s manor was like a freshly kicked anthill. Suddenly there were three times as many servants bustling about, hanging garlands of roses and cleaning everything in sight. There was food everywhere—almond sweets, fragrant bread, sharp cheese, olives, and every kind of fruit imaginable. Wine appeared—great jugs of it, and huge, golden bowls for mixing it with water. Out in the gardens jugglers practiced their acts, and musicians tuned their instruments. There was even a Karthayan alchemist, busily setting up fireworks. The servants shouted at the entertainers. The children shouted at each other. Wentha shouted at everyone. Out in the harbor beyond the garden wall, the Udenso’ s piercing blue eyes looked out over everything.

Leciane ignored it all, as near as she could manage, poring over her spellbooks in the shelter of her room. Everyone gladly left her alone. She made one foray out of her chamber while the sun was up to steal several blue candles from the larder. The rest of the time she read, practiced, and prepared. Finally, as the sky outside turned purple with dusk, she felt the satisfying feeling of everything fitting together in her mind, as a broken vase might do if it could leap from the floor back up to the table and be whole again. The spell was ready.

The list of guests at the banquet that night was long and prestigious. The Kingpriest of course, and his court; Lord Tavarre and the other leaders of the knights; Revered Son Suvin and Lattakay’s most important priests and nobles. No one spoke to Leciane. Few dared look at her. Even Sir Cathan, who was supposed to be her protector, shunned her in favor of his sister and her children.

That was all right. She had more important things to think about.

The feast was impressive, with courses beyond counting. Shrimp and pepper stew. Tarts of duck and mushroom. Giant boar hunted and slain by Lord Tavarre himself in the hills north of the city and cooked slowly with garlic and sea salt. The liver of a wyvern, marinated in moragnac brandy. Wine, wine, wine. Leciane nibbled, too distracted to concentrate on food. She imagined—or was it imagination?—danger was near.

Finally the meal broke up, and the minstrels played while folk moved out into the terraced gardens. Leciane slipped away. Watching to make sure no one followed, she climbed the villa’s steps to her room, where the blue candles stood ready. Shutting the door, she shoved the furniture aside to clear a spot on the tiled floor. She set the candles alight—then stopped, catching her breath as she heard the sound of laughter outside.

She paced to the window, looking down into the garden. Lord Tavarre was dueling a harlequin with long loaves of bread in place of swords, and—to the delight of the children—was letting himself get thrashed mightily. She smiled, watching the foolery, then closed the shutters. The less likely those below were to see or hear what she was doing, the greater chance she had of succeeding. Back among the candles, she eased down again.

The incantation was tricky, the gestures that accompanied it even more so. Leciane took a breath, held it, closed her eyes, and began.

“Kair tsavandai ja bulondik, hi yugann oidil shalatiya …”

Her lips formed the words, her hands the motions, without flaw. She had learned this spell in her youth, and though she hadn’t cast it in years, the day’s study had awoken her memories. Magic flowed hard into her, arching her back, making her fingers clench like claws. She held it pent, breathing slowly while she continued to chant. Then, with a shudder, she let the power flow out of her again.

If anyone had been in the room, they would have seen her turn rigid, her hands frozen in a cupping gesture, and a brief, icy shimmer in the air about her, but nothing more. The spell’s energy became a coursing river, flowing up out of her and higher still, through the roof and beyond. Her spirit went with it, into the night sky. She saw all of Lattakay beneath her, its buildings laid out like bloody bones beneath the silver and crimson moons, and the statue, gleaming above the harbor. The stars glimmered on black satin above.

Show me, she thought, focusing her will upon the spell. There is danger here. Let me see!

The magic swept down, carrying her with it as it glided across rooftops and down boulevards. It pooled in squares and cascaded over the cliff face to the Lower City. Those it passed neither saw nor heard anything—except a breath of cold wind upon them. On it went … on, on … searching for what she needed to find. The danger was out there. She could feel it now, a spike of cold iron in her.

Where is it? she demanded. Show me!

She was dropping again, riding the spell’s power back down … to an alley near the wharf, garbage and fish guts strewn and stinking, and something there deep within the mist: a shape hunched over the carcass of a rat, gnawing and gnashing, tearing off strips of flesh and wolfing them down. Tiny bones crunched as the small shape fed.

She frowned—or at least her body did, back in the manor. What was the creature? Some kind of feral cat? A wild monkey or a young goblin? Perhaps …

It stopped and looked at her, and her soul turned to ice.

The quasito glared, the gleam in its eyes changing from yellow to blood red. Dropping the dead rat, it opened its mouth to hiss, clouding the air with red mist. Without warning it sprang, the stinger on its tail raising to strike …

“No!”

Her eyes flew open. She was back in Wentha’s manor. Outside, people were cheering and laughing as flares of green and silver light shone between the shutters: the Karthayan setting off his fireworks. The new year had come.

The magic’s strength left her, and she slumped over. The world slipped into inky darkness and dreams of red eyes and twitching tails.

CHAPTER 10

Firstmonth, 943 I.A.

The morning fog swirled as the golden, dragon-headed barge glided across the water.

Chained minotaurs worked the oars, speeding the boat along faster than humans ever could, while on the deck above the Kingpriest and his court stood, watching as the mighty walls of the Bilstibo drew nearer. The great arena, its massive white walls covered with relief carvings of battle scenes, was a truly awe-inspiring sight. Its highest banners, however—bearing the Divine Hammer’s blazon for the tournament—did not even reach to the waist of the great robed statue towering behind it.

Cathan looked up at the Udenso as the barge drew near to the jetties on the island’s east side. The mist, still lifting from the city as the morning came of age, hid its head, eddying about its shoulders in gliding wisps. His gaze dropped to Beldinas, standing ruby-crowned at the barge’s prow, and he shivered. The likeness was shocking, almost as if the Kingpriest and the statue were twins.

A groan roused him from his reverie, and he looked to his left and chuckled. Leciane sat with her head in her hands, her face pinching in rhythm with the oars. She had been that way since he’d gone to fetch her from her room, shortly after sunrise. She wasn’t alone, either—the new year’s festivities had left many the worse for wear. Sir Marto, for one, had consumed so much wine that the other knights had first thought him dead when they tried to wake him.

“I thought your people were used to boats,” he said.

She glared at him, her dusky face the color of old parchment. “Not every Ergothian is born on the deck of a galleon,” she croaked. “I just wish I could remember how I put myself into this state.”

Cathan laughed. Leciane could recall nothing at all after the first courses of the banquet. Again, she was far from the only one.

“MarSevrin!” barked a voice behind him. “I hope you’re ready to be stomped into the dust today!”

Cathan glanced over his shoulder. Lord Tavarre stood near the stern, his armor flashing as the sun struggled to break through the overhanging mist. A nasty grin split his scarred face. Cathan responded in kind.

“Enjoy your dreams, old man,” he taunted back. “We’ll see who’s still standing when the morrow comes.”

Tavarre’s eyes widened, filling with mock outrage. Then the roar of his laughter rang across the harbor, bouncing off the walls of the Bilstibo as the barge bumped to a stop at the jetty.

“Aye, lad,” he said. “We’ll see.”

The arena seemed even larger up close, its battlements ringed around with smaller statues. Once, minotaur heroes had looked down from atop its walls. Now men and gods had taken their place. Standing between them, trumpeters blared a fanfare on silver horns as Beldinas stepped off the barge. Cathan followed, placing a hand on Leciane’s arm to steady her. She made a sound that might have been a mumbled thanks.

The Patriarch’s private entrance was huge and vaulted, a massive platinum triangle shining above it. As they passed through, Cathan heard the crowds: a rumble of cheers and stamping feet, with the jangle of women’s silver bracelets rising above the din. He looked back at Tavarre. The Grand Marshal was grinning like a fool, and Cathan realized he was, too. The noise was for them as much as for the Lightbringer.

They emerged into open air once again, striding out onto the wide, dusty expanse of the arena’s floor. According to the tales, the minotaurs had fought dragons for sport in this very place, long ago. Cathan could believe it. He’d seen real battles fought on smaller fields.

The cheering grew from a rumble into a storm as they crossed the sands. The Lattakayans were stoic about religion, but when it came to their games they were deafening. Most of the knights were already there, resplendent in their mail and snowy tabards, arrayed in orderly ranks. The other warriors who had come for the tourney were not so disciplined. They stood in clusters, glancing nervously at the combined might of the Divine Hammer. Cathan and Tavarre strode over to join their fellows, smiling all the way.

Beldinas stepped forward, silver light shining around him, and raised his hands. The crowd grew still, muttering to one another and glancing skyward, where the Udenso loomed. The statue’s presence should have made him seem small, but somehow it did not.

Instead, if anything, he seemed the larger of the two.

“Twenty years,” he began, his voice filling the Bilstibo.

“For twenty years, I have ruled this realm. For twenty years, I have healed its people. For twenty years, I have striven to drive darkness from its cities and provinces.” He raised his head, looking up at the seas of faces. “The last has proven the hardest. Evil knows no honor, no shame. It hides—in caves, in the wilderness, in men’s hearts. It will not let go its grip on our empire easily.

“Because of this, twenty years ago I forged a new order of knighthood, to crush the forces of darkness wherever they are found. The knighthood has grown strong since that day, battling the evil among us and prevailing against it again and again. Through its labors, its sacrifices, one day we will know what it is like to live in a realm of light everlasting.

“Today we gather not only to celebrate my reign but to honor those who fight and die so that we may live in peace. People of Lattakay, usas farnas, we pay tribute to the Divine Hammer!”

His voice reaching a crescendo, the Kingpriest swept his arm around to point at the ranks of knights. The rubies on his crown flared, and the Lattakayans surged to their feet with a roar so loud that it seemed to shake the Bilstibo’ s walls. His chest swelling with pride, Cathan reached for Ebonbane and yanked it from its scabbard, raising it in salute as his fellows did the same. The blades flashed in the sunlight. As one, the knights turned and marched from the arena. Cathan went with them, his heart rising with joy as the crowd’s cries filled his ears.

*****

Andras woke to the stink of carrion and brimstone. This was nothing new: the stench of the quasitas had been his constant companion for weeks. This morning, though, there was a difference, a sharper tang in the air that set his nostrils burning. He smiled. The day of vengeance had come, and the little fiends knew it too.

He let his eyes open, taking in his surroundings. He lay amid a heap of blankets in an old, wind-worn ruin—a few crumbling, sandstone buildings surrounded by the stub of a wall, all of it mantled in red dust. Once, it had been a monastery. To which god Andras wasn’t sure, though the fact that the Abyss-spawned quasitas could dwell here gave him confidence it wasn’t any of the gods of light. His “children” could not bear hallowed ground.

They were everywhere here, perched like gargoyles on the rocks, occasionally leaping up to flap to some other spot. A few slept, their misshapen heads tucked beneath their wings, but most were awake, looking about with their feline eyes, or feeding on the bodies of wild dogs they had caught in the hills. There were two dead quasitas beside the other corpses too, their bellies ripped open, the ground beneath them soaked with black blood. Andras scowled at the sight, but let it be. The beasts sometimes killed their own, and there was nothing he could do to deter them. He had lost more than thirty since the summoning, but that still left him with more than a hundred. It would be enough.

He rubbed his maimed hand. The flesh was still crusted with scabs where his finger had been. Fistandantilus had given him a poultice to speed the healing but nothing for the pain. Even now, phantom twinges troubled him as his body tried to remember the piece it had lost. The aches only added fuel to his rage. Were it not for the Divine Hammer, his hand would still be whole. Another reason to hate. Another reason to rejoice.

He rose, and a hundred pairs of eyes turned to stare at him, a hundred tiny bodies tensed. The quasitas purred as he walked among them, knowing what was to come. After weeks of slaking their bloodlust on rats and dogs, the time had come for the true feast. He wished he could be there to see it, but the Dark One had been adamant when he gave Andras his instructions.

“They will burn you if they catch you,” Fistandantilus had warned—his last words before he teleported Andras and the quasitas here, to the wilds of Seldjuk. “Do you want that?”

Andras did not. What joy could he take in revenge if he were dead?

A flight of stairs, worn to humps by the ages, led up the wall. He climbed them carefully, aware of the malicious, hungry stares fixed on his back. The bricks of the wall were loose, shifting under his feet as he stepped onto what had once been ramparts. He couldn’t see Lattakay from here—it was dozens of miles away, in country where the terrain hid anything more than a few hundred yards away from view—but he could sense its nearness, sense the knights. They were out there, enjoying the new year and their grand tourney, unaware that soon their revels would turn to tears and terror. Andras smiled, his eyes like stones.

“Go,” he murmured.

*****

The crowd roared when Sir Marto went down, curses ringing from within his helm as Tithian swept his legs out from under him. The big knight hit the ground hard, then rolled, somehow getting his shield up to block the finishing blow. Tithian fell back a pace, then came on again as Marto rose to one knee, his beaked axe lashing out in a vicious arc. The blow would have disemboweled Tithian, had the weapon not been blunted for the tournament. As it was, it sent him staggering long enough for Marto to regain his feet. The crowd cheered again, and the big knight came on hard.

“You bloody whelp!” he thundered, laying in with a series of blows that knocked Tithian back. “It’ll take a better man than you to lay me out!”

Frantically, Tithian twisted aside, trying to circle around the big knight’s flank. Marto only laughed, pivoting without missing a beat, and kept at it, driving the younger man across the arena. Finally, Tithian backed into the fence that surrounded the fighting ground. With nowhere left to go, he concentrated on his parrying, using sword and shield to wall out Marto’s hammering blows.

No one ever won a battle with parrying alone, though. Tithian began to slow, then to falter. Marto came on even harder than before, driving the young knight to his knees, then striking him a blow to the elbow that made his sword hand go slack. The crowd groaned as the blade fell, and Marto kicked it away. In another instant, the big Karthayan had knocked aside Tithian’s shield and raised his axe high.

“Wait!” Tithian cried, yanking his helm from his head. His eyes were wide in his sweat-soaked face. “Silonno!”

I yield!

For a moment, Marto didn’t seem to hear. Then, with a laugh, he let his axe fall and raised his visor. “Took you long enough,” he boomed, offering his hand.

Tithian took it, flushing as he let the big knight drag him to his feet. Together they gathered their weapons, then made their way across the battleground. The sounds of cheering and clapping followed them as they left the arena.

Cathan greeted them as they entered the barracks where the men from his company waited their turn. Out on the field, two other knights—one from the city of Odacera, the other from Dravinaar—moved out to begin the next round.

“It’s all right,” he told Tithian, who looked grim. He clapped the young knight on the arm. “You lasted longer than I would have when I was your age, lad. None of us ever win our first tourney, anyway.”

“Speak for yourself,” Marto grinned, going to a barrel of cold water and ducking his head. He came back up with a roar, his long beard dripping. “I won mine! Whipped your feeble arse doing it too, if I recall. Sir.”

The knights all laughed. Even Sir Pellidas, who had lost his bout half an hour ago and had been glum ever since, allowed himself a silent smile. Cathan chuckled with the rest of them. Today they were all brothers, sworn to win the tourney for their honor.

Half the entrants had gone down to defeat during the first round that morning, fighting in teams of two until everyone had a go. Cathan’s men had lost only one pair in that time, which even Tavarre allowed was a remarkable feat. Their luck had worsened since then—with so many men remaining, they often had to fight each other—but they still outnumbered any other company by the third round. Now they were deep into the fourth, the sun heavy in the west, and the field was down to the finest fighters in the knighthood.

Every warrior who was not a part of the Divine Hammer was gone, and a field of sixteen remained, seven of them from Cathan’s company—six, now, with Tithian eliminated.

The remainder of the round went poorly, however, and the next as well. Cathan had to fight Marto, and put an end to the big knight’s boasting in less than a minute, giving him such a blow to the head that he could barely get his helmet off after, and had to spit out three teeth before he could find voice enough to yield. The rest of Cathan’s knights lost as well, and the good cheer in the barracks disappeared. By the time the sun set, only Cathan himself remained for the final melee.

“Bad luck,” said Lord Tavarre as he came off the field at the end of the round. He had faced a young knight from Calah and dispatched him with a hit to the chest that cracked two of the other man’s ribs. What was more, he’d barely broken a sweat doing it. He slapped Cathan’s back with a clank of armor on armor. “Down to just us now, and those two other fellows.”

Cathan nodded, tossing the Grand Marshal a skin of raw wine. “Good showing for Luciel, at least,” he said as the old knight drank.

“That it is!” Tavarre boomed. “Between you and your sister, you’ve done well for the memory of our little town, lad.” He lobbed the skin back.

“And you,” Cathan noted.

Tavarre spread his hands. “Of course.”

Cathan chuckled and was drawing breath to say more when trumpets blared outside.

The final was about to begin. Wincing, he grabbed up his helmet and shield. After seven battles today, they looked as battered as he felt.

“Gods,” he groaned. “Just let me live through this.”

Tavarre winked, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go win this thing, hey? For Luciel.”

Cathan nodded. “For Luciel.”

Lord and subject, arm in arm, they walked out into the twilight.

CHAPTER 11

Leciane bowed her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as the crowd erupted again. It seemed the only way to keep her skull from splitting open, and even then the stabbing pain behind her eyes made the world sway and green spots whirl against the insides of her eyelids. She desperately wanted something to wet her throat, but the weakest thing they served in the Patriarch’s private viewing gallery was watered wine. The folk of Lattakay found plain water distasteful. She was beginning to feel the same way about the folk of Lattakay.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d suffered so badly from drink. Certainly it hadn’t happened since her Test, and that had been more than a decade ago. In fact, she couldn’t remember drinking to excess last night, either—a goblet or two, yes, but nothing to cause her still to be so ill. It wasn’t right—and gradually, she’d become more and more certain that there was something amiss. There were spells that might help her figure it out, but even if she could keep her mind from whirling long enough to cast them, sitting near the Kingpriest amid tens of thousands of faithful Istarans was no place to be working the Art.

Never mind, she told herself. The final bout of this interminable tournament was beginning. It would all be over soon, and she could go back to the safety of …

Of her chambers at the manor.

She frowned. She had woken on the floor, still in her robes, the furniture pushed aside.

Had she used magic last night? What had gone wrong? She’d heard of wizards whose minds had been injured when spells went astray—some to the point of madness. Had that happened to her?

Snatches of memory flashed through her mind. She grasped at them, trying to get a fix.

The crowd’s shouting grew louder, and thought became impossible again. She looked about, at the lords, ladies and clerics that surrounded her, reclining on padded benches, sipping wine and eating the seeds of pomegranates while the masses shrieked their lungs out. They were all there—Revered Son Suvin, Lady Wentha, the hierarchs, Quarath, the First Son and Daughter. Among them sat the Lightbringer, his regal figure mirrored by that ghastly statue at the harbor mouth. The Istarans had even gotten that wrong—in Ergoth, men built statues at the mouths of harbors too, but those looked out to sea, to welcome sailors as they came to port. This one gazed in at the empire, with its back to the rest of the world.

It was hard to see through the light that shone about him, but Leciane thought the Kingpriest was smiling. Following his gaze, she saw why. Four figures strode onto the sands, their armor blazing red in the day’s last light. These were the only four who had not yet lost a bout. Two were arm-in-arm: Lord Tavarre and Sir Cathan. She hadn’t paid more than passing attention to the day’s endless fighting, but evidently both had made it to the final melee.

She settled back in her seat, rubbing her temples as the crowd roared on. Well, she should probably root for Sir Cathan, her protector. She would try at least to enjoy the game. There would be time to figure things out when it was done.

*****

Blood pounded in Cathan’s ears as the herald, a short man with a long gray beard, proclaimed the tourney’s final bout. Up in the stands, thousands of people were shouting his name—but thousands of others were shouting Tavarre’s, and the names of the other two knights who would soon fight for the title of champion. He looked at that pair, two men he knew reputation only. Sir Erias Thale was a knight from Tucuri, built like a gatehouse, who wielded a two-handed sword as long as he was tall. Lord Barlan Graymantle was a former Knight of Solamnia who had converted to the Divine Hammer. Nearly fifty, he was still in fighting trim, his long white moustaches drooping over a somber mouth. He nodded to Cathan and Tavarre, then turned and bowed to the crowd. The Kingpriest was on his feet now, high up in the viewing gallery. Bright sunlight had kept Cathan from spotting him earlier in the day, but now that evening had come he was easy to see—a shimmering glow surrounded by his advisors. There, at his right hand, was Wentha. She would be calling his name, Cathan realized with a surge of pride. He wondered how many of the others were, too. All four knights had their supporters among the courtiers, particularly Tavarre.

A hard smile found its way onto Cathan’s face as he lowered the visor of his helm and raised his sword in salute. It didn t matter how many were cheering him now as long as they all shouted his name after.

The herald left, and the trumpets sounded again. The final bout began.

“Together, lad, like I taught you,” Tavarre said just before the crowd’s thunder made it impossible to hear anything else. “We’ll take the two of them first, and then see to each other.”

They charged so abruptly that the other two knights fell back a pace. Tavarre let out a whooping Taoli battle cry, and Cathan echoed it, clashing his sword against his shield.

Erias and Barlan looked at each other, their horned helmets nodding, then came on together as well.

“The big ox is mine,” shouted Tavarre. “You take the old man.”

Lord Barlan swung his blunted blade, and metal rang against metal as Cathan’s shield leaped to meet it, catching the blow on its boss. The crowd’s noise fell away as Cathan focused on the knight in the engraved Solamnic armor. He shoved forward, sending Barlan stumbling back, then followed with a quick thrust that the man barely managed to turn aside. Barlan’s head inclined, acknowledging Cathan’s skill. Cathan did the same, then ducked as a second blow came whistling in. He straightened, snorting, and the two men touched swords—once, twice—then parted, backing away to size each other up.

Beside him, Tavarre was having a hard time of it. For a big man with a big sword, Sir Erias was wickedly quick, grunting as he swept his blade in one vicious arc after another.

He knew, as well as the Grand Marshal did, that the key to fighting with a two-hander was reach: if an opponent got too close, the sword lost its advantage, so he did all he could to keep Tavarre back while he searched for an opening. All it would take to win the duel was one good hit. Despite his stocky stature, though, Lord Tavarre was still a nimble man. He ducked and twisted, used his shield and the flat of his blade to bat aside vicious blows, leaped over a cut aimed at his shins. Amid it all, he jabbed at Erias with his sword’s rounded tip, trying again and again to turn the fight in his favor.

Barlan lunged then, a daring move, and Cathan didn’t have time to get out of the way completely. The blunted sword hit him in the side—a grazing blow only, not a stopping one, but it still hurt like the Abyss. Cathan groaned. Tomorrow, the colors of his bruises would turn his body into a fresco painted by an idiot. He hammered at Barlan’s face with the hilt of his sword and dented the older man’s visor, knocking it askew. Cursing, Barlan fell back again. Cathan gave him a moment to straighten his helm.

Tavarre was wheezing, his blade a hair slower than it had been when the battle began.

Age and fatigue were catching up with him. Still, he refused to let Sir Erias get to him, rely relying on reflexes to keep the other away. Again and again, he tried to stab through, but again and again Erias turned his thrusts aside …

Suddenly, it happened. It was a minor slip, the sort of thing that could happen to anyone—a patch of loose sand that made Sir Erian’s knee buckle for half a second. Against most opponents, it would have been nothing to worry about—but Tavarre of Luciel was a veteran of scores of battles, and he let no weakness pass. Even as Erias was straightening up, the Grand Marshal swung at his shoulder, lashing out at the same time with a steel-plated boot. Erias caught the blade with his own sword, but the kick got past his defenses, hooking around the back of his leg and sending him stumbling. With a victorious shout, Tavarre shoved him to the ground, and brought his sword around in a backhand blow.

Erias tried to block the swing, but he was too slow. Tavarre’s blade stopped an inch from his neck, and he slumped, defeated.

“Silonno,” he muttered, his voice thick with disgust.

Knowing what would happen next, Lord Barlan redoubled his attack on Cathan in the hopes of defeating him before Tavarre could join the fight. Cathan, however, refused to give him the satisfaction of landing a telling blow and concentrated on holding him off, parrying and blocking, without even a riposte to break the pattern. Barlan cursed in Solamnic as, Tavarre reached him.

Half a minute later he was on the ground, clutching his knee, his visor hanging from one hinge. Blood poured from his nose, turning his moustaches red. Tavarre and Cathan stood over him, their swords lowered side by side. Stubbornly, Barlan made one last try to stand, but his strength gave out and he collapsed, senseless.

The whole crowd was on its feet now, hands clapping, bracelets jangling, voices raised in jubilation. Cathan looked up at them, at the courtiers in the gallery. He felt as tall as the Udenso, shining in the moonlight above the arena.

“Well, then,” he said, turning to Tavarre. He tossed his shield away, kicked up a plume of sand from the ground, and shifted into a one-handed stance.

The Grand Marshal nodded, shrugging off his own shield. “Well.”

They began.

It was different from the previous battles, more like a dance than a fight. It had been Tavarre who taught Cathan swordplay, long ago, and the two of them had fought beside each other often since then. Each knew the other’s moves, and they swiftly fell into a rhythm, starting out slow with a few test passes, then their tactics coming faster and more daring with every instant. The crowd fell still, watching in awe as sword met sword, the music of steel filling the air. Even when the minotaurs ruled, the arena had never seen a battle so fierce and beautiful.

Half-blinded by sweat, his arms and lungs burning, Cathan pressed harder and harder.

He had no idea where his strength was coming from. He had been on the verge of dropping when he faced Lord Barlan, but against Tavarre all his exhaustion faded away, leading only the need to fight on, to win, to prove that he, an orphaned peasant from the hills of Taol, was the finest warrior in all of Istar.

Tavarre laughed as he fought, great bellowing roars of mirth. He dodged with the grace of a man one-third his age. His sword moved like a scorpion’s tail, nearly too swift to follow: parry, riposte, lunge, cut, feint, and cut again. He went for Cathan’s chest, his knees, his gut, his head. He shifted his grip from one hand to two, spun, kicked, came in close to bash with the hilt, then circled away, laughing all the while. Cathan found he was laughing too—howling with sheer exhilaration. He would sleep for a week when the battle was done, but it was worth it. He felt like a god.

It was still a battle, though. There had to be a victor.

The sword came in swiftly, starting high and arcing in, the air buzzing around it like a nest of angry wasps. Blade came up to meet blade, but did not stop it. So mighty was the blow, it sheared through the parrying weapon, sending two feet of steel spinning away in the moonlight. Barely slowed, the stroke struck hard. Had it been sharp, it would have sheared through armor, flesh and bone like soft cheese. As it was, it dented the armor, loosened the bone, and raised what would soon be a welt the color of bloodmelon.

“For Luciel!” Tavarre cried.

Groaning, Cathan sank to his knees. His strength gone, he let the hilt of his shattered sword drop to the ground, then stared up at the Grand Marshal, looming above him. His left arm was numb from shoulder to wrist. With his right he pulled off his helm, relishing the feel of the cool wind. The crowd tensed, waiting in rapt silence.

“Damn,” he wheezed.

Tavarre wrenched off his own helm, his face glistening. He flourished his sword, leveling it at Cathan’s breast. “Sorry, lad,” he murmured, then raised his voice for all to hear. “Do you yield?”

Cathan blew out a long breath. Maybe, if he grabbed Tavarre’s sword and pulled him down … but no. It was over, and he had lost. Sighing, he opened his mouth, his lips skinning back to speak the word that would end the tourney … and stopped, staring over Tavarre’s shoulder at the darkening sky.

There was something there, a black cloud where there had been none a moment before.

It was moving quickly, billowing as it came, coursing against the wind … no, not a cloud, but a mass. A mass of little, winged shapes, soaring over Lattakay’s harbor toward the arena. For a moment, Cathan thought they were a flock of bats. Then they got closer, and he saw they were something else. Cold horror sank into his bowels.

“Palado Calib,” he breathed.

*****

Leciane watched Tavarre and Cathan fight in unexpected fascination, her hands twisting in her lap as the two knights danced. She groaned with disappointment when Cathan’s sword broke, cringed when the blow struck, and bowed her head as he fell. Now, though, something was truly wrong. She felt it settle into her stomach like a weight and saw it in Sir Cathan’s empty eyes, which had turned from the Grand Marshal to the sky. She looked, and in the distance she heard a fluttering whisper, as of countless leathery wings.

It all came back to her in a rush—what she had seen the previous night. The alleyway at the wharf, the dead rat, the hideous, blood-smeared creature that looked like a twisted child with a stinging tail … and wings. She stiffened, then rose, twisting to look behind her as people across the arena began to point and scream.

She did not cry out. She couldn’t draw breath. The sky was filled with monsters.

Amazingly, her first thought was for the Lightbringer. She had heard the stories of the shadow-demon Kurnos the Usurper had sent to kill him. Sir Cathan’s quick action and Paladine’s holy power had defeated the creature, but Cathan was far away, on the arena floor. He could not help Beldinas now.

“The Kingpriest!” she cried, lunging. “Protect the Kingpriest!”

His eyes wide, Quarath tried to throw himself in front of her. She shoved the elf aside, sending him staggering into several other hierarchs. Goblets of wine flew into the air, spraying red droplets. She hit Beldinas hard, knocking him back. All around her, priests and lords shouted in outrage. Hands grabbed her robes, hauling her back and holding her fast as Beldinas lay on the floor in a daze.

“She attacked him!” people were shouting. “The witch tried to kill the Lightbringer!”

“Not me, you idiots!” she shouted. “Let go of—” She never got the chance to finish. With a chorus of shrieks, the quasitas swarmed down upon the arena.

CHAPTER 12

“Get up!” Tavarre shouted.

He was on one knee beside Sir Barlan, who still lay senseless after the melee. The old Solamnic didn’t move. Sir Erias was staggering, weary, hurt, but managed to bring up his blunted sword all the same. A few other knights, Tithian among them, had come to the edge of the sands, drawn by the sounds of the crowd. The cheers had turned to shrieks, the stomping of feet into panicked flight as everyone leaped up from the benches and tried to get away. Children were crying, their parents shouting and cursing. A few fights broke out where the shoving got out of control. Up in the gallery, people were trying to drag Leciane away while Wentha bent down, helping Beldinas rise.

Just then the quasitas dove, wings tucked in close, clawed fingers flexed, jagged fangs jutting from their howling mouths. Cathan ran for his shield, scooping it out of the sand, then lifting it up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tavarre do likewise. One of the little beasts hit his shield hard, talons scrabbling, long tail flicking drops of venom everywhere.

He shook the shield, beating at it with his tourney sword, and with a crunch the quasito fell away, one wing bent at a sickening angle, dripping yellowish blood. It sprawled on the sand, then got to its stubby feet and whirled, claws slashing the air as it rushed at him. He met its charge with steel, hammering it in the breastbone with the broken tip of his blade, then hacking into its skull as it doubled over. The quasito squealed—a helpless, childlike sound—and unraveled before Cathan’s eyes, its pallid flesh turning to black smoke and dissipating on the breeze.

The beast’s death screech ringing in his ears, Cathan looked to the other knights.

Tavarre was beset but holding his own, surrounded by quasitas. Sir Erias was laying about, fighting three of the beasts at once. Lord Barlan …

They were all over Lord Barlan—clawing and biting, tearing pieces of armor away to get at flesh. Cathan winced at the spreading red stain beneath the old knight’s body.

“Boy!” he shouted to Tithian, who stood gaping, his face pale. “Bring my sword! Get Ebonbane! Tell the others—”

It nearly ended for him there, a stinger missing his face by inches as a quasito swooped overhead. He pulled back, then followed through with a looping swing that all but smashed the creature in two. It fell, limp, turning to smoke before it hit the ground. A second fiend followed right behind, but managed to bank away from Cathan’s stroke, its feline eyes blazing with madness.

Sir Erias was not so lucky. Two more creatures had joined the three he was already fighting, and while he managed to turn one of them into a greasy black cloud, the numbers were too many and he was too spent. He went down with a bellow, the beasts piling on top of him. Cathan took two steps toward him, raising his sword, but before he could get there Erias’s voice rose to a high, thin cry, then choked off. He thrashed once, then lay still. The quasitas ripped at his body, cackling and baying.

Sickened, Cathan looked up to the gallery, expecting to see nothing but blood and mayhem. But no—it was untouched. The quasitas weren’t even bothering with the Kingpriest, his sister, or the other dignitaries. The Lattakayans elsewhere in the stands were also safe for the time being. The focus of the attack was on the knights—who were pouring onto the sand from all sides now, limping and exhausted, most of them still armed with their tourney weapons.

He understood, then, as he watched the men of the Divine Hammer take up the fight.

Whoever had planned this attack had thought it out well, knowing that after the tourney the knights would be worn out, vulnerable, poorly armed. Even sturdy Sir Marto staggered to wield his heavy axe. He roared curses in Old Karthayan as he struck down one demon after another. Beside him, Sir Pellidas fought in silence.

Another quasito flew at Cathan, chittering madly. He hit it with the rim of his shield, and it fell away, stunned. Still another grabbed at the shard of his tourney sword, its sharp teeth clamping down on what remained of the blade. He jerked the weapon hard, slicing through the monster’s head, but more of the blade shattered, leaving him with a jagged stump, barely longer than a dagger. He spat a curse, fighting on with the ruined blade.

When Tithian tapped his shoulder, he nearly brained the youth where he stood.

Whipping around, he swore as he saw what his former squire held: Ebonbane, the bits of white porcelain gleaming on its hilt. The lad carried his own sword, too. Cathan dropped his ruined weapon and grabbed Ebonbane from Tithian’s hand, baring its blade and flinging the scabbard away.

No sooner had he done so than three more quasitas descended upon them. He and Tithian sent them howling back to the Abyss. The knight to his left, however, was not so lucky. Barbed stingers dug into the small of his back, and he crumpled without a sound.

The quasitas stung him again and again, and he went stiff as their venom overwhelmed him. Only then did Cathan recognize Sir Pellidas “No!” he shouted. He kicked one of the quasitas in the face, feeling the satisfying crunch of his boot shattering the monster’s misshapen nose, before it dissolved into smoke. A roar of grief and rage told him Marto had seen his friend fall as well. The big knight went berserk, anguish replenishing his strength. Marto’s beaked axe became a whirlwind, striking around him so wildly that nearby knights backed away, afraid he might mistakenly kill them too. Smoke danced around him as the quasitas fell.

It didn’t matter how many the Divine Hammer killed, however. For every demon that perished, another materialized. The sky overhead was filthy with them, wheeling to join their fellows. The knights, meanwhile, had no reinforcements, and more and more of them were dying. Dozens lay on the sand now, twitching or motionless. Blood darkened the ground. The screeching of the quasitas mingled with the Lattakayans’ cries of terror as they fled the arena.

Cathan looked up at the gallery. It was nearly empty now, most of the courtiers having fled. A few recognizable figures remained: Wentha, Quarath, Suvin, Leciane in her red robes … and there, at the edge of the balcony, a figure cloaked in silver light, rubies sparkling on his brow.

“Damn it, Beldyn,” Cathan swore under his breath. “Do something!”

Gibbering, a winged form arrowed toward him from above. Cathan turned to face it, Ebonbane flashing in his hand.

*****

Leciane watched Beldinas, who seemed frozen. Quarath and Suvin still held her fast, gripping her arms, but they had stopped trying to drag her from the gallery. They all stared in horror into the pit of the arena, at the carnage the quasitas were making of the flower of Istar’s chivalry. Even Leciane, who had no training at arms, could tell that it was developing into a bloodbath.

“Holiness, they’re dying!” Wentha shouted, tears flooding eyes that were wide with fear.

“You have to stop this!”

Beldinas nodded dully but still made no move. His strange, blue eyes stayed fixed on the arena, narrowed oddly, as if someone had just made an unexpected move against him in a game of khas. Wentha shook his shoulder.

Slowly, he nodded and looked down upon the scene. Screams filled the air as the quasitas swooped and dived and killed. His mouth a hard line, the Lightbringer signed the triangle and spread his hands over the slaughter. Closing his eyes, he began to pray.

“Palado, tas cribo fanam adolas. Tis inibam spollud bid tas pilo…”

Paladine, thy touch, is a bane to evil. Destroy this darkness with thy light…

At first, nothing happened, and Leciane thought the god had ignored him. Then a strange new sound arose: a crystalline chiming that swelled with every heartbeat, drowning out the din of battle. It grew so loud that Wentha clapped her hands over her ears, and Leciane pulled away from the clerics and cringed. Light began to pour from Beldinas’s fingers, first in drops the size of silver coins, then in pulsing streams. The air about the gallery rippled, as it might on a summer’s day.

Light gushing from him in torrents, Beldinas raised his hands high. “Scuyas oporudo!” he shouted.

Demons, begone!

The light flared upward, flashing high through the sky. Beldinas’s back arched, his lips skinning from his teeth as the radiance pooled above the arena. Sweat beading on his brow, he brought his hands down again—and the light followed, falling upon the quasitas with the force of—

Of a divine hammer, Leciane thought.

When it struck, the light burst so bright that for a moment there was nothing to see but silver, nothing to hear but the unearthly ringing of the god’s power. It was a light that didn’t just drive darkness back. It consumed it, burning it away with holy fire.

Then, it somehow went wrong.

A discordant note grew into a terrible buzz. The light soured, its silvery hue tarnishing, its steady glow becoming a maddening flicker. With a gut-wrenching ripping sound, the glow shredded, then whirled apart like a spiderweb in a tempest. A blast of hot air slammed the gallery, knocking everyone flat—even the Kingpriest, who tumbled onto the reclining cushions. The light that shrouded him grew faint. He lay still, drained.

The Lightbringer had … failed.

Her ears ringing, Leciane struggled to rise. Wentha was shouting something, tears in her eyes, but the words were too dim to hear. The sorceress pulled herself up, using the gallery’s marble balustrade, and peered down into the arena.

Nothing had changed. The battle raged on, the knights falling beneath the quasitas’ assault.

“Lunitari have mercy,” she breathed, unable to hear her own voice. She closed her eyes, focusing, reaching out with her senses. There it was, hanging over the quasitas, suffusing them: a magic spell she didn’t recognize. It was a powerful enchantment, the evil work of a Black Robe.

As if this could be anything else, she thought.

She studied the magic a moment longer, trying to fathom it. It protected the quasitas, giving them strength to fight the knights and warding them against the god’s power. The mage who had summoned these creatures had done all he could to make sure no one drove them away. But there was a weakness in the spell as well. In keeping the quasitas safe from clerical magic, the spell became vulnerable to sorcery. She clenched her fists, drawing in all her power.

A hand caught her arm. “What in the Abyss are you doing?“Opening her eyes, she saw Quarath, his eyes dark with anger. Leciane glared, shaking free of his grasp. She could sense others behind her.

“Your Kingpriest couldn’t do anything,” she snapped. “Now it’s my turn. Those knights are going to die otherwise—and the gods know who the quasitas will turn on next. I can help—but you have to trust me.”

“Trust a witch?” sneered Suvin. Quarath scowled, taking another step toward her.

“Wait.”

Everyone started, looking toward the weak, shaking voice. Beldinas stirred where he’d fallen, his face pinched as he propped himself on his elbows. His eyes—dimmed from blue suns to mere stars—met Leciane’s.

“Holiness?” Quarath ventured. “We cannot allow—”

“We can and will,” the Kingpriest replied. “Let her try, Emissary.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed to slits. Beside him, Revered Son Suvin glowered, but Wentha stepped forward, lowering her gaze.

“Help him,” she said. “Save my brother.”

Leciane nodded. Licking her lips, she turned back toward the arena, littered with the bodies of knights, hazy with the smoke of dead quasitas. The clamor of battle had returned, more desperate than before. It had to be now.

Again she delved deep into herself, finding the power within. Taking hold, she began to move her hands, opened her mouth to speak, felt the magic flow …

*****

Cathan felt like he was slogging underwater. Every movement felt too slow, every reaction too sluggish. His muscles kept trying to seize, his knees to buckle. His heart stammered in his chest. Still he fought on, back to back with Tithian, surrounded by the bodies of his fellows. Half his company was dead, though he could still hear Marto yelling blasphemies nearby. He couldn’t see Lord Tavarre—but then, did it really matter? They were all going to die anyway.

He still couldn’t believe the Lightbringer’s power had faltered. When the light died, so did his hopes of living to see the dawn. Now he only wanted to kill as many winged demons as he could before they finished him, too.

Palado, he prayed, spearing a quasito on Ebonbane’s tip. The wretched thing fluttered wildly for a moment, then went limp and became a phantom of smoke. Mas pirhtas calsud.

Adolas brigim paripud—

Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought—

Just then, a shimmer ran through the Bilstibo, a ripple that washed through the air, throwing off azure sparks. At first, he thought the Kingpriest had somehow regenerated his strength, but something about that wasn’t right. Beldinas’s miracles did not have the strange sting to them that this one did. Looking up, he saw why. The figure at the balustrade wore crimson, not white.

Sorcery!

He broke a quasito’s back with a smash from his shield. The creature’s remains blew into his face, stinging his eyes and making him choke.

Then …

Leciane’s spell burst over the arena like a houseful of Karthayan fireworks, raining motes of blue fire. An eye-blink later, a loud bang shuddered the ground. Cathan cried out, throwing himself flat—but the magic did him no harm, the flames winking out when they touched him. The quasitas, however, were not so fortunate. The magic burned when it struck their flesh, making them squeal and writhe in agony. Some burned to ashes. Others tumbled to the ground, the membranes of their wings seared away. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air.

Cathan stared, amazed—but only for a moment. Then he was on his feet again, Ebonbane dancing in his hand. He hacked the head from a quasito’s shoulders and stabbed another through the throat. Both hardly struggled, making sounds that might have been sighs as they perished. His blood singing in his veins, Cathan pushed aside pain and weariness, and waded back into the fray.

“Hammer-brothers!” he cried. “Finish them! Kill them all!”

At once, the surviving knights were back in the fight, hewing at the injured monsters with sword and mace and axe. The smoke grew thick above the arena as the quasitas died.

Others who could still fly fast enough soared skyward, fleeing away over Lattakay’s arches and into the hills beyond.

Then it was over. All the creatures were either dead or gone, and the knights stood wearily among the bodies of the fallen. Of the five hundred men who had come to fight in the tourney, fewer than two hundred remained on their feet. The rest sprawled in the sand, their flesh torn open or blackened by the agonies of the demons’ poison. Among them, Cathan saw with a gasp, was one he knew too well.

Tavarre was still alive, shivering uncontrollably though the air was warm. Smoke smudged his scarred face, and blood seeped from his shoulder, dampening his crimson tabard. His eyes opened when Cathan knelt beside him. His pupils were huge, feverish, and dull.

“My lord,” Cathan said. He took Tavarre’s hand, already cold and limp. He thought to call for Beldinas, but knew there was no hope—no time.

Tavarre laughed weakly. “Lad,” he said. “I guess you w-won the t-tourney, after all.”

Cathan bowed his head.

“Look at m-me, you dolt,” Tavarre growled. “There’ll be time f-for grieving soon en-nough. I need you to promise m-me two things before—before … ”

“Yes, lord?” Cathan murmured, looking at him squarely.

“First, f-find the one who did th-this,” he said. His hand twitched as if trying to gesture, but no more. “A th-thousand stakes aren’t enough to p-pay for it.”

“Of course,” Cathan said. “You have my vow. What else?”

Tavarre tried to smile. He drew a deep breath, his eyes closing. “Don’t—don’t let him r-resurrect me.”

His shivering stopped.

Cathan bowed his head for a long time, still grasping the lifeless hand. Other knights gathered around, their faces solemn. A few, Sir Marto among them, wept openly. Cathan’s face, however, was dry and hard with determination. Bending forward, he kissed the Grand Marshal’s smoke-streaked forehead. Then, rising, he lifted the body of Tavarre of Luciel and carried it out of the Bilstibo.

CHAPTER 13

Lattakay glistened in the silver moonlight. Cathan stood at the edge of Wentha’s terraced garden, looking out over the cliff at the glass statue of the Lightbringer. His heart twisted as his eyes turned again and again to the Bilstibo, sitting dark amid the harbor. For years he had avoided this place, afraid of what might happen when he and his sister met again. A foolish fear, he’d reasoned when the Kingpriest’s party left the Lordcity for the tourney. Nothing bad would happen.

Now Lord Tavarre lay dead, and so many others. The Knights of the Divine Hammer were in tatters. Beldinas … well, Beldinas’ failure was inexplicable.

Three days had passed since the bloodbath—three days of frustration, fury, and grief.

Cloths of mourning blue hung from Lattakay’s arches, fluttering in the sea breeze, honoring the fallen knights who lay in the city’s temple. Bands of wailing women roamed the streets, following Seldjuki custom as they stopped at crossroads and plazas to let out wild, warbling yells. Cathan had had little time to mourn, however. There were too many other things to be done. For the first day, he and his surviving men—for he was brevet commander of the order now, with the Grand Marshal and many other high-ranking knights slain—had worked tirelessly, keeping the fragile peace. The folk of Lattakay had come close to rioting that first night. Brawls had broken out as people tried to flee the arena’s island. The knights had all been tired and sore at heart, but they had done their duty, keeping folk from killing each other, then enforcing the curfew the Patriarch imposed to get people off the streets.

After the first day, there was no more trouble. Still, the knights did not rest. At Cathan’s command, they rode out of the city in small bands, searching for signs of the quasitas.

They came and went, armed for battle, scouring the hills for miles around, returning only so they could collapse at their barracks for a few hours of restless sleep—if they were lucky.

Nightmares plagued many in the Divine Hammer, dreams filled with flapping wings and the screams of lost friends. Some didn’t even bother trying. Sir Marto, for one, had refused to return to Lattakay, combing the wilds day and night, afraid to sleep.

Cathan did not dream of the battle or of the men who died. Instead, whenever he shut his eyes he found himself floating above Krynn, looking down upon Istar and its jeweled cities, shining in the night. Each night he watched as the burning hammer fell upon the land, striking with a thunderclap that left him sitting up in bed, sweat-soaked, listening to the thumping of his heart.

It had happened again tonight, and so he’d come out here to the gardens, knowing he would not have another moment of peaceful slumber before dawn. He leaned against the garden wall, quietly observing Lattakay, his thoughts a maelstrom. So distracted was he that he didn’t hear footsteps on the crushed-stone path until they were nearly upon him.

He whirled, his hand going to where Ebonbane should have been, grasping at air for a moment before he realized he’d left the blade in his chambers.

“Blossom,” he murmured.

Wentha stood beneath the drooping branches of a starbloom tree, her face grave. In her hands she held a silver wine goblet. She extended it wordlessly, and Cathan took it.

“The dream again?” she asked as he drank.

He nodded. “It’s never been this bad,” he said. “I haven’t had a good night’s rest since—since—” He broke off, trembling.

“I know,” Wentha said. “Neither have I. Gods, Cathan, the tournament… It’s my fault this happened.”

Cathan started. “No!” he said sharply. Setting the goblet down on the wall, he took her hands in his. “Don’t say that. The only one to blame is whoever sent those creatures. You were trying to do something good, that’s all.”

She smiled, the same smile that had broken his heart again and again when they were children. She stepped into his arms, and he held her close, his eyes stinging with pain and affection.

“Find him,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “I want to see the person who did this suffer, as he made us suffer.”

“I’m doing what I can, Wentha.”

“Not all.”

He pulled back. She turned away from his white stare, but he saw the meaning in her face. “No,” he said. “Not the sorceress.”

“You’d be dead too, Cathan,” she retorted, “if it hadn’t been for her.”

He said nothing in reply, a frown creasing his face. What she said was true, but…

“Quit being stubborn,” Wentha pressed. “Ask her for help.”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “She’s a Red Robe. I’m sworn against magic. I’ve spent my entire life opposed to her kind.”

“She saved your life.”

He opened his mouth to argue more, but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he sighed. “If it will make you happy,” he said, “I’ll talk to her.”

“Happy?” she repeated, bitterly. “The only thing that would make me happy would be if I woke up and found this was all a bad dream.” With that, she turned and walked away, back up the terraces toward the manor. Cathan watched her disappear, then turned and looked out again over Lattakay. The fog was descending, making a smear of Solinari and hiding the harbor’s outer reaches. The arena hovered in a sea of gray, like some ghost, then the mists overtook it, and it was gone.

Scowling, he turned away from the city and headed up the path himself. He did not go into the house, however, but past it, through the manor’s gilded gates. Out in the city’s quiet streets, he turned north, toward the cathedral. There was one there, he knew, who would be awake as well.

*****

The Lightbringer was in the worship hall, kneeling before the altar. He had spent much of the past several days there, praying to the god. Behind him lay the knights’ bodies, arrayed in full mail and grasping their weapons, which they would bear with them into the afterlife. They should have lain upon stone biers, but there weren’t enough to accommodate all of the dead, so the clerics had arrayed them on every surface, except for the altar itself: pews, buttresses, even some of the smaller shrines, cleared of candles and idols to make room. The spicy scent of the herbs and oils the priests had used to protect the knights’ flesh from rot hung heavy in the air as Cathan stepped through the tall, golden doors and genuflected toward the platinum triangle of Paladine.

He stood still for a moment, watching. Beldinas’s head was bowed, his hands pressed to his lips. His words were too soft to hear from across the worship hall, so Cathan didn’t bother to try. Instead, he made his way among the dead, pausing when he saw a face he recognized. Here was Sir Erias, the lines of pain that had creased his face carefully smoothed away; there, a white shroud covered Lord Barlan’s savaged remains; further on, Sir Pellidas. A dark stain marked his tabard where Marto, following the Karthayan custom, had poured a libation of wine upon him. In the candlelit room, it looked like blood.

Finally, he reached the bier at the head of the rest, and stopped, standing very still as he stared at Lord Tavarre. He barely recognized the Grand Marshal. But for the scars running across the body’s pallid cheek, he might have thought it another man.

“I never saw him at such peace,” said the Kingpriest’s musical voice. “Not even at court. He was always frowning or laughing, it seemed.”

Cathan glanced up. Beldinas walked toward him, hands clasped within his sleeves. The Miceram glittered on his brow. At first glance, he looked as he always had—but when Cathan looked closer, there was something different. Something about his eyes—they seemed darker, troubled.

It’s fear, Cathan realized with a jolt. He’s afraid.

He had faced darkness and evil at Beldinas’s side before—the living dead, vast armies, even a demon from the depths of the Abyss. In all that time, he had never seen the Kingpriest frightened. Cathan shivered, turning back to Tavarre.

“He died fighting, at least,” he murmured.

Beldinas drew up beside him, sighing. “I tried to save them. I truly tried.”

Cathan looked at him, suddenly understanding. It wasn’t the quasitas who had unnerved him. It was his failure. For the first time, the Lightbringer had met a power that thwarted his own.

“I know, Holiness,” Cathan said.

“No. I don’t think you understand,” Beldinas replied, his eyes brimming. “For twenty years I’ve fought to drive evil from this empire. Now this. Everything I’ve done, all I’ve worked for—what does it mean, if something like this can happen?”

Fear and doubt, Cathan thought, his disquiet growing. What has happened to the holy man I knew?

“The one who did this must be destroyed,” Beldinas went on. “He, and all who are like him.”

“Yes, sire.” Cathan nodded. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you … ”

“You want my permission to seek Lady do Cirica’s aid.”

Cathan blinked, taken aback. Despite the fear in his eyes, Beldinas favored him with an indulgent smile.

“It is plain that your knights need help,” the Kingpriest said, “and if the one who summoned the quasitas has the strength to guard them from me, then he can hide them from my sight as well. That leaves us little choice.”

“But sorcery—” Cathan began.

“I do not like magic any more than you,” replied Beldinas, “Yet if our enemy uses magic against us, perhaps it is fitting that we do the same. Clearly, he won’t be expecting it. You have my leave to ask Lady do Cirica for any assistance that she is willing to render.”

*****

“Holiness.”

Beldinas’s head snapped up, his eyes blinking as he roused himself. He hadn’t been asleep but had come close, drowsing as he prayed by the knights’ bodies. Alarmed, he half-rose from the cushioned kneeling bench, then stopped himself when he saw who it was.

“Quarath,” he said, putting a hand to his forehead.

The elf stood a respectful distance away, a thoughtful look on his face. Everything about him, from his golden hair to his silver robes, was immaculate as always, and his expression bore little of the haggard, weary look that had settled on so many since the massacre. In his hands was an old book with a cover of cracked green leather, decorated with gold leaf that had partly worn away.

“Holiness,” he said again. “I did not mean to disturb you. I can return later.”

The Kingpriest shook his head as Quarath turned to go. “No, Emissary,” he said, turning from the altar. “It is all right. The god can do without listening to my voice for a while. What is the hour?”

“Just past Midwatch, sire.” The elf nodded toward the stained glass windows, shining with red moonlight, then stepped forward.

“I have brought the text you requested. We are fortunate the priesthood had a copy here—the library in this place is paltry, compared to the Sacred Chancery.”

Beldinas’s eyes lit hungrily as they fell upon the tome. He had asked Quarath to search for it earlier in the day—the Histories of Movani, chronicling the empire’s earliest years, before the Kingpriests rose to power.

“Excellent,” he said, then turned, walking to an alcove at the edge of the hall. “Come. We will read it together.”

Quarath followed, book in hand. At Beldinas’s gesture, he set the tome upon a white stone lectern, then went to shut the silken drapes. When he turned back, the Kingpriest had opened the book and was turning its brittle, yellowed pages with a gentle hand. The script was in the church tongue, with antique calligraphy and a crudeness to its illumination that bespoke its age. Even had he been an elf, the scribe who copied out this book would have been dust long ago.

“What do you seek, Holiness?” Quarath asked.

“Precedent.” Crackling, the pages continued to turn. Beldinas did not look up. “There was another time, long ago, when the Church came into conflict with those who wield magic. Ah, here it is.”

He stopped, pointing to a passage accompanied by a simple illustration of several skeletal warriors, wielding swords and spears. Quarath leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as lie read the text.

Fe oro 389 LA, fe Gasiro Lannis Filenfas bulfo, migel punfo isegid beston…

In the year 389 LA, in the reign of Emperor Lannis the Blind, there came a great woe form the west. In the wilds beyond the empire, a sorcerer of the Black Robes named Salius Ruven had dabbled in the foul arts of necromancy. His mind bent on plunder and slaughter, he defiled the tombs of the dead and worked his dark arts upon the bones within, making them whole and giving them strength to walk the earth again. For years he had done this in secret, amassing an army in caverns beneath the Khalkist Mountains without the knowledge of another living soul.

When his army was large enough, he gave the order for it to march upon Istar. This they did, bringing death with them. Needing neither food nor sleep, they moved with horrible speed. The imperial legions were no match for them, and the holy powers of the clergy of no avail. After every battle, Salius raised the corpses of the slain, bolstering his might. By the time it neared the Lordcity itself, the undead host was far larger than when it set forth.

In that dark hour, the emperor sent Eldan, the First Son of Paladine, to the Tower of High Sorcery. As sorcery had made Salius’s army, Lannis was sure it could unmake it as well. The First Son appeared before the Tower to cry their aid in saving the city. But the wizards would not raise a hand on the empire’s behalf against one of their own. They turned Eldan away and shut themselves behind gate and grove. Three times Eldan returned to repeat his offer, but the sorcerers would not hear him. With doom fast approaching, the emperor chose to rely upon steel instead of spellcraft. His own battalions shattered, he sent forth his fastest ship for Palanthas, with a plea to the Solamnic Knights …

Beldinas turned the page, then another. “The tale goes on at some length about the battle. Ruven’s host laid siege, but the Knights answered Lannis’s call. They fought for two days without pause, but when they were done, the undead were destroyed, and Salius’s head was set above the Lordcity’s western gates, mounted on a spike. But that doesn’t concern us.” He stopped again, this time at a page illustrated with the Tower with its familiar bloody fingertips. “It’s what happened after that is pertinent.”

When the last of the undead were destroyed, the eyes of the people turned to the Tower.

Many called for war against the wizards, but the emperor and the First Son both knew that weakened as it was by the undead, Istar could not pay the cost of such a campaign. Instead, Eldan went to the Tower and piled the remains of Salius Ruven’s soldiers before the grove.

“Workers of magic!” he proclaimed, “you have betrayed us—you who should have fought to protect this city. If sorcery will not befriends with Istar, then Istar will not befriends with sorcery. Remain within your Tower, but know this: If you act against us again, the next bones piled here will be your own.”

Quarath stepped back, looking at Beldinas. “So that’s why the wizards are so hated,” he said.

“It is one reason,” the Lightbringer replied. “There are others. It was a wizard, Galan Dracos, who led the Queen of Darkness’s forces in the Dragonwar a thousand years ago. Kurnos the Deceiver used magic against me when he sought to usurp the throne. And magic was certainly behind what happened at the Bilstibo. Evil and sorcery are seldom far apart, Emissary—and if the wizards have turned against Istar again, we may need to make good on First Son Eldan’s promise.”

He shut the book, his strange blue eyes fixed on Quarath. The elf met his gaze squarely.

“You realize, Holiness, that you are talking of holy war.”

The Kingpriest nodded, his voice turning to iron. “If it comes to it, yes. This bloodbath might only be the first part of a greater plan. If the wizards want war, they shall have it.”

CHAPTER 14

Leciane had never felt so conspicuous in her life. It wasn’t only that she looked different—amid all the mourners in their deep blue garments, her red robes stood out like a bloodstain—but rather it was the way people looked at her. It had been one thing to bear the Istarans’ looks of distrust and disdain, but now in the courtyard before Lattakay’s alabaster temple, as the Divine Hammer held its funeral for the slain, the curled lips had turned into glares of outright hatred.

That rankled her, deeper than she cared to admit. She—not the Lightbringer—had cast the spell that drove the quasitas away. She had saved the knighthood and perhaps the city as well, but the stories folk were telling had it that she had thrown herself upon the Kingpriest, then Quarath had loyally come to the rescue, allowing Beldinas to wield his holy might and strike down the winged monsters. The people of Lattakay—even many in the imperial court—were more willing to accept that version as truth. Even though the Kingpriest issued proclamations thanking her for her aid, people had torn down those parchments almost as soon as they went up. Better to believe the infallible Lightbringer had prevailed on that dark day, than some outlander sorceress. It was a minor wonder the good folk of Lattakay hadn’t stormed her chambers at Lady Wentha’s manor and dragged her out to be stoned. Only the fact they were on holy ground seemed to stop them from doing it here.

The courtyard was filled with mourners, all of them reverently silent as one priest after another stood upon the temple’s broad, marble steps, invoking the gods’ blessing upon the pyre in the plaza’s midst. The pile of wood where the dead knights lay was huge—it had to be, to accommodate so many bodies—and it reeked of pitch. The Divine Hammer had placed all its dead upon that heap, except for one. Lord Tavarre was not to be burned with his fellow knights, as was the tradition of his order.

There had been some dispute about that among the knights, with the hide-bound senior officers demanding Tavarre—the only Grand Marshal the Hammer had ever known—meet the same fate as the men he’d commanded. In the end, though, the Kingpriest had mandated otherwise, seconded by Sir Cathan, who acted in the dead knight’s stead as master of the order. Tavarre’s body would instead go west, back to the highlands where he came from, so he could lie beside the wife and son he’d lost before Beldinas’s rise to power.

Now Urvas, the Grand Master of the clerics of Kiri-Jolith, was speaking. He was a bear of a man with a long beard the color of iron. The gilded armor beneath his surcoat caught the light of the westering sun. He had cut his hand, spilling his own blood as a sacrament in the Jolithian way, and was praying in the church tongue as he squeezed red droplets between clenched fingers.

“Tos bomas robam sellud, Muno Carnid,” Urvas intoned. “Oc du sifam oranuras tritam sellud, tus bibint on balfam utir…”

Give these men rest, Horned One. But give their sword-arms strength also, that they may fight on in the next world…

Leciane sighed, letting her mind wander. Quite naturally, it drifted to Vincil and the conversation they’d had the day after the slaughter, after she regained enough power to contact him. The forces she’d unleashed to defeat the quasitas had drained her. It had taken all her will simply to make the trip back from the arena that night without passing out. When she’d finally dared to call on the highmage, the scrying spell was weak, Vincil’s image faint and wavering.

When he heard what had happened, his dusky face had turned the color of sandstone.

“Merciful Lunitari,” he’d said, his voice faltering. “Please don’t tell me it was wizardry, Leciane. It had to be something else.”

“Like what?” she’d returned. “Swarms of quasitas don’t just roam the wilds—not these days, and certainly not in Istar. No, master … there is no explanation but magic, and the Istarans know it.”

Vincil’s eyes glinted. “It couldn’t have been one of the Order. Not even the Black Robes would be so brazen.”

“I didn’t think there were renegades with this kind of power,” she said.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “I must discuss this with the Conclave.”

The next day, when she called on him, his face had been even more grim. The archmages of the Black Robes denied involvement, and no one knew of any rogue sorcerers who could wield such a spell. “Except Fistandantilus, of course,” Vincil had noted, “and this isn’t his way. It lacks subtlety.”

“So what, then?” Leciane had urged.

“I don’t know,” he’d replied. He’d hesitated, as if warring with himself, before plunging on. “Listen, Leciane. Use the Istarans. Lead them to whoever did this, but let them try to capture him.”

“All right,” she’d said. “And after?”

“After comes after.”

That didn’t please her—but it was nothing new. Vincil had long believed in crossing one chasm at a time. Two days had passed since then. She had been waiting for the Istarans to approach her for her help, waiting in vain.

At last, Urvas reached the end of his liturgy. As he spoke the final Sifat, he flicked his fist toward the pyre, peppering it with his own blood, Then he stepped aside, letting Lady Stefara, the elderly High Hand of Mishakal, come forward to heal his wound. A hush fell over the crowd, and within it a tension, the kind felt when a storm is about to break.

“Pilofiro,” some whispered. “Harken to the god’s chosen.”

And, sure enough, there he was: Beldinas, resplendent even in dark robes, the Miceram aglitter on his brow. He stepped forward with head bowed, the piercing eyes hooded in shadow. Across the courtyard, mourners and knights alike fell to their knees. Leciane did not, and drew even more glares. The Kingpriest looked up, forming Paladine’s sacred triangle, and began to speak—not in the church tongue but in common Istaran, so all could understand him.

“I have known dark days,” he said, his gentle voice echoing across the plaza. “I have watched those dear to me fall, horribly slain by evil. I have seen plague and suffering. I have looked into the eyes of demons and madmen. All of that, though, seems pale beside what happened here, on the year’s first day.

“In times past, men of the god might have claimed that what happened to these brave men was Paladine’s will, a part of some greater plan that we cannot hope to understand. They might have told you not to mourn but to find meaning in their deaths. I will not speak such lies, for there is no meaning in murder. There is only evil, and it must be destroyed.”

Leciane shivered, feeling the power of the Lightbringer’s words. His shroud of light brightened as he spoke, and his eyes and voice grew steely. This is why they adore him, she thought, in grudging admiration.

He did not stop, his voice resounding off the city’s arches and walls. “People of Lattakay, people of Istar, children of the god,” he declared. “The cowards who committed this atrocity have dealt us a terrible blow, but they have not beaten us. The Divine Hammer remains, and so do I. Now it is our turn. I swear to you, by Paladine and upon the souls of the fallen, justice shall be done. The god’s light shall prevail. Darkness and demon-worship shall be scorched from the face of Krynn!”

He shouted those last words, his voice so loud and clear that it might have reached to the empty arena across the water and the great statue still looming above it. He raised his hands, the holy light flaring about him—then, with a loud ripping sound, his palms split open and flames poured out.

The crowd gasped at the sight, falling back. Unable to help herself, so did Leciane. Fire billowed out of Beldinas’s flesh in great gold and red waves. He shut his eyes, smiling as the blaze raged above him, then brought his hands down in a slow arc until the flames touched the pyre. With a thundering whoosh, the heap of wood and bodies became a burning pillar, hurling smoke and cinders into the air. Higher and higher the fire climbed.

His whole body shaking, the Kingpriest continued to feed the blaze. People backed away as heat swept across the plaza. Out across the harbor, the Udenso gleamed, reflecting the glow.

Finally, when the flames reached as high as the spires of the temple, the Kingpriest gave a mighty shout, and the light that wreathed him flared as bright as the sun. The fire pouring from him changed from gold to silver, flashing out into the pyre. The larger flames caught it, and changed as well, becoming a ribbon of glittering white that rose high into the darkling sky.

Wide with awe, thousands of eyes stared at the holy fire as it shone down on Lattakay.

All across the courtyard, they began to chant. “Pilofiro … Pilofiro … ”

Leciane, however, did not look at the sky. Her gaze remained fixed on the Lightbringer, slumping now where he stood. Quarath and Sir Cathan both rushed forward to catch him before he fell. Some part of her, deep down, cried out to renounce her sorcerous ways, to tear off her red robes, fall to her knees, and beg the Lightbringer’s forgiveness.

Dear gods, she thought. This is what Marwort saw. This is why he turned away from the Conclave …

A shudder ran through her, and with an effort of will, she shook her head. Her eyes shining with tears, she turned her back on the Lightbringer’s fire.

*****

Lunitari hung heavy over Lattakay that night, bloodying the arches and turning the blue mourning-cloths black. Solinari would not rise until well after Midwatch, so now red was the only hue that showed where torchlight did not reach. Caitas Caso, the people called it—the Witches’ Dark. The custom was to hang bundles of dried white roses from doorways to ward off the foul forces that awoke on such nights. Not many Istarans still observed that old superstition, and indeed the church frowned upon it. Tonight, though, after what had happened, there was scarcely a lintel in Lattakay where old blooms didn’t guard against the Dark.

Cathan made his way down the main thoroughfare of the Upper City, breathing in the blooms’ musty scent. He did not walk a straight line. He’d spent the early part of the evening in a wine shop with his fellow knights—Tithian and Marto and others from his band who had survived the fight. There were goblets to raise in memory of those who had died. He’d lost count of how many cups of watered wine he’d hoisted.

The streets were empty tonight, save for a few men on patrol and the occasional stray dog. Between the Caitas Caso and the curfew enforced by the Divine Hammer, few cared to venture out of their homes. Cathan saluted the other knights he passed, trying not to look as drunk as he felt, and kept on past one manor after another until he reached his sister’s.

Nodding to the guards outside the gates, he made his way into the house, pushing aside the desiccated roses that dangled before the door.

He was bowing to the shrine in the corner of the entry hall when Wentha ran in with one of her servant girls. She was chasing Tancred and Rath, who ran naked and dripping across the tiled floor, shrieking with laughter as they fled their mother. The children left glistening footprints on the tiled floor as they ran out of the room again. Carrying a towel and wearing a look of despair, Wentha made to follow them, then saw Cathan and stopped.

She gestured for the servant to continue the pursuit, then turned to Cathan with a sheepish smile.

“I swear,” she said, “if we’d had hot baths in Luciel, I would never have run from them.”

Cathan returned her grin. “It’s good to hear them laugh.”

Wentha shrugged as if she wanted to argue the point, then her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been behind a cup,” she noted. “That’s why you weren’t home for supper.”

His cheeks, already red from drink, flushed deeper still as he tried to stammer a reply.

She shook her head, laughing.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she said. “You’re my brother, not my husband.” She touched the widow’s mark on her forehead. “I don’t know how she’ll like it, though.”

Cathan started. “Who?”

“Your sorceress friend,” Wentha replied, trying very little to keep the scorn from her voice. She jerked her head toward the steps to the house’s upper floors. “She’s been asking for you.”

“What for?”

Wentha spread her hands. “I’m no Majerean—I can’t read minds. She just said you should see her when you got back.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m back now.”

“Then go.”

Up the wide, swooping curve of the stair he went. His stomach tightened as he climbed.

As he made his way to the wing where Leciane’s chambers were, he hoped she had given up waiting and gone to bed. When he saw the glimmer of lamplight beneath her door, his heart sank. He couldn’t delay any longer—the Kingpriest himself had asked him to meet with Leciane. Swallowing, he walked across the carpeted hall toward the glow.

The door opened before he could knock. Within, candles of blue beeswax flickered everywhere: tables, shelves, the seats of chairs, all over the floor. The furniture was against the walls, leaving an open space. The candles clustered about the room’s midst, describing a wide ring there. In its center of the circle, cross-legged with her palms out before her, sat Leciane. From the depths of her hood she gazed at him. It was hard to tell in the shimmering light, but he thought he saw a smile in her green eyes.

“It took you long enough,” she said. “I’ve been waiting half the night.”

She met his gaze squarely. It still unnerved him that she could do that. Clearing his throat, Cathan spoke.

“Yes, I know. I want—that is, His Holiness—I mean … we need—”

“My help?” She raised an eyebrow. “Searching for the one who sent the quasitas?”

His stammering stopped. He looked at her, bewildered. “Uh … yes. How did you … ?”

“Your master wants answers as much as mine do,” she replied, “but he can’t come to me himself. It would upset people if the Kingpriest of Istar asked a wizard for aid—particularly a Red Robe. It would damage his pride. So he sent you, instead.” She flashed a smile. “Of course, I’m sure he didn’t want you half-full of wine when we did this, but we’ll have to make do.”

Cathan blinked. He was drunk—not terribly so but enough to make his mind fuzzy. The candlelight wasn’t helping, and the scent of bloodblossom oil, burning in a small dish within the circle, made it even harder to focus. He fought back the instinct to rub his eyes.

“Come, Sir Knight—if you’ll join me, you can share what I see when I cast the spell.” She beckoned with a dusky hand. “Try not to knock over too many candles.”

For a moment he balked, unsure. Beldinas hadn’t said anything about involving himself in her spell. It went against his training and his beliefs. On the other hand, if it helped to root out greater evil …

With a shake of his head he eased the door shut, crossed the room, and stepped into the circle. He eased himself down to sit across from her. The scent of bloodblossom was almost overpowering as the sorceress nodded to him.

“Good. Now, give me your hands. I’m not going to hurt you,” she insisted when he shied away from her reaching fingertips. “There.”

He looked at his hands, which had moved of their own accord to grasp hers. Traitors, he thought. Her skin was warm, but rough instead of soft and smooth. Years of handling strange substances and stranger powers had toughened them. His palms began to sweat as her eyes bored into his own.

“How long will this take?” he muttered.

She could have laughed, mocked his nervousness. Instead she nodded gravely. “That depends on you. Don’t pull away, whatever happens,” she told him, “else you’ll break the spell. Look into the bowl.”

He did as she bade, his blood thundering in his ears. His mouth was dry as he stared at the burning oil, the flames that danced across its surface, sending up threads of heady, black smoke. The sorceress whispered spidery words.

“Medang sulatar, as prawut jenai. Tantamolo yi arkas … ”

It began as a tingle in his fingers, as if he had slept with his arms bent beneath him and blood was now returning to them. Swiftly it became something more, spreading down his arms and into his breast, making the hair on the back of his neck stand erect. It built with terrible swiftness: the swelling of the ocean, the gathering of a storm, the trembling of an earthquake deep within him. There was no mistaking the sensation, though he’d never felt it before—the magic, surging as Leciane channeled it, gathered it, gave it form.

Gods, he wondered. Does it always feel like this? He sucked in a shuddering breath, tears blurring his view of the bowl.

What he saw was like his dream of the burning hammer, and yet it was not the same.

He did not see himself rising from his own body, didn’t watch the world fall away from him.

Everything suddenly shifted, and he was hanging in the air above Lattakay, looking down as twilight sparkled over the waters of its harbor, played on the facets of the glass statue.

Directly below him, gleaming in the sun’s last rays, the Bilstibo stood upon its rocky isle.

And above it… above …

He moaned. Above it were scores of tiny, winged shapes. He was watching the slaughter all over again.

Be easy, said a voice in his mind: Leciane. Though he couldn’t see her, she was with him. Watch and you will see.

Suddenly, everything reversed. The waves beyond the breakwater flowed back out to sea. The tiny specks of people who had been fleeing the arena hurried back into it. Dead knights rose from where they lay, their swords springing back into their hands, and the quasitas, swarming above it all, began to fly away Wildly, Cathan reached out toward the winged horrors—or thought he did, for he could not see his fingers. He felt himself grasp one, and then he was flying with it, soaring off to the north over the hills. There was a stirring of surprise nearby, and he knew it was Leciane. She hadn’t expected him to do this. Rather than being annoyed, though, she was pleased. Her grip on him tightened as he clutched the flying quasito.

Mile after mile, league after league, the hills sped past beneath him. The sun rose in the west. His soul exhilarated. This was magic. No wonder men hungered to wield this power. It was more intoxicating than the burning bloodblossom, or the wine that sang in his veins.

Even the surge of battle paled.

Look, Leciane said. There.

It was a ruin of red stone, perched on a rocky outcropping—a monastery. The quasitas were winging their way towards the place. It was morning now, the sun setting over the eastern hills. The demon he rode began to descend, and he studied the land well, memorizing it. Though he had never been here before, he knew that he could find it again, even without a map to guide him. There, on the wall, was the one he was seeking. A figure in black robes—no, Black Robes, a tall, lean wizard with golden hair, and a face covered with glistening scars. A cold light shone in his eyes as he gestured to the quasitas, sending them forth to kill… .

The spell ended, the image blasting apart as though whipped by a gale, leaving only a ghostly light before his eyes. He stared into the burning bowl a moment longer, then looked up at Leciane. She was pale, sweat glistening on her forehead, her lips parted with the effort. He looked into her green eyes, wonderstruck, still awash in the rapture of the magic.

Then, somehow, he was pulling her to him, her breath catching as he leaned into her, her lips hard at first against his own, then softening, opening. Her tongue, like honeyed wine, working against his …

Stop!

Heart thundering, he pulled back. A cold feeling spread through him as he stared at her.

She stared back, smiling, then reached out. “Cathan … ” she murmured.

He jerked away, then lurched to his feet and ran, scattering the stubs of blue candles in his wake.

CHAPTER 15

Andras paced the length of the monastery, his hands twisting together. He glanced at the starry sky in annoyance: it was still hours until the black moon rose. Until then, he was trapped, with nothing to do but wait. He had spent seven years waiting to take his revenge, but now that the time had come—now that he had his victory over the Divine Hammer—he found a new impatience smoldered within him. Only a few dozen of the hundreds of demons he had sent winging to Lattakay had returned, and most of them were hurt. He needed more.

He toyed with the stump where his little finger had been, fascinated by the feel of the gnarled flesh. He had another little finger, on the other hand. He could live without that one too, if sacrificing it would give him a new host to set against the Kingpriest. All it would take was another swift attack, and he would break the knighthood utterly. The Dark One had told him so.

“For now, though, you must wait,” Fistandantilus had said, when they’d spoken the night after the slaughter. “Let them tend their wounds and mourn their dead. In a week, their guard will begin to slip. They will begin to think they are safe, that another attack will not happen. That is when you must strike again.”

The surviving quasitas didn’t make it any easier. Having tasted blood, they craved more.

It took effort to keep them from scattering all over the countryside in search of fresh victims—he’d even had to kill a few who disobeyed, as an example to the others. Now they slouched on the abbey’s fallen stones like sullen children, glaring at him with burning eyes.

The past week had felt like the longest of his life, and this felt like the longest day. The hours to come would feel longer still, but when Nuitari appeared, things would start in motion again. Fistandantilus would teleport him back to the Pit. Then … he shuddered, a leer twisting his burn-blasted lips. Vengeance was more addictive than the dream-pipes of Karthay.

A hiss snapped him out of his reverie, drawing his attention to the monastery’s crumbled wall. Atop the ruddy stone, the quasitas shoved and snapped at each other as two winged shapes glided in low from the south. A handful of the creatures Andras trusted to leave his sight without causing trouble. He sent them out as scouts. On their first few forays, they had reported back with word of knights ranging the hills, many leagues away.

In recent days, however, there had been no word at all. These two would land among their fellows, and another pair would take flight, soaring away to the south.

The returning quasitas didn’t alight on the wall, though. Instead, they swept right past, skimming low above their fellows into the courtyard. Eyes narrowed, Andras watched them glide toward him. The twisted creatures’ eyes gleamed as they landed on a smashed fountain.

“Master,” one of them said in a voice like a jackal’s growl. Its jagged fangs made the word mushy, almost unintelligible. “We see. We see on road!”

“Road! On road!” croaked the other, grinning maniacally. Its tail jerked this way and that.

Andras stiffened. He took two steps toward the quasitas. “Who?” he demanded. “Who did you see?”

The fiends glanced at each other, exchanging hisses. The second of the pair seemed upset, but the first made a barking sound to silence it and turned back to Andras. “Metal men. We see,” it snarled. “Metal men and blood-woman. They come.”

“Metal men!” the other beast shrieked. “Blood-woman!”

It took a moment for Andras to understand. “Metal men” was what the quasitas called knights. As for “blood-woman” … a Red Robe? That didn’t make sense. What were the clergy and the Hammer doing with a disciple of Lunitari?

He shook his head. “How far?” he asked. “Where are the metal men?”

The first question was pointless. The little demons understood nothing about distance.

The second, however, made the pair tense. They jabbed taloned fingers out across the hills.

“There!” they shrieked, “They come! Here!”

“What!” Andras exclaimed, turning. There were no knights, of course—only the ruined wall, lined with quasitas—but the little fiends hooted and snapped as they stared, pointing, to the south.

Andras leaped up the stairs, taking them three at a time. The cold feeling that had settled over him gave way to panic. Less than two leagues away, a plume of dust was rising from the road.

He’d waited too long. The Divine Hammer had tracked him down.

*****

“We’re very close,” Leciane murmured, her eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. “I can feel his fear. He knows we’re coming.”

Riding beside her, Cathan swallowed uneasily. He glanced back at his men—half a hundred knights and squires, all of them armed. Sir Marto was at the fore, his crossbow looking like a toy in his beefy hands, glowering at Leciane’s back. Tithian rode behind, a similar scowl darkening his youthful face. The others looked no happier. None wanted to be riding with a sorceress.

Cathan didn’t blame them. When the Hammer set forth on its mission, he’d been the most vehement that Leciane should not accompany them. He insisted her presence would cause discord among the other knights, but he knew the real reason was because of what had happened between them in her chamber.

It could have been the wine or the bloodblossom or the unfamiliar thrill of casting a spell—most likely, all three together. Whatever it was had robbed him of his faculties, brought on a moment of weakness. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Now it was hard to say which was stronger: his revulsion at having done it or the yearning to do it again.

With a start, he realized he was staring at her. Her eyes were still closed, shifting as she used her magic to sense the Black Robe ahead. His face coloring, he looked away. It was wrong—the men of the Divine Hammer were sworn to celibacy. They did not dally with women any more than did anyone else sworn to the holy Church. They certainly never carried on with sorceresses.

For him, women had never been much of a temptation. His god-touched eyes kept them from lusting after him. Now, though … he could still taste her mouth, see the inviting look in her eyes when they’d parted. The first night out of Lattakay, he had lain awake half the night, staring at her bedroll. In the morning he’d made himself do penance for that, praying to the god for strength. He’d done a great deal more praying these past few days.

Tithian saw something, his young eyes the first to pick out the shapes ahead. Cathan squinted, trying to make out what his onetime squire had spotted. After a moment, he spied them too, winged shapes flitting across the waning silver moon. An angry rumble ran among the knights. They recognized the enemy as well.

Cathan raised a hand, and his men reined in. Reaching out, he grabbed Leciane’s arm, and her eyes snapped open, looking a question at him. He nodded up at the fluttering quasitas.

“We have company,” he said.

Leciane saw them, and nodded. “We’ve found him, then,” she said. “I think I can take care of this.”

“No.” Cathan held up a hand as she reached to the pouch where she kept the components for her spells. “Let us do our job. If we need your help, it will be against the Black Robe, not these accursed things.”

Her brow furrowed, then her eyes met his, and her mouth became a firm line. She knew what he meant. The knights would not abide it if she robbed them of their revenge.

“All right,” she relented. Pulling on her horse’s reins, she wheeled about and trotted away from the knights.

Cathan watched her go a bit longer than he meant to, then turned to face his men. If the others noticed his odd behavior, they gave no sign. They were grim, flicking glances at the circling quasitas as they awaited his orders.

“Paladine, give us strength,” he declared.

“Sifat,” the other knights replied. They had brought no priests with them. This was all the blessing they would have.

“Prepare to fire,” he bade, drawing Ebonbane. “At my command.”

Twenty of his men carried crossbows. They obeyed at once, cocking strings and fitting quarrels. He could sense their eagerness. Not a one in this group hadn’t lost friends at the Bilstibo. He kept his sword up, watching the quasitas wheel nearer. With a cacophony of shrieks, they tucked in their wings and dived.

Less disciplined men would have fired too soon. The knights only sighted down their weapons, waiting while the demons came closer, all claws and fangs and stingers. Off to one side, Cathan heard Leciane chanting softly. She was disobeying his orders, but she was not of the Hammer and there was little he could do about that. The quasitas were in range now. His men would have one shot only. There would be no time to reload. They could not waste that one shot.

Hold, he thought, raising his sword. Hold …

“Now!” he barked. Ebonbane came down.

Twenty crossbows fired. Twenty quarrels flew. Twenty demons howled, unraveling into smoke.

The knights of the Divine Hammer did not cheer. The only sound they made was the song of rasping steel as blades slid free of scabbards. Cathan brought up Ebonbane again, kissing its hilt as he shifted his shield from back to arm. His horse whinnied, its nostrils flaring at the brimstone stink of the monsters. Flipping shut the visor of his helm, he drew his sword back, holding it ready while the quasitas—at least forty of them still—dropped out of the sky.

“Tavarre!” he cried.

Other knights picked up the call, shouting the names of those who had burned upon the pyre three days before. Cathan heard Marto’s roar of “Pellidas!” just before the quasitas struck, then the screams of demons, men, and horses drowned out all else, echoing among the hills.

Cathan killed a quasito with his first blow. Ebonbane bit into the creature’s side, slicing it in half across the belly. Black blood flew, steaming, then vanished into wisps along with the rest of the monster. Cathan immediately reversed the blow, cutting a vicious arc that made a second beast shy back.

The knights’ numbers were fewer, but they were rested and ready, their blades sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone at a single stroke—even flesh and bone spawned in the Abyss. Now and then, a quasito got through their defenses, furrowing mail and skin with their talons, but most of the wounds they caused were minor. Too few to press the attack for long, the quasitas started to flee. Cathan skewered one more as it streaked past him, a wicked thrust that left it twisting on Ebonbane’s tip for a moment before it dissolved into foul vapors. Then the quasitas were gone, howling in despair as they flew north.

Of fifty, only three of the knights had perished. These they laid on the ground, covering them with cloak and tabard, then returned to their steeds, looking to Cathan for orders. He looked back at them, raising his visor and wiping sweat from his face. He did not sheathe his sword, nor did any of the other knights. They would not put their weapons away again until he told them to. His chest swelled as he regarded his men through the smoke.

Leciane rode up alongside him, her face grave. “Well done,” she told him.

Sir Marto spat, his face red above his forked beard.

“Be still,” Cathan told the big Karthayan, holding up a hand. He turned back to Leciane, looking over her shoulder rather than in her eyes. “The fight is not over.”

She nodded. “The Black Robe.”

The knights muttered. The air crackled with anticipation.

Cathan sat erect, thrusting Ebonbane toward the sky. “On, then!” he shouted, “and let no man rest until the fighting is done!”

The knights bellowed in reply, a forest of weapons punching the air. “For the Lightbringer!” they cried. In a thunder of hooves, they charged.

*****

I should have learned to teleport, Andras thought as he watched the Divine Hammer approaching from atop the abbey wall. The monks who built this place had cared little for defenses, even before the monastery fell to ruin. The road was the only way in or out. In all other directions were cliffs dropping down to the river below. The same seclusion that had made it an excellent religious sanctuary made it a death trap now.

Maybe the Dark One will see me, he thought, and summon me away from here. He saved me from the Hammer once before. The memory didn’t give him much comfort as the knights thundered up the road toward him.

“My children!” he shouted. “To me!”

The quasitas came—the last of them, not quite fifty, many wounded. It wouldn’t be enough to stop the knights, but it would slow them down, give him time to cast some magic. He pointed toward the rusty tangle that had been the monastery’s gate, trying not to notice how badly his hand shook.

“Kill them!” he shouted. “Kill them all!”

The quasitas were stupid, not brainless. They knew they would die if they fought, but Andras had given birth to them, and he had the power to command. Hissing, snarling, they swarmed out the gates.

Andras watched them go, then clambered up on a hunk of rock that stood higher than anything else on the wall. Taking a deep breath, he focused, weaving his hands and pointing down at the mass of armored figures. He couldn’t stop them all with one spell, but he could kill enough to even the odds. He concentrated on the largest of them—a giant of a man who held a beaked axe high—and began to make arcane gestures.

“Sylar cu monaviok, sho jebus loinonn! ” he shouted.

A bolt of blue lightning shot from his fingers, raining sparks as it sizzled through the air.

He watched with satisfaction as it shot straight at the big knight. It would kill him when it struck, then it would fork, spraying death upon the men next to him. Then it would fork again, and again, continuing until it spent itself. A vicious smile curled his lips.

Suddenly a voice, a woman’s voice, shouted spidery words of its own. He frowned, listening, then gasped as he recognized the spell. An instant later, a dome of golden energy appeared around the knights. The lightning bolt stopped as though it had hit something solid, and exploded into a million glittering sparks. The air shimered as Andras’s magic evaporated.

He saw her now, riding near the rear of the party: the blood-woman, her crimson robes standing out amongst the knights’ snowy tabards. He could feel her, too, and that feeling told him he was doomed. Her power was too great. Whatever spell he used, she would repel it.

He tried anyway, hurling fire and lightning, frost and poison. He cast enchantments to change the stones beneath their horses’ hooves to mud, fill the air with whirling blades, turn their bones to jelly. Nothing worked. Every time, the Red Robe’s voice rose in answer to his own, countering his spells. Not a single knight fell, and soon his strength began to flag. Strangely, the sorceress didn’t fight back. She only worked to hinder him, and all at once he knew why.

They’re not going to kill me, he thought. They want me alive, so they can burn me.

Memories of Master Nusendran, curling and blackening at the stake, filled his mind. His head growing light, Andras stumbled and nearly fell from the wall.

“Dark One, save me!” he cried, but Fistandantilus did not answer.

The quasitas attacked. Sword and mace danced, and the air filled with smoke. Two more men fell, but the rest rode on. Without the element of surprise, the demons were no match for the Kingpriest’s warriors.

Through the sundered gates the knights came, the man-mountain first, axe at the ready. Spying Andras, he shouted a vile curse in Old Karthayan, and started to charge up the stairs. Andras flung a lance of pure energy at him, but the sorceress spoke, and the bolt exploded before it was even halfway to him. Furious, the huge knight kept coming—until a voice called out from behind.

“Marto! Wait. He’s mine.”

The huge knight didn’t look happy about it, but he stopped. Behind him, from among the knights rapidly filling the courtyard, came a man with the badge of an officer on his tabard. Sword in hand, he strode past the one named Marto. The Red Robe followed at a distance. Andras didn’t recognize her face.

“Traitorous bitch,” he snarled. “They will destroy all magic before they are done!”

The Red Robe said nothing, only watched him with narrow eyes, waiting for his next spell. She needn’t have bothered. Andras no longer had the strength to warm a cup of water.

The knight strode forward, raising the visor of his helm. Andras started when he saw the man’s empty eyes—so empty he had to look away. He knew those eyes, knew the stories.

This was the Twice-Born, the Lightbringer’s favorite. Unsmiling, he leveled his blade at Andras.

“In the name of Beldinas, Kingpriest of Istar and Paladine’s Voice upon Krynn,” the knight declared, “I arrest you for the slaughter of my order in the Bilstibo of Lattakay. Surrender, and your life will be spared.”

Andras nearly laughed aloud. He saw the lie. Surrender would only delay his death. He stepped back, again pleading silently for Fistandantilus to come to his aid, but the archmage was not listening, or did not care. The Twice-Born stepped toward him. Andras sighed, beaten.

Then, sneering, he leaped forward.

“No!” the Red Robe cried.

The Twice-Born made a hasty attempt to pull back. Too late. His sword slid through Andras’s flesh, scraped against bone, and burst out his back. Andras smiled, staring into the knight’s shocked, empty eyes.

“To the Abyss with you, and all your kind,” he gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. His knees buckled and darkness came crashing down.

CHAPTER 16

The Black Robe collapsed. Wrenching Ebonbane from Cathan’s hand, the sorcerer fell onto his side and lay still. The pool of blood beneath him seeped in runnels through the cracks in the stone. It eddied against Cathan’s boots, but still he didn’t move. He could only stare at the body in shock. Down below in the courtyard, the knights were also silent, save for a few whispered prayers. There were few sins worse, in the eyes of the holy church, than taking one’s own life.

“Damn!” Leciane cried, rushing forward. She knelt beside Cathan, heedless of the blood soaking into her robes. “We were supposed to capture him alive!”

Cathan shook his head. “He just … jumped onto my sword.” He furrowed his brow.

“I’ve been hunting evil for twenty years, and I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

Leaning over the Black Robe, Leciane studied his burned face. “Everyone knows what the church does to those they capture. Sweet Lunitari!” Gasping, she drew back from the body.

“What?” Cathan reached to his scabbard, then realized Ebonbane was still lodged in the sorcerer’s body. He drew his dagger instead.

She held up a hand, silencing him. For a moment, all was quiet, except for the moan of the wind, then she looked up, her eyes wide.

“He’s still alive,” she murmured.

Staring at the Black Robe, Cathan signed the triangle, then bent down beside her.

Yanking off his glove, he pressed his fingertips against the man’s throat. The lifebeat was weak, but it was there. The bubbles of blood on the Black Robe’s lips trembled as he drew a faltering breath.

Cathan probed the sorcerer’s flesh, then sighed. “It makes no difference. He’s as good as dead, anyway—it’s only a matter of time.”

“Not if someone heals him.”

Cathan shook his head. “No healer could do anything about this. Only the Lightbringer could—and it’s a three-day ride back to Lattakay.” He raised his dagger, setting it against the man’s breast. He would strike true and deep this time.

Leciane’s hand clamped around his wrist. “I know a spell,” she said.

Cathan groaned. “Of course you do.”

“A teleporting spell. He’d be back in Lattakay before you can blink,” she insisted, her grip on his arm tightening. “Cathan, trust me.”

This is wrong, he told himself. He knew if he asked any of the other knights, they would tell him the same. The man was evil. Lord Tavarre and hundreds of others were dead because of him. But the Kingpriest’s instructions had been clear: Bring the sorcerer back alive, if possible. It was possible, but only with sorcery.

The tip of his dagger dimpled the wizard’s blood-drenched robes. It would only take one quick shove.

“Cathan, he chose to die this way,” Leciane murmured. “If you kill him, you help him steal your victory.”

He stopped, looking at her for a long moment. Her lips were close to his, showing a sliver of teeth between them. The look in her eyes—a little afraid, a little hopeful—made his blood burn. The urge to kiss her again nearly overwhelmed him.

Blinking, he returned to his senses. Slowly he lifted the dagger from the Black Robe’s breast and slid it back into its sheath. “All right,” he said. “We’ll try it your way. But you’re taking me with you.”

*****

The others were opposed—most of all Sir Marto, which was no surprise. “This relying on witchcraft has to stop,” the big knight rumbled.

“Without magic, we never would have found this place,” Cathan argued.

“That’s no excuse,” Marto insisted. “No good will come of this.”

In the end, though, the knights bade Cathan farewell. They would camp in the red-stone monastery tonight, burn their slain brothers on the morrow, then begin the ride south again. By the week’s end, they would rejoin their fellows in Lattakay.

Leciane sat on a stone near the Black Robe, studying her spellbook. The teleportation spell was hard enough with two. To move three would take more power than she had left after the fight. Every now and then she looked up from the page to study the sorcerer, who still lay where he’d fallen, Ebonbane lodged in his breast. Stubbornly, the sorcerer refused to die, and finally Leciane rose and nodded to Cathan.

When she spoke the words and the silver light flared around them, Cathan’s stomach didn’t lurch as he’d feared, and there was no dream-falling dizziness. The world just simply vanished, then reformed as the courtyard before the cathedral in Lattakay. Six very shocked-looking knights stared at them.

“Hold!” Cathan shouted, raising a hand as the men went for their swords. They recognized him and glanced at one another in confusion. “It’s all right,” he said.

Slowly, the knights lowered their blades. Their wide eyes took in the Black Robe, curled on the ground, his blood staining the paving stones. “Is—is that—?” began one of the men.

“We must see the Kingpriest at once,” Cathan replied brusquely.

The knights glanced at one another again, then two broke away, hurrying into the temple. They returned with Quarath, the elf scowling as he made his way down the steps.

His lip curled when he saw the dying sorcerer.

“His Holiness is asleep,” he declared. “Why do you trouble him with this wretch?”

Cathan gestured to silence Leciane before she could speak. “Because we need his help, Emissary,” he replied. “This man will die without it.”

“Let him die, then,” the elf returned, drawing himself up. He gave the Black Robe a haughty glare.

Leciane took a step toward Quarath. “Listen to me,” she snapped. “Your precious Lightbringer asked for him alive. When he wakes, do you want to be the one to tell him the Black Robe who killed his men died out here while he was sleeping?”

Quarath looked at her coldly, but she didn’t back down. Finally, he seemed to reconsider. He turned, hurried back up the steps and into the church. A short time later he returned with the Kingpriest at his side. Beldinas looked bleary, but the moment he saw the Black Robe, the fatigue vanished from his face. The aura around him brightened, and his eyes turned hard as blue diamonds.

“So,” he said. “This is he.”

Cathan nodded, bowing low. Quickly, he described the battle with the quasitas and his confrontation with the sorcerer atop the abbey wall. Beldinas listened, nodding. When Cathan told how the sorcerer had tried to kill himself, the Kingpriest and Quarath both signed the triangle.

“You were right to bring him here,” Beldinas said. “His life belongs to Paladine—he will die as the god chooses.” He bent down, checking the wizard’s lifebeat, then turned to Quarath. “Go ready a cell and the necessary restraints. Have the acolytes bring a litter, so we can bear him inside. He will last a while longer before the wound kills him.”

The elf inclined his head obediently. With a final glare at Leciane, he hurried away.

Beldinas hunched over the Black Robe, probing the wound with a finger that came away dripping red. He turned to Leciane. “Do you know his name?”

“Andras,” she said. “Of Tarsis, I think. I recognize him by his burns—I helped adminster his Test in Daltigoth about eight years ago. He and his master vanished soon after and haven’t been seen since. The Conclave thought they were dead.”

Cathan looked at her in surprise. “You never told me any of that.”

“Mages vanish all the time,” she replied. “These days, it’s usually because your lot get to them. I never thought of him in connection with these events.”

A pair of gray-robed acolytes emerged from the temple carrying a blanket stretched between two poles. At the Kingpriest’s direction, the knights lifted Andras onto the litter, then bore him into the temple, through the vestibule and on down a carved white hallway to the cloisters.

Quarath awaited them there, before the open door of a monk’s room. In his hands he held two pairs of iron shackles, etched with warding glyphs and inlaid with silver. There was also a mask, made to clamp over a man’s jaw. Cathan recognized the Coi Tasabo, the Heathen’s Jaw. It kept a man from speaking heresies—or the incantations of spells. He had used it a few times himself on high priests and wizards he took captive.

The knights set Andras on the cot within the cell, and Cathan buckled the Jaw onto the wizard’s face himself, while the other men shackled him. Leciane frowned, but said nothing. Finally, with Andras properly bound, the priests and knights backed away and the Lightbringer came forward.

“Holiness,” whispered Quarath. “You ought not—”

Beldinas silenced the elf with a look, then turned to Cathan. “Take your sword by the hilt. When I say so, pull it from his body.”

Nodding, Cathan did as the Kingpriest commanded. Once the blade was out, the sorcerer would swiftly bleed to death. Wrapping his fingers around the Ebonbane’s hilt, he braced his foot against the wall and watched as Beldinas knelt. Clutching his holy medallion, the Kingpriest signed the triangle in the air and murmured to himself. Quarath chased the acolytes and the other knights from the room. When he tried to shoo away Leciane, however, she stopped him with a look.

“Now, Cathan,” said Beldinas.

With an awful scrape, Ebonbane came free. Bright blood sprayed from the wound, soaking the pallet and the Kingpriest’s robes. Beldinas didn’t flinch. Instead, he pressed his free hand against the dying wizard’s chest and spoke the prayer of healing.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro …”

When the holy light shone, it blazed so bright that it filled the room. Everyone—save Beldinas—turned away, shielding their eyes. The cell’s cool air grew warm, as if from a spring breeze, and invisible chimes rang, bringing with them the scent of wildflowers. The blazing light seemed eternal, though it surely lasted no more than half a minute. When it finally faded, Cathan rubbed his eyes, then turned to look at the Black Robe.

The wound was gone, and with it the blood he had shed—but not just that. Andras’s left hand, which had been missing a finger, was whole once more. And, also—

“Merciful Lunitari,” Leciane breathed. “His face.”

It had been a ruin, half-covered in pink, shiny scars where fire had seared it. Now all that was gone, replaced by the visage of handsome young man. Blond locks spilled over both ears, and the lines around his mouth were smooth.

The nimbus surrounding Beldinas flared brighter. He slumped into Quarath’s arms. As he did, the Black Robe stirred where he lay, his eyelids fluttering open.

For a moment, Andras blinked in confusion. Then understanding and despair dawned.

He saw Leciane, then Cathan … and finally, the Lightbringer.

“Nnnng,” he groaned, straining against the Tasabo. His hands came up, clutching toward Beldinas—and stopped in front of his eyes. His groan became a wail as he beheld the finger that had grown back, then rose into a keening shriek as he touched his own face and found it fresh and unscarred.

Cathan stared, amazed. He had often seen people weep with joy after the Lightbringer healed them, but he had never seen them cry in anguish. Andras sobbed uncontrollably—then, weakening, he slumped and fell into sleep.

It was Beldinas who broke the uncomfortable silence, grunting as Quarath helped him to his feet.

“How terrible it must be, to be a slave to darkness for so long, only to behold the god’s light at the end,” he said. “We will wait until your men return, Cathan. Then this Andras shall pay the price for the evil he has wrought—and in the place where it happened.”

Cathan started, looking at the Kingpriest. “You mean—”

“Yes,” Beldinas declared, looking gravely down at Andras’s slumbering form. “Let the stake be raised within the Bilstibo.”

CHAPTER 17

“They mean to do what?”

Leciane winced, glancing toward the door. Vincil wasn’t a man who often raised his voice, but anger had got the best of him. If one of the servants—or Lady Wentha—heard him, there would be a row, and she didn’t need any more trouble.

“Please, Most High,” she told the archmage. “I’d rather not have to place a silencing ward on this room.”

His image wavered in the mirror. He shut his eyes, collecting himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, controlled. “A public execution?”

“More than public,” she said, her mouth twisting. “There’ll be thousands of people there.”

“No trial?”

“No trial. Not that it would accomplish much to have one. This Andras refuses to speak, and he’s clearly guilty.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or do you think there might be a rash of outcast wizards summoning quasitas in these parts?”

Ordinarily, Vincil laughed at her jokes. Now, though, his face might have been hewn of stone. “He is not an outcast,” he said. “We thought he was dead, along with his master, so we never expelled him. Ysarl of the Black Robes wants him brought here to Wayreth, so we can declare him a a renegade before he dies.”

Leciane frowned, studying the mage in the mirror. “You didn’t agree to that, did you?”

“I did,” Vincil delared. “He’s still one of us. He is subject to the laws of High Sorcery, before any other. Even the Kingpriest’s. I don’t like it,” he went on, holding up a hand to forestall her objections, “but I must consider all three of the Robes—and I think it best not to annoy the Black just now, don’t you? I don’t think any of us want to see this Andras become a martyr.”

Leciane shuddered. Put that way, it made sense. The Black Robes were full of young mages just looking for the excuse to vent their rage against Istar. Andras’s execution could light a tinderbox.

“What about Lady Jorelia?” Leciane pressed. “What are her thoughts?”

“Lady Jorelia is not highmage,” Vincil replied, his eyes flashing, “but if you must know, she wants the man brought here, too—though for a different reason.”

He paused, in the way she remembered from her days as his apprentice. He wanted her to figure it out for herself. She knuckled her brow, thinking, then her lips parted. “To find out who trained him.”

The highmage nodded. “He was an apprentice when he disappeared. Someone had to have taught him to do what he did. Whoever it was did it without the order’s leave. That means there’s another wizard out there—a Black Robe—who we don’t know about. What if he has other apprentices? Or if this is all part of some grander plan? Best to interrogate Andras and find out the truth than to let it go to the pyre with him.”

Leciane let out a long, slow breath. “What you say makes sense,” she allowed. “Try telling that to the Lattakayans, though—or worse, to the Divine Hammer. They won’t listen to reason. They want revenge.”

“Explain it to the Lightbringer. Or better yet, use the knight you charmed.” Vincil’s eyes narrowed as Leciane glanced away. “You do still have control over him?”

“As much as ever,” she said quickly—as true as it was a lie. She hadn’t ensorcelled Cathan, as she’d promised, and she hadn’t told Vincil about the kiss they’d shared. “I will do what I can, but I make no promises. Not with this Kingpriest.”

Vincil’s image nodded. “I’m not expecting anything—unless it’s the worst. Which reminds me …”

He disappeared for a moment, moving away from the table where his scrying bowl sat.

When he came back, he was dangling an amulet from his fingers on a chain. The medallion in its midst was a flame-orange gem, carved into facets that threw candlelight in every direction. As she watched, Vincil spoke several words of magic, swinging the charm above the surface of the scrying bowl, then dropped it. With a splash it fell through the mirror, practically into Leciane’s lap. It was still wet as she grabbed it and held it up to admire.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A signal for you to use if you cannot stop this thing from happening,” the highmage replied. “Grasp it tightly and say my name. Only if all hope is lost.”

Leciane frowned, turning the amulet in her hand, watching it sparkle and trying not to shiver. Her eyes flicked to the mirror and locked with his.

“I should never have helped them save him,” she muttered. If she’d just let Andras kill himself, things might have ended there.

“Yes, it was foolish,” Vincil agreed softly. “But you can’t turn iron back to ore, as they say in Thorbardin. Do what you can, Leciane. Lunitari light thy path.”

He was already fading from the glass as he signed the red moon’s disc with his thumb and forefinger. By the time Leciane returned the gesture, he was gone. She sat silently for a long time, swaying the amulet on its chain.

*****

He was in a boat.

Andras could tell that much from the way the ground rocked and shifted beneath him, the salt on the wind that kissed his face. He couldn’t tell much else, though. The knights had blindfolded him when they dragged him out of his cell—one more indignity, after the chains and the ridiculous metal mask they’d strapped over his mouth. They’d escorted him down hallway, stair, and street for what had seemed like hours. Now they were stopped, and grunting sounds told him that men—or minotaurs, from the stink—were rowing away from the city’s jetties.

He grimaced, musing on the prospect of jumping overboard. Lattakay had a deep harbor, and his shackles were heavy. He would sink fast. Unfortunately, the knights had thought of that, too. Testing his chains, Andras found they had bolted him in place.

Nothing to do, then, but wait and count the oarstrokes.

“How fast do you think he’ll go up?” one of the nearby knights asked another. “I’ve got twenty falcons the bastard’ll be dead before a hundred-count, with those bloody robes he’s wearing.”

“You’re on, Marto,” said someone else. “Maybe, if the flames aren’t controlled. They’ll be low enough at the start, though, that he’ll have some time to beg for mercy first—or would, if it weren’t for the Tasabo … ”

They hadn’t taken the mask off in three days, giving him water to drink and broth to eat through a slit in the metal. It made his jaw ache and robbed him of the ability to do anything more than grunt. He knew they wouldn’t ever remove it while he was alive. That was smart of them.

It was just as well, though. The mask kept him from touching his face. The feel of smooth skin, where cracks and blisters once had ravaged it, made him physically ill. So did every itch, every twinge that came from the finger that had sprouted, fully formed, from his stump. Every sacrifice he had made for the magic seemed gone—healed, by the Lightbringer’s loathsome miracle touch. His burned face had been his mark of passage, the price he’d paid to work the Art. Now, save for his torn, dirty robes, he looked just like a common man.

Or a knight, he thought, choking back a chuckle.

A bump jarred him, and they stopped moving. The boat had come to a halt. He could hear mail jingling around him as the knights got up from their seats. He started to rise too, but someone yanked on his chains, making him stumble. The knights laughed as he banged his shins against the gunwale. Cursing, he climbed out, onto a dock.

The time had come. He could hear the clamor of the crowds, sense the tension. He’d impaled himself on another man’s sword to avoid this, but—by Paladine’s mercy, he thought wryly—it was going to happen anyway. All these years, after witnessing Nusendran’s fate, he’d lived in terror of the stake. Now that it was inevitable, he found his fear was no longer so overpowering.

Hands grabbed him, shoved him. He nearly fell again, righted himself, and began to stumble forward. As he went, still blindfolded, to meet his doom, only one thought circled in his mind.

Fistandantilus, where are you?

*****

“Sweet Lunitari,” Leciane breathed, staring across the Bilstibo. “There are more of them out there than there were for the tourney.”

Cathan raised his eyebrows, following her gaze. The benches of the stands were packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, all jostling and craning for a better view of the sands below. They stood in the aisles and perched on the walls, where black banners had replaced the usual, colorful flags. Where they had cheered and stamped their feet for the Divine Hammer—had it really been almost a fortnight since that awful day?—now they jeered and hissed, forking their fingers against evil. Some had daubed their faces with paste made from ashes, drawing the sacred triangle or the burning hammer.

“Fupolo!” they shouted. “Bulmud, malscrono!”

Devil! Death to the sorcerer!

The stake stood in the center of the arena. It was tall and stout, cut from a great ironwood tree and capped by the imperial falcon and triangle in silver. More wood, soaked in holy oil, lay in a heap about its base. Armored knights, the survivors of the slaughter, ringed it around. In their hands they held blazing torches, the flames making their armor gleam like red gold. Priests of Paladine walked among them, swinging thuribles of incense and chanting purification prayers.

It was a sight Cathan had seen before, more times than he could count. He’d cut down a forest’s worth of stakes, it seemed. Today, though, everything about it was grander. Leciane was right: More people had come to watch Andras die than to watch the Hammer fight. He frowned, unsure whether that thought should trouble him.

“You can see why His Holiness couldn’t grant mercy,” he noted. “The people need to see evil punished, particularly today.”

Leciane scowled. For three days now she had pleaded with the Kingpriest, begging him to spare the Black Robe’s life. She might as well have been talking to the Udenso, glittering above the harbor in the glow of dawn. Now she looked to Beldinas, her eyes beseeching.

“Your Majesty,” she spoke, “this cannot happen. The Order of High Sorcery forbids it.”

Beldinas silenced her with a wave of his hand. “The Order of High Sorcery will learn not to let its initiates wreak mayhem,” he replied, the light around him flaring. “No matter what you wizards think, evil is not something to welcome among us.”

“But the magic—” Leciane insisted.

“Your magic is nothing, before the god’s wrath,” Beldinas returned.

The sorceress’s face colored, and she opened her mouth to reply. Before she could speak, however, Cathan nudged her.

“Listen,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

The jeering grew silent, the crowd’s anger fading to a rumble as another sound rose: the ominous boom of drums. Everyone turned, looking toward the arena’s entrance. The whole city of Lattakay seemed to draw a breath and hold it, waiting—then, in the stillness, he appeared.

Andras shuffled into the Bilstibo, his shackled ankles hindering his gait. Masked and blindfolded, he needed two knights to guide him toward the stake. Cathan had hand-picked Sir Marto and Sir Tithian for the duty, and they bore it well, neither hurrying the wizard nor giving him any chance to escape. As the highest-ranking knight in Lattakay, Cathan’s own place was here at the Kingpriest’s side, but he found himself wishing he could be with his men below.

The crowd turned ferocious at the sight of the wizard, cursing him in Old Seldjuki and both Istaran tongues, Church and Common. Some flung garbage down from the stands—rotten vegetables and fish innards that splattered upon the sands.

Leciane muttered something under her breath. Cathan glanced at her. She shook her head, fingering something at her throat—then looked away, seeing his eyes on her.

The other knights parted as Tithian and Marto guided the sorcerer past them, into the inner circle. Now, finally, the wizard began to falter, slowing and struggling. The two knights had to all but carry him, hoisting him up onto the kindling. Laughter echoed down from the stands. Marto and Tithian chained him to the stake. He fought them, but his struggles weakened. The crowd’s shouts rose as he finally lost his will and slumped, beaten.

With a jerk, Sir Marto tore away the blindfold that had covered the upper half of the sorcerer’s face. Golden hair spilled free. Andras’s eyes were squeezed shut, his cheeks wet with tears. The crowd laughed harder still.

“This is disgusting,” Leciane muttered as Marto and Tithian climbed down from the stake. “How can you do it in the name of a god of good?”

Beldinas did not hear her; within his aura, his gaze was far away. But Quarath did and he answered, his chin rising.

“Because of what he did, in the name of your magic,” the elf sniffed. “Do not forget, the man is a murderer, a hundred times over. How would you punish such a man, Lady?”

Leciane met Quarath’s haughty gaze, then looked away, muttering a curse. Again, her hand strayed to her throat.

The pounding of the drums grew louder as the priests circled Andras, choking the air with incense smoke. One stepped forward, flicking oil with a golden aspergillum—once, twice, thrice. The sorcerer flinched as the droplets struck him, moaning through the Tasdbo. The crowd roared.

“Rubudo!”

Be silent!

The voice was like a thunderclap, cutting through the din, leaving silence in its wake.

Thousands of eyes turned, looking up toward the balcony and the glowing figure who stepped forward, hands upraised.

“This is not godly,” said the Lightbringer. “Paladine would never mock the pain of another. That is for the followers of the dark gods. This man committed a great atrocity against us, and for that we shall punish him—but we should not take joy in that, my children. Mourn him instead, for his soul is lost, given to evil and condemned to eternal suffering in the Abyss. Let his death show to those who would wish harm upon the church or the Divine Hammer—this is what awaits those who spit in the god’s eye.”

The crowd seemed to shrink back as he spoke, their shoulders hunching with shame. At the stake, the sorcerer began to sob, tears and sweat dripping from his face. His wrists twisted within the manacles until blood ran down his arms. Beldinas looked down upon him, the Miceram blazing on his head.

“Andras of Tarsis,” he declared, “the crime you have committed is an act of cowardice and cruelty unequalled in the empire’s history. It has hurt us, make no mistake, but the people of Istar are not so easily beaten. Now, standing guilty before them, you must pay for your sins. Let the flames burn the darkness from your soul as the flesh from your bones.”

Raising his hands, he signed the sacred triangle. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo. Sifat.”

In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might. So be it.

It was the signal the knights had been waiting for. Turning, they stepped toward the stake, torches held high. The crowd held its breath. Even Andras was silent, collapsing as his senses finally failed him. The torches lowered …

“Vincil,” Leciane murmured.

Cathan was among the first to feel the magic, surging through the air like a gathering storm. Eyes wide, he turned to face the sorceress. She clenched something in her fist, on a broken chain—an amulet. Sorcery seethed about it, sparkling with orange light. With a gasp, he reached for her.

Too late. The spell had begun.

A great gout of smoke erupted around the stake, purple and sparking, rumbling with thunder as miniature lightning bolts played within. It spread quickly, pushing the knights back, smothering the flames where the torches had already touched. Andras vanished from sight, the vapors instantaneously devouring him. Cathan knew at once the sorcerer was gone.

He turned back toward Leciane, his eyes wide. She didn’t see him. Her eyes were trained on the sands below.

Before he could make another move, the magic burst free, streaking upward from the smoke-shrouded stake in a great fierce torrent. Up and up it poured, violet and scarlet and sapphire blue. It curved as it rose, like the plume of a geyser on a windy day—but the wind wasn’t what propelled it. It arched through the air, over the harbor, and straight into the Udenso.

The sky above Lattakay seemed to shudder as sorcery poured into the great, glass icon.

It went on for a long time, the magic coruscating as it flowed through the panes. A loud chiming filled the air, the groan of bronze beneath it. Down on the sand, the smoke cleared.

Sure enough, Andras had vanished, and the stake with him, but hardly anyone noticed.

They were all looking up.

The statue had opened its eyes.

That’s not possible, Cathan thought.

With a horrible, ear-splitting creak, the Udenso moved, swiveling its head to look down upon the arena. Its body twisted, panes of glass shattering as its joints bent. Glittering fragments fell away from it. Screams rang out from the crowds as its eyes—living eyes, as blue and strange as Beldinas’s—fixed upon the man who bore its likeness.

“The Black Robe is ours,” said its high and ringing voice. “We will show him justice, not you. The Order of High Sorcery bows to no man, not even the Lightbringer.”

All across the gallery—all across the Bilstibo—people scattered, screaming. Others stood still, staring with shocked eyes at the statue that had come to life.

Beldinas showed surprisingly little emotion. The Kingpriest looked back at his image, hands folded before him. He shut his eyes. The holy light around him swelled.

“Pridud,” he spoke.

Break.

The statue stopped. For a moment, Cathan could have sworn he saw its brow furrow.

Then a blast of energy erupted from the Kingpriest, slamming into the great, glass face.

With a noise like the end of the world, the statue exploded.

Shards of glass flew in every direction, sparkling in the sunlight as they scattered into the harbor. The Udenso shattered into dust, filling the air with glinting motes. The latticework that had framed the glass remained, standing up briefly like some strange skeleton. Then, with the shriek of collapsing metal, it toppled backward, into the sea.

CHAPTER 18

Looking out over the harbor from the temple’s highest balcony, Beldinas shook his head.

The ruins of the Udenso lay half-hidden beneath the water, the few shards of glass that still clung to it flashing in the afternoon sun. The ruins choked the channel, blocking the port so no ships could enter or leave. Lattakay’s merchant-barons were livid, knowing their business would slip away. The rest of the city shifted between rage and terror over what had happened at the execution. The Divine Hammer and the town guard had worked hard to keep the riots from happening. Now folk had calmed, and they lined the city’s stone wharf, staring through misty eyes at what had become of the their idol of the Lightbringer.

“This will not stand,” the Kingpriest declared, waving his hand toward the mass of tangled metal. “It must not stand.”

“Yes, Holiness,” said Quarath, hovering at his side. He glared at Leciane, who stood nearby. “The High Sorcerers must pay for this. I have drawn up the edict to declare all wizards Foripon. It awaits only your seal.”

Leciane sucked in a sharp breath. Her dusky face turned darker still. “That would be a mistake,” she said. “I am unhappy with how my order has handled things, but naming us enemies of the Church will do nothing to improve matters.”

“What would you suggest, then?” Quarath shot back. “That we take no reprisal?”

“Better that than stir up the masses against sorcerers,” Leciane replied.

Quarath snorted.

“Be still, Emissary.” Beldinas’s musical voice was calm, steady. “I know your mind on this. I will sign the edict if I must, but first I will hear everyone out.”

Glowering at the elf, Leciane spoke to the Kingpriest. “We should try to settle this,” she said, “without bloodshed or decrees. I propose a moot to make peace.”

Beldinas held up a hand as Quarath drew himself erect. Revered Son Suvin was scowling, too, as were most of the priests on the balcony.

“I am not against peace,” Beldinas said, stroking his chin. “But tell me again, why did they steal Andras from us?”

“The Conclave wishes no harm upon the Church, Holiness,” she said. “The highmage is a reasonable man, you will find. As I have said, he wants Andras punished for his crimes just as badly as you did.”

“Bah!” Unable to contain himself, Quarath stabbed a finger toward the remains of the Udenso. “Would you treat with one who did that, Holiness?”

“It was not the mages who brought the statue down,” Beldinas countered. “It fell at my command.”

“Perhaps,” Quarath insisted, “but—”

“Enough!” Beldinas said, cutting him off. “Neither of you will convince me. I will meditate on this, milady. It may be that matters have gone too far to solve with words. I will make my decision in the morning.”

With that, he turned away from his advisors, striding forward to the balustrade and standing there, staring out at the statue’s twisted remains. Knowing she had been dismissed, Leciane turned to go. The sorceress felt Quarath’s angry eyes on her back as she left the balcony.

*****

If anything, the highmage seemed even less willing to compromise than the clergy.

“A moot?” Vincil echoed from within her mirror. For a moment he looked as if he might laugh, but then his smile collapsed into a look of incredulity. “You’re serious, aren’t you? The Lightbringer wants to meet with us.”

“He does, if you do,” Leciane dissembled. “Vincil, you must. If you’d seen the people, you would understand. They want blood, and if you don’t offer something for the peace, he’ll give it to them. It would only take a nudge to turn this whole empire against all the Robes. Do you want that?”

Vincil’s lip stiffened. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Very well. Tell him we will meet—but in the Lordcity, not where you are now.”

“Thank you, Most High,” Leciane said, bowing her head.

Vincil grunted unhappily and vanished from the mirror. When he was gone, she let out a slow, weary breath. When she’d accepted the position of envoy, she hadn’t expected to broker peace talks between the order and the empire. I’d have turned down the offer if I had, she thought with a grimace. But Leciane was determined to keep the Church and the sorcerers from going to war. That would lead to no good for either side.

She went to the window and opened the shutters, letting the night breeze blow in. It was past midnight, Solinari riding high, the mist spotty upon the water. In the silver light, the ruins of the Udenso looked even more like a jumble of bones than they had in the daytime.

If Leciane had known any spells for it, she would have moved the metal out of sight—but there were limits to her power. It would take an archmage to perform such a feat.

Perhaps—

She snapped out of her reverie, her gaze shifting to the manor’s gardens. She’d seen a flash of movement, moonlight on skin. Looking closer, she recognized Cathan, standing among the starblooms. Her blood quickened at the sight of him. More than a week had passed since the night of the scrying—but she hadn’t forgotten.

He turned and glanced up at the window. She could see by the way his cheeks colored that he remembered too. His tongue ran over his lips, sharpening her own memories. That frightened her. She hadn’t been with a man since Vincil. What need was there, with her magic to occupy her? Now, though …

Her hands were moving before she realized it, drawing in the magic and channeling it, giving it form. By the time she thought about her actions it was done, the spell ready for the incantation that would unleash it. She bit her tongue, still holding back the word. She didn’t have to finish. There was still time.

“Kushat,” she whispered.

The world shimmered around her. Then, with a sudden rush, it fell away, leaving her floating in nothingness. This spell was only powerful enough for traveling short distances.

It was good enough to bring her down to the garden, though.

Cathan drew back in surprise as she appeared—then stopped, his eyes wide. He looked as if he might run—but didn’t. Instead, he stepped toward her. She could smell him, the scent of leather and sweat amid the garden’s flowers.

“I didn’t see you today,” she murmured. “Or yesterday.”

He stepped closer, arm’s length now. She angled her head, waiting. He reached out … and slapped her, hard, across the face.

“Damn you,” he swore.

Leciane stumbled and nearly fell. Her cheek aflame, she put a hand to her jaw and stared at him hurtfully.

“What?” was all she could manage to ask.

He looked at his hand, as though surprised by what he had done—but only for an instant. Then his angry gaze shifted back to her. “Don’t act innocent,” he growled. “I saw you use the amulet!” He started toward her again.

Several spells leaped into her mind, but she thrust the thoughts away. Using magic was the last thing she needed to do now. Instead Leciane held firm, facing him down as she fished the medallion out from beneath her robe.

“This?” she asked, holding it out “No, Cathan. I only contacted the Conclave before your men burned Andras. I didn’t know what they would do.”

He spat at her feet. “You still had a hand in Andras’s disappearance. After all we did to capture him. Now you have the gall to talk to the Kingpriest about making peace….”

Leciane shook her head. “I want peace,” she said, reaching for his hand. “I’m trying to help, Cathan.”

Hissing, he batted her fingers away. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want anything from you,” he snapped. “What did you do to me, that night? What sorcery did you use on me?”

“I never used any sorcery on you!” she protested, understanding he was talking about their kiss. She felt stricken. “All right, I nearly did, once, but I chose not to. What we did together was real—”

“No!” he barked. “Lying witch! You tried to make me break my vows, but I’m wise to your tricks. Make your ‘peace,’ if you wish, but stay away from me, and from Wentha and her children. If you ever do anything to harm His Holiness, I swear you’ll feel this.”

He put his hand threateningly on his sword. He was trembling all over. Then, with a snarl, he stormed away through the garden, muttering curses under his breath.

Leciane stood alone in Solinari’s light, listening to the chirping of the crickets.

Shuddering, she turned and hurried back to the manor. She wanted to return to her chambers before the tears blinded her completely. She didn’t, quite.

CHAPTER 19

The burning worked its way up his leg, his robes feeding the flames so they crept higher, quicker. Skin blackening and peeling away; gobbets of flesh dropping off to sizzle amid the tinder. Oh, Nuitari, the pain …

Andras meant, at the last moment, to curse Paladine, the Kingpriest, and the Divine Hammer, to wish death on every Istaran who cheered his own. He could feel the world falling away, the pain growing, the sounds and smells fading. He had often wondered what death felt like, those last moments when the soul clings to the body. A kind of peace settled over him—or perhaps that was just because he was beginning to black out from lack of air.

There was one way to be sure. He took a breath.

The flames made a cinder of his tongue, split open his palate, rushed down and down, filling his lungs. It was worse than he expected, worse than he’d thought possible, like a sun trying to kindle in his breast. He threw back his head and screeched, but after a heartbeat the flames found his vocal cords, and the scream turned into a bubbling hiss.

Still it went on, and he knew, even as his heart began to burn, that it would be like this for a long, long time… .

*****

He awoke with a whimper, phantom pains still twinging as the dream dissolved in his mind. He was standing up, it surprised him to see, propped by some invisible force that coursed around him. The same force held him paralyzed, unable to move his arms or legs.

Light pooled around him, a narrow beam shining down from some place he couldn’t see. All else was blackness, a great sea of it that could have ended after an arm’s length … or gone on forever. He wondered if his feet were even touching the ground. He couldn’t tell.

Perhaps I’m dead, he thought. Most folk, even those who walked the dark path, believed in an afterlife, but some heretical mystics spoke of the Great Void that awaited men’s souls when they died. Maybe they were right—maybe there was only nothingness, and being aware of it was his damnation. He shuddered—an eternity thus would be a torment greater than any fire.

“He stirs.”

The voice was low and rasping, like a snake slithering over sand. Something in the shadows moved—a patch of darkness splitting away from the rest and hobbling toward him. It was short and bent, barely taller than a dwarf. Black cloth draped over its hunched back, and it leaned on a short, crooked staff tipped with glittering jet. From the depths of its hood, it peered up at him: a wizened, hairless face—gray, spotted, toothless. One eye had gone milky-blind, but the other survived, a pale, rheumy orb regarding him with untainted malevolence.

“Ysarl,” Andras croaked.

The stooped Black Robe nodded. Ysarl the Unkind was the head of the Black Robes, the oldest and mightiest in that order—except Fistandantilus. His cruelty was legendary, even among his brethren, and though he was more than a century old—far more, some claimed—his mind was as sharp as an elven sword. He regarded Andras with his good eye, lips pursed with displeasure.

“Nusendran’s apprentice,” he hissed. “You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble, for one so young.”

Us? Andras thought. He frowned, glancing around. The pool of light was spreading, and there were shapes at its edges now, looming on all sides. This was not the afterlife, then—but what? He thought back, fighting past the burning dream to what had come before.

Memories flooded his mind: the arena, the stake, the knights binding him, the Kingpriest’s voice condemning him to die—then, something else. Violet smoke, geysers of it so thick he couldn’t see his own feet beneath him—and hands, darting out of the murk to seize him, pull him down from the stake and spirit him away to—where? What was this place?

Then, like a slap across the face, it came to him. This was the Hall of Mages, in Wayreth.

The Order of High Sorcery had stolen him back.

The light widened a bit more, and he saw them now: the Conclave, sitting in a ring about him. White, Black, and Red Robes all regarding him with open contempt. He fought back the urge to cringe beneath their glare as Ysarl leaned in close, prodding him with a bony finger.

“You are with us now, boy,” the lord of the Black rasped, his face so close that his stinking breath nearly gagged Andras. “For now, at least. You know why, don’t you?”

He was supposed to be intimidated, but he wasn’t. He had studied under Fistandantilus. Beside the Dark One, even Ysarl’s attempts to be fearsome seemed like a child playing at ogres-and-goblins.

Andras’s lip curled. “To thank me for striking at the knighthood that burns anyone who wears the Black?”

In the gloom, some of the archmages snickered. Ysarl gave them a withering look, then turned back to Andras. “We gave you no permission to strike such a blow,” he snapped. “It is not what we want.”

“Why not?” Andras replied. “The Kingpriest’s knights would exterminate us all. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. They burned my master! Must I get no satisfaction for that?”

“Not without my consent!” said another voice, like the crack of a whip. Andras turned his head to face the highmage’s seat. Vincil glared down at him, his face a thundercloud.

“This issue affects the entire order.”

“Yes,” Andras said. “It does.”

A murmur ran through the hall at that. Most of the archmages muttered disapproval, but Andras heard notes of sympathy too, mainly among the Black Robes, but also a few among the Red. Ysarl and Vincil, however, both looked displeased. The highmage silenced everyone in the hall. He rose from his seat, stepping into the light.

“You’re proud that you’ve brought us to the edge of war with Istar?”

“If that is what must happen, to stop the Divine Hammer from murdering the Black Robes,” Andras replied, “then yes. I only wish someone had chosen to act sooner, before my master died. Are you such cowards, that you will let the Lightbringer’s dogs exterminate us without fighting back?”

The question hung in the silence, ringing off the walls. No one spoke. All looked to Vincil, who stood rigid, the muscles of his jaw twitching. A dark line appeared between the highmage’s brows, and his eyes glittered with inner light. His pace, when he stepped forward, was careful, measured. Ysarl shuffled aside to let him draw close to Andras.

“Do not call me a coward again,” he said, the softness of his voice more threatening than the loudest shout. “Ever. Do you wish to know why I don’t want this war, boy?”

Andras swallowed. Vincil’s hard gaze made him quail, where Ysarl’s menace had not. He managed a nod.

“Because we would lose.”

Another mutter rippled among the archmages. Vincil quieted them with a single upraised finger, his gaze never leaving Andras.

“What do you expect?” he continued. “We are few, and the people of Istar are many. The Divine Hammer is only a part of the danger—the common folk hate us as much as anyone. If the Kingpriest ordered it, they would hunt down every wizard in the empire, no matter what robes they wore. That is why I don’t want a war, you insolent fool.”

Andras flushed, feeling the Conclave’s anger. He remembered the mob in the Bilstibo, mocking and loathing him when the knights chained him to the stake. If the Kingpriest had told them to, he was sure, the people would have torn him to pieces with their bare hands.

He bowed his head, letting out a ragged breath. “Perhaps you are right,” he murmured.

“I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t,” Vincil pressed. “You never thought about what you were doing, did you? And now I must make peace, whatever the cost. First, though, there is something we must know. Who trained you, after Nusendran? Who taught you to summon the quasitas?”

Andras looked up at the highmage, his eyes wide. He thought of Fistandantilus, who had saved his life, given him the power he craved, offered him the chance for revenge. He thought of what the Dark One would do, if he betrayed him. It would make the burning that haunted his nightmares seem like a summer’s day. Terror caught him in its claws, and slowly squeezed.

“No,” he gasped. “I won’t tell you. Don’t ask me that.”

“Don’t be an idiot, boy,” Ysarl said. “We will learn the truth from you, one way or another—and the other will not be pleasant.”

Andras shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears leaked down his cheeks. “No,” he wept. “No, no, no …”

“Very well,” said the highmage. He sighed, resigned. “Ysarl.”

The old Black Robe began to chant soft, spidery words. Andras opened his eyes, his brain screaming at him to somehow flee. His body hung limp, however, suspended by whatever force held him fast. Caught, he could only watch Ysarl make passes through the air, drawing down power from the black moon.

“Ea kelgabon murvani ngartud lo purvanonn … ”

The magic coursed through the hall, focused on the shard of jet on the tip of Ysarl’s staff. Black light shone around the jewel, writhing like a nest of serpents—whipping, thrashing, twining about one another, growing more solid with each moment. Andras watched them form, horror twisting his bowels. Vincil looked on with tight lips, as did the rest of the archmages—even those of the White Robes, who normally would have cried out against such a dire spell.

I am a renegade, Andras thought. They care nothing for me.

At last Ysarl reached the end of his incantation. A cold leer twisting his mouth, he extended his staff toward Andras’s pale face.

“No,” Andras moaned.

The tendrils struck, lashing out in a sudden motion to seize his head. They were cold and damp, like something pulled from a rock far beneath the sea. They reeked of decay.

Tighter and tighter they grasped, covering his eyes, working their way into his ears, his nostrils, his mouth … Some had barbs that dug into his flesh, others suckers that pulled at his skin.

He was nearly suffocating, the rancid taste of the tentacles thick in his mouth—and now, amid it all, a new sensation, not one in his body, but inside his head. The magic was forcing its way into his mind, tearing through his memories, his wishes, his fears, inspecting them one at a time and shoving them aside. Each was a silver needle, plunged deep into his brain. He gurgled, blood trickling from his nose. Please, he begged silently.

Sweet Nuitari, stop!

Deeper, the tentacles probed. All he was … all he’d ever been … they pushed through it. Deeper, deeper … heedless in their search for the one thing the Conclave wanted, the secret of his master. Deeper …

They found it, and everything went mad.

A shriek tore through Andras’s head, so loud and piercing he was sure his skull would crack. The tentacles went rigid, bulging as a fresh power coursed through them … then, with a horrid sound, they burst. Greasy gray ichor flew everywhere, spraying Vincil, Ysarl, and Andras alike. The highmage stumbled back, gagging. Andras retched as the tendrils in his mouth erupted.

Ysarl, however, simply stood where he was, frozen, his lips pulled back in a horrible rictus grin. His fingers clamped around his staff as the last tendrils ruptured—then, with a crack that shook the Hall of Mages, his staff exploded.

And so did he.

Around the chamber, the archmages cried out as Ysarl the Unkind died. His robes shredded, soaking with blood, and scraps of flesh and splinters of bone rained down in a wide circle around where he’d stood. Already weakened by the tentacles, Andras nearly passed out as bits of the lord of the Black splattered him. What little remained where Ysarl had been standing poured onto the floor.

Dripping red and grey, Vincil stared at the wet rags that had been one of the most powerful wizards on Krynn. Slowly, the highmage’s eyes rose—showing white all around—and fixed on Andras. His mouth hung open.

“Who—” he began.

He got no further. In that moment, a ringing sound filled the hall, and silver light blazed with it. Amid the glow, Andras blinked in amazement. Once again magic surged through him, and low, frigid laughter filled the air, but he knew this magic and welcomed it. Around him the blood-drenched Hall of Mages wavered, then faded away. The Dark One had found him at last.

CHAPTER 20

Secondmonth, 943 I.A.

Ebonbane rose high, throwing off splinters of morning sunlight. It held perfectly still, in the silence—then, flashing, it came down, moving in an arc toward Cathan’s head. He shut his eyes, waiting for it to land … left shoulder, then right, then left again, the hand of the Lightbringer guiding it with ritual precision.

“Bogud, Cilmo Cathan, Freburmo op Comuro Ufib,” declared the Kingpriest, “e tas follam pannud, tis rigam aulium on adolo.”

Arise, Lord Cathan, Grand Marshal of the Divine Hammer, and claim thy sword to defend this realm from darkness.

Silver trumpets blew, filling the air with sweet song, then drowned in the cheers of the men, women, and children who filled the Barigon. Cathan felt an unexpected rush of emotion. Emotion—and memory, of a time more than half a lifetime ago. He had knelt here, on the steps of the Great Temple, once before. Then, as now, Beldinas had dubbed him before the jubilant masses: the first knight of his order, first to wear the burning sigil. Now he was commander of Istar’s armies and the most honored warrior in the land, clad in the crimson tabard of that rank. As he got to his feet, he took Ebonbane from the Kingpriest’s hands, and raised it high to face the throngs.

His heart sang with joy. Yet, amid the triumph, there was sorrow. Wentha, who had carried his spurs to his knighting, had brought them today as well—having made the long journey from Lattakay to the Lordcity with her children—but the one who had given him his shield was gone. Yesterday, Cathan had dispatched an honor guard to escort Lord Tavarre’s bones back to Luciel. When the spring thaw came, the slain lord would rest beside his wife and son.

In Tavarre’s place stood Sir Tithian, smiling through his new-grown beard. The boy—no, the man, Cathan reminded himself—looked even prouder than he had on his own dubbing day. There were other knights here, too—Marto, grinning like a fool, had carried Cathan’s sword to the ceremony—but there was no missing how many fewer in number they were. It would be years before the Divine Hammer returned to its old strength. Silently, Cathan vowed that the knighthood would shine again, even brighter than before.

He turned back toward Beldinas, who smiled beneath his light. Behind the Kingpriest, the members of the imperial court stood—First Daughter Farenne and First Son Adsem … the hierarchs of the other gods … and Quarath, who alone bore a stony expression. The elf regarded him, his eyes cool and thoughtful. Cathan swallowed, unable to meet that gaze, then looked past the clergy to the dignitaries who had come to the empire from the kingdoms to the west.

Before his entourage left Lattakay, Beldinas had sent two Karthayan messenger birds winging away, bearing word to the High Clerist of Solamnia and Emperor Gwynned of Ergoth of the coming moot between the Church and the Conclave. Since Towers of High Sorcery stood in both those realms, as well as in Istar, both had sent ambassadors in reply.

The emperor sent Duke Serl, a swarthy, barrel-chested man with a black beard and a voice like a smith’s hammer, along with a score of warriors in bronze brigandine and antlered helms. The High Clerist had come himself, tall and angular, his drooping Solamnic moustache the same flame-red color as his curly red hair. Like his escort—only eight strong, but still more than a match for Serl’s twenty—Lord Yarus Donner wore a suit of antique plate, polished and engraved with the emblem of a Knight of the Sword. He inclined his head toward Cathan, but the gesture was grudging at best. Even after twenty years, the Solamnics—who had been Krynn’s principal knighthood for more than a thousand—still looked upon the Divine Hammer as upstarts.

Cathan looked on down the line of nobles and merchants who comprised the higher echelons of imperial society. He searched for another face, knowing he wouldn’t see it. Still, though it was no surprise, he couldn’t keep the heaviness of disappointment away. Leciane had not come.

They hadn’t spoken since that night in Wentha’s garden—had hardly even glanced at each other, though they rode almost side by side for much of the journey back from coast in heartland. When their eyes did meet, the coldness in hers stung Cathan.

He knew he deserved her scorn. A knight simply did not strike a woman. No matter how many prayers he spoke—and he spoke them daily—he couldn’t forgive himself. They had avoided each other for weeks. She had gone to the Tower of High Sorcery as soon as they were back in the Lordcity and hadn’t emerged since.

Cathan understood why—the wizards would be preparing for the summit—but he’d still hoped she would make an appearance at this ceremony. Now, seeing she hadn’t, he sighed and turned back to the Lightbringer.

Beldinas regarded him with a raised eyebrow. Seeing that, Cathan flushed. He leaned forward and kissed the Kingpriest’s proffered hand.

“Mas egam sod fas, Gasiras Gasiro,” he recited, his church tongue clumsy and halting.

“Bid tas sinobo, asclebu pritod niri.”

Thou art my true blade, Emperor of Emperors. With thy blessing, I shall never give battle unarmed.

Beldinas nodded, raising his hands to sign the triangle high in the air. His fingers touched Cathan’s brow. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo. Sifat.”

At his touch, Cathan went suddenly rigid. The world seemed to drop away beneath him—or rather, he felt himself rise up and away from the Kingpriest, the Temple, the Lordcity, and the empire, passing through the clouds and on toward the stars. The vision again, this time waking. As Paladine’s Voice pronounced his blessing on Cathan’s body, so the god himself swept up his soul, carrying it high to show him the vision that had long haunted his dreams.

The blue sky turned black around him, though the sun still shone in the east—gold now, not the crimson of dawn. The moons swung close, Lunitari half full and on the wane, Solinari fat and growing in the west—and a third, the color of a raven’s wing, splinter-thin at the other end of the firmament. Cathan stared. He had wondered where the Black Robes got their power, when their brethren worshiped the red and silver moons. Now he knew.

There was evil, even, in the skies. But why the revelation now? He’d had this dream hundreds of times, yet always before the moons had been two. Only now did he realize they were three… .

The magic, he thought with a shiver. The dream hadn’t come to him since the day he’d shared the spell with Leciane. That was more than a month ago. Experiencing her magic had changed him, somehow. Even though her robes were Red, the sorceress must know about Nuitari—the name came to him without effort, though he had never heard it before.

He cringed, feeling unclean. He would burn an offering to Paladine tonight to purify himself. Drawing his attention away from all three moons, he saw a golden pinprick among the diamond stars, growing larger … brighter … closer: the burning hammer, the god’s wrath, blazing through the heavens. It came to put an end to the darkness forever. It was his hammer to wield now, as it had been Tavarre’s before him: the knighthood, diminished but determined to cleanse the world.

Let it strike the black moon, he prayed. Let it smash it to dust.

The hammer did not hit Nuitari, though. Instead it plunged past him, on the same course it had always taken. Fire pouring off it in sheets, it dived toward Istar. Cathan gritted his teeth as it swept by, throwing off heat stronger than a dwarven forge, then watched it fall, fall, fall—

With a start, he came back to his senses. He blinked up at the Kingpriest. Beldinas looked back, understanding in his strange eyes.

“You saw it again, my friend,” he murmured, quiet enough for only Cathan to hear. “The hammer.”

Cathan nodded, his throat too tight to let words pass.

“Praise to Paladine.” The Lightbringer’s smile was beautiful. “It is a good omen. Whatever comes, we shall prevail. Uso sam bollat.”

The god wills it.

Cathan wasn’t sure. Unbidden, his gaze shifted—over the Kingpriest’s shoulder, past the looming Temple, to the pale spire that strove skyward beyond it. The crimson turrets of l he Tower of High Sorcery glistened in the morning sun. Whatever comes, he thought with a shudder. Whatever comes.

*****

The cries of the Accursed were the first sound Andras heard when he awoke. They echoed in the darkness, squealing and moaning, madness given voice. He let out a groan of his own, trying to bury his head beneath the blankets that covered him. He could still hear them, though, no matter how tightly he covered his ears. They were jealous of every drop of warm blood that coursed through his veins, of every moment he lived without being wracked by unspeakable agony, of the fact that, one day, he would be permitted to die.

Consciousness returned, and memory. How many times, of late, had he woken like this—in a new place, the tingle of teleportation still pricking the edges of his mind? This time, though, he was not in danger. He knew where he was. He was with Fistandantilus.

Sighing, Andras opened his eyes. The room was dark, the kind of utter lightlessness found only deep underground. Even so, he recognized it: his chamber, where he’d dwelt before going with the quasitas to Seldjuk. It was empty and cold, and there was a strange smell in the air, a little like must, a little like a midden heap. He shrugged off his blankets, then winced at the cold air. He was unchained but naked. The Dark One had taken his tattered, filthy robes.

Whimpering, he rose and walked toward the door. It was unlocked and unbarred. Beside it, folded neatly on the floor, was a bundle of clothing. He bent down, lifting it up and shaking it out. It was a new robe of fine satin, embroidered with runes. Nicer than his old one—and warmer than the altogether. He pulled it over his head, cinching it at the waist.

The strange, fetid smell was strong now, clinging in his nostrils. He scowled, trying to place it, but couldn’t. Whatever it was, its source was near—inside the room, maybe. He retched, the sour sting of bile filling his mouth.

“Light,” he muttered. “I need light.”

He tested his own power, expecting to find it depleted. To his surprise, however, the magic ran deep within him once more, like a cistern after a rainstorm. He had been asleep much longer than he’d thought, then—days? Weeks? It was impossible to tell. His hair and nails were no longer than before, and no stubble graced his cheeks. Fistandantilus had taken good care of him, whatever else was going on. Pleased at his strength’s return, Andras delved, drawing out what he needed. It wasn’t much, not for so simple a spell. He made a quick gesture, then pointed across the black room.

“Talkarpas ang shirak,” he declared.

Magic flashed through him, too little and too quick to bring about the euphoria he usually felt. Light spells were parlor tricks, cantrips initiates learned early on. Andras’s took the form of a globe of cold blue flame, hanging in midair before him. Accustomed to the darkness, his eyes stung and saw nothing for a while. Then, slowly, vision returned.

Andras nodded, looking around. There was a puddle on the floor not too far from where he stood. He regarded it curiously, noting its brownish color even in the blue glow—then stopped, stiffening as a drop fell into it from above.

He looked up.

“Blood of Takhisis!” he cried, the sound coming out more like a child’s squeak than a man’s yell. He backed up until he hit the wall—only two steps, as it happened—then stood staring at the thing hanging from the ceiling.

It was four feet long, fat on one end and tapering on the other, glistening gray in the wizard-light. It might have been an egg, but it had rubbery skin instead of a shell, and long, ropy vines grew out of it, digging into the stone above. Dark vessels, like veins but not, crisscrossed its surface, pulsing softly. One had ruptured and was leaking watery, brown juice. As for the stink, it was powerful enough now that Andras raised his sleeve to cover his face. It didn’t help, any more than covering his ears blocked out the Accursed’s cries.

His back never leaving the wall, he edged toward the door.

The thing had no eyes, but he could sense it looking at him as he moved. There was something inside it. He could see movement, a shadow that stretched the membrane as it shifted. The shadow watched him, as sure as if it was a giant eye. He reached behind himself, fumbling for the door’s latch, then stopped as his hand touched something that wasn’t made of stone or wood at all.

“Be easy,” said Fistandantilus. “Nothing will harm you.”

Every part of Andras wanted to run at the sound of the Dark One’s voice, so close to him—every part except his legs, which refused to move. He stood perfectly still, staring at the thing as the ancient Black Robe loomed in the doorway behind him.

“Wh-what in the Abyss?” he breathed.

Fistandantilus considered this a moment, then answered with a dry chuckle. “Partly right,” he said. “It is from the Abyss, yes—just like your quasitas were. What grows within, though, is of this world.”

Andras swallowed, or tried to. His mouth was as dry as the sands of Dravinaar. “I don’t understand.”

“I thought not,” the Dark One replied. “Watch, then. Tsokath!”

At the archmage’s command, magic blazed through the room, so intense that Andras’s heart stopped beating for an instant. On the ceiling, the pod shuddered as it struck, its skin stretching thin, then ripped open, dumping a gush of fetid liquid onto the floor. The split in the membrane widened with a ghastly tearing sound, and the gush became a torrent, splashing Andras’s new robes. With the fluid, something else slipped out—something pale, flabby, and bald, nearly man-shaped but featureless. Where its face should have been, there were only empty holes. More vinelike things grew out of its body, attaching it to the ceiling pod. They caught the wretched thing as it fell, holding it up like some kind of horrendous puppet. It hung limp in midair, limbs twitching.

Somehow, Andras kept himself from vomiting.

“It is called a fetch,” Fistandantilus said, his cold voice unperturbed. “It is like a man, but without a soul to give it life. It can take the form of any living person, be they human, ogre, elf, or dwarf. All it needs to hear is that person’s name.”

The cleft that was the fetch’s mouth opened and closed with wet, sucking sounds. It was beginning to breathe. The sound of its wheezing soon filled the silence. Andras clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out with his magic and kill the monster.

“The Kingpriest and the highmage are meeting on the morrow, to make peace,” Fistandantilus went on in a mocking tone. “Once the fetch has taken form, I can cast a spell that will put your spirit in its body, for a time. You can control it then, as if it were your own.”

Andras frowned, staring at the hairless thing hanging before him. It shivered in the cold.

He knew what Fistandantilus was offering him. He could be anyone. He just had to kill the one he chose to impersonate, then he could take that person’s place at the moot. If he were caught, he needed only to relinquish control over the fetch, and return to his own body.

The fetch made a toneless, mewling sound. Andras stared at its face, so vague and indistinct.

“Won’t they discover who I am?” he asked. “Vincil and the other sorcerers will check everyone for sorcery—and the gods alone know what the Kingpriest will see.”

“My magic will protect you,” the Dark One replied. “Not even His Holiness will sense anything amiss.”

Andras sighed. He was beginning to feel a weariness that could never be eased, but he did owe the Church and the Conclave, for what both had tried to do to him.

“Well,” he said. “May I choose the form I’m to take?”

“Not the Kingpriest,” the Dark One warned. “His powers would resist.”

In spite of everything, Andras laughed. The fetch let out a bray of its own, mimicking him. He waited for it to be still again, then leaned forward, placing his mouth near the hole that would have been a person’s ear. He whispered the name he’d chosen.

All at once, the fetch’s whole body stiffened, like a corpse several hours dead. Its twitches became spasms. Struggling, it began to change. Flesh darkened; bones cracked as they rearranged themselves. Its formless face softened like warm beeswax, running and puddling to form the visage Andras desired. Seeing what it was becoming—or, rather, who—Fistandantilus let out a cold chuckle.

“Very good,” the archmage declared, resting a hand on Andras’s shoulder. “Oh, very good indeed.”

CHAPTER 21

The wind whispered as it stirred the olive trees of the grove, making their fruit-heavy branches sway. The sky beyond was dark and muttered with thunder. A late-winter storm simmered over Lake Istar, turning its lapis waters to slate. Soon it would sweep into shore, lashing the Lordcity with rain and, perhaps, hail. All over the city, merchants took in their wares, and servants hurried in countless gardens to cover delicate flowers and bushes. At the wharf, men and minotaur slaves made ships fast, and the owners of wine shops took down the silken canopies in their courtyards.

Leciane smiled at the activity, gazing down from atop the Tower of High Sorcery. The common folk worked in vain. This storm would never make land, for this was no ordinary day. The wizards would use their magic to hold back the foul weather. The Kingpriest, she was sure, would be doing the same. Today was the moot. Today her people and the folk of Istar would make peace—or so she hoped. It was looking less likely all the time.

“I wish you’d told me before this morning that you’d lost him,” Leciane said, turning to frown at Vincil. He stood two paces behind her, carefully arranging his finest robes. They shimmered like rubies. “That is the first thing they will ask about.”

The highmage ran a hand over his shaven pate. “We’d hoped to find him again before today,” he said, shaking his head. “We thought it best not to tell anyone outside the Conclave. Whoever is protecting him is powerful, though. He’s resisted everything we’ve tried.”

“And now we go to the Kingpriest without Andras.” Leciane couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Do you expect him to believe our excuses?”

Vincil snorted. “Of course not. Even without Andras, though, I think we can appease him.”

Leciane glanced back across the city. The crystal dome of the Great Temple glowed in the stormlight. Beyond, the Hammerhall loomed, its keeps and watchtowers aflutter with pennants. The burning hammer blazed on many of them, but others were blue. Even after a month and a half, the Divine Hammer still mourned its fallen.

She wished she had charmed Cathan that night on the road to Lattakay. Now he was Grand Marshal…

Vincil laid a hand on her shoulder. She absent-mindedly covered it with hers. It had been easier than she’d thought to return to his bed. That made her feelings for Cathan—Lord Cathan now—all the more confusing. When the highmage spoke, his lips almost brushing her ear, his words brought her back.

“We should go,” he whispered. “The others will be ready.”

“The Kingpriest as well,” she agreed, kissing his fingertips. She smiled at him. “It wouldn’t do to keep His Holiness waiting, would it?”

The highmage chuckled, tousling her curly hair. Together, they disappeared back into the Tower.

*****

Standing in the Lordcity’s northern quarter, the Eusymmeas was neutral ground, one of the Lordcity’s oldest monuments: a huge reflecting pool of rose amber, its centerpiece a sculpture depicting the death of Vemior. The last of Istar’s warlord-tyrants, Vemior had perished centuries ago, when the clergy rose up against him and named one of their number, a cleric named Symeon, as the first Kingpriest. According to the histories, Vemior drank poisoned wine rather than give up his throne. In the Eusymmeas, he slumped in Symeon’s arms, the empty goblet dangling from his fingers. The histories said nothing about the look of sorrow carved into Symeon’s face, however; most scholars agreed the first Kingpriest shed no tears for his predecessor. Like any artist, the Eusymmeas’s sculptor had taken liberties.

The Lightbringer’s party arrived first. Duke Serl was clad in emerald silks, and Lord Yarns in shining mail. They were accompanied by the First Son and First Daughter;

Quarath and Suvin—and Beldinas, riding his golden chariot. His aura lit the courtyard that surrounded the Eusymmeas. Ringing the plaza were the Divine Hammer, standing guard alongside the warriors of Solamnia and Ergoth.

“Ullas dilant, Holiness,” Cathan reported when his men were in position. All is well.

It was a ritual phrase, which he could no longer bring himself to believe. He had more than a hundred men at his command, and half again that number in Yarus and Serf’s entourages. There had been more than that many men in Lattakay, though—and one wizard’s thralls had torn them to pieces. There were many wizards coming to this moot, some almost certainly more powerful than Andras. The gods alone knew what could happen if the wizards did not keep the peace.

When he said that to Beldinas, however, the Kingpriest only smiled. “Do not fear, my friend,” he said. “These are not Black Robes, coming to treat with us.”

Cathan nodded, shivering. The Black Robes’ absence had been another point of contention. The wizards had insisted that all three orders be represented, but Beldinas held out for a party comprising only those who wore the White. In the end, both sides agreed to a compromise. The sorcerers’ representatives would come with White Robes and Red Robes—including the highmage himself—but their dark-souled brethren would stay behind.

A shimmering at the far end of the plaza drew everyone’s eye. All around the Eusymmeas, crossbows rose and gauntleted hands reached for swords. Cathan raised his hand, ordering his knights to hold. They obeyed, as did the Ergothmen and the Solamnics when Serl and Yarns called out to them. Beldinas signed the triangle, the other clerics following suit, as magical light flared and the sorcerers appeared.

There were seven of them—three wizards in White and three in Red, their leader crimson-clad as well. Cathan felt no surprise, watching them walk across the courtyard, to see Leciane. She saw him too, and looked away. Cathan scowled, turning his attention to the leader, a dark-skinned man with a bald head and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He raised his hand in greeting as they drew near to the Kingpriest’s entourage, his face betraying no emotion.

“Sa, Pilofiro,” he declared. Hail, Lightbringer. “I am Vincil, Highmage of all Krynn. In the name of the three moons, I greet you.”

“Sa, Most High,” Beldinas replied, signing the triangle. “May the god smile upon this meeting.”

Introductions followed. Cathan took the opportunity to study the other mages, searching their faces. He could sense their power. The air nearly sparkled with all their protective spells. Even the youngest among them could kill with a word. If any of them tried anything, he would have to be quick to stop it. Cathan fought the urge to reach for Ebonbane. Jaw clenched, he kept his hands at his side and his gaze shifting from one sorcerer to the next.

“Where is the one called Andras?” Beldinas asked in a stern voice. “I do not see him among you.”

Leciane made a sour face, and the other mages glanced uneasily at one another. Vincil, however, bowed his head. “Holiness,” he said apologetically, “for that I must take responsibility. Andras is not among us.”

An angry murmur arose among the knights and priests, brows lowering and faces darkening all around the courtyard. Anger boiled in Cathan’s breast as well.

“Not among you?” Quarath demanded, his lip curling. “After you stole him from us, you have let him go?”

“We did not let him go,” Vincil answered solemnly. If the elf’s tone angered him, he gave no sign. “He was stolen from us as well. We are doing all we can to find him, and will return him to you when we do.”

“If you do,” Beldinas said.

Vincil’s eyebrows jumped. In the distance, thunder rolled as he looked at the Kingpriest.

“Holiness, this I pledge: We will find him.”

Beldinas looked surprised at that. Revered Son Suvin stepped forward, glaring at the highmage. “What good are your assurances? How do we know you aren’t simply hiding him from us?”

“Be easy, Reverence,” Beldinas interrupted, touching Suvin’s arm. “We are here to make peace, not to stir trouble. Andras is but a small part of what we must discuss. As long as any wizard in Istar can do what he did and threaten us all, the peace we desire cannot happen.”

“Ergoth agrees,” growled Duke Serl, folding massive arms across his chest.

“And Solamnia,” added Yarus.

Vincil looked from the High Clerist to the others, then back to Beldinas. “What are you saying, Holiness?”

The Kingpriest smiled. “Only one thing, Most High—that we have decided what is necessary: every sorcerer who wears the Black Robes must leave the Towers of High Sorcery that stand within our realms.”

Vincil couldn’t hide his dismay. The other wizards muttered. Cathan held his breath, watching them react.

“That would be… difficult to arrange,” Vincil allowed. He looked as if he had just bitten a lemon. “Our absent brothers have trusted us to speak here on their behalf. If we cast them out of the Towers, that would leave them little sanctuary. Only Wayreth would be open to them.”

“Yes,” said the Kingpriest.

Vincil opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. A moment passed before he spoke again. “What you demand is not easy. …”

Cathan felt—close, very close—something not right. He glanced around, but nobody else seemed to sense anything amiss …

No, Leciane’s eyes were wide, too. She looked sideways at her fellow wizards. Cathan followed her eyes, his hand moving slowly to his sword. Something’s about to happen, he thought. One of the wizards is going to try something terrible. Which one? Palado Calib, which one?

A blur of movement gave him his answer. With a shout, Revered Son Suvin whirled, reaching beneath his robes. Suddenly there was a knife in his hand, its blade long and curved.

Cathan turned in the same direction … who had the Revered Son spotted as the traitor? Then, as he watched—as everyone watched in horror—the Patriarch of Seldjuk lunged and shoved the dagger into Beldinas’s chest.

*****

The world stopped. Even the growling storm grew quiet as Suvin jerked the blade free.

Blood came with it—so much blood, reddening the Kingpriest’s snowy robes. Everyone stared, transfixed.

Leciane’s hands rose, grabbing fistfuls of her hair.

“No!” she cried.

The Kingpriest fell to his knees. The holy light that shrouded Beldinas flickered, began to fade.

The cry that came from Lord Cathan’s lips was a howl and a curse all at once, so ragged in its grief that tears flooded Leciane’s eyes. Above the lake thunder bellowed, lightning forking the sky.

“Now!” Suvin cried, flinging the dagger down with a crash. He turned toward Vincil.

“Finish them! Leave no one st—”

Five crossbow bolts hit him at once, spinning him like a child’s toy. At the same moment

Cathan brought his sword around, slamming its blade into the back of the Patriarch’s head. Suvin staggered, drenched in Beldinas’s blood and his own, then slammed down onto the marble-paved ground.

In the deafening silence that followed, all eyes turned to the Kingpriest. His aura dimmed to silvery wisps as his life’s blood ebbed away. He stared with wide eyes at the spreading stain around his wound. The blade had gone through his golden breastplate—an ornament only, its many-colored jewels all turned to red—and deep into him. Pain pinching his face, he began to topple sideways.

Cathan ran to his side, catching him as he fell. Quarath was there too, and the First Son and First Daughter. Cathan eased Beldinas down—then, one by one, turned to glare at Vincil and the other wizards, who huddled together, whispering.

All around, crossbows rose. Swords rasped from their scabbards.

Leciane looked to Vincil, a hollow in her gut. She couldn’t explain what had just happened, but knew the peace was lost.

“Wait,” the highmage pleaded, holding up a hand. “We had nothing to do with this!”

Across the courtyard, crossbow strings thrummed. Death rained down upon the sorcerers.

CHAPTER 22

Cathan felt the shimmer of magic grow suddenly fierce. He heard the ring of steel, the roar of flame and thunder, the shouts of the wizards and his men. He smelled the tang of ozone, the stink of smoke, but he saw none of it. There was only the Lightbringer.

Beldinas was pale, his eyes shut, his face tight with pain. The dagger-wound leaked warm blood. The Miceram had fallen from his head and lay on the ground nearby. The holy light, which had wreathed Beldinas constantly since he took the throne, had dwindled to almost nothing.

As Cathan stared at him, a hand touched his arm: Quarath, bending down beside him.

“Let me help,” the elf began.

Snarling, Cathan shrugged him off. “Get away.”

“I will not!” Quarath snapped back. “You have your duty, Grand Marshal. Your men need you. I can watch over His Holiness.”

Quarath was right. The sounds of the battle woke him from his stupor. He heard his men crying the Lightbringer’s name, their groans and shrieks as magic lashed into their ranks. He looked over his shoulder just in time for a flash of a lightning bolt to stab at his eyes, half-blinding him. Through the glare, he saw armored figures flying through the air, their armor sparking and smoldering.

He nodded to Quarath. “Take him.”

As the elf gathered the Kingpriest in his arms, Cathan rose and grabbed up Ebonbane from beside Revered Son Suvin’s corpse. Raising the blade, he rushed toward the fight, leaping over the bodies of his men.

Lord Yarns and Duke Serl were there, mace and saber in hand, shouting orders to their warriors. Half the Ergothmen were down, and several Solamnic Knights as well. On the other side, a White Robe and a Red lay dead, their bodies riddled with quarrels. The rest of the wizards, Leciane among them, had fallen back into a tight knot, their hands in constant motion as they chanted spells. Half of these were defensive. The air around them gleamed with enchantment as shields rose to ward off attacks from the crossbowmen. The highmage shouted in the sorcerous tongue, pointing fiercely at anyone who came near. Cathan saw one blast of magical frost shoot from his hands, hitting a knight head-on. The man cried out, then went stiff and toppled, his armor rimed with ice.

“Bastards!” Sir Marto bellowed, shaking his axe. He stood near Tithian, who was clutching his bloodied arm. The big knight’s helm had come off, and spittle flecked his beard. “Murdering, treacherous bastards!”

Cathan ran toward the hulking Karthayan and felt a hiss pass by his neck as a bolt of magic narrowly missed him. He spun, nearly falling, then ran on.

Marto saw him, fire in his eyes. “They’re all dead!” he snapped. “The Kingpriest, the First Son, the First Daughter—these bloody moon-worshippers killed them all!”

Cathan started, his gaze following Marto’s gesturing hand. Adsem and Farenne indeed lay sprawled and unmoving among his knights. Looking at their bodies, Cathan had no doubt that magic had killed them. The First Son’s vestments were still smoldering. The Church of Istar had lost its leaders.

“Merciful gods,” he breathed.

Marto laughed bitterly. “Not today.”

A shout drew Cathan’s attention. Spears lowered, Serl’s soldiers were trying to charge the wizards’ flank. One by one, the sorcerers cut them down, lashing out with darts of green flame. One of Serl’s Ergothmen broke through, however, and a wizard—an elderly Red Robe, already bleeding from a cut across his cheek—jerked wildly as the soldier ran him through. The Ergothman collapsed too, a whip of crimson lightning lashing out from the Red Robe’s body, one last spell that tore him in two as the wizard died.

Cathan stared at the carnage all around, the bodies strewn like dolls and the trees burning in the courtyard. The paving stones were torn into furrows and craters, and even the Eusymmeas had cracked, the statue crumbled and the pool split open. Water spread out across the plaza.

“Tithian!” he called. “With me.”

Slapping his former squire’s shoulder, Cathan ran to where Lord Yarns was marshaling his knights.

“We have to pull back,” he advised.

The High Clerist looked at him with disdain. “Retreat? And sully our honor? I don’t know how things are in Istar, but the men of Solamnia do not flee from battle.”

Serl proved no easier. Ergoth didn’t abide by the Solamnic Measure, but the duke had lost two sons in the fighting already. He nearly struck Cathan when asked to give ground.

“Never!” he raged, though his forces were down to a handful. “Not before I send every last one of those caitiffs howling to the Abyss!”

Just then Vincil summoned a dozen spectral warriors to do his bidding. The phantasms fought well, killing five more knights—four of the Hammer and one of Yarus’s men. Calling on Paladine and Kiri-Jolith and Beldinas alike, the remaining warriors rallied and cut the specters down. The knights tried to penetrate the wizards’ shields and blocking spells, but the ensorcelments threw them back, howling in agony. Helpless, Cathan saw his men perish one by one.

He sent runners to the Hammerhall, but the keep was too far away for reinforcements to arrive in time. Faithful Tithian stayed at his side, and Marto, darkening the air with curses.

The Karthayan pounded on the magical shield with his axe, exhorting the few knights still on their feet, but it was more show than anything else.

Another crossbow bolt got through the shield. A sorceress in white crumpled, a steel shaft in her throat. Cathan grimaced, looking to Leciane. She stood firm, still casting spells at the Highmage’s side. Her face was pale and weary, filmed with a sheen of sweat. She winced, waving her hand as Marto ran forward and struck the protective shield with his axe. Violet energy flared, and the big knight stumbled back with a grunt.

Somehow, she sensed Cathan’s eyes on her. She looked up and met his gaze, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

Turning, she shouted something to Vincil. The highmage looked at her, then at the one remaining White Robe, a fat man who looked like he’d never fought a battle in his life.

Leciane said something else—then, grimly, he nodded. Raising his hands, he began to weave them through the air, in a pattern Cathan recognized. He knew the words, too. He’d heard Leciane speak them before.

“Back!” he cried, waving his arms. The Solamnics gave ground, shields raised. They were brave men, but no fools. As the silver light of the teleport spell began to swirl, the Ergothmen and the knights of the Hammer also drew back.

All except one.

“No, gods damn you!” Sir Marto roared, rushing the shield like a maniac. “You’re not getting away!”

“Marto, don’t!” Cathan shouted.

The big knight wasn’t listening. The light of Vincil’s spell grew bright, brighter, surrounding him and Leciane and the fat White Robe. The magical shields flickered, then disappeared. Throwing himself into the light, Marto raised his axe and brought it down.

With a rush like wind down a mountain pass, the wizards were gone. As the light burst, the men turned away. Some shrieked in terror, thinking the spell would destroy them—but the glittering energy passed over them harmlessly, washing across the courtyard. Cathan let out a groan when he saw Marto standing alone, where the mages had been. The big knight smiled as he raised his empty right hand. Of his axe, there was no sign—but blood dripped from his fingers.

“I did it,” he exclaimed, beaming. “I got the son of a bitch.”

*****

Leciane’s stomach dropped away as Vincil’s spell flung her across the world. She had thought he would send them back to the Tower at Istar, but the Highmage had chosen Wayreth instead. She could see his study in the distance, as if through a spyglass, moving toward her with the speed of a charging dragon.

Something began to go awry. The spell ebbed, its power unraveling like a threadbare tapestry. The study started to slow down, then reverse its direction. Her mind raced. What was happening? Had Vincil made a mistake?

Reaching out, she managed to catch hold of the magic. It was an act of desperation, using her last reserves of power to shore up the spell. Gritting her teeth, Leciane added her strength to it, willed it to continue. The study flickered back into view. She held her breath, straining as they continued to fly through space, her body so tense it felt as if it might explode… .

With a shattering sound, Leciane tumbled onto the carpet of Vincil’s study, nearly cracking her skull against the corner of a table. Eilar, the fat mage, landed with a whoof nearby, and lay on the floor groaning. A third thump jarred her as Vincil came down on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs.

There was blood all over her.

Panic rising, Leciane scrambled out from beneath the highmage and twisted to her feet.

When she was upright, she stared at Vincil in numb horror. He lay facedown on the carpet, the upper half of his body twitching wildly. Lodged in the small of his back was a beaked war axe.

Eilar gasped, seeing the highmage. His flabby face, already pallid, turned gray. His eyes bulged from their sockets.

“Get someone!” Leciane half-screamed, slapping him across the face. “Anyone! Go!”

As Eilar jumped up and ran out the door, Leciane dropped to her knees beside Vincil.

She felt his throat. The lifebeat was barely there.

“No,” she breathed, staring at his wound. His spine had been cut. “Damn you, no!”

Vincil stirred. His eyes flickered open, dull with shock. “We made it,” he gasped. “It’s so—cold …”

“Vincil, I—I’ve sent for help.”

Somehow he laughed, blood bubbling on his lips. “Won’t matter,” he answered. He trailed off, choking.

Gods, thought Leciane, how did everything go so wrong?

“Andras,” Vincil said, as if reading her mind. “He was—the one. Suvin was a—fetch.”

Leciane nodded. In their wildest dreams they had never expected the Black Robe to infiltrate the moot. “There will never be peace now,” she murmured.

“No. There will be—war, and we—will lose.” He squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting.

Tears scorched her eyes. She touched his face. “Do you want me to try to pull it out?”

Vincil looked at her, understanding. The axe was all that was keeping him alive. When it came out, his pain would end. Shuddering, he nodded. “Tell Lady Jorelia—to proceed with—the contingency. She—will know—what to do.”

Leciane nodded. With Ysarl dead, Lady Jorelia would become the next highmage. “And—?”

He smiled, ghastly. “A—farewell kiss?”

She bent low over him. His lips were covered with blood. He sighed, and she felt his mouth relax against hers. The gentleness of it surprised her.

She rose to her feet, planted her foot against his ribs, and yanked the axe free. Vincil sucked in a sharp breath, coughed, and died.

Leciane shook uncontrollably. Angrily, she flung the axe away. The weapon struck Vincil’s scrying bowl, turning it into a shower of shards and water. She stormed out of the study, down into the depths of the Tower.

*****

The Kingpriest still lived, but only barely.

With the foe vanished, Cathan had done what he could to restore order. At his behest the knights left alive, and the reinforcements come too late from the Hammerhall, had covered the bodies of the dead, then gone out to keep the crowds back. The word was already spreading through the Lordcity, though, that the Lightbringer was slain. There would be chaos, fires, looting. Cathan sent Tithian with more orders, to dispatch the knights and the Scatas to keep order. With one dagger-blow, Suvin—or whatever mage had taken on his form—had brought Istar to its knees.

Right now, though, Cathan did not worry about the empire. There was only Beldinas.

Quarath held the Kingpriest. Lord Yarus and Duke Serl stood nearby. The High Clerist’s face was grave, the Ergothman’s twisted with fury. The Lightbringer lay limp in the elf’s lap, blood pooling around them. His holy light was gone.

“Holiness,” Cathan murmured, touching Beldinas’s bone-white face as Quarath laid him out on the ground. “Oh, Pilofiro, what have they done to you?”

The elf shook his head. “He can’t hear you,” he said sadly. “Step back, Grand Marshal, and let him die in peace.”

Cathan ignored him, leaning closer. “Holiness, listen to me,” he whispered.

“I said step back, Twice-Born,” Quarath insisted, grabbing his shoulder. “He must receive unction before he goes to the god.”

“No!” Cathan barked, shoving the elf away. Quarath stumbled back, and would have fallen had Yarns and Serl not caught him. The three of them were startled by the fierceness in Cathan’s empty eyes. One by one, they turned away. Trembling, he tried one more time to speak to the Lightbringer. “Please, Beldyn—”

The Kingpriest stirred. His eyes did not focus, but he turned his head toward Cathan.

When he spoke, his beautiful voice was thin as spider’s silk.

“My friend. I am glad—glad you are here.”

Cathan wept. “Holiness,” he said. “You must tell me how to help you. I would give my life, if I could.”

A smile twitched the Lightbringer’s lips. “You already did that once,” he wheezed. “I have no strength to heal myself. Give me your hand.”

Gently, Cathan gripped the Kingpriest’s fingers. They were cold, as frail as bird bones.

Beldinas smiled, then shut his eyes and let out a breath. For a moment Cathan’s heart seized, but then he saw the Kingpriest’s lips begin to move, forming words only he could hear.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro,” he prayed. “Tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soramflonat. Me cailud, e tas or am me lud bipum. Sifat.”

Heal me…

Cathan felt a tingle at the back of his mind, a tingle that grew into something greater, a torrent that coursed through him like cool flame. He knew it to be the god’s presence, Paladine’s energy flowing through his body. It was pain and joy, all at once, completely different from any mundane sensation … yet it was still familiar. He had felt something like it before.

The cold fingers twitched. The Kingpriest’s eyes widened as they stared at him. Cathan felt cold, suddenly. Beldinas knows, he thought. He knows I used magic once before. He knows I corrupted myself with the sorceress.

Before he could think anything else, the healing light flared around him. The cool, soothing glow drew gasps of astonishment from the others. The attar of roses filled the air.

He tasted honey and wine on his tongue. It lasted a moment and an eternity, both at once, then faded again—but not completely.

Beldinas’s aura began to return. The bloody wound was closed. The Lightbringer breathed a sigh and looked at Cathan, a sudden, odd expression in his eyes. A fear. He jerked his hand from Cathan’s grasp Palado Calib, Cathan thought. He’s afraid of me now. “Holiness,” he began.

Sighing, Beldinas closed his eyes, slipping into peaceful sleep.

The Lightbringer would live.

Quarath and Yarns and Serl all gathered around, awestruck by the miracle they had just witnessed. Others came running too, asking what was happening and crying out in joy when they heard the news. Cathan didn’t hear anything. He only stared at Beldinas’s face, biting down hard on his lip.

It was the same feeling, he thought, thunderstruck. The god’s touch and magic were the same—like different facets of the same jewel. What could that mean?

He could think of no answer.

The Lordcity was quiet that night, its plazas empty and its gates sealed. Scores of knights and Scatas walked the boulevards, their boots rapping a steady cadence on the marble-paved streets. There was a curfew in place. Those who went out into Istar’s streets at such times only asked for trouble. Defying the Church was a risky business at the best of times, but when the Kingpriest had nearly fallen to an assassin, the best one could hope for was arrest and imprisonment in the city jail. The worst was the kiss of a crossbow bolt.

Draconian as such measures were, they were better than the alternative. Istaran history was filled with stories of rioting in troubled times. At the outset of the Three Thrones’ War, half the city had burned before order could be restored. That had been a hundred years ago, but folk still spoke of it as if it had happened last summer. Of all the forces in Istar—the Church, the knighthood, the armies, even the High Sorcerers—none was more powerful than the mob.

Cathan walked the streets alone, his thoughts darting about like the hummingbirds in the Great Temple’s gardens.

As he walked, his eyes strayed again and again to the Temple, the basilica dome shining mourning-blue in the city’s heart. The First Son and First Daughter were dead. A shudder ran through him at how close things had come for Beldinas. The bloody-fingered Tower stood silent, showing no sign that the sorcerers grieved as well. But grieve they did, surely.

The word was that the highmage was dead, killed in the battle by the Eusymmeas.

Cathan stopped, stiffening. He had just left a courtyard where silver and lapis dragon-statues fought among blossoming cherry trees, and was starting down an avenue where the mudubas were thick on both sides of the road. Robbed of business by the curfew, the wine shops stood quiet, lamps doused and gates locked—all except one. Down the way, light blazed from one of the taverns. Shouts and laughter rang out, echoing weirdly among the walls and pillars. A scowl found its way onto Cathan’s face. What fool would open his wine shop on a night like this? It was asking for trouble. Unless …

He heard the booming voice, though he couldn’t make out the words—only the proud, boastful tone and the answering shouts and laughter. Sighing, he shook his head. Of course, Marto. Angrily, he strode down the street and flung open the wine shop’s gates.

It was the Mirrorgarden, where the old woman had cursed him after Tithian’s dubbing.

There were around a dozen knights there now, perched on benches with wine cups in their hands, their attention turned to the towering Karthayan standing on the table. The tavern keeper shot Cathan a look as he came in, a mix of apology, guilt, and pleading. Cathan waved him off as he started forward.

The knights’ laughter faltered and died as they saw him. Though most were off duty, he marked a couple who should have been on patrol. There would be reprimands later. For now, though, his attention fell full on Marto, who looked back with the red face and bleary eyes of a man who has crawled too deep into his cups.

“What are you doing here?” Cathan demanded.

Marto blinked, looking around as if to make sure he was the one being addressed.

“Celebrating, milord. What else?”

“Celebrating?” Cathan repeated. “Marto, the Kingpriest nearly died today. Adsem and Farenne did die … and others, too, your brothers in arms among them.”

“So did wizards,” Marto shot back, his chest puffing with pride. “We taught the treacherous bastards a lesson today, milord, and sent that highmage of their howling to the Abyss besides. Lost my favorite axe doing it, too.”

A few of the knights chuckled at that. Cathan’s scowl deepened. “It will be war now, Marto. Many will die.”

“Holy war,” Marto shot back. “Fighting evil in the Lightbringer’s name. It’s what we’re for, milord. We are the Hammer—about time we struck a proper blow.”

A murmer of agreement escaped the other knights. They were behind Marto, and not just because of the wine, either. The big knight had a point. Beldinas had formed the knighthood to smite darkness. Another time, Cathan would have rejoiced with his comrades. Today, though, he’d felt the god’s power and hadn’t been able to tell the difference from Leciane’s magic. Nothing seemed as clear now as it once had—or as it still did to Marto and his cronies.

They were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak. If he showed weakness in front of them, he would lose them. Perhaps he already had. Marto was the hero now, the one who had avenged the knights’ honor when he struck the highmage down.

“Go back to the Hammerhall,” he said. “All of you. You’ll get to strike your blow soon enough.”

You, not we. They all heard it. The knights exchanged glances, then set down their cups and rose, filing past him as they left. Marto went last of all, his eyes glinting. He slammed the mudubo’s silver gates behind him.

Cathan stood quietly in the courtyard, drinking the wine his men had left behind.

Things would get worse before they got better, he knew. But would they get better? He bowed his head. He didn’t know.

CHAPTER 23

Andras laughed to himself as he strode toward Fistandantilus’s laboratory. He had done it. The church was shattered, the Kingpriest and highmage both slain. As for the Divine Hammer—well, if war with the Order of High Sorcery didn’t destroy the knighthood utterly, they could be finished off later.

The Accursed were quiet as he passed their cages. Beyond, the laboratory door stood ajar. That was odd. In all his time serving the Dark One, it had always been closed. His grin faltered, his forehead creasing as he reached for the handle. The creak of the hinges seemed unusually loud.

“Master?” he asked, peering inside. Then he stopped, his eyes widening. The laboratory was empty.

Everything was gone: the tables, the glasswork, the herbs and viscera, the thousands upon thousands of books—even the candleholders that had been bolted to the walls were missing. Nothing remained but bare rock, here stained black with soot, there rusty with dried blood. A chill settled over him as he stared about the chamber.

“M-master?” he repeated, his voice very small.

He was trapped. There was no way out of this place but magic, and he didn’t know how to teleport. Without the Dark One’s spellbooks, he could never hope to learn.

He waved his magical light deeper into the room. It hesitated, as if afraid—ridiculous—then glided slowly through the derelict laboratory, to the passage beyond. He couldn’t say how, but he sensed something there, deep in the Pit of Summoning. He passed through the door—also ajar, its warding glyphs inert—and down the twisting tunnel, the magical light quivering ahead of him. It was afraid. So was he, but still he went, compelled.

Then he saw the Pit’s ruddy glow, flickering along the last length of the passage. He could hear the water bubbling. When he reached the cave where the enchanted pool lay, he saw that it was boiling, Abyssal light bathing the walls. He stared, shocked by the sight of it. Someone had begun a summoning spell.

He knew it was foolish of him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He entered the room.

Warmth radiated from the pool, perspiration beaded on his brow. Trembling, he looked inside, half-expecting to see the childlike quasitas swimming within. Yet there was nothing—only water and the horrible glow. The spell at work was incomplete.

He frowned, puzzled.

Without warning, the room grew wintry cold, freezing the drops of sweat on Andras’s skin. He stiffened, knowing that chill, then slowly turned. There, standing in the entrance of the cave, was Fistandantilus. The Dark One gave no greeting, and his black hood kept his face in shadow as always, but Andras could tell the Dark One was angry. The air around him seemed to glitter with rage.

“Master!” Andras exclaimed, trying not to let fear curdle his voice. He forced a smile. “I bring good news.”

Fistandantilus didn’t respond at first. He simply stared, his gaze heavy from within his cowl. Then he walked forward, his robes whispering with every step.

Andras blinked, backing up a moment before he remembered he was near the Pit. He stopped himself, swaying slightly and wishing there was somewhere he could go to escape the Dark One. Slowly, the archmage drew near.

“Wh-what is the matter?” Andras asked. His teeth chattered in the cold. “You d-don’t seem pl-pleased …”

“I am not pleased,” Fistandantilus replied, drawing up before him. The Pit’s crimson light made him look drenched in blood. “You nearly killed the Lightbringer.”

Andras blinked, surprised. “Nearly? He lives?”

“He does—and it is a good thing for you. If he had died, I would have torn the flesh from your bones.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

Fistandantilus nodded. “You would not. You have been concerned only with your petty revenge. My designs are greater, and for them to succeed I need Beldinas. The Divine Hammer I care nothing for, and I will not miss Vincil. But the Kingpriest must live.”

Andras shook his head. None of this made any sense. “Master, I don’t understand …”

“Of course you don’t,” Fistandantilus replied, “but as I said, he has survived. It took a miracle for that to happen, but then, miracles are what the Lightbringer is best at. Don’t worry, boy. I’m not going to kill you.”

Relief washed over Andras. He smiled, spreading his hands before him. “Thank you, master,” he sighed. “I won’t—”

The Dark One moved so quickly, he seemed not to move at all. Steel flashed in his hand, sweeping up, leaving a trail of red droplets behind. Andras felt a tug at his left hand, then an explosion of pain. His little finger—the finger that had grown back when the Kingpriest healed him—arced through the air, then landed behind him with a splash.

A sob bubbled through his lips. Whirling, he watched as the finger bobbed in the roiling water, then sank out of sight. His knees buckling, he went down hard upon the rocky floor.

He jammed his ruined hand into his armpit, his mouth twisting with agony as blood soaked into his robes.

“I must leave this place now,” Fistandantilus said. “Perhaps one day, I will need you again—for now, though, your part in this is done. You shall remain here … but do not fear, Andras. I will not leave you alone.”

The cold lifted from the air and he was gone. High above, a door slammed shut. Andras knew it was the only way out, closed to him now. He let out a despairing moan. He was trapped down here—wherever here truly was. Lowering his eyes, he stared into the Pit’s blood-red depths. There were shapes down there now, rising toward the surface—misshapen, childlike shapes with horns and wings and stinging tails.

Andras laughed, a broken sound. His children were returning to him.

*****

Cathan sat alone in his chambers within the Hammerhall, toying with a golden goblet.

The cup was empty. He had drained it again and again as the night wore on, and now the wine—unmixed with water—burned in his veins. His mood had not been so foul since his days as a bandit, before this all began.

They had buried Farenne and Adsem this morning. The Kingpriest would name a new First Son and First Daughter before the end of the week. Cathan wondered if he might not name a new Grand Marshal, as well.

Sir Marto had emerged as the hero of the battle beneath the Eusymmeas. The big Karthayan boasted to any and all of how he had slain the treacherous highmage in the final moments before the mages escaped. They sang of his bravery in the wine shops, and the Hammerhall rang with the sound of his name.

Cathan, meanwhile, was shut out. Beldinas had not spoken to him or invited him to the closed sessions of the imperial court. The official word was that his responsibilities obliged him to oversee order in the Lordcity’s streets, but the truth was there had been scant unrest. Rather than running wild, most folk went to the Barigon to give thanks for the Lightbringer’s wondrous return from the verge of death. Day after day, the crowds there continued to grow. When they weren’t singing the Kingpriest’s praises, they chanted imprecations against the sorcerers, baying for wizardly blood. Rumors spread that Cathan had fallen out of favor for his failure to keep Beldinas safe.

He stared around the room that had been Lord Tavarre’s. Tapestries of hunting scenes still hung on the walls, as well as weapons, and the heads of two stags, a giant boar, and a manticore. The last made him shiver every time he glanced at it, its half-human, half-lion features twisted into a ferocious snarl. The banner of Luciel hung over the hearth. He looked at it now, sighing. He could barely remember the town or anything of his life before the Lightbringer.

He didn’t hear the knock, so soft it was and so far into his cups was he. When the sound repeated a moment later, though, he looked up, dropping the goblet on the floor.

Flushing, he grabbed it up and glared at the door. He was in no mood to talk to any of his knights tonight—not even Sir Tithian, who seemed alone in seeking his company, who alone didn’t look askance at him.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“Your sister,” came the reply.

Nearly dropping the goblet again, he got to his feet and hurried to the door. There was Wentha, standing in the lamp-lit hall. She was lovely as always, draped in blue samite, a turquoise fillet in her hair.

He waved her in.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said disapprovingly, “Like that night back in Lattakay, when you dallied with the sorceress.”

Cathan shut the door, his eyebrows climbing. “You knew?”

“I suspected,” she replied, giving him a look. She crossed to the hearth, then turned to face him, shrugging. “Don’t worry—I’m not going to lecture you. I just wanted to ask about it. So much trouble began that night.”

Cathan’s lips tightened. “We didn’t do anything. A kiss, that’s all. And we shared her magic—a spell, I mean,” he added.

“A spell, eh?” she asked. “A knight of the Divine Hammer, engaging in witchcraft—sounds like heresy to me.”

He went to pour more wine. This time he watered it well and handed his sister a cup.

“Why are you here?”

“For your sparkling company,” she retorted, and raised a hand as his face darkened.

“And to say good-bye. I’m leaving for Lattakay tomorrow.”

He stared, surprised. “So soon?”

“I’ve been here more than a week,” she replied. “I need to go back, and see what can be salvaged of the Udenso. Besides, the talk is of war with the wizards. I don’t want my children anywhere near one of the Towers if it comes to that.”

“That makes sense,” Cathan said, sipping his wine. He stared up at Luciel’s banner again. “Wentha, I want you to know—I’m proud of you. What you’ve done with your life. My own seems … a wreck.”

She smiled, then kissed him on the cheek. “I married well, that’s all, but I’m proud of you too, Brother. I don’t care what they whisper about you—you’re a good man and no coward.”

He sighed unhappily. “I’ll miss you,” he said. “I’m running short of friends here.”

“You’ll find more,” she told him, patting his arm. “And if you ever truly need me, you know where I am. Try not to wait quite so long before visiting next time.”

He smiled then, and surprised both of them by embracing her tightly. He smoothed her golden hair, as he’d always done when they were younger. “I won’t, Blossom,” he said. “I promise.”

Wentha’s eyes shone. They looked into his own without flinching.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s not let the rest of the wine go to waste.”

They sat together, talking, long into the night.

*****

The imperial summons was waiting for Cathan the next day when he returned from seeing Wentha and her children off at the harbor. His heart leaping to his throat, he left the Hammerhall immediately, making his way through the crowded streets to the Great Temple. Beldinas was in his manse, sitting on the balcony that overlooked the steaming gardens. It had rained early that morning, and the sun was doing its best to dry up the moisture. Quarath accompanied him, his face pinched with disdain as Cathan bowed before the Kingpriest.

The Lightbringer had recovered from his near-death experience, the light of his aura shining bright again. Cathan knew enough about Beldinas’s healing powers to understand that he wouldn’t even bear a scar where the dagger had pierced his breast. His eyes, however, were not the same as they had been before. Cathan could see the fear in them even now.

“Things have gone too far,” the Kingpriest said flatly. “The sorcerers must pay for what they did—both here and in Lattakay.”

This is a test, Cathan thought, glancing from the Lightbringer to Quarath. They want me to prove my faith.

He touched Ebonbane’s hilt. “If Your Holiness demands war, we shall have war,” he declared. “Is it certain sorcery is to blame?”

“We found Revered Son Suvin’s body two days ago,” Quarath replied, “beneath a pier at the wharf. The thing that attacked His Holiness was some kind of magical double. The wizards clearly conjured it as part of a trap—just as they conjured the quasitas for their lackey Andras to slaughter your men.”

“There will be war,” Beldinas insisted. “The people of Istar will no longer suffer the evils of sorcery within our realm. Nor will Ergoth and Solamnia.”

Cathan nodded, picturing Duke Serl and Lord Yarns. The two had left the Lordcity the day before, setting sail across Lake Istar after the funerals. Both their faces had been set with grim determination as they stepped aboard their ships.

The Kingpriest continued. “We have reached an agreement—the first such, between our three nations. The Towers of High Sorcery must fall.”

Cathan couldn’t help his reaction. His mouth fell open.

“We mean to besiege them,” Quarath said, smiling a tight, wolfish smile. “If they do not surrender before Spring Dawning, we attack.”

Madness was the word that flashed through Cathan’s mind. He glanced east, toward the bloody-fingered spire that loomed over the Lordcity. “What about the haunted groves?” he asked. “If we try to storm the Towers, they’ll turn us back. I know—I’ve felt it myself.”

“Uso dolit,” Beldinas replied simply.

The god will provide.

It was no kind of answer. Cathan bowed his head, feeling older than his years.

“What is my part of this to be, sire?”

Within the light, Beldinas smiled. “At the fore, as always, my friend. You and your men shall ride out tomorrow to Losarcum.”

“Losarcum?” Cathan repeated, shocked. He had expected the Kingpriest would name him to assail the Lordcity’s own Tower. Quarath grinned again, and he understood. With him far to the south, the elf would lead the main action here.

Beldinas nodded patiently. “Just so. It will be the first attack. The sorcerers expect us to act here first, or perhaps Palanthas or Daltigoth. They will be least prepared at Losarcum. If we win there, they may surrender without another fight. If not, we will continue, one Tower at a time, until they do.”

It was a fair strategy, Cathan had to admit. If Serl and Yarns had agreed to it, it might work. It still felt like exile, though—but how could he decline?

“Very well, Holiness,” he said, kneeling. “I will go to Losarcum. I pray, though, that this may yet end without more bloodshed.”

“As do we all, Grand Marshal,” Quarath said curtly.

Beldinas raised his hand, signing the holy triangle “Palado tas drifas bisat, my friend,” he intoned. Paladine guide thy steps. “I will see you again when this is all over.”

It was a brisk dismissal. Cathan had hoped to speak with the Kingpriest alone, to express his dissent without Quarath present. Now, looking at the new caution that lurked in Beldinas’s eyes, he knew that would not be allowed. Dutifully, he signed the triangle, bowed, and left the balcony, bound for the Hammerhall.

CHAPTER 24

Thirdmonth, 943 I.A.

Motes of golden light flashed around Vincil’s body, spinning in lazy circles about his bier. His smooth forehead, free of the cares that had troubled him, was painted with the All-Seeing Eye of the three moons—black over red over white. His crimson robes were clean of the blood that had soaked them. He seemed to have passed away in his sleep, peacefully.

Leciane could still hear the last rattle of his breath. She had loved him, in the end. It might not have lasted—it hadn’t lasted before—but she had loved him.

Lady Jorelia—Highmage Jorelia, now—raised her hands. She was a stately woman, taller than most men and willow-thin, her long, silver hair gathered in a braid that reached down to the small of her back. Her black eyes glistened as she wove the magic about Vincil’s body. It was her duty, as the Conclave’s new leader, to bid the final farewell to her predecessor. Leciane saw in her age-lined face that she had loved Vincil too—as a friend, and as a teacher. She was close on ninety summers and had given Vincil his Test before Leciane was born.

“We bid thee farewell, Most High,” Jorelia declared. “Rest now among the moons, and let your spirit sing on in the magic we work.”

“Let it sing,” replied Leciane, along with the rest of the wizards who had gathered in the Hall of Mages. The masters of the other Towers had come to Wayreth as well, and powerful sorcerers from all across Ansalon. Nearly a hundred elves and dwarves, men and women—even a few minotaurs—filled the great room. They stood divided by the colors of their robes, eyeing one another suspiciously.

The three orders seldom agreed on anything and had acted in concert only once before, to craft the Orbs of Dragonkind, which men had used to stave off the Queen of Darkness’s legions during the great wars. That had been a thousand years ago. Watching the distrust in their faces as they eyed one another, Leciane twisted her hands. Other wheels were turning today, besides Vincil’s funeral. What followed, however it played, would shape the fate of magic for a long time to come.

The golden motes spun faster, rose higher. Now they formed a maelstrom that nearly hid Vincil’s body from sight. The sound of howling wind rose, though nothing so much as ruffled the sorcerers’ cloaks. The Art, ever-present in this enchanted place, crackled in the air. Leciane reached out, adding her power to Jorelia’s, pouring herself into the magic-sweetened air. All around her, the other wizards did the same. When the climax of the spell came, it made more than a few of them cry out. Leciane bit her tongue as the magic suddenly jerked at her, the the warmth of blood flooding her mouth when she felt it burst free. The golden maelstrom flared as bright as sunshine, burning into her eyes and through her heart.

Good-bye, love, she thought. Perhaps, if there is life after this, we will meet again.

With a high, keening sound the maelstrom shattered, flinging golden motes in all directions. They rained down amongst the mages, trailing glittering dust as they fell.

Leciane felt a stab of pain to see Vincil’s body had disappeared, in its place a crimson haze, as of Lunitari’s glow on a foggy night. Slowly, the haze flickered and faded away. The blaze of the spell vanished with it.

Silence hung in the shadowy hall. Not all had known Vincil, but it was always a grievous thing when a highmage died. At least this time, there had been no squabbling over who would take his place. Neither Sheidow, the new head of the Black Robes, nor Karani, who had taken over the Red, had bothered to challenge Lady Jorelia. All eyes turned to the aged White Robe, awaiting her words.

Here it comes, Leciane thought, clenching her fists. She knew what the new highmage was about to say, knew why it had to be done. She didn’t expect that to make it any easier to bear.

“So passes the last highmage of sorcery’s glorious days,” Jorelia declared. Her voice was not that of an old woman but strong and deep, with an assurance none could miss. “Now it falls to us to guide the order into the night.”

The wizards glanced at one another, some raising eyebrows while others frowned. A few gave sage nods. Jorelia paused, waiting for their attention, then went on.

“For twenty-five centuries, the five Towers have stood,” she began. “Of all the realms that now span the world beyond these walls, only the forests of Silvanesti are older. We have stood fast through two Dragonwars. Through the rise and decline of Ergoth, the delving of Thorbardin, and the coming of the elves to Qualinesti, we have been here.

“Now, however, a new threat arises—a threat from the east, where men call themselves holy so they can hurt those who are not. The legions of the Lightbringer are coming, and they bring the strength of the mob with them. In Istar they march already, and soon in Ergoth and Solamnia as well. They will not rest until the Towers are empty or until they fall. We have chosen emptiness.”

Those mages who did not serve in the Conclave exclaimed in horror and disbelief as the highmage’s meaning sank in.

“Give over the Towers?” cried a sorceress in white, an elf maid named Maranthas. Her delicate features contorted. “They’re our homes!”

“Not any longer,” Jorelia replied, shaking her head. “Things have gone too far. They have never liked us in Istar, nor in Solamnia for that matter, but they were willing to suffer us. The actions of the renegade, this Andras, have changed that. Now they hate us, and blame us for what has happened in both Lattakay and the Lordcity. They will fight us—and no matter how valiantly we defend ourselves, they will triumph. We may be powerful, but the Church, with its priests and its knights, is mightier.”

“What, then?” sneered Orlock, a black-robed dwarf of the Daergar clan, tugging at his silver beard. “We just tuck tail, like rats or goblins? I am no craven, to hide when danger appears.”

Jorelia shook her head, looking over at Sheidow. A wisp of a man with an albino’s colorless skin and pink eyes, the new lord of the Black Robes shot a withering glance at the dwarf.

“We are not craven either,” he said. His voice was soft and gentle, but commanded everyone’s attention. “We do not flee because we fear death, but because we know it awaits us if we stay.”

Orlock still looked outraged, but said nothing more. Humbled, he melted back into the crowd. Another wizard—a Red Robe named Embreth—spoke amidst the muttering.

“Perhaps we should flee,” he said, “but what about the Art itself? There are many enchanted things in the Towers that will cause untold harm if they fall into the hands of our enemies. If we leave them behind and the commoners discover them … well, the gods know what will happen.”

“That is so,” Jorelia agreed. “We must take what we can carry with us, back here to Wayreth where we will be safe. The rest we will destroy.”

The murmurs stopped, turning into gasps. No archmage spoke lightly of destroying magical artifacts, and the Towers contained some of the most potent—among them the same dragon orbs the united sorcerers had crafted ages ago.

“It will take time to evacuate,” said Maranthas. “There is much work to be done. What if this attack comes before we are finished?”

Leciane bowed her head, her curls falling to hide her face. She had asked the same question, when she and Jorelia first discussed this.

The highmage sighed. There were worlds of sorrow in her voice. “Then,” she said, “we must bring down the Towers ourselves.”

Silence filled the hall. It roared in Leciane’s ears. Looking up, she saw the mages were glaring at one another again. That was no surprise—they were looking to lay blame. The White Robes were at fault because Marwort’s support of the Lightbringer had helped cement his power; the Black because Andras had been one of them; and the Red … because of her. In their eyes, she had failed—never mind that she had done all she could. If only she had done more, their reproachful looks said, this might not be happening now.

Jorelia’s voice rang out, stern and austere, filling the vast chamber. “Listen to me,” she said. “This is no time to turn on ourselves. None of us is guiltier than the others. We must work together, as we did during Takhisis’s reign, when darkness sought to overwhelm the world. This time, it is light that threatens us.

“Come, I beg of you,” she continued, spreading her arms. “If you will not stand as one for each other’s sake, then do it for the Art. For that is what is at stake here. If the Kingpriest has his way, magic will disappear from the world. If that is what you want, very well—but if you desire the Art’s survival, then join together now, and fight those who would upset the Balance of the world!”

For a long moment no one budged, the sorcerers still regarding one another with narrow eyes. Then, slowly, it happened. Embreth, the Red Robe, stepped away from his fellows to stand among the Black. A moment later Orlock did the same, walking over to the White.

One by one, the mages began to shift, mingling together, some clasping arms, White beside Black, Black next to Red, Red with White. Leciane marveled at the sight of the three robes united, a sight no one had beheld for a millennium. The Order might just survive, after all.

Smiling, she walked forward to join them, her brothers and sisters in the Art.

*****

Daubas Mishakas, the maps called the maze of canyons and mesas at Dravinaar’s heart—the Tears of Mishakal. Some scholars believed it was because the goddess had wept over the parched land, and the waters had carved the rock. Others swore it had once been the site of her greatest temple, laid waste by ogres in ages all but forgotten. For the Dravinish, however, the place had a different name. Raqqa az Zarqa, they called it, in their native tongue. The Sun’s Anvil.

The Sea of Shifting Sands, the dune-swept desert that comprised most of the empire’s southern reaches, had been a hard enough passage, but it was nothing beside the Anvil.

The heat within the canyons was intolerable, rising from the golden stone of their walls during the day, and at night the cold was like to freeze a man’s blood. Little grew, save the occasional cactus or thorny bush, clinging high up on the cliffs, and the only animals seemed to be broad-hooded adders and hairy, jumping spiders the size of small dogs. Both were poisonous, and Cathan had lost two men and nearly a dozen horses as the journey wore on. Several knights had fallen sorely ill, wracked by fever from the sun pounding against their steel helms. Though it left them vulnerable, the men of the Divine Hammer rode bareheaded now and shook out their bedrolls when they made camp in the evening.

Cathan winced, mopping his brow with the hem of his tabard, and glared at the cloudless sky. Like most of the other men, his skin was red and peeling. He’d taken to the native custom of tying a cloth about his head to keep cool. He glanced over his shoulder at the train of knights, squires, and clerics who followed him—nigh five hundred men in all.

Some were singing a war hymn, a brooding song exhorting Kiri-Jolith and Paladine to fuel their strength in battle.

My blade grows slow, my arm doth tire,

My foes, so many, gather nigh.

O Horned One, to thee I cry

To sear them with thy vengeful fire.

And dragon high, O shining lord,

Bear up my soul, grant me thy light,

For with thy grace and Jolith’s might,

There are three hands upon my sword…

Sighing—he had never much liked that hymn—Cathan turned back to the way ahead.

Their Dravinish guides, lean men with curled moustaches dyed bright colors and horn bows on their saddles, called to one another in their guttural tongue, their laughing voices ringing off the canyon walls. They knew the path to Losarcum and where to find the stores of food and water their people had hidden among the rocks. They also knew how to avoid the true dangers of the Anvil, the manticores and serpent-headed hawks that still haunted the wilds.

They had seen one of the former on their first day, riding the warm updrafts above the desert—its sleek, leonine form betrayed by batlike wings, many-spiked tail, and a twisted, almost-human face. It hadn’t seen them, intent on some other prey, and had flown away before the knights could cock their crossbows. Since then, nothing.

Cathan’s thoughts drifted to the Lightbringer. They had not spoken since that night at the manse, when Beldinas had revealed his plan to assail the Towers. After that, Cathan had kept busy helping his men prepare for their journey. The one time he had tried to seek out the Kingpriest, Quarath had turned him away, claiming His Holiness was too busy for visitors. Finally, on the day Cathan’s company left the Lordcity, Beldinas had appeared at the western gates for the Parlaido, the leavetaking ceremony. He had offered the ritual benediction, then Quarath had steered him away. Now he was far away, sequestered in the Temple with only the elf for company.

Cathan shook his head. He could see nothing but grief coming of this. The stones in the Garden of Martyrs would bear many more knights’ names before this was over. More and more, he yearned to question the Lightbringer …

A sharp whistle yanked him out of his reverie. With a rattle he reined in, reaching for Ebonbane. Ahead, the Dravinish riders had come to a halt and were climbing down from their saddles. Beyond them, the canyon came to a sudden end in a cliff wall. Hewn into the soft stone was a great gatehouse, with stout pillars bearing up the tons of rock. Behind the columns was a huge stone plug, carved with intricate latticework and brightly painted in reds and golds. On either side stood a brass statue of a bullock sporting an eagle’s wings.

“We have come,” the lead rider proclaimed to the knights. His face was caked with road-dust. “Soon you shall behold Qim Sudri, the City of Stone.”

Some of the younger knights glanced at one another in confusion, but Cathan nodded.

He had been to Losarcum before, and knew its native name. He recognized the gates and easily spotted the archers perched on ledges above, all in leather kirtles studded with copper and tall conical helms that winked in the sunlight. The knights’ guides shouted up to them, and after a brief conversation—and more than a little laughter—one of the bowmen vanished into a cleft in the canyon wall. Soon after, the ground gave a great rumble, and the plug pushed out from the cliffs face, then slid aside. A burst of cool air blew out of the depths within, carrying the scents of wine and smoke.

Cathan glanced back at his men, who shifted nervously in their saddles. “We’re safe here,” he told them, climbing down from his horse.

For now …

Lights soon kindled in the blackness beyond—great, copper lamps on long poles, carried by half-clad servant boys with shaved heads. An old man, also bald and bare-chested, emerged and strode down the steps from the barbican. His eyes were rimmed with kohl, and his beard, which reached down to the scarlet sash that girded his waist, was dyed deep violet and bound with rings of gold. In his hands he bore a stone pot, carved with more latticework.

“Daqan si-tuli bhak,” he declared, tugging his beard. “All roads have their ending. I am Ibsim, Master of Doors. Taste of our salt.”

He extended the urn. It was filled with powder, smelling vaguely of the sea. Cathan nodded to the old man, then took a pinch and placed it on his tongue. The salt burned after the long, dry ride, but he swallowed politely.

“I thank you, Ibsim,” he said, tugging his beard in return. “May we enter your city, and drink the sweetness of its springs?”

“Of course,” said the Master of Doors, standing aside. “All who serve the Lightbringer are welcome within our gates.”

It hadn’t always been so, Cathan knew. Istar had not conquered Dravinaar easily, and the desert princes had fought the empire’s Scatas for decades before finally surrendering to the warlord Fabran, not long before the rise of the Kingpriests. Even after, Losarcum had been a site of strife, serving as home to intense factions during the church’s two great schisms—most recently in the War of Three Thrones, nearly a century ago. The last rebel Kingpriest to dwell here, Ardosean the Uniter, had seized the throne from his rivals, founding a dynasty that had not ended until Kurnos’s downfall and Beldinas’s rise to the throne.

If the people of Losarcum bore any resentment for that, however, Cathan saw no evidence. Ibsim bowed deeply, waving the knights on. Cathan raised a hand in thanks, then swung back into his saddle and clucked his tongue, urging his horse forward. His men followed into the City of Stone.

Losarcum was ancient, older even than the Lordcity and the other towns of Istar’s heartland. Its origins were lost to history, but it was said that a legion of dwarves had worked alongside men to build it. Whether this was so, even the sages couldn’t say, but the signs were there—for, of all the empire’s glorious cities, this was the only one not built upon the ground but carved out of it.

The mesa that sheltered it was huge, perhaps the largest in all the Anvil. Beneath it lay a vast, underground reservoir. The water from this flowed up to form a wide oasis where palms and fruit trees grew. Folk gathered about this central oasis in brightly colored tunics to trade and jest, argue and sing. All around this pleasant garden, the ancestors of the Losarcines had tunneled streets from the rock, and hollowed out the remaining stone to shape buildings. Nearly all of the City of Stone, from the simplest hovels to the grand, many-terraced Patriarch’s Palace, from the great amphitheater where the citizens flocked to watch mummer’s shows, to the nine-walled, star-shaped temple of Paladine, had been built not by raising stones but by sculpting them from the land.

Nearly all.

One loomed above the rest, on a promontory overlooking the city itself. This spire was not golden in hue, but gleaming black, a glassy spike accented with crimson and white on its parapets. It stood now, quiet and still, surrounded by its enchanted grove of swaying cypresses, like an obsidian dagger.

Cathan paused as he emerged into the plaza within Losarcum’s gates. There were wonders aplenty in the Stone City—the Market of Wings, where thousands of ruby and sapphire songbirds trilled in silver cages; the Honeycomb, a twisted complex of natural caves that housed the city’s powerful cloth-dyers’ guild; Ardosean’s Walk, where a fifty-foot statue of the Uniter stood, gazing north toward the Lordcity. All he could do now, though—all any of the knights could do—was stare at the offensive Tower of High Sorcery.

“They’re in there,” said Tithian, coming up alongside him. “They’re probably watching us now, with their magic. I wonder if they’re afraid?”

Cathan licked his lips, saying nothing. I hope so, he thought. I certainly am.

“Bah!” declared Marto, jumping down from his steed with a clangor of mail. “They’re traitors and infidels. Who cares what they think?”

A rumble of agreement rose from the rest of the knights. They were hungry for battle, for a chance to get back what they had lost at Lattakay: their honor. The enemy was trapped, the knights believed, with nowhere to run.

Ibsim approached them again, his hands pressed together. He had left the welcoming salt at the gate and donned an emerald cloak decorated with feathers from some great, flightless bird. He bowed again, his painted eyes closing.

“You are welcome to Qim Sudri,” he declared. “The Patriarch awaits you at his palace, and has made room for all your men. Follow me to his magnificence.”

Across Losarcum, horns sounded, announcing their arrival. They echoed off the mesa’s stone walls, and down the narrow streets as Ibsim led the way into the city. Cathan followed, with his men. As he rode, though, he found he couldn’t take his eyes from the Tower—nor could he shake the dread that chilled him.

Men will die there before this is done, he thought as he passed beneath its long, reaching shadow. Will I be one of them?

The Tower gave no answers but only glowered down at them, dark and brooding and silent.

CHAPTER 25

The procession left the Great Temple at dawn, just after the daybreak prayer. Wherever it passed as it made its way through the Lordcity, every plaza or marketplace, more people joined it, trailing along and singing praise to the Lightbringer. A succession of acolytes in gray cassocks led the way, hooded and carrying white candles. Behind them came elder priests, swinging censers that trailed ruddy incense smoke, and priestesses in training, who flung rose petals in the air. After these came broad-shouldered servants hefting banners depicting the falcon and triangle in imperial blue and a huge platinum triangle mounted atop an ironwood pole, which gleamed crimson in the morning light.

Next, the body of the church: not just the Revered Sons and Daughters of Paladine, but the followers of Kiri-Jolith and Mishakal, Majere and Branchala and Habbakuk—all the deities of light, save Solinari alone. The god of the silver moon had no priests, and the mages who paid him homage were Foripon, cast out of the church’s sight as surely as those who wore the Black and Red.

The knights were with them, too. Though a good portion of the Divine Hammer had marched south to Losarcum with Lord Cathan, just as many remained at the Hammerhall.

Except for a handful of the oldest, who remained at the sprawling keep as castellans, all the knights walked with the clerics, horned helms gleaming, swords and maces rattling.

They carried crossbows, cocked and nestled in their arms.

Despite the knights’ presence, despite the commonfolk’s rejoicing, Quarath felt a certain unease. Glancing at the chariots, he could see discomfort plain in the eyes of the hierarchs and in the grizzled face of Sir Olin, who was the knights’ senior officer in the absence of the Twice-Born.

The processional had two purposes, but most who walked only knew of one: the formal denunciation of the Order of High Sorcery. Here, as in Palanthas and Daltigoth and Losarcum, where the armies under Lords Yarns, Serl, and Cathan gathered, the priests would condemn those within the Towers and call for their surrender. None but the foolish expected the wizards even to respond. It would come to Cutubo—holy war between the mages and those who followed the Lightbringer.

That was not what troubled Quarath. It was the other half of the day’s rite—for, unbeknownst to nearly everyone, the condemnation was meant as a cover for something else. The Lightbringer intended to penetrate the olive grove that surrounded the Tower.

Quarath glanced at Beldinas, his brow furrowing. To most, the Kingpriest looked as he always had: resplendent, serene, and mighty, all but invisible amid his shining aura. The Emissary had known him longer than most, however, and he saw something different beneath the glitter. The certainty that had armored him had fractured, and doubt and fear were leaking through the cracks.

A smile crept across Quarath’s face. He had longed for this opportunity for twenty years—a fair span of time, even to a long-lived elf. He had been very patient, awaiting the chance to fix his power within the empire. Now, with Beldinas frightened and his other close advisors dead or gone, that chance had come.

The joyous shouts died away as priest, knight, and commoner alike spilled into the courtyard surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery. The bloody-fingered spire was silent. No eldritch lights played about it, no thunder or screams came out its windows. Still, Quarath could sense the power within and in the black-fruited woods that creaked and rustled about it. Bit by bit, the procession stopped, moving aside to make room for its leaders.

“Holiness,” he whispered, leaning toward the Kingpriest. “Are you sure this will work?”

Beldinas’s blue eyes regarded him steadily, then flicked back to the Tower. “We have to try,” he said. “Everything depends on this. Uso dolit.”

Fighting the urge to shake his head, Quarath turned his attention to the crowd. The uneasiness he’d felt among the Kingpriest’s inner circle had spread. Now people were signing the triangle and chanting warding prayers, staring at the Tower as if expecting every demon from the Abyss to burst out of it. A few edged away, disappearing back into the city, but most stood their ground, even if they shivered.

The Kingpriest climbed down from his chariot. A stillness fell over the mob as the people watched their ruler step toward the grove. Sir Olin and his knights fell in around him, crossbows at the ready, while Quarath and the other hierarchs followed behind. Beldinas came to a halt, raising his hands into the air. Cupped within them he held a goblet of pale crystal, which reflected the ruby glisten of the Miceram.

He drew a deep breath, then the musical sound of his voice issued forth, echoing across the square.

“Fe Paladas cado,” he began, “bid Istaras apalo. I ask you this. Yield to the god’s power, and beg mercy for defying him. Hide, and his wrath shall fall upon thee. Do you surrender?”

The only reply was the hiss of the olive trees in the wind. Beldinas waited for a long moment, then repeated the call. Again, there was no answer, and so he spoke the words a third time. Still the Tower stood silent, its turrets glistening like blood as morning’s shadows shortened across the city.

“Very well,” the Lightbringer declared, and hurled the goblet to the ground. It smashed against the paving stones, shards skittering in all directions. “The Cutubo has begun. For if you defy us, we are at war. Let none who honors the god give thee air or succor, and the faithful wreak Paladine’s justice upon thy benighted souls. Sifat.”

“Sifat,” echoed the mob.

Some, it seemed from the disappointed sighs, had expected the god’s wrath to fall immediately. The Tower, however, remained silent. If Quarath hadn’t known better, he would have thought it empty, already abandoned. The mages were watching them, using their magic if not their eyes. He held his breath, knowing what would come next. Let the wizards watch this, then, he thought.

For a long moment, Beldinas was still. Then, eyes flashing, he flung his arms out, toward the grove. The shroud of light around him flared bright, becoming almost unbearable, then flashed away, across the square toward the trees. Quarath gasped, feeling the impact as they struck the magical barriers the sorcerers had erected, flaming them like dragon’s breath. All around the Kingpriest folk fell back, crying out. Beldinas’s mouth opened in a wordless shout, his back arching, his feet rising from the ground—

Then, suddenly, the holy light ruptured, showering silver splinters all around. The Lightbringer’s shout became a cry of astonishment, and he dropped back to the ground.

Quarath ran to his side to keep him from falling as, around him, folk spat curses and groaned in despair. Beldinas slumped, breathing hard, drained by what he had tried to do.

Catching him up, Quarath looked toward the Tower.

The olive trees stood unscathed, whispering in the breeze.

*****

“Curse them,” Beldinas declared. “May Paladine burn them all to ashes.”

Quarath kept silent as he strode through the Temple’s entry hall, past statues and frescoes, crystal fountains and goldberry trees. He barely noticed any of these. His eyes were focused on the Lightbringer. He knew how to comport himself in awkward times, having risen to his position during Kurnos’s brief reign. The Usurper had had a temper like a dry forest, capable of flaring into a blaze at the smallest spark. Beldinas was different, though. He seldom grew angry, and when he did he was more likely to simmer. When he grew quiet and still, as he was now, the Emissary knew it was better to stay silent as well.

First Son Levic, however, did not know better. Newly arrived from the grand cathedral of Odacera, where he had been high priest, he was still unaccustomed to the workings of the court. Now, as the hierarchs followed their sovereign through the towering, platinum doors to the Hall of Audience, he coughed softly and spoke.

“There must be a way, Holiness,” he said.

“Must there?” Beldinas repeated, glancing over his shoulder. His voice made the crystal dome above him ring.

“They’re just trees. How can they stand, before the god’s glory?”

The Kingpriest had just stepped onto the blue mosaic that rippled before his golden throne. Now he stopped, turning to level a burning glance at the First Son. Quarath fell back another step, not wanting those eyes to flick toward him. The Lightbringer’s aura flashed like a thundercloud.

“They are not just trees,” Beldinas said. “The enchantment upon them is old, and it has the power of the moons behind it. You did not feel it pushing back against you. It would be easier, it seems, to flatten the whole city than to break that one spell.”

“But, Holiness—” Levic began.

“Enough!”

Quarath started. It had been years since Beldinas last raised his voice. Levic shrank back, and the other hierarchs all found somewhere else to look. The Kingpriest stood perfectly still, trembling a little, then shook his head, one hand going to his brow. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and weary.

“Leave,” he said. “I must meditate more. This court will resume tomorrow.”

The hierarchs departed, most of them gladly. Quarath turned toward an antechamber laden with food and wine. He longed for a cup of watered claret.

Halfway there, however, the Kingpriest called to him. “Not you, Emissary. I want you to stay with me.”

Quarath silently exulted that the Lightbringer had chosen him, of all his counselors, to remain. A few other courtiers shot him envious looks, which only pleased him more. He started back toward the dais.

He got there just in time. No sooner had the rest of the hierarchs left the Hall than Beldinas began to sway on his feet. Quarath reached out, catching him as his knees gave way, and lowered him down to sit upon the dais’s lowest step.

“Majesty,” Quarath said, crouching beside the Kingpriest, “are you all right?”

Beldinas managed a nod, his breath coming hard. “That effort at the Tower weakened me more than I expected. That’s all.”

The elf nodded, understanding. He could see the shadows of fatigue beneath the Lightbringer’s eyes. The god’s power had blazed strong in him today, and when it faded, it always seemed to leave behind an invisible wound. Beldinas bowed his head, resting his brow against his knuckles.

“Is this the right thing I’m doing, Quarath?” he asked.

The elf regarded him silently, then reached out and rested a hand on the Kingpriest’s arm. “They defy you, Holiness,” he said. “They tried to kill you, just as Kurnos did. They did kill many others.”

“But is more killing the answer?” Beldinas looked up, his eyes dark.

“If they oppose you,” Quarath replied, “they oppose the god—and what is more evil than working against the will of Paladine? If you wish to make light everlasting a reality, you must finally break free of these sorcerers.”

Beldinas met his gaze. Slowly, he nodded. “Very well, Emissary. I thank you for your wisdom. Now,” he went on, pushing himself to his feet, “I would like to rest in comfort. Let us retire to the manse, where we can be at peace.”

Smiling in satisfaction, Quarath followed the Kingpriest out of the hall, the crystal dome echoing his footsteps.

*****

Gears rattling, the clockwork falcons looked up as Beldinas and Quarath emerged onto the balcony that had become their roost. There were three of them lined up on the balustrade, all brass and copper glinting in the sun. When the time came to order the assault upon the Towers, the birds would fly forth, two to the west and one to the south.

They would bear the Kingpriest’s orders to Yarns, Serl, and Cathan. For now, however, they waited, as did everyone else in the Lordcity.

The Lightbringer crossed to one of them, holding out his hand. It regarded him with the expressionless jewels of its eyes, then hopped onto his wrist. It was heavy, but he managed a smile as he held it up, turning toward Quarath.

“I wish I could be this patient,” he said, chuckling. “These birds would wait a hundred years, if that was what it took. So could you, I think, Eminence.”

The elf inclined his head. “An easy feat, for one whose people live for centuries. Harder, I think, for your kind.”

“In a hundred years,” Beldinas agreed, “I will be gone, turned to dust—in half a hundred, most likely. I have much to do before then, if I am to drive darkness from Krynn.”

“You have also accomplished much already,” Quarath noted.

The Kingpriest shrugged. “It amounts to nothing, if I cannot solve the problem of the sorcerers. The groves—”

The falcon stirred, cutting Beldinas off in midsentence as it leaped from his arm. The clockwork bird startled them both with a shriek like steam venting from a kettle, then dropped something from its open mouth.

It was a little bag made of purple velvet and tied with a golden cord. The two men stared at it, lying on the ground, as if a scorpion might be hidden within. Beldinas reached toward it, but Quarath was quicker. The elf scooped it up, holding it in the palm of his hand. The knot was arcane, but one pull unraveled it. The mouth of the pouch went slack and opened.

He exchanged glances with the Kingpriest. Swallowing, Quarath upended the pouch into his open palm. Five small objects fell out. One was a strip of fine parchment, inscribed in elegantly flowing letters. It was the other four, though, that made Quarath’s eyebrows rise.

“Palado Calib,” breathed the Lightbringer as he set eyes upon them. “Are those what I think they are?”

Quarath nodded, too stunned to speak. They were seeds, each a different kind. An olive stone. An acorn. A pine nut. A cypress cone.

Beldinas reached out, plucking the parchment from Quarath’s hand. He glanced it over, then hesitated and read it again, his eyes flaring wide.

“What?” Quarath asked.

Wordlessly, Beldinas held out the parchment. Still cupping the seeds in his hand, Quarath took it from him.

Your Most Holy Majesty, it read.

Each of these seeds comes from one of the first trees to grow in the groves that now surround the Towers. They are old, and they are powerful. Plant them, and they will clear the path to victory.

Quarath frowned, turning the parchment over in his hand. It bore no signature, no seal, no sigil. His brow furrowed with suspicion. And yet—

And yet, he could feel the seeds’ power. It was the same feeling he’d had earlier, near the grove… .

“Emissary. Look at me.”

Starting, Quarath glanced up from the missive. The Kingpriest’s eyes met his gaze, caught and held it. If anything, the fear in his face had grown. Quarath felt his insides clench with dread.

“Holiness?”

“I have never needed anyone’s advice as badly as I do at this moment, my friend,” Beldinas said, holding out the seeds. “What do I do about these?”

Quarath licked his lips. “I do not know. Truly, if they are what this message claims, then it is the boon we have been looking for. But … it is perhaps too convenient, don’t you think? We do not even know who sent them.”

“That is my mind as well,” the Kingpriest agreed. “Yet if they can give us victory, what kind of fool would I be to throw that away?”

“Also true, Holiness.” Quarath opened his mouth to say more, then stopped, with a shake of his head. “I am sorry. I do not know which is the right course to take.”

Beldinas bit his lip, his eyes darkening with disappointment. After a moment, though, he laid a hand on Quarath’s arm. “Thank you for being honest, my friend. Another man might have told me what he thought I wanted to hear, just to curry favor.” With that he rose, his hand clenching the seeds. “I shall seek the truth elsewhere, then. I must meditate and seek the god’s will.”

*****

No one ever entered the Kingpriest’s private sanctum but the Kingpriest himself—not even his personal servants, who had the run of the manse. It was a small cell, barely large enough to hold one person. Unlike the rest of the manse, where gold and satin, jewels and exotic woods were everywhere, it was an austere place, its walls, floor, and ceiling bare marble, white laced with silver veins. A single, high window admitted a shaft of moonlight, which fell upon the room’s only decoration: the god’s platinum triangle, set upon the wall.

The door shut behind Beldinas after he entered, sealing with the softest of clicks. He had removed the Miceram, cradling it in his hands, and his aura diminished to the faintest of glimmers. Now he set the crown upon the floor, along with the pouch containing the mysterious seeds. Glancing up at Paladine’s symbol, he signed the triangle, then sat cross-legged in the center of the floor. He was silent a moment, staring at his hands folded in his lap. When he looked up again, his eyes fixing on the triangle above him, his cheeks were wet with tears.

“My god,” he murmured, “all my life I have known what I must do. When Lady Ilista sought me out, I knew I must go with her. When I came to Istar, I knew I must become Kingpriest. Ever since, every step I have taken, I have known it is the right one. But now … ”

He paused, putting a hand to his forehead. He tried to speak, then faltered and fell silent again. It was a long while before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice was little more than a breath, tight with anguish.

“Paladine, I cannot hear your voice. It frightens me—I am alone, with enemies all around. The chance to destroy them is in my hands … and yet I do nothing because I cannot feel you with me.

“Please, god of gods, father of light … I am begging you. Show me the true path. Help me destroy this evil!”

His words echoed in the closeness of the sanctum, then faded to silence. No answer came. Swallowing, the Kingpriest closed his eyes. The lines of worry and despair faded from his face. He sat very still, hands steepling into the sacred triangle, and listened, waiting for an answer.

He sat there for hours, never moving, his lips twitching as he beseeched Paladine’s aid.

The moonlight faded as Solinari set, leaving the room cloaked in shadow. Only when daylight came, the sun’s warmth bathing his face, did Beldinas come back to himself. His eyes fluttered open, and his face began to crease with disappointment—then froze, turning pale as he looked at the floor before him.

The sun’s light had fallen upon the seeds.

The Lightbringer stared, too stunned to move—then, suddenly, he began to laugh.

Paladine had not spoken to him, but the god had provided, just the same.

CHAPTER 26

The Tower of Losarcum was alive with activity. Men and women in robes of all three colors bustled about, carrying armloads and pouches full of books, scrolls, and magical relics. Floating, glowing discs glided the corridors, bearing still more treasures. Enchanted creatures of all shapes and sizes scurried and lumbered about, helping with the evacuation. Room by room, the sorcerers took what they could and cast spells to draw the magic out of what they could not. Artifacts that had lain within the Tower for centuries but were too difficult to remove quickly now lay inert, the sorcery that had once infused them gone.

Leciane had taken part in such a ritual just yesterday, joining a circle of mages—White, Red, and Black Robes all working together—in weaving a spell upon a room full of glowing crystal sculptures. Khadar, the Master of the Tower, had declared the crystal too fragile to move with any ease—and time too short—so Leciane and the others had ripped the Art from the sculptures’ hearts until the light within them died. She had wept when it was over. They were just baubles now, dark and lifeless, and no harm to anyone, should they fall into the wrong hands.

She would almost surely have to go through that again—perhaps many times. The Tower, like all its brethren, was huge, with hundreds of rooms and thousands of wonders.

The Conclave had decreed that they all must be emptied by the end of the month. That day was still two weeks away, but Leciane already knew they would not finish in time—and what if the attack came before then?

She knew the answer, just as well as every other wizard. Atop the tower was the Heartchamber, an obsidian chamber where the magic was strongest, where a spike of black stone—a perfect reproduction of the Tower itself—loomed over a carved replica of Losarcum. There were similar places in the other four Towers as well, though she had only seen the one in Daltigoth. Each Master knew a spell that could shatter the miniature.

When it did, the Tower would destroy itself as well.

It was a terrible thing, and no one wished for it. All they could do was hope the attack did not come too soon.

Once they had their loads of books and trinkets, the mages all moved toward the same place: the Chamber of Traveling. Located halfway between the Tower’s base and its apex, the chamber was a tall, circular room ringed with statues of legendary wizards sculpted in onyx and alabaster and scarlet jade. Blue light filled it, playing in ripples and rings upon its walls. It came from a swirling disc in the room’s midst, twice as tall as a man. Within was the image of a vast vault, filled with the Tower’s treasures. The vault stood hundreds of leagues away, in Wayreth—the one Tower the Lightbringer and his allies could not touch.

Similar rooms held the riches of Istar, Palanthas, and Daltigoth. One by one, wizards brought their burdens to the portal, then stepped through it, crossing half the world in an eye-blink. Moments later, they came out again empty-handed.

Leciane was just leaving the Chamber of Traveling, her back aching from having carried too many books on her last trip, when Khadar hailed her. The Master was a small man, slender and childlike though he was fifty summers old. The Test had done that to him. He wore faded Red Robes with ragged cuffs, and his thinning silver hair was perpetually unkempt, wisps of it sticking out of his hood at odd angles. His face was ashen, his eyes sunken and shadowed. He had not slept for days, and probably wouldn’t for days to come.

“Milady!” he called, hobbling down the long stair that wound around and around the Tower’s midst, from its crown to its base. He leaned on a plain oaken staff as he approached her. “I have been searching for you.”

“What is it this time, Master?” she sighed. “I do not know if I can take another disenchantment.”

The Master shrugged, drawing near. “You would manage if needed, I think,” he said, “but it isn’t a disenchantment I have in mind. Come—we need a Red Robe of your ability. It is time to awaken the Guardians.”

*****

There were five other sorcerers in the room when they arrived—two Black Robes, three White. They nodded to Leciane as she followed Khadar through the door. She returned the gesture, then turned, gazing across the House of the Guardians.

The House was a dimly lit cavern deep beneath the Tower, its walls hewn out of golden sandstone. The mages stood on a narrow ledge. Beyond, the floor dropped away into a bowl thirty paces across. Standing in the hollow, arrayed in neat rows and columns, were the Guardians: half a hundred statues of malachite, their green surfaces glistening in the glow of the magical lamps that hovered in the air. The statues were of warriors, nine-foot men in suits of scale mail of a style that had been archaic centuries ago. In their hands they held curved swords, a pair each, crossed across their chests. Their heads were those of animals—dogs and hawks, serpents and lions, all drawn into fearsome snarls. Their eyes were shut.

Leciane stared at them. When the mages built the Tower, they had crafted the statues to serve as its protectors. Not once in the millennia since had the wizards used them. There had been no need. Now, though, the Guardians must be awakened.

“Come, my kin in the Art,” said Khadar, beckoning the others near. “Give your power to me, that I may do this thing.”

The other wizards exchanged meaningful glances, then walked toward the master, forming a circle around him. Another time, Leciane might have chuckled to see those in the White Robes mingling with their dark-souled cousins, but not now.

She went to work, her hands dancing in the air, fingers weaving and twitching to form the gestures of power. The other five mages surrounding Khadar did the same. They moved in unison, like Karthayan dancers, every movement graceful and precise. As one, their voices rose to chant.

“Mapothi sek bunaru, jandoth lo shakar. Fas uganti yasham, tsarlas gangatiad … ”

All at once, sparks leaped from the wizards’ fingertips, matching the sorcerers’ robes—blazing white, oddly radiant black, and, from Leciane, blood red. This was pure magic, the essence of the three moons. With the rest of her brothers and sisters, Leciane extended her arms, pointing at the Master, her voice rising into a shout.

“Kusat kelas bandonai!”

The magic flowed from her in a rash—great, writhing ropes of it, the color of rubies, clothed in scarlet mist. Inky streams and milky ones joined it, striking Khadar all at once.

He jerked, his back arching as the magic struck him, pouring together the strength of Solinari, Nuitari, and Luntari. Leciane found herself envying the Master. What he was feeling now, few wizards had felt in a thousand years. The gods of magic had different voices, but when they joined together, the harmony was beautiful. That was something the Lightbringer and his minions would never understand.

Khadar was glowing, throwing off energy in white, black, and red waves. No mortal could withstand that much power for long. If he didn’t release it soon, it would tear him apart.

Shivering with a pain that was also pleasure, Khadar stepped out of the circle and stood at the edge of the ledge, looking down at the Guardians. He began to gesture, shouting the words of his spell.

“Obai deafas, jolifi mur latanniath!”

With a roar, the three colors of magic became one, a roseate hue that leaped from his body, streaming out across the cavern in a rippling sheet. Leciane watched it, her chest swelling with pride. The united magic kept going, until its edges fountained against the walls. Then, with a jarring gong, it shattered into a million pieces. The shards rained down upon the statues below.

One by one, the Guardians opened their eyes. They glowed with the same rosy light, the light of the three moons mixed together. Their faces remained immobile, frozen in furious glares, but their limbs began to move, grinding and scraping as they turned to stare up at Khadar.

He did not speak to them; he didn’t have to. They communicated without words. Though weakened by the magic’s flow—as were all the wizards in the room—Khadar looked down on them with a commanding air. For a moment, all was silent—then, grinding and scraping, the Guardians turned and marched from the cave, leaving only dust and shards of green stone behind them.

“They won’t be enough,” Leciane said when they were gone. “Will they?”

Khadar shook his head. “If we had twice as many, perhaps, but the mages who built this place never dreamed of needing them in greater numbers. Still, they will hold back the knights, for a time.”

Leciane nodded. It would have to do.

Please, Lunitari, she prayed. Let the attack not be soon.

*****

“More wine!” cried Sir Marto, holding up his empty drinking-bowl.

His broad face, already reddened by drink, broke into a grin as a servant—a shaven-headed girl in a revealing garment of golden silk—brought a pitcher. The straw-colored liquid that poured from it was thick and redolent of spices. The folk of Losarcum did not mix their wine with water, as they did elsewhere in the empire. Marto took a long swallow—and an even longer look at the servant girl as she saucily sauntered away—then glanced at Cathan and beamed.

“I’ll say it again,” he said, slurring the words, “these desert folk know how to live. If I’d known this place existed, I might never have joined the knighthood!”

Cathan nodded, forcing a smile. They had been in Losarcum a week now, staying as guests of the Patriarch, and Marto had said the same thing every night.

The big knight had a point. Losarcum was a city of pleasures, and while the coming of the Istaran Church had tempered that somewhat—its women no longer went bare-breasted in public, for one thing—it was still a place where wine and song ruled. Many of the other knights, including Sir Tithian, were in love with the exotic place, but to Marto in particular it was a wonder beyond wonders.

For Cathan, however, the pleasures were muted at best. The festhall where the knights drank wine and ate olives and sweets while lounging on satin cushions was huge and rich, sporting gold-threaded arrases and marble fountains. In one corner, a young man with henna-red hands played dulcet melodies on a cimbello, a plucked dulcimer that sounded far sweeter than the hammered instruments of the northern provinces. In another, men fed scraps of spiced pheasant to a furred serpent in a cage. Elsewhere, a troupe of dancers was enacting the account of a tragic romance—Losarcine lore was full of such tales—and not far away, a boy with a yellow-painted face juggled what appeared to be seven double-bladed daggers.

The delights of the city were more than enough to keep his men happy. No matter how wonderful the distractions, however, Cathan couldn’t keep his mind from roaming back to the Tower.

Absently, he popped a honeyed date into his mouth, then spat it out again. It tasted like ashes. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from his cushion and—ignoring Sir Marto’s booming protest—strode from the festhall, shoving aside a curtain of amber beads as he made his way out into the night. The silver and red moons were both high, making the City of Stone glow pink. Stained glass lamps lit in the chasms between the buildings, and the sounds of laughter and music echoed back and forth. The scents of saffron and bloodblossom hung in the air.

Above everything the Tower gleamed, its glassy black surface reflecting the light of moons and stars. It gave no sign of life and had not since their arrival, but the wizards hadn’t abandoned their home. He’d sent a handful of knights into the grove with ropes tied to them to see if the enchantments still worked. They did. By the time his men had taken five steps, the magic had taken hold. Unlike the spell of forgetfulness that had overwhelmed him at Istar’s Tower, the power of this grove was to inflame men’s passions. They had begun to laugh wildly or yell at each other in rage, alternating between the two from one moment to the next. It had taken a dozen knights hauling on the ropes to pull them out again.

A good part of him hoped Beldinas would not discover a way to foil the groves’ magic. He didn’t tell that to his men, though, nor to anyone else. They would have thought him a coward if he had. It wasn’t battle he feared, though—it was the question circling around and around in his mind: was this the god’s will?

The Lightbringer wished it, and he was Paladine’s voice. That ought to be enough—as it had been, for twenty years—but it wasn’t. The Kingpriest had changed, and Cathan had felt the magic. He could no longer easily revile it as others did.

He bowed his head, signing the triangle. “Father of Dawn,” he murmured. “What am I to do?”

“Sir? Are you well?”

Startled, Cathan looked up: Tithian. His former squire stood in the doorway, swaying a little from the wine. His brows knitted with concern.

“I’m fine, lad,” he said, unsure whether that was a lie. “I just grew tired of the noise.”

“Marto, you mean,” Tithian said with a grin.

Cathan laughed. “Him too.”

Tithian came forward to join him. He was silent a moment, looking at the moons. “I think about Damid sometimes,” he said. “I think he may have been luckier than any of us.”

Cathan looked at him in surprise.

“He dwells with the god now,” Tithian explained, his eyes glistening with tears. “He didn’t have to be at the Bilstiho, or the Eusymmeas.” He shook his head. “Or here.”

He’s afraid, Cathan thought. He doesn’t want to fight this battle, either. He rested a hand on Tithian’s shoulder.

“Damid was my right hand,” he said. “We protected each other. I’m honored that you have taken his place, lad.”

“But I’m not as good a fighter as the others. Most of them, anyway. I’m just—”

“You’re a knight of the Divine Hammer, lad,” Cathan said.

The tears were gone from Tithian’s eyes. Slowly, a broad grin took their place. He clasped Cathan’s hand and pressed it to his lips—then stopped, catching his breath.

Cathan blinked. Tithian’s gaze had shifted, looking over his shoulder. He turned and let out a soft oath of his own. There, soaring toward him, was a clockwork falcon.

It swooped in low, gears clattering, its brass wings beating the air. Cathan took a step back as it touched down, landing on a nearby stone bench with a clank. It looked at him with glinting yellow eyes, and its beak opened to let out a metallic squawk. Looking closer, Cathan saw a message tied to its leg.

Gingerly, he retrieved the note. It bore the imperial sigil in blue wax. He broke the seal and unfurled the scroll—and something fell out. Tithian reached out, catching it, and they looked at each other in confusion.

“A cypress cone?” asked the younger knight.

Shrugging, Cathan looked down at the scroll. His mouth became a hard line as he read.

Grand Marshal Cathan,

The time has come for us to act. The cone you hold is the way through the grove. Plant it, and it will part the trees for you.

If you do not receive another message before Spring Dawning, you must proceed at once with your attack upon the Tower of High Sorcery, For the glory of Istar, it will fall. When it belongs to you and the last of the mages are fled or in chains, you and your men shall return to the Lordcity. I look forward to that day.

May Kiri-Jolith guide thy sword, and Paladine thy steps,

Beldinas Pilofiro

Voice of Paladine and true Kingpriest of Istar

Cathan stared at the message. Spring Dawning was only five days away. His eyes shifted to the cone in Tithian’s hand. Lord Yarns and Duke Serl would, no doubt, be receiving similar tokens. He wondered how Beldinas had acquired them.

“Best not lose that,” he said, taking it from Tithian. Carefully, he tucked it into a pouch.

As he did, the falcon vaulted into the air, flapped its rattling wings, and wheeled away to the north. Cathan and Tithian watched it go. When it was out of sight, Cathan glanced back at the message and sighed.

“Well, then,” he said, steering Tithian back toward the palace. “Come on, lad. We have a battle to make ready for.”

CHAPTER 27

“Six days!” roared Duke Serl, crumpling the missive in his hand. “I have half a legion of men awaiting my order, and that Istaran whelp wants me to wait another six bloody days!”

Emperor Gwynned of Ergoth grunted, leaning back in his bronze throne with drool on his chin. His audience hall, though one of the grandest ever built, was small when compared to the Kingpriest’s. It was a dim, smoky place, hung with the shields of the empire’s noble houses and the heads of dragons slain in ages past. Great fire-bowls flanked the throne, their golden glow bathing the sovereign of what once had been the greatest empire in the world.

Gwynned was a weak man, both in body and in spirit. He had been born sickly—centuries of dynastic inbreeding had seen to that—and had a fondness for drink that was killing him by inches. Barely thirty, he had the constitution of a man thrice his age, and half the time he was too deep in his cups to govern. Even now, a mug of ale rested on the arm of his throne, sweating in the fire’s warmth. His counselors had been ruling the empire in his stead from the day of his coronation.

Serl Kar-thon, one of the foremost of those counselors, was by contrast a strong man.

Tall and built like an ox, he could hold his own against the finest warriors in the land, despite his fifty-some years. His hoary beard covered a grisly scar where an assassin had tried to cut his throat. He had broken the man’s neck with his bare hands. Few men in Ergoth could match the duke in fierceness … and he was very angry just now.

“That whelp, need I remind you, is the one who discovered the way through the grove,” said a white-cassocked, gray-bearded figure across from Serl. Grand Celebrant Kyad, high priest of the Ergothian church—the only other man in the room—raised a bushy eyebrow.

“It may be he knows what he is doing.”

The duke shot him a glance that could bore through stone, but didn’t deign to reply.

Instead he turned to Gwynned, peering into his bloodshot eyes. Emperors past had beheaded good men for such presumption, but Serl got away with it.

“Excellency,” the Duke declared, “this is an outrage. We are Ergothmen—we ruled here when the Istarans were barbarians in skin huts! The fame of taking the first Tower should belong to us, but it’s the knights in Losarcum who get to strike the first blow, while we wait another day to follow their lead.”

Gwynned pursed his lips, as if he thought to say something, then made a sound like a small explosion as he stifled a belch. Serl fought back the urge to grab the emperor and hurl him into a fire-bowl. One day, he hoped, a Kar-thon dynasty might replace the degenerate Gwynned and his line, but not today.

“Take heart, Lord Duke,” said Kyad. “At least we move before Yarns in Palanthas.”

“Pah,” declared Serl, spitting on the stone floor. “Some glory. We should be first. We have the seed to do it.” He held up a fist, clasped about the pine nut that had come with the message, strapped to one of the Lightbringer’s mechanical raptors. “Give the order, Excellency, and I shall assail the Tower tonight. Then the world will celebrate Ergoth’s might!”

Gwynned followed hardly any of this. His face showed only stupor, his head lolling first to one side, then the other. That gave the Grand Celebrant time enough to speak up again, the cleric leaning so far forward that it seemed his tall miter might topple from his head.

“My lord,” Kyad declared, “we must cleave to the plan. I think the good duke’s thirst for vengeance blinds his judgment.”

“And I think,” Serl shot back, his voice dripping with venom, “that the good celebrant is far to eager to climb into the Lightbringer’s bed.”

That shut Kyad up. The cleric’s swarthy face flushed, but he looked away and said no more. Serl stood there, seething—not the least because Kyad was right. He had lost two sons to the sorcerers in the Lordcity, which was more than Beldinas or Yarns could claim.

Why should he not deserve to strike first blood against the wizards for that offense? Why should—

“Tomorrow.”

Serl’s eyebrows climbed up toward his receding hairline. He turned away from Kyad, back to the throne, whence the voice had originated. “Excellency?”

“We … attack early,” Emperor Gwynned declared, his voice soft and halting. “Not tonight … though. Tomorrow.”

Laughter formed on Serl’s lips, but he held back the urge. Instead, he bowed. “As you will it, my liege,” he declared. “May I have your leave to make ready?”

Gwynned took a deep drink from his tankard. His moustache came away soaked in creamy foam. With his other hand, he waved the duke away.

Bowing, Serl turned to go. As he did, he noticed the Grand Celebrant. Kyad looked as if he had just been punched in the stomach, which filled Serl with a great satisfaction. As he strode out of the throne room, however, the duke did not openly gloat over his victory. It was unseemly in front of Gwynned. Besides, there would be plenty of time for that later, after he took the Tower.

*****

The next day was rainy, as often was the case in Daltigoth in the spring. The sky hung heavy with what folk called widow clouds, for they wore dark veils and never stopped weeping. Water flowed down the streets and overflowed the banks of the Nath and the Ord, the twin rivers that met in the city’s midst. The colors of the city—never bright to begin with, the folk of Ergoth being more fond of granite and bronze than marble and gold—grew more muted still. Even the emperor’s palace, an ancient sprawl of buttresses and towers normally hung with green and scarlet banners, seemed wan, half-lost in the drizzle.

Then there was the Tower.

It stood atop a hill that gave it a commanding view of Daltigoth itself, and the fields and mountains all around it. Unlike the white hand of Istar and Losarcum’s black needle, this Tower was a rich shade of crimson. Square and stout, with crenellated battlements and glowering gargoyles, it sported five parapets—four white ones at each corner, and a larger fifth in the midst, as black as a raven’s eye. The widow-clouds swirled about, hiding them from view and revealing them again. All around it, dark and swaying, stood a sward of tall pines, whose whispering boughs put any man who set foot within to sleep.

Serl glared at the Tower, just beyond the edge of the grove. He was in full armor, steel covered with gildwork and black enamel, a greatsword strapped to his back. His antlered helm he held tucked under one arm, and a flame-colored cloak hung damply from his shoulders. Behind him were a thousand men arrayed in bronze mail and armed with axes and broad blades. Clerics of Draco Paladin and Corij—as they called Paladine and Kiri-Jolith in the west—walked among them, droning in Old Ergothian. The people of Daltigoth mingled nearby, the curious and the morbid gathering to watch the battle.

The duke was not happy. Having lost Reik and Parsal, his two eldest sons, in the disastrous incident in Istar, he had hoped to bring his youngest, Arn, with him today, to share in his revenge. The boy had been more than willing to come, too, until his mother found out. While Serl could fight a hill giant without fear, Duchess Sheran Kar-thon was another matter. Arn remained behind at the family’s manor while the duke marched to battle, rattled and upset.

Rainwater running down his face as he gazed up at the red monolith, Serl reached into his pouch and pulled out the pine nut that had come from Istar. If this didn’t work, if he planted the seed and nothing happened, he would look a fool. If it did what the Kingpriest claimed …

He smiled, stepping forward. Serl, conqueror of mages had a ring to it.

Rust-colored needles blanketed the earth among the pines. They gave off a rich smell as he brushed them aside. At once his eyelids drooped, and his thoughts grew muzzy as the grove’s magic began to wash over him. He blinked, sucking in a jaw-cracking yawn—then shook his head. No. He focused his will, fighting off the enchantment. After a moment, it abated. He was only on the fringes of the pines, where the power was weakest. Snarling a wordless curse aimed at all wizards, he drew a dagger from his belt and began to dig.

After a while, he judged the hole deep enough. He glanced back at his men—standing patiently, waiting for whatever was about to happen—and sheathed his dirk. Another man might have prayed at that moment, but Serl had seldom bothered with the gods. Instead, he simply placed the seed in the ground, covered it with soil, and stepped back to wait.

He waited for several minutes. Nothing happened … then nothing happened some more. Serl’s mood grew darker. Was this a trick? Some ruse concocted by the Kingpriest to make Ergoth—and him—look foolish? If so, he would set sail for Istar again before nightfall, find the thrice-damned Lightbringer, and shove his sword—

The first tremor hit, heaving the dirt beneath his feet. It was gone a moment later, and he frowned, wondering if he had imagined it. He heard his men muttering, invoking Draco Paladin and growling imprecations. When the ground shook again—harder this time, bringing showers of needles down from the pines above—he spat a few vile words himself.

Stepping back, he saw the ground where he had planted the seed start to bubble and rise, like a boil or blister. He kept backing away and heard the clatter of his men’s armor behind him. A couple fled, but most stood their ground, watching.

With a sound not unlike timber falling, the earth exploded, showering dirt everywhere.

Serl got a faceful, spitting and sputtering as he tried to clear his eyes. When he could see again, a tree had begun to rise from the spot, shooting up with startling speed, branches unfolding, needles sprouting before his eyes. The tree had black needles, black bark and sticky black sap oozing down its trunk. He stared at the strange growing pine, appalled, as it soared higher and higher, above its surroundings.

“Blood of a thousand wyrms,” he swore reverently.

When it finally stopped, the black tree was as big and thick around as a house, overtopping the other trees by half. It swayed, creaking, the rain pattering down among its boughs. Then, it did something even more amazing. It spoke.

Avasti kushan, it said, the words creeping across Serl’s mind like insects. Satong du galantim….

Again the ground shuddered, then bucked like a wild hippogriff. More of Serl’s men slipped away, some of them weeping, but still the bulk of the warriors stood their ground.

Swords scraped free of scabbards. The duke himself set his helm upon his head and reached over his shoulder to draw his double-handed blade. Peering through narrow eyeslits, he watched in astonishment as the grove began to move.

It was swift, even violent. One moment, the black pine stood surrounded by its brethren.

The next, trees were twisting aside, digging furrows in the earth, some even uprooting themselves in their eagerness to shy away. A gash ran deep through the grove, ripping through the heart of it, filling the air with a storm of dead needles—until finally the crimson walls of the Tower of High Sorcery appeared. Only then did the rumbling stop, and the forest grew quiet once more.

Serl stared, his heart galloping. It had worked. The seed had done as the Kingpriest promised. He found it strange and unsettling, but there was no denying the evidence of his eyes: the path to the Tower … the path to glory … was clear.

His men were wary. He could feel their tension. Attack or flee, they needed to do something. A smile curled his lips. Raising his greatsword, he gave a mighty bellow and led the charge.

*****

Arn Kar-thon leaned forward, biting his lip as he watched his father disappear through the rift in the grove. Duke Serl’s warriors streamed after him, around the dark tree that had sprouted from the magic seed. Swords and spears punched the air as they ran, their battle cries muted by distance and rain.

“I should be down there,” muttered Arn. “I should be with them, damn it.”

No one answered. There was no one else left behind. His mother, after thirty years of it, no longer watched her husband ride off to battle. His sisters didn’t care, but Arn … Arn was fourteen, for the love of Habbakuk! Another year, and he would be a man by Ergothian law, free to marry and hold land and title. Another year and the Duchess Sheran would have had no power to stop him from donning his mail and following his father into the fray.

Reik and Parsal had been careless, that was their mistake. He would have heroically slain every damned wizard in the Lordcity, if he had been there … just as he wanted to now if he were permitted to be among those attacking the Tower. He swore, hammering his fist down on the railing of the balcony—the best vantage in his family’s great manor by Daltigoth’s north wall. It just wasn’t fair… .

Once the warriors were through the grove, things grew even more frustrating. There was little for Arn to see, no pitched struggles, no flashing swords and sizzling spells. The grove and the black pine hid any fighting from view. The Tower’s red walls—and parapets fading in and out among the widow-clouds—told no tales. Every now and then, a flash of light, violet one moment, sickly green the next, and the occasional dull boom or ungodly screech cut through the gloom, echoing weirdly through the rain-dampened city. Once, Arn could have sworn he’d heard his father’s voice, shouting vicious curses upon the sorcerers, but that was probably wishful thinking. For the most part, the fighting within the Tower remained a mystery to all in Daltigoth who had braved the elements to watch it.

Arn waited impatiently to see his father emerge, carrying the head of the archmage who was Master of the Tower. By nightfall, he expected that head to be tarred and spitted on a pike above Daltigoth’s main gates.

He didn’t see the change at first, it was so subtle. It grew more pronounced with each heartbeat, though, and soon became obvious despite the weather and the miles. He rubbed his eyes. The Tower seemed different now, just slightly. The straight edges of its walls twisted, bowing outward in a way that made him think of overfilled wineskins. Farther and farther they seemed to bend, and a moment later the groan of stone reached his ears, grating loudly.

“Draco Paladin,” Arn murmured. He thought of his father, and his father’s men. What was happening?

Threads of blue and gold lightning began to play along the crimson walls, leaping from turret to turret, sometimes bouncing away to strike a pine tree, turning it into a pillar of flame. Above, the widow-clouds started swirling, moving around and around the Tower like one of the great maelstroms the sea lords told tales about. A faint glow surrounded the parapets, growing stronger with each moment—a roseate light, black and white and red all at once. Arn stared, plucking at the sparse beard he’d been trying to grow for months now.

Whatever was going on, the sorcerers were controlling it… doing something to their own Tower?

A queasy feeling settled in Arn’s gut. He heard a sound, low at first but soon louder even than the growl of the bulging walls. It was a musical noise, like a hundred reed pipes playing in unison—but not a melody, and the harmony was questionable. The shrillness got worse as he listened, the tones growing more and more discordant. Arn clapped his hands to his ears, wincing. Behind him, a window shattered, raining shards of glass. The same was surely happening all over Daltigoth, probably worse for the buildings nearer the Tower.

The glow around the parapets was bright now, turning into spires of light that shot up into the whirling clouds. Real lightning struck all five parapets, thunderclaps roaring after it. Cracks appeared in the overstressed walls, and ghostly flames poured out like blood from so many wounds. The chorus of noise grew more furious, like the cries of madmen, each vying to be the loudest. The noise bored into Arn’s skull. He thought his head would burst.

“Father,” he moaned, refusing to take his eyes off the Tower. “Get out. Please … get—”

With a roar Arn Kar-thon would hear for the rest of his days, the Tower of High Sorcery exploded.

The walls burst like a dam, shards of crimson stone flying outward. The shrapnel cut through the magical grove, turning the mighty pines to kindling in an instant. Even the enormous black tree came crashing down, skipping end over end across the open space nearest the Tower. The small crowd that had gathered to watch the attack screamed and tried to flee, but flying rock and wood changed their terror to agony, cutting them down like scythed wheat. The buildings nearest the Tower shattered, roofs blowing off and walls caving in. Statues toppled, fountains crumbled, the city’s south wall collapsed. Debris the size of houses rained down as far away as the River Nath. A hot blast of wind smashed Arn in the face, carrying grit that stung his eyes. A chip of crimson stone sliced open his cheek.

He staggered back from the rail, and a moment later the balcony cracked, and the section he had been leaning against toppled to the ground far below.

The Tower was gone now, nothing left but a pillar of fire that rose high, high into the sky. Arn knew he was looking at his father’s pyre—and that of his men, and maybe some sorcerers too. The flames licked at the roiling widow-clouds, lightning flashed wildly … then, with a noise like a thousand screams, the blaze shot up into the sky and out of sight.

In the quiet minutes that followed, the rain grew black, covering Daltigoth in soot. Arn stared, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Nothing remained of the Tower of High Sorcery, save for a deep hole in the ground, surrounded by the charred stubs of the grove that had once protected it. Crimson stone lay scattered throughout Daltigoth, mingling with the wreckage of homes and shops, temples and manors. Both bridges across the Nath were gone. Bodies lay strewn like his sisters’ dolls, crushed and torn by the force of the blast.

Fires burned all over. The hated Tower was gone, but it had taken a quarter of Ergoth’s greatest city with it.

Arn Kar-thon sat on the balcony, hugging himself and moaning. It would be days before he found the strength to cry.

CHAPTER 28

Quarath shouldered the knights of the Divine Hammer aside as he ran up the steps of the imperial manse. He strode past Brother Floran, the Kingpriest’s chamberlain, without a word. It was late at night, the bells atop the basilica having rung Midwatch nearly two hours ago. Another time, he wouldn’t have thought of disturbing the Lightbringer. Tonight, however, he cared nothing for propriety. The clockwork falcon had returned from Daltigoth.

Damn Serl Kar-thon, he thought, taking the stairs to the Kingpriest’s private apartments two at a time. Damn his impatience and his pride!

He found Beldinas in his study, alone, sitting at his desk with his head bowed. He didn’t move when the door thundered open, so Quarath pushed on into the room, the missive from Grand Celebrant Kyad of Ergoth clutched in his hand.

“Holiness!” he exclaimed. “Pilofiro, you must hear—”

He stopped, then, as Beldinas raised his face. It was ashen and streaked with tears, the blue eyes stark with terror. He looked up at the elf without seeming to see him. His hands lay in his lap like dead birds.

He knows, Quarath thought, drawing himself up. “How … ” he began.

“A dream,” the Kingpriest replied. “I saw it, Emissary—oh, gods, I saw it all. The Tower—the bodies … ”

One of the world’s proudest cities, Quarath thought silently. Daltigoth had been built when even the elves were still young in the world. Now it lay in shambles, its glory all but snuffed out.

“This is a terrible thing, Holiness,” he said. “I knew the mages were capable of vile acts, but I never thought they would resort to his kind of barbarism.”

Beldinas nodded. “They are evil,” he said. “White, Black, or Red, they are evil. Never doubt that again, Quarath.”

“I will not, Holiness,” the elf replied. He looked at the missive from Daltigoth, then at the Kingpriest. “We must send word of this to Losarcum and Palanthas. They must know the danger.”

The Kingpriest stared into the shadows, his lower lip quivering. Then he shook his head.

“No, Emissary.”

“No?” Quarath blinked. “But Holiness—this changes everything! We cannot—”

“We can,” Beldinas replied. He rose from his seat, his face turning fierce. “Don’t you see, Quarath? The wizards are cornered, beaten. They know we can defeat the groves. So, in their cowardice, they committed this atrocity to terrorize us into relenting. If we back down now, we let them win. Two sunsets from now, Lord Cathan must attack the Tower at Losarcum as planned.”

Quarath stared at the Kingpriest, hardly recognizing him. The Lightbringer he had first met in the hills outside the Lordcity had never preached reckless action.

“Are you sure about this, sire?” he ventured.

Beldinas nodded, his eyes gleaming. They fell on the parchment in Quarath’s hand, and his brow furrowed.

“Who else has seen that?”

“No one,” Quarath replied. “Not in the Lordcity, anyway. Not even the First Son and First Daughter know what has happened.”

“Good,” the Kingpriest said. “No one must learn of Daltigoth’s fate until this is over. Not the other hierarchs, and not King Lorac in Silvanost. Destroy that message, Emissary.”

Quarath didn’t have to obey. Alone among the imperial court, he was not beholden to the Kingpriest’s orders. He reported only to his king. It was his duty to tell Lorac all he knew. Still, no matter his official loyalties, he had grown to revere Beldinas and wanted nothing more than to serve him. Besides, the elf thought, a shared secret might prove useful in strengthening his influence upon the throne.

But what if the same thing happens at Losarcam, as it did in Daltigoth? he wondered.

What if Lord Cathan meets the same fate as Serl?

He thought about it silence, staring at the missive. Lord Cathan was out of Beldinas’s favor anyway. As for the people of Losarcum … he shrugged, letting the thought drift away. They would have to fend for themselves. It wasn’t as if they were elves, anyway.

Bowing to the Kingpriest, he walked to a golden candelabrum and touched the missive to the flames. The dry parchment curled and burned, bits of ash breaking away. Quarath watched until nothing remained.

*****

Leciane felt numb.

More than a day had passed. Most of the mages had continued with the business of evacuating the Tower, moving as if asleep. A few had given up hope entirely. Others had fallen into fits of uncontrollable sobbing or rage. Those were all gone away now, shepherded off to Wayreth where they would not be in the way. Their absence left a silence deeper than a dwarven tomb.

Daltigoth has fallen. The Tower is gone.

Leciane had watched it all happen. When Duke Serl’s men marched, the Master of the Tower there—a Black Robe sorceress named Iriale—had contacted Khadar, along with their compatriots in Istar and Palanthas and Lady Jorelia at Wayreth. Khadar had, in turn, summoned his inner circle to watch what unfolded. In his scrying vessel, a huge geode filled with blue crystals, they had witnessed a thousand men with swords as they advanced to the edge of the grove—then through it when the black tree sprouted. That had surprised them all—even Iriale, whose minions had gone to help with the Tower’s defense. No Guardians nor mages could withstand the force of Serl’s attack, however, and in the end Daltigoth’s mages had retreated to their Heartchamber, to speak the desperate spell.

The doors of the Heartchambers were made of ironwood, bound with steel and emblazoned with runes of protection. Duke Serl and his men had begun to smash it with axes when Male’s magic took hold. Then the image had vanished in a flare of light, and the geode had turned dark … and silent.

No one wanted to admit what they had just seen. For hours, the sorcerers—both in Losarcum and at the other three Towers—had shouted and argued with one another. They had tried to make contact … any contact … with Daltigoth, but to no avail. Attempts to divine what had happened there ended in failure. There was too much wild magic loose in Ergoth, interfering with any communication.

Finally, though, a mage had managed to scry the scene—a White Robe in Palanthas, as it happened—and transmitted the awful images to the order at large. The destruction was unimaginable. The hole where the Tower had been, the smoldering rubble of a large part of Ergoth’s capital. The corpses, blown onto rooftops—some to pieces—by the force of the blast.

Leciane had nearly broken, crying like she hadn’t since childhood. She’d cried harder still when she heard the numbers of the slain. Two hundred and four wizards from among all three colors—dead, burnt to ash with the warriors storming the Tower. In the city, the reports varied, but at least eight thousand had perished, men, women, children. Other deaths would follow from among those too badly wounded to survive. No one would ever know exactly how many had perished when the Tower of Daltigoth erupted.

Now just four Towers remained, where five had stood for nearly a hundred generations.

The magic was weaker. Leciane could feel it, as surely as anything she’d ever known.

“Never again,” she’d declared to Khadar last night, as they talked over the disaster. “That must not happen a second time, or people will hate us forever.”

Khadar had shaken his head. “Iriale would not have done such a thing were there any other choice. Black Robe or not, she was never one to revel in destruction. What she did had to happen, or many more than ten thousand might have perished.”

He was right. The secrets hidden in the Towers were not for common folk. In unschooled hands, the damage they could do was incalculable. But the sight of Daltigoth—her home, where she had been born into the world and taken the Test—all smashed and burning … she couldn’t drive the horror of it from her mind.

“Will it happen again?” she’d asked. “Surely after this, they’ll think twice about another attack.”

“I hope so,” the Master had replied, skeptically.

Still, there was no sign the Divine Hammer meant to withdraw. Did they even know what had happened? The mages had had no contact with the knights since their arrival in Losarcum, and Leciane had her doubts. No one had spied any of the clockwork falcons the knights used as messengers since the day before the disaster. If they didn’t know, then of course the attack would proceed. If they did—

She stopped halfway up the Tower’s central staircase, carrying a bundle of wands, rods of gold and silver and dragonbone older than Istar itself. So abruptly did she halt that something bumped into her from behind. It was a curious construct: a full-sized fruitwood trunk that walked on hundreds of tiny legs. Its owner, an odd Red Robe with darting eyes, grumbled something unintelligible at her as the trunk scuttled away. Leciane stepped aside—then, a moment later, pushed frantically down the Tower’s halls in search of

Khadar.

She found him in his chambers, staring into the depths of his geode. Blue light bathed the room, making him look sickly and pale. He jumped up in surprise when he saw her.

“We have to tell the knights,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t you see? Serl attacked the Tower in Daltigoth, but he didn’t know the danger. Whoever leads the knights here doesn’t know either. But if we tell them … we show them … ”

Khadar sighed. “It makes no difference. The zealots will only hate us worse when they learn it was magic that killed so many in Daltigoth. But”—he held up a finger, silencing the protest that leaped to her lips—“on the blade’s other edge, if we play this right, they might not.”

He looked at her oddly, brow furrowed and eyes narrow. She blinked, annoyed.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded.

“Come,” he replied, beckoning her near. “Something I want you to see.”

He drew her closer to the geode. She set the wands on a sideboard, then bent down beside Khadar, feeling his gaze on her as she peered into the giant stone’s depths.

It took a moment for her to make anything out. The crystals within the geode distorted the scrying images. Finally she saw knights, scores of them, drilling at arms and drinking wine in the palm-fringed courtyards of Losarcum’s palace.

“Yes, the Divine Hammer,” she said, frowning.

Khadar nodded, gesturing. “Look closer.”

She saw Sir Marto, boasting and drinking and looming among the rest. The giant knight from Falthana, with his forked beard; the one who had murdered Vincil. Leciane gasped, her dusky skin turning pale. She had never wanted revenge as badly as she wanted this Marto dead, but …

Frowning, she looked past Marto, scanning the other knights, already knowing why Khadar wanted her to look, whom she would see… . There he was, trading blows with practice blades against the youth who once had been his squire.

She stared at the sweating face of Cathan MarSevrin.

What are you doing here? she asked him silently, watching as he disarmed Sir Tithian, then sent him sprawling in the dust. He was Grand Marshal, for the love of Lunitari—by all rights he should be in the Lordcity with the Kingpriest, confronting the Tower there. She’d never imagined he would come to Losarcum—but there he was, lecturing the younger man on the finer points of swordplay.

“He is the one you know, then,” said Khadar. “Good. I wasn’t sure—they all look alike to me.”

“What?” She blinked, peering at the Master.

Khadar spread his hands. “You’re right, Leciane. We do need to warn the knights—or, rather, you do. Go to this man tonight. It may well be the only hope we have left to save the Tower … and ourselves.”

CHAPTER 29

There it was again: the burning hammer, a fast-moving star in the sky. Cathan watched it come, floating among the three moons. Krynn stretched out beneath him, the anvil awaiting the blow.

Before, the dream had been almost a torment, but now, tonight, it came as a relief. He hadn’t had it in weeks—not since Beldinas named him Grand Marshal. He’d wondered, each morning when he woke, whether it meant he’d fallen out of favor with the god as well as the Kingpriest. He wouldn’t blame Paladine. He’d opened himself to the moon-gods’ touch—

… the same, it felt the same …

Leciane also came to him in his dreams sometimes—other dreams, more sinful. He wanted to hate her. Church doctrine told him he should hate her. She might not follow darkness herself, but she worked with those who did, abetted them in their misdeeds. One cannot lie in filth and come away clean, the proverb said.

The hammer. It was larger now, limned with holy fire. It came so close to hitting him, streaking so near that its heat washed over him. With a roar like a hundred thousand forge-fires, it fell … down, down, toward the sapphire world.

It fell upon the Lordcity. He frowned, thinking there was something wrong with that … why did the god’s wrath always strike the church’s heart? Losarcum should be the focus of his dreaming, today of all days!

The hammer struck, amidst noise and light and heat.

*****

He woke in his chamber within Losarcum’s palace, the desert wind blowing cool through the open window. Silken curtains billowed. Beyond them the night sky, satin-black and covered with a million stars. He had never seen so many stars.

There was something that troubled him. Something about the dream he’d just had, the vision he’d been having for half his life. Something wasn’t right—what? The harder he tried to think about it, the farther it slipped away.

Grunting, he rolled off the mound of cushions the desert folk used for beds and walked naked across the darkened room to pour himself a bowl of wine. He stood at the window, gazing out at the slumbering catacomb city, and the black, cypress-ringed spire beyond, nearly invisible against the night sky. Though he tried not to, he couldn’t help shivering.

“Today.”

He spoke aloud, to make it more real. It was Spring Dawning. Losarcum’s streets hung with garlands of flowers to mark the end of the fallow season. Later, folk would wend their way through the winding streets, singing Paladine’s praise and burning offerings of last year’s grain at the crossroad shrines. For the knights, however, the day had a different importance. They would attack the Tower at dawn—still more than an hour away, by Solinari’s place in the sky. Perhaps after, those who still lived would join in the common folk’s celebration.

“Hello, Cathan.”

He started, the wine bowl falling from his hands, and whirled toward the familiar voice.

She stood by his bed, her red robes looking black in the shadows. She had her hood pulled back to reveal her face. She didn’t smile, which convinced him he wasn’t simply imagining her. Instead, her eyes had a haunted look.

I am skyclad, he thought suddenly. He could feel his face redden as he covered himself.

“Leciane!” he exclaimed. “How long—”

“Long enough,” she replied with a sly look. “I’ve seen all there is to see.”

He went to where he had hung his tabard. Hurriedly he shrugged it on.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his lip curling. “Shouldn’t you be with your brothers and sisters?”

Leciane heard the disdain in his voice but let it go. “My brothers and sisters are the ones who sent me, Lord Cathan. I come with a warning.”

“I won’t abide your threats,” Cathan snapped. “You are the ones who should be afraid. Your kind are in hiding, pariahs in every human land. The power of magic weakens. I know. I can feel it wane.”

He expected an outburst, denial, vituperation. Instead she surprised him, merely nodding. “I know,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Lunitari love me, I know.”

That surprised him—so much so that he took a step toward her before he realized what he was doing. “What is it?” he asked. “Tell me, Leciane.”

“No,” she said. “It is better that I show you. You would not believe it otherwise.”

She was going to cast a spell. Here. The frown that spread across his face must have been easy to read, because her eyes flashed impatiently.

“If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t have waited,” she said.

That made sense, but it did little to ease his nerves. He met her eyes, saw the anxiousness in them. “All right.” He inclined his head. “But if you’re trying to trick me, I warn you that my men can be here at a shout.”

“Now you’re threatening me,” she replied with a smile. Rolling up her sleeves, she raised her hands and began to cast. “Arvayas gro weshann, culpit to-sati harbandith … ”

The red moon’s power swelled as she spoke, as intoxicating as any wine. Cathan tried to focus on his training, on his mission here, on Paladine’s grace.

Something appeared, glimmering in the darkness: a ruddy mist, rising from the floor. It crept and crawled, coalescing, slowly resolving into the blurred image of a city. Cathan squinted, but the spell was not yet done. Leciane continued to sculpt a street, a mansion, a sprawling marketplace … and, there, looming above the rest, a square red tower, ringed with trees.

Cathan caught his breath, knowing what he beheld. This was Daltigoth then, where Duke Serl and his men stood ready to launch the second attack, two days hence.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you showing me this?”

Leciane only kept chanting, her fingers plucking the air like harpstrings. The images were so fine now he could make out the pine trees that surrounded the Tower. Wait: one tree was different, larger and darker than the rest. He furrowed his brow. What was happening to the Tower? It seemed to be bulging and swelling, growing more distorted as he watched.

Cathan stared, entranced.

Suddenly, a loud noise broke through the stillness, making Cathan jump. He looked up, his heart pounding. Someone was knocking at the door.

“Sir?” called a voice. It was Tithian.

Leciane started as well. The image wavered, smearing. She threw herself back into the spell, furiously trying to retrieve it—

The door opened.

“Milord, are you all right?” Tithian stepped through, bare-chested and sword in hand.

Two other young knights stood behind him, similarly arrayed. “We heard voices—Palado Calib!”

The knights stared at the sorceress, who stared back at them. Cathan looked from one to the other, too stunned to react. On the floor, the phantasm Leciane had been conjuring dissolved back into mist, the magic leaking away.

“Wait,” Cathan said, but no one listened.

Leciane and Tithian acted simultaneously. Even as she spoke the word that made her vanish from the room, the young knight threw his sword.

It struck as she was fading from sight under the power of the teleport spell. Instead of burying itself in her stomach, it pierced her ghostly image—as she disappeared—and crashed into a frescoed wall.

*****

The Master stepped forward to steady Leciane as she appeared in his chambers, but she held out a hand, staying him. Wanting to scream with frustration, she staggered to a velvet-cushioned bench and sat down, burying her face in her hands.

“Gods and demons,” she growled. She recounted what had happened.

“You should have told him first,” Khadar reproached her. “He would have believed you, with the charm you have laid on him.”

Leciane laughed shrilly. “I never laid a charm on him.”

Khadar stared with his mouth open. She bowed her head.

Her thoughts drifted back, to that night in the hills. If only she had done what she was told, perhaps none of this would have happened. She shook her head, moaning.

“Vincil said you told him—”

“I lied!” she shouted, pushing to her feet. “All right?” Furious with herself as much as him, she stormed out of the room. Khadar called after her, but did not follow.

By the time she calmed down again, it was nearly morning. Glancing out one of the few windows that looked out of the spire, she saw the eastern sky was the color of ripe bloodmelons above the mesas. Still seething—mostly at herself, for being such a fool—she stood silently, staring at the coming dawn.

That was when the first tremor struck.

The vibration felt slight, but it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle nonetheless. Dravinaar was not prone to earthquakes and never had been. That meant something else was happening, some force beyond nature. Who was doing it, the order or the knights? The mages wouldn’t have acted first, but surely without the Lightbringer, the Divine Hammer didn’t have the power …

The second temblor was stronger than the first, enough to buckle her knees. She leaned against the wall to steady herself, listening to the cries of her fellow wizards sounding alarm all throughout the Tower.

Splinters and shards, she thought. It isn’t us.

The stone wall shimmered, her reflection in the obsidian warping. She drew back, then saw the shape it was becoming, the lips parting to reveal glassy black teeth and tongue.

She stared at the magical mouth, childlike in form like Khadar’s, and was unsurprised when its voice was the Tower Master’s.

“Milady,” the stone mouth said, “come to the Heartchamber at once.”

One of the first things a mage learned, one of the first lessons of spellcrafting, was how to clear one’s mind. Sorcery took concentration. It was hard to call upon the magic and give it form without emotions interfering. Even so, it seemed half the wizards in the Tower of Losarcum were panicking. One quake after another shook the spire. Men and women of all three robes shouted and shoved against one another. Books and sorcerous implements littered the halls and the great circular stair. Wizards clogged the entrance to the Chamber of Traveling. Some screamed curses at those in their way.

Leciane forced past the rabble, sprinting up the stairs. Another tremor nearly swept her off her feet. Beyond the entrance to Khadar’s chambers, she reached a tall, ironwood door.

The runes inscribed on its surface glowed at her approach—all three hues of magic, united in protecting the Heartchamber. She spoke a word, and one by one they faded, the door swinging open to let her through.

Most of Khadar’s inner circle were already there, gathered about the needle that was the Tower’s facsimile. They murmured to one another in strained voices. The Master waved her close, his eyes fear-widened.

“The Guardians stand ready,” he said. “We must be prepared as well. Once they’re through, we will not have long.”

A shuddering groan escaped her lips when she saw the events rendered in miniature before her. A strange black cypress had materialized, standing taller than the other trees, just like the pine in Daltigoth. Its branches drooped with weight, brushing the ground. The rest of the grove was moving away from the strange tree now, clearing a gap that led straight to the Tower—and there, behind the cypress, the knights of the Divine Hammer stood in gleaming armor.

One more day, she thought, despairing. Cathan, why couldn’t you wait one more day?

Tonight I would have tried again to tell you …

Too late now. The chance had passed. The attack on the Tower of Losarcum had begun.

CHAPTER 30

Cathan stared at the black cypress, looming over him and his knights, above the other trees in the haunted grove. Had Beldinas truly sanctioned the creation of this strange tree?

If he hadn’t, who had? A voice deep within him shouted that this was wrong—and, yet, the path to the Tower lay open as the missive had promised. The priests had blessed his men in Paladine’s and Kiri-Jolith’s names. The knights awaited his command. If he didn’t give the order, they would surely revolt and take the Tower anyway. His disgrace would be sealed.

He drew Ebonbane and gave the cypress one last dubious glance. Reverently, he pressed his sword’s hilt to his lips, then shut the visor of his helm. A chorus of metallic clangs sounded behind him. He shifted his shield onto his arm, then looked back at the men of the Divine Hammer. They stood ready, some gripping crossbows, others with blades and maces. He thought of Tavarre, and Pellidas, and the others who had fallen over the past few months. The surviving knights had waited a long time to avenge their deaths. Now that time was at hand.

He raised his sword. “For Paladine!” he shouted. “For Kiri-Jolith! For the Lightbringer!”

“The Lightbringer!” his men roared, and charged.

The grove’s magic had diminished along the hewn path, but it hadn’t disappeared. As he ran, Cathan felt its enchantment, luring him toward the trees as it had in Istar. Shouts behind told him some of his men had succumbed. They are lost, he told himself. When the battle was done, gods willing, he would look for them. Right now, he had to keep moving toward the Tower.

Finally they emerged from the trees into open ground. A quick glance behind told Cathan he had lost maybe a dozen men out of twenty times that number. He was glad to spot Tithian and Marto. The huge doors of the Tower, slabs of red stone carved with images of the moons, loomed before him. Legend said the doors were never locked. Only those who were welcome could pass through the groves.

A pair of overeager knights leaped up the steps, and fell as they triggered the warding spells the mages had placed upon the entrance. Sheets of violet flame blazed into life, and they died screaming, beating at the fires that immolated them. Cathan winced at the stench, but part of him thanked the gods that he had only lost two to the spell, which had done its work and was now fading.

“Forward!” cried Sir Marto, before Cathan could say anything. “Let no man rest until every one of the demon worshipers has felt the god’s justice!”

As Cathan had begun to suspect, the knights followed the big Karthayan’s orders more enthusiastically than his own. I’ve lost them, he thought, as the men of the Divine Hammer pounded up the steps, past the charred remains of their comrades.

They slammed into the doors with all their might, Marto leading with his shoulder.

Sparks flew as his armor scraped against the stone, and the doors groaned, grinding inward a few inches. The knights gave a roar, then hit the doors again, a third time, and a fourth. Each time, the doors budged a little more. Finally, the gap between them was wide enough to let the men peer inside. One knight near the front—Cathan wasn’t sure who—shoved his way halfway into the dim interior—

A moment later, he screamed in agony, his body jerking, and pulled back out. Half his helmet was gone, sheared off as though by sharp teeth. He howled, clutching at the bloody ruin of his face. Finally, after several excruciating moments, he went limp, his fellows catching him as he fell. He wasn’t yet dead, but he couldn’t possibly survive the grievous wound he’d taken, and he would suffer from lingering. Knowing this, one of his fellows drew a dagger and slipped it between his ribs. He stiffened, then relaxed, beyond all pain.

While he was dying, more knights shoved at the doors, pushing them farther open.

Cathan gritted his teeth as the gap widened.

The first of the Guardians came striding out—a nine-foot colossus with the head of a jackal, its eyes ablaze with golden light. The sight of its two giant scimitars—one of them dripping red—filled Cathan with dread. He brandished Ebonbane as his men fell back in a wide circle. One didn’t move fast enough, and a flick of a blade cut him in two beneath the shoulders.

“Mother of Paladine,” someone cursed. Cathan nodded, agreeing.

Reckless, heedless, Sir Marto surged at the jackal-headed thing, his new axe sweeping back. Damned fool, Cathan thought, admiring the big knight’s courage as the Guardian’s scimitars arced in, a scissoring blow aimed at Marto’s neck.

Marto laughed, ducking with a grace that belied his size. The blades whistled above his head, close enough to slice off the tips of the horns on his helm. An eye-blink later he was up, his axe flashing in to hack the creature’s thigh.

Stone fractured, green shards flying. Marto’s axe glanced away, leaving a deep crack in the Guardian’s leg. It gave no sign of noticing, though. Such a creature didn’t feel pain, and now its swords came up again, poised to bury themselves in Marto’s skull. He backed away, drawing it after him—closer, closer …

The Guardian’s eyes couldn’t actually widen with surprise, but the sorcerous glow within them brightened when it tried to put its bulk on its damaged leg. With a snap, the limb gave way, splintering beneath its weight. It fell with a crash, both swords shattering as they hit the ground. It lay there a moment, in pieces, struggling to rise—until Marto brought his axe down in a mighty, double-handed chop, smashing its face. The light in its eyes went out.

Cathan and the rest of the knights stared at Marto and the broken statue, too stunned to speak. A grinding sound caught their attention, and they looked toward the doorway.

Through the gap, Cathan saw another Guardian shambling forward, this one with a lion’s head on its massive shoulders. There were more behind—ten, twenty, and more, their eyes blazing with unnatural life.

It was going to be a slaughter. Cathan knew it—they all did. There was nothing they could do about it, though. They’d come too far to turn back. With a chorus of shouts and cheers, the knights charged.

*****

One of the other mages had brought her scrying vessel, a prism that bent light into flickering images. Now Khadar and his inner circle stared at these. As they watched, the Divine Hammer poured into the Tower, slamming into the Guardians. Many men fell, cut to shreds by the statues’ whirling blades, but the statues also faltered, crushed by blows from maces and hammers and cracked by swords and axes. The knights were taking heavy losses, but there were too many to hold back. The Guardians would fail at their task.

Leciane bowed her head, tears burning her eyes. The Tower would fall, as she’d known it would. There was only one thing left to do.

“It passes to us now, my brothers and sisters,” said the Master, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I wish there were some other way. For the sake of the magic, we must act quickly, before they reach this chamber. Who will help me do what must be done?”

The mages stood silent, their eyes downcast. All knew what Khadar was asking.

Whoever stayed here would surely die, and the damage they did would be devastating. They had all seen what happened to Daltigoth.

Lunitari, Leciane prayed. Do not let this happen …

Hazael spoke first. An elderly Black Robe who had lived most of his years within the Tower, he shuffled over to the miniature obelisk, leaning on a staff tipped with dragon talons. His bloodshot eyes turned toward Khadar.

“I will help, Master,” he croaked. “Nothing would please me more than sending the Kingpriest’s dogs howling to the Abyss.”

Two more Black Robes followed suit before the first Red Robe replied. After a few more volunteered, the White Robes began to join in—not to mete out punishment upon the knights, but to protect the Tower’s secrets. Soon every wizard in the room had responded.

All save one.

“Leciane?” the Tower Master asked. The other sorcerers looked, the weight of their gaze heavy upon her. “Will you not help us, for the Order’s sake?”

Part of her wanted to. Better to die here, fighting for the Art. Why would she care to live through this infamous day? To see the Towers at Palanthas and the Lordcity fall, as well?

Her kind would be driven into hiding at Wayreth, reviled by people everywhere. Wouldn’t death be preferable?

Still, she stayed silent. Her eyes flitted to the scrying prism. Amid the steel and broken stone, she spotted Cathan fighting a Guardian with a stag’s head, his sword whirling, ducking and dodging. As she watched he spun away from its attack and lunged, driving Ebonbane through the Guardian’s eye. Panting, Cathan wrenched his blade free and turned to face a new foe.

Leciane sighed, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry, Master. I will not be a part of this.”

A shocked murmur ran through the Heartchamber. The other wizards gave her betrayed looks. Khadar’s expression did not change. He shrugged, sighing.

“Go, then,” he said curtly. “If you will not aid us, leave.”

Leciane nodded, feeling the other mages’ angry gaze as she turned and hurried out of the Heartchamber. The sound of chanting rose behind her as she shut the door. The magic began to rise as the other mages summoned the power of the moons for the last spell of their lives. So seductive was the sensation that she nearly turned to go back into the Heartchamber—then she stopped herself, shaking her head. Weeping for what would soon be lost, she hurried down the steps, in search of Cathan.

*****

Green-veined scimitars whistled through the air. Slapping one aside with Ebonbane, Cathan twisted away. He slipped and nearly fell. The floor was slick with blood. To his left, a wounded knight had been laid open from throat to breastbone by a blow that split his plate mail like parchment. He offered a heartbeat’s prayer for the poor fellow, then brought up his sword to block another blow—then another, and another, as an ape-headed Guardian bore down on him, stony teeth bared.

A third of his men were dead, and nearly that many were wounded, but the number of living statues was fast dwindling. There were eight left—no, seven, he corrected himself, seeing Sir Marto lay low yet another one. Victory would soon be theirs—and soon they would be free to continue their assault on the Tower.

The ape-headed Guardian kept coming, pausing only to swat away a knight who tried to flank it. The man shrieked, falling back and grasping at a sword arm now attached to his body only by a strip of flesh. Then the statue was on Cathan again, pounding away, first with one curved sword, then the other, raining down blow after blow. Cathan kept backing away, sometimes parrying or trying to block with the shredded remains of his shield, but mostly keeping a safe distance between himself and his foe. Finally, he backed into the smashed remnants of a fallen Guardian, one of the many scattered about the hall. His arms weary, he raised sword and shield and made his last stand, each blow shaking him to the marrow. He cast about, looking for someone … anyone—

“Milord!” cried a voice to his right.

Starting, Cathan saw Tithian charging in, holding a flanged mace high. The Guardian also saw the young knight coming and turned, one scimitar spinning toward Tithian’s knees while the other stabbed at Cathan’s throat.

Tithian leaped over the first blade and Cathan batted the second aside with his shield.

Both men struck back at the same time, Cathan hacking off the statue’s arm just above the elbow while his former squire dealt it a blow to the knee that succeeded in knocking it down. Growling, Cathan finished it with a thrust, then spun to look for another of the bestial foes—

There were none. The last of the Guardians had been destroyed.

A few of the knights let out victory cries, or laughed over the defeat of their enemies.

Most, however, remained silent except for wheezes or grunts of pain. A few went from one fallen man to the next, looking for those who still lived. Many were beyond help, short of the Lightbringer’s healing touch. They put these men to merciful ends. By the time they were done, some eighty of the Divine Hammer lay dead amid the broken malachite. The survivors offered prayers to Paladine to guide their souls on to the gods’ realm beyond the stars.

“More for the Garden of Martyrs,” Sir Marto said, speaking the words bitterly. “And how many wizards have we slain, in return? None so far!”

“Be still,” Cathan told him, though he could see the same frustration in the other knights’ eyes. Once they were loose in the Tower, not even the White Robes would be safe.

He could only hope the mages had had the sense to get as many as they could out of the Tower.

His men looked at him now, waiting for his orders. Sighing, he shrugged off his ruined shield and picked up a fresh one from one of the dead.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s go on. The Tower is ours.”

CHAPTER 31

It was bedlam, hundreds of knights surging from one room to the next, chasing down what sorcerers they could find. Most of the mages had fled the lower levels, but a few remained, either too frightened or too defiant to leave. They fought with every spell they knew, and killed more than a few of Cathan’s men, but the Divine Hammer were relentless and put every wizard they found to the sword. Behind the knights came the priests, chanting prayers of purification and aspersing the wreckage with holy water. Before long, the base of the Tower belonged to the Hammer.

“Cerro!” became the rallying cry, ringing behind the visors of a hundred and fifty helmets. Upward! Up they went, killing, destroying and blessing the carnage.

The moment they set foot on the Tower’s central stair, the magical portal within the Chamber of Traveling closed, stranding those mages who had been trying to escape the Tower. With flight no longer an option, the sorcerers regrouped to fight the invaders. Balls of fire rained down on the knights, bursting in great blossoms that blew men to pieces, hurling shreds of clattering armor down the Tower’s central shaft. Tendrils of green mist crept down, finding their way through the eyeslits of helmets. Men collapsed, retching and clutching at their throats. One spell turned a length of the staircase to dark, sucking mud.

Three knights disappeared, screaming, as the muck dragged them down. Venomous wasps found their way into chinks in armor and left men sobbing and twitching on the ground.

Cathan watched his men fight and die. He was glad for his helm, for it hid his tears. He wept for the Divine Hammer but also for the sorcerers who perished defending their homes.

He wept for Istar, for the empire he had upheld for so long. How could a land of such glory and light breed so much suffering and death?

There might be others who thought as he did, but most were like Marto, who fought on with fervent glee. The big knight killed every sorcerer he could—man, woman … human, elf, dwarf… Red, Black, White … it didn’t matter. He cut them down whether they fought or tried to run. As he slew, he shouted the god’s name, the Lightbringer’s, Sir Pellidas’s, and their other lost friends’. Other knights also shouted the names of fallen comrades as they massacred the hated foe. In the Divine Hammer’s wake, all Robes were red.

The crossbowmen turned the tide. Were the knights armed with sword and cudgel alone, the wizards on the upper floors might have prevailed, pouring death down on the Hammer from above. When the thrums of strings and the buzz of flying quarrels filled the air, however, sorcerers screamed, clutching at the shafts buried in their legs, throats, and stomachs. After three volleys of steady death, the wizards’ morale shattered. A few tried to stand their ground, but most of those who still lived turned to flee up toward the Tower’s highest levels.

Cathan stared past the fleeing wizards, toward the apex of the Tower. The magic burned brightest up there, like the beacon atop a lighthouse. It stung his mind, blazing like the sun. What were the mages doing, that would require such—

He understood. He knew, suddenly, why Leciane had come to him in the night—what she’d tried to warn him about, before Tithian drove her away. In his mind, he saw the Tower of Daltigoth, the image she had conjured. He saw it distort, bulging, ready to burst.

“Palado Calib” he gasped, stopping on the stairs. He grabbed Tithian’s arm. “They’re going to destroy it!”

The younger knight stared at him. “What?”

“The Tower!” Cathan cried, yanking up his visor. “The mages are going to destroy it and themselves and all of us! Gods, how could I be so blind?”

“But they can’t—!” Tithian protested feebly. He raised his visor as well. The face beneath was pale, the eyes wide.

Cathan looked up at Sir Marto leading the charge. The big knight was too far away to hear him—and even if he weren’t, what good would it do? He wouldn’t listen, anyway. None of the knights would. Other men were shoving past, trying to rush to the top. They clogged the stairs behind him, blocking the way down.

“We have to get out of here!” Tithian shouted, echoing the thought screaming in Cathan’s head. Where do we go?

Cathan felt his own panic rising. Staring up the steps once more, he saw a half-open door, hacked by swords and axes so that it hung by only one hinge. There were doors all along the stair, both ahead and behind, but this was the closest.

“Come on,” he said to Tithian, more confident than he felt. “There has to be another way down.”

Faithfully, Tithian followed him through the door. It led to a long corridor of obsidian, lined with glowing crystal lamps. They dimmed and flickered as the magic above surged ever stronger. Ignoring the shouts of his men behind him, Cathan charged down the hall.

Tithian jogged after.

In no time at all, they were both thoroughly lost. The Tower was huge, its hallways labyrinthine. In the growing darkness, they lost track of the twists and turns, the intersections and alcoves. Most of the doors were magically locked. Those that weren’t led to rooms that were either empty or in ruins. There were no back stairs, no trapdoors, no windows. Finally, they arrived at a dead end, where a vase of Tucuri porcelain sat on a small table. It held a bundle of bloodblossoms, their deep red blooms redolent of their sleep-inducing oil. Snarling, Cathan lashed out with Ebonbane, smashing the vase to shards. Water and petals flew everywhere.

Cathan could feel the power of the sorcerers’ spell, the strain of the man casting it, holding it back with nothing but sheer willpower. He felt the man’s agony as he gathered the last bits of magic. The crystal lamps gave one last flash, then went dark, drenching the corridor in shadow.

Trapped, Cathan and Tithian sat down on the floor. The head of the Divine Hammer bowed his head in misery, waiting for the end to come.

“Leciane,” he murmured. “Leciane, I’m sorry …”

*****

Leciane sat cross-legged in the room full of crystal sculptures, her eyes closed and her lips moving. The sounds of battle, the cries of the wounded and the dying, echoed through the Tower’s depths. Above, she could sense Khadar, ready to burst from the magic welling up inside him—more magic than anyone could possibly contain. Still he gathered it in, drop by precious drop. Elsewhere, the other wizards gave up their power freely, letting the master suck away their essence. She concentrated on her own spell, making one last try.

She had been searching for Cathan for what seemed like hours. He was in the Tower, somewhere, and her mind was questing, reaching out to find him. Again and again, though, she came up empty. She felt the terror of the fleeing wizards and the unwavering zeal of the Divine Hammer. She saw horrible butchery and heroism on both sides … but of him, nothing. Her cheeks were wet with tears of frustration. She had lived much of her life with the power to do the impossible, but now, faced with this terrible experience, her helplessness was almost more than she could bear.

Blast it, she thought. Where in the Abyss are you?

Leciane …

A voice she recognized. Cathan’s voice.

Where are you? she asked. Tell me!

If he could hear her, he gave no reply. His voice sounded despairing. She caught her breath. He must know what was about to happen, even if his men did not. Frantic, she thrust her own mind toward his … searching, seeking …

There!

When the floor began to tremble beneath her, a spike of fear sliced into his mind, echoing in her own. There wasn’t much time left. She felt the magic swelling, Khadar preparing for the final release.

Don’t move, she told Cathan silently. I’ll be right there.

Concentrating, she started another spell, fingertips fluttering, words tumbling from her lips. The floor shook again, harder this time. Her whole body tense, she let the teleport spell flow through her her.

She didn’t notice that the door behind her had burst open, didn’t see the knights raise their crossbows, didn’t hear their shouts, but she did, feel something, a hot lance of pain, digging into her side.

Then she was gone, the magic whisking her away, a second quarrel flashing through where she’d been to smash the crystal sculptures to pieces.

*****

I’ve gone mad, Cathan thought when the air beside him shimmered and Leciane appeared with a bolt lodged in her chest. What’s happening has been too much for me, and I’ve lost my mind. One look at Tithian’s eyes, however, told him that his former squire beheld the sorceress too, and was every bit as astonished.

Blood bubbled around the quarrel’s steel shaft—she wasn’t dead, not yet. She slumped against the wall, her face pale and her lips wet. Her glassy eyes fought to focus as she stared at him, then down at the shaft sticking out of her.

“Oh, Abyss,” she said thickly.

“Who did this?” Cathan muttered, half-rising. He looked at Tithian, who shook his head.

The Tower shook, stones grinding and groaning. Leciane winced as black dust sifted down from the ceiling. “Listen,” she said. “None will survive … Don’t have … much time …” She shut her eyes.

“Leciane!” he said, grabbing her and lifting her up to him.

“I’m … saving your … life,” she said, opening her eyes. “And … the boy’s.” A dusky hand rose, gesturing toward Tithian. “Now don’t … interrupt me … again.”

He stared at her. She moved her hands, whispering spidery words as the Tower trembled. Great cracks split the walls, and eldritch light poured out. The knights’ distant battle cries became shrieks of terror. A deep roar signaled the collapse of a ceiling.

Cathan stared at Leciane, scarlet frothing on her lips as she spoke the spell one last time. The air around them wavered, silver motes beginning to whirl. He felt the familiar sensation, the rushing as of a great wind. Gritting his teeth, he watched as the cracks around them widened, as the floor split, a glowing fissure cutting the hallway in two, opening ever wider, ready to swallow everything. Silver light flashed, blinding-bright.

And…

*****

Shouting the god’s name, Sir Marto brought his axe down on the Heartchamber’s doors.

He hit them again and again, trying to loosen the bolt. Rosy light spilled out from the cracks. A beautiful, terrible sound also issued forth, agonized screaming and silver horns all mixed together. Swearing, he chopped harder, his arms burning from the effort.

At last, with a splintering crash, the axe bit all the way through. Laughing, he wrenched the weapon free, brought up one massive foot, and kicked with all his might. The doors gave way, flying open—and Marto stopped, staring in awe and dread at what awaited him.

Inside the Heartchamber were dozens of mages, standing in a circle, facing outward with hands outstretched—Black Robes, White Robes, Red Robes. Their eyes glowed with the same rosy light, which flickered between their fingertips as well. The mellifluous, hideous clamor came from their mouths, opened wide, their lips skinned back from their teeth.

What stood in the ring’s midst might have been human, once, but now any resemblance had melted away. Its hair was gone, and its flesh dripped in gobbets onto the floor, revealing bone beneath. Magical energy whirled around it, a vortex of red, black, and white.

It trembled in agony at the power that surged through its body.

Khadar, Master of the Tower, looked at Marto—or seemed to, for his eyes had long since boiled away—and smiled. The vortex flared like a million suns.

Marto raised his axe and leaped into the room. “For the Light—” he began to shout and did not finish.

*****

Some fled when the strange lights first began to appear, streaming away from the Tower through Losarcum’s twisting streets. Others stood transfixed, watching from courtyards and rooftops as the black needle began to twist and swell. The prudent sought shelter, hiding in cellars and under wagons, seeking to protect themselves from whatever happened next.

It didn’t matter. They all died, just the same.

The Tower of Losarcum burst into a storm of shards—obsidian shards, sharper than any sword. They cut through flesh and bone, smashed buildings to dust. It rained black glass all over the city, tearing the central garden to shreds, shattering the statue of Ardosean the Uniter, turning markets and amphitheater and palace alike into rubble. Thousands of people cried out in terror and agony, their voices lost within the thundering roar.

Then the magic exploded outward in waves, and the City of Stone fell in upon itself.

Mighty buildings toppled, choking the streets with the rubble, or melted into misshapen lumps of glass. The tunnels that served as the city’s barbican caved in, killing hundreds who had been trying to escape. The caverns beneath the city gave way, and great chunks of it vanished into the fissures and craters. Huge plumes of dust rose into the air, darkening the sky and choking those who breathed it. For days afterward, the sunsets in Dravinaar glowed brilliant scarlet, as if dripping with blood.

Thus Losarcum, Qim Sudri, the City of Stone, died.

*****

The hammer fell …

Cathan awoke with a start, his ears ringing, his nose and mouth clogged with dust. Pain shot through his body, and his beard was sticky with half-dried blood. He had never been so thirsty in all his life. Groaning, he forced open his gummy eyes.

He was in a cave—from the looks of the golden sandstone, somewhere in the Tears of Mishakal. Ruddy twilight spilled into its mouth—but it had a strange, brownish cast to it that troubled him. Brow furrowed, he tried to sit up—then slumped back down as the world spun away beneath him.

It could be worse, he thought. At least you’re alive.

It came back to him then, in a rush so sudden, he nearly blacked out again. The Tower.

Leciane. The teleport spell. The crossbow bolt. Oh, gods …

Something pressed against his lips: the neck of a water flask. He took a deep drink, and immediately regretted it as his head tried its best to split in half. Granting, he let the rest dribble down his chin, then looked up at the one who held the bottle. Tithian looked back at him, his eyes hollow and haunted. He had taken off most of his armor, and his tabard was missing as well.

“Sir,” the young man said, his face tightening.

Cathan sighed. “The Tower?”

“Yes,” Tithian said, “and the city with it.”

Cathan lay stunned, his mind roiling. He couldn’t conceive of such a thing. Losarcum had been one of the empire’s wonders, home to Kingpriests in ages past. All of that … gone, and his men too, just him and Tithian left now. Had the same thing happened to Daltigoth? Palanthas? What about the Lordcity?

He tried to sit up, staving off the chasm of nausea that yawned within him. Too stunned to speak, he looked around.

Leciane lay in the back of the cave. The crossbow bolt was beside her, the blood that covered it faded to rust. Tithian had laid his tabard over her, covering her from view.

Cathan scrabbled to his feet and, went over to her, pulling the makeshift shroud away.

Her face was still and pale, blood drying on her lips and teeth, her eyes closed. Lines of pain had frozen around her mouth and along her brow.

“She held on for a long time,” Tithian said. “She wanted to wait for you …” He trailed off, spreading his hands, tears standing in his eyes.

Cathan looked down at Leciane, every part of him feeling raw and hurt. She had saved his life and so doing had lost her own. Gently, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers.

Then, covering her up again, he looked at Tithian, his blank eyes empty. Neither man could think of a word to say.

He sat by her body all night long.

CHAPTER 32

Fourthmonth, 943 I.A.

The knights of the Divine Hammer approached the Tower of Istar as the sun touched the domes and rooftops, painting them with morning light. There were five hundred in all, a long line of gleaming mail and snowy tabards, mounted on proud Ismindi stallions. The rattle of armor was the only sound they made. Lord Olin rode at the fore, crimson-clad and tall in the saddle, his hand on his sword. His eyes glinted with determination. Here, in the Lordcity, the war with the mages would end today.

Quarath was already in the square surrounding the olive grove when the Hammer arrived. The Kingpriest and the rest of the imperial court also awaited the knights. Quarath nodded to Olin, who had been true Grand Marshal since the catastrophe in Losarcum. He led a knighthood in tatters, ruined by one slaughter after another: the men assembled with him were all that remained. The Hammer might never regain its numbers and pride, but Olin had sworn to try.

The Kingpriest looked grim as he greeted the knights, accepting their fealty from Olin, who swung down from his saddle and knelt before him. Beldinas had aged in the past month, in Quarath’s eyes. His face was haggard, his hair brittle and thin, frosted with gray.

Word of what had happened at Losarcum had struck him hard, and more than ever, the fear ran deep in his eyes. The unthinkable had happened: an entire city, destroyed. Tens of thousands dead—among them Lord Cathan and all his men, whom Beldinas had sent into battle. Losarcum was the Kingpriest’s first true defeat, and he was not bearing it well.

It had been a defeat for the wizards as well, however. That was why they were here, now, just beyond one of the three Towers left in the world. After much negotiation, the Church and the order had reached an accord. The Divine Hammer had pledged not to attack this Tower and provoke another disaster. In return, the wizards were to surrender it to the Kingpriest and withdraw to Wayreth unhindered …

The same was due to happen in Palanthas in a few weeks’ time—as long as nothing went wrong today. The Church and the Order had tried to make peace before, after all, and things had ended in betrayal and death. Now that both sides had a bitter taste of loss, peace should prevail. Quarath offered a silent prayer that it would be so.

Now the olive grove split down the middle, the trees creaking as they pulled back to reveal a path through their midst. All around Quarath men held their breaths, watching as the mages opened the way to the bloody-fingered hand of the Tower. If treachery was afoot, it would happen shortly. Quarath glanced at the Kingpriest. The aura of light that surrounded him barely hid the tension in his clenched jaw.

With a final groan the last of the olives shifted aside, revealing an elderly woman in the white robes of Solinari. This was Jorelia, the highmage, with whom Beldinas had brokered the truce. She was alone, and after a moment’s pause she strode forward, leaning on a staff of plain ashwood. She did not bow as she drew near, though she did incline her head, pulling off her hood as she did so.

“Majesty,” she said, “the Tower is empty. As we agreed, my people have left and will not return.”

“That is well, Most High,” replied Beldinas, signing the triangle. “I regret we did not take this step sooner, before so many lives were lost.”

Jorelia made a sour face. Saying nothing, she delved into a pouch by her side. The knights stirred, but the highmage produced a disc-shaped medallion from the bag, crafted of fine-wrought silver and set with a crimson gemstone, a black flaw at its heart. She held it out with both hands, dangling it by its chain.

“This is the All-Seeing Eye,” she declared. “It will guide the one who wears it safely through the grove, and protect him from its magic.”

Beldinas nodded, removing the Crown of Power and lowering his head. Quarath and Lord Olin tensed, but Jorelia made no untoward move, merely slipping the charm over the Lightbringer’s head. It clacked against his jeweled breastplate as he straightened and set the Miceram on his brow once more.

“I thank you, milady,” he said. “Now the troubles between us have ended. From this day forth, let the children of Paladine and the worshipers of the moons raise no hand against each other.”

As long as you stay in Wayreth.

All sensed the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air, and none more than Jorelia.

Curling her fingers to form the circle of the silver moon, the highmage held out her hand.

She wore no rings, no bracelets, no magical charms to pose a threat.

“Lisso,” she said in the Church tongue. Peace.

Beldinas hesitated, as if afraid to touch her. Maybe he was. After a moment, however, he signed the triangle, then clasped her hand in his, a smile brightening his worn, troubled face.

“Lisso.”

*****

Later, Beldinas and Quarath stood together within the Heartchamber of the Tower, staring at the model of the Lordcity with the bloody hand looming in its midst.

The magic here must have been strong indeed, if it was powerful enough to wreak the destruction of Daltigoth and Losarcum. It was gone now, though, along with every other charm and cantrip. Only the grove’s enchantment remained. The rest of the Tower of Istar was an empty shell, most of the rooms stripped bare, and what artifacts remained—like the miniature map before them—drained of their power. It was a dead place, and would remain so.

They didn’t know what to do with the abandoned Tower. Every hierarch in the Church had a different notion, from tearing it down to consecrating it in Paladine’s name and turning it into a hall of worship. Beldinas had listened to all of these but had made no decision yet. Quarath didn’t much care what the Kingpriest chose to do, so long as it didn’t involve moving the elven embassy here.

“I wonder how it must have felt to wield such power,” Beldinas mused, staring at the model. “Knowing it would cause the deaths of so many.”

“You should know, Holiness.”

At the sound of the frigid voice, both Beldinas and Quarath looked up in astonishment.

The room seemed to darken, and the air grew cold. Plumes of frost billowed from their mouths as they stared into the shadows at a Black Robe.

He stood there, a darker shade than the gloom around him. His arms were folded across his chest, his head angled to one side. All they could see of his face was the tip of his gray beard; the shadows of his hood hid the rest. Yet both could feel the man’s evil, and both feared his power.

Beldinas drew himself up imperiously. “Who are you? The agreement was that everyone would leave. You are forbidden here.”

“I am forbidden nowhere,” said the archmage. “I am Fistandantilus.”

Quarath’s eyes widened. He knew the tales of the Dark One. Feeling the terrible, chilling intensity that emanated from him, he stepped back.

Beldinas held his ground, signing the triangle. The aura around him flared as he called upon the god’s protection, but Fistandantilus only chuckled.

“Do not fear, Holiness,” the wizard said. “Although I am not party to any agreement, I mean you no harm.”

“No?” the Kingpriest replied. “Then why are you here?”

“To see you, obviously,” the Dark One answered. “I wish to ask a favor, after the one I did for you.”

“Favor? What favor?” Beldinas glared at the Dark One.

Quarath caught his breath as Fistandantilus reached into his sleeve and plucked something out. The archmage clenched it in his fist a moment, then tossed it into the air. It rose, then stopped, hanging aloft. Rotating slowly, it glided across the Heartchamber. The Kingpriest’s mouth opened when he saw what it was. Quarath recognized the olive stone, like the one still held by Lord Olin, mate to the other seeds that had arrived mysteriously that night scant weeks ago.

“Do you see now?” Fistandantilus asked. “I am the one who helped you thwart the groves. Now I ask for your help in return.”

Quarath shook his head, amazed. The Dark One, asking the Lightbringer for aid?

Beldinas seemed in shock.

“It was scarcely a favor, giving me those seeds,” he said bitterly, regarding the mage.

“Two cities have fallen because of them.”

“No, Holiness.” The hooded head shook back and forth. The blood of those who died is on your hands, Beldinas Pilofiro—particularly the people of Losarcum. You could have stopped that from happening, if you’d wanted to. That is something you can hide from your subjects, but not from me.”

Quarath exploded. “You dare insult the Kingpr—”

He never finished. Without glancing at him, the Dark One gestured and spoke a word, and Quarath’s voice died in midsentence. Paralysis overtook his body, freezing every muscle until he stood as still as a statue.

“Oh yes,” Fistandantilus said mildly. “I dare.”

Quarath watched, helpless, as Beldinas glared at the Dark One.

“What do you want from me, then?” the Kingpriest asked.

The archmage’s beard twitched. Inside his hood, he was smiling. “Nothing terrible, Holiness, I assure you. I only seek a place at the imperial court.”

The Kingpriest shook his head, disbelieving. “My court?” he asked. “Why?”

“I have my reasons,” the Dark One answered. “Do not fear … I don’t mean to interfere with your reign. In fact, I might even be able to help you now and then. Who better to give counsel in your war against evil, after all, than one who is truly evil himself?”

Beldinas’s lips tightened. “And if I refuse?”

“Right now I am your friend. I could be your enemy,” said Fistandantilus. “I think you know I could be a worse foe than the Usurper or the order ever were.”

Beldinas raised his chin, defiant. Quarath, who couldn’t move or speak, admired the Lighbringer in that moment, more than ever.

“You already are my enemy, Dark One. The robes you wear make it so.”

“Perhaps,” the archmage allowed, amusement tempering the coldness in his voice. “But what sort of enemy would you have me be—one who is far away and can do you great harm, or close at hand where you can watch me?”

The Kingpriest stood silent, regarding the Black Robe.

“It will be hard to explain to my subjects,” he finally murmured.

Quarath would have gasped if he could. The words were those of surrender, something he had never thought he would hear from the Lightbringer.

“Not as hard as to explain why you allowed Losarcum to be destroyed, knowing what had happened at Daltigoth—or that the seeds came from me in the first place.”

Beldinas shook his head at the threat. “You are not my friend. Yet you are the enemy of my enemies.”

The Dark One nodded.

“Let it be so, then,” said the Lighbringer finally, “You must abide by certain rules. You will not give counsel unless I ask it of you. You will dwell within the grounds of the Temple, where you can be watched. You will never use magic in my presence.”

Fistandantilus was silent a moment. His shoulders rose and fell, just slightly. “Fair conditions, all. Very well—I accept. Now, Holiness … do you?”

In the years he had known the Kingpriest, Quarath had never seen the man’s face so conflicted. The Miceram’ s glow seemed to dim as he nodded.

“Very well.”

The archmage’s beard twitched—another smile. “I thank you, Holiness. You have chosen well. I shall come to the Temple in a week’s time, when my affairs elsewhere are concluded. Sifat.”

He was gone, vanishing in a wink, the cold receding in his absence. A fierce prickling, as of a foot gone to sleep, suffused Quarath’s body as the paralyzing spell lifted from him. He slumped where he stood, but righted himself quickly, his eyes on Beldinas. The Kingpriest pointedly returned his gaze. Neither man said anything of what had just happened. After a while, they left the Heartchamber, climbing the winding stair down the Tower’s core.

“Holiness!” called a voice when they reached the bottom. A man in courier’s garb tried to push through the knights who stood guard near the entry hall. “Holiness, I have a message for you!”

The man had a frantic look to him, face livid and eyes pleading. Extending a many-ringed hand, the Kingpriest motioned for the guards to stand aside.

“Come forward,” he said.

The messenger strode forward and knelt, proffering a silver scrolltube. Beldinas opened it himself, sliding out the parchment within. He scanned its length—then stopped, the tube falling from his fingers with a ringing clatter.

“Sire!” Quarath exclaimed, moving to Beldinas’s side. “What is it?”

The Kingpriest ignored him, staring at the sheet in his hands. Slowly, he spoke, his voice toneless. “It is from the south,” he said. “He is coming, it says. He will be here the day after the morrow.”

Quarath frowned, not understanding. “Who? Who is coming?”

Beldinas turned, his gaze focusing on something the elf couldn’t see, something far away. He did not answer.

*****

Cathan stood at the prow of the skiff, staring at the Lordcity stretched out along the shore. The God’s Eyes burned above the harbor. Beyond lay the domes and gardens, the arena and the Hammerhall—and, drawing his attention with equal force, the Tower and the Temple. He had heard of the peace made between the Church and the Conclave, several days ago on the road. Now, looking upon the bloody-fingered hand, he knew it was true.

Sorcery was gone from Istar.

He and Tithian had had a long, hard journey back from the ruins of Losarcum. Afoot, the Sun’s Anvil had nearly killed them both. Finally, half-dead from thirst and hunger, skin burnished bronze by the sun’s glare, they had walked out of the deserts of Dravinaar and found the road to the empire’s heartland. They had regained some of their strength and found horses. Finally, last night, they had come to Odacera on Lake Istar’s southern shore.

They stayed there until dawn, then set forth on the first of the day’s ferries to the Lordcity.

“Home,” Tithian stated wearily, coming up beside Cathan. The little boat rounded the breakwater, gliding between larger trading ships on its way to the wharf. “I never thought I’d say it again. We’ve come home.”

Cathan only stared at the Temple, glistening at the city’s heart.

A party of knights was waiting as they pulled up to the dock. Cathan returned their salutes as he stepped off the skiff, letting them take charge of the horses. He could feel their furtive looks, but when he turned his empty stare upon them, they looked away.

Sighing, he turned to Tithian, drawing the younger knight aside.

“We part here,” he said. “You are a good man, Tithian. I have always thought that of you. Remember that, whatever may come.”

Tithian blinked. “My lord? I thought—”

“Go,” Cathan barked. “That’s an order.”

For a moment the younger knight wavered, then, though thoroughly confused, he bowed to Cathan. “Paladine guide thy steps, sir,” he said.

“And thine,” Cathan said. Turning, he left Tithian, heading alone into the Lordcity.

The crowds outside the Temple were larger than ever, chanting the Lightbringer’s name.

Cathan felt very weary as he looked at them. He walked around to the side gate. The knights standing watch stared at him in amazement, and so did the clerics he passed in the Temple’s gardens. He ignored those who signed the triangle and made warding signs.

His eyes were only on the basilica, its crystal dome shining above the rest of the church. In he went, drawing still more astonished looks as he made his way through the sunbathed hallways.

When he entered the anteroom, he didn’t stop to lave his hands or genuflect to the god.

He didn’t glance at the tables laden with food and wine. Instead, he marched straight toward the velvet curtain, beyond which murmured the voices of the imperial court.

Without hesitation he shoved it aside, striding through.

The silence that descended upon the Hall of Audience was complete. The courtiers turned to stare at him with open mouths. He barely acknowledged them, striding toward the head of the room, where the Kingpriest’s innermost circle were gathered. There was Quarath on one side, Lord Olin on the other—Cathan’s mouth twisted as he noticed the man wore the Grand Marshal’s scarlet tabard. There were the new First Son and Daughter and the other hierarchs.

And there, in their midst…

Beldinas rose from his golden throne, drenched in light, the Miceram a ring of flame around his head. He stretched out his arms.

“Lord Cathan,” the Kingpriest proclaimed. “It makes me glad to see you alive.”

Cathan drew himself up, his empty eyes unwavering. “Not nearly as glad as I am, Holiness,” he said, his voice taut. “I see another has already taken my place, though.”

The Kingpriest looked at Lord Olin. The honorable knight flushed, looking at the floor.

“I thought you dead, my friend,” Beldinas said softly. “We all did. Now that we know otherwise, we rejoice. Don’t worry, we shall find a way to amend this error without offending. Come forward, Cathan.”

Cathan obeyed, his boots clacking upon the blue mosaic at the foot of the imperial dais.

He noted the fear still in Beldinas’s eyes as he halted before the throne. Both of them had changed, these past months. All around the hall, courtiers whispered to one another.

The Kingpriest and his first knight regarded one another. Finally, Quarath broke the stillness, his outraged whisper seeming shrill.

“Kneel before the Lightbringer,” he warned.

“No,” Cathan said, and drew Ebonbane.

The ring of the blade filled the hall, echoing from the crystal dome. Men and women cried out at the sight of naked steel within the basilica. Lord Olin stepped forward, reaching for his own sword, but Cathan froze him with a look. The new Grand Marshal fell back, looking uncertainly toward the throne.

“Be easy, Olin,” Beldinas declared. “Lord Cathan does not intend any harm. But—” he turned back toward Cathan “—I would like to know what you do intend, my friend.”

“I am not your friend, Pilofiro,” Cathan said. “Once I laid this sword at your feet because of my love for you. With it, I have killed in your name. But no more. I have seen firsthand the result of your leadership. Was Loscarcum what you intended?”

The Kingpriest looked stunned. “It was the god’s will,” he said firmly. “The sorcerers were evil. They had to be destroyed.”

“At what cost?” Cathan snapped. “A city, destroyed! Thousands of innocents, dead! And for what—a few Black Robes?”

“This crusade against darkness has come with a price,” Beldinas admitted, “but if good folk must die to bring about the end of evil, then it is the god’s—”

Cathan raised his sword and brought it down. It struck the stair with a ferocity that made the courtiers jump. Chips of marble flew.

“No!” Cathan exclaimed. “Don’t tell me it was Paladine’s will. This was your doing, Beldinas—and it is something Brother Beldyn never would have done, all those years ago. He would have abhorred such rampant death and destruction, and so do I. I will not be a part of this unholy crusade any longer.”

With that, he reached up, set Ebonbane’s tip against the collar of his tabard, and cut the garment off. The burning-hammer sigil split in two. Eyes blazing, he hurled the cloth down on the floor.

Again, tense silence. Cathan glared at the Kingpriest. Beldinas merely looked sad.

Everyone else stared, unsure what to do. Finally, Beldinas sighed and sat back in his throne.

“I once gave you back your life,” he said quietly.

“I gave it to you first,” Cathan replied, sheathing his blade. “Now I’m taking it back. Farewell, Holiness.”

With that, he turned and stalked away from the throne. Men and women parted before him as he went, whispering.

“Wait,” Beldinas called. “My friend—”

Without breaking stride, Cathan walked out of the Hall of Audience and the Temple. He left Istar that same day, and where he went no one could say.

EPILOGUE

Fifthmonth, 943 I.A.

The images would not go away.

Daltigoth, blackened by smoke, ashes and stone blown outward from a crater that gaped like a dying man’s scream. Men and women picking through the rubble, searching for the dead. Plagues of bloodflies and packs of feral dogs searching for other reasons.

Losarcum was worse. The stone blasted to gravel or melted like wax. Great chasms torn through the earth, their bottoms too deep to measure. A pool of black glass, the reflection of the lost obsidian needle trapped in its depths. Nothing moved, save for the occasional carrion bird circling above. Losarcum had become a city of the dead, a cursed place. In the tales of the desert folk who had once peopled it, such places were for ghouls who devoured the flesh of men. This was no tale, however. The City of Stone was home to nothing now.

Not even the spiders and snakes that usually ran rampant in the Sun’s Anvil.

My fault, thought Andras.

He lay in the darkness of the cave, too weak to rise. The water in the Pit of Summoning kept him from dying of thirst, but hunger had emaciated him, and trackless time alone in the dark had shattered his wits. His cheeks were sunken, his ribs poked against his skin, his hair and beard were wild. He had no idea how long he had been here, trapped. Long enough to have disposed of the quasitas, killing and eating them to sate his hunger. They had precious little meat, though, and tasted of brimstone and putrescence. Their bones littered the cave, cracked open, the marrow sucked out.

He’d lived in darkness for a long time—long enough to explore the whole place with his fingertips, memorizing every outcrop, every crack in the stone. Exploring had given him something to do, even as his faith that Fistandantilus would return dwindled. When, finally, he began to accept that the Dark One had abandoned him for good, he’d still clung to the wild hope that, one day, he would see again.

Then the day came, and he wished for blindness again.

When he saw it there, glimmering in the darkness, he’d been sure it was madness: the image of Daltigoth, standing proud at the meeting of its two rivers. The Tower erupting in a torrent, smashing the city, leaving it in flames. Losarcum was the next image—somewhere between two and four days later, was his best guess. It fell too, destroyed as its Tower exploded. The stranded survivors, horribly twisted by the unleashed magic, dwindled each day, until none remained beneath the baking sun. The two images stayed with him, glimmering in the shadows. He would have ripped out his own eyes to be rid of them, but the ruined cities remained even when he shut them.

He bided, each day an agony as he awaited whichever city would be next—Palanthas, probably, with Istar saved for last. No more images appeared, however, and winter had turned to spring. Daltigoth’s trees came into leaf, and the cacti around Losarcum burst into flower. That time was well past now, and the days wore on toward summer as Ergoth’s fields grew rich and green. Still no other images had come, which could only mean that both sides had agreed to a truce. The events he’d launched with his attack on the Divine Hammer at Lattakay were coming, at last, to an end.

He’d tried suicide. He’d walked to the edge of the summoning pool, intent on throwing himself in. He had grabbed up two sharp stones to pound them against his temples with all his might. He had made a crude blade out of quasito bone, to open his wrists or throat.

Each time, though, he’d gotten to the verge of doing the deed, then pulled back. He couldn’t go through with it, no matter how strongly the desire burned within him. Another compulsion always stayed him, forcing him to stop at the last moment. Finally, he could do nothing but lie broken, too far gone to do anything but stare at the ruins of the two fallen Towers and sob until his throat was raw.

“Nuitari,” he wept, over and over. “I did not mean this to happen. I only wanted revenge …”

“And so you have it,” hissed a voice in the shadows one day.

He knew the voice, even as he rolled over to see better. He couldn’t feel the chill of Fistandantilus’s presence—but then, he couldn’t feel anything at all. Nonetheless, there was tin-hooded figure of the Dark One, just a step away.

“The knighthood you despised is smashed, Andras,” Fistandantilus said. “The last of the Order of High Sorcery flees into hiding, even now. If either recover, it will not be for a very long time. You should rejoice, my pupil—you have succeeded.”

Andras knew the Dark One was right. This was what he had hoped for. Victory, however, felt hollow.

“I wish this had never happened,” he croaked, his voice like an ancient hinge. “I wish I could take it all back.”

Fistandantilus only chuckled. “There are few prayers men speak more than that one, boy. Not even the gods can undo what has already been done, though.” He stepped forward, his robes whispering in the dark. “Now … now that I have helped you achieve what you desired most, it is time for you to repay me.”

Andras cringed as the Dark One loomed above, but there was nothing he could do.

Whimpering, he could only twitch while Fistandantilus crouched down beside him.

Eye of Night, watch over me, Andras prayed silently, though he doubted even Nuitari could save him. “What are you going to do?”

“That is the wrong question,” Fistandantilus said, shaking his hooded head. “What you should be wondering is, what you’re going to do.”

Hands, gnarled with age, reached out at the ends of billowing black sleeves. Andras whimpered, his mind white with fear as the Dark One’s fingertips pressed against his skin.

Each was like a spike of ice. He imagined he could feel his skin withering beneath them. He shut his eyes, willing this nightmare to end, for it all to simply go away, but it did not.

Instead, a new image formed within him, brighter and more vivid than the ones of Daltigoth and Losarcum. Another city … another Tower … one more thing Fistandantilus wished him to do.

Andras fought very hard, for quite a long time.

*****

The gates were slender and golden, decorated with a delicate latticework and topped with bejeweled points. On another building, they would have seemed laughably precious, doubly so the gem-encrusted lock into which Merroc slid the tiny silver key. This was no ordinary lock, however. Blue sparks sprang from it as it sealed itself shut, and a sound like a harp with strings of lightning filled the air. Nor were the gates ordinary, any more than the proud trees that grew about them were natural oaks. This was the Tower of Palanthas, the last bastion of High Sorcery outside the seclusion of Wayreth Forest—but only for the moment. For today the order was turning over control of it to mortal men.

Merroc had not expected to be highmage. It had been thrust upon him after the Tower of Istar fell into the church’s hands. Burdened by her grief over Losarcum and Daltigoth, Lady Jorelia had died in her sleep not two weeks since. That had left a fresh void at the head of the order, and Merroc, a White Robe who had served on the Conclave for more than twenty years, had been chosen to fill the post. A broad-bellied man with a long, snowy beard braided with beads of turquoise, he took no pride in his new position. He would lead the wizards into exile, and he would not live to see its end. As long as the Lightbringer lived, the order would remain hidden—perhaps longer, if his successors proved equally zealous.

“One day, though,” Merroc whispered, grasping the key in his hand. “One day … ”

He looked up at the building he had just locked. The Palanthian Tower was an equal mix of all three colors of magic, a tall cylinder of shimmering white tipped with red, onion-shaped domes and minarets of black basalt. It had been the greatest store of learning in all the order, which was why the sorcerers had chosen to abandon it last. It had taken considerably longer than the other Towers to empty it of its books and scrolls. In the end, the wizards had given much of that lore to the Library of Palanthas, where monks who worshiped Gilean, the Book of Knowledge, would keep it safe.

Now the Tower stood empty, its high windows dark, its halls silent. That wouldn’t last long. The Lord of Palanthas would take it over, as the Kingpriest had done in Istar. That thought saddened Merroc greatly. He had studied here as a boy, taken his Test here. At least this Tower was still standing, though. A shudder ran through him as he thought of what had happened elsewhere. As long as the Tower remained, so did, the chance that the mages might one day return.

Sighing, Merroc turned away from the gates. The oaks were in full leaf, summertime coming early this far north. The breeze that whispered among their boughs smelled of the sea. The Shoikan Grove was dark, the most fearsome of all the enchanted woods that surrounded—or once surrounded—the Towers. Its magic filled the minds of those who entered it with fear, terrifying them so that even the doughtiest Solamnic fled weeping before he came close to the other side.

At a gesture from the highmage, the oaks moved aside, forming a path. The sounds of the city grew louder, more distinct. Finally, the trail opened up onto the streets of Palanthas. A crowd had formed outside, thousands strong, the folk of the city clamoring to glimpse the mages’ surrender. When they saw Merroc, they let out a burst of raucous noise: jeering and hissing, mixed with the jubilant shouts of victory. Merroc shook his head sadly, then walked down the path toward them.

The lords of the city awaited him: Urian, the Lord of Palanthas, resplendent in his robes of office; Yarns, the High Clerist of the Solamnic Knights, looking grave beneath his winged helm; Torvald, the city’s high priest, practically ablaze with righteous satisfaction. Astinus the Undying, the master of the Great Library, who had accepted the sorcerers’ tomes, stood nearby. When this was done, he would write it all out in the Iconochronoi, the great chronicles he had been keeping for as long as anyone could remember. He nodded coolly to Merroc, his studious eyes taking in everything around him.

The highmage looked to Lord Urian, trying not to show his distaste. The man’s eyes all but glowed with eagerness as he stared at the Tower. The rumor was that he hoped to turn the place into his private treasury for his hoard of gold and jewels.

“Your Worship,” Merroc said, “the Tower is empty. My people have left it and will not return.”

Urian nodded, licking his lips greedily. The highmage shook his head, annoyance growing as he reached into a pouch and produced an amulet on a silver chain. It was a black gem, unlovely and seething with power. Whoever wore it could pass through the Shoikan Grove unharmed. Even when he held it forth, however, the Lord’s eyes remained fixed on the Tower.

“This is the Nightjewel,” Merroc said. “It will—”

“Who is that up there?” the Lord of Palanthas interrupted, pointing.

Merroc froze. Even Astinus was looking in the same direction, his brow furrowing. That, more than anything, put a cold lump in the highmage’s belly.

Slowly he turned, and saw it too.

It stood in one of the Tower’s windows, high up near the crimson dome: a lone figure, tall and gaunt, his face obscured by a deep, dark hood. His robes were ragged black, billowing in the wind. The people of Palanthas gasped at the sight, exclaiming in horror.

Merroc’s eyes went wide. The Tower had been empty when he left it. He had checked the rooms care fully, with spells and his own eyes. There had been no one left within.

But then, who was that?

The figure raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent, edging back. Merroc ran through some spells he knew, finding one that would conjure a shield to protect the mob from whatever the Black Robe meant to do. He murmured the incantation under his breath, his fingers twitching, then felt the magic course into him. He held it back, waiting.

The Black Robe raised his head and spoke, his voice carrying clearly down beyond the grove.

“You think you have won!” he shouted. “You have won nothing! The gates of this Tower will remained closed and its, halls empty until the day when the master of both the past and the present comes to claim its power!”

With that, he stepped up onto the windowsill.

“No!” Merroc cried.

The Black Robe jumped.

People screamed as he fell, robes fluttering like wings, but not bearing him up, not even slowing him as he plummeted, down, down, down.

The sound his body made when he hit the gates was unspeakable. The golden points drove through him in half a dozen places, impaling him. The latticework bent and warped beneath his weight, turning red as his blood poured out onto the ground. The Black Robe didn’t die right away, though. Somehow, he found the strength to tilt his head up, and speak one last spell with his final breath.

“Casai morvok na timoralo, lagong tsarantam uvoi…”

“No,” Merroc said again, his skin turning to ice. He knew those words, knew what would happen even as the Black Robe slumped at last, his life draining away to seal the curse he had laid upon the Tower. “Oh, sweet Solinari, no.”

The golden gates groaned, writhing like a living thing. As Merroc watched, the gold and silver changed from bloody red to the black of corruption, the jewels falling to dust. That wasn’t all, though. Above, the Tower also began to transform. Its minarets cracked and crumbled, chunks of stone raining down on the ground below. The white and red colors faded, turning ice-gray, the Tower’s beauty becoming gruesome. The path through the Shoikan Grove closed.

The crowd’s screams were all around now. Lord Yarus shouted for his men. Lord Urian was gone, running away with the rest, the high priest too. Only Astinus remained, one eyebrow raised as he stoically observed the chaos.

Feeling dead, Merroc sank to his knees, bowed his head and sobbed like a child.

*****

The Dark One laughed, watching the Tower of Palanthas wither and die, the folk who had come to celebrate its fall fleeing in terror. Peering into his scrying vessel—the skull of a silver dragon, cut open and filled with its namesake metal—he nodded in satisfaction at what he had wrought.

It had been a long time coming, and more bother than he had expected. Another man would have regretted that so much death had been necessary to accomplish these things, but it troubled Fistandantilus not a bit. The knights of the Divine Hammer … the people of Daltigoth and Losarcum … his fellow mages … even Andras, whose death had sealed the Tower of Palanthas. What were they to him? Even if ten times as many had perished, it would not have given him pause.

At last his perseverance had its reward. The Order of High Sorcery was driven into hiding, where it could not meddle in his affairs. The church of Istar was in disarray, and he had a place close to the Kingpriest, close to the Lightbringer.

He waved his hand above the dragon shull, and the image of the blighted Tower faded.

The next move would have to wait—perhaps for years—but Fistandantilus had lived for centuries. Above all else, he was patient.

In the darkness, he smiled. The time would come.