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.
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 phy
sically 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!”
Divine Hammer Page 17