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 high-mage’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 high-mage’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.
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