“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 fle
e 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 Mar
shal, 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.
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