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 o
f 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 o
f 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.”
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