“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.
Divine Hammer Page 24