“What?” Quarath asked.
Wordlessly, Beldinas held out the parchment. Still cupping the seeds in his hand, Quarath took it from him.
Your Most Holy Majesty, it read.
Each of these seeds comes from one of the first trees to grow in the groves that now surround the Towers. They are old, and they are powerful. Plant them, and they will clear the path to victory.
Quarath frowned, turning the parchment over in his hand. It bore no signature, no seal, no sigil. His brow furrowed with suspicion. And yet—
And yet, he could feel the seeds’ power. It was the same feeling he’d had earlier, near the grove… .
“Emissary. Look at me.”
Starting, Quarath glanced up from the missive. The Kingpriest’s eyes met his gaze, caught and held it. If anything, the fear in his face had grown. Quarath felt his insides clench with dread.
“Holiness?”
“I have never needed anyone’s advice as badly as I do at this moment, my friend,” Beldinas said, holding out the seeds. “What do I do about these?”
Quarath licked his lips. “I do not know. Truly, if they are what this message claims, then it is the boon we have been looking for. But … it is perhaps too convenient, don’t you think? We do not even know who sent them.”
“That is my mind as well,” the Kingpriest agreed. “Yet if they can give us victory, what kind of fool would I be to throw that away?”
“Also true, Holiness.” Quarath opened his mouth to say more, then stopped, with a shake of his head. “I am sorry. I do not know which is the right course to take.”
Beldinas bit his lip, his eyes darkening with disappointment. After a moment, though, he laid a hand on Quarath’s arm. “Thank you for being honest, my friend. Another man might have told me what he thought I wanted to hear, just to curry favor.” With that he rose, his hand clenching the seeds. “I shall seek the truth elsewhere, then. I must meditate and seek the god’s will.”
*****
No one ever entered the Kingpriest’s private sanctum but the Kingpriest himself—not even his personal servants, who had the run of the manse. It was a small cell, barely large enough to hold one person. Unlike the rest of the manse, where gold and satin, jewels and exotic woods were everywhere, it was an austere place, its walls, floor, and ceiling bare marble, white laced with silver veins. A single, high window admitted a shaft of moonlight, which fell upon the room’s only decoration: the god’s platinum triangle, set upon the wall.
The door shut behind Beldinas after he entered, sealing with the softest of clicks. He had removed the Miceram, cradling it in his hands, and his aura diminished to the faintest of glimmers. Now he set the crown upon the floor, along with the pouch containing the mysterious seeds. Glancing up at Paladine’s symbol, he signed the triangle, then sat cross-legged in the center of the floor. He was silent a moment, staring at his hands folded in his lap. When he looked up again, his eyes fixing on the triangle above him, his cheeks were wet with tears.
“My god,” he murmured, “all my life I have known what I must do. When Lady Ilista sought me out, I knew I must go with her. When I came to Istar, I knew I must become Kingpriest. Ever since, every step I have taken, I have known it is the right one. But now … ”
He paused, putting a hand to his forehead. He tried to speak, then faltered and fell silent again. It was a long while before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice was little more than a breath, tight with anguish.
“Paladine, I cannot hear your voice. It frightens me—I am alone, with enemies all around. The chance to destroy them is in my hands … and yet I do nothing because I cannot feel you with me.
“Please, god of gods, father of light … I am begging you. Show me the true path. Help me destroy this evil!”
His words echoed in the closeness of the sanctum, then faded to silence. No answer came. Swallowing, the Kingpriest closed his eyes. The lines of worry and despair faded from his face. He sat very still, hands steepling into the sacred triangle, and listened, waiting for an answer.
He sat there for hours, never moving, his lips twitching as he beseeched Paladine’s aid.
The moonlight faded as Solinari set, leaving the room cloaked in shadow. Only when daylight came, the sun’s warmth bathing his face, did Beldinas come back to himself. His eyes fluttered open, and his face began to crease with disappointment—then froze, turning pale as he looked at the floor before him.
The sun’s light had fallen upon the seeds.
The Lightbringer stared, too stunned to move—then, suddenly, he began to laugh.
Paladine had not spoken to him, but the god had provided, just the same.
CHAPTER 26
The Tower of Losarcum was alive with activity. Men and women in robes of all three colors bustled about, carrying armloads and pouches full of books, scrolls, and magical relics. Floating, glowing discs glided the corridors, bearing still more treasures. Enchanted creatures of all shapes and sizes scurried and lumbered about, helping with the evacuation. Room by room, the sorcerers took what they could and cast spells to draw the magic out of what they could not. Artifacts that had lain within the Tower for centuries but were too difficult to remove quickly now lay inert, the sorcery that had once infused them gone.
Leciane had taken part in such a ritual just yesterday, joining a circle of mages—White, Red, and Black Robes all working together—in weaving a spell upon a room full of glowing crystal sculptures. Khadar, the Master of the Tower, had declared the crystal too fragile to move with any ease—and time too short—so Leciane and the others had ripped the Art from the sculptures’ hearts until the light within them died. She had wept when it was over. They were just baubles now, dark and lifeless, and no harm to anyone, should they fall into the wrong hands.
She would almost surely have to go through that again—perhaps many times. The Tower, like all its brethren, was huge, with hundreds of rooms and thousands of wonders.
The Conclave had decreed that they all must be emptied by the end of the month. That day was still two weeks away, but Leciane already knew they would not finish in time—and what if the attack came before then?
She knew the answer, just as well as every other wizard. Atop the tower was the Heartchamber, an obsidian chamber where the magic was strongest, where a spike of black stone—a perfect reproduction of the Tower itself—loomed over a carved replica of Losarcum. There were similar places in the other four Towers as well, though she had only seen the one in Daltigoth. Each Master knew a spell that could shatter the miniature.
When it did, the Tower would destroy itself as well.
It was a terrible thing, and no one wished for it. All they could do was hope the attack did not come too soon.
Once they had their loads of books and trinkets, the mages all moved toward the same place: the Chamber of Traveling. Located halfway between the Tower’s base and its apex, the chamber was a tall, circular room ringed with statues of legendary wizards sculpted in onyx and alabaster and scarlet jade. Blue light filled it, playing in ripples and rings upon its walls. It came from a swirling disc in the room’s midst, twice as tall as a man. Within was the image of a vast vault, filled with the Tower’s treasures. The vault stood hundreds of leagues away, in Wayreth—the one Tower the Lightbringer and his allies could not touch.
Similar rooms held the riches of Istar, Palanthas, and Daltigoth. One by one, wizards brought their burdens to the portal, then stepped through it, crossing half the world in an eye-blink. Moments later, they came out again empty-handed.
Leciane was just leaving the Chamber of Traveling, her back aching from having carried too many books on her last trip, when Khadar hailed her. The Master was a small man, slender and childlike though he was fifty summers old. The Test had done that to him. He wore faded Red Robes with ragged cuffs, and his thinning silver hair was perpetually unkempt, wisps of it sticking out of his hood at odd angles. His face was ashen, his eyes sunken and shadowed. He had not slept for days,
and probably wouldn’t for days to come.
“Milady!” he called, hobbling down the long stair that wound around and around the Tower’s midst, from its crown to its base. He leaned on a plain oaken staff as he approached her. “I have been searching for you.”
“What is it this time, Master?” she sighed. “I do not know if I can take another disenchantment.”
The Master shrugged, drawing near. “You would manage if needed, I think,” he said, “but it isn’t a disenchantment I have in mind. Come—we need a Red Robe of your ability. It is time to awaken the Guardians.”
*****
There were five other sorcerers in the room when they arrived—two Black Robes, three White. They nodded to Leciane as she followed Khadar through the door. She returned the gesture, then turned, gazing across the House of the Guardians.
The House was a dimly lit cavern deep beneath the Tower, its walls hewn out of golden sandstone. The mages stood on a narrow ledge. Beyond, the floor dropped away into a bowl thirty paces across. Standing in the hollow, arrayed in neat rows and columns, were the Guardians: half a hundred statues of malachite, their green surfaces glistening in the glow of the magical lamps that hovered in the air. The statues were of warriors, nine-foot men in suits of scale mail of a style that had been archaic centuries ago. In their hands they held curved swords, a pair each, crossed across their chests. Their heads were those of animals—dogs and hawks, serpents and lions, all drawn into fearsome snarls. Their eyes were shut.
Leciane stared at them. When the mages built the Tower, they had crafted the statues to serve as its protectors. Not once in the millennia since had the wizards used them. There had been no need. Now, though, the Guardians must be awakened.
“Come, my kin in the Art,” said Khadar, beckoning the others near. “Give your power to me, that I may do this thing.”
The other wizards exchanged meaningful glances, then walked toward the master, forming a circle around him. Another time, Leciane might have chuckled to see those in the White Robes mingling with their dark-souled cousins, but not now.
She went to work, her hands dancing in the air, fingers weaving and twitching to form the gestures of power. The other five mages surrounding Khadar did the same. They moved in unison, like Karthayan dancers, every movement graceful and precise. As one, their voices rose to chant.
“Mapothi sek bunaru, jandoth lo shakar. Fas uganti yasham, tsarlas gangatiad … ”
All at once, sparks leaped from the wizards’ fingertips, matching the sorcerers’ robes—blazing white, oddly radiant black, and, from Leciane, blood red. This was pure magic, the essence of the three moons. With the rest of her brothers and sisters, Leciane extended her arms, pointing at the Master, her voice rising into a shout.
“Kusat kelas bandonai!”
The magic flowed from her in a rash—great, writhing ropes of it, the color of rubies, clothed in scarlet mist. Inky streams and milky ones joined it, striking Khadar all at once.
He jerked, his back arching as the magic struck him, pouring together the strength of Solinari, Nuitari, and Luntari. Leciane found herself envying the Master. What he was feeling now, few wizards had felt in a thousand years. The gods of magic had different voices, but when they joined together, the harmony was beautiful. That was something the Lightbringer and his minions would never understand.
Khadar was glowing, throwing off energy in white, black, and red waves. No mortal could withstand that much power for long. If he didn’t release it soon, it would tear him apart.
Shivering with a pain that was also pleasure, Khadar stepped out of the circle and stood at the edge of the ledge, looking down at the Guardians. He began to gesture, shouting the words of his spell.
“Obai deafas, jolifi mur latanniath!”
With a roar, the three colors of magic became one, a roseate hue that leaped from his body, streaming out across the cavern in a rippling sheet. Leciane watched it, her chest swelling with pride. The united magic kept going, until its edges fountained against the walls. Then, with a jarring gong, it shattered into a million pieces. The shards rained down upon the statues below.
One by one, the Guardians opened their eyes. They glowed with the same rosy light, the light of the three moons mixed together. Their faces remained immobile, frozen in furious glares, but their limbs began to move, grinding and scraping as they turned to stare up at Khadar.
He did not speak to them; he didn’t have to. They communicated without words. Though weakened by the magic’s flow—as were all the wizards in the room—Khadar looked down on them with a commanding air. For a moment, all was silent—then, grinding and scraping, the Guardians turned and marched from the cave, leaving only dust and shards of green stone behind them.
“They won’t be enough,” Leciane said when they were gone. “Will they?”
Khadar shook his head. “If we had twice as many, perhaps, but the mages who built this place never dreamed of needing them in greater numbers. Still, they will hold back the knights, for a time.”
Leciane nodded. It would have to do.
Please, Lunitari, she prayed. Let the attack not be soon.
*****
“More wine!” cried Sir Marto, holding up his empty drinking-bowl.
His broad face, already reddened by drink, broke into a grin as a servant—a shaven-headed girl in a revealing garment of golden silk—brought a pitcher. The straw-colored liquid that poured from it was thick and redolent of spices. The folk of Losarcum did not mix their wine with water, as they did elsewhere in the empire. Marto took a long swallow—and an even longer look at the servant girl as she saucily sauntered away—then glanced at Cathan and beamed.
“I’ll say it again,” he said, slurring the words, “these desert folk know how to live. If I’d known this place existed, I might never have joined the knighthood!”
Cathan nodded, forcing a smile. They had been in Losarcum a week now, staying as guests of the Patriarch, and Marto had said the same thing every night.
The big knight had a point. Losarcum was a city of pleasures, and while the coming of the Istaran Church had tempered that somewhat—its women no longer went bare-breasted in public, for one thing—it was still a place where wine and song ruled. Many of the other knights, including Sir Tithian, were in love with the exotic place, but to Marto in particular it was a wonder beyond wonders.
For Cathan, however, the pleasures were muted at best. The festhall where the knights drank wine and ate olives and sweets while lounging on satin cushions was huge and rich, sporting gold-threaded arrases and marble fountains. In one corner, a young man with henna-red hands played dulcet melodies on a cimbello, a plucked dulcimer that sounded far sweeter than the hammered instruments of the northern provinces. In another, men fed scraps of spiced pheasant to a furred serpent in a cage. Elsewhere, a troupe of dancers was enacting the account of a tragic romance—Losarcine lore was full of such tales—and not far away, a boy with a yellow-painted face juggled what appeared to be seven double-bladed daggers.
The delights of the city were more than enough to keep his men happy. No matter how wonderful the distractions, however, Cathan couldn’t keep his mind from roaming back to the Tower.
Absently, he popped a honeyed date into his mouth, then spat it out again. It tasted like ashes. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from his cushion and—ignoring Sir Marto’s booming protest—strode from the festhall, shoving aside a curtain of amber beads as he made his way out into the night. The silver and red moons were both high, making the City of Stone glow pink. Stained glass lamps lit in the chasms between the buildings, and the sounds of laughter and music echoed back and forth. The scents of saffron and blood-blossom hung in the air.
Above everything the Tower gleamed, its glassy black surface reflecting the light of moons and stars. It gave no sign of life and had not since their arrival, but the wizards hadn’t abandoned their home. He’d sent a handful of knights into the grove with ropes tied to them to see if the enchantments
still worked. They did. By the time his men had taken five steps, the magic had taken hold. Unlike the spell of forgetfulness that had overwhelmed him at Istar’s Tower, the power of this grove was to inflame men’s passions. They had begun to laugh wildly or yell at each other in rage, alternating between the two from one moment to the next. It had taken a dozen knights hauling on the ropes to pull them out again.
A good part of him hoped Beldinas would not discover a way to foil the groves’ magic. He didn’t tell that to his men, though, nor to anyone else. They would have thought him a coward if he had. It wasn’t battle he feared, though—it was the question circling around and around in his mind: was this the god’s will?
The Lightbringer wished it, and he was Paladine’s voice. That ought to be enough—as it had been, for twenty years—but it wasn’t. The Kingpriest had changed, and Cathan had felt the magic. He could no longer easily revile it as others did.
He bowed his head, signing the triangle. “Father of Dawn,” he murmured. “What am I to do?”
“Sir? Are you well?”
Startled, Cathan looked up: Tithian. His former squire stood in the doorway, swaying a little from the wine. His brows knitted with concern.
“I’m fine, lad,” he said, unsure whether that was a lie. “I just grew tired of the noise.”
“Marto, you mean,” Tithian said with a grin.
Cathan laughed. “Him too.”
Tithian came forward to join him. He was silent a moment, looking at the moons. “I think about Damid sometimes,” he said. “I think he may have been luckier than any of us.”
Cathan looked at him in surprise.
“He dwells with the god now,” Tithian explained, his eyes glistening with tears. “He didn’t have to be at the Bilstiho, or the Eusymmeas.” He shook his head. “Or here.”
He’s afraid, Cathan thought. He doesn’t want to fight this battle, either. He rested a hand on Tithian’s shoulder.
“Damid was my right hand,” he said. “We protected each other. I’m honored that you have taken his place, lad.”
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