Andras shuffled into the Bilstibo, his shackled ankles hindering his gait. Masked and blindfolded, he needed two knights to guide him toward the stake. Cathan had hand-picked Sir Marto and Sir Tithian for the duty, and they bore it well, neither hurrying the wizard nor giving him any chance to escape. As the highest-ranking knight in Lattakay, Cathan’s own place was here at the Kingpriest’s side, but he found himself wishing he could be with his men below.
The crowd turned ferocious at the sight of the wizard, cursing him in Old Seldjuki and both Istaran tongues, Church and Common. Some flung garbage down from the stands-rotten vegetables and fish innards that splattered upon the sands.
Leciane muttered something under her breath. Cathan glanced at her. She shook her head, fingering something at her throat-then looked away, seeing his eyes on her.
The other knights parted as Tithian and Marto guided the sorcerer past them, into the inner circle. Now, finally, the wizard began to falter, slowing and struggling. The two knights had to all but carry him, hoisting him up onto the kindling. Laughter echoed down from the stands. Marto and Tithian chained him to the stake. He fought them, but his struggles weakened. The crowd’s shouts rose as he finally lost his will and slumped, beaten.
With a jerk, Sir Marto tore away the blindfold that had covered the upper half of the sorcerer’s face. Golden hair spilled free. Andras’s eyes were squeezed shut, his cheeks wet with tears. The crowd laughed harder still.
“This is disgusting,” Leciane muttered as Marto and Tithian climbed down from the stake. “How can you do it in the name of a god of good?”
Beldinas did not hear her; within his aura, his gaze was far away. But Quarath did and he answered, his chin rising.
“Because of what he did, in the name of your magic,” the elf sniffed. “Do not forget, the man is a murderer, a hundred times over. How would you punish such a man, Lady?”
Leciane met Quarath’s haughty gaze, then looked away, muttering a curse. Again, her hand strayed to her throat.
The pounding of the drums grew louder as the priests circled Andras, choking the air with incense smoke. One stepped forward, flicking oil with a golden aspergillum-once, twice, thrice. The sorcerer flinched as the droplets struck him, moaning through the Tasdbo. The crowd roared.
“Rubudo!”
Be silent!
The voice was like a thunderclap, cutting through the din, leaving silence in its wake.
Thousands of eyes turned, looking up toward the balcony and the glowing figure who stepped forward, hands upraised.
“This is not godly,” said the Lightbringer. “Paladine would never mock the pain of another. That is for the followers of the dark gods. This man committed a great atrocity against us, and for that we shall punish him-but we should not take joy in that, my children. Mourn him instead, for his soul is lost, given to evil and condemned to eternal suffering in the Abyss. Let his death show to those who would wish harm upon the church or the Divine Hammer-this is what awaits those who spit in the god’s eye.”
The crowd seemed to shrink back as he spoke, their shoulders hunching with shame. At the stake, the sorcerer began to sob, tears and sweat dripping from his face. His wrists twisted within the manacles until blood ran down his arms. Beldinas looked down upon him, the Miceram blazing on his head.
“Andras of Tarsis,” he declared, “the crime you have committed is an act of cowardice and cruelty unequalled in the empire’s history. It has hurt us, make no mistake, but the people of Istar are not so easily beaten. Now, standing guilty before them, you must pay for your sins. Let the flames burn the darkness from your soul as the flesh from your bones.”
Raising his hands, he signed the sacred triangle. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo. Sifat.”
In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might. So be it.
It was the signal the knights had been waiting for. Turning, they stepped toward the stake, torches held high. The crowd held its breath. Even Andras was silent, collapsing as his senses finally failed him. The torches lowered …
“Vincil,” Leciane murmured.
Cathan was among the first to feel the magic, surging through the air like a gathering storm. Eyes wide, he turned to face the sorceress. She clenched something in her fist, on a broken chain-an amulet. Sorcery seethed about it, sparkling with orange light. With a gasp, he reached for her.
Too late. The spell had begun.
A great gout of smoke erupted around the stake, purple and sparking, rumbling with thunder as miniature lightning bolts played within. It spread quickly, pushing the knights back, smothering the flames where the torches had already touched. Andras vanished from sight, the vapors instantaneously devouring him. Cathan knew at once the sorcerer was gone.
He turned back toward Leciane, his eyes wide. She didn’t see him. Her eyes were trained on the sands below.
Before he could make another move, the magic burst free, streaking upward from the smoke-shrouded stake in a great fierce torrent. Up and up it poured, violet and scarlet and sapphire blue. It curved as it rose, like the plume of a geyser on a windy day-but the wind wasn’t what propelled it. It arched through the air, over the harbor, and straight into the Udenso.
The sky above Lattakay seemed to shudder as sorcery poured into the great, glass icon.
It went on for a long time, the magic coruscating as it flowed through the panes. A loud chiming filled the air, the groan of bronze beneath it. Down on the sand, the smoke cleared.
Sure enough, Andras had vanished, and the stake with him, but hardly anyone noticed.
They were all looking up.
The statue had opened its eyes.
That’s not possible, Cathan thought.
With a horrible, ear-splitting creak, the Udenso moved, swiveling its head to look down upon the arena. Its body twisted, panes of glass shattering as its joints bent. Glittering fragments fell away from it. Screams rang out from the crowds as its eyes-living eyes, as blue and strange as Beldinas’s-fixed upon the man who bore its likeness.
“The Black Robe is ours,” said its high and ringing voice. “We will show him justice, not you. The Order of High Sorcery bows to no man, not even the Lightbringer.”
All across the gallery-all across the Bilstibo-people scattered, screaming. Others stood still, staring with shocked eyes at the statue that had come to life.
Beldinas showed surprisingly little emotion. The Kingpriest looked back at his image, hands folded before him. He shut his eyes. The holy light around him swelled.
“Pridud,” he spoke.
Break.
The statue stopped. For a moment, Cathan could have sworn he saw its brow furrow.
Then a blast of energy erupted from the Kingpriest, slamming into the great, glass face.
With a noise like the end of the world, the statue exploded.
Shards of glass flew in every direction, sparkling in the sunlight as they scattered into the harbor. The Udenso shattered into dust, filling the air with glinting motes. The latticework that had framed the glass remained, standing up briefly like some strange skeleton. Then, with the shriek of collapsing metal, it toppled backward, into the sea.
CHAPTER 18
Looking out over the harbor from the temple’s highest balcony, Beldinas shook his head.
The ruins of the Udenso lay half-hidden beneath the water, the few shards of glass that still clung to it flashing in the afternoon sun. The ruins choked the channel, blocking the port so no ships could enter or leave. Lattakay’s merchant-barons were livid, knowing their business would slip away. The rest of the city shifted between rage and terror over what had happened at the execution. The Divine Hammer and the town guard had worked hard to keep the riots from happening. Now folk had calmed, and they lined the city’s stone wharf, staring through misty eyes at what had become of the their idol of the Lightbringer.
“This will not stand,” the Kingpriest declared, waving his hand toward the mass of tangled metal. “It must not stand.”
/> “Yes, Holiness,” said Quarath, hovering at his side. He glared at Leciane, who stood nearby. “The High Sorcerers must pay for this. I have drawn up the edict to declare all wizards Foripon. It awaits only your seal.”
Leciane sucked in a sharp breath. Her dusky face turned darker still. “That would be a mistake,” she said. “I am unhappy with how my order has handled things, but naming us enemies of the Church will do nothing to improve matters.”
“What would you suggest, then?” Quarath shot back. “That we take no reprisal?”
“Better that than stir up the masses against sorcerers,” Leciane replied.
Quarath snorted.
“Be still, Emissary.” Beldinas’s musical voice was calm, steady. “I know your mind on this. I will sign the edict if I must, but first I will hear everyone out.”
Glowering at the elf, Leciane spoke to the Kingpriest. “We should try to settle this,” she said, “without bloodshed or decrees. I propose a moot to make peace.”
Beldinas held up a hand as Quarath drew himself erect. Revered Son Suvin was scowling, too, as were most of the priests on the balcony.
“I am not against peace,” Beldinas said, stroking his chin. “But tell me again, why did they steal Andras from us?”
“The Conclave wishes no harm upon the Church, Holiness,” she said. “The highmage is a reasonable man, you will find. As I have said, he wants Andras punished for his crimes just as badly as you did.”
“Bah!” Unable to contain himself, Quarath stabbed a finger toward the remains of the Udenso. “Would you treat with one who did that, Holiness?”
“It was not the mages who brought the statue down,” Beldinas countered. “It fell at my command.”
“Perhaps,” Quarath insisted, “but-”
“Enough!” Beldinas said, cutting him off. “Neither of you will convince me. I will meditate on this, milady. It may be that matters have gone too far to solve with words. I will make my decision in the morning.”
With that, he turned away from his advisors, striding forward to the balustrade and standing there, staring out at the statue’s twisted remains. Knowing she had been dismissed, Leciane turned to go. The sorceress felt Quarath’s angry eyes on her back as she left the balcony.
If anything, the highmage seemed even less willing to compromise than the clergy.
“A moot?” Vincil echoed from within her mirror. For a moment he looked as if he might laugh, but then his smile collapsed into a look of incredulity. “You’re serious, aren’t you? The Lightbringer wants to meet with us.”
“He does, if you do,” Leciane dissembled. “Vincil, you must. If you’d seen the people, you would understand. They want blood, and if you don’t offer something for the peace, he’ll give it to them. It would only take a nudge to turn this whole empire against all the Robes. Do you want that?”
Vincil’s lip stiffened. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Very well. Tell him we will meet-but in the Lordcity, not where you are now.”
“Thank you, Most High,” Leciane said, bowing her head.
Vincil grunted unhappily and vanished from the mirror. When he was gone, she let out a slow, weary breath. When she’d accepted the position of envoy, she hadn’t expected to broker peace talks between the order and the empire. I’d have turned down the offer if I had, she thought with a grimace. But Leciane was determined to keep the Church and the sorcerers from going to war. That would lead to no good for either side.
She went to the window and opened the shutters, letting the night breeze blow in. It was past midnight, Solinari riding high, the mist spotty upon the water. In the silver light, the ruins of the Udenso looked even more like a jumble of bones than they had in the daytime.
If Leciane had known any spells for it, she would have moved the metal out of sight-but there were limits to her power. It would take an archmage to perform such a feat.
Perhaps-
She snapped out of her reverie, her gaze shifting to the manor’s gardens. She’d seen a flash of movement, moonlight on skin. Looking closer, she recognized Cathan, standing among the starblooms. Her blood quickened at the sight of him. More than a week had passed since the night of the scrying-but she hadn’t forgotten.
He turned and glanced up at the window. She could see by the way his cheeks colored that he remembered too. His tongue ran over his lips, sharpening her own memories. That frightened her. She hadn’t been with a man since Vincil. What need was there, with her magic to occupy her? Now, though …
Her hands were moving before she realized it, drawing in the magic and channeling it, giving it form. By the time she thought about her actions it was done, the spell ready for the incantation that would unleash it. She bit her tongue, still holding back the word. She didn’t have to finish. There was still time.
“Kushat,” she whispered.
The world shimmered around her. Then, with a sudden rush, it fell away, leaving her floating in nothingness. This spell was only powerful enough for traveling short distances.
It was good enough to bring her down to the garden, though.
Cathan drew back in surprise as she appeared-then stopped, his eyes wide. He looked as if he might run-but didn’t. Instead, he stepped toward her. She could smell him, the scent of leather and sweat amid the garden’s flowers.
“I didn’t see you today,” she murmured. “Or yesterday.”
He stepped closer, arm’s length now. She angled her head, waiting. He reached out … and slapped her, hard, across the face.
“Damn you,” he swore.
Leciane stumbled and nearly fell. Her cheek aflame, she put a hand to her jaw and stared at him hurtfully.
“What?” was all she could manage to ask.
He looked at his hand, as though surprised by what he had done-but only for an instant. Then his angry gaze shifted back to her. “Don’t act innocent,” he growled. “I saw you use the amulet!” He started toward her again.
Several spells leaped into her mind, but she thrust the thoughts away. Using magic was the last thing she needed to do now. Instead Leciane held firm, facing him down as she fished the medallion out from beneath her robe.
“This?” she asked, holding it out “No, Cathan. I only contacted the Conclave before your men burned Andras. I didn’t know what they would do.”
He spat at her feet. “You still had a hand in Andras’s disappearance. After all we did to capture him. Now you have the gall to talk to the Kingpriest about making peace….”
Leciane shook her head. “I want peace,” she said, reaching for his hand. “I’m trying to help, Cathan.”
Hissing, he batted her fingers away. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want anything from you,” he snapped. “What did you do to me, that night? What sorcery did you use on me?”
“I never used any sorcery on you!” she protested, understanding he was talking about their kiss. She felt stricken. “All right, I nearly did, once, but I chose not to. What we did together was real-”
“No!” he barked. “Lying witch! You tried to make me break my vows, but I’m wise to your tricks. Make your ‘peace,’ if you wish, but stay away from me, and from Wentha and her children. If you ever do anything to harm His Holiness, I swear you’ll feel this.”
He put his hand threateningly on his sword. He was trembling all over. Then, with a snarl, he stormed away through the garden, muttering curses under his breath.
Leciane stood alone in Solinari’s light, listening to the chirping of the crickets.
Shuddering, she turned and hurried back to the manor. She wanted to return to her chambers before the tears blinded her completely. She didn’t, quite.
CHAPTER 19
The burning worked its way up his leg, his robes feeding the flames so they crept higher, quicker. Skin blackening and peeling away; gobbets of flesh dropping off to sizzle amid the tinder. Oh, Nuitari, the pain …
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.
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