Divine Hammer

Cathan nodded. More than a few heads had turned toward him, staring, then looking away as soon as they noticed his eyes. A few plucked at the hem of his tabard or clutched at his hands. He bore it all, even the occasional one who tried to kiss his fingertips. The people of Istar had treated him thus for twenty years. He was, after all, something of a holy relic, the living result of Beldinas’s greatest miracle.

They left the crowd behind, a few dogging their steps as they traced around the buttressed walls that enclosed the Temple. There were other ways in, and soon they found a servants’ entrance, barred and guarded by a pair of broad-shouldered knights. The guards lowered their spears in salute as they recognized the two men coming toward them, then lifted bar and stood aside without a word.

In they went, into a garden where golden starbloom shrubs blazed around lime and almond trees, where a fountain of malachite sprayed water in arcs that looked like ropes of diamond. A lizard the length of Cathan’s arm, bred to look like a silver dragon-it even had horns, and the tiny stubs of wings rising from its shoulders-froze in the midst of a path of crushed rose quartz, stared at them for a heartbeat, then hissed and skittered away. The bushes rattled as it vanished.

Cathan jumped as the guards boomed the doors shut behind him, and for a moment his heart clenched. He was on holy ground now-the holiest in the world. His heart should have sung at the prospect of returning here, but it never did. No matter how much he looked forward to seeing Beldinas again, setting foot within the Temple always made a shiver run through him. He’d died here once.

A strong hand clasped his shoulder, and he looked over to see understanding in Tavarre’s eyes. The old knight had been there that day, had wept once with grief, then again with joy. Once lord and subject, the two were friends now. Cathan managed a weak smile.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The basilica rose in the Temple’s midst, its crystal dome gleaming brighter than mere sunlight could explain. Around it, the other buildings-the vast chancery, the sprawling cloisters, even the towering imperial manse with its broad balconies and rose-hued windows-looked tiny by comparison. The Temple’s central spire, a needle so high it seemed apt to prick the sun flashed with golden fire above. The basilica side doors shone too, and Tavarre led the way in. Cathan’s breath quickened as he strode through the high, sunlit halls of the world’s mightiest church. Birds the color of rubies and amethysts sang in silver cages above, and garlands of flame-colored roses as big as a man’s fist draped the walls.

Silver-robed clerics and acolytes in-gray turned to stare as they passed, many of them bowing their heads or signing the triangle. Cathan flushed beneath their wondering gaze, nodding as they passed. Finally, they reached a platinum door, inlaid with the falcon-and-triangle in lapis. On the other side was a dim antechamber, lit with white tapers, with a curtain of sapphire velvet on the far wall. Running down the room’s length was a table of lacquered wood draped in satin and laden with rich food and drink. The air too was heavy with tempting scents, Cathan couldn’t keep his stomach from snarling.

Tavarre laughed. “You sound like an ogre with tooth rot,” he said. “How long’s it been since you’ve eaten well? Never mind. I’ve got to go announce you. Get some food in you while I’m gone.”

He disappeared through the curtain. It was embroidered with silver thread, showing an image Cathan recognized: the Lightbringer’s procession through the Lordcity’s gates. The table all but groaned beneath the weight of the fare laid there: warm, herbed bread; soft cheese; steaming shellfish drenched in garlic butter; cold pheasant glazed with quince jelly.

There was a bewildering array of strange, tropical fruits as well, brought in from the empire’s northern jungles. He took a ball of bloodmelon and popped it in his mouth, savoring its explosion of tartness while he loaded a gilded plate.

He proved hungrier than he’d thought, and had demolished two heaping platefuls of delicacies, as well as three goblets of watered claret, when the curtain pulled back and Tavarre leaned through, nodding at Cathan’s unasked question.

Smiling, Cathan downed the last of his wine and followed old knight into the Hall of Audience.

Silver light wreathed Kingpriest Beldinas. It never left him, this nimbus like silver moonshine that flared sun- bright ever he called upon the god’s power. Once, it had only been there when he prayed to Paladine. His power had grown since then, however-heightened, certainly, by the Miceram, the Crown of Power that gleamed gold and ruby on his brow.

There was no mistaking the way the corners of the Kingpriest’s mouth curled with amusement. Beldinas often smiled, but usually out of pious joy; mirth was something he didn’t experience much. Now, though, he actually chuckled as looked down upon Cathan, kneeling before the throne.

“Shot it?” he asked.

Cathan’s face felt hot enough to melt the snows of Icereach. “I’m sorry, Holiness,” he said. “I will pay for the bird out of my own coffers.”

The Kingpriest cut him off, raising a hand that sparkled with gems. He wore jewels everywhere, from his rings of office to his encrusted breastplate, to the sparkling slippers upon his feet. Only the sleeves of his robes were devoid of ornamentation. Even his eyes-a strange, pale blue that met Cathan’s blank gaze without blinking- seemed like a pair of precious stones within the divine aura that enveloped him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sir Cathan,” he said. “The Church can afford the loss. You were only trying to protect your men. In truth, it’s helpful to know the bird might seem dangerous to those who don’t know it’s coming. The tinkers in Karthay will have to beware of that, should we choose to make further use of their wonders. Rise- tam fas paripeis.”

Thou art forgiven.

Cathan did as the Kingpriest bade, taking the chance to glance around as he did so. The Hall of Audience was immense enough that a small church could have fit inside it, spires and all. It was a perfect circle two hundred paces across, its floor shining marble, its walls lacquered wood rising up into the shapes of rose petals to embrace the dome above. The crystal rang with every sound and filled the hall with magical light that made the many candles there seem useless-wasteful, even.

There were courtiers everywhere in the hall: nobles, knights, merchants, and priests, the men and women alike powdered and perfumed, dressed in silk and ermine. The gold they all wore could have bought grain enough to feed a city for a year. Cathan recognized a few faces among them. The hierarchs, high priests of the other gods of light, stood in a cluster to his left, resplendent in the crimson of Majere, Mishakite blue and Jolithian gold, Branchala’s green and Habbakuk’s violet. Marwort should have been near them representing Solinari as well as High Sorcery, but the place where he’d stood since before Cathan’s birth was empty now. Cathan wondered whom the wizards would send to replace him.

On the other side were the Kingpriest’s innermost circle, the highest clerics of Paladine.

Farenne, the First Daughter, was a lovely young woman, just past thirty, her short, raven hair framing a face that looked as if it were, made of porcelain. At her side was Adsem, the First Son. He was old and stooped, his swarthy pate covered with many spots and very little hair. A frail man, he leaned on a stick of polished ivory.

Then there was the elf. Quarath of Silvanesti was more beautiful than Farenne and older than Adsem by more than a century, a tall, slender figure who had hair the color of honey and a sharp-angled face whose hazel eyes missed nothing at all. He was the only one in the hall who was not a citizen of Istar, being Emissary of the Silvanesti elves, but he was Beldinas’s closest advisor nonetheless. He had been the first to welcome the Lightbringer to the Lordcity when the hierarchs finally turned away from Kurnos. Now he had the Kingpriest’s ear, and the haughtiness in his face told Cathan that the seas would swallow the empire before he gave it up.

Cathan’s gaze drifted on. A blue mosaic, carefully laid to resemble rolling waves, spread across the floor beneath his feet, washing up against the dais before him. The dais had seven steps, leading up to a massive throne of gold, flanked by smoldering censers and wreathed around with white roses and sprays of tiny blue flowers called Mishakal’s mist.

Twenty years on the throne had changed Beldinas little. The lines of his jaw were sharper, and wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes, but otherwise he might still have been seventeen. Even his hair remained the same, all brown and no gray, tumbling from beneath the crown in long, thick waves. Cathan felt a ridiculous twinge of jealousy at that, his hand straying to the spot on his pate where scalp had started showing through.

“You are welcome back here, my friend,” Beldinas intoned, the dome chiming with every word. “We praise your victories and mourn your losses. Come to the manse tonight. We shall dine together, and talk of what will