Divine Hammer

come. Is that well with you?”

Cathan blinked. He’d been expecting more, perhaps even for Beldinas to call a recess to the court-certainly not such a swift dismissal. But then, Beldinas had both the church and the empire to run. Cathan could wait a few hours.

“Holiness,” he said, bowing.

The Lightbringer inclined his head. Turning, Cathan stepped away from the throne and walked back across the hall, toward the antechamber. Halfway there, he glanced back.

Beldinas had turned away, to listen to Quarath as the elf whispered in his ear.

That night, Cathan regretted having eaten so much while he waited for his brief audience with Beldinas. The feast the Kingpriest’s servants laid upon the long marble table in the manse’s cavernous dining hall made the fare in the basilica seem like tavern food: silver mushrooms from the wild woods of Kharolis, red olives stuffed with Dravinish peppers, pies of lamprey fed on the blood of yearling calves … and, most remarkable, a whole basilisk, roasted slowly and served with a sauce made from the fruit of vallenwood trees. Cathan stared at the beast-which stared back at him with empty eye sockets, its fangs glistening in the twilight that shone through the hall’s rose windows-and wondered where it had come from. There had been no basilisks in Istar for more than a century.

Still full from earlier, he ate little, though he tried a bit of everything. He spoke little during the meal-eating was eating, and talking was talking, his parents had taught him before the plague took them-and listened instead to others: Tavarre’s booming laugh and Adsem’s stern pronouncements, Farenne’s demure murmurs, Quarath’s silky interjections.

They spoke of tax levies from Ismin, newly consecrated shrines in Taol, and a new Patriarch who had just risen to power in Gather. He let it all wash over him, sipping claret and looking past the courtiers to the head of the table the table, where the silver light glowed.

Beldinas ate little, as well. Raised as a monk, he had grown up on plain, spare meals and seldom actually partook of the rich banquets, though like Cathan he sampled each dish in turn. Nor did he join in the conversation any more than was expected of him, instead letting Quarath speak on his behalf. His pale eyes looked straight at Cathan every now and then, mostly they peered away into the hall’s shadowy corners, as though searching for something. Cathan knew what the Kingpriest sought: any sign of the shadow demon the Usurper had summoned to murder him, long ago. Beldinas had turned the god’s power upon the monster, destroying it, but even after so many years he still studied the darkness as if sure it would return.

At last the meal ended, the servants clearing away the remains of the dessert-a pudding of cake soaked in moragnac brandy, laced through with iceberries, golden cherries and thick cream-and bringing in black-veined cheeses and bowls of lemon water for the diners to cleanse themselves. Adsem and Farenne both excused themselves, the First Son and Daughter of Paladine departing to tend their own orders. Quarath stayed, however, as did Tavarre, who with Cathan accompanied the Kingpriest from the dining hall to a broad balcony that overlooked the temple grounds. Mist rose from the gardens, and the basilica’s dome glowed like a ripe blood orange in the last rays of sunset. Beyond the Temple walls, lanterns shimmered all over the Lordcity, already mirroring the stars that would soon gleam above. Somewhere below, someone played a plaintive tune on a reed pipe.

“And the pearls?” Beldinas asked.

Cathan started. It was the first time the Kingpriest had addressed him directly all evening. It took him a moment to understand the question. “Oh,” he said. “They worked as you said they would, Holiness. My thanks.”

Beldinas nodded. His parting gift to Cathan, before the knights rode north to hunt Chemoshans, had been the string of pearls Cathan had used to calm the waters as they rowed to the Hullbreaker. Cathan had been confused, certain that he wouldn’t need such a token, but Beldinas had insisted. And he had been right.

Now the Kingpriest smiled, folding his hands before him. A dragonfly the color of amethyst and the length of a dagger flew near, inspected him, and buzzed away.

“So the Deathmaster is no more.”

“Ashes, Holiness,” Cathan agreed. “Burned and gone.”

“Si, po usas ladas,” said Quarath, smiling. Thus to all the god’s foes.

Beldinas inclined his head. “Indeed, Emissary.”

“Your message said the High Sorcerers were sending a new envoy,” Cathan ventured, “but I didn’t see any at court today.”

As if the mere mention of wizards might make one appear, all four men made warding gestures. Even Quarath, whose people revered those who wielded magic, interlaced his fingers to form the eleven holy sign. Unlike most elves, Quarath shared humans’ opinion of those who drew their power from the moons. He had spent nearly fifty years in the Temple, first as aide to his predecessor Loralon the Wise, then as Emissary himself. He returned to the land of his people once a year, to give homage to King Lorac there, but these days he belonged more to the empire than to the glades of Silvanesti.

“The envoy has not arrived yet,” Beldinas replied. “These wizards are proud, so they make us wait, though they could send their representative here any time. Still, we received word from the order just this morning. She will be here in a week. When she comes, I want you to be the one who accompanies her here from the Tower.”

Cathan had already raised one eyebrow when the Kingpriest mentioned that the new envoy was a she. Now the other one shot up, “Me, Holiness?”

“You, my friend,” Beldinas replied. “You are to watch this sorceress for me, Cathan. That is why I called you back here. There are few in this empire I trust as much as you … and they are all on this balcony right now.”

Both Tavarre and Quarath were looking at him-the old knight with a knowing smile, the elf with a tiny crease of irritation between his brows. The sky was the color of plums, shading toward black. The wind shifted, blowing cool off the lake, bringing the scent of jasmine up from the gardens. Cathan bowed his head.

“Of course, Holiness,” he said. “I am yours to command.”

“This is no command, Cathan,” the Lightbringer said. “I am asking you. You can say no.”

“No, Holiness. I cannot.”

Beldinas smiled at that, just for a moment.

“You should tell him the other reason he’s back here” Tavarre interjected, grinning like a carved gourd at Harvest Come.

Cathan looked at the old knight, then at Beldinas. The Kingpriest spread his hands.

“Very well,” he said. “This month marks the twentieth anniversary of my arrival in the Lordcity.”

“I know,” Cathan replied.

“Well I remember that day,” Quarath added.

“Cathan has even better reasons to remember it, Emissary,” Beldinas murmured. “Don’t you agree?”

The elf pursed his lips and looked out at the stars.

“I have been offered an opportunity to celebrate that anniversary,” Beldinas added. “On the first day of the new year, there is to be a tournament in my honor.”

“A tournament?” Cathan asked, still uncertain where this was all leading.

“Oh, for the love of Paladine,” Tavarre grumbled, still smiling. “Stop tormenting the boy and tell him who’s throwing the bloody thing.”

Quarath sucked in a sharp breath. People did not talk to the Kingpriest of Istar that way. Beldinas only chuckled, however. “Very well. The tournament is to be held in Lattakay,” he said, looking at Cathan, “at the courtesy of your sister.”

CHAPTER 6

The next week passed in a blur. Lord Tavarre knighted Tithian the day after Cathan’s arrival, in a quiet ceremony within the Hammerhall. The Divine Hammer had taken its dubbing rite from the more ancient Knights of Solamnia. Tithian spent a long night in silent vigil within the keep’s chapel, praying to Paladine and Kiri-Iolith and