Divine Hammer

other knights welcomed him, thrusting a fresh flagon into his hand and clapping him on the back. Obliging, he climbed back onto the table and resumed his song, bellowing at the top of his voice.

Cathan didn’t join in. He stood quietly, his tunic stained and his eyes dark.

He looked to the gates, waiting for the woman-the grieving mother-to reappear. When she didn’t, he pushed his way across the courtyard and stepped out into the street, but there was no one there.

The rest of the week Cathan divided between training at arms at the Hammerhall and attending court at the Temple. In the evenings, he stayed at the imperial manse, helping Tavarre and Beldinas plan the journey ahead. They would set forth once the High Sorcerers’ new envoy arrived, sailing on the Kingpriest’s golden barge across Lake Istar, then take to chariot and horse, across the grasslands of Midrath to the hilly shores of Seldjuk, and the white-arched walls of Lattakay.

Where Wentha dwelt.

Fifteen years had passed since Cathan last saw his sister. Once, the two of them-all that remained of the MarSevrins of Luciel-had been close. She’d been thirteen when they followed the Lightbringer to Istar, and Cathan had looked after her, finding her a place where she could live among the Revered Daughters of Paladine. Like everyone else, he’d felt certain she would become a priestess. She’d learned all the rituals and could read and write in the church tongue. It was only fitting. Wentha had, after all, been one of the first to feel the Lightbringer’s healing touch. The Kingpriest favored her; one day, she would be a fine First Daughter.

Wentha, however, had other plans. She had always been willful, even as a girl, and while she kept up the appearance of a dutiful acolyte, she stole out of the cloisters at night to meet suitors in the city’s moonlit gardens. Even had she been plain, men would have sought her hand, for the prestige of wedding one of the Kingpriest’s most favored, but Wentha had grown from a scuff-kneed tomboy into a lovely young woman. There was no shortage of young nobles willing to tryst beneath the silverwood trees.

After years of hiding her rendezvous from Cathan, the day drew near when she was to take her vows as a priestess. Instead, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, she announced her plans to marry.

His name was Jarlath. A handsome, devout young man, he was the only son of Lattakay’s wealthiest merchant. Cathan couldn’t have found a better husband for his sister. Even so, it was still a betrayal, and Cathan and Wentha had quarreled bitterly. No matter what he said to her, however, she would not be swayed.

“You have given yourself to the Kingpriest,” she’d said to him. “Your seed will never make an heir to bear the MarSevrin name. I won’t let our father’s blood die with me, too.”

The words had stung Cathan like barbed darts. He had left her and ridden out of the Lord city with a company of knights the next day. He had not seen Wentha since-hadn’t attended her wedding to Jarlath or laid eyes on the two sons she’d had by him. The older boy, Tancred-named for the brother they had lost to the plague-would be eleven now. Or was it twelve? Cathan wasn’t sure. In fifteen years, he had avoided going to Lattakay.

He had nearly gone to her once, for the funeral. Jarlath had died three years ago, lost at sea when his ship, the Treasure of Taol-named for Wentha-sailed into a brutal storm and didn’t return. A widow at thirty, Wentha had sent a message begging Cathan to come, and he had been saddling his horse to go, but at the last moment his heart had failed him. He hadn’t heard a word from her since, though he heard about her sometimes-from Tavarre in particular, who had gone to wedding and funeral both. Refusing to remarry, she had inherited her husband’s wealth, holding it until Tancred came of age. She had become a figure of power in Lattakay. It was enough to make a brother proud-but whenever Cathan thought of her, even today, his face grew dark and troubled.

Now, at last, he was going to see her again. There was no avoiding it. The greatest warriors in the Divine Hammer would all be there, and Beldinas wanted him to go. For some reason the Lightbringer wanted him to reconcile with his sister. That, more than anything, was why he would be on the imperial barge when it sailed past the God’s Eyes onto the lake’s crystal waters.

“It will be all right, Cathan,” Beldinas told him one night in the manse, after Tavarre and Quarath had both left. Within his mantle of silver light, his pale eyes were kind. “She wants to see you again, my friend. Once you’re there, I think you’ll find you want to see her too.”

Cathan smiled at that, dutifully. He would not gainsay the Kingpriest in this or anything else. When he took his leave, however, the smile disappeared. Fifteen years, he thought as he stood among the night-blooming flowers of the Temple’s gardens. Will I even know her any more?

Sighing, shaking his head, he walked away from the manse, back to the shelter of the Hammerhall.

At last, on the seventh day after Cathan’s return, word arrived. It came suddenly, alarming half the court, for the messenger was a pair of disembodied lips that appeared amid the mosaic before the throne. Priests and nobles shrank back as the blue tiles magically parted, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth. Cathan and Tavarre, who had been standing near the head of the room, started toward it with hands on their swords, but stopped at a gesture from the Kingpriest.

“Let it speak,” Beldinas bade calmly.

The lips smiled. “Hear me, lords of Istar,” they hissed. The basilica’s dome, which rang with even the faintest of whispers, could not echo these words. “The envoy awaits you in the Tower. Send the one you have chosen, and do not stray from the path.”

That was all. Clicking softly, the mosaic slid back together, and the mouth vanished.

The courtiers stayed in place, eyeing the floor as though it might try another trick at any moment. A few touched their foreheads to ward off evil. No one since Kurnos the Usurper-not even Marwort-had dared to use sorcery in the Hall of Audience. Was it sacrilege? No one seemed sure.

The Lightbringer, however, was unperturbed. Rising from his throne, he looked down at Cathan. “Go, then, child of the god,” he pronounced. “Paladas tas drifas bisat.”

May Paladine guide thy steps.

The Tower of High Sorcery loomed before Cathan as he made his way through Istar’s streets. Its white walls glittered in the sunlight, its turrets gleaming scarlet. It was beautiful to behold. All the Towers were, or at least all the ones Cathan had seen-he had been to Losarcum and Palanthas, but not to Daltigoth, and hoped he would never lay eyes on the cursed forest of Wayreth. Beautiful or not, the Towers were havens of magic, homes to Black Robes. For that reason alone, Cathan would have been happy if they vanished from the world forever. Better still, if the mages vanished with them.

The open square that surrounded the Tower was nearly as large as the Barigon, but unlike that holy plaza, it was empty. No one wanted to build their homes or shops near the sorcerers’ haven, and certainly no one came here to pay homage, as the faithful did on the Great Temple’s steps. Here and there, weeds peeped between the paving stones. Even those who cared for Istar’s roads kept away.

Cathan paused for a time at the square’s edge, staring up. There had been a barrow in the hills near Luciel that children swore was haunted. He’d gone to it once, on a dare, and touched its stone door. He’d fought the dead since then-the ghouls at the Hullbreaker had hardly been the first-but memories of the barrow still made him shiver in his sleep, sometimes. Staring at the Tower, Cathan felt as he had then. His scalp prickled, the hair on his arms stood up. A sour taste flooded his mouth.

It was an odd building, to be sure, unlike the rest of the Lordcity’s columns and domes: a solid slab of milky crystal, all sharp angles, faceted so that it threw off shards of rainbow light when the sun’s light struck it just right. It bore no carvings or ornaments, and its windows were all but invisible. Its five red turrets were like the bloody fingers in the poems, bent slightly so that they looked like a grasping claw. They were crystal, too: solid garnet, their value inestimable. Sometimes eldritch light shone from their tips while shadow moved within the Tower’s translucent walls, but not today. Today it stood quiet, bright but ominous, a thing of beauty that made Cathan shudder to be so close.

His shivering grew worse when he saw the grove. All the city Towers had groves, though the trees in each were different: oaks in Palanthas, pines in Daltigoth, swaying cypresses in Losarcum. Istar’s was of olive trees, perennially heavy with black and green fruit that never seemed to fall. Song-birds twittered from branch to branch, and the bushes rustled as unseen animals shambled about. Though wilder than the Temple’s gardens, it still should have been a beautiful place-but like the Tower itself, there was something wrong about it, as insidious as a scorpion in a basket of roses. Magic dwelt within the wood.

Just as the trees differed, so did the enchantments the mages placed to keep men from passing through their