Divine Hammer

The preparations for the spell took time. She had to root through her pouches first, looking for the components-the right ones always seemed to be at the bottom, no matter how carefully she arranged them, and this was a spell she hadn’t cast since … she couldn’t remember. Finally, though, she found what she needed: half a dozen sticks of rosewood incense, a wooden case from which she produced a tiny silver bell, and a needle of ivory inlaid with gold. She lit the first of these, the scent of the incense quickly turning cloying in the closeness of her tent, then palmed the others, turning them over and over in her hand while she read the spell from her book, committing it to memory. That alone took an hour and a half, and she was yawning so her jaw cracked by the time she was ready.

She went to her washbasin and splashed water on her face, then turned toward the flap, her mouth a hard line.

Leciane knew enchantresses who swore by charm spells. Some even used them to find lovers. A man ensorcelled was always willing to come to bed when asked and, more impressively, only when asked. The White Robes frowned upon it, but the other orders-including her own-turned a blind eye. She had tried it once, at the urging of several fellow Red Robes. She’d found the experience distasteful in the extreme, and while the lovemaking was pleasant at the time, she’d felt like a slattern later. That had been years ago, and she could no longer remember the man’s name or his face, which was just as well. She had resisted using charms ever since.

There are times when they’re needed, she told herself. Quit being squeamish.

Again she opened the flap, staring at Sir Cathan’s back. He would never know. Once the spell was lifted, it would vanish from his memory. Carefully, focusing, she rang the bell. It seemed to make no sound, being pitched too high for the human ear. Somewhere nearby, a dog began to bark as she wove her hands through the air.

“Yasanth cai mowato, i shasson gamidr,” she whispered, drawing the power of the red moon to her. “Dolazjatran olo nedrufis.”

There it was, welling up, suffusing her-the sharp-sweet pleasure-pain of a spell ready to break loose. She held it as long as she could, savoring it, but the power would not stay where it was. It needed an outlet, or it would burn her. She reached out a finger, the magic humming, and pointed at Sir Cathan’s neck. With her other hand, she brought the needle up. Biting her lip, she plunged it into her fingertip.

It was the tiniest of wounds. At first, it didn’t even seem to be there. Then, slowly, a dark red bead formed, hanging. She looked at Cathan. All she had to do was prick the back of his neck and press her finger against it so their blood mingled. The magic would do the rest. She positioned the needle, tensing to strike. He would think it a mosquito, maybe a horsefly….

A minute passed. She didn’t move. The drop of blood fell from her finger, staining his collar. Relentless, the magic tried to push free, battered against her mind. There was no more pleasure, not any more. Gods, it hurt-

“No,” she breathed.

Lowering her arm, she let the magic flow … harmlessly, down into the ground.

Sir Cathan shifted his weight, his armor clanking. Catching her breath, she drew back into her tent. The flap closed.

The spell was gone, failed, useless. She felt spent and knew she wouldn’t have the strength to cast it again for some time. Probably she would fail then, too. She couldn’t impose her will on the knight without his knowledge. It felt wrong.

Wrong is for White Robes to worry over. Vincil had told her that once, as they lay together, spent in a different way. Perhaps he was right-the magic should be more important to her than anything, after all-but she just couldn’t do it. Maybe she should have worn the White, after all.

Whatever. She had to lie to Vincil and the Conclave now, tell him she’d cast the spell, that the knight was under her control.

Sucking on her bleeding finger, she turned from the flap and began to put out the incense.

You know you have a spot of dried blood on your tabard?” asked Tavarre.

Cathan craned over his shoulder, though he could not see where the Grand Marshal was pointing. “Yes,” he said. “It happened a week ago, I think-while we were crossing Gather. I don’t know how.”

Shrugging, Tavarre turned to peer ahead. The wet season was on the empire, and while that meant snow in their home of Taol and rains in the heartland, here close to the Seldjuki coast it came as fog. Ripudo, the locals called it: the Mantle. It was pearl-gray and thick, dampening hair and cloth, swirling around their horses’ hooves, making it impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. The Kingpriest’s entourage numbered thirty priests and a hundred knights, but Cathan could only see a few clearly: Marto and Pellidas riding to his left, Tavarre and Tithian to his right, Beldinas and Quarath behind him, and Leciane before. The rest were murky shapes at best, the jingle of their harnesses and the rattle of their mail muffled by the mist.

“We’ll run ourselves up against the city gates before we see aught,” Marto grumbled. “Or else we’ll step off this blasted cliff and fall into the ocean. Right, Pell?”

Beside him, Sir Pellidas gave a solemn nod.

Cathan half-grinned at the big knight’s bluster. Marto had a point. They were close to Lattakay now-the last marker stone they’d passed had proclaimed it a league and a half away-and the road was treacherous here, running along the edge of the high chalk bluffs.

He could hear the thunder of surf far below, but there was nothing to see but gray.

Cathan glanced back at the Kingpriest. Standing astride his golden chariot, Quarath at his side, Beldinas, gazed into the fog as if he could see right through it. Perhaps, with his strange pale eyes, he could. His aura made the mist sparkle around him.

“Holiness,” Cathan ventured, “is there anything you can do?”

The Lightbringer’s gaze flicked to him, and he shook his head. “It will tax my strength, and I shall need it when I get to Lattakay.”

“I can help,” offered Leciane. “There are spells-”

“No,” Cathan said, his voice loud in the fog. “No magic.”

He said it for her protection as much as for any other reason-with so many clerics and knights about, unsure what was around them, the sound of someone chanting spidery words could cause serious trouble-but the glare she shot him was no less annoyed. He flushed, feeling foolish and angry.

“It’ll pass,” Tavarre said. “It’s still early.”

Cathan nodded, feeling a sting as he remembered Damid. The little Seldjuki had often chattered fondly about the fogs around Lattakay. “Even in the middle of winter, the sun burns them off by midday,” he’d said.

Indeed, the fog seemed lighter an hour later, when the entourage came to a halt, the outriders galloping back to report that the city gates lay ahead. Peering through the mist, Cathan could just make out a looming shadow, in the shape of a mighty arch. Poets wrote odes about the arches of Lattakay.

Although he had never seen it, Cathan knew the city called the White Crescent was two-tiered, half standing on the top of the bluffs, and the other half on the beaches and long piers below, with long, sloping paths leading between the two. It hugged the edge of a round bay, a natural harbor with a narrow neck, its square buildings and thick walls hewn of the same pale stone. Decorative arches towered above it, carved with ancient images of men and minotaurs at war. Centuries ago, Lattakay had belonged to the bull-men-Nethosak, they called it then-and the Seldjuki warrior-kings had besieged it for more than a decade before driving them back across the sea. Istar had since conquered Seldjuk, and the only minotaurs who remained within the empire were slaves like the ones working to build up the Hammerhall.

Because of its heritage, Lattakay dwarfed those who dwelt within it, its buildings massive and its avenues wide and spear-straight. Even the mightiest galleys looked like toys beside its looming stone quays. In the midst of the harbor stood an island, home to the grandest structure of all, one that dwarfed even the temple to Paladine the church had built on the edge of the cliffs: the Bilstibo, the city’s arena.

For the minotaurs, gladiatorial games had been as much a religious rite as entertainment, and the Bilstibo gave proof to that. It could have held three of Istar’s arenas within it, vast enough to contain every man, woman in child in the city and still have seats to spare. This was where Wentha would hold the tourney in the Kingpriest’s honor, where the Divine Hammer and other warriors from across the