Divine Hammer

empire would engage in three days of mock battle to determine the realm’s champion. A thrill ran through Cathan at the thought of it.

For now, though, there was nothing to see but the arched gates. They were opening now, and several figures emerged, like gray ghosts in the fog.

There were ten in all, seven men and three women. One of the men wore the silver robes of a cleric of Paladine, a plumed circlet on his head: Suvin, the provincial Patriarch. The other men dressed in traditional Seldjuki garb: bare chests crossed by wide sashes, flowing silken trousers, and beads that rattled in their hair and long moustaches. They were short and olive-skinned, the young ones lean and hard, the elders showing off broad bellies. The women, meanwhile, wore sleeveless gowns and dozens of silver bracelets, their foreheads painted to show their status: a green circle for unwed maids, a red cross for married women, a blue X for widows-Cathan sucked in a breath. There was one he recognized in this group … a widow a head taller than the rest, with golden hair.

He hadn’t seen Wentha for half her life. She had changed-the softness of youth was gone, leaving hard edges behind. There were lines around her mouth, and she had cropped her glorious hair short, a sign that she did not mean to remarry, but in her eyes, still, Cathan saw his sister, the girl she had been.

He wondered what she should see in his.

“Sa, Pilofiro, ” said Revered Son Suvin, signing the triangle. Hail, Lightbringer. “We are honored to welcome thee to our city.”

Heads turned to the Kingpriest as he descended from his chariot, a beacon in the fog.

He strode forward, stopping before the Patriarch, and signed the triangle in return.

“The honor is mine, Your Worship,” he said, and bent forward to touch his lips to Suvin’s.

“There is one among you who ails,” Beldinas said. “Let her come forward and be made whole again.”

This was a new ritual, one that had arisen since the Lightbringer’s ascent to the throne.

Over the years, Beldinas had visited every city in the empire, to spread his healing touch among the people. After the first year, they had taken to greeting him at the gates with a single person touched by sickness or injury, who stood for all those who yearned to feel his gentle hands upon them. The woman who stepped forward-a girl, a green circle on her face-was clearly ill. Her skin was the color of whey, stretched taut over her bones. Her hands shook, and a young man had to hold her arm as she shuffled forward. She looked up at Beldinas with pain-dulled eyes, but there was something else in them, a fragile hope that put an ache in Cathan’s breast.

“H-Holiness,” she gasped. “I am n-not worthy of-of thy grace.”

Beldinas smiled kindly. “All are worthy, child, if they are righteous in their hearts. Do you forsake the darkness that hides among us?”

She nodded. “I d-do, blessed one.”

“Then kneel, usas farno.”

Cathan had seen the ritual many times, but he still held his breath as the girl let her escort ease her down onto the stony ground. Whatever wasting disease she had, it was nearly done with her. Another week, at most, and she would be dead. Still, she managed to smile as she bowed her head before the Kingpriest. Beldinas’s right hand reached out, touching the crown of her head. His left went to his throat, pulling out his sacred medallion, the platinum triangle of the god. The silence was even heavier than the fog as he closed his eyes and began to pray.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis mibam cailud, e tas orarn nomass lud bipum. Sifat. ”

Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this girl, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.

The light began as a flicker, a wisp of silver flame where his hand touched her. It grew quickly, however, brighter with every heartbeat until in enveloped them both. With it came a sound, a sweet, pure tone like a dulcimer with crystal strings, and the scent of rose attar amid the damp. The men and women-both the Lattakayans and the Kingpriest’s entourage-first stared in wonder, then had to look away, unable to bear the brilliance of the glow. Cathan’s eyes met Wentha’s, and darted away. He remembered a night, twenty years ago, when that same light had enfolded her, changing his life forever.

“Blossom,” he murmured, weeping.

The light flickered, then, and grew dim. Wiping away his tears, Cathan turned to look, though he already knew what he would see: the same girl, still weak but whole again, color back in her cheeks, the pain smoothed from her face. Eyes closed, she sank back. Her companion caught her gently, easing her down. At the same time, Beldinas also staggered, his strength depleted by the miracle-strength he would regain in moments, but now his knees buckled.

Cathan took a step toward him-in the old days, he had been the one to bear the Lightbringer up, more often than not-but Quarath was quicker. The elf put a slender arm about the Kingpriest’s shoulders, helping him walk back to his chariot.

With the fog eddying around them, they rode into Lattakay.

The tiny, winged form clung to the rocks, its talons sunk into the cracks. Its fanged face leered as it watched the columns of knights and priests pass through the arched, chalcedony gates. With its preternatural eyes, it saw through the fog easily, yet those it spied on could not see it. Its tail twitched back and forth, dripping venom.

For a moment, the desire to bite, to kill, to feed, nearly overwhelmed the quasito. It saw itself falling upon those below, tearing flesh, gnawing through tendons, sucking the marrow from broken bones. This was what it wanted to do, the thirst that had burned within it since it first drew breath.

It tensed, wings spreading, ready to spring …

Then stopped. The master had promised it blood, but only at the right time. If it attacked before then, the master’s fury would be great. Even more than it wanted to feed, the quasito wanted to please the master. It was here to spy only, and to return when the men in metal skin arrived at the white city. Now they were here.

Hissing as the last of them passed through the gates, the quasito leaped from the rock and soared away through the mist.

CHAPTER 9

“Come, Holiness,” said Revered Son Suvin as he led the Kingpriest and his entourage between the white slabs of the city’s buildings. There were secrets in his smile. “There is something you must see.”

They walked through the city’s streets unhindered. Ordinarily, folk crowded and clamored when the Lightbringer appeared. Today, however, though the knights formed their accustomed protective ring about him and the hierarchs, the people stayed back.

They turned out by the thousands to watch the processional pass up the broad avenues, but instead of thronging they simply lined the road, half-hidden in the mist, their faces solemn and their voices silent.

The road ran on, passing beneath one looming arch after another until it widened into a courtyard where a broad reflecting pool lay. The plaza was a semicircle. Beyond, there was nothing but the fog, billowing as the morning sun fought to burn it away. They were at the edge of the Upper City, where the cliffs dropped down toward the wharf.

The entourage stopped, knights and clerics spreading out around the pool. The mist was lifting. Cathan looked at Leciane. She stood alone, her brow furrowed as she stared into the mists. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, her lips forming soundless words … not praying, he realized, but running through her spells. His scalp prickling, he touched his sword-then jerked his hand away, irritated. His sister was one of those who had brought them here. This was no ambush.

Keeping one eye on the sorceress-she was alone, the Lattakayans giving her a wide berth as well-he edged to his left, toward Wentha.

“What is this place?” he whispered. “Why have you brought us here?”

She laughed, the same musical sound he remembered. “You’ve waited long enough to come here, brother.