The Kingpriest bides-you should too.”
Cheeks reddening, Cathan flicked a glance toward Beldinas. He had come down from his chariot again, Quarath at his side, and stood with the Patriarch, gazing out past the cliffs edge. His eyes shone with such intensity, it seemed they might burn through the fog.
Frowning, Cathan followed his gaze.
Suddenly, there was something there, where there should be nothing at all: a huge shadow, looming through the murk.
Cathan sucked in a breath, yanking Ebonbane from its sheath. Around the courtyard, the other knights did the same. Lord Tavarre looked fierce as he brought up his blade before him. The ring they’d formed around the Lightbringer tightened. Leciane raised her hands, ready to cast whatever spells she might need. Cathan took a step toward her. The Kingpriest had ordered him to protect her, after all.
“It’s all right,” Wentha said, putting a hand on his arm. “Look at the others.”
The Lattakayans were smiling broadly now, their eyes gleaming with pride. So was his sister. The tip of Cathan’s sword wavered uncertainly, then lowered.
The mists swirled. Then, unable to withstand the sunlight, they parted.
It was a statue, the largest he had ever seen. It was made of glass.
It stood at the mouth of the harbor, straddling it with one foot on the northern limb of the land, and the other on the southern. It was hard to tell from this far away, but Cathan was sure it was at least two hundred feet tall-a man’s form, facing toward the city, hands clasped to form the sacred triangle. It had a skeleton of bronze, a latticework that gave support to pane after pane, tempered and stained in the Micahi style. The robes it wore were silver, the jewels on its breastplate many-hued, and the gems surmounting its mighty crown sparkled like the rabies they were meant to mimic. Amid the familiar face were two motes of blue, so pale as to seem otherworldly. The artists who crafted the statue had captured the look and majesty of Beldinas. It glittered in the sunlight, bathing Lattakay’s white walls with color.
“A gift, from a grateful people,” proclaimed the Patriarch. “No Kingpriest ever had a monument so grand.”
Beldinas strode forward as though sleepwalking, bathed in the statue’s light. For a moment, it seemed he might step right over the cliffs edge, and Quarath’s hand rose to stop him, but he halted at the last moment and stood still, staring at the statue. All eyes followed him, measuring him against his image across the harbor. At length the Lightbringer turned to face the dazzled assemblage.
“Whose idea was this?” he asked.
“Mine, Holiness.”
Cathan started, looking to his left as Wentha stepped forward. Her smile had always been the most beautiful thing about her, and as she walked across the plaza, Cathan thought it was lovelier than ever. Her face aglow, she knelt before the Kingpriest. He looked down at her, his own expression unreadable.
“Lady Wentha,” said Beldinas softly. “This was not necessary.”
“Pardon, Holiness,” she replied, “but neither was curing me of the plague-nor giving my brother back his life. Yet you did both. If I built a thousand statues, it would not be the tiniest grain of what I owe you.”
He looked at her, long and hard, then, smiling, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “Your love,” he said, “is payment enough.”
Extending a beringed hand, he helped Wentha rise.
The knights in the Kingpriest’s entourage were not the only ones to attend the tournament. Others were already there, and dozens more arrived as the days passed. The Yule festival came and went, and still they poured into the city, riding through the gates or sailing into the harbor aboard ships whose sails bore the blazing crest of the Divine Hammer. As the new year drew near, their numbers swelled to the hundreds. There were those who did not belong to the knighthood, too: sturdy warriors from Taol, masked swordsmen from Dravinaar, fighters from every other province in the empire. For a week and more, Lattakay became a place of laughter, shouts and ringing steel as fighters sparred and trained beneath the gaze of the glittering statue.
The court, meanwhile, moved into the cathedral, a broad-buttressed building of white stone and gold, draped with flowering ivy and looming at the highest point in the city.
Revered Son Suvin gladly ceded his place, standing alongside Quarath, Adsem, and Farenne while the Lightbringer sat upon his throne, dispensing mercy upon the people of Lattakay. Day after day the sick, the wounded, and the crippled came. He welcomed each, his touch gentle as he beseeched Paladine’s help. His healing light flared, again and again, driving out disease, pain, and sorrow. The Lattakayans, normally so reserved, laughed and sang as they left the temple, their suffering forgotten. Soon a crowd of adorers filled the square before the temple, as they had in Istar.
Meanwhile, Cathan moved into his sister’s manor, a sprawling estate on the edge of the cliff, not far from the plaza. The manor, a sprawling mass whose elegant style was more Istar than Lattakay, had thirty rooms- bedchambers and parlors and sunlit atria that sometimes caught a glint of crimson or azure fire from the direction of the harbor. Its outbuildings alone housed more than twenty servants and guardsmen. Wentha’s gardens were terraced, five levels cut into the chalky cliff face. The trees and bushes were a riot of color-winter cherries in rosy bloom, violet dusk-blossoms heavy with golden pollen, and more kinds of roses than Cathan could count. He spent many hours there and in the manor’s solarium and baths, talking with Wentha. At first they were like strangers, so much time had passed, but after a few days they were brother and sister again. They were both adults now, and things between them would never be as they once were, but Cathan swore he would never again be away from her for so long.
To his joy, he met her children for the first time. Tancred, now twelve, was the most like her, fair of hair and skin, with the same gentleness in his face. At seven, raven-haired Rath had the dark complexion and laughing voice of a Seldjuki-the very image of his dead father, Wentha vowed sadly. When he first saw Cathan’s eyes, he yelped in terror, and the nursemaid had to take him away.
For most in Lattakay the days passed quickly as the tournament drew near. For one, however, time grew leaden, the hours stretching until they never seemed to end. Leciane do Cirica attended the Kingpriest’s court and slept in a room at Wentha’s manor, but there was little in either place to interest her. She passed some of the time in study and spoke daily with Vincil using her enchanted mirror. His face grew grim when she described the statue in the harbor.
“They call it
“I know the church tongue,” Vincil replied, and shook his head. “These people never would have built a statue that large to Paladine.”
Leciane thought about that, rubbing her temples.
“The threat we have discussed … the signs grow stronger now,” he told her in a low tone, “but we still can’t discover its source. I fear that you are in danger.” Vincil ran a hand over his scalp. “I’m sorry, Leciane.”
“If it’s here in Lattakay, maybe I can find something out.”
He raised his eyebrows but didn’t answer.
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“Very well,” he said after a moment of deliberation. “Just don’t do anything foolish, Leciane. I mean it.”
She smiled. “Now, Vincil. You know me.”
“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I suppose I do.”
At last, the eve of the new year arrived. Wentha’s manor was like a freshly kicked anthill. Suddenly there were three times as many servants bustling about, hanging garlands of roses and cleaning everything in sight. There was food everywhere-almond sweets, fragrant bread, sharp cheese, olives, and every kind of fruit imaginable. Wine appeared-great jugs of it, and huge, golden bowls for mixing it with water. Out in the gardens jugglers practiced their acts, and musicians tuned their instruments. There was even a Karthayan alchemist, busily setting up fireworks. The servants shouted at the entertainers. The children shouted at each other. Wentha shouted at everyone. Out in the harbor beyond the garden wall, the
Leciane ignored it all, as near as she could manage, poring over her spellbooks in the shelter of her room.
