Divine Hammer

Beldinas’s flesh in great gold and red waves. He shut his eyes, smiling as the blaze raged above him, then brought his hands down in a slow arc until the flames touched the pyre. With a thundering whoosh, the heap of wood and bodies became a burning pillar, hurling smoke and cinders into the air. Higher and higher the fire climbed.

His whole body shaking, the Kingpriest continued to feed the blaze. People backed away as heat swept across the plaza. Out across the harbor, the Udenso gleamed, reflecting the glow.

Finally, when the flames reached as high as the spires of the temple, the Kingpriest gave a mighty shout, and the light that wreathed him flared as bright as the sun. The fire pouring from him changed from gold to silver, flashing out into the pyre. The larger flames caught it, and changed as well, becoming a ribbon of glittering white that rose high into the darkling sky.

Wide with awe, thousands of eyes stared at the holy fire as it shone down on Lattakay.

All across the courtyard, they began to chant. “Pilofiro … Pilofiro … ”

Leciane, however, did not look at the sky. Her gaze remained fixed on the Lightbringer, slumping now where he stood. Quarath and Sir Cathan both rushed forward to catch him before he fell. Some part of her, deep down, cried out to renounce her sorcerous ways, to tear off her red robes, fall to her knees, and beg the Lightbringer’s forgiveness.

Dear gods, she thought. This is what Marwort saw. This is why he turned away from the Conclave …

A shudder ran through her, and with an effort of will, she shook her head. Her eyes shining with tears, she turned her back on the Lightbringer’s fire.

Lunitari hung heavy over Lattakay that night, bloodying the arches and turning the blue mourning-cloths black. Solinari would not rise until well after Midwatch, so now red was the only hue that showed where torchlight did not reach. Caitas Caso, the people called it-the Witches’ Dark. The custom was to hang bundles of dried white roses from doorways to ward off the foul forces that awoke on such nights. Not many Istarans still observed that old superstition, and indeed the church frowned upon it. Tonight, though, after what had happened, there was scarcely a lintel in Lattakay where old blooms didn’t guard against the Dark.

Cathan made his way down the main thoroughfare of the Upper City, breathing in the blooms’ musty scent. He did not walk a straight line. He’d spent the early part of the evening in a wine shop with his fellow knights- Tithian and Marto and others from his band who had survived the fight. There were goblets to raise in memory of those who had died. He’d lost count of how many cups of watered wine he’d hoisted.

The streets were empty tonight, save for a few men on patrol and the occasional stray dog. Between the Caitas Caso and the curfew enforced by the Divine Hammer, few cared to venture out of their homes. Cathan saluted the other knights he passed, trying not to look as drunk as he felt, and kept on past one manor after another until he reached his sister’s.

Nodding to the guards outside the gates, he made his way into the house, pushing aside the desiccated roses that dangled before the door.

He was bowing to the shrine in the corner of the entry hall when Wentha ran in with one of her servant girls. She was chasing Tancred and Rath, who ran naked and dripping across the tiled floor, shrieking with laughter as they fled their mother. The children left glistening footprints on the tiled floor as they ran out of the room again. Carrying a towel and wearing a look of despair, Wentha made to follow them, then saw Cathan and stopped.

She gestured for the servant to continue the pursuit, then turned to Cathan with a sheepish smile.

“I swear,” she said, “if we’d had hot baths in Luciel, I would never have run from them.”

Cathan returned her grin. “It’s good to hear them laugh.”

Wentha shrugged as if she wanted to argue the point, then her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been behind a cup,” she noted. “That’s why you weren’t home for supper.”

His cheeks, already red from drink, flushed deeper still as he tried to stammer a reply.

She shook her head, laughing.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she said. “You’re my brother, not my husband.” She touched the widow’s mark on her forehead. “I don’t know how she’ll like it, though.”

Cathan started. “Who?”

“Your sorceress friend,” Wentha replied, trying very little to keep the scorn from her voice. She jerked her head toward the steps to the house’s upper floors. “She’s been asking for you.”

“What for?”

Wentha spread her hands. “I’m no Majerean-I can’t read minds. She just said you should see her when you got back.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m back now.”

“Then go.”

Up the wide, swooping curve of the stair he went. His stomach tightened as he climbed.

As he made his way to the wing where Leciane’s chambers were, he hoped she had given up waiting and gone to bed. When he saw the glimmer of lamplight beneath her door, his heart sank. He couldn’t delay any longer- the Kingpriest himself had asked him to meet with Leciane. Swallowing, he walked across the carpeted hall toward the glow.

The door opened before he could knock. Within, candles of blue beeswax flickered everywhere: tables, shelves, the seats of chairs, all over the floor. The furniture was against the walls, leaving an open space. The candles clustered about the room’s midst, describing a wide ring there. In its center of the circle, cross-legged with her palms out before her, sat Leciane. From the depths of her hood she gazed at him. It was hard to tell in the shimmering light, but he thought he saw a smile in her green eyes.

“It took you long enough,” she said. “I’ve been waiting half the night.”

She met his gaze squarely. It still unnerved him that she could do that. Clearing his throat, Cathan spoke.

“Yes, I know. I want-that is, His Holiness-I mean … we need-”

“My help?” She raised an eyebrow. “Searching for the one who sent the quasitas?”

His stammering stopped. He looked at her, bewildered. “Uh … yes. How did you …?”

“Your master wants answers as much as mine do,” she replied, “but he can’t come to me himself. It would upset people if the Kingpriest of Istar asked a wizard for aid-particularly a Red Robe. It would damage his pride. So he sent you, instead.” She flashed a smile. “Of course, I’m sure he didn’t want you half-full of wine when we did this, but we’ll have to make do.”

Cathan blinked. He was drunk-not terribly so but enough to make his mind fuzzy. The candlelight wasn’t helping, and the scent of bloodblossom oil, burning in a small dish within the circle, made it even harder to focus. He fought back the instinct to rub his eyes.

“Come, Sir Knight-if you’ll join me, you can share what I see when I cast the spell.” She beckoned with a dusky hand. “Try not to knock over too many candles.”

For a moment he balked, unsure. Beldinas hadn’t said anything about involving himself in her spell. It went against his training and his beliefs. On the other hand, if it helped to root out greater evil …

With a shake of his head he eased the door shut, crossed the room, and stepped into the circle. He eased himself down to sit across from her. The scent of bloodblossom was almost overpowering as the sorceress nodded to him.

“Good. Now, give me your hands. I’m not going to hurt you,” she insisted when he shied away from her reaching fingertips. “There.”

He looked at his hands, which had moved of their own accord to grasp hers. Traitors, he thought. Her skin was warm, but rough instead of soft and smooth. Years of handling strange substances and stranger powers had toughened them. His palms began to sweat as her eyes bored into his own.

“How long will this take?” he muttered.

She could have laughed, mocked his nervousness. Instead she nodded gravely. “That depends on you. Don’t pull away, whatever happens,” she told him, “else you’ll break the spell. Look into the bowl.”

He did as she bade, his blood thundering in his ears. His mouth was dry as he stared at the burning oil, the