Divine Hammer

smooth.

The nimbus surrounding Beldinas flared brighter. He slumped into Quarath’s arms. As he did, the Black Robe stirred where he lay, his eyelids fluttering open.

For a moment, Andras blinked in confusion. Then understanding and despair dawned.

He saw Leciane, then Cathan … and finally, the Lightbringer.

“Nnnng,” he groaned, straining against the Tasabo. His hands came up, clutching toward Beldinas-and stopped in front of his eyes. His groan became a wail as he beheld the finger that had grown back, then rose into a keening shriek as he touched his own face and found it fresh and unscarred.

Cathan stared, amazed. He had often seen people weep with joy after the Lightbringer healed them, but he had never seen them cry in anguish. Andras sobbed uncontrollably-then, weakening, he slumped and fell into sleep.

It was Beldinas who broke the uncomfortable silence, grunting as Quarath helped him to his feet.

“How terrible it must be, to be a slave to darkness for so long, only to behold the god’s light at the end,” he said. “We will wait until your men return, Cathan. Then this Andras shall pay the price for the evil he has wrought- and in the place where it happened.”

Cathan started, looking at the Kingpriest. “You mean-”

“Yes,” Beldinas declared, looking gravely down at Andras’s slumbering form. “Let the stake be raised within the Bilstibo.”

CHAPTER 17

“They mean to do what?”

Leciane winced, glancing toward the door. Vincil wasn’t a man who often raised his voice, but anger had got the best of him. If one of the servants-or Lady Wentha-heard him, there would be a row, and she didn’t need any more trouble.

“Please, Most High,” she told the archmage. “I’d rather not have to place a silencing ward on this room.”

His image wavered in the mirror. He shut his eyes, collecting himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, controlled. “A public execution?”

“More than public,” she said, her mouth twisting. “There’ll be thousands of people there.”

“No trial?”

“No trial. Not that it would accomplish much to have one. This Andras refuses to speak, and he’s clearly guilty.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or do you think there might be a rash of outcast wizards summoning quasitas in these parts?”

Ordinarily, Vincil laughed at her jokes. Now, though, his face might have been hewn of stone. “He is not an outcast,” he said. “We thought he was dead, along with his master, so we never expelled him. Ysarl of the Black Robes wants him brought here to Wayreth, so we can declare him a a renegade before he dies.”

Leciane frowned, studying the mage in the mirror. “You didn’t agree to that, did you?”

“I did,” Vincil delared. “He’s still one of us. He is subject to the laws of High Sorcery, before any other. Even the Kingpriest’s. I don’t like it,” he went on, holding up a hand to forestall her objections, “but I must consider all three of the Robes-and I think it best not to annoy the Black just now, don’t you? I don’t think any of us want to see this Andras become a martyr.”

Leciane shuddered. Put that way, it made sense. The Black Robes were full of young mages just looking for the excuse to vent their rage against Istar. Andras’s execution could light a tinderbox.

“What about Lady Jorelia?” Leciane pressed. “What are her thoughts?”

“Lady Jorelia is not highmage,” Vincil replied, his eyes flashing, “but if you must know, she wants the man brought here, too-though for a different reason.”

He paused, in the way she remembered from her days as his apprentice. He wanted her to figure it out for herself. She knuckled her brow, thinking, then her lips parted. “To find out who trained him.”

The highmage nodded. “He was an apprentice when he disappeared. Someone had to have taught him to do what he did. Whoever it was did it without the order’s leave. That means there’s another wizard out there-a Black Robe-who we don’t know about. What if he has other apprentices? Or if this is all part of some grander plan? Best to interrogate Andras and find out the truth than to let it go to the pyre with him.”

Leciane let out a long, slow breath. “What you say makes sense,” she allowed. “Try telling that to the Lattakayans, though-or worse, to the Divine Hammer. They won’t listen to reason. They want revenge.”

“Explain it to the Lightbringer. Or better yet, use the knight you charmed.” Vincil’s eyes narrowed as Leciane glanced away. “You do still have control over him?”

“As much as ever,” she said quickly-as true as it was a lie. She hadn’t ensorcelled Cathan, as she’d promised, and she hadn’t told Vincil about the kiss they’d shared. “I will do what I can, but I make no promises. Not with this Kingpriest.”

Vincil’s image nodded. “I’m not expecting anything-unless it’s the worst. Which reminds me …”

He disappeared for a moment, moving away from the table where his scrying bowl sat.

When he came back, he was dangling an amulet from his fingers on a chain. The medallion in its midst was a flame-orange gem, carved into facets that threw candlelight in every direction. As she watched, Vincil spoke several words of magic, swinging the charm above the surface of the scrying bowl, then dropped it. With a splash it fell through the mirror, practically into Leciane’s lap. It was still wet as she grabbed it and held it up to admire.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A signal for you to use if you cannot stop this thing from happening,” the highmage replied. “Grasp it tightly and say my name. Only if all hope is lost.”

Leciane frowned, turning the amulet in her hand, watching it sparkle and trying not to shiver. Her eyes flicked to the mirror and locked with his.

“I should never have helped them save him,” she muttered. If she’d just let Andras kill himself, things might have ended there.

“Yes, it was foolish,” Vincil agreed softly. “But you can’t turn iron back to ore, as they say in Thorbardin. Do what you can, Leciane. Lunitari light thy path.”

He was already fading from the glass as he signed the red moon’s disc with his thumb and forefinger. By the time Leciane returned the gesture, he was gone. She sat silently for a long time, swaying the amulet on its chain.

He was in a boat.

Andras could tell that much from the way the ground rocked and shifted beneath him, the salt on the wind that kissed his face. He couldn’t tell much else, though. The knights had blindfolded him when they dragged him out of his cell-one more indignity, after the chains and the ridiculous metal mask they’d strapped over his mouth. They’d escorted him down hallway, stair, and street for what had seemed like hours. Now they were stopped, and grunting sounds told him that men-or minotaurs, from the stink-were rowing away from the city’s jetties.

He grimaced, musing on the prospect of jumping overboard. Lattakay had a deep harbor, and his shackles were heavy. He would sink fast. Unfortunately, the knights had thought of that, too. Testing his chains, Andras found they had bolted him in place.

Nothing to do, then, but wait and count the oarstrokes.

“How fast do you think he’ll go up?” one of the nearby knights asked another. “I’ve got twenty falcons the bastard’ll be dead before a hundred-count, with those bloody robes he’s wearing.”

“You’re on, Marto,” said someone else. “Maybe, if the flames aren’t controlled. They’ll be low enough at the start, though, that he’ll have some time to beg for mercy first-or would, if it weren’t for the Tasabo … ”

They hadn’t taken the mask off in three days, giving him water to drink and broth to eat through a slit in the