Divine Hammer

“Won’t they discover who I am?” he asked. “Vincil and the other sorcerers will check everyone for sorcery- and the gods alone know what the Kingpriest will see.”

“My magic will protect you,” the Dark One replied. “Not even His Holiness will sense anything amiss.”

Andras sighed. He was beginning to feel a weariness that could never be eased, but he did owe the Church and the Conclave, for what both had tried to do to him.

“Well,” he said. “May I choose the form I’m to take?”

“Not the Kingpriest,” the Dark One warned. “His powers would resist.”

In spite of everything, Andras laughed. The fetch let out a bray of its own, mimicking him. He waited for it to be still again, then leaned forward, placing his mouth near the hole that would have been a person’s ear. He whispered the name he’d chosen.

All at once, the fetch’s whole body stiffened, like a corpse several hours dead. Its twitches became spasms. Struggling, it began to change. Flesh darkened; bones cracked as they rearranged themselves. Its formless face softened like warm beeswax, running and puddling to form the visage Andras desired. Seeing what it was becoming-or, rather, who-Fistandantilus let out a cold chuckle.

“Very good,” the archmage declared, resting a hand on Andras’s shoulder. “Oh, very good indeed.”

CHAPTER 21

The wind whispered as it stirred the olive trees of the grove, making their fruit-heavy branches sway. The sky beyond was dark and muttered with thunder. A late-winter storm simmered over Lake Istar, turning its lapis waters to slate. Soon it would sweep into shore, lashing the Lordcity with rain and, perhaps, hail. All over the city, merchants took in their wares, and servants hurried in countless gardens to cover delicate flowers and bushes. At the wharf, men and minotaur slaves made ships fast, and the owners of wine shops took down the silken canopies in their courtyards.

Leciane smiled at the activity, gazing down from atop the Tower of High Sorcery. The common folk worked in vain. This storm would never make land, for this was no ordinary day. The wizards would use their magic to hold back the foul weather. The Kingpriest, she was sure, would be doing the same. Today was the moot. Today her people and the folk of Istar would make peace-or so she hoped. It was looking less likely all the time.

“I wish you’d told me before this morning that you’d lost him,” Leciane said, turning to frown at Vincil. He stood two paces behind her, carefully arranging his finest robes. They shimmered like rubies. “That is the first thing they will ask about.”

The highmage ran a hand over his shaven pate. “We’d hoped to find him again before today,” he said, shaking his head. “We thought it best not to tell anyone outside the Conclave. Whoever is protecting him is powerful, though. He’s resisted everything we’ve tried.”

“And now we go to the Kingpriest without Andras.” Leciane couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Do you expect him to believe our excuses?”

Vincil snorted. “Of course not. Even without Andras, though, I think we can appease him.”

Leciane glanced back across the city. The crystal dome of the Great Temple glowed in the stormlight. Beyond, the Hammerhall loomed, its keeps and watchtowers aflutter with pennants. The burning hammer blazed on many of them, but others were blue. Even after a month and a half, the Divine Hammer still mourned its fallen.

She wished she had charmed Cathan that night on the road to Lattakay. Now he was Grand Marshal…

Vincil laid a hand on her shoulder. She absent-mindedly covered it with hers. It had been easier than she’d thought to return to his bed. That made her feelings for Cathan-Lord Cathan now-all the more confusing. When the highmage spoke, his lips almost brushing her ear, his words brought her back.

“We should go,” he whispered. “The others will be ready.”

“The Kingpriest as well,” she agreed, kissing his fingertips. She smiled at him. “It wouldn’t do to keep His Holiness waiting, would it?”

The highmage chuckled, tousling her curly hair. Together, they disappeared back into the Tower.

*****

Standing in the Lordcity’s northern quarter, the Eusymmeas was neutral ground, one of the Lordcity’s oldest monuments: a huge reflecting pool of rose amber, its centerpiece a sculpture depicting the death of Vemior. The last of Istar’s warlord-tyrants, Vemior had perished centuries ago, when the clergy rose up against him and named one of their number, a cleric named Symeon, as the first Kingpriest. According to the histories, Vemior drank poisoned wine rather than give up his throne. In the Eusymmeas, he slumped in Symeon’s arms, the empty goblet dangling from his fingers. The histories said nothing about the look of sorrow carved into Symeon’s face, however; most scholars agreed the first Kingpriest shed no tears for his predecessor. Like any artist, the Eusymmeas’s sculptor had taken liberties.

The Lightbringer’s party arrived first. Duke Serl was clad in emerald silks, and Lord Yarns in shining mail. They were accompanied by the First Son and First Daughter;

Quarath and Suvin-and Beldinas, riding his golden chariot. His aura lit the courtyard that surrounded the Eusymmeas. Ringing the plaza were the Divine Hammer, standing guard alongside the warriors of Solamnia and Ergoth.

“Ullas dilant, Holiness,” Cathan reported when his men were in position. All is well.

It was a ritual phrase, which he could no longer bring himself to believe. He had more than a hundred men at his command, and half again that number in Yarus and Serf’s entourages. There had been more than that many men in Lattakay, though-and one wizard’s thralls had torn them to pieces. There were many wizards coming to this moot, some almost certainly more powerful than Andras. The gods alone knew what could happen if the wizards did not keep the peace.

When he said that to Beldinas, however, the Kingpriest only smiled. “Do not fear, my friend,” he said. “These are not Black Robes, coming to treat with us.”

Cathan nodded, shivering. The Black Robes’ absence had been another point of contention. The wizards had insisted that all three orders be represented, but Beldinas held out for a party comprising only those who wore the White. In the end, both sides agreed to a compromise. The sorcerers’ representatives would come with White Robes and Red Robes-including the highmage himself-but their dark-souled brethren would stay behind.

A shimmering at the far end of the plaza drew everyone’s eye. All around the Eusymmeas, crossbows rose and gauntleted hands reached for swords. Cathan raised his hand, ordering his knights to hold. They obeyed, as did the Ergothmen and the Solamnics when Serl and Yarns called out to them. Beldinas signed the triangle, the other clerics following suit, as magical light flared and the sorcerers appeared.

There were seven of them-three wizards in White and three in Red, their leader crimson-clad as well. Cathan felt no surprise, watching them walk across the courtyard, to see Leciane. She saw him too, and looked away. Cathan scowled, turning his attention to the leader, a dark-skinned man with a bald head and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He raised his hand in greeting as they drew near to the Kingpriest’s entourage, his face betraying no emotion.

“Sa, Pilofiro,” he declared. Hail, Lightbringer. “I am Vincil, Highmage of all Krynn. In the name of the three moons, I greet you.”

“Sa, Most High,” Beldinas replied, signing the triangle. “May the god smile upon this meeting.”

Introductions followed. Cathan took the opportunity to study the other mages, searching their faces. He could sense their power. The air nearly sparkled with all their protective spells. Even the youngest among them could kill with a word. If any of them tried anything, he would have to be quick to stop it. Cathan fought the urge to reach for Ebonbane. Jaw clenched, he kept his hands at his side and his gaze shifting from one sorcerer to the next.

“Where is the one called Andras?” Beldinas asked in a stern voice. “I do not see him among you.”