Divine Hammer

Leciane made a sour face, and the other mages glanced uneasily at one another. Vincil, however, bowed his head. “Holiness,” he said apologetically, “for that I must take responsibility. Andras is not among us.”

An angry murmur arose among the knights and priests, brows lowering and faces darkening all around the courtyard. Anger boiled in Cathan’s breast as well.

“Not among you?” Quarath demanded, his lip curling. “After you stole him from us, you have let him go?”

“We did not let him go,” Vincil answered solemnly. If the elf’s tone angered him, he gave no sign. “He was stolen from us as well. We are doing all we can to find him, and will return him to you when we do.”

“If you do,” Beldinas said.

Vincil’s eyebrows jumped. In the distance, thunder rolled as he looked at the Kingpriest.

“Holiness, this I pledge: We will find him.”

Beldinas looked surprised at that. Revered Son Suvin stepped forward, glaring at the highmage. “What good are your assurances? How do we know you aren’t simply hiding him from us?”

“Be easy, Reverence,” Beldinas interrupted, touching Suvin’s arm. “We are here to make peace, not to stir trouble. Andras is but a small part of what we must discuss. As long as any wizard in Istar can do what he did and threaten us all, the peace we desire cannot happen.”

“Ergoth agrees,” growled Duke Serl, folding massive arms across his chest.

“And Solamnia,” added Yarus.

Vincil looked from the High Clerist to the others, then back to Beldinas. “What are you saying, Holiness?”

The Kingpriest smiled. “Only one thing, Most High-that we have decided what is necessary: every sorcerer who wears the Black Robes must leave the Towers of High Sorcery that stand within our realms.”

Vincil couldn’t hide his dismay. The other wizards muttered. Cathan held his breath, watching them react.

“That would be… difficult to arrange,” Vincil allowed. He looked as if he had just bitten a lemon. “Our absent brothers have trusted us to speak here on their behalf. If we cast them out of the Towers, that would leave them little sanctuary. Only Wayreth would be open to them.”

“Yes,” said the Kingpriest.

Vincil opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. A moment passed before he spoke again. “What you demand is not easy. …”

Cathan felt-close, very close-something not right. He glanced around, but nobody else seemed to sense anything amiss …

No, Leciane’s eyes were wide, too. She looked sideways at her fellow wizards. Cathan followed her eyes, his hand moving slowly to his sword. Something’s about to happen, he thought. One of the wizards is going to try something terrible. Which one? Palado Calib, which one?

A blur of movement gave him his answer. With a shout, Revered Son Suvin whirled, reaching beneath his robes. Suddenly there was a knife in his hand, its blade long and curved.

Cathan turned in the same direction … who had the Revered Son spotted as the traitor? Then, as he watched-as everyone watched in horror-the Patriarch of Seldjuk lunged and shoved the dagger into Beldinas’s chest.

The world stopped. Even the growling storm grew quiet as Suvin jerked the blade free.

Blood came with it-so much blood, reddening the Kingpriest’s snowy robes. Everyone stared, transfixed.

Leciane’s hands rose, grabbing fistfuls of her hair.

“No!” she cried.

The Kingpriest fell to his knees. The holy light that shrouded Beldinas flickered, began to fade.

The cry that came from Lord Cathan’s lips was a howl and a curse all at once, so ragged in its grief that tears flooded Leciane’s eyes. Above the lake thunder bellowed, lightning forking the sky.

“Now!” Suvin cried, flinging the dagger down with a crash. He turned toward Vincil.

“Finish them! Leave no one st-”

Five crossbow bolts hit him at once, spinning him like a child’s toy. At the same moment

Cathan brought his sword around, slamming its blade into the back of the Patriarch’s head. Suvin staggered, drenched in Beldinas’s blood and his own, then slammed down onto the marble-paved ground.

In the deafening silence that followed, all eyes turned to the Kingpriest. His aura dimmed to silvery wisps as his life’s blood ebbed away. He stared with wide eyes at the spreading stain around his wound. The blade had gone through his golden breastplate-an ornament only, its many-colored jewels all turned to red-and deep into him. Pain pinching his face, he began to topple sideways.

Cathan ran to his side, catching him as he fell. Quarath was there too, and the First Son and First Daughter. Cathan eased Beldinas down-then, one by one, turned to glare at Vincil and the other wizards, who huddled together, whispering.

All around, crossbows rose. Swords rasped from their scabbards.

Leciane looked to Vincil, a hollow in her gut. She couldn’t explain what had just happened, but knew the peace was lost.

“Wait,” the highmage pleaded, holding up a hand. “We had nothing to do with this!”

Across the courtyard, crossbow strings thrummed. Death rained down upon the sorcerers.

CHAPTER 22

Cathan felt the shimmer of magic grow suddenly fierce. He heard the ring of steel, the roar of flame and thunder, the shouts of the wizards and his men. He smelled the tang of ozone, the stink of smoke, but he saw none of it. There was only the Lightbringer.

Beldinas was pale, his eyes shut, his face tight with pain. The dagger-wound leaked warm blood. The Miceram had fallen from his head and lay on the ground nearby. The holy light, which had wreathed Beldinas constantly since he took the throne, had dwindled to almost nothing.

As Cathan stared at him, a hand touched his arm: Quarath, bending down beside him.

“Let me help,” the elf began.

Snarling, Cathan shrugged him off. “Get away.”

“I will not!” Quarath snapped back. “You have your duty, Grand Marshal. Your men need you. I can watch over His Holiness.”

Quarath was right. The sounds of the battle woke him from his stupor. He heard his men crying the Lightbringer’s name, their groans and shrieks as magic lashed into their ranks. He looked over his shoulder just in time for a flash of a lightning bolt to stab at his eyes, half-blinding him. Through the glare, he saw armored figures flying through the air, their armor sparking and smoldering.

He nodded to Quarath. “Take him.”

As the elf gathered the Kingpriest in his arms, Cathan rose and grabbed up Ebonbane from beside Revered Son Suvin’s corpse. Raising the blade, he rushed toward the fight, leaping over the bodies of his men.

Lord Yarns and Duke Serl were there, mace and saber in hand, shouting orders to their warriors. Half the Ergothmen were down, and several Solamnic Knights as well. On the other side, a White Robe and a Red lay dead, their bodies riddled with quarrels. The rest of the wizards, Leciane among them, had fallen back into a tight knot, their hands in constant motion as they chanted spells. Half of these were defensive. The air around them gleamed with enchantment as shields rose to ward off attacks from the crossbowmen. The highmage shouted in the sorcerous tongue, pointing fiercely at anyone who came near. Cathan saw one blast of magical frost shoot from his hands, hitting a knight head-on. The man cried out, then went stiff and toppled, his armor rimed with ice.

“Bastards!” Sir Marto bellowed, shaking his axe. He stood near Tithian, who was clutching his bloodied arm. The big knight’s helm had come off, and spittle flecked his beard. “Murdering, treacherous bastards!”

Cathan ran toward the hulking Karthayan and felt a hiss pass by his neck as a bolt of magic narrowly missed him. He spun, nearly falling, then ran on.