Divine Hammer

She rose to her feet, planted her foot against his ribs, and yanked the axe free. Vincil sucked in a sharp breath, coughed, and died.

Leciane shook uncontrollably. Angrily, she flung the axe away. The weapon struck Vincil’s scrying bowl, turning it into a shower of shards and water. She stormed out of the study, down into the depths of the Tower.

The Kingpriest still lived, but only barely.

With the foe vanished, Cathan had done what he could to restore order. At his behest the knights left alive, and the reinforcements come too late from the Hammerhall, had covered the bodies of the dead, then gone out to keep the crowds back. The word was already spreading through the Lordcity, though, that the Lightbringer was slain. There would be chaos, fires, looting. Cathan sent Tithian with more orders, to dispatch the knights and the Scatas to keep order. With one dagger-blow, Suvin-or whatever mage had taken on his form-had brought Istar to its knees.

Right now, though, Cathan did not worry about the empire. There was only Beldinas.

Quarath held the Kingpriest. Lord Yarus and Duke Serl stood nearby. The High Clerist’s face was grave, the Ergothman’s twisted with fury. The Lightbringer lay limp in the elf’s lap, blood pooling around them. His holy light was gone.

“Holiness,” Cathan murmured, touching Beldinas’s bone-white face as Quarath laid him out on the ground. “Oh, Pilofiro, what have they done to you?”

The elf shook his head. “He can’t hear you,” he said sadly. “Step back, Grand Marshal, and let him die in peace.”

Cathan ignored him, leaning closer. “Holiness, listen to me,” he whispered.

“I said step back, Twice-Born,” Quarath insisted, grabbing his shoulder. “He must receive unction before he goes to the god.”

“No!” Cathan barked, shoving the elf away. Quarath stumbled back, and would have fallen had Yarns and Serl not caught him. The three of them were startled by the fierceness in Cathan’s empty eyes. One by one, they turned away. Trembling, he tried one more time to speak to the Lightbringer. “Please, Beldyn-”

The Kingpriest stirred. His eyes did not focus, but he turned his head toward Cathan.

When he spoke, his beautiful voice was thin as spider’s silk.

“My friend. I am glad-glad you are here.”

Cathan wept. “Holiness,” he said. “You must tell me how to help you. I would give my life, if I could.”

A smile twitched the Lightbringer’s lips. “You already did that once,” he wheezed. “I have no strength to heal myself. Give me your hand.”

Gently, Cathan gripped the Kingpriest’s fingers. They were cold, as frail as bird bones.

Beldinas smiled, then shut his eyes and let out a breath. For a moment Cathan’s heart seized, but then he saw the Kingpriest’s lips begin to move, forming words only he could hear.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro,” he prayed. “Tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soramflonat. Me cailud, e tas or am me lud bipum. Sifat.”

Heal me…

Cathan felt a tingle at the back of his mind, a tingle that grew into something greater, a torrent that coursed through him like cool flame. He knew it to be the god’s presence, Paladine’s energy flowing through his body. It was pain and joy, all at once, completely different from any mundane sensation … yet it was still familiar. He had felt something like it before.

The cold fingers twitched. The Kingpriest’s eyes widened as they stared at him. Cathan felt cold, suddenly. Beldinas knows, he thought. He knows I used magic once before. He knows I corrupted myself with the sorceress.

Before he could think anything else, the healing light flared around him. The cool, soothing glow drew gasps of astonishment from the others. The attar of roses filled the air.

He tasted honey and wine on his tongue. It lasted a moment and an eternity, both at once, then faded again-but not completely.

Beldinas’s aura began to return. The bloody wound was closed. The Lightbringer breathed a sigh and looked at Cathan, a sudden, odd expression in his eyes. A fear. He jerked his hand from Cathan’s grasp Palado Calib, Cathan thought. He’s afraid of me now. “Holiness,” he began.

Sighing, Beldinas closed his eyes, slipping into peaceful sleep.

The Lightbringer would live.

Quarath and Yarns and Serl all gathered around, awestruck by the miracle they had just witnessed. Others came running too, asking what was happening and crying out in joy when they heard the news. Cathan didn’t hear anything. He only stared at Beldinas’s face, biting down hard on his lip.

It was the same feeling, he thought, thunderstruck. The god’s touch and magic were the same-like different facets of the same jewel. What could that mean?

He could think of no answer.

The Lordcity was quiet that night, its plazas empty and its gates sealed. Scores of knights and Scatas walked the boulevards, their boots rapping a steady cadence on the marble-paved streets. There was a curfew in place. Those who went out into Istar’s streets at such times only asked for trouble. Defying the Church was a risky business at the best of times, but when the Kingpriest had nearly fallen to an assassin, the best one could hope for was arrest and imprisonment in the city jail. The worst was the kiss of a crossbow bolt.

Draconian as such measures were, they were better than the alternative. Istaran history was filled with stories of rioting in troubled times. At the outset of the Three Thrones’ War, half the city had burned before order could be restored. That had been a hundred years ago, but folk still spoke of it as if it had happened last summer. Of all the forces in Istar-the Church, the knighthood, the armies, even the High Sorcerers-none was more powerful than the mob.

Cathan walked the streets alone, his thoughts darting about like the hummingbirds in the Great Temple’s gardens.

As he walked, his eyes strayed again and again to the Temple, the basilica dome shining mourning-blue in the city’s heart. The First Son and First Daughter were dead. A shudder ran through him at how close things had come for Beldinas. The bloody-fingered Tower stood silent, showing no sign that the sorcerers grieved as well. But grieve they did, surely.

The word was that the highmage was dead, killed in the battle by the Eusymmeas.

Cathan stopped, stiffening. He had just left a courtyard where silver and lapis dragon-statues fought among blossoming cherry trees, and was starting down an avenue where the mudubas were thick on both sides of the road. Robbed of business by the curfew, the wine shops stood quiet, lamps doused and gates locked-all except one. Down the way, light blazed from one of the taverns. Shouts and laughter rang out, echoing weirdly among the walls and pillars. A scowl found its way onto Cathan’s face. What fool would open his wine shop on a night like this? It was asking for trouble. Unless …

He heard the booming voice, though he couldn’t make out the words-only the proud, boastful tone and the answering shouts and laughter. Sighing, he shook his head. Of course, Marto. Angrily, he strode down the street and flung open the wine shop’s gates.

It was the Mirrorgarden, where the old woman had cursed him after Tithian’s dubbing.

There were around a dozen knights there now, perched on benches with wine cups in their hands, their attention turned to the towering Karthayan standing on the table. The tavern keeper shot Cathan a look as he came in, a mix of apology, guilt, and pleading. Cathan waved him off as he started forward.

The knights’ laughter faltered and died as they saw him. Though most were off duty, he marked a couple who should have been on patrol. There would be reprimands later. For now, though, his attention fell full on Marto, who looked back with the red face and bleary eyes of a man who has crawled too deep into his cups.

“What are you doing here?” Cathan demanded.

Marto blinked, looking around as if to make sure he was the one being addressed.

“Celebrating, milord. What else?”