Divine Hammer

Cathan sat alone in his chambers within the Hammerhall, toying with a golden goblet.

The cup was empty. He had drained it again and again as the night wore on, and now the wine-unmixed with water-burned in his veins. His mood had not been so foul since his days as a bandit, before this all began.

They had buried Farenne and Adsem this morning. The Kingpriest would name a new First Son and First Daughter before the end of the week. Cathan wondered if he might not name a new Grand Marshal, as well.

Sir Marto had emerged as the hero of the battle beneath the Eusymmeas. The big Karthayan boasted to any and all of how he had slain the treacherous highmage in the final moments before the mages escaped. They sang of his bravery in the wine shops, and the Hammerhall rang with the sound of his name.

Cathan, meanwhile, was shut out. Beldinas had not spoken to him or invited him to the closed sessions of the imperial court. The official word was that his responsibilities obliged him to oversee order in the Lordcity’s streets, but the truth was there had been scant unrest. Rather than running wild, most folk went to the Barigon to give thanks for the Lightbringer’s wondrous return from the verge of death. Day after day, the crowds there continued to grow. When they weren’t singing the Kingpriest’s praises, they chanted imprecations against the sorcerers, baying for wizardly blood. Rumors spread that Cathan had fallen out of favor for his failure to keep Beldinas safe.

He stared around the room that had been Lord Tavarre’s. Tapestries of hunting scenes still hung on the walls, as well as weapons, and the heads of two stags, a giant boar, and a manticore. The last made him shiver every time he glanced at it, its half-human, half-lion features twisted into a ferocious snarl. The banner of Luciel hung over the hearth. He looked at it now, sighing. He could barely remember the town or anything of his life before the Lightbringer.

He didn’t hear the knock, so soft it was and so far into his cups was he. When the sound repeated a moment later, though, he looked up, dropping the goblet on the floor.

Flushing, he grabbed it up and glared at the door. He was in no mood to talk to any of his knights tonight-not even Sir Tithian, who seemed alone in seeking his company, who alone didn’t look askance at him.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“Your sister,” came the reply.

Nearly dropping the goblet again, he got to his feet and hurried to the door. There was Wentha, standing in the lamp-lit hall. She was lovely as always, draped in blue samite, a turquoise fillet in her hair.

He waved her in.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said disapprovingly, “Like that night back in Lattakay, when you dallied with the sorceress.”

Cathan shut the door, his eyebrows climbing. “You knew?”

“I suspected,” she replied, giving him a look. She crossed to the hearth, then turned to face him, shrugging. “Don’t worry-I’m not going to lecture you. I just wanted to ask about it. So much trouble began that night.”

Cathan’s lips tightened. “We didn’t do anything. A kiss, that’s all. And we shared her magic-a spell, I mean,” he added.

“A spell, eh?” she asked. “A knight of the Divine Hammer, engaging in witchcraft-sounds like heresy to me.”

He went to pour more wine. This time he watered it well and handed his sister a cup.

“Why are you here?”

“For your sparkling company,” she retorted, and raised a hand as his face darkened.

“And to say good-bye. I’m leaving for Lattakay tomorrow.”

He stared, surprised. “So soon?”

“I’ve been here more than a week,” she replied. “I need to go back, and see what can be salvaged of the Udenso. Besides, the talk is of war with the wizards. I don’t want my children anywhere near one of the Towers if it comes to that.”

“That makes sense,” Cathan said, sipping his wine. He stared up at Luciel’s banner again. “Wentha, I want you to know-I’m proud of you. What you’ve done with your life. My own seems … a wreck.”

She smiled, then kissed him on the cheek. “I married well, that’s all, but I’m proud of you too, Brother. I don’t care what they whisper about you-you’re a good man and no coward.”

He sighed unhappily. “I’ll miss you,” he said. “I’m running short of friends here.”

“You’ll find more,” she told him, patting his arm. “And if you ever truly need me, you know where I am. Try not to wait quite so long before visiting next time.”

He smiled then, and surprised both of them by embracing her tightly. He smoothed her golden hair, as he’d always done when they were younger. “I won’t, Blossom,” he said. “I promise.”

Wentha’s eyes shone. They looked into his own without flinching.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s not let the rest of the wine go to waste.”

They sat together, talking, long into the night.

The imperial summons was waiting for Cathan the next day when he returned from seeing Wentha and her children off at the harbor. His heart leaping to his throat, he left the Hammerhall immediately, making his way through the crowded streets to the Great Temple. Beldinas was in his manse, sitting on the balcony that overlooked the steaming gardens. It had rained early that morning, and the sun was doing its best to dry up the moisture. Quarath accompanied him, his face pinched with disdain as Cathan bowed before the Kingpriest.

The Lightbringer had recovered from his near-death experience, the light of his aura shining bright again. Cathan knew enough about Beldinas’s healing powers to understand that he wouldn’t even bear a scar where the dagger had pierced his breast. His eyes, however, were not the same as they had been before. Cathan could see the fear in them even now.

“Things have gone too far,” the Kingpriest said flatly. “The sorcerers must pay for what they did-both here and in Lattakay.”

This is a test, Cathan thought, glancing from the Lightbringer to Quarath. They want me to prove my faith.

He touched Ebonbane’s hilt. “If Your Holiness demands war, we shall have war,” he declared. “Is it certain sorcery is to blame?”

“We found Revered Son Suvin’s body two days ago,” Quarath replied, “beneath a pier at the wharf. The thing that attacked His Holiness was some kind of magical double. The wizards clearly conjured it as part of a trap-just as they conjured the quasitas for their lackey Andras to slaughter your men.”

“There will be war,” Beldinas insisted. “The people of Istar will no longer suffer the evils of sorcery within our realm. Nor will Ergoth and Solamnia.”

Cathan nodded, picturing Duke Serl and Lord Yarns. The two had left the Lordcity the day before, setting sail across Lake Istar after the funerals. Both their faces had been set with grim determination as they stepped aboard their ships.

The Kingpriest continued. “We have reached an agreement-the first such, between our three nations. The Towers of High Sorcery must fall.”

Cathan couldn’t help his reaction. His mouth fell open.

“We mean to besiege them,” Quarath said, smiling a tight, wolfish smile. “If they do not surrender before Spring Dawning, we attack.”

Madness was the word that flashed through Cathan’s mind. He glanced east, toward the bloody-fingered spire that loomed over the Lordcity. “What about the haunted groves?” he asked. “If we try to storm the Towers, they’ll turn us back. I know-I’ve felt it myself.”

“Uso dolit,” Beldinas replied simply.

The god will provide.

It was no kind of answer. Cathan bowed his head, feeling older than his years.

“What is my part of this to be, sire?”

Within the light, Beldinas smiled. “At the fore, as always, my friend. You and your men shall ride out tomorrow to Losarcum.”

“Losarcum?” Cathan repeated, shocked. He had expected the Kingpriest would name him to assail the Lordcity’s own Tower. Quarath grinned again, and he understood. With him far to the south, the elf would lead the