blisters, not even redness. Cathan stared at the fallen sword, then turned his gaze back to the black-robed figure.
“What are you doing here?”
The wizard shook his head and sighed. “Why is it,” he said, “that every conversation I have with someone seems to begin this way? Never ‘good day to you, Fistandantilus,’ oh no. Or ‘would you like a glass of wine?’ It’s always ‘what do
Cathan made a sour face. “How unreasonable of us. It must be such a burden for you.”
The hooded head angled, then chuckled, a humorless sound like the creaking of dry leather. “Well put, Twice-Born. I like you already. No one has dared be sarcastic with me in centuries.”
“I don’t have anything to fear from you,” Cathan replied. “I’ve already died once.”
“True,” Fistandantilus said, stepping forward. He raised a hand, twitching his fingers. “But there are worse things than death.”
It happened in just a flash, so quick that later Cathan wasn’t sure if he’d only imagined it. Even so, the instant of agony that flared through him was as though his entire body had been immersed in Kautilyan fire, was enough to leave him down on his knees, tears in his eyes, and the burn of bile in his throat. He looked up at Fistandantilus, fighting to keep the horror from his eyes. A minute of pain like that would leave a man utterly, irrevocably mad. And the Dark One seemed able to do it without any real effort-or compunction.
“Now you fear me,” said the Dark One. “Good.”
With an effort, Cathan got back to his feet. “I’ll ask it again,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here because I need your help,” Fistandantilus answered, then nodded as Cathan’s eyes narrowed. “Difficult to believe, yes. But much as it pains me to say it, there are things even I cannot do. I need your help with the Kingpriest, Twice-Born.”
Now it was Cathan’s turn to laugh. “The Kingpriest? Look around you, Dark One. Is this the Hammerhall? I left Istar behind long ago. If I could, I would live the rest of my life without seeing it, or the Kingpriest, ever again.”
“But you will, Twice-Born.” The Sorceror stepped forward, his robes whispering. “You will, and soon.”
He turned to his left, speaking spidery words and weaving his hands through the air. Cathan felt the cold in the air intensify-and something else, something he hadn’t felt since Losarcum fell. Magic. The sorcerer was drawing it down from the black moon, focusing it with his will. Dread rising, Cathan watched as Fistandantilus pointed at one of the baths’ empty pools, channeling the magic toward it.
There was a gurgling rush of sound, and as Cathan watched, pure, clear water flowed up through a crack in the pool’s bottom, swiftly climbing the painted-tile walls, in less than a minute it was lapping at the edges, cool and clear and tempting. It shone with golden light, casting glowing ripples upon the cavern walls.
“Look into the water, Twice-Born,” Fistandantilus said. “There is something you must see.”
Maybe the wizard charmed him to do it, or maybe curiosity led Cathan to the pool’s edge. The water glistened as if the sun were shining down upon it, but otherwise there was nothing to see within.
No, wait. There was something, after all. Images forming, running together on the surface. He squinted, trying to see what it was … and then the images coalesced into a sight he knew all too well: a maze of canyons, snaking among the golden mesas and canyons of the Tears, the shattered remains of Losarcum at its heart. He was looking at them from above, circling like one of the carrion birds that always seemed to be wheeling overhead, searching for things the desert had killed. With a view like this, a man could make such a map of the Tears that no one would ever get lost in them again.
The view shifted, and he spied something new. A thread of silver, winding through the canyons like some strange serpent. Sunlight gleamed off silvery armor and snowy robes, and though there was no sound, he was sure he could hear voices chanting, singing hymns to the gods. He knew what an imperial processional was; he’d marched in plenty of them himself. And there, at the heart of this one, was a gleam of holy light that could be only one person.
The Lightbringer had come to the Tears. He was less than two leagues away from this very place.
Cathan swallowed a curse. The scholar had told Beldinas where he was! He’d known it would happen, but that didn’t make him any happier about it.
“Let him come,” he growled, glaring at Fistandantilus. “I swore never to go back. Not after this.” He gestured at the ruins around him.
“And no blame to you,” said the wizard. “It is understandable. But … before you dismiss him too quickly … you should look closer.”
Something in the Dark One’s voice made Cathan’s stomach turn cold. You’re being manipulated, a small voice told him, but he couldn’t help it; he looked again. When he did, he saw a closer view of the processional. Now he could make out other figures besides the glowing shape of the Kingpriest astride his golden chariot: knights and priests, the gray-robed figure of the scholar … and there, an armored man in the scarlet tabard of the Grand Marshal of the Divine Hammer. The man had his helmet off-any smart man would, in the baking heat of Dravinaar- and Cathan could make out his face … the freckled, boyish face that, except for the beard, didn’t seem to have changed in all these years.
Tithian. He felt a strange surge of pride that his former squire had risen to lead the knighthood. But the knowledge also unsettled him. The Hammer had done some terrible things in the Kingpriest’s name. He’d even participated in some of those deeds. What more had happened under Tithian?
Then he saw another figure, riding nearby, and shock spiked through him, momentarily driving thoughts of the Divine Hammer and the Lightbringer from his mind. There, flanked by two young men who could only be her sons, he spotted his sister.
“Wentha,” he breathed.
“Yes,” answered Fistandantilus. “It changes things, doesn’t it?”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had aged, but she was still beautiful. Even grim-faced as she was, the mere sight of her made his heart lighten in a way it hadn’t for years. She might be old and somber, but to his eyes she was still the laughing girl he’d called Blossom.
“A pity she won’t reach this place alive,” said the Dark One.
Cathan looked up sharply, his heart lurching. “What?”
Fistandantilus nodded toward the pool. “They are being hunted. Look closely.”
When Cathan turned back, the vision had shifted again. Now he was looking at the back of the train rather than its front. There, the rear guard of knights rode watchfully, searching the clifftops and the skies. Even now, manticores and giant scorpions prowled the depths of the desert, and ruffians preyed on unwary travelers. Cathan nodded in approval of the knights’ vigilance, his eyes following their gaze. The skies were empty, the cliffs bare. A frown spread across his face; where was the danger Fistandantilus spoke of? He turned to question the archmage- then stopped, catching his breath as he saw it.
It was the faintest of ripples, disturbing the sands of the canyon floor for just a second before it vanished again. He blinked and had nearly convinced himself he hadn’t seen it at all when it appeared again-a hundred yards behind the trailing knights, shifting the sand slightly, only to be gone again. None of them had spotted it; they were watching for death from above, while it stalked them below.
“
“The same as any of the beasts that haunt these lands,” Fistandantilus said. “The spawn of wild magic, set loose by my unwise brethren when they destroyed the Tower. But this beast is particularly cunning. It will wait for the right moment before it strikes … and when it does, it will kill them all. The Kingpriest, Lord Tithian, your precious sister … unless someone stops it.”
Cathan glared at the wizard. “This is one of your tricks, isn’t it? A ruse, to make me go to them.”
“Possibly,” the Dark One replied. He spoke another word, and the images in the pool flickered and faded. The water swirled as it drained away. “But can you afford to believe that? Are you willing to bet your sister’s life?”
The cavern was silent. Cathan glanced into the pool, watching it empty itself again, the scrying spell done. His fists clenched, unclenched, clenched again.
Something floated toward him, glinting in the lamplight. It was Ebonbane, moving through the air to hover before him.
“You’ll want your weapon now, I think,” Fistandantilus said.
