“Bring him to me,” he bade.
They went running, and moments later came back out of the ruined bathhouse-Lord Tithian, Wentha and her sons, and Cathan last of all. The old man who had once been the Kingpriest’s champion stopped when he saw Beldinas, and stared a moment before he continued slowly forward. He moved to stand before the glowing figure, making no pretense at kneeling.
“Your light has grown brighter,” he said.
“Because of my followers,” Beldinas replied. “Their faith gives me strength. The victory over evil will be theirs, as much as mine.”
“Victory?” Cathan echoed. “Victory?”
For a moment, his face contorted with rage, and the knights nearby began to reach for their weapons. But rather than threatening the Kingpriest, Cathan turned and walked away, his dirty robes billowing behind him. He strode up to the glass-walled manor, then stopped on the shattered portico and looked back.
“Come. Let me show you the truth of your victory.”
With that, he disappeared into the manor.
Nobody moved. All heads turned toward the Kingpriest, who stood motionless, his mood unreadable as ever. Several elder priests shook their heads at the disrespect Twice-Born’s, yet they said nothing, waiting to see how the Lightbringer would respond.
Beldinas remained where he was for several long minutes, his hands clasped thoughtfully before him. Then, quietly, he nodded and started toward the manor himself. Tithian moved to follow, but the Kingpriest held up a hand without breaking stride.
“No,” Beldinas declared. “I must speak with him alone.”
He strode up the cracked stairs and into the shadows of the manor. Within, everything was as Varen had described it: the mosaic of Ardosean, the statuary, the arras … and there, on his right, the wall of glass and the people trapped within.
“There’s your victory,” Cathan’s voice snapped from the shadows by the wall. “Look carefully, Lightbringer. That’s the cost of your war.”
The Kingpriest sighed, moving soundlessly across the room. His glow kindled in the glass, making it glisten. It lit the faces of the people within, turning them into pale masks of terror and anguish. As he stood before the wall, his hand reached out, fingertips brushing the glass. Then, with a moan, he bowed his head and began to weep.
Cathan started. He hadn’t expected this. “Beldinas?” he asked.
“Did you think I wouldn’t care?” the Kingpriest asked, his voice breaking. “Do you truly think the lives of my subjects mattered so little to me?”
He reached into the folds of his robes, producing something small and sharp, flashing gold. Looking at it, Cathan saw what it was: the shard Varen’s sell-sword friend had chipped off the wall Beldinas searched for the spot where it had come from, then walked to it and pressed the shard to his lips.
“I have made mistakes,” the Kingpriest said simply. “I have failed you. This should never have happened.”
Cathan swallowed, his mouth going dry. Beldinas wasn’t speaking to him; he was facing the wall, and the doomed figures imprisoned within. Tears sparkled like diamonds as they fell from within his aura.
“This shall be a sacred place, from this day on,” Beldinas proclaimed. “Tens of thousands died, because of our pride … the wizards’ and the church’s. And not just here, but throughout the empire. Let this be their cenotaph.”
Gently, he raised the shard and pressed it to the crack. It fit perfectly, and he flattened his hand over it, holding it into the wall. Cathan felt a surge build in the air, making his skin prickle. He knew that feeling, remembered it though many years had passed since he’d felt it last, and turned his eyes away just in time.
“
Light flared bright, pouring down the Kingpriest’s arm, out through his fingers, into the wall. The glass became a beacon, its warm light washing through the ruined manor. It was cool, soothing, and brought with it the sound of crystal chimes and the smell of roses and rain. The crack vanished, the shard became part of the whole once more. Within the Losarcine amber, the men, women, and child to relax… then collapsed to dust, their bodies freed of the torment in which they had died.
Beldinas’s aura dimmed as he leaned forward, his forehead pressing against the glass. With a tired groan, his knees gave out.
Old reflexes took over, unbidden. Cathan was at his side in a heartbeat, catching the Kingpriest as he began to slump. Behind him, he heard the pounding of feet up the portico steps. He held Beldinas to him, feeling the man’s pounding heart, and he shook his head in amazement. Many times he’d imagined what he might do if he and the Lightbringer ever met again. And now… this.
“Forgive me,” the Kingpriest whispered. “Oh, my friend, forgive me.”
Cathan held him, his own empty eyes misting with tears, and said nothing at all.
Chapter 6
Cathan woke with a gasp, streaked with sweat. It was dark in the ruined bathhouse. A few candles flickered here and there, casting just enough glow to see the sleeping forms around him-his family, Tithian, a few of the senior knights and clerics whose names he’d been told but couldn’t recall. The rest of the party was slumbering in the street outside, and Beldinas was in the mansion, the new holy site he had made with a prayer. There had been other rituals later, the priests insisting the rites of the church be followed: burning of incense, reciting of orisons, aspersing the glass wall. But those were the formalities; it was the Lightbringer who had blessed it, not spice- scented smoke and drops of holy oil.
After-images swam before Cathan’s eyes. The burning hammer, the heart of Istar… the dream again. Two nights in a row, he had dreamed the same dream he hadn’t had in years. And the Kingpriest was back in his life. Cathan had seen too many strange things in his time to consider it a coincidence, even for a moment. Paladine was trying to tell him something … but why was the dream so arcane? What did it mean?
“I can tell you,” whispered a voice close by, “but you would not believe me, even if I spoke the truth.”
Cathan didn’t need to look. He knew the voice, the sudden chill in the air. He turned his head anyway, shifting to peer at the hooded shape, the only still patch of darkness among the candle-dancing shadows. Moving without thought, he reached for Ebonbane.
“Oh, not this again,” said Fistandantilus. “What do you think you can do with that?”
He stopped, his fingers just short of the sword’s hilt “What do you want, wizard?”
“To congratulate you, Twice-Born,” said the archmage, stepping forward. The darkness moved with him, and the closest candles snuffed out as he drew near. “You got to them just in time. Well done.”
Cathan glanced around, nervous. If anyone saw him with the Dark One … but no one stirred. Even the guards Tithian had set at the doors were lying on the floor, still clad in their armor … as though they had simply fallen where they stood. He turned back to look at Fistandantilus, his eyes blazing,
The Dark One chuckled, a dry mirthless sound. “Don’t worry, they’re not dead. Just a simple spell. When it breaks, they won’t even remember that they slept. Killing them would have led to too many questions, of course.”
“The others won’t wake either, will they?” Cathan asked.
“Shake them if you want,” the sorcerer said. “Kick them, even, I’d rather we weren’t seen together, my friend-a sentiment I’m sure you agree with.”
“I’m not your friend.”
“No? I’m so disappointed.” The shadows moved again. More candles went out. “There is a question you want to ask me, Twice-Born, and not about your dream.”
“If you know what it is already, why not just tell me the answer?” Cathan couldn’t keep the annoyance from
