There was a hole in the ground where the plinth had stood, wide enough for a man to fit through. Cathan leaned forward, seeing iron rungs, dark with rust, descending into the gloom. Then, suddenly, a grotesque face appeared: hook-nosed and ruddy-cheeked, with a shiny pate and a long, braided beard the color of granite. It wore a white mask, too, and regarded the ruffians’ leader critically, then looked past him.
“You’re back early,” the creature in the hole noted. “Did something go-Reorx’s hairless cheeks! Is that who I think it is?”
Cathan looked away, but it was too late: The strange man had recognized his eyes. Wentha tightened her grip on his wrist-whether to comfort him or to make sure he didn’t run away, he wasn’t sure.
“Not now, Gabbro,” said the swordsman. “Let us down before the Hammer sees us.” The ugly face turned white, looked around. “The Hammer? Here?”
“Gabbro. Let us down.”
The creature hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and clambered out of the hole. He was stunted, perhaps four feet tall, and nearly as broad, with stout legs and bare, well-muscled arms. He held a war axe large enough to cut a man in two.
Cathan gaped. He knew of dwarves, but had never seen one before. The church had driven them out of Istar in the time of the first Kingpriests. The dwarf-Gabbro-turned narrowed eyes on him, daring him to say a word.
“You’ll see stranger things soon enough,” Wentha whispered.
The crossbowmen were descending the iron ladder, moving with swift assurance down the rungs. Rath and Tancred went after them, more slowly.
“Bringing the Twice-Born down into the
“It will be all right, Idar, you’ll see,” Wentha said, and nodded toward the hole. “All right, Cathan. It’s your turn.”
Cathan blinked, overwhelmed. How deep did the hole go? What was at the bottom? Or who? Gabbro swung out his arm, a mocking gesture of invitation. Idar gave him a steely look. Wentha pushed him forward slightly.
Swallowing, Cathan started down the rungs, leaving Chidell behind.
“There are tunnels like this all over the empire,” Wentha whispered to Cathan as they waited at the bottom for Idar and Gabbro. A distant rumble shook the walls, bringing down tiny showers of dust-the statue, far above, grinding back into place. “Under every city, and a lot of the countryside, too. They say you can walk most of the way across the empire without ever seeing the sky.”
“Not quite,” said the dwarf, jumping down the last few feet to land with a grunt beside them. “But we’ll get there someday, the way things are going.”
Cathan glanced around, amazed. The passage was cramped, with a ceiling low enough that he had to stoop down to keep from cracking his head on the shoring timbers. A muffled thud, and a louder oath, told him Rath had missed one.
“What kind of place is this?” he asked. “Why have I never heard of it before?”
“Because you’re the enemy,” said Idar, climbing down from above him. His injured arm kept him moving slowly. “If the Hammer knew about the
Cathan threw up his hands. “Down where? Will someone tell me where we are?”
“The
“All of us who’d be hunted down by your bloody Hammer if we showed our faces in the open,” added Gabbro, even more viciously. “Dwarves, gnomes, men who follow heathen gods … short of the High Sorcerers, anyone the Kingpriest or the ones before him declared enemies of the empire. Idar here and his family were worshippers of Zivilyn-till the thrice-damned Hammer came for ‘em. Now there’s just him left.”
“Enough, Gabbro,” said Idar, his face grim. The bloody mark on his mask had bloomed huge, but had finally stopped getting bigger. Idar turned to Cathan, studying him intently. “We only wanted to pray to the Tree of Life. We weren’t evil … but your knights didn’t care. We were still heathens, fuel for stake and flame.”
Cathan bowed his head. Zivilyn was one of the gray gods, neither dark nor light. The church had begun to hunt down those faiths just before the war against the mages. He could only imagine what had happened since; if Beldinas said the war against darkness was all but over, it couldn’t be good.
“They aren’t my knights any more,” he said heavily, then looked at Wentha. “And what about you?”
“Not everyone above loves the church,” Idar replied. “Though it seems that way these days. Your sister has been good enough to help us before, in Lattakay. She’s given us gold, helped people escape into the
Cathan’s eyes widened. Wentha looked back, calm and composed. “You?” he asked. “Why?”
She looked at her sons, then at Idar, who sighed and nodded. “Come with me,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
The wine had filled Tithian’s head with bees: not angry bees-no, that would come in the morning-but summer bees, fat and slow, humming pleasantly as they flew about his mind. He sat back against the cushioned wall of Lord Dejal’s hall, watching the performers through blurred eyes. They were acrobats now, lithe women who could leap and twist and tumble in ways that made him regret his vow of chastity. Judging by the smiles on his men’s faces- big, dreamy grins that matched his own-they were thinking the same. A few of them would probably break that vow tonight, forcing him to reprimand them in the morning. A few always did, on nights like tonight.
It was a good evening, he decided, draining his goblet, then holding it up for a servant to refill. He’d slept poorly in Losarcum. The place held too many bad memories, and he woke several times each night with thoughts of fire and melting stone and dying screams roiling in his mind. But coming to Chidell had improved his mood. He was back in civilization again, back in lands where water was not scarce, and the sun and wind weren’t hateful things. The Kingpriest also seemed in a good mood-Tithian glanced at Beldinas, who sat across the room, glowing.
His cup was full again, and he drank deeply, watching the tanned, lean, beautiful women leap and roll and twist. More bees joined the swarm, bringing with them thoughts of slender legs, wrapped around his waist. The air smelled of orange blossoms and myrrh.
He had only one regret, and that was Cathan’s reaction tonight. Not that it had come as a complete surprise-Cathan had been through with the knighthood the moment they left Losarcum the first time, so long ago. But he’d hoped, in his heart, that things might have changed. His old master was a different man now, grimmer, sadder than he remembered. It was like the time Tithian had returned to the small town in Gather where he’d been born, and saw the church where the priests had raised him with other orphans. In his memory, it had been a grand, majestic place, rivaling anything short of the Great Temple. When he went back fifteen years later, though, it had seemed tiny and plain, a shadow of what he’d expected.
Tithian found the bottom of his cup again, and raised it once more. The servant that came to him, however, was not a cupbearer. She was a messenger girl, tall and slender, maybe twenty, with buttery skin and red lips he couldn’t take his eyes from … he shook his head, suddenly wishing the damned bees would stop buzzing and let him think.
“His Holiness bids you attend him,” she said, looking at him doubtfully. “If you will come with me.” Tithian looked toward the Lightbringer. The serene, glowing face nodded at him, the
“You are drunk, Grand Marshal,” said Beldinas, as he drew near. There was no reproof in his voice-but no amusement, either.
Tithian drew himself up straight, feeling the stares of Dejal and the others surrounding the Kingpriest. “I apologize, sire,” he said sincerely. “The vintage here is stronger than I expected.”
“I need you sober,” said the Kingpriest. A glowing hand reached out and touched his cheek.
The bees went away. Just like that-no surge of light, no holy power flowing through the air, no invisible chimes and roses. One moment, the room was wobbling about him, and then everything grew sharper. He blinked, amazed. “Holiness …”
“Did you think I could only heal disease?” Now there was a trace of amusement in the Lightbringer’s voice. “I
