Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Sacred Fire

By

Chris Pierson

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Prologue

SIXMONTH, 961 I.A.

The wind blasted down the canyon, roaring like a mad dragon and raising great curls of dust. Varen turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut just in time to avoid it. Some of the other men did not, and their curses echoed from stone to stone. When the gust passed, half of them doubled over, gasping and spitting and dousing their faces with water to wash away the grit Around them, their guides—lean, sun-weathered men with beards dyed garish colors—laughed at their expense.

His sharp-featured face contracting into a scowl, Varen walked past the choking men, to the one who was their leader: a stout, oxlike fellow in chain mail, with an opal-encrusted longsword slung across his back. “This is the best you could do, Morias?” he asked in a low voice. “These men are idiots and fools.”

Morias Gall made a face that could have been a grin or a sneer; the old warrior was missing half his nose and part of his upper lip, so it was hard to tell. “They’re strong backs and strong arms,” he hissed—another scar ran across his throat. “You think you can find better, ride back to Jaggana and find ‘em”

“I need men with wits too,” Varen shot back. “If I wanted brainless muscle, I’d have brought a herd of minotuars. The way things are going, we won’t have way things are going, we won’t have enough of your strong backs left to carry our prize.”

This time, there was no mistaking Morias’s expression for a smile. A young man with no training at arms, Varen weighed maybe half what the grizzled warrior did, and stood more than a foot shorter. Morias could have broken him in half with one hand. But though the scholar paled slightly, he didn’t back down.

“Only I know how to get there,” he said. “Kill me, and you’ll never find your fortune.”

Morias glared at him a long moment, then grunted and turned away, raising a hand to call his men near.

Varen let out his breath What am I doing here? he wondered, not for the first time. A scholar from Tucuri, far away in Istar’s northern reaches, he had spent most of his life poring over tomes in that city’s renowned university. He could barely lift a sword, and riding horses left him almost crippled with saddle-sores. Only six months ago, the thought that he would be out here, in the wastes of Dravinaar, would have made him laugh. But here he was, deep in the desert, by men who would cut his throat—“give you a second smile,” as Morias quaintly put it—and leave him for the jackals if he looked at them wrong. Why?

It embarrassed him, how pedestrian the answer was. Riches … fame… a name others would remember.

Daubas Mishakas, the books called this labyrinth of mesas and gorges, carved out of the stone in the midst of the Sea of Shifting Sands—The Tears of Mishakal. The locals called it, rather more aptly, Raqqa az Zarqa: The Sun’s Anvil. Few lived here these days, for it was a cursed place, and the Dravinish claimed it was haunted. Once, however, one of Istar’s grandest cities had stood in its midst, carved out of the rock itself: Losarcum, the City of Stone. It had been a thriving place, the pearl of the desert, a wonder of the world.

That had all ended in thunder and fire, seventeen years go. It had happened during the holy war against wizardry, when the forces of the Istaran church had sought to storm the Towers of High Sorcery. Treacherous to the end, the mages had destroyed two of those Towers. One had leveled a large part of Daltigoth, the capital of faraway Ergoth. The second had been in Losarcum, and it had brought the whole city to ruin, smashing it and burying it beneath countless tons of rubble.

In the years since, many treasure-hunters had come to the Tears in search of Losarcum’s ruins. The wealth that must be buried beneath the rubble was enough to tempt many, from itinerant adventurers to the holy church itself. Thus far, however, no one had found more than a few baubles and potsherds. But then, three months ago, Varen—whose discipline at the university had been antiquities—had received a journal, recovered from an ill-fated expedition into the Tears. Its author had written of a passage, a cave that led to a “land of glass,” where great riches could be found.

Varen had decided, then and there, that he would be the one to find the lost bones of Losarcum. The time since was a blur. He’d spent another month in study, piecing together all he could, then quit his post, taken all his silver, and traveled south to Jaggana, a city renowned for its sell-swords. There he’d met Morias, and a week later they’d set out into the desert with fifteen hired mercenaries and a handful of Dravinish guides.

The mercenaries were down to ten now. One had died on the way, overcome by heat poisoning. Three more had fallen to the creatures that lived in these parts: giant, hairy spiders and snakes that could spit deadly venom a dozen paces. The fifth had lost his temper with Varen the day before yesterday—their eighth in the Tears—and had drawn his blade on him. Morias had put a dagger through the man’s throat, then hung the body from a cactus as a warning to the rest. The way they looked at Varen—and the way they fingered their swords and maces—they still weren’t feeling very friendly.

Fine, he thought. I didn’t come here to make friends.

Morias was snapping at his men. Varen eyed them, wondering if they would try to kill him once they found the treasure. He’d lied to them, talking of other caches he’d heard about, in the hope it would stay their hands. Now he looked past them, at the canyon’s snaking, ridged walls. He pulled a map from his belt and unfurled it, studying it as the wind tried to snatch it from his hands. They were close now—had to be. According to the map, Losarcum was less than a league away. He prayed the maze of chasms wouldn’t betray him.

A sudden shout snapped him out of his contemplation, and he turned in time to see steel flash among the Dravinish guides. His insides lurched before he realized they didn’t mean to attack. One had drawn his curved saber and brought it down to stab something on the ground. The man twisted his blade back and forth, then raised it again to reveal a snake impaled upon its tip. The serpent twitched feebly, and the Dravinishman flashed a smile full of white teeth—then stopped, eyes widening, and flung the blade to the ground. He shouted something in Dravinish, backing away. His fellows did the same.

Morias and Varen reached the saber at the same time. The sell-sword bent down to pick it up, then flinched back. “Huma’s balls!” he swore.

The snake had legs.

Basilisk! Varen thought, panic surging within him. Dravinaar had once been rife with the fell beasts whose gaze could turn a man to stone—but men had wiped them out more than a century ago. And at second glance, he knew the creature wasn’t one. It was a bonetail, a particularly deadly serpent, but six stubby legs, each ending in a single talon, stuck out of its sides.

“Strange,” he said.

“Bloody right,” Morias rasped. “What in the Abyss did that?”

“Sharaz Qunai,” murmured the man who’d killed it.

Morias and Varen looked at him blankly. Neither spoke more than a smattering of Dravinish.

“The Staring Ghost, it means,” said Pashim, the leader of the guides. He drew a hand down his swarthy face, a ritual gesture against evil. “He haunted these parts, near the city-that-was. He curses those who come too close, as he cursed old man serpent.” He nodded toward the snake, then shook his head. “My men will go no farther.”

“What!” Morias’s face colored as he stepped forward, towering over Pashim. “That wasn’t the bargain. We paid you good silver to take us all the way.”

Not intimidated, the Dravinishman rested a hand on his saber. “We will give you back your silver. But we will not offend Sharaz Qunai.”

Morias held still a moment, then slowly relaxed, rumbling in his chest. The guides withdrew, leaving the saber behind: none would touch it now. The old sell-sword glowered at them, then looked over his shoulder at his men. “All right, lads, form up,” he growled. “We’re almost there. Let’s get moving.” Grumbling, the mercenaries grabbed up shields and shouldered packs. Varen stayed put a moment, staring at the misshapen snake. He’d heard stories about animals warped by the energies that had burst from the Towers when they exploded. According to one, the rats in the sewers beneath Daltigoth were the size of lions, with glowing eyes and stingers on their tails. The snake could only mean he was right: they were close to Losarcum now. His heart quickened.

But what about Sharaz Qunai, a voice in him wondered. Who is this ghost the Dravinishmen fear?

“Ai! Ink-fingers!” called Morias. “You going to stare at that thing all day, or are you going to join us?”

Varen snapped back to himself, looking up. The mercenaries were ready to leave, looking daggers at him for holding them up. Swallowing, he gave the serpent one last glance, then hurried to follow.

*****

They found more warped animals as they went: a spider with one staring, bloodshot eye; a lizard with three heads; a blue scorpion with iridescent wings. That last cost them another of Morias’s men, who turned purple and died thrashing while the others looked on. That wasn’t the only sign they were getting close, either: shards of natural glass, translucent and razor-sharp, jutted from sand and stone alike, and the air shimmered with something more than just the desert’s heat. Sometimes, Varen thought, it even sparkled for a moment before fading again.

And then there was the feeling. There was a sharpness to the air—nearly a scent, almost a taste. It made his scalp prickle and the hairs on the backs of his arms stand erect. He could tell Morias and his men felt it too: their glances at the cliffs to either side were nervous, and many had drawn their weapons. Small wonder the Dravinish thought this place was haunted, with all the wild magic running loose.

When he finally saw it, his voice failed him. They rounded a bend in the canyon, and there it was: a dark, narrow cleft in the stone, halfway up the canyon wall. Only one who was looking for it would have thought it more than a shallow crevice: the sell-swords paid it no heed. Varen stopped, however, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He stood very still, staring at the crack.

“What?” Morias asked, striding near. He followed Varen’s gaze, and his eyes widened. “God’s piss, is that it?” he swore. “It looks so small.”

“What were you expecting?” Varen replied. “If it were bigger, everyone would know of it. That’s the way to Losarcum.”

The old mercenary nodded, then clapped his hands. “Well, then.”

The climb was slow going, for Varen was little good at it, and the rest were weighed down with armor and weapons, but one by one they moved up the cliff. Morias was the first to the cleft, pausing long enough to light a torch before stepping through. Varen listened to him go, half-expecting to hear a bloodcurdling scream. Soon Morias reappeared, frowning with impatience.

“Come on,” he snapped. “What’re you waiting for?”

Varen followed, the sell-swords at his back. A voice in his mind said this was not a good idea—if they meant to kill him, this would be a good time—but he couldn’t wait for the others. His curiosity was aflame, and his heart pounded like a dwarven trip-hammer.

The tunnel was close and difficult, the stone broken on all sides. Deep groans sounded from above, and streams of grit poured out of the cracks. Varen bashed his head on a jutting brow, drawing blood; behind him, the armored mercenaries scraped and clanked and blasphemed. Varen cringed at every noise: if the Staring Ghost was real, they’d given it plenty of chance to hear them. Still, they pushed on, deeper and deeper.

After a while, he piled into Morias from behind. The sell-sword grunted, shoving him back, but he pressed closer again. “What is it?” he asked. “Why are we stopped?”

“Look up ahead.”

At first, Varen could see nothing but rock, lit by Morias’s flickering torch. But then he spotted something else: a second light, a steady golden glow, on down the hall. He stared at it, bewildered.

“Lamplight,” he breathed.

“What I thought,” Morias agreed. “But who lit it?”

Sharaz Qunai, said a voice in Varen’s head. He thrust it aside. “Someone’s been here already.”

“Probably still are.”

“What do we do? We can’t turn back.”

Morias chuckled. “This tunnel only goes two ways.” He dumped his torch on the floor and stomped it out, leaving the passage dark except for the distant glow. Unseen, his sword scraped out of its scabbard.

“Stay out of the way, if things get sticky,” he said. Varen nodded. Then they were moving again, as quietly as possible. The glow grew brighter and brighter, until it was enough to see by. Morias led with the tip of his blade, every step careful. His breath came quick, and sweat beaded his forehead. Varen noted his fear with surprise.

Finally they reached a bend in the passage and stopped, staring in amazement at what lay beyond. It was a huge cavern of shattered, pinkish stone, its roof a natural dome that had formed when the rest collapsed. Huge chunks of rubble littered the ground, but there were only pieces too big to lift. Near the middle of the cave was a pool of clear water, bubbling up from beneath and trickling in a stream across the floor and out a crack in the wall.

The wall. There was something strange about it. Varen squinted, trying to figure it out. The stone there was smoother than elsewhere … as was the floor, now that he looked at it. He froze, sucking in a sharp breath.

“A street,” he murmured.

“What?” Morias whispered, glancing back.

Varen gestured ahead. “This place is a street. We’re in Losarcum—what’s left of it, anyway.”

Then were several lamps close by, they saw as they moved closer: glimmering brass things on chunks of stone that proved to be fallen pillars and the rim of a shattered fountain. Morias went to one as his men poured out of the tunnel behind Varen, and nudged it with his foot. Brow furrowing, he peered around him.

“There,” he said, pointing with his sword. “That opening. It must lead somewhere.”

It had been a doorway once, but the door was long gone, and the lintel had cracked. Someone had shored it up with chunks of stone and wood. More light glimmered from within Varen started toward if, converging with Morias as he drew near. The sell-sword signaled to his men, silently directing six to stand guard and the rest to follow. They did as he ordered, weapons ready. Varen and Morias went through the doorway side by side—and stopped, their breath failing them.

They stood in what had clearly been the entry hall of some grand manor. Its floor was covered with a glittering mosaic of a Kingpriest with a sapphire crown—Ardosean the Uniter. Varen noted absently. The wall to their left was lined with gilded statuary, porcelain urns, and satin arras with jewels woven into them. Most of it was intact and incredibly valuable; they had found the treasure they sought.

It wasn’t what drew their eyes, though.

To the right, things were different. The sandstone there had melted, then fused again, turning to cloudy, rosy-gold glass. It poured down from the ceiling in ripples, and pooled and puddled upon the floor.

“Branchala bite me,” swore Morias, staring into its depths. “Are those people in there?”

A shudder ran through Varen as he approached the glass. He saw them too, six in all—men, women, and one small child. All of them were frozen, encased, their faces twisted into expressions of horror and agony. They had died afraid, and in horrible pain.

“This side of the building was facing the Tower of High Sorcery,” Varen said solemnly. “When it exploded, it must have turned the stone to glass and trapped them inside. They’ve been here like this for nearly twenty years.”

“That’s impossible,” Morias said. “The heat should have burned them to ash.”

Varen shook his head, reaching out to touch the smooth glass. “There was a lot of magic pouring through the city at the time. Somehow, it protected them.”

“Not the word I’d choose,” the sell-sword retorted. “This stuff would fetch a fair price in the cities, I’d say. Losarcine amber, we might call it.” He sneered, avarice gleaming in his eyes. “Or Mishakal’s Tears.”

He raised his sword.

“Don’t!” Varen cried, too late.

The crash of sword striking glass filled the room. A shard of the stuff broke off, clattering at Morias’s feet. It glinted in the lamplight, the color of sunrise. People would prize it, Varen realized as the sell-sword lifted it up. It was remarkably beautiful, and it existed nowhere else in the world. The riches, the fame he’d craved… it was all here, for the taking… .

“No,” he said, stepping back. “It’s grave robbery, We’d be selling these people’s tomb”

Morias shrugged, regarding the shard in his hand. “They don’t need so much of it. If we just take a little for now…” He stopped suddenly, his brow furrowing, and cocked an ear.

Varen heard it too. At first, he’d mistaken it for the clang of the mercenary’s sword hitting the glass, still echoing out in the street. It wasn’t getting any fainter, though—it was growing louder. And then there was a new sound, rising above it: a sharp, pained cry, and the clatter of an armored body hitting the ground.

“What in the Abyss?” Morias grunted, dropping the glass. It clinked on the floor without breaking. His men were already moving toward the doorway, and Varen started to follow, but Morias shoved the scholar aside, hurrying after. The clamor of steel outside grew, fiercer with every heartbeat.

A man stumbled into the room then, and the sell-swords nearly cut him down before they realized it was one of their own, a burly man who fought with twin shortswords. One of the blades was gone now, and his left arm below the elbow as well. Blood washed his armor. He had a second cut across his chin, and his eyes were wide with terror.

Morias caught him as he collapsed, eased him down. “What is it, man?” he demanded. “Speak!”

“It… it got them,” the mercenary said, staring wildly. “It killed them all!”

The other sell-swords started at this, looking at one another. Varen bit his lip. Five men dead, a sixth cruelly maimed—and the battle, from the sound of it, had lasted less than a minute. A terrible dread settled over him.

“Who?” Morias shook the injured man, who had slipped into incoherent shock. “Who did this?”

“Sharaz Qunai,” Varen moaned.

The mercenaries stared at him—but only for a moment. Then steel flashed in the doorway, and another of them fell, his head toppling from his shoulders. Blood fountained, and Varen caught a horrible glimpse of the surprise on the man’s face before he crumpled into the dust. The other sell-swords stumbled back, crying out in alarm, and something came after them.

The Staring Ghost had come.

“Fall together!” Morias bellowed, waving his blade at his men. He may as well have been trying to guide a flock of sparrows. They tripped over one another, stumbled into pillars, swung wildly at the air.

Varen gaped at the apparition as it swept through their midst, cutting down one man after another as though they were stalks of grain. It wasn’t a ghost at all, but an old man— wiry and sun-beaten, his head covered by a white cloth, his beard wild and silvery. He wore a flowing white robe, torn and smudged with use, and in his hand was a glittering blade that danced with expert grace.

Strangest about him, though, were his eyes. They were dead white, with neither iris nor pupil, not clouded like a blind man’s, but utterly empty. Varen could meet their stare only for an instant before looking away. It was a strange, awful sight … yet there was something familiar about those eyes, something that nagged at his memory.

Sharaz Qunai killed them all, one after another, and not a single grazing blow even touched him. He was a whirlwind of flashing, slashing steel: watching him fight, Varen understood why so few who set out to find Losarcum’s ruins had ever returned. How many greedy treasure-seekers had this man killed over the years?

Finally, only Morias remained. He fought bravely, coming on with swift savagery, his sword darting at the old man’s face. The Ghost parried the blow easily, but it stopped him in his tracks long enough for Morias to shove him back. The two of them fell away from each other and paused, sizing each other up, This was a more evenly matched contest, and both man knew it. The Ghost wasn’t even breathing hard, though nine men had already died by his blade.

When they fell to again, the clatter of their swords sounded like hail on a copper roof. They were both masters of the blade, and recognized each other as such, giving and taking ground with a rhythm that was as much dance as fight. Every swing was precise, every parry exactly where it needed to be. Each man saw the other’s faints, and knew when a riposte was coming. Eyes, throat, stomach, breast… quick or slow, every cut and thrust was a potential killing blow, had it landed. But for a long time, none of them did.

Time became meaningless in the clamor of steel. Varen watched as if he were a spectator at a gladiatorial epic. Finally, however, a thought came to him, breaking through the fascination to scream in his ear.

Run!

Startled, he glanced toward the manor’s entrance. It was empty, unblocked: the Ghost and Morias had circled away, leaving the dead mercenaries scattered on the ground. Thoughts of riches and glory fled Varen’s mind: his quest had failed. The only question left was whether he would live to see the sky again. With a choked cry, he stumbled toward the doorway.

The Ghost saw him, his head turning to follow the movement—a telling mistake. Laughing, Morias lunged, thrusting at the old man’s heart.

Steel met steel. It was an impossible parry, the kind of move masters-at-arms strove for years to perfect, and it deflected Morias’s blade scarcely an inch from the Ghost’s chest, but saved his life. He wasn’t spared from harm entirely. Instead of his vitals, Morias’s blade slid deep into the flesh of the old warrior’s thigh. The old man groaned, his knees buckling.

Then his sword came up hard, its tip punching through the flesh beneath Morias’s chin. The sell-sword’s helmet flew off as the blade came out the top of his skull, and he stood rigid, his eyes widening. He slumped to the floor. The Ghost jerked his sword free, then staggered and fell as well, one knee hitting the floor hard. He pressed his free hand to his wound, trying to stanch the blood.

Varen stared, paralyzed by shock. His eyes met the empty orbs of the Staring Ghost—and then, in a flash, he knew who this man had to be.

The Ghost grunted, started to rise. Half-mad with terror, Varen turned and fled, and never looked back.

Chapter 1

The Lordcity of Istar was drowning in roses.

They were everywhere, white and red and golden: draped in blankets from gleaming, white walls; hung in garlands from her alabaster towers and golden domes; gathered in bunches on lintels of doors; scattered about plazas and courtyards. Their petals carpeted the streets, drifted up against marble walls, floated on the surfaces of fountains and pools. Their attar ran as thick as smoke in the air, smothering the smells of spices and incense that ordinarily rose from the city.

Another Yule had come. The first festival of winter—a season of rain, rather than the snows that visited the realms to the west—was the grandest in the holy empire. Three days from now, the routines of the Lordcity would cease, and the citizens would give themselves over to drink and feasting in homes and wine-shops. The God’s Eyes, the twin silver lighthouses that guarded the mouth of the city’s port, would burn crimson instead of white, and the School of the Games in the eastern quarter would resound with the clash of steel and cheers of the crowds. In the west, at the crimson-turreted tower that had once belonged to the Orders of High Sorcery, folk would burn straw effigies dressed in robes of black and red and white, in defiance of the hated—and long departed—wizards. To the north, the Hammerhall, the sprawling fortress that was home to the knights of the Divine Hammer, would throw open its mighty doors and the empire’s defenders would parade into town in their mirror-bright armor.

And in the midst of the city, at the heart of the world where all Istar’s roads met, the Great Temple of the Kingpriest would resound with joyful music. Its crystal dome would shine as though a second sun had kindled within. Thousands of worshipers, from all over the city, the empire, and the world beyond, would pack the Barigon, the huge, statue-ringed square that stood before the Temple, coming together to receive blessing from the Kingpriest himself. They had done so for thirty-seven years now, since Beldinas the Lightbringer came to the throne. Gods willing, they would continue to do so for years to come.

Today, however, life in the Lordcity went on as it always did. Mighty trading galleys and tiny fishing boats slid across the harbor and glistening lake beyond, a riot of bright sails billowing on then masts. Folk clad in robes of satin and velvet bustled through the sheets, or stood in clusters is in the plazas and gardens, talking and laughing and arguing. The markets swarmed with color and noise as merchants sold everything from Tarsian rugs to unguents from Karthay, pearls and ivory from Seldjuk, jugs of fine Taoli wine, even shards of old wood said to date from the lance of Huma Dragonbane himself. The Scatas, the blue-cloaked soldiers who were the backbone of Istar s armies, marched on patrol, led by white-coated knights on horseback. Priests and monks made processionals among the city’s many shrines, chanting hymns of the Kingpriest’s mercy and glory. Pilgrims from all over Krynn prostrated themselves before the Temple’s steps, chanting over and over:

Beldinas Cilenfo … Beldinas Pilofiro … Beldinas Babo Sod …

Beldinas the Healer. Beldinas the Lightbringer. Beldinas, the true Kingpriest.

On the highest balcony of his towering manse, overlooking the mist shrouded gardens of the Temple, the Kingpriest stood, listening to the chorus murmuring his name. Thirty-eight years ago, he had come to Istar for the first time. Mere months before, he had been known to only a close circle as Brother Beldyn, a monk of scarcely seventeen summers, yet one who could work miracles of healing with his touch. Then lady Ilista, high priestess of Paladine, had visited his abbey, led by divine visions to find him. His coming to Istar had brought a schism within the empire, and caused Ilista’s own death; near open war had ended with the downfall of Kingpriest Kurnos, now called the Deceiver, who had used the darkest of magics in a mad attempt to hold on to his throne. The people of Istar had rejoiced when, wearing the long-lost Crown of Power, Beldinas had taken the throne. They had begun to chant his name that glorious day.

Thirty eight years, and the people still hadn’t stopped. For more than two thirds of his life, it had been the first thing he heard when he woke in the morning, and the last before he fell asleep. Even when he left the Lordcity, and went on processionals throughout the empire’s provinces—to the deserts of the south or the jungles of the north, the ports of the east or the highlands of the west—the admirers and chanting followed him. Hearing it now, he leaned forward, setting his hands on the balcony’s platinum balustrade, and let out a weary sigh.

“Holiness ”’ asked a voice behind him—soft, solicitous, polite. “Is something wrong?”

Beldinas turned, though he didn’t need to. That voice had been a constant in his life all these thirty-eight years. Other disciples had come and gone, friend and foe, counselor and courtier, but Quarath had always been there close by his side. Though his official title was Emissary of the Silvanesti elves, he had become much more. He was the Kingpriest’s most trusted advisor, and nearly as vital to the empire as Beldinas himself. Nothing happened without the elf knowing it: if Beldinas was Istar’s beating heart, Quarath was its sleepless brain.

The elf’s face—still youthful, unchanged even after so many years—was set in a frown of concern. A delicate hand rose to push back an errant strand of honey-colored hair. Quarath’s silvery robes, embroidered with gold and emeralds, shimmered with the movement.

“You seem tired, Aulforo,” he said. “Did you sleep poorly?” Beldinas hesitated. “No, Emissary. I am rested. No ill dreams troubled me.”

Quarath nodded. As far as he or anyone else knew, the Kingpriest did not dream at all, good or ill. It drove the imperial soothsayers mad. “What is the matter, then?” the elf asked. “Do not tell me it is nothing.”

“I wouldn’t think to,” the Kingpriest said with a smile so slight it was barely noticeable. “You know my mind as well as I do. Perhaps better—so you tell me, Emissary. Look, and tell me what troubles me.”

The elf made a show of studying Beldinas, his brow furrowed with concentration. A silver lizard—bred, by means since forgotten, to resemble a winged dragon—flew up from the gardens below, inspected the both of them, then swooped away when it determined neither was about to give it food. When it was gone, Quarath raised his eyebrows, pretending to understand only now.

“It is the war,” Quarath said sympathetically. “You worry over the struggle against darkness.”

Beldinas shrugged. “What else? I have been fighting to drive evil from the world most of my years, and I fear I will not live to see victory.”

“Don’t say that, Holiness,” Quarath said. “You’ve accomplished a great deal. The Divine Hammer have rooted out the last of the evil gods’ worshipers. The goblins and ogres are gone too, and the wizards—” both paused to touch their foreheads as a ward against sorcery “—are exiled, and will not return.”

“I know, Emissary,” assented Beldinas. “It is all I hoped for when I first donned the crown … but it isn’t enough. Evil is beaten, but it is not destroyed. Even now, the knights still find forbidden cults in the wilderness.”

Quarath couldn’t help but acknowledge the point with a grim nod. Just yesterday, the court had been stunned to learn that the Divine Hammer had rooted out a hidden sect in Falthana, one which secretly worshiped a many-armed god. The cultists had fought back, but the forces of light had prevailed, smashing the false deity’s idol. They had brought the pieces back to Istar as a trophies.

“Evil abides, Quarath,” Beldinas declared, and sighed again. “No matter how ruthlessly we strike at it, it will not die. It only appears somewhere else, because there is one place it hides where I cannot reach. The hearts of men.”

The elf looked toward the basilica, shining brilliantly in the morning light. “It will be … difficult… rooting it out from men’s hearts, Holiness,” he ventured. “The gods made my people for good, just as they made the ogres and their like for evil. But they gave men both, to choose between them. So it is written.”

“I know that,” the Kingpriest replied somewhat acidly. “I have read the holy scriptures, you know. Even so, I must seek a way.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know,” Beldinas said, turning back to look out over the garden. “At least not yet, Quarath.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed. He bit his lip, uncertain how to reply. Luckily, he didn’t have to fret long. As he gazed at the Kingpriest’s back, he heard the sound of footstep; jeweled slippers whispering across the marble floor. Proud as always that his keen elven senses had picked out the noise before Beldinas could hear, he turned to peer through the archway leading back into the manse.

Within was a young woman, not quite thirty, with long hair like polished brass. She dressed in white robes fringed with violet, an amethyst circlet on her head. “Efisa,” Quarath said in a low voice as she drew near. “What brings you here, away from your order?”

Lady Elsa, First Daughter and highest priestess in the Istaran church, clasped her hands in greeting, bringing her thumbs together to form the god’s triangle. “I apologize for the interruption, Emissary, but I bring tidings from First Son Revando.”

“You can tell me, Elsa,” Quarath said. “The Kingpriest should not be disturbed.”

“Nonsense, Emissary,” interrupted Beldinas, coming up behind Quarath. “If the First Son and Daughter both feel it is important, then it must be so. Speak, Efisa.”

Elsa dipped her knee toward the floor as the Kingpriest drew near. “Holiness,” she said, “Revando and I were at the front gates of the Temple, performing the morning benediction over the pilgrims, when I chanced to look toward the harbor. There was a commotion there, and then I saw … I saw a ship.”

One of Quarath’s eyebrows climbed. “A ship, you say? In the harbor?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Emissary,” Beldinas said to Quarath, an edge in his voice. He turned back to Elsa, whose face had turned red. “What of this ship? Tell me, child.”

Elsa regained her composure, smiling gratefully at the Kingpriest. “The ship, Holiness … it had an unusual sail.”

She trailed off as Beldinas studied her a moment, intently. Then his back straightened, and he took half a step back. “Gray,” he said. “The sails were gray, weren’t they?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Y-yes, sire. They were. Are.”

Quarath shot the Kingpriest a sharp glance. “Gray! What is she doing here?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Emissary,” Beldinas replied, frowning. “But we shall soon find out, I think. Lady Elsa, you did well, coming here. Now I need you to spread the news. Go to the Hammerhall, and tell the Grand Marshal to come here at once.”

“Of course, Holiness,” said the First Daughter. “What should I say?”

“The truth,” the Kingpriest said, and sighed for the third time that morning. “Tell him the Weeping Lady has come.”

*****

The Grand Marshal ducked, and just in time he heard the whistle as the sword missed his head, and knew he was lucky it hadn’t caught him full in the face. A lesser warrior never would have seen the blow coming, nor recovered fast enough to launch a counterattack before his foe could capitalize on catching him off-balance—but the Marshal had been a knight of the Divine Hammer for nineteen years, and its leader for seven. There were few better swordsmen in the world.

Smiling behind his visor, he spun to his left, rising to full height once more and bashing his opponent’s weapon arm with his shield. The other knight—a hotheaded youth named Bron—grunted more with pain than surprise, and stumbled sideways, his sword dropping. Instinct took over, focusing on the momentary vulnerability, and the Marshal swung at Bron’s head.

Bron was an untested fighter, but he was also quick. His blade came up again, catching the Marshal’s a hand’s breadth from his temple. Steel crashed, and the two men stood locked, staring at each other through the eye-slits of their helms.

“Not bad,” the Marshal said tersely. “Another ten, fifteen years of this, and I might make a fighter of you.”

Sir Bron’s eyes flashed. “Another ten years, milord, and you’ll be too old to lift your sword.”

The Marshal laughed lustily, though the gibe was off the mark. He was only thirty-five; in ten years he would be a little past his prime, but he’d still be a fierce fighter. Lord Olin, his predecessor, had been nearly seventy when he’d died of heart-burst while sparring in this very yard. With few true enemies left to fight in the world, more of the Divine Hammer’s veterans fell to old age than battle these days.

“We’ll see, lad,” he said, and shoved Bron back. The two of them parted, circling behind their shields, each seeking some opening, some weakness.

Sir Bron’s greatest disadvantage, however, was not technique but impatience. The Grand Marshal used it against him, feinting several times but never bringing the fight to a clash. Each time, Bron grew more tense and unsettled, until finally he growled and came on hard, sword spinning in a low backhand cut. Grinning behind his visor, the Marshal caught the swing on the rim of his shield, then slid away, letting momentum carry the young knight past him. Nimble as a Zaladhi fire-dancer, the Marshal wheeled around and slammed his sword home. It hit the back of Bron’s neck with a horrible crash.

In a plain fight, it would have been a decapitating blow. Fortunately for Bron, though, the two knights were fighting with blunted swords, and his gorget saved him. Even so, there was enough strength behind the strike to leave the younger knight down on his knees, his sword lying in the dust ten feet away. Retching, Sir Bron fought to pull off his helm.

The Grand Marshal did the same, revealing a fair, youthful face sprayed with freckles. Golden hair, gathered in a long ponytail, spilled out and down his back, and a coppery beard covered his chin, the only aspect of his appearance that made him look older than the sixteen he’d been on his dubbing day. He eyed Sir Bron—now vomiting loudly, his dark hair hanging over his eyes—then turned to look at the young knights and squires ringing the battlefield.

“There’s today’s lesson, lads,” proclaimed Tithian, Lord of the Divine Hammer, with a wry grin. “Keep your head, or you’re bound to lose it.”

Laughter rang out across the Hammerhall’s inner bailey, echoing off the labyrinth of yellow walls and battlements, turrets and towers. Half the knighthood was less than twenty-five summers old, and most were untested in battle. Tithian and his lieutenants staged these mock fights regularly to keep the art of arms alive. Now the Grand Marshal straightened his tabard—crimson instead of the other knights’ white, denoting his rank—and wiped a smudge of grime from the burning-hammer sigil emblazoned on his breast. Raising his blade in salute, he walked to Sir Bron’s side and offered his hand to help him up.

Angrily, Bron waved off the knightly courtesy and got up awkwardly on his own. He was a small, lithe man with a face like a horse’s. His cheeks burned red as he wiped spittle from his lips. “I should have had you,” he grumbled.

“The last words of many men,” replied Tithian, clapping his shoulder. “You’re a fine strong fighter, but even the best iron needs refining to become steel. Control that temper of yours, or it will cost you.” Giving the barest of nods, Bron sulked off. Tithian sighed—some men just didn’t want to learn—then turned to face the rest of his knights.

“All right,” he announced, flourishing his blade. “Who’s next?”

The others looked away: at the ground, at each other, at the golden, flame-wreathed hammer mounted atop the castle’s main keep. None of them were keen to face the Grand Marshal, especially after his thorough trouncing of Bron. Tithian couldn’t blame them—he’d hated sparring with his betters when he was young, too—but neither was he going to let them get away that easily.

“Come on, lads,” he coaxed. “If one of you doesn’t fight me, we’ll have a melee instead.”

The young knights groaned. Mass melees always meant plenty of work for the knighthood’s Mishakite healers afterward. They were good training, though; Tithian remembered many such battles from his youth, and no one-on-one duel could prepare anybody for having allies and enemies all around. He fixed his men with a steel-blue glare.

“Well?”

Still the others hesitated, and Tithian almost spat out of annoyance. Things hadn’t been this in the old days, the days of now-legendary men like Tavarre of Luciel, and Marto of Falthana, and … and many, many others. But most of those heroes were dead now, casualties of the war against sorcery, and this was what remained—mostly the younger sons of nobles and merchant lords, sent into service so they wouldn’t burden their families. The burning zeal of the Hammer’s early days had faded to a flicker.

“Very well,” the Grand Marshal said, making no effort to hide his disappointment. “Arm yourselves and form your sides. North and west barracks against south and—now what’s the matter?”

A commotion had broken out behind the crowd, in the direction of the castle’s main gates. The knights were murmuring and shifting, getting out of someone’s way. Tithian caught flashes of white: a priest from the Temple. His annoyance grew—he’d never had a great deal of use for the holy church, even if he was the head of its military wing. More often than not, a visit from the clergy meant sending his men to fight, and die, in some far-flung region of the empire.

But then his eyebrows rose as Lady Elsa stepped through the crowd. He tried to remember the last time a First Daughter—or any Revered Daughter—had come to the Hammerhall. He couldn’t think of a single occasion.

His men bowed, and Tithian signed the triangle. He knelt to no one, save the Kingpriest himself. “Efisa,” he said. “What brings you into these hills?”

“Lord Tithian,” Elsa replied. “I come at the behest of the Lightbringer.”

A mutter ran through the knights. Tithian silenced them with a gesture, though he felt his insides clench. Usually, the Kingpriest sent summonses with one of the young acolytes who served as the Temple’s couriers. This was indeed unusual.

“What does His Holiness wish of me?” he asked.

Two minutes later, he was on horseback, riding out through the Hammerhall’s barbican beside the First Daughter’s chariot. The melee would have to wait for another time.

Chapter 2

No one knew when gray sails had become a sign of ill luck, or even why. It was a superstition older than the empire itself, its origins lost to history. The fact remained, however, that Istarans believed gray sails brought disaster, and not without good reason; the last time a vessel sailed into the Lordcity’s port under such colors, the Kingpriest, Giusecchio the Fat, had perished by an assassin’s blade the very same day. That had been nearly a century and a half ago, and in that time no ship—not even those from the western realms, which held no such beliefs—had raised a gray sail within Istar’s harbor.

No ship, that is, until today.

The crowds were thick at the wharves by the time the vessel pulled up to the Lordcity’s marble jetties. They shouted vituperations and forked their fingers at the sailors who jumped over the gunwales to make fast the mooring lines, and would have rushed out onto the docks had the Divine Hammer not been there to restrain them. Lord Tithian’s men locked shields to hold the mob back, swords drawn to warn the more zealous agitators. All around them voices called out curses, or invoked the Lightbringer to protect them from the doom-bringing ship.

Then, as suddenly as if some calamity had struck them all dead, the crowds fell silent. A figure appeared at the prow of the ship, clad in a gown as ashen as the sails: a tall, regal woman of some fifty summers, her golden hair now running to silver. She had been beautiful once, but age had hardened her face, turning once-laughing eyes to glittering stones, and freezing her mouth in a dour pinch. A blue X—the Seldjuki sign for widowhood—adorned her forehead, and she wore no other adornment: no bracelets or necklaces, no rings on her fingers or dangling from her ears. She leaned on a short staff of gray wood, with an ivory handle carved to resemble a dragon’s wing. The sailors lowered a ramp, bowing low as she stepped up to its edge and swept the crowd with the severest of stares.

“Prubo broudon,” someone in the crowd murmured, signing the triangle. Others quickly picked up the call, turning their eyes away from her gaze.

The Lady Who Weeps.

Wentha MarSevrin did not, in fact, weep, though tears often glistened in her eyes. She had earned the name many years ago, and to many its origin was as obscure as the fear of gray sails. To most, she was a figure of legend: the first Istaran to feel the healing power of the Lightbringer, whose touch had saved her from plague. Beldinas had cured thousands of the afflicted since, but Wentha had always held a special place at the imperial court, even after she married and moved to the city of Lattakay, far to the east. There, she had built the Udenso, an enormous statue of bronze and glass, built to resemble the Kingpriest—only to see it fall to ruin in the first days of the holy war between the church and the Orders of High Sorcery. In the years since that war she had not once returned to the Lordcity.

Everyone knew why that was, but no one would speak of it. There were some names it was not wise to speak aloud.

Lord Tithian strode down the pier, his mail jingling with each measured step. His eyes flicked to the other members of the Weeping Lady’s entourage, standing just behind her, but mostly they remained fixed on Wentha. She studied his face a moment, then smiled—a sad look, with no joy in it.

“I had heard you were Grand Marshal now,” she said, as Tithian hurried up the ramp to take her arm. She kissed his cheek graciously. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, Efisa,” he replied, keeping his voice low as he escorted her. “But why have you come? And why fly that sail?”

He waved his hand, and she smiled again as she followed the gesture. “Gray is my color now, Tithian,” she replied. “And the curse upon it is nonsense—talk for the wine-shops, at best. In fact, the news I bring should be enough to disprove it.”

“News, milady? Of what sort?”

“Of the sort the Kingpriest must hear,” she said, “and none before him. Even you, my old friend.”

He studied her hard, but her face remained a mystery. At length, he shrugged. “Of course. The court awaits you, Efisa.”

They walked on together, away from the gray-sailed ship, their eyes turning uphill to the shining Temple.

*****

The crystal dome of the Hall of Audience buzzed with the drone of voices in the room below. Word had spread of the gray ship’s arrival, and the place had filled with courtiers, all of them jostling for a glimpse of the Weeping Lady. Powdered and perfumed, clad in robes of rich velvet and shimmering silk, the nobles, high clerics, and merchant-princes of Istar whispered to one another of what her coming might portend. Like the commoners at the docks, few considered it a good thing.

Roses hung about the Hall, mimicking its walls. These were shaped of layers of lacquered wood, lovingly carved to resemble wine-dark petals that unfurled upward to cup the dome. Golden censers stood about the room, issuing threads of sweet, heavy smoke, and white tapers flickered on platinum candelabra, though the crystal above shone as bright as day. The floor was silver-veined marble, polished gleaming-bright, wide enough that it took several minutes to cross the Hall at a suitably respectful pace. At one end it gave way to a mosaic, crafted of lapis and turquoise tesserae to resemble flowing water. This pooled around a dais of pure white stone, atop which stood the golden, satin-cushioned throne of the Kingpriest.

That throne was empty now. While the rest of the court had assembled, Beldinas remained in his private antechamber. All over the Hall, anxious eyes turned toward that chambers door; the Lightbringer always meditated before coming to court, seeking wisdom to govern the empire, but today he was taking longer than usual. This wasn’t a good sign, either.

Nor was the presence in the alcove to the left of the throne. There were many such niches around the Hall, most filled with tables laden with rich food and wine, for refreshment during courtly recesses. This one, however, was different: a pool of shadow hung within, and preternatural cold emanated from the alcovel; those few who dared look directly into the place found themselves shivering as if the winds of Icereach had just clawed up their backs. Within, all but invisible in the gloom, lurked a tall, broad-shouldered shape. The man wore robes of deepest midnight, defying the shimmering silver of the clergy and the bright hues of the nobles. A deep, black hood covered his face, such that only the tip of an iron-gray beard emerged from it. No one in Istar had ever glimpsed the face of Fistandantilus, and for that the courtiers were abundantly glad.

There were many stories about the wizard called the Dark One, and how he had come to be a part of the Lightbringer’s court. The church’s official explanation, attested by Quarath himself, was that Beldinas had called him here to keep an eye on him, following the old Ismindi saying about keeping one’s enemies even closer than one’s friends. In truth, though, Fistandantilus had come voluntarily, bringing with him the means to win the war with the mages. In exchange, he had demanded a place in the Kingpriest’s innermost circle. Quarath had gone to great pains, these past eighteen years, not to make an enemy of him.

In time, a soft chime sounded, the dome echoing its ring. The courtiers straightened, folding their hands respectfully as the antechamber door snicked open for the Kingpriest.

Scores beheld Beldinas Lightbringer each day, but no one truly saw him, not any more. His holy power, already strong when he first took the throne, had grown immensely over the passing years. As it had, so did the aura of silver light that surrounded him. Once, it had been a mere shimmer that appeared whenever he invoked Paladine’s power. Now, however, it was a constant glow, one not even elven eyes could claim to fully penetrate. Those who looked upon him saw the Kingpriest through their own memories of how he had appeared in his youth: thin and austere, with long, flowing locks and eyes as blue and dangerous as glaciers. As one, the men and women who filled the Hall of Audience lowered their eyes before his heartbreaking beauty.

The whisper of Beldinas’s slippers was the only sound as he crossed to the dais. He climbed the steps slowly, then paused atop the dais and turned to face the assemblage. Within the dazzling light, ringed hands rose to form the sacred triangle, a simple benediction without words. “Sa Pilofiro, gasiras cilmo,” declared Quarath, bowing. The rest of the courtiers echoed the words, the dome above turning a hundred voices into one. Hail Lightbringer, lord of emperors.

Beldinas nodded. “Sa, usas farnas,” he intoned. Hail, children of the god. “It is good to see you here this day—all of you.”

He glanced toward Fistandantilus’s alcove. Within the shadows, which even his shining aura could not penetrate, the hooded head inclined. Satisfied, Beldinas looked back out at the court as he lowered himself onto his throne.

“You are nervous,” he said. “You have reason to be. This is a strange day, and heavy with history. But do not fear. I have seen the Weeping Lady’s purpose, and it is a good one—one that might heal wounds even I am unable to cure.”

The priests and nobles glanced at one another, confused. There was no malady the Lightbringer could not ease—no sickness or injury his touch wouldn’t lift. He had even defeated death once, in the first days of his reign. Before anyone could do more than puzzle at his meaning, however, a deep bell sounded from the gilded doors at the Hall’s far end.

Eyes throughout the room turned toward the sound, and the courtiers craned and jostled to see. The Kingpriest raised his hand, signaling to the knights who stood guard. Tapping the shafts of their halberds on the floor, they stepped aside and the doors swung soundlessly open. Silence covered the room like a shroud.

Wentha MarSevrin stood in the entrance, Lord Tithian in his gleaming mail beside her. She swept the court with her gaze, an imperious look for one who had been a poor villager in the empire’s borderlands when the Lightbringer healed her. Now, almost forty years later, she looked a queen as she stepped into the Hall.

Three men followed her and Lord Tithian as they crossed the floor. The first two walked on her left: one, darkly handsome and muscular, shirtless in the Lattakayan style; the other, fair-haired and plain, dressed in the robes of a Revered Son of Paladine. The third, walking slightly behind them on the right, wore a scholar’s robes, worn and frayed at the hems. The courtiers paid the others only passing attention; their gazes remained on the Weeping Lady as she stepped onto the mosaic before the dais. Bowing her head, she genuflected toward the throne. None missed that her knee did not quite touch the floor.

“Lady Wentha, beloved of Paladine,” Beldinas declared, his voice like golden bells. “You are welcome back to my Temple. It has been too long.”

“Holiness,” she declared without feeling. “Allow me to present my sons, Rath and Tancred.”

The two young men stepped forward, bowing. “Pilofiro,” they murmured together.

“Ah, yes,” said Beldinas, signing the triangle to the priest. “I know Tancred well, of course … the Patriarch of Falthana speaks highly of you. And Rath—” his gaze turned to the other, whose chest puffed out proudly “—I remember you too, though you were but seven when we met last. You have grown into a fine man.”

“Thank you, Aulforo,” said Wentha’s sons.

Beldinas’s head turned toward the scholar. “But who is your other companion, Efisa? You do not have a third son … ?”

Wentha shook her head. “He is not of my family, sire. This is Varen, formerly of the university at Tucuri.”

The scholar shifted uncomfortably as hundreds of eyes, from all over the room, settled on him. “H-Holiness, ” he murmured.

“I have brought him here because he has a tale to tell,” Wentha continued. “One I think you will find interesting to hear.”

Beldinas studied the scholar a moment longer, then nodded.

“Very well, then, Varen. Speak, and let none interrupt until you are finished.”

The courtiers leaned forward, imperceptibly. The scholar licked his lips, the look on his face saying he wanted nothing more than for the floor to split open and swallow him up. It took Varen several tries to find his voice.

“It happened six months ago, at midsummer,” he began.

*****

No one spoke for several minutes after Varen ended his tale. In the silence, the Hall seemed to roar with every quiet cough, every rustle of robes. Many of the elder courtiers’ mouths had dropped open, while the younger ones looked confused. Tithian stared at Varen with wide eyes. Tears coursed down Lady Wentha’s cheeks.

It was impossible to tell what the Kingpriest was thinking or feeling. The holy light obscured him, hid any sign that what the scholar had just told troubled him. He looked down from his throne, one hand stroking his chin. Rath MarSevrin glowered around the room. “Someone say something,” he muttered.

That drew scandalized looks from the courtiers. Quarath stepped forward, a dark line appearing between his brows. “Be still, boy,” he declared. “That is not how to speak in the Lightbringer’s presence.”

“He speaks his mind, and mine,” Lady Wentha snapped. Her voice was cold, but as she turned from the elf to the throne, it became something else: small, pleading, like a child’s. “Holiness, I beg you. I cannot bear this stillness.”

But Beldinas still didn’t answer. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. All around the Hall, men and women dropped to their knees. Only Lady Wentha remained standing, staring at him with pain-filled eyes as he signed the triangle over the congregation.

“I must think on this,” he said, the music of his voice muted. “Come to the manse at dusk, Lady—and you as well, Varen. We will sup together, and you will tell me all you know.”

With that he withdrew, down the steps of the dais and back the way he’d come. An acolyte opened the door for him, and he was gone. The courtiers watched him leave, still stunned. Then, the moment the door clicked shut again, they exploded—shouting, arguing, every one of them jostling to get near the Weeping Lady, and the scholar who had located Cathan Twice-Born.

Over the years, Lord Cathan MarSevrin had become a figure of myth, a legend like Huma Dragonbane. Once, he had been Beldinas’s right-hand compatriot, having sworn himself to be the Lightbringer’s protector after Wentha’s miraculous healing. He’d been at the Kingpriest’s side when he made his triumphant entry into the Lordcity, and had saved his life in this very Hall when Kurnos the Deceiver tried to kill him with a magic-poisoned dagger. Instead, Cathan had taken the blade himself, and it had killed him.

But though Cathan had indeed died, right on the blue mosaic before the throne, Beldinas had still saved him. Crying out to the gods—not just entreating them, but commanding—he had worked a wonder that had never happened before, or since. Armed with righteous fury born of grief, the Lightbringer had poured all his power into Cathan and restored his life, making him the Twice-Born.

After his resurrection, Cathan became the greatest hero of the empire. He was the first knight of the Divine Hammer, dubbed by the Kingpriest himself, and helped lead Beldinas’s war against evil. Countless monsters, dark cultists, and black-robed wizards had fallen to him and the sacred order, and in time he became Grand Master of the Hammer. But then something had gone wrong.

It happened during the war against sorcery. At the dawn of that crusade, a surprise attack by demons summoned by a vengeful wizard had led to the slaughter of many knights—and a later assault upon the Kingpriest himself caused many more deaths. In the end, the Twice-Born had led a small army to Losarcum, to assail the Tower of High Sorcery there. But the wizards had had the final say, destroying both the Tower and the city around it to keep its secrets out of the church’s hands. Cathan’s entire force had perished in that final stroke—all save Cathan himself, and Tithian, once his squire. Together they had returned to Istar, and Cathan—ashamed and angry at what had happened to his soldiers—had torn off his Grand Marshal’s tabard, walked out of the Temple, and disappeared.

Until now.

Tithian moved quickly, getting himself between Lady Wentha and the gabbling masses of courtiers. Everyone wanted to know more—where was this cave of people trapped in glass? Why was the Twice-Born there? Why had he stayed out of sight for so long? Tithian gestured to Rath and Tancred, who helped him form a protective ring around their mother and Varen, and together, they made their way away from the chaos of the Hall of Audience.

*****

Ordinarily, a large part of the court attended the evening banquets in the imperial manse’s great dining hall: the hierarchs of the great churches of light, dignitaries from the realms of Solamnia and Kharolis, who followed the Istaran faith, the few nobles who were fortunate enough to have earned a place, and a regular contingent of high-ranking knights. On this day, however, as the sun gilded the city’s rooftops, the company was only seven: Beldinas, Quarath, Lady Wentha and her sons, Tithian, and—sitting in the chair of honor at the Kingpriest’s right hand and looking like he would rather be at the bottom of the Courrain Ocean—the scholar Varen. The scholar ate sparingly, his face coloring every time the Lightbringer glanced his way. His silence drew little note, however; the court followed the Taoli tradition that it was ill-mannered to speak of grave matters during a meal. Course after course was brought of fine, rich fare: fresh shellfish spa drenched in butter and the juices of Maeloon blood-limes; black-veined cheese dusted with ground vallenwood nuts; small pastries called Arathi from Midrath, crammed with minced pheasant and forty different spices.

Finally, as the servants were clearing away the main dish—a roasted haunch of gorgon, infused with black pepper and mead—Varen spoke up.

“There really is little more to tell, Aulforo,” he ventured, bobbing his head toward Beldinas. “I fled the Tears at all speed. Thank Paladine the Dravinishmen were still close, or I would not have survived. As it was, by the time I reached Attrika I was half-dead of heat poisoning. I had to rest for a month in a Mishakite hospice before I could travel again”

“And yet you did not come here,” Quarath noted tersely. “I should think that, bearing such tidings, the Temple would be the first place you stopped.” The scholar looked down, biting his lip as the servants poured moragnac brandy around the table. He downed his drink in a swallow, then shook his head. “I went to Lattakay first. It was closer, and I had little gold for passage, without my fortune. And … I had heard Lord Cathan had kin there.”

He glanced at Wentha, who smiled sadly. Beside her, Tancred and Rath exchanged grim glances.

“And you are sure?” Beldinas asked. “You can vouch it was him?”

“Only the Twice-Born has those eyes, Holiness.”

Sitting across from Varen, Tithian nodded agreement. The act of resurrection had left Cathan that way, as a mark of providence. His eyes were pupil-less and white—like a blind man’s, though Cathan could see. Few could meet his eerie gaze without having to turn away. Tithian himself hadn’t been able to do it. If the man seen by the scholar had those eyes…

Quarath scowled, and Wentha noticed it. “I know your suspicions, Emissary,” she said mildly. “I felt them as well. There have been enough stories of my brother, from every part of the empire and beyond—all of them false. I even sent scouts to the Tears myself once, but to no good. I gave up on finding him years ago. I was sure he had to be dead.”

“So were we,” the Kingpriest agreed, his voice turning sorrowful. “But if this is true … .”

“It is,” said Rath.

“Show him,” Tancred told Varen.

All around the table, eyebrows rose. The acolytes were serving stone bowls of fruited ice with sprigs of kender-mint, but no one paid the dessert any mind. They watched the scholar, who reached into a pouch and brought out a small, oblong box made of grayleaf wood. He started to push it toward the Kingpriest, but Tithian stopped him with a firm hand.

“Open it yourself,” the knight said.

Flushing, Varen pulled back the box, released a catch, and slid back the lid. From inside, he pulled out a small, dark shard of glass. Gripping it between two fingers, he held it up to the light. Tawny rose fire blazed within. Despite years of courtly etiquette, Lord Tithian gave a low whistle as Varen set the fragment on the table.

“Losarcine amber,” the scholar said. “I took it, if you’ll recall, just before I fled. I was half a mile from the cave before I even realized I had it.”

Everyone stared at the shard, glittering in the dying daylight lancing through the manse’s windows. Quarath sipped his moragnac, watching with an inscrutable expression. Wentha and her sons seemed to silently defy anyone to doubt the truth of Varen’s tale. Varen now stared at his hands in his lap. Tithian, meanwhile, bent forward to pick up the glass shard. He turned it in his grasp, watching the honeyed light play within. He’d been at Losarcum, seen vast palaces melted into stuff like this when the Tower erupted. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of people trapped in it.

And Cathan was there, too.

“Let me see it,” said Beldinas.

Nodding, Tithian passed the shard down the table—to Tancred, then Quarath, and finally to the Kingpriest. The glass shone like a golden star as Beldinas’s light poured into it. He gazed into its depths, his thoughts unreadable. Everyone else watched him, trying to read them anyway. Finally he clenched his fist around the shard and turned back to Varen.

“This cave,” he said. “Can you find it again?”

Chapter 3

FIRSTMONTH, 962 I.A.

He hadn’t had the dream in years.

It had first come to him a lifetime ago, during his vigil the night before the Lightbringer made him a knight. He’d been kneeling before the moonstone obelisks in the Great Temple’s Garden of Martyrs—and it had struck him as a vision, brought on by a fat monk named Brother Jendle. He had never seen the monk before that night, nor had he seen him since. He was no longer sure the man had even been real, rather than a figment of his sleep-deprived mind.

That one dream had changed the world. When he began his vigil, it had been in preparation to join the Knights of Solamnia, the ancient and honor-bound brotherhood that had served Istar since before the first Kingpriest’s crowning. When he told Beldinas of what he’d seen, however, the plans had changed. Rather than a Solamnic order, he had joined a new knighthood entirely. In the years since, the Divine Hammer had grown strong, ridding the holy empire of evil. He himself had risen to Grand Marshal, the highest post of all…

And then Cathan MarSevrin had fallen from grace.

It was because of, of all things, a woman. Leciane do Cirica had come to the Kingpriest’s court as envoy from the Orders of High Sorcery. She had worn the Red Robes, not the expected White, demonstrating that she followed the path of neutrality rather than good. That caused a scandal in the Temple, but Beldinas had welcomed her, and assigned Cathan to watch her. That was Cathan’s undoing.

Cathan still wasn’t sure if what he’d felt for Leciane had been love; perhaps, if times had been simpler, that might have been clear. When the treacherous Black Robes struck out against the throne, however, slaughtering his men, nearly murdering the Lightbringer as the empire tumbled toward war with the wizards, Cathan’s closeness to Leciane had cast doubt on his loyalties. As a last chance of regaining his standing with Beldinas, he had ridden south at the head of a force to strike at the sorcerers’ Tower at Losarcum.

And she had been there too—whether by design or chance, he didn’t know. But the morning he was to attack, Leciane had found him. She had told him of the wizards’ plans to destroy the Tower—they had already done so in Daltigoth, rather than yielding their secrets to the unschooled, and they would do it again. But the warning came too late; the attack could not be stopped, and the doom she’d spoken of came to pass.

Moments before the Tower destroyed itself and all of Losarcum, Leciane had cast a spell to spirit the two of them to safety, along with Tithian. But she was badly wounded, and did not survive. Maddened by grief, both for her and for the city that had died, he had returned to Istar and renounced the Lightbringer and the knighthood. It was a hard thing, among the hardest he’d ever done, but the dream, which had troubled him throughout his tenure in the Divine Hammer, had not come to him since. In fact, he hadn’t dreamed at all since that day.

Now it was happening again.

He recognized it at once, though it had been so long. There was no mistaking the feeling that came with it, the dreadful anticipation. It began where he slept, in the utterly lightless cave that had become his home. He felt himself hovering, and despite the dark he could sense his own body lying asleep beneath him. He hovered for a time, wondering at himself: gods, he’d grown so old. He was only in his fifties—the passing of years had been hard to track, so he no longer knew his true age—but the physical form below seemed at least twenty years older. Life in exile had been cruel.

Cathan remembered what would happen next in the dream, but the suddenness of it still took him by surprise. One moment he was still, floating maybe a dozen feet off the ground; the next he was rising, falling upward toward the cave’s ceiling. There was no sense of acceleration, no rush of air: it was as though someone had pulled the ground away from him. When he struck the ceiling—or it struck him—there was no impact, no pain. He simply slid through it, like the ghost men said he was.

There was even deeper darkness, for a time, as he passed through solid stone—then he was out in the night, staring at a fissure-ridden jumble of rock and glass that glinted in the light of the red and silver moons. Once, the rubble had been the hollowed-out mesa where Losarcum stood; now it was a mad broken heap, the empire’s largest tomb. The Tears of Mishakal stretched out around it, rocky and barren, threaded with baffling, meandering canyons.

Now he found himself hundreds of feet up in the air.

Now thousands, and there was the Sea of Shifting Sands, its dunes rippling with shadow all around the Tears. There, picked out in sprays of lamplight, were Dravinaar’s surviving cities: Yandol, with its vast, seven-walled bazaar; spike-turreted Attrika, impregnable atop a pinnacle of sandstone; Micah, the City of Glass, its great furnaces white-hot even in the middle of night.

Still he rose higher, and the rest of the empire came into view. In the west, the sight of hilly Taol brought back faint memories of his youth, and his early days in the Lightbringer’s service. In the east, misty Seldjuk evoked darker thoughts, of Lattakay where slaughter had first visited his brother knights. To the north, the golden fields of Gather and the dark jungles of Falthana stretched out to kiss the blue of the ocean. And in the middle, glittering like a fallen star, was the place he had sworn never to look upon again.

The Great Temple winked at him, a jewel set amid the golden domes of the Lordcity. A deep yearning opened within him as he stared at the basilica. He wanted to reach out, seize it, pluck it in his fingers. But he had no fingers to touch with, and could only watch the Great Temple recede as he climbed higher still, through the clouds and into the sky. The other kingdoms stretched out around Istar now—Solamnia, Kharolis, Ergoth. The forests of the elves, the dwarven mountain-halls, the frozen isles of Icereach … all fell away from him. Krynn itself began to shrink, becoming a turquoise orb amid the velvet black of night.

Then he was turning, as he had so many times before, so long ago. Slowly, he rotated away from the world, looking out toward the star-scattered sky, diamonds and sapphires and rubies beyond counting. The moons were there: Solinari, glowing silver to his left, three-quarters full, and Lunitari low above, gnawed down to a scarlet sliver. The third moon was out there, too, he knew: black Nuitari, visible only to those who walked in darkness. He had beheld it once before, in this very dream, and now he spied it as an empty hole in the void. He shivered at the sight of it—and also in anticipation. There was worse to come.

He didn’t have to wait long; he never had. Soon he spied something moving among the stars—not the slow-gliding specks of the planets, but something fast, glowing orange as it moved soundlessly toward him. Bit by bit, it revealed itself to him: a huge chunk of stone, shaped like a hammer and wreathed with flame that trailed behind it. This was the Divine Hammer, after which the Kingpriest had named his knighthood. He had described it as a sign from Paladine that holy wrath must be visited upon the world’s evils.

In his youth, Cathan had believed it. Now, the old man was no longer sure.

Helpless, he watched it approach, flashing across the sky with a soundless roar. It went right past, the flames licking at him as it passed, but he felt nothing; he had no flesh to singe. He turned to follow as it spun toward Krynn, diving down, down toward it, as it always had before.

Toward Istar, the Lordcity, the Temple.

Cathan screamed …

*****

… and then he woke, shaking, back in the darkness, the echoes of a sound like ten thousand thunderclaps ringing in his ears.

For a lurching moment, he had no idea where he was. Flashes of the dream, of the places he’d had it before—Istar, and Lattakay, and nameless spots where he’d camped with his fellow knights—muddled his wits. Past mingled with present, and he had to concentrate to figure out which was which.

Losarcum. Of course.

Sitting up, Cathan kicked off his blankets and winced at the deep ache in his leg. The sell-sword had done that, the first real wound he’d had in more years than he could count. Sloppy … he’d fought better warriors and emerged without a scratch. He’d done what he could for the injury, but he was no Mishakite, and knew only what healing arts were necessary for the field. He’d cleaned the wound with wine, then—a strap of leather clamped between his teeth—seared it with a fire-heated dagger. The pain had been incredible, but it had done the job: the bleeding stopped, and with care he’d kept it from fouling. Even so, the ache lingered, and would make protecting this place all the harder.

So would the scholar.

Men had escaped him before. Tomb-robbers tended toward cowardice, and he was only one man. Sometimes they broke and fled, and even he could not chase them all down. That was fine—none had ever returned, and the tales they spread surely kept many others away. The Staring Ghost was a fearsome legend in these parts, and most men did not care to face him. But this time, it was different. The scholar had been learned enough to see through the superstition, and recognize him for who he was.

Cathan started to swallow a curse, then remembered he was alone here and let it out aloud instead. It echoed off distant walls, ringing in the gloom. Word would spread that the Twice-Born was alive and hiding in Losarcum. They would come for him—it was only a matter of time.

The blackness felt physical, smothering him. He needed light. He reached to his right, fingers probing. First they found a hilt of smooth metal, set with shards of porcelain where other weapons had gems: Ebonbane, his sword he’d wielded as a knight. He always slept with the blade close by. Now his fingers passed by, and found the smooth glass of a lantern, a chip of flint, and a steel knife beside it. He worked with this, practiced movements in the dark, and after a few tries made a spark. A moment later the lantern was glowing, a dull glimmer that grew steadily brighter, revealing the room around him.

This place had been part of Losarcum’s public baths once, though its pools and tubs had dried up long ago. Vast and cavernous, its edges lost in darkness, it had collapsed into rubble at one end where what looked like a small temple had smashed into it. The surviving walls, and the parts of the ceiling that hadn’t given way, were tiled with a menagerie of fanciful beasts carved out of golden sandstone : laughing, fish-tailed mermaids and one-horned whales, coiling sea serpents and many-tentacled krakens. Glass sparkled amid the rubble. A few furnishings, scavenged from forays deeper into the ruined city, lay here and there: more lamps, some wine jugs and casks of oil, a few urns of spices. The remains of a cooking fire blackened what had once been the bottom of a cold-water pool, its tiles painted with fish and waterfowl. The bones of his last meal, a dog-sized lizard he’d caught out in the Tears, lay cracked in a heap nearby. Cathan surveyed it all: this was his kingdom, his hermitage, where he’d lived apart from the rest of the world for … how many years? Fifteen? Twenty? He’d long since lost count.

Not for much longer; his days of solitude were already as good as over. If the scholar’s escape hadn’t been enough to convince him of that yet, the dream’s return had.

He struggled to his feet—gods, his leg hurt!—and found a tattered, dirty robe and wrapped it around himself, then took a slug of sour wine from a nearby jug. His stomach growled, but he ignored it; one could find enough to eat in the Tears to keep from starving, as long as one didn’t mind eating giant spiders and such, and he had learned to accept hunger as a constant companion. He started toward a crack in the floor to make water—then stopped halfway there, his whole body suddenly tensing, the hairs on the back of his neck standing erect.

Danger. He wasn’t alone here.

He wasn’t sure, at first, what sort of danger; he could see nothing unusual in the half-light, could hear nothing but his own breathing. There was no strange scent on the air. But Cathan was a warrior—or had been one once—and he still trusted his instincts. Someone … or something… was here in the cave with him. After a moment, he knew what was amiss: the air had changed, the temperature dropping. The baths were ordinarily cool—but this was different. It was a bitter chill that put him in mind of the winters in the hills where he’d spent his youth. That never happened here, in the heart of the desert.

Instinct—the same instinct that had alerted him in the first place—turned him around, got him moving back toward the heap of blankets that was his bed. He grabbed Ebonbane, the hilt familiar in his grasp. He brought it up, turning this way and that, looking for the source of the cold and saw it, a pool of deeper darkness amid the gloom, over by the vents where the Losarcines had once bathed in steam. He knew it was no ordinary shadow, even before the figure emerged from its heart, turning his blood to ice: tall and broad, shrouded in robes the color of midnight, the tip of a long gray beard emerging from the blackness of its hood.

Cathan backed up a pace, his eyes wide. Ebonbane trembled in his grasp, and his heart pounded with terror. I’m dreaming again, he thought. This is another nightmare.

Watching him from across the cavern, Fistandantilus the Dark chuckled. “No, Twice-Born,” he said. “You are very much awake.”

Chapter 4

“You won’t be needing that,” the archmage said. Fistandantilus didn’t move, not that Cathan could see, nor did he speak a word of the tongue of magic. Still, in a heartbeat Ebonbane’s hilt turned blazing hot, searing his skin. With a gasp he let it, go clatter to the floor. Immediately the pain disappeared; looking at his palm, he saw no 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 you want?’ ”

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.

“Palado Calib,” he breathed, rising to his feet “What is it?”

“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.

Cathan shot him one last furious glare. Then, with a snarl, he grabbed the sword out of the air and ran out of the cavern, as fast as his injured leg could carry him.

*****

Something was wrong. Tithian could feel it.

There was nothing out of the ordinary that he could see. The processional—a half hundred of his knights and as many clerics, along with the Kingpriest, the scholar Varen, and the MarSevrins—had set out from the Lordcity on the first day of the year. Three weeks had passed, and only their surroundings had changed—first the grasses of the old city-states, then the Shifting Sands, now the snaking canyons of the Tears, bringing back terrible memories. All the while, he’d wondered: Cathan had chosen to return here? Of all places in the world, he had come back to Losarcum? Beldinas believed it, though, strongly enough to leave the Temple in Quarath’s care while he made this journey, so here they were, riding slowly along the rock-strewn road, the priests singing soft hymns while the men of the Divine Hammer searched the clifftops for danger, and found none.

So then why this strange feeling, this prickling at his scalp? Why, when there was no foul scent on the air, no odd noises or movements from the canyon walls, was a lingering doubt growing in his mind? He bit his lip, running a hand over his sweat-damp hair, then glanced over at the Lightbringer on his chariot.

Beldinas didn’t notice. He was conferring with Varen, listening while the scholar told him this was the way he and the sell-swords had come, half a year earlier. The processional, had already killed several magic-warped creatures, and sent many more slithering or scuttling away in terror.

“The cave of amber is only four miles from here, Holiness,” said Varen, eyes lowered so Beldinas’s light wouldn’t hurt them. “I’m sure he won’t be far.”

“No,” the Lightbringer replied, “he won’t be.”

Tithian’s scalp prickled again. Unbidden, his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. To his right, he heard an intake of breath.

“You feel it too?” he murmured, his eyes flicking in that direction. “What is it?”

Sir Bron’s nose wrinkled, his lips skinning back from large teeth. He was gripping his sword, too—had bared two inches of its blade, his other hand tightening about his palfrey’s reins. “I’m not—wait,” he said, and looked down. “Gods bite me.”

Tithian followed his gaze and uttered a quiet oath. The ground was moving, just slightly—the rocks shifting and the sand aquiver beneath his horse’s hooves. He yanked his sword free a moment before Bron did, sounds echoing off the cliffs. A chorus of ringing steel followed as the other knights drew their blades without knowing why. Tithian wheeled his horse toward Beldinas’s golden chariot, his heart stopping as he saw the sand beneath it start to bulge.

“Holiness!” he cried, digging in his spurs.

He was a moment too late. Beldinas was just turning to face him when the ground erupted in a great fountain of sand. The chariot leapt into the air, the draft-horses screaming as it pulled them up with it, then it tilted and came crashing down again on its side. There was a terrible splintering, and Beldinas tumbled free, sprawling face-first onto the ground. All around, men and women cried out in horror to see him fall—and then again when they saw what had caused the accident.

It was maggot-pale, a tremendous worm with hooked claws bristling at its sides. A small forest of tentacles—translucent white flesh showing the blue of veins beneath—writhed on its front end, making wet sounds as they lashed the air. Amidst them, a great maw opened like a horrid flower, its inner edges ringed with rows of sharp teeth. It rose ten feet out of the hole where the Lightbringer’s chariot had been, coiling in midair as everyone gawked at it.

Everyone but the Kingpriest. He lay still, knocked out by his fall. Tithian leapt from his saddle, landing hard on the unsteady ground, and ran to Beldinas’s side. Bron joined him, and so did three other knights who were nearby; together they formed a ring of steel about the glowing, motionless form. Tithian swiped at a tentacle that came close to him, his blade whistling through the air.

‘To me!” he called. “Protect the Lightbringer!”

His men responded with admirable speed, and some of the clergy did too, brandishing maces and iron-shod staffs. Other clerics scattered, screaming. On the far side, Rath MarSevrin had drawn a slender, curved saber and stood protectively while Tancred hurried their mother away from the white worm. Closer still, Varen stood stiff, paralyzed by fear or fascination in the monster’s shadow.

“Get away!” Tithian shouted at him. “Move, or—”

Again, too late. Varen blinked, looking at him, then shrieked in terror as two tentacles shot down, catching him about his chest and knees. They wrapped around and around, tightening so that Tithian heard the scholar’s bones grind together. With a yelp, the monster jerked Varen off his feet and hauled him up, high above the ground. He fell silent, the breath squeezed out of him so that all he could do was flail uselessly with his fists. There was no breaking the creature’s grip, however—or stopping the two tentacles from pulling in opposite directions. With a wet popping sound, they tore Varen apart was torn in half at the waist.

Blood poured down, onto the worm’s pallid flesh and onto the ground. Tithian could only stare in horror as the creature crammed first one half of the scholar, then the other, into its greedy maw.

Someone vomited noisily somewhere behind Tithian. He hoped it wasn’t one of his men, but he himself could taste bile, and beside him, Bron’s face was the color of a corpse’s.

“Hold,” Tithian commanded, watching the worm, waiting to see what it would do next. Something red and ragged snagged on one of its teeth. Tentacles wriggled in the air like a nest of serpents. Then, with a noise like a deflating bellows, it pulled itself back beneath the ground and disappeared from sight.

A couple of the priests shouted in joy, but the knights stayed wary. Tithian had taught them well; they knew the danger hadn’t passed. He glanced down at the Lightbringer, still out cold, and waved his men near.

“Get him up off the ground!” he barked. “Quickly!” They obeyed without hesitation, four of them sheathing their swords to pull Beldinas up and started toward the nearest canyon wall. They were just in time, for the sand where the Kingpriest had lain began to roil like a boiling caldron.

When the first tentacles broke from the ground, Tithian and Bron were ready. Steel sliced the air, then found flesh; greasy black blood sprayed as two of the monster’s limbs fell on the ground. It made a terrible howling noise, and six more tentacles burst forth, lashing the air. One caught Bron full in the chest, knocking him ten feet through the air to land in a clattering heap next to Beldinas’s fallen chariot; Tithian ducked two more, managing to cut the tip off a third—then grunted in pain as another caught him about his sword arm.

The pain was excruciating. The monster was doing its best to reduce his wrist-bones to splinters. His sword fell from his grip as the worm began to pull him off his feet. Gritting his teeth, Tithian reached to his belt, jerked a long-bladed dagger from its sheath, and drove it point-first into the tentacle.

The ichor that splashed his face tasted like rancid meat, and he spat furiously as the beast let him fall back onto the sand. Tithian left his dagger embedded in the tentacle, scrambling to get sword back. When he turned to look again, though, the worm was gone, pulled back underground yet again.

The priests were clambering up the hillsides now, the stragglers goaded on by his men. Some forked their fingers at the blasted sand where Varen had died, calling the creature Catyrpelio after a folk-tale beast that dwelt in the Abyss and feasted on the blood of doomed souls. Bron struggled back to his feet, wheezing, his breastplate sporting a sizable dent. The knights carrying Beldinas struggled toward safety—then stumbled and fell when the ground again lurched beneath them. One howled in agony as a tentacle caught him and dragged him down under the ground. His fellows could only gape as he disappeared from sight.

The Kingpriest was down again too, the knights struggling to pick him up. Tithian sprinted toward them, legs burning, half-expecting to see the toothy maw rise up beneath Beldinas’s form. Where was it?

Then he heard it again, … behind him, on the far side of the chariot… he heard the blast of sand, and the rasping screech it made as it rose up out of the ground … shouts and screams…

The MarSevrins.

He turned in time to see the worm towering above Lady Wentha and Tancred and Rath, the last raising his saber to protect his family, brave foolish boy. He managed to take off two more tentacles, slash-slash, but more than a dozen remained, and one smote him in the side, sending him sprawling. Wentha cried out as her younger son fell, then caught the elder as Tancred as he stepped forward, trying to get himself between her and the worm.

“No!” Tithian yelled, running at the monster.

Later, when he sorted out his memories of the fight, he still wasn’t sure where the white figure had come from. It was just there, all of a sudden, robes and long beard flying as it threw itself at the worm. Tarsian steel glistened as a sword lopped off three tentacles darting toward Lady Wentha. With a hoarse, bloodthirsty roar, the figure—the man—spun and slashed at the worm’s belly, opening a reeking gash and making it shriek loud enough to shatter crystal.

“Blossom!” cried the man. “Get back!”

Cathan.

A whoop of joy burst from Tithian’s lips as he surged into the fray. He hit the worm from behind, ramming his sword into it, halfway to the hilt. Foul juices gushed out as he yanked the blade free. Cathan cut it again, Ebonbane raking across the rim of its mouth. Then Bron was in the fight, and other knights, spurred on by the sudden arrival of the Twice-Born. The worm tried to retreat, to pull back into its hole, but three different swords blocked it, driven through flesh to pin it to the ground. Tentacles snapped like whips, sending men sprawling.

The knights kept on, raining down blow after blow on the monster’s hide. Most bounced off, but a few broke the flesh, and its struggles began to weaken. Finally, it shuddered and lay still, tentacles twitching as death crept over it. Sodden with ichor, Cathan ran it through with Ebonbane. Tithian did the same with his own blade, then turned, grinning, to face his old master.

Age and the desert had changed him, Tithian saw. He was bald now, only a fringe of wispy hair left behind his ears. His beard had grown long, and his skin had turned as brown and cracked as old leather. His eyes were still clear, though—as was his voice as he stepped away from the dead worm and clasped Tithian’s arms.

“Where in the Abyss did you come from?” Tithian asked, grinning.

Cathan glanced around—at his sister and nephew, staring wide-eyed from where he’d shoved them, at Rath and Beldinas still unmoving on the ground—and shrugged.

“I thought you might need some help,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get everyone to shelter before we run into any more of those things.”

Chapter 5

The Lightbringer’s injuries weren’t serious, said the Mishakite healers who had come south with the procession. A separated shoulder and a concussion were all, and the knights could carry him onward. The other injuries to the party were even less severe—scrapes and bruises, cracked ribs. Rath MarSevrin complained about ringing bells that no one else could hear. And the dead, miraculously, numbered only two: Varen, and the knight—a veteran warrior named Elecai—the worm had dragged beneath the sand.

They never found Sir Elecai, nor all of Varen’s body. The pieces they did find, they buried beneath a cairn of stones amid the ruins of Losarcum, near the rosy glass he’d sought on his first journey. With Beldinas still in a daze, it fell to one of the other Revered Sons to speak the Liginon, the final rite for the dead. They doused the cairn in holy oil, as the sacrament dictated, and left Varen in the shattered mansion, now one of the antiquities he had spent his life studying.

The rite complete, the processional gathered in the length of street that lay at the heart of the ruins. Priest and knight alike tried to catch a glimpse of Cathan, and the strange-silver eyes that marked him as Twice-Born. Finally he had no choice but to withdraw back into the bathhouse that had been his home. Wentha and her sons followed him, and Tithian as well, the Grand Marshal ordering Sir Bron and another knight to stand watch over the entrance.

Ducking beneath a lintel that had cracked and settled at an awkward angle, Tithian stepped into the vaulted chamber. Cathan and his kin were talking.

“You’re well-named, lad,” Cathan was saying to Tancred.

“You’re the very likeness of our dead brother, who shared your name.”

The young priest bobbed his head. “I know, Uncle. Mother tells me of it often.”

“And you,” Cathan went on, turning toward Rath. He studied the younger brother’s swarthy skin, his dark hair and sharp features. “I suppose you are the image of your father. I regret that I never knew him.”

“You would have liked him,” Rath said. “He was a good man.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the cavern. Everyone looked away, none of them able to meet Cathan’s gaze for long. Finally, Wentha threw up her hands. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Where have you been all this time?”

Tithian thought he knew the answer, and he suspected the others did too. Still, he leaned forward as Cathan turned away from his sister, and stood silent for a long while. Finally, he sighed, running a hand over his smooth, hairless scalp. “Here,” the Twice-Born said. “I’ve been right here.”

“But why?” Wentha pressed. “Why hide here, in the middle of nowhere?”

“Because there was no place to go where people didn’t stare at me!” he answered, his voice turning sharp. “After I quit the Hammer, I wanted to disappear … go back to being just a man, live a simple life, leave the Kingpriest’s endless war behind. I would have given anything to be able to do that.

“And I tried. The gods know, I tried. I first went back home, back to Taol, Blossom, where we were born. But when I did, all people saw were these.” His lip curling, he pointed to his own eyes, white and empty. “I stand out among normal people like an ogre in a dwarf-hall. I’m different. They fear me, or they hate me, or they revere me … but none of them really see me. Half of them think I’m a demon from the Abyss, for forsaking their precious Lightbringer. The rest think I’m blessed, because I died, but walk again. I can’t live with either.”

“You could have come to us,” Tancred said. “We would have taken you in.”

Cathan turned his gaze full upon his nephew. “Yes, you would have—but would you have looked at me any differently? Could you treat me like just an ordinary man?”

Tancred weathered that terrible stare for nearly half a minute—but in the end he faltered, shuddering. “I—I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s not your fault, lad,” Cathan said sadly, resting a hand on Tancred’s shoulder “I know I’m strange. But do you understand now, why I didn’t go to Lattakay? It’s hard enough to live among strangers who can’t meet your eyes. I could never bear it with my own family.”

“So you became a hermit,” Wentha declared. “Shut yourself away from everyone in this dead city—”

“A city I killed,” Cathan interrupted. His voice broke, and Tithian felt hot tears in his eyes at the memory.

Wentha opened her mouth to protest. Cathan cut her off with a shake of his head. “Don’t tell me it’s not my fault, Sister. It is. This terrible thing happened because I ordered the attack on the Tower. Thousands of innocents died, at my command. In the end, it was the only place I could go that made any sense. Living here, among the dead, has been my atonement. Protecting these ruins from robbers is the only way I can begin to repent.

“But not any more,” he added softly. “Now you’re here, all of you—and him as well.”

“We need you, Uncle,” Rath stated. “You must leave this place. Come with us.”

Cathan studied him, long and hard, then looked at Wentha. She, alone, met his gaze without flinching. “Is this your wish? Or the Kingpriest’s?”

“Mine,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath. “I want you back.”

He smiled, touching her cheek. She turned her face into it, making him cup her in his hand. He nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll go. But for you, Blossom—not for the Lightbringer.”

*****

Beldinas regained full consciousness shortly after nightfall. Groaning, he sat up, putting a hand to his forehead as the men and women of his entourage turned to stare, then fell to their knees, murmuring his name. He raised his hands, signing the triangle over them, and was helped to his feet by two knights.

He asked what had happened, and they told him. He bowed his head at the loss of Varen and Elecai. “Thus it is,” he murmured. “Just as evil remains in men’s hearts, so did it hide beneath the very earth, awaiting us. Let their deaths be a lesson—we must remain ever vigilant for the darkness that lurks out of sight.”

The knights and priests murmured their agreement, then told the rest of the news. The Twice-Born had come, seemingly out of nowhere, and saved all of them from the spawn of Catyrpelio. Beldinas smiled.

“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.

“Ifidud,” said Beldinas.

Mend.

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 his voice.

Fistandantilus paused, considering this. “Because I’m so cruel and capricious, I suppose.”

He fell silent, watching Cathan, who sighed. “All right, fine. Why did you want me to save them? I’d think you’d be happy if Beldinas died.”

“Oh, no. If the Kingpriest’s death was something I desired, I’d have taken care of that myself, long ago. Believe me, there have been enough chances. No, Twice-Born, he is much more interesting to me alive… and what better way to get you back into his esteem than to have you save him?”

“Then this was a way to get me to go back to Istar,” Cathan said. “It was you who summoned the worm, wasn’t it…?”

The wizard shook his head. “I told you, that was only a happy circumstance … though I could have summoned the real Catyrpelio if it came to that. I will confess I was the one who told Varen about this place, though. Poor fool. He never knew. But then, the puppet is seldom aware of who is working his strings, isn’t he?”

“And if I don’t go back to Istar?” Cathan asked.

Black-robed shoulders shrugged. “I never said that was my aim. You did. Perhaps I don’t want you to go to Istar, but want you to think I do. Or perhaps, it’s the other way around. Can you really know for sure?”

Cathan muttered a foul word as the wizard laughed.

“Ease your temper, my friend,” he said, leaning close. The cold became intense, almost unbearable, making Cathan’s teeth chatter. “I am done with you … for now. We will meet again, but until then, do as you will. And don’t worry about the hammer. Your dreams will become clear in time.”

The shadows swelled, and with a sound like a dying breath, the Dark One was gone. The candles his darkness had snuffed sprang back to flickering life … and at the bathhouse’s door, the guards got up, dazed, glanced around in confusion, then grabbed their halberds and took up their posts once more. As Fistandantilus had promised, they didn’t seem aware that anything was amiss.

Cathan couldn’t help but shudder. What did the Dark One want? He lay awake in the candle glow for the rest of the night, wondering.

*****

The next morning, as the processional was making ready to depart, one of the high priests came out of the glass-walled manor and motioned to the MarSevrins. Cathan looked up from sharpening his sword and saw Wentha go to speak with the man, a short, pale fellow with a black beard that hung to his belt, then look back at him and nod.

“He wants to see you,” she said. “Before we go. Rath too.”

Cathan glanced over at his nephews, who were looking at him and their mother. Rath moved stiffly, and the bruises the worm had given him showed purple on his brown skin. Cathan was sure, from the way he winced when he shifted his weight, that he’d cracked at least two ribs, but Rath refused to complain. Tancred leaned over and spoke a few words in his brother’s ear, and Rath looked for a moment like he might argue, finally raising his eyebrows and giving a resigned nod.

The long-bearded priest had moved on and was speaking with several of the knights now. One by one, they walked toward the manor. Each was bloody or battered from the fight with the worm. Seeing them, Cathan understood. It was the same as always—the Lightbringer calling the sick and wounded to him to feel his healing touch. He glanced at Wentha, who nodded.

“Go on,” she said. “You’ll need your strength for the journey.”

Sighing, Cathan fell in beside Rath. His crippled leg burned with each halting step. Seemingly from out of nowhere, Tithian—who had his sword-arm in a sling—hurried up and offered his shoulder. Cathan took it, too pained to be proud.

“He still does this?” he asked.

“Whenever he finds the need,” Tithian replied. “The ailing come to him, at the Temple and when he travels beyond its walls. He doesn’t rest until they’re all cured.”

Cathan nodded. He’d seen it often enough, first in Luciel when Beldinas was still Brother Beldyn, then later in Govinna, the Lordcity, and all across the empire. Thanks to the Lightbringer’s powers, thousands lived who otherwise would have died.

It was bright in the manor. The injured knights—there were a dozen, besides Tithian—stood facing the Kingpriest, their shadows huge against the far wall. Beldinas cast no shadow of his own, surrounded as he was by his own lambency. Behind him, the glass wall blazed with the color of sunrise. Within, the shapes of the bodies that had been trapped there remained. Cathan stared at them as, one by one, the injured knights knelt before the Kingpriest.

Beldinas signed the triangle. “Bogudo, usas farnas,” he declared. Arise, children of the god.

With a rattle of armor, they obeyed. Cathan watched from the back of the crowd, saw the fervor on the faces of the young knights—knights who had been only boys when he left the Lordcity. They adored him with the same zeal he’d once felt, and he knew he would never feel it again. It made him feel old.

“Sir Bron,” spoke the Lightbringer. “Come forward, and receive my blessing.”

One knight close to Tithian stepped forward, his chin lifting as his fellows cast him envious glances. Like the Grand Marshal’s, his arm was in a sling, and he favored his left leg as well. A large, scab-encrusted gash ran down his face, from the middle of his forehead down his nose and around his cheek to his jaw. He squinted as he neared the Kingpriest, knelt down, then drew his sword and laid it at the glowing figure’s feet.

“Cilenfo, Pilofiro,” he spoke. “Mas sobolo tarn fat.”

Healer, Lightbringer. My life is thine.

Inside the aura, Beldinas smiled—or so it seemed, for all the light. He spread his hands over the young knight, who bowed his head so he could rest them upon his pate. Beldinas gazed down at him and drew a breath.

“Palado,” he intoned, “ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis biram cailud, e tas oram nomass lud bipum. Sifat.”

Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this man, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.

Cathan found himself mouthing the words as the Kingpriest spoke them; having heard them hundreds—maybe thousands—of times before, they burned bright in his memory. He knew this ritual, and counted the beats of his heart… one, two, three, four, five… before the god answered Beldinas’s prayer.

The silver light flared. It flowed down his arms like water, rippling over Sir Bron. The young knight stiffened when it first touched him … it was always shocking, the first time… then relaxed again. Bron vanished, swallowed by the Lightbringer’s power, shimmering music filling the air. All around the room, the knights brought their hands to their lips, kissing their knuckles in reverence, a new gesture Cathan had never seen before.

The light blazed around Bron for half a minute… then it brightened, and Cathan was just about to look away when Bron let out a rapturous sigh, a sound of release. The light drained away, raining down in droplets that vanished into the floor. Beldinas lifted his hands from the knight’s head.

The gash on Bron’s face was now a faint crease, now a white line, now gone, leaving smooth skin behind. Blinking, Bron shrugged off his sling and flexed his arm. When it gave him no pain, he smiled a large-toothed, horsey smile. The injury to his leg had disappeared.as well. He looked up at the Kingpriest with love in his eyes. Then, without a sound, his eyes drooped closed and he pitched forward.

Several of the more callow knights gasped as Bron collapsed, but the older ones, who had seen Beldinas heal before, only nodded. Two of them, apparently unharmed, moved in quickly, lifting up Bron’s limp form and bearing it away. They left the sword at the Kingpriest’s feet, easing the unconscious knight down on the floor. The life-giving sleep would last a few hours, brought on by the holy power that had, for a few moments, overwhelmed his body. He would wake refreshed, as if he had slumbered for a whole day, with no sign he had ever been hurt.

Beldinas turned back to the others. “Sir Alados,” he bade. “Come forward.”

So it went, one knight after another pledging himself to the Kingpriest, then receiving his touch, to pass out and be carried away. The pile of swords at Beldinas’s feet grew large: short leaf-shaped blades from the empire’s heartland; long chisel-tipped ones from Falthana; a broad hand-and-a-halfer from Taol; a graceful Dravinish scimitar. Cathan let the rhythm of the ritual take him; the gentle cadences of the Lightbringer’s words lulled him into a trance. This was a good man, the man he had sworn his life to, so long ago. This couldn’t be the same man who had let Losarcum die. Could it?

His eyes flicked to the grim shapes in the wall. Yes, he thought, it could.

“Lord Tithian,” said the Kingpriest.

Cathan roused from his daze, watched the Grand Marshal stride up, kneel, lay down his sword, and receive the healing light. His broken wrist fixed, he was still clenching and unclenching his sword-hand when sleep overtook him. The unhurt knights took him away, with even greater care than they had shown their brethren.

Only Cathan and his nephew remained. Beldinas looked out at them. “Rath MarSevrin.”

Rath stepped forward, one hand on the hilt of his Seldjuki saber. When he reached Beldinas, however, he did not kneel. Instead, he slipped his sword from its scabbard with his left hand and held it up to the light. For a wild moment, Cathan thought he was going to strike the Kingpriest down. Rath, however reversed his grip on the saber, and set its edge against his open right hand. With a sudden jerk, he cut open his palm.

“I will bear my own wounds, Lightbringer,” he announced, clenching his fist. Blood oozed between his fingers, dripped onto his sword and the pile of others. “I shall not let you heal me.”

Cathan’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. He watched in surprise as Rath sheathed his saber again.

Beldinas was every bit as surprised. In nearly forty years, this had never happened before. “Do not fear, child,” he said. “It is not dangerous.”

“Holiness,” Rath replied, “it is not danger I fear.” And with that, he turned and walked away from the Lightbringer.

Cathan watched him go, but Rath wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was still looking at the doorway when Beldinas drew a breath and spoke again. “Cathan MarSevrin… called Twice-Born.”

Continuing as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, Cathan turned back to face the Kingpriest and found his feet were moving unbidden. Suddenly he was in front of Beldinas, the silver aura narrowing his pupils to pinpricks. The man within was tall, majestic—nothing like the stooped, anxious man he’d set down the day before. He couldn’t help but kneel before this mighty lord, and before he knew it Ebonbane was on top of the other swords, the white porcelain on its quillons glistening.

He didn’t swear his life. He had already done that once, long ago. He only bowed his head, wait. The Kingpriest’s hands on his scalp in a strange feeling; gave the last time he had done this, he’d still had hair.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro…”

He counted heartbeats. One … two … three … four… five.

The great hammer surged past him, wreathed in flame. Burning furiously, it streaked down, down…

Cathan caught his breath, jerking as the vision plunged through his brain like a diamond arrow, even while the Kingpriest’s power spread over him in a torrent of silvery light. Then, all at once, his strength gave out and he was falling. With the suddenness of a thunderclap, the world went black and he knew no more.

Chapter 7

SECONDMONTH, 962 I.A.

Chidell was the oldest city in Istar’s heartland, the first place where men had risen above barbarism in the east, nearly two thousand years ago. Its walls had been already worn with age in the time of Huma and the Third Dragonwar. Now they were little more than a memory, a worn stub large enough to step over, ringing the tall ziggurat-palaces of the Old City, where only the lords dwelt any more. The people had pulled them down before the first Kingpriest took the throne, for once Chidell outgrew them, their only use was as material for new homes.

Beyond the Vanished Wall was the true city: a mass of white, square buildings with alabaster roofs, running evenly along arrow-straight roads. Except for the holy church’s temples, and a few inns catering to outsiders, these buildings were all virtually identical, indistinguishable except by size. There were no plazas, no gardens, no colonnades or statuary; the Chidell had learned to build from the ogres, long ago, and clung to that style with stubborn pride. Forbas Duid, outsiders called it: the Toothed Hills.

Only two things broke up the white sameness of the place. One was the Market of Dye-Makers, near the north gates, where hundreds of silken banners—each a different brilliant shade—fluttered in the breeze, brightly proclaiming the skills of Chidell’s artisans. The other was the people themselves, who wore flowing gowns and tunics of those same hues, in satin and samite. They flowed like rainbow-hued rivers among the looming, pale edifices of their homes.

Word spread that the Lightbringer was on his way. This was far from the first time Beldinas had come to Chidell, for he traveled about the heartland at least once each year, visiting all the old cities, but that mattered little to the people. They crowded along the road as they did every time he visited.

Riding at the fore, with Tithian on his left and Wentha and her sons on his right, Cathan felt his throat go dry at the sight of the multi-colored mob. He hadn’t seen more than a dozen people in one place in many years, and here were thousands, cheering, chanting, and waving brilliantly dyed pennants in celebration of the Kingpriest’s coming. He stiffened, suddenly wanting nothing more than to run back to Dravinaar and hide in his cave again. But that part of his life seemed over, and in his heart he knew he would never go back to Losarcum again.

Without realizing what he was doing, he probed his teeth with his tongue. He’d lost several, in his years in exile, and one had been going bad for months, its ache so familiar he hadn’t noticed it any more. Beldinas’s healing touch had cured the rot, and made new teeth sprout where the gaps had been. The inside of his mouth still felt strange … but every time he chewed without pain, he felt grateful.

The other pains were gone, too; his crippled leg was fine now, as limber as ever. The twinges he sometimes got in his back had stopped. The occasional throbbing in his joints … gone. He hadn’t had so much as an ache since they’d left the Tears. Hair had even begun to grow again on his bald dome—first thin and downy, but thickening day by day. He felt half as old as he had two weeks ago.

It had been all he could do not to bow down and worship the Lightbringer as the others did. Every time the urge came over him—and it had been happening daily, on the long trek north, over desert and grassland and downs—he had forced himself to remember the hideous, man-shaped bubbles in the glass wall.

He and Beldinas had spoken little during the ride. Actually, he’d hardly talked to anyone, even his sister. They seemed content to leave him to his thoughts, and he had little to say. The miles had slipped by slowly, his thoughts drifting without aim, from one question to the next. What would happen to him when they reached the Lordcity? What was his place there? Why did the dreams of the burning hammer come every night now? And what did Fistandantilus want of him?

There were no answers. Only more miles.

Now he heard the shouts of the throngs as the procession neared Chidell—Pilofiro! Babo Sod! He shook his head at their devotion. If Beldinas commanded them to tear one another to pieces, they would do it gladly. If he told them to rip down their homes, in two days the city would be gone. Once, when he had felt a measure of that fervor himself, it had comforted him. Now he found it frightening.

He wasn’t the only one. He also sensed Wentha’s discomfort, and glanced over to see her twisting the reins of her horse in her hands. Tancred and Rath—the ghost of a bruise still marking his side—shared her blank, thin-lipped expression.

He sidled his horse over to his sister, wary that Tithian didn’t follow. “What is it?” he asked.

“Them,” she said, nodding at the masses, close enough now that they could see the rapturous smiles on their faces. “They have no minds of their own, not any more. Their love for Beldinas has blinded them. He could tell them to stab themselves in the heart, and by sunfall there wouldn’t be a one of them left alive.”

Cathan grunted, surprised by how closely her thoughts matched his. “But not you,” he said, and saw her nod. “Is that why Rath refused the healing?”

“Yes,” she said. “People have grown addicted to the Kingpriest’s power, like the men of Karthay do to their dream-pipes. But it can be dangerous to reject it. I’ve seen men dragged away for less. Rath was foolish to act as he did.”

She said the last just loud enough for her sons to hear. They exchanged pained glances, shaking their heads. “No harm came of it, Mother,” said Tancred.

“How can you be sure?” Wentha shot back. “Your brother called attention to himself, behaving like a heretic. It is the last thing we need now, when we’re so close to—”

She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening as she looked at Cathan. He looked back, his brow furrowing. A blare of noise from his other side startled him: Tithian, winding a silver horn, announcing the coming of the Kingpriest. The crowds chorused raucously in return, pennants dancing above them.

Then they closed in, surrounding them on all sides, a sea of noise and color and love. Cathan looked once more at Wentha, who flushed and turned away. He watched her a while longer, wondering, then rode on.

*****

There was, of course, a feast. No matter where the Lightbringer’s processional stopped for an evening, from the grandest city to the simplest country farm-villa, there was always a feast of prayer and celebration.

Here in Chidell, the fare was wild boar, roasted and served with a sauce of gray-ghost mushrooms and Ismindi ale. The lord of the city, a talkative but dull—and immensely fat—merchant-prince named Dejal, spoke at great length about the Kingpriest’s magnificence, benevolence, and generosity … much the same speech every lord gave, it seemed to Cathan, judging by their experiences on the journey so far. Several men and women in need of healing were brought forward, and Beldinas laid hands on them all: a lost arm regrew before the assembly’s eyes; a huge blue-black growth on an old man’s face shriveled and dropped off, revealing healthy pink skin beneath; a baby born deaf heard noises for the first time and began to shriek from the terror of it—provoking laughter from all around the feast-hall, which only made the shrieking worse.

After the meal—seven courses in all, from a fiery broth called Nine Pepper Stew to a sherbet made from blood oranges and ice stored in caves beneath the city—the party withdrew to an open-air parlor strewn with cushions and tables, where jugs of wine and water sat. Ribbons of silk—dyed flame-red and lemon-yellow—hung from the ceiling, rustling in a breeze manufactured by shaven-headed girls waving fronds. Lord Dejal made another speech, to which only a few people paid any attention, then raised his jeweled goblet in a toast to the Lightbringer.

“Sas riso lob udud,” Lord Dejal proclaimed, “e sas bisto nomas ofurbat op scafam.”

Let his reign be long, and his wisdom shield us from shadow.

Cups rose all over the hall, pointing toward the bright-glowing figure of Beldinas. The Kingpriest raised his own—filled with water, tasted first by one of Dejal’s daughters to assure it wasn’t poisoned—and spoke his reply: “My thanks, Your Honor. But shielding the world from shadow is not enough. Even if my reign is as long as you desire, I will not live forever. And the day I die, the darkness will seek to creep back into the empire. For this reason, I must do more than shield against it. Usas farnas, the greatest of my warriors has now been returned to me—” he gestured toward Cathan, as the Chidelli stared and whispered to one another “—after many long years of exile. It is a sign from the gods themselves: the time has come for the final struggle against evil. Our victory is at hand. Before another year has passed, I shall drive darkness from the face of Krynn forever!”

The assembly responded with applause, and a few chanted the name of Pilofiro. It was only a polite response, however, not an enthusiastic one, for the Chidelli’s eyes had already turned toward a sweep of broad, marble steps that curved down from the floors above. Music was playing from that direction—shawms and long-neck lutes and hand-drums, making a serpentine melody. Lithe figures were coming down the steps: the wind-dancers, a troupe of acrobatic, veil-clad women with chimes on their fingers, wrists, waists, and ankles.

They stepped lightly down the stairs, to the shouting approval of the Chidelli. Cathan had to chuckle at the inappropriateness of the seductive dance, given the nature of Lord Dejal’s guests; the clergy and the knighthood were chaste, which meant the only man of the entourage who could truly appreciate the display was Rath … who wasn’t even watching. He sat with his brother and mother, speaking in whispered voices, glancing now and then at Lord Tithian or Beldinas.

Brow furrowing, Cathan rose and started toward his family, but Tithian caught his arm. “We should talk,” he said, nodding toward an alcove away from the charming, leaping dancers.

Cathan nodded and followed his former squire to the recess. There was more wine there, and Tithian took a moment to mix it with water, then poured goblets for Cathan and himself. He drank half of his in one swallow.

“We’re almost home,” he said, wiping his lips. “Tomorrow night we’ll stop at Odacera—another feast—and the next morning we sail to the Lordcity.”

“I know,” Cathan said, sipping his own wine. He clapped the Grand Marshal on the arm. “My memory’s just fine, you know. I’ve come this way many times before, and recall the land and the people.”

Tithian chuckled half-heartedly. “That wasn’t my point,” he said. He hesitated a moment longer, then threw back the rest of his wine. “I have an offer to make to you.”

At once, Cathan understood. “No,” he said. “You don’t need to, Tithian.”

“Yes, I do.” Tithian shifted, looking down at his feet. “You were Grand Marshal before me, before Olin. You lost your place unjustly … His Holiness would be the first to say so. Your old position awaits you. Lead the knighthood, Cathan.”

For a moment, all Cathan could think to say was yes. Beldinas needed him again. With him as Grand Marshal, the knights would surely be renewed and energized. But at last he shook his head, resting a hand on Tithian’s shoulder. A look of deep disappointment spread over the Marshal’s face, and he opened his mouth to speak his arguments, but Cathan cut him off.

“I left the Divine Hammer long ago, lad,” Cathan explained. “I am no longer one of you. Besides, you’ve been leading the order for years. I was only Grand Marshal for a few weeks, before we marched to Losarcum. Thank you, Tithian … but the knighthood doesn’t need an old relic dug up from a tomb.”

“You aren’t that ” Tithian protested. “Never that.”

“The Lord Cathan you once knew is dead,” Cathan said. “But don’t fear … any time you want a lesson in swordplay, I’ll gladly cross blades with you.”

A laugh burst from Tithian’s lips. “We’ll see just who learns the lesson, old man.”

They talked together a while longer, swapping stories of old—and some new ones—before heading back into the hall. The dancers were finishing their act, spinning and undulating to the delight of Lord Dejal and his people. There was applause when they were done, from the Kingpriest and his followers as well as the Chidelli.

Cathan clapped too, though he’d missed most of the performance, then turned as the second round of entertainers—fire-eaters and knife-jugglers—materialized. His eyes went to his sister and Tancred and Rath … then he stopped, frowning. Wentha and her sons were no longer there.

He glanced around the room, past gouts of flame and blades dancing through the air—the performers were enacting a fanciful version of a battle between the Hammer and the High Sorcerers—but there was no sign of his kin.

Then he saw a curtain swaying close to the corner. Someone had passed through, just moments before. With a quick look toward Beldinas—who was watching the show, unreadable within his cocoon of light—he crossed to the curtain and stepped out of the parlor, into the cool mid-winter night.

*****

Fog had settled over the hills, blanketing the city. Cathan’s hand reached reflexively for Ebonbane, finding nothing. He swallowed a curse: the blade was still resting on the floor by his seat. He stepped away from Lord Dejal’s hall, and its seven-tiered walls faded into the misty whiteness behind him. Other large, dark ziggurats loomed before him and, to his right, older ruins—lone columns and jagged buttresses—appeared out of the gloom. The old city was all but deserted on most nights, and completely so tonight; anyone influential enough to dwell in the ancient part of Chidell was in the festival hall.

Cathan saw the swinging lanterns of the town watch, and hunkered down behind a shard of fallen masonry until they passed. It was easier than answering questions about why he was out here when it was wearing on midnight.

Now he remembered, from his pre-exile days, that Chidell was notorious for its impenetrable mists. He would have to be careful not to get lost. As long as he didn’t step outside the Vanished Wall, into the neighborhoods of virtually identical streets and white buildings, he’d be fine. He walked on, the clack of his boots against the cobbles sounding unnaturally loud in the mist. What could Wentha be doing out here with her sons?

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Ahead, just barely visible, was a familiar, stately, womanly shape. He recognized his sister when he saw her. He opened his mouth to call out to Wentha, then momentarily stopped when he spotted two other shapes creeping toward her from his left; they were cloaked and hooded, and he saw something at one man’s hip that was unmistakably the hilt of a sword. The other had some kind of mace or cudgel in his hand.

Cathan’s blood turned to ice: He wished that he’d remembered Ebonbane. He searched around, looking for some hunk of crumbled stone he might throw, but everything was either gravel or huge chunks. He could take one of the pair down by surprise, but the other would almost certainly get past him.

“Get down!” Cathan bellowed, running at Wentha. She started to turn toward him, but he barreled into her, knocking her away from the two men. She sprawled backward on the ground, the air leaving her with a whoosh.

The two men stopped, startled. They were both beardless, and wore white masks over the upper halves of their faces. Young, by their looks, but that was all Cathan could tell. One drew his blade—a short stabbing weapon, just a bit too long to be called a dagger—and they came at him.

He saw the sword’s tip coming and leaped away from the blow, directly at the man with the cudgel. He felt the club glance off his left shoulder—but that didn’t stop him from ramming the man in the stomach. At the same time, he got a hand around the man’s wrist and twisted, feeling the crunch of bones as they went down in a heap together.

The cudgel came out of the man’s suddenly limp hand, and Cathan grabbed it up without a moment’s pause, twisted halfway to his feet, and brought the weapon around to parry another stab. He spun and blocked another blow before swinging back, feinting, then diverting his blow and slamming the club into the man’s cheek. The sword clattered down. The man dropped to his knees and swayed a moment before sprawling face-down on the ground.

The other one was getting up again, the mouth below the mask drawn back in a snarl, a bit of blood on the lip. Cathan kicked him in the jaw, snapping his head back and dropping him like a sack of grain. This time he didn’t get up.

Wentha was groaning, struggling to rise. He’d hit her harder than he’d meant to. “Hang on” he said to her, reaching for the dropped sword. “I’ll be with you in—”

There was a ping, and the blade leaped into the air, spinning out of his grasp. A crossbow bolt clattered away across the pavement. He blinked, then whirled, cudgel at the ready… and stopped, his eyes widening when he saw half a dozen more masked men, all of them aiming crossbows at him.

“Please drop that, Uncle,” said a voice to his right.

He turned, his jaw dropping open. It was Tancred who had spoken. He wore a gray cloak over his priestly vestments. Bare-chested Rath was with him. They both wore the same white masks. Cathan’s thoughts bounced around wildly as he regarded the brothers. His mouth tried to make words.

“Why—what are—this—”

“Do as they say,” Wentha said. “They’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

He looked back at his sister, and the cudgel fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. She stared back, her mouth a cold, hard line. As she stood up, he saw that above her mouth, tied tight about her head, was another white mask.

Wentha nodded to the crossbowmen, and one of them lowered his weapon, ran forward, and kicked the club away. Cathan barely noticed. He could only look at his sister as she stepped forward, a ghost in the mist

“You always were trouble,” she said. “You shouldn’t have followed me, Cathan.”

Chapter 8

Cathan could only stare at his sister and the mask she wore. He felt like the world had dropped away beneath him, leaving him hanging above a yawning chasm.

“Blossom?” he asked.

The crossbowmen shifted, glancing at one another, then over at the swordsman Cathan had put down. The man groaned as Rath and Tancred helped him up, then limped forward, cradling his injured hand in the other. The side of his face, where Cathan had clouted him with the cudgel, was a purple mess, and his eye had swollen shut. The other was sharp, however, and glinted as he looked first at Cathan, then at Wentha.

“You know him?” he growled. His voice was harsh, made mushy by his mashed face.

“Of course I do,” Wentha replied. “Look at him. Closely.” Scowling, the ruffian turned and did as she asked. A bloodstain at the edge of his mask grew larger. Then he started, his eyes meeting Cathan’s. He swore with great skill. “The Twice-Born! What in the blue Abyss is he doing here?”

“Rescuing me,” Wentha said, her mouth crooking slightly. She glanced at her sons. “I thought you said no one saw us leave.”

“I said I didn’t notice anyone,” Tancred replied. “Once we were past the curtains, how was I to know?”

The ruffian cursed again. “You mean he followed you? Gods damn it, what if he’s not the only one? You could have led half the imperial court to us!”

“I don’t think—” Rath began.

“Shut up, boy,” the ruffian snapped, then raised his hand to his men. “Scatter. Back to the hole.”

Rath stepped forward, his hand straying toward his sword, but stopped as two crossbows swung toward him. He turned a sulky look on the ruffian, saying nothing more.

“What in Paladine’s name is going on?” Cathan finally managed to ask.

Wentha opened her mouth to answer, but the ruffian raised a hand. His men were backing away, melting back into the mist. Two took the other one Cathan had knocked out, each with an arm about his shoulders. The lead ruffian shook his head, his long black hair swaying.

“Questions later,” he said, catching his sword when one of his men lobbed it his way. He gestured with it, at the fog. “Right now, we need to disappear.”

Wentha took Cathan’s hand. Her dark eyes pleaded with him, through the holes in her mask. “Come on,” she said. “If the Hammer finds us, we’re all dead.”

What in the gods have you gotten into? Cathan asked, aiming the question at both his sister and himself. But he got no answer—only a wrenching pain as Wentha yanked him toward her, then began to run.

Mist and shadow flowed past them, and then the towering shapes of the ziggurats. They turned a corner, then another, and soon he had no idea which way he was pointed any more. He lost sight of the others—the ruffians’ injured leader, his nephews, everyone but Wentha, who held his wrist tightly, her slipper-shod feet making no sound against the cobbles. He clomped along behind in his hard boots, feeling like an ox in a Micahi glassblower’s shop.

Suddenly there was something in front of them, and he stumbled to a stop just in time to avoid barreling into Wentha. Ahead, half masked by the fog, was the Vanished Wall: ancient, huge stone blocks rising anywhere from waist-high to ten feet, the top crumbling and crusted with mortar. The swordsman was here already, along with Rath and several of the crossbowmen. Tancred and the others hurried up behind, making no sound.

The leader of the band was studying a statue, set in a recess in the wall. It was headless and armless, clad in segmented armor no man had worn in seven centuries. The plinth at its feet simply proclaimed KELOSTIS, a name Cathan didn’t recognize. There were relics like it all over Chidell, remnants of times forgotten to all but sages. But the ruffian paid the plinth close attention, his good hand resting on one of the statue’s sandaled feet as his men watched behind, crossbows ready.

‘“Who—” Cathan began.

Wentha put a hand over his mouth. “Later.”

The ruffian studied the statue a moment longer, then reached up, as high as he could, and touched the buckle of the forgotten warrior’s belt. It moved inward, a quarter-inch maybe, with a faint click. Then, with a low rumble, statue and pedestal alike rose up from the ground and swung outward. The ruffians’ leader stepped aside, then leaned forward when it was done.

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 Puridas with me,” said the swordsman, shaking his head. “I must have lost my mind.”

“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 Puridas, there’d be none of us left. Which only makes having you down here with us that much more insane.”

Cathan threw up his hands. “Down where? Will someone tell me where we are?”

“The Puridas?” Idar said again. “The Forgotten Places. The only shelter left from the holy church.” The last two words dripped venom.

“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 Puridas… whatever she could. She’s one of the best friends we have.”

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 Miceram winking on his brow. With some difficulty Tithian got his feet under him and made them take him across the room, in as straight a line as possible. He dodged the floor a couple times when it tried to rise up and strike him.

“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 need your help. Where is Cathan?”

Brow furrowing, Tithian glanced around. There was no sign of the Twice-Born anywhere. It had been at least an hour since he’d last seen Cathan. And the other MarSevrins were gone, too.

“I don’t—I don’t know, Holiness,” he said, taken aback.

“Do not be ashamed, Tithian,” Beldinas declared. “I did not notice until just now, either.”

“Perhaps he retired.”

The Kingpriest shook his head. “He is not in his chambers. Neither are Lady Wentha, or young Rath and Tancred.”

“I will find him,” Tithian said, feeling a rush of dread he couldn’t explain. Surely no ill had befallen them … ?

He scanned the room, looking for those of his men who might still be clear-headed. There weren’t many—just a couple Seldjukis who didn’t drink because of oaths to their branch of the church, and an old knight called Xenos who had sworn off wine for his health. Well, he thought, they’ll have to do.

“We’ll find him, sire,” Tithian declared. “He probably hasn’t gone far.”

“Thank you, Grand Marshal,” Beldinas said, “but I can find him well enough. I only ask your protection.”

You? Tithian nearly asked, but stifled the word—though he was betrayed by the confused expression on his face. He felt the Kingpriest’s eyes bore into him.

“I told you,” said Beldinas, “I do more than just heal disease.”

*****

The Lightbringer performed the ritual in a small room deep within the ziggurat, away from the feast-hall. There were two candles on silver sticks, and frescoes on the walls: battling dragons of blue and gold, painted in a romantic style popular three centuries before. The floor was red tile, arranged in spirals. Beldinas stood in the middle of the room, head bowed, while Tithian’s four sober knights—by the gods, he would have some harsh words for his men tomorrow—lurked at the chamber’s edges.

“Palso fit mideis,” he prayed, spreading his hands before him. “Lonfam ansinfud si lasdam sporium.”

The lost shall be found. Send me a servant to follow its trail.

The power flared around him, sun-bright. Tithian caught a ruby flash from the Crown, then had to turn away, as twin stabbing pains found their way deep into his skull. Furiously, he wiped tears from his cheeks, then made himself look again.

Beldinas’s aura was coursing around him, running down his arms and pouring from his hands. It spilled out of his body, becoming liquid as it fell … thick water that collected in globules like quicksilver. Moonlight flashed within it as it ran together, forming a shape: long, sleek, four-legged. It was a hunting dog, its skin made of rippling platinum, its eyes empty and white.

Like Cathan’s, Tithian thought with a shudder.

The beast of silvery light stood alert, poised for its master’s command. The Kingpriest stepped back, his shoulders bowing. Tithian started toward him, but Beldinas waved him off.

“I will recover,” he said. “This is a yethu—a hound of the gods, smarter and finer than any bred on earth. It can track a hawk on the wing, but it will not remain in this world long. Move quickly, Grand Marshal, and find Cathan before ill befalls him.”

The dog, the yethu, looked at Tithian. Its tail wagged happily, throwing off sparkling droplets. Tithian stared back, but felt his eyes shift away. The white eyes frightened him. He turned instead toward Beldinas.

“Go,” said the Lightbringer.

Sighing, Tithian nodded to the hound. With a happy bark—a gonglike ringing—it turned and bounded out of the room. Tithian followed, his men close behind.

Chapter 9

The tunnels went everywhere in Chidell, it seemed; Idar and his followers had been busy indeed. “Helps to have dwarven knowhow,” Gabbro noted, nodding down a narrow passage where several other little, bearded figures were patiently toiling at the rocky earth. Working with them, to Cathan’s shock, were a handful of squat, evil-browed creatures with eyes that flashed in the gloom.

“Goblins?” he asked.

“Aye,” said the dwarf. “Shows how desperate things have got, I suppose, that we’d work beside the slime. But khudro khadrak ba-thandai, as Thane Derkin once said. My foe’s foe is my friend.” Gabbro chuckled. “Besides, they’re good diggers, as long as you keep an eye on ‘em.”

On they went, the way twisting a serpent’s path beneath the city. Here and there, they passed more ladders leading up to the surface. Idar led them on, pausing only to exchange words with a few other men they met along the way. The outcasts eyed Cathan as he passed, whispering to one another. He could feel their eyes on him after he’d gone by.

“They recognize me,” he murmured to Wentha.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“They know I was in the Hammer,” he went on. “For all I know, I drove some of them down here myself.” And they could kill me easily, he added silently, wishing again that he had brought Ebonbane.

“They also know you quit the Hammer, and why,” said Tancred, behind them. “Many of them admire you for it.”

“And all of them respect you, whether they like you or not,” added Rath.

“Be still,” Idar hissed, glancing back at them. “We’re here.” They stopped at the foot of a ladder, no different from any of the others they had passed. Above, the shaft ascended into darkness. They were hundreds of feet down, far beneath the sewers and tombs that made up the undercity. The faintest of breezes drifted down to them, making the lamps’ flames dance.

Gabbro headed up the ladder, his stumpy legs moving with surprising agility. He needed no light: most dwarves, Cathan recalled from the lore he’d studied, could see perfectly well in their caves without it. Idar watched as the dwarf clambered out of sight. Up above, Gabbro’s boots ticked against solid stone, then for a moment there was nothing.

“He has a wealth of tesserae up there with him,” said Idar. “From old mosaics the church tore down for being idolatrous. Mosaics of Zivilyn, and Shinare, and the other gray gods. If he drops a black tile down here, it means there’s trouble and we shouldn’t come up. White, and it’s all clear.”

Cathan nodded, following. “What does a colored one mean?”

“Then he took the wrong bloody tiles,” Rath replied, and Tancred snorted with laughter. Idar was fighting back a grin when something fell down the shaft, spinning and glinting as it came down. Everyone stepped back, letting it clink onto the floor among them. It cracked in half, and Idar bent down to examine the pieces.

“White,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He led the way, Cathan and Wentha behind him. One of his men brought up the rear, leaving the rest below with Tancred and Rath. The climb seemed to go on forever, and Cathan was at once humbled by how much it made his arms and legs burn, and amazed at how easily his sister managed. By the time they reached the top, where a short passage led to a wall where tiny cracks of light defined the shape of a door, he had to bend down, hands-on-knees, and wheeze for breath.

“Where are we?” He whispered, thoroughly disoriented. His voice sounded horribly loud in the stillness, however, and Idar whipped a blazing look at him.

Wentha put a finger to his lips and leaned in close. “You’ll see,” she breathed, and pushed him forward.

They were all watching him as he stepped toward the door, where Gabbro waited. The dwarf stepped aside, and touched his arm when he reached out to find the portal’s handle. Cathan stiffened at the touch—he’d been brought up on stories of evil, bearded men who crept out of caves and stole babies from their cradles. Gabbro reached up and slid back a panel hidden in the stone. Two small holes appeared, at eye level. Twin shafts of silver-red moon-glow shot through the dusty dark of the tunnel. Gabbro nodded his ugly, hairy head toward them.

Swallowing, Cathan looked.

At first, he couldn’t make anything out for the light. Solinari and Lunitari were both full tonight, and he had to squint, slowly making out details. He was looking through a white stone wall, which curved around to his left and right to frame a wide, oval courtyard. There were relief carvings engraved into the stone, depicting the revolt of humankind against the mighty ogre empire, long ago. He wondered, briefly, if it was a man’s eyes he was looking through, or an ogre’s.

Then he saw what lay within the courtyard, and such thoughts left his mind in a heartbeat.

The yard was filled with cages, with bars of iron and bamboo. Most were bolted to the cobblestone ground, while others rested on great wheeled carts with yokes for horses or oxen. Wooden posts stood here and there, with manacles dangling from them. A large, wooden platform rose at the far end, like a stage; there was a wide, empty area before it, room enough for a hundred people or more. Here and there, Scatas—the blue-cloaked soldiers who comprised the bulk of Istar’s armies—stood watch or walked patrol, spears and bows at ready.

Some of the cages had occupants. Men and women stood or sat or leaned against the bars, clad in plain gray tunics or loincloths. They came from all over the empire, as much a mix as Tithian’s knights were, but with some nonhumans too: a huge man with yellow skin and black eyes who looked to be a half-ogre; three or four minotaurs, their wicked horns cut short; even one of the tiny tricksy folk, a kender with a truly sorrowful look on her expressive face. The others shared her gloom: There was no hope in this place of cages.

Cathan stared, not believing what he was seeing. He had heard tales of such places, in evil and primitive realms. The minotaurs and ogres had had them, and some of the old city-states and kingdoms, in the empire’s early days. But such things had been unknown in Istar for a long time.

With a sinking heart he knew what he was looking at.

A slave market.

*****

There had been much uproar when the Lightbringer brought back slavery. Nearly a century and a half had passed since one man had owned another within the empire, and though the Great Temple and most of Istar’s other glories had been built on the backs of others, folk had come to regard it as a dark trade, one practiced only by evil folk.

Though the first Kingpriests had frowned upon slavery, it remained legal until Giusecchio, called by historians Biso Povi—the Doomed Fool—banned it with an imperial bull in the year 823. It had not been a popular decision, particularly among the wealthy. Angry slave-lords, robbed of their trade by Giusecchio’s writ, had conspired to have him assassinated. After several attempts, they finally succeeded, poisoning the water with which Giusecchio mixed his wine. Following his murder, Istar had nearly fallen into civil war; it was only the intercession of Quenndorus the Conciliator, who had the most powerful of the rebellious slavers burned at the stake, that kept the empire from collapse. A pious man and a disciple of Giusecchio’s teachings, Quenndorus let his predecessor’s bull stand, and when he died six years later, the wickedness of the old days, when lives could be traded for a bag of gold falcons, was over.

So it had remained … until fifteen summers ago, when Beldinas appeared within the Hall of Audience one Godsday to announce that by the end of the year, slavery would again be legal.

The stir the declaration caused, both within the court and about the empire, had been loud and vocal. Many opposed the idea, calling it repugnant. Goblins kept slaves. It was a fell thing, and not fit for those who worshipped the gods of light.

“That is so,” the Kingpriest had replied, smiling within his aura. “But goblins eat olives, as well. Does that mean we should not, simply because we share the habit with those who walk in darkness?”

The analogy was lost on many, and more than a few clerics gave up eating olives in the days to follow, but as Beldinas explained his aims, sympathy began to grow within the hierarchy. The war against the god’s enemies, he reasoned, had changed in recent years. Those whose souls were truly lost had been all but vanquished, their bodies given to purging flame; those the Divine Hammer and the church’s inquisitors captured these days were not true creatures of darkness but could be redeemed, brought back to Paladine’s glory through labor and toil.

“Should we burn them, then, for their heresies?” he’d argued. “Is that not a waste? Let us be merciful in our punishment, and let them live, in the hope that they may find true penitence in the empire’s service.”

Some, including Emissary Quarath, debated this notion long and loud. The very idea of slavery was alien, something to be feared. Faced with Beldinas’s logic, however, even Quarath began to doubt his own beliefs. Finally, the majority of the hierarchs accepted the new bull, placing their signets upon the waxen tablet affixed to the document. Thus, Giusecchio’s age of universal freedom came to an end, and a new era of clemency toward heathens began.

The Istarans had embraced the change with startling speed. After only a decade and a half, the realm’s mines and quarries now ran from the toil of bought men, and most noble households boasted a small army of unpaid laborers. The city of Aldhaven became a trading center for those who sold flesh, and when the fights returned to the empire’s Arenas—though only as shows, not the bloody melees of old—the gladiators were all slaves. The last few nay-sayers fell silent when Beldinas outlined the laws the slavers must observe: gone were the days of lash and yoke; those who mistreated slaves would be punished with enslavement themselves. And slaves could gain their freedom by joining the church, vowing eternal servitude to the gods. Only a handful chose that end, but it was enough make those who opposed slavery relent.

These days, it was almost as if Istar had never known any other way. Every city had its market, every merchant caravan contained at least a short line of chained heretics. And the Istarans who were free grew fat and rich off the toil of those who were not.

*****

Cathan leaned back against the wall of the tunnel, putting a hand over his eyes. His head hurt. The world felt like it had been knocked loose around him. The others watched him, curious, expectant.

“So the imperial decree is that slavery is … good?” he asked.

“In this case,” said Wentha.

“For the redeemable,” noted Rath.

“Until they repent,” Tancred added.

He had no words, could only stand there, shaking his head in disbelief. It was all he could do to keep from crying out in fury. The worst part of it, by far, was that the whole thing made a sickening kind of sense. Wasn’t it better to spare the lives of those not beyond deliverance, and to give them another chance? Wasn’t this way more humane, as long as the slaves weren’t maltreated?

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Idar. His face was grim, dark, his voice soft and low. “I can see it in your eyes. And yes, being a slave is better than death … but not by much. I know—I was one, for a while. I surrendered, after the rest of my family resisted and died on the Hammer’s blades. They took me prisoner, sold me … I worked three years mining salt at Attrika. Three years without seeing the sun, toiling every day before I escaped. They didn’t whip me, they kept me fed, but the humiliation …” He stopped, his face twitching. “There were times I prayed for death. Some did the deed themselves, or for others. A good swing of a pick, or a sharp stone to the temple, and it was all over. But I didn’t have the courage. I’m glad to be alive, but if I had the choice again, I’d pick sword over shackles.”

“It gets worse,” Wentha added. “With a punishment people see as merciful, the church has fewer problems with expanding its definitions of heresy.”

“Even those who worship the gods of light, but not in the prescribed ways, are suspect,” Tancred noted. “When we get back to the Temple, go to the Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege, and ask the Kingpriest to show you Fan-ka-tso.”

“All it takes these days,” said Rath, his words dripping with venom, “is one dark thought in the wrong place, and the Araifas have you arrested and sold before the day is out.”

“Wait,” Cathan said. “The who?”

“Six years ago,” Wentha said. “There was a scandal at court. One of the hierarchs, it turned out, was the thrall of a coven of Sargonnites. They were using him to get close to the Kingpriest. There was even an assassination attempt in the offing, but the hierarch was caught before he could do anything. The Hammer hunted down the Sargonnites, but Beldinas wasn’t satisfied.”

“Evil thoughts are as evil deeds,” said Rath, his voice a singsong mockery of the Lightbringer’s. “Only the thoughts stay hidden.”

“So he created the Araifas, the Thought-Readers,” finished Wentha. “They are Majereans, skilled at reading the thoughts of others. They move in secret, among clergy and laity alike. No one knows their real identities.”

“And when they catch you harboring thoughts against the church …” Tancred’s voice trailed off.

Cathan swayed a moment, then sat down as a wave of dizziness overtook him. He looked up at the others. “You’re lying,” he said, without conviction. “You must be lying. This has to be a trick, a mistake.”

“No,” said Idar. “It isn’t. If you’d ever felt the Araifas rooting through your mind, you’d believe what your sister tells you. That’s why we stay here, Twice-Born. That’s why your kin help us … because the only thing that frightens us more than what the Kingpriest has already done is what he might do yet.”

He stopped, his eyes flicking toward Wentha and her sons. In the corner of his vision, Cathan saw his sister’s head dip once. Idar leaned closer, his face as grave death. Cathan knew at once what the man would say, but held his breath anyway, not wanting to believe it.

“And that,” said Idar, in a voice barely more than a breath, “is why we must bring him down.”

Chapter 10

I should never have come back, Cathan thought. I should never have left the cave.

It had been safe there. His life had been quiet and free of confusion. Now everything he thought he knew was wrong. If only the damned scholar hadn’t come … if only he hadn’t listened to Fistandantilus … if only he’d insisted on remaining behind. If only he’d been content, long ago, to follow the Kingpriest’s orders and never question him, like most of the empire did.

But he had listened, he had left, he had questioned, and it had led him here, to this dark, close tunnel far beneath a place where men bought and sold other men, and did so in the name of the gods. Here, to where the sister he’d always adored was plotting against the man who once had been his best friend, his lord in body and spirit. Here, to where nothing made any sense any more.

Wentha’s brow was furrowed, her eyes intense. Tancred and Rath looked at the floor, but she met Cathan’s gaze easily, a hint of challenge there. Idar and Gabbro and the other rebels barely existed for him.

Cathan—” she began, but he cut her off.

“When were you planning to tell me about this?”

There was more anger in his voice than he’d expected, a lash he didn’t know was there. She flinched beneath his words, and Rath looked up, wary and protective. Tancred looked like he would have been happiest if the floor split open and swallowed him.

“When we got to the Lordcity,” Wentha replied. She reached out to touch his arm, stopped when he pulled back. “We only came out here to meet with Idar, for a few moments. We would have been back in the palace now, if you hadn’t followed us.”

“I’m taking an awful risk here, Twice-Born,” said Idar. “I’m trusting you not to tell His Holiness about us, about this place, because your sister insists you’re a good man.”

“You’re also hoping I’ll help you,” Cathan snarled.

The ruffian nodded. “Yes.”

“We mean to abduct him,” said Wentha. “To show him the pain he’s caused, without his sycophants and advisors there to pour poison in his ear and call it honey. We want to make him reconsider and repent, not to harm him.”

Cathan glanced at the others, saw the way they looked at one another, and knew they didn’t all share that sentiment. Many of Idar’s men would be more than happy to see Beldinas dead—on their own swords, if possible. Gabbro’s eyes burned at the prospect.

“And if he doesn’t repent?” he asked. “What then?”

Wentha shook her head. “We’ll… we’ll deal with that if it happens.”

“This is a war, Twice-Born,” Idar cut in. “There might not be any armies on the field, but that doesn’t change things. The Lightbringer is the enemy.”

Cathan shook his head stubbornly. “None of you will ever get close enough to take him,” he said. “He won’t get close enough to any of you, to—oh, Palado Calib.” He stopped, staring at them, understanding dawning in his mind.

“No,” said Idar, a wicked smile curling his lips. “We won’t.”

Wentha turned away, the pain on his face too much for her to bear. He wanted to grab her and shake her, to shove her aside and leave them all behind and go somewhere far away. But he knew Idar’s men wouldn’t let him. He’d get three paces, and they’d riddle him with crossbow bolts. They might do it anyway, if he showed reluctance to go along with their plans.

Cathan couldn’t remember feeling so weary. He’d spent half his life trying to stop fanatical men like this. “I won’t answer you now,” he said. “I need time.” The ruffians grumbled, looking at one another.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Idar said. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, resting there easily. “I can’t let you go back to the Lightbringer if there’s a chance you won’t help us.”

Cathan shrugged. “There is a chance I won’t help you. Would you rather I lied and told you otherwise?”

Gabbro growled, his ugly face twisting. Idar rested his free hand on the dwarfs shoulder, a grin curling his lips, “Well put, Twice-Born,” he said. “Right, then… you’ll have your time to think it over. But know this—if you give us away, and the Hammer comes after us, they’ll take some of us alive, for questioning. And they’ll find out about your beloved Blossom, here. She’ll go down with the rest of us, and get sold in a market like the one up there.”

Rath’s face darkened, and he growled low, his saber sliding two inches out of its sheath before Tancred caught his arm, shaking his head. He shoved back, and the two brothers struggled with each other until Wentha glared at them.

“Stop it, both of you.” She looked back at Cathan, then at Idar. “You needn’t make threats like that. I knew the danger when I first started working with your fellows in Lattakay. I tell you, my brother won’t betray you.”

“He must do better than that,” Gabbro grumbled. “If he doesn’t help us—”

The sound of running feet cut him off. The ruffians turned toward the source of the noise, echoing down the hall. Crossbows came up, blades came out. Idar drew his own sword and waited; so did Rath. Cathan grabbed his sister and pushed her behind him, jerking his head to tell Tancred to follow her.

The footsteps grew steadily louder, making a frantic cadence, now joined by the sound of labored breathing. All at once a young lad—he couldn’t have been more than thirteen summers old, and pale enough that he mightn’t have seen the sun in all that time—came pelting around the corner, then slid to a stop with a cry at the sight of so much steel pointed at him. He made a strangled noise.

“Branchala’s balls, Larl!” Idar swore. “You just about got about a half-dozen new holes in you!”

The boy, Larl, was panting hard, and couldn’t answer at first. He stared at Cathan, the familiar look of shock and recognition on his face. The boy had grown up on tales of the Twice-Born, a figure who had vanished from the world well before he was born. When Cathan turned his unmistakable eyes on him, though, he was forced to quickly look away.

“What is it, damn you?” Idar insisted.

Larl shrank back. “It’s them,” he said. “The Hammer. They’re out in the streets, looking… and they got something with ‘em.”

Idar’s mouth became a tense line. “What kind of something?”

“Hound of some sort,” said the boy, who had to be a lookout. “But no kind of dog I ever seen before. It’s big and silver, and looks like someone made it out of… water, or something.” Idar let out a scoffing laugh. “Let them use as many dogs as they want,” he said. “We’re safe down here. The Hammer haven’t found these holes yet, and they’re not going to now.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Tancred. His face was white.

Cathan had to agree. “That creature with them is probably something of Beldinas’s. Who’s to say what it can’t do?”

Gabbro spat something in Dwarvish. It was, evidently, a fine language for cursing. Idar thought quickly, signaling to his men to disperse. “Alert the others,” he said. “Those knights come down here, we’ll give ‘em an Abyssal fight.”

“It’s us they’re looking for,” Wentha said, as the ruffians hurried to obey. “We’ve been missed. Get us back to the surface quickly, and they don’t need to find out about you.”

Idar didn’t like it—he gave Cathan a long, uncertain look— but he managed a nod. “You’re right,” he said, sighing.

“We’ll need a story,” Rath said. “They’ll want to know why we’re out in the city at this hour.”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Cathan said. He turned to Idar. “Do you have any wineskins down here?”

*****

The baying of the yethu hurt Tithian’s ears. The sound it made was like no animal he’d ever heard before, though when he shut his eyes he could nearly imagine it as some sort of cross between an eagle and one of the great whales the mad captains of Seldjuk hunted for oil. There was something else about it, too—something that sounded like the lowest string on the world’s largest dulcimer, hammered by someone with an ogre’s strength. Every whooping shriek loosened his bowels and shook the bones within his flesh. He hoped the beast would find the MarSevrins soon, if only to end the racket.

It loped on ahead of him and the other knights, its paws leaving glistening puddle-prints on the cobbles. Its hide—or surface, or whatever one called it—rippled and eddied as it moved fast, stopping to wait for its two-legged companions whenever it got more than a few blocks ahead, and then letting out another one of its ear-shredding cries. Its eyes glowed like lanterns as it turned to stare at the knights, waiting impatiently for them to catch up.

They’d crossed half the city already, the yethu making an ungodly clamor the whole way. The windows of the buildings they passed glowed with light as men and women, roused from sleep, looked out to see what in the Abyss was going on; the curses on their lips evaporated … they withdrew, wide-eyed, when they saw the men of the Hammer running down the street, following the strange hound. Stray dogs fled before them, and feral cats yowled and sprang for shelter. Still there was no sign of Cathan or his kin. If the animal was following their spoor, it was something it alone could sense. After a while Tithian had to admit he was well and thoroughly lost. If the yethu left him too far behind, he would have more than a little trouble finding his way back to Dejal’s palace.

“Where’s this thing leading us?” asked Sir Xenos. He was breathing hard, his jowly face slick with sweat—a man who had spent too much time in the feast-hall and not enough in the sparring yard. “I thought it was supposed to be a good tracker.”

Tithian shot him a glare, but said nothing. He’d been wondering the same thing, only a moment before, but he would never admit it. The Grand Marshal didn’t question the Kingpriest’s wisdom—at least, not in front of his men.

The yethu bounded around a corner, then stopped, another skirl ringing off the surrounding buildings. When Tithian and the others joined the creature, they found it had stopped at a portcullis of snow-wood, inlaid with twining veins of silver. The church’s triangular symbol hung upon it, above a pair of manacles. Tithian skidded to a halt, staring at the gate, the cages visible through its bars.

A grimace creased his face. He had never approved of slavery, though he’d agreed at the time that the Kingpriest’s arguments in its favor made sense. He’d tried to keep away from the markets, wherever possible. He went to the arena at the Lordcity only when protocol demanded it, which was mercifully seldom. He’d forbidden anyone in the knighthood from owning another man. And yet the Divine Hammer still took a part in the sad business: They arrested hundreds of new blasphemers, idolaters, and heretics every month, at the behest of the Araifas. Most of these ended up on the block, to become gladiators or servants or laborers. Some would repent, and join the church, as the law provided, but most remained slaves the rest of their lives.

But what was the yethu doing here, of all places? Tithian stared at the animal, which faced the gates, as intent as any hunting beast he’d ever seen, its opalescent teeth bared.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Come here, you.”

The platinum hound paid him no mind. With a sudden yap, it leapt forward, and passed through the bars… emerging on the other side. It started to run on, then stopped, turning back again to whine at the knights.

“What?” grumbled Xenos, “Does it expect us to do that too?”

There was a chain holding the gates shut, and a lock on it. The captain of Chidell’s city guard would have the key, and probably Lord Dejal, too. But they were both back at the palace, and Tithian’d be damned if— He stopped, starting. The lock was open.

Warrior’s instincts prickled his scalp. His sword hissed as he drew it out of its scabbard, and his men followed his lead. Biting his lip, he reached out with his free hand and pushed on one of the doors. Creaking, it swung open. The yethu took off again.

He could feel the slaves’ eyes on him as he entered. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation. The Hammer had brought them into slavery in the first place, in most cases, and they didn’t forget. More than a few would gladly seize the chance to take revenge. If the cages were unlocked …

The yethu yapped again, halfway down the market. There were other sounds, though—a woman’s cry of alarm, an angry shout, a curse. Tithian halted, signaling to his men, and peered ahead into the moonlight.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“Tithian?” called Wentha MarSevrin. “Gods, is that you?”

“Get this thrice-damned thing away from us!” snapped another voice—one of her sons, Rath most likely.

The yethu had them both pinned up against a relief-carved wall, liquid lips peeled back in a snarl Lady Wentha looked terrified, Rath somewhere between that and anger. He had his saber out, and held it before him to keep the hound at bay. Tithian wondered what good the blade would be against the beast, if it came to that.

As he and the other knights drew near, the yethu backed down, looking at him with expectant eyes. He held up a hand, ignoring its answering whine as he turned to Wentha.

“Milady, I apologize if the creature frightened you,” the Marshal said. “It means no harm to friends of the Kingpriest.”

The yethu seemed to think otherwise. It gave Rath a vicious look as he sheathed his saber again, growling deep in its throat.

“I’m glad for that, Lord Tithian,” Wentha said, shaken. “And I’m glad you’ve come. We need your help. It’s—it’s my brother.”

Tithian wanted to ask her why she was here, why the gate to the market had been unlocked—but no. Answers could wait until he found Cathan.

“Where is he?” he asked.

She led them to him, the yethu padding along beside. Soon more shadows came into view, huddled against the wall. With a ringing screech, the platinum hound leapt toward the shapes, then stopped an arm’s length from them, raised its head and howled, then exploded in a spray of silver droplets.

Tithian stumbled and the others cringed as the bits of the yethu rained down. The creature had been summoned for a purpose, and that was to find the Twice-Born and his family. After fulfilling that purpose; it had vanished.

Tancred crouched at the base of the wall, staring at where the hound had been a moment before. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, his face as white as the vestments he wore. He saw Cathan, sitting with his back against the wall, his chin on his chest. His eyes were closed. For a horrible moment, the Grand Marshal thought he was dead—then the Twice-Born opened his mouth and let out a deafening snore. “He’s drunk!” Tancred said.

Tithian could smell the wine from where he stood. There was an empty skin next to Cathan, and dark red stains on the front of his tunic. A thin dribble ran from the corner of his mouth.

“Gods,” Tithian said, and turned to Wentha. “How did he end up here?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. We saw him leave the feast, and followed him. He was already in a bad state, yelling like a madman, and we couldn’t turn him around. He passed out here. We were going for help when you showed up.”

He met her gaze, his eyes narrowing.

“How did he unlock the gates?” Sir Xenos pressed.

“How should we know?” Rath snapped back. “They were open when we found him.”

“Lord Tithian,” Tancred pressed. “Did he know about the slaves?”

Tithian blinked, then shook his head. No, he supposed, Cathan wouldn’t have known.

“No wonder he got so upset,” Wentha said pointedly. “Come on. You have to help us.”

He looked down. Cathan was about to slump over on his left side. Tithian bent down and steadied him before he could fall. The reek of wine made his eyes water.

“Please,” Wentha pressed, “he doesn’t deserve this humiliation. He’s your friend, Tithian. If someone should spot him in this state—”

Tithian sighed. She was right—Cathan didn’t need the shame of being discovered drunk in the slave quarters. They could fill in the details later.

“All right,” he said, and slid his arm around his former master’s shoulders. Straining, he helped him up. “Come on, then. Let’s get him home.”

Chapter 11

The rocking of the Kingpriest’s gilded barge made Cathan’s stomach lurch. There wasn’t even any chop on Lake Istar, and the boat—a wide, square-sailed vessel with a dragon-shaped prow and a high viewing gallery at the stern—skipped lightly over the littlest of waves. To Cathan, however, it seemed as if it were about to capsize at any moment. He gagged, putting his hand to his head.

He hadn’t been so drunk … or drunk at all… since his time in the Hammer. He couldn’t recall ever having a hangover so bad. But drinking a whole skin of raw wine in a little over a minute had worked: He and his family were here, on the god-cursed barge, and Idar and his rebels remained hidden from the Lightbringer and the Hammer. Beldinas was none the wiser.

It was a damp morning, gray mist swirling across the lake’s surface, fine drizzle darkening the water to the color of slate. A canopy of white oilcloth stretched over the afterdeck, warding off the rain. A young sailor perched on the bow, blowing low notes on a long, silver trumpet to warn off any boats that might not see them in the mist. Cathan saw the Kingpriest’s glow out of the corner of his eye, started to turn his head, then thought better of it when white lights exploded in front of his eyes. He slumped, breathing hard, his face clammy with sweat. “Here,” whispered a voice in his ear. A face bent over him—Tancred. Rath was beside his brother, as usual. “Take this.”

Something pressed into Cathan’s hand. He looked at it: an amulet, made of what looked to be a small slice of malachite. He turned it in his hands, then glanced at his nephew.

“For the Araifas,” Tancred answered. “It will cloud your thoughts if they try to read them.” Glancing around, he opened the neck of his robes. Between his collarbones, next to the silver triangle he wore as a holy sign, was a similar medallion, made of lapis. “You’ll need it.”

Nodding, Cathan slipped the necklace over his head. He had to lift his head to do it, which made him feel like several trolls were trying to bash their way out of his skull, but he staved off the urge to pass out. He felt a strange sensation, like an itch in his mind, as he tucked the malachite into his tunic.

Suddenly Wentha was there, bending over him, smoothing back the hair he hadn’t had in years. “It’s magic, yes,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Cathan asked, and laughed ruefully. “After all that’s happened? Magic’s a little thing beside that.”

“You look like the Abyss,” she said, smiling, then bent close to murmur in his ear. “Thank you. Tithian was suspicious, but he helped us anyway. I don’t think Beldinas suspects anything.”

He nodded, then lay back, closing his eyes. “Don’t expect any answers out of me yet, Blossom. I helped you back there because I had to. But the other thing…”

She kissed his forehead. “I know. I’m not asking you for anything you don’t want to do.” She closed his tunic, hiding the medallion from view. “I think you’ll choose the right thing.”

With that she rose and was gone, her sandals clacking against the barge’s deck. Tancred and Rath trailed after.

Cathan lay quietly for a while, trying not to think of anything. The pain in his head made it easy. He shut his eyes—

the burning hammer fell toward the city

—and woke to the sun bearing down on his face. He blinked, pushing himself up on his elbows. The pain in his head had settled down to a low throb, making file seem worthwhile again. He’d been sleeping a while, evidently; the mist and rain were gone, and except for a few wispy clouds, the sky was clear. The crew had taken down the canopy and were working hard to furl the sails. Below decks, more sailors—or would they be slaves?—took to the oars, taking power over the barge away from the winds And ahead …

The Lordcity looked exactly as he remembered it—the crystal towers, the marble manors, the lush green of trees and riot of flowers, the harbor an explosion of bustling color. The God’s Eyes, the Bloody-Fingered Tower, the many-bannered Arena, the Hammerhall perched on its hilltop. And the Temple, above all, with its seven golden spires, its silver rooftops, and its great, shining dome. Looking on the city, though, he knew it was a different place. Thought-readers walked its streets, hidden among the populace. Slaves had supplanted servants—there was a whole market of them, somewhere. And beneath the city, the tunnels must be packed, men and women like Idar’s gang in Chidell. Istar was a flawed jewel, a rose full of spiders, a lovely melody played just out of tone He had loved It once, and his heart had soared whenever he came back to it.

Not any more. Shuddering, he lowered his gaze.

“As beautiful as the first day we came to it, is it not, my friend?” asked Beldinas, appearing beside him. The vividness of his aura lanced Cathan’s skull “And yet, so tainted.”

Cathan turned, his eyebrows rising. He looked at the Kingpriest’s face, serene amid the brilliance, end thought of the frightened visage he’d glimpsed back at Losarcum. He couldn’t reconcile the two.

“Tainted, Holiness?”

The Kingpriest nodded gravely. “Stained by the evil of men. Can you not see it? The darkness that lurks beneath the surface?” His voice turned sad, wistful. “There can be no true beauty—no pure beauty—as long as it remains so. But we will change that. I will change it. There will be light everlasting, and evil shall flee the world forever.”

He believes what he says, Cathan thought, staring at the Lightbringer. He thinks he can do this thing. Maybe he can.

He turned his gaze back to the Lordcity.

*****

The people of Istar were waiting at the foot of the Imperial Jetty, the broad stone pier lined with statues of Kingpriests long dead. It seemed half the city had come down to the harbor, to cheer and wave their arms in the air and throw rose petals. The din was horrendous, drowning out the choir of priestesses who had assembled with the rest of the clergy to sing hymns of welcoming.

Emissary Quarath came forward, his youthful face— Cathan couldn’t get over how unchanged he was, when everyone else was so much older—creased with annoyance at the commotion. He signed the triangle as Beldinas stepped off the barge, then bent forward and spoke in the Lightbringer’s ear. He gave Cathan a long look when he was done, then turned and waved the entourage on toward the wharf.

A huge, golden chariot, pulled by a dozen white stallions, awaited on dry land. Beldinas stepped astride the vehicle, raising his hand to the crowds, who erupted into even louder cheers. He then turned beckoned to Cathan. Cathan hesitated, and the Kingpriest nodded.

“They’re chanting for you today, too,” he said. It was true. Word had reached the Lordcity before them, and it had spread through the markets and wine-shops and chapels, so that everyone in Istar knew where the Kingpriest’s processional had gone, and why. Now amid the usual cries of “Cilenfo! Pilofiro!”—the Healer, the Lightbringer—some were calling another word, over and over: “Dubagno!”

Twice-Born!

“Wave to them,” Beldinas said as Cathan stepped, stunned, onto the chariot.

Cathan took his place in the chariot, the men and women of the Lordcity burst with emotion. Some wept; others fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before him. Cathan flinched, his face reddening at the sudden outpouring. Beside him, Beldinas accepted the display with ease. Cathan could only grimace. This isn’t just adulation, he thought. This is worship. He could tell them to kill their own children, and they’d sing his praises as they did it.

The chariot rumbled forward, preceded by Tithian and an honor-guard of knights. Quarath followed behind, with the rest of the processional. The Divine Hammer rode through the mobs, using their horses to clear a path. A lane opened up, leading through the wharf and uphill toward the Temple.

The crowds packed the alleys and balconies and rooftops on all sides. Everyone in the Lordcity had come out today, many of them expressly to see Cathan. Some had climbed the trees, or shimmied up statuary, and clung like apes, whooping and hollering. Banners bearing the burning-hammer sign of the knighthood fluttered above the mobs. And none of the citizens could meet his gaze: Whenever he looked straight into the crowds, they turned away.

Of its own accord, his hand rose to his throat, where the malachite amulet lay hidden. There had to be scores of thought-readers out there, hidden among the crowds. Once, he even thought he saw a young woman signal to several nearby knights, who moved in at once to seize an elderly man next to her. She melted back into the crowd and disappeared, and Cathan swallowed with uncertainty. Had she been an Araifo? How bad would it get if one of them penetrated the medallion’s magic, and uncovered his memories of Idar and his sister and the white-masked rebels beneath Chidell? The uprising would end before it began.

The chariot rumbled on, up the streets to the Barigon. The square before the Temple was packed to bursting. Grown men broke down and sobbed at the sight of the Lightbringer and the Twice-Born, together again. Waxen icons of Beldinas, as he had looked in his youth, waved in the air. Horns blew, and the bells in the Temple’s central spire sounded a joyous carillon.

They pulled up at the Temple steps, where the imperial court had gathered. The empire’s princes and high priests were all clad in their finest raiment, all satin and cloth-of-gold and glittering jewels, their faces powdered and their bodies perfumed, men and women both. One by one they came forward to kneel before Beldinas as he stepped from the chariot, and he placed his hands upon their heads, blessing them with words only they could hear. Finally, he climbed the steps to the portico, gestured for Cathan to follow, and raised his hands for silence.

The shouting and clamor turned to stillness so suddenly that the echoes were still fading from the alcoves when the Lightbringer raised his voice to speak.

“Usas farnas, people of Istar,” he declared, his soft, musical cadences carrying across the entire square. “We have been a wounded realm, these past years. We have been missing one of our greatest heroes, one of those who has striven hardest in the war against evil. Thus darkness has shadowed our progress, and continued to hide among us, no matter how hard we fought.

“Those days are over. By holy providence, the one who was lost has been restored to us, and a new era is at hand! With his help, we shall drive the shadows from this sacred land forever! Usas farnas, the Twice-Born is returned!” The crowd exploded into a gale of cheers as Beldinas gestured toward the foot of the steps. Cathan stood still, his face pale, as the adoration of an entire city washed over him. He had never felt anything so wonderful—or so horrifying. They were all calling his name, stamping their feet, clapping their hands. He had to respond somehow. Feeling worse than ill, he climbed the steps to stand beside the Kingpriest, in the glow of the Lightbringer’s aura.

Chapter 12

THIRDMONTH, 962 I.A.

The philosophers of old had a phrase for what Cathan felt over the next three weeks. Lombo Par: the strange feeling that one had already lived through something in a previous life. Such ideas were heretical now—the notion spirits were reborn in the world was against the church’s teachings that after death every soul went either to the Abyss or Paladine’s realm beyond the clouds. But the phrase remained.

The celebration of the Twice-Born’s return to the Lordcity lasted three days, with food and wine and festivities that made Lord Dejal’s court seem paltry by comparison. After that, however, life in Istar returned to normal, and the Lombo Par set in. The rhythms of the city, of the Temple, of the imperial court had changed little in all of Cathan’s time away. The bells above the basilica sounded every hour, with longer chimes at dawn, midday, and dusk. The courtiers still gathered in the Hall of Audience twice each day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The monks and priests still bustled about the Temple’s airy halls, just as merchants and pilgrims churned the streets outside, and the Lightbringer’s worshipers flocked in ever-greater numbers to the Barigon, chanting for him and holding candles at night. At the Hammerhall, where Tithian gave him quarters, the knights drilled and prayed and marched beneath the Grand Marshal’s watchful eye.

Much of it had the eerie feeling of familiarity, but there was a difference to it, too, and that troubled Cathan even more. He felt an outsider, apart from both the Hammer and the church in a way he hadn’t been before. In the time before his self-imposed exile, he had been at the heart of things, a part of the Lightbringer’s inner circle. Now he had no role, no true place. He spent his days practicing swordplay with the knights, riding in the hills, or walking the gardens of the Temple.

He dined in the imperial manse most nights, but Beldinas spoke little to him. Other matters, of church and of state, occupied the Kingpriest, and when he was not paying ear to these, he withdrew to meditate in private. Quarath kept the Kingpriest close, watching Cathan with a rival’s suspicion whenever they were in the same room. And Beldinas declined Cathan’s requests for a private audience, while speaking to him little at those rare times when they were together. He didn’t understand why, but the Lightbringer would speak with him when he was ready, and not before.

Sometimes, Cathan ventured out into the Lordcity’s streets. He never went far before he drew a crowd, the same sorts of open-mouthed gawkers who had driven him into hiding in the first place. They followed at a distance, staring, pointing, muttering to one another. When he went into the mudubas, the open-air wine shops—he was happily surprised to find the Mirrorgarden, one of his favorites, still open and run by the old publican’s widow. Everyone watched him drink with fascination, but no one would sit near him.

It was on his fifth sojourn in the city that he found the slave market. On this day he was out by the waterfront when he came across a string of men and women, chained together with iron rings around their necks and ankles, and shambling toward the main marketplace. Curious, he couldn’t help but draw closer, trying to ignore the uneasy expression on the guard’s face.

“What did they do?” he asked.

The man chewed on some sort of leaf for a moment, then shrugged and spat a stream of rust-colored juice in the gutter. He shifted his grip on his halberd, prodding a straggler with the weapon’s butt. “Dunno, exactly,” he said. “Heretics, I’d say. It’s all heretics these days… no more good, strong minotaur and half-ogre backs to sell. Maybe they didn’t sacrifice part of their crops, or they think the local hedge-witch can tell their fortunes. Filthy thing to believe, some scabby old hag knowing more than a proper priest.”

Cathan grunted agreement, and edged away. The guard shrugged, then muttered something to one of his comrades. He nodded at Cathan, and both of them laughed.

The slaves said nothing—nor could they, their mouths held shut by the iron masks the church called Coi Tasabas, the Heathen’s Jaws. Cathan followed them as they made their slow, shuffling way through the streets, on toward the marketplace. There, tucked in the easternmost corner of the sprawl of tents and stalls and shouting, cursing buyers and sellers, was a simple wooden platform, the same type he’d seen in Chidell. Around it stood more shackled groups of miserable-looking slaves, unshaven guards, and a handful of merchants and nobles, haggling as if over fresh fish.

He stopped where he stood, staring as a big trader dressed in furs spoke with an effete Seldjuki lord clad in bright crimson silks and a broad-brimmed hat to ward the sun off his powdered face. The pair waved their arms and shook their heads, a dance found in every market in the world. They called each other thieves, then a bag of gold falcons dropped from the lord’s pudgy hand into the slaver’s callused one. They laughed together, and the trader waved to one of his men. The guard went to a chain of young boys—none looked older than fourteen summers—and at the Seldjuki’s direction, removed a thin, dusky-skinned lad from the line and stripped the mask off his face. The lord inspected the boy, checking biceps, eyes, and teeth, then nodded in satisfaction. The trader gave him an iron key, and they clasped arms, concluding the deal.

Cathan watched the swarthy boy as the Seldjuki led him away. What fate awaited him? Toil in some venture owned by the lord? Or would he be a house-slave, catering to his masters whims? The boy moved as if still chained to his fellows, shoulders hunched and face turned down toward his bare feet. Soon both of them were gone, melting into the crowds of the marketplace.

Sighing, Cathan ran a hand down his face. Already the fur-clad slaver was speaking with another customer, an elderly matron wearing a fortunes worth of jewelry. A girl house-slave stood beside her, her face sullen and joyless.

“What’s your pleasure?” growled a scratchy voice close by. Cathan turned, saw a man with a sapphire-studded eye-patch and a cape fringed with bright green feathers. “Say, you’re that Twice-Born, aren’t you? Are you looking to buy? Want a strong arm for protection, or maybe a girl for a lonely bed? How about a gladiator? I got that old Rockbreaker at the arena could whip into shape fair enough. What do you say ab—”

The next thing Cathan knew, the eye patched man was lying flat on the ground, swearing in several languages; blood streamed from the man’s broken nose, and Cathan’s own fist hurt like the Abyss. All around the marketplace, folk stopped in mid-conversation, staring as the slaver struggled to his feet—feathers falling from his ludicrous cloak—and skulked away. The slavers and their customers edged sway from Cathan, avoiding his eyes.

He stood still, glowering at them all, then turned and hurried away, across the market and down the street He didn’t walk with any conscious destination in mind, yet his feet carried him inward along the curving boulevards toward the Temple. The guards at the side gate nodded to him, then stepped aside as he swept through into the gardens, and the imperial manse behind it.

Idar was right: Something had to be done.

*****

“No,” said Quarath, his face as imperturbable as ever. He rose from the velvet-cushioned chair where he’d been sitting, poring over a copy of Moriod’s Elegies of the Kinslayer War, and set the book aside. “I’m afraid you can’t go in, Twice-Born.”

Cathan stood in the center of the Kingpriest’s entry parlor, for a moment too furious to speak. He didn’t glance at the elf, watching him with his infuriatingly patient expression. He didn’t look at the tapestries on the walls, depicting the triumphs of the church over the dark gods’ cults, nor at the fresco of the platinum dragon on the ceiling, nor at the busts of the six gods of light—Solinari, the god of white magic, having been removed long ago—arrayed in the corner. He stared only at the tall, golden doors at the room’s far end. They were closed, and two knights stood before them, barring the way.

“You didn’t hear me,” Cathan said. “I didn’t ask to see the Kingpriest. I said must see him.”

Quarath smiled, indulgent, and spoke slowly, as though to a child. “That may be, Lord Cathan, but it is not your place to say what His Holiness does, or whom he sees. If you wish, I might try to arrange an audience for you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Cathan snapped, then shook his head and stepped forward.

The elf made a small signal. The knights moved, lowering their halberds. Cathan came up short, startled. Once, the men of the Divine Hammer had followed his commands. Now they watched him suspiciously, faces hidden behind the visors of their horned helms. He could sense their nervousness. He had surrendered Ebonbane at the manse’s doors; even without it, he might have been able to fight his way past the guards, though, into the Lightbringer’s chambers.

No, that would be stupid. Other guards would come, and he hadn’t come here to get arrested. With a dirty glare at Quarath, he pivoted on his heel and left the parlor, down the hall and down the stairs. Brother Flaro, the Kingpriest’s steward, gave him back his sword, and he buckled it on as he strode into the gardens again. He was angry, and his fury only kept building as he stood on the portico of the platinum-roofed palace. He wanted to throttle the elf, break his scrawny neck for keeping him from the Kingpriest, go back in and put Ebonbane to Quarath’s throat, threaten to kill him if he weren’t allowed in.

He did none of these things. With an effort that made him shake, he lifted his hand from his blade’s hilt. He looked out over the gardens, a riot of color and scents. Off to one side, the tops of many moonstone obelisks jutted up above the bushes: The Garden of Martyrs, where the names of the god-blessed dead were etched. Many more of the white cenotaphs had appeared during his exile, each bearing more names than he could count.

Before he knew he was doing it, he was striding toward the monuments. The crushed-crystal path crunched underfoot. He went to one obelisk in particular, and found the place where a name had been removed: two names, actually, chiseled away. Tithian’s had once been there, and his own as well, when the church had believed them dead at Losarcum. He touched the gap in the list of names, let out a slow breath, and leaned forward, his head butting against cool stone.

The ground rushed down, away from him …he saw his own body, leaning against the monument, a thing left lifeless as his spirit rose above the city. Istar gleamed in the sun, gold and silver and the colors of a hundred jewels. Above, the sky grew dark—not twilight, but a draining away of light. The stars glowed their cold sheen, diamonds and rubies scattered and indigo satin… and something else.

The hammer.

With a rush, he realized, the power of what was happening. He’d been keeping vigil in this garden, perhaps five steps from where his body was now, when the god first gave him the vision. It had felt real then, and it felt real now—no dream, but something more. Something he was meant to see.

I should he higher, he thought. I should he up among the moons, looking down on the world. That’s how the dream goes, how it’s always gone. I’ve never been so close to the ground before.

He could see the people, laity in the streets and wine-shops and markets, clerics on the paths and terraces of the Temple. He could see the knights sparring in the Hammerhall, and figures in the courtyard of his sister’s manor. He could see the slaves, and the men who bought and sold them.

Some were looking up now, gazing past him. He knew what they saw: the mass of fire and stone, more than a league across, shaped like a hammer of war. It trailed a tail of flame as it got closer, closer…

Cold horror dropped in his stomach, heavy and hard as stone. Gods, it was heading straight for Istar!

“Run!” he cried to the figures below.

He wanted to wave his arms, but they were back down in the Garden with the rest of his body. Everyone was staring at the hammer, pointing and bending close to talk excitedly with one another. He kept shouting at them, but they could no more hear him than see him. They only stared, and he knew that the empire was over, in Istar’s cities and towns and fortresses and abbeys, thousands—no, millions—of eyes were fixed on the stranger ablaze in the darkling sky.

Palado Calib, he thought. This isn’t right at all…

The hammer was close now, coming on with a speed he couldn’t imagine. Its trail of flame stretched across the sky. It made no sound at all—and so he heard the voices beneath him change, the wonder and awe rising to shrill terror.

The hammer streaked past, down, down toward the shining dome of the Temple.

*****

Cool air rushed into his lungs, and he choked, falling first against the monument, then to his knees on the path. Around him, the world swung and spun, spun and swung … he retched, his breath hitching in his burning throat. When he was done, he rolled over and sat up, his back against the cenotaph’s foot.

Now it was night, the red moon waning just above the manse’s roof, the silver not yet up. The black moon was up there too, but Cathan didn’t look for it. How long had he been here? Four hours? Six? And no one had even noticed.

“You were looking for me.”

The musical voice made him start. He turned, saw the shimmering glow of Beldinas. The Lightbringer sat on a marble bench, its arms carved into the likenesses of dragon wings. The Kingpriest watched Cathan from a distance, and for a long while, neither man spoke again, or moved.

“Quarath told me,” the Kingpriest explained finally. “He should have let you in when you asked. It’s past time we spoke, my friend. I need your help.”

“My help?” Cathan asked.

Beldinas rose from the bench. “There are some things even I cannot do alone. I will tell you of my plans. But first … why did you come to see me, earlier today? Might it have anything to do with the trader you struck in the marker?”

There was laughter in the question, and Cathan flushed, looking away. He sighed. “Not here,” he said. “I can’t talk here.”

“Where, then?”

Cathan looked back at Beldinas. “Take me to the Hall of Sacrilege.”

Chapter 13

The olive trees, laden with the green beginnings of fruit, whispered in the wind. They were a dense tangle, and the shadows beneath them lay thick. There seemed to be voices in the creaking of their branches, but if there were words they were muted, impossible to make out

Cathan stared at the olives, his face as white as a priest’s vestment. “Here?” he asked.

“Here,” the Kingpriest agreed. “I’m sorry, my friend. I forgot you know this place. But it is safe now—the wizards are long gone.”

Cathan swallowed, glancing behind him. The people of the Lordcity had not built any houses near this grove, even now, and even the crowd that had followed him and Beldinas from the Temple hung back at the edge of the broad, open area surrounding the trees. The superstitions about the olive grove ran deep, and with good reason: There had been a time when magic flowed in the sap of these trees, an ancient enchantment to keep out the unwelcome. Anyone who wandered into the grove unbidden soon found his memory muddled, so that he had no idea who he was, or why he had come. Cathan knew those tales were true, for he had felt the olives’ sorcery himself. He’d been here before, in the months before the war with the sorcerers.

The trees’ magic was still there; he felt a prickling that grew stronger with every step he took toward the grove. The spell had dimmed over the years, though. He looked up, above the spreading boughs at the Tower within.

The spire of the High Sorcerers—once one of five in the world, now one of three—soared high, a column of white stone topped with five crimson turrets and black parapets. Men called it the Bloody-Fingered Hand, and forked their fingers against evil whenever they gazed at it. Once, the greatest wizards in Istar had dwelt within, and it had seethed with the power of the three moons. But the wizards were gone now, fled to their sanctuary at Wayreth, and the Tower was a dead thing, stone only, devoid of enchantment. The sight of it still made Cathan’s mouth go dry.

“What better place to house the relics of heathens?” Beldinas said, leading the way around the grove. “There were no greater heretics than the wizards, after all, and none who did greater harm to our empire.”

“Why house the relics at all?” Cathan asked. He said nothing about the wizards, though memories of Leciane flashed through his head. He knew he could not sway the Lightbringer from his belief that sorcery was an evil thing. “Why not destroy them, leave them lost to history?”

The Kingpriest spread his hands. “We did that, when you were with the Hammer. But one can learn much from one’s enemies. The Dark One himself has taught me this. When light triumphs, the tokens of evil will lose their usefulness. Until then, though, it is good that those who fight the darkness have a place to see what it is they face.”

“The clergy, you mean,” Cathan said.

“And the knighthood. All who serve the church can benefit from this place, if they dare enter.”

They stopped at the south edge of the grove. There had not been a path through the olives years ago, but there was one now, running straight through their midst. White stones marked with the triangle and the burning hammer lined it on either side. On the far end stood slender gates of gold and iron. Beldinas gestured down the trail, and after a moment’s hesitation Cathan led the way. He tried not to look at the trees around him as he walked, tried not to listen for the words they whispered.

The Kingpriest reached to the throat of his robes and produced a medallion. With a nod to Cathan, he pressed it to the gates. There was a shimmering sound, a faint glow of a color Cathan couldn’t name, and the golden bars swung open, letting them pass. Beyond, the Tower soared above them: A sweep of broad black steps rose to tall doors of what looked like solid jasper, as red as heart’s-blood. Cathan’s heart thudded as he and Beldinas climbed the stair, the doors opening without a sound at their approach.

“Solio Febalas,” declared the Kingpriest as they stepped inside. “The Halls of Sacrilege.”

The shadows were thick inside, and even with Beldinas shining beside him, Cathan could see nothing but blackness for a time. Then the doors boomed shut and his god-touched eyes adjusted. Dim shapes appeared amid the gloom, cold and colorless in the Kingpriest’s silver light: terrible shapes, some that he knew, and some he did not. Here stood a huge dragon’s skull, the brainpan emptied to make a sacrificial bowl that still retained a crust of rusty blood. There was a massive pair of merchant’s scales, wrought of bronze and bent so they would never weigh true. Beyond was the shell of a giant tortoise, and past that a statue of black onyx, in the form of a hooded man with garnet eyes glinting within the depths of his cowl. The idols filled the Tower’s wide entry chamber; they were tokens of gods dark and false. When Cathan was a knight, he had destroyed many such icons. Now they came here instead. Somehow, that seemed the greatest sacrilege of all.

But there weren’t just the relics of evil. Among the foul artifacts, his eyes picked out objects that had been holy to other gods—an anvil of Reorx, made of cold steel set with glittering emeralds, and sapphires; a tree of Zivilyn, once a living thing but now gray and leafless; a fire-caldron sacred to Sirrion the Flowing Flame. These were faiths that had never done harm to any man, but had not striven against the darkness either. He had never understood them, how they could stand apart from both good and evil.

Beldinas saw him staring at the tree, and bowed his head. “They would not join us in our struggle,” he said. “Some even helped the evil ones, giving them shelter from the Hammer.”

“I remember” Cathan murmured. The purges of the gray faiths had been just beginning during his last days in the knighthood. “Was it necessary to wipe them out?”

“Scafo casi scafam boniat.” Beldinas’s voice was solemn. “A gray shadow remains a shadow, my friend.”

Cathan bowed his head. He thought of the priests, the faithful, who had gone to death or slavery because of that proverb. He and Ebonbane had sent their share howling to the Abyss—but their foes had been evil, Chemoshans and Sargonnites and Hidduki. The gray ones, the Sirriites and Shinareana and Chislev-kin… had they deserved the same fate? He thought of Idar and his family, who had suffered because they placed their faith in Zivilyn, and he remembered what Tancred had told him in the tunnels, what he must see here.

“Fan-ka-tso,” he whispered.

Beldinas looked at him sharply. “What did you say?” Cathan turned to gaze at him. “Fan-ka-tso. I want to see it.”

“Where did you hear of that?”

“Some of Tithian’s knights were talking about it,” Cathan replied evasively. “They wouldn’t tell me what it was—only that it was here.”

He had never lied to the Kingpriest before. As the eyes within the silver glow stared at him, he was sure the deceit showed in his face. He sweated, his heartbeat grew quick. Beldinas knew, had to see through him … then, against his breastbone, he felt the malachite amulet tremble, just slightly. It must have masked his thoughts, as Tancred had promised, for the Lightbringer bowed his head with a sigh.

“Very well,” he said. “I will show you. Better that you learn the truth, rather than hearing nothing but rumor and lies. Follow me.”

He turned and strode past the idols, toward a white door studded with sunstones. Cathan gave the heathen idols one last look, shuddered, and hurried after, following the Kingpriest’s light.

*****

The statue had been large, towering more than twice the height of a man. It was hewn of golden jade, a stone found only in the jungles of Falthana, which the natives of that province claimed was made from the frozen tears of the last gold dragons. Cathan had never seen so much of the stuff, which glistened as if warmed from within. It was sculpted into a mannish form, though it differed from a human’s in several ways. For one thing, it had six arms, two of which held a chisel-tipped sword and a beaked war axe; three of the others had broken, and the weapons that remained were only hilts and stubs; the last was gone at the elbow. It was covered with scales: Armor or flesh, it was hard to tell. But the strangest thing of all was its head.

Fan-ka-tso had three faces, arranged about its head, each sharing one eye with the next. They all had different expressions: one laughing, one pinched with sorrow, one contorted with rage. Their eyes were chips of some deep blue stone Cathan didn’t recognize. Their teeth were sharp, almost tusks, and their tongues were pointed like spears.

The Hammer had not been gentle in pulling down the idol. It was broken in half across the waist, and the pieces stood side-by-side in the upper Hall. Its feet were missing—probably still attached to it’s plinth, somewhere in the depths of the jungle—and chips were missing from its lower half, where the knights had attacked it with hatchet and sledge.

Cathan stood before Fan-ka-tso, wondering. To his eye, it was yet another false god, some demon the Falthanans had elevated beyond its place. He’d seen many such icons in his time, but this statue was different, somehow. There was no blood on it, and there was something strangely familiar. Tancred had told him to seek it out: would he have done that if Fan-ka-tso were simply another beast of the Abyss?

“Its name,” he said. “I don’t speak Old Falthanan. What does it mean?” The Kingpriest signed the triangle, warding against whatever spirit might still dwell within the statue. “ ‘Ever-Watcher’” he said.

Cathan stiff an image came to his mind: Sir Marto, the big, blustering Falthanan knight who had been under his command and who had died at Losarcum. Marto had spoken a great deal about his homeland, about the great cities of Karthay and Yerasa, about the gods of his fathers: the Mirrorsnake who was an aspect of Paladine … the Lady of Tears, who was Mishakal the Healing Hand … and the Ever-Watcher, who was—

“Jolith,” he murmured, his blood turning cold.

Kiri-Jolith, the lord of battle, was one of the Divine Hammer’s patrons. Every culture gave him a different form, but the one venerated by the Istaran church was that of Carnid, the Horned One, a massive warrior with horns upon his helm. Fan-ka-tso was a different manifestation of Jolith, but it was still the same god. Yet they had pulled it down and ravaged it.

He turned to stare at Beldinas. “Why?”

“Some of the Falthanans rejected the gods’ true forms,” the Kingpriest replied. “They refused to convert to the Horned One. It had to be stopped.”

“So you sent the Hammer after them. What about the priests?”

The Kingpriest sighed. “Not all of them surrendered. There was nothing else to do.”

“Nothing else…” Cathan put a hand to his mouth, turned away as his eyes began to sting. In his mind, he could see it: The Divine Hammer wading into the fray, swords and maces flying, bringing down the last of the diehards. He had done it often enough, against those who walked in shadow. The clerics would have burned their bodies, purifying them with holy oil. As for the rest, those who surrendered … Karthay must have a slave market, too.

“But this was a god of light,” he breathed.

Beldinas’s hand rested on his shoulder. “It was a corruption. Carnid is the one true form of Jolith. The rest is trickery, distortion.” He gestured at the broken statue. “Evil is subtle, my friend. It is the scorpion hiding within the orchid’s bloom. They may have worshipped Fan-ka-tso as a good thing, but it was one of the dark ones’ tricks. If we are to defeat evil forever, we must destroy it in all its manifestations. The skin of holiness cannot disguise or protect it.”

There were other shapes in the gloom of the chamber. Cathan couldn’t bring himself to look at them, for he now knew they would be familiar: Habbakuk and Branchala, Majere and Mishakal… . Paladine as well. All of them as they had been worshipped in the old kingdoms, Seldjuk and Dravinaar, even Taol. The church had wiped out the dark gods, smashed the gray. Now it pursued the light.

“But who determines what are the true forms, and what are false?” he murmured. “Who decides?”

“I do,” Beldinas replied. “I am the gods’ chosen, remember?”

Cathan said nothing, only bowed his head. He felt old again… old, and tired.

“It is hard to accept, I know,” the Kingpriest said gently. “You’ve been gone a long time. The war with darkness is not as it was when you left. The fewer places evil can dwell, the more it is wont to hide, and no more than in men’s hearts. Every man’s … even yours, and mine.”

“Yours?” Cathan looked up, surprised, and he saw through the aura again, saw the man within. The surprising fear in his eyes.

“Mine,” said Beldinas. “I feel it, Cathan. All around me … and within me. It gnaws at my soul, like some beast of the netherworld. For a long time I thought I would never be free of it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. His grip on Cathan’s shoulder grew tight, claw-like. “But I’ve found a way. I know how to win the war, to drown the shadows in light everlasting!”

In that moment, looking into those haunted, hunted eyes, Cathan understood: the Kingpriest was mad. Fear and fervor had stripped away his mind, leaving something else. Brother Beldyn, the young monk he had sworn to so long ago, was gone, devoured by this creature who made enemies of good gods and enslaved those who did not agree with him. Cathan mourned for him.

He knew, then, what he had to do.

“I’m listening, Holiness,” he said. “Tell me.”

*****

It was nearly morning when they left the Tower, heading back to the Temple. Beldinas smiled when they parted, and clapped Cathan on the shoulder. “Spring Dawning,” he said. “Remember, my friend. We set forth the day after Spring Dawning.”

“I’ll remember,” Cathan said. “Don’t worry.”

They parted then, the Kingpriest returning to his manse. Cathan stood alone in the Garden of Martyrs, staring at the names of men who had died for Beldinas. Following the orders of a lunatic. His own name had been carved there, and removed.

The air in the garden grew cold. Frost appeared on the leaves, on the obelisks. Cathan didn’t turn, didn’t need to. He could see the black-robed figure clearly enough in his mind.

“You understand, now,” said Fistandantilus. “It is nothing so simple as good against evil. Not any more.”

“You could end this,” Cathan said. “You could bring him low with a word. Why haven’t you?”

The dark hood whispered as the archmage shook his head. “What would that accomplish? It would make him the greatest martyr of all. Evil cannot strike the blow that must fall, Twice-Born. No, this time it must be good that fights against the light.”

Cathan understood, and it sickened him. Every instinct, deep in his bones, screamed at him that the Dark One was lying, that this was some elaborate trick… but he had seen it with his own eyes: the tunnels, and the cages, and the broken idols in the dark. And he knew the truth about Beldinas. It terrified him, even more than Fistandantilus did.

“Good,” the sorcerer said. “We will speak again, when this is over.”

Then he was gone, and the cold with him. Cathan stood alone, watching the mist of his breath vanish, until he felt the tears dry on his cheeks.

Chapter 14

The bells of the Temple sounded a carillon the moment the sun’s lip rose above the waters of Lake Istar. It was a delicate melody, and beautiful, and for a moment it made Cathan’s heart lurch with fear; he froze in mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder, toward the crystal dome that rose above the Lordcity’s rooftops. Even now, Beldinas would be in the basilica, leading the morning prayers. The clergy were there, too, and the masters of the city. In other times, more innocent days, he would have gone to the ceremony as well, but now he couldn’t stomach the thought. The bells were a clangor to his ears, and the loveliness of the Temple was to his mind as forbidding as a tomb.

He thought of the dream he’d had in the Garden last night, of the burning hammer falling toward the city. He understood it, now. It was the god’s wrath; about that, the Kingpriest had been right. But he’d been mistaken about its purpose. They all were mistaken. And now they were almost out of time.

He turned around, looked back down the street. He was in the city’s north quarter, the Hill of Lords. Here the boulevards ran spear-straight, lined with flowering trees, past the sprawling manors of Istar’s wealthy. The homes were walled, their gates watched by armed guards, their courtyards wide and lushly appointed. Each was larger and grander than the last: here was another wing, a bigger atrium, taller columns on the front portico. None could touch the imperial manse for sheer grandeur, of course, but in other realms some of these houses could have been the palaces of kings.

Wentha wasn’t the richest woman in Istar, but she was close. Her manor stood near the hill’s crest, on a rocky outcrop that gave an impressive view of city, Temple, and lake: On a clear day one could see the far shore, and the great foundries of Bronze Kautilya. Today mist clung to the water, obscuring it not far beyond the harbor’s breakwater. The guards—bare-chested Seldjuki warriors, each of whom could have picked Cathan up with one hand, and who carried fantastically curved sabers the size of barge-poles—saw him coming, and nodded their shaven heads, parting without a word. The silver gates opened, and he stepped into the cool of the Weeping Lady’s grounds.

There were many fountains in Wentha’s garden; she’d acquired a taste for them, and had spent a small fortune in amassing them here. Everywhere Cathan looked, there was a spray, a jet, a glittering shower. The centerpieces were warriors and maidens, dolphins and sea dragons, capering satyrs and beautiful nymphs. And there—here, of all places—was even one with the Lightbringer himself standing in its midst, tall and beautiful as he once had been. There was no trace of madness, no sign of fear in his face. It made Cathan sad to see it.

The manor had seven steps, a broad flight leading to doors of rich-grained vallenwood inlaid with gold and onyx. Those doors alone had cost more than his and Wentha’s whole village had been worth, back in Taol. Another time, he would have felt a surge of pride at his sister’s prosperity. Now, though, he barely paused on the top step to lave his hands in a golden bowl before going in.

His hands were on the doors when they opened of their own accord, and there was his sister, standing in the shadowy cool of the atrium, another fountain bubbling behind her. She was dressed for the day in a gown of crimson samite, with a necklace of blood-red jasper around her throat—her own protection against the thought-readers. She smiled when she saw him, but even her beauty couldn’t break the pall that had settled on his heart.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her brows knitted. “Has something—oh,” She bowed her head. “You saw it, didn’t you? Fan-ka-tso.”

Cathan nodded. “He showed me. Why didn’t you just tell me yourself that he’s turned on the gods of light?”

“Would you have believed me if I had?”

He thought about that, and shook his head. “Will you help us, then?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, and glanced over his shoulder. There was no one around; even the manor’s guards were hidden by the trees of the garden. Even so, he felt strangely exposed, vulnerable. This was no place to plot sedition.

“Let me in, Blossom,” he said. “There is something else I must tell you first.”

*****

Tancred was the last to arrive, and found the rest of his family in an open-air dining hall at the heart of Wentha’s manor. Jewel-colored dragonflies hummed over a pool in one corner, and blossoming lemon trees filled the air with their scent. Cathan sat at a table of polished blue-gray marble, with Wentha on one side and Rath on the other. They all looked at Tancred, their faces grim.

“Shut the door,” Wentha said.

He did. “I’m sorry I took so long to answer your summons,” Tancred said, smoothing his vestments. “The dawn-calling was longer this morning than usual. His Holiness was in a particularly sacred mood.”

Rath chuckled a little, but Wentha cut him off with a look.

“Sit,” Wentha bade. “Your uncle has something to say.”

He got himself a drink first, pouring water and wine in a jeweled goblet. He sat, took a sip, and looked at Cathan—or tried to look at Cathan, without actually meeting his searing eyes. “So, you’ve made up your mind. About time.”

“Hush;” Rath said.

Tancred’s eyebrows rose at his brother’s seriousness, “What’s happened?”

“Yes.” Wentha looked at Cathan. “Tell them what you told me.”

Cathan took a deep breath. “I spoke with Beldinas last night, at the Hall of Sacrilege, He told me everything. What he hopes to do, to rid the world of evil once and for all.”

The brothers exchanged worried looks. Cathan looked down at his hands, folded on the table. Wentha shut her eyes as if wracked by pain. Rath and Tancred leaned forward, their troubled expressions so identical it was almost funny.

“His Holiness,” Cathan said, “means to command the gods.”

“What?” Tancred asked. “Command them? Surely you mean—”

“I mean command. He has asked them to remove the darkness from the world. He has cajoled, pleaded, begged. None of it has worked. He still sees evil wherever he looks. Hence the thought-readers. Hence Fan-ka-tso. So now, he intends to demand it of them, to force the gods to do his will.”

Rath laughed aloud. “That’s folly! No man has ever commanded the gods. No man can.”

Cathan didn’t answer. Wentha put a hand to her forehead.

“Can he?” Rath asked.

“He’s done it once already,” Cathan said. “When he brought me back from death. Now he means to try again.”

“But how?” Tancred asked. “And why hasn’t he done it already, if it’s within his power?”

“It isn’t within his power. Or at least, he isn’t certain how he did it, the first time. But he thinks he’s found a way, something that will reveal the secret he seeks. The Peripas Mishakas.”

Rath spread his hands. “The Disks of Mishakal? But there are transcriptions of them everywhere. The monks in the sacred chancery are making new copies all the time. If that’s all he needs, then why—? ”

“You assume the transcriptions are complete,” Tancred said.

Everyone looked at him—Rath in startlement, Wentha with pride at his knowledge, Cathan with sorrow. “That is correct, Tancred,” Cathan said. “Beldinas thinks the lost chapters of the Disks hold the key. He believes the way to recapture what he did when he resurrected me lies within their pages. And so, he wants me to accompany him to the Vaults of the Kingpriests, to recover the true Disks, the originals scribed by the gods themselves.”

“But the Vaults are sealed,” Tancred said. “No man may enter them and live. So it is written.”

“Not quite,” Wentha murmured.

Cathan smiled, but without mirth. “The ban on the Vaults says that no living man may enter,” he said. “That’s where I come in.”

*****

No one knew how the Disks of Mishakal had come into the world; their origins were lost to history. The sages knew they were very old, predating the Kingpriests and Istar by a long margin. They were already ancient in the time of Huma Dragonbane, a thousand years ago. There were mentions of them in the accounts of the first emperors of Ergoth. Legend had it that the gods themselves had written the Disks—or at least Mishakal the Hand had—and had given them to the first men to break free of slavery under the ogres, that they had been the tools humankind had used to learn the arts of reading and writing. But there was no proof, one way or the other; all that remained from those dark times were stories and legends, passed down over the millennia.

What the scholars did know was that the Disks—called Peripas in the church tongue—had been thought lost in the second Dragonwar; that they were captured in the Battle of Gods’ Tears, when the forces of evil had all but wiped out the defenders of light. Even after the defeat of the Queen of Darkness, the Disks were not recovered, and the churches of Ergoth and Solamnia had given up their search.

It was in that dark time when Dario, the third son of the king of what was then the city-state of Istar, had discovered an ancient cavern in the hills northeast of the city. Dario was, by all accounts, a villain and a knave, a man of few prospects and fewer scruples, who lived for wine and women and roguery. He had gone into that cavern alone, certain it was an ancient barrow, ripe for plunder. But instead of a tomb, he found an old goblin lair, empty since before the time when Istar was a simple village of skin huts on the lake-shore. According to his later accounts, Dario found a cave at the bottom of the lair, filled with the bones of half a hundred goblins, charred black by some terrible fire.

In their midst, Dario had found the Disks.

He hadn’t known what they were at first, thinking only of treasure. Of themselves, the Peripas Mishakas were as precious as any riches he could imagine: hundreds of beaten circles of pure platinum, each larger than a full-grown man’s hand. Beaten into each, in cuneiform letters so fine that even dwarf smiths shook their heads at the craftsmanship, were words in a tongue Dario did not recognize. And yet, when he chanced to read one of the Disks, the words became as clear as if they were written in Istaran. Fascinated, he’d sat down among the goblin bones and began to read

Dario stayed in that cave for a month. In that time, he took neither food nor water; nor did he sleep. He read each and every one of the Disks, while his father and brothers were scouring the hills for him in vain. Finally, after the king had given up the search, Dario emerged from the cave. He was gaunt and wild-eyed; his black hair and beard, grown long over the days, had turned stark white. In his hands, he bore the Peripas. He walked back to Istar on bare feet that bled profusely by the time he passed through the gates, and entered his father’s palace in the middle of his own funeral.

“Ni sarudo, partun ourfo,” he had declared to the stunned mourners, “e barbas pram doboro iudun donbulas pidio, usas sod op tis balfo.”

Sorrow not, for I live, and I bring word of the light beyond the stars, the true gods of this world.

Until that day, Istar had been a heathen kingdom, the people worshipping their own ancestors as divine. Dario’s discovery changed that, just as sure as the Disks changed his life. He left wickedness behind, and was reborn with help from the gods’ words; he declared himself the First Son of Paladine, and founded the holy church of Istar. The Peripas became the church’s first relic, and over the next hundred years the neighboring city-states bowed, one by one, to their power. Thus was the Empire of Istar born.

In the empire’s early years, there was only one copy of the Disks, and the First Sons cared for it in the imperial palace, reading from it to the laity, who knew they spoke for the gods of light. But times were not always peaceful in Istar; its enemies, the barbarians of plain and forest and mountain, sought to bring the realm low, and plunder its riches. Three times the barbarian hordes attacked the Lordcity itself, and on the third time they got through the walls, slew both the emperor and the First Son, and nearly sacked the palace itself. In the end the armies of Istar drove them back and wiped them out, but the shock of nearly losing the Disks was enough to change the church’s policy.

Amiad, the new First Son, declared that the word of the gods should not be for his ears alone, and should be spread among all the peoples of the world.

The result of this was the Abenfo Migel, the Great Translation. At the command of First Son Amiad, a dozen of the empire’s finest scribes and scholars set down to write out the text of the Peripas in the language of Istar’s church. It was painstaking work, lasting more than twenty years, and would have gone on for twenty more had Amiad not died in his sleep on the eve of his sixtieth year. His successor, an elder cleric named Regidan, did not approve of the Abenfo, and put an end to the translation. As a result, the final texts were incomplete: seven copies, each of which held no more than six hundred of the Disks’ thousand chapters.

Regidan was a venal man, perhaps the least virtuous to hold the title of First Son until the time of Kurnos the Deceiver. He feared the translations, and believed they could weaken his grip on the reins of power; so he ordered all the translations destroyed. Six of the seven copies were burned, but Amiad’s scribes managed to smuggle one copy out of the palace and the city before Regidan’s men could seize it—at the sacrifice of their own lives. Regidan ordered an empire -wide hunt for the lost translation, and declared that anyone caught harboring it would be cast out of the god’s sight, and then put to death.

Despite this, the translation survived, moved in secret from one monastery to the next. Wherever it was secreted, monks furiously worked to create copies of its pages before sending it on again. The First Son’s men put the torch to many places where the Disks had visited, but they could not destroy all that had been created. In time, Regidan’s hunt for the lost manuscript resulted in the one thing he feared most: its spread throughout Istar. By the time of his arrest and execution—for the emperor had grown tired of Regidan’s burning of recalcitrant abbeys—more than a hundred copies of the Peripas had spread throughout the empire. In the years to follow, clerics began to read from them to their flocks, and even some of the laity came to own them. Monk, translated them into Old Solamnic, and the tongues of Kharolis and Ergoth. The elves and dwarves—in those days, the bearded folk were still friends of Istar—acquired copies of their own.

As for the lost chapters, the four hundred that Amiad’s scribes had never set down in translation, the debate over whether they should be recorded nearly tore the church in two. The Completists argued that the Disks were not truly the gods’ word unless all of them were translated; the Reductionists countered that the gods themselves had willed Amiad’s untimely death as a sign that not all the Peripas should belong to common men, In the end, the Reductionists won, and so the books and scrolls held only part of the gods’ word.

The Completists were not quite defeated. They tried to steal the Disks, in the hopes of producing a full transcription. They nearly succeeded, and actually spirited them out of the Lord city before the Scatas tracked them down and put the culprits to the sword.

First Son Symeon, who had been the leader of the Reductionists, was livid, and proclaimed that the Peripas would not be safe as long as they remained in the hands of men. He made a pilgrimage into the hills, to the cave where Dario had found the sacred texts, and declared it a holy place. The Scatas cleared out the goblin bones, and the priesthood purified the site with prayers and holy water; an army of stonemasons and sculptors, whitesmiths and mosaicists set to building a mighty shrine above the spot. The shrine took five years to build, and when it was done Symeon brought the Disks to it and placed them within. Then he prayed to Paladine, shutting the shrine’s doors with a teal of gold.

“Tos cir cunanpur soidint, onmornlig fi site sifas bronint. Ni bomo at ifeso gomit e nisit. Sifat.”

Let these rest here evermore, untroubled by who in ever would do them harm. No living man or woman shall enter and survive. So be it.

So, as ordered by Symeon—who, soon after, would throw down the emperor, don the Crown of Power, and declare himself the first Kingpriest of Istar—the Peripas Mishakas left the hands of men once more. Dario’s cave, and the shrine above it, came to be known as the Forino Babasom, the Vault of the Kingpriests. Many men, Completists and robbers alike, sought to break in and steal the Disks, and were never seen again; not even their bones were ever found. It became a haunted place, in the eyes of the people, and folk stopped going there. The road to the Vault decayed, vanished. Only Symeon’s geas remained, a warning that kept any who might approach—even the future line of Kingpriests—away.

The Disks still lay within, the only copy of the gods’ full word to the mortals of Krynn.

Waiting.

Chapter 15

In ancient times, the festival of Spring Dawning had been a time of wildness, a day when the people of Istar’s cities indulged their every whim and desire. Men and women alike donned masks to hide their identities, and paraded through the streets, eating, drinking, dancing, and singing. It was also a fertility rite, marking the start of the rains that opened the growing season, and it wasn’t uncommon for the revelers to shed everything but their masks, or for couples—even small groups—to entwine in the gardens, becoming groaning jumbles of arms and legs, sliding fingers and exploring lips.

The church had put an end to that sort of thing long ago. The first Kingpriests had declared the more ribald parts of Spring Dawning to be pagan licentiousness, and the rituals had changed. The abandon was gone from the festival, though people being people, they still ate too much and got far too drunk, and if some still tore off their clothes and groped played, they were sure to do it in the deepest shadows, where the clergy wouldn’t spot them.

One part of the day that did remain was the masque. No one in the Lordcity—or other cities throughout the empire—went about during Spring Dawning wearing his own face. Many simply covered their faces with strips of cloth, with holes cut for the eyes, but there were also more fanciful disguises: dragons and griffins, tigers and antlered stags, laughing fey folk and snarling ogres, the red and silver moons. Some bore plumes of exotic feathers, or were studded with sticks of smoldering incense, or carried long trains of bright silk that fluttered in the warm breeze off the lake. Even the clerics took part, though their guises were more staid, to stave off the temptation of idolatry. And the song and the dance, the feasting and the rivers of wine, persisted to this day.

The festivities lasted three days. The first began with a benediction from the Lightbringer himself, who appeared on the steps of the Great Temple. Standing before the throngs of the Barigon and masked by his own aura, he performed the familiar ritual, first signing the triangle and blessing the people, then pouring out three urns before him: one of water, to beckon the rains; another of barley, for the growing times; and a third of ashes, for those who had perished that winter. Then, light streaming from him in waves, he led the folk of the Lordcity in prayer that they be kept safe from evil for yet another season.

When that was done, he raised his hands for silence, and all eyes turned to him. Beldinas made a special pronouncement, every year at Spring Dawning, speaking of what lay ahead for Istar. This day he looked out over the crowds, who were craning in anticipation, then threw back his head and laughed.

“Do not fear, usas farnas,” he proclaimed, when the people looked at one another in puzzlement and alarm. “I am only thinking of our enemies, and how many they once were. It was only a thousand years ago, in the time of the last Dragonwar, when the candle of good was guttering, ready to go out forever. But goodness rallied, and threw down the dark gods and all their nightmare minions, and in the end light prevailed, as it must.

“Now the wheel has turned, and it is evil that faces the end. Nothing remains of the dark ones’ churches, and almost nothing of the gray heathens that abetted them through their very acceptance of the ‘need’ for evil in the world. The wizards have fled, the monsters of old are slain or driven so deep beneath the earth that they must wander forever in shadowed caverns, never again to experience the sun.

“Now, I say this to you. In three days’ time, when the festival is done, I shall embark on a pilgrimage into the hills … one last journey to gain the power I need, the knowledge to put an end to evil forever. Once and for all, I will show the Doctrine of Balance, which this very church accepted for so many years, to be the lie that it is.

“Good does not need evil to define it. A white robe is still a robe, even if it has no stains. A melody with no sour notes still sounds sweet. The sun still shines at noontide, when the shadows fade. And when darkness is gone forever—yea, even from the depths of your own hearts—this world, this realm, this city will still stand, shining bright as the sun itself!”

The crowd erupted, roars of joy resounding all over the Lordcity and rippling out across the lake. The cry echoed across the empire, from nearby cities like Chidell and Calah, to Lattakay and Karthay and other far-off places. Beldinas had sent clockwork falcons winging to all corners of Istar, bearing copies of his proclamation for the patriarchs to read. Now millions of Istarans answered him, from the mob standing before him to throngs hundreds of leagues away.

The festival went on, full of laughter and song. The celebration lasted on into the evening, when Istar’s lamps kindled and turned the city into a warm sea of light. A rain shower swept in off the lake, quick but potent, leaving the revelers drenched in its wake. They didn’t care. Wine flowed on, bodies twirled and cavorted, voices called out from behind masks the whole night long.

Then dawn came, and it all began again—or rather, it continued.

The second day of the festival was one of storytelling: Poets stood on the rims of fountains in a hundred courtyards, reciting their latest epics and odes. Singers and actors performed melodramas from all corners of history: the death of Huma Dragonbane, the rise of Symeon the first Kingpriest, the corruption of Kurnos, the battle of Govinna and the Silver Dawn, when the Lightbringer had donned the Miceram for the first time. Some of the tellings were excellent, many more were middling, and a few were awful. The crowds broke the worst up with catcalls, pelting the players with fruit. In a couple places, this escalated to brief melees that left everyone laughing and covered with pith and juice.

The greatest of the performances that day took place at the Arena, where men, women, and children filled the stands to watch the latest work of a playwright acclaimed as a genius, Gendellis of Edessa. Gendellis specialized in Baponnas, melodramas told in rhyming verse that were filled with songs and spectacle. Today, to a crowd of eighty thousand who gathered beneath the Arena’s blue and gold banners, he and his company were performing the Stone City’s Doom, a telling of the battle for the Tower of High Sorcery in Losarcum.

The people cheered as Lord Cathan Twice-Born—or, rather, the actor who played him—led his company of knights into the Stone City. They laughed at the boisterousness of Sir Marto, and more than a few women swooned at the dashing figure of Sir Tithian, the young knight always standing by his captain’s side. They stamped their feet when the wizards of the Tower—Black Robes, all—defied Lord Cathan’s demand that they quit the city at once. They hissed when the wizards tried to kill Tithian with foul sorcery. They applauded when Cathan rallied his men with a stirring song of valor and glory, before leading them forth on the final assault. Gasps and cries of alarm resounded through the stands when the battle was joined, and Gendellis’s play gave way to a storm of fireworks and flashing swords as knights and sorcerers met. There were even a few minotaurs involved in the show, playing demons called forth by the wizards to join the battle. The watchers hissed all the more when the mages decided to destroy the Tower—“and damnation unto the City of Stone!”—and wept when Sir Marto fell, trying to thwart them. Finally, the Tower exploded, and the masses erupted in a howl of outrage that turned to joy when the Kingpriest himself appeared, stepping through the smoke to spirit Lord Cathan and faithful Tithian to safety. The play ended with Cathan—saddened by the events of Losarcum—resigning his place as Grand Marshal and quietly walking from the stage. Not a single murmur was heard from the crowd in the stands.

Then came a final soliloquy from the Lightbringer himself, and everyone surged to their feet and cheered so loudly the noise was heard as far away as the Hammerhall. The play was a triumph, undeniably Gendellis’s finest work to date. Word quickly spread after the audience filed out the Arena’s many arched gates: This would be a drama for the ages, one of the best ever to grace a stage in Istar, and surely there would be many more performances of it in the years to come.

That night, masked folk shouted and capered in the streets. Then, when the first light appeared over the Lordcity’s eastern gates, all eyes turned back to the Arena again.

The Games would begin on the third day.

*****

Cathan swallowed, staring up past the Arena’s white walls, where statues of warriors stood with swords and spears held high. The sky overhead was clear, the blue of Zaladhi sapphires. Griffins wheeled across its cloudless expanse, their lion-eagle shapes strange to his eyes. Quarath and his elves kept them at an aerie in the hills north of the city; they let them out, every day of the festival, to thrill the people. Cathan didn’t think griffins were wondrous; he’d seen the winged creatures before, and knew their purpose for the festival. They were watchers, their keen eyes searching for signs of trouble. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable, guilty. His hand went to the malachite amulet, hidden beneath his clothes.

“Please don’t do that,” murmured a voice to his right, half-muffled by the drooping nose of a troll. One of Wentha’s sons—both were wearing the same fearsome masks, so it took a moment to recognize Tancred—touched his elbow, gently forcing him to lower his arm. “Do you  want to give yourself away?”

“You’re safe. Uncle,” said Rath, appearing on his right, nodding at the mobs that were inching their way through the Arena’s gates. “None of them know. None of them could know. Unless you go acting suspicious, of course.”

Cathan made a sour face, lost behind his own wolf mask. The crowd was full of thought-readers, each one searching the minds of those around him for evil notions. He’d already seen the Scatas move in and take three people away—discreetly enough, so as not to cause a stir. He told himself, as he’d done many times before, that if the Araifas could sense what he had decided to do, they would have taken him away by now. It didn’t make him feel any less helpless.

There was already a rumbling from within, the Arena, of feet stamping and voices chanting names Cathan didn’t recognize Every now and then, a muted explosion of cheers rang out, followed by the blare of horns.

“I know I shouldn’t be surprised by anything by now,” Cathan murmured. “Not after all I’ve seen since Chidell. But gladiators? When I left, there hadn’t been blood sport since Kingpriest Sularis’s time.”

“And there still isn’t,” said Wentha. Her mask was a Seldjuki stormhawk, with a plume of glittering blue feathers that trailed to the small of her back. “There’s no blood spilled at the Games.”

“Well…” Rath said, chuckling.

“Not intentionally,” Tancred explained. “It’s all show… a pantomime, really. Collapsible swords, chicken blood, and a lot of overacting. Now and then someone gets hurt, but only when there’s an accident”

“At least, that’s what they say,” Rath added. “There’ve been a few deaths, over the years. No one seems to mind, though. The gladiators are all slaves, anyway. Why should good people care what happens to them?”

Wentha shook her head. “Watch your tone. You sound bitter.”

“I am bitter,” Rath said. “Everyone knows the nobles buy the gladiators to pit against each other. Is it just a coincidence that one of them always seems to have an ‘accident’ whenever there’s a power play? They’re all giving Rockbreaker bags of gold to make sure their boys are safe, or their enemies’ aren’t.”

Cathan blinked, completely lost. “Rockbreaker?”

“Him,” Tancred replied, pointing.

Cathan looked, and saw a podium near the main gates where a small, stocky figure stood, long black beard tucked into his belt. He was gesticulating to the crowd and shouting something, but Cathan was too far away to make out the words. Cathan shook his head; another dwarf, even uglier than Gabbro. Even stranger was the figure beside him, nine feet tall and stoop-shouldered, with a stupidly cruel expression carved into his sallow face.

“Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed. “That’s an ogre!”

“They call him Raag,” said Tancred. “He was Rockbreaker’s partner, back when they fought in the Arena. Now they run the School of the Games.”

“The dwarf’s the one who came up with all the fakery,” Rath put in. “He even convinced His Holiness it was a good idea. Putting on a show right in the Hall of Audience, sticking Raag in the gut with one of those false swords. Blood everywhere. Half the courtiers fainted before they revealed it was all a trick.”

He laughed, and Cathan did too, imagining the scene. True blood had only ever been spilled once in the heart of the Temple—his own, at Kurnos’s hands. Quarath would surely have suffered paroxysms to the see tiles awash with red.

“But why have the games at all?” Cathan asked.

“That was my fault, I fear,” Wentha laid. “I arranged the knights’ tourney in Lattakay, remember?”

Cathan nodded. He’d fought in that tourney, along with most of the Divine Hammer. It was a terrible day—a terrible memory. They’d been ambushed by quasitas, winged imps who slaughtered many good men before they were driven off. That had been the opening salvo in the war with the wizards.

“They started holding tourneys every year after that, Wentha went on. “Crime in the city dropped off to nothing for a few months after each one. The priests couldn’t help but notice that, and they convinced the Kingpriest to start having tourneys all over the empire. Even here, in Istar. But there weren’t enough knights for every occasion—so why not encourage gladiators?”

“His Holiness didn’t want to do it at first,” Tancred added, “but … well, there were fewer beatings, fewer murders in Lattakay. Watching slaves fight on the sands made people less likely to fight each other in the streets. One of the hierarchs likened it to steam escaping a volcano, and stopping it from exploding.”

That made sense, Cathan had to admit. “So they brought back the Games?”

“Thirteen years ago,” Rath said. “They used blunted swords for a while, but a gladiator got killed three years later—‘accidentally’ took a dagger in the throat, over in Ideos. There was a riot, the crowd damn near tore down the arena before the Hammer put a stop to it. And Beldinas banned the Games again.”

“Let me guess what happened next,” Cathan said. “The volcano boiled over?”

“No way to let out the steam any more,” Tancred agreed with a grim smile.

Wentha sighed. “It was bad. Six months after the ban, there was festering violence all over the empire. Brawls, looting, even a small riot right here in the Lordcity. That autumn, half of Tucuri burned… and there were rumors of underground fights held in caves and the like. The hierarchs argued for days about bringing the Games back on official occasions. That was when Rockbreaker showed them how to do it safely.”

“Except for the occasional ‘accident,’ ” Rath noted, chuckling. “But the dwarf knows how to keep those things quiet. If someone dies, they carry on, pretending it’s all an act. The body is carried off, and the dwarf just tells the crowd that the man’s been freed, so no one wonders why they never see him again. They’ve been doing it like that all over the empire, ten years now.”

They were almost at the gates now, bodies pressing in on them from all sides. Cathan eyed the dwarf and the ogre— Rockbreaker was yelling about the contests to be fought today, listing the past victories of the various gladiators. One warrior, a man named Talim Two-Blades, would not be appearing, having won his freedom at the Yule tourney.

“Everything’s in place?” Cathan asked his sister in a whisper as they passed through the gates into the cool shadows of the Arena. They started up a broad, shallow stair, leading to the nobles’ boxes high in the stands. Several knights stopped them to check their identities, then let them pass without comment when Wentha lifted her mask. “Have you talked to Idar?”

She shook her head. “We’re meeting with him today after the seventh bout. You can join us if you like. Tell the Kingpriest you need to be excused—Idar’s message this morning said he would be waiting at the Square of Six Swords.”

Cathan nodded. “The seventh bout,” he murmured. “I’ll be there.”

“Don’t let anyone follow you,” said Rath.

“And stop playing with that thing,” Tancred added.

Cathan realized his hand had strayed back to the amulet. He lowered his band, clenched it into a fist at his side as they reached the top of the stair. A long tunnel curved ahead of them; it was lined with archways with sunlight shafting through, dancing with dust. The shouts of the crowd were loud, bloodthirsty.

Gritting his teeth, Cathan followed his sister out into the heat and open air of the imperial gallery. With little enthusiasm, he waited for the first bout to begin.

Chapter 16

The trumpets blared, but they were almost inaudible for the shouting of the crowds—tens of thousands of voices all raised as one, fists pounding the air as the gladiators strode out onto the sands. Vendors hawked spiced cakes, fruited ice, and watered wine. Here and there, pockets of gaudy color marked the spectators: Men and women who rooted for particular gladiators, and wore gold or green or violet to show it. Some even dyed their hair to match the colors of their favorite combatant. But most were common citizens, commonly dressed, who had come to watch men fight and die—or pretend to die—for their amusement.

There were thirty-two gladiators in all. When the last of the numerous bouts was over, one would emerge triumphant, to be lavished with all manner of luxuries for the next season, until the Midsummer Games arrived. At the year’s end, the four seasonal champions could battle for the greatest prize of all: a golden key that would open the iron collars they wore around their necks. For today, though, the reward was glory, not freedom.

The “sands” were, in fact, large wooden platforms erected on the floor of the Arena, each dusted with sawdust. Between these were pits of fire and boiling oil, spanned by narrow wooden bridges: these were more show, concocted to make things more interesting for the audiences. No gladiator had ever died in the Death Pits.

Sitting between his sister and Lord Tithian, Cathan watched the gladiators take their positions on the platforms; they wore scanty armor of gold and jewels, useless when it came to stopping real blows. Their weapons—swords and tridents and knives—looked no different, at a distance, from those used in true battle. They flashed in the late morning sunlight as the warriors raised them high. The cheering grew even louder than before.

Amid the tumult, Rockbreaker and Raag emerged to stand together at the center of the sands. The dwarf flashed a wicked grin; the ogre folded arms like tree trunks across his chest and glowered. A hush fell over the crowd as Rockbreaker raised his stunted arms.

One by one, the dwarf introduced the warriors. There was Pheragas of Ergoth, a brawny, dusky-skinned man with a shaven head; Kiiri the Sirine, a broad-shouldered woman whose greenish skin was either paint or proof that she was one of the fabled merfolk who dwelt in the oceans off the Seldjuki coast; a man named Rolf who was more than seven feet tall and wore nothing more than a breechclout of metal scales; the Red Minotaur, whose horned head towered above the rest and whose snout curled in disdain as he regarded the crowds. These four, the most exotic of the bunch, were the crowd favorites; the rest were men assembled from all over Istar. Several looked terrified, but most grinned and strutted as Rockbreaker called out their names. When all had been named, they turned as one and looked up at the imperial box, at the gleaming figure sitting close to Cathan.

“Pilofiro, tam coledamo!” they cried, clapping their hands over their hearts.

Lightbringer, we salute you!

Merciful Paladine, Cathan thought, staring at Beldinas as he rose from his satin couch and signed the triangle over the assemblage. With a movement like the waves on the sea, the folk of Istar fell to their knees before the Kingpriest.

“Hear me, children of the god,” Beldinas declared, his voice easily carrying without shouting. “This is a great day for the empire. Our greatest hero has returned to us—a hero who was at my side from the beginning, who fought for me at Govinna and Lattakay, who strove for years to put an end to the darkness that lives among us, who even sacrificed his life to save my own. These Games shall be convened in his honor.

“People of Istar, I give you Cathan MarSevrin, the Twice-Born!”

Cathan felt the blood drain from his face as all eyes—spectators’ and gladiators’ alike—turned to gaze at him. He felt sick. He didn’t want this farce dedicated to him!

Tithian’s elbow dug into his ribs. “Don’t just sit there,” the Grand Marshal bade, grinning. “Wave to them, or something.”

“Oh,” was all Cathan could manage to say. Grimacing, he got halfway to his feet and raised his hand.

It was enough to set the mob off again, and then it was some time before they calmed down enough to hear the Kingpriest. “Bamenas fionant!” he cried.

Begin the Games!

Cathan sat back down, started to reach for the amulet, then stopped himself. Tithian touched his shoulder. He wore a mask shaped as a hawk’s head.

“Are you all right? You look ill.”

Cathan shook his head. “A little too much wine last night.”

“Again?” The Grand Marshal shook his head, chuckling. “You’d think you’d have learned, after that night in Chidell. Oh, look—they’re starting the first bout.”

Cathan stared at Tithian. His old squire was grinning, leaning forward as two gladiators strode out onto the sands. One was the Ergothian named Pheragas, which prompted a lot of hollering from the pockets of sea-blue in the crowds (and some jeers from the other colors). The other was a frightened-looking youth named Ajan, who looked like he’d been given his sword just this morning. They raised their weapons to each other, then to the crowds. Rockbreaker held a curving dragon’s horn to his lips and blew a long, thunderous note. Tithian cheered as loud as anyone. He was enjoying this!

By rights, the duel should have been over as soon as it began. Pheragas was a fine fighter, if a bit wild, and the Yule champion besides; as a warrior, Ajan left much to be desired. His footwork was atrocious, and he couldn’t keep his shield in line. Watching him, Cathan counted six fatal missteps in the first minute of the fight, but Pheragas—who surely noticed his opponent’s mistakes too—did nothing to capitalize on his advantage. Slowly, it dawned on Cathan: the fights weren’t just harmless, but were scripted as well. When Ajan exposed the flesh beneath his left arm, Pheragas held back; when he stumbled and fell to one knee, Pheragas’s finishing stroke went wide; when the younger man got frustrated and threw his shield at his foe, Pheragas actually backed off long enough for him to dive and get it back. The Ergothman drew out the performance with expert patience, toying with his opponent. Their swords came together, high then low, high then low, in a pattern so rhythmic it was ludicrous. The masses devoured it, gleefully crying Pheragas’s name.

Cathan bowed his head. He’d never despised the people of Istar so much in his life.

“Cathan?” Tithian asked.

“This is a mockery,” Cathan muttered.

“So it is,” the Grand Marshal agreed, nodding at the crowds. “But it keeps them happy, and who is harmed by it?”

Cathan was opening his mouth to argue the matter when cheering drowned him out. He looked down just in time to see Pheragas finish the match. Stepping inside the younger man’s defenses—a move that would have gotten him skewered in wartime—he brought his sword around and thrust it into Ajan’s breast, shoving its collapsible blade in down to the hilt. The younger gladiator’s eyes went wide, and a gallon of fake blood sprayed everywhere, spattering Pheragas and the ground alike. Cathan looked away, feeling ill. The crowd went berserk as Ajan staggered theatrically, then dropped in an unmoving heap.

Several gladiators in training—slaves all, by their collars—hauled Ajan’s “corpse” away. Pheragas lifted his blood-streaked sword, and the blue-clad onlookers whooped and pounded on drums. Terror gripped Cathan’s heart: in his mind’s eye, he saw the burning hammer, dropping down onto the Arena while these supposedly good folk cried for blood. He had to stop this.

Had to stop him.

Beldinas sat quietly, lost in his aura. There was no telling whether he was watching the Games, but Cathan stole glances at the Kingpriest for the next several bouts. He saw the Red Minotaur win the second, and Rolf the fourth; the rest he didn’t even notice. The fights were sloppy travesties of true battle. When he pointed this out to Tithian, however, the Grand Marshal shrugged.

“Half those men are still better swordsmen than the knights these days,” he sighed.

Wentha brushed Cathan’s arm. He saw that Rath and Tancred were both gone already. “It’s the seventh bout,” she murmured, waving toward the platforms.

The next two combatants came out, to cries from the onlookers. Rockbreaker announced them. The top-ranked was a squat man in ridiculous blue war paint, carrying a brutal-looking morningstar that was undoubtedly as harmless as the other weapons in the Arena. Valeric was his name. The other, a towering youth clad in furs, held a saber that looked like it could cleave a man in two. The dwarf called him the Barbarian, but Cathan saw at once that the man was Taoli, just like himself.

“Quarath’s new man,” Tithian said. “And Valeric belongs to Lord Onygion—he and the Emissary have been feuding for a while now. That should make things interesting.”

Cathan glanced at Quarath, who sat next to the Kingpriest, as always. The elf was glaring at a fat nobleman in an adjacent gallery. Beldinas continued to ignore the goings-on below. “Did you say Quarath’s new man?” Cathan asked. “What happened to the old one?”

Tithian said nothing, though the sour look on his face betrayed him.

The fight began.

For a champion, Valeric fought like an oaf; his balance was off, and his swings with the morningstar were foolishly dramatic, leaving him open to killing blow after killing blow. But the Barbarian was even worse; though he had strength and reach on his side, he wielded his saber poorly—swinging it like an axe rather than a sword. He had enough power behind him to cut a man in two, but no adeptness. What a warrior he could be, with the right training!

The crowd seemed to sense this too, for as the Barbarian battered at his foe, the tide of the cheering began to shift. With each stroke, with each step he took to force the other man back, more people cried out the Barbarian’s name, and fewer cheered for Valeric. Soon only the diehards—clad in deep scarlet, and fewer than most factions to begin with— were acclaiming the champion.

Cathan realized what was happening: this bout had been plotted as an upset, the debut of a new celebrity in the Arena. The feeling in the air was electric, and he even was clenching his fists, anxious to see how it would turn out. Flushing, he forced himself to be calm, leaning back in his seat.

And then, in a blur, the duel was over. With a sweeping kick, the Barbarian knocked Valerie’s feet out from under him. The blue-faced gladiator fell to his knees. A swing of the saber knocked the man’s morningstar from his hand—an obviously scripted move—then, with a mighty thrust, the Barbarian shoved his sword into Valeric’s stomach.

At once, Cathan knew something was amiss. He recognized the groan that issued from Valerie’s lips; he’d heard that sound too often in his life. It was genuine pain, kind even the best actor couldn’t mimic. The blood erupted naturally from this wound, flowing from the warrior’s stomach onto the ground. Worse, though, was the startled look in the Barbarian’s eyes: shock and abject horror as it dawned on him what had just happened.

The saber was not fake. He had killed his opponent.

The crowd cheered anyway—whether because they didn’t understand, or because they didn’t care, Cathan didn’t know. He looked at Beldinas as Valeric fell in a lifeless heap. The Kingpriest continued to stare into space, seemingly ignoring the carnage. Beside him, Quarath smiled with inordinate pleasure as Rockbreaker’s slaves hauled away the body. Cathan felt only disgust.

Now, he thought. Wentha had left partway through the bout. Now it was his turn. Idar would be waiting.

“Excuse me,” he said to Tithian.

He must have looked truly sick, because the Grand Marshal started to get up with him. “I’ll come with you,” he said sympathetically.

“No,” Cathan said. “I’m all right. Just need to get away from the noise.”

“Are you sure?”

Forcing a smile, Cathan patted his old squire’s arm. “Watch the Games and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in a while.”

With a reluctant nod, Tithian sat back down. Cathan turned and hurried away, back up the aisle of the imperial box. He tasted bile the whole way.

*****

Six-Sword Square was empty. Nothing moved in the windows and balconies overlooking it, and only a single gray cat skulked in the alleyways that led away from it. Its center-piece—a fountain with a circle of half a dozen arms holding blades up out of the waters—made the only sound within. The muted roar of the Arena could still be heard in the distance, though the square was more than a mile away.

Cathan stood at the square’s edge, fists clenched. He shrank back against a red-tiled wall, holding his breath as the shadow of one of Quarath’s griffins swept overhead. He’d tried not to draw the beasts’ attention as he made his way here. The griffin was gone in a heartbeat, banking away as it continued to circle above the Lordcity. Cathan breathed easier.

“Blossom? he whispered. “Rath? Tancred?”

Nothing.

He crept forward, pulling off his mask to get a better view. As he did, he spotted something strange: a scrap of white cloth, snagged on one of the fountain’s swords, fluttering slightly amid the spray. At once he knew what it was for. Reaching out, he touched the marble stump of the blade. It gave slightly, then pivoted when he put his weight behind it. There was a click, and a soft grinding sound behind him. Turning, he saw a narrow opening in the red-tiled wall, where there had been none before. A short figure lurked in the darkness.

“You’re late,” growled Gabbro. “Get in here. And bring that cloth.”

The secret passage was narrow and tight, even for the dwarf. Cathan had to stoop to follow Gabbro down a flight of steps. The secret door clicked shut behind them, and it took a while for Cathan’s eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“More tunnels,” he murmured.

“You say that like its a bad thing,” the dwarf said, grinning. “Go on. Your sister and her lads are down there already.”

They were waiting for him in a room at the end of a long, vaulted passage. Armed guards watched the door, one of whom was huge and sallow. Cathan guessed he had some ogre blood in him, and marveled at how that did not surprise him. Little would surprise him, any more.

Then he stepped through the door, and gasped with shock.

“Well, good,” said Idar. “I’m glad you hadn’t guessed.”

He sat at a long table in the room’s midst, a wine-cup in his hand. Wentha was there, too, and Tancred and Rath, their masks laid on the table before them. Another man was there, too: a man in white robes fringed with scarlet. He had a high brow and thinning, dark hair. His graying beard was braided, with beads of amber threaded through it. Jewels sparkled on his fingers, and a silver circlet, studded with sunstones, rested on his head.

“Sweet Paladine,” Cathan breathed.

Rath and Tancred both grinned, and Idar laughed aloud. Even Wentha’s eyes sparkled. “Not quite,” she said. “Brother, meet the leader of our movement.”

The bearded man rose, his vestments whispering about him. “Well met, Twice-Born,” said Lord Revando, First Son of the holy church.

Chapter 17

I should be kneeling, Cathan thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to do what was expected. The First Son said nothing, staring at him with one eyebrow raised. Wentha came forward and touched his arm. “Cathan…”

“You didn’t tell me about this,” he said. “Gods, how is it possible?”

“Through careful planning,” Revando replied. “It took a lot of work to insinuate myself into His Holiness’s court. A lot of work, and a lot of patience. I had to keep myself hidden—from him, from the elf, from the Araifas. No one in the church knows.”

Cathan stared at the high priest, noting the calm expression on his face. Nobody in the empire, save Quarath, had greater claim on the Kingpriest than this man. “Who—who are you?” he asked.

“Why, the head of the Revered Sons of Paladine,” said the First Son with a smile that would ruddy beatific in other circumstances. Here, in the hard orange lamp-light, it clung to his lips, sinister. “Or, do you mean before? I was head of a small church in southern Ismin, in a town called Pedrun. It was a little village, so small we had only two temples… one to Paladine, and one to Gilean of the Book. This was years ago, not long after the war with the wizards.

“The Lord Ascetic, a man named Lethar, had been a friend of mine since we were children. We shared knowledge, we drank wine together, we were welcome in each other’s churches. He was wise, and he cared for the people of our village. He may have worshipped a gray god, but he was a good man.”

Cathan bowed his head. “I’ve heard this story,” he murmured. “Or others like it. Did they burn Lethar’s temple?”

“Not just that,” Revando replied. “They burned Lethar, too—no, not they. We did it, the men of the Divine Hammer and of the holy church. We burned him, along with his books … all because he followed the wrong god. It didn’t matter that he gave food to the hungry, or shelter to those in need. Someone spread lies about him, and the knights and priests descended on him like jackals, leaving nothing but ashes! And I stood and watched, and did nothing while my dearest friend died at the hands of my brethren!

“Before long, I learned this was happening all over the empire … that the faith I’d always believed in was responsible for murders like Lethar’s in every corner of Istar. And not just the gray gods’ followers, either.”

“He has seen it, Your Grace,” Wentha interjected. “He has seen Fan-ka-tso.”

Tears shone in the First Son’s eyes. “It was all I could do to sing the Lightbringer’s praises, the day they dragged that prize through the city gates.” He shook his head ruefully. “Once I’d heard enough tales, I decided to do something. I would avenge my friend, and all those like him. But I had to be patient, and careful. I did all I could to make a name for myself in the church, rose through the ranks. I curried favor with those who would give it, bribed those who wouldn’t, and built a reputation as a good Revered Son … until just last year, when I came to Istar to sit next to the Kingpriest. And all the while, I’ve organized these tunnel-rats, made a proper force of them with help from Idar and others.”

“All of it to bring down Beldinas,” Cathan breathed.

Revando nodded. “And now, thanks to what you have told us, we must risk acting now. He didn’t even tell me his plans for the Peripas. I fear what will happen if he succeeds. Lady Wentha has told me of your dreams, of the burning hammer. But with your help, we can stop this foolish war on evil, and bring back the doctrine of Balance before it’s too late. We can end the nightmares.”

“And put you on the throne,” Cathan said.

There was a stirring behind him, a growl of resentment. He thought it might be Idar, but, turning, to his surprise, he saw it was Rath, whose eyes had narrowed and mouth had turned lipless. Tancred shook his head at his brother, bent to whisper in his ear. Rath drew away, still glowering.

Revando raised a beringed hand. “Be still, young man,” he cautioned. “It was a proper question. Yes, Twice-Born, the Lightbringer’s fall would put me on the throne. But you helped overthrow Kurnos and put Beldinas in his place … this is old business for you. And I would abdicate if the Miceram were to pass to me. I have no desire to rule.”

It was true. Cathan could see it in the First Son’s weary face, hear it in his voice. All he wanted was peace for his old friend, lost to the stake and torch. Revando would sit the throne only long enough to choose an heir, no longer.

Cathan pressed his fingers to his lips, and stayed like that for a minute, then another.

“Cathan?” Wentha asked.

“What would you do with him?” he asked slowly. “Beldyn was my friend, once. I won’t lead him to his death.”

“He deserves no more,” Rath muttered. Tancred shushed him again.

The bits of amber in Revando’s beard clacked together as he shook his head. “I am no murderer, Twice-Born,” he said. “I do not mean to kill His Holiness—only to strip him of the Miceram, and with it his vested power. There are many places he can be taken after that, through the tunnels. He can live out the rest of his life in exile, in a place where he can do no more harm.”

Cathan met his eyes, his gaze hard. “Do you swear to that?”

“Why do you think I have waited this long?” the First Son replied, calmly. “I’ve had a thousand chances to put a knife in his ribs, or poison in his cup. No … I will not be like him. I will not call for the death of those who don’t believe as I do.”

“And your men?”

“Ask us yourself, Twice-Born,” Idar replied. “We’ll do what we’re told… as long as things go smooth. But if we lose this chance, things might change.”

“We need you, Cathan,” Wentha put in. “Beldinas needs you. We won’t get another chance to do this without bloodshed.”

He turned, staring at her in shock.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ll back an assassination, if it comes to that. One way or another, the Kingpriest must come off the throne.”

Assassination. His sister speaking of such a deed. Cathan felt the room sway around him. It must have shown, for Revando reached out to steady him, but he recovered his balance before the First Son could intervene. Cathan swallowed.

“What must I do?” he asked.

*****

The eighteenth bout was just beginning when Cathan returned to the Arena. Rath and Tancred were already in the imperial box; Wentha would arrive shortly. Tithian gave him a look at he sat down on the bench he’d left almost an hour ago.

Down below, the Red Minotaur twisted his meaty paws around the haft of his trident, hoofs stamping the ground as he and the Barbarian circled each other. The Minotaur was good—Cathan could tell from the leer on his bestial face that the creature fought for the sheer pleasure of it—but the Barbarian had improved as well. To the delight of the crowds, he made two quick feints, then struck a grazing blow to the Minotaur’s shoulder. Blood flowed—just a shallow cut, but enough to anger the creature. It snarled, horns gleaming in the sunlight.

“You were gone quite a while,” Tithian remarked.

Cathan made a face. “I thought about not coming back at all. I keep seeing Valeric, the one who—”

“I know.” The Grand Marshal sighed. “There’ll be an official investigation, I promise you, but in the end we’ll be able to prove nothing. We never can. Rockbreaker’s too quick to dispose of the bodies—and who’s to say he’s dead if we can’t find his corpse? It’ll be kept quiet, and nothing will happen.”

The crowd cried out again as the Barbarian’s saber scored another red slash across the Minotaur’s thigh, making him stumble. Cathan glanced down and saw the beast trip his foe with his trident, then viciously drive the point down. The Barbarian twisted out of the way, made a clumsy kick, and hooked the Minotaur’s leg, sending him sprawling. The trident skittered away. The roars grew deafening.

“Why?” Cathan asked, raising his voice to make himself heard. “Why keep it quiet? If you raise the suspicion that some of these fights end in murder—”

“Then what? What do you think will happen?” Tithian demanded, jabbing his hand toward the crowds. “Look at them, Cathan! That’s real blood the Minotaur’s bleeding, and they’re cheering for it! If we told them some of the deaths were real, too—” He clenched his fist as his words sputtered to a stop, glaring at a point in the sky above the far side of the stands.

The Barbarian twisted to his feet, flourished his saber, and lowered its tip to the Minotaur’s throat—a thoroughly scripted move, one any competent warrior should have been able to avoid. When the Barbarian lifted his sword from the Minotaur and helped the creature up—loathing in its glinting eyes—Cathan knew these Games had been concocted to give birth to a new champion. He would have bet a hundred gold falcons that the Barbarian would be the last one standing when the sun set. A newcomer, fighting past overwhelming odds to win the adulation of the masses… it was the oldest tale beneath the moons.

Sure enough, the final bout of the day had the Barbarian fighting the reigning champion, Pheragas—and the battle was a consummate performance. It ebbed and flowed with perfect rhythm, first one man gaining the upper hand, then the other. They each took cuts. They even grappled and switched swords, something Cathan had never, in twenty years as a knight, seen happen in a real duel. Finally, shining with sweat, Pheragas came on hard, forcing the Barbarian back, back, until he was teetering at the brink of a pit filled with swinging blades. The boy hung there, teetering as the audience gasped. His sword dropped into the hole, and disappeared into the machinery with a metallic crunch. Then, his face tightening—a look that even made Cathan want to cheer, though it was all part of the act—the Barbarian threw himself forward, somehow avoiding Pheragas’s sword and ramming his shoulder into his opponent’s gut. The air went out of the big Ergothman, and with two quick punches the Barbarian had him on the ground, senseless. With a Taoli battle cry, he drew a dagger from his belt and held it with two hands above Pheragas’s breast.

“Istolud!”

The crowd’s cries of encouragement and glee suddenly ended. All eyes turned toward the imperial box, where the gleaming figure had stepped forward to stand at the gilded balustrade. Beldinas raised his hands, gazing down upon the battlefield. The sawdust was dark with blood and sweat. The single word he’d shouted had resounded back and forth across the Arena.

Stop!

“Spare him,” the Kingpriest went on. “Do not strike the final blow, brave warrior. There is no need, for you are the victor of this contest!”

Even those who wore the blue of Pheragas’s faction shouted jubilantly: a novice in the Arena had risen above all others to claim the highest honor a gladiator could achieve! Golden roses showered down onto the sands. Rockbreaker appeared, but could not make himself heard above the thunderous applause. A beautiful young woman with an iron collar came out to place a wreath of laurel-leaves on the Barbarian’s head. He caught her before she could withdraw and kissed her hard on the mouth, raising new cries from the onlookers. She resisted a moment then swooned—all of it as rehearsed as the fighting.

Cathan watched as the Lightbringer walked by, Quarath at his side. He found, as they passed, that he could not bring himself to meet Beldinas’s gaze.

*****

Sword met sword, and Tithian shoved with all his might, sending Sir Bron stumbling back. The younger knight grunted, nearly lost his footing, then recovered, keeping his shield up the whole time. He came back with a hard flurry, battering away so that Tithian’s arms burned from the parrying and blocking until the two men finally parted, their feet covered with mud.

It had started raining a little after nightfall, but neither seemed to notice or care. They were sparring alone, in the courtyard of the Hammerhall, with no crowd to watch them. It was a better fight than any the Grand Marshal had watched today.

Another death in the Arena, the third in the past two years. Quarath and Lord Onygion’s feud was getting out of hand, but what could he do to stop it? Speak to the Emissary? To the Kingpriest? Neither would do anything. Rockbreaker would laugh in his face, but only if his mouth was too dry to spit. And the people would mock him—the last thing the head of the Divine Hammer needed.

Here came Bron again, high left, then low to the right, then low right again … each blow simple, economical, not the great sweeping swings of the gladiators. Tithian caught each stroke in succession, with shield and sword, and shield again, turning them aside, then hooking the pommel of his sword around and clouting the younger knight in the ear.

Bron caught most of the blow with his helmet, but he reeled just the same. Groaning, he slumped halfway to his knees. Tithian went at him again, this time with blunted blade, and caught the lad in the stomach with its full outward edge. Bron doubled over, whimpering, then dropped to the ground and stayed there, retching up his supper. Rain plastered his dark hair to his face.

“Watch your hilt-work up close,” Tithian said. “A good swordsman uses every part of his weapon, not just the blade—and expects his opponent to do the same.”

Bron grunted, started to rise, then thought better of it and stayed on his knees, gasping. Tithian watched him. He’d be a great fighter someday, if he could overcome his sloppiness. If not… well, the knighthood was full of passable warriors. There were few great ones anymore.

The thud of hooves in the mud drew his eye away, toward the gatehouse. A rider came through, protected against the rain by a gray, hooded cloak. He stopped for a moment to speak with the gate ward, who nodded and stepped aside. Then he rode on toward Tithian. The Grand Marshal eyed him, marking the anonymity of the man’s garb, and felt a sinking feeling. There was only one who would approach him at this hour with such nondescript garments. He watched as the man reined in, then swung down from his saddle, handing the reins to a squire who came running through the muck to serve him.

“I thought you might come tonight,” Tithian said to the hooded man. “I guessed as much, when I turned around and saw there were no MarSevrins to be found.”

“You think the whole family is in on this?” asked the rider in return.

Tithian angled his head, water running off his helm. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

The man harrumphed, but didn’t answer.

“So,” Tithian said. “It’s really happening?”

“It’s happening,” the rider replied. “The day after the morrow, at the Vaults. They mean to take him, and the Crown.”

The Grand Marshal nearly spat, a sudden ferocity coming over him. “And Cathan?”

“The Twice-Born is a part of this conspiracy,” said the voice within the hood, “as much as I am.”

“More so, I think,” Tithian replied. “He isn’t playing both sides of the game, for one thing.”

The cloaked figure stayed very still for a long moment, then held out a scroll case made of carved ivory. “At the Vaults,” he said.

Tithian took the scroll, waving the man away. With a creak of leather, the gray figure climbed back onto his horse, wheeled it about, and left again, out through the gates. As he did, Tithian opened the case and slid out the scroll within—vellum, sealed with the crimson wax of the First Son. He bowed his head.

The man had first come to him in Chidell, the morning after Cathan’s strange disappearance. He’d told him everything: about the secret roads beneath Istar’s cities, the insurgents hidden away, Lord Revando’s involvement, and Lady Wentha’s surprising participation. The conspirators had been planning to depose Beldinas for weeks now, but Tithian had been slow to discover all he needed to know. He read the scroll, noting all the names, the vast network of support. His mind started to turn, planning out how he must counter this treachery.

Cathan, he thought, you of all people.

When he finished reading, he crumpled the message, walked to the nearest torch, and set it ablaze. As he watched it burn, he sensed Bron coming up on him. He glanced toward the younger knight.

“My lord,” Bron said. “What was that about?”

Cathan let go of the burning parchment. The last of it turned black, falling to the ground like a dead bird. He stared at it, then pivoted on one heel and started toward the knights’ barracks.

“You’ll see, Bron,” he said more harshly than he intended. “Soon enough, you’ll see.”

Chapter 18

The MarSevrins supped together in the courtyard of Wentha’s manor, the night before the Kingpriest was due to leave for the Vaults. The food was sumptuous—shrimp and squid and rice spiced with saffron in the Pesaran style—but they ate little and barely tasted what they did. The servants smiled when they cleared away the leavings, for the leftovers were more than enough to make a good evening meal for themselves. Wentha dismissed them after they brought wine and water. The four conspirators sat quietly, staring into their goblets.

“You know,” said Rath, “this could well be the last time we ever sit together, all of us.”

“Rath!” Wentha exclaimed reprovingly.

“You shouldn’t speak that way,” Tancred insisted. “We’ve planned this out well. Idar’s sent his best men to help us. Nothing will go wrong.”

Cathan chuckled, grimly. “Those are cursed words. Men have spoken them all through history, and history is filled with failure.” He sighed. “Something always goes wrong, Tancred. We must hope it’s nothing big.”

Tancred looked about to argue, but instead glanced up at the stars shining down on the Lordcity. Cathan followed his gaze, picking out Ariddo the Valiant Warrior, Fino the Great Book, Croino the Vulture, Carno the Horned One… constellations patterned after the gods’ signs.

“I do wish you weren’t all going,” Wentha said. “I know Cathan has to, but—”

“Mother, we’ve been over this before,” said Tancred. “Even Idar’s best men aren’t completely trustworthy. Gods, Idar himself might put a dagger in the Kingpriest, first chance he gets. Rath and I need to be with them, if for no other reason than to keep them in line.”

Wentha bowed her head, sighing. “I understand that, Tancred. But I still don’t like the risk.”

Tancred shook his head, looking to Cathan, who leaned close. “She’s sending her sons and her brother off into danger,” Cathan whispered. “She’s allowed to worry.”

There was another silence, none of them wanting to speak, nor wishing to leave the table. Finally, Rath drained his goblet and set it down with a loud clack.

“We should go over the plan again,” he said. “Just to make sure.”

They’d done nothing but discuss the plan, it seemed to Cathan, in the day and a half since the Games. They knew what had to happen and when. There was precious little reason to discuss it again. But Rath was earnest, and Tancred willing, so Cathan let it go and finished his own wine with one long swallow.

“Beldinas and I are traveling to the Vaults, with an armed escort,” he said tonelessly. “Twenty Scatas and knights, according to Revando. Only he and I will enter the Vaults, and then we will do whatever we must to get the Peripas. Once we have the Disks, we’ll come out again, and you’ll be waiting ”

“We’ll already be there when the entourage arrives,” Tancred continued. “Idar and forty of his best men, as well as Rath and me. The land around the Vault is heavily wooded, and well also have these to help us stay out of sight.”

He held up his hand, displaying a silver ring set with a piece of petrified wood in place of a gemstone. At the same time Rath fingered a similar earring, dangling from his left ear. Revando had provided such magical items for everyone in Idar’s party, claiming they had the power to make men appear as trees.

Cathan reached to the malachite at his throat. “How is it you have so much magic at your disposal?” he’d asked the First Son, down in the tunnels.

“Ah,” Revando had replied, smiling. “Do you truly think the wizards simply went to hide in Wayreth, after the war? The Orders of High Sorcery have been very useful allies … they want the Lightbringer off the throne as much as we do.”

Rath spoke up, bringing Cathan back to the present. “When you and His Holiness go down into the Vault, well take care of the Scatas and such. Outnumbered, with surprise on our side, we shouldn’t have much trouble.”

Cathan bit his lip, knowing that Rath understated the risks. The regular soldiers might be easy targets, but the Divine Hammer was another matter. Even if standards in the knighthood had slipped, they would still put up a devilish fight. He offered a silent prayer for forgiveness for the good men who might die. But the burning hammer was still bright in his dreams, a warning that he had to act.

“We’ll hide any bodies,” Rath went on. “And be waiting disguised as trees when you come out. And that’s when you should make your move.”

Cathan said nothing. Tancred and Rath glanced at each other. Wentha leaned forward.

“Brother?” she asked.

This was the hardest part. “Beldinas will suspect something’s amiss—he has an instinct for danger,” Cathan said. “But he’ll be confused. He’ll turn to me. And I’ll hit him with this.”

From his belt, he produced a tiny needlelike object with a bladder of rubber on one end. It was a device used by Seldjuki assassins of old, called Lonfas Dudo, the Serpent’s Tooth. The bladder could hold a liquid, such as poison. One good jab, a squeeze, and the needle would inject the liquid into a victim. “It will be filled with bloodblossom oil,” Cathan said. “The Lightbringer’ll be out cold in a few seconds.” And he’ll know who betrayed him. The rest of his life, he’ll know it was me. That knowledge twisted in his gut like a spear.

“We’ll be waiting to help, in case something goes wrong,” Rath continued, meaning in case you can’t do your job. “Once he’s drugged, we grab him, hide him in a nearby cart, and make for the closest tunnels at Calah. Once we have him in a safe place, the danger will be over.”

“If no one knows about the tunnels,” Cathan noted.

Tancred and Rath laughed. “Uncle,” Tancred said, “stop fretting, will you?”

Cathan nodded. Still, a voice kept whispering to him. It’s too easy. You’re missing something. He stroked his beard, thinking back over the plan.

Across the city, the bells of the Great Temple chimed the Midwatch toll. They looked at one another in surprise. “That late already?” Wentha wondered aloud.

Rath rose, consulting a water clock in the corner of the courtyard. “So it seems. We’ve tarried here long enough. It’s time Tancred and I were going—Idar will be waiting.”

They all got to their feet. Tears shone in Wentha’s eyes as her sons—clad in plain Istaran garb—each clasped hands with Cathan.

“Soido ti, Aumo,” the brothers told him. Luck to you. Uncle.

Their farewells with their mother were wordless. As each embraced Wentha in turn, their faces betrayed their fears. There was a chance one—or both of them—would not return. Wentha kissed her sons on the brow, then turned her back, waiting until they were gone before slumping against the table and start to cry.

Cathan caught his sister and held her as she sobbed into his arms. “It’ll be all right, Blossom,” he reassured her, smoothing her silver hair as he’d done when they were children. “You’ll see. We’ve made it through this much.”

She nodded, but when she looked up, her eyes red and swollen, he saw that she didn’t expect to see him again either. It made him tremble, suddenly.

They held each other for a while, then she raised her head and kissed him on the lips. “I must go to bed,” she said. “Farewell, Cathan. I won’t see you off.”

That hurt him, but his emotions were now in check. “Farewell, Blossom,” he said, touching her cheek.

Then she was gone, a billow of gray slipping into the shadows of her manor. Cathan poured himself another cup of wine—and drank it down unwatered.

“That was a touching scene.”

He nearly laughed at the sound of the voice, so frigid a voice cutting through the warm spring air. He felt the chill, heard the water dock make a tormented sound as its contents turned abruptly to ice. Turning, he watched as several of Wentha’s prize flowers withered and died. A shape stirred in the shadows.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Cathan said. “You must be very pleased with all this.”

Fistandantilus didn’t budge. “Not at all,” he stated. “In fact, I’ve come to ask you not to go through with it.”

“What?” Cathan stared at the wizard. “But we’re trying to stop Beldinas from destroying evil… .”

“And no one lives who is more evil than I,” the Dark One replied, proudly. “But still, the fact remains, the Kingpriest must remain on the throne.”’

Cathan frowned, puzzled. Then understanding dawned. “It’s because he made you part of his court, isn’t it? And Revando won’t keep you around.”

“No, no, Revando will take no action against me. What choice does he have? I’m too powerful to banish. But I need the Kingpriest around, just a little while longer.”

“Why?”

Fistandantilus paused, considering, then stepped forward. “Very well—I will show you.”

He moved too quickly for a man so old and withered. He moved too quickly for any kind of man. Swift as a scorpion’s tail, his hand lashed out, touched Cathan’s forehead. He spoke a spidery word. The world flashed away.

They were elsewhere now, a place Cathan thought oddly familiar, though he knew he had never been there before. It was a massive chamber, vast and dark, appointed with all sorts of magical accouterments. Beakers of viscous fluids smoldered on workbenches. Crystals and skulls lay scattered on stone tables. Shelves upon shelves of night-blue spellbooks lined the walls, their magic strong enough to make the air around them writhe and throb like a living thing. Cathan’s eyes slid past all of it, however, the moment he saw what stood at the room’s far end.

It was a door made of steel, large enough that an ogre could have walked through without having to stoop his head. It stood on a dais of black marble, shimmering with light. Around it twisted a framework of gold, formed into the shape of five leering dragon heads. They were the faces of the Enemy, Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness. Cathan averted his eyes, signing the triangle.

Fistandantilus chuckled. “Your god will not protect you here, Twice-Born. Only the powers of darkness hold sway in this place now. Look upon the Portal.”

Cathan didn’t want to look, but his gaze rose anyway. The dragons’ eyes were glowing, each a different color, the five hues of evil wyrms that had once darkened Krynn’s skies: white and black, red and blue, venomous green. They seemed to be staring at him, each as malevolent as the Dark One himself.

“The Orders of High Sorcery built this Portal, long ago,” Fistandantilus said. They had hoped to forge a way to commune with one another—a permanent gateway through which they could speak and travel. They failed, and instead the result was a door leading to the Abyss.

“Many great wizards died before they were able to shut it again. Try as they might, however, they could not destroy it as they hoped, so they laid a geas on it instead, hoping it would make the Portal impossible to open. Only the blackest wizard could work its magic, they declared… but even then, he would need help—a cleric of true goodness. Such an alliance, they believed, would never happen.

“Many years ago, I decided to test that belief. Since that day, I have dedicated my life to this goal. First, I corrupted Kurnos to usurp the throne and give himself over to darkness, paving the way for Beldinas’s rise. Then I tricked the church into going to war with the Orders of High Sorcery, so my brethren would be forced into hiding—and leave this place, the Tower of Palanthas, free for my experimentation …for years I have had the freedom to come and go in the Temple, as part of the court.

“Now the time has come to enter the Abyss, and Beldinas Lightbringer will be at my side. Together… together, we will face Takhisis herself, and I will lay her low and take her place!”

Cathan stared at the dark-robed, hooded sorcerer. “And you expect me to help you in this? I’m not Kurnos, Dark One—I’m no puppet to prance for your pleasure.”

The black-robed shoulders shook. “I know, Twice-Born. You are god-touched, and your own man. But I don’t have to compel you, Cathan MarSevrin. You will fail, in the end.”

… and suddenly the Portal was gone, and the vast chamber with it Cathan found himself back in the manor, huddled and shuddering against the table. The Dark One still stood beside him, croaking with laughter.

“Very good, my brave friend,” rasped the wizard. “Now we are done, you and I. Farewell… and forget.”

A wave of darkness crashed down on Cathan, smothering him. When it lifted, Fistandantilus was gone. Cathan reached for the memory of what he’d just seen, what the wizard had told him, and felt it slipping away, like a dream upon waking. The harder he tried to hold on, the faster it receded, vanishing until it was gone from his mind. All he could recall was the wizard telling him not to go through with his plans. Why? Not knowing only strengthened his resolve.

Nodding to himself, Cathan walked away, into the manor and his waiting bed, where he dreamt of the burning hammer.

*****

The Kingpriest’s entourage gathered at the western edge of the city the next morning, cloaked in rain and mist. The city’s gates, topped with statues of lapis and sard and chalcedony—each an image of the Lightbringer, replacing the heroes and clerics who had stood there before—towered over them. The crowds had gathered early, chanting Pilofiro and swaying on their knees. As Revando had promised, the Kingpriest’s armed escort numbered twenty: eight knights and a dozen Scatas, each armed with crossbow, spear, and sword. There was not a horse among them: this was a sacred pilgrimage, and they would make the journey on foot. Looking the party over, Cathan thought of his nephews, already well on their way, and prayed to Paladine for their safety.

Wentha was missing. If they failed, she would be in danger too. And that, more than anything, bolstered Cathan’s determination to go through with it and succeed.

To his surprise, Tithian wasn’t there. He’d hoped his old squire would see him off, but instead he sent a proxy, a lieutenant whose name Cathan heard and immediately forgot. The Grand Marshal had pressing business to see to, the lieutenant explained; Tithian sent his apologies. Cathan wondered what could be more pressing than this occasion but he had led the knighthood himself, and knew there were endless crises and tasks.

The Kingpriest’s inner circle were at the gates as well: Lady Elsa, whom Cathan did not know; Quarath, who watched with aloof eyes, clearly happy to be left running the empire in the Kingpriest’s absence. And Revando … Cathan tried not to stare at the First Son, but their eyes did meet briefly, and the urgency in the high priest’s gaze drove through him like an arrow. The man’s life had been leading up to this moment. Cathan winced and glanced away as if stung.

“My friend,” said Beldinas, noticing his odd reaction, “are you all right?”

Cathan felt his cheeks color. “I’m fine,” he lied, “it’s just strange, riding out again with you, after all this time.”

For the last time.

The Kingpriest smiled. It showed through his aura, and the beauty of it made Cathan want to weep. After today, one way or another, he knew he would never know that smile again. Reaching out, Beldinas laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re with me, Cathan,” he said.

Tears started in Cathan’s eyes. Angrily, he blinked them away. “Thank you, Beldyn,” he murmured.

Beldinas chuckled to hear his old name, the one he’d worn before he donned the Miceram. Only the oldest of his friends even knew it, and few spoke it ever. He beckoned toward the gates. “Shall we go?”

Cathan nodded. Together, friends of old, they turned and strode out of Istar the Beautiful.

Chapter 19

It was a three-day journey from Istar to the Vaults, and it rained the whole way. The knights and Scatas rode silently, or chanted hymns muted by the drumming of the rain on their armor. Their cloaks and the plumes of their helms drooped and darkened. The sky hung heavy; everything seemed the color of lead. Every slow mile they walked, Cathan gave thanks to whatever long-dead Kingpriest had commanded the paving of Istar’s roads: growing up in the borderlands, he’d seen trails washed out or turned to sucking mires by this sort of weather. It would have been the Abyss to make the journey on such roads.

Beldinas was as hard to read as ever. He hardly spoke, only stared ahead, as if he could see past the distance and the gloom to where the Disks lay waiting for him. The rain didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. As he dripped and shivered, Cathan wondered if the weather penetrated the Kingpriest’s aura at all. He imagined he could see drops turning to vapor as they struck him, little wisps of steam that vanished in an instant.

The land rose, changing from rolling hills to time-worn downs fringed with olive trees. To the south, Cathan caught glimpses of the gray sheet of Lake Istar, and once, as evening fell, he thought he could spot the lights of Calah, the island-city where Idar’s ruffians waited in their tunnels. Then they went deeper still into the hills, and the pall swallowed the city, lights and all.

After dark, they stopped for shelter—at a monastery of Paladine the first night, a lord’s cliff-top villa the second. It was impossible to say whether the abbot or nobleman fawned more over the Lightbringer. At dawn, they started again. The olives gave way to spruce, then oak and pine. Rainwater poured in runnels down the slopes.

As the third day was growing dark, Beldinas raised his hand.

“Halt,” he said, his voice so soft Cathan could barely make it out above the rain.

The knights heard him, though, and the Scatas too. As one they stopped, looking to the Lightbringer for orders. Cathan glanced around. There was no sign of anything different about this place … just trees and thick undergrowth on either side, climbing uphill and down. In the distance rose the faint humps of still more crags. He laid a hand on Ebonbane, glancing at the Kingpriest.

“What is it?” he hissed.

Beldinas’s head turned toward him. “We’re here.”

Cathan heard a rustling. He turned toward the sound, Ebonbane coming halfway out of its scabbard. Nothing was moving in the brush; no, the brush itself was moving, vines parting and slithering aside, saplings bending out of the way. When it was done, a new path led up into the woods. A statue of a woman stood beside it, made of alabaster that the elements had long since worn faceless, and spotted with rusty moss. Whether the statue honored a queen, priestess, or goddess, there was no sign. At its base, inlaid in onyx, was a line of faded words.

Sa, Oparbor, they read. Tair apod ni, iufubud, partum ana bolio tam unfifat.

Hail, Traveler, Turn back, if thou art not righteous, for only death awaits thee.

“Come, my friend,” Beldinas said. “The Peripas lie ahead.”

The knights and Scatas formed a protective ring, crossbows ready, as they climbed the path. The woods grew thick, but the trail remained clear, blanketed with pine needles. The going was never difficult. Nary a tree root hindered their way. Cathan wondered what lay ahead. Robbers had come this way in the past, to plunder the Vaults. What end had they suffered? Would he meet the same fate? He was a secret traitor, after all… how could he pretend to be the righteous traveler demanded by the mysterious statue?

Beldinas walked on, confidently, as they passed deeper into the wild, across a small stone bridge that spanned a spring-swollen brook, then through a cleft in a cliff of pink stone, steadily up and up, the chasm so narrow at one point they had to walk single file, turning sideways to maneuver around bulges in the rock. Cathan began to wonder whether Idar’s men could ever hope to find this place—even though Revando claimed to have a map, and had sent them overland.

Then they reached the end of the crevice, and the Forino Babasom stood before them.

At first it was a feeling more than anything else—only the sense of some great structure looming before him in the gathering night, perched on a shelf of rock among the trees. As the company drew closer, two tremendous pyramids of white stone emerged from the dark, their stepped sides eroded to curving humps. Hanging creepers were draped around them, dotted with golden, night-blooming flowers the size of shields. Cathan had never seen their like before. It took him a moment to realize why he could see anything at all: The blooms glowed softly, like the moon-crickets kept by Karthayan nobles.

The portico between the two pyramids was wide, and he saw that a stream flowed beneath it, spilling in a series of short cataracts before pouring over the cliff in a rope of silver foam. The columns flanking the Vault’s doors were old, stout, and plain. And there were two statues, strange figures he’d never seen before, carved in crude ancient fashion from crimson stone: lionesses with the bodies of women sprouting from their necks. Their arms were gone, and one had lost its head; the other’s face was beautiful and frightening, wild-featured, and sharp-toothed, with discs of gleaming turquoise for eyes. Staring at the statue, Cathan found himself thinking, oddly, of Fan-ka-tso, the six-armed in the Hall of Sacrilege, and all the icons he had destroyed back when he was counted among the Divine Hammer. Several of the knights signed the triangle, whispering prayers. “Nomas cefud op coitas e sifasom fupulfo…”

Protect us from heathens and their idolatry…

“Be still,” said Beldinas. “These are no heathen idols. They are the Iudulas, the guardians set by Symeon to watch over the gates of the Vault They are blessed by power of the Kingpriests.

“You must approach them, my friend.”

Cathan looked at the Lightbringer, saw only the light that mantled him, then peered up to the Forino’s entrance. The statues loomed; the one head seemed to be staring at him… seemed almost to smile. Every part of him wanted to refuse.

As he started shakily up the steps, he glanced at the surrounding trees and suppressed the thought that Revando’s shape-shifting magic must already be at work. He saw no sign of his confederates. He steadied himself and moved on. There was no way of knowing if all the elements of the plot were in place. Besides, he couldn’t take his eyes off the smiling statue for long. He reached the balcony and looked past the statues, trying to see through to the doors beyond.

The statue blinked.

He didn’t have enough time to reach for Ebonbane, for already, the creature had risen and leapt from its pedestal, moving with a grace that belied its stone form. It hit the ground to his left with a knee-weakening thump, then swiped its paw lazily, slamming him face-first to the ground. The breath left his lungs in a whoosh, and he lay gasping, clutching his side. Below, he heard the knights shouting, but what they were saying he couldn’t guess. The ringing in his ears made their words indistinguishable.

Wait, he tried to say. All he could manage was “Whh-hhh.”

“Thief!” the statue spoke, in a voice equal parts snarl and earthquake. He sensed it standing over him, felt its slit-eyed stare, its killing hunger. He wondered how long it had been since the creature had a foolish intruder to hunt. It pinned him down with one paw, then lifted another, baring obsidian claws. “None who live may enter this place! For all who dare, there is only one fate.”

Cathan couldn’t draw breath to speak. The pressure of the lioness’s weight upon him made white stars burst in his head. Its eyes blazed like blue suns, boring into him. There was no malice there, no cruelty; only deadly intent. It had been waiting here for centuries; this was its only purpose, the reason the clerics—and mages—had crafted it. Even now, worn by age, its arms long gone, it clung to its responsibility. The stars in Cathan’s vision shifted to black. The Iudulo’s fangs gleamed in the bloom-glow. They took on the color of blood.

No, he thought. Not like this. Paladine, if ever you favored me, give me strength.

Summoning every last bit of energy, he managed to wrench his body slightly out from under the lioness’s grasp. Whooping like a drowning man, he dragged in a breath. “Don’t,” he choked. “Remember your geas! What did Symeon say?”

The creature’s polished brow creased. For a moment it didn’t respond. Then, with a shuddering snarl, the statue spoke—not in the voice it had used before, but in that of an old man. It must be the voice of Symeon himself, relating his own words through this warden beast.

“Nisi firno at ifeso big pironit e nisit. Sifat.”

No living man or woman shall enter and survive. So be it.

Cathan nodded, part of him wanting to shriek with relief: The legends had been accurate, after all. He saved his breath, however. Every word was precious, and he chose them with painstaking care.

“Look … at me,” he gasped. “Are these the … eyes … of one … who… lives?”

That was all he could manage to say. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and pray, and focused his stare on the lioness. The statue gazed back, its puzzlement growing as it met the empty gaze of the Twice-Born, the gaze no man but Beldinas had been able to meet for more than a brief moment, for the past forty years. In his eyes was death, a shadow of the after-world that clung to him… the afterworld he’d lost when the Lightbringer resurrected him. Now the Iudulo peered deep into him, searching behind the forbidding surface.

Silence. The statue wavered… wavered…

“No,” said the Iudulo, lifting itself off him. “They are not living eyes.”

Air had never hurt so badly. Cathan curled into a ball, retching as his breath slashed his lungs like razors. It was a long time before he could draw a proper breath again, longer still before he retrieved the strength to raise his head. When he did, he saw that the lioness was back on its perch, exactly as before. Its eyes were stone once more, coldly staring sightlessly into the night.

He shivered. It had been waiting here for him, all this time. He could sense it. He had never felt so much like a pawn on the gods’ khas board.

A hand touched him, nearly scaring him to death. But the hand glowed, and he saw Beldinas, bent over him, head bowed. The Kingpriest murmured a prayer, summoning Paladine’s power to speak the healing prayer. “Palado, ucdas pafiro…”

Cathan felt warmth, and light, and all the pain went away.

*****

It came back when he awoke, but as a dull ache that flared as he pushed himself up on his elbows. There was a great deal of blood—his blood—on the balcony, and looking around at it made him feel weak and nearly pass out again.

A glowing hand pressed a cup to his lips. “Drink.”

It was watered wine, and his strength returned as he sipped it. His ribs still hurt, there were livid claw-marks showing through the rips in his robes. “You didn’t heal me completely,” he said.

“You would have slept too long,” Beldinas replied. “We must enter the Forino, or the Guardian will awaken again. Can you stand?”

Cathan got to his feet, waving off the Kingpriest’s help. As he did, he felt the malachite amulet slide against his skin, and swallowed at the thought of how close Beldinas had come to touching it when he healed him. When he was upright again, he cast an eye at the Iudulas. They were lifeless, unmoving.

“Come,” Beldinas said, and they stepped past the lionesses, to the gold-scaled doors. The doors parted at a touch, and the Lightbringer and the Twice-Born entered Symeon’s Vault.

It was dark within, but the Kingpriest’s light filled the air around them, driving the shadows back. The walls were covered with mosaics rendered in a crude style that artists had abandoned years ago, showing images of gods and priests alike. The plaster had crumbled in places where vegetation invaded the Forino. Now and then, a faint, glassy plink broke the stillness as another tile stirred loose and fell to the floor. What remained on the walls glimmered with a hundred colors as it caught Beldinas’s glow: red and green, blue and violet, gold and flame, all coming together to make a coruscating white.

Beldinas wasted no time, moving down the wide entry hall to an archway on the far side. There were similar arches to the left and right, but he knew where he was going, and moved as if pulled by forces beyond his control. Cathan had seen him like this before, in the lowest catacombs beneath the Pantheon of Govinna, where the two of them had discovered the Miceram. Drawing his sword, watching the shadows between the winking tiles, Cathan followed just behind Beldinas without a word.

Through the arch was a passage, also covered with glittering tiles. It angled downward, and the air grew noticeably cooler as they descended into the rock of the cliff. Silver light seemed to glimmer farther on, luring them toward shallow stairs, then steeper ones. Soon they were climbing more than walking, past dusty side passages where rats chattered and many-legged things scuttled to hide out of sight. Down, down…

Their descent halted, and Cathan caught his breath, staring. The stairs gave way to a broad, tall chamber, its jeweled walls ablaze, its ceiling decorated with a chipped, faded fresco of Paladine. It was an older rendition of the god, black-bearded and battle-fierce, rather than the gentle old man the imperial church currently espoused: a harder deity for harder times, Cathan thought. A helm crowned with gold shone upon his head. The same god had looked down on them in the Govinnese catacombs, such a long time ago. This was the god of the burning hammer, the one whose wrath Cathan felt every time he tried to sleep.

The ceiling wasn’t the most remarkable thing about the room, though. That honor belonged to the pedestal of white marble in its midst, and what rested upon it.

The Peripas Mishakas were larger than Cathan had expected. Each platinum disk was the size of a small plate, and there were thousands upon thousands of them, each stamped with tiny cuneiform letters. The golden ring that held them all gleamed brilliantly, untouched by time. He suddenly had no doubt the Disks were the writings of the gods, in their own hands, with no prophet to interpret them. He imagined Mishakal’s hand, etching each letter into the platinum with painstaking care, and Majere’s… and Jolith’s and Branchala’s, Solinari’s, and Habbakuk’s … above all, Paladine’s. Paladine’s band was vital, for the Disks were said to be his scales, prized from the platinum dragon’s hide to bear his commandments to the mortals who worshipped him.

Wordlessly, Cathan knelt and laid Ebonbane on the floor. This was the holiest relic in the world: greater than the Miceram, greater even than the dragonlances Huma Dragonbane used to defeat the Queen of Darkness. A feeling of deep unworthiness came over him: He did not feel and fit to look upon the flesh and word of the god, so he averted his god-touched eyes.

At first, all was silent. Then he heard a strange sound, from beside him. It was something he’d never heard before, and it took him a moment to understand what the noise was. Beldinas Lightbringer, Kingpriest of Istar, was weeping.

He turned to stare. “Holiness?”

The glowing figure stood, head bowed, shoulders hunched. He trembled with every shaking breath. “Oh, Cathan,” he murmured. “I’m so afraid. I’ve spent my whole life bringing light to this world, and every day, I see a new darkness, waiting for the chance to undo all that I’ve fought for.

“I’ve dreamed of this day for so long, the day the gods would show their trust in me at last, and let me guide the world beyond the night. They call me Lightbringer, but I have not fulfilled that promise. I have not used the fullness of my own power.

“I have been afraid for so long, but the time for that is over. With the Disks in my hand, my friend, and with you at my side, there shall be no more fear, ever again.”

Cathan felt his heartbreak. “Beldyn…”

The Kingpriest strode to the pedestal and gazed upon the Peripas. The platinum caught his light, flaring ferociously. With a sigh, he reached down, seized the golden ring, and took them up.

Still kneeling at the room’s entrance, Cathan found himself weeping too. What he saw before him was beautiful: the figure of light, the man he had loved more than anyone—more than his own kin—holding the gods’ words, inscribed on Paladine’s own scales. It hurt to look upon it

Then he shut his eyes, seeing other things. Slave markets. Thought-readers. Broken idols. Men murdered for sport. And hanging over it all, the omen of the burning hammer.

He understood, then, without doubt, what lay ahead. The gods would never let Beldinas do what he meant to do. The hammer would fall upon the Lightbringer. It would smash the Temple, shatter the Lordcity, bring Istar and all its glory to ruin. The Balance would not be denied—not even by Paladine’s chosen one.

He reached to his belt, found what he sought. The Serpent’s Tooth fit into his hand easily, the needle protruding between his index and middle fingers, the bladder in his palm. A bead of bloodblossom oil appeared at its tip, then fell to the floor. He stared at his hand, then looked at the Lightbringer, and rose to his feet. He had to act now, while his will was strong. If he waited until the appointed time, he knew his courage would fail him. Fistandantilus had warned him.

“No more fear!” Beldinas rejoiced, raising the Peripas high. “No more darkness!”

Cathan hit the Kingpriest as he was turning around. Beldinas jerked away, hissing between his teeth, and dropped the Disks. He stared at his shoulder, where the Lonfas Dudo was still lodged. The bladder drooped, deflated. With a snarl, Beldinas swatted the thing to the floor, leaving the tiniest wound—only a pinprick of blood.

But it was enough: the drug was in him, and already beginning to work instantaneously. He sagged where he stood, his knees buckling. Cathan grabbed him as he fell. Beldinas groaned muzzily. The Miceram clanged to the floor. His holy aura flickered and dimmed, at last revealing the face beneath.

Cathan caught his breath when he saw his old friend clearly, for the first time in almost twenty years. The beautiful youth he’d known was gone, the long, the once-thick locks now ran gray and thin above a high hairline. Deep lines etched Beldinas’s brow, and also the corners of his mouth. His beautiful skin was ashen, beaded with sweat. But it was the Kingpriest’s eyes, the blue eyes that had always been filled with such terrible certainty, that chilled Cathan the most. They were the eyes of a haunted man now, eyes full of fear, the pupils dilating wildly as the drug took him. They met Cathan’s own, not understanding.

“I’m sorry, Holiness,” Cathan said. “Forgive me.”

Beldinas stared at him for three long heartbeats, the shock in his gaze shaking Cathan to the core. Then, with a despairing moan, Beldinas let his eyelids flutter closed. The Kingpriest’s holy light went out.

Chapter 20

It was dark in the Forino. Cathan found a torch still in its sconce, and with some effort got it lit. In the fire glow he turned to stare at Beldinas’s senseless form. How had the clear-eyed, purposeful youth he’d met, all those years ago at Luciel, become this wretched, terrified old man? What had changed him?

Power, he thought. Fear. Too many enemies, too few friends. People only loved the Lightbringer because of what he could do for them. They revered him in the god’s stead. And this reverence for power was what had transformed him.

His eyes blurred with tears, and he had to steady himself against the plinth. “At least this way you’ll live, my friend,” he murmured. “They might have done worse, in the end, if I hadn’t helped them.”

Beldinas groaned, his face contorting. The bloodblossom was coursing through him; it was a small dose, though, and would wear off before long. Cathan had to get the Kingpriest out of this place, had to give him over to Idar and Rath and Tancred and the others. They would bind him, gag him, maybe drug him again—but none would dare harm him. They would answer to Ebonbane if they tried.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re going.”

Beldinas’s body was light; the Lightbringer was frail and gaunt. His bones slid beneath his skin, and Cathan hoisted him easily onto one shoulder, then took up the Miceram and held it in his hands. Site ceram biriat, abat, the old proverb went—whoever wears the Crown, rules. It had tempted him before, and did so again, its rubies glittering in the fire-light. With its power, even he could be emperor of all Istar. He could change everything, end slavery, put a stop to the Games, lift the bans and interdicts. All he had to do was set the Miceram on his brow.

But the temptation quickly faded. He would hold on to the Crown, to make sure Idar or someone else didn’t decide to wear it, but he didn’t want to rule. Revando could have the Miceram. All Cathan wanted was to go some place quiet, and live in peace. He turned to go.

Then he stopped, catching a glimpse of another glimmering, and his heart leapt The Peripas!

The Disks lay on the floor, where Beldinas had dropped them. Cathan realized he had no idea what to do with them. Should he leave them here? Bring them out to the rebels? They held the secrets that would let Beldinas bring down the gods’ wrath… he stood rooted, torn.

Take them, said a voice in his head.

It was Fistandantilus, he thought, his blood freezing—but no, it wasn’t. There was warmth in this voice, a gentle but firm insistence that made him think of his own father, dead all these years. Cathan dropped the torch, letting it gutter and flicker out; but before its light failed, he bent down and lifted the Disks from the floor.

It was hard going, back up the stairs and tunnel with no light to guide him, carrying the weight of Kingpriest and Crown and Disks all at once. Halfway out, a terrible thought began to form in his mind: Something had gone wrong up above, outside the Vault. What if Idar’s men had failed? What if he stepped out the doors, Beldinas unconscious in his arms, and the knights and Scatas were waiting? He could claim that Beldinas had lost consciousness when he touched the Peripas… it had happened when they first found the Miceram… but the moment anyone got a closer look at the Kingpriest, the lie would he exposed.

I should have waited, he thought. That was the plan. Wait

In his heart, though, Cathan knew he had had to act, down below, or he never would have gone through with it.

He reached the doors, standing shut before him. Rays of moonlight swirled in, around and between them, making the bright mosaic walls gleam silver and red. Gritting his teeth, he kicked the doors open, letting the glow of Solinari and Lunitari flood in.

There were no knights or Scatas. There were only trees, and dark stains on the ground that had to be blood. His heart started beating again.

Another thought hit him as he was crossing the portico, toward the stair where the Iudulo had confronted him. It had let him pass because it judged him righteous. Was he still? He half-expected the stone lioness to hit him from behind, finish him off. There would be no pleading with it this time.

But the statues stayed stone cold.

Down the steps he went, as Beldinas stirred again, mumbling something incoherent through lips that didn’t work right. Cathan stumbled, nearly fell. The moment he reached the bottom, he let the Kingpriest slide off his back, onto the damp, needle-strewn ground. His side flared with pain as he did so.

“Crrthrrrrn,” Beldinas groaned, his eyelids flickering, showing white through the slits. “Muh frrrrrrrr.”

“Yes, Holiness,” Cathan said, touching his sweat-slick face. “I’m your friend. You’re going to be all right. We must get you away from here, though.”

There was a shimmering sound around him, like many gongs made of glass. With it came a tremendous groan of wood, the noise of a forest in a windstorm. He looked around in time to see the trees around him in the midst of transformation. Their bark swelled and split, the reaching limbs grew short and thick, needles dropped off, and skin and hair grew in their place. Roots pulled free of the earth, becoming feet. Trunks swelled and contorted, becoming faces. The trees became men, thirty men with daggers and shortswords and crossbows. Beside him, Beldinas whimpered in horror.

Then Idar was beside him, and his nephews, bent over the Kingpriest while the rest moved to stand watch. Some were wounded, and Cathan judged ten to be missing, probably dead. Rath had a deep cut under his left eye.

“What happened?” Tancred asked. He was very pale. “You were supposed to do it out here, not down there.”

“I acted because I had to,” Cathan replied. “It couldn’t wait.”

“It’s all right,” said Rath calmly. “Everything’s as it should be.”

Tancred was shaking his head. “But this wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”

“No harm done, lad,” said Idar. He touched Beldinas’s throat, nodded when he felt the life-beat. “You didn’t do us any favors, though, Twice-Born. He’ll have his wits back too soon, before we’re moving again.”

“It’s all right,” Rath repeated. “Come on, let’s get him tied up—Tancred? What’s the matter?”

Tancred was looking around furiously, his eyes wide. “They’re here!” he cried. “They found us!”

Idar’s men cast about, blades and bows quivering in their hands. Cathan felt it, too—a new presence here in the woods. Ebonbane hissed from its scabbard. Idar drew his own blade, dropping a knife into his left hand as well. A voice rang out across the clearing, chanting in the church tongue:

“Cie nicas supam torco, Palado, mas bodoram burtud.”

Though I walk through night’s shadow, Paladine, be thou my light.

The silver moon hung low in the sky, its rays slanting in at a steep angle. Now, a different beam struck them, streaking down from above: god-light, bright and beautiful. Seeing it, Cathan felt physically ill. He knew what it meant.

Idar’s men cast about, swearing, even before the first of the armored figures appeared on a rise to the east. It was a knight, the badge of the Divine Hammer burning on his breast, a heavy crossbow cocked. He paused, face hidden by his gleaming, horned helm, and stared at them, waiting for his comrades to join him—three, then ten, then many more, closing in to surround the Forino. A Revered Son appeared among them, young and robed for battle, with chain mail underneath his vestments. He kept his hands in the triangle position, controlling the light that bathed everyone. And beside him…

“Cathan Twice-Born,” said the knight in the crimson surcoat. “In the name of the god and the empire, you and your comrades are under arrest for sedition and assault against His Holiness, the Kingpriest of Istar.”

Cathan stared at Lord Tithian. All around him, he could feel men tensing, preparing to die. Idar’s followers would not give themselves up without a fierce struggle. Arrest meant slavery—the mines or the sands, most likely. Cathan held Ebonbane very still. No one—knight or rebel—moved, for several long minutes.

“Lay down your arms,” Tithian said, “or my men will shoot. Don’t let things end this way, Cathan.”

Idar stepped forward. “You’ll not take us alive, son of a whore. We—”

Three crossbow strings snapped, Idar spun to the ground, shafts in his chest, throat, and left eye. His men stared, then looked at the knights with fresh venom. “Lay down your arms,” Tithian demanded again, raising his hand to call down more quarrels.

“Wait!” Cathan replied. “If you loose, the Kingpriest might get hit. Do you want to explain that to Lord Revando?”

Tithian laughed bitterly. “Lord Revando would be happy to hear such a thing, don’t you think? Or he would, if my men weren’t moving in on him right now. He’ll be in irons long before we bring you back to the Lordcity.

“You do have a point about His Holiness, though. Tancred, get him out of there.”

It took Cathan a moment to register what the Grand Marshal said. He turned to look at his fair-haired nephew. His face coloring, Tancred stared down at the Kingpriest’s unmoving form. Beside him, Rath stared in disbelief.

“Brother? What is he talking about?”

Tancred said nothing at all. Tears ran down his cheeks.

“He sold you out, Rath,” Lord Tithian said. Another man might have gloated, but the Grand Marshal only sounded sad, tired. “He told us everything. We never would have known about any of this, otherwise—your plans for the Kingpriest, Lord Revando, the tunnels … and the perfidy of Lady Wentha.”

“Our own mother?” Rath shouted, his face dark. “You betrayed her, too?”

“I am a cleric of Paladine,” Tancred murmured. “My first duty is to the holy church. You should have understood that, brother.”

Rath began to sob. There might have been a spear twisting in his stomach, from the agony on his face. Cathan felt the same pain, worse than any he’d ever known. “Your duty is to your family,” he said. “And to your god. What is the church next to these?”

“You’re ruined us,” Rath gasped. His eyes were red, his mouth an anguished gash. “You ruined your family … all of us… for what? A better station in life? Do you think the Kingpriest will name you First Son for this?”

Tancred was shaking now, his hands covering his face. Everyone was staring at him. Cathan looked up at Tithian, saw the scorn on his former squire’s face. As happy as he was for the chance to block this coup, the Grand Marshal too loathed Tancred for this treachery. But as his attention was distracted, Rath’s face turned from misery to diamond-hard rage. His eyes became flat things, like shards of glass. He glanced down at the dagger he was still holding in his hand.

Cathan reached out, too late to stop him. “No, Rath, don’t—”

With a cry, Rath leapt at his brother. Tancred turned, started to raise his own knife—then suddenly he was fallings Rath’s blade buried to the hilt in his side, under his left arm. Blood poured from the wound onto the ground.

“Brother,” Tancred said, bubbles frothing on his lips—then he died.

His own dagger had landed but a grazing blow to his brother’s leg. Rath pressed a hand to the wound, then seized the hilt of his knife and pulled it free of his brother’s body. He stood still, staring at the streaks of red on the blade.

“Oh, gods,” he wept.

The knights nervously held their fire.

“That was just,” Tithian declared. “Now—”

Screaming, Rath raised his dagger again and dashed toward the Grand Marshal. A dozen bolts whirred through the air. Again Cathan was too late, and Rath lay sprawled on the ground. He hadn’t made it three steps. The knights who had fired worked their crossbows, cranking back the strings to reload.

Cathan stared hopelessly at his nephews, lifeless things among the pine needles. How would he ever face Wentha again? Would he ever see his sister again, anyway? He fell to his knees, Ebonbane dropping from his hand.

“Good,” Tithian said. “Now, the rest of you follow Cathan’s lead, and there will be no more bloodshed today.”

Idar’s men glanced around. An invisible signal passed among them, a grim look the knights didn’t miss. They shifted nervously. Cathan sighed, part of him wishing he could pick up his sword and join them in their fight, but Tancred’s and Rath’s deaths had robbed him of willpower. He could only sit, his arms limp at his sides, and watch as the rebels charged the Hammer, weapons held high.

Of the band of thirty, twenty died in the first few heartbeats, cut down beneath a hail of crossbow bolts. The rest fell in sword fighting, one by one, until their bodies lay scattered before the Forino like a child’s playthings. Lord Tithian, standing back from the close fighting, never even had to draw his blade.

Cathan bowed his head. He felt dead inside.

“Damned fools,” Tithian said. “Throwing their lives away. There was no glory in that.”

Beldinas writhed with a groan. The bloodblossom was wearing off. Tithian knelt beside him for a moment, then signaled to his lieutenant. “Bron, get him out of here. The Miceram as well … and these.” He picked up the Disks, handed them to the young, horse-faced knight. “Get them away from this… scene.”

Murmuring assent, Sir Bron did as he was told. Half a dozen knights descended into the gully and picked up the Kingpriest and carried him and his relics away. Tithian lifted up Ebonbane, and knelt down beside Cathan. He rested a hand on his former master’s shoulder “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Are you?” Cathan asked, looking up. “Do you really regret this slaughter, Tithian?”

“The need for it,” Tithian said. “Yes.”

“Then promise me, before you take me away. Promise you’ll do two things for me, for the friendship we once shared.”

The Grand Marshal flinched, but nodded. “If it is in my power. What do you want of me?”

“Wentha.” Cathan caught hold of Tithian’s arm “She must never know about Tancred. Never.”

“You didn’t need to ask that. She will not know that pain, I swear it”

“Thank you,” Cathan said, tears forming in his eyes.

“And the other thing?”

Cathan drew a long, shuddering breath. “What will happen to my sister?”

“She’ll be sold into slavery,” Tithian replied evenly. “Nothing menial. There are many families who would buy her for a house-servant. I’m sorry, Cathan, she has betrayed the Kingpriest—I can’t change our laws.

“She mustn’t stay here,” Cathan pleaded. “Not in the Lordcity, not in the heartland. See to it, Tithian—make sure that when she’s sold, she’s sent far away.”

Tithian frowned. “Why?”

But Cathan didn’t reply. He only leaned back, lay one over his burning eves, and let sorrow and sleep wash over him.

Chapter 21

Gabbro tightened his grip on the haft of his axe, squinting in the darkness. He was chewing khog, a dried fungus from faraway Thorbardin, and when he spat it made a black stain on the floor tit the tunnel. He stared through the peephole of the secret door, which led out of the catacombs through a buttress at the base of one of Calah’s many bridges. It was night out, and the canals that ran through the island-city gleamed like ribbons of silver in Solinari’s light. The sounds of drunken singing from the waterfront taverns echoed across the canel.

Idar was late. That worried the dwarf. He’d followed the man for nearly ten years now, moving back and forth between Chidell and the Lordcity and all the cities of Istar’s heartland, and in all that time Idar had never been more than an hour behind schedule. Once, when they’d raided the slave pens at Kautilya’s bronze foundries, and Idar had taken an arrow in his side, he’d still made it back to the tunnels on time. But now, by Gabbro’s best guess, it was over two hours since he and the rest were due to show up with the Kingpriest in tow—and still not a sign. They should now be making their approach by boat, moving stealthily into Calah and up to the bridge. But there was nothing… no boats, no sign of anything.

Gabbro spat again, darkening the floor even worse. Behind him, he heard the faint murmur of voices, then the flapping of goblin feet. He fought back a ripple of disgust at the stink of the hunched, snaggle-toothed creature that lurched up next to him.

“You should be at your post, Akku,” he growled. “I told you I’d shout if I saw anything.”

The goblin’s beetle-brow lowered. The creature glared at him with murderous yellow eyes. Akku hated Gabbro; only their common enemy kept them from going for each other’s throats. Gabbro already had plans for killing the creature once Beldinas was kidnapped and safely put away, and Lord Revando on the throne. He suspected Akku planned the same for him.

“Man no coming,” grunted the monster. “We wait long. Tired.” He yawned, baring a mouth full of brown-crusted fangs.

Gabbro rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a kender’s damn if you’re tired,” he shot back. “You get back to where you belong now, or I swear—”

He stopped. He heard something—a soft thump, as of a boat pulling up to the bridge’s base. He lost interest in Akku immediately, turning back to the secret door. There they were: two rowboats, each loaded with cloaked men, without any lanterns. A third drifted up behind. Gabbro frowned; there were supposed to be four boats. Had Idar met up with trouble, lost that many of his men? He lowered his axe, his bearded face splitting into a grin. Whatever … the loss would be worth it, to uncrown the Lightbringer, at last.

“Come on,” he muttered, watching the figures get off the boats. They were certainly taking their time. “Hurry it up, before someone sees you.”

Then Lunitari slid out from behind a drifting cloud, and his smile vanished. Its red light hit the cloaked men sidelong, revealing not the drab greens and browns of Idar’s force, but surcoats of white, over glinting chain mail. He glimpsed the burning sigil on their breasts, and all at once felt as he had the time he’d fallen into a frozen lake as a child. “Hammer!” he bellowed, whirling so fast he almost cut Akku in half with his axe. “It’s the Reorx-be -damned Divine Hammer!”

The goblin’s ruddy face turned pale with fear. He stood very still for a moment, then turned and ran, his feet flapping away in the shadows. Farther down the passage, other voices picked up Gabbro’s cry. Some of the rebels might flee; but others would stand and fight. Staring out the peephole, the dwarf had no illusions that any of them would get out of the tunnels alive. Someone had betrayed them, and he spent what he figured would be the last moments of his life dreaming up innovative curses against them. Old High Dwarven was a very versatile language when it came to curses.

“Gudruz dar morakh… agradoth boru ngazung… kai throntar gon-raxanum…”

The secret door opened outward; there was no way to bar it from within. Gabbro planted his feet wide apart, holding his axe two-handed as the knights approached. They found the entrance with ease, and just as easily managed the hidden catch that appeared to be a rusted old hook sticking out of the stones. The lead knight gestured to his men—some two dozen, with more pouring off the third boat—and as one they drew their weapons. Swords, maces, and hammers glinted in the silver moon’s glow; crossbows, too. Gabbro glowered at them through the peephole: If he was going to die, he’d drag a few of the Hammer with him.

The lead knight twisted the hook. The door swung open. Gabbro leapt out, roaring a dwarvish battle cry as he brought his axe down on the knight’s shoulder. Flesh and bone gave, and the man went down with a howl that choked off as the blade rammed down through his ribs into his heart. Gabbro yanked it free, whirled, and hit another knight in the neck, almost taking his head off. Then a hot pain lanced through him as a sword pierced his back. He swept around, spitting blood at whoever had just stabbed him. He saw only the edge of a blade, and just for an instant, as it arced around and caught him just above the eyes. Then it all stopped.

*****

The Divine Hammer moved in all across Istar that night, sweeping the heartland and the provinces alike. Every city had its tunnels, and Tancred MarSevrin had told Lord Tithian where most of them were—the Araifas did the rest. The Grand Marshal had borrowed a dozen of the church’s clockwork falcons, and sent them winging their tireless way to the ends of the empire, with orders to strike at the rebels. In Karthay and Lattakay, Micah and Jaggana, Govinna and Edessa, Tucuri and Pesaro and Chidell and the Lordcity itself, the knights went to the concealed entrances and forced their way into the catacombs.

In a few places, the rebels fought back mightily, and the toll was heavy on both sides; in others, they tried only to escape. It didn’t matter. The Hammer were many, and well-trained, and easily overcame the rebels. Dwarf and goblin, half-ogre and heretic, all died that night, their blood running down the tunnels in rivulets. In two hours’ time, all organized resistance against the church vanished.

Then the knights started to move in on targets above ground.

*****

Wentha MarSevrin could not say how, but she knew her sons were dead. She was in her private garden, staring into a silver reflecting pool when she felt an ache so deep, it was like something gnawing its way out of her from within. She staggered with the shock, groaning, and fell against the pool’s rim, her right hand slipping into the water. Servants came running, offering her aid. She waved them off, sent them away with a strangled voice. Breathing hard, Wentha stumbled to a bench, sat down, and threw her head back to stare at the night sky, whose stars were swallowed by the Lordcity’s own light.

“My boys,” she cried. “Oh, Paladine, what have they done to you?”

She couldn’t guess the fate of Cathan. Her brother was out there still, somewhere—with Beldinas, maybe? There was still a chance that Idar and the rest had succeeded, despite whatever had befallen Rath and Tancred. There was still a chance that all they’d worked for, in secret, all these long years, had not come to crashing failure tonight. There was still a chance that they might prevail.

Then she heard the pounding on her manor’s gates, the harsh shout made hollow and strange by a visored helm. “Anlugud fe cado Comuras Ufib!”

Open, in the name of the Divine Hammer!

Wentha shut her eyes. The guards at the gate would try to stall the knights; so would the servants. It would do no good. They had found her out and now she was trapped. There was no chance left, any more, at least not for her.

Tears in her eyes, she rose from the bench and walked inside, toward the vestibule to greet her guests.

*****

Lord Revando’s private study was an austere place, devoid of the gild work and jewels and redolent incense the First Sons before him had favored. Save for the red rose-windows and the platinum triangle that hung upon the wall, it might have belonged to the abbot of some wilderness monastery; the walls were bare stone, a simple, woven carpet lay upon the floor, and only a desk of plain snow wood, three benches, an ordinary foot-chest, and a modest shrine adorned the room. The other hierarchs had come to regard his domicile as an eccentricity, and never mentioned it in his presence—nor did they come to visit him more than necessary, which was fine with him. He loathed every powdered, perfumed one of them, even though he had to wear the powder and perfume at court as well.

He was sitting at his desk now, in the middle of the night His bedchamber stood empty and dark. He hadn’t even tried to sleep tonight. Instead he waited quietly, lost in thought, a goblet of wine sitting untouched beside him. He had poured the wine himself, after dismissing his servants early.

This was the hardest part. He’d planned it all, gone to such great lengths to insinuate himself into the Kingpriest’s court, taken charge of the rebels in their tunnels and subterranean chambers, planned and plotted and schemed like some character out of an Odaceran blood-play. He’d devoted his whole life to this night, and what was happening—had already happened, certainly—leagues away at the Forino and at Calah. And now, with the fate of the empire hanging, he knew nothing. Nor would he know anything until morning—only when the rest of the court learned of the Lightbringer’s disappearance would he himself be certain it had all worked according to his plans.

He glanced at the wine, raised his eyebrows, then stood and paced to the shrine. It was austere as the rest of his office, a humble altar with an icon of the god in his form as the platinum dragon, flanked by tapers of white beeswax. He knelt before it, signing the triangle, then kissed his fingers and pressed them to Paladine’s image.

“They do unspeakable things in your name, my god,” he whispered, so softly he did little more than mouth the words. “They spread woe in the name of righteousness, hatred in the name of virtue. They are blind to you, dazzled by the Kingpriest’s light. Please, in the name of all who have suffered falsely in your name… in the name of the darkness and the light… let it end. Let me set it aright, once and for all.”

Revando shut his eyes. He had never heard Paladine’s voice, had never felt his presence. That did nothing to stifle his belief. He ached for his god, and what had been wrought in his name.

“First Son,” said a soft voice.

Revando started snapping out of his trance. He turned, rising from his knees, and saw the one who had spoken: a shining figure, clad in robes of silver that shimmered like moonlight on water. He had an elf’s face, but with deep lines of age, of caring and regret. A wispy, white beard hung down over his chest.

He knew this elf, but only by reputation. He’d been a young priest, still an acolyte at the temple in Pedrun, when Loralon of Silvanesti departed Istar. Loralon had been Emissary before Quarath, a just and wise man by all accounts, and Kurnos the Deceiver had exiled him as a traitor. There had been no word of the ancient elf since, and Revando had assumed he was dead. He had been more than five hundred summers old when he left the Lordcity, older than any of his kind. Now Loralon stood by the window, his kind eyes heavy on the First Son. Looking closer, Revando shivered as he noted the veins of the marble wall shining through the elf’s body.

“I am not here,” Loralon said. “My spirit dwells now with E’li, whom you call Paladine. He sent me to you, Aulforo, so that you will understand.”

Revando gaped, stunned. “Understand what?”

“That he loves you, as he loves all his true servants,” Loralon replied. “You must know this, so you will not despair.”

“Despair… oh, no.” The First Son fell back, nearly tripped over the altar. One of the candles toppled to the floor and guttered out. Hope died with it. “They failed… didn’t they?” The elf-ghost nodded.

Revando put a hand to his head. The world swayed. “How?”

“They were betrayed by the youngest of the MarSevrins. Do not hate him, First Son. Young Tancred worked the will of E’li, though he did not know it.”

“Paladine’s will?” Revando demanded. Fury boiled up in him. “That all our effort should end like this? That the Lightbringer remains on the throne, and the Balance continues to slide? How can this be what the god wants?”

“It is not for us to question” Loralon answered, shaking his head solemnly. He moved forward, and Revando noticed for the first time that his feet did not touch the floor. “But I will show you something, if you will let me.”

Revando opened his mouth to spit blasphemy, to denounce this whim of Paladine and all he had ever believed in… then his gaze flicked back to Loralon, and his voice died. Tears streaked that ancient face. The elf was hurting for him, hurting for everyone who suffered this night. And, Revando realized, the god did too. He lowered his eyes, his face coloring with shame.

“Show me,” he said.

Loralon reached out, long fingers grasping. They passed through Revando’s robes into his chest, and he felt them and yet did not feel them as they curled around his beating heart.

And he saw everything that would transpire.

When it was done, he crumpled to his knees, sobbing. There was relief in knowing what the god foresaw … but there was also grief, so much grief. He looked up, the enormity of what Loralon had just shared echoing in his soul.

“Must it happen this way?” he asked.

“The Balance has shifted too far,” Loralon replied. “If there were any other road, do you not think E’li would prefer it?”

Revando took a moment to compose himself. He was breathing hard. He hated himself for his foolish pride … he’d felt so sure of his plans, so in control of everything, but now he knew better. He did not sit in charge of the khas table; he was only another piece on the board. “What will happen to me now?”

“They are coming to arrest you,” the elf answered simply. “They have already taken or killed everyone else. The rebellion is over, and the Lightbringer shall keep his throne. They will sell you into slavery.”

The First Son glanced at his desk, then back at Loralon. “No,” he said. “They will not.”

Loralon studied him a moment, then nodded. “It is your choice, First Son. But the god does not look well upon those who take this decision.”

“I know,” Revando said. “But I must choose my path anyway. If Paladine will accept my decision, though, I would like to redeem myself first.”

The elf’s brow furrowed. “How?”

“Let me be his prophet.”

The ancient eyes widened a little bit, and Revando felt a little pleasure at having surprised Loralon the Wise. His face grew distracted momentarily, as if his attention had been drawn away. Then, smiling, the elf-ghost nodded. “E’li agrees,” he said. “But be quick, Aulforo. They are nearly here.”

Then he was gone—no flash of light, no glimmering. He simply vanished. Revando stood alone, the elf’s after-image fading from his sight. His heart ached terribly for what had happened tonight, and what would shortly follow. But there was also relief, and peace. The game was not quite over for him.

Calmly, he walked back to the desk, found a sheet of parchment, and lifted a quill from an inkwell. He wrote quickly, in bold, sure strokes, the scratching of pen on paper the only sound in the room—until he was done, and another sound arose: the distant rapping of boots on stone, coming from the hall outside. He listened for a moment as the footsteps grew closer, then smiled.

“Palado,” he murmured. “Mas pirhtas calsud. Adolasbrigim paripud, e me bisud com, iudun donbulas. Sifat.”

Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought, and guide me home, beyond the stars. So be it.

The footsteps reached his door. A fist pounded on it, calling on him to open in the name of the Divine Hammer. Revando smiled, and reached for the goblet.

*****

The knight pounded on the door for the third time. Quarath rolled his eyes in irritation. It was clear that Revando would not obey. It would have been clear to a child.

“The coward will not heed you, Vansard,” Quarath said.

Sir Vansard of Gamesh bristled. He had a thick moustache that made him look like some sort of exotic sea creature. “We must give him three warnings,” he huffed. “It is written in the laws that—”

“Yes, yes,” Quarath said, waving his hand. “It is written, but that is three. So will you get on with it?”

Vansard eyed him coldly. He had little use for elves, and would have rejoiced to see them leave the Lord city. For his part, Quarath was not terribly happy with the Divine Hammer just now. Lord Tithian hadn’t even told him what was afoot tonight—any of it! He’d had to find out from his own sources in the knighthood. He’d managed to catch up with Sir Vansard’s party as it was on its way to Wentha MarSevrin’s manor, just in time to pronounce the decree of arrest on her. She was in custody now, in the dungeon beneath the Temple—soon to be joined by the First Son, if the blasted knights ever knocked down the door.

His true annoyance he saved for Lord Revando. That the man had managed to orchestrate all this—right under my nose, Quarath thought angrily—rankled the elf deeply. The Kingpriest had been betrayed by his inner circle. That circle ought to be narrowed to one. With the First Son and Twice-Born gone, and the First Daughter in his camp, there would be only the Grand Marshal left to challenge Quarath. And he would find a way to deal with Lord Tithian, soon enough.

The doors of Revando’s apartments were strong, but the knights brought forth a small ram, wrought of iron, with handles so four men could wield it. They did so, at Sir Vansard’s command, plunging it into the doors once… twice…

On the third stroke, the bolt shattered, and the doors flew inward. Crossbows and swords at the ready, the knights surged in. Quarath followed discreetly behind them, the words of the arrest decree on his lips.

He never got a chance to speak them. Lord Revando sat slumped at his desk, his head on one shoulder, his eyes open. A smile had frozen on his face. His right hand hung down at his side, and a goblet lay on the floor. A dark stain marked the carpet where wine had spilled from it.

A shudder of revulsion worked its way through Quarath. His people saw self-murder as an ignoble act, an affront to the god. So did the Istaran church. The First Son had been weak to the last Quarath idly wondered what poison he’d used.

“Dead,” said Sir Van sard, his fingers pressed to the corpse’s throat

Quarath rolled his eyes again. “Get the body out of here,” he said. “Burn it unhallowed, outside the city gates. This is an affront to the god’s sight.” He turned to go.

“Emissary?” the knight asked.

The elf stopped. “What is it now?”

“I think you should see this.”

Sir Vansard had a parchment in his hand. The ink shone on it, still wet. One of Quarath’s eyebrows rose. He gestured, and the knight brought it to him.

Dagenas tarn burmint, the message read, c trodeini fint.

Usas sifasom pulmas ispatrint, e bomo sas fumam ansint alib.

Rufuro banit e mulfam gnissit bid sas daubas e gormas mif onsomno.

Abo ourfam segit.

Doboram predit.

Cabo plobit.

Catmo e armufo parblefint.

Libo spigit on courdo.

Banbas pilsint.

Fro fram figorit.

Iupram brielit.

Nas farnas flifint do nas sonnas.

Igonfo bomam figorit fe retio.

Launo flonit, e ourfas spodo spladam boscit op mulfo.

Idumes, mulfo pila abagnit.

Tair opa homo, fe mufo, usas sculfit netum, bo balfam onnat!

The signs shall warn you, and they shall be thirteen.

The gods shall withdraw their hands from the world, and man shall face his doom alone.

The sky shall lament and beat the earth with its tears and cries of anguish.

Fear shall visit the land.

Light shall be devoured. Hope shall flee.

Darkness and despair shall be rekindled.

The flame shall fail on the hearth.

The plains will be cleansed.

Brother shall turn against brother.

Knowledge shall be veiled.

Our children shall bleed for our sins.

Nature shall turn against man in outrage.

The bounty shall end, and the blood of the land will wash the blot from the earth.

Finally, the very earth shall awaken!

If ever man, in pride, should challenge the gods, woe betide the world!

Quarath held the parchment tightly, his mouth twisted. These were the words of a man newly dead, and thus they were a sacred testament. They caused a stirring of fear deep within him. Yet Revando had been a usurper, a coward of the worst kind. What traitor did not wish doom upon his realm, when he himself faced doom?

“Eminence?” Sir Vansard asked. “What is it?”

He read the parchment again, to commit the words to memory. Then he shook his head, walked to the First Son’s body, and angrily crammed the missive into the man’s belt. The ink smeared as he did so, obscuring the writing.

“Nothing,” he said. “The raving of a madman. Let it burn with him.”

Chapter 22

Date Uncertain

Cathan saw the burning mountain often now, for there was little else to see in a world that was darkness, silence, and chill—a small room with stone walls and rushes on the floor, its arched ceiling low enough that he scraped his head on it whenever he stood up. There was a cot, a blanket, a chamberpot. There were no windows. The door was thick and heavy, admitting no light except for quick blinding stabs when his keepers appeared to give him food and water. That was the only way to mark the passing of time. Cathan soon lost count of the days.

Not that he cared about time any more. He was ruined. He knew he would dwell here, in the darkness and the silence and the cold, for the rest of his life.

Few in Istar knew of the imperial dungeons, hidden far below the Great Temple. Yet Cathan was one of those few, for he had often come here when he was part of the Divine Hammer. This was where the church brought its worst undesirables, the villains it did not burn… or sell into slavery, these days. The ones Cathan himself had imprisoned included leaders of death-cults, prelates of the dark gods, traitors against the empire. Some were probably still here, somewhere… moldering and mad from the unending solitude. He could hear their cries, sometimes, through the walls. His fate would be no different: No one ever left these dungeons except on a bier.

It hurt to think of Rath and Tancred—their bodies burnt by the Hammer along with Idar and his men, then scattered without ceremony as he watched. It hurt worse to think of Wentha, marched out of her home and through the Lordcity in shame, directly to the slave market. She was someone’s property, now—dwelling, if Tithian kept his promise, somewhere far away. That was Cathan’s only solace. When the Kingpriest brought down the gods’ wrath, his sister might survive.

But I will not, he thought I will be here when the hammer falls.

They’d brought him out of the cell once only, blindfolded. He’d known he was bound for the Gapo Furpribon, the Chamber of Interrogation. It was an open, empty room with a dais at one end where three large, gilded chairs looked down upon a pit with iron chains to bind a man to the floor. In the time before the Kingpriests, this had been the supreme place of torture, with all manner of horrific mechanisms and implements to inflict punishment. The church had outlawed such practices when it assumed power; now it belonged to the inquisitors.

When the guards finished shackling him and tore off his blindfold he was greeted by a trio of high priests in robes fringed with crimson. The church no longer had any need for torture. The inquisitors worked in subtler ways, plying him with tainted wine and vapors from a censer they placed at his feet. He didn’t know what drugs they gave him, but they sat there in stony silence, watching him for more than an hour after the guards brought him in. Then they set to work.

“We know about Revando,” they told him. “He is dead. You cannot protect him now. Tell us, who else in the church was a part of this conspiracy?”

“Your sister had many friends in Lattakay. Did she ever speak of others who chose to betray the Lightbringer?”

“What of the magic you used? Where did Revando meet with the wizards?”

“Were there any in the knighthood who belonged to your cause?”

Despite the drags, despite their inuring:, honeyed voices, Cathan did all he could to resist them. He laughed like a madman, sang hymns and children’s songs, spat and cursed and fought his bonds. Even as he did this, he knew it was pointless. He would break; people always broke. He’d seen it many times before. Sometimes it would take a day, even two. Once, a high priest of Morgion had lasted a full week before he lay half-dead and sobbing before the inquisitors—but he bad still answered their questions in the end. The man had died the next day.

Still Cathan fought, though every fiber of his body ached to crumble, to tell them everything they wanted to know. They would break him, but he wouldn’t make it two more. He resisted well, and soon lines of annoyance marked the inquisitors’ stony faces.

“You must tell us what we need to know,” they said.

Cathan spat on the floor.

“Very well,” they said.

A door opened. A figure stepped into the room. He was a tall man, hawk-faced with a shaven head, cloaked completely in red. A large, white eye had been painted on his forehead. Cathan stiffened at the sight of him: He knew at once that the man was an Araifo, and a powerful one at that. He reflexively reached to his chest for the malachite amulet, but it was long gone, taken from him. His mind was open, unguarded. Every single notion in his head lay bare,

The man never said a word, simply looked at him, Cathan pressed his lips together, squeezed his eyes shut, beat his head against the ground, but could not keep out the thought-reader. His stare bored into Cathan; he gazed not just at him but through him. The man’s mind plunged in, pushing through memories and desire   fears and regrets, shoving them aside with no effort. There was no pain, though Cathan screamed anyway.

Then it was over. The Araifo’s gaze shifted to the inquisitors. The man shook his head. “He knows nothing important,” he murmured. Then he turned and left.

Cathan lay curled into a ball, whimpering and trembling. The inquisitors regarded him with cold curiosity, like scholars studying an insect

“By order of the Kingpriest, you are Foripon, cast out of the sight of Paladine and the other gods of light,” they informed him. “No one will have you as a slave, and you are too dangerous for the Games, so you will remain here, in our care. Your life will be hard and joyless, but it will be nothing beside what comes after. The Abyss awaits your soul, Cathan Twice-Born.”

He’d passed out then, and awoken back in the black stillness of his cell. And then the dreams came, more vivid than ever, in sleep and waking alike now.

He saw the Lordcity lying like a hoard of jewels on Lake Istar’s northern shore, the air ringing with the sound of voices—thousands of them, raised in prayer, and above them the Kingpriest’s own, calling out from within the crystal dome of the Temple. Calling upon the gods to do his bidding.

The hammer was their answer. It streaked down toward the city, wreathed in flame. The sky above Istar rained fire. The rain fell upon the city, and it burned. The people’s songs turned to shrieks of terror and agony. Cathan watched as walls crumbled, parapets fell, pleasant gardens turned into infernos. Men and women were thrown through the air like broken dolls, ran burning through the streets. The basilica of the Temple burst, flinging shards of crystal into the air. The Lordcity disappeared, utterly destroyed.

The destruction spread, moving across the empire—first the heartland, then the protectorates and provinces. Wave after wave of ruin rippled outward, tearing the land to shreds. Cathan screamed until his throat felt rough as a whetstone, and then his voice splintered and failed him. But no one heard him.

He tried to tell the guards about his dream, those rare times they opened the door. He grabbed at them, babbling about the hammer and the rain of fire and the cracking of the world, but they paid him no heed. The dungeons were full of lunatics, raving that they were Huma Dragonbane resurrected, or foretelling the world’s ending in endlessly imaginative ways. What was one more madman?

“In time, Cathan gave up, and most of the time lay still and silent, even when the guards visited with food. Despair took him. The hammer would fall, and that would be the end. There was nothing left but to wait for death.

“Palado,” he murmured in the dark, over and over, “me paripud.”

Forgive me.

*****

That’s strange, he thought one day. A visitor.

He was lying on his cot, curled up. He was awake but his eyes were closed, so at first he didn’t see the presence within his cell. Still, he felt the unmistakable sense of another, one who wasn’t a guard. There was light, too—a glimmer that showed red through his eyelids—and an odor, one he’d never expected to smell again. It was so strange, it took him a moment to recognize the attar of roses, sweet and heady, so different from the familiar dankness of the dungeon. And, if anything, the air was warmer than before. A frown worked its way onto his face. Was this some new trick of Fistandantilus?

He let his eyelids crack open. The cell was lit as bright as day, by something akin to the steady gold of sunlight. It stung his eyes, making him draw back against the wall and throw up an arm to ward it off. Slowly, his eyes began to adjust. There was… a tall, slender figure, either human or elf. Blinking, he forced himself to focus, to make out features.

His visitor was a woman of middle age, perhaps ten years younger than him. She wore clerical robes, but in a style that had been outdated for decades: white with purple trim, an amethyst circlet on her brow. Her face was kindly, but at the same time cool, like a marble statue. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun. He recognized her immediately, for he had once known her.

“Efisa?” he breathed.

Lady Ilista smiled sadly. “Young Cathan. Only not so young any more, I see.”

Cathan had seen ghosts before. They walked the ruins of Losarcum, sometimes, and the shade of Pradian, a long-dead would-be Kingpriest, had helped him recover the Miceram beneath Govinna. But this was Ilista, once First Daughter of Paladine, and she seemed solid flesh. She looked exactly the same as she had forty years ago, when she had died defending the Lightbringer from a demon. If Cathan hadn’t known better, he would have thought her a living being.

“What is this?” he whispered, lest the guards hear. “Are you returned from the afterworld?”

“Not exactly,” Ilista replied, and shook her head. “Not all of us can cheat death as you did, Twice-Born.”

“Is this … is this the end? Has the god sent you to take me back?”

Her smile disappeared. Her eyes shining, she reached out to touch his cheek. Her hand felt warm and real against his flesh. “Poor man,” she said gently. “The torments you must have known, and to speak of your death with such hope in your voice … but no, Cathan. It is not time. Paladine sent me, but not to claim you. Your part in this is still not played out.”

“I should have known,” he muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He looked away from her, his mouth twisting. “What do you want of me, Efisa? There’s nothing I can do, not down here in the dark.”

“So you will not remain here,” she replied. “I will take you from this place, so you may perform one last task before Istar meets its doom.”

Again Cathan saw the burning hammer before him, ablaze as it streaked down upon the Lordcity. “Then it’s true. The end is near?”

Ilista nodded. “The Kingpriest’s hubris has grown too insidious, the people’s idolatry of him too great. The Balance is shifting. Any more, and it will collapse. The gods will not let that happen. If Beldinas continues to ignore the warnings they send, the hammer will fall.”

“But what can I do?” he repeated, his voice cracking. “He won’t listen to me, not after I betrayed him. I cannot stop him!”

“You are not meant to,” she said. “This you must understand: Even if you were to kill the Kingpriest, it would not stop the hammer. Istar must be destroyed.”

He stared at her. She looked back, regarding him with maddening sympathy. He boiled with anger, suddenly. “God’s blood Efisa!” he snapped. “How many thousands of innocents will die because of this? For what?”

“For the world ” she said. Tears broke free, running down her cheeks. “If Beldinas destroys the darkness, light will die with it Krynn needs the Balance to sustain it, or it will fall back into the formlessness of chaos. It nearly happened once already, a thousand years ago. Then, the Queen of Darkness and her minions nearly destroyed Krynn with their evil, and only Hums Dragonbane saved it.

“Now, it is good that threatens the Balance. Beldinas must not triumph, Twice-Born. Fear and power have corrupted him. He never should have become Kingpriest.”

Cathan blinked, his mouth working a moment before any words came out. “But you were the one who discovered him. You wanted him on the throne!”

“Not at first,” she answered. “He believed he was destined to rule Istar, and he made me believe, as well. After all, I thought, better him than Kurnos. But I was wrong, Cathan— Paladine showed me how wrong I was, after I died. Yes, he wanted me to find Beldyn, but not to put him on the throne. He was not meant to rule. Better someone else should wear the Crown, rather than him.”

For a moment Cathan saw himself as a young man, back beneath Govinna, in the fane where the Miceram had been hidden for so long. Only he—and the gods—knew that Pradian had offered the Crown to him, but he had turned it down—and then turned it down again three days later, when the enemy laid siege to the city walls. All out of loyalty to Beldinas. He slumped back onto his cot.

“I know,” Ilista said tenderly. “At first I despaired too, when I realized the truth. He was so good, so pure, it seemed… but he was also susceptible to power. The temptations were too great, and he was too naive. Now, all Istar must pay the price, if the world is to be saved. But there is something you must do, to make sure the light survives what is to come.”

He only stared, not comprehending her. He was too numb with shock. I could have been Kingpriest, he thought. If I had donned, the Miceram, none of this would have happened. Paladine, how was I to know?

Ilista stepped toward him, reaching out with her slender hands. He started to draw back out of trepidation, then stopped. This has to be, a voice within him said—the same kindly voice he’d heard in the Vault. Let it happen.

Gentle as falling snow, she set her fingers upon his brow.

*****

He awoke with a cry, in darkness once more. He stumbled and fell to his knees, retching. The world spun around him.

The images were a whirl and a blur, smeared across his mind like a fresco whose colors had run. He could remember little clearly, but something inside, some deeper part of him, understood what Ilista had shown him. One thing stood out: the Disks. He needed to find the Peripas. No matter what, the teachings of the good gods had to survive Istar’s destruction.

No matter what.

The disorientation passed. The nausea went away, the pounding in his head settled down to a dull ache. He sat up, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, and gazed around. “Ilista?” he asked. “Efisa, are you there?”

She was not.

Perhaps I imagined her, he thought. Perhaps I’ve gone mad. She had seemed so real, standing here in the cell… the cell…

The cell was gone. The floor beneath him was marble, the walls paneled in snowwood. A cool breeze blew through an open window, carrying silver moonlight. Stunned, he got to his feet and looked out—onto the Temple gardens, far below.

“Palado Calib,” he breathed, offering a quick prayer of thanks. He was free of the dungeon, in some empty room within the Temple’s many cloisters. Ilista had rescued him; now, standing in the shadows, he swore he wouldn’t let her down.

He looked out the window. It was autumn now. He’d been in the dungeon for over half a year. He saw himself clearly in the starlight: He was gaunt; his time in the dungeons had wasted his muscles, leaving skin and bones. He looked older than his years. His beard was long and shaggy, much of his hair had fallen out. But there was still strength left in him, and he knew it came from the god.

His face grim, Cathan turned away from the window. He had a job to do, and there was little time left.

Chapter 23

TENTHMONTH, 962 I.A.

Quarath padded up the steps of the imperial manse, moving as quickly as decorum allowed. His face betrayed no emotion, none of the worry or irritation he felt. He had awoken to the sound of knocking at his chamber door. His steward, an elf named Melias, had apologetically handed him a scroll with the falcon-and-triangle seal of the Kingpriest. Quarath hadn’t even bothered to break that seal; he knew it was an imperial summons. He’d received many these past few weeks.

The frequency of the summonses was about annoyed him. The worry was over what awaited him when he arrived.

It was still a little more than an hour before dawn, and the windows at the top of the stair were dark. A young acolyte whose name the elf neither knew nor cared to learn stepped onto the landing to greet him.

“Eminence,” the boy said, signing the triangle. “We are glad you could come—”

“What is it this time?” Quarath snapped. “Can’t you people deal with these episodes?”

The acolyte flushed, bowing his head. “We have tried, Eminence. He locks himself in, and will not let us enter. He says he is waiting for one he trusts.”

Quarath rolled his eyes, waving the boy out of his way. “All right, then. You may go.”

The boy was gone in an eyeblink. Quarath pushed through a door at the top of the stairs into a parlor decorated with brocaded tapestries showing scenes from legend, including the forging of the dragonlances, the surrender by the Khan of Dravinaar to Kingpriest Theorollyn I, the crowning of Beldinas before the Pantheon of Govinna. The hangings rippled as Quarath swept up to a second door at the room’s far end. It was plated with gold, etched with the eleven-pointed shape of the Miceram. The elf stopped, smoothed his robes, and tugged a silk cord beside the door. A soft chime, bells made of silver, sounded within.

“I told you to go away!” came the muffled reply. “I will not see anyone!”

Quarath sighed. He heard the tightness of that voice, the tremor in its tone. “Holiness,” he replied, “it is I. Will you not let me enter?”

There was a silence. When it came, the voice was closer. “Emissary? Are you alone?”

“Of course, sire. I wish only to enter, and to speak with you alone,” Your servants have all fled, he added silently.

Again, the voice didn’t answer right away, giving Quarath time to reflect. I should be glad, he told himself. The Kingpriest would not dare meet with anyone else when he was like this—not First Daughter Elsa, not Grand Marshal Tithian. There was no First Son these days, for none had been named to replace Lord Revando, but if there had been, the elf knew Beldinas wouldn’t trust him, either. But Quarath had been the Lightbringer’s right hand throughout his reign. The Kingpriest—all Istar—could not function without his guidance.

“Holiness?” Quarath ventured again.

The answer was a soft click, a bolt opening. The door made no other sound as it swung open an inch; the hand that opened it darted back into the shadows of the room beyond. That hand glowed with inner light, but the fingers trembled like leaves in an autumn wind.

Quarath entered without pause. He shut and bolted the door behind him, his hand lingering on the latch, then bit his lip and turned to face the source of the only light in the room. The windows were covered over with satin drapes, and the candles on the bedside table and the corner shrine stood untouched.

Beldinas was back in his bed, huddled under goose-down in a frame of bejeweled snowwood, swamped in great drifts of cushions and pillows. The sheets appeared in disarray, tangled and sweat-soaked. The Kingpriest trembled as Quarath stepped toward him. He still wore the Crown, which half-obscured his face.

“There is nothing to be afraid of, Holiness,” the elf declared, gesturing around him. “It is you and me only. No one else is here.”

Beldinas shuddered, radiating mistrust, and didn’t answer, though he slowly sat up. It was all Quarath could do not to gnash his teeth. It had been like this every morning, since the Kingpriest’s return from the Forino.

He suffered night terrors—and often day terrors too, if truth be told.

“Sire?” Quarath pleaded. “Will you not come here?”

Hesitantly, the Kingpriest nodded, then rose from the bed.

“He’s close, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, Holiness?”

“Lord Cathan,” Beldinas declared. His voice caught, with something between relief and disappointment. “Has he not come?”

This again, Quarath thought, biting his lip to keep from speaking aloud. Quarath had been sure the episodes of terror would pass, but if anything they were getting worse. This was the third time this week he had come here, while the sky still held no promise of dawn, to soothe Beldinas’s mind.

“What did you see in your dreams this time, Holiness?” he asked. “Tell me.”

Beldinas’s band rose to his mouth, stayed there a moment, then fell. “Trees,” he said. “Trees… with daggers. I tried to run, but my legs would not move… .” He bowed his head, gasping.

Quarath reached out, penetrating the holy aura, to rest a hand on the Kingpriest’s arm. He’d heard Lord Tithian’s report, of the charms the traitors had used to make themselves seem as trees, so they could hide in wait for him. The bloodblossom oil the Twice-Born had given him had burned this image into Beldinas’s mind. No doubt that explained his ravings about Lord Cathan, as well—ridiculous, when the man was locked away for good, in a place from which there was no escape.

“It is all right, sire,” the elf said soothingly. “There are no trees here, and no daggers either. There is only you and me, don’t you see?”

Beldinas shifted, pulling away from Quarath’s touch, but just then something flashed on the floor beside his bed, a metallic gleam catching his glow. The elf frowned, then leaned in to peer closer. His breath caught when he saw rune-stamped platinum: the Peripas! The gods’ true words, the manifestation of their very will, and here the Disks lay in a heap, as if the Kingpriest had simply cast them aside. A rush of indignance flooded Quarath, its vehemence surprising even him.

“I can’t find it,” Beldinas muttered, following his gaze. “I can’t find the answer.”

“You’ve been looking for only six months,” Quarath responded mildly, as though to a child, while stooping to lift the Disks from the floor. “Scholars could pore over these for half a lifetime, and still not read them all.” He set them gently on the foot of the bed. They made delicate music as they left his grasp.

The Kingpriest stared at the Peripas. “It didn’t take Huma Dragonbane this long to find the gods’ power. He had their help, and I do not.” He rapped his knuckles twice against his temples, hard, then crept over pillow and blanket to kneel before the Disks. “Why do they hide their grace from me? They must reveal to me their insights and power! They must—I am their chosen!”

“Certainly, Holiness,” Quarath replied, shrugging inwardly. He had heard this speech before; his irritation matched the Lightbringer’s frustration. The Disks required patience—anyone could see that. “Will you not be leaving the manse today, to see to affairs at court?”

“Court?” the Kingpriest shot back. He grabbed up the Peripas, which clanked and clattered unpleasantly as he raised them. “When I still haven’t found what I need from these? No, Emissary—of course I won’t be leaving the manse today. I have too much reading to do.”

“I understand, sire.”

Beldinas half-rose, turning away. “Good. Now go, and do not interrupt me again!”

Part of Quarath rankled at being dismissed so abruptly, but it was something of a relief as well. In truth, he told himself as he walked back to the door, he preferred days when the Kingpriest stayed in his room, when he could govern the empire without distraction. There would be no court today ; he would spend the day in his own study, reading reports from across Istar, issuing decrees and writs and proclamations in the Kingpriest’s name. He had spent many years waiting patiently for the chance to rule, and he relished every opportunity.

Quarath eyed Beldinas from the doorway, his brow faintly furrowed. He’d seen one Kingpriest go mad, when Lord Kurnos’s allies had abandoned him and embraced the Lightbringer. Now, regarding the frenzied way Beldinas was leafing through the Disks, he knew it was happening again.

“I will return after evening prayers,” he declared solemnly. “Please eat something before then, Holiness.”

Beldinas ignored him, his attention fast upon the Peripas. He muttered to himself as he read, searching for the secrets. One eyebrow raised, the elf withdrew, easing the door shut behind him. The bolt quickly shot home behind him.

Quarath glanced back, then shook his head and looked down. He ignored the young acolyte’s questioning look as he passed him, his mind already on the day ahead. The Lightbringer was meditating, he would tell the courtiers. Perhaps he would attend to them tomorrow. They would be disappointed, but he didn’t particularly care. Istar could go on perfectly well without the Kingpriest, with him in charge.

Out the front doors of the manse, and down the garden path in the predawn darkness, his mind traveled ahead of him. His thoughts were so intent, he never saw the shadow watching him from the shelter of the Garden of Martyrs.

*****

Cathan crouched low in the Garden of Martyrs, watching Quarath. He’d found sandals and a clerical habit in a wardrobe near where Lady Ilista had left him. With the hood drawn low to hide his eyes, and his scabby hands hidden in huge sleeves, he looked no different from the other priests in Istar—and there were hundreds of priests. He could move about the Temple with freedom—until the guards in the dungeon noticed he was missing, and raised the alarm. With luck, it would be hours before that happened.

When he’d seen the Emissary emerge from Beldinas’s manse, however, he’d scrambled for cover. Quarath’s senses might pick up on something the human clerics missed. Cathan knew that if the elf got a good look at him, his disguise might not matter. So he hunkered down, losing himself in the shadows, keeping quiet. Finally, when Quarath disappeared into the basilica, he let himself breathe again.

He also relaxed his grip on the wooden cudgel he’d managed to procure from a storeroom. He would have preferred a sword, but he felt lucky enough to find any weapon. He would have used the club on Quarath if it came to that. The thought sickened him, but he recognized that the elf would be dead soon anyway, with or without his help. So would everyone else in the Lordcity. He glanced at the sky, feeling the hammer hanging above him, and shivered.

The manse was guarded as always: two knights, armed with halberds, stood watch, and more than a dozen others would materialize at its front gates in a heartbeat, if the call went out. Fortunately, there were other ways in, besides the gates. There was a servants’ entrance that the acolytes used, but it too had guards. The upper levels had many windows and balconies, but he would be spotted if he tried to climb in from below. There was even a covered walkway that ran directly to the basilica, but there was no way he could reach it from the ground.

Still, there was one way known only to the Kingpriest’s innermost circle. He walked gently on the crushed-crystal paths, around to a quiet bower in the southernmost part of the grounds. Silvernut trees grew there, their drooping branches heavy with their long, white fruit, and a reflecting pool ringed with benches stood in its midst. The place was deserted, though one small, gold-furred monkey that was perched on the back of a bench watched him with curiosity.

He prayed to Paladine for luck.

Clenching his teeth, he edged forward. The monkey watching him suddenly shrieked; there was a shudder all around him, and the monkey’s cry was cut off. He felt for a moment as if he were pushing through warm liquid, then the air around him changed, from cool and breezy to warm and stifling. The scent of silverfruit changed to faint incense. He opened his eyes, and saw he was inside.

Symeon, the first Kingpriest, had ordered this entrance put here when the Temple was built. In those days, the Orders of High Sorcery had still been friends to the church, and so the imperial manse was built with an open archway on its south side, hidden from view by magic. The Kingpriests and their advisors used this way only rarely, and then only in times of trouble. Fortunately, though wizards were long gone from Istar, the enchantment remained.

He found himself in a small meditation room, dark but for one candle burning before an icon of the platinum dragon. Ruddy light spilled from beneath a door. Swallowing, he moved to the door and cracked it open, just an inch.

There were stairs on the other side, and nothing—no one-else. They led up into the Kingpriest’s private chambers. Blue carpet cushioned each step. Cathan climbed them quickly, as silent as dust falling, and stopped when he reached the doors at the top. They were gilded, marked with the imperial sigil. He held the cudgel ready, praying that he would not have to use it, and bent to listen.

No sound came from within: no voices, no prayers, not even the bustling of servants. Cathan’s breath came quick and sharp. He didn’t know how he knew the Peripas would be in here, in the Kingpriest’s own chambers, but even so he had never been so certain of anything in his life. Holding his breath, he pushed on the doors. They opened without a sound.

The chamber was dark, completely still. And now there was a slight sound. It came from the bed, set in its midst. The Lightbringer was snoring softly.

Cathan almost smiled as he crossed the chamber, club in hand. He stopped when he drew near, however, sucking in a startled breath. The Kingpriest lay curled up like a child, wrapped so tight in his satin blankets that they might have been funeral windings. His face was pinched with fear, twitching with every breath he drew. Cathan barely recognized him at all now—he seemed to have aged twenty years in the past six months. A film of sweat glistened on his face.

Cathan raised the cudgel. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until it was poised above the bed like a headsman’s sword. His face turned grim: it would be a mercy of sorts, putting an end to Beldinas’s fear—his ill-fated life.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make his hand move, couldn’t kill this old man who had been his friend. He stood there for more than a minute, club held high. In the end he gave up, bowing his head as his arm lowered to his side again. The Kingpriest went on sleeping, unaware.

Cathan spied the Disks then, lying on the floor. He blinked for a moment, stunned that they should be in plain view like that. Then he swooped down and picked them up. They jingled as he did so, but the figure in the bed did not stir. Clutching them to his chest, Cathan turned and looked at the Kingpriest one last time. He knew he would never see Beldinas again—not in this life, anyway.

“Oporum, Pilofiro,” he murmured.

Farewell, Lightbringer.

Then he was gone, back the way he’d come. The golden doors shut noiselessly, the stairs flew by in a blur, the meditation room was still dim and empty. He paused there, long enough to regard the Peripas in the candlelight. They glimmered like silver water. He steeled himself, tucked them into his robe, then walked straight into the room’s south wall…

… back out into the cool of the garden again…

… and stopped, staring at the golden monkey lying dead on the ground, its fur rimed with ice.

“Well done, Twice-Born,” said Fistandantilus from the bower’s far side.

Chapter 24

“Go away, damn you,” Cathan said. “You said you were finished with me.”

The grove was dying even as he spoke, the silvernut trees dropping brown leaves in showers, their white fruit turning black and shriveled. Ice grew on the surface of the reflecting pool. Cathan’s breath fogged in the air as the cloaked figure stood watching him.

“No one has damned me in hundreds of years,” the archmage said. “I’m not certain whether that’s bravery or foolishness. But think twice before you do it again, MarSevrin—I could call the guards, and I wouldn’t even have to shout.”

“You could,” Cathan said. “But you won’t, because you brought me here. You wanted me to turn against Beldinas, and you nudged me every step of the way. You have foreseen the burning hammer. Isn’t that right?”

The wizard’s shoulders rose and fell.

“You speak with me only because I’m useful to you,” Cathan went on. “You still have use of me. That’s why you won’t call the guards.”

A dry chuckle escaped from the hooded figure. “Very good. But in this case, I am useful to you as well. Without me, your little adventure here is doomed to fail. It is almost dawn—the guards will check your cell soon, and see that you are gone. They will raise the alarm, and every Araifo in Istar will turn his mind to you. You will not escape, Twice-Born—and they will not take you prisoner again. You’ll die, and the Peripas will perish with the Kingpriest and his empire.”

“And you?” Cathan asked.

The archmage only laughed. For a moment, something tugged at Cathan’s memory that he couldn’t quite recall. Then it went away. He shook his head.

“What do you want, Dark One?”

Fistandantilus spread his hands. “Do you know where you are taking the Disks? Did Lady Ilista tell you where to go with them?”

Cathan shook his head. All he knew was that he had to get them out of the empire, and that he had intended to take them in the direction of the kingdoms in the west. Not to Solamnia—that realm was too friendly to Istar. No… a place like Kharolis in the south was where he must go; there the Disks would he safe. One of the great cities there, Tarsis or Xak Tsaroth, would provide a sanctuary.

“Good enough,” said the archmage, reading his mind. “That will do. I know some magic that will help you flee this city, and I can throw up a protection spell to baffle His Holiness’s thought-readers.”

“If help you.”

“If you help me.”

Cathan shut his eyes. He knew that once he was found missing from the dungeon, the Hammer would seal the Lordcity’s gates, chain off the harbor, and begin to scour the city in search of him. There was no one left in Istar who was friend to him, nowhere he could find succor. Without the wizard’s aid, indeed he was doomed. But hadn’t Ilista thought of that? Wouldn’t she provide a way out?”

“Perhaps I come from her,” said the Dark One. “It is a sign of how desperate things have grown that Paladine and I work toward the same ends—to preserve evil in Krynn. Polas ongud bonas ongud borgant, as the proverb goes.”

Strange times make strange friends. Cathan turned the thought over in his mind. Fistandantilus liked to speak in riddles—but could he be telling the truth? Is it possible that Ilista and the Dark One were working in such dose concert?

“I ask you again: What do you want?” he murmured.

The Dark One’s beard twitched. “Only one simple thing.”

He held out a hand. A book appeared out of nowhere, bound in night-blue leather, with runes of silver decorating its spine. The writing was slippery and spidery, and it made Cathan’s head hurt even to look at it.

“It is a tome of spells,” Fistandantilus explained. “It will not harm you, so long as you do not try to read it.”

Cathan stared at the book as though it might poison him. “What do you want me to do with this?”

“Only take it with you. I want it out of Istar, and I need to know it is safe. Believe it or not, I trust you to do that for me, in return for your own safety.”

“I’m flattered,” Cathan said. He stared at the book, wondering what dark secrets it must contain. With his powers, the wizard could hide the book away easily enough. There must be some reason why he wanted Cathan to carry it with him—and then, all of a sudden, he knew. “You want this book to accompany the Peripas. You need them to be together.”

“You continue to impress.”

“Why?”

“My reasons are my own,” Fistandantilus declared. “I need not tell you everything. Now decide, Twice-Born—will you do me this service, or shall I leave you here for the Lightbringer’s men to find? Your time grows short.”

Glancing east, Cathan saw the sky was bright pink now; in moments, the sun would appear over the horizon. The bells in the Temple’s central spire would sound the call to Udenso, the morning prayer. He stared at the wizard, and then in his mind heard the voice again—the voice that had told him to bring the Peripas out of the Vault.

Take the book.

Doubt lifted away like the mist that rose from the gardens in the day’s gathering warmth. Cathan reached out, took the book from the age-gnarled hand. It felt like a block of ice, stung his fingers. He tucked it away quickly.

“Good,” the wizard murmured. “Now, do as you have agreed, or I will not be pleased.”

Cathan’s mouth went dry. “I’ll hold to my end of the bargain. Now you hold to yours.”

“Of course.”

The wizard reached into a pouch at his belt. From it, be produced something small, green, and very familiar to Cathan. It was the malachite medallion, the same one Tancred had given him as they sailed into Istar. He took the medallion from the archmage without a word, slipping it over his head.

“I don’t suppose you have Ebonbane in there, as well,” he said.

Another laugh from Fistandantilus, who seemed full of mirth this morning. “I fear not, Twice-Born. Your sword belongs to another now.”

Cathan nodded. He tucked the amulet beneath his habit as the first rays of sunlight kissed the Temple, turning its golden spires to flame red. The bells began to chime.

“You will never see this place again,” the Dark One said, almost sympathetically. “Good-bye, Twice-Born. Palado tas drifas bisat.”

Paladine guide thy steps.

“E tas,” Cathan replied, out of reflex.

And thine.

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” the archmage said.

He spread his hands and began the spell, wearing ancient fingers in complex gestures. His cold voice recited words that crawled in Cathan’s mind, drawing down the power of the black moon. Cathan felt magic streaming through the dead grove, coiling around the leafless trees. A cloud of silvery motes sprang up around him, rotating slowly, then gathering speed as they grew brighter and brighter. Soon they were whirling, each speck becoming a streak of pure white light. The gardens, the Temple, the shape of the Dark One all became sun-bright blurs that swam before his eyes. There was a sound like shattering crystal.

He drew a breath, scented with the flowers of Istar…

… and let it out again in a place that smelled of pine and rain. The Lordcity was gone. Glancing around, Cathan saw he now stood on a wooded hillside—from the looks of the trees and the rocks, in the highlands north and west of Istar, not far from the Forino. Dawn light streaked between the trees.

The Dark Ones spell tingled in him for a moment, then faded away. He was alone. He looked at the trees and saw a vision of them burning, the hills crumbling, and tears flooded his eyes. Why did it have to come to this? he wondered.

Sighing, he pulled down his hood and started walking west. He had a long way yet to go, and still much to do.

*****

“Escaped?” Quarath echoed, his eyebrows arching. “You cannot be serious.”

Tithian shifted uncomfortably. The Lightbringer’s inner circle had gathered to hear his tidings. He would have preferred to tell Beldinas alone, but His Holiness had insisted that Quarath and Lady Elsa be present. Now the three clerics regarded him with disdain, disgust, confusion, and shock. Though the Kingpriest radiated his usual serenity from within his glow, Tithian was sure he could feel fear there, too. That troubled him almost as much as Cathan’s disappearance.

“I have never been more serious, Eminence,” he replied. “The guards found his cell empty when they went to check this morning.”

“But I thought no one had ever escaped from the imperial dungeons,” said Elsa.

“No one ever has,” Tithian agreed. “The doors are triple-locked, and the walls are solid stone. There are warding glyphs to paralyze anyone who tries to get out. And a dozen men stand watch over the only exit.”

“Then how—?”

He shook his head, cutting off the First Daughter’s question. “I don’t know, Your Grace. My men are investigating, and the Araifas are questioning everyone who works in the dungeon, in case one of them aided him.”

“I can’t believe no one saw anything,” Quarath said. The corners of his mouth were pinched. “Perhaps the Hammer are not the ones we should trust with this task.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Quarath answered with a half-smile, “that the Twice-Born was once one of your order. Despite his treachery, it is not unlikely that there are some who still honor him, and would aid him in his flight.”

Tithian bridled. He favored the elf with a cold look. “Are you accusing me?”

“You?” Quarath blinked, as though surprised. “Who said anything about you, Grand Marshal? You may have been his squire once, but I would never cast doubts upon your loyalty to the crown.”

“Wait,” Elsa tried to cut in. “Don’t—”

“I don’t have to take such an insult from you, elf,” Tithian shot back.

“Let go your sword, knight,” Quarath snapped. “Unless you truly intend to use it, that is.”

Tithian started. His hand had indeed drifted to the hilt at his hip. He felt the elf’s sly smile before he looked up.

“That’s his blade, isn’t it?” Quarath asked. “What was its name… ?”

“Ebonbane,” Tithian said, releasing the hilt

“Enough.”

The word, though softly spoken, rang out across the chamber. All three of the Kingpriest’s advisors started, turning to look at him. He had been so silent that Tithian had forgotten he was there. Now he felt Beldinas’s gaze bore into him. It hurt, like staring into the sun.

“This bickering does no good,” Beldinas said calmly. “Cathan is gone. We should be seeking him, not someone to blame.”

“We’re searching for him, Holiness,” Tithian said. “Quietly, so as not to cause a panic. I’ve doubled the guard on the Temple, and trebled it here at the manse. There’s nowhere for him to go.”

“There was no way out of the dungeons, either,” Quarath muttered.

The Lightbringer raised a hand. “I said be still, Emissary. Grand Marshal, I doubt he is still within Istar’s walls. It seems clear he had sorcerous help in his escape.”

Tithian looked down at his feet, nodding. He’d considered that very possibility. “But who, sire?” he asked.

“I do not know,” Beldinas answered. “Though he and the other traitors had sorcerous help when… when they tried to abduct me. Perhaps there is still a wizard among us.”

“Another wizard, you mean,” Quarath noted. “Besides the Dark One, Holiness.”

The Kingpriest nodded, regarding the elf. “Yes. Have Fistandantilus sent for at once, Emissary. I would speak with him about this matter. This meeting is ended. There is nothing more to say now. You may go.”

Quarath hesitated, his brow creasing, then bowed. “As you wish, Pilofiro,” he murmured, then left the chamber. Lady Elsa curtseyed and followed after him. Tithian bowed and started to leave as well.

“Not you, Grand Marshal” the Kingpriest said. “Stay a while.”

Tithian turned back toward the throne. “Sire?” he asked. “What more do you wish of me?”

“I think you know,” Beldinas answered, steepling his fingers.

Tithian’s eyes widened. “You want me to pursue him?”

The Kingpriest nodded. “No man I trust knows him better than you, Grand Marshal. Who else would I send on this hunt?”

“But, Holiness,” Tithian reasoned, spreading his hands, “we don’t know where he’s going, and there won’t even be a clear trail to follow.”

“He is heading west,” Beldinas said. “This I know. I know Cathan, Grand Marshal… he will not go back into the south, and there is nothing to the north and east. Take a party of knights with you, travel light and fast. If you move quickly enough, you will catch him, even with whatever sorcerous aid he has.”

“Why is it so important?” Tithian ventured. He didn’t want this duty; his place was here, in Istar, at the Lightbringer’s side. “If you think he’s going somewhere else… he might just be hiding out again. Why bother to hunt him?”

“Because,” Beldinas said, “he has the Peripas.”

Tithian started. “What?”

“He came here, before the dawn,” the Kingpriest replied sadly. “I thought it was a dream, but it wasn’t. And the Disks were missing when I awoke.”

Tithian stared, aghast.

“You will not speak of this to anyone,” Beldinas declared. “Not even Quarath. No one must know the Peripas are missing. It is a catastrophe.”

“Of—of course, sire,” Tithian mumbled, numb with shock. Cathan had stolen the gods’ word. What had happened to his old master, his old friend, to commit such an impiety?

“Darkness guides the Twice-Born now,” Beldinas said ruefully. “You must bring him back … alive, if possible.”

“And if it isn’t possible, sire?”

The Kingpriest sighed, bowed his head, and gave no answer.

Chapter 25

ELEVENTHMONTH, 962 I.A.

Curiously, Beldinas showed a dramatic improvement after the Twice-Born’s disappearance. It was a gradual process, but day by day he recovered from the madness that had gripped him while he pored over the Peripas. He emerged from the manse for the first time in months, often walking in the gardens, lost in thought. He returned to the basilica, to lead the prayers and hold short audiences. Soon he was appearing on the steps of the Temple once more, to receive the adulation of the masses. They cheered for him as he stood upon the steps, and he pronounced blessings upon them and all who followed his light.

Three weeks after his first public appearance, he invited his court—save for Lord Tithian, who had departed the city—to a grand feast. It was the day before the month-long preparations for Yule were due to start. There were fried goose livers, and greenfish crusted with salt, and sweets made from the honey of the Temple’s rare, ruby-hued bees. There was claret, and moragnac brandy. A shaven-headed boy from West Dravinaar sang and played a plucked dulcimer called the cimbello.

The hierarchs didn’t come for food, drink, or song, however—even if they did savor such pleasures. They came with questions, many to do with the day-long closing of the city’s gates a month ago, and the increase in the Scatas and knights who walked its streets. Beseechinging eyes watched the flowing figure at the head of the table.

Quarath watched the Kingpriest too, wondering what His Holiness was up to. Beldinas had to answer the many questions, but didn’t dare tell the truth. It was a delicate matter, one Quarath would have preferred to handle himself—no chance of that, now. He sipped his wine, watching everyone until finally the soft scrape of a chair against the floor brought conversation, dining, and music to a halt.

The Lightbringer had risen.

He stood there for three full minutes, saying nothing. The dining hall seemed to roar with silence; the courtiers froze where they sat, afraid to make the slightest noise. Quarath watched with admiration as the hierarchs waited and waited, respectfully. The presence of the man was awe-inspiring. Staring intently down the table, radiating benevolence, he exuded power. Even the elf felt it. This was the chosen of the gods; who could doubt it?

“The time,” said the Kingpriest, “has come.”

The words hung there until, directed by some imperceptible signal, the hierarchs leaned forward, their faces intent. Beldinas continued.

“The forces of darkness have struck at me this year. They came not cloaked in hatred and fear, but in a guise far more disturbing and terrible. They came as friends to the empire. They seeped into the hearts of those we once loved. I speak, of course, of First Son Revando, and the MarSevrin family, and the many others who plotted and schemed to steal my Crown, and undo all the good work this church, and this empire, have done.”

A murmur of disapproval echoed around the table. What had nearly happened at the Forino was well-known by now. In the wine-shops and marketplaces, men spat whenever Revando’s name was mentioned. This was, however, the first time Beldinas had spoken openly of the plot, outside his inner circle.

“This is the guise evil takes,” the Kingpriest went on. “As the shadows dim, it finds new places to dwell—even within the light. We could fight it for a thousand years, until not a single goblin or wizard remains on the face of Krynn, and still it would find places to hide, and thrive. It is cunning, insidious.

“I will not have it so. Yule is coming, and it will be a merry season regardless, and all must know this: it will be the last while evil survives in Istar. For on the last day of this year, I shall go into seclusion, and gather my strength. For three days I shall remain so, cleansing my spirit. And then on the third day of the new year, when the sun is at its acme in the sky, I shall call upon the gods themselves, and thus banish the darkness from the world forever!”

The dining hall might have been a tomb, for all the noise the hierarchs made now. Tears streaked their faces, and their lips parted in silent rapture. Only Quarath breached a slight smile.

The feast ended soon after, the courtiers’ many questions not only unasked but forgotten. The guests left with amazed faces, speaking little. Quarath studied each as they left, looking for signs of doubt, or fear. He saw nothing of the sort.

Only when they were alone, looking out from the balcony of the Kingpriest’s parlor over the dusklit city, did Quarath himself ask a question.

“You found the answer you sought?”

Beldinas remained silent. Moths fluttered about his light.

“Holiness?” Quarath urged. The secret… was it in the Peripas?”

“The Peripas do not matter.” Beldinas replied blandly. They never did. I understand now—I was guided to them, but not to learn the secrets of the gods. No… it was to uncover the traitors, to lure them into the open. The Disks were only a means. They were not an end.”

Quarath blinked, startled. “Then… ?”

“Here,” the Kingpriest said, laying a hand over his heart “The answer is here, and it has been all along. I was too blind to see it… but now, it has come to me. I will call the god’s name, and he will answer. I will command him, and he will obey. The power is here.”

He thumped his chest again, and his radiance flared, forcing Quarath to blink, then look away with pained eyes. The Kingpriest briefly shone like a star … and Quarath wondered. Neither man spoke again, for quite some time.

*****

It was almost midnight when the elf finally left the manse, and Beldinas retired to his bedchamber. With a word, Fistandantilus let his spell of cloaking slip away.

“I had wondered when you might show yourself, Dark One,” the Kingpriest said, greeting him without the slightest surprise.

Fistandantilus allowed himself a brief smile. Revealing himself like this usually unnerved people. Beldinas must fear him—how could he not, knowing what powers the wizard could summon with a mere twitch of his finger?—but he showed none. Now, he drew himself up with head held high. Fistandantilus admired him for that, even though he rarely admired a cleric of the light.

“Well?” asked the Kingpriest. “Have you come to pour poison in my ear and call it honey? How will you try to pervert me, Black Robe?”

The archmage shrugged. “How long have I served in your court, Lightbringer? Nearly twenty years, by my count. And have I ever sought to corrupt you, in all that time?”

Even Beldinas had to admit that was true—the few times Fistandantilus the Dark had given counsel to the imperial ear, it had been for the general good of Istar. Usually, the Dark One simply sat and observed the affairs of state. That didn’t stop tongues from wagging—but then, Fistandantilus had learned long ago that the only thing that stopped tongues from wagging was a good, sharp knife.

“You have not abused your position,” the Kingpriest said. “But things are different now. You know what I intend to do, when the new year comes?”

“I do.”

“Do you not fear the gods’ wrath?”

No more than you do, the wizard thought “That is between the gods and me.”

“Then what is it you want?”

Fistandantilus had lived for centuries, feeding off the life-essences of lesser mages. Istar had been a bundle of squabbling city-states in his youth. Now, looking at Beldinas, he felt a stab of impatience. After all this time, after all he had done to bring this man to Istar, to put him on the throne, and to keep him there. He’d brought down the mighty, orchestrated wars, caused the deaths of thousands, all to have the Lightbringer at his disposal, when the time came.

He didn’t care about Beldinas’s plans to command the gods, for that would never happen. The Kingpriest was powerful, but Fistandantilus’s power was greater still; he would use his magic to bedevil the man. Together, they would recite the words the mages of old had written, in the certainty that no one would ever speak them. The Portal would then open, and they would enter the Abyss. And the Dark One would take his place among the shadow gods.

“I want you to come here,” Fistandantilus said.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about his voice, no echo, no volume, no depth. But the hidden energy of it flashed across the room like an invisible whip, ensnaring the Kingpriest in its coils. The Miceram’s light flickered faintly. Fistandantilus smiled. The Crown of Power was a mighty relic, but he owned dozens just as mighty in his collections. Blinking as though suddenly tired, Beldinas leaned forward, and began to walk across the chamber.

“Good,” the wizard said. He waited until they were nearly face to face. “Now stop, and remove your Crown, Holiness.” Despite his best attempts, the last word still came out as a sneer.

Dreamily, the Kingpriest reached up and lifted the Miceram from his brow. The holy light dimmed, fading into shimmers of silver about a tired, frightened face as Beldinas set the Crown down on a nearby table.

“Is this enough?” the Kingpriest asked. “Will it satisfy you?”

Fistandantilus savored the moment, letting the magic flow out of the black moon and into him. It sang in his blood, like sweet wine or bloodblossom oil. He raised his hands, the fingers bent and spotted with age, held them still a moment, then reached forward and laid them on either side of the Kingpriest’s balding head. Then he shut his eyes and let himself slip gently into Beldinas’s mind.

They were standing together on a mountaintop, the cliffs on all sides assailed by monsters, sorcerers, and demons. There were men among the attackers, too—Lords Revando and Cathan, Wentha the Weeping and her sons, among many others. Fistandantilus floated in the air, untroubled, but Beldinas was on the verge of panicking, clinging to a pinnacle of stone like a shipwrecked sailor to flotsam. The wizard glanced at him, saw the terror writ plain on the man’s face, and knew at once something was wrong. This was not the calm, self-assured man who had assumed the throne years before. Something had changed in him—what had once been pure, sweet music now evinced a sour discord.

As Beldinas’s foes closed in on all sides, Fistandantilus understood. This was what the world looked like to the Kingpriest: danger all around, and no way out. He was only holding on to gather more power; then he would unleash it, and bring the mountain down. His enemies would be destroyed.

But so would he, and he didn’t realize this.

The image vanished, and Fistandantilus let go, stepping back in astonishment Beldinas was not the pure vessel he required—not any longer. He’d wielded too much power for too long. He had wrath and envy in his soul—and pride, worst of all. The very means the wizard had used to get close to him had brought his ruin. He was not right for the ritual; the Portal would never open to him.

Softly, the Dark One began to laugh. It was strange laughter, tinged with self-mockery. What a fool he’d been, all this time! Pulling the puppets’ strings, making them dance—and never noticing that those strings and the Kingpriest’s were growing entangled. So many years, wasted on a hope that was false…

Fistandantilus laughed and laughed.

“Very good,” he said, glancing up to the heavens. “Oh, clever indeed!”

Beldinas only stared, still under the charm.

“So be it, then,” Fistandantilus murmured. “Let him smash the empire. It matters not.”

He passed a hand in front of Beldinas’s face, allowing a burst of magical energy to pass through as he chanted spidery words, “You will sleep,” he said with a hint of bitterness. “When you wake, you will have no memory of this.”

The Kingpriest nodded. Following Fistandantilus’s command, he climbed up onto his bed and lay down his head. In less than a minute he was snoring.

The Dark One stood over him a moment, then nodded to himself and let the cloaking spell slip over him once more. He still had work to do.

Chapter 26

Squatting in the mud, the rain dripping down from the ash trees, Cathan remembered being here, in almost this very spot, in a ditch by the side of the road, deep in the highlands of Taol. He’d been young then—little more than a boy, really—though he’d become a man that year. He’d lost his family to plague, all except Wentha, and sunk into a life of outlawry, hiding from the Kingpriest’s men in the wilds. He couldn’t hold back a grim smile; so much had happened in his life, and here he was again. Perhaps life was a circle, as certain heretics claimed.

The journey west had taken longer than he’d expected— twenty-five days to travel what he could have done in fifteen, or ten on horseback. The roads were busy, and he had to be cautious, taking care never to raise his head so that others might notice his eyes beneath his hood. And that was just for commoners and tradesmen; when he spotted priests or Scatas—or the Hammer—he quit the road entirely, found the nearest wood or gully, and hid until they passed.

Peering up from the ditch now, he watched six mounted knights, riding from the south, dressed in battle armor rather than simple riding gear. He ducked down again with a curse; the men weren’t simply on their way from one town to the next. They were a search party to find him; Tithian was no fool.

The sounds of rattling armor and hooves clopping against the paring stones got closer. His hand went beneath his robes, touching the cudgel he still carried. Six swords against one club didn’t make for promising odds at all. He pressed himself flat in the mud, felt it soak through his robes, and shivered at the cold against his skin. He wasn’t well enough concealed, he knew.

Then the sounds of the knights receded toward the north. Risking another look, he saw they had moved on toward Govinna. He allowed himself a sigh of relief, then waited for them to vanish altogether. Only then did he rise from the muck. The wind blew through his sodden robes, making him shiver: winter came early to the highlands. If only he could risk a fire—yet the smoke would draw attention. This part of Taol had been deserted for years, ever since Kingpriest Kurnos’s men came through, burning and killing in their efforts to find the Lightbringer. Except for the occasional trapper or charcoal-burner, no one dwelled in southern Taol any more, and certainly not near Luciel.

His heart quickened at the thought of his old home. When he’d been a knight, he’d come back here every year, to honor the mother, father, and brother whose disease-wracked bodies he’d burned. It was here that Beldinas—just Beldyn, then—had first revealed his powers. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Perhaps it was, he thought. It was before I died, after all.

He dug at his belt and pulled out a flask of brandy—crude stuff, far from the moragnac they enjoyed in the Great Temple. He took a deep swig, and the warmth suffused his body again. It also awakened his stomach, which let out a peevish grumble. Food and drink had been scarce on the road, and here in the wilderness he’d been surviving on nuts and roots and berries.

He would eat again at dusk, and not before, he told himself as he put the flask away. His hand went automatically to a bag that hung at his hip, as it did a hundred times each day, and he fingered the Peripas through the leather. The Disks weren’t safe yet—they wouldn’t be, until he was out of Istar and across the Khalkist Mountains, into Kharolis. He also touched Fistandantilus’s spellbook, which, though it radiated cold and malice, somehow made him feel secure. He felt certain nothing evil would harm him as long as he carried that grimoire.

He glanced down the road again—there was nothing as far as his eyes could see, And yet, there was something, a presence he had felt constantly since his escape from the Lordcity. It never went away, and grew stronger every day. He signed the triangle, knowing it must be the gods. They were close now; the weight of the burning hammer was heavy on him. It still haunted his dreams.

“The end is near,” he murmured, and blessed himself again. Then he climbed out of the ditch and moved on down the road.

*****

Tithian had never been to this place before, but he recognized it the moment he saw it. He’d heard about it often enough, back when he was Cathan’s squire, and life was simple. It once had been a prosaic cluster of thatched cottages in a valley close to the Imperial High Road, overlooked by a simple lord’s keep. Little remained of Luciel now. The Scatas had burned it to the ground almost forty years ago, and it had never been rebuilt. All that was left were foundation stones and the odd stub of a chimney, scattered like bones among thick bracken and furze. Badgers and ground-hawks ruled the ruins. But for the shell of the old keep—also weed-choked now, its walls crumbling and mantled in vines—one might never know that Luciel had once been home to several hundred souls.

Standing upon the wall of that keep, his shoulders hunched against the wind, Tithian stared down at the skeletal remains of Luciel and shivered. He was cold to the bone; he and his men hadn’t lit a campfire for days. That order had some of the other knights muttering bitterly, but he knew he was right to play it safe. No point in setting a trap, just to give away his position to anyone within ten miles.

The cold wasn’t the worst part. The sky was wrong. There was no other way to put it—there was simply something strangely unpleasant about its colors. To the west it was a filthy orange, as if the Khalkists were burning; to the east it was almost black, and flashing with lightning. Overhead, the clouds were bruise-purple, and they seethed and roiled like an angry sea. Tithian gripped his sword more tightly, seized by the irrational feeling that he might at any moment be sucked upward. Indeed the gods must be angry, he thought.

And then he shook his head, clearing thoughts such folly from his brain. Folly, that was all it was: folly and nerves, brought on by too many nights on the Twice-Born’s trail. His mind was muddled, and each thought came to him as though he were slogging through a swamp. He had been here, at the keep formerly belonging to Lord Tavarre—once the baron of this vale, who had gone on to become the Divine Hammer’s first Lord Marshal—for five days. He’d sent most of his men out to search the roads, but he’d kept a few here with him, at Luciel.

Conno cun polbit, the proverb went. Conno prum soidit

The poor hunter chases. The good hunter waits.

As he and his men had galloped across the plains of Ismin, he’d decided that his particular quarry would end up here. His gut told him, and told him this clearly. But Cathan had not yet come, and the other knights were beginning to doubt their leader’s instincts. They grumbled to one another when they thought Tithian wasn’t listening, exchanged pointed glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. They were sure Tithian had been rashly mistaken, and he was beginning to believe that too. The Twice-Born wasn’t coming to Luciel—and, in a way he would never care to admit, part of Tithian hoped he never would. It would be easier, in some ways, if Cathan simply vanished, and no one ever saw him again.

Sighing, Tithian glanced away from the vale below the keep and looked down into the courtyard behind him. The knights’ camp stood amid the rubble that had once been the manor house, and three of them were huddled there, keeping out of the ceaseless wind. To one side he spotted Sir Bron, trapping near the graves at the yard’s edge of what had been Lord Tavarre’s household; his family had been plague-dead before the Lightbringer arrived. A fresher mound stood beside them: Tavarre himself had been returned here twenty years later, to join his kin.

Bron glanced up, his gaze meeting Tithian’s, and he raised an eyebrow in question. Then he made a stoic face when the Grand Marshal shook his head. He had proven a good choice as second on this mission, for Bron had grown steadfast since the massacre at the Forino, and his loyalty helped keep the other knights in line. But Tithian knew that this mission was taking its toll, and surely the strange sky troubled Bron as well.

Tithian was just turning away when the call sounded: a sharp, rising whistle, a noise like that made by one of the bluefinches that lived in the highlands. The hairs on the back of his neck stood erect, and he clapped a hand to his sword as he stared out toward a fair-haired, sharp-eyed knight named Sir Girald, whom he’d posted at watch atop a half-collapsed watchtower. Girald was clambering down from his purchase, and moving with reckless speed across the wall to salute before Tithian. Bron and the other knights ran across the courtyard, their faces eager.

“One man,” gasped Girald, his face flushed with excitement. “On foot, alone. I think it must be him, milord!”

Of course it’s him, Tithian thought. Who else would he out here, in this forsaken place? He felt an odd twinge of disappointment that this confrontation would have to happen after all. The wind stinging his eyes, he stole a glance down into the valley. There was indeed a shape moving down there, blurred by distance.

“Down,” he whispered.

He and Girald descended a flight of age-worn steps into the courtyard. The rest of the knights had gathered—six in all, with weapons ready—and met their commander at the bottom. “Milord?” Bron asked. “What are your orders?”

“We do as we discussed,” Tithian replied, gesturing around him. “To your places, and wait. Let him come to us, then move when I give the signal. And no crossbows—this is a former knight, not some Sargonnite heathen. If it comes to fighting, we will do so with honor. Any man who feathers him loses his spurs.”

This earned more muttering and eye rolling. Most of these knights had no personal experience of Cathan MarSevrin. They didn’t know him like Tithian did.

The plan was simple. When Cathan arrived at the keep— for Tithian had no doubt that he would never leave Luciel without visiting Tavarre’s burial place—the knights would be hidden among the rubble. The moment he knelt by the grave, the ambush would begin. Tithian offered a silent prayer to Paladine that Cathan would be sensible and surrender, but an itch in his mind told him otherwise.

Bron took charge with admirable efficiency, urging the men to their appointed cover. The two youngest knights moved quickly about the courtyard, scattering gravel and pine needles to cover their tracks. Then they, too, hid themselves away. Tithian and Bron went last, perching in prime spots by the keep’s toppled north wall nearest the cemetery. The rain spat in the groaning wind, beneath the horrible sky. Silence covered the old fort like a shroud.

Then, softly, came footsteps, scuffing against stone. A mad urge rose in Tithian to jump up and tell his former master to run; confused, he fought it down. This was the Kingpriest’s will, and he was sworn to carry out the Lightbringer’s orders. To his left, Bron silently loosened his sword in its scabbard.

Cathan came closer. Now Tithian could see him, through a crack in the stone: an old, hooded, road-weary man with a wooden cudgel dangling from his belt. If not for the glimpse he had of white, empty eyes, Tithian never would have recognized his old friend. He watched as the Twice-Born walked to the stone marking Lord Tavarre’s grave. Cathan pulled back his hood, revealing a bald head spotted with age marks, and a face gaunt and lined with suffering. A sad smile appeared amid his ragged beard. “Come out, Swordflinger,” he said aloud. “Your men, too.”

*****

Cathan had heard them among the rubble—the soft jingle of mail behind the ragged stub of a wall. He knew Tithian well, could guess that he might have raced to Luciel to wait for him. Yes, there, in the shadows by what had once been a statue of one of Lord Tavarre’s ancestors—now shreared from the waist, its legs cloaked in ivy. Cathan held up his hands, keeping them away from his cudgel.

“I know you’re there,” he said. “I have smelled you and heard your bluefinch call.”

“And still you walked into our trap.”

Tithian rose from his cover with the barest trace of a sheepish grin. Another half-dozen knights stood up around him. Swords hissed from their scabbards and in an instant, he was ringed in steel. Tithian, however, did not draw his own blade. Cathan wondered whether that was a good sign or not.

“There’s no way out,” the Grand Marshal declared.

Cathan shrugged. “You could let me go.”

A couple of the younger knights laughed, their voices thick with scorn, Cathan ignored them. Tithian frowned in irritation.

“You know I can’t do that. The Kingpriest ordered me to take you… one way or the other.”

Cathan sighed, lowering his hands. “The Kingpriest gives many orders, Tithian. He ordered us to Losarcum, remember? Would you have obeyed, had you known what would come of that disastrous day?”

“The defeat of the wizards, you mean?” sneered a young knight beside Tithian. Cathan struggled to remember his name: Bron. “I for one would have obeyed, though it cost my life. The gods will reward me in the afterworld.”

“You assume it was the god’s will.”

“Assume?” Sir Bron echoed, flushing angrily. “The Lightbringer is Paladine’s voice!”

Cathan shook his head. “No. No. Beldinas makes his own voice, and no other.”

A rumble came from the knights. “Blasphemy!” exclaimed Sir Bron. “How dare you—”

“Bron. Be still,” Tithian ordered. The young knight’s eyes widened, but he swallowed any farther tirade. “Cathan, I can’t let you go, in spite of our old friendship. The Kingpriest would brand me a traitor. I’d lose my knighthood, my holdings … I’d be lucky if he didn’t declare me Foripon. Surely you understand—”

All at once, the words died on his lips. Cathan’s hand, which had been resting on his pack, suddenly pulled out the Peripas. The Disks made a musical sound as he raised them, flashing with bright streaks of light. Several knights cried out at the sight of them; others averted their eyes. Sir Bron’s face turned ashen. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing among the crags.

Tithian’s eyes widened. Then he composed himself, keeping his face blank. “I know you have the Disks, Cathan. Why do you think it’s so important that we find you? His Holiness needs them to—”

“His Holiness will bring ruin upon the empire, and the world,” Cathan shot back angrily. “I have seen a vision of his failure. The god showed me long ago, but I didn’t understand then. Now I do, and we’re almost out of time.”

“Blasphemy,” Sir Bron growled again. Lightning flashed overhead. The young knight spoke up fiercely. “You’re a heretic and a thief. Twice-Born.”

“Yes, I am,” Cathan answered, his face set like stone. “But I was a better knight in my time than you will ever be. Any of you—except one.”

He looked back at Tithian, who stared at him ruefully. Above, the sky seethed and roiled. His former squire’s face tightened as he struggled to master his emotions.

“You know what I say is true, Tithian,” Cathan said. “I can see it in your eyes. I told you once that you were a good man—will you not prove it true?”

Tithian stood very still. The knights watched him, confused, awaiting their orders. One word, and they would fall on Cathan. They had been sent; it was their duty. A single tear swelled in Tithian’s eye, dropped onto his cheek, and rolled down, “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “I can’t lot you go. But you were a good knight, once.”

With that, he reached to his belt, drew out his sword and tossed it across the distance, to land at Cathan’s feet.

“I think you’ll recognize my gift to you,” he said.

The blade of Tarsian steel, the golden hilt, the shards of porcelain that once had been his family’s holy symbol of Paladine: Ebonbane. Looking back up at Tithian, Cathan saw a cold determination in the man’s eyes, and caught his breath. Thunder boomed, closer now.

Tithian’s face was as an expressionless mask. “Bron, give me your sword.”

Sir Bron didn’t respond. He, like the other knights, was staring at Ebonbane in open-mouthed shock. Here they had their quarry, unarmed save for a club, and the Grand Marshal had just handed him the finest blade in the empire.

“Bron!” Tithian snapped

Blinking, the young knight looked up. Then he shook himself, bowing his head and proffering his weapon, hilt-first, to the Grand Marshal. Tithian took it, weighing it in his hand, and gave it a few practice swipes. He made a face.

“This,” he declared, “is merely a passable blade. But no matter.”

“No, my friend,” Cathan said. “You don’t have to do this.”

Tithian smiled, sadly. “Pick up your sword,” he said. “The Divine Hammer has its laws, and I must follow them. We will settle this by the trial of combat.”

Chapter 27

The storm crashed down on Taol with a fury that felled trees and flooded rivers all across the province. The rain lashed at Tithian’s face, but he kept his visor open, relishing; the feel of it— for the rain washed away his tears.

Cathan put away the Disks, then bent to lift Ebonbane from the ground. “A duel?”

“Just so,” Tithian said. “The stakes are your freedom, and the Peripas.”

“And my life. I will not yield.”

Tithian nodded. He’d expected that, even though his old master appeared a broken man, starved and exhausted. Even Ebonbane could not guarantee his victory.

“And if I should win?” Cathan pressed. “Will you truly call off the search?”

Tithian simply raised Bron’s sword, pressing its hilt to his lips. His gaze remained locked with Cathan’s, who sagged slightly, as though already defeated

“Very well,” Cathan sighed. “But we must not fight here. I do not wish to disgrace Tavarre’s grave with our blood. Let us go to a secret place, you and I, where we can take care of this business with only the gods as witnesses.”

The other knights stirred, and Bron opened his mouth to protest, but Tithian held up a hand to stay them. Lightning blazed, with a great crack of thunder following a second later. Tithian winced at the sound, then smiled.

“Very well,” he said. “I trust you not to try any trickery, Cathan. Lead on.”

Bron followed them as far as the ruined keep’s gate, then stopped when Tithian flashed him a stern look. The young knight flushed angrily, but obeyed the silent command. Tithian was right—the Divine Hammer had its laws, and the right of Ponfobo Ifas, or the trial of combat—was one. Many years had passed since the last time two knights had fought to the death, but the rite remained.

The rain made the path slippery. Cathan moved with the sure-footedness of one who had grown up in such surroundings, and he had to stop now and then for the Grand Marshal to catch up. They went on past Luciel and into the wilderness, sometimes pushing their way through the scrub, sometimes hacking with their swords. The storm got worse; the sky turned the color of charcoal, flaring every few seconds as a new lightning-bolt raged from cloud to cloud, or to the ground. “Let’s avoid the hilltops,” Tithian said. “The lightning will kill us both.”

Cathan laughed and pushed on. They walked for that seemed miles, until Tithian began to wonder if he could ever find his way back to Luciel. Oddly, he realized he didn’t care. He was alone with his master again, one last time. It felt good. Finally, they came to a steep-walled ravine whose entrance was hidden by spruce and hawthorn trees. Within, at the edge of a creek already swollen by the storm, Cathan stripped off his pack and rain-heavy monk’s robes. It left him naked, except for sandals and a breechclout Tithian could see his ribs slide beneath his skin as he stretched, taking a few practice swipes with Ebonbane.

“What if you just let me go now?” Cathan asked. “Say I led you into a trap and then ran away. Your men would believe you.”

“You know I can’t do that” Tithian replied, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t he honorable.”

Cathan drew a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, my honor” he murmured. “All right, then. If I fall, bury me in this place. This was my home, once.”

Tithian glanced around, recognizing the ravine now. Cathan had spoken of it often, when they were master and squire; it once served as the hiding place for Tavarre’s bandits. Beldinas had performed his first healing miracle on this very soil.

They raised their swords in salute.

“Apodam mubat pucdum,” Tithian recited.

May the righteous prevail.

Cathan nodded. “Sifat.”

They stared at each other, each assuming his fighting stance. Above, the sky flickered, and thunder growled from one end of the ravine to the other.

Their first pass at each other was a test, an exchange of four blows—high, low, low, high—each fast but light, not meant to truly harm. The two men parried with ease, instinct driving their moves. Tithian felt exhilaration flow through his veins: This was going to be a real fight, not some sparring match in the Hammerhall’s yard, and while Cathan might not be the warrior he’d once known, still he was a practiced veteran. They parted, circling each other. Pine needles and bits of slate slid under Tithian’s feet.

Cathan came on first, attacking with a sudden wildness that brought a spike of fear to Tithian’s heart. He was forced to give ground, blocking one cut after another. He parried, nearly tripped over a gnarled tree root, stumbled, righted himself, and then parried again. Then, as quickly as he’d moved in, Cathan backed away. Tithian’s sword-arm burned from the force of the Twice-Born’s attack, and he stared in disbelief. Where was Cathan’s strength coming from?

“You’re better, stronger, than I expected,” he admitted.

Cathan shrugged. “I taught you everything you know, not everything I know.”

A grin spread across Tithian’s face. Indeed, this would be a good fight. Lightning flashed, striking a distant hilltop with an earsplitting crack, and now he attacked, whirling his blade in a pattern his old master hadn’t taught him. It was a new form, from the Zaladhi school of swordsmanship, and Cathan hadn’t learned it. His blocks were clumsy. Tithian pressed his old master to the edge of the stream.

Finally, his blade slipped through Cathan’s defenses. One of Cathan’s parries was late, and diverted a thrust aimed at his throat into his own left shoulder. It wasn’t a killing stroke, not by a long shot, but it was still first blood, and he avoided a more serious follow-through by leaping back and plunging into the creek’s frigid water. He stood in the water, blood running down his arm.

“Not bad,” Cathan allowed, regarding the wound.

“I’ve learned a few things while you were away too,” Tithian replied.

Cathan raised his eyebrows, then edged out of the stream. His next attack surprised Tithian: It was a perfect imitation of the style the Grand Marshal had just boasted! Now it was Tithian’s turn to back away, blocking furiously. He knew the Zaladhi style well enough to anticipate each thrust, though, and no blow had landed when they parted again.

Tithian dipped his sword in acknowledgement. His arms ached, but he knew he had more stamina than Cathan did. If he wore his former master down, he could press the advantage … maybe knock him unconscious and take him alive. He moved to his right, ducking under a low-hanging branch, his eyes fast on Ebonbane.

“Tithian,” Cathan said. “I have something important I must tell you.”

The Grand Marshal hesitated, just a moment, then shook his head. “Nice try, old man,” he said. “That’s an old trick. You can’t distract me with talk.”

“I’m not trying to. Listen to me, lad—won’t you do that?”

Tithian moved in again, trading blows—one-two, one-two—and then backed off, the two circling each other again, keeping the creek in view.

“Well?” Tithian asked.

“Promise me one thing,” Cathan replied. “When you’ve finished me off, you must leave the empire. Take the Disks and go west. Don’t return to the Lordcity!”

Tithian’s brow furrowed. “That’s ridiculous—why?”

“Because before long, there won’t be a Lordcity.”

One-two, one-two, part.

“What in the Abyss are you talking about?” Tithian asked, breathing more heavily.

“It’s Beldyn,” Cathan replied, also panting as he shifted to his left “What I said back at the keep was true. He’s going to destroy Istar. And not just the city—the whole empire! I have seen a vision of what is going to happen.”

One-two. One-two, one-two, part.

Above, lightning flared.

Tithian blinked, his brow furrowing. There was a gleam in Cathan’s empty eyes that said this was more than just some ruse. “I—I don’t believe you.”

“No, part of you does believe me,” Cathan said. “But you don’t want to admit it. The Kingpriest’s gone too far. The burning hammer will be his punishment.”

One-two. Part. Cathan was bleeding from a new cut, across his upper leg. He grunted with pain as he backed away.

Tithian stared at him. The worst thing was, Cathan could be telling the truth. He certainly looked like he was telling the truth … and Tithian did have reservations about Beldinas’s plan to command Paladine. It seemed a sacrilege in many ways… but wasn’t he the Lightbringer? Hadn’t the gods chosen him? Half of him wanted to believe Cathan, the other half wanted to trust the Kingpriest.

A bolt blazed, striking a tree not far away and turning it into a living torch. The roar of thunder struck his ears like two giant fists. He saw Cathan grimace, too, saw his old master’s knees buckle, and he had his chance. One crippling blow, and he could end this now. He leaped forward, Jolith’s name on his lips.

One-two, one-two, one-two…

Three.

It was the simplest break in the pattern, but it came as a surprise to Tithian, as steel slid home. The two of them stumbled back from each other, letting go of their swords as blood splashed onto the rocky ground. Cathan fell to his knees, shutting his eyes with a groan that came from deep inside him.

Tithian stood still, too stunned to move. “Palado Calib,” he breathed. “Cathan…”

Then his mouth filled with blood, and he toppled onto his side.

*****

Cathan gaped in shock. He’d been fighting to stall, not to win. He’d thrust aside nearly a dozen opportunities to finish Tithian, looking for some way to convince him to give up the fight. But the last onslaught had been too much, too fast. Panic had taken over for brief moments. Now Tithian lay beside the creek, Ebonbane buried in his stomach halfway to its quillons. There was blood everywhere, and the rain carried it into the stream, turning the waters a ghastly pink.

The Grand Marshal was still alive. His fingers clutched feebly at the sword’s hilt. His lips, dead white with shock, moved without making a sound.

Cathan found he didn’t have the strength to stand back up. So he crawled over, and lifted his former squire’s head, and laid it down gently in his lap.

“Oh, lad,” he wept, pulling off the Grand Marshal’s helm. He smoothed back the long, sandy hair from the pale face. “Oh, lad…”

“You’ve… learned sssss—” Tithian began to say, then choked off in a hiss of pain. “Ssssome new… things, too.”

“You should have listened to me,” Cathan said, choking on his tears. “I was telling you the truth. You should have listened. I never meant—”

Tithian nodded. “You’re right, Cathan,” he said. “I… should have. I ssssss-see… that now. I see the truth.”

“I’m sorry,” Cathan said.

“Now pull it out.”

It took Cathan a moment to understand. He looked at Ebonbane. “You’ll die,” he murmured.

“And if you… leave it in? How… old will I… live… to be?” Tithian asked with a crooked grin. His teeth were now bright red.

It was true. Tithian might last hours, maybe even days, but the pain would be excruciating, and he wouldn’t survive. He squeezed his old squire’s hand. “First, will you tell me one thing?” he asked.

“If… I can.”

“My sister… what has happened to Wentha?”

Tithian’s grin became a smile. “Karthay,” he said. “A good household there… slave. I saw her board… the ship mysssself.”

Cathan felt a rush of hope. Karthay was as far from the Lordcity as any place in the empire. He bent low over Tithian and kissed his forehead. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Now… end this.”

Wordlessly, Cathan rose to his feet. He signed the triangle over Tithian, adding the horns of Jolith, and the tears of Mishakal. Then he planted his foot on his old squire’s shoulder, and gripped Ebonbane’s hilt

“Farewell, my friend,” he said, and tugged the blade free. Tithian let out a bubbling sigh.

Cathan stood beside his friend for quite some time, unmoving, while the rain washed the blood away.

*****

It was almost dawn when the storm finally let up. By then, the knights were bone-weary and a chill lay on their hearts: Tithian should have returned to the keep by now. So, as soon as morning’s first light broke over the hills, Bron sent a group out to search for some sign of their leader.

It took them most of the day, but at last they stumbled upon the ravine. Bron heard the distant call of the signal horns and ran to follow them. He found Sir Girald and two other knights up-slope from the high-cresting creek. They were standing by a cairn of stones. Bron’s sword was planted at its head.

Sir Bron’s anger was too great for tears.

“Track the Twice-Born,” he said. “He will pay for this.” Girald looked at him, wide-eyed. “But, sir… he won the trial by combat…”

“To the Abyss with the trial!” Bron raged, advancing on the younger knight. “I am your commander now, and I say Cathan MarSevrin is no true knight. He murdered your Grand Marshal. Now, track him!”

“Y-yes, sir,” Girald muttered, and hurried away, followed by his men.

Bron watched him go, then reached out and yanked his blade from Lord Tithian’s grave. The Twice-Born had tricked them. He had a day’s head start—maybe more. But the knights had horses, and they were many while he was one. Bron intended to catch up with him, sooner or later. And Cathan would pay.

Chapter 28

TWELFTHMONTH, 962 I.A.

It was late, and the sacred chancery was quiet. One of the world’s largest libraries—smaller only than the collection in Palanthas and the underground Archives of Khrystann in Tarsis—the Great Temple’s scriptorium was a seemingly endless labyrinth of bookshelves and scroll-racks. It was said that every word ever put to parchment—or papyrus, paper, even clay tablet—in the gods’ name could be found there, as either an original, or as a copy laboriously inscribed by the Temple’s scholars. The place was so vast that a man could get horribly lost—as, indeed, some of the elder clerics did now and then. By day the library bustled with activity, with scribes and illuminators and binders and archivists all working in the sunlight that streamed through its many tall windows. At night, however, the chancery emptied, its twisting aisles and huge copy-rooms swallowed by shadow. No one in the library worked after sunset—except one man.

Brother Denubis sat alone, his head bent low over a book. Of all the Temple’s scholars, he preferred to work at night. Fewer interruptions that way—less nonsense. The clerics who came here during the day spent all their time yammering and arguing and drinking wine, Brother Denubis thought. That was all right for philosophers, but not for a copyist … certainly not one whose life’s work was so urgent.

The book before him was thick and heavy, more than two thousand pages long. He was a translator, and had spent more than forty years bringing the Peripas Mishakas into the Solamnic vulgate. It was unspeakably tedious labor, yet Denubis, a man for whom the word meticulous seemed inadequate, reveled in it. The other scribes rolled their eyes when he shuffled past them, entering the chancery as they were all leaving. He knew they called him a boring old drudge, and perhaps they were right. But he didn’t care. This was his mission, done in the gods’ name—if others didn’t grasp that, it was their problem, not his.

His pen scratched across the page almost incessantly now. When he was young, his hand had been uncertain, his Solamnic primitive. He’d redone most of the oldest pages in recent years, unsatisfied with the quality of the original work. He took few breaks, stopped only now and then to dip the stylus in his inkwell, or to push up his spectacles—an unfortunate inconvenience, the price for having worked in half-light for decades. When he finished a page—something that, counting illuminations, might occupy a whole evening or more—he would pause to reread and check his work. If he found he’d made a mistake, as was sometimes the case, he would daub the corner with red, marking it for the binders to remove the next day. Then, either way, he would sprinkle sand to dry the ink, and get himself some watered wine, perhaps some fruit and cheese. Denubis subsisted on little else.

Tonight was going well. He was setting a swift pace, each letter well formed and straight upon the paper’s ruled lines. The ink-mixers had given him good colors, too. The flourishes of crimson and violet, green and gold were all richly vibrant—almost too much so: he worried the previous page’s illuminations would look watery beside the new ones. And the translation, for a change, felt utterly effortless and natural: no odd declensions, no brow-knuckling idioms. It was the kind of night that made most scribes rejoice, but it only made Denubis nervous. It was too good to be true. Any moment now, he was bound to make some monumental error that would force him to scrap the lot. He prayed to Paladine that wouldn’t happen. On the southern slope of seventy, he knew he didn’t have many days to spare for mess-ups, and he had to get this done before his old heart finally gave out. Had to—or what had he sacrificed his life for?

His source was the Reductionist text of the Disks. Denubis, a Completist if ever there were one, had nearly wept when he heard the Kingpriest had recovered the originals, and he yearned for even a glimpse of them. But His Holiness hadn’t yielded the Peripas to the chancery, so Denubis redoubled his work. He had a job to do, and while the thought that the true Disks were just across the Temple grounds was enticing, he wasn’t about to let it distract his progress.

A bead of sweat formed, trickled, and hung on the end of his nose. Horrified, Denubis leaned back, blotting the moisture with an ink-stained sleeve. By Paladine, it was hot tonight—strangely so, for the time of year. Istar seldom truly turned cold, but it was nearly Yule, and usually the evenings evidenced a bit of chill to them. This year, however, it was as though the summer had never truly ended. If anything, the air had grown balmier, closer. He dabbed at his expansive forehead—his hairline had been in retreat since his eighteenth summer, and now had quit the field entirely—and ran a hand down his face.

His eyes went to the water clock in the corner. Two hours till dawn—till the chancery filled up with noise again and he would pack up his bag and leave. But he could get this page done, surely. He reached for the inkwell, the nib of his pen disappearing into its black depths—and stopped, his brow furrowing.

Odd. He’d heard a footstep.

Denubis’s eyesight was nearly gone—the younger scribes sniggered that a dragon could perch on his nose, and he’d only know by the smell of brimstone—but his hearing remained sharp. Years spent alone in silence had honed it to the point where he could make out a whispered word halfway across the library. He set his pen down, and twisted around in his seat. Somewhere behind him, he’d heard the whisper of robes. He squinted, peering into the shadows, but couldn’t see a thing. “Is someone there? ” he croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Brother Morr, are you having trouble sleeping again?”

He heard the sound again, even closer than before. His mouth going dry, he squeaked his chair back and rose from his desk. He lifted a silver candlestick, almost wholly encased in melted wax. He had no illusions of being able to defend himself, but its heft still felt comforting in his grasp. The glow spread into the gloom, and suddenly there was something there. He pushed up his spectacles, trying to make out the fuzzy, dark shape in the shadows.

“Hello?” he asked, shivering. When had it gotten so cold?

“Denubis,” whispered the shape.

The scribe blinked. “Who are you?”

“You should know,” said the shadow. “How many men in the Temple wear black, Brother?”

Riddles had never really interested Denubis. He shook his head. “Only one,” he answered, wondering what kind of trick—

—and then he realized there was only one who dressed in black. His mouth went dry, and he jumped back. The candle’s flame went out, drenching the room in shadow. He lost sight of the dark figure … of the wizard, he thought with a shudder… but he could still feel a stab of cold amid the room’s heat. The cold drew close, and his feet moved without command, propelling him back until he struck a bookshelf with a thud. Several tomes tumbled from the stacks, splaying on the floor. He winced with their pain as he heard the bindings crack.

“You needn’t flee,” whispered Fistandantilus. He was so close that Denubis could have reached out and touched him. “If I meant to harm you, I wouldn’t have to come here. I have killed men by merely thinking their names.”

It was very hard not to gibber. “Wh-why have you come here, then, Dark One? C-can I help you f-f-find a b-b-b-”

“A book? No. I have read most of the books you keep here, at least the ones that aren’t rubbish—even the banned ones,” the sorcerer replied. “No, Brother. It isn’t the lore in this place that interests me. It’s you.”

“Me?” Denubis tried to ask. His voice failed him, however, so all that came out of his mouth was a squeak.

“Yes, you,” Fistandantilus said, chuckling. “All this time, I thought the Lightbringer was the one. But no, those who rule are never fully truly pure of heart. No, I had to come here to find the one I sought.”

“I’m sorry?” Denubis asked. Conversations often rode away without him. “I don’t understand—”

“You don’t need to, Brother,” Fistandantilus declared, “Not yet. But there will come a time of great despair, and the hearts of many will fail. Yours must not. You will know what to do when that time comes.”

With that, he was gone. The cold went with him, letting the heat pour back in. Denubis stood motionless, staring into the blackness, the candlestick still clutched in his hand. What in Paladine’s name had just happened? Had Fistandantilus the Dark actually come to the chancery and spoken to him? Him, a humble copyist?

No, that made no sense. He sighed, suddenly feeling quite sad. Imagining wizards in the middle of the night. If that sort of thing kept up, before long he’d be just like old Brother Forto, lying in his bed, and drooling and muttering all day and night. Wincing, he signed the triangle against such thoughts.

“Well,” he muttered aloud, turning back toward his desk, “best get back to work, then. Don’t want to go all funny in the head before—aaagh!”

There was someone standing there, no more than three paces away. It wasn’t the wizard, though—this was an elf, elderly, balding, with a long white beard. He was dressed in snowy robes, and the medallion of Paladine—no, of E’li, for it was shaped like a pine tree—hung about his neck. There was a look of such sadness on his face that, though he didn’t know why, Denubis felt his eyes burn with sudden tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said huskily. “I-I didn’t see you come in. Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

“No, I have found the one I seek,” the elf said. His sorrowful expression did not change. “If you are Denubis.”

Denubis put a hand to his head. He’d spent entire decades working in the chancery without anyone looking for him. Now two visitors in one night: the Dark One, and then… who was this stranger? Wait, there was something familiar about him, but Denubis’s memory wasn’t what it had once been.

“I am Denubis,” he replied, mystified. “But, forgive me, I can’t place you—”

“My name is Loralon.”

Denubis gasped. He remembered now—he had known Loralon in his youth. The Emissary loved books and had come here sometimes, in the night. They had talked sometimes. But that had been, what? Forty years ago? Kurnos had cast the elf out, and Quarath had taken his place. What was he doing here now?

“Surely, you seek the Kingpriest,” Denubis stammered.

“I’ll—”

“No, there is only one in this Temple I seek and that is you, Denubis,” Loralon said. “Come, now. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Journey!” Denubis repeated. That was the end of it—he must be going mad. “That’s impossible. I’m still not finished with my work—”

“Your work doesn’t matter,” Loralon said gently. “Not any more. Come along, Brother.”

He reached out his hand. Denubis stared at it, bewildered. For a moment, the world seemed to split in two. He saw himself take that hand, saw himself burst into tears as light spilled around him. Loralon had invited him on a journey—and suddenly he wanted to go, desperately. He wanted it so much, it hurt.

But he didn’t take Loralon’s hand. He felt a stab of cold, heard a voice whispering in his ear. “You will know when the time comes…”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t go with you.”

Loralon shut his eyes, the sorrow on his face deepening. Slowly, he lowered his hand to his side. When he spoke, his voice was hollow as a cave. “Very well. I see now what holds you here. But you will make the journey one day, Denubis. I promise you.”

Then he, too, vanished.

Denubis stood alone, shivering, waiting for what would happen next. Another visitor—or vision? Nothing. After a while he started breathing again,

“Funny in the head,” he said, sitting down at his desk again. He reached for his pen, dipped it in the ink, and—

A single drop fell from its tip onto the paper, spattering it with black. Denubis stopped, stared, and sighed. Then he set the stylus down, picked up a brush, and daubed the page’s corner with red. He’d known something like that would happen.

He didn’t waste any tears over it, though. Setting the blemished page aside, he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, picked up his pen, and started anew.

*****

That night became known in later history as the Night of Doom, the night the last true clerics left Krynn. Where they went and what their ultimate fate may have been, never became known. Their passing went all but unnoticed at first, for few remained whose faith was pure, and those few were little missed—minor monks and clerics like Denubis, living in obscurity. The rest of the world continued on, certain the Kingpriest would deliver them from darkness.

Far off, deep in the night sky, something began to move.

Chapter 29

Quarath awoke covered with sweat, his bedsheets soaked through and sticking to him. It was not yet dawn, but already it was hotter than yesterday—oppressive, muggy heat. His bedchamber felt like summer in the jungles of Falthana; the elven plants he kept, used to cooler climes, were wilting. He felt grimy. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and muttered a curse.

He would have to send word to the Arena, postponing the Games; Rockbreaker’s gladiators wouldn’t be able to put on a proper show tomorrow, in this torrid air. He’d been looking forward to watching the Barbarian fight again, too; the big brute had proven quite popular, second only to the great Pheragas. He’d been a good investment. As soon as the heat broke, he vowed, the Games would go on.

He glanced at the windows. He kept them shuttered these days, so the room could stay in shadow, but even so, light leaked through. Something about the light today wasn’t right; the foredawn glow seemed wan, weak, somehow unclean. And now that he paid attention, the sounds he heard were all wrong, too. The choirs should be practicing the Morningsong, but the delicate harmonies that greeted him when he awoke every morning were not there. In their place his were shouts and strangled cries, unpleasantly discordant to refined ear.

“What now?” he muttered, rising from his bed. He folded a robe about his body, went to the windows, cracked open the shutters—and stiffened, sucking in a horrified gasp.

Less than a minute later, he was standing outside with what seemed like the entire population of the Temple—priest and acolyte, knight and monk. Like them all—and the thousands who massed in the Lordcity’s streets beyond the great church—Quarath stared upward, and what he saw made him shiver.

The sky normally, at this time of day was a deep, brilliant blue, the color of sapphires. Now, however, it was a distinct green … a putrescent green, like the color of decaying flesh. Not a cloud marked the sky, from horizon to horizon. No breath of wind stirred the trees and banners. Everywhere there was the reek of ordure, raised by the heat from the city sewers.

Murmurs ran among the clerics. “The end is come,” whispered some. “The dark gods have awoken,” said others. Still others simply spoke one word, echoed across the Lordcity:

“Doom.”

The word resonated in Quarath’s heart, arousing animal fears. He tore his gaze from the firmament to look around for the other hierarchs. Before long he spotted Lady Elsa, who was out front of the Revered Daughters’ cloister, gaping upward with terror-filled eyes. He went over to her, grabbing her arm.

“Snap out of it, Efisa,” he barked. “We are the high clergy of Istar. This sort of thing is what common folk do, not the Kingpriest’s trusted ones!”

Elsa blinked, her eyes meeting his blankly. He shook her, but she still didn’t seem to recognize him. Giving up in disgust, he shoved the First Daughter away and swept onward toward the imperial manse. There, on a balcony overlooking the gardens, stood Beldinas’s glowing figure. Pushing his way through the crowds—they grew thicker every moment, as more and more clerics came out to watch the dreadful sky—Quarath dashed up the front stairs, past the knights on guard, and before long he found himself out on the balcony beside the Lightbringer.

“Do you see, Emissary?” asked the Kingpriest, gesturing skyward. “Do you see what the enemy does, when its defeat is imminent? Behold—even the dawn is poisoned.”

He waved his arm toward the east. There, above the Temple’s silver rooftops, the sun had risen. Rather than a bright orange disc, however, it was a smudge of olive-green. Quarath felt sick to his stomach.

“I’ve never seen its like, Holiness,” he declared. “I can call for an astronomer, if you like. They may have some answers.”

“I have the answers,” Beldinas said feverishly. “Evil sees its doom, and fights back however it can—I do not need star-watchers to tell me what is obvious. And it does not do such things in parts. There is worse to come.”

“Worse?” Quarath echoed, staring at the dim sun in the green sky.

Beldinas nodded. “I saw it in my dreams last night. A terrible wind, cutting through stone like parchment. It will strike the Temple soon.”

Quarath’s eyebrows shot up. “The Temple?” he echoed. The Kingpriest nodded. “But then, shouldn’t we hasten to evacuate?”

“Not the whole thing,” Beldinas said, thinking. The Durro Jolithas only. See that it is cleared at once, Emissary. No one may set foot in there again until I say it is safe.”

The Temple of Istar boasted seven golden spires. The tallest, the Durro Paladas—the Tower of Paladine—rose from the top of the basilica, where the bells were sounding the call to morning prayer, even now. The other six ringed it round, and rose from the corners of its walls. At the tip of each spire was the symbol of a god of light: the twin teardrops of Mishakal, the harp of Branchala, the rose of Majere, the wings of Habbakuk, the disc of Solinari, and the horns of Kiri-Jolith. Quarath’s eyes fixed on this last, and a shudder ran through him. Ordinarily, he didn’t believe in premonitions, having never communed with the gods himself. But if Beldinas said the Durro Jolithas was in danger, then…

“Hurry, Emissary,” the Kingpriest murmured. “It will not be long now.”

Then Quarath felt a change in the humid air, a rising heaviness and tension. Below, fingers were rising, pointing up at the venomous firmament. Following the crowd’s eyes, Quarath felt his heart lurch in his chest.

A black cloud had appeared directly overhead, turning slowly, like some kind of living monster. No lightning played within it, and no rain dropped from it—but the wind had shifted now, and began to pluck furiously at Quarath’s robes. The almond and citrus trees of the gardens began to tremble, then sway.

Quarath left Beldinas at once, splinting down the steps of the manse and out into the courtyard again. He called several elder priests and knights to him. They hurried over, looking to him for answers even as the wind unsettled their hair and robes. Quarath felt their fear, like his own, rising up into his throat

“The Durro Jolithas,” he declared, pointing. “It is in danger; the Lightbringer says so. It must be cleared at once.”

Without hesitating, the men of the Divine Hammer plunged into Jolith’s tower headlong, while the priests herded the crowds away. Quarath watched as monks and servants emerged from the Durro; running across the gardens. Above, the black cloud filled the sky, dark as smoke and as large as the Temple itself. A low, howling drone filled the air, pierced by the shriller sounds of screams from all over the Lord city. Slowly, like a serpent rising from a Seldjuki charmer’s basket, a tendril began to extend downward from the cloud. Down… down…

The clerics from Falthana, Taol, and the deserts of Dravinaar had never seen a tornado before, so they stood rooted, fascinated with horror. The ones from the provinces where the plains ruled—Ismin, Gather, Midrath, and the heartlands—recognized the whirlwind, and scattered with their hands raised to protect their heads.

Quarath wasn’t from the plains, but he threw himself flat, hitting the ground hard. The world swam before his eyes for a moment; and when he looked up again, he saw the knights he’d sent into the Durro emerge from the temple, armor clattering and faces gray with terror. Then hell descended.

The whirlwind struck the northern edge of the gardens, barely fifty paces from where Quarath lay. Trees and bushes uprooted themselves, sucked up into its hungry maw. Statuary and fountains cracked, and stained-glass windows exploded into clouds of sparkling dust. And then there was something strange … it looked like someone had flung a handful of torn white rags into the air.

With a rush, Quarath understood. There were vestries just next to the Durro, where the Temple kept a large supply of clean robes. Then the howl of the wind drove all further thoughts from his mind. The noise of the tornado rose higher and higher, until Quarath thought his ears might soon begin to bleed.

The tornado cut a swath across the gardens, destroying everything in its path. Broken branches and masonry peppered the ground. The black cloud slithered toward the Durro, where first cracks appeared in the walls, and then the horned spire atop the temple began to twist and warp. With a tremendous roar, the entire building blew apart, ripped asunder by the battering wind. As soon as it was gone, the tornado lifted off the ground and howled away to the south, above the city. When it reached the harbor, it suddenly, inexplicably, collapsed, tearing itself to shreds and leaving not a trace of itself in the still green sky.

It rained marble over Lake Istar that day.

*****

The strange windstorm terrified the folk of Istar. Some fled to their homes, huddling in cellars. Many more, however, made for the Barigon. They crowded around the Temple’s front steps, and also at the breach in its walls, where the Durro Jolithas had been destroyed. There was nothing there now but a hole, surrounded by shards of marble and shredded wood. The Divine Hammer had to move in, making a fence of their shields to hold the frightened citizens back, and keep the crowd from pouring in through the gap. All the while, the swelling mob—hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands, all shiny and sweat-stained in the sweltering heat—kept chanting, over and over, calling for the Kingpriest.

“Cilenfo…Pilofiro…Babo Sod…”

At midday, the Temple’s golden doors swung open, and a hush fell over the throng as the hierarchs of the church emerged. The knights standing guard gripped their halberds warily. The Barigon was filled with tinder today, and one spark might provoke a riot. When Beldinas finally appeared, the sparks fell like rain.

The crowd went berserk as the glowing figure appeared. He walked to the very edge of the steps, and looked out over his subjects, his worshipers. They now filled the square, seething and rolling like a storm-tossed sea.

“The gods are angry!” cried some.

“The end it near!” shouted others.

“Death to the unbelievers!” roared still more, turning on the doomsayers.

Fights began to break out, all over the Barigon. Men and women argued and shoved and spat at one another. But the melee stopped the moment Beldinas raised his hands. His light blazed like a silver beacon, and with it came a wave of peace, rolling across the square, calming the hearts of everyone. In time the light crossed the whole city, and the silence descended over all Istar. The fighting, the cursing, the yelling stopped, and the eyes of the people turned as one to the Lightbringer.

“You are right,” Beldinas declared, his musical voice filling the Barigon. “The gods are angry. But it is the gods of evil who strike at us, and they do it out of fear. They do it because the end is near—their end. They think that, by terrorizing our hearts, they can keep their place in the world. So they sent the storm, and smashed this Temple with it.

“Ask yourself, though—what harm did they truly do? How many were killed in this calamity? None! How many were hurt? None! The storm destroyed stone … some glass … a few trees. But the Durro was empty when it was hit, because I saw the doom coming.

“We are still strong, and evil grows weak. It will grow weaker by the day, and soon I will cast it from the world utterly! Paladine will hearken to my voice, and he will heed my words. The darkness will fail, and we shall live in light everlasting! What can our enemies do to stop us?”

“Nothing!” cried the crowd.

“What harm can befall us, if we have faith?”

“Nothing!” Fists rose into the air, a forest of defiance.

“What will keep us from victory?”

“Nothing!” The walls of Istar sang with the people’s voices.

Beldinas let his hands drop, the Miceram shining like a star on his brow. “Yes, my children,” he said. “We are the righteous, the gods’ hammer. We cannot be stopped. And no power the darkness can command will keep us from changing the world forever.”

*****

In the coming days, clockwork falcons came winging in from all corners of the empire, and the realms beyond. They carried messages of calamities of all kinds.

A dark fog spread over the realms of Balifor and Hylo, where the kender lived. The little folk, normally fearless and merry, were found cowering under their beds.

The skies grew dark as the black moon Nuitari, hitherto unknown to any but star-watchers and servants of evil, devoured Solinari’s silver eye and the red candle of Lunitari. The eclipse lasted a full night, and dark magic danced in the air.

The black flame—a shapeless monster that killed with a touch, and had been long thought moribund—burned anew in the halls of Thorbardin and spread death among the dwarves.

In Solamnia, noble and peasant alike went cold and hungry when all hearth-fires failed, and would not light again.

Abanasinia’s grasslands, left yellow and fragile by drought, caught fire, driving the barbarians from the plains and threatening the cities of Kharolis.

At the castle of Dargaard Keep, a renegade knight named Loren Soth turned against his fellows, and brought that ancient brotherhood to the brink of civil war.

White mist, so thick that it was impossible to see one’s own outstretched hands, settled on the harbor of Palanthas, paralyzing the ships and stopping the scribes at its great library from doing their everlasting work.

In Silvanesti, the elves wept, for great gashes opened in the bark of the trees, and what ran from those wounds was not sap but blood.

The elves of Qualinesti despaired as well, for the animals that shared their woodland realm turned wild and dangerous, hunting them in their own homes.

In Pesaro, Tucuri, and the other ports of Istar’s north, the fishermen’s nets came up empty, and the tides turned high and red, washing through the streets.

And in the Khalkists, the earth itself seemed to revolt as volcanoes erupted all up and down the range. Black smoke and ash belched into the air, and burning cinders rained down as far away as Taol.

Each catastrophe brought new murmurs to the Lordcity, where the sickly green sky gave way to constant violent thunderstorms, through Yule and on toward the new year. Yet the belief of Beldinas’s faithful remained strong. Those who spoke of doom found themselves cursed at, shouted down, even chased and pelted with stones. This was evil’s last gasp, and the people of Istar refused to let themselves—or their neighbors—show fear. Thus did the Thirteen Warnings, sent not by the gods of darkness, but by the gods of light, go unheeded.

Quarath, though he recognized the signs, did nothing to warn Beldinas of the prophecy that had been left to him by Lord Revando. Even the elf’s faith remained strong. Good would triumph over evil, and nothing would stop it.

High above, still unseen by the star-watchers, a new red star burned across the heavens.

Chapter 30

Most years, winter came hard and early to Kharolis. Nestled in the south, far from the balmy breezes that kept most of Istar warm year-round, its plains and mountains caught the brunt of the cold that blew in off the Icereach Sea. Normally, the air turned chill in the first days of autumn; by early winter, Kharolis was accustomed to slumbering beneath a blanket of snow.

Not this year. The festival of Yule had come and gone four days ago, and still Kharolis baked as though it were high summer. Not a flake of snow had fallen. People slept on rooftops or under the stars, to escape the stifling indoors. The province of Abanasinia had become a blackened waste with fires raging across the grasslands. The people of Kharolis—be they barbarians of the wilderness or civilized city-folk—prayed to the Lightbringer that the terrible time would soon end.

Xak Tsaroth, the Serpentine City, stood at the edge of the ravaged plains, looking down from its perch in the foothills of the Eastwall Mountains. Though a dozen of Istar’s cities were bigger, it was a vast metropolis by Kharolian standards, forming a ring around a lake of crystal blue water, fed by foaming waterfalls at both ends. The pillared rich and mighty halls of built in the block style of ancient Ergoth, their rooftops lined with dragon-headed gargoyles—glistened pale green in the sunlight, winking with inlaid gold and silver. Its palace and two great temples—one of Paladine, the other of Mishakal the Hand—crowded along the cliffs at the lake’s eastern shore, where the land was highest. They were sprawling, many-towered structures, paneled with green and white jade, their roofs sharply angled to shrug off the snows that had not come this year.

The elders who ruled Xak Tsaroth enjoyed their privilege and power, using the town guard mercilessly to preserve order. Before this year, there hadn’t been a riot within its filigreed walls in seven generations; even tavern brawls were seldom. Tsarothan justice was swift to those who broke the peace. Lately, however, things had changed. Fleeing the flames that consumed their grassland homes, many of the Plainsfolk had come to the hills. The guards had tried turning them away, but the tribesmen just kept coming, until finally the elders had to open the gates. The barbarians and the city-dwellers didn’t mix well; hardly a day went by without some scuffle coming to blows, some fracas in the streets. All that kept things from exploding were the clerics, who preached and led prayers in the city’s plazas and marketplaces. All of Kharolis, savage and cultured, had long ago converted to the Istaran church, and the faithful gathered in great masses, exhorting the Kingpriest to save them from the evils surrounding them.

Amid the bedlam and fervor, a lone man in gray, road-stained robes drew little notice. The guards—rough men with green tassels on their helms and carrying broad-headed glaives—noted a bulge beneath the man’s cloak that could only have been a sword, but they made no move to frisk him. Kharolis was a dangerous place, and most travelers went about armed—particularly in dire times such as these. More concerned with a band of Qué-mun tribesmen that followed behind the lone man, they dismissed him as a pilgrim and let him pass. So Cathan MarSevrin came, unheralded and unnoticed, to the Serpentine City.

It had been a long, hard journey, first through the Khalkist mountains and across the marshes of Schalland, then into the Eastwalls. Cathan had spent most of the trip cold and tired, and hunger had left him even weaker than before. His wounded leg had healed, but his shoulder throbbed where he’d been stabbed, and it was a miracle the cut hadn’t festered. Every time he moved his arm, lances of pain drove deep into his spine.

Still, that wasn’t the worst. The hardest part of the journey had been the memories. Not an hour went by when he didn’t see Tithian’s face, pale and red-lipped, staring at him as his life slipped away. He’d killed the one man left in the world he truly cared for, who had been his squire, his companion, his friend.

Cathan walked a while with no destination in mind, borne along by the currents of the crowds packing Xak Tsaroth’s streets. After so long on the road, the city smells—unwashed bodies, roasting meat, nameless ordure—battered his senses. A young plainsman in beads and buckskins jostled him, looking for a fight; moments later, an older man with an embroidered coat and oiled hair gave him a belligerent shove. Both backed off when he opened his robes to reveal Ebonbane’s hilt. Every place had its bullies who lost interest in prey that fought back.

Finally, he reached the lake’s edge, where jetties poked like fingers out toward the far shore. Fish dead from the heat floated on the surface, adding to the general stink. Putting a hand to his brow, Cathan leaned against a railing of green stone and stared out across the water at the looming temples. This was the Lightbringer’s birthplace. The priesthood had wanted little to do with him when he was a mere, unordained orphan who could heal the sick with his touch; they cast him out as a heretic, forcing him and his disciples to live in a secluded abbey somewhere in the mountains to the north, where Ilista had found him years later.

Now a huge statue of milk-white stone, some fifty feet high, stood before the church of Paladine. It was not of the god, but of the Lightbringer, as people imagined him: beautiful and benevolent, not prematurely old and frightened. Cathan shivered under the icon’s beatific smile. He couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, Beldinas could see him through the statue’s blank stone eyes.

Subconsciously, as he had countless times over his weeks-long trek, he shifted his good hand to touch his pack. Even through the well-worn leather, the shape of the Peripas was reassuring. He tried not to think of the spellbook.

“Well,” he murmured to himself, “I made it this far. What now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Cathan started, his hand shifting to his sword as he turned to face a short, obscenely fat monk. The man was silver-haired, with a red, cherubic face. His white robes—which, given his girth could have sheltered a small family—were shocking against the smoke-blackened sky to the west. His eyes twinkled with light, though the sun was behind him and the moons had not yet risen.

Cathan stared, remembering. He’d seen this man once before, a lifetime ago. That had been in the Garden of Martyrs, on the eve of his dubbing—the first time he’d experienced the vision of the burning mountain. This monk bad been with him at the time. He struggled for the man’s name then found it.

“Brother Jendle…?”

The monk chuckled heartily. “That would be one of my names, yes. Lady Ilista always used it. Speaking of which, she sends her regards. We knew you’d make it to this place, Twice-Born.”

At once, all doubt left Cathan’s mind. This must be Paladine, the god taken mortal form. Funny, he looked nothing like the images men made of him—either a wise and gentle old man, or a warrior grim and fierce—but still there seemed no doubt Cathan could feel the divine power surging in this unlikely form. Reflexively, he began to lower himself to his knees.

“Don’t you dare!” said Jendle, his jowls quivering. “No groveling here. Someone might see.”

Cathan blinked, then nodded. “Forgive me.”

“And quit apologizing. Come on, old fellow—we must talk, but somewhere discreet.” Reaching out a pudgy hand, he took hold of Cathan’s elbow. His grip was deceptively strong. “As it happens, I know just the place.”

For one of his girth, Brother Jendle moved with remarkable alacrity. It was all Cathan could do to keep up as the monk waddled down Xak Tsaroth’s green-paved streets. The crowds parted before Jendle like gossamer, but jostled and bumped Cathan, jolting his wounded arm. Now and then, he cast a furtive glance behind, looking for signs of the town guard—or the Divine Hammer. There were probably a handful of knights stationed here, to accompany the Kingpriest’s legate to the elders’ court. But he saw no guards or knights among the shouting, arguing throngs. No one paid them any undue attention.

They were passing a fountain where jade dolphins frolicked amid the spray when the monk caught him looking over his shoulder. White eyebrows rose. “What’s the matter?” Jendle asked. “You act like somebody’s following us.”

Cathan reddened. “Just nervous,” he muttered.

“Oh?” Jendle replied, his eyes twinkling. “You might have cause. Look over there.”

The monk nodded to his right. Cathan looked—and saw him right away: a grubby, scrawny boy of maybe ten summers. He regarded Cathan with narrow eyes, then quickly paled and darted away into the crowd. Jendle’s hand caught Cathan’s wrist, stopping him from any thoughts of pursuit

“Don’t bother,” the monk said. “You’d never catch him, and you’d just draw more attention.”

Cathan muttered a curse.

“He’s been shadowing you since you first walked through the gates,” Jendle noted dryly. “Probably a spy for the city elders. They’ve learned to make good use of their urchins, ever since one of them grew up to be Kingpriest.”

Then he was off again, and Cathan had to hurry to keep up. The elders would learn he was here, soon enough. The gods knew what would happen then.

“Nothing will happen—not right away, anyway,” said Jendle. “Relax, Twice-Born—you’re safe for the nonce. Now keep up, will you?”

They moved farther away from the lake, into Xak Tsaroth’s southern quarter, the Old City. At last the crowds thinned. The buildings here were crumbling and run-down, and some showed scorch marks and missed their roofs. There wasn’t a single unbroken window. Rubbish littered the streets and faded graffiti covered the walls. Cathan was startled to see that what was scrawled there was far from the profanity and lewdness youths wrote on buildings in other places. It wasn’t even in the vulgar tongue. Pilofiro, it said, and Beldinas Babo Sod. A few triangles and crude falcons and hammers accompanied the words.

“Worshipers of the gray gods once dwelt here,” the fat monk explained. “The church drove them out… the ones that were lucky, anyway. They say this place is cursed now, so hardly anyone comes to this part of the city any more. Ah, here we are.”

He stopped so abruptly Cathan nearly piled into him. Brother Jendle pointed to a low, square building with pointed turrets and a curving flight of steps leading to its entrance. The pillars had raptor’s claws for capitals, and above the door, etched into the marble, was a relief that had been mostly chipped away. It had been a griffin, rampant and roaring; Cathan could still pick out a wing, the tip of a beak, and a leonine foot

“Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed.

“Yes?” asked Brother Jendle.

“This is a temple of Shinare.”

“Was,” replied the monk. Now it’s a wreck. The pious saw to that some time ago.”

Shinare, the patron of commerce and industry, belonged to neither the light nor the darkness. The Kingpriest had declared Shinare’s followers Foripon thirty years ago, claiming they were greedy and hoarded wealth that should have gone to the needy, or to Istar. At the time, Cathan had believed Beldinas wholeheartedly, and had even helped clear out a few Shinarite sects as one of the Hammer. Now … what did he feel? Sorrow? Shame? Regret? No, all he felt was anger—at the Kingpriest, at the church, and at himself for letting this happen.

“Come on,” said Jendle, puffing as he climbed the steps. “We’ll be safe there.”

Cathan blinked. “Wait. Can you go in?”

The monk stopped, glancing over his shoulder with wide eyes. “Why not? It’s not like this place ever belonged to Takhisis, you know. Shinare and I have always been on good terms, despite what your Kingpriest insists. Although,” he added in a loud whisper, “I’m certain Shinare cheats at dice.”

In he went Cathan shook his head, which was beginning to throb a little. Within, the temple was cool and dark, lit only by shafts of twilight that stabbed through its windows. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but the place was empty… unnaturally so, even for a ruin. The altar and pews had been removed, leaving only a few chunks of stone behind. There were no fonts, no scraps of tapestries, not even sconces left on the walls. Someone had painstakingly chipped away every last tile from the mosaics that had once covered the ceiling. The Revered Sons were thorough at cleansing the churches of forbidden gods. Cathan had seen their handiwork many times, and looking upon the result now made him wince.

“Not pretty, is it?” Jendle asked. “Nearly every Shinarite house is like this now, from Seldjuk to Ergoth. The same for temples of Gilean, Sirrion the Flowing Flame… even Reorx of the dwarves. The gods aren’t pleased about that, I can tell you.”

Cathan suddenly felt other presences in the room—a weeping woman in blue, a horned warrior with swords in six hands, and others. The gods of light had assembled here, at Jendle’s call—even Solinari of the White Robe mages. The gods didn’t speak, and they faded quickly from his sight, but they remained here just the same. And there were darker presences, too—gray and black shadows.

“This is why we must do what we’re going to do,” Jendle finished, waving a pale, pudgy hand. “The Balance isn’t just in danger. It’s collapsing.”

“And so you have decided to smash Istar… ?” Cathan said. He was appalled to hear the tone of accusation that had crept into his voice.

“Huh! Decided?” the monk replied. He drew himself up, suddenly furious. “Do you honestly believe I would choose to kill so many? I do not want this, any more than you wanted to kill your squire, Twice-Born. But I do it for the same reason Lord Tithian lies dead today—it must happen.

“Everyone who believes the Kingpriest can destroy evil gives him the power to do so.”

“Surely there must be another way,” Cathan said, shaking his head.

Jendle shrugged. “We try to warn the people even now, all across Krynn. That is why Abanasinia’s grasslands burn, why brother turns against brother in Solamnia, why the northern ports run red with blood-water. We have sent the folk of Krynn many, many signs … but those who should heed them do not understand. Did you, when you first saw the fiery hammer fall on the Temple?”

Cathan bowed his head, saying nothing. For most of his life, he’d believed the vision was only a dream. He sagged against a column.

Jendle laid a remarkably strong hand on his shoulder. “The people are blind, and they refuse to see. Believe me, I will weep when I do what I must. I take no joy in any of this, Lightbringer.”

Cathan felt as if a thunderbolt had struck him in the forehead. He stiffened, looking up at the monk in astonishment, “What did you call me?”

“Lightbringer,” repeated Jendle, smiling slightly. He waved his hand. “Yes, yes. Astounding, incredible, and so on. Certainly not what Lady Ilista expected, when she read the prophecy. She too was quite surprised when she found out the truth. You see, she went to seek a new Kingpriest … and to find the Lightbringer foretold by prophecy. She found Brother Beldyn, and thought he was the Lightbringer, and everyone believed that was true, naturally. But the prophecy wasn’t about him, Twice-Born. It was about you.”

The monk gestured, and words appeared on the dusty floor, burning white as they etched themselves into the stone:

From the west, the setting of suns,

In troubled times, with Istar endangered,

Carrying lost riches he comes,

Lightbringer, bearer of hope.

And though the darkness shall fear him,

Hunt him, seek his destruction,

He is the savior of holiness,

And the gods themselves shall bow to him.

“There,” Jendle said, as Cathan stared in shock. “Just as I revealed to poor, addled Psandros the Younger. Ilista read it, and thought it was about Beldyn. So did he, more’s the pity, but who can blame either of them? It fit. He brought the Miceram to the Lordcity, after all, and defeated the false Kingpriest.

“But in truth, you also came from the west, when you rode out of the borderlands. And now you bear the Peripas, lost riches indeed. Not to mention the wizard’s spellbook.” He winked. “Yes, I knew about that. Don’t worry about Fistandantilus, Twice-Born. We have plans for him. “And as for god bowing…”

The fat monk lowered himself to his knees, chins bulging as he bowed his head.

“Pilofiro,” he intoned.

Cathan’s hand reached for the Disks within his pouch. He could feel the other presences prostrating—Mishakal and Jolith and all the rest. This wasn’t right—Beldinas was the Lightbringer. He was just Cathan MarSeverin. The Twice-Born.

Jendle looked up. “Ah, but you’re more,” he said. With much grunting and sweating, he heaved his bulk upright “Why would I restore your life, Cathan, when you died untimely? You have a divine purpose, and it is to be here, in Xak Tsaroth, when the mountain falls. For you are not merely the Twice-Born…”

There was a shimmering, and a flash of silver light Cathan averted his eyes, gasping. The smell of honey and roses filled the air.

“You are the Lightbringer, and the light is my word.”

The voice had changed, grown deeper, with an edge like a sword. When Cathan looked up, he felt no surprise at all to see that Brother Jendle was gone.

In his place was a dragon.

An enormous, serpentine shape coiled around itself again and again. Its scales gleamed like silver … no, platinum … its eyes were glistening amber, full of wisdom and regret. Its teeth and talons were twice as long as swords, and a hundred times as sharp. This was Draco Paladin, as they called him in Ergoth… E’li, in Silvanesti… Thak among the dwarves … the Great Dragon in Solamnia. Paladine.

The golden gaze bore straight through him, piercing flesh and bone, right into the depths of his soul. Cathan wept, overcome with awe, terror, and inestimable joy.

“You know what to do,” said the god’s voice in his mind.

All at once, he did.

Laughing, crying, he fell senseless to the floor, and slept well. He did not dream of burning hammers.

*****

Bron heard the rider approaching well before he came into view. He gestured to his men—a dozen in all, young knights who had never seen true battle before—and they moved into position quickly. Crossbow strings were cocked, helmet visors lowered. His own sword rattled as he loosened it in its scabbard. The Eastwall Mountains were wild, full of dangers. He wasn’t about to take any chances.

He’d figured out, early on, that Cathan was bound for Kharolis, not Solamnia or Ergoth. The Lightbringer was well known, and would be spotted easily in civilized lands. In this rougher country, he might pass without notice. Bron and his force had arrived a little over a week ago, making camp in the mountains. From here, he’d dispatched messengers to the nearby cities—the Plainsmen were eager to please, if given gold—and telling them whom to look for.

The clatter of hooves drew steadily nearer. He held up a hand, and the crossbowmen tensed, sighting down their quarrels. Holding his breath, he waited… waited…

When the rider rounded the last bend, Bron’s hand started to jerk downward… then stopped, and stayed up as the man reined in. He was young, rangy and tan, wearing the feathers of the Qué-kiri, one of the Abanasinian tribes. Panic whitened his face as he saw the crossbows aimed at him.

“Weapons up! He’s one of ours!” Bron commanded.

The knights lifted their sights away from the Plainsman. He let out a sigh of relief, but stayed where he was, eyeing the Hammer warily.

“Come here, lad,” Bron beckoned.

It took some coaxing, but the young barbarian finally got down off his horse. His hands shook as he bowed, offering Bron a jade scroll-tube.

“Message,” he said, his accent thick enough to mangle the word.

Bron took it, then turned away from the Plainsman as he pulled out the parchment inside. He read it, then read it again … and then a third rime, making sure he had it right. When he looked up again, the barbarian had skulked away—but no matter. He had what he needed. He turned to his men, and nodded firmly.

“Make ready at once,” he said. “We ride for Xak Tsaroth.”

Chapter 31

FIRSTMONTH, 963 I.A.

The storm began the morning after the whirlwind smashed the Durro, and did not relent for thirteen days. Black clouds closed in, illuminated by flashes of crimson lightning. Thunder battered the Lordcity, a constant hammering like the din of a thousand blacksmiths. Wind tore away banners and awnings, uprooted trees, and threatened to knock the sentries off the city walls. Rain pounded down in sheets. By the end of the first day, many of Istar’s streets were veritable rivers, running a foot or more deep; its plazas became large ponds. The waters of the harbor rose so high that the piers and wharves disappeared. Hail pelted the city, stripping the leaves from gardens and smashing windows and glass domes.

Yule came and went without celebration. So did the New Year. The people of the Lordcity huddled indoors while the cellars of their homes filled with water. Although the citizens prayed for salvation, their prayers were half-hearted, for in their hearts they already believed it wouldn’t be long before the Lightbringer called on the gods. This was a final test of their faith, nothing more.

Babo dolit, they told one another.

The Kingpriest will provide.

Then, on the third day of the year, the storm stopped.

It ended so suddenly, it was hard to believe. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the clouds simply vanished, the rain ended, and the thunder gave way to the calls of night birds. The winds dropped to nothing. When the day dawned, the sky was neither black nor the strange green that had heralded the whirlwind, but sapphire blue, clear and lovely. Even the heat seemed less—still warm for early winter, surely, but not as stifling as before. It was a glorious morning.

The first people to step out of their homes gazed up at the sun—a gold coin once more. They murmured thanks to the Lightbringer, kissing their fingertips as they looked to the Temple. There was no mistaking the timing: this was the day the Kingpriest would call upon the gods. In years to come, the folk of Istar believed, they would tell their children of the storm the dark gods had sent to frighten them, and how their faith in Beldinas had saved them. The children would not understand, though—not really. They would never know evil.

Soon after sunrise, more good news came. The Games of Yule, postponed for so long by the weather, would take place today. Rockbreaker sent criers out all over the city, and before long, crowds had begun to gather at the Arena. The Barbarian would be fighting today, and the Red Minotaur, and Pheragas of Ergoth too—all the greatest gladiators in the land. By midmorning, the air was filled with the clash of steel as men and monsters dueled upon the sands. And from the Temple, voices rose in song, praising the Kingpriest in his sacred task.

It would be a day to remember.

*****

The ceremony would not take place in the Hall of Audience, the Kingpriest declared after morning prayers. Many of the hierarchs were dismayed, disappointed even, but Beldinas remained adamant, immune to their pleas.

“This is a private rite between man and god,” he declared. “Not some pantomime for a crowd to cheer, not like one of Rockbreaker’s blood-shows. No one will be present for this solemn occasion but Paladine and myself.”

An hour after dawn, he rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais, sweeping out of the Hall. A flight of marble steps led beneath the basilica to a private chapel. This was the Kingpriest’s personal sanctuary, a room of gilded walls and silken tapestries, lit by candles of white beeswax. A mosaic of the night sky—flecked with stars, the silver moon soaring—arched above a platinum altar, on which stood an idol of Paladine, in his form as the Great Dragon.

Beldinas walked to the altar, but did not kneel. He stared at the icon, the amber eyes staring out of the wise, serpentine face. The light of his aura made them gleam. He stood there a long time, lost in thought, then glanced up at the ceiling.

“What do you think of that, Emissary?” he asked.

Quarath froze. He hadn’t even finished coming down the steps yet, and had been so quiet, he was sure the Kingpriest— his back to the entrance—couldn’t hear him. Beldinas never failed to surprise him, though, and he smiled slightly as he walked to the Kingpriest’s side. He followed the man’s gaze to the mosaic.

“It is fine work, Holiness,” he declared. “One of Pelso of Edessa’s best.”

“No” Beldinas declared. “It is terrible, Quarath. Look at it closer—do you see that star, there? It is askew. It throws off the play of the light, and spoils the whole thing. Ruins it completely.”

Quarath narrowed his eyes, trying to spot the offending tile. There was one star, at the tip of Majere’s rose, that looked a little off-kilter. Even staring at it, though, he couldn’t see anything really wrong. If there was a slight flaw it did nothing to harm the beauty of the piece. Pelso had crafted it nearly three hundred years ago, for Symeon the First. In all that time, no one had remarked on any flaw.

“I shall have it torn down at once,” the Kingpriest declared. “Find me an artisan who will craft one better.”

Quarath stared at him in shock. An ache flared in his heart at the thought of destroying such a fine work of art. And merely because of one tiny imperfection.

Still, Beldinas was the Lightbringer. His word was law— and he spoke with the god’s voice, especially after today. Quarath sighed.

“Sifat, Holiness,” he said.

The Kingpriest bowed his head, pressing the knuckles of his clasped hands to his brow. He spoke no prayers—for what he was about to do, his own strength must be enough. Slowly, the glow from the Miceram began to brighten. It held the power of every Kingpriest who had worn it before him, and he drew it all in, adding his own. Quarath averted his eyes; it hurt too much to look directly at Beldinas now.

“Leave me. Emissary,” the Lightbringer said.

Quarath paused, angling his head. A strangeness had come over the Kingpriest’s voice—a new tension. To Quarath’s sensitive elven ears, he sounded almost afraid.

“Holiness?” he ventured. “Are you certain?”

“I must be alone,” the Kingpriest insisted. “Go.”

The odd tremor was still in his words, but Quarath bowed his head. “As you wish, Holiness ” he declared. “The god be with you.”

Beldinas nodded. “He shall. Emissary. He shall.”

Quarath turned and left. The Kingpriest’s glow vanished behind him when he shut the door to the chapel. He took a deep breath, thinking of the mosaic, then shook his head and walked up the stairs.

That was when the first tremors struck.

*****

Denubis was so intent on his work that he scarcely noticed when the ground rumbled beneath him. He only realized something was wrong when he went to dip his pen into the inkpot and discovered it wasn’t there any more. Blinking behind his spectacles, he looked up to see the pot had moved halfway across his desk. His eyebrows shot up as he glanced around him.

The other monks were just as bewildered. Some had risen from their seats, and were bustling down the aisles of the chancery. A few had gone to the windows, and were craning their necks to see out. Denubis rolled his eyes—young pups, they were, too easily distracted from their sacred tasks—then he picked up the inkpot, put it back where it belonged, and returned to writing.

He’d written just three more words when the second temblor struck, this time violent and unmistakable. It seemed as if the ground dropped away beneath him, just for a moment, then leapt up to slam into him from below. The inkpot leapt off the desk entirely and smashed onto the floor, spattering black droplets across the tiles and his cassock. Books tumbled from the shelves, some breaking their spines, loosing storms of parchment into the air. The monks crowded in the aisles now, while some bolted for the doors, exclaiming.

“The Eyes!” someone cried. “The Eyes have fallen!”

His brow furrowed, Denubis set down his pen. He was so close to finishing his translation—only a few dozen more pages to go, a month or two more and then he could rest. But even he could see that something was very wrong. He shuffled across the room, to look out one of the smaller windows.

“Make way, make way” he grumbled, pushing through a knot of younger scribes at the casement. “What is all this nonsense about—?”

He stopped, his voice foiling him. Through the window, he could see the city outside, stretching away south toward the still-flooded harbor. Even from where he stood, the damage from the quake was obviously extensive: toppled walls and columns, yawning holes were some roofs had been, plumes of smoke and dust rising all across Istar. Worst of all, the God’s Eyes, the twin beacons that had shone above the waterfront all Denubis’s life, were gone. They had toppled over, crashing docks and ships beneath their weight. One had sparked a large fire that was consuming the storehouses along the wharf.

“Palado Calib,” the monks breathed. “What do we do?”

Denubis froze, for he too had no idea what was going on. How could he? This had nothing to do with books, with the Peripas, with—

The third quake was stronger still, lasting far longer. The ground bucked hard, and Denubis would have fallen had there not been a shelf to stagger against.

It rained books all over the library, and one monk who had been up high on a ladder fell with a scream, hitting the stone floor with a horrible crunch. Copyists, binders, and illuminators all cried out, running every direction. The chancery, an island of serenity for centuries, dissolved into noisy bedlam. Windows shattered in bursts of glass. Men shrieked, clutching at cut faces and ruined eyes. Rows of shelves collapsed against each other, crushing men beneath the lore they had dedicated their lives to preserving. Lamps crashed down from their sconces and shattered, spreading burning oil among the loose paper. Some scribes scrambled to gather up what scrolls and tomes they could; others rushed for the doors. Still others stood rooted, too amazed to move.

A wild-eyed acolyte, bleeding from a gash in his shaven pate, nearly bowled Denubis over. He clutched at the old scribe’s sleeve, his fingers like claws. “It is the gods of darkness!” he cried. “They mean to stop the Kingpriest!”

Denubis stared at the youth’s crazed, white face, unable to reply. Flames whooshed into the air as a stack of papyrus went up. The fear-maddened acolyte let go of him and dashed off, screaming that the end had come, and they were all doomed. He hadn’t gone ten paces when the ceiling gave a great crack and a golden chandelier slammed down on him from above, ending his bleating.

The earth shook a fourth time. There were shrieks now from all over—not just the chancery but a roar of fear from the Temple outside and the city beyond. Clerics started to knock each other down, trample each other. They clogged the doors, shoving and screaming as walls collapsed and flames spread.

A crash sounded behind Denubis, and he turned, already knowing his desk would be gone, buried beneath a balcony that had given way and fallen from the walkways above. He fell to his knees, hot tears spilling from his eyes as his work—the work of more than forty years—vanished in clouds of dust and smoke. Better if I’d still been sitting there, he thought. Better than to live, knowing all I’ve done has come to nothing… destroyed in an instant. He wept like a child as destruction rained down around hint

Denubis.

The voice was like a spike of ice driven through his skull. He gasped, looking up to see who was speaking, but there was no one there. All the living monks had abandoned the place, leaving the chancery to the dead and the dying. Black fumes choked the air, and curls of burning paper floated like ghosts.

Yet he knew who had spoken, though he was loath to admit it. He remembered the shadowy figure who had visited him on the Night of Doom. The words of Fistandantilus rang in his memory. There will come a time of great despair. You must not falter.

Denubis choked on tears and smoke. He was faltering. It took all his will but he fought back the urge to surrender and die. “What must I do?” he breathed.

Come to me, said the Dark One. There is still time, but it is short. You can still make a difference. Your life can still have meaning. Come, before all is lost.

Flames rose around him. A tremendous crash silenced screaming voices elsewhere in the library, and blew a wall of cinders and ash over him. The remaining windows of the chancery exploded outward. He stared out at the gardens beyond and the open air. Then, moving like a Pesaran stick-puppet, he rose and staggered out of the inferno, following the lure of the voice.

*****

Cathan woke from dreamless slumber, and knew he would never sleep again.

He couldn’t say how he knew. There was nothing wrong, no strange smell on the wind or foreboding in the air. It was mercilessly hot, but that was how every day was since he came to Xak Tsaroth. Old bones creaking, he rose from the stone floor that had been his bed for the past week and more. Paladine had left him after giving him his final vision, and Cathan had remained in the temple of Shinare in all that time. There was water to drink in the church’s cistern, and a few barrels of old hardtack and dried dates in the cellar, left over from better days. He’d stayed hidden, afraid to show his face and risk revealing himself again.

The Divine Hammer was here—he could sense it. They were searching Xak Tsaroth for him, so he’d stayed hidden, lost in thought.

Now, though, he knew the time for hiding was over. He looked out a window and noted the sharp, downward angle of the sun’s rays streaming through. It was an hour until midday … maybe less. Time was short.

He didn’t pray; the god was with him anyway. He was the Lightbringer.

Buckling on his sword, Cathan walked out the door and into the street. Daylight stabbed at his eyes, dazzling him. He threw up an arm to cover his face, fighting through waves of nausea. You know what to do, the platinum dragon had told him.

Certainty shone in his empty eyes. People stepped out of his path, making warding signs as he passed. He tried not to look at the men, the women, and especially the children. Their fates were sealed, as was his. It pained him to think of their doom: These were not evil people. He made his way down to the lake.

He heard the voices behind him, the whispers and oaths, the sounds of running feet. He had been recognized; the whisperers would bring the ones who hunted him. But he had things to do now, and no way to do them without revealing himself. By the time he reached the wharf, a huge crowd had gathered behind him, following at a distance, ready to run if the Twice-Born should turn on them.

The water was beautiful, sparkling azure in the sunlight. The jade, pillared halls of the palace and temples reflected brilliantly on its surface. Jetties reached out from the shore, rowboats bobbing and bumping alongside. He stared at them for a moment, then descended a short stair down to the water. The dockmaster hurried to meet him, and Cathan untied his purse from his belt and tossed it to the man—and with it, the last few pieces of silver he owned. The man stopped to catch the coin pouch, and Cathan walked past him, toward the boats.

The first crossbow bolt struck the dock directly in front of where he walked, burying itself three inches deep in solid wood. Cathan pulled up short, staring at the quivering quarrel, then turned to face back toward shore.

The crowd had spread out along the stone seawall: Hundreds strong, they stood watching him with apprehension. And there, among them, were the knights—eight in all, their armor gleaming. Four carried crossbows, the rest had maces and swords. At their head, at the top of the stair, was the one called Bron.

“Very well,” Cathan said wearily. “But let’s be quick about this.”

Chapter 32

Cathan stood with his gaze fast on the knights, his hand resting lightly on Ebonbane’s hilt. The waterfront buzzed with the promise of a fight and fresh blood.

“If you draw your sword, you will die,” said Sir Bron. “That is a promise, not a threat.”

Cathan shrugged. “What other option do I have?”

“Surrender. Give back what you’ve stolen.”

“And you think surrender would be honorable?”

“Your life will be spared.”

“I doubt it,” Cathan replied. “My life ends today, one way or another.”

Bron frowned, puzzled, then shook his head. “I am warning you, Twice-Born. I have only to give the order, and my men will shoot. I won’t make the same mistake Lord Tithian did, and underestimate you.”

“Tithian was a true knight,” Cathan replied, raising his voice. “He lived, and died, with honor—something your kind knows little about. We had an agreement, and you have violated it by following me here.”

A noise rippled along the wharf, a chorus of disapproval. Bron scowled, feeling the sentiments of the crowd begin to turn against him. They began to mutter words like coward and murderer. The other knights twitched nervously.

“Honeyed words, to mask the poison,” Bron shot back, undeterred. “You tricked Tithian into a duel, then you killed him and fled.”

“A good fight,” Cathan noted. “Won fairly, but not easily … and with no joy in it. Tithian was my friend—that’s why I tarried to bury him. Would a murderer build his victim’s cairn?”

Hundreds of eyes settled on Sir Bron, who shifted uneasily. He kept his vision focused on Cathan. “Your lies will burn you in the Abyss,” he said.

“I am a murderer and a thief,” Cathan shot back. “You said it yourself. How does lying make any difference in the Abyss?”

The crowd laughed at that, and Bron bristled. “You’ll find out, soon enough,” he said. “Now, if you haven’t taken your hands off your sword before I count to three, I will give the order to shoot.”

Cathan nodded, but didn’t move. The knights sighted down their crossbows, fingers on triggers.

“One,” said Bron, raising his hand.

The crowd edged closer, making the boards of the wharf-walk creak.

“Two.”

Cathan tightened his grip on Ebonbane’s hilt. His eyes were white, empty, unblinking. He had seen this in his vision, with Brother Jendle in the Shinarite temple. He felt no fear, no doubt He waited patiently as Sir Bron glared at him.

“Three!”

The crossbowmen fired, all four at once. At the snap of the strings, Cathan jerked his sword from its scabbard and swept it in two looping arcs before him. He heard the blade strike the quarrels, mid-flight… ping! ping! ping! ping!… and the missiles spun away to the left and right, splashing into the waters of the lake. Ebonbane vibrated, the sword humming softly as he brought it to rest before him.

All up and down the wharf, jaws opened wide. Cathan had reacted more readily, moved more quickly, than seemed possible. Now sunlight flashed off the Tarsian steel in his hand, dazzling all who looked upon it. Even the knights gaped, their weapons drooping in their hands—until the Tsarothans and Plainsmen around them reached in and grabbed them away. Others closed in around the rest, wresting their blades away and holding them steady. Bron jerked as though waking. “Let them go!” he snapped, brandishing his own sword. “Unhand them, or I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Cathan asked. “Arrest them? Attack them? The rule is the same here as it is in the Lordcity, Sir Bron. Triogo calfat: the mob rules.”

Bron’s face was the color of wine. His mouth worked, but no words came out. Finally, waving to the crowd, he managed to sputter, “This man… he stole the Peripas… the Peripas Mishakas, from the Kingpriest’s own … from the imperial manse! He killed Lord—the Grand Marshal of the Hammer! He is a criminal, and yet you protect him?”

Cathan saw many heads nodding, but many others shook their heads, and soon the loyalists won out—because they still hoped to watch a good fight. They pulled back from the younger knights, leaving Bron alone, halfway up the steps.

Bron looked afraid. Cathan had beaten Tithian, and Tithian had bested him many times on the sparring grounds. But he was a knight of the Divine Hammer, and he couldn’t deny the challenge. Hand shaking, he flipped shut his visor, then reached down and drew his blade—the same blade Tithian had wielded.

Just as in Cathan’s vision, Sir Bron came down the steps and raised his sword in salute—a grave gesture that the Twice-Born imitated. Old knight and young assumed almost identical stances. On the wharf, the crowd fell still. The sun climbed higher, toward its zenith. The world grew silent, the yearning for bloodshed as thick in the air as it ever was in the Arena. Then…

Bron made the first pass, a high backhand. Cathan’s blade was there to meet it, the clash of steel ringing out across Xak Tsaroth. He riposted, spinning Ebonbane at Bron’s left side, but the younger man twisted out of the way then backed up a pace to avoid a follow-through. He nodded, acknowledging his opponent’s skill.

Cathan gave ground, the wood groaning beneath him as he backed toward the end of the dock. Bron came after him, trying blow after blow, quick as scorpion stings—testing the Twice-Born’s defenses, searching for openings and finding none. They parted again, Bron breathing hard and sweating within his helm.

“Listen to me,” Cathan hissed, his voice just loud enough for the knight and no other to hear. “Everything you think you know is a lie. If I did surrender, you’d still never bring me back to the Lordcity. By the end of today, there won’t be a Lordcity.”

Bron pressed the attack, cutting low, low, high, then feinting left and coming in on the right. Cathan parried them all, though the last left him with a slash on his elbow—and his sleeve dark with blood. He lashed out in reply, Ebonbane’s tip glancing off Bron’s metal breastplate. Then they parted again.

“What are you talking about?” Bron demanded.

“Beldinas,” Cathan replied, shifting to his left to protect his injured arm. “He’s going to call on the gods, and they’ll destroy Istar. And not just the city—the whole empire. The burning hammer will be the Kingpriest’s punishment.”

Again Bron advanced, and Cathan fought him off, stepping in close this time to foil the younger man’s reach, then hammering him in the face with the hilt of his sword. The visor crumpled and came loose; Bron stumbled back, clutching until he got a good grip on the metal. He yanked the broken visor off. He flipped it into the water, and took the moment to shake his head at Cathan.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Beldinas can’t be wrong. He’s the Lightbringer.”

“No. I am.”

Bron had been preparing another onslaught. Now he stopped, his face going ashen, and backed up in shock.

“What?”

“I’m the Lightbringer.” Cathan murmured the words not as a boast, but as a simple, sorrowful fact. “The god told me so.” Bron hesitated, his sword wavering. Doubt flashed across his face. Part of him wanted to believe, and it warred with the part of him that insisted he must do his duty. Cathan watched, knowing already how it would turn out.

As in the vision, duty won.

Bron came on hard, no longer testing, his blade swiping vicious arcs. Aggressive as he was, though, each move was exact, and powerful enough that Cathan’s arm soon grew numb from parrying the blows. Soon there was no more dock behind Cathan, nowhere left to back up. He could defy the vision: all he had to do was jump into the water and try to swim away. If he did, though, the knights might get their crossbows back and finish him off. So he concentrated anew on his sword-work, stopping Bron’s hungry blade again, and again, and again…

But he wasn’t quick enough.

Knowing it was inevitable, he couldn’t block Bron’s sword from piercing his arm just below the elbow. It struck deep, numbing his wrist and sending a jolt up to his shoulder. Ebonbane fell from his fingers, teetering on the dock’s edge.

A moment later, Cathan found the knight’s blade poised just inches from his chest. One good shove, and Bron would end his life. He froze in place. Groans and cheers rose from the wharf. “Now do you yield?” Bron demanded.

Cathan shut his eyes, reaching deep into himself. He’d denied his faith in his youth, and misplaced it all these years. Now he channeled his trust in the god, focusing his thoughts. Power flowed into him, bright and cool, momentarily flushing away his despair. Paladine, he thought, thank you for your strength.

“Pridud,” he murmured.

Break.

Cathan’s eyes flashed like stormclouds, and Sir Bron’s steel blade shattered. A thousand pieces flew everywhere, biting the flesh of both Cathan and Bron, raining down onto the dock and the lake. On the waterfront, people cried out. The knights broke free of their captors and charged to their master’s aid. But Bron was frozen, staring at the hilt of his now useless weapon. Then he raised a shaking hand to lift off his helmet. Beneath, his face was pale with amazement and horror.

“Pilofiro?” he breathed.

Cathan nodded, once.

The other knights pounded up the dock, holding swords and maces at the ready. But as they neared, Bron held up a quivering hand.

“No,” he said. “This is over. We let him go.”

The knights halted, confused. Bron kept his attention on Cathan, riveted by the holy gleam in his eyes.

“I didn’t believe you,” he said.

“I don’t blame you,” said Cathan, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Armor rattling, Bron knelt before him. “Task me, my lord. I will do whatever you ask.”

Cathan glanced up. The sun was almost at its zenith. Scant minutes remained before noon. “I am no lord,” Cathan said, lowering his voice. “But I must tell you this: This city is as doomed as Istar. Within the hour, it will vanish from the face of Krynn. Leave it, Bron—get out now, while there’s still time.”

Fear burned in Bron’s eyes. He opened his mouth—to ask why Cathan was staying then—but thought of something else. “And the Disks?” he asked.

“They must remain with me, at the god’s behest,” Cathan said. He glanced down at Ebonbane, and nudged it with his foot. “Paladine says nothing about this, though. Take my sword with you—I would leave some legacy in this world.”

The young knight met his gaze—didn’t look away, but truly met the eyes of Cathan, the Twice-Born, the man who truly was the Lightbringer. Then, slowly, he bent down and lifted the sword off the planks. It glistened in the sunlight. Tears, unexpectedly, welled in Cathan’s eyes. He bowed his head in farewell. Bron did the same. Then, with an order to his men—an order he had to shout twice to get them to move—he strode back up the dock toward land.

Cathan watched the knights depart, vanishing into the crowd. Then, smiling to himself, he walked to the nearest boat, climbed down, and took up its oars.

*****

Istar the Beautiful was dying.

In a thousand years, as long as the Lordcity had stood, it had not suffered a single earthquake—not even any significant tremor. That morning a dozen struck, each worse than the last. Everywhere, the great metropolis was imploding and collapsing into ruins. Huge cracks split its mighty walls, and its eastern gates crumbled completely, burying the panicking masses who had tried to escape that way. Chasms tore through the hilly nobles’ district, swallowing palatial manors whole. The waterfront was ablaze, the docks as well as most of the ships in port; the rest clogged the harbor-mouth, each trying to be the first out onto open water.

The streets were sheer mayhem, surging with terrified people, none of whom had any idea where to go. Shoving led to fights, fights to brawls, and brawls to riots that raged out of control. Even the Scatas couldn’t stop the madness, for the crowds turned on them when they moved in, and beat the soldiers with cudgels and paving stones and finally their own bare hands. Merchant princes lay charred and mutilated in the remains of Istar’s marketplaces. Slaves turned on their masters, strangling them with their own chains. Screams of terror and howls of agony rang out in gardens where song-birds once sang.

In the Arena, the throngs—who had cheered Pheragas of Ergoth’s victory over the Red Minotaur only half an hour earlier—turned to their own bloodletting. The old, the weak, and the slow all perished first as the young, strong, and healthy knocked them down and trampled their bodies into the ground. The gladiators ran free, hewing their way through the crowds with weapons fake and real. Rockbreaker himself soon lay among the dead, impaled upon the Freedom Spire by one of his own fighters. As the dwarfs last breath left him, the entire north wall of the Arena gave way, crushing hundreds of screaming men and women. A great, billowing cloud of dust and smoke plumed skyward, then hung in the choking air.

At the Temple, the hierarchs and elder clerics fought a losing battle to maintain order as acolytes, servants, and commoners ran wild. The faithful poured in from the Barigon, overwhelming the Divine Hammer guardians in the entry hall. They smashed the fountains and statues, making a mad stampede toward the gardens, trampling delicate flowers and killing the Kingpriest’s prized dragon-lizards. The obelisks of the Garden of Martyrs toppled, and the flames already consuming the Sacred Chancery began to spread to the nearby cloisters. Three of the remaining six golden spires had fallen, and the rest leaned precariously. The manse’s ivy-swathed walls buckled. The crystal dome shone with jaundiced light.

Within the basilica, Quarath fought his way through crashing mobs, trying to get outside. If he could just make his way to the gardens, he could send a call to the griffins. Istar might be dying, but that didn’t mean he was doomed. He shoved lesser clerics aside, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make headway. “It is the end!” cried a Mishakite priestess as she staggered heavily into him. “The dark gods will destroy us all!”

Quarath said nothing. There was no reasoning with humans when they acted so foolishly. As an elf, he was not the sort to panic, but the hysteria of the mob was beginning to affect him, as well. Dread washed over him, trying to find a chink in his armor of self-control. If he surrendered to the fear, he would be no better than the others—weeping, threatening, begging for the horror to stop.

He nearly had to beat the Mishakite to get her to stop from clinging to his robes. When he finally yanked himself away, she collapsed to her knees and began to sob. Quarath ignored her pleas to him, striding away through the mob.

There was another great, booming noise, like thunder but coming from far below ground. Quarath was hurled against a wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Above, the last surviving windows exploded, showering the hallway with razors of stained glass. A dreadful wailing chorus answered the quake—thousands of panicked people trying to flee. Quarath suddenly felt a hot pain above his left eye, then a red, stinging flood blinded him. Wincing, he pressed his snowy sleeve to the wound. The cloth grew warm and damp with alarming speed.

He pushed on, in spite of the pain, He could sense the griffins now, circling high above. Most had already fled, riderless; but a few now spiraled downward, answering the call of his brother-elves. Not all of the Silvanesti would escape the catastrophe—but some would, and by Eli, he would be among them. He could see the gardens, just ahead. He sent his mind questing, seeking one of the griffins—and found the loyal creature, already swooping down to save him. He nearly laughed aloud: the Kingpriest had destroyed everything, killed everyone, doomed his city, his empire, himself—but at least he would be safe.

He was nearly to the doors when the ground shook once more. Finally, it was more than the beleaguered Temple could bear. With a horrible, grinding groan, the great church began to fold in upon itself. A great roar, like an awakening dragon, sounded above Quarath’s head. He turned to look, and saw a pillar of silver-veined marble plummeting toward him. He flung up his arm with a scream.

Then… nothing.

Chapter 33

Denubis stood paralyzed, staring at the red mess that had been Quarath of Silvanesti. He had been barely ten feet away when the pillar crashed down on the elf. The Emissary’s blood had spattered all over Denubis’s cassock. The old scribe swayed on his feet, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

Denubis!

Starting at the icy lash of the voice, Denubis looked about in alarm. All around him was destruction. The walls were shattered, columns lay scattered like matchsticks, bodies and pieces of bodies lay in crimson clumps. Clouds of billowing dust fouled the air, glowing hellish orange where fires burned. Above, the vaulted ceiling groaned and shuddered. The Great Temple had stood for nearly three hundred years, but it would not last much longer. If Denubis stayed where he was, he would end up like Quarath, crushed and buried under the rubble.

Quickly. We are nearly out of time.

Denubis shook off his stupor. The power of the Dark One’s voice was undeniable. Choking on dust, he waded on through the bloodstained debris.

*****

Of all the places in Istar that terrible day, none was safer than Fistandantilus’s laboratory. Magic crackled from one end to the other as protective spells of extraordinary power, laid down many years ago, flared into existence. They performed their job, as the Dark One knew they would; while the quakes pounded both the Lordcity and the Temple to rubble, down here—deep below the basilica—they hadn’t even knocked over a single candle. This was good, because the spell the archmage had to cast required all his concentration. And he must cast it soon—his magical wards could resist the tremors, but something much worse was coming, something no sorcery could withstand.

For now, though, Fistandantilus stood patiently in the center of the great room, in an open area surrounded by workbenches and shelves covered with spellbooks and strange things in glass jars. Around him lay a perfect ring, traced on the gray stone floor with silver dust. He had finished making preparations for the spell, which would spirit him out of this place… not just through space, but through time. He would vanish from Istar, and appear in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas a hundred years hence. He had sealed the Tower—or rather, his one-time apprentice Andras had, with his dying breath. Only he could enter now without suffering a horrible death. There, in the Tower and in the future, he would be safe to continue his plans. There, he could still hope to open the Portal to the Abyss, and challenge the gods in their own home.

He couldn’t go yet, though; he wouldn’t be traveling alone. So he stood, arms folded, and waited.

The other wizards were far away, withdrawn from the world and weakened by attrition; they would not be able to hinder him. The dark gods were impaired too, their power damaged by the loss of nearly all their followers. Once Beldinas destroyed Istar, the gods of light would be left feeble as well; the Balance would be restored, but in the process no one would remain to oppose him. And even if someone did, if the gods somehow managed to foil him, his spirit would endure, bound to the world. One day, someone would find the spellbook he had sent with the Twice-Born—and through that unfortunate soul, he would enter the world again. He had spent decades devising this plan. Nothing could stop him—not even Paladine’s burning hammer, and what it would wreak upon the world today.

The laboratory had two doors, one on either end. Now they opened at the same time, revealing two figures caked in dust. One was tall and dark, well-muscled and still bearing the armor and sword he had wielded that morning in the Arena. The other was mousy and stooped, his spectacles smudged, his hands stained with ink. Fistandantilus nodded to both, beckoning with a wizened hand.

“Good,” he said. “You are both just in time.”

The doors swung shut. The gladiator and the scribe, the two men he had picked to aid him in the trials to come, glanced at each other, each sizing up the other, wondering why the other was here. Then, following the Dark One’s command, they strode forward, stopping just outside the ring of silver dust.

“Pheragas,” Fistandantilus said to the gladiator, the slave he had bought to be his protector in the times ahead. “Did you find victory on the sands today?”

The man glared, his eyes filled with grief. He had lost many friends today. The world he’d known, all the people who had cheered for him, fought beside him or against him, all were dead already, or soon would be. He had left them to their fates, at the Dark One’s behest. He hated Fistandantilus with every iota of his being.

The Dark One shrugged, untroubled, and looked to Denubis. “And you, Revered Son. It took some coaxing, but you came. That was wise of you.”

Denubis only blinked, stupefied. He put a shaking hand to his head.

A distant boom sounded as a large part of the Temple crumbled above. The crash should have rocked the room, but the magic wards held. The black iron chandelier hanging overhead didn’t even budge. Fistandantilus nodded his head.

“Time to go,” he said. “Step into the circle.”

They did as they were told, careful not to disturb the silver powder. Each reached out, jerkily, and laid a hand on one of the wizard’s shoulders. Fistandantilus began to weave his hands through the air, chanting spidery words as he drew the magic down from the black moon. The air rippled, and a wall of silver light sprang up from the circle, shimmering with power. Images began to form upon the glowing wall, like figures cast by Midrathi shadow-sculptors: forests and mountaintops, deserts and oceans, cities and caverns, each dissolving into the next. Dragons winged across a twilit sky; men fought ogres on a barren plain; copper-skinned lizard men stalked elves through a festering swamp. This was Krynn’s history, stretching over countless centuries before the first Kingpriest to thousands of years into the future. The stones beneath Fistandantilus’s feet sang as space and time opened to him.

The wizard looked to Denubis and Pheragas. Both stood rigid, transfixed by the mystery of what was happening. He smiled within the shadows of his hood.

“Farewell, Istar,” he murmured.

A whirling vortex opened above him. He looked up into it, focusing his thoughts. The shifting images resolved into a dark room, dust-mantled and cobwebbed with age. With a sigh, he released the magic. The silver ring blazed.

Half a second later, the wards flickered and faded and disappeared. With a horrible crash, the laboratory exploded and caved in. But the three were already gone, wizard and gladiator and scribe, flowing away on the river of time.

*****

Beldinas Pilofiro, Kingpriest of Istar, stood alone within the Sacred Chamber, bathed in his own light. He did not feel the earth shake, nor did he hear the thunder of the collapsing Temple or the anguished screams of his followers. The world did not exist for him, not now: There was only the rite he was about to conduct. It would take all his strength to force the gods to listen, to make them obey. But his will was strong, his purpose pure. They would judge him thus.

The silvery glow around him grew sun-bright as he walked to the head of the chapel. A strange feeling passed over him. His gaze shifted to the satin curtains hanging behind the altar. Was there someone hiding behind them?

The feeling passed, and he shook his head. Another of the dark gods’ tricks, no doubt, meant to rob him of his faith. Too late—there was nothing they could do to stop him now.

He did not kneel, but stared down at the altar’s blank, gleaming surface. Delving deep, he summoned all the power from the well of his soul. The power ran up into him, coursing through his body like the waters of a spring-swollen river, ready to burst its banks. He braced himself, holding the power in check. The time would come to release it, but first he had to make his greatest decree. His chin rose, and he began to speak.

“Paladine,” he declared. His tone was not one of humility; that was for weak men. He spoke the god’s name almost as an equal… “Paladine, you see the evil that surrounds me! You have been witness to the calamities that have been the scourge of Krynn these past days. You know that this evil is directed against me, personally, because I am the only one resolved to fight against it! Surely you must see now that this doctrine of balance will never work!”

He paused, then, feeling a presence in the room—a presence he knew well. He’d felt it many times before, when he drew on his powers … whether to heal the sick or destroy his enemies. The god’s presence was unmistakable. It hovered now above the altar, unseen but unmistakably there. He fought back a sudden flash of awe, the urge to prostrate himself. When he spoke again, his voice was soft as a flute—not pleading, but soothing, as one might address a child.

“I understand, of course. You had to espouse this doctrine in the old days, when you were beleaguered. But you have me now, your right arm, your true representative upon Krynn. With our combined strength, I can sweep evil from the world! Destroy the ogre races! Bring the wayward humans into line! Find new homelands far away for the dwarves, kender, and gnomes, those races not of your creation. And even the elves will know the light that has eluded them, all these years. The last tower of the wizards will fall, as will the last churches of those who do not honor your grace. Dragons of silver and gold shall fill the skies once more… not to fight the minions of darkness, but to spread my will across Krynn!”

He raised his voice again, building to a crescendo. The force above the throne writhed, the platinum dragon coiling invisibly as he exerted his strength upon it. It would obey him. It had done so before. His power had made armies lay down their swords, burned demons to ashes, brought life back to the dead. Paladine resisted, but Beldinas could feel the god’s resolve falter before his blazing light.

“I will rule in glory,” he trumpeted, spreading his arms wide, “creating an age to rival even the fabled Age of Dreams! You gave this and more to Huma, Paladine, who was nothing but a renegade knight of low birth! I demand that you give me, too, the power to drive away the shadows of evil that darken this land!”

With that, he let loose his stored-up power, channeling it into the force hovering above the altar. He caught the sensation, grasping it tightly as it fought to free itself—but the power could not escape. A thrill surged through the Kingpriest, His fears, the dread and worries that had haunted him these long years, all lifted away. The plan was working. He only had to hold on, and the resistance would end. Paladine would kneel! They would all kneel before him!

“The gods come!” he shouted. “At my command!”

There was a tiny, musical sound.

Beldinas blinked. Something lay on the altar.

Looking closer, he saw a single glass tile, cracked in half by the fall from the mosaic above. It was the tessera he’d noticed earlier, the one that had disturbed the beauty of the whole piece. Involuntarily, he glanced up at the false sky above, at the bare spot where it had been… then he stopped, freezing with horror. He’d taken his attention off the force above the altar. Now it was gone!

Wildly, he reached out for the power, trying to catch hold again. But it was too late: the god’s presence was as fleeting, as insubstantial as smoke. It slipped from his grasp, rising up into beyond his grasp. The air shimmered like sunlight on water: platinum scales, the dragon taking form, full of beauty and majesty.

And rage.

Beldinas stood motionless, arms still outflung, staring at the god’s materializing serpentine form. It filled the room, every part of it in motion … except the face. That hung above him, staring with eyes of amber, burning with wrath. Paladine’s anger was hotter than any furnace, colder than the storms of Icereach, more fearsome than any storm. But there was something else in those eyes, too, deep beneath the fury… sorrow over what was about to ensue.

Too late, Beldinas understood. In his mind, he saw what he himself had wrought, in his blindness. What fate awaited him. What a fool he had been. “Why… ?” he cried again, his voice shrill.

The dragon hissed, and one by one the stars fell from the mosaic, white tiles separating from the black, tumbling over and over to shatter on the floor. They made a terrible music, each note lingering rather than fading, the discord full of menace. Beldinas hardly noticed; his attention remained on Paladine, hovering above him. The god’s gaze remained locked with his until the last tile fell. Then the regal head gave one last shake, opened its jaws wide, and shrieked its fury.

Beldinas dropped to his knees, cutting them on the broken glass. Paladine’s scream was as solid as any fist, smashing him down and pressing him lower and lower. At last, unable to bear the pressure any longer, he flung himself onto the floor, weeping. The Miceram fell from his head. His light faltered.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “Palado Calib, forgive me…”

NO, said the dragon.

Flowing like quicksilver, the dragon turned and flew up through the ceiling, through the mosaic. As it did, the Temple burst apart, floor after floor opening almost gracefully like the petals of a rose. The Hall of Audience ripped apart, and the dome of the basilica exploded, raining shards of glowing crystal all over the Temple grounds. The central tower, with its dulcet bells and golden spire, groaned and then toppled with a crash, crushing the imperial manse beneath.

Beldinas saw it all in his head… the harbor in flames, the streets awash with blood, the Tower of High Sorcery split in half and pouring smoke, the Arena a mad jumble of stone and flesh. Istar was destroyed, and he was to blame. His arrogance, his pride, his fear had wiped out the greatest empire in the world.

And that was just the beginning.

He lay there, his eyes raw, his chest aching from gasping and weeping, and prayed for death… madness… anything to take him away from this reality. But nothing freed him. He would see it all. The gods’ wrath was inescapable. It was High Watch now, the middle of the day. Above him, the sky… the real sky, not an artful mosaic… was as black as a moonless night. No—blacker, there weren’t any stars. A void hung above Istar.

At last, Beldinas saw it coming: the hammer that had long haunted Cathan’s dreams. It appeared high above him, a mountain of burning stone, trailing flame, moving down with awful speed. Beldinas’s eyes gleamed.

It was so beautiful.

Chapter 34

CATACLYSM

The island was small, barely more than a finger of stone jutting out of the lake, fifty yards off the shore where Mishakal’s temple stood. A lone statue perched atop the island, hewn of white stone: the figure of a man, his arms spread wide. One hand was missing, broken off, and the head and face as well. Moss crept up its south side, clinging to the folds of its robes. Another time, Cathan would have been hard-pressed to tell: perhaps it was a lord, or a high cleric from ages past. But glancing at it now between strokes of his oars, a feeling of certainty came over him. This was Paladine, some old incarnation from the time before Istar’s church tore down the old temples and built the new. He thought he could even see something of Brother Jendle in the figure. It made him smile.

Then he looked up, past the statue, and the smile faded. The sky beyond the Eastwalls had turned weird and forbidding. It was dark, as if at dusk, though the sun still rode high above Xak Tsaroth. Turning to look back the way he’d come, he saw the crowd on the wharf pointing and staring at the strange sky. They were shouting too, but their voices were faint across the water, the meaning of their words lost.

They don’t realize what is happening, he thought sadly. If they did, they’d be running for the city gates.

He half expected someone to be waiting for him when he reached the rocky spur: Lady Ilista, maybe, or Jendle himself. There was no one there, though—just a pair of gulls that squawked irritably and took wing as his boat bumped up against the shore. Cathan climbed out, not bothering to tie the mooring lines, and pulled himself up the stone slope to the statue. He was very tired, and reached the foot of the statue, aching to his bones. The statue towered above him; it was twenty feet high even without any head, and it seemed to be beckoning—reaching toward the city with its serpentine walls and golden roofs. He set his back to it and looked the other way, up past the jade palace and temples, at the blackness that was gathering over Istar. A sickening excitement burned in his breast.

Then a thrill shot through him as he saw it—small, from this far away, a falling red star that left a trail of crimson and gold. He couldn’t make out the shape, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen the hammer enough in his dreams to imagine it vividly now. Tears flooded his eyes as he watched it streak down to vanish behind the mountains.

“Farewell, Beldyn,” he murmured.

*****

The people of Istar also saw the hammer coming. It was a mountain of burning rock, and their screams were the cries of the damned. Some tried to run; others turned toward the flaming ruins of the Great Temple and fell to their knees; still others pointed and stared as the sky began to rain stone and fire.

Balls of molten rock the size of houses fell onto marketplaces, mansions, gardens, churches. In moments, huge swaths of the city became raging infernos. One smashed the Hammerhall, killing every knight within its walls; another sheared off the top of the broken Tower of High Sorcery, sending its bloody-fingered turrets crashing into the street. Many pelted the Temple, turning the wreckage to slag, then melting the slag down to a hole in the earth.

That was before the full force of the hammer struck, and the entire Lordcity disappeared from the face of the world.

Those who had fled early on, when the quakes first began, saw the burning mountain as it struck, pulverizing the Temple and driving the rest of Istar deep into the ground. Seconds late, came the deathly sound—a noise unlike any heard on Krynn before or since. It was like thunder and screaming and dragons breathing fire, all of these combined, and then a thousand times louder. With the wall of sound came another wall of hot air, powerful enough to flatten trees and blow apart castles. It picked up men and women and hurled them like kernels of grain. A few survived being hurled through the air, and these fell to the earth howling, and clutching at their heads as blood poured from their eyes and ears.

A heartbeat later, a shock wave split the air. Huge chasms ripped through the earth, and entire hills fell into their depths. Beautiful Lake Istar boiled in an instant, becoming a huge geyser that flung burning ships half a mile high. The steam swept over the cities clinging to its shores—Odacera, Kautilya, island-bound Calah, even Chidell—cooking alive anyone it breathed upon. Moments later the cities themselves crumbled from the shock, then burned with the flames that billowed from the Lordcity’s grave. In the space of a minute, the heartland of Istar, and the half-million souls who lived there, became nothing but ash.

But the death and destruction did not end there.

There were fault lines beneath Istar, undiscovered cracks deep beneath the earth, unknown even to the dwarves. For all the ages of Krynn they had lain dormant, but the hammer weakened them, and one by one they opened up. The land—from the northern ocean to the Sea of Shifting Sands, from the Taoli foothills to the easternmost rim of Falthana and Seldjuk—shattered. Great shelves of rock splintered and gave way, tumbling into chasms a thousand feet deep. The sea, no longer held in check by coastline, rushed in to fill the void. Its waters poured over what had once been rich farms and vineyards, lush jungles, harsh deserts. Mist rose in great plumes, that were visible all over Ansalon. Millions died, were crushed, or drowned. By the time the day was done, more than three-fourths of the Holy Empire of Istar lay forever lost beneath the waves.

Even on the realm’s fringes, in those places the sea didn’t claim, destruction still ravaged the land. Thousands more perished as quakes and fires consumed all the many cities—Micah, Yerasa, Pesaro, Tucuri. In Govinna, half the buildings crashed down into the River Edessa, clogging its flow; the rest became a deathtrap of burning timbers and crushed rock. Showers of broken sandstone buried the ruins of Losarcum, finally placing that long-dead city in its grave. Lattakay’s white arches fell, as did the jeweled halls of Karthay.

Nor did the destruction stop at Istar’s borders. The upheavals rippled across the land, leaving nowhere untouched. The empire of Ergoth, also fault-ridden, broke away from the mainland, the Sirrion Sea flowing in as it fractured into jagged islands. In the south, the lands between Kharolis and the isles of Icereach rose up, draining the oceans away to lay bare the sea floor, where whales and sea serpents lay gasping in the silt. The waters receded from the great port of Tarsis, draining its harbor and miring its fabled, white-winged ships in muck. New jagged peaks thrust up amid the Khalkists, and the southern fiefs of Solamnia followed Istar beneath the waves, giving birth to a new, inland sea. Fortresses and towers and crude huts all disappeared. Forests and plains and mountain ranges burned. A pall of smoke, steam, and dust blotted out the sun.

And in Xak Tsaroth…

*****

To his surprise, Cathan felt no fear.

He had faced death before … had, come to think of it, died before … and each time, there had been some kind of terror. Now, though, as he stood on the island and watched the distant smoke rise from Istar, he did not quail or shiver. All he felt was sorrow, at what had been lost. What could have been.

And could be again.

Opening his pouch, he pulled out the Peripas. They made a faint, musical sound as he held them up, and they flashed with light even though the pall hid the sun. There would never be another Istar, but the Disks remained. One day, a true church of the gods must rise again. That was why Paladine had bidden him bring them here. He had no idea how anyone would ever find them in the leavings of the coming disaster, but he knew someone would, some day. His faith told him so.

He heard screams from the city now: men and women and children knowing these were their last moments on Krynn. The better part of an hour had passed since the flash of flame rose beyond the Eastwalls, signaling the strike of the burning hammer. The shock waves still hadn’t come here—for the Lordcity was far away—but it would soon enough. Cathan looked back one last time at Xak Tsaroth, at the beauty that would be lost forever… then, holding the Disks close to his breast, he turned to gaze eastward once more.

The mountains trembled, and broke apart.

The temples shuddered, and fell.

Then the blast struck.

The noise was incredible, even hearing it from so far away. It slammed into Cathan, flattening him back against the headless statue, leaving no other sound but the ringing of absent bells. The statue cracked at the waist, and its upper half tumbled away from him, splashing into the water. He felt a series of terrible crashes and knew Xak Tsaroth was dying—domes collapsing, colonnades cracking, its very walls toppling, crushing those atop and beneath.

He didn’t watch. He didn’t want to see. Instead he kept his eyes on the lake, waiting for the sign, the cue to act. He’d seen it in the vision, just as he’d seen every moment that had happened since he left the Shinarite church this morning. Still, he felt no fear. He raised the Disks, pressing them to his lips.

“Palado, mas pirhtas calsud,” murmured. “Adolas brigim paripud, e me anomud du tas rigo iudjn donbulas. Sifat.”

Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought, and take me to thy kingdom beyond the stars. So be it.

The faults that made the New Sea stretched far to the south. One, a deep underground cleft, ran right under Xak Tsaroth. Now, with a loud crack that nearly knocked Cathan off the spire, the ground buckled. Behind him, a great fissure opened and the dry tumbled in. Buildings spilled down the sides, exploding with blood and debris. A great gout of green dust billowed up.

Deafened by the blast, Cathan kept watching the water; and waiting… waiting …

There.

It started as a rippling on the lake’s surface, but quickly grew into something much greater, a swirling eddy that opened like some fell beast’s maw into a whirlpool. The bed of the lake had broken, and the water was draining out, pouring into the bottomless gulf, smothering those who yet breathed The level of the lake dropped almost instantaneously, laying bare its shores. White-foaming waves crested as the current dragged everything toward the vortex. Cathan stared into the yawning, hungry hole, and nodded to himself. Then he drew back his hand and flung the Peripas in.

The throw was perfect. The Disks glinted once, then disappeared into the mouth of the abyss.

Without knowing he was doing it. Cathan delved into his pouch again. Cold stung his fingers, sending daggers of pain slicing up his arm as he touched Fistandantilus’s spellbook; he almost snatched his hand away. But instead he tightened his grip and pulled out the tome. This had been in the vision too—for some reason, the god wanted him to obey the Dark One, and hurl the book after the Disks. It was foolish to do so, but he followed the vision anyway, slinging the book away. It spun lazily as it arced up, then dove down into the maw of the depths.

Another great crack, and the palace and the temple of Paladine dropped out of sight. With a groan, the earth closed over it. And now his island was trembling, the stone shifting mushily under his feet like sand. Sheets of rock broke away, sliding into the receding water. Cathan wearily pushed away from the statue, staggering to the island’s edge.

And jumped.

The water was frigid. It spun him around in circles, clogged his lungs and choked him as it dragged him toward its center. He stared into the center of the whirlpool that had taken the Disks, and the book, and now wanted him. The eddies swung him around and around, nearer with every pass. He shut his eyes.

I’m sorry, Blossom, he thought. I won’t be coming home.

Then he was falling… falling… platinum wings rose to meet him, bearing him away.

Epilogue

FOURTHMONTH, 3 A.C.

The tales were right, after all: the water was red. Bron had first heard of it a year ago, in an inn near Solanthus—a rough, crowded alehouse where the beer tasted like piss and someone took a knife in the gut almost every night. There were many taverns like it in Ansalon these days: places where folk could gather and trade stories of the world’s many woes. It had been a skinny, brown-skinned man who’d spoken of the red waters—a man with beads in his beard, marking him as Seldjuki by birth.

“I sailed it myself,” he’d said, taking a grim pull from a mug of something that smelled like lamp oil. “Not through the middle, mind—only madmen go that way, and they don’t come out again. But you don’t have to get out far from shore to see it, plain as the burning mountain. Red as blood… they say that’s what it is, the blood of drowned Istar.”

The others in the tavern had scoffed at him, or glared. More than a few had cursed the Kingpriest, and all of the damned Istarans—then the talk had turned to the gods, and it grew worse. The things men said these days would have gotten them arrested for blasphemy in an eyeblink, just a few years ago. Now, everyone hated the gods, dark and light alike.

Bron had listened to the people’s vituperations, his grip on his tankard tight, but he’d done nothing to stop the grumbling. He was one—the other knights had long since scattered—and they were many, bolstered by drink and anger. He’d learned, in the months after the Cataclysm, not to try to defend Paladine against the masses.

It was the same all over. Men reviled Beldinas as much as they’d once adored him, calling him Fumofiro—Doombringer— instead of his old epithets, but their hatred for the gods was much worse. Where was Paladine now? With cities in ruins, forests burned to ashes, new seas where land had been, and new land where seas had roiled… with all the plague and drought and famine rampant… with brother turning against brother the world over, where were the gods?

There could be only one answer, in the people’s minds. The gods had turned their backs on Krynn.

Bron didn’t believe that, but neither did he say so. He’d discarded his armor long ago, to eliminate all evidence of his former life. He’d seen more than one village where the corpses of priests swung from trees while ravens dug at their eyes. He’d seen churches ransacked and pillaged. He’d come to one town in time to find a band of screaming men and women dragging three bodies through the streets—bodies wearing the white surcoats of the Divine Hammer. He’d watched the mob cheer as they threw the corpses on a raging pyre, to burn as the Hammer itself had once burned evildoers. He’d watched them spit on the flames.

And he’d done nothing to stop them. That was why he was still alive.

There were plenty of tales these days, and while many were true—Bron had seen firsthand that Tarsis was land-locked now—many more rang false. But Bron had heard of the red waters again and again. In Palanthas, now Ansalon’s grandest port, every inn buzzed with talk of it. And so, after lingering in the west for two whole years, Bron had resolved at last to see for himself.

It had been a hard journey, for flesh and spirit alike. The world had become a dangerous place since the Cataclysm. Maps were all but useless; most of the old cities were gone, much of the terrain changed. Folk were suspicious of outsiders, and offered no hospitality. Bandits waited to prey on lone travelers, and goblins and ogres and even worse things had returned to the land. The winter, in particular, had been horrendous: Bron had been forced to hole up in a cave in the Khalkists for nearly four months, before emerging half-starved in the spring, into a homeland he no longer knew—an empire that was dead. He’d passed the bones of Micah—a city of ghosts now, its fabled glass towers nothing more than glittering dust—and found the Tears of Mishakal pounded flat. He’d crossed the Sea of Shifting Sands, now a morass of muck from near-constant rain and hail. And finally, this morning, he’d heard it for the first time: the distant roar of the ocean.

It was a strange sound in a place where farms and vineyards had once stretched for countless leagues, and horror gnawed deeper into his belly the closer he got. When he first saw gulls wheeling overhead, the truth hit him fully for the first time: the land of his birth, the land he’d sworn to protect from evil, was gone forever. The empire, the church, the knighthood—all vanished in one terrible day. He’d stopped, standing very still with his head bowed, and hadn’t moved for more than an hour.

He’d come this far, though, and in the end he’d had to go farther. His heart filled with dread, he’d walked the last mile, climbed a grassy hill… and stopped when it ended, suddenly, in a jagged cliff overlooking the sea.

The water that stretched out before him was the usual gray-blue near the shore, and for a long way out. But the cliff was high, and Bron’s eyes were still sharp with youth. The change in color, a league or so out, was obvious. The water wasn’t rusty, or the ruddy brown of clay, as he’d expected to see; it was bright, ghastly crimson. It was the Blood Sea of Istar.

Looking out upon it, Bron thought of the other tales he’d heard, in Palanthas and elsewhere. The crimson waters were unquiet, the mariners said, heaving and foaming as if stirred by some leviathan below. The skies above were darkened a sickly brown—dust still choked Ansalon’s skies, and there hadn’t been a blue sky in years—and dotted with the seething green-black of stormclouds. The tempest had hung over the Sea ever since the Cataclysm, and beneath it a great maelstrom swirled. No ship could escape the maelstrom, once caught in its pull. Demons danced in the waves, waiting to swallow the souls of those who drowned there.

Bron had seen many things in the last three years. He’d watched Xak Tsaroth collapse into the earth from the safe distance of only a mile away. He’d found whole towns laid waste by disease, bodies lying black in the streets. He’d watched men murder each other for a scrap of food, or for no reason at all. But none of it compared to this. He sank to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.

“Paladine,” he wept “Oh, my god, forgive us for what we have done…”

He didn’t sense the three men stealing up behind him… didn’t hear the scuff of their footsteps on the dusty ground … didn’t see the cudgels in their hands. By the time he noticed, it was too late; they swarmed in his tear-blurred vision, already on top of him. He turned, reaching for Ebonbane—the sword was the one thing he’d kept from before the Cataclysm—and started to rise. But they were too close: he’d only half-drawn the blade when the leader, a scraggly youth whose blue eyes were dark with hate, brought his club down on Bron’s wrist.

Bone snapped. Pain bloomed. Bron fell, screaming. He never saw the second man’s face; only the club as it caught him under the chin, driving his teeth through his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth as his head snapped back, then darkness swarmed over his vision. He slumped, stunned, onto his side.

He felt a tug as one of them took Ebonbane from him, then another stole his purse. Dimly, he saw legs moving, and heard voices that sounded like they were coming from the bottom of a pit. Something wet and sticky hit his face. Spit.

“Bloody god-lover,” snarled one. “You heard him praying, didn’t you, Tarlo?”

A foot struck his side, bringing new pain. “Damn sure I did. Knew he was one o’ them the moment I saw the bastard.”

Bron understood, then, dimly. He’d passed by a small village early this morning—the sort of place where desperate men gathered to protect themselves from other desperate men. These three had followed him, probably hoping to rob him, and he’d been so intent on what lay ahead, he hadn’t noticed them. He cursed himself for not noticing them. He was a trained knight—or had been, anyway—and a gaggle of peasants had gotten the best of him.

“Only a few silvers and coppers,” said a third voice, thick with disgust. Bron guessed it was the boy who’d broken his arm. “What do we do with him now?”

“Toss him over the cliff,” growled the first. “Damned god-lovers don’t deserve any better.”

Rough hands seized his shoulders, shoved him forward. Panic flared in his mind, and he struggled to fight back, but his body refused to respond. The pain paralyzed him, and consciousness was draining away.

“Hold on,” said the one named Tarlo. “Look at this.”

They stopped, and dropped him on the ground again, on his back. His wrist-bones ground together, nearly making him pass out, but he fought through the pain. Bile burned in his throat as he fought to keep his eyes in focus.

They were gathered in a knot. In the middle, a scar-faced balding man—Tarlo—held Ebonbane. “This ain’t no ordinary Scata’s blade, Uvar,” he said.

“It’s a fine weapon,” agreed the leader, a huge Dravinish brute who smelled like ripe cheese. He took it from Tarlo, turned it to catch the dim sunlight “A nobleman’s weapon.”

“Or a knight’s,” said Tarlo.

The youngest of the three raised his club. “A Hammer? Gods’ fists! We ain’t seen none o’ them for near six months. I thought they were mostly all dead.”

“So did I,” agreed Uvar. Then he peered down and laughed, one of the unfriendliest sounds Bron had ever heard. “He must be one, though. Look at how scared he is, Tarlo.”

The scarred man crouched down, cupped Bron’s cheek with his hand. “Hah! No doubt, Uvar. He’s one of them. Stupid of you to come here, Sir Knight,” he snarled, then let go, and cracked the back of his hand across Bron’s face. Stars exploded.

“We ain’t dumping him now, are we?” whined the boy.

The others laughed. “No, lad, we’re not,” said Tarlo.

“Dumping’s too easy for him,” Uvar agreed. Now he bent down over Bron, his breath reeking. “Hear that, Hammer-lad? You’re gonna be sorry you came here. You’re gonna be sorry you were born.”

Bron tried to answer, to show defiance, but the only thing that got past his thick lips and bleeding tongue was a stream of bloody drool. Then Uvar’s meaty fist slammed into his eye, and that was all.

*****

Later, the pain came rushing back: The peasants had trussed Bron like an animal. Heedless of his broken arm, they’d dragged him all the way back to their village—a squalid, grimy cluster of thatch huts, the charred skeleton of a Mishakite hospice looking down upon it from a hilltop. It was drizzling and cold, but a crowd had gathered anyway, jeering and hissing as the three peasants hauled him into the patch of mud that served as the town square. There was a post in its midst, with a rusty iron hook pounded into the top. Bron guessed its purpose well before they looped a rope through his bonds, then flung the other end up and over.

He gritted his teeth, but it did no good. He still howled like a babe when they hauled on the rope, hoisting him up off the ground. He vomited, and nearly choked on it as they tied off the top, leaving him swaying fifteen feet above the ground.

Then the torment began.

The children were the worst. He could endure the rage of the men, the scorn of the women. He could handle the mud and rotten vegetables they hurled, even the odd stone. He weathered their cries of “God-lover!” and “Thrice-damned Hammer!” But when a little girl—she couldn’t have been more than six summers old—stepped to the front of the mob and lobbed a handful of muck at him, his heart wrenched. That child, and all children from now on, would grow up loathing Istar, the Kingpriest, the Divine Hammer, and the gods. They would never know, never understand, the glories of what had been—what might have been. They would know all of the bad, and none of the good. There was hate in her eyes.

It lasted all day long. Even when the sun went down, the villagers didn’t disperse; they kept at him by torchlight, hurling abuse and rubbish long into the night. It was past Midwatch when the crowd finally began to thin. By then, there wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t smeared with blood and filth, not a part that didn’t sing with pain. When the last villagers finally departed, his mind turned to the day to come, and what would happen then. Would they kill him? Or would it be like yesterday, more abuse? How long would the punishment go on?

He prayed for a quick death, and not just because the alternative was more pain and humiliation. Could he really go on in this world, with all he’d ever known and loved vanished or destroyed? Could he stand it any longer, pretending to be a different man from the one he’d been? Could he face the knowledge that Istar would be long remembered as an empire of fools and villains?

Let it end here, he begged. Let it be soon.

They left Uvar as a guard. In the ruddy moonlight, Bron couldn’t make out much more. The village was dark, quiet. A half-starved dog rooted through the refuse until the big Dravinishman lobbed a rock and sent it yelping away. In the gloom, neither man saw the shadowed figure until it was standing right in front of the pole.

Uvar started, reaching for his cudgel, then relaxed. “Oh,” he said, stepping forward. “It’s you. What in the Abyss are you doing up so late? Want a go at him?”

Bron tried to make out the newcomer’s face, but he couldn’t see anything: just a gray cloak and hood, dark and sodden with rain. Whoever it was walked up to Uvar, saying nothing, and stopped when the two of them were face to face.

“Go ahead, have at him,” the brute continued cheerily. “You won’t have another chance, come morning. Just grab—” Suddenly, Uvar fell silent. Then he stumbled back, staring dumbly at his chest. The hilt of a dagger was lodged there. He grunted, looking at the stranger with an absurd expression of surprise, then pitched backward into the mud.

The cloaked newcomer wasted no time. Reaching down, he pulled the knife from the big man’s body, then went to the rope and began to cut through. Bron watched in amazement … then suddenly he was falling, landing in the mud with a splat and a sob of relief and pain. He gasped for breath, got a mouthful of sludge, and gagged while the stranger hurried forward to cut his bonds.

“Quickly now,” she said—a woman’s voice. “On your feet.”

Bron groaned. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“You’d best try. Tarlo will come to check on this one soon.” She kicked Uvar’s body. “We’d best be gone when he does.”

Bron peered at her, still trying to make out her face. “Who are you?”

The woman paused, then reached up and pulled off her hood without a word. Bron stared, stunned. The face was familiar, one he’d seen before. It was older now, worn by more than just years. There was fathomless sorrow in her eyes, and her hair was silver-white now. But still, there was no mistaking who she was.

“I don’t…” he began, then trailed off and tried again. “I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t have to,” said Wentha MarSevrin, pulling on his unbroken arm. “Just come on.”

*****

Bron somehow found a way to haul himself along beside the Weeping Lady, limping and lurching and falling more than once as they fled the village and took to the wilds. Gray, leafless trees loomed around them like bony hands. There was no road, not even a game-trail he could make out, but Wentha made her way through the gloom with quiet certainty, stopping now and then to look behind, in case someone followed them. No one did.

The eastern sky had brightened to the dull gray of lead by the time they stopped at last, at the remains of some large, stone building. Its walls were crumbled stubs, its roof long gone, but there was a staircase leading down into a cellar. Wentha led the way down, out of the rain. When she reached the bottom, she lit a candle, illuminating her face. Bron slumped to the earthen ground, groaning.

“Don’t get comfortable,” she said, ripping a strip of cloth from the hem of her cloak. She found a piece of broken wood, and used it to splint his broken wrist. “Tarlo and the others aren’t going to let you get away easily. They know this place, and they’ll be looking here before long. We’ll be moving again in a couple of hours.”

Bron nodded: he’d expected that much. But that wasn’t foremost on his mind. He looked at the woman in disbelief. “How in the Abyss—”

“How did I survive?” she asked, and smiled. “I was in Karthay when the burning mountain hit. The city was destroyed, but those of us who fled quickly lived through it. I got out, and after a year or so I found passage back to land. It’s just an island now, Karthay—the same with Lattakay, and a few other places.

“I’ve been living back there, in Flotsam, ever since. They don’t know me there. Not like they know the Hammer, anyway.” She eyed him grimly. “They were going to press you to death, in case you’re wondering. Pile stones on you until they crushed you.”

Bron shuddered at that savagery. A shudder ran through him.

“Now,” Wentha said, “suppose you tell me about this.”

Reaching beneath her cloak, she pulled out Ebonbane. The candlelight glistened on its blade, reflecting the chips of porcelain on its hilt Bron stared at it.

“This was my brother’s blade,” she went on. “How did you come by it? Who gave it to you?”

Bron blinked. No, of course she wouldn’t know. Hardly anyone alive knew the final fate of the Twice-Born. He shut his eyes, moaning … then opened them again when he felt the cold steel of Ebonbane’s edge against his skin. Lady Wentha stood over him, her eyes like stormclouds.

“Tell me,” she said.

And he did.

*****

Her face was covered with tears by the time he finished. They were both silent for several minutes, afraid to speak. Finally, she drew a hand across her eyes, and took a deep breath. “So you left him there. In Xak Tsaroth.”

Bron nodded. “For all the good it did. I saw the city disappear. He couldn’t have survived.” She was silent for a long time again. “No” she murmured, “but maybe he wasn’t meant to. He needed to be out on that lake, with the Disks, when the mountain hit. He had a purpose in mind.”

“But what?” Bron demanded. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Lady Wentha shook her head. “I don’t know. I doubt we ever will. But be sure of this, Sir Bron … my brother died working the god’s will.”

“Did he?” Bron shot back, his voice bitter. “And what stories will people tell of Cathan Twice-Born? What songs will they sing?”

“None,” she answered. “But the forgotten hero is a hero still.”

Bron shook his head. “I envy your faith.”

“It is all I have left.”

They were silent for a time. Rainwater dripped into the cellar.

“Now you’ve seen the Blood Sea,” she said at length. “Where will you go next?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Far from here. What about you?”

Wentha pursed her lips, glancing up the stairs. “I’ve heard Taol survived the Cataclysm. Do you know if it’s true?”

Bron nodded. “Parts of it. Though the land is much changed, from the tales men tell.”

“What land isn’t, these days?” she asked. “I will go there, then. Changed or not, I would like to see the land of my birth again.”

“You’re lucky to be able to ” Bron said. “I was born in Edessa.”

His home. Gone, lost beneath the red waves.

“I will go with you,” he offered. “If you will let me.”

Wentha MarSevrin looked at him gravely for a long moment. Then she smiled, tears in her eyes—but she shook her head at the same time. “No,” she said. “I travel alone. So must you.”

He should have begged her to reconsider, he told himself in the hard times to come, when he yearned for a companion on the road. But he only returned her smile, and watched as she extended Ebonbane, hilt-first, toward him.

“I don’t know how to use it, anyway,” she said.

He took the sword from her hand. “Thank you, Efisa. Palado tas drifas bisat.”

Paladine guide thy steps.

“E tas,” Wentha said.

And thine.

She bent down, pressed her lips against his forehead. Then, rising, she drew her hood back over her head, turned to the steps, and raced up them, two at a time.

He never saw her again.