Chapter 17

"They mean to do what?"

Leciane winced, glancing toward the door. Vincil wasn't a man who often raised his voice, but anger had got the best of him. If one of the servants—or Lady Wentha—heard him, there would be a row, and she didn't need any more trouble.

"Please, Most High," she told the archmage. "I'd rather not have to place a silencing ward on this room."

His image wavered in the mirror. He shut his eyes, collecting himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, controlled. "A public execution?"

"More than public," she said, her mouth twisting. "There'll be thousands of people there."

"No trial?"

"No trial. Not that it would accomplish much to have one. This Andras refuses to speak, and he's clearly guilty." She raised an eyebrow. "Or do you think there might be a rash of outcast wizards summoning quasitas in these parts?"

Ordinarily, Vincil laughed at her jokes. Now, though, his face might have been hewn of stone. "He is not an outcast," he said. "We thought he was dead, along with his master, so we never expelled him. Ysarl of the Black Robes wants him brought here to Wayreth, so we can declare him a a renegade before he dies."

Leciane frowned, studying the mage in the mirror. "You didn't agree to that, did you?"

"I did," Vincil declared. "He's still one of us. He is subject to the laws of High Sorcery, before any other. Even the Kingpriest's. I don't like it," he went on, holding up a hand to forestall her objections, "but I must consider all three of the Robes—and I think it best not to annoy the Black just now, don't you? I don't think any of us want to see this Andras become a martyr."

Leciane shuddered. Put that way, it made sense. The Black Robes were full of young mages just looking for the excuse to vent their rage against Istar. Andras's execution could light a tinderbox.

"What about Lady Jorelia?" Leciane pressed. "What are her thoughts?"

"Lady Jorelia is not highmage," Vincil replied, his eyes flashing, "but if you must know, she wants the man brought here, too—though for a different reason."

He paused, in the way she remembered from her days as his apprentice. He wanted her to figure it out for herself. She knuckled her brow, thinking, then her lips parted. "To find out who trained him."

The highmage nodded. "He was an apprentice when he disappeared. Someone had to have taught him to do what he did. Whoever it was did it without the order's leave. That means there's another wizard out there—a Black Robe—who we don't know about. What if he has other apprentices? Or if this is all part of some grander plan? Best to interrogate Andras and find out the truth than to let it go to the pyre with him."

Leciane let out a long, slow breath. "What you say makes sense," she allowed. "Try telling that to the Lattakayans, though—or worse, to the Divine Hammer. They won't listen to reason. They want revenge."

"Explain it to the Lightbringer. Or better yet, use the knight you charmed." Vincil's eyes narrowed as Leciane glanced away. "You do still have control over him?"

"As much as ever," she said quickly—as true as it was a lie. She hadn't ensorcelled Cathan, as she'd promised, and she hadn't told Vincil about the kiss they'd shared. "I will do what I can, but I make no promises. Not with this Kingpriest."

Vincil's image nodded. "I'm not expecting anything—unless it's the worst. Which reminds me…"

He disappeared for a moment, moving away from the table where his scrying bowl sat. When he came back, he was dangling an amulet from his fingers on a chain. The medallion in its midst was a flame-orange gem, carved into facets that threw candlelight in every direction. As she watched, Vincil spoke several words of magic, swinging the charm above the surface of the scrying bowl, then dropped it. With a splash it fell through the mirror, practically into Leciane's lap. It was still wet as she grabbed it and held it up to admire.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A signal for you to use if you cannot stop this thing from happening," the highmage replied. "Grasp it tightly and say my name. Only if all hope is lost."

Leciane frowned, turning the amulet in her hand, watching it sparkle and trying not to shiver. Her eyes flicked to the mirror and locked with his.

"I should never have helped them save him," she muttered. If she'd just let Andras kill himself, things might have ended there.

"Yes, it was foolish," Vincil agreed softly. "But you can't turn iron back to ore, as they say in Thorbardin. Do what you can, Leciane. Lunitari light thy path."

He was already fading from the glass as he signed the red moon's disc with his thumb and forefinger. By the time Leciane returned the gesture, he was gone. She sat silently for a long time, swaying the amulet on its chain.

He was in a boat.

Andras could tell that much from the way the ground rocked and shifted beneath him, the salt on the wind that kissed his face. He couldn't tell much else, though. The knights had blindfolded him when they dragged him out of his cell—one more indignity, after the chains and the ridiculous metal mask they'd strapped over his mouth. They'd escorted him down hallway, stair, and street for what had seemed like hours. Now they were stopped, and grunting sounds told him that men—or minotaurs, from the stink—were rowing away from the city's jetties.

He grimaced, musing on the prospect of jumping overboard. Lattakay had a deep harbor, and his shackles were heavy. He would sink fast. Unfortunately, the knights had thought of that, too. Testing his chains, Andras found they had bolted him in place. Nothing to do, then, but wait and count the oarstrokes.

"How fast do you think he'll go up?" one of the nearby knights asked another. "I've got twenty falcons the bastard'll be dead before a hundred-count, with those bloody robes he's wearing."

"You're on, Marto," said someone else. "Maybe, if the flames aren't controlled. They'll be low enough at the start, though, that he'll have some time to beg for mercy first—or would, if it weren't for the Tasabo… "

They hadn't taken the mask off in three days, giving him water to drink and broth to eat through a slit in the metal. It made his jaw ache and robbed him of the ability to do anything more than grunt. He knew they wouldn't ever remove it while he was alive. That was smart of them.

It was just as well, though. The mask kept him from touching his face. The feel of smooth skin, where cracks and blisters once had ravaged it, made him physically ill. So did every itch, every twinge that came from the finger that had sprouted, fully formed, from his stump. Every sacrifice he had made for the magic seemed gone—healed, by the Lightbringer's loathsome miracle touch. His burned face had been his mark of passage, the price he'd paid to work the Art. Now, save for his torn, dirty robes, he looked just like a common man.

Or a knight, he thought, choking back a chuckle.

A bump jarred him, and they stopped moving. The boat had come to a halt. He could hear mail jingling around him as the knights got up from their seats. He started to rise too, but someone yanked on his chains, making him stumble. The knights laughed as he banged his shins against the gunwale. Cursing, he climbed out, onto a dock.

The time had come. He could hear the clamor of the crowds, sense the tension. He'd impaled himself on another man's sword to avoid this, but—by Paladine's mercy, he thought wryly—it was going to happen anyway. All these years, after witnessing Nusendran's fate, he'd lived in terror of the stake. Now that it was inevitable, he found his fear was no longer so overpowering.

Hands grabbed him, shoved him. He nearly fell again, righted himself, and began to stumble forward. As he went, still blindfolded, to meet his doom, only one thought circled in his mind.

Fistandantilus, where are you?

"Sweet Lunitari," Leciane breathed, staring across the Bilstibo. "There are more of them out there than there were for the tourney."

Cathan raised his eyebrows, following her gaze. The benches of the stands were packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, all jostling and craning for a better view of the sands below. They stood in the aisles and perched on the walls, where black banners had replaced the usual, colorful flags. Where they had cheered and stamped their feet for the Divine Hammer—had it really been almost a fortnight since that awful day?—now they jeered and hissed, forking their fingers against evil. Some had daubed their faces with paste made from ashes, drawing the sacred triangle or the burning hammer.

"Fupolo!" they shouted. "Bulmud, malscrono!"

Devil! Death to the sorcerer!

The stake stood in the center of the arena. It was tall and stout, cut from a great ironwood tree and capped by the imperial falcon and triangle in silver. More wood, soaked in holy oil, lay in a heap about its base. Armored knights, the survivors of the slaughter, ringed it around. In their hands they held blazing torches, the flames making their armor gleam like red gold. Priests of Paladine walked among them, swinging thuribles of incense and chanting purification prayers.

It was a sight Cathan had seen before, more times than he could count. He'd cut down a forest's worth of stakes, it seemed. Today, though, everything about it was grander. Leciane was right: More people had come to watch Andras die than to watch the Hammer fight. He frowned, unsure whether that thought should trouble him.

"You can see why His Holiness couldn't grant mercy," he noted. "The people need to see evil punished, particularly today."

Leciane scowled. For three days now she had pleaded with the Kingpriest, begging him to spare the Black Robe's life. She might as well have been talking to the Udenso, glittering above the harbor in the glow of dawn. Now she looked to Beldinas, her eyes beseeching.

"Your Majesty," she spoke, "this cannot happen. The Order of High Sorcery forbids it."

Beldinas silenced her with a wave of his hand. "The Order of High Sorcery will learn not to let its initiates wreak mayhem," he replied, the light around him flaring. "No matter what you wizards think, evil is not something to welcome among us."

"But the magic—" Leciane insisted.

"Your magic is nothing, before the god's wrath," Beldinas returned.

The sorceress's face colored, and she opened her mouth to reply. Before she could speak, however, Cathan nudged her.

"Listen," he said. "Do you hear that?"

The jeering grew silent, the crowd's anger fading to a rumble as another sound rose: the ominous boom of drums. Everyone turned, looking toward the arena's entrance. The whole city of Lattakay seemed to draw a breath and hold it, waiting—then, in the stillness, he appeared.

Andras shuffled into the Bilstibo, his shackled ankles hindering his gait. Masked and blindfolded, he needed two knights to guide him toward the stake. Cathan had hand-picked Sir Marto and Sir Tithian for the duty, and they bore it well, neither hurrying the wizard nor giving him any chance to escape. As the highest-ranking knight in Lattakay, Cathan's own place was here at the Kingpriest's side, but he found himself wishing he could be with his men below.

The crowd turned ferocious at the sight of the wizard, cursing him in Old Seldjuki and both Istaran tongues, Church and Common. Some flung garbage down from the stands—rotten vegetables and fish innards that splattered upon the sands.

Leciane muttered something under her breath. Cathan glanced at her. She shook her head, fingering something at her throat—then looked away, seeing his eyes on her.

The other knights parted as Tithian and Marto guided the sorcerer past them, into the inner circle. Now, finally, the wizard began to falter, slowing and struggling. The two knights had to all but carry him, hoisting him up onto the kindling. Laughter echoed down from the stands. Marto and Tithian chained him to the stake. He fought them, but his struggles weakened. The crowd's shouts rose as he finally lost his will and slumped, beaten.

With a jerk, Sir Marto tore away the blindfold that had covered the upper half of the sorcerer's face. Golden hair spilled free. Andras's eyes were squeezed shut, his cheeks wet with tears. The crowd laughed harder still.

"This is disgusting," Leciane muttered as Marto and Tithian climbed down from the stake. "How can you do it in the name of a god of good?"

Beldinas did not hear her; within his aura, his gaze was far away. But Quarath did and he answered, his chin rising.

"Because of what he did, in the name of your magic," the elf sniffed. "Do not forget, the man is a murderer, a hundred times over. How would you punish such a man, Lady?"

Leciane met Quarath's haughty gaze, then looked away, muttering a curse. Again, her hand strayed to her throat.

The pounding of the drums grew louder as the priests circled Andras, choking the air with incense smoke. One stepped forward, flicking oil with a golden aspergillum—once, twice, thrice. The sorcerer flinched as the droplets struck him, moaning through the Tasabo. The crowd roared.

"Rubudo!"

Be silent!

The voice was like a thunderclap, cutting through the din, leaving silence in its wake. Thousands of eyes turned, looking up toward the balcony and the glowing figure who stepped forward, hands upraised.

"This is not godly," said the Lightbringer. "Paladine would never mock the pain of another. That is for the followers of the dark gods. This man committed a great atrocity against us, and for that we shall punish him—but we should not take joy in that, my children. Mourn him instead, for his soul is lost, given to evil and condemned to eternal suffering in the Abyss. Let his death show to those who would wish harm upon the church or the Divine Hammer—this is what awaits those who spit in the god's eye."

The crowd seemed to shrink back as he spoke, their shoulders hunching with shame. At the stake, the sorcerer began to sob, tears and sweat dripping from his face. His wrists twisted within the manacles until blood ran down his arms. Beldinas looked down upon him, the Miceram blazing on his head.

"Andras of Tarsis," he declared, "the crime you have committed is an act of cowardice and cruelty unequalled in the empire's history. It has hurt us, make no mistake, but the people of Istar are not so easily beaten. Now, standing guilty before them, you must pay for your sins. Let the flames burn the darkness from your soul as the flesh from your bones." Raising his hands, he signed the sacred triangle. "Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo. Sifat."

In Paladine's name, with Istar's might. So be it.

It was the signal the knights had been waiting for. Turning, they stepped toward the stake, torches held high. The crowd held its breath. Even Andras was silent, collapsing as his senses finally failed him. The torches lowered…

"Vincil," Leciane murmured.

Cathan was among the first to feel the magic, surging through the air like a gathering storm. Eyes wide, he turned to face the sorceress. She clenched something in her fist, on a broken chain—an amulet. Sorcery seethed about it, sparkling with orange light. With a gasp, he reached for her.

Too late. The spell had begun.

A great gout of smoke erupted around the stake, purple and sparking, rumbling with thunder as miniature lightning bolts played within. It spread quickly, pushing the knights back, smothering the flames where the torches had already touched. Andras vanished from sight, the vapors instantaneously devouring him. Cathan knew at once the sorcerer was gone.

He turned back toward Leciane, his eyes wide. She didn't see him. Her eyes were trained on the sands below.

Before he could make another move, the magic burst free, streaking upward from the smoke-shrouded stake in a great fierce torrent. Up and up it poured, violet and scarlet and sapphire blue. It curved as it rose, like the plume of a geyser on a windy day—but the wind wasn't what propelled it. It arched through the air, over the harbor, and straight into the Udenso.

The sky above Lattakay seemed to shudder as sorcery poured into the great, glass icon. It went on for a long time, the magic coruscating as it flowed through the panes. A loud chiming filled the air, the groan of bronze beneath it. Down on the sand, the smoke cleared. Sure enough, Andras had vanished, and the stake with him, but hardly anyone noticed. They were all looking up.

The statue had opened its eyes.

That's not possible, Cathan thought.

With a horrible, ear-splitting creak, the Udenso moved, swiveling its head to look down upon the arena. Its body I wisted, panes of glass shattering as its joints bent. Glittering fragments fell away from it. Screams rang out from the crowds as its eyes—living eyes, as blue and strange as Beldinas's—fixed upon the man who bore its likeness.

"The Black Robe is ours," said its high and ringing voice. "We will show him justice, not you. The Order of High Sorcery bows to no man, not even the Lightbringer."

All across the gallery—all across the Bilstibo—people scattered, screaming. Others stood still, staring with shocked eyes at the statue that had come to life.

Beldinas showed surprisingly little emotion. The Kingpriest looked back at his image, hands folded before him. He shut his eyes. The holy light around him swelled.

"Pridud," he spoke.

Break.

The statue stopped. For a moment, Cathan could have sworn he saw its brow furrow. Then a blast of energy erupted from the Kingpriest, slamming into the great, glass face. With a noise like the end of the world, the statue exploded.

Shards of glass flew in every direction, sparkling in the sunlight as they scattered into the harbor. The Udenso shattered into dust, filling the air with glinting motes. The latticework that had framed the glass remained, standing up briefly like some strange skeleton. Then, with the shriek of collapsing metal, it toppled backward, into the sea.