Chapter 20

Ebonbane rose high, throwing off splinters of morning sunlight. It held perfectly still, in the silence—then, flashing, it came down, moving in an arc toward Cathan's head. He shut his eyes, waiting for it to land… left shoulder, I hen right, then left again, the hand of the Lightbringer guiding it with ritual precision.

"Bogud, Cilmo Cathan, Freburmo op Comuro Ufib," declared I he Kingpriest, "e tas follam pannud, tis rigam aulium on adolo."

Arise, Lord Cathan, Grand Marshal of the Divine Hammer, and claim thy sword to defend this realm from darkness.

Silver trumpets blew, filling the air with sweet song, then drowned in the cheers of the men, women, and children who filled the Barigon. Cathan felt an unexpected rush of emotion. Emotion—and memory, of a time more than half a lifetime ago. He had knelt here, on the steps of the Great Temple, once before. Then, as now, Beldinas had dubbed him before the jubilant masses: the first knight of his order, first to wear the burning sigil. Now he was commander of Islar's armies and the most honored warrior in the land, clad in the crimson tabard of that rank. As he got to his feet, he took Ebonbane from the Kingpriest's hands, and raised it high to face the throngs.

His heart sang with joy. Yet, amid the triumph, there was sorrow. Wentha, who had carried his spurs to his knighting, had brought them today as well—having made the long journey from Lattakay to the Lordcity with her children—but the one who had given him his shield was gone. Yesterday, Cathan had dispatched an honor guard to escort Lord Tavarre's bones back to Luciel. When the spring thaw came, the slain lord would rest beside his wife and son.

In Tavarre's place stood Sir Tithian, smiling through his new-grown beard. The boy—no, the man, Cathan reminded himself—looked even prouder than he had on his own dubbing day. There were other knights here, too—Marto, grinning like a fool, had carried Cathan's sword to the ceremony—but there was no missing how many fewer in number they were. It would be years before the Divine Hammer returned to its old strength. Silently, Cathan vowed that the knighthood would shine again, even brighter than before.

He turned back toward Beldinas, who smiled beneath his light. Behind the Kingpriest, the members of the imperial court stood—First Daughter Farenne and First Son Adsem… the hierarchs of the other gods… and Quarath, who alone bore a stony expression. The elf regarded him, his eyes cool and thoughtful. Cathan swallowed, unable to meet that gaze, then looked past the clergy to the dignitaries who had come to the empire from the kingdoms to the west.

Before his entourage left Lattakay, Beldinas had sent two Karthayan messenger birds winging away, bearing word to the High Clerist of Solamnia and Emperor Gwynned of Ergoth of the coming moot between the Church and the Conclave. Since Towers of High Sorcery stood in both those realms, as well as in Istar, both had sent ambassadors in reply.

The emperor sent Duke Serl, a swarthy, barrel-chested man with a black beard and a voice like a smith's hammer, along with a score of warriors in bronze brigandine and antlered helms. The High Clerist had come himself, tall and angular, his drooping Solamnic moustache the same flame-red color as his curly red hair. Like his escort—only eight strong, but still more than a match for Serl's twenty—Lord Yarus Donner wore a suit of antique plate, polished and engraved with the emblem of a Knight of the Sword. He inclined his head toward Cathan, but the gesture was grudging at best. Even after twenty years, the Solamnics—who had been Krynn's principal knighthood for more than a thousand—still looked upon the Divine Hammer as upstarts.

Cathan looked on down the line of nobles and merchants who comprised the higher echelons of imperial society. He searched for another face, knowing he wouldn't see it. Still, though it was no surprise, he couldn't keep the heaviness of disappointment away. Leciane had not come.

They hadn't spoken since that night in Wentha's garden—had hardly even glanced at each other, though they rode almost side by side for much of the journey back from coast in heartland. When their eyes did meet, the coldness in hers stung Cathan.

He knew he deserved her scorn. A knight simply did not strike a woman. No matter how many prayers he spoke—and he spoke them daily—he couldn't forgive himself. They had avoided each other for weeks. She had gone to the Tower of High Sorcery as soon as they were back in the Lordcity and hadn't emerged since.

Cathan understood why—the wizards would be preparing for the summit—but he'd still hoped she would make an appearance at this ceremony. Now, seeing she hadn't, he sighed and turned back to the Lightbringer.

Beldinas regarded him with a raised eyebrow. Seeing that, Cathan flushed. He leaned forward and kissed the Kingpriest's proffered hand.

"Mas egam sod fas, Gasiras Gasiro," he recited, his church tongue clumsy and halting. "Bid tas sinobo, asclebu pritod niri."

Thou art my true blade, Emperor of Emperors. With thy blessing, I shall never give battle unarmed.

Beldinas nodded, raising his hands to sign the triangle high in the air. His fingers touched Cathan's brow. "Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo. Sifat.

At his touch, Cathan went suddenly rigid. The world seemed to drop away beneath him—or rather, he felt himself rise up and away from the Kingpriest, the Temple, the Lordcity, and the empire, passing through the clouds and on toward the stars. The vision again, this time waking. As Paladine's Voice pronounced his blessing on Cathan's body, so the god himself swept up his soul, carrying it high to show him the vision that had long haunted his dreams.

The blue sky turned black around him, though the sun still shone in the east—gold now, not the crimson of dawn. The moons swung close, Lunitari half full and on the wane, Solinari fat and growing in the west—and a third, the color of a raven's wing, splinter-thin at the other end of the firmament. Cathan stared. He had wondered where the Black Robes got their power, when their brethren worshiped the red and silver moons. Now he knew. There was evil, even, in the skies. But why the revelation now? He'd had this dream hundreds of times, yet always before the moons had been two. Only now did he realize they were three….

The magic, he thought with a shiver. The dream hadn't come to him since the day he'd shared the spell with Leciane. That was more than a month ago. Experiencing her magic had changed him, somehow. Even though her robes were Red, the sorceress must know about Nuitari—the name came to him without effort, though he had never heard it before. He cringed, feeling unclean. He would burn an offering to Paladine tonight to purify himself.

Drawing his attention away from all three moons, he saw a golden pinprick among the diamond stars, growing larger… brighter… closer: the burning hammer, the god's wrath, blazing through the heavens. It came to put an end to the darkness forever. It was his hammer to wield now, as it had been Tavarre's before him: the knighthood, diminished but determined to cleanse the world.

Let it strike the black moon, he prayed. Let it smash it to dust.

The hammer did not hit Nuitari, though. Instead it plunged past him, on the same course it had always taken. Fire pouring off it in sheets, it dived toward Istar. Cathan gritted his teeth as it swept by, throwing off heat stronger than a dwarven forge, then watched it fall, fall, fall—

With a start, he came back to his senses. He blinked up at the Kingpriest. Beldinas looked back, understanding in his strange eyes.

"You saw it again, my friend," he murmured, quiet enough for only Cathan to hear. "The hammer."

Cathan nodded, his throat too tight to let words pass.

"Praise to Paladine." The Lightbringer's smile was beautiful. "It is a good omen. Whatever comes, we shall prevail. Uso sam bollat."

The god wills it.

Cathan wasn't sure. Unbidden, his gaze shifted—over the Kingpriest's shoulder, past the looming Temple, to the pale spire that strove skyward beyond it. The crimson turrets of the Tower of High Sorcery glistened in the morning sun. Whatever comes, he thought with a shudder. Whatever comes.

The cries of the Accursed were the first sound Andras heard when he awoke. They echoed in the darkness, squealing and moaning, madness given voice. He let out a groan of his own, trying to bury his head beneath the blankets that covered him. He could still hear them, though, no matter how tightly he covered his ears. They were jealous of every drop of warm blood that coursed through his veins, of every moment he lived without being wracked by unspeakable agony, of the fact that, one day, he would be permitted to die.

Consciousness returned, and memory. How many times, of late, had he woken like this—in a new place, the tingle of teleportation still pricking the edges of his mind? This time, though, he was not in danger. He knew where he was. He was with Fistandantilus.

Sighing, Andras opened his eyes. The room was dark, the kind of utter lightlessness found only deep underground. Even so, he recognized it: his chamber, where he'd dwelt before going with the quasitas to Seldjuk. It was empty and cold, and there was a strange smell in the air, a little like must, a little like a midden heap. He shrugged off his blankets, then winced at the cold air. He was unchained but naked. The Dark One had taken his tattered, filthy robes.

Whimpering, he rose and walked toward the door. It was unlocked and unbarred. Beside it, folded neatly on the floor, was a bundle of clothing. He bent down, lifting it up and shaking it out. It was a new robe of fine satin, embroidered with runes. Nicer than his old one—and warmer than the altogether. He pulled it over his head, cinching it at the waist.

The strange, fetid smell was strong now, clinging in his nostrils. He scowled, faying to place it, but couldn't. Whatever it was, its source was near—inside the room, maybe. He retched, the sour sting of bile filling his mouth.

"Light," he muttered. "I need light."

He tested his own power, expecting to find it depleted. To his surprise, however, the magic ran deep within him once more, like a cistern after a rainstorm. He had been asleep much longer than he'd thought, then—days? Weeks? It was impossible to tell. His hair and nails were no longer than before, and no stubble graced his cheeks. Fistandantilus had taken good care of him, whatever else was going on. Pleased at his strength's return, Andras delved, drawing out what he needed. It wasn't much, not for so simple a spell. He made a quick gesture, then pointed across the black room.

"Talkarpas ang shirak," he declared.

Magic flashed through him, too little and too quick to bring about the euphoria he usually felt. Light spells were parlor tricks, cantrips initiates learned early on. Andras's took the form of a globe of cold blue flame, hanging in midair before him. Accustomed to the darkness, his eyes stung and saw nothing for a while. Then, slowly, vision returned. Andras nodded, looking around. There was a puddle on the floor not too far from where he stood. He regarded it curiously, noting its brownish color even in the blue glow—then stopped, stiffening as a drop fell into it from above.

He looked up.

"Blood of Takhisis!" he cried, the sound coming out more like a child's squeak than a man's yell. He backed up until he hit the wall—only two steps, as it happened—then stood staring at the thing hanging from the ceiling.

It was four feet long, fat on one end and tapering on the other, glistening gray in the wizard-light. It might have been an egg, but it had rubbery skin instead of a shell, and long, ropy vines grew out of it, digging into the stone above. Dark vessels, like veins but not, crisscrossed its surface, pulsing softly. One had ruptured and was leaking watery, brown juice. As for the stink, it was powerful enough now that Andras raised his sleeve to cover his face. It didn't help, any more than covering his ears blocked out the Accursed's cries. His back never leaving the wall, he edged toward the door.

The thing had no eyes, but he could sense it looking at him as he moved. There was something inside it. He could see movement, a shadow that stretched the membrane as it shifted. The shadow watched him, as sure as if it was a giant eye. He reached behind himself, fumbling for the door's latch, then stopped as his hand touched something that wasn't made of stone or wood at all.

"Be easy," said Fistandantilus. "Nothing will harm you."

Every part of Andras wanted to run at the sound of the Dark One's voice, so close to him—every part except his legs, which refused to move. He stood perfectly still, staring at the thing as the ancient Black Robe loomed in the doorway behind him.

"Wh-what in the Abyss?" he breathed.

Fistandantilus considered this a moment, then answered with a dry chuckle. "Partly right," he said. "It is from the Abyss, yes—just like your quasitas were. What grows within, though, is of this world."

Andras swallowed, or tried to. His mouth was as dry as the sands of Dravinaar. "I don't understand."

"I thought not," the Dark One replied. "Watch, then. Tsokath!"

At the archmage's command, magic blazed through the room, so intense that Andras's heart stopped beating for an instant. On the ceiling, the pod shuddered as it struck, its skin stretching thin, then ripped open, dumping a gush of fetid liquid onto the floor. The split in the membrane widened with a ghastly tearing sound, and the gush became a torrent, splashing Andras's new robes. With the fluid, something else slipped out—something pale, flabby, and bald, nearly man-shaped but featureless. Where its face should have been, there were only empty holes. More vinelike things grew out of its body, attaching it to the ceiling pod. They caught the wretched thing as it fell, holding it up like some kind of horrendous puppet. It hung limp in midair, limbs twitching.

Somehow, Andras kept himself from vomiting.

"It is called a fetch," Fistandantilus said, his cold voice unperturbed. "It is like a man, but without a soul to give it life. It can take the form of any living person, be they human, ogre, elf, or dwarf. All it needs to hear is that person's name."

The cleft that was the fetch's mouth opened and closed with wet, sucking sounds. It was beginning to breathe. The sound of its wheezing soon filled the silence. Andras clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out with his magic and kill the monster.

"The Kingpriest and the highmage are meeting on the morrow, to make peace," Fistandantilus went on in a mocking tone. "Once the fetch has taken form, I can cast a spell that will put your spirit in its body, for a time. You can control it then, as if it were your own."

Andras frowned, staring at the hairless thing hanging before him. It shivered in the cold. He knew what Fistandantilus was offering him. He could be anyone. He just had to kill the one lie chose to impersonate, then he could take that person's place ill; the moot. If he were caught, he needed only to relinquish control over the fetch, and return to his own body.

The fetch made a toneless, mewling sound. Andras stared at its face, so vague and indistinct.

"Won't they discover who I am?" he asked. "Vincil and the other sorcerers will check everyone for sorcery—and the gods alone know what the Kingpriest will see."

"My magic will protect you," the Dark One replied. "Not even His Holiness will sense anything amiss."

Andras sighed. He was beginning to feel a weariness that could never be eased, but he did owe the Church and the Conclave, for what both had tried to do to him.

"Well," he said. "May I choose the form I'm to take?"

"Not the Kingpriest," the Dark One warned. "His powers would resist."

In spite of everything, Andras laughed. The fetch let out a bray of its own, mimicking him. He waited for it to be still again, then leaned forward, placing his mouth near the hole that would have been a person's ear. He whispered the name he'd chosen.

All at once, the fetch's whole body stiffened, like a corpse several hours dead. Its twitches became spasms. Struggling, it began to change. Flesh darkened; bones cracked as they rearranged themselves. Its formless face softened like warm beeswax, running and puddling to form the visage Andras desired. Seeing what it was becoming—or, rather, who—Fistandantilus let out a cold chuckle.

"Very good," the archmage declared, resting a hand on Andras's shoulder. "Oh, very good indeed."