Chapter 22

Cathan felt the shimmer of magic grow suddenly fierce. He heard the ring of steel, the roar of flame and thunder, the shouts of the wizards and his men. He smelled the tang of ozone, the stink of smoke, but he saw none of it. There was only the Lightbringer.

Beldinas was pale, his eyes shut, his face tight with pain. The dagger-wound leaked warm blood. The Miceram had fallen from his head and lay on the ground nearby. The holy light, which had wreathed Beldinas constantly since he took the throne, had dwindled to almost nothing.

As Cathan stared at him, a hand touched his arm: Quarath, bending down beside him.

"Let me help," the elf began.

Snarling, Cathan shrugged him off. "Get away."

"I will not!" Quarath snapped back. "You have your duty, Grand Marshal. Your men need you. I can watch over His Holiness."

Quarath was right. The sounds of the battle woke him from his stupor. He heard his men crying the Lightbringer's name, their groans and shrieks as magic lashed into their ranks. He looked over his shoulder just in time for a flash of a lightning bolt to stab at his eyes, half-blinding him. Through the glare, he saw armored figures flying through the air, their armor sparking and smoldering.

He nodded to Quarath. "Take him."

As the elf gathered the Kingpriest in his arms, Cathan rose and grabbed up Ebonbane from beside Revered Son Suvin's corpse. Raising the blade, he rushed toward the fight, leaping over the bodies of his men.

Lord Yarns and Duke Serl were there, mace and saber in hand, shouting orders to their warriors. Half the Ergothmen were down, and several Solamnic Knights as well. On the other side, a White Robe and a Red lay dead, their bodies riddled with quarrels. The rest of the wizards, Leciane among them, had fallen back into a tight knot, their hands in constant motion as they chanted spells. Half of these were defensive. The air around them gleamed with enchantment as shields rose to ward off attacks from the crossbowmen. The highmage shouted in the sorcerous tongue, pointing fiercely at anyone who came near. Cathan saw one blast of magical frost shoot from his hands, hitting a knight head-on. The man cried out, then went stiff and toppled, his armor rimed with ice.

"Bastards!" Sir Marto bellowed, shaking his axe. He stood near Tithian, who was clutching his bloodied arm. The big knight's helm had come off, and spittle flecked his beard. "Murdering, treacherous bastards!"

Cathan ran toward the hulking Karthayan and felt a hiss pass by his neck as a bolt of magic narrowly missed him. He spun, nearly falling, then ran on.

Marto saw him, fire in his eyes. "They're all dead!" he snapped. "The Kingpriest, the First Son, the First Daughter—these bloody moon-worshippers killed them all!"

Cathan started, his gaze following Marto's gesturing hand. Adsem and Farenne indeed lay sprawled and unmoving among his knights. Looking at their bodies, Cathan had no doubt that magic had killed them. The First Son's vestments were still smoldering. The Church of Istar had lost its leaders.

"Merciful gods," he breathed.

Marto laughed bitterly. "Not today."

A shout drew Cathan's attention. Spears lowered, Serl's soldiers were trying to charge the wizards' flank. One by one, the sorcerers cut them down, lashing out with darts of green flame. One of Serl's Ergothmen broke through, however, and a wizard—an elderly Red Robe, already bleeding from a cut across his cheek—jerked wildly as the soldier ran him through. The Ergothman collapsed too, a whip of crimson lightning lashing out from the Red Robe's body, one last spell that tore him in two as the wizard died.

Cathan stared at the carnage all around, the bodies strewn like dolls and the trees burning in the courtyard. The paving stones were torn into furrows and craters, and even the Eusymmeas had cracked, the statue crumbled and the pool split open. Water spread out across the plaza.

"Tithian!" he called. "With me."

Slapping his former squire's shoulder, Cathan ran to where Lord Yarns was marshaling his knights.

"We have to pull back," he advised.

The High Clerist looked at him with disdain. "Retreat? And sully our honor? I don't know how things are in Istar, but the men of Solamnia do not flee from battle."

Serl proved no easier. Ergoth didn't abide by the Solamnic Measure, but the duke had lost two sons in the fighting already. He nearly struck Cathan when asked to give ground.

"Never!" he raged, though his forces were down to a handful. "Not before I send every last one of those caitiffs howling to the Abyss!"

Just then Vincil summoned a dozen spectral warriors to do his bidding. The phantasms fought well, killing five more knights—four of the Hammer and one of Yarus's men. Calling on Paladine and Kiri-Jolith and Beldinas alike, the remaining warriors rallied and cut the specters down. The knights tried to penetrate the wizards' shields and blocking spells, but the ensorcelments threw them back, howling in agony. Helpless, Cathan saw his men perish one by one.

He sent runners to the Hammerhall, but the keep was too far away for reinforcements to arrive in time. Faithful Tithian stayed at his side, and Marto, darkening the air with curses. The Karthayan pounded on the magical shield with his axe, exhorting the few knights still on their feet, but it was more show than anything else.

Another crossbow bolt got through the shield. A sorceress in white crumpled, a steel shaft in her throat. Cathan grimaced, looking to Leciane. She stood firm, still casting spells at the Highmage's side. Her face was pale and weary, filmed with a sheen of sweat. She winced, waving her hand as Marto ran forward and struck the protective shield with his axe. Violet energy flared, and the big knight stumbled back with a grunt.

Somehow, she sensed Cathan's eyes on her. She looked up and met his gaze, shaking her head. "I'm sorry," she mouthed.

Turning, she shouted something to Vincil. The highmage looked at her, then at the one remaining White Robe, a fat man who looked like he'd never fought a battle in his life. Leciane said something else—then, grimly, he nodded. Raising his hands, he began to weave them through the air, in a pattern Cathan recognized. He knew the words, too. He'd heard Leciane speak them before.

"Back!" he cried, waving his arms. The Solamnics gave ground, shields raised. They were brave men, but no fools. As the silver light of the teleport spell began to swirl, the Ergothmen and the knights of the Hammer also drew back.

All except one.

"No, gods damn you!" Sir Marto roared, rushing the shield like a maniac. "You're not getting away!"

"Marto, don't!" Cathan shouted.

The big knight wasn't listening. The light of Vincil's spell grew bright, brighter, surrounding him and Leciane and the fat White Robe. The magical shields flickered, then disappeared. Throwing himself into the light, Marto raised his axe and brought it down.

With a rush like wind down a mountain pass, the wizards were gone. As the light burst, the men turned away. Some shrieked in terror, thinking the spell would destroy them—but the glittering energy passed over them harmlessly, washing across the courtyard. Cathan let out a groan when he saw Marto standing alone, where the mages had been. The big knight smiled as he raised his empty right hand. Of his axe, there was no sign—but blood dripped from his fingers.

"I did it," he exclaimed, beaming. "I got the son of a bitch."

Leciane's stomach dropped away as Vincil's spell flung her across the world. She had thought he would send them back to the Tower at Istar, but the Highmage had chosen Wayreth instead. She could see his study in the distance, as if through a spyglass, moving toward her with the speed of a charging dragon.

Something began to go awry. The spell ebbed, its power unraveling like a threadbare tapestry. The study started to slow down, then reverse its direction. Her mind raced. What was happening? Had Vincil made a mistake?

Reaching out, she managed to catch hold of the magic. It was an act of desperation, using her last reserves of power to shore up the spell. Gritting her teeth, Leciane added her strength to it, willed it to continue. The study flickered back into view. She held her breath, straining as they continued to fly through space, her body so tense it felt as if it might explode… .

With a shattering sound, Leciane tumbled onto the carpet of Vincil's study, nearly cracking her skull against the corner of a table. Eilar, the fat mage, landed with a whoof nearby, and lay on the floor groaning. A third thump jarred her as Vincil came down on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs.

There was blood all over her.

Panic rising, Leciane scrambled out from beneath the highmage and twisted to her feet. When she was upright, she stared at Vincil in numb horror. He lay facedown on the carpet, the upper half of his body twitching wildly. Lodged in the small of his back was a beaked war axe.

Eilar gasped, seeing the highmage. His flabby face, already pallid, turned gray. His eyes bulged from their sockets.

"Get someone!" Leciane half-screamed, slapping him across the face. "Anyone! Go!"

As Eilar jumped up and ran out the door, Leciane dropped to her knees beside Vincil. She felt his throat. The lifebeat was barely there.

"No," she breathed, staring at his wound. His spine had been cut. "Damn you, no!"

Vincil stirred. His eyes flickered open, dull with shock. "We made it," he gasped. "It's so—cold…"

"Vincil, I—I've sent for help."

Somehow he laughed, blood bubbling on his lips. "Won't matter," he answered. He trailed off, choking.

Gods, thought Leciane, how did everything go so wrong?

"Andras," Vincil said, as if reading her mind. "He was—the one. Suvin was a—fetch."

Leciane nodded. In their wildest dreams they had never expected the Black Robe to infiltrate the moot. "There will never be peace now," she murmured.

"No. There will be—war, and we—will lose." He squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting.

Tears scorched her eyes. She touched his face. "Do you want me to try to pull it out?"

Vincil looked at her, understanding. The axe was all that was keeping him alive. When it came out, his pain would end. Shuddering, he nodded. "Tell Lady Jorelia—to proceed with—the contingency. She—will know—what to do."

Leciane nodded. With Ysarl dead, Lady Jorelia would become the next highmage. "And—?"

He smiled, ghastly. "A—farewell kiss?"

She bent low over him. His lips were covered with blood. He sighed, and she felt his mouth relax against hers. The gentleness of it surprised her.

She rose to her feet, planted her foot against his ribs, and yanked the axe free. Vincil sucked in a sharp breath, coughed, and died.

Leciane shook uncontrollably. Angrily, she flung the axe away. The weapon struck Vincil's scrying bowl, turning it into a shower of shards and water. She stormed out of the study, down into the depths of the Tower.

The Kingpriest still lived, but only barely.

With the foe vanished, Cathan had done what he could to restore order. At his behest the knights left alive, and the reinforcements come too late from the Hammerhall, had covered the bodies of the dead, then gone out to keep the crowds back. The word was already spreading through the Lordcity, though, that the Lightbringer was slain. There would be chaos, fires, looting. Cathan sent Tithian with more orders, to dispatch the knights and the Scatas to keep order. With one dagger-blow, Suvin—or whatever mage had taken on his form—had brought Istar to its knees.

Right now, though, Cathan did not worry about the empire. There was only Beldinas.

Quarath held the Kingpriest. Lord Yarus and Duke Serl stood nearby. The High Clerist's face was grave, the Ergothman's twisted with fury. The Lightbringer lay limp in the elf’s lap, blood pooling around them. His holy light was gone.

"Holiness," Cathan murmured, touching Beldinas's bone-white face as Quarath laid him out on the ground. "Oh, Pilofiro, what have they done to you?"

The elf shook his head. "He can't hear you," he said sadly. "Step back, Grand Marshal, and let him die in peace."

Cathan ignored him, leaning closer. "Holiness, listen to me," he whispered.

"I said step back, Twice-Born," Quarath insisted, grabbing his shoulder. "He must receive unction before he goes to the god."

"No!" Cathan barked, shoving the elf away. Quarath stumbled back, and would have fallen had Yarns and Serl not caught him. The three of them were startled by the fierceness in Cathan's empty eyes. One by one, they turned away. Trembling, he tried one more time to speak to the Lightbringer. "Please, Beldyn—"

The Kingpriest stirred. His eyes did not focus, but he turned his head toward Cathan. When he spoke, his beautiful voice was thin as spider's silk.

"My friend. I am glad—glad you are here."

Cathan wept. "Holiness," he said. "You must tell me how to help you. I would give my life, if I could."

A smile twitched the Lightbringer's lips. "You already did that once," he wheezed. "I have no strength to heal myself. Give me your hand."

Gently, Cathan gripped the Kingpriest's fingers. They were cold, as frail as bird bones.

Beldinas smiled, then shut his eyes and let out a breath. For a moment Cathan's heart seized, but then he saw the Kingpriest's lips begin to move, forming words only he could hear.

"Palado, ucdas pafiro," he prayed. "Tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soramflonat. Me cailud, e tas or am me lud bipum. Sifat."

Heal me…

Cathan felt a tingle at the back of his mind, a tingle that grew into something greater, a torrent that coursed through him like cool flame. He knew it to be the god's presence, Paladine's energy flowing through his body. It was pain and joy, all at once, completely different from any mundane sensation … yet it was still familiar. He had felt something like it before.

The cold fingers twitched. The Kingpriest's eyes widened as they stared at him. Cathan felt cold, suddenly. Beldinas knows, he thought. He knows I used magic once before. He knows I corrupted myself with the sorceress.

Before he could think anything else, the healing light flared around him. The cool, soothing glow drew gasps of astonishment from the others. The attar of roses filled the air. He tasted honey and wine on his tongue. It lasted a moment and an eternity, both at once, then faded again—but not completely.

Beldinas's aura began to return. The bloody wound was closed. The Lightbringer breathed a sigh and looked at Cathan, a sudden, odd expression in his eyes. A fear. He jerked his hand from Cathan's grasp.

Palado Calib, Cathan thought. He's afraid of me now. "Holiness," he began.

Sighing, Beldinas closed his eyes, slipping into peaceful sleep.

The Lightbringer would live.

Quarath and Yarns and Serl all gathered around, awestruck by the miracle they had just witnessed. Others came running too, asking what was happening and crying out in joy when they heard the news. Cathan didn't hear anything. He only stared at Beldinas's face, biting down hard on his lip.

It was the same feeling, he thought, thunderstruck. The god's touch and magic were the same—like different facets of the same jewel. What could that mean?

He could think of no answer.

The Lordcity was quiet that night, its plazas empty and its gates sealed. Scores of knights and Scatas walked the boulevards, their boots rapping a steady cadence on the marble-paved streets. There was a curfew in place. Those who went out into Istar's streets at such times only asked for trouble. Defying the Church was a risky business at the best of times, but when the Kingpriest had nearly fallen to an assassin, the best one could hope for was arrest and imprisonment in the city jail. The worst was the kiss of a crossbow bolt.

Draconian as such measures were, they were better than the alternative. Istaran history was filled with stories of rioting in troubled times. At the outset of the Three Thrones' War, half the city had burned before order could be restored. That had been a hundred years ago, but folk still spoke of it as if it had happened last summer. Of all the forces in Istar—the Church, the knighthood, the armies, even the High Sorcerers—none was more powerful than the mob.

Cathan walked the streets alone, his thoughts darting about like the hummingbirds in the Great Temple's gardens.

As he walked, his eyes strayed again and again to the Temple, the basilica dome shining mourning-blue in the city's heart. The First Son and First Daughter were dead. A shudder ran through him at how close things had come for Beldinas. The bloody-fingered Tower stood silent, showing no sign that the sorcerers grieved as well. But grieve they did, surely. The word was that the highmage was dead, killed in the battle by the Eusymmeas.

Cathan stopped, stiffening. He had just left a courtyard where silver and lapis dragon-statues fought among blossoming cherry trees, and was starting down an avenue where the mudubas were thick on both sides of the road. Robbed of business by the curfew, the wine shops stood quiet, lamps doused and gates locked—all except one. Down the way, light blazed from one of the taverns. Shouts and laughter rang out, echoing weirdly among the walls and pillars. A scowl found its way onto Cathan's face. What fool would open his wine shop on a night like this? It was asking for trouble. Unless…

He heard the booming voice, though he couldn't make out the words—only the proud, boastful tone and the answering shouts and laughter. Sighing, he shook his head. Of course, Marto. Angrily, he strode down the street and flung open the wine shop's gates.

It was the Mirrorgarden, where the old woman had cursed him after Tithian's dubbing. There were around a dozen knights there now, perched on benches with wine cups in their hands, their attention turned to the towering Karthayan standing on the table. The tavern keeper shot Cathan a look as he came in, a mix of apology, guilt, and pleading. Cathan waved him off as he started forward.

The knights' laughter faltered and died as they saw him. Though most were off duty, he marked a couple who should have been on patrol. There would be reprimands later. For now, though, his attention fell full on Marto, who looked back with the red face and bleary eyes of a man who has crawled too deep into his cups.

"What are you doing here?" Cathan demanded.

Marto blinked, looking around as if to make sure he was the one being addressed. "Celebrating, milord. What else?"

"Celebrating?" Cathan repeated. "Marto, the Kingpriest nearly died today. Adsem and Farenne did die… and others, too, your brothers in arms among them."

"So did wizards," Marto shot back, his chest puffing with pride. "We taught the treacherous bastards a lesson today, milord, and sent that highmage of their howling to the Abyss besides. Lost my favorite axe doing it, too."

A few of the knights chuckled at that. Cathan's scowl deepened. "It will be war now, Marto. Many will die."

"Holy war," Marto shot back. "Fighting evil in the Lightbringer's name. It's what we're for, milord. We are the Hammer—about time we struck a proper blow."

A murmer of agreement escaped the other knights. They were behind Marto, and not just because of the wine, either. The big knight had a point. Beldinas had formed the knighthood to smite darkness. Another time, Cathan would have rejoiced with his comrades. Today, though, he'd felt the god's power and hadn't been able to tell the difference from Leciane's magic. Nothing seemed as clear now as it once had—or as it still did to Marto and his cronies.

They were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak. If he showed weakness in front of them, he would lose them. Perhaps he already had. Marto was the hero now, the one who had avenged the knights' honor when he struck the highmage down.

"Go back to the Hammerhall," he said. "All of you. You'll get to strike your blow soon enough."

You, not we. They all heard it. The knights exchanged glances, then set down their cups and rose, filing past him as they left. Marto went last of all, his eyes glinting. He slammed the mudubo's silver gates behind him.

Cathan stood quietly in the courtyard, drinking the wine his men had left behind. Things would get worse before they got better, he knew. But would they get better? He bowed his head. He didn't know.