Chapter 24

Motes of golden light flashed around Vincil's body, spinning in lazy circles about his bier. His smooth forehead, free of the cares that had troubled him, was painted with the All-Seeing Eye of the three moons—black over red over white. His crimson robes were clean of the blood that had soaked them. He seemed to have passed away in his sleep, peacefully.

Leciane could still hear the last rattle of his breath. She had loved him, in the end. It might not have lasted—it hadn't lasted before—but she had loved him.

Lady Jorelia—Highmage Jorelia, now—raised her hands. She was a stately woman, taller than most men and willow-thin, her long, silver hair gathered in a braid that reached down to the small of her back. Her black eyes glistened as she wove the magic about Vincil's body. It was her duty, as the Conclave's new leader, to bid the final farewell to her predecessor. Leciane saw in her age-lined face that she had loved Vincil too—as a friend, and as a teacher. She was close on ninety summers and had given Vincil his Test before Leciane was born.

"We bid thee farewell, Most High," Jorelia declared. "Rest now among the moons, and let your spirit sing on in the magic we work."

"Let it sing," replied Leciane, along with the rest of the wizards who had gathered in the Hall of Mages. The masters of the other Towers had come to Wayreth as well, and powerful sorcerers from all across Ansalon. Nearly a hundred elves and dwarves, men and women—even a few minotaurs—filled the great room. They stood divided by the colors of their robes, eyeing one another suspiciously.

The three orders seldom agreed on anything and had acted in concert only once before, to craft the Orbs of Dragonkind, which men had used to stave off the Queen of Darkness's legions during the great wars. That had been a thousand years ago. Watching the distrust in their faces as they eyed one another, Leciane twisted her hands. Other wheels were turning today, besides Vincil's funeral. What followed, however it played, would shape the fate of magic for a long time to come.

The golden motes spun faster, rose higher. Now they formed a maelstrom that nearly hid Vincil's body from sight. The sound of howling wind rose, though nothing so much as ruffled the sorcerers' cloaks. The Art, ever-present in this enchanted place, crackled in the air. Leciane reached out, adding her power to Jorelia's, pouring herself into the magic-sweetened air. All around her, the other wizards did the same. When the climax of the spell came, it made more than a few of them cry out. Leciane bit her tongue as the magic suddenly jerked at her, the the warmth of blood flooding her mouth when she felt it burst free. The golden maelstrom flared as bright as sunshine, burning into her eyes and through her heart.

Good-bye, love, she thought. Perhaps, if there is life after this, we will meet again.

With a high, keening sound the maelstrom shattered, flinging golden motes in all directions. They rained down amongst the mages, trailing glittering dust as they fell. Leciane felt a stab of pain to see Vincil's body had disappeared, in its place a crimson haze, as of Lunitari's glow on a foggy night. Slowly, the haze flickered and faded away. The blaze of the spell vanished with it.

Silence hung in the shadowy hall. Not all had known Vincil, but it was always a grievous thing when a highmage died. At least this time, there had been no squabbling over who would take his place. Neither Sheidow, the new head of the Black Robes, nor Karani, who had taken over the Red, had bothered to challenge Lady Jorelia. All eyes turned to the aged White Robe, awaiting her words.

Here it comes, Leciane thought, clenching her fists. She knew what the new highmage was about to say, knew why it had to be done. She didn't expect that to make it any easier to bear.

"So passes the last highmage of sorcery's glorious days," Jorelia declared. Her voice was not that of an old woman but strong and deep, with an assurance none could miss. "Now it falls to us to guide the order into the night."

The wizards glanced at one another, some raising eyebrows while others frowned. A few gave sage nods. Jorelia paused, waiting for their attention, then went on.

"For twenty-five centuries, the five Towers have stood," she began. "Of all the realms that now span the world beyond these walls, only the forests of Silvanesti are older. We have stood fast through two Dragonwars. Through the rise and decline of Ergoth, the delving of Thorbardin, and the coming of the elves to Qualinesti, we have been here.

"Now, however, a new threat arises—a threat from the east, where men call themselves holy so they can hurt those who are not. The legions of the Lightbringer are coming, and they bring the strength of the mob with them. In Istar they march already, and soon in Ergoth and Solamnia as well. They will not rest until the Towers are empty or until they fall. We have chosen emptiness."

Those mages who did not serve in the Conclave exclaimed in horror and disbelief as the highmage's meaning sank in.

"Give over the Towers?" cried a sorceress in white, an elf maid named Maranthas. Her delicate features contorted. "They're our homes!"

"Not any longer," Jorelia replied, shaking her head. "Things have gone too far. They have never liked us in Istar, nor in Solamnia for that matter, but they were willing to suffer us. The actions of the renegade, this Andras, have changed that. Now they hate us, and blame us for what has happened in both Lattakay and the Lordcity. They will fight us—and no matter how valiantly we defend ourselves, they will triumph. We may be powerful, but the Church, with its priests and its knights, is mightier."

"What, then?" sneered Orlock, a black-robed dwarf of the Daergar clan, tugging at his silver beard. "We just tuck tail, like rats or goblins? I am no craven, to hide when danger appears." Jorelia shook her head, looking over at Sheidow. A wisp of a man with an albino's colorless skin and pink eyes, the new lord of the Black Robes shot a withering glance at the dwarf.

"We are not craven either," he said. His voice was soft and gentle, but commanded everyone's attention. "We do not flee because we fear death, but because we know it awaits us if we stay."

Orlock still looked outraged, but said nothing more. Humbled, he melted back into the crowd. Another wizard—a Red Robe named Embreth—spoke amidst the muttering.

"Perhaps we should flee," he said, "but what about the Art itself? There are many enchanted things in the Towers that will cause untold harm if they fall into the hands of our enemies. If we leave them behind and the commoners discover them… well, the gods know what will happen."

"That is so," Jorelia agreed. "We must take what we can carry with us, back here to Wayreth where we will be safe. The rest we will destroy."

The murmurs stopped, turning into gasps. No archmage spoke lightly of destroying magical artifacts, and the Towers contained some of the most potent—among them the same dragon orbs the united sorcerers had crafted ages ago.

"It will take time to evacuate," said Maranthas. "There is much work to be done. What if this attack comes before we are finished?"

Leciane bowed her head, her curls falling to hide her face. She had asked the same question, when she and Jorelia first discussed this.

The highmage sighed. There were worlds of sorrow in her voice. "Then," she said, "we must bring down the Towers ourselves."

Silence filled the hall. It roared in Leciane's ears. Looking up, she saw the mages were glaring at one another again. That was no surprise—they were looking to lay blame. The White Robes were at fault because Marwort's support of the Lightbringer had helped cement his power; the Black because Andras had been one of them; and the Red… because of her. In their eyes, she had failed—never mind that she had done all she could. If only she had done more, their reproachful looks said, this might not be happening now.

Jorelia's voice rang out, stern and austere, filling the vast chamber. "Listen to me," she said. "This is no time to turn on ourselves. None of us is guiltier than the others. We must work together, as we did during Takhisis's reign, when darkness sought to overwhelm the world. This time, it is light that threatens us.

"Come, I beg of you," she continued, spreading her arms. "If you will not stand as one for each other's sake, then do it for the Art. For that is what is at stake here. If the Kingpriest has his way, magic will disappear from the world. If that is what you want, very well—but if you desire the Art's survival, then join together now, and fight those who would upset the Balance of the world!"

For a long moment no one budged, the sorcerers still regarding one another with narrow eyes. Then, slowly, it happened. Embreth, the Red Robe, stepped away from his fellows to stand among the Black. A moment later Orlock did the same, walking over to the White. One by one, the mages began to shift, mingling together, some clasping arms, White beside Black, Black next to Red, Red with White. Leciane marveled at the sight of the three robes united, a sight no one had beheld for a millennium. The Order might just survive, after all.

Smiling, she walked forward to join them, her brothers and sisters in the Art.

Daubas Mishakas, the maps called the maze of canyons and mesas at Dravinaar's heart—the Tears of Mishakal. Some scholars believed it was because the goddess had wept over the parched land, and the waters had carved the rock. Others swore it had once been the site of her greatest temple, laid waste by ogres in ages all but forgotten. For the Dravinish, however, the place had a different name. Raqqa az Zarqa, they called it, in their native tongue. The Sun's Anvil.

The Sea of Shifting Sands, the dune-swept desert that comprised most of the empire's southern reaches, had been a hard enough passage, but it was nothing beside the Anvil. The heat within the canyons was intolerable, rising from the golden stone of their walls during the day, and at night the cold was like to freeze a man's blood. Little grew, save the occasional cactus or thorny bush, clinging high up on the cliffs, and the only animals seemed to be broad-hooded adders and hairy, jumping spiders the size of small dogs. Both were poisonous, and Cathan had lost two men and nearly a dozen horses as the journey wore on. Several knights had fallen sorely ill, wracked by fever from the sun pounding against their steel helms. Though it left them vulnerable, the men of the Divine Hammer rode bareheaded now and shook out their bedrolls when they made camp in the evening.

Cathan winced, mopping his brow with the hem of his tabard, and glared at the cloudless sky. Like most of the other men, his skin was red and peeling. He'd taken to the native custom of tying a cloth about his head to keep cool. He glanced over his shoulder at the train of knights, squires, and clerics who followed him—nigh five hundred men in all. Some were singing a war hymn, a brooding song exhorting Kiri-Jolith and Paladine to fuel their strength in battle.

Sighing—he had never much liked that hymn—Cathan turned back to the way ahead. Their Dravinish guides, lean men with curled moustaches dyed bright colors and horn bows on their saddles, called to one another in their guttural tongue, their laughing voices ringing off the canyon walls. They knew the path to Losarcum and where to find the stores of food and water their people had hidden among the rocks. They also knew how to avoid the true dangers of the Anvil, the manticores and serpent-headed hawks that still haunted the wilds.

They had seen one of the former on their first day, riding the warm updrafts above the desert—its sleek, leonine form betrayed by batlike wings, many-spiked tail, and a twisted, almost-human face. It hadn't seen them, intent on some other prey, and had flown away before the knights could cock their crossbows. Since then, nothing.

Cathan's thoughts drifted to the Lightbringer. They had not spoken since that night at the manse, when Beldinas had revealed his plan to assail the Towers. After that, Cathan had kept busy helping his men prepare for their journey. The one time he had tried to seek out the Kingpriest, Quarath had turned him away, claiming His Holiness was too busy for visitors. Finally, on the day Cathan's company left the Lordcity, Beldinas had appeared at the western gates for the Parlaido, the leavetaking ceremony. He had offered the ritual benediction, then Quarath had steered him away. Now he was far away, sequestered in the Temple with only the elf for company.

Cathan shook his head. He could see nothing but grief coming of this. The stones in the Garden of Martyrs would bear many more knights' names before this was over. More and more, he yearned to question the Lightbringer… A sharp whistle yanked him out of his reverie. With a rattle he reined in, reaching for Ebonbane. Ahead, the Dravinish riders had come to a halt and were climbing down from their saddles. Beyond them, the canyon came to a sudden end in a cliff wall. Hewn into the soft stone was a great gatehouse, with stout pillars bearing up the tons of rock. Behind the columns was a huge stone plug, carved with intricate latticework and brightly painted in reds and golds. On either side stood a brass statue of a bullock sporting an eagle's wings.

"We have come," the lead rider proclaimed to the knights. His face was caked with road-dust. "Soon you shall behold Qim Sudri, the City of Stone."

Some of the younger knights glanced at one another in confusion, but Cathan nodded. He had been to Losarcum before, and knew its native name. He recognized the gates and easily spotted the archers perched on ledges above, all in leather kirtles studded with copper and tall conical helms that winked in the sunlight. The knights' guides shouted up to them, and after a brief conversation—and more than a little laughter—one of the bowmen vanished into a cleft in the canyon wall. Soon after, the ground gave a great rumble, and the plug pushed out from the cliffs face, then slid aside. A burst of cool air blew out of the depths within, carrying the scents of wine and smoke.

Cathan glanced back at his men, who shifted nervously in their saddles. "We're safe here," he told them, climbing down from his horse.

For now…

Lights soon kindled in the blackness beyond—great, copper lamps on long poles, carried by half-clad servant boys with shaved heads. An old man, also bald and bare-chested, emerged and strode down the steps from the barbican. His eyes were rimmed with kohl, and his beard, which reached down to the scarlet sash that girded his waist, was dyed deep violet and bound with rings of gold. In his hands he bore a stone pot, carved with more latticework.

"Daqan si-tuli bhak," he declared, tugging his beard. "All roads have their ending. I am Ibsim, Master of Doors. Taste of our salt."

He extended the urn. It was filled with powder, smelling vaguely of the sea. Cathan nodded to the old man, then took a pinch and placed it on his tongue. The salt burned after the long, dry ride, but he swallowed politely.

"I thank you, Ibsim," he said, tugging his beard in return. "May we enter your city, and drink the sweetness of its springs?"

"Of course," said the Master of Doors, standing aside. "All who serve the Lightbringer are welcome within our gates."

It hadn't always been so, Cathan knew. Istar had not conquered Dravinaar easily, and the desert princes had fought the empire's Scatas for decades before finally surrendering to the warlord Fabran, not long before the rise of the Kingpriests. Even after, Losarcum had been a site of strife, serving as home to intense factions during the church's two great schisms—most recently in the War of Three Thrones, nearly a century ago. The last rebel Kingpriest to dwell here, Ardosean the Uniter, had seized the throne from his rivals, founding a dynasty that had not ended until Kurnos's downfall and Beldinas's rise to the throne.

If the people of Losarcum bore any resentment for that, however, Cathan saw no evidence. Ibsim bowed deeply, waving the knights on. Cathan raised a hand in thanks, then swung back into his saddle and clucked his tongue, urging his horse forward. His men followed into the City of Stone.

Losarcum was ancient, older even than the Lordcity and the other towns of Istar's heartland. Its origins were lost to history, but it was said that a legion of dwarves had worked alongside men to build it. Whether this was so, even the sages couldn't say, but the signs were there—for, of all the empire's glorious cities, this was the only one not built upon the ground but carved out of it.

The mesa that sheltered it was huge, perhaps the largest in all the Anvil. Beneath it lay a vast, underground reservoir. The water from this flowed up to form a wide oasis where palms and fruit trees grew. Folk gathered about this central oasis in brightly colored tunics to trade and jest, argue and sing. All around this pleasant garden, the ancestors of the Losarcines had tunneled streets from the rock, and hollowed out the remaining stone to shape buildings. Nearly all of the City of Stone, from the simplest hovels to the grand, many-terraced Patriarch's Palace, from the great amphitheater where the citizens flocked to watch mummer's shows, to the nine-walled, star-shaped temple of Paladine, had been built not by raising stones but by sculpting them from the land.

Nearly all.

One loomed above the rest, on a promontory overlooking the city itself. This spire was not golden in hue, but gleaming black, a glassy spike accented with crimson and white on its parapets. It stood now, quiet and still, surrounded by its enchanted grove of swaying cypresses, like an obsidian dagger.

Cathan paused as he emerged into the plaza within Losarcum's gates. There were wonders aplenty in the Stone City—the Market of Wings, where thousands of ruby and sapphire songbirds trilled in silver cages; the Honeycomb, a twisted complex of natural caves that housed the city's powerful cloth-dyers' guild; Ardosean's Walk, where a fifty-foot statue of the Uniter stood, gazing north toward the Lordcity. All he could do now, though—all any of the knights could do—was stare at the offensive Tower of High Sorcery.

"They're in there," said Tithian, coming up alongside him. "They're probably watching us now, with their magic. I wonder if they're afraid?"

Cathan licked his lips, saying nothing. I hope so, he thought. I certainly am.

"Bah!" declared Marto, jumping down from his steed with a clangor of mail. "They're traitors and infidels. Who cares what they think?"

A rumble of agreement rose from the rest of the knights. They were hungry for battle, for a chance to get back what they had lost at Lattakay: their honor. The enemy was trapped, the knights believed, with nowhere to run.

Ibsim approached them again, his hands pressed together. He had left the welcoming salt at the gate and donned an emerald cloak decorated with feathers from some great, flightless bird. He bowed again, his painted eyes closing.

"You are welcome to Qim Sudri," he declared. "The Patriarch awaits you at his palace, and has made room for all your men. Follow me to his magnificence."

Across Losarcum, horns sounded, announcing their arrival. They echoed off the mesa's stone walls, and down the narrow streets as Ibsim led the way into the city. Cathan followed, with his men. As he rode, though, he found he couldn't take his eyes from the Tower—nor could he shake the dread that chilled him.

Men will die there before this is done, he thought as he passed beneath its long, reaching shadow. Will I be one of them?

The Tower gave no answers but only glowered down at them, dark and brooding and silent.