Chapter 28

Quarath shouldered the knights of the Divine Hammer aside as he ran up the steps of the imperial manse. He strode past Brother Floran, the Kingpriest's chamberlain, without a word. It was late at night, the bells atop the basilica having rung Midwatch nearly two hours ago. Another time, he wouldn't have thought of disturbing the Lightbringer. Tonight, however, he cared nothing for propriety. The clockwork falcon had returned from Daltigoth.

Damn Serl Kar-thon, he thought, taking the stairs to the Kingpriest's private apartments two at a time. Damn his impatience and his pride!

He found Beldinas in his study, alone, sitting at his desk with his head bowed. He didn't move when the door thundered open, so Quarath pushed on into the room, the missive from Grand Celebrant Kyad of Ergoth clutched in his hand.

"Holiness!" he exclaimed. "Pilofiro, you must hear—"

He stopped, then, as Beldinas raised his face. It was ashen and streaked with tears, the blue eyes stark with terror. He looked up at the elf without seeming to see him. His hands lay in his lap like dead birds.

He knows, Quarath thought, drawing himself up. "How… " he began.

"A dream," the Kingpriest replied. "I saw it, Emissary—oh, gods, I saw it all. The Tower—the bodies…"

One of the world's proudest cities, Quarath thought silently. Daltigoth had been built when even the elves were still young in the world. Now it lay in shambles, its glory all but snuffed out.

"This is a terrible thing, Holiness," he said. "I knew the mages were capable of vile acts, but I never thought they would resort to his kind of barbarism."

Beldinas nodded. "They are evil," he said. "White, Black, or Red, they are evil. Never doubt that again, Quarath."

"I will not, Holiness," the elf replied. He looked at the missive from Daltigoth, then at the Kingpriest. "We must send word of this to Losarcum and Palanthas. They must know the danger."

The Kingpriest stared into the shadows, his lower lip quivering. Then he shook his head. "No, Emissary."

"No?" Quarath blinked. "But Holiness—this changes everything! We cannot—"

"We can," Beldinas replied. He rose from his seat, his face turning fierce. "Don't you see, Quarath? The wizards are cornered, beaten. They know we can defeat the groves. So, in their cowardice, they committed this atrocity to terrorize us into relenting. If we back down now, we let them win. Two sunsets from now, Lord Cathan must attack the Tower at Losarcum as planned."

Quarath stared at the Kingpriest, hardly recognizing him. The Lightbringer he had first met in the hills outside the Lordcity had never preached reckless action.

"Are you sure about this, sire?" he ventured.

Beldinas nodded, his eyes gleaming. They fell on the parchment in Quarath's hand, and his brow furrowed. "Who else has seen that?"

"No one," Quarath replied. "Not in the Lordcity, anyway. Not even the First Son and First Daughter know what has happened."

"Good," the Kingpriest said. "No one must learn of Daltigoth's fate until this is over. Not the other hierarchs, and not King Lorac in Silvanost. Destroy that message, Emissary."

Quarath didn't have to obey. Alone among the imperial court, he was not beholden to the Kingpriest's orders. He reported only to his king. It was his duty to tell Lorac all he knew. Still, no matter his official loyalties, he had grown to revere Beldinas and wanted nothing more than to serve him. Besides, the elf thought, a shared secret might prove useful in strengthening his influence upon the throne.

But what if the same thing happens at Losarcam, as it did in Daltigoth? he wondered. What if Lord Cathan meets the same fate as Serl?

He thought about it silence, staring at the missive. Lord Cathan was out of Beldinas's favor anyway. As for the people of Losarcum… he shrugged, letting the thought drift away. They would have to fend for themselves. It wasn't as if they were elves, anyway.

Bowing to the Kingpriest, he walked to a golden candelabrum and touched the missive to the flames. The dry parchment curled and burned, bits of ash breaking away. Quarath watched until nothing remained.

Leciane felt numb.

More than a day had passed. Most of the mages had continued with the business of evacuating the Tower, moving as if asleep. A few had given up hope entirely. Others had fallen into fits of uncontrollable sobbing or rage. Those were all gone away now, shepherded off to Wayreth where they would not be in the way. Their absence left a silence deeper than a dwarven tomb.

Daltigoth has fallen. The Tower is gone.

Leciane had watched it all happen. When Duke Serl's men marched, the Master of the Tower there—a Black Robe sorceress named Iriale—had contacted Khadar, along with their compatriots in Istar and Palanthas and Lady Jorelia at Wayreth. Khadar had, in turn, summoned his inner circle to watch what unfolded. In his scrying vessel, a huge geode filled with blue crystals, they had witnessed a thousand men with swords as they advanced to the edge of the grove—then through it when the black tree sprouted. That had surprised them all—even Iriale, whose minions had gone to help with the Tower's defense. No Guardians nor mages could withstand the force of Serl's attack, however, and in the end Daltigoth's mages had retreated to their Heartchamber, to speak the desperate spell.

The doors of the Heartchambers were made of ironwood, bound with steel and emblazoned with runes of protection. Duke Serl and his men had begun to smash it with axes when Male's magic took hold. Then the image had vanished in a flare of light, and the geode had turned dark… and silent.

No one wanted to admit what they had just seen. For hours, the sorcerers—both in Losarcum and at the other three Towers—had shouted and argued with one another. They had tried to make contact… any contact… with Daltigoth, but to no avail. Attempts to divine what had happened there ended in failure. There was too much wild magic loose in Ergoth, interfering with any communication.

Finally, though, a mage had managed to scry the scene—a White Robe in Palanthas, as it happened—and transmitted the awful images to the order at large. The destruction was unimaginable. The hole where the Tower had been, the smoldering rubble of a large part of Ergoth's capital. The corpses, blown onto rooftops—some to pieces—by the force of the blast.

Leciane had nearly broken, crying like she hadn't since childhood. She'd cried harder still when she heard the numbers of the slain. Two hundred and four wizards from among all three colors—dead, burnt to ash with the warriors storming the Tower. In the city, the reports varied, but at least eight thousand had perished, men, women, children. Other deaths would follow from among those too badly wounded to survive. No one would ever know exactly how many had perished when the Tower of Daltigoth erupted.

Now just four Towers remained, where five had stood for nearly a hundred generations. The magic was weaker. Leciane could feel it, as surely as anything she'd ever known.

"Never again," she'd declared to Khadar last night, as they talked over the disaster. "That must not happen a second time, or people will hate us forever."

Khadar had shaken his head. "Iriale would not have done such a thing were there any other choice. Black Robe or not, she was never one to revel in destruction. What she did had to happen, or many more than ten thousand might have perished."

He was right. The secrets hidden in the Towers were not for common folk. In unschooled hands, the damage they could do was incalculable. But the sight of Daltigoth—her home, where she had been born into the world and taken the Test—all smashed and burning… she couldn't drive the horror of it from her mind.

"Will it happen again?" she'd asked. "Surely after this, they'll think twice about another attack."

"I hope so," the Master had replied, skeptically.

Still, there was no sign the Divine Hammer meant to withdraw. Did they even know what had happened? The mages had had no contact with the knights since their arrival in Losarcum, and Leciane had her doubts. No one had spied any of the clockwork falcons the knights used as messengers since the day before the disaster. If they didn't know, then of course the attack would proceed. If they did—

She stopped halfway up the Tower's central staircase, carrying a bundle of wands, rods of gold and silver and dragonbone older than Istar itself. So abruptly did she halt that something bumped into her from behind. It was a curious construct: a full-sized fruitwood trunk that walked on hundreds of tiny legs. Its owner, an odd Red Robe with darting eyes, grumbled something unintelligible at her as the trunk scuttled away. Leciane stepped aside—then, a moment later, pushed frantically down the Tower's halls in search of Khadar.

She found him in his chambers, staring into the depths of his geode. Blue light bathed the room, making him look sickly and pale. He jumped up in surprise when he saw her.

"We have to tell the knights," she said breathlessly. "Don't you see? Serl attacked the Tower in Daltigoth, but he didn't know the danger. Whoever leads the knights here doesn't know either. But if we tell them… we show them…"

Khadar sighed. "It makes no difference. The zealots will only hate us worse when they learn it was magic that killed so many in Daltigoth. But"—he held up a finger, silencing the protest that leaped to her lips—"on the blade's other edge, if we play this right, they might not."

He looked at her oddly, brow furrowed and eyes narrow. She blinked, annoyed.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" she demanded.

"Come," he replied, beckoning her near. "Something I want you to see."

He drew her closer to the geode. She set the wands on a sideboard, then bent down beside Khadar, feeling his gaze on her as she peered into the giant stone's depths.

It took a moment for her to make anything out. The crystals within the geode distorted the scrying images. Finally she saw knights, scores of them, drilling at arms and drinking wine in the palm-fringed courtyards of Losarcum's palace.

"Yes, the Divine Hammer," she said, frowning.

Khadar nodded, gesturing. "Look closer."

She saw Sir Marto, boasting and drinking and looming among the rest. The giant knight from Falthana, with his forked beard; the one who had murdered Vincil. Leciane gasped, her dusky skin turning pale. She had never wanted revenge as badly as she wanted this Marto dead, but…

Frowning, she looked past Marto, scanning the other knights, already knowing why Khadar wanted her to look, whom she would see… . There he was, trading blows with practice blades against the youth who once had been his squire.

She stared at the sweating face of Cathan MarSevrin.

What are you doing here? she asked him silently, watching as he disarmed Sir Tithian, then sent him sprawling in the dust. He was Grand Marshal, for the love of Lunitari—by all rights he should be in the Lordcity with the Kingpriest, confronting the Tower there. She'd never imagined he would come to Losarcum—but there he was, lecturing the younger man on the finer points of swordplay.

"He is the one you know, then," said Khadar. "Good. I wasn't sure—they all look alike to me."

"What?" She blinked, peering at the Master.

Khadar spread his hands. "You're right, Leciane. We do need to warn the knights—or, rather, you do. Go to this man tonight. It may well be the only hope we have left to save the Tower… and ourselves."