Chapter 32

The knights of the Divine Hammer approached the Tower of Istar as the sun touched the domes and rooftops, painting them with morning light. There were five hundred in all, a long line of gleaming mail and snowy tabards, mounted on proud Ismindi stallions. The rattle of armor was the only sound they made. Lord Olin rode at the fore, crimson-clad and tall in the saddle, his hand on his sword. His eyes glinted with determination. Here, in the Lordcity, the war with the mages would end today.

Quarath was already in the square surrounding the olive grove when the Hammer arrived. The Kingpriest and the rest of the imperial court also awaited the knights. Quarath nodded to Olin, who had been true Grand Marshal since the catastrophe in Losarcum. He led a knighthood in tatters, ruined by one slaughter after another: the men assembled with him were all that remained. The Hammer might never regain its numbers and pride, but Olin had sworn to try.

The Kingpriest looked grim as he greeted the knights, accepting their fealty from Olin, who swung down from his saddle and knelt before him. Beldinas had aged in the past month, in Quarath's eyes. His face was haggard, his hair brittle and thin, frosted with gray. Word of what had happened at Losarcum had struck him hard, and more than ever, the fear ran deep in his eyes. The unthinkable had happened: an entire city, destroyed. Tens of thousands dead—among them Lord Cathan and all his men, whom Beldinas had sent into battle. Losarcum was the Kingpriest's first true defeat, and he was not bearing it well.

It had been a defeat for the wizards as well, however. That was why they were here, now, just beyond one of the three Towers left in the world. After much negotiation, the Church and the order had reached an accord. The Divine Hammer had pledged not to attack this Tower and provoke another disaster. In return, the wizards were to surrender it to the Kingpriest and withdraw to Wayreth unhindered…

The same was due to happen in Palanthas in a few weeks' time—as long as nothing went wrong today. The Church and the Order had tried to make peace before, after all, and things had ended in betrayal and death. Now that both sides had a bitter taste of loss, peace should prevail. Quarath offered a silent prayer that it would be so.

Now the olive grove split down the middle, the trees creaking as they pulled back to reveal a path through their midst. All around Quarath men held their breaths, watching as the mages opened the way to the bloody-fingered hand of the Tower. If treachery was afoot, it would happen shortly. Quarath glanced at the Kingpriest. The aura of light that surrounded him barely hid the tension in his clenched jaw.

With a final groan the last of the olives shifted aside, revealing an elderly woman in the white robes of Solinari. This was Jorelia, the highmage, with whom Beldinas had brokered the trace. She was alone, and after a moment's pause she strode forward, leaning on a staff of plain ashwood. She did not bow as she drew near, though she did incline her head, pulling off her hood as she did so.

"Majesty," she said, "the Tower is empty. As we agreed, my people have left and will not return."

"That is well, Most High," replied Beldinas, signing the triangle. "I regret we did not take this step sooner, before so many lives were lost."

Jorelia made a sour face. Saying nothing, she delved into a pouch by her side. The knights stirred, but the highmage produced a disc-shaped medallion from the bag, crafted of fine-wrought silver and set with a crimson gemstone, a black flaw at its heart. She held it out with both hands, dangling it by its chain.

"This is the All-Seeing Eye," she declared. "It will guide the one who wears it safely through the grove, and protect him from its magic."

Beldinas nodded, removing the Crown of Power and lowering his head. Quarath and Lord Olin tensed, but Jorelia made no untoward move, merely slipping the charm over the Lightbringer's head. It clacked against his jeweled breastplate as he straightened and set the Miceram on his brow once more.

"I thank you, milady," he said. "Now the troubles between us have ended. From this day forth, let the children of Paladine and the worshipers of the moons raise no hand against each other."

As long as you stay in Wayreth.

All sensed the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air, and none more than Jorelia. Curling her fingers to form the circle of the silver moon, the highmage held out her hand. She wore no rings, no bracelets, no magical charms to pose a threat.

"Lisso," she said in the Church tongue. Peace.

Beldinas hesitated, as if afraid to touch her. Maybe he was. After a moment, however, he signed the triangle, then clasped her hand in his, a smile brightening his worn, troubled face.

"Lisso."

Later, Beldinas and Quarath stood together within the Heartchamber of the Tower, staring at the model of the Lord-city with the bloody hand looming in its midst.

The magic here must have been strong indeed, if it was powerful enough to wreak the destruction of Daltigoth and Losarcum. It was gone now, though, along with every other charm and cantrip. Only the grove's enchantment remained. The rest of the Tower of Istar was an empty shell, most of the rooms stripped bare, and what artifacts remained—like the miniature map before them—drained of their power. It was a dead place, and would remain so.

They didn't know what to do with the abandoned Tower. Every hierarch in the Church had a different notion, from tearing it down to consecrating it in Paladine's name and turning it into a hall of worship. Beldinas had listened to all of these but had made no decision yet. Quarath didn't much care what the Kingpriest chose to do, so long as it didn't involve moving the elven embassy here.

"I wonder how it must have felt to wield such power," Beldinas mused, staring at the model. "Knowing it would cause the deaths of so many."

"You should know, Holiness."

At the sound of the frigid voice, both Beldinas and Quarath looked up in astonishment. The room seemed to darken, and the air grew cold. Plumes of frost billowed from their mouths as they stared into the shadows at a Black Robe.

He stood there, a darker shade than the gloom around him. His arms were folded across his chest, his head angled to one side. All they could see of his face was the tip of his gray beard; the shadows of his hood hid the rest. Yet both could feel the man's evil, and both feared his power.

Beldinas drew himself up imperiously. "Who are you? The agreement was that everyone would leave. You are forbidden here."

"I am forbidden nowhere," said the archmage. "I am Fistandantilus."

Quarath's eyes widened. He knew the tales of the Dark One. Feeling the terrible, chilling intensity that emanated from him, he stepped back.

Beldinas held his ground, signing the triangle. The aura around him flared as he called upon the god's protection, but Fistandantilus only chuckled.

"Do not fear, Holiness," the wizard said. "Although I am not party to any agreement, I mean you no harm."

"No?" the Kingpriest replied. "Then why are you here?"

"To see you, obviously," the Dark One answered. "I wish to ask a favor, after the one I did for you."

"Favor? What favor?" Beldinas glared at the Dark One.

Quarath caught his breath as Fistandantilus reached into his sleeve and plucked something out. The archmage clenched it in his fist a moment, then tossed it into the air. It rose, then stopped, hanging aloft. Rotating slowly, it glided across the Heartchamber. The Kingpriest's mouth opened when he saw what it was. Quarath recognized the olive stone, like the one still held by Lord Olin, mate to the other seeds that had arrived mysteriously that night scant weeks ago.

"Do you see now?" Fistandantilus asked. "I am the one who helped you thwart the groves. Now I ask for your help in return."

Quarath shook his head, amazed. The Dark One, asking the Lightbringer for aid? Beldinas seemed in shock.

"It was scarcely a favor, giving me those seeds," he said bitterly, regarding the mage. "Two cities have fallen because of them."

"No, Holiness." The hooded head shook back and forth. The blood of those who died is on your hands, Beldinas Pilofiro—particularly the people of Losarcum. You could have stopped that from happening, if you'd wanted to. That is something you can hide from your subjects, but not from me."

Quarath exploded. "You dare insult the Kingpr—"

He never finished. Without glancing at him, the Dark One gestured and spoke a word, and Quarath's voice died in mid-sentence. Paralysis overtook his body, freezing every muscle until he stood as still as a statue.

"Oh yes," Fistandantilus said mildly. "I dare."

Quarath watched, helpless, as Beldinas glared at the Dark One.

"What do you want from me, then?" the Kingpriest asked.

The archmage's beard twitched. Inside his hood, he was smiling. "Nothing terrible, Holiness, I assure you. I only seek a place at the imperial court."

The Kingpriest shook his head, disbelieving. "My court?" he asked. "Why?"

"I have my reasons," the Dark One answered. "Do not fear… I don't mean to interfere with your reign. In fact, I might even be able to help you now and then. Who better to give counsel in your war against evil, after all, than one who is truly evil himself?"

Beldinas's lips tightened. "And if I refuse?"

"Right now I am your friend. I could be your enemy," said Fistandantilus. "I think you know I could be a worse foe than the Usurper or the order ever were."

Beldinas raised his chin, defiant. Quarath, who couldn't move or speak, admired the Lightbringer in that moment, more than ever.

"You already are my enemy, Dark One. The robes you wear make it so."

"Perhaps," the archmage allowed, amusement tempering the coldness in his voice. "But what sort of enemy would you have me be—one who is far away and can do you great harm, or close at hand where you can watch me?"

The Kingpriest stood silent, regarding the Black Robe.

"It will be hard to explain to my subjects," he finally murmured.

Quarath would have gasped if he could. The words were those of surrender, something he had never thought he would hear from the Lightbringer.

"Not as hard as to explain why you allowed Losarcum to be destroyed, knowing what had happened at Daltigoth—or that the seeds came from me in the first place."

Beldinas shook his head at the threat. "You are not my friend. Yet you are the enemy of my enemies."

The Dark One nodded.

"Let it be so, then," said the Lightbringer finally, "You must abide by certain rules. You will not give counsel unless I ask it of you. You will dwell within the grounds of the Temple, where you can be watched. You will never use magic in my presence."

Fistandantilus was silent a moment. His shoulders rose and fell, just slightly. "Fair conditions, all. Very well—I accept. Now, Holiness… do you?"

In the years he had known the Kingpriest, Quarath had never seen the man's face so conflicted. The Miceram's glow seemed to dim as he nodded.

"Very well."

The archmage's beard twitched—another smile. "I thank you, Holiness. You have chosen well. I shall come to the Temple in a week's time, when my affairs elsewhere are concluded. Sifat."

He was gone, vanishing in a wink, the cold receding in his absence. A fierce prickling, as of a foot gone to sleep, suffused Quarath's body as the paralyzing spell lifted from him. He slumped where he stood, but righted himself quickly, his eyes on Beldinas. The Kingpriest pointedly returned his gaze. Neither man said anything of what had just happened. After a while, they left the Heartchamber, climbing the winding stair down the Tower's core.

"Holiness!" called a voice when they reached the bottom. A man in courier's garb tried to push through the knights who stood guard near the entry hall. "Holiness, I have a message for you!"

The man had a frantic look to him, face livid and eyes pleading. Extending a many-ringed hand, the Kingpriest motioned for the guards to stand aside.

"Come forward," he said.

The messenger strode forward and knelt, proffering a silver scroll-tube. Beldinas opened it himself, sliding out the parchment within. He scanned its length—then stopped, the tube falling from his fingers with a ringing clatter.

"Sire!" Quarath exclaimed, moving to Beldinas's side. "What is it?"

The Kingpriest ignored him, staring at the sheet in his hands. Slowly, he spoke, his voice toneless. "It is from the south," he said. "He is coming, it says. He will be here the day after the morrow."

Quarath frowned, not understanding. "Who? Who is coming?"

Beldinas turned, his gaze focusing on something the elf couldn't see, something far away. He did not answer.

Cathan stood at the prow of the skiff, staring at the Lord-city stretched out along the shore. The God's Eyes burned above the harbor. Beyond lay the domes and gardens, the arena and the Hammerhall—and, drawing his attention with equal force, the Tower and the Temple. He had heard of the peace made between the Church and the Conclave, several days ago on the road. Now, looking upon the bloody-fingered hand, he knew it was true. Sorcery was gone from Istar.

He and Tithian had had a long, hard journey back from the ruins of Losarcum. Afoot, the Sun's Anvil had nearly killed them both. Finally, half-dead from thirst and hunger, skin burnished bronze by the sun's glare, they had walked out of the deserts of Dravinaar and found the road to the empire's heartland. They had regained some of their strength and found horses. Finally, last night, they had come to Odacera on Lake Istar's southern shore. They stayed there until dawn, then set forth on the first of the day's ferries to the Lordcity.

"Home," Tithian stated wearily, coming up beside Cathan. The little boat rounded the breakwater, gliding between larger trading ships on its way to the wharf. "I never thought I'd say it again. We've come home."

Cathan only stared at the Temple, glistening at the city's heart.

A party of knights was waiting as they pulled up to the dock. Cathan returned their salutes as he stepped off the skiff, letting them take charge of the horses. He could feel their furtive looks, but when he turned his empty stare upon them, they looked away. Sighing, he turned to Tithian, drawing the younger knight aside.

"We part here," he said. "You are a good man, Tithian. I have always thought that of you. Remember that, whatever may come."

Tithian blinked. "My lord? I thought—"

"Go," Cathan barked. "That's an order."

For a moment the younger knight wavered, then, though thoroughly confused, he bowed to Cathan. "Paladine guide thy steps, sir," he said.

"And thine," Cathan said. Turning, he left Tithian, heading alone into the Lordcity.

The crowds outside the Temple were larger than ever, chanting the Lightbringer's name. Cathan felt very weary as he looked at them. He walked around to the side gate. The knights standing watch stared at him in amazement, and so did the clerics he passed in the Temple's gardens. He ignored those who signed the triangle and made warding signs. His eyes were only on the basilica, its crystal dome shining above the rest of the church. In he went, drawing still more astonished looks as he made his way through the sunbathed hallways.

When he entered the anteroom, he didn't stop to lave his hands or genuflect to the god. He didn't glance at the tables laden with food and wine. Instead, he marched straight toward the velvet curtain, beyond which murmured the voices of the imperial court. Without hesitation he shoved it aside, striding through.

The silence that descended upon the Hall of Audience was complete. The courtiers turned to stare at him with open mouths. He barely acknowledged them, striding toward the head of the room, where the Kingpriest's innermost circle were gathered. There was Quarath on one side, Lord Olin on the other—Cathan's mouth twisted as he noticed the man wore the Grand Marshal's scarlet tabard. There were the new First Son and Daughter and the other hierarchs.

And there, in their midst…

Beldinas rose from his golden throne, drenched in light, the Miceram a ring of flame around his head. He stretched out his arms.

"Lord Cathan," the Kingpriest proclaimed. "It makes me glad to see you alive."

Cathan drew himself up, his empty eyes unwavering. "Not nearly as glad as I am, Holiness," he said, his voice taut. "I see another has already taken my place, though."

The Kingpriest looked at Lord Olin. The honorable knight flushed, looking at the floor.

"I thought you dead, my friend," Beldinas said softly. "We all did. Now that we know otherwise, we rejoice. Don't worry, we shall find a way to amend this error without offending. Come forward, Cathan."

Cathan obeyed, his boots clacking upon the blue mosaic at the foot of the imperial dais. He noted the fear still in Beldinas's eyes as he halted before the throne. Both of them had changed, these past months. All around the hall, courtiers whispered to one another.

The Kingpriest and his first knight regarded one another. Finally, Quarath broke the stillness, his outraged whisper seeming shrill.

"Kneel before the Lightbringer," he warned.

"No," Cathan said, and drew Ebonbane.

The ring of the blade filled the hall, echoing from the crystal dome. Men and women cried out at the sight of naked steel within the basilica. Lord Olin stepped forward, reaching for his own sword, but Cathan froze him with a look. The new Grand Marshal fell back, looking uncertainly toward the throne.

"Be easy, Olin," Beldinas declared. "Lord Cathan does not intend any harm. But—" he turned back toward Cathan "—I would like to know what you do intend, my friend."

"I am not your friend, Pilofiro," Cathan said. "Once I laid this sword at your feet because of my love for you. With it, I have killed in your name. But no more. I have seen firsthand the result of your leadership. Was Losarcum what you intended?"

The Kingpriest looked stunned. "It was the god's will," he said firmly. "The sorcerers were evil. They had to be destroyed."

"At what cost?" Cathan snapped. "A city, destroyed! Thousands of innocents, dead! And for what—a few Black Robes?"

"This crusade against darkness has come with a price," Beldinas admitted, "but if good folk must die to bring about the end of evil, then it is the god's—"

Cathan raised his sword and brought it down. It struck the stair with a ferocity that made the courtiers jump. Chips of marble flew.

"No!" Cathan exclaimed. "Don't tell me it was Paladine's will. This was your doing, Beldinas—and it is something Brother Beldyn never would have done, all those years ago. He would have abhorred such rampant death and destruction, and so do I. I will not be a part of this unholy crusade any longer."

With that, he reached up, set Ebonbane's tip against the collar of his tabard, and cut the garment off. The burning-hammer sigil split in two. Eyes blazing, he hurled the cloth down on the floor.

Again, tense silence. Cathan glared at the Kingpriest. Beldinas merely looked sad. Everyone else stared, unsure what to do. Finally, Beldinas sighed and sat back in his throne.

"I once gave you back your life," he said quietly.

"I gave it to you first," Cathan replied, sheathing his blade. "Now I'm taking it back. Farewell, Holiness."

With that, he turned and stalked away from the throne. Men and women parted before him as he went, whispering.

"Wait," Beldinas called. "My friend—"

Without breaking stride, Cathan walked out of the Hall of Audience and the Temple. He left Istar that same day, and where he went no one could say.