Chapter 1

The Lordcity of Istar was drowning in roses.

They were everywhere, white and red and golden: draped in blankets from gleaming, white walls; hung in garlands from her alabaster towers and golden domes; gathered in bunches on lintels of doors; scattered about plazas and courtyards. Their petals carpeted the streets, drifted up against marble walls, floated on the surfaces of fountains and pools. Their attar ran as thick as smoke in the air, smothering the smells of spices and incense that ordinarily rose from the city.

Another Yule had come. The first festival of winter—a season of rain, rather than the snows that visited the realms to the west—was the grandest in the holy empire. Three days from now, the routines of the Lordcity would cease, and the citizens would give themselves over to drink and feasting in homes and wine-shops. The God’s Eyes, the twin silver lighthouses that guarded the mouth of the city’s port, would burn crimson instead of white, and the School of the Games in the eastern quarter would resound with the clash of steel and cheers of the crowds. In the west, at the crimson-turreted tower that had once belonged to the Orders of High Sorcery, folk would burn straw effigies dressed in robes of black and red and white, in defiance of the hated—and long departed—wizards. To the north, the Hammerhall, the sprawling fortress that was home to the knights of the Divine Hammer, would throw open its mighty doors and the empire’s defenders would parade into town in their mirror-bright armor.

And in the midst of the city, at the heart of the world where all Istar’s roads met, the Great Temple of the Kingpriest would resound with joyful music. Its crystal dome would shine as though a second sun had kindled within. Thousands of worshipers, from all over the city, the empire, and the world beyond, would pack the Barigon, the huge, statue-ringed square that stood before the Temple, coming together to receive blessing from the Kingpriest himself. They had done so for thirty-seven years now, since Beldinas the Lightbringer came to the throne. Gods willing, they would continue to do so for years to come.

Today, however, life in the Lordcity went on as it always did. Mighty trading galleys and tiny fishing boats slid across the harbor and glistening lake beyond, a riot of bright sails billowing on then masts. Folk clad in robes of satin and velvet bustled through the sheets, or stood in clusters is in the plazas and gardens, talking and laughing and arguing. The markets swarmed with color and noise as merchants sold everything from Tarsian rugs to unguents from Karthay, pearls and ivory from Seldjuk, jugs of fine Taoli wine, even shards of old wood said to date from the lance of Huma Dragonbane himself. The Scatas, the blue-cloaked soldiers who were the backbone of Istar’s armies, marched on patrol, led by white-coated knights on horseback. Priests and monks made processionals among the city’s many shrines, chanting hymns of the Kingpriest’s mercy and glory. Pilgrims from all over Krynn prostrated themselves before the Temple’s steps, chanting over and over:

Beldinas Cilenfo… Beldinas Pilofiro… Beldinas Babo Sod…

Beldinas the Healer. Beldinas the Lightbringer. Beldinas, the true Kingpriest.

On the highest balcony of his towering manse, overlooking the mist shrouded gardens of the Temple, the Kingpriest stood, listening to the chorus murmuring his name. Thirty-eight years ago, he had come to Istar for the first time. Mere months before, he had been known to only a close circle as Brother Beldyn, a monk of scarcely seventeen summers, yet one who could work miracles of healing with his touch. Then lady Ilista, high priestess of Paladine, had visited his abbey, led by divine visions to find him. His coming to Istar had brought a schism within the empire, and caused Ilista’s own death; near open war had ended with the downfall of Kingpriest Kurnos, now called the Deceiver, who had used the darkest of magics in a mad attempt to hold on to his throne. The people of Istar had rejoiced when, wearing the long-lost Crown of Power, Beldinas had taken the throne. They had begun to chant his name that glorious day.

Thirty eight years, and the people still hadn’t stopped. For more than two thirds of his life, it had been the first thing he heard when he woke in the morning, and the last before he fell asleep. Even when he left the Lordcity, and went on processionals throughout the empire’s provinces—to the deserts of the south or the jungles of the north, the ports of the east or the highlands of the west—the admirers and chanting followed him. Hearing it now, he leaned forward, setting his hands on the balcony’s platinum balustrade, and let out a weary sigh.

“Holiness?” asked a voice behind him—soft, solicitous, polite. “Is something wrong?”

Beldinas turned, though he didn’t need to. That voice had been a constant in his life all these thirty-eight years. Other disciples had come and gone, friend and foe, counselor and courtier, but Quarath had always been there close by his side. Though his official title was Emissary of the Silvanesti elves, he had become much more. He was the Kingpriest’s most trusted advisor, and nearly as vital to the empire as Beldinas himself. Nothing happened without the elf knowing it: if Beldinas was Istar’s beating heart, Quarath was its sleepless brain.

The elf’s face—still youthful, unchanged even after so many years—was set in a frown of concern. A delicate hand rose to push back an errant strand of honey-colored hair. Quarath’s silvery robes, embroidered with gold and emeralds, shimmered with the movement.

“You seem tired, Aulforo,” he said. “Did you sleep poorly?” Beldinas hesitated. “No, Emissary. I am rested. No ill dreams troubled me.”

Quarath nodded. As far as he or anyone else knew, the Kingpriest did not dream at all, good or ill. It drove the imperial soothsayers mad. “What is the matter, then?” the elf asked. “Do not tell me it is nothing.”

“I wouldn’t think to,” the Kingpriest said with a smile so slight it was barely noticeable. “You know my mind as well as I do. Perhaps better—so you tell me, Emissary. Look, and tell me what troubles me.”

The elf made a show of studying Beldinas, his brow furrowed with concentration. A silver lizard—bred, by means since forgotten, to resemble a winged dragon—flew up from the gardens below, inspected the both of them, then swooped away when it determined neither was about to give it food. When it was gone, Quarath raised his eyebrows, pretending to understand only now.

“It is the war,” Quarath said sympathetically. “You worry over the struggle against darkness.”

Beldinas shrugged. “What else? I have been fighting to drive evil from the world most of my years, and I fear I will not live to see victory.”

“Don’t say that, Holiness,” Quarath said. “You’ve accomplished a great deal. The Divine Hammer have rooted out the last of the evil gods’ worshipers. The goblins and ogres are gone too, and the wizards—” both paused to touch their foreheads as a ward against sorcery “—are exiled, and will not return.”

“I know, Emissary,” assented Beldinas. “It is all I hoped for when I first donned the crown… but it isn’t enough. Evil is beaten, but it is not destroyed. Even now, the knights still find forbidden cults in the wilderness.”

Quarath couldn’t help but acknowledge the point with a grim nod. Just yesterday, the court had been stunned to learn that the Divine Hammer had rooted out a hidden sect in Falthana, one which secretly worshiped a many-armed god. The cultists had fought back, but the forces of light had prevailed, smashing the false deity’s idol. They had brought the pieces back to Istar as a trophies.

“Evil abides, Quarath,” Beldinas declared, and sighed again. “No matter how ruthlessly we strike at it, it will not die. It only appears somewhere else, because there is one place it hides where I cannot reach. The hearts of men.”

The elf looked toward the basilica, shining brilliantly in the morning light. “It will be… difficult… rooting it out from men’s hearts, Holiness,” he ventured. “The gods made my people for good, just as they made the ogres and their like for evil. But they gave men both, to choose between them. So it is written.”

“I know that,” the Kingpriest replied somewhat acidly. “I have read the holy scriptures, you know. Even so, I must seek a way.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know,” Beldinas said, turning back to look out over the garden. “At least not yet, Quarath.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed. He bit his lip, uncertain how to reply. Luckily, he didn’t have to fret long. As he gazed at the Kingpriest’s back, he heard the sound of footstep; jeweled slippers whispering across the marble floor. Proud as always that his keen elven senses had picked out the noise before Beldinas could hear, he turned to peer through the archway leading back into the manse.

Within was a young woman, not quite thirty, with long hair like polished brass. She dressed in white robes fringed with violet, an amethyst circlet on her head. “Efisa,” Quarath said in a low voice as she drew near. “What brings you here, away from your order?”

Lady Elsa, First Daughter and highest priestess in the Istaran church, clasped her hands in greeting, bringing her thumbs together to form the god’s triangle. “I apologize for the interruption, Emissary, but I bring tidings from First Son Revando.”

“You can tell me, Elsa,” Quarath said. “The Kingpriest should not be disturbed.”

“Nonsense, Emissary,” interrupted Beldinas, coming up behind Quarath. “If the First Son and Daughter both feel it is important, then it must be so. Speak, Efisa.”

Elsa dipped her knee toward the floor as the Kingpriest drew near. “Holiness,” she said, “Revando and I were at the front gates of the Temple, performing the morning benediction over the pilgrims, when I chanced to look toward the harbor. There was a commotion there, and then I saw… I saw a ship.”

One of Quarath’s eyebrows climbed. “A ship, you say? In the harbor?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Emissary,” Beldinas said to Quarath, an edge in his voice. He turned back to Elsa, whose face had turned red. “What of this ship? Tell me, child.”

Elsa regained her composure, smiling gratefully at the Kingpriest. “The ship, Holiness… it had an unusual sail.”

She trailed off as Beldinas studied her a moment, intently. Then his back straightened, and he took half a step back. “Gray,” he said. “The sails were gray, weren’t they?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Y-yes, sire. They were. Are.”

Quarath shot the Kingpriest a sharp glance. “Gray! What is she doing here?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Emissary,” Beldinas replied, frowning. “But we shall soon find out, I think. Lady Elsa, you did well, coming here. Now I need you to spread the news. Go to the Hammerhall, and tell the Grand Marshal to come here at once.”

“Of course, Holiness,” said the First Daughter. “What should I say?”

“The truth,” the Kingpriest said, and sighed for the third time that morning. “Tell him the Weeping Lady has come.”

The Grand Marshal ducked, and just in time he heard the whistle as the sword missed his head, and knew he was lucky it hadn’t caught him full in the face. A lesser warrior never would have seen the blow coming, nor recovered fast enough to launch a counterattack before his foe could capitalize on catching him off-balance—but the Marshal had been a knight of the Divine Hammer for nineteen years, and its leader for seven. There were few better swordsmen in the world.

Smiling behind his visor, he spun to his left, rising to full height once more and bashing his opponent’s weapon arm with his shield. The other knight—a hotheaded youth named Bron—grunted more with pain than surprise, and stumbled sideways, his sword dropping. Instinct took over, focusing on the momentary vulnerability, and the Marshal swung at Bron’s head.

Bron was an untested fighter, but he was also quick. His blade came up again, catching the Marshal’s a hand’s breadth from his temple. Steel crashed, and the two men stood locked, staring at each other through the eye-slits of their helms.

“Not bad,” the Marshal said tersely. “Another ten, fifteen years of this, and I might make a fighter of you.”

Sir Bron’s eyes flashed. “Another ten years, milord, and you’ll be too old to lift your sword.”

The Marshal laughed lustily, though the gibe was off the mark. He was only thirty-five; in ten years he would be a little past his prime, but he’d still be a fierce fighter. Lord Olin, his predecessor, had been nearly seventy when he’d died of heart-burst while sparring in this very yard. With few true enemies left to fight in the world, more of the Divine Hammer’s veterans fell to old age than battle these days.

“We’ll see, lad,” he said, and shoved Bron back. The two of them parted, circling behind their shields, each seeking some opening, some weakness.

Sir Bron’s greatest disadvantage, however, was not technique but impatience. The Grand Marshal used it against him, feinting several times but never bringing the fight to a clash. Each time, Bron grew more tense and unsettled, until finally he growled and came on hard, sword spinning in a low backhand cut. Grinning behind his visor, the Marshal caught the swing on the rim of his shield, then slid away, letting momentum carry the young knight past him. Nimble as a Zaladhi fire-dancer, the Marshal wheeled around and slammed his sword home. It hit the back of Bron’s neck with a horrible crash.

In a plain fight, it would have been a decapitating blow. Fortunately for Bron, though, the two knights were fighting with blunted swords, and his gorget saved him. Even so, there was enough strength behind the strike to leave the younger knight down on his knees, his sword lying in the dust ten feet away. Retching, Sir Bron fought to pull off his helm.

The Grand Marshal did the same, revealing a fair, youthful face sprayed with freckles. Golden hair, gathered in a long ponytail, spilled out and down his back, and a coppery beard covered his chin, the only aspect of his appearance that made him look older than the sixteen he’d been on his dubbing day. He eyed Sir Bron—now vomiting loudly, his dark hair hanging over his eyes—then turned to look at the young knights and squires ringing the battlefield.

“There’s today’s lesson, lads,” proclaimed Tithian, Lord of the Divine Hammer, with a wry grin. “Keep your head, or you’re bound to lose it.”

Laughter rang out across the Hammerhall’s inner bailey, echoing off the labyrinth of yellow walls and battlements, turrets and towers. Half the knighthood was less than twenty-five summers old, and most were untested in battle. Tithian and his lieutenants staged these mock fights regularly to keep the art of arms alive. Now the Grand Marshal straightened his tabard—crimson instead of the other knights’ white, denoting his rank—and wiped a smudge of grime from the burning-hammer sigil emblazoned on his breast. Raising his blade in salute, he walked to Sir Bron’s side and offered his hand to help him up.

Angrily, Bron waved off the knightly courtesy and got up awkwardly on his own. He was a small, lithe man with a face like a horse’s. His cheeks burned red as he wiped spittle from his lips. “I should have had you,” he grumbled.

“The last words of many men,” replied Tithian, clapping his shoulder. “You’re a fine strong fighter, but even the best iron needs refining to become steel. Control that temper of yours, or it will cost you.”

Giving the barest of nods, Bron sulked off. Tithian sighed—some men just didn’t want to learn—then turned to face the rest of his knights.

“All right,” he announced, flourishing his blade. “Who’s next?”

The others looked away: at the ground, at each other, at the golden, flame-wreathed hammer mounted atop the castle’s main keep. None of them were keen to face the Grand Marshal, especially after his thorough trouncing of Bron. Tithian couldn’t blame them—he’d hated sparring with his betters when he was young, too—but neither was he going to let them get away that easily.

“Come on, lads,” he coaxed. “If one of you doesn’t fight me, we’ll have a melee instead.”

The young knights groaned. Mass melees always meant plenty of work for the knighthood’s Mishakite healers afterward. They were good training, though; Tithian remembered many such battles from his youth, and no one-on-one duel could prepare anybody for having allies and enemies all around. He fixed his men with a steel-blue glare.

“Well?”

Still the others hesitated, and Tithian almost spat out of annoyance. Things hadn’t been this in the old days, the days of now-legendary men like Tavarre of Luciel, and Marto of Falthana, and… and many, many others. But most of those heroes were dead now, casualties of the war against sorcery, and this was what remained—mostly the younger sons of nobles and merchant lords, sent into service so they wouldn’t burden their families. The burning zeal of the Hammer’s early days had faded to a flicker.

“Very well,” the Grand Marshal said, making no effort to hide his disappointment. “Arm yourselves and form your sides. North and west barracks against south and—now what’s the matter?”

A commotion had broken out behind the crowd, in the direction of the castle’s main gates. The knights were murmuring and shifting, getting out of someone’s way. Tithian caught flashes of white: a priest from the Temple. His annoyance grew—he’d never had a great deal of use for the holy church, even if he was the head of its military wing. More often than not, a visit from the clergy meant sending his men to fight, and die, in some far-flung region of the empire.

But then his eyebrows rose as Lady Elsa stepped through the crowd. He tried to remember the last time a First Daughter—or any Revered Daughter—had come to the Hammerhall. He couldn’t think of a single occasion.

His men bowed, and Tithian signed the triangle. He knelt to no one, save the Kingpriest himself. “Efisa,” he said. “What brings you into these hills?”

“Lord Tithian,” Elsa replied. “I come at the behest of the Lightbringer.”

A mutter ran through the knights. Tithian silenced them with a gesture, though he felt his insides clench. Usually, the Kingpriest sent summonses with one of the young acolytes who served as the Temple’s couriers. This was indeed unusual.

“What does His Holiness wish of me?” he asked.

Two minutes later, he was on horseback, riding out through the Hammerhall’s barbican beside the First Daughter’s chariot. The melee would have to wait for another time.