Chapter 2

No one knew when gray sails had become a sign of ill luck, or even why. It was a superstition older than the empire itself, its origins lost to history. The fact remained, however, that Istarans believed gray sails brought disaster, and not without good reason; the last time a vessel sailed into the Lordcity’s port under such colors, the Kingpriest, Giusecchio the Fat, had perished by an assassin’s blade the very same day. That had been nearly a century and a half ago, and in that time no ship—not even those from the western realms, which held no such beliefs—had raised a gray sail within Istar’s harbor.

No ship, that is, until today.

The crowds were thick at the wharves by the time the vessel pulled up to the Lordcity’s marble jetties. They shouted vituperations and forked their fingers at the sailors who jumped over the gunwales to make fast the mooring lines, and would have rushed out onto the docks had the Divine Hammer not been there to restrain them. Lord Tithian’s men locked shields to hold the mob back, swords drawn to warn the more zealous agitators. All around them voices called out curses, or invoked the Lightbringer to protect them from the doom-bringing ship.

Then, as suddenly as if some calamity had struck them all dead, the crowds fell silent. A figure appeared at the prow of the ship, clad in a gown as ashen as the sails: a tall, regal woman of some fifty summers, her golden hair now running to silver. She had been beautiful once, but age had hardened her face, turning once-laughing eyes to glittering stones, and freezing her mouth in a dour pinch. A blue X—the Seldjuki sign for widowhood—adorned her forehead, and she wore no other adornment: no bracelets or necklaces, no rings on her fingers or dangling from her ears. She leaned on a short staff of gray wood, with an ivory handle carved to resemble a dragon’s wing. The sailors lowered a ramp, bowing low as she stepped up to its edge and swept the crowd with the severest of stares.

“Prubo broudon,” someone in the crowd murmured, signing the triangle. Others quickly picked up the call, turning their eyes away from her gaze.

The Lady Who Weeps.

Wentha MarSevrin did not, in fact, weep, though tears often glistened in her eyes. She had earned the name many years ago, and to many its origin was as obscure as the fear of gray sails. To most, she was a figure of legend: the first Istaran to feel the healing power of the Lightbringer, whose touch had saved her from plague. Beldinas had cured thousands of the afflicted since, but Wentha had always held a special place at the imperial court, even after she married and moved to the city of Lattakay, far to the east. There, she had built the Udenso, an enormous statue of bronze and glass, built to resemble the Kingpriest—only to see it fall to ruin in the first days of the holy war between the church and the Orders of High Sorcery. In the years since that war she had not once returned to the Lordcity.

Everyone knew why that was, but no one would speak of it. There were some names it was not wise to speak aloud.

Lord Tithian strode down the pier, his mail jingling with each measured step. His eyes flicked to the other members of the Weeping Lady’s entourage, standing just behind her, but mostly they remained fixed on Wentha. She studied his face a moment, then smiled—a sad look, with no joy in it.

“I had heard you were Grand Marshal now,” she said, as Tithian hurried up the ramp to take her arm. She kissed his cheek graciously. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, Efisa,” he replied, keeping his voice low as he escorted her. “But why have you come? And why fly that sail?”

He waved his hand, and she smiled again as she followed the gesture. “Gray is my color now, Tithian,” she replied. “And the curse upon it is nonsense—talk for the wine-shops, at best. In fact, the news I bring should be enough to disprove it.”

“News, milady? Of what sort?”

“Of the sort the Kingpriest must hear,” she said, “and none before him. Even you, my old friend.”

He studied her hard, but her face remained a mystery. At length, he shrugged. “Of course. The court awaits you, Efisa.”

They walked on together, away from the gray-sailed ship, their eyes turning uphill to the shining Temple.

The crystal dome of the Hall of Audience buzzed with the drone of voices in the room below. Word had spread of the gray ship’s arrival, and the place had filled with courtiers, all of them jostling for a glimpse of the Weeping Lady. Powdered and perfumed, clad in robes of rich velvet and shimmering silk, the nobles, high clerics, and merchant-princes of Istar whispered to one another of what her coming might portend. Like the commoners at the docks, few considered it a good thing.

Roses hung about the Hall, mimicking its walls. These were shaped of layers of lacquered wood, lovingly carved to resemble wine-dark petals that unfurled upward to cup the dome. Golden censers stood about the room, issuing threads of sweet, heavy smoke, and white tapers flickered on platinum candelabra, though the crystal above shone as bright as day. The floor was silver-veined marble, polished gleaming-bright, wide enough that it took several minutes to cross the Hall at a suitably respectful pace. At one end it gave way to a mosaic, crafted of lapis and turquoise tesserae to resemble flowing water. This pooled around a dais of pure white stone, atop which stood the golden, satin-cushioned throne of the Kingpriest.

That throne was empty now. While the rest of the court had assembled, Beldinas remained in his private antechamber. All over the Hall, anxious eyes turned toward that chambers door; the Lightbringer always meditated before coming to court, seeking wisdom to govern the empire, but today he was taking longer than usual. This wasn’t a good sign, either.

Nor was the presence in the alcove to the left of the throne. There were many such niches around the Hall, most filled with tables laden with rich food and wine, for refreshment during courtly recesses. This one, however, was different: a pool of shadow hung within, and preternatural cold emanated from the alcovel; those few who dared look directly into the place found themselves shivering as if the winds of Icereach had just clawed up their backs. Within, all but invisible in the gloom, lurked a tall, broad-shouldered shape. The man wore robes of deepest midnight, defying the shimmering silver of the clergy and the bright hues of the nobles. A deep, black hood covered his face, such that only the tip of an iron-gray beard emerged from it. No one in Istar had ever glimpsed the face of Fistandantilus, and for that the courtiers were abundantly glad.

There were many stories about the wizard called the Dark One, and how he had come to be a part of the Lightbringer’s court. The church’s official explanation, attested by Quarath himself, was that Beldinas had called him here to keep an eye on him, following the old Ismindi saying about keeping one’s enemies even closer than one’s friends. In truth, though, Fistandantilus had come voluntarily, bringing with him the means to win the war with the mages. In exchange, he had demanded a place in the Kingpriest’s innermost circle. Quarath had gone to great pains, these past eighteen years, not to make an enemy of him.

In time, a soft chime sounded, the dome echoing its ring. The courtiers straightened, folding their hands respectfully as the antechamber door snicked open for the Kingpriest.

Scores beheld Beldinas Lightbringer each day, but no one truly saw him, not any more. His holy power, already strong when he first took the throne, had grown immensely over the passing years. As it had, so did the aura of silver light that surrounded him. Once, it had been a mere shimmer that appeared whenever he invoked Paladine’s power. Now, however, it was a constant glow, one not even elven eyes could claim to fully penetrate. Those who looked upon him saw the Kingpriest through their own memories of how he had appeared in his youth: thin and austere, with long, flowing locks and eyes as blue and dangerous as glaciers. As one, the men and women who filled the Hall of Audience lowered their eyes before his heartbreaking beauty.

The whisper of Beldinas’s slippers was the only sound as he crossed to the dais. He climbed the steps slowly, then paused atop the dais and turned to face the assemblage. Within the dazzling light, ringed hands rose to form the sacred triangle, a simple benediction without words. “Sa Pilofiro, gasiras cilmo,” declared Quarath, bowing. The rest of the courtiers echoed the words, the dome above turning a hundred voices into one. Hail Lightbringer, lord of emperors.

Beldinas nodded. “Sa, usas farnas,” he intoned. Hail, children of the god. “It is good to see you here this day—all of you.”

He glanced toward Fistandantilus’s alcove. Within the shadows, which even his shining aura could not penetrate, the hooded head inclined. Satisfied, Beldinas looked back out at the court as he lowered himself onto his throne.

“You are nervous,” he said. “You have reason to be. This is a strange day, and heavy with history. But do not fear. I have seen the Weeping Lady’s purpose, and it is a good one—one that might heal wounds even I am unable to cure.”

The priests and nobles glanced at one another, confused. There was no malady the Lightbringer could not ease—no sickness or injury his touch wouldn’t lift. He had even defeated death once, in the first days of his reign. Before anyone could do more than puzzle at his meaning, however, a deep bell sounded from the gilded doors at the Hall’s far end.

Eyes throughout the room turned toward the sound, and the courtiers craned and jostled to see. The Kingpriest raised his hand, signaling to the knights who stood guard. Tapping the shafts of their halberds on the floor, they stepped aside and the doors swung soundlessly open. Silence covered the room like a shroud.

Wentha MarSevrin stood in the entrance, Lord Tithian in his gleaming mail beside her. She swept the court with her gaze, an imperious look for one who had been a poor villager in the empire’s borderlands when the Lightbringer healed her. Now, almost forty years later, she looked a queen as she stepped into the Hall.

Three men followed her and Lord Tithian as they crossed the floor. The first two walked on her left: one, darkly handsome and muscular, shirtless in the Lattakayan style; the other, fair-haired and plain, dressed in the robes of a Revered Son of Paladine. The third, walking slightly behind them on the right, wore a scholar’s robes, worn and frayed at the hems. The courtiers paid the others only passing attention; their gazes remained on the Weeping Lady as she stepped onto the mosaic before the dais. Bowing her head, she genuflected toward the throne. None missed that her knee did not quite touch the floor.

“Lady Wentha, beloved of Paladine,” Beldinas declared, his voice like golden bells. “You are welcome back to my Temple. It has been too long.”

“Holiness,” she declared without feeling. “Allow me to present my sons, Rath and Tancred.”

The two young men stepped forward, bowing. “Pilofiro,” they murmured together.

“Ah, yes,” said Beldinas, signing the triangle to the priest. “I know Tancred well, of course… the Patriarch of Falthana speaks highly of you. And Rath—” his gaze turned to the other, whose chest puffed out proudly “—I remember you too, though you were but seven when we met last. You have grown into a fine man.”

“Thank you, Aulforo,” said Wentha’s sons.

Beldinas’s head turned toward the scholar. “But who is your other companion, Efisa? You do not have a third son… ?”

Wentha shook her head. “He is not of my family, sire. This is Varen, formerly of the university at Tucuri.”

The scholar shifted uncomfortably as hundreds of eyes, from all over the room, settled on him. “H-Holiness, ” he murmured.

“I have brought him here because he has a tale to tell,” Wentha continued. “One I think you will find interesting to hear.”

Beldinas studied the scholar a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well, then, Varen. Speak, and let none interrupt until you are finished.”

The courtiers leaned forward, imperceptibly. The scholar licked his lips, the look on his face saying he wanted nothing more than for the floor to split open and swallow him up. It took Varen several tries to find his voice.

“It happened six months ago, at midsummer,” he began.

No one spoke for several minutes after Varen ended his tale. In the silence, the Hall seemed to roar with every quiet cough, every rustle of robes. Many of the elder courtiers’ mouths had dropped open, while the younger ones looked confused. Tithian stared at Varen with wide eyes. Tears coursed down Lady Wentha’s cheeks.

It was impossible to tell what the Kingpriest was thinking or feeling. The holy light obscured him, hid any sign that what the scholar had just told troubled him. He looked down from his throne, one hand stroking his chin.

Rath MarSevrin glowered around the room. “Someone say something,” he muttered.

That drew scandalized looks from the courtiers. Quarath stepped forward, a dark line appearing between his brows. “Be still, boy,” he declared. “That is not how to speak in the Lightbringer’s presence.”

“He speaks his mind, and mine,” Lady Wentha snapped. Her voice was cold, but as she turned from the elf to the throne, it became something else: small, pleading, like a child’s. “Holiness, I beg you. I cannot bear this stillness.”

But Beldinas still didn’t answer. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. All around the Hall, men and women dropped to their knees. Only Lady Wentha remained standing, staring at him with pain-filled eyes as he signed the triangle over the congregation.

“I must think on this,” he said, the music of his voice muted. “Come to the manse at dusk, Lady—and you as well, Varen. We will sup together, and you will tell me all you know.”

With that he withdrew, down the steps of the dais and back the way he’d come. An acolyte opened the door for him, and he was gone. The courtiers watched him leave, still stunned. Then, the moment the door clicked shut again, they exploded—shouting, arguing, every one of them jostling to get near the Weeping Lady, and the scholar who had located Cathan Twice-Born.

Over the years, Lord Cathan MarSevrin had become a figure of myth, a legend like Huma Dragonbane. Once, he had been Beldinas’s right-hand compatriot, having sworn himself to be the Lightbringer’s protector after Wentha’s miraculous healing. He’d been at the Kingpriest’s side when he made his triumphant entry into the Lordcity, and had saved his life in this very Hall when Kurnos the Deceiver tried to kill him with a magic-poisoned dagger. Instead, Cathan had taken the blade himself, and it had killed him.

But though Cathan had indeed died, right on the blue mosaic before the throne, Beldinas had still saved him. Crying out to the gods—not just entreating them, but commanding—he had worked a wonder that had never happened before, or since. Armed with righteous fury born of grief, the Lightbringer had poured all his power into Cathan and restored his life, making him the Twice-Born.

After his resurrection, Cathan became the greatest hero of the empire. He was the first knight of the Divine Hammer, dubbed by the Kingpriest himself, and helped lead Beldinas’s war against evil. Countless monsters, dark cultists, and black-robed wizards had fallen to him and the sacred order, and in time he became Grand Master of the Hammer. But then something had gone wrong.

It happened during the war against sorcery. At the dawn of that crusade, a surprise attack by demons summoned by a vengeful wizard had led to the slaughter of many knights—and a later assault upon the Kingpriest himself caused many more deaths. In the end, the Twice-Born had led a small army to Losarcum, to assail the Tower of High Sorcery there. But the wizards had had the final say, destroying both the Tower and the city around it to keep its secrets out of the church’s hands. Cathan’s entire force had perished in that final stroke—all save Cathan himself, and Tithian, once his squire. Together they had returned to Istar, and Cathan—ashamed and angry at what had happened to his soldiers—had torn off his Grand Marshal’s tabard, walked out of the Temple, and disappeared.

Until now.

Tithian moved quickly, getting himself between Lady Wentha and the gabbling masses of courtiers. Everyone wanted to know more—where was this cave of people trapped in glass? Why was the Twice-Born there? Why had he stayed out of sight for so long? Tithian gestured to Rath and Tancred, who helped him form a protective ring around their mother and Varen, and together, they made their way away from the chaos of the Hall of Audience.

Ordinarily, a large part of the court attended the evening banquets in the imperial manse’s great dining hall: the hierarchs of the great churches of light, dignitaries from the realms of Solamnia and Kharolis, who followed the Istaran faith, the few nobles who were fortunate enough to have earned a place, and a regular contingent of high-ranking knights. On this day, however, as the sun gilded the city’s rooftops, the company was only seven: Beldinas, Quarath, Lady Wentha and her sons, Tithian, and—sitting in the chair of honor at the Kingpriest’s right hand and looking like he would rather be at the bottom of the Courrain Ocean—the scholar Varen. The scholar ate sparingly, his face coloring every time the Lightbringer glanced his way. His silence drew little note, however; the court followed the Taoli tradition that it was ill-mannered to speak of grave matters during a meal. Course after course was brought of fine, rich fare: fresh shellfish spa drenched in butter and the juices of Maeloon blood-limes; black-veined cheese dusted with ground vallenwood nuts; small pastries called Arathi from Midrath, crammed with minced pheasant and forty different spices.

Finally, as the servants were clearing away the main dish—a roasted haunch of gorgon, infused with black pepper and mead—Varen spoke up.

“There really is little more to tell, Aulforo,” he ventured, bobbing his head toward Beldinas. “I fled the Tears at all speed. Thank Paladine the Dravinishmen were still close, or I would not have survived. As it was, by the time I reached Attrika I was half-dead of heat poisoning. I had to rest for a month in a Mishakite hospice before I could travel again”

“And yet you did not come here,” Quarath noted tersely. “I should think that, bearing such tidings, the Temple would be the first place you stopped.”

The scholar looked down, biting his lip as the servants poured moragnac brandy around the table. He downed his drink in a swallow, then shook his head. “I went to Lattakay first. It was closer, and I had little gold for passage, without my fortune. And… I had heard Lord Cathan had kin there.”

He glanced at Wentha, who smiled sadly. Beside her, Tancred and Rath exchanged grim glances.

“And you are sure?” Beldinas asked. “You can vouch it was him?”

“Only the Twice-Born has those eyes, Holiness.”

Sitting across from Varen, Tithian nodded agreement. The act of resurrection had left Cathan that way, as a mark of providence. His eyes were pupil-less and white—like a blind man’s, though Cathan could see. Few could meet his eerie gaze without having to turn away. Tithian himself hadn’t been able to do it. If the man seen by the scholar had those eyes…

Quarath scowled, and Wentha noticed it. “I know your suspicions, Emissary,” she said mildly. “I felt them as well. There have been enough stories of my brother, from every part of the empire and beyond—all of them false. I even sent scouts to the Tears myself once, but to no good. I gave up on finding him years ago. I was sure he had to be dead.”

“So were we,” the Kingpriest agreed, his voice turning sorrowful. “But if this is true… .”

“It is,” said Rath.

“Show him,” Tancred told Varen.

All around the table, eyebrows rose. The acolytes were serving stone bowls of fruited ice with sprigs of kender-mint, but no one paid the dessert any mind. They watched the scholar, who reached into a pouch and brought out a small, oblong box made of grayleaf wood. He started to push it toward the Kingpriest, but Tithian stopped him with a firm hand.

“Open it yourself,” the knight said.

Flushing, Varen pulled back the box, released a catch, and slid back the lid. From inside, he pulled out a small, dark shard of glass. Gripping it between two fingers, he held it up to the light. Tawny rose fire blazed within. Despite years of courtly etiquette, Lord Tithian gave a low whistle as Varen set the fragment on the table.

“Losarcine amber,” the scholar said. “I took it, if you’ll recall, just before I fled. I was half a mile from the cave before I even realized I had it.”

Everyone stared at the shard, glittering in the dying daylight lancing through the manse’s windows. Quarath sipped his moragnac, watching with an inscrutable expression. Wentha and her sons seemed to silently defy anyone to doubt the truth of Varen’s tale. Varen now stared at his hands in his lap. Tithian, meanwhile, bent forward to pick up the glass shard. He turned it in his grasp, watching the honeyed light play within. He’d been at Losarcum, seen vast palaces melted into stuff like this when the Tower erupted. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of people trapped in it.

And Cathan was there, too.

“Let me see it,” said Beldinas.

Nodding, Tithian passed the shard down the table—to Tancred, then Quarath, and finally to the Kingpriest. The glass shone like a golden star as Beldinas’s light poured into it. He gazed into its depths, his thoughts unreadable. Everyone else watched him, trying to read them anyway. Finally he clenched his fist around the shard and turned back to Varen.

“This cave,” he said. “Can you find it again?”