Chapter 21

Gabbro tightened his grip on the haft of his axe, squinting in the darkness. He was chewing khog, a dried fungus from faraway Thorbardin, and when he spat it made a black stain on the floor tit the tunnel. He stared through the peephole of the secret door, which led out of the catacombs through a buttress at the base of one of Calah’s many bridges. It was night out, and the canals that ran through the island-city gleamed like ribbons of silver in Solinari’s light. The sounds of drunken singing from the waterfront taverns echoed across the canel.

Idar was late. That worried the dwarf. He’d followed the man for nearly ten years now, moving back and forth between Chidell and the Lordcity and all the cities of Istar’s heartland, and in all that time Idar had never been more than an hour behind schedule. Once, when they’d raided the slave pens at Kautilya’s bronze foundries, and Idar had taken an arrow in his side, he’d still made it back to the tunnels on time. But now, by Gabbro’s best guess, it was over two hours since he and the rest were due to show up with the Kingpriest in tow—and still not a sign. They should now be making their approach by boat, moving stealthily into Calah and up to the bridge. But there was nothing… no boats, no sign of anything.

Gabbro spat again, darkening the floor even worse. Behind him, he heard the faint murmur of voices, then the flapping of goblin feet. He fought back a ripple of disgust at the stink of the hunched, snaggle-toothed creature that lurched up next to him.

“You should be at your post, Akku,” he growled. “I told you I’d shout if I saw anything.”

The goblin’s beetle-brow lowered. The creature glared at him with murderous yellow eyes. Akku hated Gabbro; only their common enemy kept them from going for each other’s throats. Gabbro already had plans for killing the creature once Beldinas was kidnapped and safely put away, and Lord Revando on the throne. He suspected Akku planned the same for him.

“Man no coming,” grunted the monster. “We wait long. Tired.” He yawned, baring a mouth full of brown-crusted fangs.

Gabbro rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a kender’s damn if you’re tired,” he shot back. “You get back to where you belong now, or I swear—”

He stopped. He heard something—a soft thump, as of a boat pulling up to the bridge’s base. He lost interest in Akku immediately, turning back to the secret door. There they were: two rowboats, each loaded with cloaked men, without any lanterns. A third drifted up behind. Gabbro frowned; there were supposed to be four boats. Had Idar met up with trouble, lost that many of his men? He lowered his axe, his bearded face splitting into a grin. Whatever… the loss would be worth it, to uncrown the Lightbringer, at last.

“Come on,” he muttered, watching the figures get off the boats. They were certainly taking their time. “Hurry it up, before someone sees you.”

Then Lunitari slid out from behind a drifting cloud, and his smile vanished. Its red light hit the cloaked men sidelong, revealing not the drab greens and browns of Idar’s force, but surcoats of white, over glinting chain mail. He glimpsed the burning sigil on their breasts, and all at once felt as he had the time he’d fallen into a frozen lake as a child.

“Hammer!” he bellowed, whirling so fast he almost cut Akku in half with his axe. “It’s the Reorx-be-damned Divine Hammer!”

The goblin’s ruddy face turned pale with fear. He stood very still for a moment, then turned and ran, his feet flapping away in the shadows. Farther down the passage, other voices picked up Gabbro’s cry. Some of the rebels might flee; but others would stand and fight. Staring out the peephole, the dwarf had no illusions that any of them would get out of the tunnels alive. Someone had betrayed them, and he spent what he figured would be the last moments of his life dreaming up innovative curses against them. Old High Dwarven was a very versatile language when it came to curses.

“Gudruz dar morakh… agradoth boru ngazung… kai throntar gon-raxanum…”

The secret door opened outward; there was no way to bar it from within. Gabbro planted his feet wide apart, holding his axe two-handed as the knights approached. They found the entrance with ease, and just as easily managed the hidden catch that appeared to be a rusted old hook sticking out of the stones. The lead knight gestured to his men—some two dozen, with more pouring off the third boat—and as one they drew their weapons. Swords, maces, and hammers glinted in the silver moon’s glow; crossbows, too. Gabbro glowered at them through the peephole: If he was going to die, he’d drag a few of the Hammer with him.

The lead knight twisted the hook. The door swung open. Gabbro leapt out, roaring a dwarvish battle cry as he brought his axe down on the knight’s shoulder. Flesh and bone gave, and the man went down with a howl that choked off as the blade rammed down through his ribs into his heart. Gabbro yanked it free, whirled, and hit another knight in the neck, almost taking his head off. Then a hot pain lanced through him as a sword pierced his back. He swept around, spitting blood at whoever had just stabbed him. He saw only the edge of a blade, and just for an instant, as it arced around and caught him just above the eyes. Then it all stopped.

The Divine Hammer moved in all across Istar that night, sweeping the heartland and the provinces alike. Every city had its tunnels, and Tancred MarSevrin had told Lord Tithian where most of them were—the Araifas did the rest. The Grand Marshal had borrowed a dozen of the church’s clockwork falcons, and sent them winging their tireless way to the ends of the empire, with orders to strike at the rebels. In Karthay and Lattakay, Micah and Jaggana, Govinna and Edessa, Tucuri and Pesaro and Chidell and the Lordcity itself, the knights went to the concealed entrances and forced their way into the catacombs.

In a few places, the rebels fought back mightily, and the toll was heavy on both sides; in others, they tried only to escape. It didn’t matter. The Hammer were many, and well-trained, and easily overcame the rebels. Dwarf and goblin, half-ogre and heretic, all died that night, their blood running down the tunnels in rivulets. In two hours’ time, all organized resistance against the church vanished.

Then the knights started to move in on targets above ground.

Wentha MarSevrin could not say how, but she knew her sons were dead. She was in her private garden, staring into a silver reflecting pool when she felt an ache so deep, it was like something gnawing its way out of her from within. She staggered with the shock, groaning, and fell against the pool’s rim, her right hand slipping into the water.

Servants came running, offering her aid. She waved them off, sent them away with a strangled voice. Breathing hard, Wentha stumbled to a bench, sat down, and threw her head back to stare at the night sky, whose stars were swallowed by the Lordcity’s own light.

“My boys,” she cried. “Oh, Paladine, what have they done to you?”

She couldn’t guess the fate of Cathan. Her brother was out there still, somewhere—with Beldinas, maybe? There was still a chance that Idar and the rest had succeeded, despite whatever had befallen Rath and Tancred. There was still a chance that all they’d worked for, in secret, all these long years, had not come to crashing failure tonight. There was still a chance that they might prevail.

Then she heard the pounding on her manor’s gates, the harsh shout made hollow and strange by a visored helm. “Anlugud fe cado Comuras Ufib!”

Open, in the name of the Divine Hammer!

Wentha shut her eyes. The guards at the gate would try to stall the knights; so would the servants. It would do no good. They had found her out and now she was trapped. There was no chance left, any more, at least not for her.

Tears in her eyes, she rose from the bench and walked inside, toward the vestibule to greet her guests.

Lord Revando’s private study was an austere place, devoid of the gild work and jewels and redolent incense the First Sons before him had favored. Save for the red rose-windows and the platinum triangle that hung upon the wall, it might have belonged to the abbot of some wilderness monastery; the walls were bare stone, a simple, woven carpet lay upon the floor, and only a desk of plain snow wood, three benches, an ordinary foot-chest, and a modest shrine adorned the room. The other hierarchs had come to regard his domicile as an eccentricity, and never mentioned it in his presence—nor did they come to visit him more than necessary, which was fine with him. He loathed every powdered, perfumed one of them, even though he had to wear the powder and perfume at court as well.

He was sitting at his desk now, in the middle of the night His bedchamber stood empty and dark. He hadn’t even tried to sleep tonight. Instead he waited quietly, lost in thought, a goblet of wine sitting untouched beside him. He had poured the wine himself, after dismissing his servants early.

This was the hardest part. He’d planned it all, gone to such great lengths to insinuate himself into the Kingpriest’s court, taken charge of the rebels in their tunnels and subterranean chambers, planned and plotted and schemed like some character out of an Odaceran blood-play. He’d devoted his whole life to this night, and what was happening—had already happened, certainly—leagues away at the Forino and at Calah. And now, with the fate of the empire hanging, he knew nothing. Nor would he know anything until morning—only when the rest of the court learned of the Lightbringer’s disappearance would he himself be certain it had all worked according to his plans.

He glanced at the wine, raised his eyebrows, then stood and paced to the shrine. It was austere as the rest of his office, a humble altar with an icon of the god in his form as the platinum dragon, flanked by tapers of white beeswax. He knelt before it, signing the triangle, then kissed his fingers and pressed them to Paladine’s image.

“They do unspeakable things in your name, my god,” he whispered, so softly he did little more than mouth the words. “They spread woe in the name of righteousness, hatred in the name of virtue. They are blind to you, dazzled by the Kingpriest’s light. Please, in the name of all who have suffered falsely in your name… in the name of the darkness and the light… let it end. Let me set it aright, once and for all.”

Revando shut his eyes. He had never heard Paladine’s voice, had never felt his presence. That did nothing to stifle his belief. He ached for his god, and what had been wrought in his name.

“First Son,” said a soft voice.

Revando started snapping out of his trance. He turned, rising from his knees, and saw the one who had spoken: a shining figure, clad in robes of silver that shimmered like moonlight on water. He had an elf’s face, but with deep lines of age, of caring and regret. A wispy, white beard hung down over his chest.

He knew this elf, but only by reputation. He’d been a young priest, still an acolyte at the temple in Pedrun, when Loralon of Silvanesti departed Istar. Loralon had been Emissary before Quarath, a just and wise man by all accounts, and Kurnos the Deceiver had exiled him as a traitor. There had been no word of the ancient elf since, and Revando had assumed he was dead. He had been more than five hundred summers old when he left the Lordcity, older than any of his kind. Now Loralon stood by the window, his kind eyes heavy on the First Son. Looking closer, Revando shivered as he noted the veins of the marble wall shining through the elf’s body.

“I am not here,” Loralon said. “My spirit dwells now with E’li, whom you call Paladine. He sent me to you, Aulforo, so that you will understand.”

Revando gaped, stunned. “Understand what?”

“That he loves you, as he loves all his true servants,” Loralon replied. “You must know this, so you will not despair.”

“Despair… oh, no.” The First Son fell back, nearly tripped over the altar. One of the candles toppled to the floor and guttered out. Hope died with it. “They failed… didn’t they?”

The elf-ghost nodded.

Revando put a hand to his head. The world swayed. “How?”

“They were betrayed by the youngest of the MarSevrins. Do not hate him, First Son. Young Tancred worked the will of E’li, though he did not know it.”

“Paladine’s will?” Revando demanded. Fury boiled up in him. “That all our effort should end like this? That the Lightbringer remains on the throne, and the Balance continues to slide? How can this be what the god wants?”

“It is not for us to question” Loralon answered, shaking his head solemnly. He moved forward, and Revando noticed for the first time that his feet did not touch the floor. “But I will show you something, if you will let me.”

Revando opened his mouth to spit blasphemy, to denounce this whim of Paladine and all he had ever believed in… then his gaze flicked back to Loralon, and his voice died. Tears streaked that ancient face. The elf was hurting for him, hurting for everyone who suffered this night. And, Revando realized, the god did too. He lowered his eyes, his face coloring with shame.

“Show me,” he said.

Loralon reached out, long fingers grasping. They passed through Revando’s robes into his chest, and he felt them and yet did not feel them as they curled around his beating heart.

And he saw everything that would transpire.

When it was done, he crumpled to his knees, sobbing. There was relief in knowing what the god foresaw… but there was also grief, so much grief. He looked up, the enormity of what Loralon had just shared echoing in his soul.

“Must it happen this way?” he asked.

“The Balance has shifted too far,” Loralon replied. “If there were any other road, do you not think E’li would prefer it?”

Revando took a moment to compose himself. He was breathing hard. He hated himself for his foolish pride… he’d felt so sure of his plans, so in control of everything, but now he knew better. He did not sit in charge of the khas table; he was only another piece on the board. “What will happen to me now?”

“They are coming to arrest you,” the elf answered simply. “They have already taken or killed everyone else. The rebellion is over, and the Lightbringer shall keep his throne. They will sell you into slavery.”

The First Son glanced at his desk, then back at Loralon. “No,” he said. “They will not.”

Loralon studied him a moment, then nodded. “It is your choice, First Son. But the god does not look well upon those who take this decision.”

“I know,” Revando said. “But I must choose my path anyway. If Paladine will accept my decision, though, I would like to redeem myself first.”

The elf’s brow furrowed. “How?”

“Let me be his prophet.”

The ancient eyes widened a little bit, and Revando felt a little pleasure at having surprised Loralon the Wise. His face grew distracted momentarily, as if his attention had been drawn away. Then, smiling, the elf-ghost nodded. “E’li agrees,” he said. “But be quick, Aulforo. They are nearly here.”

Then he was gone—no flash of light, no glimmering. He simply vanished. Revando stood alone, the elf’s after-image fading from his sight. His heart ached terribly for what had happened tonight, and what would shortly follow. But there was also relief, and peace. The game was not quite over for him.

Calmly, he walked back to the desk, found a sheet of parchment, and lifted a quill from an inkwell. He wrote quickly, in bold, sure strokes, the scratching of pen on paper the only sound in the room—until he was done, and another sound arose: the distant rapping of boots on stone, coming from the hall outside. He listened for a moment as the footsteps grew closer, then smiled.

“Palado,” he murmured. “Mas pirhtas calsud. Adolasbrigim paripud, e me bisud com, iudun donbulas. Sifat.”

Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought, and guide me home, beyond the stars. So be it.

The footsteps reached his door. A fist pounded on it, calling on him to open in the name of the Divine Hammer. Revando smiled, and reached for the goblet.

The knight pounded on the door for the third time. Quarath rolled his eyes in irritation. It was clear that Revando would not obey. It would have been clear to a child.

“The coward will not heed you, Vansard,” Quarath said.

Sir Vansard of Gamesh bristled. He had a thick moustache that made him look like some sort of exotic sea creature. “We must give him three warnings,” he huffed. “It is written in the laws that—”

“Yes, yes,” Quarath said, waving his hand. “It is written, but that is three. So will you get on with it?”

Vansard eyed him coldly. He had little use for elves, and would have rejoiced to see them leave the Lord city. For his part, Quarath was not terribly happy with the Divine Hammer just now. Lord Tithian hadn’t even told him what was afoot tonight—any of it! He’d had to find out from his own sources in the knighthood. He’d managed to catch up with Sir Vansard’s party as it was on its way to Wentha MarSevrin’s manor, just in time to pronounce the decree of arrest on her. She was in custody now, in the dungeon beneath the Temple—soon to be joined by the First Son, if the blasted knights ever knocked down the door.

His true annoyance he saved for Lord Revando. That the man had managed to orchestrate all this—right under my nose, Quarath thought angrily—rankled the elf deeply. The Kingpriest had been betrayed by his inner circle. That circle ought to be narrowed to one. With the First Son and Twice-Born gone, and the First Daughter in his camp, there would be only the Grand Marshal left to challenge Quarath. And he would find a way to deal with Lord Tithian, soon enough.

The doors of Revando’s apartments were strong, but the knights brought forth a small ram, wrought of iron, with handles so four men could wield it. They did so, at Sir Vansard’s command, plunging it into the doors once… twice…

On the third stroke, the bolt shattered, and the doors flew inward. Crossbows and swords at the ready, the knights surged in. Quarath followed discreetly behind them, the words of the arrest decree on his lips.

He never got a chance to speak them. Lord Revando sat slumped at his desk, his head on one shoulder, his eyes open. A smile had frozen on his face. His right hand hung down at his side, and a goblet lay on the floor. A dark stain marked the carpet where wine had spilled from it.

A shudder of revulsion worked its way through Quarath. His people saw self-murder as an ignoble act, an affront to the god. So did the Istaran church. The First Son had been weak to the last Quarath idly wondered what poison he’d used.

“Dead,” said Sir Van sard, his fingers pressed to the corpse’s throat.

Quarath rolled his eyes again. “Get the body out of here,” he said. “Burn it unhallowed, outside the city gates. This is an affront to the god’s sight.” He turned to go.

“Emissary?” the knight asked.

The elf stopped. “What is it now?”

“I think you should see this.”

Sir Vansard had a parchment in his hand. The ink shone on it, still wet. One of Quarath’s eyebrows rose. He gestured, and the knight brought it to him.

the message read,

Quarath held the parchment tightly, his mouth twisted. These were the words of a man newly dead, and thus they were a sacred testament. They caused a stirring of fear deep within him. Yet Revando had been a usurper, a coward of the worst kind. What traitor did not wish doom upon his realm, when he himself faced doom?

“Eminence?” Sir Vansard asked. “What is it?”

He read the parchment again, to commit the words to memory. Then he shook his head, walked to the First Son’s body, and angrily crammed the missive into the man’s belt. The ink smeared as he did so, obscuring the writing.

“Nothing,” he said. “The raving of a madman. Let it burn with him.”