Divine Hammer

CHAPTER 21

The wind whispered as it stirred the olive trees of the grove, making their fruit-heavy branches sway. The sky beyond was dark and muttered with thunder. A late-winter storm simmered over Lake Istar, turning its lapis waters to slate. Soon it would sweep into shore, lashing the Lordcity with rain and, perhaps, hail. All over the city, merchants took in their wares, and servants hurried in countless gardens to cover delicate flowers and bushes. At the wharf, men and minotaur slaves made ships fast, and the owners of wine shops took down the silken canopies in their courtyards.

Leciane smiled at the activity, gazing down from atop the Tower of High Sorcery. The common folk worked in vain. This storm would never make land, for this was no ordinary day. The wizards would use their magic to hold back the foul weather. The Kingpriest, she was sure, would be doing the same. Today was the moot. Today her people and the folk of Istar would make peace-or so she hoped. It was looking less likely all the time.

“I wish you’d told me before this morning that you’d lost him,” Leciane said, turning to frown at Vincil. He stood two paces behind her, carefully arranging his finest robes. They shimmered like rubies. “That is the first thing they will ask about.”

The highmage ran a hand over his shaven pate. “We’d hoped to find him again before today,” he said, shaking his head. “We thought it best not to tell anyone outside the Conclave. Whoever is protecting him is powerful, though. He’s resisted everything we’ve tried.”

“And now we go to the Kingpriest without Andras.” Leciane couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Do you expect him to believe our excuses?”

Vincil snorted. “Of course not. Even without Andras, though, I think we can appease him.”

Leciane glanced back across the city. The crystal dome of the Great Temple glowed in the stormlight. Beyond, the Hammerhall loomed, its keeps and watchtowers aflutter with pennants. The burning hammer blazed on many of them, but others were blue. Even after a month and a half, the Divine Hammer still mourned its fallen.

She wished she had charmed Cathan that night on the road to Lattakay. Now he was Grand Marshal…

Vincil laid a hand on her shoulder. She absent-mindedly covered it with hers. It had been easier than she’d thought to return to his bed. That made her feelings for Cathan-Lord Cathan now-all the more confusing. When the highmage spoke, his lips almost brushing her ear, his words brought her back.

“We should go,” he whispered. “The others will be ready.”

“The Kingpriest as well,” she agreed, kissing his fingertips. She smiled at him. “It wouldn’t do to keep His Holiness waiting, would it?”

The highmage chuckled, tousling her curly hair. Together, they disappeared back into the Tower.

*****

Standing in the Lordcity’s northern quarter, the Eusymmeas was neutral ground, one of the Lordcity’s oldest monuments: a huge reflecting pool of rose amber, its centerpiece a sculpture depicting the death of Vemior. The last of Istar’s warlord-tyrants, Vemior had perished centuries ago, when the clergy rose up against him and named one of their number, a cleric named Symeon, as the first Kingpriest. According to the histories, Vemior drank poisoned wine rather than give up his throne. In the Eusymmeas, he slumped in Symeon’s arms, the empty goblet dangling from his fingers. The histories said nothing about the look of sorrow carved into Symeon’s face, however; most scholars agreed the first Kingpriest shed no tears for his predecessor. Like any artist, the Eusymmeas’s sculptor had taken liberties.

The Lightbringer’s party arrived first. Duke Serl was clad in emerald silks, and Lord Yarns in shining mail. They were accompanied by the First Son and First Daughter;

Quarath and Suvin-and Beldinas, riding his golden chariot. His aura lit the courtyard that surrounded the Eusymmeas. Ringing the plaza were the Divine Hammer, standing guard alongside the warriors of Solamnia and Ergoth.

“Ullas dilant, Holiness,” Cathan reported when his men were in position. All is well.

It was a ritual phrase, which he could no longer bring himself to believe. He had more than a hundred men at his command, and half again that number in Yarus and Serf’s entourages. There had been more than that many men in Lattakay, though-and one wizard’s thralls had torn them to pieces. There were many wizards coming to this moot, some almost certainly more powerful than Andras. The gods alone knew what could happen if the wizards did not keep the peace.

When he said that to Beldinas, however, the Kingpriest only smiled. “Do not fear, my friend,” he said. “These are not Black Robes, coming to treat with us.”

Cathan nodded, shivering. The Black Robes’ absence had been another point of contention. The wizards had insisted that all three orders be represented, but Beldinas held out for a party comprising only those who wore the White. In the end, both sides agreed to a compromise. The sorcerers’ representatives would come with White Robes and Red Robes-including the highmage himself-but their dark-souled brethren would stay behind.

A shimmering at the far end of the plaza drew everyone’s eye. All around the Eusymmeas, crossbows rose and gauntleted hands reached for swords. Cathan raised his hand, ordering his knights to hold. They obeyed, as did the Ergothmen and the Solamnics when Serl and Yarns called out to them. Beldinas signed the triangle, the other clerics following suit, as magical light flared and the sorcerers appeared.

There were seven of them-three wizards in White and three in Red, their leader crimson-clad as well. Cathan felt no surprise, watching them walk across the courtyard, to see Leciane. She saw him too, and looked away. Cathan scowled, turning his attention to the leader, a dark-skinned man with a bald head and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He raised his hand in greeting as they drew near to the Kingpriest’s entourage, his face betraying no emotion.

“Sa, Pilofiro,” he declared. Hail, Lightbringer. “I am Vincil, Highmage of all Krynn. In the name of the three moons, I greet you.”

“Sa, Most High,” Beldinas replied, signing the triangle. “May the god smile upon this meeting.”

Introductions followed. Cathan took the opportunity to study the other mages, searching their faces. He could sense their power. The air nearly sparkled with all their protective spells. Even the youngest among them could kill with a word. If any of them tried anything, he would have to be quick to stop it. Cathan fought the urge to reach for Ebonbane. Jaw clenched, he kept his hands at his side and his gaze shifting from one sorcerer to the next.

“Where is the one called Andras?” Beldinas asked in a stern voice. “I do not see him among you.”

Leciane made a sour face, and the other mages glanced uneasily at one another. Vincil, however, bowed his head. “Holiness,” he said apologetically, “for that I must take responsibility. Andras is not among us.”

An angry murmur arose among the knights and priests, brows lowering and faces darkening all around the courtyard. Anger boiled in Cathan’s breast as well.

“Not among you?” Quarath demanded, his lip curling. “After you stole him from us, you have let him go?”

“We did not let him go,” Vincil answered solemnly. If the elf’s tone angered him, he gave no sign. “He was stolen from us as well. We are doing all we can to find him, and will return him to you when we do.”

“If you do,” Beldinas said.

Vincil’s eyebrows jumped. In the distance, thunder rolled as he looked at the Kingpriest.

“Holiness, this I pledge: We will find him.”

Beldinas looked surprised at that. Revered Son Suvin stepped forward, glaring at the highmage. “What good are your assurances? How do we know you aren’t simply hiding him from us?”

“Be easy, Reverence,” Beldinas interrupted, touching Suvin’s arm. “We are here to make peace, not to stir trouble. Andras is but a small part of what we must discuss. As long as any wizard in Istar can do what he did and threaten us all, the peace we desire cannot happen.”

“Ergoth agrees,” growled Duke Serl, folding massive arms across his chest.

“And Solamnia,” added Yarus.

Vincil looked from the High Clerist to the others, then back to Beldinas. “What are you saying, Holiness?”

The Kingpriest smiled. “Only one thing, Most High-that we have decided what is necessary: every sorcerer who wears the Black Robes must leave the Towers of High Sorcery that stand within our realms.”

Vincil couldn’t hide his dismay. The other wizards muttered. Cathan held his breath, watching them react.

“That would be… difficult to arrange,” Vincil allowed. He looked as if he had just bitten a lemon. “Our absent brothers have trusted us to speak here on their behalf. If we cast them out of the Towers, that would leave them little sanctuary. Only Wayreth would be open to them.”

“Yes,” said the Kingpriest.

Vincil opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. A moment passed before he spoke again. “What you demand is not easy. …”

Cathan felt-close, very close-something not right. He glanced around, but nobody else seemed to sense anything amiss …

No, Leciane’s eyes were wide, too. She looked sideways at her fellow wizards. Cathan followed her eyes, his hand moving slowly to his sword. Something’s about to happen, he thought. One of the wizards is going to try something terrible. Which one? Palado Calib, which one?

A blur of movement gave him his answer. With a shout, Revered Son Suvin whirled, reaching beneath his robes. Suddenly there was a knife in his hand, its blade long and curved.

Cathan turned in the same direction … who had the Revered Son spotted as the traitor? Then, as he watched-as everyone watched in horror-the Patriarch of Seldjuk lunged and shoved the dagger into Beldinas’s chest.

The world stopped. Even the growling storm grew quiet as Suvin jerked the blade free.

Blood came with it-so much blood, reddening the Kingpriest’s snowy robes. Everyone stared, transfixed.

Leciane’s hands rose, grabbing fistfuls of her hair.

“No!” she cried.

The Kingpriest fell to his knees. The holy light that shrouded Beldinas flickered, began to fade.

The cry that came from Lord Cathan’s lips was a howl and a curse all at once, so ragged in its grief that tears flooded Leciane’s eyes. Above the lake thunder bellowed, lightning forking the sky.

“Now!” Suvin cried, flinging the dagger down with a crash. He turned toward Vincil.

“Finish them! Leave no one st-”

Five crossbow bolts hit him at once, spinning him like a child’s toy. At the same moment

Cathan brought his sword around, slamming its blade into the back of the Patriarch’s head. Suvin staggered, drenched in Beldinas’s blood and his own, then slammed down onto the marble-paved ground.

In the deafening silence that followed, all eyes turned to the Kingpriest. His aura dimmed to silvery wisps as his life’s blood ebbed away. He stared with wide eyes at the spreading stain around his wound. The blade had gone through his golden breastplate-an ornament only, its many-colored jewels all turned to red-and deep into him. Pain pinching his face, he began to topple sideways.

Cathan ran to his side, catching him as he fell. Quarath was there too, and the First Son and First Daughter. Cathan eased Beldinas down-then, one by one, turned to glare at Vincil and the other wizards, who huddled together, whispering.

All around, crossbows rose. Swords rasped from their scabbards.

Leciane looked to Vincil, a hollow in her gut. She couldn’t explain what had just happened, but knew the peace was lost.

“Wait,” the highmage pleaded, holding up a hand. “We had nothing to do with this!”

Across the courtyard, crossbow strings thrummed. Death rained down upon the sorcerers.