Divine Hammer

CHAPTER 3

Twelfthmonth, 942 I.A.

There were five Towers of High Sorcery in the world, each of them old beyond telling and alive with the power of the moons above. Four stood within the cities of mortal men, constant reminders of magic’s might. They loomed over Daltigoth, the Capitol of Ergoth, and Palanthas, the greatest city in the knightly realm of Solamnia. Istar, for its part, had two-one in the Lordcity itself, and one in Losarcum, the fabled Stone City, which had been the heart of the kingdom of Dravinaar before war and annexation made that proud realm into the Holy Empire’s two southernmost provinces.

Mages of all robes-the White of good, the Red of neutrality, and even the hated Black-dwelt within the Towers studying and teaching magic, united by their love for their Art.

Each held artifacts and lore of inestimable value, as well as vast laboratories where the most learned wizards toiled to discover new uses for the magic. Those few common folk who had been inside the Towers spoke of countless wonders: demons imprisoned in shards of crystal, hallways and rooms that changed size and shape without warning, windows through which one could gaze out upon lands hundreds of leagues away. Statues got up and moved when no one was looking, and flashes of light and eerie sounds came from nearly every door or window. Even in Daltigoth, where they tolerated magic, folk gave wide berth to the Tower, and to the surrounding grove of enchanted pine trees. In the other cities, where people viewed magic and its practitioners with suspicion, they gave the lofty spires dark glances, signing the triangle or Jolith’s horns or the twin teardrops of Mishakal against whatever evils lurked within.

Of all the Towers, however, the greatest was the one folk didn’t see. It stood not in any city, but deep, deep in Wayreth Forest, an eldritch wood in the north of Kharolis. The forest appeared on few maps, for it tended to move, bordering the fabled elf realm of Qualinesti one day, tucked among the hills near the city of Xak Tsaroth the next. Such was Wayreth’s curious power that none saw the Tower except those the mages wished to see it. From everyone else, the Tower hid.

It was a strange-looking structure of a style seen nowhere else on Krynn. Surrounded by triangular walls, it consisted of a pair of obsidian cones, raised from the earth’s bones by forces of forgotten power. Narrow slits of windows broke up its black, gleaming surface. It had no battlements, no turrets. Hidden by the forest and protected by the power of sorcery, it had no need of mortal sentries. Within dwelt the mightiest wizards in an Ansalon: men and women whose power in the Art knew no equal. Even Fistandantilus the Old, the legendary archmage called the Dark One by his fellow Black Robes, kept apartments at the Tower, though-to general relief none had seen him there in centuries. There was no place in all of Krynn more alive with magic.

Leciane do Cirica stared up at the two towers, reaching up toward the stars like the claws of the great dragons that once had filled Ansalon’s skies. Solinari, round and bright, made the northern tower gleam with silver light. Lunitari, also full, made the southern one seem dipped in blood. Nuitari was up there somewhere too, Leciane knew, but she could not see it. She was no Black Robe, but rather wore the Red of those who walked the path between light and shadow.

The night wind gusted, cold enough to make her shiver. Around the Tower the forest remained green, but the tang of winter was in the air. It blew back her hood, momentarily uncovering a dusky face that had been breathtakingly beautiful when she was a girl. Even now, with her fortieth year behind her, she made most women half her age seem plain. The lines around her eyes and mouth, the threads of silver that crept through her long black curls, only accentuated her loveliness. Her green eyes sparkled with equal parts amusement and annoyance as she grabbed for her hood and pulled it down over her face again.

She had been at Losarcum’s Tower when the summons found her. She had residences both there and at Daltigoth, where she had taken the Test to become a full-blooded wizard.

The message had come not as words written on parchment or vellum but rather as a pair of disembodied lips, which had appeared before her and bidden her come at once to Wayreth.

She had obeyed, and now she was here, the mouth still floating in the air beside her. It was hard to tell but she thought it had a smug look to it.

“Well?” she asked. “No one to meet us?”

The pointed tip of a tongue poked out, running over the ruby lips. “Be patient,” the mouth said. “The Conclave are in discussion now. They will call you soon.”

She scowled. The Conclave, the rulers of High Sorcery, consisted of the orders’ strongest wizards, its most influential. A powerful sorceress in her own right, Leciane hoped one day to ascend to their ranks. For now, though, she was as bound to do their bidding as any neophyte fresh from his Test. Still, that didn’t keep her from glowering at the twin spires.

She’d spent a great deal of energy getting here, using the Art to speed her travel. Now, to be kept waiting…

The mouth twitched, then curled into a grin full of pointed teeth. At the same time, the air around Leciane shivered, shimmered with silver sparks. They fell upon her, cold where they touched her dark skin. She didn’t flinch at them, or at the sinking in her stomach as the spell took hold. This wasn’t the first time someone had cast a teleportation spell on her.

“Go, then;” said the magical lips, still smiling. “The Conclave welcomes you, Your Excellency.”

Excellency? Leciane thought, glancing at the lips. The lips chuckled, then disappeared.

With a silver flash and a shimmer of noise, so did she.

*****

The Hall of Mages was a vast, dark chamber in the heart of the South Tower, its full dimensions lost amid shadows. No lamps or candles lit it; only a dim, blue-white glimmer in its midst. Darkness hid its walls, ceiling, and much of the floor. Neither did the hall have any doors. The only way in was by magic, and powerful wards kept out all but the Conclave and those they allowed to enter. Once, an ambitious Black Robe had tried to force his way past those wards. Sometimes, it was said, the echo of his howls could still be heard through the Tower’s halls.

In the room’s midst, at the edges of the pool of light, a half-circle of chairs stood atop a raised platform. There were twenty one in all-seven each for the followers of the three moons. Wizards sat in each of them, clad in hooded robes, their faces drenched in shadow.

On the left, seven dressed in the White of Solinari-two of them elves from ancient Silvanesti, the rest human. On the right, an equal number of Black Robes, serving Nuitari, among them a gray-bearded Daergar dwarf. Between the two groups were seven of Lunitari’s Red Robes, all of them human. In their midst, the only one among the Conclave who did not wear a hood, sat Highmage Vincil, the leader of all Krynn’s sorcerers.

He was an Ergothian of more than sixty summers, his skin as dark as polished mahogany. His head was smooth-shaven, save for a white ponytail at the back, and his beard was long and shovel-shaped. He steepled his fingers, saying nothing as he gazed down from his seat. His gray eyes might been hewn of granite.

Leciane stood before him, unafraid. She had known Vincil before he became highmage, even before the Red Robes had invited him to join their delegation on the Conclave. She had been his apprentice, both before and after her Test. She had also been his lover. All that was in the past, ten years and more, but they had remained friends since.

She raised her eyebrows, arms folded across her chest.

“What do you mean, ‘excellency’?”

The archmages glanced at one another, stirring slightly. She looked to either side.

Neither the Black Robes nor the White seemed happy. Ysarl, the most-powerful of the evil mages-Fistandantilus did not serve on the Conclave, fortunately-let out a snort, his wizened features contorting. Jorelia, on the side of good, shot the aged Black Robe an imperious look.

Vincil ignored them, his gaze never leaving Leciane. “Marwort is dead,” he said.

Leciane knew she should have felt sadness at that news, but she did not. Indeed, if anything, she felt relief. Marwort the Illustrious had been a sore spot among the three orders. A White Robe of no small power, he had served in the imperial court of Istar for some forty years. At first; he had proved a capable emissary, but as the years passed he had come to side more and more with the Kingpriest against the wishes of the Conclave-particularly since the empire’s current ruler, the one they called Lightbringer, took the throne. Given the Lightbringer’s rejection of the Doctrine of Balance and his quest to destroy all evil in the world, the Black Robes understandably had come to loathe Marwort.

The Red Robes had been no more comfortable, for the place of those who followed the neutral path was uncertain in Istar these days. Even many who wore the White had been disenchanted with Marwort, a creature they could not control. When a Conclave appointed an ambassador, though, it was for life, so the archmages had had little choice but to wait for Marwort to die-something he had stubbornly refused to do. Until now.

It had been quick, Vincil said. A blood vessel in his brain had burst while he slept. That made it clear the Black Robes hadn’t finally carried out their threats to have Marwort killed. They would not have made it so painless-not when the regime he’d supported made a point of burning every dark-robed mage it could find. The White Robes had claimed his body, entombed it beneath the Tower in the Lordcity, not far from the Temple where he had served for so long. The Conclave, meanwhile, had convened to begin the important step of naming a replacement.

Leciane smiled, imagining what those “discussions” must have been like. Each order wanted the new ambassador to be one of their own: the Black Robes as an act of defiance, the White Robes for amelioration, and the Red as, perhaps, a bit of both. In the end, the White Robes would not accept a Black Robe ambassador to the Great Temple of Paladine, and the Black would not allow another White to take Marwort’s place, so Red was the compromise. Nobody was happy, to be certain-Ysarl’s grumbling and Jorelia’s glare made that much clear-but it was the only course that wouldn’t crack the orders’ tenuous solidarity.

“And so, Leciane,” Vincil concluded, “I have called you here. All know you are trustworthy and devoted to the Art. All know you will speak on the orders’ behalf, even if it makes those around you unhappy. After much discussion we have chosen you to represent us at the Kingpriest’s court.”

Leciane’s breast swelled. She did her best to hide her joy, but she could tell by the way the corners of Vinci1’s mouth twitched that he had spotted the gleam of pride in her eyes.

“I am honored, Most High,” she murmured. “I would think you might choose one of greater years, however. I am younger even than Marwort was when he first went to Istar. If I should prove a poor choice, you’ll be stuck with me there for quite a while.”

Ysarl of the Black chuckled at that, and Leciane shivered. She didn’t miss his meaning.

The dark mages would not suffer another displeasing envoy for long. If she crossed them, it wouldn’t be long before she found a viper in her bed or poison in her goblet. It had happened before, and only Vincil’s iron hand had kept them from doing the same to Marwort these past few years.

“We know you, Leciane,” Vincil repeated. “You have always been loyal. We trust you shall continue to be so, whatever may come. Do you accept this honor?”

They were all looking at her, all twenty-one of them, their eyes heavy with portent.

Leciane stood erect beneath their heavy gaze, and for a mischievous moment considered saying no. It might be worth it, for the look on their faces. In the end, though, they knew she would accept. With solemn grace, she lowered herself to one knee before the Conclave, her long hair spilling forward as she bowed her head.

“I consent,” she murmured. “Beneath the three moons, I swear I will do thy will.”

After, when the ritual was done-when the heads of the three orders had each extracted an oath of service from her and smeared her forehead with white ashes, red blood, and black soot-she went to Vincil’s study atop the North Tower and kissed him hard on the mouth when he opened the door.

That surprised him, his eyes showing round and white when she was done. She laughed, striding into the room.

The Highmage’s study was a wonder to behold, so filled with magic that the air all but sizzled. It raised the fine hairs on Leciane’s arms as she looked about the room. It was a comfortable place, tastefully appointed in Ergothian style, all dark wood panels and stone-tiled floors, padded armchairs and couches. Enchanted glass globes hung from the ceiling in silken nets, aglow with golden light; bookshelves lined the walls, groaning under the weight of thousands of tomes, scrolls and wax tablets. Unlike some mages, Vincil didn’t fill his study with gewgaws-there were no gaudy displays of magical jewels and wands here-but there were some interesting things: A blackwood staff tipped with a star sapphire leaned in the corner, and a jade orb stood on a pedestal, limned with green fire.

A wide lapis bowl filled with water sat on a table in the room’s midst. Seeing it, Leciane smiled. In her days as his apprentice, she’d often helped Vincil with scrying spells that let him see things happening a thousand leagues away. She walked over and dipped her fingers in it, rippling its still surface, then pulled them out, sucked them dry, and grinned at the Highmage “Nepotist,” she said.

He chuckled dryly. “Hardly. We’re not related.”

“And a good thing,” she said, laughing again as his dusky face grew darker still. “You know what I mean, though you need a new envoy, and you recommended me? I’m surprised the others didn’t call you worse.”

“They did,” Vincil said. He shrugged. “They know you too, though, Leciane. They know you’ll do what we ask of you, whatever the risk.”

Leciane had turned to admire a model of a sailing ship on a sideboard-a model enchanted so that its sails rippled as if under full wind, and tiny, illusionary sailors scrambled about its deck and rigging. Now she frowned over her shoulder at the Highmage.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Vincil didn’t answer right away; instead, he motioned for her to follow, out onto a balcony that looked down upon the Tower’s grounds. Below, Wayreth’s forest stretched out on all sides, red-silver beneath the moons’ glow. Strange cries and growls rose from the wood, and a pair of winged wildcats skimmed low over the hissing leaves, either fighting or mating. The air was crisp, smelling faintly of musk. Vincil leaned against a railing of twined gold and iron, gazing over the mages’ enchanted realm. Leciane watched him, waiting for him to speak.

“Something is wrong,” he said, sighing. “I don’t know what, but there is a new danger in Istar. The others have felt it too. The Black Robes say it’s this Kingpriest, this Lightbringer, but…” He stopped, staring at his hands.

Leciane laid a hand on his shoulder, “You think it’s something else?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. His brow wrinkled with frustration as he looked out over the treetops. “I’ve tried and tried to divine what it is, but it is hidden from my powers. Still, I can sense it out there.”

She bit her lip. “This danger,” she murmured. “You think it threatens the order?”

Silently, he turned. Their eyes met, and Leciane’s insides tightened at what she saw.

She tried to remember a time when she’d seen Vincil frightened before. She couldn’t.

Shuddering, she bowed her head.

“All right,” she said. There was steel in her gaze when she looked up again. “Tell me what I must do.”