Divine Hammer

CHAPTER 8

Leciane was in the Lordcity for less than a week before she departed again, accompanying the Kingpriest and the rest of his court. That suited her fine-she was glad to leave. Not that Istar wasn’t every bit the wonder she’d heard it was. Its citadels and gardens made mighty Daltigoth seem squalid by comparison. She could have gladly lived the rest of her life within its walls without tiring of it.

The problem was, if it were up to the good folk of Istar, the rest of her life would be decidedly short.

When she first realized the knight His Holiness had sent to her was to be her personal escort, she’d nearly laughed aloud at his paranoia. To think the Lightbringer was so worried she might be a danger that he had assigned a watcher to her … now, she knew different. Sir Cathan kept near her side not for others’ protection but for her own. Even with him present, folk glared at her and made warding signs wherever she went. Witch, they called her, and godless whore. Some even spat, and once, in a crowded marketplace, someone had hurled a rotten persimmon in her face. That worse hadn’t followed was more Sir Cathan’s doing than her own. The knight had been able to talk the people into backing down-just barely. That was good, because she could not defend herself. Using magic against the mob would turn Istarans against all sorcerers, no matter what color robes they wore. With persimmon juice stinging her eyes and dripping from her chin, however, it had taken an effort of will to hold her temper.

After that incident, she’d kept more to the Temple, but while no one there threw fruit, it was no more hospitable. The clerics, from the lowest acolyte to First Son Adsem, all looked nervous or suspicious whenever she was around. Quarath glowered at her practically every moment they were within eyesight of each other. The Divine Hammer were no better. In fact, only three in the Temple ever spoke to her directly: Sir Cathan, Grand Marshal Tavarre, and the Lightbringer himself. The rest tried to avoid her as much as possible.

Things didn’t improve much once they were on the road. The Kingpriest’s entourage were mostly the same priests and knights who had despised her in the Lordcity, and the people of the cities and towns they passed through thought no better of her than anyone else. In Bronze Kautilya they had turned her away from the towering bathhouses, and at one smaller village in the province of Gather she had woken in the middle of the night to find a straw effigy dressed in crimson swinging from a tree near her tent, a noose tight about its neck.

“It’s not even as if I’m a Black Robe,” she protested to Vincil the next night, staring at his image in a jade-framed mirror within the shelter of her tent.

The silvered glass shimmered, sparks dancing across its surface, just as his scrying bowl would be doing, back in his study at Wayreth. She reported to the Highmage every evening, focusing on the mirror until his image appeared. It was easy magic she knew well.

If the pious Istarans saw her doing it, though, she figured the next thing hanging from a noose would be her.

“They’ve truly come to despise everything that isn’t righteous,” she went on. “Just the other day, we passed the ruins of an old chapel. I asked what god it was to, and Sir Cathan said Zivilyn. Zivilyn, the Tree of Life! But they burned down his church because he isn’t their idea of goodness.”

Vincil’s mouth pinched at the corners. “Marwort never said anything to me about this.”

“Marwort never left the Lordcity,” she replied. “Even if he had, I don’t think he’d have mentioned it. He was too much the Kingpriest’s dog.”

“True,” the Highmage admitted. “At least they haven’t done you any harm yet.”

“Yet.”

He closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way, Leciane. All I’m saying is watch yourself. Things are obviously worse than I thought.” He paused, running a hand over his scalp. “If you believe you have no real allies among these people, Leciane … perhaps you should find one. That knight they have nursemaiding you, perhaps.”

Leciane glanced toward the flap of her tent. Sir Cathan would be standing right outside it now, watching for trouble. Later on, when night came, his bedroll would lie in the same place.

“He’s not a friend, Vincil,” she said. “He’s the Twice-Born, the Lightbringer’s man. If the Kingpriest says to put his sword in me, he’ll do it.”

“Then you should make him your friend.”

Leciane scowled, a cold feeling running over her. Cathan spoke to her, yes, but he was still aloof, diffident. There were ways, though. “All right. I’ll consider it,” she said, and sighed. “What about the danger you spoke about? Have you learned any more?”

He shook his head. “Half the Conclave is reading omens, but we’ve found nothing. All we get is the same feeling-something awful is going to happen. Whoever’s behind it, they know how to hide themselves.”

Soon he bade her good night, and the mirror flashed bright as the spell of contact broke.

When the light died again, Leciane stared back at herself from the glass’s depths.

She turned away, her mind whirling. Whatever was going to happen, whatever Vincil’s fears were about, it was going to happen soon. She didn’t need magic to know that. She could feel it in her bones. Most likely, it was waiting for them at the end of their journey in Lattakay. All the more reason to heed Vincil’s words. If she was going to be of any help, she had to have someone she could trust. Surely, there was no harm in that?

She got up from where she’d been kneeling and went to the flap of her tent. She pushed it aside a little, just wide enough to look through. Sure enough, there he was, facing away from her, the hammer burning on his back. She let the flap fall back into place.

The preparations for the spell took time. She had to root through her pouches first, looking for the components-the right ones always seemed to be at the bottom, no matter how carefully she arranged them, and this was a spell she hadn’t cast since … she couldn’t remember. Finally, though, she found what she needed: half a dozen sticks of rosewood incense, a wooden case from which she produced a tiny silver bell, and a needle of ivory inlaid with gold. She lit the first of these, the scent of the incense quickly turning cloying in the closeness of her tent, then palmed the others, turning them over and over in her hand while she read the spell from her book, committing it to memory. That alone took an hour and a half, and she was yawning so her jaw cracked by the time she was ready.

She went to her washbasin and splashed water on her face, then turned toward the flap, her mouth a hard line.

Leciane knew enchantresses who swore by charm spells. Some even used them to find lovers. A man ensorcelled was always willing to come to bed when asked and, more impressively, only when asked. The White Robes frowned upon it, but the other orders-including her own-turned a blind eye. She had tried it once, at the urging of several fellow Red Robes. She’d found the experience distasteful in the extreme, and while the lovemaking was pleasant at the time, she’d felt like a slattern later. That had been years ago, and she could no longer remember the man’s name or his face, which was just as well. She had resisted using charms ever since.

There are times when they’re needed, she told herself. Quit being squeamish.

Again she opened the flap, staring at Sir Cathan’s back. He would never know. Once the spell was lifted, it would vanish from his memory. Carefully, focusing, she rang the bell. It seemed to make no sound, being pitched too high for the human ear. Somewhere nearby, a dog began to bark as she wove her hands through the air.

“Yasanth cai mowato, i shasson gamidr,” she whispered, drawing the power of the red moon to her. “Dolazjatran olo nedrufis.”

There it was, welling up, suffusing her-the sharp-sweet pleasure-pain of a spell ready to break loose. She held it as long as she could, savoring it, but the power would not stay where it was. It needed an outlet, or it would burn her. She reached out a finger, the magic humming, and pointed at Sir Cathan’s neck. With her other hand, she brought the needle up. Biting her lip, she plunged it into her fingertip.

It was the tiniest of wounds. At first, it didn’t even seem to be there. Then, slowly, a dark red bead formed, hanging. She looked at Cathan. All she had to do was prick the back of his neck and press her finger against it so their blood mingled. The magic would do the rest. She positioned the needle, tensing to strike. He would think it a mosquito, maybe a horsefly….

A minute passed. She didn’t move. The drop of blood fell from her finger, staining his collar. Relentless, the magic tried to push free, battered against her mind. There was no more pleasure, not any more. Gods, it hurt-

“No,” she breathed.

Lowering her arm, she let the magic flow … harmlessly, down into the ground.

Sir Cathan shifted his weight, his armor clanking. Catching her breath, she drew back into her tent. The flap closed.

The spell was gone, failed, useless. She felt spent and knew she wouldn’t have the strength to cast it again for some time. Probably she would fail then, too. She couldn’t impose her will on the knight without his knowledge. It felt wrong.

Wrong is for White Robes to worry over. Vincil had told her that once, as they lay together, spent in a different way. Perhaps he was right-the magic should be more important to her than anything, after all-but she just couldn’t do it. Maybe she should have worn the White, after all.

Whatever. She had to lie to Vincil and the Conclave now, tell him she’d cast the spell, that the knight was under her control.

Sucking on her bleeding finger, she turned from the flap and began to put out the incense.

You know you have a spot of dried blood on your tabard?” asked Tavarre.

Cathan craned over his shoulder, though he could not see where the Grand Marshal was pointing. “Yes,” he said. “It happened a week ago, I think-while we were crossing Gather. I don’t know how.”

Shrugging, Tavarre turned to peer ahead. The wet season was on the empire, and while that meant snow in their home of Taol and rains in the heartland, here close to the Seldjuki coast it came as fog. Ripudo, the locals called it: the Mantle. It was pearl-gray and thick, dampening hair and cloth, swirling around their horses’ hooves, making it impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. The Kingpriest’s entourage numbered thirty priests and a hundred knights, but Cathan could only see a few clearly: Marto and Pellidas riding to his left, Tavarre and Tithian to his right, Beldinas and Quarath behind him, and Leciane before. The rest were murky shapes at best, the jingle of their harnesses and the rattle of their mail muffled by the mist.

“We’ll run ourselves up against the city gates before we see aught,” Marto grumbled. “Or else we’ll step off this blasted cliff and fall into the ocean. Right, Pell?”

Beside him, Sir Pellidas gave a solemn nod.

Cathan half-grinned at the big knight’s bluster. Marto had a point. They were close to Lattakay now-the last marker stone they’d passed had proclaimed it a league and a half away-and the road was treacherous here, running along the edge of the high chalk bluffs.

He could hear the thunder of surf far below, but there was nothing to see but gray.

Cathan glanced back at the Kingpriest. Standing astride his golden chariot, Quarath at his side, Beldinas, gazed into the fog as if he could see right through it. Perhaps, with his strange pale eyes, he could. His aura made the mist sparkle around him.

“Holiness,” Cathan ventured, “is there anything you can do?”

The Lightbringer’s gaze flicked to him, and he shook his head. “It will tax my strength, and I shall need it when I get to Lattakay.”

“I can help,” offered Leciane. “There are spells-”

“No,” Cathan said, his voice loud in the fog. “No magic.”

He said it for her protection as much as for any other reason-with so many clerics and knights about, unsure what was around them, the sound of someone chanting spidery words could cause serious trouble-but the glare she shot him was no less annoyed. He flushed, feeling foolish and angry.

“It’ll pass,” Tavarre said. “It’s still early.”

Cathan nodded, feeling a sting as he remembered Damid. The little Seldjuki had often chattered fondly about the fogs around Lattakay. “Even in the middle of winter, the sun burns them off by midday,” he’d said.

Indeed, the fog seemed lighter an hour later, when the entourage came to a halt, the outriders galloping back to report that the city gates lay ahead. Peering through the mist, Cathan could just make out a looming shadow, in the shape of a mighty arch. Poets wrote odes about the arches of Lattakay.

Although he had never seen it, Cathan knew the city called the White Crescent was two-tiered, half standing on the top of the bluffs, and the other half on the beaches and long piers below, with long, sloping paths leading between the two. It hugged the edge of a round bay, a natural harbor with a narrow neck, its square buildings and thick walls hewn of the same pale stone. Decorative arches towered above it, carved with ancient images of men and minotaurs at war. Centuries ago, Lattakay had belonged to the bull-men-Nethosak, they called it then-and the Seldjuki warrior-kings had besieged it for more than a decade before driving them back across the sea. Istar had since conquered Seldjuk, and the only minotaurs who remained within the empire were slaves like the ones working to build up the Hammerhall.

Because of its heritage, Lattakay dwarfed those who dwelt within it, its buildings massive and its avenues wide and spear-straight. Even the mightiest galleys looked like toys beside its looming stone quays. In the midst of the harbor stood an island, home to the grandest structure of all, one that dwarfed even the temple to Paladine the church had built on the edge of the cliffs: the Bilstibo, the city’s arena.

For the minotaurs, gladiatorial games had been as much a religious rite as entertainment, and the Bilstibo gave proof to that. It could have held three of Istar’s arenas within it, vast enough to contain every man, woman in child in the city and still have seats to spare. This was where Wentha would hold the tourney in the Kingpriest’s honor, where the Divine Hammer and other warriors from across the empire would engage in three days of mock battle to determine the realm’s champion. A thrill ran through Cathan at the thought of it.

For now, though, there was nothing to see but the arched gates. They were opening now, and several figures emerged, like gray ghosts in the fog.

There were ten in all, seven men and three women. One of the men wore the silver robes of a cleric of Paladine, a plumed circlet on his head: Suvin, the provincial Patriarch. The other men dressed in traditional Seldjuki garb: bare chests crossed by wide sashes, flowing silken trousers, and beads that rattled in their hair and long moustaches. They were short and olive-skinned, the young ones lean and hard, the elders showing off broad bellies. The women, meanwhile, wore sleeveless gowns and dozens of silver bracelets, their foreheads painted to show their status: a green circle for unwed maids, a red cross for married women, a blue X for widows-Cathan sucked in a breath. There was one he recognized in this group … a widow a head taller than the rest, with golden hair.

He hadn’t seen Wentha for half her life. She had changed-the softness of youth was gone, leaving hard edges behind. There were lines around her mouth, and she had cropped her glorious hair short, a sign that she did not mean to remarry, but in her eyes, still, Cathan saw his sister, the girl she had been.

He wondered what she should see in his.

“Sa, Pilofiro, ” said Revered Son Suvin, signing the triangle. Hail, Lightbringer. “We are honored to welcome thee to our city.”

Heads turned to the Kingpriest as he descended from his chariot, a beacon in the fog.

He strode forward, stopping before the Patriarch, and signed the triangle in return.

“The honor is mine, Your Worship,” he said, and bent forward to touch his lips to Suvin’s.

“There is one among you who ails,” Beldinas said. “Let her come forward and be made whole again.”

This was a new ritual, one that had arisen since the Lightbringer’s ascent to the throne.

Over the years, Beldinas had visited every city in the empire, to spread his healing touch among the people. After the first year, they had taken to greeting him at the gates with a single person touched by sickness or injury, who stood for all those who yearned to feel his gentle hands upon them. The woman who stepped forward-a girl, a green circle on her face-was clearly ill. Her skin was the color of whey, stretched taut over her bones. Her hands shook, and a young man had to hold her arm as she shuffled forward. She looked up at Beldinas with pain-dulled eyes, but there was something else in them, a fragile hope that put an ache in Cathan’s breast.

“H-Holiness,” she gasped. “I am n-not worthy of-of thy grace.”

Beldinas smiled kindly. “All are worthy, child, if they are righteous in their hearts. Do you forsake the darkness that hides among us?”

She nodded. “I d-do, blessed one.”

“Then kneel, usas farno.”

Cathan had seen the ritual many times, but he still held his breath as the girl let her escort ease her down onto the stony ground. Whatever wasting disease she had, it was nearly done with her. Another week, at most, and she would be dead. Still, she managed to smile as she bowed her head before the Kingpriest. Beldinas’s right hand reached out, touching the crown of her head. His left went to his throat, pulling out his sacred medallion, the platinum triangle of the god. The silence was even heavier than the fog as he closed his eyes and began to pray.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis mibam cailud, e tas orarn nomass lud bipum. Sifat. ”

Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this girl, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.

The light began as a flicker, a wisp of silver flame where his hand touched her. It grew quickly, however, brighter with every heartbeat until in enveloped them both. With it came a sound, a sweet, pure tone like a dulcimer with crystal strings, and the scent of rose attar amid the damp. The men and women-both the Lattakayans and the Kingpriest’s entourage-first stared in wonder, then had to look away, unable to bear the brilliance of the glow. Cathan’s eyes met Wentha’s, and darted away. He remembered a night, twenty years ago, when that same light had enfolded her, changing his life forever.

“Blossom,” he murmured, weeping.

The light flickered, then, and grew dim. Wiping away his tears, Cathan turned to look, though he already knew what he would see: the same girl, still weak but whole again, color back in her cheeks, the pain smoothed from her face. Eyes closed, she sank back. Her companion caught her gently, easing her down. At the same time, Beldinas also staggered, his strength depleted by the miracle-strength he would regain in moments, but now his knees buckled.

Cathan took a step toward him-in the old days, he had been the one to bear the Lightbringer up, more often than not-but Quarath was quicker. The elf put a slender arm about the Kingpriest’s shoulders, helping him walk back to his chariot.

With the fog eddying around them, they rode into Lattakay.

The tiny, winged form clung to the rocks, its talons sunk into the cracks. Its fanged face leered as it watched the columns of knights and priests pass through the arched, chalcedony gates. With its preternatural eyes, it saw through the fog easily, yet those it spied on could not see it. Its tail twitched back and forth, dripping venom.

For a moment, the desire to bite, to kill, to feed, nearly overwhelmed the quasito. It saw itself falling upon those below, tearing flesh, gnawing through tendons, sucking the marrow from broken bones. This was what it wanted to do, the thirst that had burned within it since it first drew breath.

It tensed, wings spreading, ready to spring …

Then stopped. The master had promised it blood, but only at the right time. If it attacked before then, the master’s fury would be great. Even more than it wanted to feed, the quasito wanted to please the master. It was here to spy only, and to return when the men in metal skin arrived at the white city. Now they were here.

Hissing as the last of them passed through the gates, the quasito leaped from the rock and soared away through the mist.