He could think of no answer.
The Lordcity was quiet that night, its plazas empty and its gates sealed. Scores of knights and Scatas walked the boulevards, their boots rapping a steady cadence on the marble-paved streets. There was a curfew in place. Those who went out into Istar’s streets at such times only asked for trouble. Defying the Church was a risky business at the best of times, but when the Kingpriest had nearly fallen to an assassin, the best one could hope for was arrest and imprisonment in the city jail. The worst was the kiss of a crossbow bolt.
Draconian as such measures were, they were better than the alternative. Istaran history was filled with stories of rioting in troubled times. At the outset of the Three Thrones’ War, half the city had burned before order could be restored. That had been a hundred years ago, but folk still spoke of it as if it had happened last summer. Of all the forces in Istar-the Church, the knighthood, the armies, even the High Sorcerers-none was more powerful than the mob.
Cathan walked the streets alone, his thoughts darting about like the hummingbirds in the Great Temple’s gardens.
As he walked, his eyes strayed again and again to the Temple, the basilica dome shining mourning-blue in the city’s heart. The First Son and First Daughter were dead. A shudder ran through him at how close things had come for Beldinas. The bloody-fingered Tower stood silent, showing no sign that the sorcerers grieved as well. But grieve they did, surely.
The word was that the highmage was dead, killed in the battle by the Eusymmeas.
Cathan stopped, stiffening. He had just left a courtyard where silver and lapis dragon-statues fought among blossoming cherry trees, and was starting down an avenue where the mudubas were thick on both sides of the road. Robbed of business by the curfew, the wine shops stood quiet, lamps doused and gates locked-all except one. Down the way, light blazed from one of the taverns. Shouts and laughter rang out, echoing weirdly among the walls and pillars. A scowl found its way onto Cathan’s face. What fool would open his wine shop on a night like this? It was asking for trouble. Unless …
He heard the booming voice, though he couldn’t make out the words-only the proud, boastful tone and the answering shouts and laughter. Sighing, he shook his head. Of course, Marto. Angrily, he strode down the street and flung open the wine shop’s gates.
It was the Mirrorgarden, where the old woman had cursed him after Tithian’s dubbing.
There were around a dozen knights there now, perched on benches with wine cups in their hands, their attention turned to the towering Karthayan standing on the table. The tavern keeper shot Cathan a look as he came in, a mix of apology, guilt, and pleading. Cathan waved him off as he started forward.
The knights’ laughter faltered and died as they saw him. Though most were off duty, he marked a couple who should have been on patrol. There would be reprimands later. For now, though, his attention fell full on Marto, who looked back with the red face and bleary eyes of a man who has crawled too deep into his cups.
“What are you doing here?” Cathan demanded.
Marto blinked, looking around as if to make sure he was the one being addressed.
“Celebrating, milord. What else?”
“Celebrating?” Cathan repeated. “Marto, the Kingpriest nearly died today. Adsem and Farenne did die … and others, too, your brothers in arms among them.”
“So did wizards,” Marto shot back, his chest puffing with pride. “We taught the treacherous bastards a lesson today, milord, and sent that highmage of their howling to the Abyss besides. Lost my favorite axe doing it, too.”
A few of the knights chuckled at that. Cathan’s scowl deepened. “It will be war now, Marto. Many will die.”
“Holy war,” Marto shot back. “Fighting evil in the Lightbringer’s name. It’s what we’re for, milord. We are the Hammer-about time we struck a proper blow.”
A murmer of agreement escaped the other knights. They were behind Marto, and not just because of the wine, either. The big knight had a point. Beldinas had formed the knighthood to smite darkness. Another time, Cathan would have rejoiced with his comrades. Today, though, he’d felt the god’s power and hadn’t been able to tell the difference from Leciane’s magic. Nothing seemed as clear now as it once had-or as it still did to Marto and his cronies.
They were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak. If he showed weakness in front of them, he would lose them. Perhaps he already had. Marto was the hero now, the one who had avenged the knights’ honor when he struck the highmage down.
“Go back to the Hammerhall,” he said. “All of you. You’ll get to strike your blow soon enough.”
You, not we. They all heard it. The knights exchanged glances, then set down their cups and rose, filing past him as they left. Marto went last of all, his eyes glinting. He slammed the mudubo’s silver gates behind him.
Cathan stood quietly in the courtyard, drinking the wine his men had left behind.
Things would get worse before they got better, he knew. But would they get better? He bowed his head. He didn’t know.
CHAPTER 23
Andras laughed to himself as he strode toward Fistandantilus’s laboratory. He had done it. The church was shattered, the Kingpriest and highmage both slain. As for the Divine Hammer-well, if war with the Order of High Sorcery didn’t destroy the knighthood utterly, they could be finished off later.
The Accursed were quiet as he passed their cages. Beyond, the laboratory door stood ajar. That was odd. In all his time serving the Dark One, it had always been closed. His grin faltered, his forehead creasing as he reached for the handle. The creak of the hinges seemed unusually loud.
“Master?” he asked, peering inside. Then he stopped, his eyes widening. The laboratory was empty.
Everything was gone: the tables, the glasswork, the herbs and viscera, the thousands upon thousands of books-even the candleholders that had been bolted to the walls were missing. Nothing remained but bare rock, here stained black with soot, there rusty with dried blood. A chill settled over him as he stared about the chamber.
“M-master?” he repeated, his voice very small.
He was trapped. There was no way out of this place but magic, and he didn’t know how to teleport. Without the Dark One’s spellbooks, he could never hope to learn.
He waved his magical light deeper into the room. It hesitated, as if afraid-ridiculous-then glided slowly through the derelict laboratory, to the passage beyond. He couldn’t say how, but he sensed something there, deep in the Pit of Summoning. He passed through the door-also ajar, its warding glyphs inert-and down the twisting tunnel, the magical light quivering ahead of him. It was afraid. So was he, but still he went, compelled.
Then he saw the Pit’s ruddy glow, flickering along the last length of the passage. He could hear the water bubbling. When he reached the cave where the enchanted pool lay, he saw that it was boiling, Abyssal light bathing the walls. He stared, shocked by the sight of it. Someone had begun a summoning spell.
He knew it was foolish of him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He entered the room.
Warmth radiated from the pool, perspiration beaded on his brow. Trembling, he looked inside, half-expecting to see the childlike quasitas swimming within. Yet there was nothing-only water and the horrible glow. The spell at work was incomplete.
He frowned, puzzled.
Without warning, the room grew wintry cold, freezing the drops of sweat on Andras’s skin. He stiffened, knowing that chill, then slowly turned. There, standing in the entrance of the cave, was Fistandantilus. The Dark One gave no greeting, and his black hood kept his face in shadow as always, but Andras could tell the Dark One was angry. The air around him seemed to glitter with rage.