They sat together, talking, long into the night.
The imperial summons was waiting for Cathan the next day when he returned from seeing Wentha and her children off at the harbor. His heart leaping to his throat, he left the Hammerhall immediately, making his way through the crowded streets to the Great Temple. Beldinas was in his manse, sitting on the balcony that overlooked the steaming gardens. It had rained early that morning, and the sun was doing its best to dry up the moisture. Quarath accompanied him, his face pinched with disdain as Cathan bowed before the Kingpriest.
The Lightbringer had recovered from his near-death experience, the light of his aura shining bright again. Cathan knew enough about Beldinas’s healing powers to understand that he wouldn’t even bear a scar where the dagger had pierced his breast. His eyes, however, were not the same as they had been before. Cathan could see the fear in them even now.
“Things have gone too far,” the Kingpriest said flatly. “The sorcerers must pay for what they did-both here and in Lattakay.”
This is a test, Cathan thought, glancing from the Lightbringer to Quarath. They want me to prove my faith.
He touched Ebonbane’s hilt. “If Your Holiness demands war, we shall have war,” he declared. “Is it certain sorcery is to blame?”
“We found Revered Son Suvin’s body two days ago,” Quarath replied, “beneath a pier at the wharf. The thing that attacked His Holiness was some kind of magical double. The wizards clearly conjured it as part of a trap-just as they conjured the quasitas for their lackey Andras to slaughter your men.”
“There will be war,” Beldinas insisted. “The people of Istar will no longer suffer the evils of sorcery within our realm. Nor will Ergoth and Solamnia.”
Cathan nodded, picturing Duke Serl and Lord Yarns. The two had left the Lordcity the day before, setting sail across Lake Istar after the funerals. Both their faces had been set with grim determination as they stepped aboard their ships.
The Kingpriest continued. “We have reached an agreement-the first such, between our three nations. The Towers of High Sorcery must fall.”
Cathan couldn’t help his reaction. His mouth fell open.
“We mean to besiege them,” Quarath said, smiling a tight, wolfish smile. “If they do not surrender before Spring Dawning, we attack.”
Madness was the word that flashed through Cathan’s mind. He glanced east, toward the bloody-fingered spire that loomed over the Lordcity. “What about the haunted groves?” he asked. “If we try to storm the Towers, they’ll turn us back. I know-I’ve felt it myself.”
“Uso dolit,” Beldinas replied simply.
The god will provide.
It was no kind of answer. Cathan bowed his head, feeling older than his years.
“What is my part of this to be, sire?”
Within the light, Beldinas smiled. “At the fore, as always, my friend. You and your men shall ride out tomorrow to Losarcum.”
“Losarcum?” Cathan repeated, shocked. He had expected the Kingpriest would name him to assail the Lordcity’s own Tower. Quarath grinned again, and he understood. With him far to the south, the elf would lead the main action here.
Beldinas nodded patiently. “Just so. It will be the first attack. The sorcerers expect us to act here first, or perhaps Palanthas or Daltigoth. They will be least prepared at Losarcum. If we win there, they may surrender without another fight. If not, we will continue, one Tower at a time, until they do.”
It was a fair strategy, Cathan had to admit. If Serl and Yarns had agreed to it, it might work. It still felt like exile, though-but how could he decline?
“Very well, Holiness,” he said, kneeling. “I will go to Losarcum. I pray, though, that this may yet end without more bloodshed.”
“As do we all, Grand Marshal,” Quarath said curtly.
Beldinas raised his hand, signing the holy triangle “Palado tas drifas bisat, my friend,” he intoned. Paladine guide thy steps. “I will see you again when this is all over.”
It was a brisk dismissal. Cathan had hoped to speak with the Kingpriest alone, to express his dissent without Quarath present. Now, looking at the new caution that lurked in Beldinas’s eyes, he knew that would not be allowed. Dutifully, he signed the triangle, bowed, and left the balcony, bound for the Hammerhall.
CHAPTER 24
Thirdmonth, 943 I.A.
Motes of golden light flashed around Vincil’s body, spinning in lazy circles about his bier. His smooth forehead, free of the cares that had troubled him, was painted with the All-Seeing Eye of the three moons-black over red over white. His crimson robes were clean of the blood that had soaked them. He seemed to have passed away in his sleep, peacefully.
Leciane could still hear the last rattle of his breath. She had loved him, in the end. It might not have lasted-it hadn’t lasted before-but she had loved him.
Lady Jorelia-Highmage Jorelia, now-raised her hands. She was a stately woman, taller than most men and willow-thin, her long, silver hair gathered in a braid that reached down to the small of her back. Her black eyes glistened as she wove the magic about Vincil’s body. It was her duty, as the Conclave’s new leader, to bid the final farewell to her predecessor. Leciane saw in her age-lined face that she had loved Vincil too-as a friend, and as a teacher. She was close on ninety summers and had given Vincil his Test before Leciane was born.
“We bid thee farewell, Most High,” Jorelia declared. “Rest now among the moons, and let your spirit sing on in the magic we work.”
“Let it sing,” replied Leciane, along with the rest of the wizards who had gathered in the Hall of Mages. The masters of the other Towers had come to Wayreth as well, and powerful sorcerers from all across Ansalon. Nearly a hundred elves and dwarves, men and women-even a few minotaurs-filled the great room. They stood divided by the colors of their robes, eyeing one another suspiciously.
The three orders seldom agreed on anything and had acted in concert only once before, to craft the Orbs of Dragonkind, which men had used to stave off the Queen of Darkness’s legions during the great wars. That had been a thousand years ago. Watching the distrust in their faces as they eyed one another, Leciane twisted her hands. Other wheels were turning today, besides Vincil’s funeral. What followed, however it played, would shape the fate of magic for a long time to come.
The golden motes spun faster, rose higher. Now they formed a maelstrom that nearly hid Vincil’s body from sight. The sound of howling wind rose, though nothing so much as ruffled the sorcerers’ cloaks. The Art, ever-present in this enchanted place, crackled in the air. Leciane reached out, adding her power to Jorelia’s, pouring herself into the magic-sweetened air. All around her, the other wizards did the same. When the climax of the spell came, it made more than a few of them cry out. Leciane bit her tongue as the magic suddenly jerked at her, the the warmth of blood flooding her mouth when she felt it burst free. The golden maelstrom flared as bright as sunshine, burning into her eyes and through her heart.
Good-bye, love, she thought. Perhaps, if there is life after this, we will meet again.
With a high, keening sound the maelstrom shattered, flinging golden motes in all directions. They rained down amongst the mages, trailing glittering dust as they fell.
Leciane felt a stab of pain to see Vincil’s body had disappeared, in its place a crimson haze, as of Lunitari’s glow on a foggy night. Slowly, the haze flickered and faded away. The blaze of the spell vanished with it.
Silence hung in the shadowy hall. Not all had known Vincil, but it was always a grievous thing when a highmage died. At least this time, there had been no squabbling over who would take his place. Neither Sheidow, the new head of the Black Robes, nor Karani, who had taken over the Red, had bothered to challenge Lady Jorelia. All eyes turned to the aged White Robe, awaiting her words.