Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

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.”

The Lordcity of Istar went by many names. Istar the Mighty, Istar the Beautiful, Istar the Holy. It was all of these and more: the greatest city in all of Krynn, outshining such grand metropolises as Palanthas and Xak Tsaroth. A quarter of a million souls dwelt within its soaring, gold-chased walls, spread out over seven hilltops along the northern shore of the shining waters of Lake Istar. It was a city of delicate towers and mighty arches, broad plazas and lush gardens, alabaster domes and gleaming mosaics, fountains and statues of lapis, serpentine, and bloodstone. Its streets, markets, and wine shops teemed with folk from all over the empire-towering natives from the Sadrahka Jungle, stout highlanders from the hills of Taol, slender, graceful Dravinish ladies, all dressed in a riot of colors and making an incessant din of shouting, song, and laughter. Exotic smells-spices and citrus, camphor and jasmine-filled the air, mingling with the music of dulcimers. The sight of Istar from afar had been known to bring even the grimmest warriors to tears.

To Cathan MarSevrin, it was home.

He sat his horse on a hilltop a mile west of the city, his men arrayed behind him. Huge Sir Marto wept at its beauty, as did several others. At Cathan’s side, Tithian gripped his horse’s reins, his eyes wide. Some of the other squires, who had never seen it before, gasped aloud when they crested the hill, but the city’s beauty smote Tithian almost like a physical blow.

Cathan smiled, remembering the first time he had seen the city. It had been twenty years ago and he had come at the head of a conquering army. He had been one of Beldinas’s first followers-before that, the Lightbringer had been Brother Beldyn, a poor monk from the mountains of Kharolis far to the west. He had seen the healing miracles worked by Beldinas and had helped him recover the fabled Miceram, the long-lost Crown of Power that solidified his claim to Istar’s throne. They had come at the head of an army of thousands, and the hierarchs of the church had opened the gates to them, to overthrow the false Kingpriest, Kurnos the Deceiver.