Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“Enough!” Marto roared. Furious, he shook off both Tithian and Pellidas; a moment later his meaty hand locked around the woman’s arm, and he dragged her toward the mudubo’ s gates.

“You’ve insulted our honor enough, you old hag,” Marto growled as they went. “Not to mention soiling the Lightbringer’s name with your serpent’s tongue. Your sons deserved what they got-and if you’re not on your way back to Jaggana in the morning, you’ll get the same!”

Many of the other knights shouted their support. The tavern’s patrons joined as Marto flung the gates open and shoved the woman out. With a squawk she disappeared, and applause rang out around the courtyard. Marto-smiling now, having avenged the knighthood’s reputation-made his way back to the rest of the Divine Hammer. The other knights welcomed him, thrusting a fresh flagon into his hand and clapping him on the back. Obliging, he climbed back onto the table and resumed his song, bellowing at the top of his voice.

Cathan didn’t join in. He stood quietly, his tunic stained and his eyes dark.

He looked to the gates, waiting for the woman-the grieving mother-to reappear. When she didn’t, he pushed his way across the courtyard and stepped out into the street, but there was no one there.

The rest of the week Cathan divided between training at arms at the Hammerhall and attending court at the Temple. In the evenings, he stayed at the imperial manse, helping Tavarre and Beldinas plan the journey ahead. They would set forth once the High Sorcerers’ new envoy arrived, sailing on the Kingpriest’s golden barge across Lake Istar, then take to chariot and horse, across the grasslands of Midrath to the hilly shores of Seldjuk, and the white-arched walls of Lattakay.

Where Wentha dwelt.

Fifteen years had passed since Cathan last saw his sister. Once, the two of them-all that remained of the MarSevrins of Luciel-had been close. She’d been thirteen when they followed the Lightbringer to Istar, and Cathan had looked after her, finding her a place where she could live among the Revered Daughters of Paladine. Like everyone else, he’d felt certain she would become a priestess. She’d learned all the rituals and could read and write in the church tongue. It was only fitting. Wentha had, after all, been one of the first to feel the Lightbringer’s healing touch. The Kingpriest favored her; one day, she would be a fine First Daughter.

Wentha, however, had other plans. She had always been willful, even as a girl, and while she kept up the appearance of a dutiful acolyte, she stole out of the cloisters at night to meet suitors in the city’s moonlit gardens. Even had she been plain, men would have sought her hand, for the prestige of wedding one of the Kingpriest’s most favored, but Wentha had grown from a scuff-kneed tomboy into a lovely young woman. There was no shortage of young nobles willing to tryst beneath the silverwood trees.

After years of hiding her rendezvous from Cathan, the day drew near when she was to take her vows as a priestess. Instead, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, she announced her plans to marry.

His name was Jarlath. A handsome, devout young man, he was the only son of Lattakay’s wealthiest merchant. Cathan couldn’t have found a better husband for his sister. Even so, it was still a betrayal, and Cathan and Wentha had quarreled bitterly. No matter what he said to her, however, she would not be swayed.

“You have given yourself to the Kingpriest,” she’d said to him. “Your seed will never make an heir to bear the MarSevrin name. I won’t let our father’s blood die with me, too.”

The words had stung Cathan like barbed darts. He had left her and ridden out of the Lord city with a company of knights the next day. He had not seen Wentha since-hadn’t attended her wedding to Jarlath or laid eyes on the two sons she’d had by him. The older boy, Tancred-named for the brother they had lost to the plague-would be eleven now. Or was it twelve? Cathan wasn’t sure. In fifteen years, he had avoided going to Lattakay.

He had nearly gone to her once, for the funeral. Jarlath had died three years ago, lost at sea when his ship, the Treasure of Taol -named for Wentha-sailed into a brutal storm and didn’t return. A widow at thirty, Wentha had sent a message begging Cathan to come, and he had been saddling his horse to go, but at the last moment his heart had failed him. He hadn’t heard a word from her since, though he heard about her sometimes-from Tavarre in particular, who had gone to wedding and funeral both. Refusing to remarry, she had inherited her husband’s wealth, holding it until Tancred came of age. She had become a figure of power in Lattakay. It was enough to make a brother proud-but whenever Cathan thought of her, even today, his face grew dark and troubled.

Now, at last, he was going to see her again. There was no avoiding it. The greatest warriors in the Divine Hammer would all be there, and Beldinas wanted him to go. For some reason the Lightbringer wanted him to reconcile with his sister. That, more than anything, was why he would be on the imperial barge when it sailed past the God’s Eyes onto the lake’s crystal waters.

“It will be all right, Cathan,” Beldinas told him one night in the manse, after Tavarre and Quarath had both left. Within his mantle of silver light, his pale eyes were kind. “She wants to see you again, my friend. Once you’re there, I think you’ll find you want to see her too.”

Cathan smiled at that, dutifully. He would not gainsay the Kingpriest in this or anything else. When he took his leave, however, the smile disappeared. Fifteen years, he thought as he stood among the night-blooming flowers of the Temple’s gardens. Will I even know her any more?

Sighing, shaking his head, he walked away from the manse, back to the shelter of the Hammerhall.

At last, on the seventh day after Cathan’s return, word arrived. It came suddenly, alarming half the court, for the messenger was a pair of disembodied lips that appeared amid the mosaic before the throne. Priests and nobles shrank back as the blue tiles magically parted, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth. Cathan and Tavarre, who had been standing near the head of the room, started toward it with hands on their swords, but stopped at a gesture from the Kingpriest.

“Let it speak,” Beldinas bade calmly.

The lips smiled. “Hear me, lords of Istar,” they hissed. The basilica’s dome, which rang with even the faintest of whispers, could not echo these words. “The envoy awaits you in the Tower. Send the one you have chosen, and do not stray from the path.”

That was all. Clicking softly, the mosaic slid back together, and the mouth vanished.

The courtiers stayed in place, eyeing the floor as though it might try another trick at any moment. A few touched their foreheads to ward off evil. No one since Kurnos the Usurper-not even Marwort-had dared to use sorcery in the Hall of Audience. Was it sacrilege? No one seemed sure.

The Lightbringer, however, was unperturbed. Rising from his throne, he looked down at Cathan. “Go, then, child of the god,” he pronounced. “Paladas tas drifas bisat.”

May Paladine guide thy steps.

The Tower of High Sorcery loomed before Cathan as he made his way through Istar’s streets. Its white walls glittered in the sunlight, its turrets gleaming scarlet. It was beautiful to behold. All the Towers were, or at least all the ones Cathan had seen-he had been to Losarcum and Palanthas, but not to Daltigoth, and hoped he would never lay eyes on the cursed forest of Wayreth. Beautiful or not, the Towers were havens of magic, homes to Black Robes. For that reason alone, Cathan would have been happy if they vanished from the world forever. Better still, if the mages vanished with them.