Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Cathan looked at her in surprise. “You never told me any of that.”

“Mages vanish all the time,” she replied. “These days, it’s usually because your lot get to them. I never thought of him in connection with these events.”

A pair of gray-robed acolytes emerged from the temple carrying a blanket stretched between two poles. At the Kingpriest’s direction, the knights lifted Andras onto the litter, then bore him into the temple, through the vestibule and on down a carved white hallway to the cloisters.

Quarath awaited them there, before the open door of a monk’s room. In his hands he held two pairs of iron shackles, etched with warding glyphs and inlaid with silver. There was also a mask, made to clamp over a man’s jaw. Cathan recognized the Coi Tasabo, the Heathen’s Jaw. It kept a man from speaking heresies-or the incantations of spells. He had used it a few times himself on high priests and wizards he took captive.

The knights set Andras on the cot within the cell, and Cathan buckled the Jaw onto the wizard’s face himself, while the other men shackled him. Leciane frowned, but said nothing. Finally, with Andras properly bound, the priests and knights backed away and the Lightbringer came forward.

“Holiness,” whispered Quarath. “You ought not-”

Beldinas silenced the elf with a look, then turned to Cathan. “Take your sword by the hilt. When I say so, pull it from his body.”

Nodding, Cathan did as the Kingpriest commanded. Once the blade was out, the sorcerer would swiftly bleed to death. Wrapping his fingers around the Ebonbane’s hilt, he braced his foot against the wall and watched as Beldinas knelt. Clutching his holy medallion, the Kingpriest signed the triangle in the air and murmured to himself. Quarath chased the acolytes and the other knights from the room. When he tried to shoo away Leciane, however, she stopped him with a look.

“Now, Cathan,” said Beldinas.

With an awful scrape, Ebonbane came free. Bright blood sprayed from the wound, soaking the pallet and the Kingpriest’s robes. Beldinas didn’t flinch. Instead, he pressed his free hand against the dying wizard’s chest and spoke the prayer of healing.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro …”

When the holy light shone, it blazed so bright that it filled the room. Everyone-save Beldinas-turned away, shielding their eyes. The cell’s cool air grew warm, as if from a spring breeze, and invisible chimes rang, bringing with them the scent of wildflowers. The blazing light seemed eternal, though it surely lasted no more than half a minute. When it finally faded, Cathan rubbed his eyes, then turned to look at the Black Robe.

The wound was gone, and with it the blood he had shed-but not just that. Andras’s left hand, which had been missing a finger, was whole once more. And, also-

“Merciful Lunitari,” Leciane breathed. “His face.”

It had been a ruin, half-covered in pink, shiny scars where fire had seared it. Now all that was gone, replaced by the visage of handsome young man. Blond locks spilled over both ears, and the lines around his mouth were smooth.

The nimbus surrounding Beldinas flared brighter. He slumped into Quarath’s arms. As he did, the Black Robe stirred where he lay, his eyelids fluttering open.

For a moment, Andras blinked in confusion. Then understanding and despair dawned.

He saw Leciane, then Cathan … and finally, the Lightbringer.

“Nnnng,” he groaned, straining against the Tasabo. His hands came up, clutching toward Beldinas-and stopped in front of his eyes. His groan became a wail as he beheld the finger that had grown back, then rose into a keening shriek as he touched his own face and found it fresh and unscarred.

Cathan stared, amazed. He had often seen people weep with joy after the Lightbringer healed them, but he had never seen them cry in anguish. Andras sobbed uncontrollably-then, weakening, he slumped and fell into sleep.

It was Beldinas who broke the uncomfortable silence, grunting as Quarath helped him to his feet.

“How terrible it must be, to be a slave to darkness for so long, only to behold the god’s light at the end,” he said. “We will wait until your men return, Cathan. Then this Andras shall pay the price for the evil he has wrought-and in the place where it happened.”

Cathan started, looking at the Kingpriest. “You mean-”

“Yes,” Beldinas declared, looking gravely down at Andras’s slumbering form. “Let the stake be raised within the Bilstibo.”

“They mean to do what?”

Leciane winced, glancing toward the door. Vincil wasn’t a man who often raised his voice, but anger had got the best of him. If one of the servants-or Lady Wentha-heard him, there would be a row, and she didn’t need any more trouble.

“Please, Most High,” she told the archmage. “I’d rather not have to place a silencing ward on this room.”

His image wavered in the mirror. He shut his eyes, collecting himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, controlled. “A public execution?”

“More than public,” she said, her mouth twisting. “There’ll be thousands of people there.”

“No trial?”

“No trial. Not that it would accomplish much to have one. This Andras refuses to speak, and he’s clearly guilty.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or do you think there might be a rash of outcast wizards summoning quasitas in these parts?”

Ordinarily, Vincil laughed at her jokes. Now, though, his face might have been hewn of stone. “He is not an outcast,” he said. “We thought he was dead, along with his master, so we never expelled him. Ysarl of the Black Robes wants him brought here to Wayreth, so we can declare him a a renegade before he dies.”

Leciane frowned, studying the mage in the mirror. “You didn’t agree to that, did you?”

“I did,” Vincil delared. “He’s still one of us. He is subject to the laws of High Sorcery, before any other. Even the Kingpriest’s. I don’t like it,” he went on, holding up a hand to forestall her objections, “but I must consider all three of the Robes-and I think it best not to annoy the Black just now, don’t you? I don’t think any of us want to see this Andras become a martyr.”

Leciane shuddered. Put that way, it made sense. The Black Robes were full of young mages just looking for the excuse to vent their rage against Istar. Andras’s execution could light a tinderbox.

“What about Lady Jorelia?” Leciane pressed. “What are her thoughts?”

“Lady Jorelia is not highmage,” Vincil replied, his eyes flashing, “but if you must know, she wants the man brought here, too-though for a different reason.”

He paused, in the way she remembered from her days as his apprentice. He wanted her to figure it out for herself. She knuckled her brow, thinking, then her lips parted. “To find out who trained him.”

The highmage nodded. “He was an apprentice when he disappeared. Someone had to have taught him to do what he did. Whoever it was did it without the order’s leave. That means there’s another wizard out there-a Black Robe-who we don’t know about. What if he has other apprentices? Or if this is all part of some grander plan? Best to interrogate Andras and find out the truth than to let it go to the pyre with him.”

Leciane let out a long, slow breath. “What you say makes sense,” she allowed. “Try telling that to the Lattakayans, though-or worse, to the Divine Hammer. They won’t listen to reason. They want revenge.”

“Explain it to the Lightbringer. Or better yet, use the knight you charmed.” Vincil’s eyes narrowed as Leciane glanced away. “You do still have control over him?”