Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Vincil snorted. “Of course not. Even without Andras, though, I think we can appease him.”

Leciane glanced back across the city. The crystal dome of the Great Temple glowed in the stormlight. Beyond, the Hammerhall loomed, its keeps and watchtowers aflutter with pennants. The burning hammer blazed on many of them, but others were blue. Even after a month and a half, the Divine Hammer still mourned its fallen.

She wished she had charmed Cathan that night on the road to Lattakay. Now he was Grand Marshal…

Vincil laid a hand on her shoulder. She absent-mindedly covered it with hers. It had been easier than she’d thought to return to his bed. That made her feelings for Cathan- Lord Cathan now-all the more confusing. When the highmage spoke, his lips almost brushing her ear, his words brought her back.

“We should go,” he whispered. “The others will be ready.”

“The Kingpriest as well,” she agreed, kissing his fingertips. She smiled at him. “It wouldn’t do to keep His Holiness waiting, would it?”

The highmage chuckled, tousling her curly hair. Together, they disappeared back into the Tower.

*****

Standing in the Lordcity’s northern quarter, the Eusymmeas was neutral ground, one of the Lordcity’s oldest monuments: a huge reflecting pool of rose amber, its centerpiece a sculpture depicting the death of Vemior. The last of Istar’s warlord-tyrants, Vemior had perished centuries ago, when the clergy rose up against him and named one of their number, a cleric named Symeon, as the first Kingpriest. According to the histories, Vemior drank poisoned wine rather than give up his throne. In the Eusymmeas, he slumped in Symeon’s arms, the empty goblet dangling from his fingers. The histories said nothing about the look of sorrow carved into Symeon’s face, however; most scholars agreed the first Kingpriest shed no tears for his predecessor. Like any artist, the Eusymmeas’s sculptor had taken liberties.

The Lightbringer’s party arrived first. Duke Serl was clad in emerald silks, and Lord Yarns in shining mail. They were accompanied by the First Son and First Daughter;

Quarath and Suvin-and Beldinas, riding his golden chariot. His aura lit the courtyard that surrounded the Eusymmeas. Ringing the plaza were the Divine Hammer, standing guard alongside the warriors of Solamnia and Ergoth.

“Ullas dilant, Holiness,” Cathan reported when his men were in position. All is well.

It was a ritual phrase, which he could no longer bring himself to believe. He had more than a hundred men at his command, and half again that number in Yarus and Serf’s entourages. There had been more than that many men in Lattakay, though-and one wizard’s thralls had torn them to pieces. There were many wizards coming to this moot, some almost certainly more powerful than Andras. The gods alone knew what could happen if the wizards did not keep the peace.

When he said that to Beldinas, however, the Kingpriest only smiled. “Do not fear, my friend,” he said. “These are not Black Robes, coming to treat with us.”

Cathan nodded, shivering. The Black Robes’ absence had been another point of contention. The wizards had insisted that all three orders be represented, but Beldinas held out for a party comprising only those who wore the White. In the end, both sides agreed to a compromise. The sorcerers’ representatives would come with White Robes and Red Robes-including the highmage himself-but their dark-souled brethren would stay behind.

A shimmering at the far end of the plaza drew everyone’s eye. All around the Eusymmeas, crossbows rose and gauntleted hands reached for swords. Cathan raised his hand, ordering his knights to hold. They obeyed, as did the Ergothmen and the Solamnics when Serl and Yarns called out to them. Beldinas signed the triangle, the other clerics following suit, as magical light flared and the sorcerers appeared.

There were seven of them-three wizards in White and three in Red, their leader crimson-clad as well. Cathan felt no surprise, watching them walk across the courtyard, to see Leciane. She saw him too, and looked away. Cathan scowled, turning his attention to the leader, a dark-skinned man with a bald head and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He raised his hand in greeting as they drew near to the Kingpriest’s entourage, his face betraying no emotion.

“Sa, Pilofiro,” he declared. Hail, Lightbringer. “I am Vincil, Highmage of all Krynn. In the name of the three moons, I greet you.”

“Sa, Most High,” Beldinas replied, signing the triangle. “May the god smile upon this meeting.”

Introductions followed. Cathan took the opportunity to study the other mages, searching their faces. He could sense their power. The air nearly sparkled with all their protective spells. Even the youngest among them could kill with a word. If any of them tried anything, he would have to be quick to stop it. Cathan fought the urge to reach for Ebonbane. Jaw clenched, he kept his hands at his side and his gaze shifting from one sorcerer to the next.

“Where is the one called Andras?” Beldinas asked in a stern voice. “I do not see him among you.”

Leciane made a sour face, and the other mages glanced uneasily at one another. Vincil, however, bowed his head. “Holiness,” he said apologetically, “for that I must take responsibility. Andras is not among us.”

An angry murmur arose among the knights and priests, brows lowering and faces darkening all around the courtyard. Anger boiled in Cathan’s breast as well.

“Not among you?” Quarath demanded, his lip curling. “After you stole him from us, you have let him go?”

“We did not let him go,” Vincil answered solemnly. If the elf’s tone angered him, he gave no sign. “He was stolen from us as well. We are doing all we can to find him, and will return him to you when we do.”

“If you do,” Beldinas said.

Vincil’s eyebrows jumped. In the distance, thunder rolled as he looked at the Kingpriest.

“Holiness, this I pledge: We will find him.”

Beldinas looked surprised at that. Revered Son Suvin stepped forward, glaring at the highmage. “What good are your assurances? How do we know you aren’t simply hiding him from us?”

“Be easy, Reverence,” Beldinas interrupted, touching Suvin’s arm. “We are here to make peace, not to stir trouble. Andras is but a small part of what we must discuss. As long as any wizard in Istar can do what he did and threaten us all, the peace we desire cannot happen.”

“Ergoth agrees,” growled Duke Serl, folding massive arms across his chest.

“And Solamnia,” added Yarus.

Vincil looked from the High Clerist to the others, then back to Beldinas. “What are you saying, Holiness?”

The Kingpriest smiled. “Only one thing, Most High-that we have decided what is necessary: every sorcerer who wears the Black Robes must leave the Towers of High Sorcery that stand within our realms.”

Vincil couldn’t hide his dismay. The other wizards muttered. Cathan held his breath, watching them react.

“That would be… difficult to arrange,” Vincil allowed. He looked as if he had just bitten a lemon. “Our absent brothers have trusted us to speak here on their behalf. If we cast them out of the Towers, that would leave them little sanctuary. Only Wayreth would be open to them.”

“Yes,” said the Kingpriest.

Vincil opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. A moment passed before he spoke again. “What you demand is not easy. …”

Cathan felt-close, very close-something not right. He glanced around, but nobody else seemed to sense anything amiss …