Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

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.

Here it comes, Leciane thought, clenching her fists. She knew what the new highmage was about to say, knew why it had to be done. She didn’t expect that to make it any easier to bear.

“So passes the last highmage of sorcery’s glorious days,” Jorelia declared. Her voice was not that of an old woman but strong and deep, with an assurance none could miss. “Now it falls to us to guide the order into the night.”

The wizards glanced at one another, some raising eyebrows while others frowned. A few gave sage nods. Jorelia paused, waiting for their attention, then went on.

“For twenty-five centuries, the five Towers have stood,” she began. “Of all the realms that now span the world beyond these walls, only the forests of Silvanesti are older. We have stood fast through two Dragonwars. Through the rise and decline of Ergoth, the delving of Thorbardin, and the coming of the elves to Qualinesti, we have been here.

“Now, however, a new threat arises-a threat from the east, where men call themselves holy so they can hurt those who are not. The legions of the Lightbringer are coming, and they bring the strength of the mob with them. In Istar they march already, and soon in Ergoth and Solamnia as well. They will not rest until the Towers are empty or until they fall. We have chosen emptiness.”

Those mages who did not serve in the Conclave exclaimed in horror and disbelief as the highmage’s meaning sank in.

“Give over the Towers?” cried a sorceress in white, an elf maid named Maranthas. Her delicate features contorted. “They’re our homes!”

“Not any longer,” Jorelia replied, shaking her head. “Things have gone too far. They have never liked us in Istar, nor in Solamnia for that matter, but they were willing to suffer us. The actions of the renegade, this Andras, have changed that. Now they hate us, and blame us for what has happened in both Lattakay and the Lordcity. They will fight us-and no matter how valiantly we defend ourselves, they will triumph. We may be powerful, but the Church, with its priests and its knights, is mightier.”

“What, then?” sneered Orlock, a black-robed dwarf of the Daergar clan, tugging at his silver beard. “We just tuck tail, like rats or goblins? I am no craven, to hide when danger appears.”

Jorelia shook her head, looking over at Sheidow. A wisp of a man with an albino’s colorless skin and pink eyes, the new lord of the Black Robes shot a withering glance at the dwarf.

“We are not craven either,” he said. His voice was soft and gentle, but commanded everyone’s attention. “We do not flee because we fear death, but because we know it awaits us if we stay.”

Orlock still looked outraged, but said nothing more. Humbled, he melted back into the crowd. Another wizard-a Red Robe named Embreth-spoke amidst the muttering.

“Perhaps we should flee,” he said, “but what about the Art itself? There are many enchanted things in the Towers that will cause untold harm if they fall into the hands of our enemies. If we leave them behind and the commoners discover them … well, the gods know what will happen.”

“That is so,” Jorelia agreed. “We must take what we can carry with us, back here to Wayreth where we will be safe. The rest we will destroy.”

The murmurs stopped, turning into gasps. No archmage spoke lightly of destroying magical artifacts, and the Towers contained some of the most potent-among them the same dragon orbs the united sorcerers had crafted ages ago.

“It will take time to evacuate,” said Maranthas. “There is much work to be done. What if this attack comes before we are finished?”

Leciane bowed her head, her curls falling to hide her face. She had asked the same question, when she and Jorelia first discussed this.

The highmage sighed. There were worlds of sorrow in her voice. “Then,” she said, “we must bring down the Towers ourselves.”

Silence filled the hall. It roared in Leciane’s ears. Looking up, she saw the mages were glaring at one another again. That was no surprise-they were looking to lay blame. The White Robes were at fault because Marwort’s support of the Lightbringer had helped cement his power; the Black because Andras had been one of them; and the Red … because of her. In their eyes, she had failed-never mind that she had done all she could. If only she had done more, their reproachful looks said, this might not be happening now.

Jorelia’s voice rang out, stern and austere, filling the vast chamber. “Listen to me,” she said. “This is no time to turn on ourselves. None of us is guiltier than the others. We must work together, as we did during Takhisis’s reign, when darkness sought to overwhelm the world. This time, it is light that threatens us.