Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“I wish I could be this patient,” he said, chuckling. “These birds would wait a hundred years, if that was what it took. So could you, I think, Eminence.”

The elf inclined his head. “An easy feat, for one whose people live for centuries. Harder, I think, for your kind.”

“In a hundred years,” Beldinas agreed, “I will be gone, turned to dust-in half a hundred, most likely. I have much to do before then, if I am to drive darkness from Krynn.”

“You have also accomplished much already,” Quarath noted.

The Kingpriest shrugged. “It amounts to nothing, if I cannot solve the problem of the sorcerers. The groves-”

The falcon stirred, cutting Beldinas off in midsentence as it leaped from his arm. The clockwork bird startled them both with a shriek like steam venting from a kettle, then dropped something from its open mouth.

It was a little bag made of purple velvet and tied with a golden cord. The two men stared at it, lying on the ground, as if a scorpion might be hidden within. Beldinas reached toward it, but Quarath was quicker. The elf scooped it up, holding it in the palm of his hand. The knot was arcane, but one pull unraveled it. The mouth of the pouch went slack and opened.

He exchanged glances with the Kingpriest. Swallowing, Quarath upended the pouch into his open palm. Five small objects fell out. One was a strip of fine parchment, inscribed in elegantly flowing letters. It was the other four, though, that made Quarath’s eyebrows rise.

“Palado Calib,” breathed the Lightbringer as he set eyes upon them. “Are those what I think they are?”

Quarath nodded, too stunned to speak. They were seeds, each a different kind. An olive stone. An acorn. A pine nut. A cypress cone.

Beldinas reached out, plucking the parchment from Quarath’s hand. He glanced it over, then hesitated and read it again, his eyes flaring wide.

“What?” Quarath asked.

Wordlessly, Beldinas held out the parchment. Still cupping the seeds in his hand, Quarath took it from him.

Your Most Holy Majesty, it read.

Each of these seeds comes from one of the first trees to grow in the groves that now surround the Towers. They are old, and they are powerful. Plant them, and they will clear the path to victory.

Quarath frowned, turning the parchment over in his hand. It bore no signature, no seal, no sigil. His brow furrowed with suspicion. And yet-

And yet, he could feel the seeds’ power. It was the same feeling he’d had earlier, near the grove….

“Emissary. Look at me.”

Starting, Quarath glanced up from the missive. The Kingpriest’s eyes met his gaze, caught and held it. If anything, the fear in his face had grown. Quarath felt his insides clench with dread.

“Holiness?”

“I have never needed anyone’s advice as badly as I do at this moment, my friend,” Beldinas said, holding out the seeds. “What do I do about these?”

Quarath licked his lips. “I do not know. Truly, if they are what this message claims, then it is the boon we have been looking for. But … it is perhaps too convenient, don’t you think? We do not even know who sent them.”

“That is my mind as well,” the Kingpriest agreed. “Yet if they can give us victory, what kind of fool would I be to throw that away?”

“Also true, Holiness.” Quarath opened his mouth to say more, then stopped, with a shake of his head. “I am sorry. I do not know which is the right course to take.”

Beldinas bit his lip, his eyes darkening with disappointment. After a moment, though, he laid a hand on Quarath’s arm. “Thank you for being honest, my friend. Another man might have told me what he thought I wanted to hear, just to curry favor.” With that he rose, his hand clenching the seeds. “I shall seek the truth elsewhere, then. I must meditate and seek the god’s will.”

No one ever entered the Kingpriest’s private sanctum but the Kingpriest himself-not even his personal servants, who had the run of the manse. It was a small cell, barely large enough to hold one person. Unlike the rest of the manse, where gold and satin, jewels and exotic woods were everywhere, it was an austere place, its walls, floor, and ceiling bare marble, white laced with silver veins. A single, high window admitted a shaft of moonlight, which fell upon the room’s only decoration: the god’s platinum triangle, set upon the wall.

The door shut behind Beldinas after he entered, sealing with the softest of clicks. He had removed the Miceram, cradling it in his hands, and his aura diminished to the faintest of glimmers. Now he set the crown upon the floor, along with the pouch containing the mysterious seeds. Glancing up at Paladine’s symbol, he signed the triangle, then sat cross-legged in the center of the floor. He was silent a moment, staring at his hands folded in his lap. When he looked up again, his eyes fixing on the triangle above him, his cheeks were wet with tears.

“My god,” he murmured, “all my life I have known what I must do. When Lady Ilista sought me out, I knew I must go with her. When I came to Istar, I knew I must become Kingpriest. Ever since, every step I have taken, I have known it is the right one. But now … ”

He paused, putting a hand to his forehead. He tried to speak, then faltered and fell silent again. It was a long while before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice was little more than a breath, tight with anguish.

“Paladine, I cannot hear your voice. It frightens me-I am alone, with enemies all around. The chance to destroy them is in my hands … and yet I do nothing because I cannot feel you with me.

“Please, god of gods, father of light … I am begging you. Show me the true path. Help me destroy this evil!”

His words echoed in the closeness of the sanctum, then faded to silence. No answer came. Swallowing, the Kingpriest closed his eyes. The lines of worry and despair faded from his face. He sat very still, hands steepling into the sacred triangle, and listened, waiting for an answer.

He sat there for hours, never moving, his lips twitching as he beseeched Paladine’s aid.

The moonlight faded as Solinari set, leaving the room cloaked in shadow. Only when daylight came, the sun’s warmth bathing his face, did Beldinas come back to himself. His eyes fluttered open, and his face began to crease with disappointment-then froze, turning pale as he looked at the floor before him.

The sun’s light had fallen upon the seeds.

The Lightbringer stared, too stunned to move-then, suddenly, he began to laugh.

Paladine had not spoken to him, but the god had provided, just the same.

The Tower of Losarcum was alive with activity. Men and women in robes of all three colors bustled about, carrying armloads and pouches full of books, scrolls, and magical relics. Floating, glowing discs glided the corridors, bearing still more treasures. Enchanted creatures of all shapes and sizes scurried and lumbered about, helping with the evacuation. Room by room, the sorcerers took what they could and cast spells to draw the magic out of what they could not. Artifacts that had lain within the Tower for centuries but were too difficult to remove quickly now lay inert, the sorcery that had once infused them gone.

Leciane had taken part in such a ritual just yesterday, joining a circle of mages-White, Red, and Black Robes all working together-in weaving a spell upon a room full of glowing crystal sculptures. Khadar, the Master of the Tower, had declared the crystal too fragile to move with any ease-and time too short-so Leciane and the others had ripped the Art from the sculptures’ hearts until the light within them died. She had wept when it was over. They were just baubles now, dark and lifeless, and no harm to anyone, should they fall into the wrong hands.