Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“What do you want from me, then?” the Kingpriest asked.

The archmage’s beard twitched. Inside his hood, he was smiling. “Nothing terrible, Holiness, I assure you. I only seek a place at the imperial court.”

The Kingpriest shook his head, disbelieving. “My court?” he asked. “Why?”

“I have my reasons,” the Dark One answered. “Do not fear … I don’t mean to interfere with your reign. In fact, I might even be able to help you now and then. Who better to give counsel in your war against evil, after all, than one who is truly evil himself?”

Beldinas’s lips tightened. “And if I refuse?”

“Right now I am your friend. I could be your enemy,” said Fistandantilus. “I think you know I could be a worse foe than the Usurper or the order ever were.”

Beldinas raised his chin, defiant. Quarath, who couldn’t move or speak, admired the Lighbringer in that moment, more than ever.

“You already are my enemy, Dark One. The robes you wear make it so.”

“Perhaps,” the archmage allowed, amusement tempering the coldness in his voice. “But what sort of enemy would you have me be-one who is far away and can do you great harm, or close at hand where you can watch me?”

The Kingpriest stood silent, regarding the Black Robe.

“It will be hard to explain to my subjects,” he finally murmured.

Quarath would have gasped if he could. The words were those of surrender, something he had never thought he would hear from the Lightbringer.

“Not as hard as to explain why you allowed Losarcum to be destroyed, knowing what had happened at Daltigoth-or that the seeds came from me in the first place.”

Beldinas shook his head at the threat. “You are not my friend. Yet you are the enemy of my enemies.”

The Dark One nodded.

“Let it be so, then,” said the Lighbringer finally, “You must abide by certain rules. You will not give counsel unless I ask it of you. You will dwell within the grounds of the Temple, where you can be watched. You will never use magic in my presence.”

Fistandantilus was silent a moment. His shoulders rose and fell, just slightly. “Fair conditions, all. Very well-I accept. Now, Holiness … do you?”

In the years he had known the Kingpriest, Quarath had never seen the man’s face so conflicted. The Miceram’ s glow seemed to dim as he nodded.

“Very well.”

The archmage’s beard twitched-another smile. “I thank you, Holiness. You have chosen well. I shall come to the Temple in a week’s time, when my affairs elsewhere are concluded. Sifat.”

He was gone, vanishing in a wink, the cold receding in his absence. A fierce prickling, as of a foot gone to sleep, suffused Quarath’s body as the paralyzing spell lifted from him. He slumped where he stood, but righted himself quickly, his eyes on Beldinas. The Kingpriest pointedly returned his gaze. Neither man said anything of what had just happened. After a while, they left the Heartchamber, climbing the winding stair down the Tower’s core.

“Holiness!” called a voice when they reached the bottom. A man in courier’s garb tried to push through the knights who stood guard near the entry hall. “Holiness, I have a message for you!”

The man had a frantic look to him, face livid and eyes pleading. Extending a many-ringed hand, the Kingpriest motioned for the guards to stand aside.

“Come forward,” he said.

The messenger strode forward and knelt, proffering a silver scroll-tube. Beldinas opened it himself, sliding out the parchment within. He scanned its length-then stopped, the tube falling from his fingers with a ringing clatter.

“Sire!” Quarath exclaimed, moving to Beldinas’s side. “What is it?”

The Kingpriest ignored him, staring at the sheet in his hands. Slowly, he spoke, his voice toneless. “It is from the south,” he said. “He is coming, it says. He will be here the day after the morrow.”

Quarath frowned, not understanding. “Who? Who is coming?”

Beldinas turned, his gaze focusing on something the elf couldn’t see, something far away. He did not answer.

Cathan stood at the prow of the skiff, staring at the Lordcity stretched out along the shore. The God’s Eyes burned above the harbor. Beyond lay the domes and gardens, the arena and the Hammerhall-and, drawing his attention with equal force, the Tower and the Temple. He had heard of the peace made between the Church and the Conclave, several days ago on the road. Now, looking upon the bloody-fingered hand, he knew it was true.

Sorcery was gone from Istar.

He and Tithian had had a long, hard journey back from the ruins of Losarcum. Afoot, the Sun’s Anvil had nearly killed them both. Finally, half-dead from thirst and hunger, skin burnished bronze by the sun’s glare, they had walked out of the deserts of Dravinaar and found the road to the empire’s heartland. They had regained some of their strength and found horses. Finally, last night, they had come to Odacera on Lake Istar’s southern shore.

They stayed there until dawn, then set forth on the first of the day’s ferries to the Lordcity.

“Home,” Tithian stated wearily, coming up beside Cathan. The little boat rounded the breakwater, gliding between larger trading ships on its way to the wharf. “I never thought I’d say it again. We’ve come home.”

Cathan only stared at the Temple, glistening at the city’s heart.

A party of knights was waiting as they pulled up to the dock. Cathan returned their salutes as he stepped off the skiff, letting them take charge of the horses. He could feel their furtive looks, but when he turned his empty stare upon them, they looked away.

Sighing, he turned to Tithian, drawing the younger knight aside.

“We part here,” he said. “You are a good man, Tithian. I have always thought that of you. Remember that, whatever may come.”

Tithian blinked. “My lord? I thought-”

“Go,” Cathan barked. “That’s an order.”

For a moment the younger knight wavered, then, though thoroughly confused, he bowed to Cathan. “Paladine guide thy steps, sir,” he said.

“And thine,” Cathan said. Turning, he left Tithian, heading alone into the Lordcity.

The crowds outside the Temple were larger than ever, chanting the Lightbringer’s name.

Cathan felt very weary as he looked at them. He walked around to the side gate. The knights standing watch stared at him in amazement, and so did the clerics he passed in the Temple’s gardens. He ignored those who signed the triangle and made warding signs.

His eyes were only on the basilica, its crystal dome shining above the rest of the church. In he went, drawing still more astonished looks as he made his way through the sunbathed hallways.

When he entered the anteroom, he didn’t stop to lave his hands or genuflect to the god.

He didn’t glance at the tables laden with food and wine. Instead, he marched straight toward the velvet curtain, beyond which murmured the voices of the imperial court.

Without hesitation he shoved it aside, striding through.

The silence that descended upon the Hall of Audience was complete. The courtiers turned to stare at him with open mouths. He barely acknowledged them, striding toward the head of the room, where the Kingpriest’s innermost circle were gathered. There was Quarath on one side, Lord Olin on the other-Cathan’s mouth twisted as he noticed the man wore the Grand Marshal’s scarlet tabard. There were the new First Son and Daughter and the other hierarchs.

And there, in their midst…

Beldinas rose from his golden throne, drenched in light, the Miceram a ring of flame around his head. He stretched out his arms.

“Lord Cathan,” the Kingpriest proclaimed. “It makes me glad to see you alive.”