He lay on his side, curled in a ball, eyes clenched shut. His whole body was shivering.
Dropping to one knee, Leciane leaned over him. “Enough. Wake up.”
“Gng,” he replied, curling up tighter.
“I said wake up,” she insisted, grabbing his shoulder to shake him.
At her touch, he sucked in a deep breath, and his eyes flew open. Leciane stumbled back, nearly falling. They were empty, pupilless. Confusion creased his face. The grove had done its work. He had forgotten why he was here.
“Well, well,” she said. “Cathan Twice-Born.”
“What… what in the Abyss-” he sputtered.
Smiling, she offered him her hand. “Come on, get up. Let’s get you out of here, and I’ll explain everything.”
CHAPTER 7
Cathan followed the strange woman out of the wood, questions roiling in his mind. Who was she? What was he doing here, at the Tower of High Sorcery?
“I’m Leciane do Cirica,” she explained once they were beyond the olives, back in the square that surrounded the Tower. “The order’s new envoy. Unless I’m mistaken, you came here on behalf of your Kingpriest.”
That sounded right, more or less. He could recall parts, dimly. Magical lips in the floor.
He put a hand to his head, wishing his thoughts would stop darting around like blood-flies. “And I don’t remember any of this because …”
“The grove,” the woman said. “It stole your memories.”
“Ah.” Cathan frowned, still not sure what to believe. “I don’t suppose you-”
“Can bring them back? No. The magic doesn’t work that way.” She gave him a sympathetic shrug. “You’re lucky I was there. Once, they say, the grove stole fifteen years of a man’s life before it was done-and he was only twenty at the time.”
Cathan shuddered. Everything before today he remembered; it was only his time in the grove that was lost. He glanced back at the olives, rustling in the wind, and winced.
He looked at the strange woman … Leciane. She was from Ergoth, judging by her dusky skin, and a bit older than him, with silver in her long black hair. She was smiling, her teeth very white. Her eyes were green. It wasn’t any of those colors, though, that made him start. It was the hue of her silken robes.
“You’re the envoy?”
Leciane nodded.
“But your robes-you-they’re red!”
“Are they?” The sorceress looked at herself, her eyebrows rising.
Reflexively, Cathan took a step back, but stopped his hand before it touched Ebonbane.
The Conclave had sent a Red Robe to live among them … how would the court react to that? For that matter, how would Beldinas?
“Sir Cathan?” Leciane asked. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“What? Oh,” Cathan blurted, snapping back to himself. He stared at Leciane. “How do you know my name?”
She laughed-not the polite giggle of a high-born lady, but a hearty chuckle that made him think of Sir Marto. “Your eyes,” she said. “We wizards hear the same tales as everyone else, Twice-Born.”
At once, Cathan realized the other thing that had been troubling him about the Red Robe. She was looking him in the eyes, without turning away. Even Wentha hadn’t been able to do that, back when the two of them were still speaking to each other. Until now, he’d been sure the only person who could was the Kingpriest himself. Cathan flushed and looked away. The sorceress’s unremitting gaze made him uncomfortable.
“We should … we should go,” he mumbled. “His Holiness will be expecting you.”
“Yes,” Leciane agreed, gesturing west, where the Temple’s golden spires rose above the rooftops. “Lead on, then. Take me to your Lightbringer, Sir Knight.”
The courtiers reacted to Leciane as he’d expected. Some stared in shock, and one or two shrank away in fear. Many signed the triangle, horns, or twin teardrops of the gods. A few, First Son Adsem among them, looked as if they would have spat on the ground, were it accepted at court. A good number of the people in Istar’s streets had done just that as Cathan and Leciane made their way back to the Temple. Cathan hadn’t even tried to get her through the adoring throng in the Barigon, but had brought her in through a side entrance. Now, standing amidst the Hall of Audience, he could feel the hierarchs’ eyes on him-or rather, on his charge. It wasn’t the hateful glare they would give a Black Robe, but neither was it in any way friendly.
Either the Red Robe didn’t notice or she didn’t care. Her attention was on the man who sat upon the throne, and him alone. Cathan followed her gaze, peering through the Kingpriest’s radiance, trying to read his mood.
It wasn’t easy. He could have been one of the statues that peopled the Temple’s gardens for all the reaction he showed when he beheld the color of Leciane’s robes. He sat still, fingers steepled before him, and said nothing for a long time. Silence-a rare thing, when court was in full session-stole across the hall as the courtiers turned to await his judgment. Finally, he shifted slightly, inclining his head.
“My thanks, Lady, for rescuing Sir Cathan from the spell that ensnared him,” he declared, the dome ringing to echo his musical voice. “I can already see the wisdom in your Conclave’s choice. Many among your order would have left him there.”
The courtiers murmured at that. Beldinas ignored them, as did Leciane, who bowed.
“Your Holiness is kind. I only hope that should the need present itself one day, he would return the favor.”
She flicked a glance at Cathan, who reddened. The idea that he owed anything to a Red Robe bothered him.
Quarath stepped forward, favoring Leciane with an icy stare. The Silvanesti had many mages, but all were White Robes. Donning the Black, or even the Red, was a quick and certain path to shame and exile.
“Majesty,” he said, looking to the throne. “If this woman is the choice the sorcerers have made, she should be inducted into the court at once, before anything else is said here.”
Beldinas nodded. “Thank you, Emissary. Your counsel is fair, as ever. Very well, Lady do Cirica,” he went on, rising from his throne, “if you will kneel …”
“No.”
Everything stopped. A few people gasped, and a few scowled, but mostly they stared, stunned, as Leciane’s voice echoed through the hall. Cathan gaped at Leciane with open-mouthed shock.
“No?” Beldinas repeated, hesitating halfway down the steps from the dais.
“No,” Leciane replied. “I do not wish your blessing, Lightbringer.”
Quarath had just resumed his place with the other high priests of Paladine. Now he stepped forward again, brows knitting in outrage.
“Lady,” he said, “His Holiness did not ask you to kneel. It is his command.”
Leciane met the elf’s glare with a steely look, drawing herself erect before him. “I am not His Holiness’s to command,” she said. “My only masters are the Art I wield, and the Conclave who sent me here. I will kneel before no other-and neither should anyone who serves another sovereign.”
The elf’s face turned pale, his eyes flaring indignantly. The barb had struck deep.
“How dare you-” he began.
“Emissary, this is no time for hot words,” Beldinas said quietly. Abashed, Quarath stepped back, but the glower didn’t vanish from his face. The Kingpriest turned back toward Leciane, his brow furrowed.
“Marwort knelt, milady.”
“Yes, he did,” she replied. “Now he is dead. I shall not repeat his mistakes.”
Cathan looked from Leciane to Beldinas and back again, not sure what to do or what might happen next. The hall felt like the air before a lightning strike. A few more courtiers quietly edged away.
The Kingpriest stroked his chin for a long moment, considering, then, to Cathan’s astonishment, he nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said. “You are right-you do not need to swear to me, although no one who has should be ashamed of that. Will you at least give me your oath that you will be faithful to those you do serve?”