It’s fear, Cathan realized with a jolt. He’s afraid.
He had faced darkness and evil at Beldinas’s side before-the living dead, vast armies, even a demon from the depths of the Abyss. In all that time, he had never seen the Kingpriest frightened. Cathan shivered, turning back to Tavarre.
“He died fighting, at least,” he murmured.
Beldinas drew up beside him, sighing. “I tried to save them. I truly tried.”
Cathan looked at him, suddenly understanding. It wasn’t the quasitas who had unnerved him. It was his failure. For the first time, the Lightbringer had met a power that thwarted his own.
“I know, Holiness,” Cathan said.
“No. I don’t think you understand,” Beldinas replied, his eyes brimming. “For twenty years I’ve fought to drive evil from this empire. Now this. Everything I’ve done, all I’ve worked for-what does it mean, if something like this can happen?”
Fear and doubt, Cathan thought, his disquiet growing. What has happened to the holy man I knew?
“The one who did this must be destroyed,” Beldinas went on. “He, and all who are like him.”
“Yes, sire.” Cathan nodded. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you … ”
“You want my permission to seek Lady do Cirica’s aid.”
Cathan blinked, taken aback. Despite the fear in his eyes, Beldinas favored him with an indulgent smile.
“It is plain that your knights need help,” the Kingpriest said, “and if the one who summoned the quasitas has the strength to guard them from me, then he can hide them from my sight as well. That leaves us little choice.”
“But sorcery-” Cathan began.
“I do not like magic any more than you,” replied Beldinas, “Yet if our enemy uses magic against us, perhaps it is fitting that we do the same. Clearly, he won’t be expecting it. You have my leave to ask Lady do Cirica for any assistance that she is willing to render.”
“Holiness.”
Beldinas’s head snapped up, his eyes blinking as he roused himself. He hadn’t been asleep but had come close, drowsing as he prayed by the knights’ bodies. Alarmed, he half-rose from the cushioned kneeling bench, then stopped himself when he saw who it was.
“Quarath,” he said, putting a hand to his forehead.
The elf stood a respectful distance away, a thoughtful look on his face. Everything about him, from his golden hair to his silver robes, was immaculate as always, and his expression bore little of the haggard, weary look that had settled on so many since the massacre. In his hands was an old book with a cover of cracked green leather, decorated with gold leaf that had partly worn away.
“Holiness,” he said again. “I did not mean to disturb you. I can return later.”
The Kingpriest shook his head as Quarath turned to go. “No, Emissary,” he said, turning from the altar. “It is all right. The god can do without listening to my voice for a while. What is the hour?”
“Just past Midwatch, sire.” The elf nodded toward the stained glass windows, shining with red moonlight, then stepped forward.
“I have brought the text you requested. We are fortunate the priesthood had a copy here-the library in this place is paltry, compared to the Sacred Chancery.”
Beldinas’s eyes lit hungrily as they fell upon the tome. He had asked Quarath to search for it earlier in the day-the Histories of Movani, chronicling the empire’s earliest years, before the Kingpriests rose to power.
“Excellent,” he said, then turned, walking to an alcove at the edge of the hall. “Come. We will read it together.”
Quarath followed, book in hand. At Beldinas’s gesture, he set the tome upon a white stone lectern, then went to shut the silken drapes. When he turned back, the Kingpriest had opened the book and was turning its brittle, yellowed pages with a gentle hand. The script was in the church tongue, with antique calligraphy and a crudeness to its illumination that bespoke its age. Even had he been an elf, the scribe who copied out this book would have been dust long ago.
“What do you seek, Holiness?” Quarath asked.
“Precedent.” Crackling, the pages continued to turn. Beldinas did not look up. “There was another time, long ago, when the Church came into conflict with those who wield magic. Ah, here it is.”
He stopped, pointing to a passage accompanied by a simple illustration of several skeletal warriors, wielding swords and spears. Quarath leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as lie read the text.
Fe oro 389 LA, fe Gasiro Lannis Filenfas bulfo, migel punfo isegid beston…
In the year 389 LA, in the reign of Emperor Lannis the Blind, there came a great woe form the west. In the wilds beyond the empire, a sorcerer of the Black Robes named Salius Ruven had dabbled in the foul arts of necromancy. His mind bent on plunder and slaughter, he defiled the tombs of the dead and worked his dark arts upon the bones within, making them whole and giving them strength to walk the earth again. For years he had done this in secret, amassing an army in caverns beneath the Khalkist Mountains without the knowledge of another living soul.
When his army was large enough, he gave the order for it to march upon Istar. This they did, bringing death with them. Needing neither food nor sleep, they moved with horrible speed. The imperial legions were no match for them, and the holy powers of the clergy of no avail. After every battle, Salius raised the corpses of the slain, bolstering his might. By the time it neared the Lordcity itself, the undead host was far larger than when it set forth.
In that dark hour, the emperor sent Eldan, the First Son of Paladine, to the Tower of High Sorcery. As sorcery had made Salius’s army, Lannis was sure it could unmake it as well. The First Son appeared before the Tower to cry their aid in saving the city. But the wizards would not raise a hand on the empire’s behalf against one of their own. They turned Eldan away and shut themselves behind gate and grove. Three times Eldan returned to repeat his offer, but the sorcerers would not hear him. With doom fast approaching, the emperor chose to rely upon steel instead of spellcraft. His own battalions shattered, he sent forth his fastest ship for Palanthas, with a plea to the Solamnic Knights …
Beldinas turned the page, then another. “The tale goes on at some length about the battle. Ruven’s host laid siege, but the Knights answered Lannis’s call. They fought for two days without pause, but when they were done, the undead were destroyed, and Salius’s head was set above the Lordcity’s western gates, mounted on a spike. But that doesn’t concern us.” He stopped again, this time at a page illustrated with the Tower with its familiar bloody fingertips. “It’s what happened after that is pertinent.”
When the last of the undead were destroyed, the eyes of the people turned to the Tower.
Many called for war against the wizards, but the emperor and the First Son both knew that weakened as it was by the undead, Istar could not pay the cost of such a campaign. Instead, Eldan went to the Tower and piled the remains of Salius Ruven’s soldiers before the grove.
“Workers of magic!” he proclaimed, “you have betrayed us-you who should have fought to protect this city. If sorcery will not befriends with Istar, then Istar will not befriends with sorcery. Remain within your Tower, but know this: If you act against us again, the next bones piled here will be your own.”
Quarath stepped back, looking at Beldinas. “So that’s why the wizards are so hated,” he said.
“It is one reason,” the Lightbringer replied. “There are others. It was a wizard, Galan Dracos, who led the Queen of Darkness’s forces in the Dragonwar a thousand years ago. Kurnos the Deceiver used magic against me when he sought to usurp the throne. And magic was certainly behind what happened at the Bilstibo. Evil and sorcery are seldom far apart, Emissary-and if the wizards have turned against Istar again, we may need to make good on First Son Eldan’s promise.”