Something began to go awry. The spell ebbed, its power unraveling like a threadbare tapestry. The study started to slow down, then reverse its direction. Her mind raced. What was happening? Had Vincil made a mistake?
Reaching out, she managed to catch hold of the magic. It was an act of desperation, using her last reserves of power to shore up the spell. Gritting her teeth, Leciane added her strength to it, willed it to continue. The study flickered back into view. She held her breath, straining as they continued to fly through space, her body so tense it felt as if it might explode….
With a shattering sound, Leciane tumbled onto the carpet of Vincil’s study, nearly cracking her skull against the corner of a table. Eilar, the fat mage, landed with a whoof nearby, and lay on the floor groaning. A third thump jarred her as Vincil came down on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs.
There was blood all over her.
Panic rising, Leciane scrambled out from beneath the highmage and twisted to her feet.
When she was upright, she stared at Vincil in numb horror. He lay facedown on the carpet, the upper half of his body twitching wildly. Lodged in the small of his back was a beaked war axe.
Eilar gasped, seeing the highmage. His flabby face, already pallid, turned gray. His eyes bulged from their sockets.
“Get someone!” Leciane half-screamed, slapping him across the face. “Anyone! Go!”
As Eilar jumped up and ran out the door, Leciane dropped to her knees beside Vincil.
She felt his throat. The lifebeat was barely there.
“No,” she breathed, staring at his wound. His spine had been cut. “Damn you, no!”
Vincil stirred. His eyes flickered open, dull with shock. “We made it,” he gasped. “It’s so-cold …”
“Vincil, I–I’ve sent for help.”
Somehow he laughed, blood bubbling on his lips. “Won’t matter,” he answered. He trailed off, choking.
Gods, thought Leciane, how did everything go so wrong?
“Andras,” Vincil said, as if reading her mind. “He was-the one. Suvin was a-fetch.”
Leciane nodded. In their wildest dreams they had never expected the Black Robe to infiltrate the moot. “There will never be peace now,” she murmured.
“No. There will be-war, and we-will lose.” He squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting.
Tears scorched her eyes. She touched his face. “Do you want me to try to pull it out?”
Vincil looked at her, understanding. The axe was all that was keeping him alive. When it came out, his pain would end. Shuddering, he nodded. “Tell Lady Jorelia-to proceed with-the contingency. She-will know-what to do.”
Leciane nodded. With Ysarl dead, Lady Jorelia would become the next highmage. “And-?”
He smiled, ghastly. “A-farewell kiss?”
She bent low over him. His lips were covered with blood. He sighed, and she felt his mouth relax against hers. The gentleness of it surprised her.
She rose to her feet, planted her foot against his ribs, and yanked the axe free. Vincil sucked in a sharp breath, coughed, and died.
Leciane shook uncontrollably. Angrily, she flung the axe away. The weapon struck Vincil’s scrying bowl, turning it into a shower of shards and water. She stormed out of the study, down into the depths of the Tower.
The Kingpriest still lived, but only barely.
With the foe vanished, Cathan had done what he could to restore order. At his behest the knights left alive, and the reinforcements come too late from the Hammerhall, had covered the bodies of the dead, then gone out to keep the crowds back. The word was already spreading through the Lordcity, though, that the Lightbringer was slain. There would be chaos, fires, looting. Cathan sent Tithian with more orders, to dispatch the knights and the Scatas to keep order. With one dagger-blow, Suvin-or whatever mage had taken on his form-had brought Istar to its knees.
Right now, though, Cathan did not worry about the empire. There was only Beldinas.
Quarath held the Kingpriest. Lord Yarus and Duke Serl stood nearby. The High Clerist’s face was grave, the Ergothman’s twisted with fury. The Lightbringer lay limp in the elf’s lap, blood pooling around them. His holy light was gone.
“Holiness,” Cathan murmured, touching Beldinas’s bone-white face as Quarath laid him out on the ground. “Oh, Pilofiro, what have they done to you?”
The elf shook his head. “He can’t hear you,” he said sadly. “Step back, Grand Marshal, and let him die in peace.”
Cathan ignored him, leaning closer. “Holiness, listen to me,” he whispered.
“I said step back, Twice-Born,” Quarath insisted, grabbing his shoulder. “He must receive unction before he goes to the god.”
“No!” Cathan barked, shoving the elf away. Quarath stumbled back, and would have fallen had Yarns and Serl not caught him. The three of them were startled by the fierceness in Cathan’s empty eyes. One by one, they turned away. Trembling, he tried one more time to speak to the Lightbringer. “Please, Beldyn-”
The Kingpriest stirred. His eyes did not focus, but he turned his head toward Cathan.
When he spoke, his beautiful voice was thin as spider’s silk.
“My friend. I am glad-glad you are here.”
Cathan wept. “Holiness,” he said. “You must tell me how to help you. I would give my life, if I could.”
A smile twitched the Lightbringer’s lips. “You already did that once,” he wheezed. “I have no strength to heal myself. Give me your hand.”
Gently, Cathan gripped the Kingpriest’s fingers. They were cold, as frail as bird bones.
Beldinas smiled, then shut his eyes and let out a breath. For a moment Cathan’s heart seized, but then he saw the Kingpriest’s lips begin to move, forming words only he could hear.
“Palado, ucdas pafiro,” he prayed. “Tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soramflonat. Me cailud, e tas or am me lud bipum. Sifat.”
Heal me…
Cathan felt a tingle at the back of his mind, a tingle that grew into something greater, a torrent that coursed through him like cool flame. He knew it to be the god’s presence, Paladine’s energy flowing through his body. It was pain and joy, all at once, completely different from any mundane sensation … yet it was still familiar. He had felt something like it before.
The cold fingers twitched. The Kingpriest’s eyes widened as they stared at him. Cathan felt cold, suddenly. Beldinas knows, he thought. He knows I used magic once before. He knows I corrupted myself with the sorceress.
Before he could think anything else, the healing light flared around him. The cool, soothing glow drew gasps of astonishment from the others. The attar of roses filled the air.
He tasted honey and wine on his tongue. It lasted a moment and an eternity, both at once, then faded again-but not completely.
Beldinas’s aura began to return. The bloody wound was closed. The Lightbringer breathed a sigh and looked at Cathan, a sudden, odd expression in his eyes. A fear. He jerked his hand from Cathan’s grasp Palado Calib, Cathan thought. He’s afraid of me now. “Holiness,” he began.
Sighing, Beldinas closed his eyes, slipping into peaceful sleep.
The Lightbringer would live.
Quarath and Yarns and Serl all gathered around, awestruck by the miracle they had just witnessed. Others came running too, asking what was happening and crying out in joy when they heard the news. Cathan didn’t hear anything. He only stared at Beldinas’s face, biting down hard on his lip.
It was the same feeling, he thought, thunderstruck. The god’s touch and magic were the same-like different facets of the same jewel. What could that mean?