“Master!” Andras exclaimed, trying not to let fear curdle his voice. He forced a smile. “I bring good news.”
Fistandantilus didn’t respond at first. He simply stared, his gaze heavy from within his cowl. Then he walked forward, his robes whispering with every step.
Andras blinked, backing up a moment before he remembered he was near the Pit. He stopped himself, swaying slightly and wishing there was somewhere he could go to escape the Dark One. Slowly, the archmage drew near.
“Wh-what is the matter?” Andras asked. His teeth chattered in the cold. “You d-don’t seem pl-pleased …”
“I am not pleased,” Fistandantilus replied, drawing up before him. The Pit’s crimson light made him look drenched in blood. “You nearly killed the Lightbringer.”
Andras blinked, surprised. “Nearly? He lives?”
“He does-and it is a good thing for you. If he had died, I would have torn the flesh from your bones.”
“I–I don’t understand.”
Fistandantilus nodded. “You would not. You have been concerned only with your petty revenge. My designs are greater, and for them to succeed I need Beldinas. The Divine Hammer I care nothing for, and I will not miss Vincil. But the Kingpriest must live.”
Andras shook his head. None of this made any sense. “Master, I don’t understand …”
“Of course you don’t,” Fistandantilus replied, “but as I said, he has survived. It took a miracle for that to happen, but then, miracles are what the Lightbringer is best at. Don’t worry, boy. I’m not going to kill you.”
Relief washed over Andras. He smiled, spreading his hands before him. “Thank you, master,” he sighed. “I won’t-”
The Dark One moved so quickly, he seemed not to move at all. Steel flashed in his hand, sweeping up, leaving a trail of red droplets behind. Andras felt a tug at his left hand, then an explosion of pain. His little finger-the finger that had grown back when the Kingpriest healed him-arced through the air, then landed behind him with a splash.
A sob bubbled through his lips. Whirling, he watched as the finger bobbed in the roiling water, then sank out of sight. His knees buckling, he went down hard upon the rocky floor.
He jammed his ruined hand into his armpit, his mouth twisting with agony as blood soaked into his robes.
“I must leave this place now,” Fistandantilus said. “Perhaps one day, I will need you again-for now, though, your part in this is done. You shall remain here … but do not fear, Andras. I will not leave you alone.”
The cold lifted from the air and he was gone. High above, a door slammed shut. Andras knew it was the only way out, closed to him now. He let out a despairing moan. He was trapped down here-wherever here truly was. Lowering his eyes, he stared into the Pit’s blood-red depths. There were shapes down there now, rising toward the surface-misshapen, childlike shapes with horns and wings and stinging tails.
Andras laughed, a broken sound. His children were returning to him.
Cathan sat alone in his chambers within the Hammerhall, toying with a golden goblet.
The cup was empty. He had drained it again and again as the night wore on, and now the wine-unmixed with water-burned in his veins. His mood had not been so foul since his days as a bandit, before this all began.
They had buried Farenne and Adsem this morning. The Kingpriest would name a new First Son and First Daughter before the end of the week. Cathan wondered if he might not name a new Grand Marshal, as well.
Sir Marto had emerged as the hero of the battle beneath the Eusymmeas. The big Karthayan boasted to any and all of how he had slain the treacherous highmage in the final moments before the mages escaped. They sang of his bravery in the wine shops, and the Hammerhall rang with the sound of his name.
Cathan, meanwhile, was shut out. Beldinas had not spoken to him or invited him to the closed sessions of the imperial court. The official word was that his responsibilities obliged him to oversee order in the Lordcity’s streets, but the truth was there had been scant unrest. Rather than running wild, most folk went to the Barigon to give thanks for the Lightbringer’s wondrous return from the verge of death. Day after day, the crowds there continued to grow. When they weren’t singing the Kingpriest’s praises, they chanted imprecations against the sorcerers, baying for wizardly blood. Rumors spread that Cathan had fallen out of favor for his failure to keep Beldinas safe.
He stared around the room that had been Lord Tavarre’s. Tapestries of hunting scenes still hung on the walls, as well as weapons, and the heads of two stags, a giant boar, and a manticore. The last made him shiver every time he glanced at it, its half-human, half-lion features twisted into a ferocious snarl. The banner of Luciel hung over the hearth. He looked at it now, sighing. He could barely remember the town or anything of his life before the Lightbringer.
He didn’t hear the knock, so soft it was and so far into his cups was he. When the sound repeated a moment later, though, he looked up, dropping the goblet on the floor.
Flushing, he grabbed it up and glared at the door. He was in no mood to talk to any of his knights tonight-not even Sir Tithian, who seemed alone in seeking his company, who alone didn’t look askance at him.
“Who is it?” he demanded.
“Your sister,” came the reply.
Nearly dropping the goblet again, he got to his feet and hurried to the door. There was Wentha, standing in the lamp-lit hall. She was lovely as always, draped in blue samite, a turquoise fillet in her hair.
He waved her in.
“You’ve been drinking,” she said disapprovingly, “Like that night back in Lattakay, when you dallied with the sorceress.”
Cathan shut the door, his eyebrows climbing. “You knew?”
“I suspected,” she replied, giving him a look. She crossed to the hearth, then turned to face him, shrugging. “Don’t worry-I’m not going to lecture you. I just wanted to ask about it. So much trouble began that night.”
Cathan’s lips tightened. “We didn’t do anything. A kiss, that’s all. And we shared her magic-a spell, I mean,” he added.
“A spell, eh?” she asked. “A knight of the Divine Hammer, engaging in witchcraft-sounds like heresy to me.”
He went to pour more wine. This time he watered it well and handed his sister a cup.
“Why are you here?”
“For your sparkling company,” she retorted, and raised a hand as his face darkened.
“And to say good-bye. I’m leaving for Lattakay tomorrow.”
He stared, surprised. “So soon?”
“I’ve been here more than a week,” she replied. “I need to go back, and see what can be salvaged of the Udenso. Besides, the talk is of war with the wizards. I don’t want my children anywhere near one of the Towers if it comes to that.”
“That makes sense,” Cathan said, sipping his wine. He stared up at Luciel’s banner again. “Wentha, I want you to know-I’m proud of you. What you’ve done with your life. My own seems … a wreck.”
She smiled, then kissed him on the cheek. “I married well, that’s all, but I’m proud of you too, Brother. I don’t care what they whisper about you-you’re a good man and no coward.”
He sighed unhappily. “I’ll miss you,” he said. “I’m running short of friends here.”
“You’ll find more,” she told him, patting his arm. “And if you ever truly need me, you know where I am. Try not to wait quite so long before visiting next time.”
He smiled then, and surprised both of them by embracing her tightly. He smoothed her golden hair, as he’d always done when they were younger. “I won’t, Blossom,” he said. “I promise.”
Wentha’s eyes shone. They looked into his own without flinching.
“Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s not let the rest of the wine go to waste.”