Ibsim approached them again, his hands pressed together. He had left the welcoming salt at the gate and donned an emerald cloak decorated with feathers from some great, flightless bird. He bowed again, his painted eyes closing.
“You are welcome to Qim Sudri,” he declared. “The Patriarch awaits you at his palace, and has made room for all your men. Follow me to his magnificence.”
Across Losarcum, horns sounded, announcing their arrival. They echoed off the mesa’s stone walls, and down the narrow streets as Ibsim led the way into the city. Cathan followed, with his men. As he rode, though, he found he couldn’t take his eyes from the Tower-nor could he shake the dread that chilled him.
Men will die there before this is done, he thought as he passed beneath its long, reaching shadow. Will I be one of them?
The Tower gave no answers but only glowered down at them, dark and brooding and silent.
CHAPTER 25
The procession left the Great Temple at dawn, just after the daybreak prayer. Wherever it passed as it made its way through the Lordcity, every plaza or marketplace, more people joined it, trailing along and singing praise to the Lightbringer. A succession of acolytes in gray cassocks led the way, hooded and carrying white candles. Behind them came elder priests, swinging censers that trailed ruddy incense smoke, and priestesses in training, who flung rose petals in the air. After these came broad-shouldered servants hefting banners depicting the falcon and triangle in imperial blue and a huge platinum triangle mounted atop an ironwood pole, which gleamed crimson in the morning light.
Next, the body of the church: not just the Revered Sons and Daughters of Paladine, but the followers of Kiri-Jolith and Mishakal, Majere and Branchala and Habbakuk-all the deities of light, save Solinari alone. The god of the silver moon had no priests, and the mages who paid him homage were Foripon, cast out of the church’s sight as surely as those who wore the Black and Red.
The knights were with them, too. Though a good portion of the Divine Hammer had marched south to Losarcum with Lord Cathan, just as many remained at the Hammerhall.
Except for a handful of the oldest, who remained at the sprawling keep as castellans, all the knights walked with the clerics, horned helms gleaming, swords and maces rattling.
They carried crossbows, cocked and nestled in their arms.
Despite the knights’ presence, despite the commonfolk’s rejoicing, Quarath felt a certain unease. Glancing at the chariots, he could see discomfort plain in the eyes of the hierarchs and in the grizzled face of Sir Olin, who was the knights’ senior officer in the absence of the Twice-Born.
The processional had two purposes, but most who walked only knew of one: the formal denunciation of the Order of High Sorcery. Here, as in Palanthas and Daltigoth and Losarcum, where the armies under Lords Yarns, Serl, and Cathan gathered, the priests would condemn those within the Towers and call for their surrender. None but the foolish expected the wizards even to respond. It would come to Cutubo-holy war between the mages and those who followed the Lightbringer.
That was not what troubled Quarath. It was the other half of the day’s rite-for, unbeknownst to nearly everyone, the condemnation was meant as a cover for something else. The Lightbringer intended to penetrate the olive grove that surrounded the Tower.
Quarath glanced at Beldinas, his brow furrowing. To most, the Kingpriest looked as he always had: resplendent, serene, and mighty, all but invisible amid his shining aura. The Emissary had known him longer than most, however, and he saw something different beneath the glitter. The certainty that had armored him had fractured, and doubt and fear were leaking through the cracks.
A smile crept across Quarath’s face. He had longed for this opportunity for twenty years-a fair span of time, even to a long-lived elf. He had been very patient, awaiting the chance to fix his power within the empire. Now, with Beldinas frightened and his other close advisors dead or gone, that chance had come.
The joyous shouts died away as priest, knight, and commoner alike spilled into the courtyard surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery. The bloody-fingered spire was silent. No eldritch lights played about it, no thunder or screams came out its windows. Still, Quarath could sense the power within and in the black-fruited woods that creaked and rustled about it. Bit by bit, the procession stopped, moving aside to make room for its leaders.
“Holiness,” he whispered, leaning toward the Kingpriest. “Are you sure this will work?”
Beldinas’s blue eyes regarded him steadily, then flicked back to the Tower. “We have to try,” he said. “Everything depends on this. Uso dolit.”
Fighting the urge to shake his head, Quarath turned his attention to the crowd. The uneasiness he’d felt among the Kingpriest’s inner circle had spread. Now people were signing the triangle and chanting warding prayers, staring at the Tower as if expecting every demon from the Abyss to burst out of it. A few edged away, disappearing back into the city, but most stood their ground, even if they shivered.
The Kingpriest climbed down from his chariot. A stillness fell over the mob as the people watched their ruler step toward the grove. Sir Olin and his knights fell in around him, crossbows at the ready, while Quarath and the other hierarchs followed behind. Beldinas came to a halt, raising his hands into the air. Cupped within them he held a goblet of pale crystal, which reflected the ruby glisten of the Miceram.
He drew a deep breath, then the musical sound of his voice issued forth, echoing across the square.
“Fe Paladas cado,” he began, “bid Istaras apalo. I ask you this. Yield to the god’s power, and beg mercy for defying him. Hide, and his wrath shall fall upon thee. Do you surrender?”
The only reply was the hiss of the olive trees in the wind. Beldinas waited for a long moment, then repeated the call. Again, there was no answer, and so he spoke the words a third time. Still the Tower stood silent, its turrets glistening like blood as morning’s shadows shortened across the city.
“Very well,” the Lightbringer declared, and hurled the goblet to the ground. It smashed against the paving stones, shards skittering in all directions. “The Cutubo has begun. For if you defy us, we are at war. Let none who honors the god give thee air or succor, and the faithful wreak Paladine’s justice upon thy benighted souls. Sifat.”
“Sifat,” echoed the mob.
Some, it seemed from the disappointed sighs, had expected the god’s wrath to fall immediately. The Tower, however, remained silent. If Quarath hadn’t known better, he would have thought it empty, already abandoned. The mages were watching them, using their magic if not their eyes. He held his breath, knowing what would come next. Let the wizards watch this, then, he thought.
For a long moment, Beldinas was still. Then, eyes flashing, he flung his arms out, toward the grove. The shroud of light around him flared bright, becoming almost unbearable, then flashed away, across the square toward the trees. Quarath gasped, feeling the impact as they struck the magical barriers the sorcerers had erected, flaming them like dragon’s breath. All around the Kingpriest folk fell back, crying out. Beldinas’s mouth opened in a wordless shout, his back arching, his feet rising from the ground-
Then, suddenly, the holy light ruptured, showering silver splinters all around. The Lightbringer’s shout became a cry of astonishment, and he dropped back to the ground.
Quarath ran to his side to keep him from falling as, around him, folk spat curses and groaned in despair. Beldinas slumped, breathing hard, drained by what he had tried to do.