“Holiness?”
“I have never needed anyone’s advice as badly as I do at this moment, my friend,” Beldinas said, holding out the seeds. “What do I do about these?”
Quarath licked his lips. “I do not know. Truly, if they are what this message claims, then it is the boon we have been looking for. But … it is perhaps too convenient, don’t you think? We do not even know who sent them.”
“That is my mind as well,” the Kingpriest agreed. “Yet if they can give us victory, what kind of fool would I be to throw that away?”
“Also true, Holiness.” Quarath opened his mouth to say more, then stopped, with a shake of his head. “I am sorry. I do not know which is the right course to take.”
Beldinas bit his lip, his eyes darkening with disappointment. After a moment, though, he laid a hand on Quarath’s arm. “Thank you for being honest, my friend. Another man might have told me what he thought I wanted to hear, just to curry favor.” With that he rose, his hand clenching the seeds. “I shall seek the truth elsewhere, then. I must meditate and seek the god’s will.”
No one ever entered the Kingpriest’s private sanctum but the Kingpriest himself-not even his personal servants, who had the run of the manse. It was a small cell, barely large enough to hold one person. Unlike the rest of the manse, where gold and satin, jewels and exotic woods were everywhere, it was an austere place, its walls, floor, and ceiling bare marble, white laced with silver veins. A single, high window admitted a shaft of moonlight, which fell upon the room’s only decoration: the god’s platinum triangle, set upon the wall.
The door shut behind Beldinas after he entered, sealing with the softest of clicks. He had removed the Miceram, cradling it in his hands, and his aura diminished to the faintest of glimmers. Now he set the crown upon the floor, along with the pouch containing the mysterious seeds. Glancing up at Paladine’s symbol, he signed the triangle, then sat cross-legged in the center of the floor. He was silent a moment, staring at his hands folded in his lap. When he looked up again, his eyes fixing on the triangle above him, his cheeks were wet with tears.
“My god,” he murmured, “all my life I have known what I must do. When Lady Ilista sought me out, I knew I must go with her. When I came to Istar, I knew I must become Kingpriest. Ever since, every step I have taken, I have known it is the right one. But now … ”
He paused, putting a hand to his forehead. He tried to speak, then faltered and fell silent again. It was a long while before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice was little more than a breath, tight with anguish.
“Paladine, I cannot hear your voice. It frightens me-I am alone, with enemies all around. The chance to destroy them is in my hands … and yet I do nothing because I cannot feel you with me.
“Please, god of gods, father of light … I am begging you. Show me the true path. Help me destroy this evil!”
His words echoed in the closeness of the sanctum, then faded to silence. No answer came. Swallowing, the Kingpriest closed his eyes. The lines of worry and despair faded from his face. He sat very still, hands steepling into the sacred triangle, and listened, waiting for an answer.
He sat there for hours, never moving, his lips twitching as he beseeched Paladine’s aid.
The moonlight faded as Solinari set, leaving the room cloaked in shadow. Only when daylight came, the sun’s warmth bathing his face, did Beldinas come back to himself. His eyes fluttered open, and his face began to crease with disappointment-then froze, turning pale as he looked at the floor before him.
The sun’s light had fallen upon the seeds.
The Lightbringer stared, too stunned to move-then, suddenly, he began to laugh.
Paladine had not spoken to him, but the god had provided, just the same.
CHAPTER 26
The Tower of Losarcum was alive with activity. Men and women in robes of all three colors bustled about, carrying armloads and pouches full of books, scrolls, and magical relics. Floating, glowing discs glided the corridors, bearing still more treasures. Enchanted creatures of all shapes and sizes scurried and lumbered about, helping with the evacuation. Room by room, the sorcerers took what they could and cast spells to draw the magic out of what they could not. Artifacts that had lain within the Tower for centuries but were too difficult to remove quickly now lay inert, the sorcery that had once infused them gone.
Leciane had taken part in such a ritual just yesterday, joining a circle of mages-White, Red, and Black Robes all working together-in weaving a spell upon a room full of glowing crystal sculptures. Khadar, the Master of the Tower, had declared the crystal too fragile to move with any ease-and time too short-so Leciane and the others had ripped the Art from the sculptures’ hearts until the light within them died. She had wept when it was over. They were just baubles now, dark and lifeless, and no harm to anyone, should they fall into the wrong hands.
She would almost surely have to go through that again-perhaps many times. The Tower, like all its brethren, was huge, with hundreds of rooms and thousands of wonders.
The Conclave had decreed that they all must be emptied by the end of the month. That day was still two weeks away, but Leciane already knew they would not finish in time-and what if the attack came before then?
She knew the answer, just as well as every other wizard. Atop the tower was the Heartchamber, an obsidian chamber where the magic was strongest, where a spike of black stone-a perfect reproduction of the Tower itself-loomed over a carved replica of Losarcum. There were similar places in the other four Towers as well, though she had only seen the one in Daltigoth. Each Master knew a spell that could shatter the miniature.
When it did, the Tower would destroy itself as well.
It was a terrible thing, and no one wished for it. All they could do was hope the attack did not come too soon.
Once they had their loads of books and trinkets, the mages all moved toward the same place: the Chamber of Traveling. Located halfway between the Tower’s base and its apex, the chamber was a tall, circular room ringed with statues of legendary wizards sculpted in onyx and alabaster and scarlet jade. Blue light filled it, playing in ripples and rings upon its walls. It came from a swirling disc in the room’s midst, twice as tall as a man. Within was the image of a vast vault, filled with the Tower’s treasures. The vault stood hundreds of leagues away, in Wayreth-the one Tower the Lightbringer and his allies could not touch.
Similar rooms held the riches of Istar, Palanthas, and Daltigoth. One by one, wizards brought their burdens to the portal, then stepped through it, crossing half the world in an eye-blink. Moments later, they came out again empty-handed.
Leciane was just leaving the Chamber of Traveling, her back aching from having carried too many books on her last trip, when Khadar hailed her. The Master was a small man, slender and childlike though he was fifty summers old. The Test had done that to him. He wore faded Red Robes with ragged cuffs, and his thinning silver hair was perpetually unkempt, wisps of it sticking out of his hood at odd angles. His face was ashen, his eyes sunken and shadowed. He had not slept for days, and probably wouldn’t for days to come.
“Milady!” he called, hobbling down the long stair that wound around and around the Tower’s midst, from its crown to its base. He leaned on a plain oaken staff as he approached her. “I have been searching for you.”
“What is it this time, Master?” she sighed. “I do not know if I can take another disenchantment.”
The Master shrugged, drawing near. “You would manage if needed, I think,” he said, “but it isn’t a disenchantment I have in mind. Come-we need a Red Robe of your ability. It is time to awaken the Guardians.”