Cathan caught his breath, knowing what he beheld. This was Daltigoth then, where Duke Serl and his men stood ready to launch the second attack, two days hence.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you showing me this?”
Leciane only kept chanting, her fingers plucking the air like harpstrings. The images were so fine now he could make out the pine trees that surrounded the Tower. Wait: one tree was different, larger and darker than the rest. He furrowed his brow. What was happening to the Tower? It seemed to be bulging and swelling, growing more distorted as he watched.
Cathan stared, entranced.
Suddenly, a loud noise broke through the stillness, making Cathan jump. He looked up, his heart pounding. Someone was knocking at the door.
“Sir?” called a voice. It was Tithian.
Leciane started as well. The image wavered, smearing. She threw herself back into the spell, furiously trying to retrieve it-
The door opened.
“Milord, are you all right?” Tithian stepped through, bare-chested and sword in hand.
Two other young knights stood behind him, similarly arrayed. “We heard voices-Palado Calib!”
The knights stared at the sorceress, who stared back at them. Cathan looked from one to the other, too stunned to react. On the floor, the phantasm Leciane had been conjuring dissolved back into mist, the magic leaking away.
“Wait,” Cathan said, but no one listened.
Leciane and Tithian acted simultaneously. Even as she spoke the word that made her vanish from the room, the young knight threw his sword.
It struck as she was fading from sight under the power of the teleport spell. Instead of burying itself in her stomach, it pierced her ghostly image-as she disappeared-and crashed into a frescoed wall.
The Master stepped forward to steady Leciane as she appeared in his chambers, but she held out a hand, staying him. Wanting to scream with frustration, she staggered to a velvet-cushioned bench and sat down, burying her face in her hands.
“Gods and demons,” she growled. She recounted what had happened.
“You should have told him first,” Khadar reproached her. “He would have believed you, with the charm you have laid on him.”
Leciane laughed shrilly. “I never laid a charm on him.”
Khadar stared with his mouth open. She bowed her head.
Her thoughts drifted back, to that night in the hills. If only she had done what she was told, perhaps none of this would have happened. She shook her head, moaning.
“Vincil said you told him-”
“I lied!” she shouted, pushing to her feet. “All right?” Furious with herself as much as him, she stormed out of the room. Khadar called after her, but did not follow.
By the time she calmed down again, it was nearly morning. Glancing out one of the few windows that looked out of the spire, she saw the eastern sky was the color of ripe blood-melons above the mesas. Still seething-mostly at herself, for being such a fool-she stood silently, staring at the coming dawn.
That was when the first tremor struck.
The vibration felt slight, but it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle nonetheless. Dravinaar was not prone to earthquakes and never had been. That meant something else was happening, some force beyond nature. Who was doing it, the order or the knights? The mages wouldn’t have acted first, but surely without the Lightbringer, the Divine Hammer didn’t have the power …
The second temblor was stronger than the first, enough to buckle her knees. She leaned against the wall to steady herself, listening to the cries of her fellow wizards sounding alarm all throughout the Tower.
Splinters and shards, she thought. It isn’t us.
The stone wall shimmered, her reflection in the obsidian warping. She drew back, then saw the shape it was becoming, the lips parting to reveal glassy black teeth and tongue.
She stared at the magical mouth, childlike in form like Khadar’s, and was unsurprised when its voice was the Tower Master’s.
“Milady,” the stone mouth said, “come to the Heartchamber at once.”
One of the first things a mage learned, one of the first lessons of spellcrafting, was how to clear one’s mind. Sorcery took concentration. It was hard to call upon the magic and give it form without emotions interfering. Even so, it seemed half the wizards in the Tower of Losarcum were panicking. One quake after another shook the spire. Men and women of all three robes shouted and shoved against one another. Books and sorcerous implements littered the halls and the great circular stair. Wizards clogged the entrance to the Chamber of Traveling. Some screamed curses at those in their way.
Leciane forced past the rabble, sprinting up the stairs. Another tremor nearly swept her off her feet. Beyond the entrance to Khadar’s chambers, she reached a tall, iron-wood door.
The runes inscribed on its surface glowed at her approach-all three hues of magic, united in protecting the Heartchamber. She spoke a word, and one by one they faded, the door swinging open to let her through.
Most of Khadar’s inner circle were already there, gathered about the needle that was the Tower’s facsimile. They murmured to one another in strained voices. The Master waved her close, his eyes fear-widened.
“The Guardians stand ready,” he said. “We must be prepared as well. Once they’re through, we will not have long.”
A shuddering groan escaped her lips when she saw the events rendered in miniature before her. A strange black cypress had materialized, standing taller than the other trees, just like the pine in Daltigoth. Its branches drooped with weight, brushing the ground. The rest of the grove was moving away from the strange tree now, clearing a gap that led straight to the Tower-and there, behind the cypress, the knights of the Divine Hammer stood in gleaming armor.
One more day, she thought, despairing. Cathan, why couldn’t you wait one more day?
Tonight I would have tried again to tell you …
Too late now. The chance had passed. The attack on the Tower of Losarcum had begun.
CHAPTER 30
Cathan stared at the black cypress, looming over him and his knights, above the other trees in the haunted grove. Had Beldinas truly sanctioned the creation of this strange tree?
If he hadn’t, who had? A voice deep within him shouted that this was wrong-and, yet, the path to the Tower lay open as the missive had promised. The priests had blessed his men in Paladine’s and Kiri-Jolith’s names. The knights awaited his command. If he didn’t give the order, they would surely revolt and take the Tower anyway. His disgrace would be sealed.
He drew Ebonbane and gave the cypress one last dubious glance. Reverently, he pressed his sword’s hilt to his lips, then shut the visor of his helm. A chorus of metallic clangs sounded behind him. He shifted his shield onto his arm, then looked back at the men of the Divine Hammer. They stood ready, some gripping crossbows, others with blades and maces. He thought of Tavarre, and Pellidas, and the others who had fallen over the past few months. The surviving knights had waited a long time to avenge their deaths. Now that time was at hand.
He raised his sword. “For Paladine!” he shouted. “For Kiri-Jolith! For the Lightbringer!”
“The Lightbringer!” his men roared, and charged.
The grove’s magic had diminished along the hewn path, but it hadn’t disappeared. As he ran, Cathan felt its enchantment, luring him toward the trees as it had in Istar. Shouts behind told him some of his men had succumbed. They are lost, he told himself. When the battle was done, gods willing, he would look for them. Right now, he had to keep moving toward the Tower.