“Come forward,” he said.
The messenger strode forward and knelt, proffering a silver scroll-tube. Beldinas opened it himself, sliding out the parchment within. He scanned its length-then stopped, the tube falling from his fingers with a ringing clatter.
“Sire!” Quarath exclaimed, moving to Beldinas’s side. “What is it?”
The Kingpriest ignored him, staring at the sheet in his hands. Slowly, he spoke, his voice toneless. “It is from the south,” he said. “He is coming, it says. He will be here the day after the morrow.”
Quarath frowned, not understanding. “Who? Who is coming?”
Beldinas turned, his gaze focusing on something the elf couldn’t see, something far away. He did not answer.
Cathan stood at the prow of the skiff, staring at the Lordcity stretched out along the shore. The God’s Eyes burned above the harbor. Beyond lay the domes and gardens, the arena and the Hammerhall-and, drawing his attention with equal force, the Tower and the Temple. He had heard of the peace made between the Church and the Conclave, several days ago on the road. Now, looking upon the bloody-fingered hand, he knew it was true.
Sorcery was gone from Istar.
He and Tithian had had a long, hard journey back from the ruins of Losarcum. Afoot, the Sun’s Anvil had nearly killed them both. Finally, half-dead from thirst and hunger, skin burnished bronze by the sun’s glare, they had walked out of the deserts of Dravinaar and found the road to the empire’s heartland. They had regained some of their strength and found horses. Finally, last night, they had come to Odacera on Lake Istar’s southern shore.
They stayed there until dawn, then set forth on the first of the day’s ferries to the Lordcity.
“Home,” Tithian stated wearily, coming up beside Cathan. The little boat rounded the breakwater, gliding between larger trading ships on its way to the wharf. “I never thought I’d say it again. We’ve come home.”
Cathan only stared at the Temple, glistening at the city’s heart.
A party of knights was waiting as they pulled up to the dock. Cathan returned their salutes as he stepped off the skiff, letting them take charge of the horses. He could feel their furtive looks, but when he turned his empty stare upon them, they looked away.
Sighing, he turned to Tithian, drawing the younger knight aside.
“We part here,” he said. “You are a good man, Tithian. I have always thought that of you. Remember that, whatever may come.”
Tithian blinked. “My lord? I thought-”
“Go,” Cathan barked. “That’s an order.”
For a moment the younger knight wavered, then, though thoroughly confused, he bowed to Cathan. “Paladine guide thy steps, sir,” he said.
“And thine,” Cathan said. Turning, he left Tithian, heading alone into the Lordcity.
The crowds outside the Temple were larger than ever, chanting the Lightbringer’s name.
Cathan felt very weary as he looked at them. He walked around to the side gate. The knights standing watch stared at him in amazement, and so did the clerics he passed in the Temple’s gardens. He ignored those who signed the triangle and made warding signs.
His eyes were only on the basilica, its crystal dome shining above the rest of the church. In he went, drawing still more astonished looks as he made his way through the sunbathed hallways.
When he entered the anteroom, he didn’t stop to lave his hands or genuflect to the god.
He didn’t glance at the tables laden with food and wine. Instead, he marched straight toward the velvet curtain, beyond which murmured the voices of the imperial court.
Without hesitation he shoved it aside, striding through.
The silence that descended upon the Hall of Audience was complete. The courtiers turned to stare at him with open mouths. He barely acknowledged them, striding toward the head of the room, where the Kingpriest’s innermost circle were gathered. There was Quarath on one side, Lord Olin on the other-Cathan’s mouth twisted as he noticed the man wore the Grand Marshal’s scarlet tabard. There were the new First Son and Daughter and the other hierarchs.
And there, in their midst…
Beldinas rose from his golden throne, drenched in light, the Miceram a ring of flame around his head. He stretched out his arms.
“Lord Cathan,” the Kingpriest proclaimed. “It makes me glad to see you alive.”
Cathan drew himself up, his empty eyes unwavering. “Not nearly as glad as I am, Holiness,” he said, his voice taut. “I see another has already taken my place, though.”
The Kingpriest looked at Lord Olin. The honorable knight flushed, looking at the floor.
“I thought you dead, my friend,” Beldinas said softly. “We all did. Now that we know otherwise, we rejoice. Don’t worry, we shall find a way to amend this error without offending. Come forward, Cathan.”
Cathan obeyed, his boots clacking upon the blue mosaic at the foot of the imperial dais.
He noted the fear still in Beldinas’s eyes as he halted before the throne. Both of them had changed, these past months. All around the hall, courtiers whispered to one another.
The Kingpriest and his first knight regarded one another. Finally, Quarath broke the stillness, his outraged whisper seeming shrill.
“Kneel before the Lightbringer,” he warned.
“No,” Cathan said, and drew Ebonbane.
The ring of the blade filled the hall, echoing from the crystal dome. Men and women cried out at the sight of naked steel within the basilica. Lord Olin stepped forward, reaching for his own sword, but Cathan froze him with a look. The new Grand Marshal fell back, looking uncertainly toward the throne.
“Be easy, Olin,” Beldinas declared. “Lord Cathan does not intend any harm. But-” he turned back toward Cathan “-I would like to know what you do intend, my friend.”
“I am not your friend, Pilofiro,” Cathan said. “Once I laid this sword at your feet because of my love for you. With it, I have killed in your name. But no more. I have seen firsthand the result of your leadership. Was Loscarcum what you intended?”
The Kingpriest looked stunned. “It was the god’s will,” he said firmly. “The sorcerers were evil. They had to be destroyed.”
“At what cost?” Cathan snapped. “A city, destroyed! Thousands of innocents, dead! And for what-a few Black Robes?”
“This crusade against darkness has come with a price,” Beldinas admitted, “but if good folk must die to bring about the end of evil, then it is the god’s-”
Cathan raised his sword and brought it down. It struck the stair with a ferocity that made the courtiers jump. Chips of marble flew.
“No!” Cathan exclaimed. “Don’t tell me it was Paladine’s will. This was your doing, Beldinas-and it is something Brother Beldyn never would have done, all those years ago. He would have abhorred such rampant death and destruction, and so do I. I will not be a part of this unholy crusade any longer.”
With that, he reached up, set Ebonbane’s tip against the collar of his tabard, and cut the garment off. The burning-hammer sigil split in two. Eyes blazing, he hurled the cloth down on the floor.
Again, tense silence. Cathan glared at the Kingpriest. Beldinas merely looked sad.
Everyone else stared, unsure what to do. Finally, Beldinas sighed and sat back in his throne.
“I once gave you back your life,” he said quietly.
“I gave it to you first,” Cathan replied, sheathing his blade. “Now I’m taking it back. Farewell, Holiness.”
With that, he turned and stalked away from the throne. Men and women parted before him as he went, whispering.
“Wait,” Beldinas called. “My friend-”
Without breaking stride, Cathan walked out of the Hall of Audience and the Temple. He left Istar that same day, and where he went no one could say.