Within was a young woman, not quite thirty, with long hair like polished brass. She dressed in white robes fringed with violet, an amethyst circlet on her head. “Efisa,” Quarath said in a low voice as she drew near. “What brings you here, away from your order?”
Lady Elsa, First Daughter and highest priestess in the Istaran church, clasped her hands in greeting, bringing her thumbs together to form the god’s triangle. “I apologize for the interruption, Emissary, but I bring tidings from First Son Revando.”
“You can tell me, Elsa,” Quarath said. “The Kingpriest should not be disturbed.”
“Nonsense, Emissary,” interrupted Beldinas, coming up behind Quarath. “If the First Son and Daughter both feel it is important, then it must be so. Speak, Efisa.”
Elsa dipped her knee toward the floor as the Kingpriest drew near. “Holiness,” she said, “Revando and I were at the front gates of the Temple, performing the morning benediction over the pilgrims, when I chanced to look toward the harbor. There was a commotion there, and then I saw … I saw a ship.”
One of Quarath’s eyebrows climbed. “A ship, you say? In the harbor?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Emissary,” Beldinas said to Quarath, an edge in his voice. He turned back to Elsa, whose face had turned red. “What of this ship? Tell me, child.”
Elsa regained her composure, smiling gratefully at the Kingpriest. “The ship, Holiness … it had an unusual sail.”
She trailed off as Beldinas studied her a moment, intently. Then his back straightened, and he took half a step back. “Gray,” he said. “The sails were gray, weren’t they?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Y-yes, sire. They were. Are.”
Quarath shot the Kingpriest a sharp glance. “Gray! What is she doing here?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Emissary,” Beldinas replied, frowning. “But we shall soon find out, I think. Lady Elsa, you did well, coming here. Now I need you to spread the news. Go to the Hammerhall, and tell the Grand Marshal to come here at once.”
“Of course, Holiness,” said the First Daughter. “What should I say?”
“The truth,” the Kingpriest said, and sighed for the third time that morning. “Tell him the Weeping Lady has come.”
The Grand Marshal ducked, and just in time he heard the whistle as the sword missed his head, and knew he was lucky it hadn’t caught him full in the face. A lesser warrior never would have seen the blow coming, nor recovered fast enough to launch a counterattack before his foe could capitalize on catching him off-balance-but the Marshal had been a knight of the Divine Hammer for nineteen years, and its leader for seven. There were few better swordsmen in the world.
Smiling behind his visor, he spun to his left, rising to full height once more and bashing his opponent’s weapon arm with his shield. The other knight-a hotheaded youth named Bron-grunted more with pain than surprise, and stumbled sideways, his sword dropping. Instinct took over, focusing on the momentary vulnerability, and the Marshal swung at Bron’s head.
Bron was an untested fighter, but he was also quick. His blade came up again, catching the Marshal’s a hand’s breadth from his temple. Steel crashed, and the two men stood locked, staring at each other through the eye-slits of their helms.
“Not bad,” the Marshal said tersely. “Another ten, fifteen years of this, and I might make a fighter of you.”
Sir Bron’s eyes flashed. “Another ten years, milord, and you’ll be too old to lift your sword.”
The Marshal laughed lustily, though the gibe was off the mark. He was only thirty-five; in ten years he would be a little past his prime, but he’d still be a fierce fighter. Lord Olin, his predecessor, had been nearly seventy when he’d died of heart-burst while sparring in this very yard. With few true enemies left to fight in the world, more of the Divine Hammer’s veterans fell to old age than battle these days.
“We’ll see, lad,” he said, and shoved Bron back. The two of them parted, circling behind their shields, each seeking some opening, some weakness.
Sir Bron’s greatest disadvantage, however, was not technique but impatience. The Grand Marshal used it against him, feinting several times but never bringing the fight to a clash. Each time, Bron grew more tense and unsettled, until finally he growled and came on hard, sword spinning in a low backhand cut. Grinning behind his visor, the Marshal caught the swing on the rim of his shield, then slid away, letting momentum carry the young knight past him. Nimble as a Zaladhi fire-dancer, the Marshal wheeled around and slammed his sword home. It hit the back of Bron’s neck with a horrible crash.
In a plain fight, it would have been a decapitating blow. Fortunately for Bron, though, the two knights were fighting with blunted swords, and his gorget saved him. Even so, there was enough strength behind the strike to leave the younger knight down on his knees, his sword lying in the dust ten feet away. Retching, Sir Bron fought to pull off his helm.
The Grand Marshal did the same, revealing a fair, youthful face sprayed with freckles. Golden hair, gathered in a long ponytail, spilled out and down his back, and a coppery beard covered his chin, the only aspect of his appearance that made him look older than the sixteen he’d been on his dubbing day. He eyed Sir Bron-now vomiting loudly, his dark hair hanging over his eyes-then turned to look at the young knights and squires ringing the battlefield.
“There’s today’s lesson, lads,” proclaimed Tithian, Lord of the Divine Hammer, with a wry grin. “Keep your head, or you’re bound to lose it.”
Laughter rang out across the Hammerhall’s inner bailey, echoing off the labyrinth of yellow walls and battlements, turrets and towers. Half the knighthood was less than twenty-five summers old, and most were untested in battle. Tithian and his lieutenants staged these mock fights regularly to keep the art of arms alive. Now the Grand Marshal straightened his tabard-crimson instead of the other knights’ white, denoting his rank-and wiped a smudge of grime from the burning-hammer sigil emblazoned on his breast. Raising his blade in salute, he walked to Sir Bron’s side and offered his hand to help him up.
Angrily, Bron waved off the knightly courtesy and got up awkwardly on his own. He was a small, lithe man with a face like a horse’s. His cheeks burned red as he wiped spittle from his lips. “I should have had you,” he grumbled.
“The last words of many men,” replied Tithian, clapping his shoulder. “You’re a fine strong fighter, but even the best iron needs refining to become steel. Control that temper of yours, or it will cost you.” Giving the barest of nods, Bron sulked off. Tithian sighed-some men just didn’t want to learn-then turned to face the rest of his knights.
“All right,” he announced, flourishing his blade. “Who’s next?”
The others looked away: at the ground, at each other, at the golden, flame-wreathed hammer mounted atop the castle’s main keep. None of them were keen to face the Grand Marshal, especially after his thorough trouncing of Bron. Tithian couldn’t blame them-he’d hated sparring with his betters when he was young, too-but neither was he going to let them get away that easily.
“Come on, lads,” he coaxed. “If one of you doesn’t fight me, we’ll have a melee instead.”
The young knights groaned. Mass melees always meant plenty of work for the knighthood’s Mishakite healers afterward. They were good training, though; Tithian remembered many such battles from his youth, and no one-on-one duel could prepare anybody for having allies and enemies all around. He fixed his men with a steel-blue glare.
“Well?”
Still the others hesitated, and Tithian almost spat out of annoyance. Things hadn’t been this in the old days, the days of now-legendary men like Tavarre of Luciel, and Marto of Falthana, and … and many, many others. But most of those heroes were dead now, casualties of the war against sorcery, and this was what remained-mostly the younger sons of nobles and merchant lords, sent into service so they wouldn’t burden their families. The burning zeal of the Hammer’s early days had faded to a flicker.