Bron took charge with admirable efficiency, urging the men to their appointed cover. The two youngest knights moved quickly about the courtyard, scattering gravel and pine needles to cover their tracks. Then they, too, hid themselves away. Tithian and Bron went last, perching in prime spots by the keep’s toppled north wall nearest the cemetery. The rain spat in the groaning wind, beneath the horrible sky. Silence covered the old fort like a shroud.
Then, softly, came footsteps, scuffing against stone. A mad urge rose in Tithian to jump up and tell his former master to run; confused, he fought it down. This was the Kingpriest’s will, and he was sworn to carry out the Lightbringer’s orders. To his left, Bron silently loosened his sword in its scabbard.
Cathan came closer. Now Tithian could see him, through a crack in the stone: an old, hooded, road-weary man with a wooden cudgel dangling from his belt. If not for the glimpse he had of white, empty eyes, Tithian never would have recognized his old friend. He watched as the Twice-Born walked to the stone marking Lord Tavarre’s grave. Cathan pulled back his hood, revealing a bald head spotted with age marks, and a face gaunt and lined with suffering. A sad smile appeared amid his ragged beard. “Come out, Swordflinger,” he said aloud. “Your men, too.”
Cathan had heard them among the rubble-the soft jingle of mail behind the ragged stub of a wall. He knew Tithian well, could guess that he might have raced to Luciel to wait for him. Yes, there, in the shadows by what had once been a statue of one of Lord Tavarre’s ancestors-now shreared from the waist, its legs cloaked in ivy. Cathan held up his hands, keeping them away from his cudgel.
“I know you’re there,” he said. “I have smelled you and heard your bluefinch call.”
“And still you walked into our trap.”
Tithian rose from his cover with the barest trace of a sheepish grin. Another half-dozen knights stood up around him. Swords hissed from their scabbards and in an instant, he was ringed in steel. Tithian, however, did not draw his own blade. Cathan wondered whether that was a good sign or not.
“There’s no way out,” the Grand Marshal declared.
Cathan shrugged. “You could let me go.”
A couple of the younger knights laughed, their voices thick with scorn, Cathan ignored them. Tithian frowned in irritation.
“You know I can’t do that. The Kingpriest ordered me to take you… one way or the other.”
Cathan sighed, lowering his hands. “The Kingpriest gives many orders, Tithian. He ordered us to Losarcum, remember? Would you have obeyed, had you known what would come of that disastrous day?”
“The defeat of the wizards, you mean?” sneered a young knight beside Tithian. Cathan struggled to remember his name: Bron. “I for one would have obeyed, though it cost my life. The gods will reward me in the afterworld.”
“You assume it was the god’s will.”
“Assume?” Sir Bron echoed, flushing angrily. “The Lightbringer is Paladine’s voice!”
Cathan shook his head. “No. No. Beldinas makes his own voice, and no other.”
A rumble came from the knights. “Blasphemy!” exclaimed Sir Bron. “How dare you-”
“Bron. Be still,” Tithian ordered. The young knight’s eyes widened, but he swallowed any farther tirade. “Cathan, I can’t let you go, in spite of our old friendship. The Kingpriest would brand me a traitor. I’d lose my knighthood, my holdings … I’d be lucky if he didn’t declare me Foripon. Surely you understand-”
All at once, the words died on his lips. Cathan’s hand, which had been resting on his pack, suddenly pulled out the Peripas. The Disks made a musical sound as he raised them, flashing with bright streaks of light. Several knights cried out at the sight of them; others averted their eyes. Sir Bron’s face turned ashen. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing among the crags.
Tithian’s eyes widened. Then he composed himself, keeping his face blank. “I know you have the Disks, Cathan. Why do you think it’s so important that we find you? His Holiness needs them to-”
“His Holiness will bring ruin upon the empire, and the world,” Cathan shot back angrily. “I have seen a vision of his failure. The god showed me long ago, but I didn’t understand then. Now I do, and we’re almost out of time.”
“Blasphemy,” Sir Bron growled again. Lightning flashed overhead. The young knight spoke up fiercely. “You’re a heretic and a thief. Twice-Born.”
“Yes, I am,” Cathan answered, his face set like stone. “But I was a better knight in my time than you will ever be. Any of you-except one.”
He looked back at Tithian, who stared at him ruefully. Above, the sky seethed and roiled. His former squire’s face tightened as he struggled to master his emotions.
“You know what I say is true, Tithian,” Cathan said. “I can see it in your eyes. I told you once that you were a good man-will you not prove it true?”
Tithian stood very still. The knights watched him, confused, awaiting their orders. One word, and they would fall on Cathan. They had been sent; it was their duty. A single tear swelled in Tithian’s eye, dropped onto his cheek, and rolled down, “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “I can’t lot you go. But you were a good knight, once.”
With that, he reached to his belt, drew out his sword and tossed it across the distance, to land at Cathan’s feet.
“I think you’ll recognize my gift to you,” he said.
The blade of Tarsian steel, the golden hilt, the shards of porcelain that once had been his family’s holy symbol of Paladine: Ebonbane. Looking back up at Tithian, Cathan saw a cold determination in the man’s eyes, and caught his breath. Thunder boomed, closer now.
Tithian’s face was as an expressionless mask. “Bron, give me your sword.”
Sir Bron didn’t respond. He, like the other knights, was staring at Ebonbane in open-mouthed shock. Here they had their quarry, unarmed save for a club, and the Grand Marshal had just handed him the finest blade in the empire.
“Bron!” Tithian snapped
Blinking, the young knight looked up. Then he shook himself, bowing his head and proffering his weapon, hilt-first, to the Grand Marshal. Tithian took it, weighing it in his hand, and gave it a few practice swipes. He made a face.
“This,” he declared, “is merely a passable blade. But no matter.”
“No, my friend,” Cathan said. “You don’t have to do this.”
Tithian smiled, sadly. “Pick up your sword,” he said. “The Divine Hammer has its laws, and I must follow them. We will settle this by the trial of combat.”
Chapter 27
The storm crashed down on Taol with a fury that felled trees and flooded rivers all across the province. The rain lashed at Tithian’s face, but he kept his visor open, relishing; the feel of it- for the rain washed away his tears.
Cathan put away the Disks, then bent to lift Ebonbane from the ground. “A duel?”
“Just so,” Tithian said. “The stakes are your freedom, and the Peripas.”
“And my life. I will not yield.”
Tithian nodded. He’d expected that, even though his old master appeared a broken man, starved and exhausted. Even Ebonbane could not guarantee his victory.
“And if I should win?” Cathan pressed. “Will you truly call off the search?”
Tithian simply raised Bron’s sword, pressing its hilt to his lips. His gaze remained locked with Cathan’s, who sagged slightly, as though already defeated
“Very well,” Cathan sighed. “But we must not fight here. I do not wish to disgrace Tavarre’s grave with our blood. Let us go to a secret place, you and I, where we can take care of this business with only the gods as witnesses.”
The other knights stirred, and Bron opened his mouth to protest, but Tithian held up a hand to stay them. Lightning blazed, with a great crack of thunder following a second later. Tithian winced at the sound, then smiled.