The earth shook a fourth time. There were shrieks now from all over-not just the chancery but a roar of fear from the Temple outside and the city beyond. Clerics started to knock each other down, trample each other. They clogged the doors, shoving and screaming as walls collapsed and flames spread.
A crash sounded behind Denubis, and he turned, already knowing his desk would be gone, buried beneath a balcony that had given way and fallen from the walkways above. He fell to his knees, hot tears spilling from his eyes as his work-the work of more than forty years-vanished in clouds of dust and smoke. Better if I’d still been sitting there, he thought. Better than to live, knowing all I’ve done has come to nothing… destroyed in an instant. He wept like a child as destruction rained down around hint
Denubis.
The voice was like a spike of ice driven through his skull. He gasped, looking up to see who was speaking, but there was no one there. All the living monks had abandoned the place, leaving the chancery to the dead and the dying. Black fumes choked the air, and curls of burning paper floated like ghosts.
Yet he knew who had spoken, though he was loath to admit it. He remembered the shadowy figure who had visited him on the Night of Doom. The words of Fistandantilus rang in his memory. There will come a time of great despair. You must not falter.
Denubis choked on tears and smoke. He was faltering. It took all his will but he fought back the urge to surrender and die. “What must I do?” he breathed.
Come to me, said the Dark One. There is still time, but it is short. You can still make a difference. Your life can still have meaning. Come, before all is lost.
Flames rose around him. A tremendous crash silenced screaming voices elsewhere in the library, and blew a wall of cinders and ash over him. The remaining windows of the chancery exploded outward. He stared out at the gardens beyond and the open air. Then, moving like a Pesaran stick-puppet, he rose and staggered out of the inferno, following the lure of the voice.
Cathan woke from dreamless slumber, and knew he would never sleep again.
He couldn’t say how he knew. There was nothing wrong, no strange smell on the wind or foreboding in the air. It was mercilessly hot, but that was how every day was since he came to Xak Tsaroth. Old bones creaking, he rose from the stone floor that had been his bed for the past week and more. Paladine had left him after giving him his final vision, and Cathan had remained in the temple of Shinare in all that time. There was water to drink in the church’s cistern, and a few barrels of old hardtack and dried dates in the cellar, left over from better days. He’d stayed hidden, afraid to show his face and risk revealing himself again.
The Divine Hammer was here-he could sense it. They were searching Xak Tsaroth for him, so he’d stayed hidden, lost in thought.
Now, though, he knew the time for hiding was over. He looked out a window and noted the sharp, downward angle of the sun’s rays streaming through. It was an hour until midday … maybe less. Time was short.
He didn’t pray; the god was with him anyway. He was the Lightbringer.
Buckling on his sword, Cathan walked out the door and into the street. Daylight stabbed at his eyes, dazzling him. He threw up an arm to cover his face, fighting through waves of nausea. You know what to do, the platinum dragon had told him.
Certainty shone in his empty eyes. People stepped out of his path, making warding signs as he passed. He tried not to look at the men, the women, and especially the children. Their fates were sealed, as was his. It pained him to think of their doom: These were not evil people. He made his way down to the lake.
He heard the voices behind him, the whispers and oaths, the sounds of running feet. He had been recognized; the whisperers would bring the ones who hunted him. But he had things to do now, and no way to do them without revealing himself. By the time he reached the wharf, a huge crowd had gathered behind him, following at a distance, ready to run if the Twice-Born should turn on them.
The water was beautiful, sparkling azure in the sunlight. The jade, pillared halls of the palace and temples reflected brilliantly on its surface. Jetties reached out from the shore, rowboats bobbing and bumping alongside. He stared at them for a moment, then descended a short stair down to the water. The dockmaster hurried to meet him, and Cathan untied his purse from his belt and tossed it to the man-and with it, the last few pieces of silver he owned. The man stopped to catch the coin pouch, and Cathan walked past him, toward the boats.
The first crossbow bolt struck the dock directly in front of where he walked, burying itself three inches deep in solid wood. Cathan pulled up short, staring at the quivering quarrel, then turned to face back toward shore.
The crowd had spread out along the stone seawalclass="underline" Hundreds strong, they stood watching him with apprehension. And there, among them, were the knights-eight in all, their armor gleaming. Four carried crossbows, the rest had maces and swords. At their head, at the top of the stair, was the one called Bron.
“Very well,” Cathan said wearily. “But let’s be quick about this.”
Chapter 32
Cathan stood with his gaze fast on the knights, his hand resting lightly on Ebonbane’s hilt. The waterfront buzzed with the promise of a fight and fresh blood.
“If you draw your sword, you will die,” said Sir Bron. “That is a promise, not a threat.”
Cathan shrugged. “What other option do I have?”
“Surrender. Give back what you’ve stolen.”
“And you think surrender would be honorable?”
“Your life will be spared.”
“I doubt it,” Cathan replied. “My life ends today, one way or another.”
Bron frowned, puzzled, then shook his head. “I am warning you, Twice-Born. I have only to give the order, and my men will shoot. I won’t make the same mistake Lord Tithian did, and underestimate you.”
“Tithian was a true knight,” Cathan replied, raising his voice. “He lived, and died, with honor-something your kind knows little about. We had an agreement, and you have violated it by following me here.”
A noise rippled along the wharf, a chorus of disapproval. Bron scowled, feeling the sentiments of the crowd begin to turn against him. They began to mutter words like coward and murderer. The other knights twitched nervously.
“Honeyed words, to mask the poison,” Bron shot back, undeterred. “You tricked Tithian into a duel, then you killed him and fled.”
“A good fight,” Cathan noted. “Won fairly, but not easily … and with no joy in it. Tithian was my friend-that’s why I tarried to bury him. Would a murderer build his victim’s cairn?”
Hundreds of eyes settled on Sir Bron, who shifted uneasily. He kept his vision focused on Cathan. “Your lies will burn you in the Abyss,” he said.
“I am a murderer and a thief,” Cathan shot back. “You said it yourself. How does lying make any difference in the Abyss?”
The crowd laughed at that, and Bron bristled. “You’ll find out, soon enough,” he said. “Now, if you haven’t taken your hands off your sword before I count to three, I will give the order to shoot.”
Cathan nodded, but didn’t move. The knights sighted down their crossbows, fingers on triggers.
“One,” said Bron, raising his hand.
The crowd edged closer, making the boards of the wharf-walk creak.
“Two.”
Cathan tightened his grip on Ebonbane’s hilt. His eyes were white, empty, unblinking. He had seen this in his vision, with Brother Jendle in the Shinarite temple. He felt no fear, no doubt He waited patiently as Sir Bron glared at him.
“Three!”
The crossbowmen fired, all four at once. At the snap of the strings, Cathan jerked his sword from its scabbard and swept it in two looping arcs before him. He heard the blade strike the quarrels, mid-flight… ping! ping! ping! ping!.. and the missiles spun away to the left and right, splashing into the waters of the lake. Ebonbane vibrated, the sword humming softly as he brought it to rest before him.