Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Twenty

Word the survivors of Luciel had come spread through Govinna with remarkable speed. By the time the city’s massive gates creaked open, folk were pouring out of homes, taverns and shops to fill the narrow streets. Some came because they had family or friends in the south and wanted to know if they still lived; others because the First Daughter-former First Daughter now-was with the refugees. More than a few young women turned out in the hopes of catching the eye of Lord Tavarre, a widower now and heirless. Most of those who packed the winding roadways, however, did so for none of those reasons. They came to see the monk, the miracle-worker, who cured the Longosai.

Ossirian went out with an armed escort, watched over by archers on the city’s battlements, and met Tavarre and his men just beyond bowshot of the walls. The two lords embraced each other roughly, and there were tears on both men’s cheeks when they parted. Scratching his grizzled beard, Ossirian looked past Tavarre to the mob of refugees. They were scrawny and exhausted, shivering in their dirty clothes. Nearly three weeks had passed since the fall of the Bridge of Myrmidons, and the folk of Luciel had not borne it well. They were well, though, with no sign of the Longosai among them.

Ilista sat her horse nearby, looking grave and troubled, and behind her-also ahorse-were two young men. The first wore fighting leathers and shared his saddle with a skinny, golden-haired girl. The other was clad in a dirty gray habit and had eyes like blue diamonds. The sun’s light was pale, muted by the gray sky above, but around him the air seemed brighter, glittering like the snow on the hilltops did.

“You must be the one we’ve heard about,” Ossirian said, “the one they call Lightbringer.”

“I am,” said Beldyn.

“The stories are true? You healed these people?”

“They aren’t stories,” insisted the young bandit beside the monk.

Ossirian recognized him then, beneath the road-grime and the scraggly whiskers that patched his cheeks. MarSevrin, the one who had brought him the Little Emperor, and begged leave to return south, so he could be with… with his dying sister. Ossirian paled, looking at the girl who rode with him. She was frail with hunger, dark smudges under her eyes, but as for the Longosai, there was no sign of the disease. Ossirian’s lips parted as Wentha met his gaze, then blushed and lowered her eyes.

Catching his breath, he looked back at Beldyn, who smiled quietly within his radiance. For a moment all he could do was stare, caught by the monk’s piercing gaze, then he eased his steed aside and waved toward the city, the green roofs of its temples rising above the walls.

“Come on, then,” he said. “We have need of you.”

When they first entered the city, the crowds were so thick, they could barely get out of the gatehouse. Folk pressed in on all sides, jostling and craning to see the newcomers. Many were sick or maimed. The blind, the lame… men afflicted with palsies, women stricken by barrenness… and here and there, those whose hands and throats showed the first darkenings of the Slow Creep. Those with the plague numbered more than the population of Luciel at its height, and they were only the beginning. In sickbeds all over the city, the people of Govinna were dying, their bodies ravaged by the Longosai.

When they saw the refugees for the first time, a great cheer rose from the crowd, hands rising to punch at the sky, a few throwing flowers or copper coins as Tavarre and Ossirian’s men formed a wedge and started shoving their way into the throng. A mighty shout rose from the mob’s midst, a cry that spread so fast that suddenly everyone seemed to take up all at once.

“Beldinas!” they cried. “Beldinas! Praise to the Lightbringer!”

Ilista stared in amazement as the party inched its way into Govinna, pushing slowly up the street. She had seen mobs like this before, in the Lordcity. It was the sort of crowd that had greeted Symeon on those rare days when he set foot outside the Great Temple. Looking out upon the sea of smiling faces-even those marred by sickness-she felt the lurking disquiet again. It was one thing for the people of Luciel to adore Beldyn, for what he had done for them, but this… these people had never glimpsed him before, yet they cried Beldyn’s name in the church tongue, as if he were a Kingpriest himself. She shuddered at the fanatical fire in their eyes. If this was how they looked on him now, how would they react when he cured their sicknesses?

Beldyn did nothing to quell her apprehensions. He hadn’t been in a city of any size in years, had lived in a crumbling monastery since he was a child. He should have blanched at the sight of so many shouting people-particularly when what they shouted was Ms name-but instead he looked about, tall in his saddle, and nodded to the swarming throngs, signing the triangle over them. Somehow, a young woman pushed through and threw herself at him, clutching at his cassock, but when Cathan moved to shove her back, Beldyn shook his head and clasped her hand in his, then gently nudged her away. She melted into the crowd again, her face glowing with joy.

They adore him, Ilista thought. Do people throng and yell for Kurnos this way?

She shook her head, shivering.

It took more than an hour at such a slow pace, but finally they reached the Pantheon, its high towers and slanted, copper roof looming at Govinna’s heart. There they dismounted, leaving the folk of Luciel, under the watchful eyes of Tavarre’s men. The baron, meanwhile, walked beside Ossirian leading the way to the temple, while Beldyn followed, still smiling, Ilista at his side. Cathan paused to kiss his sister, then left her with the other refugees, laying a hand on his sword hilt as he fell in protectively alongside the Lightbringer.

The mob filled the courtyard before the church-a plaza not as large as the Barigon in Istar but nearly so-even spilling up the long, broad stair leading to its great, dragon-carved doors. Only after those doors boomed shut behind them, shutting them inside the temple’s dim, cool halls, did the shouting fall away and the press of bodies stop. Ilista pressed her medallion to her lips, her ears ringing.

The Pantheon’s vestibule was dim and cool, the frescoes and tapestries on its walls all but lost in shadow. Clouds of pungent incense filled the air, glowing ruddy about the flames of candles. At the far end, another pair of doors gave onto the main worship hall, a vast, pillared space lit by stark shafts of light from high windows. Gold and silver gleamed all about, and though it bore little resemblance to the basilica in Istar-the hall was oblong, not round, and an altar, not a throne, stood at its head-its opulence still brought a pang of homesickness to Dista’s heart. After so long in the wilderness, she was back in the church’s embrace. It was nearly enough to make her forget she was Foripon.

Beldyn looked around, eyes shining, and nodded to himself.

Ossirian led them out of the worship hall-the priests within watching with raised eyebrows as they passed through — and down a carpeted hall to a long circular stair. Up they went, through an archway marking the entrance to the Patriarch’s Tower, past parlors and prayer rooms, up and up and still higher up, until at last they stopped before a pair of brass-bound doors, where two men in chain jacks stood watch. The guards dipped their spears to Ossirian, then stared at Beldyn as they opened up and let the group pass through. Ilista heard them whispering to each other as the doors thudded shut again.

They entered a study with a broad snowwood desk, velvet-cushioned chairs and shelves lined with dusty books. A door opened on the far end, letting out an old, haggard woman in blue vestments. Ilista watched, thinking how long it had been since she’d seen a Mishakite healer. The woman spoke softly with Lord Ossirian, shaking her head at his questions. Finally she stepped back, her face grave, and led the way into the Little Emperor’s private bedchamber.

The smeU of bloodblossom hung heavy in the room. Its heady, soothing scent told Ilista all she needed to know. The Mishakites were sparing with the precious oil, for it was both expensive and dangerous. More than one rich lord had become addicted to the smoke that came from burning it, lost in a blissful haze while the gold vanished from his coffers. If the healer was using so much, Durinen’s pain must be terrible indeed.

“He sleeps,” the old Mishakite said. “He was screaming earlier, so I eased his suffering.” She kissed her fingertips, then pressed them to the corners of her eyes to sign the goddess’s twin teardrops.

The room was well appointed, jewels glistening on its walls, silken curtains hanging across a walk to a balcony outside. Mosaics of wild animals cavorted on its ceiling. The bed was a mound of furs and cushions in its midst. Once more curtains had surrounded it, but they were gone now, torn down and cast into a corner. There was blood on them and in the bed as well. Looking at the Little Emperor, Ilista caught her breath.

Durinen was shirtless, his bare skin white and shining with sweat that soaked his graying hair as well. His proud face was smooth, unlined by pain-the bloodblossom’s work, surely-but muscles still jumped in his neck, and his fingers clutched the blankets like talons.

Worst of all, though, was the wound itself. The quarrel still lodged in his belly, surrounded by bandages that bloomed scarlet where his blood soaked through. The quarrel moved as he breathed, rocking back and forth with each exhale, and the drug’s fumes could not hide the bilious stink coming from it.

Calmly, Beldyn reached to the neck of his cassock and withdrew his medallion. He brushed his fingertips across the patriarch’s brow, then reached out and touched the bolt’s iron shaft. Durinen’s face tightened, a gurgle of pain bubbling up his throat.

“Don’t,” the healer warned, grabbing Beldyn’s wrist. “That quarrel’s the only thing keeping him from the gods.”

Beldyn regarded her, his eyes piercing, until she paled and drew back. Head bowed, he went to stand at the head of the bed and gazed down on Durinen’s face. Then, shutting his eyes, he tightened his grasp about his medallion and began to pray. His lips moved silently, and the air about him shivered then began to glow. A spasm of discomfort passed over his face, the corners of his mouth tightening as he reached out to touch Durinen’s face. A groan escaped his lips, and he swayed like a drunk man, sweat beading on his forehead and running down his face. The nimbus around him flickered and began to fade. Blood welled between his fingers as he squeezed his medallion tighter and tighter still.

Too much time passed.

Merciful god, Ilista thought. He can’t do it. Something’s wrong…

With a shuddering groan, Beldyn’s knees buckled, and he began to sway.

Ilista tensed, but someone was quicker. In a heartbeat Cathan was at his side, catching his arm and holding him up. “Master,” he said. “Wait. You have to stop…”

“No,” Beldyn moaned through thin, white lips. “Hold me. I must finish…”

Cathan shook his head, his mouth opening to protest. Durinen’s wound was too grievous. The wound was tainted, the contents of his bowels mixing with his blood, but something in Beldyn’s face silenced his objections. Cathan tightened his grasp on the monk. Nostrils flared wide, Beldyn took a slow, deep breath to calm himself… and spoke.

The voice that came from his lips was not like any Ilista had heard him use before. It carried none of its usual music, no soothing undertone. Deep and firm, this voice filled the room at the tower’s pinnacle like a thunderclap.

“Abagnud!” he shouted.

Awake!

The light flared around him, making Ossirian curse as it stung his eyes, flowing down over Durinen. With a grunt of exertion he let go of the patriarch’s forehead and stumbled back, Cathan supporting him when he would have collapsed altogether. His shoulders slumped, but his eyes blazed as he continued to stare at the figure on the bed.

Despite the wound, despite the bloodblossom, the Little Emperor’s eyes fluttered open.

He lay still, looking at the ceiling with confusion in his eyes. There was no pain in them and no drugged stupor. Instead they were bright, sharp. Brows knitting, he pushed himself up, propping himself on his elbows. He stared at the quarrel lodged in his flesh and frowned.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It’s-it’s all right,” Beldyn gasped from behind him. “Take it-out.”

Durinen nodded, looking dazedly at the quarrel. Then, with a motion so quick even the Mishakite had no time to do more than suck in a horrified breath, he reached up and yanked the bolt from his body.

Ilista cringed, expecting bright life-blood and entrails to gush from the wound. That didn’t happen. Instead, barbed head and all, the bolt slid easily out of Durinen’s belly, leaving behind only an angry weal on unbroken skin. As she watched, the red mark also faded-or rather, the rest of him brightened, his flesh turning healthy pink once more, rather than the sickly white it had been moments before.

Durinen turned the quarrel in his hand. There was not a spot of blood upon it. It shone with the light that streamed and coursed around Beldyn. Abruptly he flung it away, sending it clattering across the marble floor. Swallowing, he turned, his gaze seeking out Beldyn-then froze as he saw his savior, a gasp tearing from his lips. His mouth worked, but it took him several tries to find his voice.

“You!” he croaked at last.

Ilista looked up, shocked, and saw it too. Beldyn was as she’d seen him in Luciel, that first day when he’d laid his healing touch upon Wentha. Amid the mantle of light, bright enough that it brought stinging tears flooding from her eyes, she saw him clad in pearly samite and golden breastplate, jeweled rings and silk slippers. There, on his head, gleamed the crown. She stared at it: exquisitely crafted, all shimmering gold and sparkling rubies. She frowned, wondering what it was. It seemed so familiar…

In a flash, it was gone, and Beldyn was a monk again, shrouded in shining light, his eyes fluttering closed as the effort of healing Durinen overcame him at last. Cathan kept him from crumpling, and Ossirian and Tavarre rushed to help him to a velvet-padded bench. None of them had shared Ilista’s vision, nor had the Mishakite, who hurried to the bedside, gaping in shock at what just happened. Durinen had seen it, however. She felt certain she saw it in the Little Emperor’s face… before, draining away to unconsciousness once more, he slumped back down among the cushions. He lay still, let out a slow breath… then began to whisper, his lips forming words Ilista couldn’t hear.

“What’s he saying?” she asked.

The Mishakite leaned close, listening, but frowned when she straightened up again. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense…”

With an irritated snort, Ilista rushed forward, pushing the healer aside to bend low. At first she heard nothing, so soft was his voice, but then, faintly, she made it out-the same four words, over and over-and her breath left her in a rush of wonder and terror.

“Site ceram biriat, abat,” the Little Emperor murmured. “Site ceram biriat, abat…”

Later that night, Ilista knelt alone in a chapel off the Pantheon’s worship hall. The room held a small shrine blazing with white candles, atop which perched an icon of Paladine, coiled in his form as the platinum dragon. It stared down at her with topaz eyes that danced with light. She did not speak, made no entreaties of the god. Her thoughts were spinning too quickly for prayer.

Tavarre and Ossirian both pressed her, but she hadn’t spoken to them of the Little Emperor’s whispered words, nor had she revealed her vision of Beldyn in imperial raiment. Finally they had abandoned her to tend to the matter of finding places for the refugees from Luciel to dwell. First, though, they’d taken Beldyn down from the Patriarch’s Tower, to a bedchamber in the cloisters and there laid him down to rest. Cathan remained with him, as faithful as any hound, and Ilista had come down here to be alone. It seemed like only a short time ago, but the candles on the shrine had burned down to waxy stubs, and her legs were numb from kneeling.

Hinges creaking, the door to the sanctuary opened behind her, and silvery light flowed in. She swallowed, feeling the presence in the entry.

“Brother,” she said, turning. “Come in. I was just thinking of you.”

Beldyn entered, chuckling. He had taken off his torn habit and wore a simple white robe, unadorned and unembroi-dered, in its place. He bowed his head as he shut the door, his bright eyes downcast.

“Forgive me, Efisa,” he said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

Ilista shook her head, pushing herself up. Her knees popped as she got to her feet. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve been here too long. Besides, we must talk.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “We must.”

They left the chapel together and went to a nearby apse, where they sat together on a marble window seat. Ilista looked out through the glass, at the city below. The red moon shone down on Govinna, limning the roofs of its temples with crimson fire. Though she couldn’t see them, she felt the presence of people in the streets. They were out there still, holding candles and chanting-Beldinas, Lightbringer, Beldinas…

“Site ceram biriat, abat,” Beldyn said. “Whoever wears the crown, rules.”

She started and turned to look at him.

“Yes,” he said, running a hand through his thick, brown hair. “I heard him say it too, just before I passed out.”

Ilista shivered, but said nothing. Fear ran through her like silver fire.

“He saw something in that room,” he pressed, leaning closer. His eyes gleamed. “You did, too. You can’t hide it from me, Efisa. What is it?”

She didn’t want to tell him. She was too afraid of what it all portended. His glittering blue gaze caught her, transfixed her, and she found herself speaking the words anyway. “Beldyn, have you heard of the Miceram?”

He paused, catching his breath, then nodded. “The Crown of Power,” he replied. “Brother Voss told me the tales when I was a boy. The first Kingpriests wore it, but Faladine took it away a hundred years ago, when the Three Thrones’ War began.”

“That’s one tale,” she said, shrugging. “No one is sure what became of it, to tell the truth. Whatever happened, though, no one has seen it since. Although many have searched, there is no trace of its whereabouts. After it disappeared, people began to whisper that it would return one day, when darkness ruled the land. The man who bore it would be the true lord of Istar.”

“Whoever wears the crown, rules,” Beldyn whispered. His eyes glistened in his own light. “I am to be Kingpriest, then.”

Dista jerked as if stung, the color draining from her face. She looked away. “I didn’t say that.”

“You’ve been thinking it,” he replied, his hand grasping hers. “You saw me wearing the Miceram, up there in the tower, didn’t you?”

She shook her head, pulling away from his grasp. “It can’t be. Darkness doesn’t rule the land. Kurnos is no friend of mine, but he is not evil.”

“Isn’t he?” Beldyn pressed. “He sent the army here to slaughter innocent women and men, burn their villages. When we helped them instead, he cast us both out of the church. Don’t you think it’s convenient the old Kingpriest died when he did? Efisa, Paladine only knows what dark pacts Kurnos has made-”

“No!” she snapped, rising from the bench. “I know Kurnos. He is hard man, but he serves the gods.”

“Tell that to Gareth,” Beldyn said, standing and gesturing out the window. “Tell that to the others who died needlessly in these hills. I will stop him, Efisa. You saw what happened out there today, in the streets. The people will follow me. I will be Kingpriest!”

Ihsta threw up her hands. “The Crown is lost! How can it help you if no one knows where it is?”

He looked at her, then, and she shivered at the fervor on his face. His devoutness had always unsettled her a little, but there was something more awful about his certainty. “Someone knows, Efisa, and I think I know who.”

She shook her head, trembling. “Who?”

He smiled, his eyes glowing with zeal. “The Little Emperor.”