Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Twenty-Nine

In the years to come, poets wrote that the light that ended the Battle of Govinna came from the heavens, a bright, shining beam streaking down from the firmament. The poets weren’t there, though. To the bordermen and Scatas who were, the light came from atop the patriarch’s spire, rising up into the night-black sky.

Those closest saw it best, and none was closer than Cathan. He saw the Miceram flare brightly, its glow shifting from red-gold to Beldyn’s brilliant white. Then the light burst forth, engulfing monk and demon alike. Sathira let out a final tormented howl that choked off into silence, and she was gone, destroyed by the crown’s holy power, sobbing back to the deepest pits of the Abyss in burning agony.

The light did not disappear with her death, however. It burned brighter still, a lance of silver that shot up into the heavens, so high goatherds looked upon it twenty leagues away and wondered what it was. It stayed that way a long time, drawing awestruck stares from soldier and bandit alike as flares of holy power pulsed along its length. Finally, with a watery pealing sound, it burst open, spilling light across the city.

Cathan flinched as the glow swept over him, expecting it to burn the flesh from his bones, but this radiance was cool, smelling of rain and rose petals. As it bathed him, he felt it ease his mind, driving out despair, fear, rage. His pain- strong where Sathira’s claws had torn into him-faded away. Joy welled up within him, deeper than any he’d felt in his life, even at Wentha’s healing. He wanted to laugh, sing, fling up his arms and shout with bliss.

The holy power passed, spreading outward through the Pantheon and into Govinna beyond. It overtook the Kingpriest’s forces, stopping them in their tracks, stunned. It flowed from street to street, courtyard to marketplace, through windows and around statues. It leaped across the gap that split the city’s east half from its west and scoured the green roofs of Govinna’s temples, leaving shining copper in its wake. On the curtain wall and beyond, men gaped as it rushed toward them, then flung up their arms when it struck, passing by in a rush, washing over both armies like an eldritch wind.

It healed as it went, leaving the wounded stirring in its wake, exclaiming in wonder. Men who had lain dying on the ground moments before, their life-blood seeping from ghastly wounds, drew breaths suddenly devoid of pain and rose, their fevered minds calm once more. Flesh mended, bones set straight and true, severed hands and arms appeared anew where bloody stumps had dangled moments before. Even those who had been on death’s hard edge smiled as they rose to their feet, their injuries gone as if they had never existed. When it was over, only the dead remained, scattered on the stony ground, but even they seemed different. Their faces had smoothed, even those who had perished in agony, now at peace with the god.

The chanting began on the walls, among the borderfolk who had fought in Beldyn’s name, but it spread quickly, clamoring across the city and echoing from the hills. Both sides lent their voices now, joining in a chorus of joy. Never before, in all of Istar’s history, had such a cry arisen, weapons and fists punching the sky as both sides bellowed together: “Cilenfo’ Pilofiro! Babo Sod!”

The Healer! The Lighibringer! The True Kingpriest!

The next day, as the turquoise sky dimmed in the east, the plaza outside the Pantheon filled once more. This time, however, it wasn’t only the folk of Govinna who crowded there. Alongside them, blue cloaks flapping in the evening breeze, stood the Scatas of the imperial army. Men who had sought to kill one another only scant hours before now jostled for a better view, looking toward the temple’s broad steps.

Lord Holger stood at the rear of the crowd, Loren at his side. He glanced back at his officers, arrayed behind him, and his moustache twitched with sorrow. There were breaks in their ranks, for not everyone had lived to see the holy light. Sir Utgar and other friends of Holger’s were dead. It would be hard explaining things to the dead men’s families. Holger wasn’t even sure he understood it himself yet.

Coughing into his gauntleted hand, he stood erect and started across the plaza, the other Knights marching behind. The crowd parted before him, Scatas saluting and bordermen staring as he and the others strode toward the Pantheon. Holger had expected, when he’d ordered the attack yesterday, that he would soon make this very march. At that time, he’d thought it would be to accept the rebels’ surrender. Now, however, he went for a wholly different reason. He went to make peace.

As the Knights approached the church, a second party emerged from the portico. At its head stood Tavarre of Luciel, his scarred face grave, his mail shirt tattered from the fighting. With him were the other bandit chiefs, men Holger had sworn to hunt down and destroy. Instead, the old Knight stopped on the temple’s steps, bowing deeply to his former enemy. His officers followed suit, then the bordermen repeated the gesture.

Gravely, Tavarre stepped forward, drawing his dagger from his belt. Holger held his breath, his old campaigner’s instincts sending his hand to his sword, but he held back.

This was a highland ritual, one the Taoli had performed since their barbarian days. Tavarre tugged off his left glove, set the blade to the palm so bared, and drew it swiftly across his flesh. The baron’s face twitched as blood welled out, bright red, dripping upon the steps. He sheathed the dirk again, extending his injured hand toward Holger.

“Bos cor purdamo,” he spoke in the church tongue.

Old woes forgotten.

Holger paused, and all over the plaza breaths stilled as his hand shifted to his own dagger and drew it out. His gauntlet clattered to the ground as he cut himself in turn.

“E parpamo” said the old Knight, uncustomarily smiling.

And forgiven.

They clasped hands then, their blood mingling, then leaned forward to kiss each other formally on the cheek. So the imperial army and the bandits of the Taol made their peace, and a great cheer arose from the crowd, voices rising in jubilation.

The cry only lasted a moment, however. Stillness descended again as a pair of figures appeared in the temple’s doorway.

The first was a young warrior, clad in a snow-white tabard. His eyes swept over the mob, looking for signs of trouble. He then stepped aside, letting the second man come forward.

Tears stung Holger’s eyes as he beheld Beldinas Light-bringer up close for the first time. Though he was weary and pale, the young man made a surprisingly regal figure, mantled in shining light and embroidered robes. His hair tumbled in rich waves over his shoulders, and his eyes burned with zeal. On his brow, gold and rubies and all, was the Crown of Power, die Miceram worn by the Kingpriests of old.

Site ceram biriat, abat, Holger thought, staring at the crown and the onetime monk who wore it.

Slowly, the old Knight doffed his helm and fell to his knees. Behind him, his officers did the same. They all drew their swords, kissed their quillons, and laid them upon the steps. They bowed their heads as Beldinas strode up to them, signing the triangle. When Holger looked up again, brushing white hair from his eyes, his cheeks were damp and glistening.

“Holiness,” he said, “I cry your pardon. I have defied you, in my blindness.”

Beldinas shook his head. “The fault is not yours, Lord Knight. You have been tricked by the servant of darkness who sits the throne. I ask you to help me set this aright. Will you follow me?”

Holger drew a long, slow breath. In the silence a hawk skirled, riding the winds above the city. Exhaling, he leaned forward, touching his forehead to the floor. “We shall, my lord,” he said.

A murmur ran through the crowd, then fell silent as Beldinas raised his hands in blessing.

“Let it be so, then,” he said. “We shall remain in this place three days longer to tend our dead. When that is done, let us go forth to the Lordcity, and none of us rest until we have thrown Kurnos the Usurper down from his ill-gotten throne!”

The people’s shouts ran long and loud across Govinna.

Of late, the messengers within the Great Temple had come to view the imperial manse with dread. Indeed, most within the church grew nervous when they looked upon the Kingpriest’s palace, but it was the messengers who feared it most, for they had to go inside there.

They had been going back and forth for days now, bearing missives from the imperial courtiers. None knew the contents of the scrolls, but there was no question the news was bad. Any good messenger gained a sense, when he delivered a message, of whether the tidings he bore were good or ill, and it would have taken a blind gully dwarf not to guess rightly in Kurnos’s case. Each time, his mood grew fouler, until the Temple’s messengers took to quarrelling over who would deliver the next one-or rather, who would not.

Handril, a skinny, straw-haired acolyte who’d lost the latest argument, swallowed as he approached the manse’s great platinum doors. The Knights who stood watch outside kept still as he raised his hand and rapped. After a time, the doors cracked open, and Brother Purvis emerged. The old chamberlain looked older and frailer than Handril had ever seen him, his back stooped and weary, his brow an anxious wrinkle. He said nothing as he turned and led Handril in. They walked through the rich entry hall and on down sunlit passages. Finally, at the top of a long, curving stair, they came to a halt before the golden doors of the Kingpriest’s private audience hall.

Purvis gave the boy a sympathetic look. “He awaits within, lad. Give him the message, and do not linger.” Pushing the doors open, he gestured Handril through.

It was dark within, the curtains drawn, a few candles flickering. It took Handril’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, so the first thing he noticed was the stench. It was a stale smell and sour, the reek of dried sweat and grime. He wrinkled his nose, wondering how long it had been since Paladine’s Voice on Krynn had bathed. Biting his lip, he stepped inside.

“H-Holiness?” he asked.

Nothing.

There was no one on the throne or anywhere else he could see. Scalp prickling, Handril looked about, but there was no sign of the Kingpriest. Slowly, he crept toward the dais, an ivory scroll-tube in his hands. His sandals clapped against the marble floor as he went, then halted. There was something there-many somethings, in fact, scattered upon the dais and down its steps to the floor. Handril peered at them, then started forward again.

He was nearly to the dais when he saw what the things were, and a frown creased his face. Why had the Kingpriest strewn khas pieces about the floor? Stopping again when he reached them, he bent down and picked one up, his breath catching when the dim light touched it. Handril knew little of khas, but he knew enough to understand that the white champion in his hand should not be slumped against his horse’s neck, his back raked with tiny sword wounds. He rose again, shivering, turning to look around-

The hand that seized his throat was like a band of iron, squeezing off all but a thin trickle of air as it jerked him forward. Handril wanted to shout, but all he could manage was a squeak as Kurnos loomed out of the shadows.

The Kingpriest was a terrible sight, a pale, drawn apparition whose beard stuck out in red tangles. His robes were dirty and disheveled, and the sapphire tiara on his head sat askew amid tufts of silver-frosted hair. The worst, though, were his eyes. They were wide and red-rimmed, and a wild sheen lit them. They were filled with anger, fear, and madness.

“What do you want?” Kurnos hissed.

It took Handril several wheezing breaths to find his voice. “A-a dispatch, sire,” he gasped, raising the scroll-tube. “From the-First-Daughter.”

The Kingpriest’s eyes narrowed to twitching slits. His grip tightened, and black spots whirled before Handril’s eyes. With a growl, he snatched the tube from the messenger’s hand and shoved the boy back, letting him go.

“Out,” he snapped.

Clutching his bruised throat, Handril all but sprinted from the room.

Kurnos stood silently for a time, staring at the scroll-tube, then, scowling, he opened it and slid out the roll of vellum. Violet wax sealed the message, bearing the seal of the Revered Daughters of Paladine. He tore this away, then unfurled the message and read it.

A moment later he flung it away.

Word of the Battle of Govinna had reached the Great Temple six days ago. A courier, caked with road dust, had arrived from the borderlands, bearing word from Lord Holger. Kurnos’s heart had leaped as he unfurled that scroll-and died, just as suddenly, as he read the old Knight’s account of what had happened. The traitorous bastard had changed sides, gone over to the damned Lightbringer! Even now, the wretched pretender was marching toward Istar itself, with both the bandits and the imperial army at his back.

Kurnos had quit the basilica at once, hiding in the manse to keep the news from his court. It didn’t work. Holger had sent other missives to Istar, and soon the Temple’s halls echoed with whispers about the Crown of Power and silvery, healing light.

The writs of Nio Celbit-withdrawal of support from the reigning Kingpriest-had started arriving the next morning. Nubrinda of Habbakuk was first, declaring her intention to side with Beldinas when he arrived. It made sense, of course- how could she not, when he wore the Miceram and had thousands of Scatas at his command? Kurnos cursed her anyway, declaring her Foripon along with Holger and every soldier who marched with him.

He’d hoped the denunciation would give the other hier-archs pause. He was wrong. Soon after, Stefara of Mishakal had dispatched a writ of her own, then Peliador of Kiri-Jolith. Marwort, the court wizard, revoked the support of the Orders of High Sorcery, and Quarath of Silvanesti had done likewise for the Chosen of E’li-the first of Paladine’s clergy to forsake Kurnos’s reign. Even the high priests of Branchala and Majere, whom Kurnos had appointed after his coronation, denounced their patron. When he’d woken this morning, only the First Son and First Daughter had remained loyal… and now he’d lost Balthera. Kurnos felt his reign crumbling like rotten mortar.

Snarling a vile oath, he raised the scroll-tube high, then smashed it down on the floor at his feet. Splinters of ivory skittered across the floor.

A cold laugh rasped behind him. “Really, Holiness,” mocked Fistandantilus’s voice. “That’s hardly decorum befitting an emperor.”

Kurnos whirled, hands clenching into fists as he faced the Dark One, barely visible in the room’s smothering shadows.

“You!” he growled, stabbing a finger. “You foul, lying bastard!”

The sorcerer inclined his head.

“You said you’d help me,” Kurnos snapped. “You said you wanted me on the throne!”

“So I did,” the dark wizard replied. “Apparently I underestimated the forces arrayed against you.”

Kurnos reached to his left hand, where the emerald ring sparkled, the darkness that had haunted it gone. It had refused to let go of his finger before. Now he could pull it off easily. “Underestimated?” he shrieked and flung it at Fistandantilus.

The sorcerer caught the ring easily, eyed it, then closed his hand around it. “Even I can be mistaken, Holiness. I did not think the young man would find the Miceram. Now the Lightbringer comes to Istar. You cannot stop him.”

“You could.”

Fistandantilus shrugged. “To what end? You have lost the throne anyway.”

The room fell silent. Kurnos trembled with fury. He’d lost the army, the church, Sathira… and the people of the Lordcity would soon follow, once word of the miracle of Govinna got out.

“Is there nothing I can do?” he asked.

Chuckling, Fistandantilus raised the ring. He peered through the emerald a moment, then passed his fingers above it, leaving trails of green sparks in the air as he muttered an incantation. The air around the gem shivered, and a faint rumble sounded from it, like the roll of distant thunder. With a viridian flash, it vanished.

Kurnos felt a sudden pressure on his finger, and a groan burst from his lips. The ring was back.

“Now,” the dark figure hissed, staring at him from the depths of his hood, “listen carefully, Holiness. When the Lightbringer comes, he will confront you. His men will search you for blades, but they will not have cause to notice the ring, and that will be his undoing. The enchantment I have laid upon it is a killing spell, released when you speak the word Ashakai. Get close to the boy, point the ring at him, then…” His voice trailed into silence.

Kurnos stared at the emerald. Within it, where Sathira’s shadows had lurked, a tiny stormcloud billowed and flashed, spitting forked lightning.

“What about me?” he asked with a shudder, looking back up. “What will happen-”

Fistandantilus was gone.

Spitting an oath, Kurnos looked back at the ring again. For a moment, he considered turning it on himself. The sorcerer had told him how to use it. All he had to do was point it, speak the word… then one last flare of pain… he wouldn’t have to endure the shame of being cast down from the throne… the sapphire tiara lifted from his brow…

“No,” he whispered, the word no more than a breath.

Kurnos had nothing left. All he’d striven for, all he’d been, was ashes now. He’d betrayed his god, and Paladine had turned his face away. There was one last thing he could claim, before the game was over, one sweetness to temper the bitter thing his life had become. He laughed, the mad glint in his eyes becoming a flame.

He would have revenge.