Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Thirteen

The light flowed outward, flooding the courtyard and casting sharp shadows from the tents and trees beyond. Horses shied, and the bandits and their captives alike turned away, throwing up their arms to ward off the blinding glare. Vedro growled, his sword rising as he stepped toward the light, but Tavarre grabbed his arm before he could get near the young monk, shaking his head. Eerie, musical sound, like a carillon of glass bells, filled the air.

When the light finally faded, it took the music with it, leaving the camp utterly silent. Blinking against the green ghosts it left in their eyes, the bandits leaned in, crowding closer and murmuring in wonder at what they saw.

Sir Gareth didn’t move, nor did he wake, but the light had cleansed the blood from his face and smoothed the lines of pain around his mouth. Of the horrible, purple swelling that had marked his forehead, only a faint white scar remained, fading as the bandits watched. Beneath his breastplate, his chest rose and fell steadily. Moments ago, he had been dying. Now he looked like a man who had just fallen asleep.

The silvery glow continued to shimmer around Beldyn for nearly a minute after. He knelt amid it, eyes still closed, his cheeks tracked with tears. His skin had turned fever-pale, and his lips trembled. Finally, the wisps of light clinging to him died, and he sat back with a shuddering sigh. His head drooped wearily, his chin touching his chest.

Ilista’s wondering gaze went from him to Gareth and back again. She had known he was capable of this-her vanished wounds from the wyvern attack had made that clear-but seeing it with her own eyes was different. She had watched Stefara and other Mishakites work their healing arts many times before, but Beldyn possessed greater power than any of the others by far.

She signed the triangle, then looked at the bandits. They shook themselves, blinking blearily, as though waking from a dream. Tavarre and Vedro stood side by side, wearing matching looks of wide-eyed awe.

“Do you believe now?” she asked.

Tavarre swallowed, then raised his hand and scratched his beard. His men tensed, waiting, and Ilista knew that whatever the baron said, they would follow. He met the gaze of a young bandit, the one who had felled Sir Gareth with his sling, who nodded slowly.

“I nearly think I do,” said the young bandit. “Can he do it again?”

Cathan hurtled up to Fendrilla’s cottage at a gallop, leaping out of the saddle before his horse even stopped. He hammered on the door, calling the old woman’s name. She opened it, holding a candle and peering at him tiredry. It was still three hours before sunrise.

He barged past her without a word, ignoring her questions as he strode through the common room to the smaller chamber where his sister lay. Fendrilla plucked at his sleeve, trying to stop him, but he shook her off, grasping the door’s latch and creaking it open. He stuck his head into the gloom within.

“Wentha?” he whispered.

The shape beneath the blankets stirred, moaning. She tried to speak, her voice so thin, then fell into a fit of coughing-wet, tearing hacks that wouldn’t stop.

Cathan was at her side in two steps, on one knee by her bed, holding the hem of his cloak to her lips until the spasm passed. It came away flecked with blood, putting a chill in his heart, and he reached out to stroke her face. Her skin was hot and sweaty, drawn taut over her cheekbones. A sheen of sweat covered everything. Her eyes rolled, the pupils huge as she tried to focus on him.

“Hush, Blossom,” he said. “It’s me. I’ve brought someone.”

“Cathan?” Fendrilla called from the common room. “Cathan, there are riders outside!”

Rising, he turned and hurried to the door. “It’s all right,” he told the old woman. “Light some candles. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Tavarre was already afoot, striding toward the cottage. A pair of bandits lingered behind him, minding the horses, and a few more stood near the white- and gray-robed forms of Lady Dista and Brother Beldyn, keeping their crossbows ready. When the baron saw the anxious look on Cathan’s face, he motioned for the clerics to follow him inside.

“The girl,” Beldyn said as he came close. The pallor and weakness that had afflicted him after he’d healed Sir Gareth were gone, and his eyes glittered in the moonlight. “She is your sister?”

Cathan nodded.

“Take me to her.”

Fendrilla shrank back as Cathan led the others inside. He took a candle from her hands, nodding reassuringly, but his heart was hammering as he entered the sickroom again. A gasp burst from his lips as the taper’s glow fell over Wentha’s face. The Longosai had nearly run its course. Her wasted skin was covered with blotches and sores, some weeping, others crusted over. Her thin hair-once honey-hued, now colorless-clung to her scalp in patches. Her staring eyes were bloodshot, her lips dry and cracked, her throat swollen and black. Turn away! his mind screamed. Instead, though, he forced himself to look at her, gaze at her with love, through stinging tears.

Then Beldyn was there, looking down at the bed. He didn’t shy from her plague-ravaged features. Instead he smiled, reaching out to brush a stringy lock from her eyes.

“It’s all right, child,” he said. “I am here.”

She stared back at him, eyes wide with confusion and fear. There was madness there too, and Cathan felt ill, his thoughts going back to their brother. Tancred had looked that way, in the end. It was all Cathan could do not to break down in tears.

Beldyn’s smile didn’t falter, though. Instead, he signed the triangle and rested his hand on her brow. Shutting her eyes, he began to speak, softly at first.

“Palado, ucdus pafiro…”

Cathan knew to expect the light this time and shut his eyes as it blazed from the monk’s hand. Even so, it still surprised him, coining on quicker than before, then flaring brighter than it had with Sir Gareth. It filled the room, stabbing out through windows and gaps in the thatch above, silver knives cutting through the night. The light blazed around Cathan, but there was no heat to it at all. In fact, it was cool against his skin, soothing. Even from a distance, he felt the day’s aches lift away, taking his grief with them and leaving a delicate hope behind.

All at once, the light was gone. Darkness flowed out of the room’s corners again.

The first thing Cathan noticed was the smell. The stink of disease was gone, and in its place-though faint-the attar of roses hung in the air. Half-afraid of what he might see, he opened his eyes to look.

Beldyn had fallen back from the bed, and Ilista bore him up, grasping his arms, as he gasped for breath. His face was the same ashen color as his travel-stained habit, and his breath whistled in his chest. The light clung to him, reluctant to leave now that the miracle was done. It flickered stubbornly, like a candle flame fighting the wind. The god’s power had taken more out of him this time-but that didn’t surprise Cathan. The Knight had been dying, but he hadn’t suffered for weeks beforehand, as Wentha had.

It was harder to look at Wentha. Cathan could hear the change that had come over her-her breathing had lost its harshness, no longer halting. It was evening out into a slow, soft rhythm, but he still feared what his eyes might see. If she was still wasted and frail, he thought he might go mad. He touched his sword, not sure who he would use it on if his sister was still dying: Beldyn or himself. Before long, though, the not knowing became too heavy to bear. Swallowing, he let his gaze drift to the bed.

He saw a little girl asleep, golden hair pooled about her head. She was still thin, weak from her illness, but her cheeks were pink again, the lips no longer twisted into a grimace. Her sores were gone, as was the swelling in her throat. But for her frailty, the Longosai might never have touched her- and the frailty would soon disappear as well. Though she slept, her thin lips were curled into a smile.

It was too much. Oblivious to Beldyn or anyone else, Cathan fell forward onto the bed, buried his face in the blankets, and sobbed.

Wentha MarSevrin was only the first. Ilista and Beldyn spent the rest of the night in Luciel, and all of the following day. There were only a few dozen people left in the village- the rest lost to the plague, fled, or gone to join the bandits- and the young monk insisted on visiting them all. More to the point, so did Lord Tavarre, and as he held their lives, and the Knights’ in his grasp, the baron had final say. He and his men led Beldyn from home to home, and again and again the holy light fell upon the wretched forms of men, women, and children. Each time, when it faded, all traces of disease were gone, and the once-doomed fell into a peaceful, life-giving sleep.

Beldyn weakened as the hours passed, falling into a deeper trance every time he invoked the god’s power. Each time it took him longer to regain his strength, and each time the glow that hung about him afterward seemed to linger longer. By midmoraing his debility lasted an hour with each healing. By the afternoon it was two. Ilista pleaded with Tavarre to put a halt to it, but the baron refused. So did Beldyn. Stubbornly he pressed on, spurning food and drink, intent only on healing everyone that he could.

Finally, as the sun set behind the distant Khalkists, the light did not die as he lifted his hand from an old man who had once been the town weaver. Even as the man-the tenth he had seen since he began-lay slumbering peacefully, a smile on his swarthy face, Beldyn collapsed, slumping to the ground without a sound. Ilista hurried to his side, probing his wrist for the lifebeat, then turned on the baron, her mouth a hard line.

“Enough,” she said, and to her surprise the lord of Luciel agreed.

The silver moon rose at midwatch that night. Its light found Ilista in an upper room of the village’s sole tavern, dozing on a stool beside the chamber’s simple bed. Beldyn lay beneath the blankets, his face drawn and wan, his eyes moving rapidly beneath their closed lids. The light had finally begun to fade, but it still surrounded him like a mist, its eerie glow making her shadow loom large on the wall.

The door’s latch rattled, rousing her with a jolt, and she turned to see Tavarre come in. In his hands were two steaming mugs. The aroma of tarbean tea filled the air. He crossed to her, glancing at the plate of cabbage and rabbit meat that sat untouched on the floor next to a full cup of watered wine, then offered one of the mugs. She took it gladly, cupping her hands around it to warm herself. The autumn nights were cold in the highlands.

The baron stood silent beside her, drinking his tea and gazing at the young monk. He made no apologies for slaving Beldyn until he passed out, and Dista knew he might well do it again as soon as the monk regained his senses. She couldn’t blame him either. These were his people, and finally he had a chance to save them. Would she do the same, in his place? Probably, she thought.

“This changes things,” he said after a time. “I had hoped to keep you captive. The First Daughter of Paladine would make as fine a hostage as the Little Emperor-perhaps better. Now, though…” He broke off, sighing, and brushed a hand across his eyes. “I only wish you had come sooner.”

He has lost someone dear to him, Ilista thought, studying his stricken face. That’s why he threw in with the bandits.

“What will you do now?” she asked.

Tavarre came back to himself slowly. “Keep you here,” he said, “until the last of my people are healed. I must do that much. After that you can go, but…” He trailed off, looking at the floor.

“But what?”

He shrugged. “We’re not the only village in the highlands, and the Lottgosai’s all over Govinna now, from the messages I’ve gotten.” He shook his head. “It seems a terrible waste for one with such gifts to go to the Lordcity, where all is well.”

Ilista shook her head firmly. “All is not well in the Lordcity. The Kingpriest is dying, and his power can save him.” She gestured at Beldyn, who lay still, the strange light diminished to a few glittering motes. “If we can heal Symeon, I can convince him to send help to Taol. If he dies, Kurnos will take the throne-and I fear all hell send are soldiers.”

Tavarre made a face, clearly not liking any part of that, but he was a practical man, and nodded. “Another few days,” he said. “Then you can go. I hope that, when the Kingpriest is cured, one of the things he sends back to us is him.”

They drank their tea in silence, both lost in thought, until gradually the light around Beldyn went out. He stirred, shifting in the bed, then his eyes opened. They pierced the dark, bright and clear in the moonlight. Seeing them, Ilista felt an unreasoning stab of fear. There was something new in the bright gaze, a zeal she hadn’t seen before, and at once she knew why. He had spent much of his life in the monastery. Now, out in the world, he could use his powers as he never had before. He was helping people, and he reveled in the act, as some men lived for drink or the dreamseed they smoked in Karthay.

He sat up, pushing off the blankets. “I am ready,” he said. “We can begin again.”

Tavarre gave him no argument, and while Ilista had a mind to, she didn’t get the chance. Beldyn was on his feet already, straightening his habit as he made his way to the door. Both she and the baron had to hurry to keep up with him as he headed out into the hall, then down the steps.

The baron’s hulking man-at-arms was waiting in the dim common room. When they appeared, he leaped to his feet, striding quickly toward them. Ilista drew back, grabbing Beldyn’s sleeve and pulling him back, but Vedro ignored them, drawing close to Tavarre instead and whispering in his ear.

“They are?” Tavarre asked, scowling. “Who?”

“MarSevrin, of course,” Vedro replied. “A few others. I told them to shove off, but-”

“What’s the trouble?” Ilista asked.

Tavarre and Vedro glanced up, their eyes sliding past the First Daughter, to Beldyn.

“Nothing,” the baron replied. “A few of the lads are waiting outside, is all.”

“Waiting… for me?” the monk asked. His eyebrows rose. “Why?”

“To thank you, they say,” Vedro replied.

Though she couldn’t say why, Ilista suddenly felt cold. She didn’t think the bandits had harm in mind. Tavarre and his man didn’t seem worried about that, and besides, it would make no sense. Nonetheless, a shiver of apprehension ran through her.

“Don’t,” she told Beldyn. “I don’t like this. We can go out the back.”

The monk looked at her, though, and her protests died before his glittering gaze. He smiled at her. “No, Efisa. If they wish to show gratitude, I will not deny them.”

When they emerged from the tavern, they found a small crowd standing in the street. Most were bandits, although there were also villagers-those who had been spared the plague. At the fore was Cathan, whose sister had been the first Beldyn healed. He smiled when he saw the monk, wearing a look of utter admiration.

“All right,” said Tavarre. “What’s this about?”

Cathan’s face all but glowed as he stepped forward. He reached across his body and started to draw his sword.

Hissing between his teeth, Vedro leaped forward, and Tavarre followed a heartbeat later. Beldyn raised his hand, however.

“Be easy, my friends,” he said. “He means no harm. Do you, my son?”

The young bandit had stopped in his tracks, taken aback by the sudden movement of the baron and his man. He shook his head, and warily Tavarre and Vedro drew back. Despite Beldyn’s assurances, however, Ilista held her breath as Cathan’s blade rasped from its scabbard. It flashed in the moonlight as he raised it, pressing its quillons to his lips. Carefully, he laid it on the ground before Beldyn’s feet, then dropped to his knees in the dust.

“I give you my oath,” he said, bowing his head. “You gave me back my world last night. You’ve shown me the god’s true face, when I had sworn never to look upon it again. My life is yours.”

Tavarre’s mouth dropped open as the others-bandits and villagers alike-followed suit. These were his subjects, and they were pledging fealty to another. He made no move to stop them, however, and when he recovered from his initial shock he nodded, understanding.

Beldyn stepped forward to lay his hand on Cathan’s head-a curiously fatherly gesture, between two men of such tender age-and his musical voice rang out. “I did not ask for your life, my friend,” he said, “but I accept your loyalty just the same. It may be that I have need of it one day.”

Suddenly, he changed. For a moment the monk swam before Ilista’s eyes, and he was a monk no more. His cassock was gone, and in its place were robes of pearly satin, shimmering with more light than the moon alone could explain. Jewels adorned his fingers, wrists and throat, and a familiar jeweled breastplate glittered over his vestments. It was the imperial raiment, but the crown on his brow was not the sapphire tiara Symeon wore. It was heavier, older, encrusted not with sapphires but with rubies.

Great god, she thought. It’s-

Just as suddenly, the vision was gone. Beldyn stepped back from Cathan, and he was as before, his habit smeared and frayed. Ilista blinked, looking at Tavarre and the others. None of them had seen what she had.

You didn’t see anything, either, she told herself. You’re overtired, that’s all. Too many false visions have come from men who simply needed sleep.

Still, as Beldyn moved among the other bandits, touching each in turn, she found she couldn’t shake the chill that lodged deep under her skin.

The next night, at her request, Tavarre agreed to let her have Loralon’s orb. Beldyn, who had spent the day healing the folk of Luciel, slumbered in his room at the tavern, shrouded with sparkling light. For the first time since the bandits captured them, she was left alone, and she crept into another darkened room to invoke the crystal’s magic. She spoke the elf s name, and soon, his face swam before her.

Loralon frowned, listening carefully as she spoke of the ambush and what had happened since. She didn’t mention her vision, having decided it was only a hallucination brought on by fatigue, but she told him about everything else-including the oath Cathan and the other bandits had sworn to Beldyn.

At last he stirred, his eyes narrowing. “How many, would you say?” he asked.

“About a dozen,” she replied. “There might be others, though, once the word spreads. Emissary, what should I do?”

Loralon paused, stroking his beard. He was silent a good while, then his shoulders rose and fell. “Nothing, yet. There is a purpose to this, I believe-though what, I don’t know. Put your faith in Paladine, Efisa-all things have a purpose.”

A sound came from his door. She saw Loralon look over his shoulder, and the door of his chamber swing open. Quarath, his aide, stepped in and silently proffered a scroll.

Frowning, Loralon held up a slender finger to Dista. She watched as he turned and took the missive from the younger elf. Quarath bowed, then departed as the Emissary broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. He scanned down its length, then stopped, his already pale complexion turning almost translucent as he read it again. When he rolled it up and turned back toward the orb, he looked every one of his five hundred years. Dista caught her breath. In all the time she’d known him, she’d never seen Loralon so distraught.

“Your Grace, I’m afraid I must go to the manse at once,” he said, his voice hollow. He paused, and she could see it in his eyes before he licked his lips and spoke the words she dreaded to hear.

“The Kingpriest is dead.”