Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Two

They were arguing again in the throne room.

It wasn’t Ilista’s habit to arrive late to the imperial court, and the First Daughter could hear the buzz of voices as she dressed in her private vestiary. Most belonged to minor courtiers, but others she recognized: Kurnos’s firm, clipped sentences, Loralon’s soothing tones. Then, as her attendants helped her don a snow-white surplice over her violet-trimmed robes, another voice cut through the rest, silencing them. The Kingpriest normally presided over the court in austere silence, letting his advisers do the talking, but today he was clearly angry-not quite shouting, as he sometimes did when his temper broke loose-but with an edge to his words.

Ilista scowled impatiently as the servants set an amethyst-studded circlet upon her head. The velvet curtains that led to the throne room muffled Symeon’s voice, and she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She had half a mind to go into the audience hall in her sandals, but propriety stayed her long enough for her attendants to help her into her satin slippers. Hurriedly she genuflected toward the golden shrine in the vestiary’s corner, then parted the curtains and stepped through.

“-will not stand!” Symeon snapped, his voice ringing throughout the hall. “If these varlets dare put swords to the throats of Paladine’s servants, their heads should be mounted atop Govinna’s gates!”

The Hall of Audience was enormous, as was only proper for the holiest and mightiest man in the world. It was a perfect circle, two hundred paces across, bathed in soft light from the crystal dome that arched overhead. The floor was rose-veined marble, polished mirror-bright; the walls were lacquered wood carved to resemble scarlet rose petals, so that the chamber seemed to rest within a vast, living bloom. Golden censers filled the air with the scents of spice and citrus, and platinum candelabra held hundreds of flickering white tapers. Garlands of spring flowers-starblooms, daffodils, and pink roses-hung everywhere.

Around the room’s edges stood Istar’s elite, clad in rich garments, the men and women alike perfumed and powdered, jewels glittering at ears and throats, fingers and wrists, ankles, brows, and even toes. Several Solamnic Knights stood in a cluster across from Ilista, splendid in their polished, engraved armor. Elsewhere, the First Daughter spied Marwort the Illustrious, the white-robed wizard who represented the Orders of High Sorcery at court. There were the hierarchs of the other churches, too: Stefara, the High Hand of Mishakal, in her sky-blue healer’s robes; Thendeles, Majere’s grand philosopher, in his faith’s plain red habit; Peliador of Kiri-Jolith in gold, Avram of Branchala in green, and Nubrinda of Habbakuk in purple, and with them, the high clergy of Paladine-Kurnos, Loralon, and other human and elven priests, all in shimmering white.

Ilista looked past them all to the far side of the room, where a blue mosaic swept across the floor to surround a pure white dais and a golden, rose-wreathed throne, twin to the one in the imperial manse. The Kingpriest sat upon the throne, all in silvery robes, gem-encrusted breastplate, and sapphire-studded tiara. His cherubic face burned red as he glared at an aging Knight who stood before the throne. Ilista recognized Holger Windsound, Lord Martial of the Knights in Istar. Holger was a proud man and not easily cowed, but he bowed his snowy head beneath Symeon’s wrath.

A bell chimed in the galleries above the hall, heralding Ilista’s arrival. She gritted her teeth as a hundred heads turned to look at her-including the Kingpriest’s. His black eyes glittered in the light of the crystal dome.

“Efisa,” Symeon declared. “We are pleased you have chosen to join us.”

Ilista had a good excuse for her lateness. One of her priestesses had come to her that morning, claiming she was losing her faith. The girl’s mother had died suddenly the night before, and she had demanded to know how the god could let such a thing happen. Ilista had stayed with her, drying her tears and telling her Paladine was wise and good, and everyone had a time when the god called her to his side. Eventually, the girl had agreed to meditate on the god’s grace; she might yet leave the order or she might not. It was the best Ilista could hope for-there was no point in forcing people to believe.

She said nothing of this to the Kingpriest, however. Instead, she bent her knee to him, signing the triangle.

“Holiness,” she said softly. “I apologize for failing thee.”

Symeon glowered at her a moment, then waved her forward. “Come, then. Join your peers.”

Everyone watched as Ilista strode across the chamber to stand alongside Loralon and Kurnos. They nodded to her as Symeon turned back to the aging Knight.

“Lord Holger was just telling us of an… incident that has happened in the highlands,” the Kingpriest stated irritably. “Tell Her Grace what has happened, man.”

Holger bowed, turning to face her. His face was like steel and showed none of the weariness of age. His hoary moustache drooped over a mouth that had never, in the two years Ilista had served as First Daughter, broken a smile.

“Banditry, milady,” he said, all but spitting the word. “An ambuscade aimed at imperial funds bound for Govinna.”

An outraged murmur ran through the assembly, even though Holger was repeating his news purely for her benefit. The others fell silent, however, at a gesture from the Kingpriest, and all eyes returned to the First Daughter.

“Palado Calib,” Ilista murmured. Blessed Paladine. “What happened? Did the robbers succeed?”

The aging Knight nodded. “They took the soldiers by surprise, and forced them to surrender the gold, Efisa. After, the bandits turned them loose without horse or sword, and disappeared into the hills.”

Kurnos stirred beside Ilista, his brows knitting. “What of Blavian? The Revered Son traveling with them?”

“He fared less well, Your Grace. The bandits beat him badly, and his injuries were grievous. He lives still,” the Knight added as the court stirred. Kurnos’s face had turned nearly as livid as Symeon’s. “He is resting at a Mishakite hospice and will recover, though it will take time.”

“And the funds?” Symeon asked.

“Gone, sire. I know not where.”

The Kingpriest’s rosebud lips whitened, as did his knuckles as he gripped the arms of the throne. The courtiers looked at one another uneasily. Ilista watched Symeon carefully, looking for signs. His fury could be terrifying, but she had learned it was usually short-lived and could be tempered by reason. That was her job and the other advisers’. Today would be difficult, however, for Kurnos was every bit as upset as the Kingpriest. She exchanged glances with Loralon, who nodded. The next few moments would be crucial.

Kurnos stepped forward before either of them could speak. “Majesty, if I might offer counsel?”

Symeon nodded. “Of course, Aulforo. We value your wisdom, as always.”

The First Son wasn’t looking very wise. His hands trembled, and his face had tightened into a fearsome scowl. When he spoke, his voice was like a drawn bowstring.

“These bandits have gone too far,” said Kurnos. “Tax collectors are one thing, but to attack a member of the clergy…” He trailed off, shaking his head, then took a deep breath. “Sire, I believe we should strike back, with force.”

Gasps rang out across the audience hall, followed by hushed whispers. Ilista stepped forward, her mouth opening, but Symeon stopped her with a look and turned back to Kurnos.

“Go on.”

“It would only take a part of the imperial army,” the First Son explained. “Perhaps a legion or two. They would make short work of these brigands.”

Ilista could contain herself no longer. “These brigands are the folk of Taol,” she interjected. “You recommend a military attack on our own people?”

Around the court, folk nodded in agreement or shook their heads dismissively. Ilista paid no mind to them, however. Her gaze was on the Kingpriest. He stared back at her, his black eyes glinting.

“You don’t agree these villains must be punished, then?” Symeon asked.

“No, not in this fashion, sire,” she replied. “You are right when you say this cannot stand, but to send in the army… if we do, we risk inciting open revolt. None of us want another Trosedil.”

A flicker of anger crossed Symeon’s face, and for a moment Ilista feared she had gone too far by invoking the Three Thrones’ War. After a moment, though, he turned to Loralon. “And you, Emissary? What is your mind?”

Loralon raised his eyebrows. “Majesty, it is not my place to put my hand on the empire’s tiller… but if you would hear me, I agree with Lady Ilista. Sending forth the army is a drastic choice and could make matters worse. I suggest we negotiate instead.”

“Negotiate?” Kurnos snapped. “These are robbers, not diplomats!”

“Your counsel is known already, First Son,” Symeon said curtly, and Ilista relaxed a little. He would come around. The Kingpriest sat in silence for a time, his fingers steepled in thought, then nodded. “You are right, Loralon-and you as well, Ilista. This is no time to be rash. I shall weigh what I have heard, and render judgment after midday prayer. This court is adjourned until then.” He rose from his seat, signing the triangle. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo.”

In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might.

The audience hall quickly dissolved into excited noise as the courtiers fell to arguing with one another. Some withdrew to anterooms, where food and watered wine awaited. Others hurried toward the dais, seeking to offer their own advice. Symeon waved them off and strode toward the door to his private sanctum. An acolyte hurried ahead to hold open the door.

Ilista watched the Kingpriest leave then started toward Kurnos, who gone over to Lord Holger. The two were speaking together in hushed tones, along with several other hierarchs. As she approached, the First Son looked up, his gaze meeting hers. His blue eyes smoldered with anger: she and Loralon had quelled Symeon’s fire, but not his. She faltered, flushing beneath his baleful glare, then turned and hurried out of the room.

Ilista’s private chambers were dim and silent as she finished her evening prayer. Wetting her fingers, she pinched out the violet candles that flickered on the golden shrine, then kissed her medallion and pushed herself up from the padded kneeling-bench.

The room was richly done, as befit one of her station- not as fine as the Kingpriest’s golden halls and certainly much less vast, but there was nothing meager about the great, sprawling bed draped in shimmering samite or the walls of teak inlaid with lavender jade. A tall, silver harp stood in the corner. She didn’t play but Farenne, one of her attendants, did, and often came to soothe Ilista into sleep with sweet strings. Tonight, though, Ilista had dismissed Farenne early, preferring to be alone. Now she moved about the chamber, dousing the lamps that glowed softly here and there, until only a single taper remained by her bedside.

That done, she turned to the window, whose silken curtains fluttered in the breeze. The scent of jasmine blew in from the gardens. The breeze was chilly, though, so she pulled the window shut, then went over to her bed to climb up onto it. Kissing her medallion again, she doused the taper and laid her head down on satin pillows.

Sleep didn’t come right away; that was not her way. It had always been Ilista’s nature to dwell on matters while she lay abed. Tonight, her musings drifted to the First Son.

She had long ago accepted that she and Kurnos would seldom agree. He was obviously a capable cleric-one didn’t rise so high in the church without priestly gifts-but he was also a hot-blooded man, quick to act and slow to forget a slight. They had argued often enough in the past, but she’d never seen him as outraged as he’d been today. What was it, she wondered? Had the attack on Revered Son Blavian truly affected him so terribly? He had spoken in the past of the need to put down the bandits in Taol, but today was different. Sweet Paladine, he had been ready to send in the Scatas! If he had been on the throne today, she was sure Lord Holger and his troops would have ridden out tomorrow morning, with orders to fight. She and Loralon could manage Symeon’s ill humors. What would Kurnos do, though, if she opposed him once he wore the sapphire crown?

Her mind drifted to the man who still sat the throne. It had been more than a season since that strange, snowy night when Symeon foretold his own death, and still he was healthy. Stefara of Mishakal examined him every Godsday, looking for signs of illness, but he hadn’t even had so much as a cold all winter long. Morbidly, and not for the first time, she wondered how the god would take him. Accident? Assassination? She signed the triangle at the thought, whispering a prayer to forgive her dark thoughts.

The Kingpriest had, in the end, elected to follow her and Loralon’s advice-Lord Holger would alert the army but give no orders to march. One day soon, however, Kurnos would reign, and war might be swift. Ilista wished-again, not for the first time-that His Holiness had chosen one more temperate to succeed him. She thought of Loralon, whose wisdom ran deeper than any she knew. What a Kingpriest he would make!

Then she chuckled, her eyes fluttering drowsily shut. An elf on the golden throne! Istar would sink beneath the sea before such a thing happened. No, the decision was made- when the time came, Kurnos would rule, and she would serve him. There was no other choice.

Cold wind caressed Ilista’s cheek, rousing her from slumber. She brushed at her face, annoyed. She’d told herself to close the window. Throwing off her blankets, she got up and glanced across the room. Sure enough, the curtains were wafting in the breeze, aglow with Solinari’s shimmering light.

Suddenly she stiffened, a deeper chill grasping her. Solinari? The silver moon had been just a fingernail crescent and setting when she went to bed. Now it hung fat and orange over the Lordcity’s rooftops. She had closed the window- now that she reflected, she was sure of it. Touching her medallion, she reached out for the night table, and the taper she’d left there. Her fingers found nothing, however. The candle was gone.

Her heart beat wildly as she looked about. Perhaps she’d knocked it off the table in her sleep-but no, it wasn’t on the floor either. Which meant either she’d gotten up and didn’t remember, or-

Or someone else had been in the room.

Palado, me scelfud on ludrasfe catmas, she prayed silently as she rose from her bed, the marble floor cold against her bare feet Paladine, deliver me from lurkers in the dark.

“H-hello?” she stammered, glancing about the shadow-cloaked room. “Is anyone there?”

She could call for help. A guard might hear her-or might not She needed to do something besides stand and shiver. Quietly, she crept to the window and glanced out but saw nothing strange-except the moon, shining full where it had no right to be. Her whole body tense, she pulled the casement shut, then latched it carefully. Maybe I didn’t do that before, she thought Maybe I forgot, and the window blew open while-

“Hello yourself.”

She whirled, crying out. The monk sitting on the corner of her bed jumped up, letting out a yelp of his own.

Dista shrank back, goggling at him. He was short, barely taller than a dwarf, and spectacularly huge-three hundred pounds, at least, his white habit spread like a tent on his massive frame. What hair there was on his tonsured head was silver. His eyes were small and brown in his pink, jowly face. He looked as incapable of stealth as a man could be-yet where had he come from?

“Huma’s hammer!” he exclaimed, putting a sausage-fingered hand to his brow. “You scared the Abyss out of me. You’re lucky I didn’t keel over from fright, Efisa-you’d need at least ten strong men to carry me out of here.” He chortled, slapping his belly.

The First Daughter stared, confused. “Who are you?”

“Oh, no one important,” he answered, still smiling. “Just a messenger. Call me Brother Jendle-it’s as good a name as any.”

She could only stand there, blinking at him. He seemed no threat-how could he, when the effort of merely standing seemed enough to bead his face with sweat? — but still…

“You are the First Daughter of Paladine, aren’t you?” the fat monk asked, squinting at her. “Or did I get the wrong room?”

“I-no, you didn’t-” Ilista said, then stopped. “What?”

“Oh, dear.” Jendle clucked his tongue, waddling over to pat her hand. “Mind’s addled, is it? Poor lass. Well, I’ll give you the message anyway. Have to, you see. Hold still.”

Ilista tried to draw back, but she reacted slowly, and he was adder-quick, his hand darting forward to clasp her wrist like a manacle. She drew a sharp breath, and suddenly the room unraveled around her. Everything-the bed, the open window, even Brother Jendle-frayed and swirled, then vanished, becoming another place.

She stood on a clifftop among the hills, a cold wind gusting in her face. She heard the song of bluefinches, smelled the scent of fresh rain. In the distance loomed the walls of a city, all but lost in a pall of fog. Beyond its walls, many miles off, towering mountains limned the horizon. Grass grew in tufts from the hill’s rocky soil, and plane trees towered above. In the far distance stood a cottage-a herdsman’s or charcoal burner’s, probably, its chimney smoking. The clifftop was a peaceful place, a spot where one might lie in the summertime, guessing the shapes of scudding clouds.

All at once, the peace shattered. The birdsong ceased, and a distant rumbling rose from down in the valley. She looked, following the noise, and caught her breath. Dust rose among the hills, a great brown cloud that smudged the sky. It grew as she watched, and soon there were thousands of soldiers marching in unison, armor and weapons flashing in the sun. They moved swiftly toward her, devouring the ground with long, relentless strides. She peered at the army, wondering whose it was, yet already knowing in a way, long before she saw the blue cloaks, the bronze helmets, the falcon-and-triangle banners fluttering over the soldiers’ heads. It was the imperial army, marching at last, at the behest of Kurnos.

Kingpriest Kurnos.

“Stop!” she cried, rushing to the cliffs edge.

The slope was too sheer, though, the gravel that covered it too loose to descend. She could only watch as the army came on, inexorably, coming closer… filling the valley…

Something happened, then, in the corner of her eye. She couldn’t see what it was at first, but when she looked harder, there was something coming out of the west, where the misty city stood. Craning to see, she fought to see what it was… then, all at once, she saw a figure of shining light, like silver in full sunshine. She could not make out anything of the man at the glow’s heart, for every time she tried to look through the shining glare, it stung her eyes and she had to turn away. The sight was beautiful and terrible, and she began to weep without knowing why.

The soldiers in the valley saw the shining figure too. They slowed at its approach… stopped… then broke and ran, casting swords and banners aside. In what seemed only a few moments, they had fled the valley altogether, until only the figure remained, gleaming brighter than the sun.

After the army was gone the shining figure seemed to nod to itself for a moment, glanced around as if searching for something, then turned toward the clifftop where Ilista stood and looked directly at her. She caught her breath, staring back as it raised its lambent hands toward her.

“Efisa,” it spoke, and the world vanished in a burst of blinding white.

When she could see again, Ilista stood in her bedchamber once more, exactly where she had been when Brother Jendle touched her. Of the fat monk, though, there was no sign.

She heard a sound-a dry scraping, like metal being dragged over stone, coming from behind her. She whirled-and saw, for just an eyeblink, the slender tip of a tail slithering out her open window. It was serpentine and pointed, covered with scales that shimmered like silver in the starlight. Like silver… or platinum.

Her mouth dropping open, Ilista sprinted toward the casement. As she ran, though, she caught her foot on the edge of an intricate Dravinish rug, and suddenly she was pitching forward, arms flinging outward, falling…

Ilista woke in bed, her stomach a chasm.

It took a moment for the world to stop spinning. When it did, though, she looked to the table nearby. The taper was still there, as she’d left it, bathed in red moonlight, not silver. She sighed. It had been a dream, nothing more, doubtless brought on by her own worries over Kurnos’s eagerness to attack Taol. There had been no fat monk, no army, no figure of light. And certainly, no platinum tail, sliding out… sliding out…

Out her window.

She sat up suddenly, knowing what the chill in the room meant even before she turned to look out toward the gardens. The window stood open, curtains fluttering in the breeze.