Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Thirty

Eleventhmonth, 923 LA.

“Is that it?” asked Wentha. “Is that Istar?” Cathan held his sister steady as she leaned forward, afraid she might fall from his saddle. She had ridden with him the whole distance from Govinna, her eyes wide with wonder at the sight of the lowlands, the aqueducts towering over the rolling fields, the towns with their whitewashed villas and domed cathedrals, the sapphire waters of Lake Istar, where the floating boat-city of Calah stood, all towering masts and gliding outriggers.

All of it was as strange to her as it was new to him, which was part of the reason Cathan had taken her along, when most of the common folk-from Luciel and Govinna both-stayed behind. Mostly, though, she’d come because he couldn’t bring himself to leave her behind again, as he’d done that summer. No one had argued with his choice, though Tavarre and Holger-both commanders of Beldinas’s legions now- frowned on the notion of bringing a young girl when there might still be battles ahead. In the end, Cathan was the Light-bringer’s favorite, and the Lightbringer had said yes.

Now, looking ahead along the marble-paved High Road, Cathan smiled, a shiver of awe running through him. “Yes, Blossom,” he said. “That’s it.”

The army had been inarching steadily for more than a month, coming down from the highlands with the winter’s first blizzards at its back, then crossing the grasslands of the empire’s heart. Lowlanders had gathered to watch in amazement as they passed, murmuring at the strange sight: Scatas and Taoli marching together, priests and soldiers alike singing hymns to Paladine… and at the force’s heart, the shining figure of Beldinas, bestride a mighty chariot and wreathed in light, the Miceram glittering on his brow. Seeing him, the lowlanders bowed their heads, signing the triangle in reverence. A century past, the Trosedil had raged across their fields, and all still knew the legend of the Crown of Power. Truly, whoever the strange man in the chariot was, he was the Paladine’s chosen.

Now the army stood halted on a cliff along the shore of Lake Istar. It was a misty morning, fog filling the hollows and eddying across the water. Just ahead, a huge arch straddled the road, twined with bas-reliefs of roses and dragons, divine triangles and falcons’ wings. Atop it blazed three great fire urns, their flames leaping high, and a huge, plaque of gold shimmered at its apex, etched with letters ten feet high:

Calsa, Agomo duruc, du nosomforbo ciforud.

Calsa duforbo sebais mifusas.

Calsa, bosodo arburteis, du Istar.

Welcome, O noble visitor, to our beautiful city.

Welcome to the city beloved of the gods.

Welcome, honored guest, to Istar.

Two miles down the road, the Lordcity shone like a jewel at daybreak. Its domes and minarets, gold, alabaster and lapis, strove skyward from within its mighty walls, topped by the bloody finger of the Tower of High Sorcery. Keen eyes could spot the fabled Arena, the Kingfisher Keep, the silken canopies of its market stalls. Trees-cedar, almond, orange, and others-showed green in its gardens, and statues and fountains dotted its plazas. Sails of countless colors flew in its harbor, and spread out across the waters beyond. Amid it all, like a silver promise, shone the Great Temple.

Looking upon Istar for the first time, Cathan felt a rush of tears. He thought back to the springtime, and the man he had been: a godless outlaw squatting in a ditch, waiting for a priest to rob. What would he have said then if someone had told him that he would one day follow a savior to the empire’s heart? He shook his head. Paladine’s games were strange indeed.

“It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

He recognized the musical voice at once and lowered his eyes as Beldyn came up alongside him. The Lightbringer had descended from his chariot and stood on foot now, his strange eyes fixed on the sprawling city. His was a conqueror’s face, hungry and fierce, eclipsed by the Miceram’s light.

“Lady Ilista would have been proud to see you here today, sire,” Cathan said softly.

Beldyn nodded, then glanced up at the brightening sky. “I know. She is.”

A shout rose from the lookouts. At once, everyone was on their feet, muttering and staring about. Tavarre had sent a handful of outriders ahead to the city to make sure the road was clear. There was no sign of any more Scatas or other threats, but both the baron and Lord Holger wanted to be sure before they approached the Lordcity. Thinking the scouts had spotted the riders, Cathan stared down the High Road toward Istar’s gilded gates.

“What is it?” he wondered. “I don’t see anything.”

Wentha sighed, as if he were a simpleton. “Not there. In the sky!”

Cathan blinked, confused-then he saw something too. There, silhouetted against the cloudrack, was a large, dark shape, part eagle, part lion. There had been wild griffins in Taol once, and the borderfolk still told tales of them, but Cathan had never seen one before. Now his mouth opened as he watched it glide toward them, riding the high winds above the cliffs. As it drew nearer, he saw the creature wasn’t alone: a rider sat upon its back, white-robed, a long shock of golden hair trailing behind.

His horse whinnied, shying as it scented the flying beast. Cathan patted its neck to soothe it, but the animal remained skittish, as did the other soldiers’ mounts. Horses were griffins’ natural prey, which was why the Highlanders had hunted them out, long ago. The beast’s rider knew this too, it seemed, for he didn’t try to land near the army. Instead, the griffin lit upon a neighboring hillock, and its rider climbed down. Cathan watched the tall figure speak in his mount’s ear, then turn and head toward them, across the stony ground.

“An envoy,” Beldyn said, nodding toward the rider. “I must parley with him.”

“Not without me, you’re not,” Cathan muttered, swinging down from his horse.

Leaving Wentha in his saddle, he went after Beldyn, his hand on his sword. Several others-Tavarre and Holger, as well as other Knights and bandits-hurried to join them. The white-robed figure raised a delicate hand, and Cathan felt a fresh pang of wonder. He had never seen an elf before either.

“Sa, Pilofiro,” the elf said, his face cool and haughty as he signed the triangle. Hail, Lightbringer.

“I am Quarath, Emissary of Silvanesti. I speak on the church’s behalf.”

Beldyn nodded, interlacing his fingers in the elven holy sign. “Sa, Quarath. I have come to enter your city. May I?”

The elf nodded, then frowned, glancing up toward the mass of the army. “You may, but they must remain outside the gates.”

“What?” Tavarre barked, his scarred face darkening. “Leave them here?”

Quarath glanced at him, lips pursed. “It is custom. No force so large has marched into Istar since the Three Thrones’ War. However,” he went on, raising a finger to forestall Tavarre’s and Holder’s objections, “you may bring a smaller detachment-say, a hundred men. In return, we shall yield a hundred priests as hostages, including the First Son and First Daughter of Paladine.” He raised an eyebrow. “Does this suit you?”

Tavarre’s furrowed brow said it didn’t, and Holger looked displeased as well, but Beldyn inclined his head, smiling. “Very well. Continue, Emissary.”

“The hierarchs will meet you at the gates,” Quarath went on. “From there, we shall lead you to the Great Temple. Lord Kurnos”-his upper lip curled as he spoke the Kingpriest’s name-”has quit his manse and awaits you in the basilica. He has offered to surrender the throne-but only to the Lightbringer himself.”

Cathan joined Holger and Tavarre in surprise at this, followed by suspicious scowls. Beldyn’s eyes narrowed-but only for a moment. “If that is how the Usurper chooses,” he said. “Return to the city, Emissary, and tell them I come.”

Bowing, the elf turned and strode back toward his waiting griffin.

“Sire,” Holger murmured as they walked back toward the army. Behind them, the griffin vaulted into the air, carrying Quarath back to Istar. “I must object.”

Beldyn smiled. “I know. The man has tried twice to kill me, but his demon is no more, and Kurnos stands alone. And,” he added, glancing at Cathan, “I will be protected. I would see the Usurper’s face as I dethrone him. Will any of you challenge that?”

If he hoped anyone would defy him, they disappointed him. Even Tavarre shook his head, looking at his feet.

“Good,” Beldyn declared. “Bring my chariot, and choose your men. We march to the Lordcity at midday.”

Cathan’s throat tightened as the city gates drew near. The huge, gold-chased doors stood shut, and scores of archers looked down from above, arrows notched on their bows. Swallowing, he touched his battered sword and watched the bowmen, waiting for them to make a move.

Thus far, the hierarchs had proven true to Quarath’s word. The hostages had already come out of the city and waited with the Lightbringer’s army-along with Wentha, who stayed behind at Cathan’s insistence. That did little to assuage Cathan’s fears, however. Beldyn had spoken often, during the long march, of Kurnos’s evil and treachery. What, to a man like that, were the lives of a hundred of his own clergy? The hierarchs didn’t need to be complicit. Like with Pradian, all it would take was one archer, one well-aimed arrow…

No one fired. Instead, the gates shuddered and rumbled open, their great falcon and triangle crest splitting to reveal the city beyond. As they did, a great din rose from within, thousands of voices rising in joyous shouting and song.

Looking upon the folk of the Lordcity, Cathan thought back to the day Beldyn had first come to Govinna. That was nothing beside this. It seemed everyone in Istar had turned out to welcome the Lightbringer. There were more of them than Cathan, living his life in a highland village, had ever thought to see in one place. They packed the streets, crowded on rooftops, leaned over balconies-even perched in the trees. They raised their arms and cheered, throwing white rose-petals in the street, so many the cobblestones looked mantled in snow. Hands lifted children high, and drums and shawms and chimes made a racket even louder than the mob’s roar. Merchants and scholars, nobles and commoners, priests of every god of good- all had come, hoping to glimpse the Lightbringer and the Crown of Power. All chanted the same two words over and over: “Babo Sod! Babo Sod!”

The True Kingpriest!

Smiling, Beldyn raised his hands in greeting, and his chariot rumbled forward. His escort went with him, Cathan riding beside, watching the crowd with gritted teeth. Kurnos didn’t need a crack archer to do his work. One person hidden amidst the adoring throngs would do the trick. Any one of them might be carrying a crossbow beneath his cloak or a dagger up his sleeve. Any one of them might be waiting for the chance to strike. Cathan’s stomach clenched at the thought.

When they emerged from the gatehouse’s shadow, a party of august men and women, clad in all colors of robes, came forward to stand before them. Quarath stood among them, smiling. Beldyn’s chariot halted, and he looked down at the elf regally. The Miceram sparkled and shone in the noon daylight. A hush rippled through the crowd as the Emissary bowed.

“Welcome, Holiness,” Quarath said and gestured at the robed figures behind him. “These are the hierarchs of a holy church. We have done wrong, following the wrong leader, who has reigned here until now. We cry your forgiveness.”

The mob murmured at this, and beside Cathan, Tavarre chuckled.

“Clever,” the baron muttered, “asking mercy in front of so many people.”

Cathan nodded, scouring the crowd with his gaze as Beldyn raised his hands, signing the triangle over the clerics. The crown flared with ruby light.

“Tam paripo,” Beldyn pronounced.

I forgive thee.

There were more introductions, each of the high priests kneeling in turn to receive the Lightbringer’s blessing, then Quarath bowed again and gestured for Beldyn to follow. The throng parted as the hierarchs led the way down the broad street, past shrines and colonnades, obelisks and lush gardens. The masses stayed thick all the way, so their progress was slow, and by the time the party reached the arched entrance to the broad expanse of the Barigon, Cathan, nervous about possible treachery, was shaking in his saddle, his hand white-knuckled about his sword’s hilt.

The great plaza was empty, Solamnic Knights standing guard at its various entrances, and desolate-looking after the mad press of the streets. The Great Temple seemed incomparably beautiful to Cathan, all marble and crystal, swaying trees and explosions of bright-colored birds above its fabled gardens. Its gold spires glistened against the cloudless sky, and the basilica dome sparkled like a diamond. Cathan momentarily forgot his fears, and stared in mute amazement. Beside him, Beldyn smiled, his eyes aglow.

“Efisa,” the Lightbringer whispered, in a voice so quiet only Cathan could hear. “I’m home, at last.”

He climbed down from his chariot, and the rest of the party dismounted as well, handing their reins to a cluster of waiting acolytes. Cathan eyed each young priest carefully, studying their faces, looking for strange shapes beneath their cassocks, but there was nothing. Still gripping his sword, he fell in at the Lightbringer’s side.

Onward Quarath led them, across the plaza to the church’s long, wide steps. Beldyn climbed without pause-and so Cathan and the others-then stopped before its high, platinum doors, waiting as they swung silently open. Then, genuflecting and signing the triangle, he entered the Temple.

They passed quickly through a vast, airy atrium-so quickly, in fact, that Cathan was only vaguely aware of a succession of silken arrases, intricate mosaics, and pools filled with glittering, jewel-hued fish. Busts of long-dead Kingpriests, carved of serpentine and turquoise, looked down from pedestals, each glaring or smiling in his own manner. The air danced with butterflies and dulcimer music.

At the hall’s end stood another pair of doors, bearing the falcon and triangle. They remained closed as the party drew near, and Quarath stepped forward to open them. Before he could, however, both Tavarre and Holger moved to interpose.

“Sire,” the baron said to Beldyn, “I think it wise if my men go in first.”

Beldyn waved his hand. “Very well, but draw no weapon unless you must. No man has ever killed another in the basilica. I would not have you be the first.”

Nodding, Tavarre gestured to a handful of men, bandits and Knights alike. Cathan remained by Beldyn’s side as the others moved forward, touching their blades but not unsheathing them. His scarred face resolute, the baron cracked the doors open and led them through.

The wait seemed to last forever. Cathan’s eyes darted this way and that, returning again and again to the hierarchs. They were a strange lot, powdered and perfumed, jewels sparkling on their fingers, wrists, throats, and brows. He felt a stir of loathing at the sight of the clerics. These were the same who had allowed the plague to ravage his home and his family. At the same time, though, he thought of Dista, and a strange sympathy swelled in him for those who dwelt within the Temple’s walls. Surrounded by such beauty, was it any wonder so few of them could conceive of how his people had suffered?

No longer, he told himself. Symeon had been complacent; Kurnos was corrupt. Things would be different when Beldinas reigned.

Finally, the doors opened again, and Tavarre emerged, his gaze stern.

“The way is clear, Holiness,” he said, bowing to Beldyn. “My men have searched the hall, and it is empty-save for the wretch himself.”

Beldyn’s mouth became a hard line. “Come, then. Let us end this.”

They entered the cavernous Hall of Audience, the border-men staring in wonder at the blue-tiled floor, the rose-petal walls, the crystal dome gleaming overhead. The sound of their footsteps, of rattling armor, echoed through the great chamber as they strode toward the dais at the far end. Cathan’s eyes narrowed upon the golden, rose-wreathed throne and the man who sat upon it.

Kurnos glowered at them, resplendent in silver robes, jeweled breastplate, and sapphire tiara. He swept his gaze over the approaching party, and his face reddened to match his beard when he saw the hierarchs and Lord Holger. Finally, as the group halted before the dais, his eyes settled on Beldyn. Cathan shivered. He had never seen hate so intense, so unreasoning.

“So,” the Kingpriest sneered, “you’re the whelp who plots to steal my throne.”

The Knights and bandits muttered at this, but Beldyn held up a hand, stilling their noise. On his brow the Miceram blazed a bright light. Next to it, Kurnos’s tiara seemed but a trinket. When he smiled, it was as though his blazing eyes could cut steel.

“I am the Lightbringer,” he said, the crystal dome ringing with his voice. “I wear the Crown of Power, lost long ago. The god has chosen me to rule.”

Kurnos frowned, then barked a derisive laugh. “Idiot boy. I am Paladine’s voice upon Krynn.”

“Blasphemer!” Beldyn snapped, his face suddenly becoming a terrible mask of rage. “You say such a thing, you who used dark magic to murder Lady Ilista and tried to kill me as well?”

The hierarchs started, glancing at one another in shock. The Kingpriest stiffened, the color draining from his face.

“I did it for the good of the empire,” Kurnos muttered.

“No. You did it for yourself.”

For more than a minute, silence reigned within the hall. Cathan held his breath, waiting-for what, he didn’t know. Finally, Beldyn spoke again in granite tones.

“Uncrown, Usurper. Leave my throne, or I will drag you from it.”

Kurnos sat still. Muscles jumped in his face, and the fingers of his right hand worked restlessly, toying with a ring on his left mounted with a huge emerald. Finally, with a shuddering sigh, the Kingpriest rose to his feet. Bowing his head, he stepped away from the throne, lifted the sapphire tiara from his head, and set it on a golden armrest. His eyes glistening, Kurnos stepped off the dais’s highest stair.

“Very well,” he said. “The empire is yours, Lightbringer. I would ask one thing of you, though, before your men take me.”

Beldyn nodded. “Speak.”

“I ask for mercy,” the Kingpriest said. “I have sinned. Absolve me, Beldinas.”

Gasps echoed through the hall as all eyes turned toward Beldyn. For a moment his brows knitted as though he might refuse, but then the Lightbringer spread his hands.

“So be it,” he said. “Bridud.”

Approach.

Smiling, Kurnos started down the stairs. At Beldyn’s gesture, Cathan moved to meet him and searched him for weapons. He was loath to touch the false Kingpriest, but he did so and not gently, grabbing Kurnos’s arms and legs, then stripping off his jeweled breastplate and checking beneath. He was sure he would find a dagger somewhere among the man’s vestments, but even though he searched a second time, he found nothing.

“Well?” Beldyn asked.

Cathan hesitated, uncertain, every instinct telling him something was wrong. There was something in Kurnos’s eyes that troubled him-a hidden smile, lurking deep beneath the mad sheen. Finally, though, he stepped back.

“He is unarmed, Holiness.”

Smiling, Beldyn beckoned Kurnos to him.

Mistrust simmered in Cathan’s breast as the Kingpriest stepped forward and knelt before the Lightbringer. Slowly, Kurnos bowed his head. He twisted the ring on his finger again, Cathan noticed, moving the emerald around and around in curious fashion.

“Usas farno,” Beldyn intoned, his eyes shining as he signed the triangle, “tas adolam aftongas?”

Child of the god, dost thou forswear thine evil?

Kurnos took a deep breath, let it out. “Aftongo,” he murmured.

Around and around the emerald went. Around and around…

“Tas scolfas firougos, tenfin ourfas?”

Wilt thou repent thy misdeeds, as long as thou livest?

“Firougo.”

Cathan’s eyes locked on the emerald. There was something wrong about it, a strange flashing in its depths. Like lightning, he thought, his heart lurching within his breast as Beldyn reached out and laid his hand on the Kingpriest’s head, speaking the rite of absolution.

Kurnos brought up his hand, pointing the ring at the Lightbringer’s heart. “Ashakai,” he said.

Cathan surged forward with a shout.

Beldyn’s eyes widened.

Lightning, green and blinding bright, flared from the emerald. Thunder roared, filling the hall.

The next thing Cathan knew he was lying on the ground, with Kurnos beneath him. The tiles were smeared red where the Kingpriest’s head lay crooked-unconscious, but not yet dead. The stink of ozone filled the air, and with it the sickly smell of charred flesh. Terror seizing him, Cathan rolled off Kurnos and looked up, expecting the worst.

The Lightbringer was unhurt.

The pain hit, hot and sharp. Cathan looked down and saw the wound, his leather breastplate and the padding beneath that had burnt away, the flesh beneath it seething red and black, smoke curling from his side.

It seemed everyone started shouting at once. Men ran forward, seizing Kurnos and hauling him away. He heard Holger barking orders, saw Tavarre dashing toward him, his scarred face twisting as he fell to his knees to try to help. He ignored them all, staring at Beldyn. The Lightbringer looked back, his face white, horror staining his diamond-bright gaze. Suddenly the regal figure was gone, and he was a young monk once more.

“Holiness,” Cathan said thickly. There was a warm, iron-tasting wetness in his mouth. Blood, some distant part of his mind said. “Are you all right?”

Stunned, the Lightbringer didn’t answer.

“Beldyn!” Tavarre shouted, cradling Cathan’s head in his hands. “Get over here and heal him, damn it!”

Cathan smiled. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “Actually, I feel fine.”

Letting out his breath, he died.