Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Three

In all of Ansalon, three libraries ranked above all others. The greatest was the Library of Gilean in Palanthas, a vast hall of lore dedicated to the God of the Book. Legend had it that a copy of every text ever set to parchment or papyrus-or even clay tablet-rested somewhere in its halls under the care of a select order of monks led by the renowned Astinus the Undying. Second-largest-with one hundred thousand tomes, a fraction of the Palanthian library’s size-was the Scriptorium of Khrystann, in distant Tarsis, which ran beneath the streets of that bustling seaport and was nearly as renowned as the white-winged ships that sailed from its harbor.

The third was the Sacred Chancery in the Great Temple itself. It stood in a wing to the north of the basilica, five storeys tall, its windows made of crystal the color of honey, so that even the moons’ light looked like sunset within its halls. It was a labyrinth, and even the scribes and scholars who toiled within had been known to get lost now and again. The shelves reached up and up its high walls, with woven baskets on winches giving access to the topmost levels. There were no frescoes or mosaics within its halls, no sculptures or tapestries, not even decorative plants. There were only the books, the great mahogany desks where the copyists worked, and the god’s platinum triangle hung on the end of every shelf.

Bustling during the day, the chancery was a still place this night, silent but for the scratching of a single quill pen. The pen belonged to a young scribe, a scrawny man whose hands and sleeves alike bore fresh and faded stains of purple ink. Though barely past twenty, his scalp had already begun to show through his thinning hair, and the spectacles perched on his nose were thick, making his eyes seem disconcertingly huge. He bent over a page of fine vellum, his gaze flicking to an open text beside him as he wrote, pausing only now and then to dip his pen into an inkwell or to scatter fine sand on his writing to dry it. So intent was he on his writing that he didn’t hear the clack of sandals on the marble floor, and when Loralon’s hand touched his shoulder, he gave a shout of surprise and nearly leaped out of his robes.

“Eminence!” he exclaimed, turning to focus Ms enormous stare on the elf. He blinked, getting awkwardly to his feet. “I did not realize you were still about. It’s… what…” He glanced at an hour-candle burning nearby. “Three hours till dawn.”

“Lissam, farno,” said the elf. Peace, child. Loralon was fully garbed, as always, his beard meticulous and his gaze keen. “I did not mean to disturb you. First Daughter, this is Brother Denubis.”

Denubis looked past the Emissary, noticing Ilista for the first time. She stood beside the elf, looking his opposite: pale and red-eyed, her hair and cassock in disarray. The scribe blinked.

“Efisa, I am honored. I do not often see you here.”

“No, Brother,” she replied, smiling. “I’ve never had a head for books, I’m afraid. What are you working on?”

“Translating the Peripas Mishakas, my lady, into the Solamnic vulgate.”

Dista’s eyebrows rose. The Peripas, the Disks of Mishakal, were one of the church’s longest-and oldest-holy texts. The originals were painstakingly etched on hundreds of platinum circles, the words so dense that each disk filled dozens of pages. The text at Denubis’s side was only one volume of many in the Church Istaran translation, and an early one at that. The scribe might be working on this translation for years-perhaps all his life. Such was the gods’ work.

“I beg pardon for interrupting your work, Brother,” Loralon said, “but I need to get into the Fibuliam.”

Denubis looked even more startled than usual. “The Fibuliam, Eminence?”

“Yes, Brother. Have you the key?”

“Of-of course.” The scribe reached to his belt, producing a ring on which hung an intricate golden object It was not shaped like a key but like a slender, two-tined fork. “If you’ll follow…”

Ilista had not waited until morning to tell Loralon of her dream. She had hurried across the temple grounds to the cloister of the Chosen of E’li, the elven order. He had been awake- of course-and when she’d told him of her dream, he had been genuinely surprised. Hearing of her strange visitor, he had smiled, his eyes sparkling.

“It seems, Efisa, the god has chosen to visit everyone in Istar lately except me,” he’d said without a trace of bitterness and bade her come with him to the chancery.

No one knew the library better than the Emissary. He spent countless hours there, poring over its tomes, and some said he knew every word within the pages of its many, many books. Ilista herself had never had much interest. She could read and write in the common and church tongues, of course, but Loralon seemed to know almost every language ever spoken-even those of empires long dead and the secret dialects of the dragons. One learned many things when one lived for centuries.

Now Denubis led them deep into the chancery to a stout door of gold-chased alabaster. The door had neither latch nor keyhole and was engraved with warding glyphs that-according to lore-could turn flesh to stone. The acolytes whispered that some of the statues in the gardens had once been men and women who had tried to force the stout door open. Ilista didn’t believe that tale, but she’d never heard anyone refute it either.

Whatever the case, Denubis did not lay a hand on the door. Instead, he brought out the golden fork and a tiny silver hammer. Signing the triangle, he struck the one with the other, sounding a high, soothing tone. The chime rang for a moment, then he struck again, and a third time. Each note was slightly different, and they merged into a chord of remarkable harmony.

Motes of violet light appeared on the latchless door’s surface, running across it in streams and waves in response to the music, moving always from its center to its edges. After a moment the whole wall seemed to shudder, then the door swung outward, revealing a dark room beyond. A strange smell came from within-dry and sharp, yet enticing, like the dreampipes some men smoked in Karthay.

Loralon dismissed Denubis. The scribe bowed and withdrew, leaving the elf and Ilista alone. The two high priests exchanged glances, then entered the chamber.

Through Istar’s history, the Kingpriests had declared certain books and scrolls works of heresy. When this happened, the clergy brought any copies they found to the Lordcity, where they burned them in great “cleansing pyres,” pouring holy oil on the flames to drive out the evil they consumed. For each banned tome, however, the church always preserved a single copy, so a select few could study the words that corrupted the hearts of common men. These they kept in the Fibuliam.

Loralon spoke a word in Elvish, and the room filled with light. Ilista stared around in awe. The chamber was tall and circular, a tube of marble that ran up the full height of the chancery. Its shelves curved up the walls in rings, accessible by a spiralling ramp. At its apex, the sacred triangle looked down upon all.

The elf walked up the ramp, running his delicate fingers over one shelf, then the next.

“There is a grimoire here that might be of help,” he said as Ilista followed him. “I read it a century ago, but I remember it well-a tome of prophecies from the empire’s dawn, when warlords, not Kingpriests, ruled here.” He smiled slightly. “They banned it because, unlike most prophetic works, some of it came unfortunately true. Ah.”

He stopped a third of the way up the ramp and found a slender volume bound in basilisk skin. Pulling it from the shelf, he blew off a film of dust and carried it to a landing where a stone desk stood. Dista watched as he opened the book. Archaic calligraphy covered the title page, along with crude illuminations of dragons, griffins, and other mystical beasts.

Qoi Zehomu, it proclaimed. Psandru Ovrom Vizeva.

“It’s in High Dravinish,” Loralon said in reply to her inquiring look. “Men once spoke this tongue in the southern provinces, when they were free city-states. The title means What Shall Come: The Foresights ofPsandros the Younger.”

Gently he turned its brittle, yellowing pages. There were scores of verses within, all carefully inscribed and illustrated. He went too quickly for Dista to note what most were about, but she did make out some illustrations: a building that could only be the Great Temple; a throne, broken in three parts; five proud towers, two in ruins; and a strange symbol that looked, to her eyes, like a burning mountain. Finally, he came to one near the end, and pointed.

Viziloviosihomua.

“Advent of the Lightbringer,” the elf translated.

Dista scanned the page. The prophecy was short, only two stanzas long:

Vesinua, yuzun horizua,

Bon drova bruvli, Istogizua,

Vilo lush vevom su behomu,

Vizilovra, gavos avizua.

Ita deg dridiva so anevunt,

Sogonnunt, sos volbua sivunt,

Su ollom viu nirinfo vesuu,

Ita muzaba susilva sognivunt.

“What that means,” Loralon explained, “is this:

“ From the west, the setting of suns,

In troubled times, with Istar endangered,

Carrying lost riches he comes,

Lightbringer, bearer of hope."

“And though the darkness shall fear him,

Hunt him, seek his destruction,

He is the savior of holiness,

And the gods themselves shall bow to him.”

Ilista shook her head. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. It might as well be a lunatic’s ravings.”

“It is,” Loralon said, smiling. “Psandros was quite mad, but time and again, his words have come true-the Third Dragonwar, the rise of the Kingpriests, the Trosedil… you see? Of course, some of it hasn’t happened yet-Chaos has yet to walk the land again, thank the gods-but still, this is a dangerous book, Efisa, and your dream matches the prophecy. Didn’t you say this man of light came out of the west?”

Ilista stared at the ancient words. The Fibuliam was warm, but she found herself shivering. “What does it mean? What should we do?”

Loralon smiled, closing the book again. He walked back down the ramp and slid it back into its place on the shelf, then turned, his hands folded within his sleeves. His eyes shone in the elf-light.

“Not we, Your Grace. You,” he said. “The god wishes you to find the Lightbringer.”

The Kingpriest had adjourned his court for the day, and the three high priests had retired with him to his private audience room in the manse. Outside the windows, the clouds shone dusky rose, and the sound of someone playing a long-necked lute rose from the gardens. Soon the bells would summon the faithful to evening prayer. Out in the city, merchants were putting away their wares and linkboys were lighting the thousands of crystal lanterns that made the Lordcity seem a sea of stars at night. Before long, the folk of Istar would fill the wine shops, the concert halls, and the theaters, while young lovers strolled the gardens and byways, taking full advantage of the mild spring weather.

Kurnos had intended, that night, to go to the Arena. A troupe of mummers from bronze-walled Kautilya were performing there this week, and tonight’s fare was a favorite of his: The Death of Giusecchio, a bloody tragedy of treason and regicide. Now, looking from Symeon to the First Daughter, he couldn’t help but think there was enough intrigue in this very room to slake his thirst for such a drama. Ilista looked wan and weary, and whenever his eyes met hers, she glanced away and started fussing with the cuffs of her sleeves. Ilista had told them of her vision the night before, the fat monk who had appeared to her and proved in the end to be the platinum dragon. He could tell, though, that there was more she wasn’t saying. Something was afoot-but what?

“A voyage?” Symeon asked, sipping watered claret from a crystal goblet. He regarded Ilista steadily from beside one of the golden braziers that flanked his throne. “Beyond the empire, no less?”

“Only to Solamnia and Kharolis, Majesty,” she replied, eyes downcast “Both lands pay us homage, and the Solamnic Knights guard this very Temple. I would ask a company of such men to escort me, as protection while I follow my vision.”

Symeon’s lips pursed. “All this to seek a man of light, glimpsed in a dream.”

“A god-given dream, Holiness,” Loralon corrected. “No different from the one you had last year.”

Kurnos shook his head. He wasn’t sure he believed any of it. Symeon was still healthy, after all, and he had long since begun to wonder if the Kingpriest had simply imagined Paladine’s visitation. It rankled him, particularly after the past two days. If he were Kingpriest, several thousand Scatas would be marching toward Taol even now, to exact justice upon the bandits there. Symeon was a firm ruler when it suited him, but he relied too much on others’ advice-particularly Ilista and Loralon. Even now, he was regarding the latter over the rim of his wine glass, weighing his words.

“That may be so,” the Kingpriest allowed, and shifted back to Ilista. “This man of light, who do you think he is?”

“I do not know,” she replied. “I will need to search for him. I am sure he will already have shown signs of the god’s touch, though.”

“If you find him?” Kurnos tugged his beard. “What then?”

“I will bring him here.”

The Kingpriest nodded, but Kurnos didn’t smile. He stared first at Ilista, his mouth a lipless scowl, then at Loralon. The Emissary returned his gaze with a mildness that made the First Son’s ears redden. He is complicit in this, Kurnos thought. He’s holding something back-they both are. If anyone had asked him to give a reason for his suspicion, he would not have been able to. He was sure, though, the man of light was a danger.

Symeon, however, did not share his mistrust. “That is well,” he said finally. “I should like to meet this man, if he exists. Kurnos, send word to the harbormaster to ready a ship to carry the First Daughter to Palanthas. I shall contact Lord Holger and ask him to provide a Knight to lead the escort. Efisa, you will sail before the week is out.”

Ilista stood at the aft rail of the Falcon’s Wing as the great galleon glided across Lake Istar’s crystalline waters. The ship’s white wake stretched out behind, and beyond it lay the Lordcity, a distant jewel sparkling on the shore. The gleaming beacons of the God’s Eyes flashed at the harbor’s mouth, even from miles away. The deck creaked and rolled, and gulls shrieked above, diving now and again into the surf to snatch up shimmering fish. Up high in the rigging, men shouted to one another as they scrambled about; below the deck, broad-chested minotaurs snorted and growled as they worked the twin banks of the vessel’s oars.

The past three days were a blur in Ilista’s mind. It had been a remarkably short span to ready for such a voyage, and she’d found time for little else, aside from prayers and a few hours’ dreamless sleep each night. She had named Balthera, one of her most promising aides, to act in her stead while she was away and had instructed her attendants in packing her vestments and the other accouterments she would need for her travels. The rest of the time she’d spent writing: missives to high members of the Revered Daughters elsewhere in the empire, a few last decrees she needed to issue, and even a testament, declaring her wishes for her order, should some ill befall her while she was away.

Finally, this morning after prayers, she had gone to the basilica with the other high priests for the Parlaido, the benediction of Leavetaking. Symeon himself had daubed her forehead with seawater blessed by Nubrinda of Habbakuk and spoken the ritual farewell, and then she had left the Hall of Audience, bound for the harbor.

Her escort had been waiting on the temple’s broad steps. Sir Gareth Paliost was a Knight of the Sword, a seasoned warrior of fifty summers, the gray hairs in his hair and moustache outnumbering the brown. He was to be her only companion as they sailed. Other Knights would join them in Palanthas. He was a taciturn man and had spoken perhaps a dozen words to her since this morning, half of them “Efisa” or “Your Grace.” Otherwise, he kept to dour silence, his hand seldom far from his sword. Lord Holger gave him full commendation, however, so it was a comfort to have him at her side.

Loralon had been waiting on the jetty where the Falcon’s Wing was moored, and had taken her aside while stevedores busily loaded her belongings into the hold. Smiling, the Emissary had given her a small, golden box.

“A parting gift,” he’d said. “We can use it to speak, though you will be far, far away. Look into it and speak my name, and if I have the power, I will answer.”

She had opened it and caught her breath at what lay inside: an orb of shining crystal, small enough to fit in one cupped hand. It was warm to her touch, though the day remained cool, and there was something in its weight that spoke to her of power. Imprisoned within the orb was a single rose, its petals an exquisite blue she had never seen before, even in the Temple’s gardens. An elven flower, no doubt, for an elven artifact.

She had embraced the Emissary, kissing his downy cheek- and surprising him for the second time in recent days-then, with Sir Gareth beside her, walked up the ramp to the deck of Falcon’s Wing. Less than an hour later, the ship had raised its golden sails, moving out onto the lake’s open water. They were bound for the River Mirshan and thence to the sea. After that, a two-week sail awaited them before they made port in Palanthas.

That all lay before her, and Dista was still looking back. She thought of Kurnos as she watched the Lordcity vanish behind her. The First Son had watched her suspiciously the past several days. She had felt his piercing gaze on her throughout the Parlaido, and no longer doubted he knew there was more behind her journey than the dream. She and Loralon hadn’t mentioned Psandros’s prophecy to anyone. If it came out that her voyage was, in part, an answer to a text from the Fibuliam, it could go against her-and the Emissary as well. For that reason, they had kept the full truth to themselves.

What is the full truth? she wondered, her hand going to her medallion. What if I do find this Lightbringer?

The Lordcity disappeared at last behind a rocky point dotted with cypress trees. Biting her lip, Ilista turned away from the rail, her gaze shifting to the waters ahead.