Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Five

Slxthmonth, 923 I.A.

The day began for Symeon as it always did, with Brother Purvis waking him by ringing a chime made from the wingbone of a silver dragon. It still lacked nearly two hours before dawn, and he lay awake for a time, listening to the nightbirds’ final songs. Dust danced on the silver moonlight streaming through the windows of his chamber. It was near-ing summer, and the room was already warm. In the Lord-city, late spring was a time of humid days and cool nights, punctuated by lashing rainstorms that swept in off the lake. Smiling, the Kingpriest pushed off his white, silken sheets and rose from his golden bed for the last time.

The morning passed quickly, following the usual routine. Purvis brought him a mug of honeyed wine, and he drank it in his private bath while blind servants scrubbed his pink, soft skin. After, barbered, powdered and perfumed, he passed to his vestiary, where still more acolytes helped him into his ceremonial raiment: robes of Lattakayan satin, be-jeweled breastplate, rings and slippers, and the sapphire tiara that had graced the brow of every Kingpriest since the end of the Three Thrones’ War. Last, he donned his medallion, kissing the platinum triangle and murmuring the god’s name before slipping it over his head.

He was late today, as it happened, and the dawnsong bells were already chiming in the Temple’s central spire as he left the manse. He crossed a rose-covered bridge from the palace to the basilica, taking little notice of the fingers of mist that rose from the gardens below, or the clerics that hurried, answering the call to prayer. A scarlet butterfly with wings an arm’s length across fluttered close to him, curious, then rode the drafts away.

The Temple’s priests-most of them, anyway-already had gathered when he arrived in the basilica, more than a thousand men and women in all. They were from all over the empire: almond-eyed Dravinish, Falthanans with forked, dyed beards, even a few Solamnians and swarthy Ergothmen, each wearing white robes in the styles of their homelands, and of course, the Silvanesti, tall and beautiful, led by Loralon and his aide, a slim, golden-haired elf named Quarath. A choir of elven priestesses sang a hymn of heartbreaking beauty as the Kingpriest ascended his dais, the hall resounding with their song.

As he had every day for the past six years, Symeon spoke the Udossi, the Blessing of Sunrise, a half-hour liturgy in the church tongue that he knew as well as his own name. He scarcely heard the words as they passed from his lips, so familiar were they, and before he knew it the censers that flanked his throne issued gouts of white smoke, and the priests dispersed, returning to study and chancery, office and prayer room. Symeon retired to his private sanctum within the basilica, a chamber with flamewood walls and an alabaster fountain whose waters smelled of lavender. There his servants brought his morning meal- honeycakes, bloodmelon, and cheese made from mare’s milk.

He scanned scrolls as he ate, his eyes gliding over reports from the hierarchs, as well as missives from the provinces. Most of them he stopped reading after a dozen words or so, making certain none of the tidings were particularly dire before setting them aside: his underlings would deal with most of these matters. As Voice of Paladine on Krynn, he could not trouble himself with every one of his subjects’ needs. When he reached an epistle marked with Taol’s golden-bear sigil, however, he stopped and read it carefully. Revered Son Durinen sent reports weekly, with the precision of Karthayan clockwork, and Symeon read every word the highland patriarch set to parchment.

This week’s message was nothing unusual, to the Kingpriest’s disappointment The banditry in the hills continued, the robbers sacking occasional caravans that dared to break the ban he had placed on trade with the Taoli. The patriarch’s men caught some, mounting their heads on gatehouses and at crossroads, but the bandits’ losses were few. Durinen wrote about the plague too, this Longosai that continued to ravage his holdings. It had spread farther north, encroaching on Govinna itself. Symeon shook his head as he read about the hundreds who had died, and the thousands still sick, but only for a moment did he dwell on the Longosai. No healer-not even Stefara of Mishakal-had the power to stop it He only hoped it would run its course before it spread to the lowlands. Clucking his tongue, he set the missive aside with the rest and went to hold court.

He remained in the Hall of Audience the rest of the morning, hearing more word from the Lordcity’s various nobles and merchant princes. It was tedious work, and by the time the basilica bells sounded the midday, his head had begun to ache. Adjourning court, he returned to his sanctum, where he sat in silence, rubbing his temples. He barely touched the buttered lobster his servants brought for his midday meal and only drank one of his customary two goblets of watered claret When the noontide passed and the audience resumed, the ache had become a stab, flaring behind his left eye with every heartbeat.

It soon proved too much, and he withdrew more than an hour early and forewent his usual appearance on the Temple’s front steps, where it had been his habit to pronounce blessing on the folk who gathered in the Barigon’s wide expanses. Instead, he retired to his private rose garden to while away the rest of the day. He lay on a cushioned bench in the sunlight, listening to the distant, muted murmur of the city outside the Temple’s walls as servants fanned him and fed him golden grapes. A hippogriff, a winged horse with the head of a raptor, cropped clover nearby and drank from a pond whose bottom was made of crushed amethyst.

Around sunset the pain abated again, becoming a low throb he could nearly ignore. He rose and waved to a waiting servant, who brought over two violet apples. Symeon fed these to the hippogriff, the docile beast taking the food from his hand, then wended his way back toward the basilica. It was twilight, and the bells tolled the evensong.

When the Opiso, the Sunset Prayer, was done, he returned at last to the manse for the evening banquet. Most of his inner court attended, as always-among them Loralon and Quarath, First Son Kurnos, and Balthera, the acting First Daughter. Symeon’s banquets were something folk tried not to miss, every night a different delicacy from Istar’s many and various provinces. Last night it had been peacock in a spicy sauce favored in Lattakay. Tonight it was seshya, a stew of shellfish and rice from the seaport of Pesaro. More watered claret accompanied the meal, and milk sweetened with palm sugar.

The conversation remained light, though the hierarchs whispered of brigands and borderlands when they thought he wasn’t listening. When the courtiers began to leave after the meal was done, he let them go, until only Kurnos remained.

He and the First Son retired to an open balcony, where fireflies bobbed lazily on the night breeze and golden cats with six legs slumbered on the cool marble floor. Someone was reading poetry in the garden below, a soothing ode whose words Symeon couldn’t quite make out, as he and the First Son sat down at the khas table.

Khas was an ancient game, and folk played it in all Ansalon’s realms. It was one of the pastimes Symeon enjoyed most, and his set was one of the most remarkable in the world. The board was made of ivory, lapis, and moonstone, interwoven and shining in the moonlight, but it was the pieces that made it so unusual. Where most khas men were carved of wood or forged of metal, the Kingpriest’s were something altogether different.

They were alive.

It wasn’t quite the right word, but the right word didn’t exist outside the spidery language of wizards. The warriors and knights, viziers and wyrms that stood upon the board, none more than six inches high, were creatures of magic, not flesh. They stood frozen most of the day, seeming nothing more than exquisite crystalline sculptures-half white, half black-but when the Kingpriest and his heir sat down they shuddered to life, one by one, and began to move-heads turning, tails twitching, lances dipping to salute the foe.

Symeon took the white pieces-he always took the white-and they set to playing. When their respective turns came, they leaned forward to whisper to their pieces, which moved in response, marching, galloping, and slithering across the table according to their commands. The game passed quickly, mostly in silence, as they sipped moragnac brandy and ate almond-paste sweets.

“Aha!” the Kingpriest declared after they had been playing a while, as one of his pillar-shaped Fortresses rumbled forward on creaking wheels, crushing one of Kurnos’s Footsoldiers beneath it The soldier let out a tiny cry as it died, then vanished and appeared, twisted and broken, in front of the First Son. His side of the table was littered with little black corpses, and the remnants of his shattered forces huddled defensively in a corner of the table, surrounded by the white army.

“You see, Kurnos?” Symeon asked. “You left your flank open again.”

Kurnos grunted, scowling at the board and stroking his beard while the Kingpriest sipped his moragnac. Swallowing, the First Son leaned forward, whispering to one his champions, a tiny, perfect replica of a Solamnic Knight. Crystal armor rattling, the Knight bowed and gave ground, moving close to bis Emperor, then brandishing his needle-sized sword at the foe.

Symeon chuckled at this and leaned forward at once to murmur to his Guardian, a coiled gold dragon that hissed and slithered forward. Talons and sword flashed for a moment, and then the wyrm caught the champion in its jaws and bit it in half. Kurnos shook his head in disgust as the remains of his Knight vanished from the board.

Four moves later, pinned down and unable to move, the First Son sighed and spoke to his Emperor. With a resigned sigh, the grizzled Emperor rose from his jet throne, drew a dagger from his belt, and plunged it into his own breast.

“Rigo iebid,” Kurnos declared as the Emperor crumpled in a heap. The realm has fallen. “A fine game, Holiness.”

“Yes,” Symeon agreed, plucking a sweet from the plate. “I’m improving, I think. Perhaps one day, you won’t need to lose… deliberately.”

Kurnos stiffened, flushing, as the Kingpriest nibbled his confection and smiled. He opened his mouth then shut it again, shrugging. “Sire, I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say what’s on your mind.” Symeon chased the sweet with a swallow of moragnac. “You’re thinking overmuch of Lady Ilista, aren’t you?”

The First Son’s face darkened even more, and he coughed into his hand. On the table, the khas pieces rose from death and shuffled back across the board, revivifying themselves and jostling one another as they resumed their positions. Down below the balcony, in the rose garden, Symeon’s pet hippo-griff made a sound that was half-whinny, half-skirl.

Two months had passed since the First Daughter’s departure. Ilista had sent reports as regularly as the patriarch in Taol, first when she reached Palanthas, then as she and the Knights who guarded her made their way south across Solamnia. At first, the messages had been hopeful, expressing her certainty she would find the one she sought in the next town or monastery. When the later messages came, however, it was always the same-the man of light from her dreams was not there. Lately, the hope in her previous missives had darkened to discouragement. In her most recent one, two days ago, she wrote of leaving Solanthus, Solamnia’s southernmost city, still with nothing to show for her quest. She would cross the border from the Knights’ lands to Kharolis within the week, and everyone who read her words could tell she was losing energy and heart.

“It must be difficult to fail and fail again,” Kurnos said, swirling his brandy. “What if she doesn’t find him?”

Symeon rubbed his brow. The headache was worsening again. It made it hard to think, but he fought through the pain.

“Then she comes home,” he said softly. “That’s not what’s troubling you, though, is it? You’re not wondering what we’ll do if Lady Ilista fails-you want to know what happens if she succeeds.”

Kurnos bowed his head. “Sire, your perception humbles me.”

“Quite.” Symeon reached down, plucking his Guardian from the board. The tiny dragon writhed a moment, then stiffened, becoming cold crystal in his hand. “Who is to say what will happen? If this man truly does wield Paladine’s power, he may rise high within the church-perhaps even to the throne.”

“A Kingpriest from beyond the empire?” Kurnos asked.

Symeon shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

That much was true. A century and a half ago, the dying Kingpriest Hysolar had chosen Sularis, then the High Clerist of the Solamnic Knights, to succeed him. It had been a controversial choice, though, and only Sularis’s reputation for impeccable honor had won over a skeptical church and laity. Whoever Ilista’s man of light was, he wasn’t likely to have such a fine pedigree. Kurnos’s scowl spoke more than words.

All at once, Kurnos vanished from Symeon’s sight-as did the khas board, the balcony, and everything else, swallowed by an angry red flash as the throb in Symeon’s head became an inferno. He heard himself grunt in agony and tasted bile as sweets and brandy tried to force themselves back up his throat-but the strange thing was the smell. For some reason, the aroma that filled his nose was that of baking bread.

“Majesty?” Kurnos asked, sounding very far away. “Sire, are you all right?”

Symeon wasn’t all right. The pain didn’t subside as before. Instead it grew stronger, stronger, until it felt as if a second sun had kindled amidst his brain. His right hand went suddenly slack, dropping into his lap. The Guardian tumbled from his limp grasp, and he felt it spring to life as it fell, imagined its wings spreading to fly back to its place on the board. The dragon he saw, however, wasn’t made of white crystal-it was platinum, shining in the sun.

So beautiful, he thought.

The sun in his head burst, and he knew nothing more.

Kurnos leaped to his feet, his eyes wide, as the Kingpriest slumped sideways in his chair, then fell to the floor. The sapphire tiara tumbled from Symeon’s brow as he lay on his side, twitching. The twitches slowed, and he was still.

It happened so quickly that Kurnos could do nothing at first but stupidly stare. Then, shaking himself, he ran to the Kingpriest’s side and grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to pull him upright. Symeon sagged in his grasp, his face the color of cold ashes. Desperately, Kurnos fumbled at his throat, seeking the a lifebeat. He found it, weak, faltering.

Nausea gripped the First Son. He glanced around, looking for help, but there was no one. Even the servant who had poured their brandy was gone. Fear ran through him, then, and his eyes darted toward Symeon’s snifter-poison! his mind cried-but a moment later he dismissed the notion. He’d been drinking the same moragnac, eating the same sweetmeats. No, something else had struck the Kingpriest down-a fit of some sort, swift and deadly.

No, not deadly-not yet. If a healer came soon, Symeon might survive. Kurnos turned toward the manse, opening his mouth to cry out-

Let him die.

Kurnos caught his breath. The voice sounded horribly close, as if someone had whispered in his ear, and there was something about it, a coldness and cruelty that made it sound familiar. He furrowed his brow, wondering, then his insides turned to water as memory came back to him. He was back in the garden, snow on the ground, looking at a dark hooded figure under an ebony tree. He glanced around, seized with panic, but there was no one to be seen. There were many shadows on the balcony, though, and more still in the gardens below. The dark hooded man was near.

Let him die, the voice said again. You will be Kingpriest.

He held his breath, suddenly afraid of the noise that might come out of his mouth if he tried to speak. The voice was right-if he stayed silent, Symeon would be beyond help in moments. No one would know-no one would even question. The throne would be his. All he had to do was wait. He stared at the sapphire tiara, glittering where it had fallen…

“No,” he gasped. A shiver wracked his body. Then, easing the Kingpriest back down, he ran back into the manse, shouting for the servants.

Three hours later, Kurnos stood outside the Kingpriest’s bedchamber, his mind roiling. Symeon was within, in his bed, with Stefara of Mishakal at his side. Brother Purvis had sent acolytes to fetch the high healer as soon as he heard of the attack, and she had taken the Kingpriest into her care at once. Before she began her ministrations, though, she had insisted he and Purvis leave the room. Now Kurnos paced back and forth across a small, comfortable salon, his eyes moving again and again to the bedchamber’s golden doors.

A door opened, but not the golden one. At the other end of the chamber Brother Purvis appeared-the man looked wretched, his face contorted with grief-and waved in Loralon. The elf signed the triangle as he strode forward, the door clicking shut behind.

“The hierarchs have been informed,” the elf said. “No one else knows.”

Kurnos nodded. Symeon’s illness would remain secret for now, until the court prepared a proper proclamation. Nearly two hundred years ago, half the Lordcity had burned when Theorollyn I fell to an assassin’s dagger, and since then the imperial court had taken great care when misfortune befell a Kingpriest. Triogo ullam abat, the saying went.

The mob rules all.

The candles burned lower. Finally, after what seemed half the night, the golden doors opened and Stefara emerged, beckoning them in. She was exhausted, her plump face pale and shining with sweat as they followed her toward the golden bed. No one spoke as they looked down on the figure lying among the sheets and cushions.

Symeon looked like a corpse. He was wan and haggard, and the right side of his face drooped in an unpleasant grimace, paralyzed by the attack. His chest rose and fell, weakly.

“There’s nothing more we can do for now,” Stefara said. She touched her medallion, the blue twin teardrops of the Healing Hand. “It is only by the grace of the gods that he still lives. He’ll regain consciousness in time, but he won’t live long. Autumn, perhaps, but no more.”

She left them alone with the Kingpriest. The sound of the door shutting behind her echoed in the stillness. Kurnos swallowed, glancing at Loralon. He could see his thoughts reflected in the elf s sad eyes. Symeon’s vision was true, after all. The god had called him to uncrown.

“You must rule now, Your Grace,” Loralon said. “As heir, it falls to you to assume the regency.”

Kurnos bit his lip, staring at the unmoving form in the bed. He considered telling the elf-about the strange voice, the dark figure, how close he had come to letting Symeon die-but set the impulse aside. Better that no one knew. Instead, he reached down, to brush the Kingpriest’s left hand. On the third finger was a ring of red gold, set with a large, sparkling emerald. Swallowing, he pulled the ring off.

Loralon said nothing, only waited patiently, his hands folded before him.

For a long moment Kurnos hesitated, staring into the emerald’s guttering depths. Finally, he sighed and slid the ring onto his finger. It felt strange-too heavy, too tight, still retaining the warmth of Symeon’s body. His eyes shifted to the King-priest, lying weak and vulnerable in his bed… and then he heard it again, the voice, chuckling coldly in his head.

Very well, the dark man said. That will do… for now.