Chosen of the Gods k-1

by Chris Pierson

  “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.

  Chapter Four

  Flfthmonth, 923 LA.

  Cathan’s hand sweated in its glove as he stood at the edge of the training grounds, waiting his turn at sword drills. At the far end, Lord Tavarre was shouting at the youth before him, a lad named Xenos who had joined the bandit group scarcely a week ago. The baron was in a full-throated rage, calling the lad one name after another-lackbrain, slackard, shitskull… it got worse from there. Xenos, who could not have been more than sixteen, turned bright red, his eyes brimming with tears. If there were a way, he might have tunneled into the stony ground to escape. Instead he cowered, shoulders hunched, and rode out Tavare’s wrath.

  Early on, Cathan learned not to meet the lord’s gaze when he was angry-it was best, he’d found, to look elsewhere, so he turned to gaze across the valley. The bandits’ camp was well hidden, a cluster of hide tents covered in brush at the bottom of a steep-walled ravine. A stream ran through its midst, cold and clear, tiny fish darting up to snatch water-striders from its surface. Scraggly spruces clung to shelves on the rocky cliffs to either side. The bandits had watchers hidden on the higher purchases, scanning the road for signs of trouble, but they were hidden from below. The wind gusted through the canyon, chilly for this time of year. Cathan wondered if the summer would ever come.

  Four weeks had passed since Cathan’s first raid, and there hadn’t yet been a second. The high road was quiet, devoid of the usual traffic of the trading season. Word from neighboring towns was the Kingpriest had closed the road to the merchants who usually traveled it, and while there were rumors of more Scatas massing in the neighboring province of Ismin, Cathan hadn’t spoken to anyone who had seen them firsthand.

  He hadn’t been idle over the past month, however. To begin with, Tavarre had punished him for kic
king the fat priest half to death, ordering him to cook his meals and polish his sword and saddle for two weeks, then putting him on patrol duty for a third. Roaming the cold hills, sleeping on the rocky ground and eating nuts and roots, had been thoroughly unpleasant, but better than emptying the baron’s chamber pot. Now he was back, and had joined the other new hands-the bandits’ ranks had swelled as more folk succumbed to the plague in Luciel. He and they were still in training. Cathan was good with his sling, but his blade work still needed practice.

  “Left shoulder shot!” barked Tavarre. “MarSevrin, wake up!”

  “Uh?” Cathan started, his attention returning to the other end of the bare patch of dirt that served as the bandits’ sparring field. Xenos had skulked off, and now the baron was glowering at him from beside a much-abused straw dummy.

  “Come on, you damned dullard!” snapped Tavarre. “Advance!”

  Flushing, Cathan shook his head to clear it, then raised his weapon-an oaken rod, in place of the short, broad blade he’d taken from one of Revered Son Blavian’s soldiers-and started forward. He moved briskly toward the dummy, his brow furrowed, gauging distance-six paces, five, four… Finally, as he drew near, he made his move, bringing his blade around in a vicious arc, snapping his wrist at the last moment so the sword struck the dummy with a loud thump, squarely amidst the red mark daubed on its shoulder. Straw flew, and the other young men behind him cheered. Grinning, Cathan lowered his sword as he turned away.

  “Hold! I didn’t tell you to return to the line!”

  Cathan stopped, gritting as teeth as Tavarre stalked forward, his cloak billowing. “I’m sorry, milord.”

  “Sorry’s for bairns and priests, lad-not warriors.” The scars on Tavarre’s face deepened as he spat in the dirt. “Put your blade back where it was.”

  Cathan blinked, confused, but when the baron’s scowl deepened he did as he was told. Raising the wooden sword, he brought it around so it touched the dummy again and left it there, glancing at Tavarre in confusion-he’d hit the target, hadn’t he?

  Reaching out, Tavarre grabbed the rod’s tip with a thick gloved hand. “Do you see this?” he asked, pulling the weapon away from the dummy. “This is what you kill with-the last four inches of your blade. You struck three inches father down.”

  Cathan shook his head. “But milord-this isn’t the sword I usually use. Mine’s shorter.”

  “Sweet Jolith’s horns, boy,” Tavarre swore. He gave the weapon a hard shake, then shoved it away. “I don’t care about your usual sword. That’s the one you’re fighting with today.”

  Cathan’s face reddened, and the other young bandits laughed. Tavarre rounded on them at once, bellowing. “Stop that damned snickering! This is serious! Always know the weapon in your hand, even if it’s not your own! A real battle’s not always neat-you can break your sword or drop it, and you’ll have to grab what you can find! You can bet a Scata won’t wait while-”

  A long, rising howl cut him off, echoing across the ravine. It was a wolfs call, but there hadn’t been any wolves in the hills around Luciel since before Cathan was born. Tavarre reacted swiftly, spinning and jerking his own blade from its scabbard. He had taught the sentries that signal. It meant there was a rider approaching the camp.

  Bandits came out of their tents and rose from where they had been playing at dice and sulla-sticks, pulling out blades and cudgels, axes and knives. Many loaded crossbows or nocked arrows on bowstrings. Cathan dropped his practice sword and went for his sling, delving into his pouch for the shards of his family’s sacred triangle. The hills had a way of throwing sound, and already he could hear the thud of approaching hooves. He ran on Tavarre’s heels to the camp’s edge, where an earthen game trail led out into the wild.

  The approaching rider rounded a bend a few minutes later and reined in hard as half a dozen quarrels hit the ground before him. His horse reared, eyes rolling, and he tumbled from the saddle, the breath whoofing out of him as he hit the ground. Tavarre’s lieutenant, a massive, balding man-at-arms named Vedro, was on him in an instant, pointing a short-hafted spear at the man’s throat.

  “Wait!” the rider cried. “I’m not armed!”

  Cathan looked the man up and down. Sure enough, he held no weapon, nor was there any sheathed on his belt. He wore a tunic of rough, undyed wool, not a soldier’s armor or the robes of a priest, and he had an unruly mop of sandy hair. Cathan had been whirling his sling in a circle over his head. Now he let it slow and drop, the ceramic shard still in its pouch.

  “Deledos?” he asked.

  Several bandits looked at him, Tavarre among them. “You know him?” the baron asked.

  Cathan nodded. Deledos was the son of the town chandler. His younger brother Ormand had been a childhood friend. The Longosai had taken father and brother alike. He was lame, his right leg twisted from a break in his youth, which had kept him from joining the bandits.

  “It’s all right,” Cathan said. “He’s come from Luciel.”

  Deledos nodded enthusiastically, staring at the spear’s gleaming tip. For a long, moment, no one moved… then Tavarre lowered his sword. “Vedro,” he said.

  The man-at-arms pulled back, but his eyes stayed narrow and he offered no hand to help as Deledos struggled to his feet. Reboy had bitten his tongue in the fall and wiped blood from his lips.

  “I’m s-sorry, milord,” he stammered, eyes downcast as he bowed to Tavarre.

  The baron waved him off. “What’s this about, lad?” he demanded. “Why have you come?”

  “To find him,” Deledos replied, pointing at Cathan.

  “Me?” Cathan asked, surprised. “What for?”

  Deledos met his gaze for a moment, his eyes dark, then looked away.

  Cathan’s mouth dropped open as a cold, hard feeling settled in his stomach. “Oh, no,” he moaned.

  A spear of light pierced the gloom as the door swung open. The small room was dark and close, the windows covered over. There was no sound, save for the soft rasp of troubled breathing. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling to mask the sour, sharp smell. They weren’t enough, however, and the odor brought a stab of pain to Cathan’s heart as he looked upon the cot, and the figure huddled beneath the blankets.

  He stood in the doorway, paralyzed. He’d come straight from the camp, sharing Deledos’s horse. He swallowed as a woman came up beside him-an old, stooped crone, her gray hair cropped short in a widow’s cut. Her face was pale and mournful, and she looked far older than her sixty years. She said nothing, only laid a frail hand on Cathan’s arm.

  “Fendrilla,” he said. “How long?”

  “Two days,” she whispered. “It’s early yet, lad. There’s still plenty of time.”

  He shook his head, a bitter taste in his mouth. “For what?”

  “For praying,” Fendrilla replied, pointing.

  Cathan’s lip curled as he saw the triangle, hanging by the bed: a plain, wooden one, its white paint worn and faded with age. With a snarl, he shook off the old woman’s grasp and strode across the room. Reaching the triangle, he pulled it down and turned toward the door. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “Lad,” Fendrilla answered, shaking her head. “The god-”

  Livid, he hawked and spat on the holy symbol, then flung it to the floor. “That for the god!”

  Horrified, Fendrilla hurried forward to pick it up.

  “No!” he snapped. “Paladine’s done enough harm already. I won’t have his mark-”

  “Cathan?”

  The thin, quavering voice came from the bed. Cathan stopped, his insides lurching, then turned and knelt beside it. With a shaking hand he pulled back the blankets. “Wentha?”

  She had been a boyish girl, scabs on her knees and her freckled face seldom free of dirt, but she had begun to change since her thirteenth name-day. Slowly, she had started to grow beautiful, to draw stares from the village’s boys. She’d let her hair grow long, tumbling down over her shoulders in honey-colored waves, and the rest of her body h
ad started to go from sharp angles to curves. Cathan had watched with pride, over the past year, as his sister changed into a woman.

  Now she was changing into something else. It was early yet, the red blooms on her arms the only sign, but it wouldn’t be long before the Longosai turned her into something wretched, as it had the rest of his family.

  “Oh, Blossom,” he began, then faltered, bowing his head. He would not cry.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. She was pale, tired-looking, but not yet gaunt. That would come. “You stopped coming to visit, after… after Tancred…”

  He shook his head. She didn’t know about the bandits. “I’ve been busy, lass, but I’m here now.”

  She smiled, and his heart nearly broke. Though it was the same lovely smile she’d always had, he saw only a terrible rictus. He looked away, and when he found the strength to turn back her eyes had fluttered shut again. He set her hand down, then laid his head on her chest, listening. Her lifebeat sounded horribly weak to his ears.

  Paladine, he prayed silently, If you are the great god of good the clerics claim, do this one thing and I’ll serve you the rest of my days. She’s just a girl. Heal her.

  For a moment, the beating of Wentha’s heart seemed to strengthen, her breathing to lose its faint, whistling wheeze. Cathan pulled back, his eyes wide, wondering if Fendrilla had been right after all-had his prayer healed her?

  When he looked closer, though, the rash was still there, angry red bumps running from wrist to elbow. The Longosai had her and would not let go so easily.

  Slowly, he drew the blanket back over her and stood still, then, with a growl, he turned and walked away. Fendrilla moved to stop him but held back when she saw the wildness in his eyes. His thoughts roiling, he stormed out of the old woman’s cottage, into the half-light of sunset.

  He walked for hours, first through Luciel’s cluster of thatched cottages-many of them dark now, emptied by the plague-then up the rutted road, climbing the ridge that marked the edge of the valley where he’d lived all his life. He didn’t look back but kept on, the shadows of pines and boulders lengthening around him. Somewhere he found a fallen branch, and swiped at imagined foes: Scatas, fat priests, Paladine himself. Always he made sure to hit them with the last four inches. That was what killed.