Chosen of the Gods k-1

by Chris Pierson

  Cathan felt a worse dread. “What do you mean?”

  Tavarre told him. Ossirian. Durinen. Ilista.

  “Gods,” was all Cathan could say. “Oh, gods…”

  “He’s up there with her now,” the baron said, nodding toward the stair. “He refuses to let us enter, but he has been asking for you.”

  Cathan blinked. “Me?”

  Tavarre laid a hand on his arm, his scarred face pinching as he fought tears. “I think you’re the closest thing he has to a friend, lad. Go to him.”

  Up he went. It was a long way, and he was breathing hard when he reached the gilded doors at the top. There was a smear of blood on one door and spatters on the landing as well. The stink of it was thick in the air, and Cathan fought back his rising gorge as he stepped forward and tried the door. It was locked. He knocked instead.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  For a time there was no reply. He heard a something at last, the soft click of the doors’ bolt sliding back. With a soft groan, the doors swung inward, revealing the Little Emperor’s study.

  Cathan took one look at the remains of the men who had died in the room, then turned and vomited on the floor. His throat was raw as he turned back, looking past the bodies by the door. There was more blood pooled around the desk. The door to Durinen’s bedchamber was open, and “light flared within. Biting his lip, Cathan stepped over the corpses and went toward the glow.

  The First Daughter lay upon Durinen’s bed, her white face flecked with red, a blanket pulled up to her breast. Her hands lay folded atop the blanket, her eyes shut. It hurt terribly to see her dead, and he looked away toward the Lightbringer.

  Beldyn sat on the bedside, his head in his hands. The god’s holy light still glimmered silver around him, but within it his new, snowy vestments were crimson-wet Cathan stepped toward him, his mouth opening, as he realized the blood was Dista’s. Hearing his footfalls, Beldyn looked up. His eyes were red and puffy.

  “Who did this?” Cathan demanded, his face burning with rage. “Say the word, and I’ll bring you his head.”

  “I nearly think you would.” Beldyn’s voice was thin, hoarse. “The one responsible is far away, and I need you here, my friend. There is something we must do, if Ilista’s death is not to be in vain.”

  Cathan knelt, the marble floor hard beneath him. “Name it.”

  The Lightbringer nodded, then lifted something from the cushions beside him-a scroll, spattered with blood like everything else. He ran his hands over it for a moment, then unfurled it, looking up at Cathan.

  “What do you know of the Miceram?” he asked.

  The red moon was high and half-full over Istar, washing the city with sanguine light. Midnight had come and gone, and while the Great Temple was never entirely still-there were always Knights on patrol and acolytes tending the gardens-it was as quiet as it ever was. Most of the lights were dimmed, and the only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the warble of night birds as they flitted among the almond trees. Cords of mist drifted across the lawns and pools. Beyond, the Lordcity slumbered as well. In another hour, the fishermen would meet their boats at the wharf, and the bakers would make the day’s first bread, but for now Istar slept.

  Kurnos did not.

  He stood alone-Brother Purvis and the other servants had long since retired-on the high balcony overlooking the temple grounds. He leaned against the rail, his brow clouded, and looked down at the rose garden below. The flowers there still refused to bloom, and worse, since the hippogriff s death the grass had begun to die as well. He’d never caught anyone at it, but he knew people were whispering about the strange blight. Some called it a sign-but then, someone in the Temple always called such things signs. An apple couldn’t fall in the orchard without some old priest claiming it was a portent of the god’s displeasure.

  Kurnos chuckled without feeling any pleasure. Every night, when he tried to sleep, his dreams tormented him. Symeon haunted them, his eyes accusing, his childlike face drawn into a snarl of pure hate. Always it was the same. The dead Kingpriest reaching out, fingers clutching like talons, and when Kurnos raised his own hands to ward him off, he saw his hands glistening with blood.

  Mine, Symeon’s voice rang in his ears, echoing in the darkness even after he woke, bathed in icy sweat Mine. You killed me…

  Kurnos shivered, shutting his eyes, and brought his fists down hard on the balustrade. It had to be done, he told himself, repeating the words like a mantra. It was for the good of the realm. I did what I had to do.

  “Of course you did.”

  The cold voice didn’t surprise him this time, nor did the chill in the air. That was the other reason he was still awake. He was waiting. Opening his eyes, he turned now to see the black-robed figure, standing by the archway that led back into the manse. As always, the man’s hood obscured his face, but he could envision Fistandantilus’s mocking look. He forced himself to smile.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Dark One.”

  “I gathered as much.” Wry amusement shaded Fistandantilus’s voice. “Do you know, this is the first time I have ever received an imperial summons. It was… flattering.”

  Kurnos scowled, ignoring the sorcerer’s derision. He had sent a messenger to the Tower of High Sorcery earlier that evening, bearing a sealed, nameless scroll, with instructions to leave his missive in a certain empty anteroom.

  Fistandantilus stepped forward, toward Symeon’s enchanted khas table. The game-pieces upon it stirred, looking up as he regarded them with unseen eyes. Kurnos didn’t think the khas pieces could be afraid, but still, he couldn’t shake the impression that they trembled.

  “Fine workmanship,” the sorcerer said, nodding. “Do you play, Holiness?”

  Kurnos swallowed. It had been some time since his last good game of khas. He could find no opponent whose skills matched his own. The closest thing he had to a worthy rival was First Son Strinam, but the man was dull, unimaginative. He simply couldn’t foresee the consequences of his moves, and defeating him proved too easy to hold interest. He’d trounced Strinam a dozen times in a row, playing in the evening’s glow-using the white pieces now, as was his right. First Daughter Balthera hardly knew the rules. Quarath professed not to care for the game. Lord Holger-a fair player, who had beaten him in the past- was in the field, marching on Govinna even now. And so on.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Fistandantilus declared, and sat at the table, before the dark pieces. “Let us play, then, while we talk.”

  The wizard made a gesture, and Kurnos felt a rushing, as if a gale had sprung up to blow expressly in his face. With a dizzying lurch, he was sitting at the table, before the white pieces. He shuddered, staring at the dark-robed form across from him. The mage had used sorcery on him! Fistandantilus met his shocked gaze, then shrugged, letting out a rasping laugh, and gestured at the table.

  “The forces of light are yours, Holiness. Make your first move.”

  Kurnos gaped down at the pieces arrayed before him. All he knew of strategy, all the books he had read, fled from his mind. He forced himself to take a deep breath. With a glance up at Fistandantilus, he leaned forward and whispered to footsoldier. The tiny soldier bowed and strode forward, his mail rattling. His spear trembled in his hands as he eyed the dark form looming before him.

  The dark mage snorted, his hand gesturing slightly, and one of his own pawns came to life and marched ahead to thwart Kurnos’s.

  The Kingpriest stared at the board. Fistandantilus’s man had moved where he wanted it to go without the slightest word having been spoken. He knew the mage had done it to intimidate him, and it did. He steepled his fingers, trying to think of a gambit.

  “You used the ring again,” the sorcerer said, nodding at the emerald glittering on his finger.

  Kurnos scowled, snatching his hands back. Rather than reply, he murmured to one of his champions, and the little Knight galloped diagonally across the board.

  “I did,” he admitted, wh
en the piece came to a halt. “I sent the demon to slay my enemies, as you suggested. She failed.”

  He wasn’t sure what response he expected Fistandantilus to make, but the wizard’s shrug disappointed him all the same. “Did she?” he asked, advancing a second Footsoldier. “How?”

  “That’s why I asked you here,” Kurnos replied. He spoke to one of his Wyrms, which then slithered through the ranks of his men, moving to threaten the wizard’s ranks. “I commanded her to go to Govinna, to kill Lady Ilista and this Brother Beldyn. Last Moonsday, when I woke, she was back inside the gem.”

  Fistandantilus brought forward his Guardian. “I should think that is a good sign,” he said.

  “So did I,” Kurnos snapped, glowering at the pieces. The dark mage’s moves didn’t seem to have any pattern or strategy, and that worried him. He was being toyed with. He advanced another Footsoldier to protect the Wyrm. “But I’ve heard rumors since that Beldyn is still alive, and… there’s something wrong with Sathira.”

  That caught the wizard’s attention. “Interesting,” he said after a long moment, raising his gaze from the board. He retreated his Guardian two spaces-again, with no aim Kurnos could see-then clenched his age-spotted hand into a fist. “Let me see.”

  Kurnos felt a sudden chill on his hand. He looked to the ring, then caught his breath. It was gone from his finger. Glancing across the table, he saw Fistandantilus’s fingers uncurl to reveal the emerald, glinting in his palm. The wizard raised the gem, peering into it, then waved his other hand over it, his fingertips weaving the air.

  “Apala ngartash” he murmured. “Urshai maivak toboruk!”

  There was a sound like cloth tearing, and green light flared from the gem, billowing over the table like mist. The fog flowed around them, then, slowly, shapes appeared, pale and hazy, like ghosts. They stood in a well-appointed study, the details of which were vague. Kurnos recognized some of the figures-Durinen was sitting at a desk, and Lady Dista was there as well-but the bearish warrior with them was unfamiliar, as was the fourth person. He knew, though, as soon as he saw the young man, with his white robes and long hair, that it was the Iightbringer.

  He caught his breath. “What is this?”

  “What Sathira saw, just before she attacked,” Fistandantilus replied. “Now, watch.”

  The wizard made a flicking gesture with his fingertips, and the spectacle began. Kurnos watched, rapt, as the shadows took on the demon’s familiar form, seizing Durinen and killing him, then two fighters running into the room, then the bearish warrior as well. In moments, all four were dead, and the demon was stalking the two priests.

  He saw Ilista reach for her medallion, saw the resolve in her face, saw the demon lunge, its claws ripping into her, as she shielded herself with the medallion and gave a shout. A light flashed and the vision ended, the green glow vanishing like fog burned away by the sun. The ring went dark.

  Kurnos sat back in his chair, speechless. So Ilista was dead. He would never forget the horrible sight, and he knew that, tomorrow night, Symeon would have company in his nightmares. Beldyn, who mattered most, was still alive. The King-priest wrung his hands, as Fistandantilus clenched his fingers about the emerald once more. With another twinge, the ring reappeared on his finger. Its grip felt even tighter than before.

  “There is your answer,” the wizard said. “The First Daughter hurt Sarhira badly. She cannot leave the ring again until she recovers. A week, perhaps more. You may call upon her again then. I advise you do so, and do not hesitate this time.” Pushing back, Fistandantilus rose from the table and began to turn away.

  Ridiculously, after all the mage had told him, Kurnos’s first thought was about their unfinished game. The archmage paused, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Oh… yes,” the sorcerer said. “It is my turn.”

  With that, he raised his finger, making a sharp gesture. As one, his pieces surged forward, swarming across the table and laying into the Kingpriest’s men with sword and fang. Screams rang out across the balcony as the game pieces perished, cut to shreds by the sudden onslaught. In seconds, and against all the game’s rules, his men had all perished.

  “Rigo iebid,” Fistandantilus said as Kurnos gaped at the carnage.

  The realm is fallen.

  He was gone, melting into the shadows, leaving the sound of mocking laughter in his wake.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It snowed the eve of Lady Ilista’s funeral. It was the first of the season, blowing in on bitter winds off the Khalkists to the west. A light dusting that sparkled the air around the street lamps and filled the cracks between the cobblestones, it was the sort of snow that would be gone by midday, only a herald of the coming winter.

  The snow kept folk inside, save for the watchmen on the city’s high walls, who shivered as they huddled around smoldering braziers, and so the weather helped prevent the riots that might have transpired in the wake of the slaughter in the Patriarch’s tower. There was worse on the way, fiercer storms that would howl down from the mountains and bury Taol’s roads, as had happened last year. Some of the bandits’ leaders looked on the coming snow as a boon. If the passes were clogged, after all, it would thwart the Kingpriest’s troops. Tavarre, however-who had taken command of the city’s defenders after Ossirian’s death-scoffed at the notion, his scarred face sour.

  “We didn’t have enough food for last winter,” he noted. “Another season like that, and half of Govinna will starve. When the spring comes, the Scatas will attack anyway, and by then we’ll surely be too weak to hold against them.”

  He didn’t mention what else troubled him. If the outriders’ reports were correct, and two full Dromas were marching through Taol, it didn’t matter when they came. Even with those who had pledged their swords to the Lightbringer since his arrival, the city’s defenders were too few to stand against such a force. Govinna’s gates might be impregnable, but that would make little difference when such a mighty foe started scaling her walls.

  True to form, the snow turned to drizzle when dawn came, and fog settled in, filling the streets with gray murk. The city became a ghostly place, full of muffled sounds and eerie glows where lanterns burned. The mourning cloths outside the houses and shops hung limp, soaked through, and when the mourners made their way to the Pantheon, thousands strong, they seemed like phantoms in the gray. Unlike the wailing, pottery-smashing masses in the lowlands, the folk of the highlands were somber in the face of death, chanting in low voices, their hands ritually smeared with soot. Those who could afford to wore blue, but dyes were expensive in the highlands, so most came dressed in drab grays and browns, their faces daubed in crushed woad instead. The fog made them seem an army of drowned corpses, gathering in the courtyard in the foredawn cold.

  The worship hall was dim, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow without the daylight to illuminate it. What was strange, though, was the number of candles the clerics had set out. There were thousands of them, on shrines and in wall sconces, on silver candelabra standing throughout the room, and covering the dais where the god’s altar stood. Of all the tapers, however, only one in ten were lit. The rest stood whole and dark, no flames dancing upon their wicks. Folk remarked at the strangeness of it, whispering and wondering. Somehow, it seemed wrong.

  The bodies lay at the head of the hall, atop three wooden catafalques smothered in smoke from nearby censers. Clad in the chain hauberk he’d worn when he’d stormed the Pantheon months ago was the hulking body of Lord Ossirian, his hands clutching his broadsword upon his breast. On another side, Durinen lay shrouded with a blue cloth to hide the ghastly wound that had killed him, but it was the figure in the middle, clad in full vestments, the sacred triangle painted upon her forehead, that drew the most looks. The former First Daughter had been in Govinna for the briefest time before her death, but the townsfolk grieved for her more than for the two men who flanked her. She had forsaken the church, the empire, and the Kingpriest to help the borderfolk and to bring them the Lightbringer�
�s healing touch. She had given her life for him, it was said. Ilista had become a martyr, and they wept as they signed the triangle for her.

  By the time the Pantheon’s bells tolled the dawn watch, the worship hall was filled with people, pressed shoulder to shoulder on the pews and packing the aisles and apses as well. Still they came, spilling out into the vestibule and down the steps to the courtyard outside. Tavarre and the bandit chiefs stood near the front, their faces hidden by deep hoods, and the folk of Luciel held a place of honor nearest Ilista’s bier. Wentha stood among them, and Fendrilla, and aU the rest who had fled north to Govinna, brigand and villager alike. Only Cathan was absent, and a few folk glanced at one another, wondering where the young stalwart was-until a door opened at the room’s far end and he entered, armored and hooded, his sword hanging by his side. He rested his hand on its pommel, looking over the crowd, searching for signs of danger. Finally he nodded, though his eyes remained narrow as he turned to speak a word to those in the anteroom behind him.

  A gong sounded, and a hush fell over the crowd as the procession entered. It began with two young acolytes, dressed in gray and bearing lit torches. After them came an elderly cleric, one of the Little Emperor’s men, swinging a golden thurible that trailed blue smoke in zigzagging arcs as he walked, into the room. Following him were four priestesses, singing a dirge, their voices echoing across the vast chamber. Then two more acolytes, and then the Lightbringer, and the mourneTs gasped as one.

  The funerary rites in the Istaran church were clear and had been for centuries. They were specific about many details, among them the garb of the priest conducting the ceremony. He was to wear vestments of blue, unadorned and unhooded, and all the jewelry of his position. Beldyn, however, wore no rings or bracelets, no circlet on his brow. Only his holy medallion, glinting in the candlelight, hung openly around his neck. His robes were white, heretical at such a solemn occasion. It was neither of these facts, however, that made the folk of Govinna stare and murmur in shock.