The Kingpriest had, in the end, elected to follow her and Loralon’s advice—Lord Holger would alert the army but give no orders to march. One day soon, however, Kurnos would reign, and war might be swift. Ilista wished—again, not for the first time—that His Holiness had chosen one more temperate to succeed him. She thought of Loralon, whose wisdom ran deeper than any she knew. What a Kingpriest he would make!
Then she chuckled, her eyes fluttering drowsily shut. An elf on the golden throne! Istar would sink beneath the sea before such a thing happened. No, the decision was made— when the time came, Kurnos would rule, and she would serve him. There was no other choice.
* * * * *
Cold wind caressed Ilista’s cheek, rousing her from slumber. She brushed at her face, annoyed. She’d told herself to close the window. Throwing off her blankets, she got up and glanced across the room. Sure enough, the curtains were wafting in the breeze, aglow with Solinari’s shimmering light.
Suddenly she stiffened, a deeper chill grasping her. Solinari? The silver moon had been just a fingernail crescent and setting when she went to bed. Now it hung fat and orange over the Lordcity’s rooftops. She had closed the window— now that she reflected, she was sure of it. Touching her medallion, she reached out for the night table, and the taper she’d left there. Her fingers found nothing, however. The candle was gone.
Her heart beat wildly as she looked about. Perhaps she’d knocked it off the table in her sleep—but no, it wasn’t on the floor either. Which meant either she’d gotten up and didn’t remember, or—
Or someone else had been in the room.
Palado, me scelfud on ludrasfe catmas, she prayed silently as she rose from her bed, the marble floor cold against her bare feet. Paladine, deliver me from lurkers in the dark.
“H-hello?” she stammered, glancing about the shadow-cloaked room. “Is anyone there?”
She could call for help. A guard might hear her—or might not. She needed to do something besides stand and shiver. Quietly, she crept to the window and glanced out but saw nothing strange—except the moon, shining full where it had no right to be. Her whole body tense, she pulled the casement shut, then latched it carefully. Maybe I didn’t do that before, she thought. Maybe I forgot, and the window blew open while—
“Hello yourself.”
She whirled, crying out. The monk sitting on the corner of her bed jumped up, letting out a yelp of his own.
Ilista shrank back, goggling at him. He was short, barely taller than a dwarf, and spectacularly huge—three hundred pounds, at least, his white habit spread like a tent on his massive frame. What hair there was on his tonsured head was silver. His eyes were small and brown in his pink, jowly face. He looked as incapable of stealth as a man could be—yet where had he come from?
“Huma’s hammer!” he exclaimed, putting a sausage-fingered hand to his brow. “You scared the Abyss out of me. You’re lucky I didn’t keel over from fright, Efisa—you’d need at least ten strong men to carry me out of here.” He chortled, slapping his belly.
The First Daughter stared, confused. “Who are you?”
“Oh, no one important,” he answered, still smiling. “Just a messenger. Call me Brother Jendle—it’s as good a name as any.”
She could only stand there, blinking at him. He seemed no threat—how could he, when the effort of merely standing seemed enough to bead his face with sweat?—but still…
“You are the First Daughter of Paladine, aren’t you?” the fat monk asked, squinting at her. “Or did I get the wrong room?”
“I—no, you didn’t—” Ilista said, then stopped. “What?”
“Oh, dear.” Jendle clucked his tongue, waddling over to pat her hand. “Mind’s addled, is it? Poor lass. Well, I’ll give you the message anyway. Have to, you see. Hold still.”
Ilista tried to draw back, but she reacted slowly, and he was adder-quick, his hand darting forward to clasp her wrist like a manacle. She drew a sharp breath, and suddenly the room unraveled around her. Everything—the bed, the open window, even Brother Jendle—frayed and swirled, then vanished, becoming another place.
She stood on a clifftop among the hills, a cold wind gusting in her face. She heard the song of bluefinches, smelled the scent of fresh rain. In the distance loomed the walls of a city, all but lost in a pall of fog. Beyond its walls, many miles off, towering mountains limned the horizon. Grass grew in tufts from the hill’s rocky soil, and plane trees towered above. In the far distance stood a cottage—a herdsman’s or charcoal burner’s, probably, its chimney smoking. The clifftop was a peaceful place, a spot where one might lie in the summertime, guessing the shapes of scudding clouds.
All at once, the peace shattered. The birdsong ceased, and a distant rumbling rose from down in the valley. She looked, following the noise, and caught her breath. Dust rose among the hills, a great brown cloud that smudged the sky. It grew as she watched, and soon there were thousands of soldiers marching in unison, armor and weapons flashing in the sun. They moved swiftly toward her, devouring the ground with long, relentless strides. She peered at the army, wondering whose it was, yet already knowing in a way, long before she saw the blue cloaks, the bronze helmets, the falcon-and-triangle banners fluttering over the soldiers’ heads. It was the imperial army, marching at last, at the behest of Kurnos.
Kingpriest Kurnos.
“Stop!” she cried, rushing to the cliffs edge.
The slope was too sheer, though, the gravel that covered it too loose to descend. She could only watch as the army came on, inexorably, coming closer … filling the valley …
Something happened, then, in the corner of her eye. She couldn’t see what it was at first, but when she looked harder, there was something coming out of the west, where the misty city stood. Craning to see, she fought to see what it was … then, all at once, she saw a figure of shining light, like silver in full sunshine. She could not make out anything of the man at the glow’s heart, for every time she tried to look through the shining glare, it stung her eyes and she had to turn away. The sight was beautiful and terrible, and she began to weep without knowing why.
The soldiers in the valley saw the shining figure too. They slowed at its approach … stopped … then broke and ran, casting swords and banners aside. In what seemed only a few moments, they had fled the valley altogether, until only the figure remained, gleaming brighter than the sun.
After the army was gone the shining figure seemed to nod to itself for a moment, glanced around as if searching for something, then turned toward the clifftop where Ilista stood and looked directly at her. She caught her breath, staring back as it raised its lambent hands toward her.
“Efisa,” it spoke, and the world vanished in a burst of blinding white.
When she could see again, Ilista stood in her bedchamber once more, exactly where she had been when Brother Jendle touched her. Of the fat monk, though, there was no sign.
She heard a sound—a dry scraping, like metal being dragged over stone, coming from behind her. She whirled—and saw, for just an eyeblink, the slender tip of a tail slithering out her open window. It was serpentine and pointed, covered with scales that shimmered like silver in the starlight. Like silver… or platinum.
Her mouth dropping open, Ilista sprinted toward the casement. As she ran, though, she caught her foot on the edge of an intricate Dravinish rug, and suddenly she was pitching forward, arms flinging outward, falling …
* * * * *
Ilista woke in bed, her stomach a chasm.
It took a moment for the world to stop spinning. When it did, though, she looked to the table nearby. The taper was still there, as she’d left it, bathed in red moonlight, not silver. She sighed. It had been a dream, nothing more, doubtless brought on by her own worries over Kurnos’s eagerness to attack Taol. There had been no fat monk, no army, no figure of light. And certainly, no platinum tail, sliding out… sliding out… .
Out her window.
She sat up suddenly, knowing wha
t the chill in the room meant even before she turned to look out toward the gardens. The window stood open, curtains fluttering in the breeze.
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 his 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.”
Ilista’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. Ilista 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 of Psandros th
e Younger.”
Gently he turned its brittle, yellowing pages. There were scores of verses within, all carefully inscribed and illustrated. He went too quickly for Ilista 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.
Ilista 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?”
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