Chosen of the Gods

by Chris Pierson

  When she looked again, her joy faltered. Gesseic had changed—shrunk, she thought at first, then she realized she was looking on him not as he was now, but as the child he once had been. She had peeled the layers all the way back to his boyhood memories—seven summers old, or about, though the eyes were still an adult’s.

  She was so intent on studying his face that it took her a moment to see the wasp. Ilista gasped—it was huge, the size of a hummingbird, its carapace the color of polished jet. She could see its stinger as it crawled along his arm, poised a hair’s breadth from the skin of Gesseic’s wrist.

  She hissed, pointing. Gesseic looked, raising his arm. The wasp buried the stinger in his flesh.

  The pain in his voice as he cried out made her wince, and her own arm flared in sympathy as he smashed the wasp. Then, his arm already swelling from its venom, he lifted its mashed form by a wing and stared at it, his face creased with agony. Though half-crushed, it wasn’t dead, and the horrid thing writhed in his grasp.

  His eyes darkened with anger, and Ilista felt hope slip away. “No!” she cried, already knowing what was going to happen. “Don’t!”

  Gesseic didn’t listen. Reaching up, he grabbed another twitching wing and ripped it off. His lips curled into a vengeful grin …

  With a sudden rush, the mountaintop vanished, and she was back in the temple, staring at the young priest as a shudder ran through him. A groan burst from his lips as he remembered killing the wasp. It was the smallest of flaws, a flash of childhood meanness, but he knew, as well as Ilista did, what it meant. He had taken joy in tormenting another creature. He was impure.

  With a sorrowing sigh she pulled back, lifting her medallion away. It left a red mark on his skin as he bowed his head and sobbed. A murmur of dismay ran through the congregation. Ilista bowed her head. She’d been so sure, for a moment.

  “Ubastud, usas farno,” she bade.

  Rise, child of the god.

  He did, tears in his eyes, and trembled as she bent to kiss him on both cheeks. She felt hollow inside, lost. Another failure, another hope come to nothing. Despair clutched at her, but she fought it back. The Rite wasn’t yet done; she had to finish it.

  “Porud, Fro, e ni sonud mos,” she declared, signing the triangle over him. “Sifat.”

  Go forth, Brother, and do no wrong. So be it.

  “Forgive me,” he said. Wet tracks ran down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  She wanted to tell him there was nothing to be sorry for, that he was a good man and a fine priest, even though he wasn’t the one she sought. She wanted to lay a reassuring hand on his arm or even to embrace him, hold him while he cried. It was against the ritual, though, and she could only stand still, watching with all the austerity she could muster, as he turned and walked, sobbing, back toward the alcove. The last thing she saw, before her own tears blinded her, was the desolation in his face as he drew the curtain shut.

  * * * * *

  She was still seeing his face at midnight, as she stood alone in the temple, putting away the instruments of the ritual. Gesseic wasn’t the only one who felt betrayed—behind him stood a dozen other priests, the ones she had tested in Solamnia, and behind them were Revered Son Falinor and the folk of Xak Khalan. All of them stared at her in her mind, hurt and angry.

  She had let them all taste, however briefly, the hope of true holiness, something beyond the mere piety of priesthood—and she had let them all down, proving they were merely human.

  Who are you to judge? they asked her silently as she laid the glass chime in a padded, lacquered box. Are you so untainted yourself, to think you know purity?

  Yet, she did know. She remembered the elation that had run through her when she’d dreamed of the Lightbringer. Brother Gesseic had come closer than the others, but even he had fallen short, hadn’t given her the same feeling.

  She looked up at the god on the mosaic. It was dark outside now, and the blue-green glow had yielded to the gold of candlelight. “Why did you choose me?” she asked. “I can’t do this any more. I don’t have the strength… .”

  A cough broke the stillness, and she gasped, looking down. Even the clerics had left her alone—whether out of respect for her own sorrow, or resentment, she couldn’t say. The noise was loud amid the stillness. Her hand went to her medallion as she backed into the altar, staring at the figure framed in the doors. For a moment she thought it might be some villager, angry enough to seek revenge upon her, but when the figure stepped forward she saw the light glint on antique armor, and deepen the hard lines of Sir Gareth’s face. He had been waiting just outside, she knew, watching for trouble.

  “Efisa?” he asked. “Are you well? I heard voices—”

  She shook her head. “It was just me. Come in, Gareth.”

  He did, looking uncertain as he shut the door. He strode toward her, armor rattling, then stopped a respectful distance away and stood erect, hands clasped behind his back.

  “My men have secured provisions,” he said. “We stand ready to march at your word.”

  “Very good,” she replied. “We shall leave for Xak Tsaroth at dawn.” There was no point in lingering here when she was unwelcome. She sighed, tugging her sleeves. “Tell me, Gareth— do you think me a fool?”

  The Knight’s moustache twitched. “Efisa?”

  She waved her hand, taking in the whole hall. “You saw what happened here,” she said. “That boy could have been a great priest. The god is in him—but after today, I’m not sure I’d blame him if he quit the clergy.”

  “Ah,” Gareth replied, looking uncomfortable. She hadn’t spoken like this to him before.

  “You know what I’m searching for. Am I a fool for doing so?”

  “My lady, Draco Paladin himself bade you undertake this quest,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care. “The god doesn’t send his servants on fool’s errands.”

  Ilista shook her head. “You’re a man of great faith, Gareth.”

  The Knight shrugged.

  He remained as she finished packing her trappings, then they left the temple together, making their way down the path to Xak Khalan. They left the accouterments behind. Gareth’s men would come later to fetch them. He did his best to guide her around the town, keeping to its perimeter and out of sight, but even so she could feel the stares of those villagers who were still awake, the resentful looks that always seemed to follow her when she left a place. She repeated Gareth’s words, telling herself she was working Paladine’s will, but it didn’t make her feel much better.

  They had made camp on a hilltop overlooking the town, pitching tents amid the crumbling, vine-choked walls of what once—centuries ago, from the looks—had been a small keep. Two Knights met them as they climbed the path to the ruins and fell in alongside, carrying torches to light their way. Most of the others were still awake amid the cluster of tents and campfires, sharpening their swords and polishing their shields. They stood and bowed as Ilista passed.

  The feeling that something was wrong struck her as soon as she saw her tent, but she didn’t know why. She frowned as she regarded it: a pavilion of white and violet silk, the sacred triangle mounted on a pole before it, another hung above the …

  She stopped suddenly, catching her breath. “The flap. It’s open.”

  The Knights snapped to a halt, and Gareth stepped forward, sword half-drawn. She had pinned the flap closed that afternoon, before setting forth to perform the Apanfo. Now it hung loose, waving in the evening breeze.

  One of the younger Knights swore under his breath. The other coughed softly. Gareth glared at them both. They were the same pair he’d set on guard duty while the rest attended the ritual, newly dubbed boys who couldn’t be much more than twenty.

  “Jurabin, Laonis,” he growled. “If any harm has come to Her Grace’s belongings, I’ll have both your spurs. Get the others.”

  Their faces pale, the Knights turned and hurried away. In moments they were back with the rest of the Knights, bare swords in hand. Ha
lf fell in around Ilista, forming a ring about her. The rest gathered by Gareth, awaiting his orders. He dispatched them quickly, sending two to watch the tent’s other side, and putting two more to either side of the entrance. His face grim, he crept forward. His blade rasped free of its scabbard, and he used it to flip the flap wide, then stepped inside. Jurabin and Laonis followed, torches in hand.

  Ilista tensed, waiting for the sound of ringing steel. Instead, all was silent for a long moment, then the flap flew aside again and Gareth emerged. He still had his sword, but in his hand was something else.

  “There’s no one within, Efisa,” he said, Jurabin and Laonis still searching behind him, “but I found this.”

  He held it up, a roll of rough parchment, tied with plain hempen cord. It bore no seal. She stared at it, swallowing, then reached out and took it from his hand. Her fingers trembled as she untied the cord and unfurled it. It was two sheets, in fact, not one. The first, she saw, was a map of some sort. She gave it a quick, frowning glance, then turned to the second page, and her breath left her in a rush.

  You have traveled far, First Daughter, it read, but your journey nears its end. Go not to Xak Tsaroth but into the mountains. Follow the map.

  I have been awaiting you. I am the Lightbringer.

  Chapter Seven

  The orb caught the candlelight, gleaming as she opened the box’s golden lid. There was something else to it, though—a faint, blue-white shimmer that owed nothing to the tapers burning within the tent. Ilista held her breath, watching the ghost-light dance. like most Istarans, she found sorcery strange and a little frightening—even the magic of the elves, whose wizards wore the White Robes as a rule. Her apprehension had been enough, so far, to keep her from using the orb. Now, though, was different.

  She looked at the scroll, resting in her lap, and the simple words on it. The Knights had searched and searched but found no trace of whoever had left the message. She practically had to beg Sir Gareth not to stand guard within her tent, and she knew he was just outside, even now, in case of trouble. She’d read the scroll fifty times, its words chilling and exciting her all at once. Loralon had to know, as soon as possible, so she reached into the box and lifted out the flickering orb.

  It was lighter than it looked—perhaps hollow—and cold as snowmelt. The bluish light swelled as she cupped it in her hand, swallowing the candles’ dim glow and making her shadow huge upon the tent’s wall. She caught her breath, glancing toward the flap, but Sir Gareth didn’t burst through as she feared.

  The Knights didn’t see the witchlight, which was good. Istarans mistrusted magic, but the men of Solamnia loathed it. Ilista swallowed, gazing into the orb. Its shimmer caught her gaze and held it. She muttered a quick prayer, asking Paladine’s forgiveness for meddling in sorcerous ways, then drew a breath.

  “Loralon,” she whispered.

  For a time, nothing happened, and she began to wonder if she’d done it wrong, and the spell hadn’t worked. As she was looking up, though, the magic took hold, so quickly she nearly dropped the orb. The crystal warmed in her grasp, and the light began to spin and swirl, making a sound like a mad flautist’s song. She peered into its depths when she recovered, trying to make out shapes within the boiling glow—and slowly they emerged, resolving into a blurred image, like a fresco painted in bad plaster, then sharpening until it became Loralon’s bearded face. It was past midwatch now, morning closer than sunset, but the Emissary looked neither tired nor disheveled. Instead he smiled at her, a little sadly. Her skin rose into bumps at the sight of his disembodied visage, resting in her hand. She would have to say a long cleansing prayer, when this was done.

  “First Daughter,” Loralon said. “I have been hoping you would contact me. I have grave tidings.”

  He told her about Symeon’s illness, and though the Kingpriest had seldom been warm toward her, she found herself weeping all the same. The Kingpriest still could not speak, and his right arm and leg remained paralyzed. The people of the Lordcity, on hearing of his condition, had gathered in great numbers outside the Temple to pray for him, but no one in the church believed he would survive.

  As for Kurnos, he was proving more assertive. Already he talked of sending the army into Taol after all, but Loralon had stayed him thus far, still counseling caution. The bandits had not struck in the highlands in some time, and the chance that they had stopped altogether was enough to curb the First Son. Loralon seemed to think it a hopeful sign that Kurnos listened to reason, but Ilista was less sure. The First Son’s temper was short, and she feared the slightest flare-up would give him the excuse to wage war on the Taoli.

  In her mind, she saw an army advancing through craggy hills, and she shivered. Her dream on the night Paladine had appeared to her was coming true. She hoped she could complete her quest before the Scatas marched.

  “You did not use the orb because of His Holiness, though,” Loralon said, his eyes glittering. “What has happened? Have you found the one you seek at last?”

  Her free hand strayed to her medallion. “Not exactly. I think he may have found me.”

  She told him of the mysterious scroll, reading its message to him. His eyes widened.

  “Whispering limbs and leaves,” he said when she was done, surprising her. She had never heard him swear before. “The message truly says Lightbringer? Have you mentioned the prophecy to anyone else?”

  She shook her head. “Have you?”

  “Not even the Kingpriest.” He stroked his beard, the shock smoothing out of his face like ripples from a still pond. “What of the map?”

  She held it up, tracing along its lines with her finger. “These are the mountains near here,” she said. “Sir Gareth has traveled to Xak Tsaroth before, and he knows the roads. There is an old monastery this way—it belonged to monks of Majere once, he says, but it’s been abandoned for years.”

  “Not any more, evidently.” A smile ghosted Loralon’s lips. “Efisa, the choice is yours, but I think you should follow the map.”

  Ilista nodded. It would mean turning from her planned path, true, but what good had that path done her so far? Who was to say that it led to anything but more failure? Looking again at the scroll, she could barely keep her hopes from spilling over. I am the Lightbringer—how could it be anything else?

  She and Loralon spoke a while longer, of smaller matters, then bade each other farewell. Within the orb, the elf spoke a word, and his image flickered, then faded back into the maelstrom of the orb’s light. That dimmed as well, returning to the ghostly glimmer she’d first observed when she picked up the crystal. The orb turned cold again, and she signed the triangle over herself to ward off ill fortune as she put it away.

  She lay awake in her bed after, staring at the pavilion’s silken roof. It was some time before she slept.

  * * * * *

  The day dawned gray, the mountains shrouded by fog, and a light drizzle fell as Ilista and the Knights rode south, away from Xak Khalan. The peaks loomed on either side of the road, jagged and steep, more barren with every mile. Their snowy summits disappeared into the cloudrack. Ashes and firs clung to the rocks, and creeping brambles Sir Gareth called Hangman’s Snare. Here and there, stones littered the path from where they had broken free of the slopes above, and once they even heard the crack and rumble of a not very distant slide, echoing amongst the crags.

  Well after midday the road forked, a smaller path breaking off and running deeper into the wilds. An obelisk of white stone leaned among the bushes, overgrown with ivy. At its crown was a copper spider, now green with age—the holy symbol of Majere, the god of thought and wisdom. Ilista paused before the monolith to study the strange map, then bit her lip, looking from one fork to the other. In the end, though, she had little choice. They could rest the horses and themselves at the monastery and continue in the morning. So they turned from the main road to follow the spider. She prayed it wasn’t leading her to a web.

  The going from there soon grew harder, the path rougher and s
teeper, cracked and littered with scree. Bracken covered it over in places, so they had to dismount and lead their horses through. Cave mouths yawned in the slopes above, like the eyes of skulls. The Knights eyed these warily, their hands on their swords. Kharolis was a wild country, and Gareth knew many tales of terrible creatures that lurked in the mountains, preying on goats and lizards … and now and then unwary travelers. Goblins, in particular, were rife in some places. Ilista had never seen a goblin outside a bestiary, but she still shuddered as she imagined the squat, twisted creatures shrieking down upon them from the caverns above.

  Drizzle gave way to downpour. The horses grew skittish, tossing their heads and whinnying, and the Knights did too, several drawing their swords, Ilista hunched low in her saddle, her sodden robes weighing her down. The clouds sank lower still, hungrily devouring the mountains. They changed color, too, first darkening to near-black then shifting to a sickly green. The wind grew strange—utterly still one moment, then hammering the next—and the gold of lightning flashed in the distance. Thunder muttered in reply.

  Gareth’s blade wasn’t out, but his hand strayed to its hilt as he rode up alongside Ilista. Water streamed off his winged helmet as he lifted its visor, and he shouted for her to hear him above the wind.

  “The storm will be on us soon, Efisa! Have to find shelter before it breaks!”

  Ilista frowned, glancing up at the anvil-shaped clouds, towering above the mountains like a great wave. The way they boiled and flashed, they almost seemed alive. Her gaze dropped again, to the path ahead. She wanted to go on, yearned to reach the monastery. It was only a few more leagues—surely they could cover that ground before things grew too hard.