Chosen of the Gods

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 kicking 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