Chosen of the Gods

That much was true. A century and a half ago, the dying Kingpriest Hysolar had chosen Sularis, then the High Clerist of the Solamnic Knights, to succeed him. It had been a controversial choice, though, and only Sularis’s reputation for impeccable honor had won over a skeptical church and laity. Whoever Ilista’s man of light was, he wasn’t likely to have such a fine pedigree. Kurnos’s scowl spoke more than words.

All at once, Kurnos vanished from Symeon’s sight-as did the khas board, the balcony, and everything else, swallowed by an angry red flash as the throb in Symeon’s head became an inferno. He heard himself grunt in agony and tasted bile as sweets and brandy tried to force themselves back up his throat-but the strange thing was the smell. For some reason, the aroma that filled his nose was that of baking bread.

“Majesty?” Kurnos asked, sounding very far away. “Sire, are you all right?”

Symeon wasn’t all right. The pain didn’t subside as before. Instead it grew stronger, stronger, until it felt as if a second sun had kindled amidst his brain. His right hand went suddenly slack, dropping into his lap. The Guardian tumbled from his limp grasp, and he felt it spring to life as it fell, imagined its wings spreading to fly back to its place on the board. The dragon he saw, however, wasn’t made of white crystal-it was platinum, shining in the sun.

So beautiful, he thought.

The sun in his head burst, and he knew nothing more.

Kurnos leaped to his feet, his eyes wide, as the Kingpriest slumped sideways in his chair, then fell to the floor. The sapphire tiara tumbled from Symeon’s brow as he lay on his side, twitching. The twitches slowed, and he was still.

It happened so quickly that Kurnos could do nothing at first but stupidly stare. Then, shaking himself, he ran to the Kingpriest’s side and grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to pull him upright. Symeon sagged in his grasp, his face the color of cold ashes. Desperately, Kurnos fumbled at his throat, seeking the a lifebeat. He found it, weak, faltering.

Nausea gripped the First Son. He glanced around, looking for help, but there was no one. Even the servant who had poured their brandy was gone. Fear ran through him, then, and his eyes darted toward Symeon’s snifter- poison! his mind cried-but a moment later he dismissed the notion. He’d been drinking the same moragnac, eating the same sweetmeats. No, something else had struck the Kingpriest down-a fit of some sort, swift and deadly.

No, not deadly-not yet. If a healer came soon, Symeon might survive. Kurnos turned toward the manse, opening his mouth to cry out-

Let him die.

Kurnos caught his breath. The voice sounded horribly close, as if someone had whispered in his ear, and there was something about it, a coldness and cruelty that made it sound familiar. He furrowed his brow, wondering, then his insides turned to water as memory came back to him. He was back in the garden, snow on the ground, looking at a dark hooded figure under an ebony tree. He glanced around, seized with panic, but there was no one to be seen. There were many shadows on the balcony, though, and more still in the gardens below. The dark hooded man was near.

Let him die, the voice said again. You will be Kingpriest.

He held his breath, suddenly afraid of the noise that might come out of his mouth if he tried to speak. The voice was right-if he stayed silent, Symeon would be beyond help in moments. No one would know-no one would even question. The throne would be his. All he had to do was wait. He stared at the sapphire tiara, glittering where it had fallen…

“No,” he gasped. A shiver wracked his body. Then, easing the Kingpriest back down, he ran back into the manse, shouting for the servants.

Three hours later, Kurnos stood outside the Kingpriest’s bedchamber, his mind roiling. Symeon was within, in his bed, with Stefara of Mishakal at his side. Brother Purvis had sent acolytes to fetch the high healer as soon as he heard of the attack, and she had taken the Kingpriest into her care at once. Before she began her ministrations, though, she had insisted he and Purvis leave the room. Now Kurnos paced back and forth across a small, comfortable salon, his eyes moving again and again to the bedchamber’s golden doors.

A door opened, but not the golden one. At the other end of the chamber Brother Purvis appeared-the man looked wretched, his face contorted with grief-and waved in Loralon. The elf signed the triangle as he strode forward, the door clicking shut behind.

“The hierarchs have been informed,” the elf said. “No one else knows.”

Kurnos nodded. Symeon’s illness would remain secret for now, until the court prepared a proper proclamation. Nearly two hundred years ago, half the Lordcity had burned when Theorollyn I fell to an assassin’s dagger, and since then the imperial court had taken great care when misfortune befell a Kingpriest. Triogo ullam abat, the saying went.

The mob rules all.

The candles burned lower. Finally, after what seemed half the night, the golden doors opened and Stefara emerged, beckoning them in. She was exhausted, her plump face pale and shining with sweat as they followed her toward the golden bed. No one spoke as they looked down on the figure lying among the sheets and cushions.

Symeon looked like a corpse. He was wan and haggard, and the right side of his face drooped in an unpleasant grimace, paralyzed by the attack. His chest rose and fell, weakly.

“There’s nothing more we can do for now,” Stefara said. She touched her medallion, the blue twin teardrops of the Healing Hand. “It is only by the grace of the gods that he still lives. He’ll regain consciousness in time, but he won’t live long. Autumn, perhaps, but no more.”

She left them alone with the Kingpriest. The sound of the door shutting behind her echoed in the stillness. Kurnos swallowed, glancing at Loralon. He could see his thoughts reflected in the elf s sad eyes. Symeon’s vision was true, after all. The god had called him to uncrown.

“You must rule now, Your Grace,” Loralon said. “As heir, it falls to you to assume the regency.”

Kurnos bit his lip, staring at the unmoving form in the bed. He considered telling the elf-about the strange voice, the dark figure, how close he had come to letting Symeon die-but set the impulse aside. Better that no one knew. Instead, he reached down, to brush the Kingpriest’s left hand. On the third finger was a ring of red gold, set with a large, sparkling emerald. Swallowing, he pulled the ring off.

Loralon said nothing, only waited patiently, his hands folded before him.

For a long moment Kurnos hesitated, staring into the emerald’s guttering depths. Finally, he sighed and slid the ring onto his finger. It felt strange-too heavy, too tight, still retaining the warmth of Symeon’s body. His eyes shifted to the King-priest, lying weak and vulnerable in his bed… and then he heard it again, the voice, chuckling coldly in his head.

Very well, the dark man said. That will do… for now.

Chapter Six

The sun sank behind the Kharolis mountains, setting the clouds ablaze and flooding the valleys with shadow. On any ordinary evening, the town of Xak Khalan, a scattering of slate-roofed houses nestled in one of those valleys, would have been thriving: children playing beside the riverbank while their mothers stirred pots over outdoor cooking fires; rough, bearded woodcutters sharpening their axes for the next day’s work; old graybeards sitting on logs and swapping tall tales about how, when they were young, they’d spied a band of centaurs or kissed a dryad in the wild woods to the west. Later, folk might have gathered about a fire to dance or gone to a nearby hollow to listen to a wandering poet, while the moons’ red-silver light streamed down through the boughs of aspen and oak. It was a small town, and poor-particularly compared with the pillared, greenstone halls of the city of Xak Tsaroth two days to the south-but the people were happy with their simple lives.

Tonight, however, was no ordinary night.