Chosen of the Gods

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 Dista 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 Dista 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. Half 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.