Chosen of the Gods

flare brightly, its glow shifting from red-gold to Beldyn’s brilliant white. Then the light burst forth, engulfing monk and demon alike. Sathira let out a final tormented howl that choked off into silence, and she was gone, destroyed by the crown’s holy power, sobbing back to the deepest pits of the Abyss in burning agony.

The light did not disappear with her death, however. It burned brighter still, a lance of silver that shot up into the heavens, so high goatherds looked upon it twenty leagues away and wondered what it was. It stayed that way a long time, drawing awestruck stares from soldier and bandit alike as flares of holy power pulsed along its length. Finally, with a watery pealing sound, it burst open, spilling light across the city.

Cathan flinched as the glow swept over him, expecting it to burn the flesh from his bones, but this radiance was cool, smelling of rain and rose petals. As it bathed him, he felt it ease his mind, driving out despair, fear, rage. His pain- strong where Sathira’s claws had torn into him-faded away. Joy welled up within him, deeper than any he’d felt in his life, even at Wentha’s healing. He wanted to laugh, sing, fling up his arms and shout with bliss.

The holy power passed, spreading outward through the Pantheon and into Govinna beyond. It overtook the Kingpriest’s forces, stopping them in their tracks, stunned. It flowed from street to street, courtyard to marketplace, through windows and around statues. It leaped across the gap that split the city’s east half from its west and scoured the green roofs of Govinna’s temples, leaving shining copper in its wake. On the curtain wall and beyond, men gaped as it rushed toward them, then flung up their arms when it struck, passing by in a rush, washing over both armies like an eldritch wind.

It healed as it went, leaving the wounded stirring in its wake, exclaiming in wonder. Men who had lain dying on the ground moments before, their life-blood seeping from ghastly wounds, drew breaths suddenly devoid of pain and rose, their fevered minds calm once more. Flesh mended, bones set straight and true, severed hands and arms appeared anew where bloody stumps had dangled moments before. Even those who had been on death’s hard edge smiled as they rose to their feet, their injuries gone as if they had never existed. When it was over, only the dead remained, scattered on the stony ground, but even they seemed different. Their faces had smoothed, even those who had perished in agony, now at peace with the god.

The chanting began on the walls, among the borderfolk who had fought in Beldyn’s name, but it spread quickly, clamoring across the city and echoing from the hills. Both sides lent their voices now, joining in a chorus of joy. Never before, in all of Istar’s history, had such a cry arisen, weapons and fists punching the sky as both sides bellowed together: “Cilenfo’ Pilofiro! Babo Sod!”

The Healer! The Lighibringer! The True Kingpriest!

The next day, as the turquoise sky dimmed in the east, the plaza outside the Pantheon filled once more. This time, however, it wasn’t only the folk of Govinna who crowded there. Alongside them, blue cloaks flapping in the evening breeze, stood the Scatas of the imperial army. Men who had sought to kill one another only scant hours before now jostled for a better view, looking toward the temple’s broad steps.

Lord Holger stood at the rear of the crowd, Loren at his side. He glanced back at his officers, arrayed behind him, and his moustache twitched with sorrow. There were breaks in their ranks, for not everyone had lived to see the holy light. Sir Utgar and other friends of Holger’s were dead. It would be hard explaining things to the dead men’s families. Holger wasn’t even sure he understood it himself yet.

Coughing into his gauntleted hand, he stood erect and started across the plaza, the other Knights marching behind. The crowd parted before him, Scatas saluting and bordermen staring as he and the others strode toward the Pantheon. Holger had expected, when he’d ordered the attack yesterday, that he would soon make this very march. At that time, he’d thought it would be to accept the rebels’ surrender. Now, however, he went for a wholly different reason. He went to make peace.

As the Knights approached the church, a second party emerged from the portico. At its head stood Tavarre of Luciel, his scarred face grave, his mail shirt tattered from the fighting. With him were the other bandit chiefs, men Holger had sworn to hunt down and destroy. Instead, the old Knight stopped on the temple’s steps, bowing deeply to his former enemy. His officers followed suit, then the bordermen repeated the gesture.

Gravely, Tavarre stepped forward, drawing his dagger from his belt. Holger held his breath, his old campaigner’s instincts sending his hand to his sword, but he held back.

This was a highland ritual, one the Taoli had performed since their barbarian days. Tavarre tugged off his left glove, set the blade to the palm so bared, and drew it swiftly across his flesh. The baron’s face twitched as blood welled out, bright red, dripping upon the steps. He sheathed the dirk again, extending his injured hand toward Holger.

“Bos cor purdamo,” he spoke in the church tongue.

Old woes forgotten.

Holger paused, and all over the plaza breaths stilled as his hand shifted to his own dagger and drew it out. His gauntlet clattered to the ground as he cut himself in turn.

“E parpamo” said the old Knight, uncustomarily smiling.

And forgiven.

They clasped hands then, their blood mingling, then leaned forward to kiss each other formally on the cheek. So the imperial army and the bandits of the Taol made their peace, and a great cheer arose from the crowd, voices rising in jubilation.

The cry only lasted a moment, however. Stillness descended again as a pair of figures appeared in the temple’s doorway.

The first was a young warrior, clad in a snow-white tabard. His eyes swept over the mob, looking for signs of trouble. He then stepped aside, letting the second man come forward.

Tears stung Holger’s eyes as he beheld Beldinas Light-bringer up close for the first time. Though he was weary and pale, the young man made a surprisingly regal figure, mantled in shining light and embroidered robes. His hair tumbled in rich waves over his shoulders, and his eyes burned with zeal. On his brow, gold and rubies and all, was the Crown of Power, die Miceram worn by the Kingpriests of old.

Site ceram biriat, abat, Holger thought, staring at the crown and the onetime monk who wore it.

Slowly, the old Knight doffed his helm and fell to his knees. Behind him, his officers did the same. They all drew their swords, kissed their quillons, and laid them upon the steps. They bowed their heads as Beldinas strode up to them, signing the triangle. When Holger looked up again, brushing white hair from his eyes, his cheeks were damp and glistening.

“Holiness,” he said, “I cry your pardon. I have defied you, in my blindness.”

Beldinas shook his head. “The fault is not yours, Lord Knight. You have been tricked by the servant of darkness who sits the throne. I ask you to help me set this aright. Will you follow me?”

Holger drew a long, slow breath. In the silence a hawk skirled, riding the winds above the city. Exhaling, he leaned forward, touching his forehead to the floor. “We shall, my lord,” he said.

A murmur ran through the crowd, then fell silent as Beldinas raised his hands in blessing.

“Let it be so, then,” he said. “We shall remain in this place three days longer to tend our dead. When that is done, let us go forth to the Lordcity, and none of us rest until we have thrown Kurnos the Usurper down from his ill-gotten throne!”

The people’s shouts ran long and loud across Govinna.

Of late, the messengers within the Great Temple had come to view the imperial manse with dread. Indeed, most within the church grew nervous when they looked upon the Kingpriest’s palace, but it was the messengers who feared it most, for they had to go inside there.

They had been going back and forth for days now, bearing missives from the imperial courtiers. None knew the contents of the scrolls, but there was no question the news was bad. Any good messenger gained a sense, when he delivered a message, of whether the tidings he bore were good or ill, and it would have taken a blind gully dwarf not to guess rightly in Kurnos’s case. Each time, his mood grew fouler, until the Temple’s messengers took to quarrelling over who would deliver the next one-or rather, who would not.

Handril, a skinny, straw-haired acolyte who’d lost the latest argument, swallowed as he approached the manse’s great platinum doors. The Knights who stood watch outside kept still as he raised his hand and rapped. After a time, the doors cracked open, and Brother Purvis emerged. The old chamberlain looked older and frailer than Handril had ever seen him, his back stooped and weary, his brow an anxious wrinkle. He said nothing as he turned