Chosen of the Gods

and led Handril in. They walked through the rich entry hall and on down sunlit passages. Finally, at the top of a long, curving stair, they came to a halt before the golden doors of the Kingpriest’s private audience hall.

Purvis gave the boy a sympathetic look. “He awaits within, lad. Give him the message, and do not linger.” Pushing the doors open, he gestured Handril through.

It was dark within, the curtains drawn, a few candles flickering. It took Handril’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, so the first thing he noticed was the stench. It was a stale smell and sour, the reek of dried sweat and grime. He wrinkled his nose, wondering how long it had been since Paladine’s Voice on Krynn had bathed. Biting his lip, he stepped inside.

“H-Holiness?” he asked.

Nothing.

There was no one on the throne or anywhere else he could see. Scalp prickling, Handril looked about, but there was no sign of the Kingpriest. Slowly, he crept toward the dais, an ivory scroll-tube in his hands. His sandals clapped against the marble floor as he went, then halted. There was something there-many somethings, in fact, scattered upon the dais and down its steps to the floor. Handril peered at them, then started forward again.

He was nearly to the dais when he saw what the things were, and a frown creased his face. Why had the Kingpriest strewn khas pieces about the floor? Stopping again when he reached them, he bent down and picked one up, his breath catching when the dim light touched it. Handril knew little of khas, but he knew enough to understand that the white champion in his hand should not be slumped against his horse’s neck, his back raked with tiny sword wounds. He rose again, shivering, turning to look around-

The hand that seized his throat was like a band of iron, squeezing off all but a thin trickle of air as it jerked him forward. Handril wanted to shout, but all he could manage was a squeak as Kurnos loomed out of the shadows.

The Kingpriest was a terrible sight, a pale, drawn apparition whose beard stuck out in red tangles. His robes were dirty and disheveled, and the sapphire tiara on his head sat askew amid tufts of silver-frosted hair. The worst, though, were his eyes. They were wide and red-rimmed, and a wild sheen lit them. They were filled with anger, fear, and madness.

“What do you want?” Kurnos hissed.

It took Handril several wheezing breaths to find his voice. “A-a dispatch, sire,” he gasped, raising the scroll- tube. “From the-First-Daughter.”

The Kingpriest’s eyes narrowed to twitching slits. His grip tightened, and black spots whirled before Handril’s eyes. With a growl, he snatched the tube from the messenger’s hand and shoved the boy back, letting him go.

“Out,” he snapped.

Clutching his bruised throat, Handril all but sprinted from the room.

Kurnos stood silently for a time, staring at the scroll-tube, then, scowling, he opened it and slid out the roll of vellum. Violet wax sealed the message, bearing the seal of the Revered Daughters of Paladine. He tore this away, then unfurled the message and read it.

A moment later he flung it away.

Word of the Battle of Govinna had reached the Great Temple six days ago. A courier, caked with road dust, had arrived from the borderlands, bearing word from Lord Holger. Kurnos’s heart had leaped as he unfurled that scroll-and died, just as suddenly, as he read the old Knight’s account of what had happened. The traitorous bastard had changed sides, gone over to the damned Lightbringer! Even now, the wretched pretender was marching toward Istar itself, with both the bandits and the imperial army at his back.

Kurnos had quit the basilica at once, hiding in the manse to keep the news from his court. It didn’t work. Holger had sent other missives to Istar, and soon the Temple’s halls echoed with whispers about the Crown of Power and silvery, healing light.

The writs of Nio Celbit-withdrawal of support from the reigning Kingpriest-had started arriving the next morning. Nubrinda of Habbakuk was first, declaring her intention to side with Beldinas when he arrived. It made sense, of course- how could she not, when he wore the Miceram and had thousands of Scatas at his command? Kurnos cursed her anyway, declaring her Foripon along with Holger and every soldier who marched with him.

He’d hoped the denunciation would give the other hier-archs pause. He was wrong. Soon after, Stefara of Mishakal had dispatched a writ of her own, then Peliador of Kiri-Jolith. Marwort, the court wizard, revoked the support of the Orders of High Sorcery, and Quarath of Silvanesti had done likewise for the Chosen of E’li-the first of Paladine’s clergy to forsake Kurnos’s reign. Even the high priests of Branchala and Majere, whom Kurnos had appointed after his coronation, denounced their patron. When he’d woken this morning, only the First Son and First Daughter had remained loyal… and now he’d lost Balthera. Kurnos felt his reign crumbling like rotten mortar.

Snarling a vile oath, he raised the scroll-tube high, then smashed it down on the floor at his feet. Splinters of ivory skittered across the floor.

A cold laugh rasped behind him. “Really, Holiness,” mocked Fistandantilus’s voice. “That’s hardly decorum befitting an emperor.”

Kurnos whirled, hands clenching into fists as he faced the Dark One, barely visible in the room’s smothering shadows.

“You!” he growled, stabbing a finger. “You foul, lying bastard!”

The sorcerer inclined his head.

“You said you’d help me,” Kurnos snapped. “You said you wanted me on the throne!”

“So I did,” the dark wizard replied. “Apparently I underestimated the forces arrayed against you.”

Kurnos reached to his left hand, where the emerald ring sparkled, the darkness that had haunted it gone. It had refused to let go of his finger before. Now he could pull it off easily. “Underestimated?” he shrieked and flung it at Fistandantilus.

The sorcerer caught the ring easily, eyed it, then closed his hand around it. “Even I can be mistaken, Holiness. I did not think the young man would find the Miceram. Now the Lightbringer comes to Istar. You cannot stop him.”

“You could.”

Fistandantilus shrugged. “To what end? You have lost the throne anyway.”

The room fell silent. Kurnos trembled with fury. He’d lost the army, the church, Sathira… and the people of the Lordcity would soon follow, once word of the miracle of Govinna got out.

“Is there nothing I can do?” he asked.

Chuckling, Fistandantilus raised the ring. He peered through the emerald a moment, then passed his fingers above it, leaving trails of green sparks in the air as he muttered an incantation. The air around the gem shivered, and a faint rumble sounded from it, like the roll of distant thunder. With a viridian flash, it vanished.

Kurnos felt a sudden pressure on his finger, and a groan burst from his lips. The ring was back.

“Now,” the dark figure hissed, staring at him from the depths of his hood, “listen carefully, Holiness. When the Lightbringer comes, he will confront you. His men will search you for blades, but they will not have cause to notice the ring, and that will be his undoing. The enchantment I have laid upon it is a killing spell, released when you speak the word Ashakai. Get close to the boy, point the ring at him, then…” His voice trailed into silence.

Kurnos stared at the emerald. Within it, where Sathira’s shadows had lurked, a tiny stormcloud billowed and flashed, spitting forked lightning.

“What about me?” he asked with a shudder, looking back up. “What will happen-”

Fistandantilus was gone.

Spitting an oath, Kurnos looked back at the ring again. For a moment, he considered turning it on himself. The sorcerer had told him how to use it. All he had to do was point it, speak the word… then one last flare of pain… he wouldn’t have to endure the shame of being cast down from the throne… the sapphire tiara lifted from his brow…

“No,” he whispered, the word no more than a breath.

Kurnos had nothing left. All he’d striven for, all he’d been, was ashes now. He’d betrayed his god, and Paladine had turned his face away. There was one last thing he could claim, before the game was over, one