Chosen of the Gods

sweetness to temper the bitter thing his life had become. He laughed, the mad glint in his eyes becoming a flame.

He would have revenge.

Chapter Thirty

Eleventhmonth, 923 LA.

“Is that it?” asked Wentha. “Is that Istar?” Cathan held his sister steady as she leaned forward, afraid she might fall from his saddle. She had ridden with him the whole distance from Govinna, her eyes wide with wonder at the sight of the lowlands, the aqueducts towering over the rolling fields, the towns with their whitewashed villas and domed cathedrals, the sapphire waters of Lake Istar, where the floating boat-city of Calah stood, all towering masts and gliding outriggers.

All of it was as strange to her as it was new to him, which was part of the reason Cathan had taken her along, when most of the common folk-from Luciel and Govinna both-stayed behind. Mostly, though, she’d come because he couldn’t bring himself to leave her behind again, as he’d done that summer. No one had argued with his choice, though Tavarre and Holger-both commanders of Beldinas’s legions now- frowned on the notion of bringing a young girl when there might still be battles ahead. In the end, Cathan was the Light-bringer’s favorite, and the Lightbringer had said yes.

Now, looking ahead along the marble-paved High Road, Cathan smiled, a shiver of awe running through him. “Yes, Blossom,” he said. “That’s it.”

The army had been inarching steadily for more than a month, coming down from the highlands with the winter’s first blizzards at its back, then crossing the grasslands of the empire’s heart. Lowlanders had gathered to watch in amazement as they passed, murmuring at the strange sight: Scatas and Taoli marching together, priests and soldiers alike singing hymns to Paladine… and at the force’s heart, the shining figure of Beldinas, bestride a mighty chariot and wreathed in light, the Miceram glittering on his brow. Seeing him, the lowlanders bowed their heads, signing the triangle in reverence. A century past, the Trosedil had raged across their fields, and all still knew the legend of the Crown of Power. Truly, whoever the strange man in the chariot was, he was the Paladine’s chosen.

Now the army stood halted on a cliff along the shore of Lake Istar. It was a misty morning, fog filling the hollows and eddying across the water. Just ahead, a huge arch straddled the road, twined with bas-reliefs of roses and dragons, divine triangles and falcons’ wings. Atop it blazed three great fire urns, their flames leaping high, and a huge, plaque of gold shimmered at its apex, etched with letters ten feet high:

Calsa, Agomo duruc, du nosomforbo ciforud.

Calsa duforbo sebais mifusas.

Calsa, bosodo arburteis, du Istar.

Welcome, O noble visitor, to our beautiful city.

Welcome to the city beloved of the gods.

Welcome, honored guest, to Istar.

Two miles down the road, the Lordcity shone like a jewel at daybreak. Its domes and minarets, gold, alabaster and lapis, strove skyward from within its mighty walls, topped by the bloody finger of the Tower of High Sorcery. Keen eyes could spot the fabled Arena, the Kingfisher Keep, the silken canopies of its market stalls. Trees-cedar, almond, orange, and others-showed green in its gardens, and statues and fountains dotted its plazas. Sails of countless colors flew in its harbor, and spread out across the waters beyond. Amid it all, like a silver promise, shone the Great Temple.

Looking upon Istar for the first time, Cathan felt a rush of tears. He thought back to the springtime, and the man he had been: a godless outlaw squatting in a ditch, waiting for a priest to rob. What would he have said then if someone had told him that he would one day follow a savior to the empire’s heart? He shook his head. Paladine’s games were strange indeed.

“It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

He recognized the musical voice at once and lowered his eyes as Beldyn came up alongside him. The Lightbringer had descended from his chariot and stood on foot now, his strange eyes fixed on the sprawling city. His was a conqueror’s face, hungry and fierce, eclipsed by the Miceram’s light.

“Lady Ilista would have been proud to see you here today, sire,” Cathan said softly.

Beldyn nodded, then glanced up at the brightening sky. “I know. She is.”

A shout rose from the lookouts. At once, everyone was on their feet, muttering and staring about. Tavarre had sent a handful of outriders ahead to the city to make sure the road was clear. There was no sign of any more Scatas or other threats, but both the baron and Lord Holger wanted to be sure before they approached the Lordcity. Thinking the scouts had spotted the riders, Cathan stared down the High Road toward Istar’s gilded gates.

“What is it?” he wondered. “I don’t see anything.”

Wentha sighed, as if he were a simpleton. “Not there. In the sky!”

Cathan blinked, confused-then he saw something too. There, silhouetted against the cloudrack, was a large, dark shape, part eagle, part lion. There had been wild griffins in Taol once, and the borderfolk still told tales of them, but Cathan had never seen one before. Now his mouth opened as he watched it glide toward them, riding the high winds above the cliffs. As it drew nearer, he saw the creature wasn’t alone: a rider sat upon its back, white- robed, a long shock of golden hair trailing behind.

His horse whinnied, shying as it scented the flying beast. Cathan patted its neck to soothe it, but the animal remained skittish, as did the other soldiers’ mounts. Horses were griffins’ natural prey, which was why the Highlanders had hunted them out, long ago. The beast’s rider knew this too, it seemed, for he didn’t try to land near the army. Instead, the griffin lit upon a neighboring hillock, and its rider climbed down. Cathan watched the tall figure speak in his mount’s ear, then turn and head toward them, across the stony ground.

“An envoy,” Beldyn said, nodding toward the rider. “I must parley with him.”

“Not without me, you’re not,” Cathan muttered, swinging down from his horse.

Leaving Wentha in his saddle, he went after Beldyn, his hand on his sword. Several others-Tavarre and Holger, as well as other Knights and bandits-hurried to join them. The white-robed figure raised a delicate hand, and Cathan felt a fresh pang of wonder. He had never seen an elf before either.

“Sa, Pilofiro,” the elf said, his face cool and haughty as he signed the triangle. Hail, Lightbringer.

“I am Quarath, Emissary of Silvanesti. I speak on the church’s behalf.”

Beldyn nodded, interlacing his fingers in the elven holy sign. “Sa, Quarath. I have come to enter your city. May I?”

The elf nodded, then frowned, glancing up toward the mass of the army. “You may, but they must remain outside the gates.”

“What?” Tavarre barked, his scarred face darkening. “Leave them here?”

Quarath glanced at him, lips pursed. “It is custom. No force so large has marched into Istar since the Three Thrones’ War. However,” he went on, raising a finger to forestall Tavarre’s and Holder’s objections, “you may bring a smaller detachment-say, a hundred men. In return, we shall yield a hundred priests as hostages, including the First Son and First Daughter of Paladine.” He raised an eyebrow. “Does this suit you?”

Tavarre’s furrowed brow said it didn’t, and Holger looked displeased as well, but Beldyn inclined his head, smiling. “Very well. Continue, Emissary.”

“The hierarchs will meet you at the gates,” Quarath went on. “From there, we shall lead you to the Great Temple. Lord Kurnos”-his upper lip curled as he spoke the Kingpriest’s name-”has quit his manse and awaits you in the basilica. He has offered to surrender the throne-but only to the Lightbringer himself.”

Cathan joined Holger and Tavarre in surprise at this, followed by suspicious scowls. Beldyn’s eyes narrowed-