but only for a moment. “If that is how the Usurper chooses,” he said. “Return to the city, Emissary, and tell them I come.”
Bowing, the elf turned and strode back toward his waiting griffin.
“Sire,” Holger murmured as they walked back toward the army. Behind them, the griffin vaulted into the air, carrying Quarath back to Istar. “I must object.”
Beldyn smiled. “I know. The man has tried twice to kill me, but his demon is no more, and Kurnos stands alone. And,” he added, glancing at Cathan, “I will be protected. I would see the Usurper’s face as I dethrone him. Will any of you challenge that?”
If he hoped anyone would defy him, they disappointed him. Even Tavarre shook his head, looking at his feet.
“Good,” Beldyn declared. “Bring my chariot, and choose your men. We march to the Lordcity at midday.”
Cathan’s throat tightened as the city gates drew near. The huge, gold-chased doors stood shut, and scores of archers looked down from above, arrows notched on their bows. Swallowing, he touched his battered sword and watched the bowmen, waiting for them to make a move.
Thus far, the hierarchs had proven true to Quarath’s word. The hostages had already come out of the city and waited with the Lightbringer’s army-along with Wentha, who stayed behind at Cathan’s insistence. That did little to assuage Cathan’s fears, however. Beldyn had spoken often, during the long march, of Kurnos’s evil and treachery. What, to a man like that, were the lives of a hundred of his own clergy? The hierarchs didn’t need to be complicit. Like with Pradian, all it would take was one archer, one well-aimed arrow…
No one fired. Instead, the gates shuddered and rumbled open, their great falcon and triangle crest splitting to reveal the city beyond. As they did, a great din rose from within, thousands of voices rising in joyous shouting and song.
Looking upon the folk of the Lordcity, Cathan thought back to the day Beldyn had first come to Govinna. That was nothing beside this. It seemed everyone in Istar had turned out to welcome the Lightbringer. There were more of them than Cathan, living his life in a highland village, had ever thought to see in one place. They packed the streets, crowded on rooftops, leaned over balconies-even perched in the trees. They raised their arms and cheered, throwing white rose-petals in the street, so many the cobblestones looked mantled in snow. Hands lifted children high, and drums and shawms and chimes made a racket even louder than the mob’s roar. Merchants and scholars, nobles and commoners, priests of every god of good- all had come, hoping to glimpse the Lightbringer and the Crown of Power. All chanted the same two words over and over: “Babo Sod! Babo Sod!”
Smiling, Beldyn raised his hands in greeting, and his chariot rumbled forward. His escort went with him, Cathan riding beside, watching the crowd with gritted teeth. Kurnos didn’t need a crack archer to do his work. One person hidden amidst the adoring throngs would do the trick. Any one of them might be carrying a crossbow beneath his cloak or a dagger up his sleeve. Any one of them might be waiting for the chance to strike. Cathan’s stomach clenched at the thought.
When they emerged from the gatehouse’s shadow, a party of august men and women, clad in all colors of robes, came forward to stand before them. Quarath stood among them, smiling. Beldyn’s chariot halted, and he looked down at the elf regally. The
“Welcome, Holiness,” Quarath said and gestured at the robed figures behind him. “These are the hierarchs of a holy church. We have done wrong, following the wrong leader, who has reigned here until now. We cry your forgiveness.”
The mob murmured at this, and beside Cathan, Tavarre chuckled.
“Clever,” the baron muttered, “asking mercy in front of so many people.”
Cathan nodded, scouring the crowd with his gaze as Beldyn raised his hands, signing the triangle over the clerics. The crown flared with ruby light.
“
There were more introductions, each of the high priests kneeling in turn to receive the Lightbringer’s blessing, then Quarath bowed again and gestured for Beldyn to follow. The throng parted as the hierarchs led the way down the broad street, past shrines and colonnades, obelisks and lush gardens. The masses stayed thick all the way, so their progress was slow, and by the time the party reached the arched entrance to the broad expanse of the
The great plaza was empty, Solamnic Knights standing guard at its various entrances, and desolate-looking after the mad press of the streets. The Great Temple seemed incomparably beautiful to Cathan, all marble and crystal, swaying trees and explosions of bright-colored birds above its fabled gardens. Its gold spires glistened against the cloudless sky, and the basilica dome sparkled like a diamond. Cathan momentarily forgot his fears, and stared in mute amazement. Beside him, Beldyn smiled, his eyes aglow.
“
He climbed down from his chariot, and the rest of the party dismounted as well, handing their reins to a cluster of waiting acolytes. Cathan eyed each young priest carefully, studying their faces, looking for strange shapes beneath their cassocks, but there was nothing. Still gripping his sword, he fell in at the Lightbringer’s side.
Onward Quarath led them, across the plaza to the church’s long, wide steps. Beldyn climbed without pause- and so Cathan and the others-then stopped before its high, platinum doors, waiting as they swung silently open. Then, genuflecting and signing the triangle, he entered the Temple.
They passed quickly through a vast, airy atrium-so quickly, in fact, that Cathan was only vaguely aware of a succession of silken arrases, intricate mosaics, and pools filled with glittering, jewel-hued fish. Busts of long-dead Kingpriests, carved of serpentine and turquoise, looked down from pedestals, each glaring or smiling in his own manner. The air danced with butterflies and dulcimer music.
At the hall’s end stood another pair of doors, bearing the falcon and triangle. They remained closed as the party drew near, and Quarath stepped forward to open them. Before he could, however, both Tavarre and Holger moved to interpose.
“Sire,” the baron said to Beldyn, “I think it wise if my men go in first.”
Beldyn waved his hand. “Very well, but draw no weapon unless you must. No man has ever killed another in the basilica. I would not have you be the first.”
Nodding, Tavarre gestured to a handful of men, bandits and Knights alike. Cathan remained by Beldyn’s side as the others moved forward, touching their blades but not unsheathing them. His scarred face resolute, the baron cracked the doors open and led them through.
The wait seemed to last forever. Cathan’s eyes darted this way and that, returning again and again to the hierarchs. They were a strange lot, powdered and perfumed, jewels sparkling on their fingers, wrists, throats, and brows. He felt a stir of loathing at the sight of the clerics. These were the same who had allowed the plague to ravage his home and his family. At the same time, though, he thought of Dista, and a strange sympathy swelled in him for those who dwelt within the Temple’s walls. Surrounded by such beauty, was it any wonder so few of them could conceive of how his people had suffered?
No longer, he told himself. Symeon had been complacent; Kurnos was corrupt. Things would be different when Beldinas reigned.
Finally, the doors opened again, and Tavarre emerged, his gaze stern.
“The way is clear, Holiness,” he said, bowing to Beldyn. “My men have searched the hall, and it is empty-save for the wretch himself.”
Beldyn’s mouth became a hard line. “Come, then. Let us end this.”
They entered the cavernous Hall of Audience, the border-men staring in wonder at the blue-tiled floor, the rose-petal walls, the crystal dome gleaming overhead. The sound of their footsteps, of rattling armor, echoed through the great chamber as they strode toward the dais at the far end. Cathan’s eyes narrowed upon the golden, rose-wreathed throne and the man who sat upon it.
Kurnos glowered at them, resplendent in silver robes, jeweled breastplate, and sapphire tiara. He swept his
