Chosen of the Gods

“Now you die,” he spat.

“Wait!”

Tavarre’s sword was heavy. It took effort to divert the blow. He did so anyway, striking the mosaic floor a hand’s breadth from Kurnos’s neck. Tiles cracked beneath the blade. He stumbled, thrown off-balance, then turned to look toward the Iightbringer.

“Wait?” the baron demanded. “Holiness-”

“I will not have people say I took the throne by assassination,” Beldyn said. His eyes blazed with fury. “Take off his ring, the emerald one. I would see it.”

Tavarre didn’t move. He stared at the Lightbringer, his anger turning to disgust. Kurnos was a murderer, a coward, a fool. He deserved to die, not just to be stripped of his precious jewelry. The Abyss awaited him, and Tavarre saw no need to keep it waiting long.

It was Quarath who obeyed, stepping forward and bending down to prize the green gem from Kurnos’s finger. The Kingpriest writhed as it came free, groaning again but still not waking. The elf took the ring to Beldyn, who turned it slowly between his fingers, studying it in the dome’s cool light. Color played across its facets. Finally, he clasped the magic ring in his fist and looked up.

“Bring him to me,” he said determinedly.

Tavarre had never felt the same devotion toward the Lightbringer that Cathan had, but now, looking into his fierce, wrathful gaze, he couldn’t help but obey. The desire to kill left him-for now, at least-and sheathing his sword, he bent down to bear Kurnos up.

The Kingpriest’s head lolled as the baron lifted him, and one of Holger’s Knights stepped forward to help while Kurnos blinked and tried to regain his senses. His mouth a lipless line, Tavarre half-dragged the fallen priest to Beldyn, then shoved him to his knees and stepped back, ready to draw steel once more if he must.

“Awake, wretch!” Beldyn growled, hurling the ring.

It struck Kurnos in the face, and he jerked as it clattered to the floor, his eyes flaring open. He stared blindly for a moment, his hand rising to touch the place where his hair had turned sticky with blood, then he started as he remembered everything, trying to draw back from the accusing circle of faces. Tavarre grabbed his shoulder, holding the false Kingpriest still. In time, he stopped struggling, and slumped.

“I could have you killed,” Beldyn declared, golden light swelling from the Miceram. “One word, and any man here would cut your throat for me-or bring me the blade to do it myself. You have spilled blood in the church’s most sacred heart. It would only be fitting to spill yours in return.”

Kurnos glared at him hatefully. “Do it, then,” he snarled.

Within the holy light, blue eyes flashed with rage, and Beldyn raised his hand, opened his mouth to give the order they all expected-then he stopped himself, sighing.

“No, you aren’t worth the trouble,” he said, “and death is too sweet a reward. No, Kurnos-your punishment will not be so easy. You will live, imprisoned in the High Clerist’s Tower in Solamnia. You will have the rest of your days to think on what you’ve done. Perhaps, in time, you will earn the god’s forgiveness-but you shall never have mine.

“Look, all of you!” he shouted, turning to the men and women gathered about him. He gestured at Kurnos. “This is what comes of the Balance. By allowing evil to remain in the world, we invite it into our own hearts. As long as we tolerate sin, we leave the door open for it to corrupt us.

“No more of this. It is time to cast off the old ways. As long as I rule this empire, I will not rest until wickedness and witchcraft are driven from the realm. The time of darkness is ended-and so begins a new age, of light everlasting.”

As he spoke, the Miceram’s glare grew bright around him, so bright the hierarchs and soldiers had to squint against the radiance. Cloaked in light, Beldyn walked to where Cathan lay. Tavarre stared as he passed, and a murmur ran among the hierarchs as they realized what he meant to do.

Quarath came forward as Beldyn stood beside the body, reaching out to touch the young monk’s arm. “Sire, do not attempt this. Not even the Kingpriests of old claimed such power.”

Beldyn said nothing, only turned to stare at the elf. Quarath stiffened, paling, then stepped back. The audience hall was silent as Beldyn knelt, the white light shimmering around him. He laid his hand upon the scorched patch on the young man’s wounded side and shut his eyes. His lips working soundlessly, he reached to his breast, pulling out his medallion to clasp it in his hand. Then, gently, he bent low and pressed his lips to Cathan MarSevrin’s forehead.

“Palado,” he prayed, “ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigamfat, mifiso soram floruit. Tis biram cailud, e tas oram nomass lud bipum. Sifat.”

A moment passed. Then another. Nothing happened.

Tavarre stepped forward. “Holiness,” he said gently. “He’s dead. There’s nothing you can-”

“No!” Beldyn shouted, stopping him with a wild look. He looked every bit as mad as Kurnos, and Tavarre fell back.

“Enough!” the Lightbringer shouted, the crystal dome ringing with his words. “Hear me, Paladine! All my life I’ve served thee. With all my heart, I have worked thy will. NOW WORK MINE!”

Suddenly, it happened. The white glow surrounding him flared like an exploding star and flowed down his arm, washing over Cathan’s body. Beldyn’s back arched as divine power surged through him, so intense the other men cried out in pain as they beheld it His fece shifted from agony to rapture and back again, and tears of blood trickled down his cheeks. The air shivered, and the ground shook. Above, the basilica’s dome rang with a terrible clamor, blaring to match the Lightbringer’s blazing glow…

At last it faded, the crown’s light dimming once more.

Beldyn slumped back with a groan, his face bathed with sweat. He would have fallen had Quarath not rushed forward to catch him. His body, his face, were lost in a silvery cloud. Tavarre only gave him a quick glance, however. His eyes, and everyone else’s, were elsewhere.

Cathan stirred and took a breath.

No one made a sound as his breast rose, then fell, then rose again. His eyelids flickered open, and a puzzled frown creased his face. Then he turned his head, and a gasp ran through the room as the onlookers beheld his eyes.

Before, they had been dark, like stormclouds ready to break. The god’s power had changed them, though, drawing the darkness away. Now they were dead white, with neither pupil nor iris. It was like looking into the milky gaze of a blind man, and Tavarre found himself glancing away, so he wouldn’t have to meet their blank stare. But Cathan was not blind: his god-touched eyes turned toward Beldinas, slumped in Quarath’s arms. Slowly, he smiled.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

The monk shook his head. “It’s only right. You gave your life for me. I have only given it back.”

Cathan nodded, understanding. His eyes closed again, and he slept.

Everyone watched as Quarath helped Beldyn stand. He was weak, shaking and pale, but still he pushed the elf s hands away. Tavarre tensed, sure he would fall, but though he swayed on his feet, he remained upright. Beside him, Quarath dropped to his knees, his golden hair spilling over his face as he bowed his head.

“Sa, usas gosydo” the elf murmured.

Hail, chosen of the gods.

As one, everyone in the room-from low-born bordermen to the hierarchs of the holy church-knelt as well, repeating Quarath’s words. Beldinas Lightbringer regarded them all with a smile, then turned toward the dais and climbed the steps to his throne.

The Great Temple of Istar held many secrets, places only a handful of high clerics had ever seen. The Fibuliam within the sacred chancery was only one. There were also reliquaries filled with holy artifacts, treasuries brimming with gold and jewels, hidden sanctuaries where the church’s leaders could gather in times of trouble. Of all the church’s secrets, however, none was guarded more closely than its dungeon.

The prison was small, less than a dozen cells and a room where the clergy could conduct the rites of inquisition. It was not a place for common criminals-the Lordcity had a vast jail for such miscreants-but rather for those the hierarchs felt were dire threats to church and empire. Black traitors, high priests of the dark gods, and