Chosen of the Gods

pounced on the hulking patriarch, knocking him sideways then dragging him down onto the ground. Cathan landed on top of Durinen, and his fist slammed into the bearded face before the Little Emperor could recover-once, twice, three times, feeling the nose shatter, teeth splinter, blood spray. Durinen cried out, trying to rise, but a fourth punch hit his cheek, slamming his head back against the paving stones, and he went silent and still at once.

Cathan knelt beside the patriarch, not moving for a long time. Finally he leaned forward, his face gray, rolled Durinen onto his stomach, and tore a long strip off the fine, silvery robes. He used it to tie the man’s wrists together, tight enough that the cloth dug into his flesh. Then he bound the Little Emperor’s feet and pushed himself to his feet. He stopped at the captain’s body long enough to jerk his sword free, then-with one last, sickened glance at Embric-sprinted off toward the river, looking for help.

Lord Ossirian looked from Cathan to Tavarre. “He’s one of yours?”

The baron nodded proudly. “Yes, lord.”

They stood within the Pantheon, in the patriarch’s private antechamber, adjacent to the main worship hall. It was a plain room, all of stone, with a silver shrine in the corner, gold-threaded hangings on the walls, and brass lanterns burning in wall-mounted cressets. Durinen sat on the floor in the room’s corner, his face a swollen, bloody mess, flanked by sword-armed bandits. He glowered but didn’t seem apt to move any time soon. Ossirian regarded him, scratching his head. He didn’t seem sure whether to be amused or annoyed that a whelp of a boy, not he, had caught the Little Emperor.

Finally, though, a smile split his lips, and he clapped Cathan’s shoulder. “My thanks to you, MarSevrin. I promised a reward for this prize, and you shall have it.”

Cathan swallowed, staring his boots. They were stained with blood. He wondered whose. “Sir,” he murmured, “might I ask a favor instead?”

Ossirian’s eyebrows rose. He glanced at Tavarre, who shrugged. “Very well,” he declared. “Name it, and we’ll see how magnanimous I’m willing to be.”

“Actually, sir, it’s two things,” Cathan replied, then pressed on before Ossirian could object. “First, a-a friend of mine died today. I’d like him to be buried proper.”

“That,” Ossirian replied, “you didn’t have to ask for. We’ll see to him, don’t worry. What’s the second thing?”

Cathan drew a deep breath and held it, steeling himself. He’d been working himself up to this, but it still wasn’t easy. His eyes shone with tears as he looked up at Ossirian. “I want to go home. My sister has the Longosai. I thought I could avenge her, coming here, but I was wrong. I should be with her.”

At first, Ossirian didn’t answer. He continued to glare at Durinen, his eyes narrow.

“Cathan,” Tavarre cut in, “you don’t know what you ask. We need every man here, to secure the city. You can’t just-”

“No.” Ossirian held up a hand. “The boy can go. I need men out there to watch the south road, in case the regent sends his Scatas. He may well, after tonight. I can spare a band-your band. It needs to be someone I can trust.”

Tavarre met his gaze, frowning. Finally he nodded. “If you think it best.”

After Ossirian ordered his men to take Durinen away, he turned to confer with his lords about how best to hold the city, now that the Little Emperor was theirs. Forgotten, Cathan left the antechamber, walking out into the worship hall, a long, vaulted chamber with shadowy corners and high windows that gleamed rose and azure in the moonlight. He made it as far as the first stone pew before his legs gave out, and he sank down onto the seat with a moan. He stared up at the great platinum triangle on the wall above the altar, thinking of Wentha, Embric, and the man who had died on his sword today. Then he bowed his head and wept.

Chapter Nine

Seventhmonth, 923 LA.

There was no pain. Am I dead? Ilista wondered. Is this how it happens? Like waking from sleep?

Through the ages, sects had disagreed-often violently- about the afterlife. Traditionalists said it was a shining city on a mountain, while certain scholars in the church claimed it was simply Paladine’s eternal presence. Some heretics in Istar’s southern deserts believed there was no hereafter, only oblivion. In none of these beliefs, however, did the dead know hunger or thirst, heat or cold.

Ilista’s stomach growled. Her lips were parched. She shivered in the chill.

She let her eyes flutter open, adjusting to the light. She lay in a small room of gray stone. Daylight streamed through the narrow, open window, sparkling with dust. The only furnishings were the simple pallet where she lay, a clay chamber pot, and a wooden triangle on the wall. A monk’s cell, she realized. Somehow she had made it to that monastery.

Her packs were in the corner. Stiffly, she rose and walked to them, amazed that she didn’t feel pain or appear to suffer any wounds. Beside her packs were a clean white cassock and a pair of leather sandals. She put them on quickly, genuflected to the wooden triangle, then headed slowly toward the door. It opened before she reached it, letting in more light, along with a low, rumbling sound. Sir Gareth stood in the opening.

“Efisa!” he exclaimed. “You’re awake!”

“Sir Knight,” she replied, signing the triangle. She hesitated, unsure what to ask him. Finally, she settled on the simplest question. “What is that noise?”

Gareth smiled. “Come,” he said simply. “It’s best you see for yourself.”

The monastery stood on a ledge surrounded by snowy peaks, at the end of a steep, narrow trail. It was a small, simple place, having once been home to the monks of Majere. Even in Istar, the Rose God’s clerics were ascetics, spending their days in quiet meditation. Their temple stood out in the Lordciry for its gray plainness. Here, the abbey consisted of only a few low buildings surrounded by a stone wall. It featured no gardens, save for a few ornamental stone piles arranged in circles and spirals. There was a cloister, a stable, a refectory, and a chapel, all simple as peasant’s hovels, lacking even glass in their shuttered windows. The only adornment was a whitewashed wooden triangle atop the church’s roof. The Majereans might have built the monastery in their god’s name, but it belonged to Paladine now.

The rumbling grew steadily louder as Ilista followed Sir Gareth across the yard. They passed several clerics along the way, clad in simple gray habits, their hooded heads bowed. The shapeless garments made it hard to tell if they were men or women. A few turned to watch as she passed but glanced away when she looked at them, and none of them spoke a word. Ilista frowned, puzzled, as they reached the abbey’s southern wall. A flight of mossy stairs led to its top, and, beyond, a plume of white mist rose into the air, curling with the wind. She looked questioningly at Gareth, but he only started up the stairs, motioning for her to follow. She did, then stopped, stunned, when they reached the top.

“Palado Calib” she gasped.

The Majereans disdained man-made finery, but they had always cherished nature’s beauty. Here, they had found a wonder. A river ran foaming past the monastery, then plunged over the ledge, thundering to a pool a thousand feet below. Fog veiled the waterfall, sparkling with rainbows as it rose into the sky. Used to the slow, wide streams of Istar’s heartland, Dista could only stare at the rushing torrent in awe.

“Did you bring me here?” she asked the Knight after a time. She had to shout over the waterfall’s roar. “To this place, I mean?”

“No, Efisa,” Gareth replied. “When the wyvera carried you off, we were sure you were lost. Then the other beasts fled, and when we rode on we found the one that grabbed you dead near the road. We searched for you all night and finally came to this place. The monks took us to you, showed us you were safe. We buried our dead and have been here since, waiting for you to wake.”

“How long?” she asked.

“A week, milady.”

Ilista’s eyes widened. “What happened to my wounds?”