Chosen of the Gods

Gareth shrugged. “When we found you, you were already healed, and the monks do not speak. I think they’ve taken a vow of silence.”

“Just so,” said a voice.

Dista jumped. So loud was the waterfall that neither she nor Gareth heard the old monk approach. He stood behind them, robed and cowled, bent with age. He bobbed his head, signing the triangle, then drew back his hood to reveal a wizened, spotted face with only a few wisps of hair. His eyes were clear, however, and glinted in the sunlight.

“Pardon,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you, First Daughter. I am Brother Voss. I was sent for you.”

“I thought you didn’t speak,” Gareth said.

Voss smiled toothlessly. “Usually, yes, but the master gave me permission, so I can take you to him.”

“The master?” Ilista asked.

“The one who brought you here, Efisa.” The old monk gestured back toward the chapel. “Come. He wishes to meet you.”

The chapel, like the rest of the monastery, was austere in the extreme, its floor bare stone, its walls and ceiling free of mosaic or fresco. The columns that ran down its length had no ornate capitals, and no carvings marked the wooden pews. The candles were made of raw beeswax, and even the triangle above the stone altar was made of silver, not platinum. It was everything the Great Temple was not, yet it was still a house of the god, and Ilista genuflected just the same as Brother Voss led her across the threshold. Silent again, the monk stepped aside and waved her in.

She started forward, Gareth at her side. The chapel was empty. No one sat at the pews or knelt at the simple shrines along its walls. Behind them, Voss shut the doors with a boom, shutting out the light, save for the sharp spears that jabbed through the shadows. Ilista glanced back, then exchanged looks with Gareth and went on to the altar. They stopped there, kneeling, and she reached to her throat, searching for her medallion.

It was gone. Someone had removed it while she slept. She cast about, her heart beating savagely in her breast.

“Are you looking for this, Efisa?” asked a soft voice.

She turned, startled. A young monk stood between the pews, his hood drawn low. He raised his hand. Ilista’s amulet dangled from his fingers.

Gareth was on his feet in an instant, his hand on his sword. The monk did not flinch, didn’t even glance at the Knight. Though she couldn’t see his face, Ilista could feel his eyes on her. The medallion swung slowly in his grasp as he extended it.

“Do not fear, Efisa,” he said. His voice was like honey poured over harpstrings. “I watched over you while you slept and thought it best to keep your holy medallion with me. Now that you’ve woken, though, it belongs in your possession.”

Gareth stepped forward, but Ilista touched his arm, stopping him, and moved toward the monk herself. Reaching out, she took the medallion from him, pressed it to her lips, and pulled it over her head. She stared at the monk, who stared back.

“What is your name, Brother?”

“I am called Beldyn, milady.”

“What of your vow of silence? Has your master given you leave to speak?”

He nodded. “In a way.” Reaching up, he pulled back his hood. “You see, I am master here.”

Ilista’s eyes widened as the cowl came off. The face beneath was thin and beautiful. His skin was smooth, beardless. He could not have seen more than seventeen summers. Where most monks went close-cropped and tonsured, his hair was long, brown locks tumbling down over his shoulders, and then there were his eyes. She had never seen such eyes before-not the color, though their pale, glacial blue was striking, but rather the way they seemed to shine with an inner light as they regarded her, boring into her. They had the look of a man wracked with fever but without the sheen of illness. Caught, she found herself unable to look away.

“You,” she said dully. “You’re the one who killed the wyvern.”

Beldyn nodded, his eyes sparkling. In the distance, the waterfall rumbled on.

“You healed my wounds?”

“I did. Also I sent the message that brought you here. I am the one you seek, Efisa.”

He is, she thought. She could feel it, see it in his strange, bright eyes. A moment later, though, she forced herself to look away in doubt. She’d thought the same of Brother Gesseic and the men before him, and she had been wrong. While her wounds were gone, neither she nor the Knights had seen him heal her. She shook her head warily.

“Any man can call himself holy,” she said. “It must be proven.”

“Of course,” Beldyn replied. “I will have your regalia brought here, and you may use this chapel for the Rite. You shall have your proof, First Daughter, before the silver moon rises.”

Three hours later, as the sun set behind the mountaintops, Dista was laving her hands at the altar while the monastery’s brethren watched from the pews. As before, the Knights stood watch to the left, their armor shining. They were only six now. She thought of Laonis and Jurabin, and the others who had died, now lying beneath stone cairns in the mountains. If she had chosen to ride on to Xak Tsaroth, rather than coming to this place, they would still be alive.

Palado, sas hollas loidud ni calonn, she prayed, glancing at the curtained alcove to her right.

Paladine, let their deaths be not in vain.

Biting her lip, she turned to face the monks. They watched her expectantly with their cowls thrown back- twenty men and women, all older than the man they called master, their faces taut with anticipation and belief. She saw Brother Voss sitting in the foremost pew, and there was such faith in his gaze that for a moment the ritual’s words failed her. She shut her eyes, forcing herself to doubt. It was Paladine’s place to decide, not her. Swallowing, she lifted the ceremonial chime from the altar and struck it.

“Aponfud, ti po bulfat fum gonneis,” she intoned.

The curtain-rough wool instead of satin or velvet-pulled back, and Beldyn came forward, moving with a quick, sure step. He wore the same plain, gray habit as before, his long hair tied back. His eyes glittered as he took his place, kneeling before her. “Fro Beldinas, Paladas lupo fo,” he declared, gazing up at her. “Praso megonnas.”

I am Brother Beldyn, beloved of Paladine. I ask to be tried.

Ilista hesitated, surprised. The other petitioners had all lowered their eyes as they spoke, but Beldyn gazed at her directly. There was no arrogance in his mien or voice, only certainty that he was whom he claimed to be. Caught by his gaze-brighter, it seemed, than candlelight could explain- Ilista had to fight back the urge to kneel before him. You are First Daughter, she told herself sternly. It is right he should bow to you.

Her hands shook as she anointed him with the golden ewer. He did not blink as the oil ran down his face. She paused, swallowing. Took off her medallion and raised it. Drew a deep breath, let it out. And touched the platinum triangle to Beldyn’s forehead.

With the others, she had needed a moment to push her way into their minds. Beldyn pulled her in, drawing her down like the sandwater pools of the Sadrahka jungle. The rose of his mind bloomed, revealing all that lay within. His dreams, his hopes, his memories all but leaped out at her as she looked at them. There was no pride in it, though, but simply the force of certainty.

This is what I am.

She studied all of his facets, pushing deeper, her mind clenched with dread as she sought the inevitable flaw, the thing that would prove Beldyn fallible. Her breathing grew sharp, hitching in her chest, and she could feel the eyes on her, monks and Knights alike watching rapt as she delved deeper into the young monk’s soul. Farther, farther, now crying, now laughing, each breath a shuddering gasp…

Suddenly she was on the mountaintop again, snow beneath her feet, the stars glittering like jewels above. The sea of clouds was roiling around her, and the cold wind tugged at her robes, billowing them. She staggered and nearly fell as the rapture lifted from her, leaving her weary and dazed. Her heart skipped and leaped, and she felt