Chosen of the Gods

They stood together silently. Silhouetted by the mist, Beldyn looked as he had in Ilista’s dream, and in her vision during the Apanfo. I found him, the priestess thought, overjoyed. I truly found him.

“Your wait is over,” she said softly. “The time has come for you to leave this place.”

“Yes,” he replied. His eyes shone. “Have you dined, Efisa?”

Qista blinked, taken aback. She had been too excited to eat earlier, but now her stomach growled hungrily. “No, Brother.”

“Nor have I,” he said, extending his hand. “Will you join me?”

She hesitated, suddenly afraid. A jolt of fear ran through her as she remembered what his touch had done to her earlier. She wasn’t sure she could bear the feeling again. A moment later, though, she shook herself, thrusting the thought aside. This was a man of flesh, not light. Biting her lip, she laid her hand upon his wrist. He was solid, warm, human. Smiling, she walked with him down to the courtyard, the mist ablaze behind them.

Chapter Ten

The gray stallion was frothing and dust-caked, blowing hard as it galloped toward the Lordcity’s western gates. The rider astride it seemed in even worse shape, her billowing blue cloak torn and dirty, her hair pasted to her scalp with sweat and grime. She was pale with weariness, her eyes red-rimmed, and she seemed apt to fall from the saddle at any moment. She wore no armor or helm, no sword or bow, though her livery resembled that of the Scatas who made up the empire’s armies. Instead, what she clutched in her hand as she pounded up the broad, stone-paved road was something much more dangerous: an ivory scroll-tube, bearing the insignia of the Little Emperor.

The empire of Istar was vast, and sending urgent messages required a network of post-houses, where riders could stop and change horses to speed them on their way. Even so, the woman on the frothing gray had been riding for four days and nights since she’d left the highlands, and by the time she reined in before the tall, gilded gates, in the shadow of the statue of Paladine that crowned them, she could barely keep her head up long enough to present the silver scepter that identified her as a member of the Messenger’s Guild to the sentries. The guards regarded the scepter, with its winged horseshoe crown, for a long uncertain moment, then nodded and handed it back, waving her into the city.

It was mid-afternoon, and the streets were quiet. Istar sweltered in the summer, and its folk repaired to the wine shops and baths during the hottest part of the day, emerging as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Rather than the press of robed bodies that filled the city in the mornings and evenings, the rider encountered only a few people on her way to the Great Temple-soldiers, clerics, and a long-bearded Holy Fool who leaped and threw pebbles at her as she thundered past. The broad, tree-lined avenue led straight from the gates to the great arch that let out onto the Barigon, then on to the sprawling church. Galloping across the plaza, she clattered to a halt before a Revered Son and half a dozen acolytes who had come to receive her. They took the reins from her shaking hand and thrust a goblet of watered wine at her once she’d swung down from the saddle. She gulped it down quickly and ate a snow peach another youth offered, which invigorated her enough that she could at least walk without leaning on anyone-for now, at least.

The priest asked her for whom her message was intended, and she looked at him sourly.

“The chief of the imperial kitchens,” she snapped, holding up the scroll-tube. A silken ribbon dangled from it, bearing the imperial triangle-and falcon. “Who do you think?”

She went in through a side entrance, the priest puffing along beside her as he kept up with her long, quick strides. The King-priest was still ailing, he told her, and not taking visitors. The regent, however, would be glad to receive her at his first convenience. She nodded at this and pressed on, scattering several squalling peacocks as they made their way through the gardens to the basilica. Within, the Revered Son bade her wait in a bright, pillared antechamber. She washed the road’s grime off her face with a basin of cool, lemon-scented water while she bided. Presently the cleric returned and led her down a hall hung with red roses to the Kingpriest’s private study.

First Son Kurnos sat behind a desk of polished mahogany, poring over a set of ledgers. He was not in a good mood. The papers tallied the yields of the gold mines the empire maintained in its newest colonies, far to the south on the frozen islands of Icereach. He scowled, running his fingers down the columns. Ore production was down considerably from last year. He didn’t notice the courier at first when she entered, and when he finally looked up his forehead creased with annoyance.

“Bring it here,” he snapped.

The rider strode toward him then dropped to one knee and proffered the tube with both hands. Kurnos took the rube and opened it, leaving the messenger on her knees while he removed the parchment within and broke its crimson seal. Unfurling the scroll, he scanned its words-then stopped, his eyes narrowing, and read it again.

Your Holy Majesty, it proclaimed.

Be it known that on the twenty-eighth day of Sixthmonth, this year 923 LA., a force of Taoli patriots conquered the city of Govinna. As you read this, we hold Revered Son Durinen and have posted watchers along our borders. Those in the Lordcity have ignored our plight too long. While you recline in perfumed halls, we die of plague. While you dine at grand banquets, our children starve.

We do not demand much; only aid you, with your vast wealth and power, can easily provide. Send us food and healers to cure the Longosai, and we shall release the Little Emperor. Ignore our plea, and may Paladine have mercy on him-and on you.

Kurnos’s face darkened as he stared at the scroll. Slowly, he crumpled the parchment in his fist, then threw it in the kneeling courier’s face.

“Leave,” he growled. “Now.”

Seeing the fury in his eyes, the messenger rose and hurried from the room. Kurnos pushed to his feet, glaring after the rider, then whirled and flung the scroll-tube across the room with a curse. It struck the wall and shattered, ivory splinters clattering onto the floor. He’d warned the others that something like this would happen, but Symeon had listened to the First Daughter, not him-to Ilista, who was far from here, in Kharolis. Meanwhile, he had to face the fruit of the Kingpriest’s inaction against the bandits, while- “Your Grace?”

Kurnos turned slowly, his nostrils flaring. “What is it?” An acolyte had opened the door. Now he paled and drew back, seeing the anger on Kurnos’s face.

“I-heard a noise, Aulforo,” the boy stammered. “Is all well?”

A laugh barked from Kurnos’s lips. “No, boy. All is not well.” He paused, thinking quickly. “Send word to Loralon and Lady Balthera. I must meet with them in the Kingpriest’s chambers at once. Go!”

Flinching, the acolyte withdrew. Kurnos had to force himself to breathe slowly to quell his rage. It took a while. Finally, though, he shook himself and turned from his desk. The trouble in Icereach forgotten, he strode out of the office, bound for the manse.

Symeon’s condition had improved somewhat in the weeks since his seizure. His right arm and leg were still lifeless, and his drooping mouth made him seem to scowl all the time, but he had some of his old strength back, and his speech too. Words came haltingly and badly slurred, but he was intelligible most of the time. He could rise from bed, too, if someone carried him, and this afternoon he sat in a high-backed chair on the balcony where he’d fallen ill. The breeze that blew in off the gardens was warm, and smelled of saffron. In his good hand, he held the scroll, the left side of his mouth twitching as he read.

“Un… fortunate,” he mumbled.

Weakly, he raised the parchment. Loralon took it from him. A small, dark line appeared between the elf s brows as he read the missive, then passed it on to Revered Daughter Balthera.

“Holiness, this is a difficult situation. We must treat it with care.”

“Bah,” Kurnos scoffed. “That was your counsel the last time we discussed Taol.” He waved his hand. “You see where it led.”

Loralon spread his hands. “In that case, I recommend we send the provisions they need.”

Symeon’s good eye widened. “Cap… capitu…” he began, stumbling, then gave up with a frustrated grunt.