“Capitulate?” Kurnos finished for him. “Preposterous!”
“I prefer to call it mercy,” Loralon said.
Kurnos shook his head, digging his nails into his palms to keep his temper in check. “Sire, we have thousands of
Symeon considered this, the thumb of his left hand rubbing his medallion. “That may… be,” he mumbled at length, “but… I will… not… go before Pal-Pala-the god… with… bloodstained hands.”
Kurnos snorted, furious. The Kingpriest had recovered physically, but he was not the same man. The old Symeon might have been weak-willed, but he could be ruthless when the situation warranted. Since he’d recovered his speech, however, he had shown all signs of having turned soft.
“No!” Kurnos protested, pounding his palm with his fist. “We can end this now! We cannot just sit by and let-”
“You… can,” Symeon interrupted, his good eye blazing, “and you
Kurnos opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, seeing the resolve in the Kingpriest’s face. Instead, he turned to look out over the balcony at the gardens below. The lemon trees were in full fruit, and bees hummed about the roses. For a time, no one spoke, so that the only sound was the growl of the hippogriff and the distant murmur of the city. The folk of Istar had emerged from the wine shops, ready for the evening’s trade.
The moot ended soon after, when Symeon dozed off in his chair. Kurnos considered waking him but knew it would be of no use. The Kingpriest slept often these days and didn’t wake easily. They would have to wait, until tonight at least, for him to rouse from his dragon-haunted dreams and decide what to do.
Kurnos quit the manse soon after, returning to his study in the basilica. There, he issued a terse order to the lord of Icereach: if he didn’t return the gold yields to their former levels by spring, he would pay with his lands and title. The empire had many ambitious nobles who would gladly take his place.
Evening prayers came and went, and Kurnos retired to his private quarters in the Revered Son’s cloister. He stared at a supper of goose stuffed with forest mushrooms until it was cold, then bade the servants take it away. By then it was dark outside, the red moon bloodying the city’s alabaster walls. Pouring a snifter of
He had meant to go into the city tonight. The poet Abrellis of Pesaro was at the Arena, reciting his new work, the
The more he thought about Govinna, the more it infuriated him. If Symeon bade him treat with the rebels, it would set a dangerous precedent. It was well for Loralon to speak of mercy, for he wouldn’t have to face the outcome from the throne in the coming years. Taol might be the only province in turmoil right now, but there were many places where unrest could flare up-particularly if word spread that the Lordcity met uprisings with anything but the point of a spear. The savages in Fal-thana’s jungles, for instance, might decide the city of Shiv was ripe to pluck. Or the Dravinish nomads might start harrying caravans in the southern deserts. In every corner of the empire, some militant faction would see concession with the borderlands as a weakness to be exploited.
“It
Kurnos stiffened, his blood turning to ice. Slowly, he rose from his seat, turning to gaze across the parlor. The room was dark, lit only by a single electrum lamp beside his chair, and there were shadows everywhere. The voice- the quiet, cold,
“Who’s there?” he demanded. He wanted to sound furious, but his voice shook. “Show yourself!”
A soft, mocking chuckle floated out of the dark. Kurnos had never heard laughter so devoid of mirth.
“Very well,” the voice said. “If it will please you.
At the strange, spidery word, the lamp rose from the table where it stood and floated slowly across the room. Kurnos’s eyes widened as the lamp glided to a dim corner near an arras depicting the building of the Great Temple. Beneath the tapestry, its light fell on a tall, slender figure cloaked in robes of blackest velvet. A deep, dark hood covered the man’s face, obscuring all but the tip of a gray beard. Only his hands were visible, waving as he directed the lamp to hover near him. They were withered things, bony and spotted with age.
Kurnos’s heart thundered in his chest. He knew the figure; it had haunted his dreams since he’d first seen it, months ago.
“Wh-who are you?” he breathed.
The robed man stepped out of the corner. Kurnos backed away as he came forward, stopping only when he bumped into a wall. The man came on, relentless, until he stood an arm’s length away, and though the night was nearly as hot as the day, the air around him was cold enough to raise webs of frost on a nearby window. Kurnos shivered.
“Well met, First Son,” said the voice from the hood’s depths. “Perhaps you have heard of me. I am Fistandantilus.”
Chapter Eleven
To the people of Istar, wizards were objects of contempt and suspicion. Even those who wore the White Robes of Good won a wide berth when they walked the Lordcity’s streets. True, one of their number attended the imperial court, but they were still the only powerful cadre in Istar who didn’t bend knee to the Kingpriest. They wielded powers beyond the ken of pious men and counted the evil Black Robes as allies, rather than with the enmity they deserved. Of the five Towers of High Sorcery, two stood within the empire-one in the Lordcity itself.
While they abhorred wizards, however, Istarans did not fear them. The Orders remained within the empire’s borders because of the Kingpriest’s forbearance. A word, and the might of both the church and the imperial army would descend upon them-and, before the might of the Kingpriest, no wizard could stand.
No wizard, except one.
For most, Fistandantilus was a legend, a bogey invoked to frighten willful children. Few had ever seen the man, but tales abounded. He was unspeakably old, folk whispered, having discovered magic that helped him outlive even the ageless elves. He could travel across the whole of Krynn in an eye-blink. If he twitched his litrie finger at a man-even a mighty archmage-the man would die in agony, his blood set aflame. He drew out the souls of younger wizards and devoured them to fuel his strength.
Unlike most bogeys, though, the tales about Fistandantilus were true. Even the Conclave who ruled the Orders of High Sorcery feared him. While the holy church didn’t make an exception for him in its avowal that all Black Robes were beyond the god’s sight, people whispered he kept one of his many dwellings within the Lordcity. No one spoke his name, lest he hear; instead, folk simply called him the Dark One.
Looking upon the tall, black-robed figure, Kurnos shivered from more than just the preternatural cold. His throat was so tight he could barely breathe, and he might have fled, provided he could convince his legs to move. Instead, he stood statue-still, his back flat against the wall, and trembled.
Fistandantilus let out a rasping chuckle. “What, Your Grace? No pleasantries? No idle talk? How disappointing.” Though Kurnos could not see his face, the curl of his lip was plain in his voice. “But then, you are a busy man. You have your empire to run, so I shall be brief. I wish to offer my help.”
He moved his hand as he spoke, and though his terror did not lessen, Kurnos felt himself almost relax. His mouth moved, but it took a few moments for words to come out.
“H-help?”
The dark wizard nodded, the tip of his beard bristling against his chest. “Hard to believe, I know. As it happens, though, we share a common interest, you and I-putting you on the throne.”
“What?” Kurnos blurted. “Symeon has already named me heir. I am destined to rule.”
“Perhaps, but there is another who could take your place, one who would be a terrible danger for those of us who walk the shadowed path.”
The First Son furrowed his brow, confused-who? — then suddenly, he caught his breath.
“The one Ilista has found,” he murmured. “The one she was looking for, but… Ilista never said aught of
