Chosen of the Gods

making him Kingpriest.”

“She did not mean to,” the Dark One answered. “Still doesn’t, actually, but that changes nothing. This boy, the one called Lightbringer, must be stopped, if you are to rule. I am offering you the power to stop him.”

He gestured, speaking spidery words. His aged fingers wove through the air. Green light flared, bright and unhealthy, and when it faded something hung in the air above his hand: a loop of red gold set with a large, glittering emerald. Kurnos gasped, then looked down at his own hands. The ring he’d taken from Symeon’s finger when he became regent was gone, his skin itching where it had been. As he stared at the jewel, Fistandantilus twitched his fingers, and the ring started turning slowly in the air.

“What-what are you doing?” Kurnos demanded.

Fistandantilus inclined his head. “A fair question. Within the gem, I have imprisoned a… being. A spirit, if you will.”

Kurnos drew back. There was something disturbing about the way the way the light played across the emerald’s facets.

“A demon, you mean,” he breathed.

“If that is what you wish to call it.” Velvet-cloaked shoulders rose and fell. “Whatever word you choose, though, this creature is beholden to the one who wears the ring. Its name is Sathira. Speak and it will do your bidding, whatever you ask.”

The dread of what might lurk within the ring was second in revulsion to Rurnos’s yearning to reach out and take it. There was something seductive in the way it sparkled, and he heard the low hiss of whispering in the back of his mind. He knew, if he listened closely, he would hear his own name. He shuddered, forcing his hands to remain at his aides.

“If I refuse?” he asked.

“Then I shall find another who won’t.”

Kurnos had thought the sorcerer’s voice could get no colder. He now realized he’d been wrong. The words came rimed with frost, leaving the afterthought unspoken. And you shall never take the throne.

A shudder ran through him. Treating with dark wizards was a sin in the church’s eyes. Treating with demons was worse. He could always atone later, though, he mused-and he must take his rightful position as Kingpriest, the god’s power his to wield. Otherwise, what? The rest of his life spent as First Son, the crown always beyond reach? Or worse, banished from the Lordcity, to the dimmer lights of the provinces? Fistan-dantilus was right-there were hundreds of male priests within the Great Temple’s walls, and thousands more beyond them. One of them would take the ring if he didn’t first.

Without thinking consciously about what he was doing, he reached out, plucking the jewel from the air. It felt like ice against his skin as he slipped it back onto his finger.

“Very good, Your Grace,” Fistandantilus said, nodding. “The rest is up to you. You know what to do.”

With that, he vanished.

There was no light, no magical aura-only a faint shimmer in the air and a dull sound like a gong being struck in reverse. One moment he was there, and the next he was gone. The frost began to fade from the windows at once, but the sense of disquiet that had surrounded the Dark One remained.

Kurnos gaped at the place where the mage had been standing, then turned his gaze downward to the ring itself. The emerald sparkled, almost mischievously, but there was something else, too. He had once heard a sea captain speak of hideous creatures, gliding beneath the water’s surface, sinister shapes one could never quite make out. Whatever lay behind the gem’s lambency, the darkness in the ring, refused to lie quiet.

It was looking back at him.

Take it off! his mind screamed. Go to the harbor and throw it from the God’s Eyes into the depths. Find a blacksmith and burn it in his forge. Use two stones and smash it. Scatter the pieces to the winds!

He did none of these things. Instead he stood still and silent, gazing into the jewel’s dark depths until an acolyte knocked on the door and entered, bowing.

“Aulforo,” the boy said when Kurnos looked up, “you should go to the manse at once. Emissary Loralon has a report to make, word from the First Daughter in Kharolis. His Holiness bids you attend.”

His Holiness, Kurnos thought, shivering. He could feel the ring’s power tingle throughout his body. All he had to do was speak one word, one nonsense name, and the title would be his to claim.

No, he thought. Not yet.

Scowling, he made his way out of darkened study, into the hot evening air.

“They have… set out for… home, then?” Symeon asked. “They’ve left… the mon-monast-” He broke off with a wince, breathing hard.

Loralon bowed his head. The four heads of the church had gathered on the balcony of the manse again. The city glimmered beyond the Temple’s walls, a sea of golden lights.

“Yes, sire,” the elf replied. “They rode out this morning. Only-they are not sailing back to Istar. Lady Ilista has chosen to travel overland.”

“Overland?” Balthera echoed, her voice rising with dismay. She was a small woman, thin and birdlike, with hair the color of straw. “They’ll need to pass through Taol!”

“Yes,” Loralon replied. “Under the circumstances I cautioned her against it, but she insisted. It will take less time than riding all the way to Tarsis, then taking a ship back here-and they will be passing through the southern part of the borderlands, far from Govinna.”

Balthera’s frown deepened, but Kurnos spoke before she could.

“Why is it so important she arrives quickly?” looked at the Kingpriest, who sighed.

Symeon said, “she wants… to get here… I still… live. She thinks this… young monk… might… heal me.” He slumped, breathing hard, as the other high priests looked at one another. When he had his wind back again, he chuckled. “Well. I doubt… the god’s… will shall be so… easily thwarted, but… we should… still pray for… Ilista’s safe… return.”

“Iprummu, Holiness,” Balthera said solemnly. I shall.

“As will I,” Loralon agreed.

Kurnos hesitated, his gaze lowering to the marble floor. He sighed. “I as well, sire,” he muttered. As he spoke the words, however, his fingers strayed to his left hand, to the emerald ring.

The Garden of Martyrs was quiet tonight, save for the chirping of crickets. Kurnos stood in its midst, looking out past the moonstone monuments toward the manse. Light glimmered from the high balcony, where he had left the Kingpriest. Symeon had been dozing quietly when he and the other hierarchs departed the manse. Soon Brother Purvis and his servants would come to bear him to his bed.

What if it really happens? he wondered, fists clenched at his sides. What if this Brother Beldyn’s powers do heal him?

He could see it now, unfolding like the plot of an Ismindi high tragedy. The throne, nearly his, slipping from his grasp. Symeon’s reign would continue, and his weak will might well be Istar’s undoing. Symeon would not send the army to Taol, and rebellion would spread, flourishing throughout the provinces. Before long, it might well spiral into civil war.

No, Kurnos thought. It cannot happen. It will not.

He looked down at the emerald ring and shivered despite the evening’s warmth. The moons were hidden now, behind clouds red with the Lordcity’s glow. The gem sparkled with alluring light anyway. He held it up to his eye, peering within. He could see nothing there, save for the vague flicker of a shadow, but he could feel it-a presence trapped in the crystal, longing to be free. He could feel its eyes upon him.

Do it, a voice seemed to whisper. Say the name…

He took a deep breath, his lips parting. “Sathira,” he whispered. “Come forth and heed my words…”

Green light flashed within the ring, making him squint and turn away. It washed out in waves, the white