Chosen of the Gods

obelisks around him reflecting its gangrenous glow. The ring grew warm, then hot, until he felt his skin begin to blister beneath it. Kurnos clutched his hand, groaning in pain and wondering if the Dark One had tricked him. Was this just some elaborate ploy to destroy him? Would the ring’s green flame consume him, burn him to ashes?

Just as the heat threatened to wrench a scream from his lips, however, the emerald’s glow flared sun-bright, then died with a noise like cloth tearing, only deeper. Like a pall of smoke, shadows billowed from the gem. They poured forth in a great gout, devouring what little light there was in the garden, surrounding Kurnos in blackness. The shadows eddied and swirled around him, colder than the frozen gales of the southern sea. Wisps broke free, dancing like witchfire, utterly soundless.

Kurnos stood amid it all, shuddering and biting his lip to keep from crying out. The iron taste of blood mixed in his mouth with coppery fear.

At last, the final shreds of shadowstuff flowed out of the ring, and their churning began to slow. Bit by bit, they coalesced, pulling inward and condensing until they seemed to take on physical form… arms… hands… fingers. Kurnos’s mind told him that pure black could get no darker, and yet the shadowstuff did just that, becoming so thick that it drained the light out of the world around it. The air in the garden grew freezing, so cold it burned, and the leaves of nearby bushes turned brown and withered.

The shape the shadows took, at last, was that of a only by the barest of margins. The shadow-was legless, dissolving into inky wisps where her should have been, and her ringers were far too long, ending in sharp points. Her body wove back and forth in a way that resembled a snake more than a human, and tiny, pointed wings sprouted from where her shoulder blades ought to have been. Worse of all, though, was the head: long and narrow, bald and featureless, save for two slits of venomous green light in place of eyes. These moved back and forth, taking in the garden, then widened, flaring brightly when they settled on Kurnos.

“Master,” Sathira said. Her voice was the snarl of jackals, the hiss of vipers, the mad buzz of wasps. “I hear and obey. What is thy will?”

Kurnos couldn’t find his voice. More than anything, he wanted to stop, flee, order the horrid creature back into the ring. He knew, though, that it was too late. He couldn’t say why, but he was sure Sathira would not retreat until she had tasted blood. She waited, staring at him with the unblinking flatness of things that lived under stones.

Palado Calib, he prayed. Forgive me for this. It must be done. It must.

He beckoned and tried not to cringe as the shadow-thing moved nearer. Unable to meet its cold gaze, he drew a deep breath, shaking all over, and spoke.

“Listen to me,” he said. “There is something you must do…”

Symeon sat alone in his bed, a book propped in his lap. His illness had robbed him of many pleasures-strolling his gardens, playing khas, attending banquets-but his love of words remained. Tonight, as with every night of the past week, he sat up late, poring over the Reflections by the philosopher Pendeclos of Majere. His mind was elsewhere, however, so though his eyes slid across the words on the page, he barely noticed what they said.

The dilemma he faced was one Pendeclos, who had loved theological quandaries, would have enjoyed. On one side of the coin, Paladine himself had foretold his death. Even many months later, Symeon recalled the dream vividly, the god’s honeyed voice telling him to uncrown. On the other side, though, was the young monk Ilista had found, this Beldyn. If he indeed had the power to heal, did that not also come from the god? What if the boy came to Istar and offered to cure his ailment? What then?

There was a proverb, oft-quoted by Pendeclos: Usas supo munamfat. The god’s mind is one. That applied to Paladine as well as Majere. It was sometimes hard to understand the dawn- father-otherwise, why would men need clergy? — but Paladine did not contradict himself. There were only three possible solutions the Kingpriest could see, then: first, the boy’s powers might not be as great as Ilista hoped; second, they would not reach Istar; and last, he would die too soon for Beldyn to help.

“Let it be that,” he murmured, sliding an ivory marker between the pages and setting the book aside. His hand went to his medallion. “Take me, Paladine, if it is your desire. Better that than the others.”

He frowned, then, shivering. The room had grown cold. He glanced at the window, but it was shut-and besides, it was still summer. Still the flesh on his good arm rose into bumps, and his breath became a plume of mist in the air. A deeper chill ran through him as he watched ice form on the goblet of water he kept by the bedside. This was no freak chill-something was causing it to happen. What?

He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. As he shrank back, feebly tugging at his blankets to cover himself, the shadows in the room’s corner shifted. They moved like a living thing, undulating and swelling, then darkening and growing solid… more and more solid. His heart beat erratically and he held his breath as he watched the darkness take form-a lithe, feminine form that shifted and coiled like smoke. Finally, two glowing slits appeared in its face, combing the room, then blazing with green fire as they settled on him.

With a soft hiss, the creature broke away from the darkness, gliding across his bedchamber. He watched it with horrible fascination-the way its body floated above the floor, the wintry glare it fixed on him, never once wavering as it drew near his bedside. He wanted to slip away, to get up and run, but his enfeebled body wouldn’t let him. He wanted to shout, but his throat tightened until it was hard even to breathe.

Watching the monster draw near, he had a thought that terrified and amused him, both at once. He’d asked for death, only moments ago. Evidently, someone had been listening.

The… thing… hovered before him, poised like a coiled serpent. Its blazing eyes bored into his own. Black talons like scimitars reached out, inches from his flesh. In that moment, with death at hand, all fear left Symeon IV, and he nodded, his rosebud lips relaxing into a smile.

Palado Calib, he prayed silently, mas ipilas paripud. Mas pirtam tarn anlico.

Blessed Paladine, forgive my wrongs. I give my soul to thee.

Aloud, he said, “Very well. Come on, then.”

Snarling, the demon lunged. Its talons plunged into his breast, piercing him without breaking the skin. Cold pain surged through him, worse than any he’d ever known before. Then it went away.

Chapter Twelve

Ninthmonth, 923 LA.

Wentha lived in darkness now, her windows shuttered, the candles gone from her bedside. Silence filled the room, broken by the thin wheeze of her breath. Her body was wretchedly thin-a skeletal girl now, rather than the blooming young woman she had been-and she shivered no matter how many blankets covered her. The herbs hanging from the rafters could no longer mask the sour reek and the drier, mustier scent beneath.

Autumn came early to the highlands, tinting the trees with flame. Watching his sister from the doorway, Cathan knew she would be gone before the leaves fell.

He’d returned from Govinna with the rest of Tavarre’s band more than a month ago, setting camp in the same gorge as before. He’d meant to go to Luciel immediately, truly had, but something had stopped him. Fear, probably-to see his sister again would have made her illness real. He’d spent his days in other ways, practicing swordplay or taking watch over the broad, winding highroad. The rest of the time, he’d roved the hills, thinking dark thoughts-but always staying away from Luciel.

Finally, last night, Tavarre had drawn him aside as he sat by the fire, casting dice with the other bandits. “We came back here for your sake, lad,” the baron had said. “Keep hiding from her, and you’ll wake one morning to find it’s too late.”

Bolstered by Tavarre’s words, Cathan had taken one of the horses this morning, and ridden back to town. Now, standing at the entry of Wentha’s sickroom, he found he could go no farther. He knew what she would look like-he’d seen his parents die, and Tancred too-but still he couldn’t face her. That wasn’t his sister in the bed anyway. His sister was gone. Sighing, he shut the door.

“She’s a valiant girl,” said Fendrilla. The old woman stood near him, grave and ancient. She had aged ten