Chosen of the Gods

Suddenly, he changed. For a moment the monk swam before Ilista’s eyes, and he was a monk no more. His cassock was gone, and in its place were robes of pearly satin, shimmering with more light than the moon alone could explain. Jewels adorned his fingers, wrists and throat, and a familiar jeweled breastplate glittered over his vestments. It was the imperial raiment, but the crown on his brow was not the sapphire tiara Symeon wore. It was heavier, older, encrusted not with sapphires but with rubies.

Great god, she thought. It’s-

Just as suddenly, the vision was gone. Beldyn stepped back from Cathan, and he was as before, his habit smeared and frayed. Ilista blinked, looking at Tavarre and the others. None of them had seen what she had.

You didn’t see anything, either, she told herself. You’re overtired, that’s all. Too many false visions have come from men who simply needed sleep.

Still, as Beldyn moved among the other bandits, touching each in turn, she found she couldn’t shake the chill that lodged deep under her skin.

The next night, at her request, Tavarre agreed to let her have Loralon’s orb. Beldyn, who had spent the day healing the folk of Luciel, slumbered in his room at the tavern, shrouded with sparkling light. For the first time since the bandits captured them, she was left alone, and she crept into another darkened room to invoke the crystal’s magic. She spoke the elf s name, and soon, his face swam before her.

Loralon frowned, listening carefully as she spoke of the ambush and what had happened since. She didn’t mention her vision, having decided it was only a hallucination brought on by fatigue, but she told him about everything else-including the oath Cathan and the other bandits had sworn to Beldyn.

At last he stirred, his eyes narrowing. “How many, would you say?” he asked.

“About a dozen,” she replied. “There might be others, though, once the word spreads. Emissary, what should I do?”

Loralon paused, stroking his beard. He was silent a good while, then his shoulders rose and fell. “Nothing, yet. There is a purpose to this, I believe-though what, I don’t know. Put your faith in Paladine, Efisa-all things have a purpose.”

A sound came from his door. She saw Loralon look over his shoulder, and the door of his chamber swing open. Quarath, his aide, stepped in and silently proffered a scroll.

Frowning, Loralon held up a slender finger to Dista. She watched as he turned and took the missive from the younger elf. Quarath bowed, then departed as the Emissary broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. He scanned down its length, then stopped, his already pale complexion turning almost translucent as he read it again. When he rolled it up and turned back toward the orb, he looked every one of his five hundred years. Dista caught her breath. In all the time she’d known him, she’d never seen Loralon so distraught.

“Your Grace, I’m afraid I must go to the manse at once,” he said, his voice hollow. He paused, and she could see it in his eyes before he licked his lips and spoke the words she dreaded to hear.

“The Kingpriest is dead.”

Chapter Fourteen

For three days, the Revered Daughters took over the manse and shut out all others, including the imperial servants. It their task to see to the Kingpriest’s body, performing secret rituals to protect him from decay. They washed him ritually, painted the sacred triangle on his forehead, and removed his innards, burning them and placing the ashes in an urn, then pouring holy oil on top and sealing it with red wax. Some said they added their own blood to the ashes, but only the priestesses knew for sure. Others said there was sorcery involved, but none could prove it. The only light that burned in the windows of the manse came from funerary candles, and the only sound was the Daughters’ voices, raised to a high, keening wail.

While the priestesses went about their secret rites, the Revered Sons saw to the people. Priests of the god rode through the city on golden chariots, accompanied by squads of Knights and Scatas, stopping at every crossroads and plaza to make the official pronouncement. “Binarud, Istaras farnas, usas stimno rubat,” they proclaimed, their deep voices echoing among the arches and domes.

Mourn, children oflstar,for the god’s voice is silenced.

In the past, the folk of Istar had sometimes rioted after the death of the Kingpriest. Folk still told the tales of the burning that followed Theorollyn’s murder, and the Night of Ten Thousand Spears, when the imperial army had moved in after five days of unrest following the passing of Ardosean II. With Symeon, though, it was different. The hierarchs had made it known he was ill, and besides, he had named an heir. Folk were not yet calling Kurnos the Kingpriest, for he had not yet taken the throne, but they had already begun to argue in the wine shops over what sort of ruler he would make. Most prayed at shrines and hung blue cloths outside their homes, but a few still followed the old ways, wailing, rending their garments, and smashing pottery in the streets. The priests frowned upon such practices but did nothing to stop them. This was not the time to arrest folk for heresy.

The Great Temple fell into mourning. The basilica’s crystal dome, which ordinarily shone brilliant white, shifted to somber azure during the grieving time, and the song of the bells in the central spire turned doleful. The statues in the Temple’s courtyards wept real tears, it was said, and the blooms in the Kingpriest’s private rose garden withered and fell to dust.

At last, on the fourth day, the Revered Daughters emerged from the manse to bear the Kingpriest’s body to the basilica. There it lay upon a rose-marble bier within the Hall of Audience, surrounded by wreaths of blue roses. Much of the clergy spent the next three days in prayer near the Kingpriest’s body, while noblemen, merchant princes, and dignitaries came to pay homage. All who visited left some token-opals and pearls, spices and scented balms-upon the bier, for Symeon to bear into the afterlife.

At last, at twilight on the sixth day, the funeral began. The faithful gathered in the Lordcity’s midst, the mighty filling the basilica, the common folk packing the wide expanses of the Barigon, while choirs of elves sang a solemn paean. In the Hall of Audience, Balthera, still acting as First Daughter in Dista’s absence, laid a shroud of spun silver over the bier, kissing the triangle on Symeon’s forehead before she covered his face forever. Then, as the mourners bowed their heads but Kurnos- wearing the Kingpriest’s jeweled breastplate but not yet his crown-stepped forward to stand before Symeon’s body. His face grave but proud, he began the liturgy for the imperial dead.

“Aulforam ansinfamo,” he prayed, “Symeon Poubirta, gasiras cilmo e usas stimno.”

We send forth our sovereign, Symeon IV, lord of emperors and voice of the god.

Within the Hall the mourners stirred, the response rising from them like distant thunder. The crystal dome caught the words and rang with them, so those in the square outside heard and spoke it as well, tens of thousands of voices rising into the deepening sky. “Ansinfamo.”

The liturgy went on, with Kurnos reciting the deeds of the Kingpriest’s life and reign and entreating Paladine to spare him the torments of the Abyss and give him comfort beyond the stars. Again and again the basilica, and then the Barigon, rumbled with the responses. Finally, two hours after he began, Kurnos walked around the bier, pausing at each corner to sign the triangle, then stopped again at its head to deliver the final benediction.

“Oporud, Symeon,” he intoned. “Palado tas drifas bisat.”

Farewell, Symeon. May Paladine guide thy steps.

“Sifat,” murmured the Lordcity.

At that, a silver gong sounded from the balcony overlooking the Hall, and the bier burst into flame.

Those who didn’t know the ritual and who hadn’t been at the funeral of Symeon III eight years before gasped as fire rose from the Kingpriest’s body. Ghostly white limned with blue, the flames leaped from the bier, twining like dancers or lovers as they rose higher and higher. No one moved to flee, for the mourners knew these flames did no harm. There was no smoke, so smell of burning, no heat to bake the air. It was a cleansing, holy fire, and though its tongues licked close to his body, Kurnos did not flinch as it blossomed up and up, finally brushing the crystal