Chosen of the Gods

dome.

A ringing filled the air, loud and pure, as the sacred fire bathed the dome. Out in the city, folk exclaimed in wonder as the blue light that had shone above the basilica for the past six days flared star-white, then settled back to its familiar silver. Within the Hall of Audience, the flames surrounding the body flickered, then vanished, leaving no scorch marks behind. The lords and clerics who filled the vast chamber stared at the body beneath the silver shroud, signing the triangle. The god had shown his favor and claimed Symeon’s soul. The Kingpriest was gone, and now all eyes turned to the figure at the bier’s head.

Kurnos turned and strode across the Hall, the crowds parting as he headed for the dais and the golden throne. He paused to genuflect at the foot of the steps, then ascended slowly, stopping on the second-highest stair. No man, save the Kingpriest himself, could mount the topmost. Raising his hands in entreaty, he turned to face the mourners.

“Ec, Kurnos, lufo e Forpurmo, ceramfecapio,” he proclaimed. “Pelgo me biseddit?”

I, Kurnos, heir and First Son, lay claim to the crown. Will any speak against me?

The hall was silent, save for the occasional quiet cough. Folk looked at one another nervously. It had been at this point in the ritual, with Vasari II on the verge of donning his new topaz crown, when Pradian had appeared in his emerald diadem to challenge him. Today, however, no one said a word, and a smile split Kurnos’s red beard.

“Sam gennud,” he declared, “tusstulo loisit nispitur.”

Then bring it forward, so the throne shall stand empty no more.

The mourners turned as the golden doors opened at the room’s far end. Loralon emerged, clad not in funereal blue but in the god’s silver. Quarath walked a pace behind him, bearing a white satin cushion. Upon this lay the Kingpriest’s sapphire tiara. The crowd parted as the two approached, striding past the bier at a slow, steady pace, then bowing before the dais. Quarath stopped, proffering the cushion, and the elder elf took the tiara and climbed the steps.

“Kurnos, usas farno,” Loralon spoke, “gasiro brud calfos bid iridam e oram?”

Kurnos, child of the god, will you rule this empire with justice and mercy?

Eyes shining, Kurnos nodded. “Ospiro.”

I swear.

“Sas ladad smidos, tair sift ponfos?”

Will you smite its enemies, wherever they are found?

“Ospiro.”

“Usam motilos, e sas hollas somli?”

Will you speak for the god and work his will?

“Ospiro.”

“Very well.” Loralon raised the tiara, whose sapphires sparkled in the dome’s light. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo, tarn Babam agito.”

In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might, I name thee Kingpriest.

With that, he set the crown upon Kurnos’s head. Regent and First Son no longer, Kurnos raised his head, signing the triangle to the court as its ruler for the first time. Then, amid cries of “Sa, Kurnos Porsto!”-Hail, Kurnos the First! — he mounted the dais’s highest step and walked at last to his throne.

Far beneath the Great Temple, carved out of the bedrock, was a vast, dark crypt known as the Fidas Cor Selo, the House of Old Emperors. The Selo predated the temple itself, for Istar’s old warlords had originally built it beneath their great palace at the Lordcity’s midst. That palace had long since vanished, torn down by the first Kingpriest, but the ancient sepulcher remained. Within lay the remains of every true ruler of Istar, on slabs of marble within great pillared vaults. Alabaster reliefs more than twenty feet tall covered the doors of each tomb, sculpted into huge, lifelike images of the men interred within. The old warlords’ faces had worn away over the years and now stared facelessly out into the gloom, but the Kingpriests’ remained as sharp as the day they were sculpted-protected, some said, by the god’s grace-staring into the gloom with eyes of stone.

Walking through the sepulcher, one could gaze upon centuries of Istarian rulers: the hard visage of Theorollyn II, who had been a gladiator before turning to the priesthood; the benevolent countenance of Sularis of Solamnia; the aged features of Quenndorus the Conciliator, who had quelled the violence following the assassination of Kingpriest Giusecchio; and more than a score of others, many forgotten by all but scholars. These, however, accounted for only a few of the vaults within the catacombs. Beyond them, the tunnels went on and on, lined by tombs that remained open, stone mouths yawning wide, awaiting those who would rule in the centuries to come. Even in its earliest days, Istar’s rulers had known their realm would last for thousands of years.

Kurnos stood in a pool of candlelight before one of the empty vaults, surrounded by deep silence. Reaching up to touch the sapphire tiara, still strange-feeling on his brow, he peered into the shadows within.

This is mine, he thought, shivering. One day, I shall lie here.

He looked to his left, at the vault that had been empty only hours ago. After the funeral, the Revered Daughters had borne the body down here-again in secret-and placed it and the offerings his subjects had brought within the tomb. Now it was shut forever, its edges sealed with lead. Nevorian of Calah, one of the empire’s greatest sculptors, had already begun work on the cherubic face that would grace the gray-stone door, but for now, there was only a bronze plaque, bearing the name of Symeon IV.

A shiver ran through Kurnos as he read the name. Oh, Holiness, he thought. I put you there.

He tried to forgive himself. It had been Symeon’s heart that finished him in the end. Weakened by his illness, it had finally given out while he slept. A gentle passing, Loralon had called it, but Kurnos knew better-yes, the Kingpriest likely wouldn’t have recovered from his sickness, and yes, Sathira hadn’t killed him outright, but the demon had done damage enough to speed the end along, and she had done it at his bidding.

His eyes went to the emerald ring on his finger, and he cringed, as he had every time he’d looked at it, in the weeks after first summoning the demon. Even down here, amid the darkness, he could sense her shadow within the stone. Waiting. With a snarl, he reached for the ring and tried to pull it off. He’d tried to remove it nearly every day since that terrible night, but it didn’t budge, though he twisted and twisted it until his finger bled.

“You won’t be rid of it that easily.”

Kurnos started at the sound of voice. Turning, he peered down the rows of empty vaults, gray shadows in the gloom. There were tales of ghosts-the Seh was a burial place, after all-but the cold voice belonged to no spectre. After a moment, he caught his breath, seeing it a deeper shadow amid the murk. A cold wind seemed to blow through the catacombs as he looked upon the dark hooded figure.

Kurnos had to try a few times before his voice came. “Why not? I am Kingpriest now. I have power.”

“Indeed.” Fistandantilus inclined his head. “Much good it will do you, though, if another usurps it.”

“Usurps it?” Kurnos asked, his eyes narrowing.

“The First Daughter’s pet The monk. He already wields great power, with no crown on his brow.” The dark wizard chuckled softly. “You don’t know, do you? You don’t even know where Lady Ilista and this Brother Beldyn are right now, do you?”

Kurnos glowered, shaking his head… then it came to him, and he caught his breath, looking sharply at the sorcerer. “The borderlands. He’s in Taol?”

“Just so,” Fistandantilus said. “If you doubt me, ask your adviser, the Emissary. I have been using my magic to listen to his private conversations with the First Daughter. They scheme against you, Holiness-nothing spoken aloud yet, but that will coma Unless you use your vaunted power rather than merely talking about it.”

With a croaking laugh, he stepped hack and was gone, vanished in the darkness.

Kurnos stood silent, trembling as he stared at the emerald on his finger. The shadow within danced, mocking him, and he looked away. At once he wished he hadn’t, for his eyes turned back to the empty vault, where one day