Chosen of the Gods

The hippogriff was another matter entirely.

It edged closer, head held low. He shook the meat a little, and the beast froze, watching him warily. Kurnos held his breath, leaning forward. Take it, damn you, he thought. Take it, or we’ll be dining on more than antelope tonight.

Nothing moved. Somewhere in the gardens, someone laughed at an unheard joke. A gobbet of fat dropped from the meat into the grass. He looked down, watching it fall… then, in the instant of distraction, the hippogriff made its move.

Its wings-clipped since it was a foal to keep it from flying away-spread wide, and it reared back on its hind legs, letting out a whickering hiss. Kurnos gaped as it towered above him, at the forehoofs churning the air. He envisioned them coming down on him, breaking bones, maybe even cracking open his skull. With a shout he leaped back, tripped over his robes, and fell, sprawling in the grass as the hippogriff came down again. The meat fell from his hand, and he reached for it quickly-but not quickly enough. The beast’s head darted forward with the speed of a striking snake, and it snatched up the morsel in its beak, then wheeled and galloped away to the far side of the garden.

Kurnos watched it go, hate brimming in his eyes. If he’d had a bow at hand, he’d have shot the animal dead. Instead, he took off his sandal and hurled it, but the throw fell far short. The hippogriff pranced, wolfing down the meat with three quick bites. Kurnos growled a curse as he pushed himself to his feet. At least no one had seen the humiliating scene, he told himself. He was alone in the garden.

No sooner had he thought that, however, than he saw the dark hooded figure. It stood in the shadows beneath a barren rose trellis, its shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Kurnos flushed with anger and froze with fear all at once.

“You!” he breathed.

Still chuckling, Fistandantilus stepped out into the reddening sunlight and crossed the garden. Seeing him, the hippogriff let out a terrified squeal and edged back into the garden’s far corner. He glanced at the creature, shrugged, and turned back to the Kingpriest.

“Smart beast,” he said. “It knows evil when it sees it.”

Kurnos heard the double-edged meaning. “I am not evil,” he snapped. “I am Paladine’s voice.”

Fistandantilus shrugged again.

Kurnos glowered, rubbing his fingers. The emerald ring had grown warm against his skin, and it was all he could do to keep from looking at it.

“What do you want?” he growled.

The wizard’s beard-the only part of his face visible within his hood’s shadows-moved as he smiled. “That is what I like about you, Holiness. You’re very direct. How does your war proceed?”

A scowl creased Kurnos’s face. He’d received his first report from Lord Holger only yesterday. They had entered Taol and were subjugating its southern fiefs even now. The Lord Knight had been concerned, at first, about the coming winter, but now he was certain the army would reach Govinna before the snows started falling. The Kingpriest said nothing of this, though. He remained stonily silent.

“Very well,” Fistandantilus said. “I am here because I have information you might find interesting.”

“Information?” Kurnos echoed. “From where?”

“Your own Temple, as it happens.” The archmage’s head shook as Kurnos’s eyes went wide. “You see, I’ve been thinking about this Brother Beldyn, the ones the rebels are calling ‘Lightbringer.’ The name was familiar to me, you see, and just last night I remembered from where. It was in a book I read, a long time ago, so I went to the chancery to get it. Don’t worry, Holiness-no one knows I was there. I had to charm one young lad, though-Denubis, I believe his name was-to let me into the Fibuliam so I could get this.”

The mage gestured, and a swirl of orange light appeared in the air, halfway between him and Kurnos. With a sound like a great iron gong, the light slowed its spinning, then took on physical form. It resolved into a book-an old, slender volume, bound in basilisk hide-that hung in the air for a heartbeat, then fell to the ground with a thump. An ivory plaque protruded from between its yellowed pages, and peeling, gold-leaf runes marked its cover. Kurnos leaned closer, peering at it.

Qoi Zehamu, the runes read.

Kurnos licked his lips and swallowed, then looked up again. “Is that all?”

Fistandantilus shook his head. “You’re eager to be rid of me, I know,” he said, “but no-there’s more.”

Again he waved his hand, and this time Kurnos let out a gasp of pain as the emerald ring grew unbearably hot. He clutched at it, and-in spite of his misgivings-looked to see the gem was glowing, the same unpleasant green as the eyes of the demon within. Its shadows whirled like a maelstrom.

“You must use her again, Holiness,” Fistandantilus said.

The pain was almost unbearable as Kurnos clenched his fist. The mage was right-the demon was the answer. All he had to do was speak her name, and his enemies would die. He looked at the hippogriff, still cowering and shivering in the garden’s corner, and faltered. The beast thought he was evil. Would a good man use the ring?

“No,” he declared. “I will win this war by my own terms.”

Fistandantilus drew himself up, his beard bristling. “You would defy me?”

“I am Kingpriest of Istar!” Kurnos snarled back. “I will not bend to another man’s will.”

The chill that surrounded Fistandantilus became biting cold, and beneath him the grass turned white and withered before Kurnos’s eyes. For a long moment, the mage didn’t speak-when he did, each soft word hung in the air as if made of ice.

“Yes,” he hissed, “but it is my doing that you sit the throne now, Holiness. Do not forget that. I can end your reign just as easily.”

Suddenly his hand came up, and he snapped his fingers. Kurnos flinched, expecting agony, but the spell was not directed at him. Instead, a horrible sound rang out across the garden-a horse’s scream, mixed with the shriek of a bird of prey. Kurnos turned, saw the hippogriff and immediately wished he hadn’t. The animal was on the ground, its flesh burning, wings aflame and hoofs kicking as it squalled in pain. Kurnos could only watch in sick fascination, tasting bile. At last the beast gave one last great thrash and was still, save for the feeble twitching of its legs. The flames snuffed out, leaving the air thick with the stench of singed hair and flesh, but though it was dead, there was no sign of burning on its body. It seemed to have died naturally.

When he raised his horrified gaze from the dead hippogriff, Fistandantilus was gone. The sound of the mage’s laughter remained, though, lingering cruelly in Kurnos’s ears.

Later that night, Kurnos sat alone in his private audience hall atop his golden throne. The chamber was dark, save for the glow of braziers to either side of him. He had the Qoi Zehomu in his lap, open to the page Fistandantilus had marked. He did not move, save for the rise and fall of his breath, and the deepening of the frown upon his face. He had read Psandros’s foretelling three times now-slow going, for his Old Dravinish was rusty at best-and he could not remember being so furious in all his life.

He was still staring at the mad prophet’s words when a knock sounded from the golden doors at the chamber’s far end. He took several deep breaths to quell his simmering rage before he spoke.

“Enter.”

The doors cracked open, and Brother Purvis appeared. “Sire,” the old chamberlain began, “the Emissary has arrived.”

“Show him in.”

Bowing, Purvis withdrew, then appeared again with the ancient elf behind him. Loralon was clad as always, in full raiment, neatly arranged. His ageless face aloof, he signed the triangle and glided silently forward to kneel before the throne.

“Holiness,” he murmured. “How may I serve thee?”

Kurnos waited until Purvis had gone again, and the doors were shut. Then, calmly, he lifted the Qoi Zehomu and hurled it at the elf.

The book struck Loralon in the face, knocking him sideways, then hit the ground, cracking its fragile spine. Several pages came lose, torn from their binding. The ancient elf stared at it, his hand going to his mouth. Blood trickled from his lip.

“You conniving bastard,” Kurnos growled as the elf stared up at him, an altogether alien look of shock in his