eyes. “Get up.”
He rose as the elf pushed himself dazedly to his feet and descended from the dais to stand before Loralon. His face was as red as his beard. His gaze smoldered.
“Majesty,” Loralon said, “I did not-”
“I said
Loralon’s head snapped back, and he stumbled. The trickle of blood stained his snowy beard. “Majesty…” he began again.
Kurnos wanted to strike Loralon again and again. It took a great deal of effort to hold back, his fists trembling at his sides. “No!” he snapped. “I will not hear it, Emissary. You’ve been plotting against me all along-you and Ilista. Trying to bring this… this Lightbringer to the Lordcity to usurp my rightful throne!”
“Holiness, the prophecy says nothing about the throne,” Loralon said. When he caught the look in the Kingpriest’s eyes, however-rage, tinged with the glimmer of madness- he fell silent and looked at the floor.
For a time, Kurnos didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was a razor, glittering in the dark. “If you were my subject, Loralon,” he said. “I would summon the guards and they would take you away in chains. Tomorrow, you would burn at the stake for this betrayal, but,” he went on, raising a finger as Loralon opened his bloodied mouth, “unfortunately, you belong to King Lorac, not me. I cannot kill you without breaking the peace between our peoples. Therefore, I’m doing the only thing I can-sending you back to the Silvanesti in shame.
“I have sent men to your chambers, with orders to seize all imperial property-as well as the crystal you’ve been using to conspire with Ilista. You will leave the Lordcity at dawn and return at once to Silvanost. If you do not- if you go to the borderlands, to help this wretched Lightbringer-things will go poorly for your people here. Do you understand?”
Loralon stared at him, stunned. Kurnos took a certain delight in his amazement and the defeat that crept into his eyes. The elf had meddled in imperial affairs, and now he was caught. Slowly, he nodded.
“Very well, Holiness,” he said. He gestured toward the book. “But the prophecy cannot be denied.”
“The prophecy is
There was a silence, then the whisper of the elf s slippers across the marble floor. The golden doors boomed shut, and Kurnos was alone once more.
He slumped, putting a shaking hand to his brow. His head and stomach both ached, his right eyelid was twitching. He stood where he was for a time, a dull roar filling his head, then whirled with a snarl and grabbed up the book. He weighed it in his hands, staring at it with equal parts fear and anger. He knew of the prophecies of Psandros the Younger. They did have an unfortunate tendency to come true.
“Not this one,” he whispered. “Not as long as I rule.” Turning, he walked to one of the braziers by his throne. Giving the book one last, scornful glance, he tossed it into the fire.
The flames leapt, crackling hungrily as they devoured the
He felt no surprise at all when, as he was staring at the green flames, the ring began to burn his finger once more. As if pulled there, his gaze dropped to the emerald. It caught the fire’s eerie light and magnified it, the shadows dancing within. The twin slits of the demon’s eyes glared out at him, blazing with bloodlust.
It was wrong, he knew it. Sending the army after his foes was one thing, but what he meant to do went well beyond that. Still, he told himself, it had to be done. This Light-bringer was dangerous. He was as sure of it as he had ever been of anything in his life. He had to be stopped for the good of the empire.
Kurnos closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Forgive me, Paladine, he thought. This thing must be done.
“Sathira,” he whispered.
A horrible howling filled the hall as the shadows came billowing out of the ring. The air around him became wintry, losing the heat of the brazier’s flames. The ring seared his flesh, but he knew it would leave no mark, just as Fistandantilus’s killing spell had left the hippogriff un-scarred. Stefara of Mishakal had examined the poor creature’s corpse, and though the signs of starvation troubled her, she had determined it had died naturally. The servants would burn the body tonight.
Kurnos felt a presence near him, the malevolence that poured from it drawing him back from his thoughts of the hippogriff. All at once he couldn’t breathe, and he gasped, opening his eyes.
The demon was in front of him, her long, shadowy face barely a hand’s breadth from his. Their eyes locked, as a long, thin talon rose and stroked his cheek. It burned where it touched him. He held his breath, trying to keep his mind from fraying at the demon’s caress.
“Master,” she growled in her jackal-wasp voice. “I had hoped you would free me again. I longed for it. What is your will?”
Kurnos hesitated, fear overcoming him at the last moment, then swallowed, putting the terror out of his mind. He had loosed Sathira. She would not return to the ring until he had given her a task. If he was certain of one thing, it was that he wanted her far, far away as soon as possible. He lowered his eyes from her scorching gaze.
“There is a place to the west,” he said softly. “It is called Govinna.”
Dawn was breaking over Istar when Loralon left the Great Temple to face his exile. He did not go by ship, however, nor did he ride out through the gates. His people had their own way of traveling.
Ages ago, when even ancient Silvanost was young, the elves had tamed griffins as mounts. The Chosen of E’li kept a small aerie in the hills outside the Lordcity, where a dozen of the proud beasts awaited their call. Loralon still rode from time to time, traveling to his homeland to report to King Lorac. Now, as he stepped out of his cloister into the Temple’s gardens, he closed his eyes, sending out a silent call.
Quarath, his aide, came out and stood beside him while he watched the sky. The younger elf s face was expressionless, his mien composed, but the sorrow in his eyes was unmistakable. He would be Emissary from this day forward, and it weighed on him to lose his master so suddenly.
It weighs on me too, Loralon thought, sighing.
“It will be a fine day,” he said.
Quarath looked up, nodding. The sky was cloudless, the hue of ripe plums. He coughed softly. “
“Leave?” Loralon echoed, taken aback. He shook his head, his beard wafting in the breeze. “No, Quarath! Our people need a presence here. These humans must be watched. You must make sure we keep our power in Istar.”
Quarath nodded, bowing his head. “As you wish.”
A distant sound-an eagle’s cry, with a rumbling roar beneath-sounded from above. The elves looked skyward. There, circling above the city, was a large, odd shape, a great bird of prey with a lion’s hindquarters. It wheeled slowly, riding the winds, and began to descend. Loralon eyed its features as it dove: the golden-feathered head, the sharp talons that could rend a man to pieces, the trailing, leonine tail. In some ways it resembled the hippogriff that had died mysteriously in Kurnos’s garden just yesterday, but griffins were proud beasts and wild-never docile, like the other had been. Majestically the griffin swooped down, flapping its great wings to slow itself, and lit on a wide lawn, its claws digging furrows in the earth.
Loralon met its bright, amber gaze, then turned and kissed Quarath on the forehead. “Farewell, Emissary,” he said.
Elves never wept in the presenc e of humans, but there were tears on Quarath’s cheeks when Loralon stepped back. “Farewell,
The ancient elf nodded. “May he grant them to us all.”
Turning, Quarath strode back toward the cloister. Loralon watched him go, his lips pursed, then walked to the griffin, which tossed its head at his approach. He clucked at it, running his hand over its feathered neck, and it purred, nudging him with its beak. Smiling, he hitched up his robes and climbed onto its tawny back, settling himself between its massive shoulder blades, and whispered a word in elvish.
