Chosen of the Gods

“Tancred,” he whispered, “be with me.”

He could hear them now: the thud of hoofs on the muddy road, a dozen paces away. Beside him, Embric loaded a battered crossbow, and together they turned to peer over the gully’s edge, at the road below. Cathan sneered as he saw the Scatas, their blue cloaks soaked, clouds of breath-frost blossoming from within their plumed, bronze helms. Behind them, beneath a canopy carried by a pair of drenched acolytes, rode the cleric. He was a fat man, his satin robes stretched tight where his prodigious belly pressed against them.

Hating him immediately, Cathan tucked the shard into the pouch of his sling and prepared for the attack.

Revered Son Blavian sniffled, loathing the accursed weather. It wasn’t like this in the lowlands. True, it was the rainy season in the Lordcity now, but at least there it was warm. Despite the covering his servants carried, and the warm, vair-trimmed vestments he’d brought with him, he was cold to the bone. He blew on his pudgy hands, trying to warm them.

“Paladine’s breath,” he grumbled. “What manner of man would want to live in this place?”

He expected no answer. The Scatas had spoken little since they’d set forth from the Lordcity for Govinna, Taol’s highland capital. They bore several coffers of gold coins and orders for Durinen, the province’s patriarch, from the Kingpriest himself. Blavian wasn’t sure just what the message said, but he had a good idea. Before he’d left, First Son Kurnos had spoken to him about the brigands who had absconded to the hills. No doubt the Kingpriest meant for Durinen to fight back against the robbers. That would explain the gold: waging such a campaign would not be cheap.

Whatever the reason for his journey, though, Blavian was proud the First Son had chosen him. Kurnos was the imperial heir, after all-it was good to have his favor. Hopefully, that would make up for having to slog through this damp, frigid country…

He heard the strange, trilling song again. He frowned, looking up to call out to the soldiers-pray, what bird makes such a call? — and saw something, just for a moment: a dark shape, moving behind a pine-dotted hummock. He gasped, and was drawing breath to shout a warning when the hillsides came alive.

It happened so quickly, it seemed over almost before it began. The Scatas had time enough only to lay their hands on their swords before more than a score of cloaked figures rose from the bushes to either side of the road, crossbows loaded and ready. A few others held slings, whirling them slowly above their heads. Blavian cast about, a cold stone deep in his gut as he realized quite a few weapons were trained on him.

“Show steel, and you’ll be dead before you finish the draw,” warned one of the ruffians, a wiry man with a scarred face. He perched atop a mossy boulder, a naked sword in his hand. He waved the blade, looking past the soldiers. “Let down His Corpulence’s covering, will you, lads? Let him feel the weather.”

Wide-eyed and white with fear, the acolytes tossed the canopy aside at once, and moved away from Blavian. The Revered Son winced as rain pattered down on his balding pate, then puffed out his chest as the man on the boulder laughed.

“What are you about?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

“I’d tilink that must be obvious.” Grinning, the man hopped from the rock down onto the road. He nodded toward the soldiers, who were glancing at one another, fingering their weapons’ hilts. “Tell your men to throw down their swords, Reverence, unless they want to leave this place with more holes in their bodies than they came with. It’s all right-we only want to rob you.”

“What!” Blavian exclaimed. He thumped a fist against his thigh, his voice rising to a roar. “This is preposterous! You have no right-”

Something hit him then, a mass that seemed to come from nowhere to slam into his collarbone. He heard a gruesome snap before he toppled from his horse, splashing down into the mud-then the pain hit, gagging him. He yowled, writhing, but his acolytes stayed where they were, too afraid of the bandits to move.

The lead brigand’s smile didn’t waver. “Reverence, you’ve seen what my men can do,” he said. “Next time, they won’t aim to wound.”

For a moment, the only sounds Blavian could manage were small, pained grunts. After a few tries, though, his voice came. “You heard him. Swords down, all of you.”

As one-some with visible relief-the Scatas unsheathed their blades and tossed them to the ground. The scarred man signaled to his fellows, and several dropped their crossbows and darted in, snatching up the swords. Another took the reins of the pack horses that carried the Patriarch’s gold, and yet another pair emerged from a gully and came toward Blavian himself. One held a cocked crossbow, the other an unloaded sling. The Revered Son knew at once that the second man-no, a boy from the looks of him-was the one who had dared to strike him.

“Your purse, sirrah,” said the crossbowman, “and your jewels.”

Blavian goggled, reaching for the heavy golden necklace he wore as an emblem of his potency within the church. “You cannot do this!” he cried as the robbery continued around them. “I am a servant of the god!”

The slinger bent down, ignoring his protests, and plucked a small object up from the ground, a white chunk half the size of a clenched fist. Blavian thought the thing that had hit him had been a stone or perhaps a lead pellet. Instead, he saw it was a chunk of broken ceramic. The boy pressed it briefly to his lips, then tucked it into his belt. Then he turned to the cleric, his lip curling.

“This is for Tancred,” he snarled.

The Revered Son had only a moment to wonder who Tancred was before the boy drew back his foot and slammed it into the side of his head, crashing his world down into blackness.

Chapter Two

They were arguing again in the throne room.

It wasn’t Ilista’s habit to arrive late to the imperial court, and the First Daughter could hear the buzz of voices as she dressed in her private vestiary. Most belonged to minor courtiers, but others she recognized: Kurnos’s firm, clipped sentences, Loralon’s soothing tones. Then, as her attendants helped her don a snow-white surplice over her violet-trimmed robes, another voice cut through the rest, silencing them. The Kingpriest normally presided over the court in austere silence, letting his advisers do the talking, but today he was clearly angry-not quite shouting, as he sometimes did when his temper broke loose-but with an edge to his words.

Ilista scowled impatiently as the servants set an amethyst-studded circlet upon her head. The velvet curtains that led to the throne room muffled Symeon’s voice, and she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She had half a mind to go into the audience hall in her sandals, but propriety stayed her long enough for her attendants to help her into her satin slippers. Hurriedly she genuflected toward the golden shrine in the vestiary’s corner, then parted the curtains and stepped through.

“-will not stand!” Symeon snapped, his voice ringing throughout the hall. “If these varlets dare put swords to the throats of Paladine’s servants, their heads should be mounted atop Govinna’s gates!”

The Hall of Audience was enormous, as was only proper for the holiest and mightiest man in the world. It was a perfect circle, two hundred paces across, bathed in soft light from the crystal dome that arched overhead. The floor was rose-veined marble, polished mirror-bright; the walls were lacquered wood carved to resemble scarlet rose petals, so that the chamber seemed to rest within a vast, living bloom. Golden censers filled the air with the scents of spice and citrus, and platinum candelabra held hundreds of flickering white tapers. Garlands of spring flowers-starblooms, daffodils, and pink roses-hung everywhere.

Around the room’s edges stood Istar’s elite, clad in rich garments, the men and women alike perfumed and powdered, jewels glittering at ears and throats, fingers and wrists, ankles, brows, and even toes. Several Solamnic Knights stood in a cluster across from Ilista, splendid in their polished, engraved armor. Elsewhere, the First Daughter spied Marwort the Illustrious, the white-robed wizard who represented the Orders of High Sorcery at court. There were the hierarchs of the other churches, too: Stefara, the High Hand of Mishakal, in her sky-blue healer’s robes; Thendeles, Majere’s grand philosopher, in his faith’s plain red habit; Peliador of Kiri-Jolith in gold,