Chosen of the Gods

clinging to them. Their eyes stared sightlessly in the dark, teeth bared in rictus grins.

Cathan tried not to look at the bodies as he and Beldyn made their way through the cramped passages. The light of the torch he carried made the shadows leap in the corners of his vision, and that made his fevered brain- already edgy from the darkness deep beneath the earth in the cellars of the temple-see things that weren’t there… or that he fervently hoped weren’t there. Surely the corpses didn’t stir as they passed, their skulls turning toward him, their bony fingers twitching. Surely he didn’t hear the rustle of wrappings being shrugged off or the scrape of bone against stone. Even so, his heart leaped every time he brushed against a niche or stepped on a bone that had fallen from its resting place. He was terrified to think that if he looked back, he would see ghosts shambling after him, staring at him with dark holes whose eyes had long ago turned to dust.

“This door you’re looking for,” he whispered, his voice sounding horribly loud. “We’re almost there, right?”

Beldyn peered through the gloom, then down at the scroll in his hands. He slowed down as he did so, which made Cathan even more afraid. If you stop, a childlike voice said in his brain, you’ll give them a chance to catch up. They’ll get you…

“Yes,” Beldyn said after a moment. “Pradian’s writings say it’s close.”

“Good.”

They went on, Cathan wishing someone else had come with them… like about one hundred armed men. Tavarre had offered them before they set out, though he couldn’t afford to lose that many swords, but Beldyn refused. The scroll he held, the one Durinen had given him moments before the demon attacked, had something to say about the matter. The door would only open to Pradian’s true heir and would let him and one other pass, so long as that other was faithful.

“I would have you, my friend,” Beldyn had said that afternoon, after Ilista and the others were entombed. Cathan objected, saying there were better warriors among the bandits, but the Lightbringer shook his head. “You were the first to swear to me, and you have been true ever since.”

Cathan sucked in a breath, caught a lungful of dust, and fell into a coughing fit.

The noise of his hacking and wheezing was still echoing back through the dark when the tunnel opened up before them into a burial chamber. It was not a large room, perhaps five paces on a side, but compared with the catacombs it felt as vast as the Pantheon’s worship hall. A single pillar stood in its midst, carved with reliefs of twining dragons, and stone sarcophagi lined the walls, their lids sculpted to resemble long-bearded men in clerical garb. The high priests among the missionaries, Cathan guessed. The lid of one had crumbled, spilling out a tangle of bones and moldering robes. The skull that leered up at him from those leavings was still covered with leathery flesh. The image of Tancred, wasted and gaunt on his deathbed, flashed through his mind, and he had to shut his eyes to make the memory go away.

When he looked again, Beldyn had crossed to the chamber’s far side. Cathan hurried after, torch held high, and when he came around the pillar he saw what caught Beldyn’s attention. There, in the far wall, was the door.

It was hewn of stone, the same living rock as the walls, and intertwined roses snaked around it, carved into its frame. Perched high upon its lintel, looking down on them, was an alabaster falcon, wings half-spread, a triangle clutched in its talons.

They stared at the door in silence. Cathan felt no surprise when he saw it had no latch.

“What now?” he asked.

Beldyn studied the scroll a while longer, then nodded and tucked it into his belt. “Now we open it.”

Cathan snorted a laugh, then stopped. As he watched, the monk pushed back his bloodstained sleeves-he still had not changed clothes-and studied the door.

“The Miceram lies in an ancient fane beyond this,” he said. “Pradian put it there, then sealed the door shut. The geas he laid on it will be broken when one fit to wear the crown comes to claim it So it is written. After that, we have only to face the guardian.”

“Guardian?” Cathan asked, his voice rising. “What kind of guardian?”

Beldyn spread his hands. “The scroll does not say.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Cathan muttered. Gritting his teeth, he checked his sword to make sure it was loose in its scabbard, then, thinking better of it, drew the blade. “Well, we’ve come this far.”

Smiling, Beldyn reached out and pressed his hands against the door. It was smooth, marred only by a small crack near its top. Licking his lips, he bowed his head and murmured a prayer.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro,” he intoned, “tas igousid fo. Lob tis foro polam bidein unfifid, to Ceram ibin torpid. So polo fat cifir. Bebam anlugud!”

Paladine, father of dawn, I am thy chosen. Long has this door awaited the time foretold, when the Crown is needed again. That time is come. Let the way open!

He squared his feet on the floor, closed his eyes, and pushed.

Nothing happened.

Cathan watched, his heart falling, as Beldyn tried again and still a third time. He leaned into it with all his might. His face grew red, cords of muscle bulged in his neck, and sweat beaded on his brow, but still the door refused to budge.

“Damn it,” Cathan muttered. “Don’t tell me we’ve come this far, only to-”

“Cathan!” Beldyn hissed through clenched teeth. “Help me!” Cathan stepped forward, eyeing the door suspiciously. “What-what do I say?”

“Nothing! Just push!”

Setting his sword down on the dusty floor, he stepped forward to take his place beside Beldyn, who was heaving with his shoulder now, grunting with the effort. Holding his breath, he set his hands on the door as well, and shoved as hard as he could.

All at once the air around them shivered, and sparks of red and gold poured out of the cracks where door met frame. With a deep growl the stone gave way, pivoting of its own accord and sending Cathan staggering to his knees. Beldyn stumbled too but stayed upright as, still streaming sorcerous cinders, the door rumbled open.

Snatching up his sword, Cathan sprang back to his feet. Images of dragons flashed through his mind, and the guardian became a black wyrm with fangs bared and flames leaping up its throat.

Several heartbeats later, after nothing had attacked them, he let the tip of his blade drop. There was no monster on the other side, only more cramped tunnel, winding out of sight. Seeing more niches carved into the walls, he sighed. At the very least, he’d hoped to get away from the dead.

Smiling, Beldyn stepped through the opening into the passage beyond. Cathan paused, took a deep breath, and followed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lord Holger’s breath smoked in the air as he stood outside his tent. He tried to hold still while his squire buckled on his shining, armor, but it was difficult. The lure of the fight sang in his blood, as it hadn’t in years. He’d spent too long in Istar, serving at the Kingpriest’s court, growing soft. That would soon change.

About time, he thought.

His squire, a gangly, dark-haired boy with a tuft of fuzz where a Knight’s long moustache would one day grow, finished buckling Holger’s greaves about his shins, then turned to strap spurs onto his master’s metal-plated boots. However, when he reached for the old Knight’s shield-an old battered thing engraved with the Solamnic kingfisher-Holger waved him off.

“No, lad. I won’t be needing that yet.”

The boy bobbed his head but kept the shield ready anyway, picking up his master’s sword as well. Holger nodded with approval. They were not going into battle yet, but it was a squire’s duty to be prepared, and the lad had learned his lessons well. He felt a certain sadness that the boy’s tenure would end before long, but also a certain pride. When he returned to his family’s castle in the spring, he would go with full commendations. Young Loren Soth would make a fine Knight one day.