Chosen of the Gods

knocked him to his knees. “Pilofiro, what have you done?”

Within the Pantheon’s dim halls, Sathira shrieked with pain as the wave of holy power struck her. It tore at her shadowy form, and for a moment she feared it would rip her apart, send her howling back to the shelter of the emerald, as had happened when the First Daughter had defeated her. It didn’t, though: the pain was excruciating, but it passed. The spell’s focus was elsewhere, far from the temple, so the torment abated, leaving her reeling and shivering in its wake.

Hissing hatefully, the demon shut her eyes, seeking the source of the godly force. It took her a while-the echoes of the agonizing blast still lingered-but after a moment she found what she was looking for. The pain still burned, like a smoldering cinder in her mind. She growled, focusing. Where was it? Where?

Her eyes slitted open, looking up. A cackling laugh erupted from her, a sound that had nothing to do with mirth. The Lightbringer was above her.

With an eager snarl, she swept on through the church, bound for the tower.

Cathan watched everything, appalled, as the last of Govinna’s defenders either fell or surrendered. Most gave up their swords as the Kingpriest’s army enveloped them. A few held out, however, fighting on, despite the fact that they had already lost. One by one, their flashing blades fell still, swallowed by the press of soldiers on all sides. Sickened, Cathan wondered how many of those last brave few were men he knew. Were any of them from Luciel? Was Lord Tavarre one of them?

The Scatas were pouring into the city now, surging through its winding, narrow streets, the light of their torches spilling down the lanes. More and more they came, no end to them, thousands strong. He could hear their shouts of triumph, the conquering hymns of the priests who walked among them. Closer and closer they came, bearing down on the Pantheon. They would tear the place apart if they had to, he knew. Before much longer had passed-and before they could flee to a safe place-the soldiers would be surging up the tower. He eyed the stairs. They were tight, and their curve might make it easy for him to fight, but even so, he couldn’t hold out forever. They’d kill him, take Beldyn, and that would be it. Everything they’d fought for would end.

He turned to the monk, stricken. Beldyn leaned on the balustrade, shoulders bowed, gazing down at the advancing soldiers. White light sparkled around him, but within the aura he was clearly exhausted. He looked haggard, many times his years, and he slumped further, nearly toppling over the rail. The inexplicable magic he’d worked had spent him, as it had at the bridge. He had no strength left.

“What have you done?” Cathan breathed.

Beldyn turned, shuddering with fatigue. His eyes were blue suns, terrible to behold. “What I had to,” he said, his voice breaking. “I saw my fate, while I lay in that trance. The enemy must come to me. It is what the god intends.”

Cathan stared, aghast. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “You mean Paladine meant for us to lose?”

“No, my friend.” Beldyn said with his smile returning, “but the battle cannot be won with swords. The answer is in your hands.”

Frowning, Cathan looked down. He still held the Miceram in his grasp.

“Site ceram biriat, abat,” Beldyn said. “It’s time for you to crown me.”

Cathan swallowed, turning the crown in his hands. Its rubies shimmered from within. A giddy laugh burst from his lips.

“I’ve never done a coronation before,” he said. “I don’t know how.”

“There’s nothing to know,” Beldyn replied, easing himself onto one knee. “Put it on my head and name me Kingpriest. The rest is just ritual claptrap, anyway.”

Again, Cathan hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and raised the Miceram. He held it above Beldyn’s head, heavy in his hands, and shivered. The wind had turned frigid, all of a sudden.

“Beldyn,” he spoke, then stopped, shaking his head. “Beldinas. In Paladine’s name, and with this crown, I hereby-”

Then, suddenly, his voice died in his throat. Two green eyes had appeared, burning slits just behind Beldyn’s back. He stared, horror swelling in his breast as his gaze locked with Sathira’s. The demon laughed, a low, growling sound that cut through Cathan’s spine.

“Too late,” she snarled, and lunged.

Cathan was quicker, though. Dropping the crown with a clatter, he shoved Beldyn aside. The monk grunted as he sprawled across the tower’s roof, but he was out of the way. Raising his sword, Cathan stepped in front of the demon.

She slowed, glaring, then laughed again and lashed out, swiping at the blade with her talons. With a horrible rending sound the weapon burst apart, scattering tangled fragments everywhere. As Cathan stared at the useless hilt in his hand, she brought her sinuous, shadowy arm down on him.

White stars burst in his head, and fire blossomed as her claws furrowed his chest, ripping through his armor like wet parchment. It wasn’t a death blow, although he cried out, tumbling in a heap, the wind exploding from his lungs. Sathira glided after him, cackling, talons outstretched-

And flinched, letting out a hiss of pain.

Cathan stared from where he lay, his eyes wide. She glared at him from a few feet away, her eyes aglow with loathing, but though she clearly wanted to kill him, something stopped her. He furrowed his brow, then looked down and saw what it was.

Whether her claws had done it or whether it was from the force of hitting the ground, the little leather pouch he used to hold slingstones had burst open, spilling out the pieces of the holy sign he’d smashed after Tancred died. He stared at the bits of white porcelain, fanned out upon the rooftop, then glanced up at the demon. She stared back, her green eyes blazing with hate, then turned with a hiss and swept toward Beldyn.

“No, you don’t,” Cathan said, and threw one of the pieces at her.

It struck her in the back, bouncing off as if she were solid flesh, rather than shadowstuff. Sathira gave a terrible scream, writhing in agony, and he wasted no time, pelting her with more bits of the holy sign until she fell back, crumpled in on herself, and shrank into little more than a ragged cloud of blackness with two motes of green fire suspended in its midst. All the time she shrieked curses upon him, upon Beldyn, upon Paladine himself. Cathan didn’t let up until he’d run out of pieces, and they lay scattered about her shapeless, howling form.

On the far side of the roof, Beldyn rose to his feet. He regarded Sathira for a long moment, helpless and seething, then went and picked up the Miceram. Cathan watched, holding his breath, as Beldyn turned back to the demon.

“Scugam oporud,” he spoke softly.

Demon begone.

With that, he set the Crown of Power on his head.

Sathira froze, her eyes flaring wide. A terrible shriek, the worst yet, like metal tearing a hole in the sky, erupted from her shadow mouth. Beldyn cried out too, howling in pain and ecstasy. He flung his arms out, the Miceram blazing with the fires of dawn.

And the world filled with light.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

In the years to come, poets wrote that the light that ended the Battle of Govinna came from the heavens, a bright, shining beam streaking down from the firmament. The poets weren’t there, though. To the bordermen and Scatas who were, the light came from atop the patriarch’s spire, rising up into the night- black sky.

Those closest saw it best, and none was closer than Cathan. He saw the Miceram