Chosen of the Gods

Cathan couldn’t feel his legs. He’d been kneeling all night upon the stony path in the Garden of Martyrs, surrounded by the grandeur of the Great Temple-basilica, manse, cloisters, and riots of fruited trees and night- blooming flowers. Birds sang above, and nocturnal lizards, bred to resemble tiny silver and gold dragons, shuffled through the undergrowth. Behind him, the Kingpriest’s private rose garden-blighted and brown when he’d first beheld it, more than a fortnight ago-had turned a brilliant green, and though it was the wrong time of year, huge, fragrant blooms covered the trellises with crimson and gold.

He paid no attention to any of it. His eyes were fixed on the cenotaph.

It was a tall, oblong slab, hewn of moonstone, that glistened blue in Solinari’s light. Many such monuments loomed among the garden’s almond trees, graven with hundreds upon hundreds of names: the honored dead, who had given their lives for the holy church. The earliest were older than the Temple itself, from the days of the first Kingpriest’s rise, and they went on from there, down through the empire’s history. Here were the missionaries who had perished in the crusades to civilize the borderlands. Over there were the casualties of the Annexation Wars, which had made provinces of the once-proud kingdoms of Seldjuk, Falthana, and Dravinaar. Three separate stones, set far apart from the others, bore the names of the victims of the Three Thrones’ War. A great many people had died in the god’s name over the centuries.

The cenotaph where Cathan knelt, however, was mostly blank. The sculptor Nevorian of Calah had chiseled the first names into its smooth surface over the past few days. Cathan stared at them, a hardness in his throat.

Gareth Paliost, Knight of the Sword.

Durinen, Patriarch ofTaol.

Ossirian, Lord ofAbreri.

Ilista, First Daughter ofPaladine.

There were others, too: Gareth’s Knights, Tavarre’s man Vedro, and those who had fallen-on either side-in the Great Battle of Govinna. What held Cathan’s notice, more than any of them, was the long, blank expanse beneath. It gave him a strange feeling, and not just because one day-perhaps soon- the space would be filled. What troubled him most was that his name had nearly been there.

Some had argued, in fact, that his name still belonged on the cenotaph. He had died, after all-was he any less a martyr, because the Lightbringer had restored his life? The scholars would, no doubt, keep debating the matter for months, but he knew he would have plenty of chances, in the coming years, to earn an unchallenged place on the monument.

For this day, Cathan MarSevrin would become a Knight.

That hadn’t been an easy thing, either. Lord Holger had been hard against knighthood for him and still was. The Solamnic orders, he contended, required years of training in arts both martial and courtly. Knighthood wasn’t something awarded lightly-and only seldom to a commoner or to one so young.

Beldinas had listened to the old Knight’s arguments, his face blank behind the Miceram’s glow. Then, leaning forward on his throne, he had made his reply.

“Est Sularus Oth Mithas,” he’d said. “The Solamnic oath-My Honor is My Life. Who better to swear it than one who has already given his life?”

In the end, Holger had relented, consenting to Cathan’s admission to the Knights of the Crown, the lowest of the orders. By the time Cathan himself learned of their decision, it was far too late for him to object. Now he kept silent vigil, the dawn still hours away, unable after all this kneeling to sense anything from the knees down-not even prickling.

How long, he wondered, could a man’s feet feel asleep before they turned black and fell off? What would happen if he couldn’t walk properly when the time came? Had Huma Dragonbane limped to his dubbing?

“He used a cushion, you know.”

Cathan stiffened, his heart lurching at the sound of the pleasant, jocular voice. He turned, looking over his shoulder, and saw the man who had spoken. It was a short, corpulent monk in a white pavilion of a habit. He leaned against another cenotaph, hands folded across his vast belly, a little smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Cathan blinked, confused. He hadn’t been in Istar long, but he was certain he would remember such an odd fellow. Yet he was sure he’d never seen the man before.

“What?” he exclaimed.

The monk smiled. “You were wondering how Huma got through his vigil. He knelt on a pillow. The Knights didn’t start this bare-ground nonsense until a few hundred years later. Idiotic, if you ask me.”

“What?” Cathan managed to repeat. “Who are you?”

“Always the same question,” the monk replied, his enormous belly jiggling as he waddled closer. He looked up at the moonstone slab, sorrowful. “Lady Ilista asked the same thing. She knew me as Brother Jendle, but that’s not important-you’re the one who matters. If you’d kindly remove your tunic…”

A pudgy hand reached out, plucking at the plain gray shift Cathan had donned for the vigil. Cathan flinched away. “What?” he asked again.

“Don’t you know any other words?” Jendle asked, his brow creasing. “Your tunic. I need to make sure you’re who I think you are. I have a message, and I’d hate to give it to the wrong man. On your left side, please-there should be a scar.”

When he met Brother Jendle’s eyes, he froze. They were an odd color, a golden brown dancing with silver light. There was something about them that reminded him of Beldyn, and as he looked into them his doubts faded. Swallowing, he reached up and unlaced the neck of his shirt, then pulled it up, over his head. Beneath, towards his left side, was a large patch of puckered flesh, hairless and shiny, the kind of mark burns left. It was the only sign that remained of the lightning blast that had killed him.

Jendle bent forward, squinting and grunting as he examined it, then straightened with a satisfied nod. His eyes lingered on the scar.

“How did it feel?” he asked. “To die, I mean?”

Cathan sighed. Everyone-even Beldyn-asked him that question. “Everything went dark,” he said. “Then there was a bright light, and I opened my eyes. Nothing else.”

The monk nodded, chins bunching. “Probably best, that. Now hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.”

“Wh-” Cathan started to say again. Before he could say anything more, though, the monk reached out, extending a bulbous finger to touch his scar.

The world wrenched about him. Suddenly, he was no longer in the garden, but floating above it, staring down at the trees and stones below. There, in its midst, were Brother Jendle… and him. His own body knelt before the monument, where he’d been a heartbeat ago. He tried to cry out at the sight, but no sound came from his lips.

You have no lips, he thought, staring at the fleshly form he’d left behind.

He began to rise. Soon he was gazing down at the whole Great Temple-vast and magnificent, the basilica glittering at its heart-then the entire Lordcity, its lights aglow along Lake Istar’s shore. Higher still, he floated over the other cities of the heartland: island-bound Calah, crowded Odacera across the water, Kautilya’s glowing bronze foundries. The other provinces came into view next, from the jungles of the north to Dravinaar’s southern desert. Shifting, he looked west… yes, there was Govinna, nestled among the hills, and beyond it the western realms, Solamnia, Kharolis, and Ergoth. He beheld the elven forests, the mountains that hid the fabled kingdom of the dwarves, the frozen isles of Icereach. All of Ansalon lay beneath him, surrounded by shining sea.

He felt himself shifting away toward the sky. There were the moons, red and silver, and the constellations his father had taught him: the Book of Gilean, the Fivefold Serpent, the Platinum Dragon that was Paladine’s emblem, all laid out in their patterns across the velvety night. And there, among them, was something unusual. Something moving, streaking swiftly among the stars, flames raging around it. He squinted-or would have, if he’d had eyelids-and tried to look closer, make out its shape.

A hammer?

Yes, that was it. A great, burning hammer, flashing toward him, toward the blue ball of Krynn. It loomed larger every moment, throwing off fiery red tongues as it spun, startling him with its hugeness. The thing seemed miles across, as vast as the whole Lordcity, and he cringed as it neared, terrified that it would slam into him. When the moment came, however, the huge burning hammer missed him by an arm’s length, shooting by with an incredible roar.