and arguing. The markets swarmed with color and noise as merchants sold everything from Tarsian rugs to unguents from Karthay, pearls and ivory from Seldjuk, jugs of fine Taoli wine, even shards of old wood said to date from the lance of Huma Dragonbane himself. The
On the highest balcony of his towering manse, overlooking the mist shrouded gardens of the Temple, the Kingpriest stood, listening to the chorus murmuring his name. Thirty-eight years ago, he had come to Istar for the first time. Mere months before, he had been known to only a close circle as Brother Beldyn, a monk of scarcely seventeen summers, yet one who could work miracles of healing with his touch. Then lady Ilista, high priestess of Paladine, had visited his abbey, led by divine visions to find him. His coming to Istar had brought a schism within the empire, and caused Ilista’s own death; near open war had ended with the downfall of Kingpriest Kurnos, now called the Deceiver, who had used the darkest of magics in a mad attempt to hold on to his throne. The people of Istar had rejoiced when, wearing the long-lost Crown of Power, Beldinas had taken the throne. They had begun to chant his name that glorious day.
Thirty eight years, and the people still hadn’t stopped. For more than two thirds of his life, it had been the first thing he heard when he woke in the morning, and the last before he fell asleep. Even when he left the Lordcity, and went on processionals throughout the empire’s provinces-to the deserts of the south or the jungles of the north, the ports of the east or the highlands of the west-the admirers and chanting followed him. Hearing it now, he leaned forward, setting his hands on the balcony’s platinum balustrade, and let out a weary sigh.
“Holiness ”’ asked a voice behind him-soft, solicitous, polite. “Is something wrong?”
Beldinas turned, though he didn’t need to. That voice had been a constant in his life all these thirty-eight years. Other disciples had come and gone, friend and foe, counselor and courtier, but Quarath had always been there close by his side. Though his official title was Emissary of the Silvanesti elves, he had become much more. He was the Kingpriest’s most trusted advisor, and nearly as vital to the empire as Beldinas himself. Nothing happened without the elf knowing it: if Beldinas was Istar’s beating heart, Quarath was its sleepless brain.
The elf’s face-still youthful, unchanged even after so many years-was set in a frown of concern. A delicate hand rose to push back an errant strand of honey-colored hair. Quarath’s silvery robes, embroidered with gold and emeralds, shimmered with the movement.
“You seem tired,
Quarath nodded. As far as he or anyone else knew, the Kingpriest did not dream at all, good or ill. It drove the imperial soothsayers mad. “What is the matter, then?” the elf asked. “Do not tell me it is nothing.”
“I wouldn’t think to,” the Kingpriest said with a smile so slight it was barely noticeable. “You know my mind as well as I do. Perhaps better-so
The elf made a show of studying Beldinas, his brow furrowed with concentration. A silver lizard-bred, by means since forgotten, to resemble a winged dragon-flew up from the gardens below, inspected the both of them, then swooped away when it determined neither was about to give it food. When it was gone, Quarath raised his eyebrows, pretending to understand only now.
“It is the war,” Quarath said sympathetically. “You worry over the struggle against darkness.”
Beldinas shrugged. “What else? I have been fighting to drive evil from the world most of my years, and I fear I will not live to see victory.”
“Don’t say that, Holiness,” Quarath said. “You’ve accomplished a great deal. The Divine Hammer have rooted out the last of the evil gods’ worshipers. The goblins and ogres are gone too, and the wizards-” both paused to touch their foreheads as a ward against sorcery “-are exiled, and will not return.”
“I know, Emissary,” assented Beldinas. “It is all I hoped for when I first donned the crown … but it isn’t enough. Evil is beaten, but it is not destroyed. Even now, the knights still find forbidden cults in the wilderness.”
Quarath couldn’t help but acknowledge the point with a grim nod. Just yesterday, the court had been stunned to learn that the Divine Hammer had rooted out a hidden sect in Falthana, one which secretly worshiped a many- armed god. The cultists had fought back, but the forces of light had prevailed, smashing the false deity’s idol. They had brought the pieces back to Istar as a trophies.
“Evil abides, Quarath,” Beldinas declared, and sighed again. “No matter how ruthlessly we strike at it, it will not die. It only appears somewhere else, because there is one place it hides where I cannot reach. The hearts of men.”
The elf looked toward the basilica, shining brilliantly in the morning light. “It will be … difficult… rooting it out from men’s hearts, Holiness,” he ventured. “The gods made my people for good, just as they made the ogres and their like for evil. But they gave men both, to choose between them. So it is written.”
“I know that,” the Kingpriest replied somewhat acidly. “I
“But how?”
“I don’t know,” Beldinas said, turning back to look out over the garden. “At least not yet, Quarath.”
The elf’s eyes narrowed. He bit his lip, uncertain how to reply. Luckily, he didn’t have to fret long. As he gazed at the Kingpriest’s back, he heard the sound of footstep; jeweled slippers whispering across the marble floor. Proud as always that his keen elven senses had picked out the noise before Beldinas could hear, he turned to peer through the archway leading back into the manse.
Within was a young woman, not quite thirty, with long hair like polished brass. She dressed in white robes fringed with violet, an amethyst circlet on her head. “
Lady Elsa, First Daughter and highest priestess in the Istaran church, clasped her hands in greeting, bringing her thumbs together to form the god’s triangle. “I apologize for the interruption, Emissary, but I bring tidings from First Son Revando.”
“You can tell me, Elsa,” Quarath said. “The Kingpriest should not be disturbed.”
“Nonsense, Emissary,” interrupted Beldinas, coming up behind Quarath. “If the First Son and Daughter both feel it is important, then it must be so. Speak,
Elsa dipped her knee toward the floor as the Kingpriest drew near. “Holiness,” she said, “Revando and I were at the front gates of the Temple, performing the morning benediction over the pilgrims, when I chanced to look toward the harbor. There was a commotion there, and then I saw … I saw a ship.”
One of Quarath’s eyebrows climbed. “A ship, you say? In the harbor?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Emissary,” Beldinas said to Quarath, an edge in his voice. He turned back to Elsa, whose face had turned red. “What of this ship? Tell me, child.”
Elsa regained her composure, smiling gratefully at the Kingpriest. “The ship, Holiness … it had an unusual sail.”
She trailed off as Beldinas studied her a moment, intently. Then his back straightened, and he took half a step back. “Gray,” he said. “The sails were gray, weren’t they?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Y-yes, sire. They were.
Quarath shot the Kingpriest a sharp glance. “Gray! What is
“I don’t know, Emissary,” Beldinas replied, frowning. “But we shall soon find out, I think. Lady Elsa, you did well, coming here. Now I need you to spread the news. Go to the Hammerhall, and tell the Grand Marshal to come here at once.”
“Of course, Holiness,” said the First Daughter. “What should I say?”
“The truth,” the Kingpriest said, and sighed for the third time that morning. “Tell him the Weeping Lady has come.”
The Grand Marshal ducked, and just in time he heard the whistle as the sword missed his head, and knew he
