Chosen of the Gods Read online

  Bolstered by Tavarre’s words, Cathan had taken one of the horses this morning, and ridden back to town. Now, standing at the entry of Wentha’s sickroom, he found he could go no farther. He knew what she would look like—he’d seen his parents die, and Tancred too—but still he couldn’t face her. That wasn’t his sister in the bed anyway. His sister was gone. Sighing, he shut the door.

  “She’s a valiant girl,” said Fendrilla. The old woman stood near him, grave and ancient. She had aged ten years over the summer. “She fights.”

  Cathan nodded, not wanting to hear it. “You’ll keep looking after her?” he asked. “Until—until—”

  “You know I will, lad.” She rested a bird-bone hand on his shoulder. “I wish you’d let me pray for her.”

  Shaking his head, he stepped away from the old woman. The gods had abandoned him, abandoned Wentha. Paladine was far from Taol. The Longosai was all over the north now, spreading even within Govinna’s walls, and neither Kingpriest nor regent had replied to Lord Ossirian’s demands. The Scatas would come any day now, and the god would do nothing to stop them.

  The thud of hoofbeats on the dirt road outside brought Cathan back to the present, and he heard the creak of leather and a grunt as a man jumped down from his saddle. Mail rattled as booted feet hurried toward the house, and Cathan went to the door and flung it open, a hand on his sword. It was Vedro, his stubbled face red from the hard ride. He wore a crossbow across his back and an axe at his belt.

  “There you are,” he said, and glanced around, at the rocky land around Fendrilla’s cottage. “Where’s the horse? Tavarre needs it”

  “The horse? Why?”

  Vedro scratched his neck. “The scouts came back,” he said.

  “There’s a group of riders near here, couple leagues south.” Cathan paused, glancing over his shoulder. Tavarre had asked for the horse only. He ought to stay here. Wentha might live out the week, but she also might not last past the morrow.

  He knew he didn’t have the strength to see her. He’d tried, and his courage had failed.

  “All right,” he said, hating himself as he spoke the words.

  Jaw squared, he pushed past Vedro, on toward the spot where he’d tied the gelding Tavarre had given him. “You can have it—but you’re taking me, too.”

  * * * * *

  Taol’s hills had a way of channeling the wind. One moment the air was completely still, holding the ghost of summer’s warmth, then, suddenly, the pines would bend and gusts would pummel between the crags like a hammer of ice. It was doing this now, and Ilista sat hunched in her saddle, pulling her hood low. Tears froze on her cheeks, and despite her woolen gloves, she could no longer feel her fingertips.

  She looked up at the rest of the party. Sir Gareth and his men bore up with typical Solamnic stoicism, their armor and visored helms keeping some of the cold at bay. They glanced this way and that, watching the slopes for trouble. Her eyes drifted past them, to the figure who rode beside her. Beldyn sat erect on his brown palfrey, his head bare, his hair whipping behind him. If the wind troubled him at all, he gave no sign.

  They’d left the monastery weeks ago, Beldyn bidding his brethren farewell then riding away without looking back. Turning north, they had crossed the golden grasses of the Schalland Plains as the sun beat down upon them, then endured torrential rains as they threaded their way through the Khalkist mountains. The young monk remained untroubled through it all, his piercing blue eyes always fixed on the horizon before them.

  At last, five days ago, the Khalkists had given way to craggy foothills, and the party passed between a pair of white, ivy-covered obelisks that marked the empire’s border. Ilista had signed the triangle as they passed, whispering a prayer of thanks, but Beldyn had done more, reining in to stare at the standing stones. She’d watched as he dismounted and walked over to one, running his fingers over its smooth edges. His eyes had seemed to shine even brighter than usual when he returned to his saddle.

  She’d asked what was wrong, and he’d shaken his head. “Nothing—a feeling. As if I were coming home.” They would be at the Lordcity in a fortnight, if they kept pace. Ilista shut her eyes, picturing it—riding with Beldyn through Istar’s streets, then on to the Temple, where the Kingpriest lingered on the edge of death. She’d spoken to Loralon a few times over their journey, using the enchanted orb, and the news he’d given her was grim. Symeon had suffered a second seizure, and it was a miracle he still lived at all. Brother Purvis had found him near death, slumped over in his bed, and Stefara had saved him, but just barely. His mind, the healer said, was all but gone. The Kingpriest lay senseless, taking water and food. He would live a few more weeks, then Paladine would take him. Nothing could stop it now.

  Ilista smiled, as she had smiled then. Stefara didn’t know about the Lightbringer. She pictured it in her mind: Beldyn kneeling at Symeon’s bedside, praying to Paladine for help. Then the Kingpriest would awake, his shattered body and mind whole once more—

  Gareth stopped suddenly, raising his hand. “Hsst!” Snapping out of her reverie, Ilista reined in her horse. Hands on their hilts, the Knights formed a protective ring about her. Amid it all, Beldyn looked about, his brows knitting with confusion. After a moment, he nudged his horse over to Gareth. Ilista joined them, her fingers brushing the new mace she’d taken from the monastery. “Trouble?” she whispered.

  Gareth raised a finger to his lips, and Ilista fell silent. Nerves tingling, she glanced up at the slopes. They were steep, dotted with mossy boulders and swaying trees. Plenty of shadows in which to hide. Up ahead, a narrow cataract foamed down several layers of rock, making noise enough to drown out the whisper of boots on stone, or steel sliding against leather.

  Beside her, Beldyn nodded slowly, his face smooth and his eyes closed. “It begins,” he murmured.

  Ilista blinked. She was about to ask what he meant when the sound of hoofbeats rose ahead, echoing among the hills, growing steadily louder. She looked up and saw one of the Knights, a tall, silent youth named Reginar who had been riding point, gallop around abend. He reined in, his horse snorting as it tossed its head.

  “Road’s blocked,” he panted, pushing up his visor. “A tree, some rocks.”

  Gareth made a face, looking up the hillside. “A barricade. Like as not, we’re being watched.”

  “We are,” Beldyn said.

  Ilista looked at him sharply, but his gaze was far away, looking north, beyond the hills. He still appeared unworried, his face holding the satisfied look of a man who had just figured out a clue to a troubling riddle. Before she could ask him anything, Gareth leaned close, his eyes stone-dark.

  “Efisa, we should turn back.”

  Her eyes lingered on Beldyn, however, and the Knight had to touch her arm to rouse her. “Uh?” she asked, then his words sank in and she nodded. “Very well. There’s another pass to the south. We can—”

  She never finished. Beldyn jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks, and suddenly he was galloping forward, past the startled Knights and on down the road.

  “Beldyn!” Ilista cried. On instinct, she spurred her own mare after him.

  Gareth grabbed for her robes, but he didn’t catch hold of her, and she heard him swear behind her. A moment later, the clatter of mail told her the Knight was giving chase, his men with him. She kept her eyes on Beldyn as he rounded the shoulder of a hill. Her mare snorted, hooves thumping against the stony ground. They were heading into a trap—he had to know it, as well as she did. Why—

  She came upon the tree so suddenly, she barely had time to pull up, saving her horse from spearing itself on the broken stubs of branches. It was an oak, its leaves fringed flame-orange, its trunk wide enough to crush any hopes of jumping over it. Beldyn stood his palfrey just before it, looking about. The young monk was calm, his eyes gleaming as he looked up the hillside, as if awaiting someone.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, grabbing his arm. “We have to get away from here now!’

  �
�Too late,” said a firm voice.

  Ilista started, twisting in her saddle to follow Beldyn’s gaze. On an outcropping partway up the northern slope stood a short, wiry man in a mail shirt and hooded cloak. He cradled a crossbow in his arms, a quarrel on the string. He nodded to her, and turned his head west, toward the clamor of the approaching Knights. Then he lifted his head and let out a raptor’s shriek.

  To either side of the road, the hills came alive as more than a score of cloaked figures appeared. They rose from the shadows, stepping out of the undergrowth or from behind boulders, armed with crossbows and slings. Their armor was lighter than the first man’s—leather breastplates, mostly, some with metal studs—and all had shortswords or axes at their belts. Ilista knew at once they were trapped. Gareth and his men could put up a fight, but they would never overcome them all. Even so, she reached for her mace, her blood pounding in her ears.

  “Yield!” called the bandits’ leader. “Throw down your arms, and this will end without bloodshed!”

  Everything seemed to slow. Ilista held her breath. Beside her Gareth’s horse danced sideways as he drew his sword. He was a Solamnic Knight. It went against his honor to surrender without a fight. Beneath his raised visor, his moustache twisted into a warlike snarl. The other Knights yanked their blades from their scabbards.

  The bandit chief raised his hand while the ring of steel echoed among the hills, then brought it chopping down. Ilista heard the snap of crossbow strings, and a steel quarrel buried itself in the ground before her. Her horse reared, whinnying, as more bolts narrowly missed the Knights as well. Ilista hauled on her reins, trying to control her mare. Beldyn did not budge.

  “That was a warning,” the lead bandit proclaimed. “Next time, we won’t aim to miss.”

  Ilista was still staring at the quarrel when a hand touched her arm. Startled, she turned to meet Beldyn’s cool, assured gaze.

  “Do as he says,” he said.

  Caught by his penetrating eyes, Ilista found she had no choice but to obey. Her mace thumped on the ground.

  “At least the Revered Daughter has a brain,” the bandit declared, and chuckled. “Now. The rest of you do the same.”

  “Never!” Gareth cried, brandishing his sword. “We do not give to highway—”

  “MarSevrin,” the bandit said.

  Something white flew down from the hillside, and the Knight’s fierce glare vanished in a red spray as it struck him, just beneath his open visor. He slumped against his horse’s neck, then toppled from the saddle with a crash. His sword skittered from his hand, and he lay still, his face covered with blood.

  Ilista looked at him, aghast, then turned to the younger Knights, as they began to raise their own blades. “No! Enough!” she shouted. “Stop this, before you get us all killed!”

  The Knights looked at her, then at Gareth, then at one another. One by one, they dropped their swords.

  “Very wise,” the lead bandit noted. “Now dismount, all of you, and don’t move.”

  Beldyn moved first, a strange smile curling his lips. He hadn’t flinched, even when Gareth fell. Ilista and the Knights followed, keeping their hands up. Several ruffians half-climbed, half-slid down the slope while the rest kept their crossbows trained on the party.

  Ilista looked at Beldyn as they approached. “What now?”

  He shrugged, unafraid. “We go with them,” he said. “Fear not, Efisa. We are in the god’s hands.”

  She would have asked him more, but just then one of the bandits grabbed her and pulled a sack over her head, blocking out the world.

  * * * * *

  Night fell as the bandits rode back to camp. They covered the last few miles by torchlight, leading their blindfolded captives up a winding game trail. At last, as the gibbous red moon was rising, they passed sentries and rode down into the gorge to where the rest of the gang waited. A great cheer went up as they led the hostages into the camp.

  Cathan moved quickly to the camp’s central yard, watching as his fellows forced their captives down onto their knees upon the dusty ground. His eyes settled on three figures in particular amid the cluster of Solamnic Knights. One was the Revered Daughter who had first surrendered her weapon, the group’s leader, apparently, her white robes fringed with violet The second was her companion, a monk who seemed too young for his gray cassock. He was a strange one, carrying himself with such assurance that but for the sack covering his head, he might have been an honored guest rather than a prisoner.

  The third, the one to whom Cathan’s gaze kept returning, was the commander of the Knights, the man he’d felled with a single, well-aimed piece of his family’s broken holy symbol. The man hadn’t regained consciousness and had made the journey slung over his saddle. Now, as the bandits untied the cords securing him to his horse, he slid limply to the ground. Cathan felt sick as he looked upon the Knight’s senseless form, the face crusted with dried blood. His thoughts harked back to the guard captain in Govinna.

  You’ve killed again, a cold voice said in his head.

  One by one, the bandits pulled off their captives’ blindfolds, laughing as the Knights winced in the bright light of the camp’s fires. Tavarre unmasked the priestess last of all, bowing as she squinted in the glare.

  “Welcome, Your Grace,” he said, his scar deepening as he grinned. “First Daughter Ilista, isn’t it? I remember you from the last time I attended His Holiness’s court. I am Tavarre, fourteenth Baron of Luciel. These are my loyal vassals.”

  He gestured to the bandits, who laughed again. Ilista blinked at him, then her eyes widened. Beneath his shaggy beard and grime-streaked face, Tavarre was still recognizable as the nobleman she’d once met.

  “Baron … ?” she began. “But why? To fall in with common ruffians—”

  The bandits rumbled at this, but Tavarre silenced them with a look. “Pardon, Efisa,” he said, “but these are no mere ruffians. Most were my subjects not long ago, and I lived in a keep, not a hollow in the hills.” He glanced around, shrugging. “Things change, but now, I tire—as do you, I’m sure. We will talk more on the morrow.”

  He signaled to his men, who started forward. Before they could take two steps, however, the priestess raised her hand— an imperious gesture that gave the bordermen pause, even though she was their captive.

  “Wait,” she said. “What about Sir Gareth?”

  Cathan followed Tavarre’s gaze to the fallen Knight, then watched as the baron knelt down and eased off his helmet Gareth’s forehead was livid, the flesh puffy and dark where Cathan’s shot had struck. The blood had clotted in his receding hair.

  Tavarre probed the wound with his fingers, then looked up and shook his head as the Knight groaned. “His skull’s cracked,” he said. “The swelling’s pushing the bone into his brain. It’s a wonder he survived this long. I’m sorry, Your Grace—no one can help him.”

  “I can.”

  Everyone turned at the sound of the soft, musical voice. The strange young monk was looking at Gareth, his ice-blue eyes gleaming. Now he looked up, sweeping the crowd with his strange gaze. Cathan caught his breath as their eyes met. There was something in Beldyn’s serene expression that made hope leap within him, just for an instant. I believe him, Cathan thought, wondering. Huma’s silver arm—who is this monk?

  Tavarre met Beldyn’s look with skepticism, though. “I’ve seen wounds like this before,” he said. “Even a Mishakite healer would have trouble with it”

  “Maybe so,” the monk said, “but I am no Mishakite.”

  Silence settled over the camp, punctuated by coughs among the bandits. Cathan glanced at them, and saw their brows furrowed as well. They had seen something in the monk’s face too.

  “Let him try,” the First Daughter said. “What have you to lose?”

  Tavarre frowned, scratching his beard. He gave the monk another long, hard look, then shrugged. “Very well, but no trickery.”

  Smiling, Beldyn got to his feet. He walked to Sir Gareth and knelt beside him, be
nding low to examine the gruesome ruin of his face. His fingers came away red. Tavarre shook his head again but said nothing as Beldyn signed the triangle over the Knight’s motionless form. That done, the monk cupped his left hand over the wound, then pressed his right over his own breast. His expression blank, he took a deep breath and began to pray.

  “Palado, ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis biram cailud, e tas oram nomass lud bipum. Sifat.”

  Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this man, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.

  A deep silence settled over the camp as Beldyn waited. Even the usual sounds—the whisper of the pines in the breeze, the chatter of night-birds, the crackle of the campfires—fell away, and the world seemed to constrict, pulling tighter and tighter until there was nothing but the place where the monk’s hand touched the Knight’s broken skull. No one breathed. No one dared. A minute passed, then another.

  Nothing happened.

  Cathan shook his head. He should have known better. The god was far from this place. Looking at Lady Ilista’s stricken face, he couldn’t help but smirk. She’d truly believed the monk could do it, believed with every bit of faith in her, and now that faith had failed her. Cathan chuckled to himself, knowing how she felt.

  “Well,” Tavarre said. “I think we’ve wasted enough—”

  “Mother of Paladine!” one of the bandits gasped, pointing. “Look!”

  Cathan turned back to Beldyn, his eyes narrowing—then they widened into a stare of amazement. The young monk still hunched over Gareth, but now there was a silvery shimmer, like sunlight on water, where he touched the Knight’s wound. Cathan blinked, afraid his eyes were playing tricks, as the shimmer became a gleam, then a glow, bathing Beldyn and Gareth both in its radiance. The monk squeezed his eyes shut, his face lined with concentration. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his lips pulled back from clenched teeth, muscles tightened in his arms and neck …