Chosen of the Gods Read online

  Now she was changing into something else. It was early yet, the red blooms on her arms the only sign, but it wouldn’t be long before the Longosai turned her into something wretched, as it had the rest of his family.

  “Oh, Blossom,” he began, then faltered, bowing his head. He would not cry.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. She was pale, tired-looking, but not yet gaunt. That would come. “You stopped coming to visit, after … after Tancred… .”

  He shook his head. She didn’t know about the bandits. “I’ve been busy, lass, but I’m here now.”

  She smiled, and his heart nearly broke. Though it was the same lovely smile she’d always had, he saw only a terrible rictus. He looked away, and when he found the strength to turn back her eyes had fluttered shut again. He set her hand down, then laid his head on her chest, listening. Her lifebeat sounded horribly weak to his ears.

  Paladine, he prayed silently, If you are the great god of good the clerics claim, do this one thing and I’ll serve you the rest of my days. She’s just a girl. Heal her.

  For a moment, the beating of Wentha’s heart seemed to strengthen, her breathing to lose its faint, whistling wheeze. Cathan pulled back, his eyes wide, wondering if Fendrilla had been right after all—had his prayer healed her?

  When he looked closer, though, the rash was still there, angry red bumps running from wrist to elbow. The Longosai had her and would not let go so easily.

  Slowly, he drew the blanket back over her and stood still, then, with a growl, he turned and walked away. Fendrilla moved to stop him but held back when she saw the wildness in his eyes. His thoughts roiling, he stormed out of the old woman’s cottage, into the half-light of sunset.

  He walked for hours, first through Luciel’s cluster of thatched cottages—many of them dark now, emptied by the plague—then up the rutted road, climbing the ridge that marked the edge of the valley where he’d lived all his life. He didn’t look back but kept on, the shadows of pines and boulders lengthening around him. Somewhere he found a fallen branch, and swiped at imagined foes: Scatas, fat priests, Paladine himself. Always he made sure to hit them with the last four inches. That was what killed.

  In time—he wasn’t sure how long, but it must have been hours—he stopped walking. The sun had set, and the red moon was rising, the hue of its light matching his mood. He’d gotten off the road sometime and had been wandering the wilds. Now, looking around, he saw things he recognized: a boulder shaped like a man’s face, a familiar stand of birches. Ahead, a narrow ravine cut through the crags. Without his mind to tell them where to go, his feet had brought him back to camp.

  I’m coming home, he thought. Sighing, he cast aside his branch and walked on.

  Cresting one last hill shoulder, he came to a halt again as he looked down at the gorge below. There was something different about the camp: cautious about lighting too many fires, the bandits tended to bed down early. Only the watchers remained awake for long after dusk. Now, though, the ravine was bustling, men calling out to one another as they hurried about. Some bent by the stream, filling skins with water. Others were saddling the horses, or pulling down tents. Amidst it all, Lord Tavarre stood on a grassy hummock, snapping orders and shouting curses.

  Cathan stared in amazement. He’d only been away from camp a few hours. What was going on? He hesitated, not sure he wanted to know—he could go back to Luciel, no one would miss him—but finally he clenched his fists and started down into the ravine.

  A wolf howled before he’d gone very far, and half a dozen cloaked men met him halfway down the slope. One stepped forward, sword in hand. “Halt!” he barked. “Name yourself before I give you a new hole for breathing.”

  Hearing the man’s voice in the dark, Cathan couldn’t help but chuckle. “Thanks, Embric, but I’ve all the holes I need,” he said, raising his hands to show they were empty.

  The shadowy figure hesitated, then lowered his weapon, pulling back his hood to reveal his scruff-bearded face. Embric asked with concern, “What are you doing back? Your sister—”

  Cathan shook his head, scowling, and they stood there silently for a time. Embric looked at his feet, his face grim. Finally, Cathan blew a long breath through tight lips, and nodded toward the tents.

  “What’s happening down there?” he asked. “It looks as though you’re striking camp.”

  “We are,” Embric said. “Another rider came, a while after you left. He—”

  “What in the blue Abyss is going on up there?” growled a voice from down the hill. “Six men, and you can’t handle one intruder?”

  Lord Tavarre hurried up toward them, Vedro at his side. His scarred face was set with anger and darkened even more when he saw Embric and the other bandits. Before he could say anything, though, his eyes fell on Cathan and widened.

  “I came back,” Cathan said. “Where are you going?”

  The baron looked at him a moment, then ran a hand through his graying hair and turned to Embric “Go back down and get to work. You too, Vedro. I’ll be along.”

  The bandits hesitated, then withdrew, and Tavarre turned to Cathan, beckoning with his hand. “I would have bet against your returning. Walk with me.”

  Cathan glanced around, then nodded, and fell in beside his lord. Tavarre walked quickly for a short man, striding through the dark with a huntsman’s sureness. They made their way through the night with the commotion of the camp falling behind as they went back the way Cathan had come. When they reached the face-shaped boulder Tavarre stopped, so Cathan did too. The baron regarded him quietly in the moonlight.

  “What is it?” Cathan asked nervously, wondering why Tavare had taken him away from the others. “Embric said something about a messenger.”

  Tavarre nodded. “You know we’re not the only bandits in the highlands, yes?” He went on without waiting for Cathan’s nod. “Well, there’s been talk for a while, of banding together. Now it’s finally happening. There’s a man named Ossirian, a higher lord than me—he’s called us all to him, for something more than waylaying priests. Something bigger.” He paused, his eyes glittering. “We’re going to attack Govinna.”

  “What?” Cathan said, shocked.

  “That’s what I said, when I read the message,” Tavarre said, grinning slyly. “I know Ossirian, though. He has a plan. We’re to move out at once and meet up with the others at Abreri.”

  Cathan stood there, his mouth open, unable to think what to say. Govinna was Taol’s largest city, walled and well-guarded. It was also a fortnight’s march away—far enough that Cathan had never seen it. The bandits had joked about sacking it, more than once, but that was all it was—jests.

  “Listen, lad,” Tavarre said, putting a hand on Cathan’s shoulder, “you don’t have to come. I see where your heart is. Stay with your sister.”

  Cathan held his breath, considering. He could remain here in Luciel, with Wentha—but to what end? She would waste away, like his parents, like Tancred, and nothing he could do would stop her death. On the other hand, Govinna was where Durinen, the borderlands’ high priest and ruler, lived. He couldn’t save his sister, but he could help bring down the god’s servant. That was something.

  Slowly he exhaled, lips tight against his teeth. “No,” he said. “I’m with you.”

  Chapter Five

  SlXTHMONTH, 923 I.A.

  The day began for Symeon as it always did, with Brother Purvis waking him by ringing a chime made from the wingbone of a silver dragon. It still lacked nearly two hours before dawn, and he lay awake for a time, listening to the nightbirds’ final songs. Dust danced on the silver moonlight streaming through the windows of his chamber. It was nearing summer, and the room was already warm. In the Lordcity, late spring was a time of humid days and cool nights, punctuated by lashing rainstorms that swept in off the lake. Smiling, the Kingpriest pushed off his white, silken sheets and rose from his golden bed for the last time.

  The morning passed quickly, following the usual routine. Purvis bro
ught him a mug of honeyed wine, and he drank it in his private bath while blind servants scrubbed his pink, soft skin. After, barbered, powdered and perfumed, he passed to his vestiary, where still more acolytes helped him into his ceremonial raiment: robes of Lattakayan satin, bejeweled breastplate, rings and slippers, and the sapphire tiara that had graced the brow of every Kingpriest since the end of the Three Thrones’ War. Last, he donned his medallion, kissing the platinum triangle and murmuring the god’s name before slipping it over his head.

  He was late today, as it happened, and the dawnsong bells were already chiming in the Temple’s central spire as he left the manse. He crossed a rose-covered bridge from the palace to the basilica, taking little notice of the fingers of mist that rose from the gardens below, or the clerics that hurried, answering the call to prayer. A scarlet butterfly with wings an arm’s length across fluttered close to him, curious, then rode the drafts away.

  The Temple’s priests—most of them, anyway—already had gathered when he arrived in the basilica, more than a thousand men and women in all. They were from all over the empire: almond-eyed Dravinish, Falthanans with forked, dyed beards, even a few Solamnians and swarthy Ergothmen, each wearing white robes in the styles of their homelands, and of course, the Silvanesti, tall and beautiful, led by Loralon and his aide, a slim, golden-haired elf named Quarath. A choir of elven priestesses sang a hymn of heartbreaking beauty as the Kingpriest ascended his dais, the hall resounding with their song.

  As he had every day for the past six years, Symeon spoke the Udossi, the Blessing of Sunrise, a half-hour liturgy in the church tongue that he knew as well as his own name. He scarcely heard the words as they passed from his lips, so familiar were they, and before he knew it the censers that flanked his throne issued gouts of white smoke, and the priests dispersed, returning to study and chancery, office and prayer room. Symeon retired to his private sanctum within the basilica, a chamber with flamewood walls and an alabaster fountain whose waters smelled of lavender. There his servants brought his morning meal— honeycakes, bloodmelon, and cheese made from mare’s milk.

  He scanned scrolls as he ate, his eyes gliding over reports from the hierarchs, as well as missives from the provinces. Most of them he stopped reading after a dozen words or so, making certain none of the tidings were particularly dire before setting them aside: his underlings would deal with most of these matters. As Voice of Paladine on Krynn, he could not trouble himself with every one of his subjects’ needs. When he reached an epistle marked with Taol’s golden-bear sigil, however, he stopped and read it carefully. Revered Son Durinen sent reports weekly, with the precision of Karthayan clockwork, and Symeon read every word the highland patriarch set to parchment.

  This week’s message was nothing unusual, to the Kingpriest’s disappointment The banditry in the hills continued, the robbers sacking occasional caravans that dared to break the ban he had placed on trade with the Taoli. The patriarch’s men caught some, mounting their heads on gatehouses and at crossroads, but the bandits’ losses were few. Durinen wrote about the plague too, this Longosai that continued to ravage his holdings. It had spread farther north, encroaching on Govinna itself. Symeon shook his head as he read about the hundreds who had died, and the thousands still sick, but only for a moment did he dwell on the Longosai. No healer—not even Stefara of Mishakal—had the power to stop it. He only hoped it would run its course before it spread to the lowlands. Clucking his tongue, he set the missive aside with the rest and went to hold court.

  He remained in the Hall of Audience the rest of the morning, hearing more word from the Lordcity’s various nobles and merchant princes. It was tedious work, and by the time the basilica bells sounded the midday, his head had begun to ache. Adjourning court, he returned to his sanctum, where he sat in silence, rubbing his temples. He barely touched the buttered lobster his servants brought for his midday meal and only drank one of his customary two goblets of watered claret. When the noontide passed and the audience resumed, the ache had become a stab, flaring behind his left eye with every heartbeat.

  It soon proved too much, and he withdrew more than an hour early and forewent his usual appearance on the Temple’s front steps, where it had been his habit to pronounce blessing on the folk who gathered in the Barigon’s wide expanses. Instead, he retired to his private rose garden to while away the rest of the day. He lay on a cushioned bench in the sunlight, listening to the distant, muted murmur of the city outside the Temple’s walls as servants fanned him and fed him golden grapes. A hippogriff , a winged horse with the head of a raptor, cropped clover nearby and drank from a pond whose bottom was made of crushed amethyst.

  Around sunset the pain abated again, becoming a low throb he could nearly ignore. He rose and waved to a waiting servant, who brought over two violet apples. Symeon fed these to the hippogriff, the docile beast taking the food from his hand, then wended his way back toward the basilica. It was twilight, and the bells tolled the evensong.

  When the Opiso, the Sunset Prayer, was done, he returned at last to the manse for the evening banquet. Most of his inner court attended, as always—among them Loralon and Quarath, First Son Kurnos, and Balthera, the acting First Daughter. Symeon’s banquets were something folk tried not to miss, every night a different delicacy from Istar’s many and various provinces. Last night it had been peacock in a spicy sauce favored in Lattakay. Tonight it was seshya, a stew of shellfish and rice from the seaport of Pesaro. More watered claret accompanied the meal, and milk sweetened with palm sugar.

  The conversation remained light, though the hierarchs whispered of brigands and borderlands when they thought he wasn’t listening. When the courtiers began to leave after the meal was done, he let them go, until only Kurnos remained.

  He and the First Son retired to an open balcony, where fireflies bobbed lazily on the night breeze and golden cats with six legs slumbered on the cool marble floor. Someone was reading poetry in the garden below, a soothing ode whose words Symeon couldn’t quite make out, as he and the First Son sat down at the khas table.

  Khas was an ancient game, and folk played it in all Ansalon’s realms. It was one of the pastimes Symeon enjoyed most, and his set was one of the most remarkable in the world. The board was made of ivory, lapis, and moonstone, interwoven and shining in the moonlight, but it was the pieces that made it so unusual. Where most khas men were carved of wood or forged of metal, the Kingpriest’s were something altogether different.

  They were alive.

  It wasn’t quite the right word, but the right word didn’t exist outside the spidery language of wizards. The warriors and knights, viziers and wyrms that stood upon the board, none more than six inches high, were creatures of magic, not flesh. They stood frozen most of the day, seeming nothing more than exquisite crystalline sculptures—half white, half black—but when the Kingpriest and his heir sat down they shuddered to life, one by one, and began to move—heads turning, tails twitching, lances dipping to salute the foe.

  Symeon took the white pieces—he always took the white—and they set to playing. When their respective turns came, they leaned forward to whisper to their pieces, which moved in response, marching, galloping, and slithering across the table according to their commands. The game passed quickly, mostly in silence, as they sipped moragnac brandy and ate almond-paste sweets.

  “Aha!” the Kingpriest declared after they had been playing a while, as one of his pillar-shaped Fortresses rumbled forward on creaking wheels, crushing one of Kurnos’s Footsoldiers beneath it The soldier let out a tiny cry as it died, then vanished and appeared, twisted and broken, in front of the First Son. His side of the table was littered with little black corpses, and the remnants of his shattered forces huddled defensively in a corner of the table, surrounded by the white army.

  “You see, Kurnos?” Symeon asked. “You left your flank open again.”

  Kurnos grunted, scowling at the board and stroking his beard while the Kingpriest sipped his moragnac. Swallowing, the Fir
st Son leaned forward, whispering to one his champions, a tiny, perfect replica of a Solamnic Knight. Crystal armor rattling, the Knight bowed and gave ground, moving close to his Emperor, then brandishing his needle-sized sword at the foe.

  Symeon chuckled at this and leaned forward at once to murmur to his Guardian, a coiled gold dragon that hissed and slithered forward. Talons and sword flashed for a moment, and then the wyrm caught the champion in its jaws and bit it in half. Kurnos shook his head in disgust as the remains of his Knight vanished from the board.

  Four moves later, pinned down and unable to move, the First Son sighed and spoke to his Emperor. With a resigned sigh, the grizzled Emperor rose from his jet throne, drew a dagger from his belt, and plunged it into his own breast.

  “Rigo iebid,” Kurnos declared as the Emperor crumpled in a heap. The realm has fallen. “A fine game, Holiness.”

  “Yes,” Symeon agreed, plucking a sweet from the plate. “I’m improving, I think. Perhaps one day, you won’t need to lose … deliberately.”

  Kurnos stiffened, flushing, as the Kingpriest nibbled his confection and smiled. He opened his mouth then shut it again, shrugging. “Sire, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then say what’s on your mind.” Symeon chased the sweet with a swallow of moragnac. “You’re thinking overmuch of Lady Ilista, aren’t you?”

  The First Son’s face darkened even more, and he coughed into his hand. On the table, the khas pieces rose from death and shuffled back across the board, revivifying themselves and jostling one another as they resumed their positions. Down below the balcony, in the rose garden, Symeon’s pet hippogriff made a sound that was half-whinny, half-skirl.

  Two months had passed since the First Daughter’s departure. Ilista had sent reports as regularly as the patriarch in Taol, first when she reached Palanthas, then as she and the Knights who guarded her made their way south across Solamnia. At first, the messages had been hopeful, expressing her certainty she would find the one she sought in the next town or monastery. When the later messages came, however, it was always the same—the man of light from her dreams was not there. Lately, the hope in her previous missives had darkened to discouragement. In her most recent one, two days ago, she wrote of leaving Solanthus, Solamnia’s southernmost city, still with nothing to show for her quest. She would cross the border from the Knights’ lands to Kharolis within the week, and everyone who read her words could tell she was losing energy and heart.