Hating him immediately, Cathan tucked the shard into the pouch of his sling and prepared for the attack.
* * * * *
Revered Son Blavian sniffled, loathing the accursed weather. It wasn’t like this in the lowlands. True, it was the rainy season in the Lordcity now, but at least there it was warm. Despite the covering his servants carried, and the warm, vair-trimmed vestments he’d brought with him, he was cold to the bone. He blew on his pudgy hands, trying to warm them.
“Paladine’s breath,” he grumbled. “What manner of man would want to live in this place?”
He expected no answer. The Scatas had spoken little since they’d set forth from the Lordcity for Govinna, Taol’s highland capital. They bore several coffers of gold coins and orders for Durinen, the province’s patriarch, from the Kingpriest himself. Blavian wasn’t sure just what the message said, but he had a good idea. Before he’d left, First Son Kurnos had spoken to him about the brigands who had absconded to the hills. No doubt the Kingpriest meant for Durinen to fight back against the robbers. That would explain the gold: waging such a campaign would not be cheap.
Whatever the reason for his journey, though, Blavian was proud the First Son had chosen him. Kurnos was the imperial heir, after all—it was good to have his favor. Hopefully, that would make up for having to slog through this damp, frigid country …
He heard the strange, trilling song again. He frowned, looking up to call out to the soldiers—pray, what bird makes such a call?—and saw something, just for a moment: a dark shape, moving behind a pine-dotted hummock. He gasped, and was drawing breath to shout a warning when the hillsides came alive.
It happened so quickly, it seemed over almost before it began. The Scatas had time enough only to lay their hands on their swords before more than a score of cloaked figures rose from the bushes to either side of the road, crossbows loaded and ready. A few others held slings, whirling them slowly above their heads. Blavian cast about, a cold stone deep in his gut as he realized quite a few weapons were trained on him.
“Show steel, and you’ll be dead before you finish the draw,” warned one of the ruffians, a wiry man with a scarred face. He perched atop a mossy boulder, a naked sword in his hand. He waved the blade, looking past the soldiers. “Let down His Corpulence’s covering, will you, lads? Let him feel the weather.”
Wide-eyed and white with fear, the acolytes tossed the canopy aside at once, and moved away from Blavian. The Revered Son winced as rain pattered down on his balding pate, then puffed out his chest as the man on the boulder laughed.
“What are you about?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
“I’d tilink that must be obvious.” Grinning, the man hopped from the rock down onto the road. He nodded toward the soldiers, who were glancing at one another, fingering their weapons’ hilts. “Tell your men to throw down their swords, Reverence, unless they want to leave this place with more holes in their bodies than they came with. It’s all right—we only want to rob you.”
“What!” Blavian exclaimed. He thumped a fist against his thigh, his voice rising to a roar. “This is preposterous! You have no right—”
Something hit him then, a mass that seemed to come from nowhere to slam into his collarbone. He heard a gruesome snap before he toppled from his horse, splashing down into the mud—then the pain hit, gagging him. He yowled, writhing, but his acolytes stayed where they were, too afraid of the bandits to move.
The lead brigand’s smile didn’t waver. “Reverence, you’ve seen what my men can do,” he said. “Next time, they won’t aim to wound.”
For a moment, the only sounds Blavian could manage were small, pained grunts. After a few tries, though, his voice came. “You heard him. Swords down, all of you.”
As one—some with visible relief—the Scatas unsheathed their blades and tossed them to the ground. The scarred man signaled to his fellows, and several dropped their crossbows and darted in, snatching up the swords. Another took the reins of the pack horses that carried the Patriarch’s gold, and yet another pair emerged from a gully and came toward Blavian himself. One held a cocked crossbow, the other an unloaded sling. The Revered Son knew at once that the second man—no, a boy from the looks of him—was the one who had dared to strike him.
“Your purse, sirrah,” said the crossbowman, “and your jewels.”
Blavian goggled, reaching for the heavy golden necklace he wore as an emblem of his potency within the church. “You cannot do this!” he cried as the robbery continued around them. “I am a servant of the god!”
The slinger bent down, ignoring his protests, and plucked a small object up from the ground, a white chunk half the size of a clenched fist. Blavian thought the thing that had hit him had been a stone or perhaps a lead pellet. Instead, he saw it was a chunk of broken ceramic. The boy pressed it briefly to his lips, then tucked it into his belt. Then he turned to the cleric, his lip curling.
“This is for Tancred,” he snarled.
The Revered Son had only a moment to wonder who Tancred was before the boy drew back his foot and slammed it into the side of his head, crashing his world down into blackness.
Chapter Two
They were arguing again in the throne room.
It wasn’t Ilista’s habit to arrive late to the imperial court, and the First Daughter could hear the buzz of voices as she dressed in her private vestiary. Most belonged to minor courtiers, but others she recognized: Kurnos’s firm, clipped sentences, Loralon’s soothing tones. Then, as her attendants helped her don a snow-white surplice over her violet-trimmed robes, another voice cut through the rest, silencing them. The Kingpriest normally presided over the court in austere silence, letting his advisers do the talking, but today he was clearly angry—not quite shouting, as he sometimes did when his temper broke loose—but with an edge to his words.
Ilista scowled impatiently as the servants set an amethyst-studded circlet upon her head. The velvet curtains that led to the throne room muffled Symeon’s voice, and she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She had half a mind to go into the audience hall in her sandals, but propriety stayed her long enough for her attendants to help her into her satin slippers. Hurriedly she genuflected toward the golden shrine in the vestiary’s corner, then parted the curtains and stepped through.
“—will not stand!” Symeon snapped, his voice ringing throughout the hall. “If these varlets dare put swords to the throats of Paladine’s servants, their heads should be mounted atop Govinna’s gates!”
The Hall of Audience was enormous, as was only proper for the holiest and mightiest man in the world. It was a perfect circle, two hundred paces across, bathed in soft light from the crystal dome that arched overhead. The floor was rose-veined marble, polished mirror-bright; the walls were lacquered wood carved to resemble scarlet rose petals, so that the chamber seemed to rest within a vast, living bloom. Golden censers filled the air with the scents of spice and citrus, and platinum candelabra held hundreds of flickering white tapers. Garlands of spring flowers—starblooms, daffodils, and pink roses—hung everywhere.
Around the room’s edges stood Istar’s elite, clad in rich garments, the men and women alike perfumed and powdered, jewels glittering at ears and throats, fingers and wrists, ankles, brows, and even toes. Several Solamnic Knights stood in a cluster across from Ilista, splendid in their polished, engraved armor. Elsewhere, the First Daughter spied Marwort the Illustrious, the white-robed wizard who represented the Orders of High Sorcery at court. There were the hierarchs of the other churches, too: Stefara, the High Hand of Mishakal, in her sky-blue healer’s robes; Thendeles, Majere’s grand philosopher, in his faith’s plain red habit; Peliador of Kiri-Jolith in gold, Avram of Branchala in green, and Nubrinda of Habbakuk in purple, and with them, the high clergy of Paladine—Kurnos, Loralon, and other human and elven priests, all in shimmering white.
Ilista looked past them all to the far side of the room, where a blue mosaic swept across the floor to surround a pure white dai
s and a golden, rose-wreathed throne, twin to the one in the imperial manse. The Kingpriest sat upon the throne, all in silvery robes, gem-encrusted breastplate, and sapphire-studded tiara. His cherubic face burned red as he glared at an aging Knight who stood before the throne. Ilista recognized Holger Windsound, Lord Martial of the Knights in Istar. Holger was a proud man and not easily cowed, but he bowed his snowy head beneath Symeon’s wrath.
A bell chimed in the galleries above the hall, heralding Ilista’s arrival. She gritted her teeth as a hundred heads turned to look at her—including the Kingpriest’s. His black eyes glittered in the light of the crystal dome.
“Efisa,” Symeon declared. “We are pleased you have chosen to join us.”
Ilista had a good excuse for her lateness. One of her priestesses had come to her that morning, claiming she was losing her faith. The girl’s mother had died suddenly the night before, and she had demanded to know how the god could let such a thing happen. Ilista had stayed with her, drying her tears and telling her Paladine was wise and good, and everyone had a time when the god called her to his side. Eventually, the girl had agreed to meditate on the god’s grace; she might yet leave the order or she might not. It was the best Ilista could hope for—there was no point in forcing people to believe.
She said nothing of this to the Kingpriest, however. Instead, she bent her knee to him, signing the triangle.
“Holiness,” she said softly. “I apologize for failing thee.”
Symeon glowered at her a moment, then waved her forward. “Come, then. Join your peers.”
Everyone watched as Ilista strode across the chamber to stand alongside Loralon and Kurnos. They nodded to her as Symeon turned back to the aging Knight.
“Lord Holger was just telling us of an … incident that has happened in the highlands,” the Kingpriest stated irritably. “Tell Her Grace what has happened, man.”
Holger bowed, turning to face her. His face was like steel and showed none of the weariness of age. His hoary moustache drooped over a mouth that had never, in the two years Ilista had served as First Daughter, broken a smile.
“Banditry, milady,” he said, all but spitting the word. “An ambuscade aimed at imperial funds bound for Govinna.”
An outraged murmur ran through the assembly, even though Holger was repeating his news purely for her benefit. The others fell silent, however, at a gesture from the Kingpriest, and all eyes returned to the First Daughter.
“Palado Calib,” Ilista murmured. Blessed Paladine. “What happened? Did the robbers succeed?”
The aging Knight nodded. “They took the soldiers by surprise, and forced them to surrender the gold, Efisa. After, the bandits turned them loose without horse or sword, and disappeared into the hills.”
Kurnos stirred beside Ilista, his brows knitting. “What of Blavian? The Revered Son traveling with them?”
“He fared less well, Your Grace. The bandits beat him badly, and his injuries were grievous. He lives still,” the Knight added as the court stirred. Kurnos’s face had turned nearly as livid as Symeon’s. “He is resting at a Mishakite hospice and will recover, though it will take time.”
“And the funds?” Symeon asked.
“Gone, sire. I know not where.”
The Kingpriest’s rosebud lips whitened, as did his knuckles as he gripped the arms of the throne. The courtiers looked at one another uneasily. Ilista watched Symeon carefully, looking for signs. His fury could be terrifying, but she had learned it was usually short-lived and could be tempered by reason. That was her job and the other advisers’. Today would be difficult, however, for Kurnos was every bit as upset as the Kingpriest. She exchanged glances with Loralon, who nodded. The next few moments would be crucial.
Kurnos stepped forward before either of them could speak. “Majesty, if I might offer counsel?”
Symeon nodded. “Of course, Aulforo. We value your wisdom, as always.”
The First Son wasn’t looking very wise. His hands trembled, and his face had tightened into a fearsome scowl. When he spoke, his voice was like a drawn bowstring.
“These bandits have gone too far,” said Kurnos. “Tax collectors are one thing, but to attack a member of the clergy…” He trailed off, shaking his head, then took a deep breath. “Sire, I believe we should strike back, with force.”
Gasps rang out across the audience hall, followed by hushed whispers. Ilista stepped forward, her mouth opening, but Symeon stopped her with a look and turned back to Kurnos.
“Go on.”
“It would only take a part of the imperial army,” the First Son explained. “Perhaps a legion or two. They would make short work of these brigands.”
Ilista could contain herself no longer. “These brigands are the folk of Taol,” she interjected. “You recommend a military attack on our own people?”
Around the court, folk nodded in agreement or shook their heads dismissively. Ilista paid no mind to them, however. Her gaze was on the Kingpriest. He stared back at her, his black eyes glinting.
“You don’t agree these villains must be punished, then?” Symeon asked.
“No, not in this fashion, sire,” she replied. “You are right when you say this cannot stand, but to send in the army … if we do, we risk inciting open revolt. None of us want another Trosedil.”
A flicker of anger crossed Symeon’s face, and for a moment Ilista feared she had gone too far by invoking the Three Thrones’ War. After a moment, though, he turned to Loralon. “And you, Emissary? What is your mind?”
Loralon raised his eyebrows. “Majesty, it is not my place to put my hand on the empire’s tiller … but if you would hear me, I agree with Lady Ilista. Sending forth the army is a drastic choice and could make matters worse. I suggest we negotiate instead.”
“Negotiate?” Kurnos snapped. “These are robbers, not diplomats!”
“Your counsel is known already, First Son,” Symeon said curtly, and Ilista relaxed a little. He would come around. The Kingpriest sat in silence for a time, his fingers steepled in thought, then nodded. “You are right, Loralon—and you as well, Ilista. This is no time to be rash. I shall weigh what I have heard, and render judgment after midday prayer. This court is adjourned until then.” He rose from his seat, signing the triangle. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo.”
In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might.
The audience hall quickly dissolved into excited noise as the courtiers fell to arguing with one another. Some withdrew to anterooms, where food and watered wine awaited. Others hurried toward the dais, seeking to offer their own advice. Symeon waved them off and strode toward the door to his private sanctum. An acolyte hurried ahead to hold open the door.
Ilista watched the Kingpriest leave then started toward Kurnos, who gone over to Lord Holger. The two were speaking together in hushed tones, along with several other hierarchs. As she approached, the First Son looked up, his gaze meeting hers. His blue eyes smoldered with anger: she and Loralon had quelled Symeon’s fire, but not his. She faltered, flushing beneath his baleful glare, then turned and hurried out of the room.
* * * * *
Ilista’s private chambers were dim and silent as she finished her evening prayer. Wetting her fingers, she pinched out the violet candles that flickered on the golden shrine, then kissed her medallion and pushed herself up from the padded kneeling-bench.
The room was richly done, as befit one of her station— not as fine as the Kingpriest’s golden halls and certainly much less vast, but there was nothing meager about the great, sprawling bed draped in shimmering samite or the walls of teak inlaid with lavender jade. A tall, silver harp stood in the corner. She didn’t play but Farenne, one of her attendants, did, and often came to soothe Ilista into sleep with sweet strings. Tonight, though, Ilista had dismissed Farenne early, preferring to be alone. Now she moved about the chamber, dousing the lamps that glowed softly here and there, until only a single taper remained by her bedside.
That done, she turned to the
window, whose silken curtains fluttered in the breeze. The scent of jasmine blew in from the gardens. The breeze was chilly, though, so she pulled the window shut, then went over to her bed to climb up onto it. Kissing her medallion again, she doused the taper and laid her head down on satin pillows.
Sleep didn’t come right away; that was not her way. It had always been Ilista’s nature to dwell on matters while she lay abed. Tonight, her musings drifted to the First Son.
She had long ago accepted that she and Kurnos would seldom agree. He was obviously a capable cleric—one didn’t rise so high in the church without priestly gifts—but he was also a hot-blooded man, quick to act and slow to forget a slight. They had argued often enough in the past, but she’d never seen him as outraged as he’d been today. What was it, she wondered? Had the attack on Revered Son Blavian truly affected him so terribly? He had spoken in the past of the need to put down the bandits in Taol, but today was different. Sweet Paladine, he had been ready to send in the Scatas! If he had been on the throne today, she was sure Lord Holger and his troops would have ridden out tomorrow morning, with orders to fight. She and Loralon could manage Symeon’s ill humors. What would Kurnos do, though, if she opposed him once he wore the sapphire crown?
Her mind drifted to the man who still sat the throne. It had been more than a season since that strange, snowy night when Symeon foretold his own death, and still he was healthy. Stefara of Mishakal examined him every Godsday, looking for signs of illness, but he hadn’t even had so much as a cold all winter long. Morbidly, and not for the first time, she wondered how the god would take him. Accident? Assassination? She signed the triangle at the thought, whispering a prayer to forgive her dark thoughts.
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