Chosen of the Gods

by Chris Pierson

  Cathan swallowed, staring his boots. They were stained with blood. He wondered whose. “Sir,” he murmured, “might I ask a favor instead?”

  Ossirian’s eyebrows rose. He glanced at Tavarre, who shrugged. “Very well,” he declared. “Name it, and we’ll see how magnanimous I’m willing to be.”

  “Actually, sir, it’s two things,” Cathan replied, then pressed on before Ossirian could object. “First, a—a friend of mine died today. I’d like him to be buried proper.”

  “That,” Ossirian replied, “you didn’t have to ask for. We’ll see to him, don’t worry. What’s the second thing?”

  Cathan drew a deep breath and held it, steeling himself. He’d been working himself up to this, but it still wasn’t easy. His eyes shone with tears as he looked up at Ossirian. “I want to go home. My sister has the Longosai. I thought I could avenge her, coming here, but I was wrong. I should be with her.”

  At first, Ossirian didn’t answer. He continued to glare at Durinen, his eyes narrow.

  “Cathan,” Tavarre cut in, “you don’t know what you ask. We need every man here, to secure the city. You can’t just—”

  “No.” Ossirian held up a hand. “The boy can go. I need men out there to watch the south road, in case the regent sends his Scatas. He may well, after tonight. I can spare a band—your band. It needs to be someone I can trust.”

  Tavarre met his gaze, frowning. Finally he nodded. “If you think it best.”

  After Ossirian ordered his men to take Durinen away, he turned to confer with his lords about how best to hold the city, now that the Little Emperor was theirs. Forgotten, Cathan left the antechamber, walking out into the worship hall, a long, vaulted chamber with shadowy corners and high windows that gleamed rose and azure in the moonlight. He made it as far as the first stone pew before his legs gave out, and he sank down onto the seat with a moan. He stared up at the great platinum triangle on the wall above the altar, thinking of Wentha, Embric, and the man who had died on his sword today. Then he bowed his head and wept.

  Chapter Nine

  SEVENTHMONTH, 923 LA.

  There was no pain. Am I dead? Ilista wondered. Is this how it happens? Like waking from sleep?

  Through the ages, sects had disagreed—often violently— about the afterlife. Traditionalists said it was a shining city on a mountain, while certain scholars in the church claimed it was simply Paladine’s eternal presence. Some heretics in Istar’s southern deserts believed there was no hereafter, only oblivion. In none of these beliefs, however, did the dead know hunger or thirst, heat or cold.

  Ilista’s stomach growled. Her lips were parched. She shivered in the chill.

  She let her eyes flutter open, adjusting to the light. She lay in a small room of gray stone. Daylight streamed through the narrow, open window, sparkling with dust. The only furnishings were the simple pallet where she lay, a clay chamber pot, and a wooden triangle on the wall. A monk’s cell, she realized. Somehow she had made it to that monastery.

  Her packs were in the corner. Stiffly, she rose and walked to them, amazed that she didn’t feel pain or appear to suffer any wounds. Beside her packs were a clean white cassock and a pair of leather sandals. She put them on quickly, genuflected to the wooden triangle, then headed slowly toward the door. It opened before she reached it, letting in more light, along with a low, rumbling sound. Sir Gareth stood in the opening.

  “Efisa!” he exclaimed. “You’re awake!”

  “Sir Knight,” she replied, signing the triangle. She hesitated, unsure what to ask him. Finally, she settled on the simplest question. “What is that noise?”

  Gareth smiled. “Come,” he said simply. “It’s best you see for yourself.”

  * * * * *

  The monastery stood on a ledge surrounded by snowy peaks, at the end of a steep, narrow trail. It was a small, simple place, having once been home to the monks of Majere. Even in Istar, the Rose God’s clerics were ascetics, spending their days in quiet meditation. Their temple stood out in the Lordcity for its gray plainness. Here, the abbey consisted of only a few low buildings surrounded by a stone wall. It featured no gardens, save for a few ornamental stone piles arranged in circles and spirals. There was a cloister, a stable, a refectory, and a chapel, all simple as peasant’s hovels, lacking even glass in their shuttered windows. The only adornment was a whitewashed wooden triangle atop the church’s roof. The Majereans might have built the monastery in their god’s name, but it belonged to Paladine now.

  The rumbling grew steadily louder as Ilista followed Sir Gareth across the yard. They passed several clerics along the way, clad in simple gray habits, their hooded heads bowed. The shapeless garments made it hard to tell if they were men or women. A few turned to watch as she passed but glanced away when she looked at them, and none of them spoke a word. Ilista frowned, puzzled, as they reached the abbey’s southern wall. A flight of mossy stairs led to its top, and, beyond, a plume of white mist rose into the air, curling with the wind. She looked questioningly at Gareth, but he only started up the stairs, motioning for her to follow. She did, then stopped, stunned, when they reached the top.

  “Palado Calib.” she gasped.

  The Majereans disdained man-made finery, but they had always cherished nature’s beauty. Here, they had found a wonder. A river ran foaming past the monastery, then plunged over the ledge, thundering to a pool a thousand feet below. Fog veiled the waterfall, sparkling with rainbows as it rose into the sky. Used to the slow, wide streams of Istar’s heartland, Ilista could only stare at the rushing torrent in awe.

  “Did you bring me here?” she asked the Knight after a time. She had to shout over the waterfall’s roar. “To this place, I mean?”

  “No, Efisa,” Gareth replied. “When the wyvern carried you off, we were sure you were lost. Then the other beasts fled, and when we rode on we found the one that grabbed you dead near the road. We searched for you all night and finally came to this place. The monks took us to you, showed us you were safe. We buried our dead and have been here since, waiting for you to wake.”

  “How long?” she asked.

  “A week, milady.”

  Ilista’s eyes widened. “What happened to my wounds?”

  Gareth shrugged. “When we found you, you were already healed, and the monks do not speak. I think they’ve taken a vow of silence.”

  “Just so,” said a voice.

  Ilista jumped. So loud was the waterfall that neither she nor Gareth heard the old monk approach. He stood behind them, robed and cowled, bent with age. He bobbed his head, signing the triangle, then drew back his hood to reveal a wizened, spotted face with only a few wisps of hair. His eyes were clear, however, and glinted in the sunlight.

  “Pardon,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you, First Daughter. I am Brother Voss. I was sent for you.”

  “I thought you didn’t speak,” Gareth said.

  Voss smiled toothlessly. “Usually, yes, but the master gave me permission, so I can take you to him.”

  “The master?” Ilista asked.

  “The one who brought you here, Efisa.” The old monk gestured back toward the chapel. “Come. He wishes to meet you.”

  * * * * *

  The chapel, like the rest of the monastery, was austere in the extreme, its floor bare stone, its walls and ceiling free of mosaic or fresco. The columns that ran down its length had no ornate capitals, and no carvings marked the wooden pews. The candles were made of raw beeswax, and even the triangle above the stone altar was made of silver, not platinum. It was everything the Great Temple was not, yet it was still a house of the god, and Ilista genuflected just the same as Brother Voss led her across the threshold. Silent again, the monk stepped aside and waved her in.

  She started forward, Gareth at her side. The chapel was empty. No one sat at the pews or knelt at the simple shrines along its walls. Behind them, Voss shut the doors with a boom, shutting out the light, save for the sharp spears that jabbed through the shadows. Ilista glanc
ed back, then exchanged looks with Gareth and went on to the altar. They stopped there, kneeling, and she reached to her throat, searching for her medallion.

  It was gone. Someone had removed it while she slept. She cast about, her heart beating savagely in her breast.

  “Are you looking for this, Efisa?” asked a soft voice.

  She turned, startled. A young monk stood between the pews, his hood drawn low. He raised his hand. Ilista’s amulet dangled from his fingers.

  Gareth was on his feet in an instant, his hand on his sword. The monk did not flinch, didn’t even glance at the Knight. Though she couldn’t see his face, Ilista could feel his eyes on her. The medallion swung slowly in his grasp as he extended it.

  “Do not fear, Efisa,” he said. His voice was like honey poured over harpstrings. “I watched over you while you slept and thought it best to keep your holy medallion with me. Now that you’ve woken, though, it belongs in your possession.”

  Gareth stepped forward, but Ilista touched his arm, stopping him, and moved toward the monk herself. Reaching out, she took the medallion from him, pressed it to her lips, and pulled it over her head. She stared at the monk, who stared back.

  “What is your name, Brother?”

  “I am called Beldyn, milady.”

  “What of your vow of silence? Has your master given you leave to speak?”

  He nodded. “In a way.” Reaching up, he pulled back his hood. “You see, I am master here.”

  Ilista’s eyes widened as the cowl came off. The face beneath was thin and beautiful. His skin was smooth, beardless. He could not have seen more than seventeen summers. Where most monks went close-cropped and tonsured, his hair was long, brown locks tumbling down over his shoulders, and then there were his eyes. She had never seen such eyes before—not the color, though their pale, glacial blue was striking, but rather the way they seemed to shine with an inner light as they regarded her, boring into her. They had the look of a man wracked with fever but without the sheen of illness. Caught, she found herself unable to look away.

  “You,” she said dully. “You’re the one who killed the wyvern.”

  Beldyn nodded, his eyes sparkling. In the distance, the waterfall rumbled on.

  “You healed my wounds?”

  “I did. Also I sent the message that brought you here. I am the one you seek, Efisa.”

  He is, she thought. She could feel it, see it in his strange, bright eyes. A moment later, though, she forced herself to look away in doubt. She’d thought the same of Brother Gesseic and the men before him, and she had been wrong. While her wounds were gone, neither she nor the Knights had seen him heal her. She shook her head warily.

  “Any man can call himself holy,” she said. “It must be proven.”

  “Of course,” Beldyn replied. “I will have your regalia brought here, and you may use this chapel for the Rite. You shall have your proof, First Daughter, before the silver moon rises.”

  * * * * *

  Three hours later, as the sun set behind the mountaintops, Ilista was laving her hands at the altar while the monastery’s brethren watched from the pews. As before, the Knights stood watch to the left, their armor shining. They were only six now. She thought of Laonis and Jurabin, and the others who had died, now lying beneath stone cairns in the mountains. If she had chosen to ride on to Xak Tsaroth, rather than coming to this place, they would still be alive.

  Palado, sas hollas loidud ni calonn, she prayed, glancing at the curtained alcove to her right.

  Paladine, let their deaths be not in vain.

  Biting her lip, she turned to face the monks. They watched her expectantly with their cowls thrown back—twenty men and women, all older than the man they called master, their faces taut with anticipation and belief. She saw Brother Voss sitting in the foremost pew, and there was such faith in his gaze that for a moment the ritual’s words failed her. She shut her eyes, forcing herself to doubt. It was Paladine’s place to decide, not her. Swallowing, she lifted the ceremonial chime from the altar and struck it.

  “Aponfud, ti po bulfat fum gonneis,” she intoned.

  The curtain—rough wool instead of satin or velvet—pulled back, and Beldyn came forward, moving with a quick, sure step. He wore the same plain, gray habit as before, his long hair tied back. His eyes glittered as he took his place, kneeling before her. “Fro Beldinas, Paladas lupo fo,” he declared, gazing up at her. “Praso megonnas.”

  I am Brother Beldyn, beloved of Paladine. I ask to be tried.

  Ilista hesitated, surprised. The other petitioners had all lowered their eyes as they spoke, but Beldyn gazed at her directly. There was no arrogance in his mien or voice, only certainty that he was whom he claimed to be. Caught by his gaze—brighter, it seemed, than candlelight could explain— Ilista had to fight back the urge to kneel before him. You are First Daughter, she told herself sternly. It is right he should bow to you.

  Her hands shook as she anointed him with the golden ewer. He did not blink as the oil ran down his face. She paused, swallowing. Took off her medallion and raised it. Drew a deep breath, let it out. And touched the platinum triangle to Beldyn’s forehead.

  With the others, she had needed a moment to push her way into their minds. Beldyn pulled her in, drawing her down like the sandwater pools of the Sadrahka jungle. The rose of his mind bloomed, revealing all that lay within. His dreams, his hopes, his memories all but leaped out at her as she looked at them. There was no pride in it, though, but simply the force of certainty.

  This is what I am.

  She studied all of his facets, pushing deeper, her mind clenched with dread as she sought the inevitable flaw, the thing that would prove Beldyn fallible. Her breathing grew sharp, hitching in her chest, and she could feel the eyes on her, monks and Knights alike watching rapt as she delved deeper into the young monk’s soul. Farther, farther, now crying, now laughing, each breath a shuddering gasp …

  Suddenly she was on the mountaintop again, snow beneath her feet, the stars glittering like jewels above. The sea of clouds was roiling around her, and the cold wind tugged at her robes, billowing them. She staggered and nearly fell as the rapture lifted from her, leaving her weary and dazed. Her heart skipped and leaped, and she felt tears freeze on her cheeks as she turned and saw Beldyn.

  He stood nearby, in the place where Gesseic had been. His hair had slipped free of its bonds and blew behind him like a banner. His eyes were twin blue suns, blazing in the night, and looking into them she felt her insides quiver and churn. He was the one. He had to be. She could feel the truth of it, radiating from him like heat from a fire.

  No, she told herself. No. Not yet.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  He smiled at her but made no reply. Instead, he turned and walked away, farther up the slope to the peak’s sharp summit. His feet glided effortlessly across the snow as he went, but she struggled, sinking shin-deep with every step. By the time she caught up with him, he had turned around and was staring at the sky, his hands outstretched and open at his sides. Smiling, he shut his eyes, reached up into the night and pulled down a star.

  Ilista gasped, her mind reeling. It was impossible. High as they were, the stars were much higher still, certainly too far to touch. Yet she saw it, his fingers pinching shut around one of the countless glittering motes, then plucking it down, tiny as a pebble and bright as its brothers above. He held it before his eye, studying it as a gemcutter might study a diamond, then smiled and clenched it in his fist. Light flared briefly between his fingers and was gone—as was the star when he opened his hand once more.

  His eyes seemed to shine even brighter than before as he studied her. He flung his hands upward and brought down the heavens.

  The stars moved so slowly at first that Ilista didn’t notice it until she saw the emptiness at the sky’s rim and realized they were drawing away from the horizon. They sped up as she watched, now flowing like a river, now darting like meteors, now so fast they made white streaks against the
dark. Bit by bit, the constellations came apart. The sky over Beldyn grew brighter and brighter still, until it seemed a second sun shone where all the stars gathered. His face aglow with bliss, he lowered his arms.

  The pool of light fell and washed over him, each star flaring bright when it touched him, then winking out. The stars didn’t simply disappear, however, but added their light to his own, making him shine brighter with every heartbeat— first his eyes, then the rest of him, until starglow swathed him like a mantle, obscuring him from view. By the time the last stars had fallen, the glare was so bright that Ilista had to turn away.

  She heard the whisper of his footsteps, felt him draw near, but she didn’t look, tears crawling down her cheeks as she stared away into the starless night. He was the man she had dreamed of, the figure of light the god had revealed to her.

  “Do you still doubt, Efisa?” he asked.

  She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

  “Then take my hand.”

  He held it open before her, each finger a bright comet’s tail. For a moment she balked, afraid his touch might burn her to ashes, but the light gave no heat. Swallowing, she raised her hand, reaching out and touching his luminous flesh.

  Rapture flooded her at his touch. Her back arched … her eyes pinched shut… the warmth of blood flooded her mouth. Oh Paladine, she thought, so this is how purity feels … please, it’s too bright… it hurts… .

  As abruptly as she’d left it, she was back in the chapel, her face damp with tears, her robes with sweat. With a gasp she let go, and her medallion fell from her grasp to clatter on the floor. Beldyn was looking at her, no longer cloaked in light but his eyes still shining.

  For a moment, the words of the rite eluded her. When she spoke them at last, her voice quavered and nearly broke. “Ubatsud, usas farno,” she bade, tears rolling down her face, “e bidud Paladas gonam fas.”

  Rise, child of the god, and know thou art Paladine’s chosen.

  Beldyn stood, and Ilista bent forward, ritually kissing his cheeks. As she did, two words circled in her mind. Around and around they went, a bright certainty that drove away her doubt and despair: