The Lightbringer… the Lightbringer… the Lightbringer!
* * * * *
The waterfall was even more beautiful in Solinari’s glow. The silver moon rode high, and the mist of the torrent caught and trapped its light, becoming a vast, brilliant serpent that sparkled as it writhed on the wind. The Majereans had chosen rightly when they made their monastery plain. Beside the shining mist, even the Great Temple itself would have seemed small.
Ilista was accustomed to living amid power and splendor in her place at the Kingpriest’s side, but today she had been humbled. She remembered how Beldyn’s mind had felt as she delved into it, and she shuddered at having seen something so bright, as if her own thoughts might have polluted its existence.
She had been standing alone on the abbey’s south wall since the Apanfo concluded, staring at the mist and remembering the ecstasy that had flooded her at the touch of the glowing hand. Now, somehow, she heard the scuff of sandals on stone above the waterfall’s bellow. She turned, already knowing it was Beldyn. He signed the triangle as he came near, and she bowed her head, spreading her hands contritely.
“Please, Efisa,” he said. “I am but a simple monk.”
She looked up, shaking her head. “You’re more than that.”
“Perhaps.”
Ilista swallowed, gathering her thoughts. “How long have—have you known?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, gazing out at the shimmering mist. “I remember little of my childhood and nothing of my parents. I was an orphan in Xak Tsaroth when I met Brother Voss.”
“Voss? The monk you sent for me today?”
Beldyn nodded. “Most of the monks here were once clerics in the city. Voss sometimes went among the poor, giving them what aid he could, and one day he saw me lay hands upon a woman dying of the gray fever and heal her sickness.
“Yes,” he said as Ilista’s eyes widened, “the god’s power was in me even then. Voss brought me back to the temple of Paladine and told the patriarch what he had witnessed. That was a mistake—the patriarch called it blasphemy to think an untrained child could perform such miracles when ordained priests could not.” He shook his head. “There are many in the church who would not believe in my powers.”
Ilista bit her lip, thinking of other hierarchs who would react like this patriarch—perhaps even Kurnos himself. “What happened then?”
“Voss, may Paladine bless him, wasn’t so easily daunted. Instead he took me in and taught me the church’s ways in secret.” Beldyn’s eyes danced with memory. “He even consecrated me as an acolyte. When the patriarch found out, he nearly ordered us both stoned as heretics. Too many people loved Voss, though, so he banished us instead. Voss asked his brethren to come with us.” He nodded down into the courtyard, where the monks were emerging from the refectory, their supper done. “As you see, a few listened.”
“We traveled deeper into the mountains,” he went on, “and found this place. The Majereans were long gone, so we restored it and made it our home. We’ve lived here ever since … six years now.”
“Now you’re the master,” Ilista said.
He nodded. “A year and a half ago, Voss named me a full Revered Son and appointed me his successor. The others accepted it—they have long known and trusted me. I became head of the abbey, and since then I have been waiting.”
“Waiting?” Ilista’s brows knitted. “What for?”
“For you, Efisa.” His eyes were silver pools in the misty light. “The night before I became master, I too had a dream. In it, a woman rode out of the north, pursued by beasts on shadowy wings. She said to me, Pilofiram fas—you are the Lightbringer—and then I woke. I told Voss, and he said it was a vision from the god. One day I would meet the woman, and my life would change forever.
“Ten days ago I had the dream again, and I knew it must be time. I sent one of my monks to Xak Khalan, with a message— which, of course, you found. A few days later, when I saw the wyverns had taken wing in the storm, I knew someone had roused them, so I went to help you. I only wish I had been quicker, so others might have lived.”
They stood together silently. Silhouetted by the mist, Beldyn looked as he had in Ilista’s dream, and in her vision during the Apanfo. I found him, the priestess thought, overjoyed. I truly found him.
“Your wait is over,” she said softly. “The time has come for you to leave this place.”
“Yes,” he replied. His eyes shone. “Have you dined, Efisa?”
Ilista blinked, taken aback. She had been too excited to eat earlier, but now her stomach growled hungrily. “No, Brother.”
“Nor have I,” he said, extending his hand. “Will you join me?”
She hesitated, suddenly afraid. A jolt of fear ran through her as she remembered what his touch had done to her earlier. She wasn’t sure she could bear the feeling again. A moment later, though, she shook herself, thrusting the thought aside. This was a man of flesh, not light. Biting her lip, she laid her hand upon his wrist. He was solid, warm, human. Smiling, she walked with him down to the courtyard, the mist ablaze behind them.
Chapter Ten
The gray stallion was frothing and dust-caked, blowing hard as it galloped toward the Lordcity’s western gates. The rider astride it seemed in even worse shape, her billowing blue cloak torn and dirty, her hair pasted to her scalp with sweat and grime. She was pale with weariness, her eyes red-rimmed, and she seemed apt to fall from the saddle at any moment. She wore no armor or helm, no sword or bow, though her livery resembled that of the Scatas who made up the empire’s armies. Instead, what she clutched in her hand as she pounded up the broad, stone-paved road was something much more dangerous: an ivory scroll-tube, bearing the insignia of the Little Emperor.
The empire of Istar was vast, and sending urgent messages required a network of post-houses, where riders could stop and change horses to speed them on their way. Even so, the woman on the frothing gray had been riding for four days and nights since she’d left the highlands, and by the time she reined in before the tall, gilded gates, in the shadow of the statue of Paladine that crowned them, she could barely keep her head up long enough to present the silver scepter that identified her as a member of the Messenger’s Guild to the sentries. The guards regarded the scepter, with its winged horseshoe crown, for a long uncertain moment, then nodded and handed it back, waving her into the city.
It was mid-afternoon, and the streets were quiet. Istar sweltered in the summer, and its folk retired to the wine shops and baths during the hottest part of the day, emerging as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Rather than the press of robed bodies that filled the city in the mornings and evenings, the rider encountered only a few people on her way to the Great Temple—soldiers, clerics, and a long-bearded Holy Fool who leaped and threw pebbles at her as she thundered past. The broad, tree-lined avenue led straight from the gates to the great arch that let out onto the Barigon, then on to the sprawling church. Galloping across the plaza, she clattered to a halt before a Revered Son and half a dozen acolytes who had come to receive her. They took the reins from her shaking hand and thrust a goblet of watered wine at her once she’d swung down from the saddle. She gulped it down quickly and ate a snow peach another youth offered, which invigorated her enough that she could at least walk without leaning on anyone—for now, at least.
The priest asked her for whom her message was intended, and she looked at him sourly.
“The chief of the imperial kitchens,” she snapped, holding up the scroll-tube. A silken ribbon dangled from it, bearing the imperial triangle-and falcon. “Who do you think?”
She went in through a side entrance, the priest puffing along beside her as he kept up with her long, quick strides. The Kingpriest was still ailing, he told her, and not taking visitors. The regent, however, would be glad to receive her at his first convenience. She nodded at this and pressed on, scattering several squalling peacocks as they made their way through the gardens to the basilica. Within, the Revered Son bade her wait
in a bright, pillared antechamber. She washed the road’s grime off her face with a basin of cool, lemon-scented water while she bided. Presently the cleric returned and led her down a hall hung with red roses to the Kingpriest’s private study.
First Son Kurnos sat behind a desk of polished mahogany, poring over a set of ledgers. He was not in a good mood. The papers tallied the yields of the gold mines the empire maintained in its newest colonies, far to the south on the frozen islands of Icereach. He scowled, running his fingers down the columns. Ore production was down considerably from last year. He didn’t notice the courier at first when she entered, and when he finally looked up his forehead creased with annoyance.
“Bring it here,” he snapped.
The rider strode toward him then dropped to one knee and proffered the tube with both hands. Kurnos took the rube and opened it, leaving the messenger on her knees while he removed the parchment within and broke its crimson seal. Unfurling the scroll, he scanned its words—then stopped, his eyes narrowing, and read it again.
Your Holy Majesty, it proclaimed.
Be it known that on the twenty-eighth day of Sixthmonth, this year 923 LA., a force of Taoli patriots conquered the city of Govinna. As you read this, we hold Revered Son Durinen and have posted watchers along our borders. Those in the Lordcity have ignored our plight too long. While you recline in perfumed halls, we die of plague. While you dine at grand banquets, our children starve.
We do not demand much; only aid you, with your vast wealth and power, can easily provide. Send us food and healers to cure the Longosai, and we shall release the Little Emperor. Ignore our plea, and may Paladine have mercy on him—and on you.
Kurnos’s face darkened as he stared at the scroll. Slowly, he crumpled the parchment in his fist, then threw it in the kneeling courier’s face.
“Leave,” he growled. “Now.”
Seeing the fury in his eyes, the messenger rose and hurried from the room. Kurnos pushed to his feet, glaring after the rider, then whirled and flung the scroll-tube across the room with a curse. It struck the wall and shattered, ivory splinters clattering onto the floor. He’d warned the others that something like this would happen, but Symeon had listened to the First Daughter, not him—to Ilista, who was far from here, in Kharolis. Meanwhile, he had to face the fruit of the Kingpriest’s inaction against the bandits, while— “Your Grace?”
Kurnos turned slowly, his nostrils flaring. “What is it?” An acolyte had opened the door. Now he paled and drew back, seeing the anger on Kurnos’s face.
“I—heard a noise, Aulforo,” the boy stammered. “Is all well?”
A laugh barked from Kurnos’s lips. “No, boy. All is not well.” He paused, thinking quickly. “Send word to Loralon and Lady Balthera. I must meet with them in the Kingpriest’s chambers at once. Go!”
Flinching, the acolyte withdrew. Kurnos had to force himself to breathe slowly to quell his rage. It took a while. Finally, though, he shook himself and turned from his desk. The trouble in Icereach forgotten, he strode out of the office, bound for the manse.
* * * * *
Symeon’s condition had improved somewhat in the weeks since his seizure. His right arm and leg were still lifeless, and his drooping mouth made him seem to scowl all the time, but he had some of his old strength back, and his speech too. Words came haltingly and badly slurred, but he was intelligible most of the time. He could rise from bed, too, if someone carried him, and this afternoon he sat in a high-backed chair on the balcony where he’d fallen ill. The breeze that blew in off the gardens was warm, and smelled of saffron. In his good hand, he held the scroll, the left side of his mouth twitching as he read.
“Un … fortunate,” he mumbled.
Weakly, he raised the parchment. Loralon took it from him. A small, dark line appeared between the elf’s brows as he read the missive, then passed it on to Revered Daughter Balthera.
“Holiness, this is a difficult situation. We must treat it with care.”
“Bah,” Kurnos scoffed. “That was your counsel the last time we discussed Taol.” He waved his hand. “You see where it led.”
Loralon spread his hands. “In that case, I recommend we send the provisions they need.”
Symeon’s good eye widened. “Cap … capitu …” he began, stumbling, then gave up with a frustrated grunt.
“Capitulate?” Kurnos finished for him. “Preposterous!”
“I prefer to call it mercy,” Loralon said.
Kurnos shook his head, digging his nails into his palms to keep his temper in check. “Sire, we have thousands of Scatas near the Taoli border. If they march now, they could crush these rebels and take back Govinna before winter.”
Symeon considered this, the thumb of his left hand rubbing his medallion. “That may… be,” he mumbled at length, “but … I will … not … go before Pal—Pala—the god … with … bloodstained hands.”
Kurnos snorted, furious. The Kingpriest had recovered physically, but he was not the same man. The old Symeon might have been weak-willed, but he could be ruthless when the situation warranted. Since he’d recovered his speech, however, he had shown all signs of having turned soft.
“No!” Kurnos protested, pounding his palm with his fist. “We can end this now! We cannot just sit by and let—”
“You … can,” Symeon interrupted, his good eye blazing, “and you will!”
Kurnos opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, seeing the resolve in the Kingpriest’s face. Instead, he turned to look out over the balcony at the gardens below. The lemon trees were in full fruit, and bees hummed about the roses. For a time, no one spoke, so that the only sound was the growl of the hippogriff and the distant murmur of the city. The folk of Istar had emerged from the wine shops, ready for the evening’s trade.
The moot ended soon after, when Symeon dozed off in his chair. Kurnos considered waking him but knew it would be of no use. The Kingpriest slept often these days and didn’t wake easily. They would have to wait, until tonight at least, for him to rouse from his dragon-haunted dreams and decide what to do.
Kurnos quit the manse soon after, returning to his study in the basilica. There, he issued a terse order to the lord of Icereach: if he didn’t return the gold yields to their former levels by spring, he would pay with his lands and title. The empire had many ambitious nobles who would gladly take his place.
Evening prayers came and went, and Kurnos retired to his private quarters in the Revered Son’s cloister. He stared at a supper of goose stuffed with forest mushrooms until it was cold, then bade the servants take it away. By then it was dark outside, the red moon bloodying the city’s alabaster walls. Pouring a snifter of moragnac, he retired to his parlor to brood.
He had meant to go into the city tonight. The poet Abrellis of Pesaro was at the Arena, reciting his new work, the Hedrecaia, an epic about the ancient wars between Istar and the city-states of Seldjuk. Kurnos’s anger still smoldered, however, so he threw himself down on a cushioned bench and sat silently in the gloom.
The more he thought about Govinna, the more it infuriated him. If Symeon bade him treat with the rebels, it would set a dangerous precedent. It was well for Loralon to speak of mercy, for he wouldn’t have to face the outcome from the throne in the coming years. Taol might be the only province in turmoil right now, but there were many places where unrest could flare up—particularly if word spread that the Lordcity met uprisings with anything but the point of a spear. The savages in Falthana’s jungles, for instance, might decide the city of Shiv was ripe to pluck. Or the Dravinish nomads might start harrying caravans in the southern deserts. In every corner of the empire, some militant faction would see concession with the borderlands as a weakness to be exploited.
“It is a problem.”
Kurnos stiffened, his blood turning to ice. Slowly, he rose from his seat, turning to gaze across the parlor. The room was dark, lit only by a single electrum lamp beside his chair, and there were shadows everywhere. The voice—the qu
iet, cold, familiar voice—had come from the shadows.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. He wanted to sound furious, but his voice shook. “Show yourself!”
A soft, mocking chuckle floated out of the dark. Kurnos had never heard laughter so devoid of mirth.
“Very well,” the voice said. “If it will please you. Kushat.”
At the strange, spidery word, the lamp rose from the table where it stood and floated slowly across the room. Kurnos’s eyes widened as the lamp glided to a dim corner near an arras depicting the building of the Great Temple. Beneath the tapestry, its light fell on a tall, slender figure cloaked in robes of blackest velvet. A deep, dark hood covered the man’s face, obscuring all but the tip of a gray beard. Only his hands were visible, waving as he directed the lamp to hover near him. They were withered things, bony and spotted with age.
Kurnos’s heart thundered in his chest. He knew the figure; it had haunted his dreams since he’d first seen it, months ago.
“Wh—who are you?” he breathed.
The robed man stepped out of the corner. Kurnos backed away as he came forward, stopping only when he bumped into a wall. The man came on, relentless, until he stood an arm’s length away, and though the night was nearly as hot as the day, the air around him was cold enough to raise webs of frost on a nearby window. Kurnos shivered.
“Well met, First Son,” said the voice from the hood’s depths. “Perhaps you have heard of me. I am Fistandantilus.”
Chapter Eleven
To the people of Istar, wizards were objects of contempt and suspicion. Even those who wore the White Robes of Good won a wide berth when they walked the Lordcity’s streets. True, one of their number attended the imperial court, but they were still the only powerful cadre in Istar who didn’t bend knee to the Kingpriest. They wielded powers beyond the ken of pious men and counted the evil Black Robes as allies, rather than with the enmity they deserved. Of the five Towers of High Sorcery, two stood within the empire—one in the Lordcity itself.
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