While they abhorred wizards, however, Istarans did not fear them. The Orders remained within the empire’s borders because of the Kingpriest’s forbearance. A word, and the might of both the church and the imperial army would descend upon them—and, before the might of the Kingpriest, no wizard could stand.
No wizard, except one.
For most, Fistandantilus was a legend, a bogey invoked to frighten willful children. Few had ever seen the man, but tales abounded. He was unspeakably old, folk whispered, having discovered magic that helped him outlive even the ageless elves. He could travel across the whole of Krynn in an eye-blink. If he twitched his little finger at a man—even a mighty archmage—the man would die in agony, his blood set aflame. He drew out the souls of younger wizards and devoured them to fuel his strength.
Unlike most bogeys, though, the tales about Fistandantilus were true. Even the Conclave who ruled the Orders of High Sorcery feared him. While the holy church didn’t make an exception for him in its avowal that all Black Robes were beyond the god’s sight, people whispered he kept one of his many dwellings within the Lordcity. No one spoke his name, lest he hear; instead, folk simply called him the Dark One.
Looking upon the tall, black-robed figure, Kurnos shivered from more than just the preternatural cold. His throat was so tight he could barely breathe, and he might have fled, provided he could convince his legs to move. Instead, he stood statue-still, his back flat against the wall, and trembled.
Fistandantilus let out a rasping chuckle. “What, Your Grace? No pleasantries? No idle talk? How disappointing.” Though Kurnos could not see his face, the curl of his lip was plain in his voice. “But then, you are a busy man. You have your empire to run, so I shall be brief. I wish to offer my help.”
He moved his hand as he spoke, and though his terror did not lessen, Kurnos felt himself almost relax. His mouth moved, but it took a few moments for words to come out.
“H-help?”
The dark wizard nodded, the tip of his beard bristling against his chest. “Hard to believe, I know. As it happens, though, we share a common interest, you and I—putting you on the throne.”
“What?” Kurnos blurted. “Symeon has already named me heir. I am destined to rule.”
“Perhaps, but there is another who could take your place, one who would be a terrible danger for those of us who walk the shadowed path.”
The First Son furrowed his brow, confused—who?—then suddenly, he caught his breath.
“The one Ilista has found,” he murmured. “The one she was looking for, but… Ilista never said aught of making him Kingpriest.”
“She did not mean to,” the Dark One answered. “Still doesn’t, actually, but that changes nothing. This boy, the one called Lightbringer, must be stopped, if you are to rule. I am offering you the power to stop him.”
He gestured, speaking spidery words. His aged fingers wove through the air. Green light flared, bright and unhealthy, and when it faded something hung in the air above his hand: a loop of red gold set with a large, glittering emerald. Kurnos gasped, then looked down at his own hands. The ring he’d taken from Symeon’s finger when he became regent was gone, his skin itching where it had been. As he stared at the jewel, Fistandantilus twitched his fingers, and the ring started turning slowly in the air.
“What—what are you doing?” Kurnos demanded.
Fistandantilus inclined his head. “A fair question. Within the gem, I have imprisoned a … being. A spirit, if you will.”
Kurnos drew back. There was something disturbing about the way the way the light played across the emerald’s facets.
“A demon, you mean,” he breathed.
“If that is what you wish to call it.” Velvet-cloaked shoulders rose and fell. “Whatever word you choose, though, this creature is beholden to the one who wears the ring. Its name is Sathira. Speak and it will do your bidding, whatever you ask.”
The dread of what might lurk within the ring was second in revulsion to Kurnos’s yearning to reach out and take it. There was something seductive in the way it sparkled, and he heard the low hiss of whispering in the back of his mind. He knew, if he listened closely, he would hear his own name. He shuddered, forcing his hands to remain at his aides.
“If I refuse?” he asked.
“Then I shall find another who won’t.”
Kurnos had thought the sorcerer’s voice could get no colder. He now realized he’d been wrong. The words came rimed with frost, leaving the afterthought unspoken. And you shall never take the throne.
A shudder ran through him. Treating with dark wizards was a sin in the church’s eyes. Treating with demons was worse. He could always atone later, though, he mused—and he must take his rightful position as Kingpriest, the god’s power his to wield. Otherwise, what? The rest of his life spent as First Son, the crown always beyond reach? Or worse, banished from the Lordcity, to the dimmer lights of the provinces? Fistandantilus was right—there were hundreds of male priests within the Great Temple’s walls, and thousands more beyond them. One of them would take the ring if he didn’t first.
Without thinking consciously about what he was doing, he reached out, plucking the jewel from the air. It felt like ice against his skin as he slipped it back onto his finger.
“Very good, Your Grace,” Fistandantilus said, nodding. “The rest is up to you. You know what to do.”
With that, he vanished.
There was no light, no magical aura—only a faint shimmer in the air and a dull sound like a gong being struck in reverse. One moment he was there, and the next he was gone. The frost began to fade from the windows at once, but the sense of disquiet that had surrounded the Dark One remained.
Kurnos gaped at the place where the mage had been standing, then turned his gaze downward to the ring itself. The emerald sparkled, almost mischievously, but there was something else, too. He had once heard a sea captain speak of hideous creatures, gliding beneath the water’s surface, sinister shapes one could never quite make out. Whatever lay behind the gem’s lambency, the darkness in the ring, refused to lie quiet.
It was looking back at him.
Take it off! his mind screamed. Go to the harbor and throw it from the God’s Eyes into the depths. Find a blacksmith and burn it in his forge. Use two stones and smash it. Scatter the pieces to the winds!
He did none of these things. Instead he stood still and silent, gazing into the jewel’s dark depths until an acolyte knocked on the door and entered, bowing.
“Aulforo,” the boy said when Kurnos looked up, “you should go to the manse at once. Emissary Loralon has a report to make, word from the First Daughter in Kharolis. His Holiness bids you attend.”
His Holiness, Kurnos thought, shivering. He could feel the ring’s power tingle throughout his body. All he had to do was speak one word, one nonsense name, and the title would be his to claim.
No, he thought. Not yet.
Scowling, he made his way out of darkened study, into the hot evening air.
* * * * *
“They have … set out for … home, then?” Symeon asked. “They’ve left … the mon—monast—” He broke off with a wince, breathing hard.
Loralon bowed his head. The four heads of the church had gathered on the balcony of the manse again. The city glimmered beyond the Temple’s walls, a sea of golden lights.
“Yes, sire,” the elf replied. “They rode out this morning. Only—they are not sailing back to Istar. Lady Ilista has chosen to travel overland.”
“Overland?” Balthera echoed, her voice rising with dismay. She was a small woman, thin and birdlike, with hair the color of straw. “They’ll need to pass through Taol!”
“Yes,” Loralon replied. “Under the circumstances I cautioned her against it, but she insisted. It will take less time than riding all the way to Tarsis, then taking a ship back here—and they will be passing through the southern part of the borderlands, far from Govinna.”
Balthera’s frown deepened, but Kurn
os spoke before she could.
“Why is it so important she arrives quickly?” looked at the Kingpriest, who sighed.
Symeon said, “she wants … to get here … I still… live. She thinks this … young monk… might … heal me.” He slumped, breathing hard, as the other high priests looked at one another. When he had his wind back again, he chuckled. “Well. I doubt… the god’s … will shall be so … easily thwarted, but… we should … still pray for … Ilista’s safe … return.”
“Iprummu, Holiness,” Balthera said solemnly. I shall.
“As will I,” Loralon agreed.
Kurnos hesitated, his gaze lowering to the marble floor. He sighed. “I as well, sire,” he muttered. As he spoke the words, however, his fingers strayed to his left hand, to the emerald ring.
* * * * *
The Garden of Martyrs was quiet tonight, save for the chirping of crickets. Kurnos stood in its midst, looking out past the moonstone monuments toward the manse. Light glimmered from the high balcony, where he had left the Kingpriest. Symeon had been dozing quietly when he and the other hierarchs departed the manse. Soon Brother Purvis and his servants would come to bear him to his bed.
What if it really happens? he wondered, fists clenched at his sides. What if this Brother Beldyn’s powers do heal him?
He could see it now, unfolding like the plot of an Ismindi high tragedy. The throne, nearly his, slipping from his grasp. Symeon’s reign would continue, and his weak will might well be Istar’s undoing. Symeon would not send the army to Taol, and rebellion would spread, flourishing throughout the provinces. Before long, it might well spiral into civil war.
No, Kurnos thought. It cannot happen. It will not.
He looked down at the emerald ring and shivered despite the evening’s warmth. The moons were hidden now, behind clouds red with the Lordcity’s glow. The gem sparkled with alluring light anyway. He held it up to his eye, peering within. He could see nothing there, save for the vague flicker of a shadow, but he could feel it—a presence trapped in the crystal, longing to be free. He could feel its eyes upon him.
Do it, a voice seemed to whisper. Say the name …
He took a deep breath, his lips parting. “Sathira,” he whispered. “Come forth and heed my words… .”
Green light flashed within the ring, making him squint and turn away. It washed out in waves, the white obelisks around him reflecting its gangrenous glow. The ring grew warm, then hot, until he felt his skin begin to blister beneath it. Kurnos clutched his hand, groaning in pain and wondering if the Dark One had tricked him. Was this just some elaborate ploy to destroy him? Would the ring’s green flame consume him, burn him to ashes?
Just as the heat threatened to wrench a scream from his lips, however, the emerald’s glow flared sun-bright, then died with a noise like cloth tearing, only deeper. Like a pall of smoke, shadows billowed from the gem. They poured forth in a great gout, devouring what little light there was in the garden, surrounding Kurnos in blackness. The shadows eddied and swirled around him, colder than the frozen gales of the southern sea. Wisps broke free, dancing like witchfire, utterly soundless.
Kurnos stood amid it all, shuddering and biting his lip to keep from crying out. The iron taste of blood mixed in his mouth with coppery fear.
At last, the final shreds of shadowstuff flowed out of the ring, and their churning began to slow. Bit by bit, they coalesced, pulling inward and condensing until they seemed to take on physical form… arms… hands… fingers. Kurnos’s mind told him that pure black could get no darker, and yet the shadowstuff did just that, becoming so thick that it drained the light out of the world around it. The air in the garden grew freezing, so cold it burned, and the leaves of nearby bushes turned brown and withered.
The shape the shadows took, at last, was that of a only by the barest of margins. The shadow was legless, dissolving into inky wisps where her should have been, and her fingers were far too long, ending in sharp points. Her body wove back and forth in a way that resembled a snake more than a human, and tiny, pointed wings sprouted from where her shoulder blades ought to have been. Worse of all, though, was the head: long and narrow, bald and featureless, save for two slits of venomous green light in place of eyes. These moved back and forth, taking in the garden, then widened, flaring brightly when they settled on Kurnos.
“Master,” Sathira said. Her voice was the snarl of jackals, the hiss of vipers, the mad buzz of wasps. “I hear and obey. What is thy will?”
Kurnos couldn’t find his voice. More than anything, he wanted to stop, flee, order the horrid creature back into the ring. He knew, though, that it was too late. He couldn’t say why, but he was sure Sathira would not retreat until she had tasted blood. She waited, staring at him with the unblinking flatness of things that lived under stones.
Palado Calib, he prayed. Forgive me for this. It must be done. It must.
He beckoned and tried not to cringe as the shadow-thing moved nearer. Unable to meet its cold gaze, he drew a deep breath, shaking all over, and spoke.
“Listen to me,” he said. “There is something you must do …”
* * * * *
Symeon sat alone in his bed, a book propped in his lap. His illness had robbed him of many pleasures—strolling his gardens, playing khas, attending banquets—but his love of words remained. Tonight, as with every night of the past week, he sat up late, poring over the Reflections by the philosopher Pendeclos of Majere. His mind was elsewhere, however, so though his eyes slid across the words on the page, he barely noticed what they said.
The dilemma he faced was one Pendeclos, who had loved theological quandaries, would have enjoyed. On one side of the coin, Paladine himself had foretold his death. Even many months later, Symeon recalled the dream vividly, the god’s honeyed voice telling him to uncrown. On the other side, though, was the young monk Ilista had found, this Beldyn. If he indeed had the power to heal, did that not also come from the god? What if the boy came to Istar and offered to cure his ailment? What then?
There was a proverb, oft-quoted by Pendeclos: Usas supo munamfat. The god’s mind is one. That applied to Paladine as well as Majere. It was sometimes hard to understand the dawn-father—otherwise, why would men need clergy?—but Paladine did not contradict himself. There were only three possible solutions the Kingpriest could see, then: first, the boy’s powers might not be as great as Ilista hoped; second, they would not reach Istar; and last, he would die too soon for Beldyn to help.
“Let it be that,” he murmured, sliding an ivory marker between the pages and setting the book aside. His hand went to his medallion. “Take me, Paladine, if it is your desire. Better that than the others.”
He frowned, then, shivering. The room had grown cold. He glanced at the window, but it was shut—and besides, it was still summer. Still the flesh on his good arm rose into bumps, and his breath became a plume of mist in the air. A deeper chill ran through him as he watched ice form on the goblet of water he kept by the bedside. This was no freak chill—something was causing it to happen. What?
He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. As he shrank back, feebly tugging at his blankets to cover himself, the shadows in the room’s corner shifted. They moved like a living thing, undulating and swelling, then darkening and growing solid … more and more solid. His heart beat erratically and he held his breath as he watched the darkness take form—a lithe, feminine form that shifted and coiled like smoke. Finally, two glowing slits appeared in its face, combing the room, then blazing with green fire as they settled on him.
With a soft hiss, the creature broke away from the darkness, gliding across his bedchamber. He watched it with horrible fascination—the way its body floated above the floor, the wintry glare it fixed on him, never once wavering as it drew near his bedside. He wanted to slip away, to get up and run, but his enfeebled body wouldn’t let him. He wanted to shout, but his throat tightened until it was hard even to breathe.
Watching the monster draw near, he had a though
t that terrified and amused him, both at once. He’d asked for death, only moments ago. Evidently, someone had been listening.
The … thing … hovered before him, poised like a coiled serpent. Its blazing eyes bored into his own. Black talons like scimitars reached out, inches from his flesh. In that moment, with death at hand, all fear left Symeon IV, and he nodded, his rosebud lips relaxing into a smile.
Palado Calib, he prayed silently, mas ipilas paripud. Mas pirtam tarn anlico.
Blessed Paladine, forgive my wrongs. I give my soul to thee.
Aloud, he said, “Very well. Come on, then.”
Snarling, the demon lunged. Its talons plunged into his breast, piercing him without breaking the skin. Cold pain surged through him, worse than any he’d ever known before. Then it went away.
Chapter Twelve
NlNTHMONTH, 923 LA.
Wentha lived in darkness now, her windows shuttered, the candles gone from her bedside. Silence filled the room, broken by the thin wheeze of her breath. Her body was wretchedly thin—a skeletal girl now, rather than the blooming young woman she had been—and she shivered no matter how many blankets covered her. The herbs hanging from the rafters could no longer mask the sour reek and the drier, mustier scent beneath.
Autumn came early to the highlands, tinting the trees with flame. Watching his sister from the doorway, Cathan knew she would be gone before the leaves fell.
He’d returned from Govinna with the rest of Tavarre’s band more than a month ago, setting camp in the same gorge as before. He’d meant to go to Luciel immediately, truly had, but something had stopped him. Fear, probably—to see his sister again would have made her illness real. He’d spent his days in other ways, practicing swordplay or taking watch over the broad, winding highroad. The rest of the time, he’d roved the hills, thinking dark thoughts—but always staying away from Luciel.
Finally, last night, Tavarre had drawn him aside as he sat by the fire, casting dice with the other bandits. “We came back here for your sake, lad,” the baron had said. “Keep hiding from her, and you’ll wake one morning to find it’s too late.”
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