At last he stirred, his eyes narrowing. “How many, would you say?” he asked.
“About a dozen,” she replied. “There might be others, though, once the word spreads. Emissary, what should I do?”
Loralon paused, stroking his beard. He was silent a good while, then his shoulders rose and fell. “Nothing, yet. There is a purpose to this, I believe—though what, I don’t know. Put your faith in Paladine, Efisa—all things have a purpose.”
A sound came from his door. She saw Loralon look over his shoulder, and the door of his chamber swing open. Quarath, his aide, stepped in and silently proffered a scroll.
Frowning, Loralon held up a slender finger to Ilista. She watched as he turned and took the missive from the younger elf. Quarath bowed, then departed as the Emissary broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. He scanned down its length, then stopped, his already pale complexion turning almost translucent as he read it again. When he rolled it up and turned back toward the orb, he looked every one of his five hundred years. Ilista caught her breath. In all the time she’d known him, she’d never seen Loralon so distraught.
“Your Grace, I’m afraid I must go to the manse at once,” he said, his voice hollow. He paused, and she could see it in his eyes before he licked his lips and spoke the words she dreaded to hear.
“The Kingpriest is dead.”
Chapter Fourteen
For three days, the Revered Daughters took over the manse and shut out all others, including the imperial servants. It their task to see to the Kingpriest’s body, performing secret rituals to protect him from decay. They washed him ritually, painted the sacred triangle on his forehead, and removed his innards, burning them and placing the ashes in an urn, then pouring holy oil on top and sealing it with red wax. Some said they added their own blood to the ashes, but only the priestesses knew for sure. Others said there was sorcery involved, but none could prove it. The only light that burned in the windows of the manse came from funerary candles, and the only sound was the Daughters’ voices, raised to a high, keening wail.
While the priestesses went about their secret rites, the Revered Sons saw to the people. Priests of the god rode through the city on golden chariots, accompanied by squads of Knights and Scatas, stopping at every crossroads and plaza to make the official pronouncement. “Binarud, Istaras farnas, usas stimno rubat,” they proclaimed, their deep voices echoing among the arches and domes.
Mourn, children of lstar, for the god’s voice is silenced.
In the past, the folk of Istar had sometimes rioted after the death of the Kingpriest. Folk still told the tales of the burning that followed Theorollyn’s murder, and the Night of Ten Thousand Spears, when the imperial army had moved in after five days of unrest following the passing of Ardosean II. With Symeon, though, it was different. The hierarchs had made it known he was ill, and besides, he had named an heir. Folk were not yet calling Kurnos the Kingpriest, for he had not yet taken the throne, but they had already begun to argue in the wine shops over what sort of ruler he would make. Most prayed at shrines and hung blue cloths outside their homes, but a few still followed the old ways, wailing, rending their garments, and smashing pottery in the streets. The priests frowned upon such practices but did nothing to stop them. This was not the time to arrest folk for heresy.
The Great Temple fell into mourning. The basilica’s crystal dome, which ordinarily shone brilliant white, shifted to somber azure during the grieving time, and the song of the bells in the central spire turned doleful. The statues in the Temple’s courtyards wept real tears, it was said, and the blooms in the Kingpriest’s private rose garden withered and fell to dust.
At last, on the fourth day, the Revered Daughters emerged from the manse to bear the Kingpriest’s body to the basilica. There it lay upon a rose-marble bier within the Hall of Audience, surrounded by wreaths of blue roses. Much of the clergy spent the next three days in prayer near the Kingpriest’s body, while noblemen, merchant princes, and dignitaries came to pay homage. All who visited left some token—opals and pearls, spices and scented balms—upon the bier, for Symeon to bear into the afterlife.
At last, at twilight on the sixth day, the funeral began. The faithful gathered in the Lordcity’s midst, the mighty filling the basilica, the common folk packing the wide expanses of the Barigon, while choirs of elves sang a solemn paean. In the Hall of Audience, Balthera, still acting as First Daughter in Ilista’s absence, laid a shroud of spun silver over the bier, kissing the triangle on Symeon’s forehead before she covered his face forever. Then, as the mourners bowed their heads but Kurnos— wearing the Kingpriest’s jeweled breastplate but not yet his crown—stepped forward to stand before Symeon’s body. His face grave but proud, he began the liturgy for the imperial dead.
“Aulforam ansinfamo,” he prayed, “Symeon Poubirta, gasiras cilmo e usas stimno.”
We send forth our sovereign, Symeon IV, lord of emperors and voice of the god.
Within the Hall the mourners stirred, the response rising from them like distant thunder. The crystal dome caught the words and rang with them, so those in the square outside heard and spoke it as well, tens of thousands of voices rising into the deepening sky. “Ansinfamo.”
The liturgy went on, with Kurnos reciting the deeds of the Kingpriest’s life and reign and entreating Paladine to spare him the torments of the Abyss and give him comfort beyond the stars. Again and again the basilica, and then the Barigon, rumbled with the responses. Finally, two hours after he began, Kurnos walked around the bier, pausing at each corner to sign the triangle, then stopped again at its head to deliver the final benediction.
“Oporud, Symeon,” he intoned. “Palado tas drifas bisat.”
Farewell, Symeon. May Paladine guide thy steps.
“Sifat,” murmured the Lordcity.
At that, a silver gong sounded from the balcony overlooking the Hall, and the bier burst into flame.
Those who didn’t know the ritual and who hadn’t been at the funeral of Symeon III eight years before gasped as fire rose from the Kingpriest’s body. Ghostly white limned with blue, the flames leaped from the bier, twining like dancers or lovers as they rose higher and higher. No one moved to flee, for the mourners knew these flames did no harm. There was no smoke, no smell of burning, no heat to bake the air. It was a cleansing, holy fire, and though its tongues licked close to his body, Kurnos did not flinch as it blossomed up and up, finally brushing the crystal dome.
A ringing filled the air, loud and pure, as the sacred fire bathed the dome. Out in the city, folk exclaimed in wonder as the blue light that had shone above the basilica for the past six days flared star-white, then settled back to its familiar silver. Within the Hall of Audience, the flames surrounding the body flickered, then vanished, leaving no scorch marks behind. The lords and clerics who filled the vast chamber stared at the body beneath the silver shroud, signing the triangle. The god had shown his favor and claimed Symeon’s soul. The Kingpriest was gone, and now all eyes turned to the figure at the bier’s head.
Kurnos turned and strode across the Hall, the crowds parting as he headed for the dais and the golden throne. He paused to genuflect at the foot of the steps, then ascended slowly, stopping on the second-highest stair. No man, save the Kingpriest himself, could mount the topmost. Raising his hands in entreaty, he turned to face the mourners.
“Ec, Kurnos, lufo e Forpurmo, ceramfecapio,” he proclaimed. “Pelgo me biseddit?”
I, Kurnos, heir and First Son, lay claim to the crown. Will any speak against me?
The hall was silent, save for the occasional quiet cough. Folk looked at one another nervously. It had been at this point in the ritual, with Vasari II on the verge of donning his new topaz crown, when Pradian had appeared in his emerald diadem to challenge him. Today, however, no one said a word, and a smile split Kurnos’s red beard.
“Sam gennud,” he declared, “tusstulo loisit nispitur.”
Then bring it forward, so the throne shall stand empty no mo
re.
The mourners turned as the golden doors opened at the room’s far end. Loralon emerged, clad not in funereal blue but in the god’s silver. Quarath walked a pace behind him, bearing a white satin cushion. Upon this lay the Kingpriest’s sapphire tiara. The crowd parted as the two approached, striding past the bier at a slow, steady pace, then bowing before the dais. Quarath stopped, proffering the cushion, and the elder elf took the tiara and climbed the steps.
“Kurnos, usas farno,” Loralon spoke, “gasiro brud calfos bid iridam e oram?”
Kurnos, child of the god, will you rule this empire with justice and mercy?
Eyes shining, Kurnos nodded. “Ospiro.”
I swear.
“Sas ladad smidos, tair sift ponfos?”
Will you smite its enemies, wherever they are found?
“Ospiro.”
“Usam motilos, e sas hollas somli?”
Will you speak for the god and work his will?
“Ospiro.”
“Very well.” Loralon raised the tiara, whose sapphires sparkled in the dome’s light. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo, tarn Babam agito.”
In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might, I name thee Kingpriest.
With that, he set the crown upon Kurnos’s head. Regent and First Son no longer, Kurnos raised his head, signing the triangle to the court as its ruler for the first time. Then, amid cries of “Sa, Kurnos Porsto!”—Hail, Kurnos the First!—he mounted the dais’s highest step and walked at last to his throne.
* * * * *
Far beneath the Great Temple, carved out of the bedrock, was a vast, dark crypt known as the Fidas Cor Selo, the House of Old Emperors. The Selo predated the temple itself, for Istar’s old warlords had originally built it beneath their great palace at the Lordcity’s midst. That palace had long since vanished, torn down by the first Kingpriest, but the ancient sepulcher remained. Within lay the remains of every true ruler of Istar, on slabs of marble within great pillared vaults. Alabaster reliefs more than twenty feet tall covered the doors of each tomb, sculpted into huge, lifelike images of the men interred within. The old warlords’ faces had worn away over the years and now stared facelessly out into the gloom, but the Kingpriests’ remained as sharp as the day they were sculpted—protected, some said, by the god’s grace—staring into the gloom with eyes of stone.
Walking through the sepulcher, one could gaze upon centuries of Istarian rulers: the hard visage of Theorollyn II, who had been a gladiator before turning to the priesthood; the benevolent countenance of Sularis of Solamnia; the aged features of Quenndorus the Conciliator, who had quelled the violence following the assassination of Kingpriest Giusecchio; and more than a score of others, many forgotten by all but scholars. These, however, accounted for only a few of the vaults within the catacombs. Beyond them, the tunnels went on and on, lined by tombs that remained open, stone mouths yawning wide, awaiting those who would rule in the centuries to come. Even in its earliest days, Istar’s rulers had known their realm would last for thousands of years.
Kurnos stood in a pool of candlelight before one of the empty vaults, surrounded by deep silence. Reaching up to touch the sapphire tiara, still strange-feeling on his brow, he peered into the shadows within.
This is mine, he thought, shivering. One day, I shall lie here.
He looked to his left, at the vault that had been empty only hours ago. After the funeral, the Revered Daughters had borne the body down here—again in secret—and placed it and the offerings his subjects had brought within the tomb. Now it was shut forever, its edges sealed with lead. Nevorian of Calah, one of the empire’s greatest sculptors, had already begun work on the cherubic face that would grace the gray-stone door, but for now, there was only a bronze plaque, bearing the name of Symeon IV.
A shiver ran through Kurnos as he read the name. Oh, Holiness, he thought. I put you there.
He tried to forgive himself. It had been Symeon’s heart that finished him in the end. Weakened by his illness, it had finally given out while he slept. A gentle passing, Loralon had called it, but Kurnos knew better—yes, the Kingpriest likely wouldn’t have recovered from his sickness, and yes, Sathira hadn’t killed him outright, but the demon had done damage enough to speed the end along, and she had done it at his bidding.
His eyes went to the emerald ring on his finger, and he cringed, as he had every time he’d looked at it, in the weeks after first summoning the demon. Even down here, amid the darkness, he could sense her shadow within the stone. Waiting. With a snarl, he reached for the ring and tried to pull it off. He’d tried to remove it nearly every day since that terrible night, but it didn’t budge, though he twisted and twisted it until his finger bled.
“You won’t be rid of it that easily.”
Kurnos started at the sound of voice. Turning, he peered down the rows of empty vaults, gray shadows in the gloom. There were tales of ghosts—the Selo was a burial place, after all—but the cold voice belonged to no spectre. After a moment, he caught his breath, seeing it a deeper shadow amid the murk. A cold wind seemed to blow through the catacombs as he looked upon the dark hooded figure.
Kurnos had to try a few times before his voice came. “Why not? I am Kingpriest now. I have power.”
“Indeed.” Fistandantilus inclined his head. “Much good it will do you, though, if another usurps it.”
“Usurps it?” Kurnos asked, his eyes narrowing.
“The First Daughter’s pet, the monk. He already wields great power, with no crown on his brow.” The dark wizard chuckled softly. “You don’t know, do you? You don’t even know where Lady Ilista and this Brother Beldyn are right now, do you?”
Kurnos glowered, shaking his head… then it came to him, and he caught his breath, looking sharply at the sorcerer. “The borderlands. He’s in Taol?”
“Just so,” Fistandantilus said. “If you doubt me, ask your adviser, the Emissary. I have been using my magic to listen to his private conversations with the First Daughter. They scheme against you, Holiness—nothing spoken aloud yet, but that will come, unless you use your vaunted power rather than merely talking about it.”
With a croaking laugh, he stepped hack and was gone, vanished in the darkness.
Kurnos stood silent, trembling as he stared at the emerald on his finger. The shadow within danced, mocking him, and he looked away. At once he wished he hadn’t, for his eyes turned back to the empty vault, where one day he would find eternal rest. Now, with Fistandantilus’s laughter echoing in his mind, he wondered if that time might come sooner than he hoped.
* * * * *
When he held court the next morning, Kurnos found everything, everyone, in the Hall of Audience looked different from the top of the dais—smaller, somehow, like Symeon’s enchanted khas pieces. The pieces were his now, though, as was the manse … the Temple … the empire. He was Kingpriest, and when the courtiers spoke to him, there was true reverence in their voices and in their eyes.
His first act was to get rid of part of his court. Power bases always shifted after a new Kingpriest’s coronation, and this would be no exception. There were certain hierarchs Kurnos favored more than the ones who had served Symeon—priests more inclined to support him—and so he dismissed Avram of Branchala and Thendeles of Majere, sending them back to their home temples elsewhere in the city. That done, he also named a new First Son: a young, raven-haired cleric named Strinam, who had vowed to support Kurnos at court, no matter what. Balthera he kept around for now. She was malleable and not the true First Daughter anyway. He had his plans for Ilista.
Finally, after Kurnos finished arranging his human khas pieces to his liking, he smiled. Shifting on his throne—it wasn’t as comfortable as it looked, and the armrests were too high for his liking—he raised a bejeweled hand for silence and made his first move.
“On my first day as Kingpriest,” he began, the dome ringing with his voice. “I make this declaration. I am not Symeon. I will not sit idly while my empire frays.”
&n
bsp; The courtiers glanced at one another, murmuring. A few, like Lord Holger, nodded approvingly. Others frowned. He paused, noting the dissenters. They would soon follow Avram and Thendeles. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and went on.
“I speak, of course, of the traitors in Taol,” Kurnos continued. “Had we acted early, we could have hunted down these brigands easily. We didn’t, though, and now they hold Govinna and the patriarch, and matters are worsening.
“This shall no longer stand. I will not brook rebellion in my lands. Thus, I call upon Lord Holger to ride forth to Ismin. There he will meet up with the second and fourth Dromas and march to the borderlands at once.”
An explosion of voices erupted, jangling the crystal dome. A Droma was one of the largest divisions in the imperial army— some ten thousand men strong. Cities had fallen to a force that size, and now Kurnos was ordering two into the field. Not once in his reign had Symeon taken such bold action against his own people, and the courtiers quickly began to exclaim and argue with one another, everyone talking at once.
“Rubudo!” Kurnos bellowed, surging to his feet. Silence!
The noise stopped at once, all eyes turning to the dais. Symeon had never risen from his throne, either.
“I will have order in this court!” Kurnos barked. His face was florid, his nostrils flaring. To his left, he saw Loralon step forward, bowing, but he gestured sharply to stay him. “The time for conciliating with our enemies is done. I command the empire’s armies now, and I mean to use them. By Year-Turning, every Taoli who has taken up arms against this throne shall swing from a gibbet. Is that understood?”
Loralon blinked, then bowed his head and stepped back, a frown creasing his ageless face. Kurnos glared at him, then turned back to Lord Holger to give further orders. Even as he spoke to the Knight, however, he felt the ancient elf’s eyes on him.
He allowed himself a wolfish smile. There would be resistance from Loralon, he knew. He was planning on it.
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