Chosen of the Gods

by Chris Pierson

  No sooner had he thought that, however, than he saw the dark hooded figure. It stood in the shadows beneath a barren rose trellis, its shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Kurnos flushed with anger and froze with fear all at once.

  “You!” he breathed.

  Still chuckling, Fistandantilus stepped out into the reddening sunlight and crossed the garden. Seeing him, the hippogriff let out a terrified squeal and edged back into the garden’s far corner. He glanced at the creature, shrugged, and turned back to the Kingpriest.

  “Smart beast,” he said. “It knows evil when it sees it.”

  Kurnos heard the double-edged meaning. “I am not evil,” he snapped. “I am Paladine’s voice.”

  Fistandantilus shrugged again.

  Kurnos glowered, rubbing his fingers. The emerald ring had grown warm against his skin, and it was all he could do to keep from looking at it.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  The wizard’s beard—the only part of his face visible within his hood’s shadows—moved as he smiled. “That is what I like about you, Holiness. You’re very direct. How does your war proceed?”

  A scowl creased Kurnos’s face. He’d received his first report from Lord Holger only yesterday. They had entered Taol and were subjugating its southern fiefs even now. The Lord Knight had been concerned, at first, about the coming winter, but now he was certain the army would reach Govinna before the snows started falling. The Kingpriest said nothing of this, though. He remained stonily silent.

  “Very well,” Fistandantilus said. “I am here because I have information you might find interesting.”

  “Information?” Kurnos echoed. “From where?”

  “Your own Temple, as it happens.” The archmage’s head shook as Kurnos’s eyes went wide. “You see, I’ve been thinking about this Brother Beldyn, the ones the rebels are calling ‘Lightbringer.’ The name was familiar to me, you see, and just last night I remembered from where. It was in a book I read, a long time ago, so I went to the chancery to get it. Don’t worry, Holiness—no one knows I was there. I had to charm one young lad, though—Denubis, I believe his name was—to let me into the Fibuliam so I could get this.”

  The mage gestured, and a swirl of orange light appeared in the air, halfway between him and Kurnos. With a sound like a great iron gong, the light slowed its spinning, then took on physical form. It resolved into a book—an old, slender volume, bound in basilisk hide—that hung in the air for a heartbeat, then fell to the ground with a thump. An ivory plaque protruded from between its yellowed pages, and peeling, gold-leaf runes marked its cover. Kurnos leaned closer, peering at it.

  Qoi Zehamu, the runes read.

  Kurnos licked his lips and swallowed, then looked up again. “Is that all?”

  Fistandantilus shook his head. “You’re eager to be rid of me, I know,” he said, “but no—there’s more.”

  Again he waved his hand, and this time Kurnos let out a gasp of pain as the emerald ring grew unbearably hot. He clutched at it, and—in spite of his misgivings—looked to see the gem was glowing, the same unpleasant green as the eyes of the demon within. Its shadows whirled like a maelstrom.

  “You must use her again, Holiness,” Fistandantilus said.

  The pain was almost unbearable as Kurnos clenched his fist. The mage was right—the demon was the answer. All he had to do was speak her name, and his enemies would die. He looked at the hippogriff, still cowering and shivering in the garden’s corner, and faltered. The beast thought he was evil. Would a good man use the ring?

  “No,” he declared. “I will win this war by my own terms.”

  Fistandantilus drew himself up, his beard bristling. “You would defy me?”

  “I am Kingpriest of Istar!” Kurnos snarled back. “I will not bend to another man’s will.”

  The chill that surrounded Fistandantilus became biting cold, and beneath him the grass turned white and withered before Kurnos’s eyes. For a long moment, the mage didn’t speak—when he did, each soft word hung in the air as if made of ice.

  “Yes,” he hissed, “but it is my doing that you sit the throne now, Holiness. Do not forget that. I can end your reign just as easily.”

  Suddenly his hand came up, and he snapped his fingers. Kurnos flinched, expecting agony, but the spell was not directed at him. Instead, a horrible sound rang out across the garden—a horse’s scream, mixed with the shriek of a bird of prey. Kurnos turned, saw the hippogriff and immediately wished he hadn’t. The animal was on the ground, its flesh burning, wings aflame and hoofs kicking as it squalled in pain. Kurnos could only watch in sick fascination, tasting bile. At last the beast gave one last great thrash and was still, save for the feeble twitching of its legs. The flames snuffed out, leaving the air thick with the stench of singed hair and flesh, but though it was dead, there was no sign of burning on its body. It seemed to have died naturally.

  When he raised his horrified gaze from the dead hippogriff, Fistandantilus was gone. The sound of the mage’s laughter remained, though, lingering cruelly in Kurnos’s ears.

  * * * * *

  Later that night, Kurnos sat alone in his private audience hall atop his golden throne. The chamber was dark, save for the glow of braziers to either side of him. He had the Qoi Zehomu in his lap, open to the page Fistandantilus had marked. He did not move, save for the rise and fall of his breath, and the deepening of the frown upon his face. He had read Psandros’s foretelling three times now—slow going, for his Old Dravinish was rusty at best—and he could not remember being so furious in all his life.

  He was still staring at the mad prophet’s words when a knock sounded from the golden doors at the chamber’s far end. He took several deep breaths to quell his simmering rage before he spoke.

  “Enter.”

  The doors cracked open, and Brother Purvis appeared. “Sire,” the old chamberlain began, “the Emissary has arrived.”

  “Show him in.”

  Bowing, Purvis withdrew, then appeared again with the ancient elf behind him. Loralon was clad as always, in full raiment, neatly arranged. His ageless face aloof, he signed the triangle and glided silently forward to kneel before the throne.

  “Holiness,” he murmured. “How may I serve thee?”

  Kurnos waited until Purvis had gone again, and the doors were shut. Then, calmly, he lifted the Qoi Zehomu and hurled it at the elf.

  The book struck Loralon in the face, knocking him sideways, then hit the ground, cracking its fragile spine. Several pages came lose, torn from their binding. The ancient elf stared at it, his hand going to his mouth. Blood trickled from his lip.

  “You conniving bastard,” Kurnos growled as the elf stared up at him, an altogether alien look of shock in his eyes. “Get up.”

  He rose as the elf pushed himself dazedly to his feet and descended from the dais to stand before Loralon. His face was as red as his beard. His gaze smoldered.

  “Majesty,” Loralon said, “I did not—”

  “I said be silent!” Kurnos roared and cracked the back of his hand across the elf’s mouth.

  Loralon’s head snapped back, and he stumbled. The trickle of blood stained his snowy beard. “Majesty…” he began again.

  Kurnos wanted to strike Loralon again and again. It took a great deal of effort to hold back, his fists trembling at his sides. “No!” he snapped. “I will not hear it, Emissary. You’ve been plotting against me all along—you and Ilista. Trying to bring this … this Lightbringer to the Lordcity to usurp my rightful throne!”

  “Holiness, the prophecy says nothing about the throne,” Loralon said. When he caught the look in the Kingpriest’s eyes, however—rage, tinged with the glimmer of madness— he fell silent and looked at the floor.

  For a time, Kurnos didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was a razor, glittering in the dark. “If you were my subject, Loralon,” he said. “I would summon the guards and they would take you away in chains. Tomorrow, you would burn at the stake for this betrayal,
but,” he went on, raising a finger as Loralon opened his bloodied mouth, “unfortunately, you belong to King Lorac, not me. I cannot kill you without breaking the peace between our peoples. Therefore, I’m doing the only thing I can—sending you back to the Silvanesti in shame.

  “I have sent men to your chambers, with orders to seize all imperial property—as well as the crystal you’ve been using to conspire with Ilista. You will leave the Lordcity at dawn and return at once to Silvanost. If you do not—if you go to the borderlands, to help this wretched Lightbringer—things will go poorly for your people here. Do you understand?”

  Loralon stared at him, stunned. Kurnos took a certain delight in his amazement and the defeat that crept into his eyes. The elf had meddled in imperial affairs, and now he was caught. Slowly, he nodded.

  “Very well, Holiness,” he said. He gestured toward the book. “But the prophecy cannot be denied.”

  “The prophecy is heresy!” Kurnos barked. He took a step toward Loralon, then checked himself, turning away. “Get out.”

  There was a silence, then the whisper of the elf’s slippers across the marble floor. The golden doors boomed shut, and Kurnos was alone once more.

  He slumped, putting a shaking hand to his brow. His head and stomach both ached, his right eyelid was twitching. He stood where he was for a time, a dull roar filling his head, then whirled with a snarl and grabbed up the book. He weighed it in his hands, staring at it with equal parts fear and anger. He knew of the prophecies of Psandros the Younger. They did have an unfortunate tendency to come true.

  “Not this one,” he whispered. “Not as long as I rule.” Turning, he walked to one of the braziers by his throne. Giving the book one last, scornful glance, he tossed it into the fire.

  The flames leapt, crackling hungrily as they devoured the Qoi Zehomu—first its pages, then its cover. As they charred the basilisk skin they changed color, turning bright green and leaping high above the golden vessel.

  He felt no surprise at all when, as he was staring at the green flames, the ring began to burn his finger once more. As if pulled there, his gaze dropped to the emerald. It caught the fire’s eerie light and magnified it, the shadows dancing within. The twin slits of the demon’s eyes glared out at him, blazing with bloodlust.

  It was wrong, he knew it. Sending the army after his foes was one thing, but what he meant to do went well beyond that. Still, he told himself, it had to be done. This Lightbringer was dangerous. He was as sure of it as he had ever been of anything in his life. He had to be stopped for the good of the empire.

  Kurnos closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Forgive me, Paladine, he thought. This thing must be done.

  “Sathira,” he whispered.

  A horrible howling filled the hall as the shadows came billowing out of the ring. The air around him became wintry, losing the heat of the brazier’s flames. The ring seared his flesh, but he knew it would leave no mark, just as Fistandantilus’s killing spell had left the hippogriff un-scarred. Stefara of Mishakal had examined the poor creature’s corpse, and though the signs of starvation troubled her, she had determined it had died naturally. The servants would burn the body tonight.

  Kurnos felt a presence near him, the malevolence that poured from it drawing him back from his thoughts of the hippogriff. All at once he couldn’t breathe, and he gasped, opening his eyes.

  The demon was in front of him, her long, shadowy face barely a hand’s breadth from his. Their eyes locked, as a long, thin talon rose and stroked his cheek. It burned where it touched him. He held his breath, trying to keep his mind from fraying at the demon’s caress.

  “Master,” she growled in her jackal-wasp voice. “I had hoped you would free me again. I longed for it. What is your will?”

  Kurnos hesitated, fear overcoming him at the last moment, then swallowed, putting the terror out of his mind. He had loosed Sathira. She would not return to the ring until he had given her a task. If he was certain of one thing, it was that he wanted her far, far away as soon as possible. He lowered his eyes from her scorching gaze.

  “There is a place to the west,” he said softly. “It is called Govinna.”

  * * * * *

  Dawn was breaking over Istar when Loralon left the Great Temple to face his exile. He did not go by ship, however, nor did he ride out through the gates. His people had their own way of traveling.

  Ages ago, when even ancient Silvanost was young, the elves had tamed griffins as mounts. The Chosen of E’li kept a small aerie in the hills outside the Lordcity, where a dozen of the proud beasts awaited their call. Loralon still rode from time to time, traveling to his homeland to report to King Lorac. Now, as he stepped out of his cloister into the Temple’s gardens, he closed his eyes, sending out a silent call.

  Quarath, his aide, came out and stood beside him while he watched the sky. The younger elf’s face was expressionless, his mien composed, but the sorrow in his eyes was unmistakable. He would be Emissary from this day forward, and it weighed on him to lose his master so suddenly.

  It weighs on me too, Loralon thought, sighing.

  “It will be a fine day,” he said.

  Quarath looked up, nodding. The sky was cloudless, the hue of ripe plums. He coughed softly. “Shalafi, I have spoken with some of the others, and we have all agreed. We want to leave with you.”

  “Leave?” Loralon echoed, taken aback. He shook his head, his beard wafting in the breeze. “No, Quarath! Our people need a presence here. These humans must be watched. You must make sure we keep our power in Istar.”

  Quarath nodded, bowing his head. “As you wish.”

  A distant sound—an eagle’s cry, with a rumbling roar beneath—sounded from above. The elves looked skyward. There, circling above the city, was a large, odd shape, a great bird of prey with a lion’s hindquarters. It wheeled slowly, riding the winds, and began to descend. Loralon eyed its features as it dove: the golden-feathered head, the sharp talons that could rend a man to pieces, the trailing, leonine tail. In some ways it resembled the hippogriff that had died mysteriously in Kurnos’s garden just yesterday, but griffins were proud beasts and wild—never docile, like the other had been. Majestically the griffin swooped down, flapping its great wings to slow itself, and lit on a wide lawn, its claws digging furrows in the earth.

  Loralon met its bright, amber gaze, then turned and kissed Quarath on the forehead. “Farewell, Emissary,” he said.

  Elves never wept in the presence of humans, but there were tears on Quarath’s cheeks when Loralon stepped back. “Farewell, shalafi,” he replied, interlacing his fingers to sign the sacred pine tree. “May E’li grant you fair winds.”

  The ancient elf nodded. “May he grant them to us all.”

  Turning, Quarath strode back toward the cloister. Loralon watched him go, his lips pursed, then walked to the griffin, which tossed its head at his approach. He clucked at it, running his hand over its feathered neck, and it purred, nudging him with its beak. Smiling, he hitched up his robes and climbed onto its tawny back, settling himself between its massive shoulder blades, and whispered a word in elvish.

  With a mighty roar the griffin leapt, spreading its wings to catch the morning wind. They were airborne, rising above the Temple. Loralon looked down, watching the Lordcity drop away beneath him, the basilica sparkling diamond-bright at its heart. The waters of Lake Istar glistened as the sun’s first rays washed over them. The other cities of the empire’s heartland dotted the wide, golden grasslands.

  For a time, he looked to the west, considering. He longed to go to Govinna, to join Ilista there and give guidance. Above all, he yearned to see the Lightbringer with his own eyes, but he had to think of his own people. The Kingpriest had made it clear the elves in Istar would be in danger if he did anything so foolish. Kurnos might carry through with that threat, or he might not, but Loralon dared not take the risk.

  Another voice called him now, from the south. The virgin woods of Silvanesti lay beyond Istar’s southern deserts, c
ool and serene, swathed in mist and threaded with silver rivers. They were too far away to see, but he heard them just the same, beckoning with the voice of an old friend.

  Come home, they called. You have been away too long.

  With a sigh, Loralon patted the griffin’s neck, then bent forward to speak a word in its ear. The beast shrieked in reply, then wheeled and soared away through the morning air, bearing the ancient elf back toward the land of his birth.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The man was crying openly well before the Revered Sons were done with him—great, hitching sobs racking up his raw throat. Still they kept at it, three hard-eyed men in the red-fringed robes of inquisitors, taking turns asking questions while the bound villager—a man of perhaps fifty summers, bald and brawny, stripped to the waist and bleeding from a cut across his cheek—strained against the bowstrings that bound his hands and feet.

  “Again,” said the lead inquisitor, in a voice that matched the frigid highland wind. “Where are the other bandits? How many are they?”

  “What of your lord?” demanded the cleric to his left. “Is he here or in Govinna?”

  “Tell us about the one they call Lightbringer,” growled the third priest. “Have you seen him?”

  The man didn’t answer; he simply kept weeping, broken, past the point of endurance. Tears ran down his face, mixing with his blood to drip on the stony ground. “I don’t—I can’t—please … mercy… .”

  Standing nearby, Lord Holger Windsound turned away, his lip curling in distaste. He looked back across the valley, where the ruins of the village of Espadica still smoldered, capped by a pall of smoke. A few fires still burned here and there, but the worst was done. Scatas moved through the ashes, rounding up the last of the borderfolk and marching them away into the hills. A few bodies lay sprawled here and there. Not everyone let the army burn their homes without putting up a fight. It was a dreadful thing, razing a town, and one Lord Holger found distasteful but necessary. They had found bandits near Espadica, and the Kingpriest’s orders were clear: all such towns were to be put to torch, the survivors moved to other towns—after thorough questioning, of course.