Chosen of the Gods

by Chris Pierson

  They entered a study with a broad snowwood desk, velvet-cushioned chairs and shelves lined with dusty books. A door opened on the far end, letting out an old, haggard woman in blue vestments. Ilista watched, thinking how long it had been since she’d seen a Mishakite healer. The woman spoke softly with Lord Ossirian, shaking her head at his questions. Finally she stepped back, her face grave, and led the way into the Little Emperor’s private bedchamber.

  The smell of bloodblossom hung heavy in the room. Its heady, soothing scent told Ilista all she needed to know. The Mishakites were sparing with the precious oil, for it was both expensive and dangerous. More than one rich lord had become addicted to the smoke that came from burning it, lost in a blissful haze while the gold vanished from his coffers. If the healer was using so much, Durinen’s pain must be terrible indeed.

  “He sleeps,” the old Mishakite said. “He was screaming earlier, so I eased his suffering.” She kissed her fingertips, then pressed them to the corners of her eyes to sign the goddess’s twin teardrops.

  The room was well appointed, jewels glistening on its walls, silken curtains hanging across a walk to a balcony outside. Mosaics of wild animals cavorted on its ceiling. The bed was a mound of furs and cushions in its midst. Once more curtains had surrounded it, but they were gone now, torn down and cast into a corner. There was blood on them and in the bed as well. Looking at the Little Emperor, Ilista caught her breath.

  Durinen was shirtless, his bare skin white and shining with sweat that soaked his graying hair as well. His proud face was smooth, unlined by pain—the bloodblossom’s work, surely—but muscles still jumped in his neck, and his fingers clutched the blankets like talons.

  Worst of all, though, was the wound itself. The quarrel still lodged in his belly, surrounded by bandages that bloomed scarlet where his blood soaked through. The quarrel moved as he breathed, rocking back and forth with each exhale, and the drug’s fumes could not hide the bilious stink coming from it.

  Calmly, Beldyn reached to the neck of his cassock and withdrew his medallion. He brushed his fingertips across the patriarch’s brow, then reached out and touched the bolt’s iron shaft. Durinen’s face tightened, a gurgle of pain bubbling up his throat.

  “Don’t,” the healer warned, grabbing Beldyn’s wrist. “That quarrel’s the only thing keeping him from the gods.”

  Beldyn regarded her, his eyes piercing, until she paled and drew back. Head bowed, he went to stand at the head of the bed and gazed down on Durinen’s face. Then, shutting his eyes, he tightened his grasp about his medallion and began to pray. His lips moved silently, and the air about him shivered then began to glow. A spasm of discomfort passed over his face, the corners of his mouth tightening as he reached out to touch Durinen’s face. A groan escaped his lips, and he swayed like a drunk man, sweat beading on his forehead and running down his face. The nimbus around him flickered and began to fade. Blood welled between his fingers as he squeezed his medallion tighter and tighter still.

  Too much time passed.

  Merciful god, Ilista thought. He can’t do it. Something’s wrong… .

  With a shuddering groan, Beldyn’s knees buckled, and he began to sway.

  Ilista tensed, but someone was quicker. In a heartbeat Cathan was at his side, catching his arm and holding him up. “Master,” he said. “Wait. You have to stop… .”

  “No,” Beldyn moaned through thin, white lips. “Hold me. I must finish… .”

  Cathan shook his head, his mouth opening to protest. Durinen’s wound was too grievous. The wound was tainted, the contents of his bowels mixing with his blood, but something in Beldyn’s face silenced his objections. Cathan tightened his grasp on the monk. Nostrils flared wide, Beldyn took a slow, deep breath to calm himself… and spoke.

  The voice that came from his lips was not like any Ilista had heard him use before. It carried none of its usual music, no soothing undertone. Deep and firm, this voice filled the room at the tower’s pinnacle like a thunderclap.

  “Abagnud!” he shouted.

  Awake!

  The light flared around him, making Ossirian curse as it stung his eyes, flowing down over Durinen. With a grunt of exertion he let go of the patriarch’s forehead and stumbled back, Cathan supporting him when he would have collapsed altogether. His shoulders slumped, but his eyes blazed as he continued to stare at the figure on the bed.

  Despite the wound, despite the bloodblossom, the Little Emperor’s eyes fluttered open.

  He lay still, looking at the ceiling with confusion in his eyes. There was no pain in them and no drugged stupor. Instead they were bright, sharp. Brows knitting, he pushed himself up, propping himself on his elbows. He stared at the quarrel lodged in his flesh and frowned.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It’s—it’s all right,” Beldyn gasped from behind him. “Take it—out.”

  Durinen nodded, looking dazedly at the quarrel. Then, with a motion so quick even the Mishakite had no time to do more than suck in a horrified breath, he reached up and yanked the bolt from his body.

  Ilista cringed, expecting bright life-blood and entrails to gush from the wound. That didn’t happen. Instead, barbed head and all, the bolt slid easily out of Durinen’s belly, leaving behind only an angry weal on unbroken skin. As she watched, the red mark also faded—or rather, the rest of him brightened, his flesh turning healthy pink once more, rather than the sickly white it had been moments before.

  Durinen turned the quarrel in his hand. There was not a spot of blood upon it. It shone with the light that streamed and coursed around Beldyn. Abruptly he flung it away, sending it clattering across the marble floor. Swallowing, he turned, his gaze seeking out Beldyn—then froze as he saw his savior, a gasp tearing from his lips. His mouth worked, but it took him several tries to find his voice.

  “You!” he croaked at last.

  Ilista looked up, shocked, and saw it too. Beldyn was as she’d seen him in Luciel, that first day when he’d laid his healing touch upon Wentha. Amid the mantle of light, bright enough that it brought stinging tears flooding from her eyes, she saw him clad in pearly samite and golden breastplate, jeweled rings and silk slippers. There, on his head, gleamed the crown. She stared at it: exquisitely crafted, all shimmering gold and sparkling rubies. She frowned, wondering what it was. It seemed so familiar… .

  In a flash, it was gone, and Beldyn was a monk again, shrouded in shining light, his eyes fluttering closed as the effort of healing Durinen overcame him at last. Cathan kept him from crumpling, and Ossirian and Tavarre rushed to help him to a velvet-padded bench. None of them had shared Ilista’s vision, nor had the Mishakite, who hurried to the bedside, gaping in shock at what just happened. Durinen had seen it, however. She felt certain she saw it in the Little Emperor’s face … before, draining away to unconsciousness once more, he slumped back down among the cushions. He lay still, let out a slow breath … then began to whisper, his lips forming words Ilista couldn’t hear.

  “What’s he saying?” she asked.

  The Mishakite leaned close, listening, but frowned when she straightened up again. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense …”

  With an irritated snort, Ilista rushed forward, pushing the healer aside to bend low. At first she heard nothing, so soft was his voice, but then, faintly, she made it out—the same four words, over and over—and her breath left her in a rush of wonder and terror.

  “Site ceram biriat, abat,” the Little Emperor murmured. “Site ceram biriat, abat …”

  * * * * *

  Later that night, Ilista knelt alone in a chapel off the Pantheon’s worship hall. The room held a small shrine blazing with white candles, atop which perched an icon of Paladine, coiled in his form as the platinum dragon. It stared down at her with topaz eyes that danced with light. She did not speak, made no entreaties of the god. Her thoughts were spinning too quickly for prayer.

  Tavarre and Ossirian both pressed her, but she hadn’t spoken to them of the Li
ttle Emperor’s whispered words, nor had she revealed her vision of Beldyn in imperial raiment. Finally they had abandoned her to tend to the matter of finding places for the refugees from Luciel to dwell. First, though, they’d taken Beldyn down from the Patriarch’s Tower, to a bedchamber in the cloisters and there laid him down to rest. Cathan remained with him, as faithful as any hound, and Ilista had come down here to be alone. It seemed like only a short time ago, but the candles on the shrine had burned down to waxy stubs, and her legs were numb from kneeling.

  Hinges creaking, the door to the sanctuary opened behind her, and silvery light flowed in. She swallowed, feeling the presence in the entry.

  “Brother,” she said, turning. “Come in. I was just thinking of you.”

  Beldyn entered, chuckling. He had taken off his torn habit and wore a simple white robe, unadorned and unembroidered, in its place. He bowed his head as he shut the door, his bright eyes downcast.

  “Forgive me, Efisa,” he said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

  Ilista shook her head, pushing herself up. Her knees popped as she got to her feet. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve been here too long. Besides, we must talk.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “We must.”

  They left the chapel together and went to a nearby apse, where they sat together on a marble window seat. Ilista looked out through the glass, at the city below. The red moon shone down on Govinna, limning the roofs of its temples with crimson fire. Though she couldn’t see them, she felt the presence of people in the streets. They were out there still, holding candles and chanting—Beldinas, Lightbringer, Beldinas… .

  “Site ceram biriat, abat,” Beldyn said. “Whoever wears the crown, rules.”

  She started and turned to look at him.

  “Yes,” he said, running a hand through his thick, brown hair. “I heard him say it too, just before I passed out.”

  Ilista shivered, but said nothing. Fear ran through her like silver fire.

  “He saw something in that room,” he pressed, leaning closer. His eyes gleamed. “You did, too. You can’t hide it from me, Efisa. What is it?”

  She didn’t want to tell him. She was too afraid of what it all portended. His glittering blue gaze caught her, transfixed her, and she found herself speaking the words anyway. “Beldyn, have you heard of the Miceram?”

  He paused, catching his breath, then nodded. “The Crown of Power,” he replied. “Brother Voss told me the tales when I was a boy. The first Kingpriests wore it, but Paladine took it away a hundred years ago, when the Three Thrones’ War began.”

  “That’s one tale,” she said, shrugging. “No one is sure what became of it, to tell the truth. Whatever happened, though, no one has seen it since. Although many have searched, there is no trace of its whereabouts. After it disappeared, people began to whisper that it would return one day, when darkness ruled the land. The man who bore it would be the true lord of Istar.”

  “Whoever wears the crown, rules,” Beldyn whispered. His eyes glistened in his own light. “I am to be Kingpriest, then.”

  Ilista jerked as if stung, the color draining from her face. She looked away. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’ve been thinking it,” he replied, his hand grasping hers. “You saw me wearing the Miceram, up there in the tower, didn’t you?”

  She shook her head, pulling away from his grasp. “It can’t be. Darkness doesn’t rule the land. Kurnos is no friend of mine, but he is not evil.”

  “Isn’t he?” Beldyn pressed. “He sent the army here to slaughter innocent women and men, burn their villages. When we helped them instead, he cast us both out of the church. Don’t you think it’s convenient the old Kingpriest died when he did? Efisa, Paladine only knows what dark pacts Kurnos has made—”

  “No!” she snapped, rising from the bench. “I know Kurnos. He is hard man, but he serves the gods.”

  “Tell that to Gareth,” Beldyn said, standing and gesturing out the window. “Tell that to the others who died needlessly in these hills. I will stop him, Efisa. You saw what happened out there today, in the streets. The people will follow me. I will be Kingpriest!”

  Ihsta threw up her hands. “The Crown is lost! How can it help you if no one knows where it is?”

  He looked at her, then, and she shivered at the fervor on his face. His devoutness had always unsettled her a little, but there was something more awful about his certainty. “Someone knows, Efisa, and I think I know who.”

  She shook her head, trembling. “Who?”

  He smiled, his eyes glowing with zeal. “The Little Emperor.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The crowd that had greeted the refugees the day before had been large, hundreds strong. It was nothing, though, compared with the throng that gathered outside the Pantheon the following morning. As word of the Lightbringer’s arrival spread throughout Govinna, more and more people poured into the plaza before the church, the hundreds becoming thousands, some bearing torches and lamps to warm themselves in the dawn’s chill. As the numbers swelled, the noise they made grew as well, first a low murmur, then a buzz of muttering mixed with the occasional pious voice raised to sing a hymn. Finally, while rosy strands of the coming day reached out across the turquoise sky, the crowd picked up into a chant, low and steady, like drums beating an army’s marching cadence in the church tongue:

  “Beldinas Cilenfo! Beldinas Nirinfo! Beldinas Pilofiro!”

  Beldyn the Healer! Beldyn the Savior! Beldyn the Lightbringer!

  So it went as the sliver-thin silver moon rose above the hills, just ahead of the sun. Ossirian’s men, standing guard outside the Pantheon, eyed the mob warily, hands twisting about their spearshafts. As with any place in Istar, the gathered masses were a fickle and dangerous thing. If their mood soured and they chose to move on the temple, even a full phalanx of warriors wouldn’t be able to hold them back.

  Suddenly, the tone of their murmuring did change. It wasn’t anger that tinged their voices, however, but joy. Some waved their arms in the air, others fell to their knees, weeping, but most jabbed their fingers up toward the Pantheon’s tallest tower. There, high above, several figures had appeared on a balcony. Though high above the crowd, there was no mistaking who they were. The hulking form of Lord Ossirian, the tall, austere shape of Lady Ilista, and standing between them, clad in robes the color of polished ivory and shadowed by the young bandit who accompanied him always now, was the one who drew the fiercest cheers. The Lightbringer had appeared.

  Beldyn behaved as though he were Kingpriest already, thought Ilista, smiling and waving to the crowd, accepting their adulation as his due. Looking at him, then down at the shouting masses below, she wondered if he even needed the Crown.

  Ossirian seemed to share that thought, for there was a glint of envy in his eye as he leaned over to speak to Beldyn. “They were never mine,” he said. “Not truly. I held the city, but I didn’t rule. They’re yours now, lad—say the word, and they’ll follow you to the Abyss.”

  Beldyn shook his head, still smiling. “It isn’t the Abyss where I mean to lead them.”

  He stepped forward, raising his hands, and at once a hush fell over the crowd. Awestruck eyes stared up at him, from the courtyard and the terraces and rooftops around it. In the east, the clouds glowed golden as the young monk swept the crowd with his strange, glittering gaze. Ilista realized she could hear her own blood pounding, fast as a yearling foal’s. She gripped the copper balustrade, her knuckles whitening as Beldyn drew a deep breath, let it out, and began to speak.

  “You have suffered, my children,” he proclaimed, his musical voice carrying out across the plaza. “Plague has come to you, and your church and empire do nothing to help. In the Lordcity they sup on honeyed milk, while you make do with scraps. The man who sits upon the throne, who should be aiding you, instead seeks to crush you by force. Even now, his Scatas advance upon this city, having burned their way across the southlands.

  “War is coming, and the b
attle to be fought here will be a terrible one—not just because the enemy is vast, but because of who the enemy are. It is not the spawn of darkness who march toward the walls, not goblins or ogres, or those who follow the gods of evil. No, my children, those who come are our brothers, men like you, ordered into unjust battle by a Kingpriest corrupted.”

  A gasp ran through the mob at this, and on the balcony Cathan and Ossirian both looked sharply at Beldyn. Ilista’s mouth dropped open as well. It was one thing to speak ill of Kurnos privately. Doing so in front of the better part of an entire city, even one stirred by rebellion, was something else. It was unwise. Before she could do more than frown, however, Beldyn went on.

  “Yes, corrupted!” he bellowed. “How else to describe a man who sends soldiers to subjugate his own people, rather than bread to feed them? Istar is a holy place, the mightiest Krynn has ever known, and Lord Kurnos is a tyrant, unfit to rule. The god’s voice, he calls himself. Pah! A lie, unless the god is the Queen of Darkness herself, working to rot the empire from within! Will you allow this to happen?”

  The people of Govinna roared in reply, thousands of voices becoming one great, thunderous roar. “No!” they cried.

  “Will you surrender to the troops he has sent to quell you? Will you kneel before a ruler who does not merit his crown?”

  “No!”

  “Then follow me!” Beldyn shouted, stretching out his arms. “I am the Lightbringer, foretold by ancient prophecy! Follow me, and help rid Istar of evil once and for all! Follow me, for I am the chosen of the gods, and with Paladine on our side, we must prevail!”