Stunned, the Lightbringer didn’t answer.
“Beldyn!” Tavarre shouted, cradling Cathan’s head in his hands. “Get over here and heal him, damn it!”
Cathan smiled. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “Actually, I feel fine.”
Letting out his breath, he died.
Chapter Thirty-One
A thousand blasphemies whirled through Tavarre’s mind as he stared at Cathan’s lifeless face. The lad’s breast had stilled, his gaze fixed, staring blindly at the crystal dome above. Cathan was gone.
Stung with tears, the baron closed those sightless eyes, then laid Cathan on the floor, smoke still curling from where the magical lightning had struck him. The wound was ghastly. Tavarre took the time to cover it with Cathan’s hands, folding them on top of the horrible sight. Drawing a shuddering breath, he looked up at the others.
Everyone else—the hierarchs, his men, even Lord Holger— was too aghast to move or speak. Their eyes showed white, their mouths hung open. Among them, the Lightbringer too was aghast. His glow seemed to dim as he realized what had happened.
“He saved me,” Beldyn said, his brow furrowing as if he didn’t understand. “He saved my life… .”
You let him die! Tavarre wanted to scream. You had the power to heal him and you did nothing! He wanted to smash the basilica’s dome, tear down the Temple stone by stone. He wanted to pull Paladine down from the heavens and beat him blue.
Tavarre rose, twisted, and stalked to where Kurnos lay. The Kingpriest was stirring now, moaning in pain. The blow against the floor had rattled his wits, but it hadn’t killed him. Another injustice, there. Snarling, Tavarre yanked his sword from its scabbard. The hall rang with the scrape of steel as he raised it above the groaning figure.
“Now you die,” he spat.
“Wait!”
Tavarre’s sword was heavy. It took effort to divert the blow. He did so anyway, striking the mosaic floor a hand’s breadth from Kurnos’s neck. Tiles cracked beneath the blade. He stumbled, thrown off-balance, then turned to look toward the Iightbringer.
“Wait?” the baron demanded. “Holiness—”
“I will not have people say I took the throne by assassination,” Beldyn said. His eyes blazed with fury. “Take off his ring, the emerald one. I would see it.”
Tavarre didn’t move. He stared at the Lightbringer, his anger turning to disgust. Kurnos was a murderer, a coward, a fool. He deserved to die, not just to be stripped of his precious jewelry. The Abyss awaited him, and Tavarre saw no need to keep it waiting long.
It was Quarath who obeyed, stepping forward and bending down to prize the green gem from Kurnos’s finger. The Kingpriest writhed as it came free, groaning again but still not waking. The elf took the ring to Beldyn, who turned it slowly between his fingers, studying it in the dome’s cool light. Color played across its facets. Finally, he clasped the magic ring in his fist and looked up.
“Bring him to me,” he said determinedly.
Tavarre had never felt the same devotion toward the Lightbringer that Cathan had, but now, looking into his fierce, wrathful gaze, he couldn’t help but obey. The desire to kill left him—for now, at least—and sheathing his sword, he bent down to bear Kurnos up.
The Kingpriest’s head lolled as the baron lifted him, and one of Holger’s Knights stepped forward to help while Kurnos blinked and tried to regain his senses. His mouth a lipless line, Tavarre half-dragged the fallen priest to Beldyn, then shoved him to his knees and stepped back, ready to draw steel once more if he must.
“Awake, wretch!” Beldyn growled, hurling the ring.
It struck Kurnos in the face, and he jerked as it clattered to the floor, his eyes flaring open. He stared blindly for a moment, his hand rising to touch the place where his hair had turned sticky with blood, then he started as he remembered everything, trying to draw back from the accusing circle of faces. Tavarre grabbed his shoulder, holding the false Kingpriest still. In time, he stopped struggling, and slumped.
“I could have you killed,” Beldyn declared, golden light swelling from the Miceram. “One word, and any man here would cut your throat for me—or bring me the blade to do it myself. You have spilled blood in the church’s most sacred heart. It would only be fitting to spill yours in return.”
Kurnos glared at him hatefully. “Do it, then,” he snarled.
Within the holy light, blue eyes flashed with rage, and Beldyn raised his hand, opened his mouth to give the order they all expected—then he stopped himself, sighing.
“No, you aren’t worth the trouble,” he said, “and death is too sweet a reward. No, Kurnos—your punishment will not be so easy. You will live, imprisoned in the High Clerist’s Tower in Solamnia. You will have the rest of your days to think on what you’ve done. Perhaps, in time, you will earn the god’s forgiveness—but you shall never have mine.
“Look, all of you!” he shouted, turning to the men and women gathered about him. He gestured at Kurnos. “This is what comes of the Balance. By allowing evil to remain in the world, we invite it into our own hearts. As long as we tolerate sin, we leave the door open for it to corrupt us.
“No more of this. It is time to cast off the old ways. As long as I rule this empire, I will not rest until wickedness and witchcraft are driven from the realm. The time of darkness is ended—and so begins a new age, of light everlasting.”
As he spoke, the Miceram’s glare grew bright around him, so bright the hierarchs and soldiers had to squint against the radiance. Cloaked in light, Beldyn walked to where Cathan lay. Tavarre stared as he passed, and a murmur ran among the hierarchs as they realized what he meant to do.
Quarath came forward as Beldyn stood beside the body, reaching out to touch the young monk’s arm. “Sire, do not attempt this. Not even the Kingpriests of old claimed such power.”
Beldyn said nothing, only turned to stare at the elf. Quarath stiffened, paling, then stepped back. The audience hall was silent as Beldyn knelt, the white light shimmering around him. He laid his hand upon the scorched patch on the young man’s wounded side and shut his eyes. His lips working soundlessly, he reached to his breast, pulling out his medallion to clasp it in his hand. Then, gently, he bent low and pressed his lips to Cathan MarSevrin’s forehead.
“Palado,” he prayed, “ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigamfat, mifiso soram floruit. Tis biram cailud, e tas oram nomass lud bipum. Sifat.”
A moment passed. Then another. Nothing happened.
Tavarre stepped forward. “Holiness,” he said gently. “He’s dead. There’s nothing you can—”
“No!” Beldyn shouted, stopping him with a wild look. He looked every bit as mad as Kurnos, and Tavarre fell back.
“Enough!” the Lightbringer shouted, the crystal dome ringing with his words. “Hear me, Paladine! All my life I’ve served thee. With all my heart, I have worked thy will. NOW WORK MINE!”
Suddenly, it happened. The white glow surrounding him flared like an exploding star and flowed down his arm, washing over Cathan’s body. Beldyn’s back arched as divine power surged through him, so intense the other men cried out in pain as they beheld it. His face shifted from agony to rapture and back again, and tears of blood trickled down his cheeks. The air shivered, and the ground shook. Above, the basilica’s dome rang with a terrible clamor, blaring to match the Lightbringer’s blazing glow… .
At last it faded, the crown’s light dimming once more.
Beldyn slumped back with a groan, his face bathed with sweat. He would have fallen had Quarath not rushed forward to catch him. His body, his face, were lost in a silvery cloud. Tavarre only gave him a quick glance, however. His eyes, and everyone else’s, were elsewhere.
Cathan stirred and took a breath.
No one made a sound as his breast rose, then fell, then rose again. His eyelids flickered open, and a puzzled frown creased his face. Then he turned his head, and a gasp ran through the room as the onlookers beheld his eyes.
Before, they had been dark,
like stormclouds ready to break. The god’s power had changed them, though, drawing the darkness away. Now they were dead white, with neither pupil nor iris. It was like looking into the milky gaze of a blind man, and Tavarre found himself glancing away, so he wouldn’t have to meet their blank stare. But Cathan was not blind: his god-touched eyes turned toward Beldinas, slumped in Quarath’s arms. Slowly, he smiled.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
The monk shook his head. “It’s only right. You gave your life for me. I have only given it back.”
Cathan nodded, understanding. His eyes closed again, and he slept.
Everyone watched as Quarath helped Beldyn stand. He was weak, shaking and pale, but still he pushed the elf’s hands away. Tavarre tensed, sure he would fall, but though he swayed on his feet, he remained upright. Beside him, Quarath dropped to his knees, his golden hair spilling over his face as he bowed his head.
“Sa, usas gosydo,” the elf murmured.
Hail, chosen of the gods.
As one, everyone in the room—from low-born bordermen to the hierarchs of the holy church—knelt as well, repeating Quarath’s words. Beldinas Lightbringer regarded them all with a smile, then turned toward the dais and climbed the steps to his throne.
* * * * *
The Great Temple of Istar held many secrets, places only a handful of high clerics had ever seen. The Fibuliam within the sacred chancery was only one. There were also reliquaries filled with holy artifacts, treasuries brimming with gold and jewels, hidden sanctuaries where the church’s leaders could gather in times of trouble. Of all the church’s secrets, however, none was guarded more closely than its dungeon.
The prison was small, less than a dozen cells and a room where the clergy could conduct the rites of inquisition. It was not a place for common criminals—the Lordcity had a vast jail for such miscreants—but rather for those the hierarchs felt were dire threats to church and empire. Black traitors, high priests of the dark gods, and those declared Foripon had all languished within its walls. The only way in or out was a long, narrow stairway that cut deep into the earth, guarded not only by a squad of handpicked Solamnic Knights, but also by glyphs graven into the walls that would burn anyone trying to escape to ashes. No one in the empire’s history had ever broken out of the dungeon, and Kurnos knew he wouldn’t be the first.
His cell was small, bare stone with a straw pallet, a clay pot for night soil, and nothing else. It had no windows—there was nothing to look out on anyway—and its thick, ironwood door blocked out all sound and light. The air was frigid, damp, and musty, and a strange, sharp smell hung in the air. The scent maddened him for hours as he tried to figure out what it was— then he recognized it, wishing at once that he hadn’t.
It was his own fear.
Kurnos had no idea how long he lay there, curled in a ball and staring at nothing. With nothing to see or hear, time became amibiguous. Hours might have passed, or days. In the gloom, his mind drifted back to the last time he’d ventured so far beneath the Temple. It had been the night after his coronation, when he’d come down to the Selo and gazed into the empty crypt. He’d worried, then, that he might soon lie within it. Now he wept—how naive he had been! He would never lie beside the other Kingpriests now—no, his grave would be plain, nameless, unconsecrated.
He sobbed for a long time, unable to stop himself. When the fit finally ended, his breath hitched in a throat that felt like he’d swallowed razors. “Oh, Paladine,” he sobbed. “How I’ve failed thee …”
“Your god cannot hear you, Kurnos.”
He cried out at the cold voice, close in the darkness. The chill in the cell suddenly grew biting, painful. Robes whispered in the shadows, and he shrank away, whimpering.
“Go away,” he moaned.
“Not yet,” Fistandantilus hissed, so near that Kurnos could feel the wizard’s breath on his ear. “I have something to say to you first. After that, we are finished.”
Kurnos trembled uncontrollably. He didn’t know where to look. The sorcerer’s voice seemed to be everywhere, a part of the blackness. It took him nearly a minute to find his voice.
“Speak, then.”
Fistandantilus smiled. It was too dark to see, and his hood would have hidden his face even if the cell were in full daylight, but Kurnos sensed the cruel grin anyway.
“Very well,” the wizard said. “I want to thank you.”
“What?” Kurnos blurted. “Thank me? Beldyn’s alive. I failed!”
“Yes. I know you did.”
Kurnos stared blindly at nothing, his mouth working silently.
“I wanted Beldyn to live,” the dark wizard hissed, his voice barely more than a breath. He chuckled. “If I truly desired his death, I would have killed him myself.”
“I don’t—I don’t understand.” The world swayed like the deck of a storm-tossed galley.
“Of course you don’t,” Fistandantilus sneered. “You’re a fool, Kurnos, a Footsoldier upon my own private khas board. You dreamed of ruling this empire, but my designs are greater.
“To achieve them, I need a true holy man on the throne. Now, with your help, I have him.
“I saw Brother Beldyn first, you see—years before Lady Ilista, in fact. I searched Ansalon for the man I wanted … and found a boy. I thought to wait until he came into adulthood, but the god called Symeon earlier than I’d hoped, so I had to act.
“I knew there would be discord within the clergy if he simply came here, you see,” the dark wizard went on. “Many would have been reluctant to follow him—he’s young, after all, and from a heretical order. The hierarchy would have factionalized, and another war could have begun. I needed the church united … so I turned to you.”
Kurnos moaned, shrinking beneath the weight of the wizard’s words. Tears streaked his face. “Me?” he breathed.
“You. I fed your yearning for power, gave you the tools to craft your own downfall. If you succumbed to evil in your desire to keep the throne—used demoniac magic—the hierarchs would have to look favorably upon Beldyn. It took more trouble than I expected, perhaps, but in the end you did as I knew you would.
“The empire will follow him now,” Fistandantilus finished, pitiless. “Those who matter have beheld his power and the depths of your depravity. I am done with you.”
Kurnos wanted to scream, to curse, to grab the sorcerer in the darkness, smash his skull against the wall … but he found suddenly that he couldn’t move. His body might have been made of lead, rather than flesh.
“You bastard,” he sobbed. “I’ll kill you … I’ll kill—”
“No, Holiness,” Fistandantilus whispered. “You won’t, but you’ll tell them about me now, won’t you? They probably won’t believe you, but then again, they might. I’m afraid I can’t take that chance. Sathira.”
There was no light in the cell, but after Fistandantilus spoke the name, the shadows grew deeper still, thickening until they were almost solid. A loud rush of unholy wind, more wintry than the chilliest Icereach gale, filled the room. Kurnos felt the last fragile threads of his sanity fray as the demon’s familiar presence took form. He mewled in terror … then his mind finally gave way, and he began to laugh and laugh, an uncontrollable glee that turned to screams as two slits of green appeared in front of his face.
“My old friend,” Sathira growled. “I have longed for this.” Her talons found him, tearing through skin, flesh, bone.
Kurnos shrieked with delight and knew no more.
* * * * *
“Enough,” Fistandantilus said after a while.
Sathira did not heed, continuing to rip ragged strips from the twitching thing on the floor. Blood sprayed the walls. She hissed with delight, devouring Kurnos, digging deep to claw out the choicest bits. Fistandantilus felt neither joy nor disgust at the sight—only annoyance that she did not readily obey him. He raised a hand, snapping his fingers.
“I said enough!”
The demon flinched as a spark of white light struck he
r, then cowered away from the fleshy ruin, snarling. She watched the wizard with menace in her green eyes. He paid her no mind. He knew spells that could tear her to pieces if he chose, and she knew it.
She had served him well. Twice she could have destroyed the young monk, if she’d chosen, and twice she had let herself appear to be defeated. That had been her end of the bargain they had struck.
“Go now,” he said, making a gesture. “Back to the Abyss and your queen.”
Her eyes flashed, a flare that lit the room for an eyeblink, displaying the scattered bits of wet bone and gristle that covered the floor. With an inward swirl of wind and a sound like distant thunder, Sathira was gone.
Fistandantilus stood alone in the cell, looking down at what had once been the Kingpriest of Istar. He could see very well, despite the lack of light, and he knew he could not leave things like this. If the guards found this dripping mess, there would be questions. Worse, the Lightbringer might come up with answers. That would not do.
Shrugging, he raised his hands, weaving his fingers through the air. Spidery words slipped from his tongue, and the sharp, darkly euphoric rush of magic filled him, an old friend. His only friend. Focusing his will, Fistandantilus spun the power into a spell.
The air in the cell shivered, growing warm. When it stilled, the gory mess the demon had made was gone, and Kurnos lay whole once more, his body unharmed, his eyes closed in peace. Seeing him as he was now, the guards would think he had simply died in his sleep. Not even the new Kingpriest, with all his divine might, would guess the horrible truth.
Fistandantilus nodded, smiling within his hood. “Farewell, Holiness,” he said. In a flickering, he vanished from the cell.
Epilogue
TWELFTHMONTH, 923 LA.
Cathan couldn’t feel his legs. He’d been kneeling all night upon the stony path in the Garden of Martyrs, surrounded by the grandeur of the Great Temple—basilica, manse, cloisters, and riots of fruited trees and night-blooming flowers. Birds sang above, and nocturnal lizards, bred to resemble tiny silver and gold dragons, shuffled through the undergrowth. Behind him, the Kingpriest’s private rose garden—blighted and brown when he’d first beheld it, more than a fortnight ago—had turned a brilliant green, and though it was the wrong time of year, huge, fragrant blooms covered the trellises with crimson and gold.
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