Chosen of the Gods

by Chris Pierson

  He paid no attention to any of it. His eyes were fixed on the cenotaph.

  It was a tall, oblong slab, hewn of moonstone, that glistened blue in Solinari’s light. Many such monuments loomed among the garden’s almond trees, graven with hundreds upon hundreds of names: the honored dead, who had given their lives for the holy church. The earliest were older than the Temple itself, from the days of the first Kingpriest’s rise, and they went on from there, down through the empire’s history. Here were the missionaries who had perished in the crusades to civilize the borderlands. Over there were the casualties of the Annexation Wars, which had made provinces of the once-proud kingdoms of Seldjuk, Falthana, and Dravinaar. Three separate stones, set far apart from the others, bore the names of the victims of the Three Thrones’ War. A great many people had died in the god’s name over the centuries.

  The cenotaph where Cathan knelt, however, was mostly blank. The sculptor Nevorian of Calah had chiseled the first names into its smooth surface over the past few days. Cathan stared at them, a hardness in his throat.

  Gareth Paliost, Knight of the Sword.

  Durinen, Patriarch of Taol.

  Ossirian, Lord of Abreri.

  Ilista, First Daughter of Paladine.

  There were others, too: Gareth’s Knights, Tavarre’s man Vedro, and those who had fallen—on either side—in the Great Battle of Govinna. What held Cathan’s notice, more than any of them, was the long, blank expanse beneath. It gave him a strange feeling, and not just because one day—perhaps soon— the space would be filled. What troubled him most was that his name had nearly been there.

  Some had argued, in fact, that his name still belonged on the cenotaph. He had died, after all—was he any less a martyr, because the Lightbringer had restored his life? The scholars would, no doubt, keep debating the matter for months, but he knew he would have plenty of chances, in the coming years, to earn an unchallenged place on the monument.

  For this day, Cathan MarSevrin would become a Knight.

  That hadn’t been an easy thing, either. Lord Holger had been hard against knighthood for him and still was. The Solamnic orders, he contended, required years of training in arts both martial and courtly. Knighthood wasn’t something awarded lightly—and only seldom to a commoner or to one so young.

  Beldinas had listened to the old Knight’s arguments, his face blank behind the Miceram’s glow. Then, leaning forward on his throne, he had made his reply.

  “Est Sularus Oth Mithas,” he’d said. “The Solamnic oath—My Honor is My Life. Who better to swear it than one who has already given his life?”

  In the end, Holger had relented, consenting to Cathan’s admission to the Knights of the Crown, the lowest of the orders. By the time Cathan himself learned of their decision, it was far too late for him to object. Now he kept silent vigil, the dawn still hours away, unable after all this kneeling to sense anything from the knees down—not even prickling.

  How long, he wondered, could a man’s feet feel asleep before they turned black and fell off? What would happen if he couldn’t walk properly when the time came? Had Huma Dragonbane limped to his dubbing?

  “He used a cushion, you know.”

  Cathan stiffened, his heart lurching at the sound of the pleasant, jocular voice. He turned, looking over his shoulder, and saw the man who had spoken. It was a short, corpulent monk in a white pavilion of a habit. He leaned against another cenotaph, hands folded across his vast belly, a little smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Cathan blinked, confused. He hadn’t been in Istar long, but he was certain he would remember such an odd fellow. Yet he was sure he’d never seen the man before.

  “What?” he exclaimed.

  The monk smiled. “You were wondering how Huma got through his vigil. He knelt on a pillow. The Knights didn’t start this bare-ground nonsense until a few hundred years later. Idiotic, if you ask me.”

  “What?” Cathan managed to repeat. “Who are you?”

  “Always the same question,” the monk replied, his enormous belly jiggling as he waddled closer. He looked up at the moonstone slab, sorrowful. “Lady Ilista asked the same thing. She knew me as Brother Jendle, but that’s not important—you’re the one who matters. If you’d kindly remove your tunic … .”

  A pudgy hand reached out, plucking at the plain gray shift Cathan had donned for the vigil. Cathan flinched away. “What?” he asked again.

  “Don’t you know any other words?” Jendle asked, his brow creasing. “Your tunic. I need to make sure you’re who I think you are. I have a message, and I’d hate to give it to the wrong man. On your left side, please—there should be a scar.”

  When he met Brother Jendle’s eyes, he froze. They were an odd color, a golden brown dancing with silver light. There was something about them that reminded him of Beldyn, and as he looked into them his doubts faded. Swallowing, he reached up and unlaced the neck of his shirt, then pulled it up, over his head. Beneath, towards his left side, was a large patch of puckered flesh, hairless and shiny, the kind of mark burns left. It was the only sign that remained of the lightning blast that had killed him.

  Jendle bent forward, squinting and grunting as he examined it, then straightened with a satisfied nod. His eyes lingered on the scar.

  “How did it feel?” he asked. “To die, I mean?”

  Cathan sighed. Everyone—even Beldyn—asked him that question. “Everything went dark,” he said. “Then there was a bright light, and I opened my eyes. Nothing else.”

  The monk nodded, chins bunching. “Probably best, that. Now hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.”

  “Wh—” Cathan started to say again. Before he could say anything more, though, the monk reached out, extending a bulbous finger to touch his scar.

  The world wrenched about him. Suddenly, he was no longer in the garden, but floating above it, staring down at the trees and stones below. There, in its midst, were Brother Jendle … and him. His own body knelt before the monument, where he’d been a heartbeat ago. He tried to cry out at the sight, but no sound came from his lips.

  You have no lips, he thought, staring at the fleshly form he’d left behind.

  He began to rise. Soon he was gazing down at the whole Great Temple—vast and magnificent, the basilica glittering at its heart—then the entire Lordcity, its lights aglow along Lake Istar’s shore. Higher still, he floated over the other cities of the heartland: island-bound Calah, crowded Odacera across the water, Kautilya’s glowing bronze foundries. The other provinces came into view next, from the jungles of the north to Dravinaar’s southern desert. Shifting, he looked west… yes, there was Govinna, nestled among the hills, and beyond it the western realms, Solamnia, Kharolis, and Ergoth. He beheld the elven forests, the mountains that hid the fabled kingdom of the dwarves, the frozen isles of Icereach. All of Ansalon lay beneath him, surrounded by shining sea.

  He felt himself shifting away toward the sky. There were the moons, red and silver, and the constellations his father had taught him: the Book of Gilean, the Fivefold Serpent, the Platinum Dragon that was Paladine’s emblem, all laid out in their patterns across the velvety night. And there, among them, was something unusual. Something moving, streaking swiftly among the stars, flames raging around it. He squinted—or would have, if he’d had eyelids—and tried to look closer, make out its shape.

  A hammer?

  Yes, that was it. A great, burning hammer, flashing toward him, toward the blue ball of Krynn. It loomed larger every moment, throwing off fiery red tongues as it spun, startling him with its hugeness. The thing seemed miles across, as vast as the whole Lordcity, and he cringed as it neared, terrified that it would slam into him. When the moment came, however, the huge burning hammer missed him by an arm’s length, shooting by with an incredible roar.

  Then it was past, plummeting now, wreathed in fire as it dove toward Ansalon. Toward Istar.

  Cathan shut his eyes, crying out, as it struck… .

  * * * * *

  He snorted, his hea
d snapping up, thunder echoing in his ears.

  Cathan glanced around. He was back in the garden, before the cenotaph, but of Brother Jendle there was no sign. Above, the sky was the color of plums, heralding the sunrise—hours had passed, the silver moon set, the night gone by. A dream, he told himself. You fell asleep—on your vigil!—and dreamed of fat monks and burning hammers.

  Then, why wasn’t he wearing his tunic?

  Looking down, he saw it there, wadded on the ground before him. He gaped a moment, then snatched it up and dragged it over his head again.

  He was still wondering when he’d taken it off when a soft cough sounded behind him. Starting, he turned to see a dark-haired youth standing down the path. Lord Holger’s squire. He looked sullen, but Cathan expected that. Loren Soth had trained since childhood for the honor he was about to earn. Half a year ago, Cathan had been a god-hating outlaw, and today he would be made a Knight.

  “It’s time, sir,” the squire said.

  He did not look at Cathan’s eyes; the scar was not the only mark death had left behind. In the days since, Cathan had found that few people could meet his blank gaze for long. Even Wentha couldn’t keep from glancing away. Cathan knew it would be that way for the rest of his days, and it hurt to think of it—but it was better, he told himself, than the alternative.

  He bowed his head, signing the triangle, then rose and started forward. Three steps later he stopped, staring at his feet. He could feel them fine! No pain, no numbness … not even prickling. He lifted one, shaking so it rattled in his boot.

  “Sir?” Loren ventured again. “Are you well?”

  Cathan flushed, lowering his foot again. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  Perplexed, he followed the squire away from the cenotaph, toward the gleaming basilica. The ceremony would soon begin.

  First, though, he had to speak with someone.

  * * * * *

  Solamnic dubbings didn’t often draw crowds. They were usually private ceremonies, held in the Kingfisher Keep and attended only by the Knights themselves. On this cool winter’s day, however, matters were different. After all, not every Knight had returned from the dead.

  The tale of Cathan’s resurrection had spread far. Throughout the Lordcity and in the empire beyond, folk spoke in hushed tones of the Lightbringer’s greatest miracle. It rapidly eclipsed all the other stories of Beldinas’s ascension, overshadowing, even, the mysterious news of the death of Kurnos the Deceiver. So when the time came, thousands of Istarans turned out in the Barigon, to watch Cathan’s knighting.

  The Knights arrived in a mass early that morning. They followed Lord Holger into the square, their armor shining in dawn’s light, and the burgeoning crowds parted as they strode across the plaza and up the stairs to the church’s looming portico.

  Soon after the hierarchs emerged from the Temple, bejeweled and kohl-eyed, wearing their grandest robes. Most were the familiar faces that had greeted the Lightbringer by the western gate two weeks before, but not all. A new First Son stood in place of Strinam, who had been Kurnos’s favorite, and the high priests of Habbakuk and Majere were new as well. Such was always the way when a new Kingpriest claimed the throne.

  Quarath stood among the high priests, his thin lips curled into a polite smile. He had sent a griffin-riding messenger to Silvanesti, bearing word of the Lightbringer’s triumph to Loralon and inviting his former shalafi to return and take his place again in the imperial court. Yesterday the reply had come. The old elf had chosen to stay in his wooded homeland, but had sent his blessing to Beldinas.

  Watch this new Kingpriest, Loralon’s message had bidden. Help him rule.

  Quarath’s smile widened. He would do just that.

  Finally, as the sun hung crimson above the Lordcity’s eastern wall, a row of trumpeters, standing on a balcony overlooking the Barigon, raised platinum horns to their lips and blew a thunderous fanfare. An excited murmur rippled through the crowd, quickly building into cheers. Holger and his senior Knights scowled. The dubbing ritual was supposed to be a solemn occasion, not a jubilant one. There was no containing the crowd’s elation, however, as the Great Temple’s doors opened and the Knight Aspirant emerged.

  Cathan hesitated, flushing when he saw the clamoring throngs, and for a moment he looked as if he might turn and flee back inside. In the end, though, he swallowed and strode forward. Clad in shining plate and long, white tabard, he walked to the front of the gathering atop the stairs, then lowered himself to one knee. Behind him, following the ritual, came his Guard of Honor. These elicited more murmurs from the crowd. While most such escorts consisted of three elder Knights, Cathan’s were more unusual.

  The first was Tavarre of Luciel, the scarred bandit lord wearing a red, fur-lined cloak over a chain hauberk washed with gold. In his hands he carried a gleaming shield, one of the three gifts every aspirant received for his dubbing. Behind Tavarre, bearing the second gift—a pair of silver spurs on a blue satin pillow—came a honey-haired girl, at thirteen summers just on the edge of marrying age. Suitors had already begun to line up for Wentha MarSevrin’s hand. She blushed at the sight of the shouting mob then took her place behind her brother.

  It was the third member of the honor guard, however, who drew the most gasps. The crowd turned wild as he emerged, breaking into a frenzy of shouting and song, and this time the Knights didn’t object. It was, after all, the first time a reigning Kingpriest had ever carried an aspirant’s sword.

  Beldinas Lightbringer smiled as he strode out of the Temple, wreathed in holy light. In place of the white robes he had worn when he entered the city, his vestments were the crimson of dawn, a symbol of his new order. In his hands, point upward, he carried Cathan’s blade—not the battered Scata’s weapon he had worn for much of the past year, but a fine, newly forged weapon, long of blade and keen of edge. Set into its golden hilt were several chunks of what appeared to be white stone—they appeared jade, perhaps, or onyx—but which were actually ceramic, pieces of the holy symbol that had helped defeat the shadow demon atop the Pantheon.

  The crowd fell silent as the Kingpriest came forward. He looked out upon them, the Miceram flashing on his brow, then gazed down at Cathan. His eyes shone like sunlight on water as he opened his mouth.

  “Cathan MarSevrin,” he intoned. “The imperial court and the Knights’ Council have heard of your deeds of bravery, courage, and sacrifice.” He paused, his face turning grave as the last word echoed across the plaza. “In recognition, we intended to declare you a Knight of Solamnia. However, we have chosen not to do so.”

  A chorus of shock erupted from the crowd. Atop the steps, the confusion was no less. Everyone glanced around in confusion. Only Beldinas and Cathan showed no surprise.

  The Lightbringer raised his hands for silence. The crowd obeyed, but there were frowns of perplexity among the onlookers now.

  “I understand your disappointment,” he told them. “You came here to see a dubbing. You shall have it, but not the kind you expected.

  “Just now, as I was preparing for this ritual, young Cathan came to me and told me of a vision he had, while he kept his vigil. In it, Paladine spoke to him, in the same guise he took when he sent Lady Ilista on her quest to find me. The god showed him a burning hammer falling upon the empire.”

  At this, the onlookers muttered, signing the triangle and touching their foreheads to ward off evil. Even some of this hierarchs shifted, their eyes flicking skyward, as if the hammer might be poised over their heads even now.

  Beldinas only smiled. “Lisso, usasfarnas,” he declared.

  Peace, children of the god.

  “These are glad tidings, not an omen of disaster! Paladine sent this vision to show that we are right in rejecting the Balance that has corrupted this empire for so long. We are that burning hammer—all of us—and it is our god-granted duty to strike wherever we can and purge the evil that remains among us.

  “There shall, then, be a new Knighthood,” he concluded, the crown blazing, “an Istaran Kn
ighthood, that shall be the vanguard in this holy war. It shall be open to all who would see the end of wickedness, and Cathan MarSevrin shall be the first of its number.”

  As citizen, Knight, and cleric alike looked on in amazement, Beldinas raised the sword high, lowering it to touch Cathan’s shoulders with the flat of the blade—left, then right, then left again.

  “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo, tarn Gidam codo,” he declared.

  In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might, I dub thee Knight.

  “Rise, Sir Cathan, of the Order of the Divine Hammer.”

  Cathan got to his feet, his eyes brimming with tears. The Kingpriest handed him his sword and the people of Istar cheered anew, their shouts rising into the brightening sky.