Chosen Of The Gods

I am Brother Gesseic, beloved of the gods. I ask to be tested.

Ilista nodded, examining the young man’s face. He was handsome, in a rough way-a woodsman’s son who had heard Paladine’s call. There was a humility about him that she hadn’t seen often in Solamnia and rarer still in Istar. It was a good sign. She caught herself biting her lip as she set down the chime and took up a golden ewer filled with sweet oil. Carefully, she raised it, saluting the silver triangle over the temple’s entrance, then poured a dollop on Gesseic’s head. As it dripped, glistening, from his sandy hair, darkening his robes where it fell, she touched her medallion to his forehead and closed her eyes.

The church fell silent, the townsfolk watching in open-mouthed awe as the Apanfo began, but Ilista didn’t notice. A wizard could have cast a fireball in the middle of the room and she wouldn’t have flinched. She turned inward, focusing, and felt her breath slow as she reached out, through the medallion. Gesseic’s mind lay before her, many-layered, like the petals of a white rose. She had seen many such roses lately, all of them beautiful, but each hid a blemish-some small flaw that marked them as impure. Holding her breath, she reached out to peel back the first layer…

… the rose vanished, and she was somewhere else: a moun-taintop, mantled in snow, looming so high clouds scudded beneath her. The air was sharp, chilly, the sky dark and dusted with more stars than she had ever seen-great clouds of them, as dense as sand on a dune. She cast about, startled. This was new, different.

Something stirred in the corner of her eye, and she saw him, standing in the snow, watching her. Gesseic did not speak, but a glad smile lit his face as he stepped toward her.

It’s him! she thought, triumph surging through her. After all the time she’d looked, she’d found the one. The Iightbringer. The god’s chosen. She imagined him mantled in light, stopping armies with a wave of his hand. They would return to the Lord-city together, welcomed with song and laughter, the streets adrift with rose petals. She lifted her gaze to the starry sky. It’s him, Paladine be praised, it’s him, it’s him!

When she looked again, her joy faltered. Gesseic had changed-shrunk, she thought at first, then she realized she was looking on him not as he was now, but as the child he once had been. She had peeled the layers all the way back to his boyhood memories-seven summers old, or about, though the eyes were still an adult’s.

She was so intent on studying his face that it took her a moment to see the wasp. Ilista gasped-it was huge, the size of a hummingbird, its carapace the color of polished jet. She could see its stinger as it crawled along his arm, poised a hair’s breadth from the skin of Gesseic’s wrist.

She hissed, pointing. Gesseic looked, raising his arm. The wasp buried the stinger in his flesh.

The pain in his voice as he cried out made her wince, and her own arm flared in sympathy as he smashed the wasp. Then, his arm already swelling from its venom, he lifted its mashed form by a wing and stared at it, his face creased with agony. Though half-crushed, it wasn’t dead, and the horrid thing writhed in his grasp.

His eyes darkened with anger, and Ilista felt hope slip away. “No!” she cried, already knowing what was going to happen. “Don’t!”

Gesseic didn’t listen. Reaching up, he grabbed another twitching wing and ripped it off. His lips curled into a vengeful grin…

With a sudden rush, the mountaintop vanished, and she was back in the temple, staring at the young priest as a shudder ran through him. A groan burst from his lips as he remembered killing the wasp. It was the smallest of flaws, a flash of childhood mea

With a sorrowing sigh she pulled back, lifting her medallion away. It left a red mark on his skin as he bowed his head and sobbed. A murmur of dismay ran through the congregation. Ilista bowed her head. She’d been so sure, for a moment.

“Ubastud, usas farno,” she bade.

Rise, child of the god.

He did, tears in his eyes, and trembled as she bent to kiss him on both cheeks. She felt hollow inside, lost Another failure, another hope come to nothing. Despair clutched at her, but she fought it back. The Rite wasn’t yet done; she had to finish it.

“Porud, Fro, e ni sonud mos,” she declared, signing the triangle over him. “Sifat”

Go forth, Brother, and do no wrong. So be it.

“Forgive me,” he said. Wet tracks ran down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

She wanted to tell him there was nothing to be sorry for, that he was a good man and a fine priest, even though he wasn’t the one she sought. She wanted to lay a reassuring hand on his arm or even to embrace him, hold him while he cried. It was against the ritual, though, and she could only stand still, watching with all the austerity she could muster, as he turned and walked, sobbing, back toward the alcove. The last thing she saw, before her own tears blinded her, was the desolation in his face as he drew the curtain shut.

She was still seeing his face at midnight, as she stood alone in the temple, putting away the instruments of the ritual. Gesseic wasn’t the only one who felt betrayed-behind him stood a dozen other priests, the ones she had tested in Solamnia, and behind them were Revered Son Falinor and the folk of Xak Khalan. All of them stared at her in her mind, hurt and angry.

She had let them all taste, however briefly, the hope of true holiness, something beyond the mere piety of priesthood-and she had let them all down, proving they were merely human.

Who are you to judge? they asked her silently as she laid the glass chime in a padded, lacquered box. Are you so untainted yourself, to think you know purity?

Yet, she did know. She remembered the elation that had run through her when she’d dreamed of the Lightbringer. Brother Gesseic had come closer than the others, but even he had fallen short, hadn’t given her the same feeling.

She looked up at the god on the mosaic. It was dark outside now, and the blue-green glow had yielded to the gold of candlelight. “Why did you choose me?” she asked. “I can’t do this any more. I don’t have the strength…”

A cough broke the stillness, and she gasped, looking down. Even the clerics had left her alone-whether out of respect for her own sorrow, or resentment, she couldn’t say. The noise was loud amid the stillness. Her hand went to her medallion as she backed into the altar, staring at the figure framed in the doors. For a moment she thought it might be some villager, angry enough to seek revenge upon her, but when the figure stepped forward she saw the light glint on antique armor, and deepen the hard lines of Sir Gareth’s face. He had been waiting just outside, she knew, watching for trouble.

“Efisa?” he asked. “Are you well? I heard voices-”

She shook her head. “It was just me. Come in, Gareth.”

He did, looking uncertain as he shut the door. He strode toward her, armor rattling, then stopped a respectful distance away and stood erect, hands clasped behind his back.