Chosen Of The Gods

The rumbling grew steadily louder as Ilista followed Sir Gareth across the yard. They passed several clerics along the way, clad in simple gray habits, their hooded heads bowed. The shapeless garments made it hard to tell if they were men or women. A few turned to watch as she passed but glanced away when she looked at them, and none of them spoke a word. Ilista frowned, puzzled, as they reached the abbey’s southern wall. A flight of mossy stairs led to its top, and, beyond, a plume of white mist rose into the air, curling with the wind. She looked questioningly at Gareth, but he only started up the stairs, motioning for her to follow. She did, then stopped, stu

“Palado Calib” she gasped.

The Majereans disdained man-made finery, but they had always cherished nature’s beauty. Here, they had found a wonder. A river ran foaming past the monastery, then plunged over the ledge, thundering to a pool a thousand feet below. Fog veiled the waterfall, sparkling with rainbows as it rose into the sky. Used to the slow, wide streams of Istar’s heartland, Dista could only stare at the rushing torrent in awe.

“Did you bring me here?” she asked the Knight after a time. She had to shout over the waterfall’s roar. “To this place, I mean?”

“No, Efisa,” Gareth replied. “When the wyvera carried you off, we were sure you were lost. Then the other beasts fled, and when we rode on we found the one that grabbed you dead near the road. We searched for you all night and finally came to this place. The monks took us to you, showed us you were safe. We buried our dead and have been here since, waiting for you to wake.”

“How long?” she asked.

“A week, milady.”

Ilista’s eyes widened. “What happened to my wounds?”

Gareth shrugged. “When we found you, you were already healed, and the monks do not speak. I think they’ve taken a vow of silence.”

“Just so,” said a voice.

Dista jumped. So loud was the waterfall that neither she nor Gareth heard the old monk approach. He stood behind them, robed and cowled, bent with age. He bobbed his head, signing the triangle, then drew back his hood to reveal a wizened, spotted face with only a few wisps of hair. His eyes were clear, however, and glinted in the sunlight.

“Pardon,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you, First Daughter. I am Brother Voss. I was sent for you.”

“I thought you didn’t speak,” Gareth said.

Voss smiled toothlessly. “Usually, yes, but the master gave me permission, so I can take you to him.”

“The master?” Ilista asked.

“The one who brought you here, Efisa.” The old monk gestured back toward the chapel. “Come. He wishes to meet you.”

The chapel, like the rest of the monastery, was austere in the extreme, its floor bare stone, its walls and ceiling free of mosaic or fresco. The columns that ran down its length had no ornate capitals, and no carvings marked the wooden pews. The candles were made of raw beeswax, and even the triangle above the stone altar was made of silver, not platinum. It was everything the Great Temple was not, yet it was still a house of the god, and Ilista genuflected just the same as Brother Voss led her across the threshold. Silent again, the monk stepped aside and waved her in.

She started forward, Gareth at her side. The chapel was empty. No one sat at the pews or knelt at the simple shrines along its walls. Behind them, Voss shut the doors with a boom, shutting out the light, save for the sharp spears that jabbed through the shadows. Ilista glanced back, then exchanged looks with Gareth and went on to the altar. They stopped there, kneeling, and she reached to her throat, searching for her medallion.

It was gone. Someone had removed it while she slept. She cast about, her heart beating savagely in her breast.

“Are you looking for this, Efisa?” asked a soft voice.

She turned, startled. A young monk stood between the pews, his hood drawn low. He raised his hand. Ilista’s amulet dangled from his fingers.

Gareth was on his feet in an instant, his hand on his sword. The monk did not flinch, didn’t even glance at the Knight. Though she couldn’t see his face, Ilista could feel his eyes on her. The medallion swung slowly in his grasp as he extended it.

“Do not fear, Efisa,” he said. His voice was like honey poured over harpstrings. “I watched over you while you slept and thought it best to keep your holy medallion with me. Now that you’ve woken, though, it belongs in your possession.”

Gareth stepped forward, but Ilista touched his arm, stopping him, and moved toward the monk herself. Reaching out, she took the medallion from him, pressed it to her lips, and pulled it over her head. She stared at the monk, who stared back.

“What is your name, Brother?”

“I am called Beldyn, milady.”

“What of your vow of silence? Has your master given you leave to speak?”

He nodded. “In a way.” Reaching up, he pulled back his hood. “You see, I am master here.”

Ilista’s eyes widened as the cowl came off. The face beneath was thin and beautiful. His skin was smooth, beardless. He could not have seen more than seventeen summers. Where most monks went close-cropped and tonsured, his hair was long, brown locks tumbling down over his shoulders, and then there were his eyes. She had never seen such eyes before-not the color, though their pale, glacial blue was striking, but rather the way they seemed to shine with an i

“You,” she said dully. “You’re the one who killed the wyvern.”

Beldyn nodded, his eyes sparkling. In the distance, the waterfall rumbled on.

“You healed my wounds?”

“I did. Also I sent the message that brought you here. I am the one you seek, Efisa.”

He is, she thought. She could feel it, see it in his strange, bright eyes. A moment later, though, she forced herself to look away in doubt. She’d thought the same of Brother Gesseic and the men before him, and she had been wrong. While her wounds were gone, neither she nor the Knights had seen him heal her. She shook her head warily.

“Any man can call himself holy,” she said. “It must be proven.”

“Of course,” Beldyn replied. “I will have your regalia brought here, and you may use this chapel for the Rite. You shall have your proof, First Daughter, before the silver moon rises.”

Three hours later, as the sun set behind the mountaintops, Dista was laving her hands at the altar while the monastery’s brethren watched from the pews. As before, the Knights stood watch to the left, their armor shining. They were only six now. She thought of Laonis and Jurabin, and the others who had died, now lying beneath stone cairns in the mountains. If she had chosen to ride on to Xak Tsaroth, rather than coming to this place, they would still be alive.

Palado, sas hollas loidud ni calo