Chosen Of The Gods

We do not demand much; only aid you, with your vast wealth and power, can easily provide. Send us food and healers to cure the Longosai, and we shall release the Little Emperor. Ignore our plea, and may Paladine have mercy on him-and on you.

Kurnos’s face darkened as he stared at the scroll. Slowly, he crumpled the parchment in his fist, then threw it in the kneeling courier’s face.

“Leave,” he growled. “Now.”

Seeing the fury in his eyes, the messenger rose and hurried from the room. Kurnos pushed to his feet, glaring after the rider, then whirled and flung the scroll-tube across the room with a curse. It struck the wall and shattered, ivory splinters clattering onto the floor. He’d warned the others that something like this would happen, but Symeon had listened to the First Daughter, not him-to Ilista, who was far from here, in Kharolis. Meanwhile, he had to face the fruit of the Kingpriest’s inaction against the bandits, while- “Your Grace?”

Kurnos turned slowly, his nostrils flaring. “What is it?” An acolyte had opened the door. Now he paled and drew back, seeing the anger on Kurnos’s face.

“I-heard a noise, Aulforo,” the boy stammered. “Is all well?”

A laugh barked from Kurnos’s lips. “No, boy. All is not well.” He paused, thinking quickly. “Send word to Loralon and Lady Balthera. I must meet with them in the Kingpriest’s chambers at once. Go!”

Flinching, the acolyte withdrew. Kurnos had to force himself to breathe slowly to quell his rage. It took a while. Finally, though, he shook himself and turned from his desk. The trouble in Icereach forgotten, he strode out of the office, bound for the manse.

Symeon’s condition had improved somewhat in the weeks since his seizure. His right arm and leg were still lifeless, and his drooping mouth made him seem to scowl all the time, but he had some of his old strength back, and his speech too. Words came haltingly and badly slurred, but he was intelligible most of the time. He could rise from bed, too, if someone carried him, and this afternoon he sat in a high-backed chair on the balcony where he’d fallen ill. The breeze that blew in off the gardens was warm, and smelled of saffron. In his good hand, he held the scroll, the left side of his mouth twitching as he read.

“Un… fortunate,” he mumbled.

Weakly, he raised the parchment. Loralon took it from him. A small, dark line appeared between the elf s brows as he read the missive, then passed it on to Revered Daughter Balthera.

“Holiness, this is a difficult situation. We must treat it with care.”

“Bah,” Kurnos scoffed. “That was your counsel the last time we discussed Taol.” He waved his hand. “You see where it led.”

Loralon spread his hands. “In that case, I recommend we send the provisions they need.”

Symeon’s good eye widened. “Cap… capitu…” he began, stumbling, then gave up with a frustrated grunt.

“Capitulate?” Kurnos finished for him. “Preposterous!”

“I prefer to call it mercy,” Loralon said.

Kurnos shook his head, digging his nails into his palms to keep his temper in check. “Sire, we have thousands of Scatas near the Taoli border. If they march now, they could crush these rebels and take back Govi

Symeon considered this, the thumb of his left hand rubbing his medallion. “That may… be,” he mumbled at length, “but… I will… not… go before Pal-Pala-the god… with… bloodstained hands.”

Kurnos snorted, furious. The Kingpriest had recovered physically, but he was not the same man. The old Symeon might have been weak-willed, but he could be ruthless when the situation warranted. Since he’d recovered his speech, however, he had shown all signs of having turned soft.

“No!” Kurnos protested, pounding his palm with his fist. “We can end this now! We ca

“You… can,” Symeon interrupted, his good eye blazing, “and you will!”

Kurnos opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, seeing the resolve in the Kingpriest’s face. Instead, he turned to look out over the balcony at the gardens below. The lemon trees were in full fruit, and bees hummed about the roses. For a time, no one spoke, so that the only sound was the growl of the hippogriff and the distant murmur of the city. The folk of Istar had emerged from the wine shops, ready for the evening’s trade.

The moot ended soon after, when Symeon dozed off in his chair. Kurnos considered waking him but knew it would be of no use. The Kingpriest slept often these days and didn’t wake easily. They would have to wait, until tonight at least, for him to rouse from his dragon-haunted dreams and decide what to do.

Kurnos quit the manse soon after, returning to his study in the basilica. There, he issued a terse order to the lord of Icereach: if he didn’t return the gold yields to their former levels by spring, he would pay with his lands and title. The empire had many ambitious nobles who would gladly take his place.

Evening prayers came and went, and Kurnos retired to his private quarters in the Revered Son’s cloister. He stared at a supper of goose stuffed with forest mushrooms until it was cold, then bade the servants take it away. By then it was dark outside, the red moon bloodying the city’s alabaster walls. Pouring a snifter of moragnac, he retired to his parlor to brood.

He had meant to go into the city tonight. The poet Abrellis of Pesaro was at the Arena, reciting his new work, the Hedrecaia, an epic about the ancient wars between Istar and the city-states of Seldjuk. Kurnos’s anger still smoldered, however, so he threw himself down on a cushioned bench and sat silently in the gloom.

The more he thought about Govi

“It is a problem.”

Kurnos stiffened, his blood turning to ice. Slowly, he rose from his seat, turning to gaze across the parlor. The room was dark, lit only by a single electrum lamp beside his chair, and there were shadows everywhere. The voice-the quiet, cold, familiar voice-had come from the shadows.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. He wanted to sound furious, but his voice shook. “Show yourself!”

A soft, mocking chuckle floated out of the dark. Kurnos had never heard laughter so devoid of mirth.

“Very well,” the voice said. “If it will please you. Kushat.”

At the strange, spidery word, the lamp rose from the table where it stood and floated slowly across the room. Kurnos’s eyes widened as the lamp glided to a dim corner near an arras depicting the building of the Great Temple. Beneath the tapestry, its light fell on a tall, slender figure cloaked in robes of blackest velvet. A deep, dark hood covered the man’s face, obscuring all but the tip of a gray beard. Only his hands were visible, waving as he directed the lamp to hover near him. They were withered things, bony and spotted with age.