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Kurnos’s heart thundered in his chest. He knew the figure; it had haunted his dreams since he’d first seen it, months ago.
“Wh-who are you?” he breathed.
The robed man stepped out of the corner. Kurnos backed away as he came forward, stopping only when he bumped into a wall. The man came on, relentless, until he stood an arm’s length away, and though the night was nearly as hot as the day, the air around him was cold enough to raise webs of frost on a nearby window. Kurnos shivered.
“Well met, First Son,” said the voice from the hood’s depths. “Perhaps you have heard of me. I am Fistandantilus.”
Chapter Eleven
To the people of Istar, wizards were objects of contempt and suspicion. Even those who wore the White Robes of Good won a wide berth when they walked the Lordcity’s streets. True, one of their number attended the imperial court, but they were still the only powerful cadre in Istar who didn’t bend knee to the Kingpriest. They wielded powers beyond the ken of pious men and counted the evil Black Robes as allies, rather than with the enmity they deserved. Of the five Towers of High Sorcery, two stood within the empire-one in the Lordcity itself.
While they abhorred wizards, however, Istarans did not fear them. The Orders remained within the empire’s borders because of the Kingpriest’s forbearance. A word, and the might of both the church and the imperial army would descend upon them-and, before the might of the Kingpriest, no wizard could stand.
No wizard, except one.
For most, Fistandantilus was a legend, a bogey invoked to frighten willful children. Few had ever seen the man, but tales abounded. He was unspeakably old, folk whispered, having discovered magic that helped him outlive even the ageless elves. He could travel across the whole of Kry
Unlike most bogeys, though, the tales about Fistandantilus were true. Even the Conclave who ruled the Orders of High Sorcery feared him. While the holy church didn’t make an exception for him in its avowal that all Black Robes were beyond the god’s sight, people whispered he kept one of his many dwellings within the Lordcity. No one spoke his name, lest he hear; instead, folk simply called him the Dark One.
Looking upon the tall, black-robed figure, Kurnos shivered from more than just the preternatural cold. His throat was so tight he could barely breathe, and he might have fled, provided he could convince his legs to move. Instead, he stood statue-still, his back flat against the wall, and trembled.
Fistandantilus let out a rasping chuckle. “What, Your Grace? No pleasantries? No idle talk? How disappointing.” Though Kurnos could not see his face, the curl of his lip was plain in his voice. “But then, you are a busy man. You have your empire to run, so I shall be brief. I wish to offer my help.”
He moved his hand as he spoke, and though his terror did not lessen, Kurnos felt himself almost relax. His mouth moved, but it took a few moments for words to come out.
“H-help?”
The dark wizard nodded, the tip of his beard bristling against his chest. “Hard to believe, I know. As it happens, though, we share a common interest, you and I-putting you on the throne.”
“What?” Kurnos blurted. “Symeon has already named me heir. I am destined to rule.”
“Perhaps, but there is another who could take your place, one who would be a terrible danger for those of us who walk the shadowed path.”
The First Son furrowed his brow, confused-who?-then suddenly, he caught his breath.
“The one Ilista has found,” he murmured. “The one she was looking for, but… Ilista never said aught of making him Kingpriest.”
“She did not mean to,” the Dark One answered. “Still doesn’t, actually, but that changes nothing. This boy, the one called Lightbringer, must be stopped, if you are to rule. I am offering you the power to stop him.”
He gestured, speaking spidery words. His aged fingers wove through the air. Green light flared, bright and unhealthy, and when it faded something hung in the air above his hand: a loop of red gold set with a large, glittering emerald. Kurnos gasped, then looked down at his own hands. The ring he’d taken from Symeon’s finger when he became regent was gone, his skin itching where it had been. As he stared at the jewel, Fistandantilus twitched his fingers, and the ring started turning slowly in the air.
“What-what are you doing?” Kurnos demanded.
Fistandantilus inclined his head. “A fair question. Within the gem, I have imprisoned a… being. A spirit, if you will.”
Kurnos drew back. There was something disturbing about the way the way the light played across the emerald’s facets.
“A demon, you mean,” he breathed.
“If that is what you wish to call it.” Velvet-cloaked shoulders rose and fell. “Whatever word you choose, though, this creature is beholden to the one who wears the ring. Its name is Sathira. Speak and it will do your bidding, whatever you ask.”
The dread of what might lurk within the ring was second in revulsion to Rurnos’s yearning to reach out and take it. There was something seductive in the way it sparkled, and he heard the low hiss of whispering in the back of his mind. He knew, if he listened closely, he would hear his own name. He shuddered, forcing his hands to remain at his aides.
“If I refuse?” he asked.
“Then I shall find another who won’t.”
Kurnos had thought the sorcerer’s voice could get no colder. He now realized he’d been wrong. The words came rimed with frost, leaving the afterthought unspoken. And you shall never take the throne.
A shudder ran through him. Treating with dark wizards was a sin in the church’s eyes. Treating with demons was worse. He could always atone later, though, he mused-and he must take his rightful position as Kingpriest, the god’s power his to wield. Otherwise, what? The rest of his life spent as First Son, the crown always beyond reach? Or worse, banished from the Lordcity, to the dimmer lights of the provinces? Fistan-dantilus was right-there were hundreds of male priests within the Great Temple’s walls, and thousands more beyond them. One of them would take the ring if he didn’t first.
Without thinking consciously about what he was doing, he reached out, plucking the jewel from the air. It felt like ice against his skin as he slipped it back onto his finger.
“Very good, Your Grace,” Fistandantilus said, nodding. “The rest is up to you. You know what to do.”
With that, he vanished.
There was no light, no magical aura-only a faint shimmer in the air and a dull sound like a gong being struck in reverse. One moment he was there, and the next he was gone. The frost began to fade from the windows at once, but the sense of disquiet that had surrounded the Dark One remained.
Kurnos gaped at the place where the mage had been standing, then turned his gaze downward to the ring itself. The emerald sparkled, almost mischievously, but there was something else, too. He had once heard a sea captain speak of hideous creatures, gliding beneath the water’s surface, sinister shapes one could never quite make out. Whatever lay behind the gem’s lambency, the darkness in the ring, refused to lie quiet.
It was looking back at him.
Take it off! his mind screamed. Go to the harbor and throw it from the God’s Eyes into the depths. Find a blacksmith and burn it in his forge. Use two stones and smash it. Scatter the pieces to the winds!
He did none of these things. Instead he stood still and silent, gazing into the jewel’s dark depths until an acolyte knocked on the door and entered, bowing.