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“Very well,” Fistandantilus said. “I am here because I have information you might find interesting.”
“Information?” Kurnos echoed. “From where?”
“Your own Temple, as it happens.” The archmage’s head shook as Kurnos’s eyes went wide. “You see, I’ve been thinking about this Brother Beldyn, the ones the rebels are calling ‘Lightbringer.’ The name was familiar to me, you see, and just last night I remembered from where. It was in a book I read, a long time ago, so I went to the chancery to get it. Don’t worry, Holiness-no one knows I was there. I had to charm one young lad, though-Denubis, I believe his name was-to let me into the Fibuliam so I could get this.”
The mage gestured, and a swirl of orange light appeared in the air, halfway between him and Kurnos. With a sound like a great iron gong, the light slowed its spi
Qoi Zehamu, the runes read.
Kurnos licked his lips and swallowed, then looked up again. “Is that all?”
Fistandantilus shook his head. “You’re eager to be rid of me, I know,” he said, “but no-there’s more.”
Again he waved his hand, and this time Kurnos let out a gasp of pain as the emerald ring grew unbearably hot. He clutched at it, and-in spite of his misgivings-looked to see the gem was glowing, the same unpleasant green as the eyes of the demon within. Its shadows whirled like a maelstrom.
“You must use her again, Holiness,” Fistandantilus said.
The pain was almost unbearable as Kurnos clenched his fist. The mage was right-the demon was the answer. All he had to do was speak her name, and his enemies would die. He looked at the hippogriff, still cowering and shivering in the garden’s corner, and faltered. The beast thought he was evil. Would a good man use the ring?
“No,” he declared. “I will win this war by my own terms.”
Fistandantilus drew himself up, his beard bristling. “You would defy me?”
“I am Kingpriest of Istar!” Kurnos snarled back. “I will not bend to another man’s will.”
The chill that surrounded Fistandantilus became biting cold, and beneath him the grass turned white and withered before Kurnos’s eyes. For a long moment, the mage didn’t speak-when he did, each soft word hung in the air as if made of ice.
“Yes,” he hissed, “but it is my doing that you sit the throne now, Holiness. Do not forget that. I can end your reign just as easily.”
Suddenly his hand came up, and he snapped his fingers. Kurnos flinched, expecting agony, but the spell was not directed at him. Instead, a horrible sound rang out across the garden-a horse’s scream, mixed with the shriek of a bird of prey. Kurnos turned, saw the hippogriff and immediately wished he hadn’t. The animal was on the ground, its flesh burning, wings aflame and hoofs kicking as it squalled in pain. Kurnos could only watch in sick fascination, tasting bile. At last the beast gave one last great thrash and was still, save for the feeble twitching of its legs. The flames snuffed out, leaving the air thick with the stench of singed hair and flesh, but though it was dead, there was no sign of burning on its body. It seemed to have died naturally.
When he raised his horrified gaze from the dead hippogriff, Fistandantilus was gone. The sound of the mage’s laughter remained, though, lingering cruelly in Kurnos’s ears.
Later that night, Kurnos sat alone in his private audience hall atop his golden throne. The chamber was dark, save for the glow of braziers to either side of him. He had the Qoi Zehomu in his lap, open to the page Fistandantilus had marked. He did not move, save for the rise and fall of his breath, and the deepening of the frown upon his face. He had read Psandros’s foretelling three times now-slow going, for his Old Dravinish was rusty at best-and he could not remember being so furious in all his life.
He was still staring at the mad prophet’s words when a knock sounded from the golden doors at the chamber’s far end. He took several deep breaths to quell his simmering rage before he spoke.
“Enter.”
The doors cracked open, and Brother Purvis appeared. “Sire,” the old chamberlain began, “the Emissary has arrived.”
“Show him in.”
Bowing, Purvis withdrew, then appeared again with the ancient elf behind him. Loralon was clad as always, in full raiment, neatly arranged. His ageless face aloof, he signed the triangle and glided silently forward to kneel before the throne.
“Holiness,” he murmured. “How may I serve thee?”
Kurnos waited until Purvis had gone again, and the doors were shut. Then, calmly, he lifted the Qoi Zehomu and hurled it at the elf.
The book struck Loralon in the face, knocking him sideways, then hit the ground, cracking its fragile spine. Several pages came lose, torn from their binding. The ancient elf stared at it, his hand going to his mouth. Blood trickled from his lip.
“You co
He rose as the elf pushed himself dazedly to his feet and descended from the dais to stand before Loralon. His face was as red as his beard. His gaze smoldered.
“Majesty,” Loralon said, “I did not-”
“I said be silent!” Kurnos roared and cracked the back of his hand across the elf s mouth.
Loralon’s head snapped back, and he stumbled. The trickle of blood stained his snowy beard. “Majesty…” he began again.
Kurnos wanted to strike Loralon again and again. It took a great deal of effort to hold back, his fists trembling at his sides. “No!” he snapped. “I will not hear it, Emissary. You’ve been plotting against me all along-you and Ilista. Trying to bring this… this Lightbringer to the Lordcity to usurp my rightful throne!”
“Holiness, the prophecy says nothing about the throne,” Loralon said. When he caught the look in the Kingpriest’s eyes, however-rage, tinged with the glimmer of madness- he fell silent and looked at the floor.
For a time, Kurnos didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was a razor, glittering in the dark. “If you were my subject, Loralon,” he said. “I would summon the guards and they would take you away in chains. Tomorrow, you would burn at the stake for this betrayal, but,” he went on, raising a finger as Loralon opened his bloodied mouth, “unfortunately, you belong to King Lorac, not me. I ca
“I have sent men to your chambers, with orders to seize all imperial property-as well as the crystal you’ve been using to conspire with Ilista. You will leave the Lordcity at dawn and return at once to Silvanost. If you do not-if you go to the borderlands, to help this wretched Lightbringer-things will go poorly for your people here. Do you understand?”
Loralon stared at him, stu
“Very well, Holiness,” he said. He gestured toward the book. “But the prophecy ca
“The prophecy is heresy!” Kurnos barked. He took a step toward Loralon, then checked himself, turning away. “Get out.”
There was a silence, then the whisper of the elf s slippers across the marble floor. The golden doors boomed shut, and Kurnos was alone once more.
He slumped, putting a shaking hand to his brow. His head and stomach both ached, his right eyelid was twitching. He stood where he was for a time, a dull roar filling his head, then whirled with a snarl and grabbed up the book. He weighed it in his hands, staring at it with equal parts fear and anger. He knew of the prophecies of Psandros the Younger. They did have an unfortunate tendency to come true.