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Too much time passed.
Merciful god, Ilista thought. He can’t do it. Something’s wrong…
With a shuddering groan, Beldyn’s knees buckled, and he began to sway.
Ilista tensed, but someone was quicker. In a heartbeat Cathan was at his side, catching his arm and holding him up. “Master,” he said. “Wait. You have to stop…”
“No,” Beldyn moaned through thin, white lips. “Hold me. I must finish…”
Cathan shook his head, his mouth opening to protest. Durinen’s wound was too grievous. The wound was tainted, the contents of his bowels mixing with his blood, but something in Beldyn’s face silenced his objections. Cathan tightened his grasp on the monk. Nostrils flared wide, Beldyn took a slow, deep breath to calm himself… and spoke.
The voice that came from his lips was not like any Ilista had heard him use before. It carried none of its usual music, no soothing undertone. Deep and firm, this voice filled the room at the tower’s pi
“Abagnud!” he shouted.
Awake!
The light flared around him, making Ossirian curse as it stung his eyes, flowing down over Durinen. With a grunt of exertion he let go of the patriarch’s forehead and stumbled back, Cathan supporting him when he would have collapsed altogether. His shoulders slumped, but his eyes blazed as he continued to stare at the figure on the bed.
Despite the wound, despite the bloodblossom, the Little Emperor’s eyes fluttered open.
He lay still, looking at the ceiling with confusion in his eyes. There was no pain in them and no drugged stupor. Instead they were bright, sharp. Brows knitting, he pushed himself up, propping himself on his elbows. He stared at the quarrel lodged in his flesh and frowned.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It’s-it’s all right,” Beldyn gasped from behind him. “Take it-out.”
Durinen nodded, looking dazedly at the quarrel. Then, with a motion so quick even the Mishakite had no time to do more than suck in a horrified breath, he reached up and yanked the bolt from his body.
Ilista cringed, expecting bright life-blood and entrails to gush from the wound. That didn’t happen. Instead, barbed head and all, the bolt slid easily out of Durinen’s belly, leaving behind only an angry weal on unbroken skin. As she watched, the red mark also faded-or rather, the rest of him brightened, his flesh turning healthy pink once more, rather than the sickly white it had been moments before.
Durinen turned the quarrel in his hand. There was not a spot of blood upon it. It shone with the light that streamed and coursed around Beldyn. Abruptly he flung it away, sending it clattering across the marble floor. Swallowing, he turned, his gaze seeking out Beldyn-then froze as he saw his savior, a gasp tearing from his lips. His mouth worked, but it took him several tries to find his voice.
“You!” he croaked at last.
Ilista looked up, shocked, and saw it too. Beldyn was as she’d seen him in Luciel, that first day when he’d laid his healing touch upon Wentha. Amid the mantle of light, bright enough that it brought stinging tears flooding from her eyes, she saw him clad in pearly samite and golden breastplate, jeweled rings and silk slippers. There, on his head, gleamed the crown. She stared at it: exquisitely crafted, all shimmering gold and sparkling rubies. She frowned, wondering what it was. It seemed so familiar…
In a flash, it was gone, and Beldyn was a monk again, shrouded in shining light, his eyes fluttering closed as the effort of healing Durinen overcame him at last. Cathan kept him from crumpling, and Ossirian and Tavarre rushed to help him to a velvet-padded bench. None of them had shared Ilista’s vision, nor had the Mishakite, who hurried to the bedside, gaping in shock at what just happened. Durinen had seen it, however. She felt certain she saw it in the Little Emperor’s face… before, draining away to unconsciousness once more, he slumped back down among the cushions. He lay still, let out a slow breath… then began to whisper, his lips forming words Ilista couldn’t hear.
“What’s he saying?” she asked.
The Mishakite leaned close, listening, but frowned when she straightened up again. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense…”
With an irritated snort, Ilista rushed forward, pushing the healer aside to bend low. At first she heard nothing, so soft was his voice, but then, faintly, she made it out-the same four words, over and over-and her breath left her in a rush of wonder and terror.
“Site ceram biriat, abat,” the Little Emperor murmured. “Site ceram biriat, abat…”
Later that night, Ilista knelt alone in a chapel off the Pantheon’s worship hall. The room held a small shrine blazing with white candles, atop which perched an icon of Paladine, coiled in his form as the platinum dragon. It stared down at her with topaz eyes that danced with light. She did not speak, made no entreaties of the god. Her thoughts were spi
Tavarre and Ossirian both pressed her, but she hadn’t spoken to them of the Little Emperor’s whispered words, nor had she revealed her vision of Beldyn in imperial raiment. Finally they had abandoned her to tend to the matter of finding places for the refugees from Luciel to dwell. First, though, they’d taken Beldyn down from the Patriarch’s Tower, to a bedchamber in the cloisters and there laid him down to rest. Cathan remained with him, as faithful as any hound, and Ilista had come down here to be alone. It seemed like only a short time ago, but the candles on the shrine had burned down to waxy stubs, and her legs were numb from kneeling.
Hinges creaking, the door to the sanctuary opened behind her, and silvery light flowed in. She swallowed, feeling the presence in the entry.
“Brother,” she said, turning. “Come in. I was just thinking of you.”
Beldyn entered, chuckling. He had taken off his torn habit and wore a simple white robe, unadorned and unembroi-dered, in its place. He bowed his head as he shut the door, his bright eyes downcast.
“Forgive me, Efisa,” he said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
Ilista shook her head, pushing herself up. Her knees popped as she got to her feet. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve been here too long. Besides, we must talk.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We must.”
They left the chapel together and went to a nearby apse, where they sat together on a marble window seat. Ilista looked out through the glass, at the city below. The red moon shone down on Govi
“Site ceram biriat, abat,” Beldyn said. “Whoever wears the crown, rules.”
She started and turned to look at him.
“Yes,” he said, ru
Ilista shivered, but said nothing. Fear ran through her like silver fire.
“He saw something in that room,” he pressed, leaning closer. His eyes gleamed. “You did, too. You can’t hide it from me, Efisa. What is it?”
She didn’t want to tell him. She was too afraid of what it all portended. His glittering blue gaze caught her, transfixed her, and she found herself speaking the words anyway. “Beldyn, have you heard of the Miceram?”
He paused, catching his breath, then nodded. “The Crown of Power,” he replied. “Brother Voss told me the tales when I was a boy. The first Kingpriests wore it, but Faladine took it away a hundred years ago, when the Three Thrones’ War began.”
“That’s one tale,” she said, shrugging. “No one is sure what became of it, to tell the truth. Whatever happened, though, no one has seen it since. Although many have searched, there is no trace of its whereabouts. After it disappeared, people began to whisper that it would return one day, when darkness ruled the land. The man who bore it would be the true lord of Istar.”