Chosen Of The Gods

As he spoke, the Miceram’s glare grew bright around him, so bright the hierarchs and soldiers had to squint against the radiance. Cloaked in light, Beldyn walked to where Cathan lay. Tavarre stared as he passed, and a murmur ran among the hierarchs as they realized what he meant to do.

Quarath came forward as Beldyn stood beside the body, reaching out to touch the young monk’s arm. “Sire, do not attempt this. Not even the Kingpriests of old claimed such power.”

Beldyn said nothing, only turned to stare at the elf. Quarath stiffened, paling, then stepped back. The audience hall was silent as Beldyn knelt, the white light shimmering around him. He laid his hand upon the scorched patch on the young man’s wounded side and shut his eyes. His lips working soundlessly, he reached to his breast, pulling out his medallion to clasp it in his hand. Then, gently, he bent low and pressed his lips to Cathan MarSevrin’s forehead.

“Palado,” he prayed, “ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigamfat, mifiso soram floruit. Tis biram cailud, e tas oram nomass lud bipum. Sifat.”

A moment passed. Then another. Nothing happened.

Tavarre stepped forward. “Holiness,” he said gently. “He’s dead. There’s nothing you can-”

“No!” Beldyn shouted, stopping him with a wild look. He looked every bit as mad as Kurnos, and Tavarre fell back.

“Enough!” the Lightbringer shouted, the crystal dome ringing with his words. “Hear me, Paladine! All my life I’ve served thee. With all my heart, I have worked thy will. NOW WORK MINE!”

Suddenly, it happened. The white glow surrounding him flared like an exploding star and flowed down his arm, washing over Cathan’s body. Beldyn’s back arched as divine power surged through him, so intense the other men cried out in pain as they beheld it His fece shifted from agony to rapture and back again, and tears of blood trickled down his cheeks. The air shivered, and the ground shook. Above, the basilica’s dome rang with a terrible clamor, blaring to match the Lightbringer’s blazing glow…

At last it faded, the crown’s light dimming once more.

Beldyn slumped back with a groan, his face bathed with sweat. He would have fallen had Quarath not rushed forward to catch him. His body, his face, were lost in a silvery cloud. Tavarre only gave him a quick glance, however. His eyes, and everyone else’s, were elsewhere.

Cathan stirred and took a breath.

No one made a sound as his breast rose, then fell, then rose again. His eyelids flickered open, and a puzzled frown creased his face. Then he turned his head, and a gasp ran through the room as the onlookers beheld his eyes.

Before, they had been dark, like stormclouds ready to break. The god’s power had changed them, though, drawing the darkness away. Now they were dead white, with neither pupil nor iris. It was like looking into the milky gaze of a blind man, and Tavarre found himself glancing away, so he wouldn’t have to meet their blank stare. But Cathan was not blind: his god-touched eyes turned toward Beldinas, slumped in Quarath’s arms. Slowly, he smiled.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

The monk shook his head. “It’s only right. You gave your life for me. I have only given it back.”

Cathan nodded, understanding. His eyes closed again, and he slept.

Everyone watched as Quarath helped Beldyn stand. He was weak, shaking and pale, but still he pushed the elf s hands away. Tavarre tensed, sure he would fall, but though he swayed on his feet, he remained upright. Beside him, Quarath dropped to his knees, his golden hair spilling over his face as he bowed his head.

“Sa, usas gosydo” the elf murmured.

Hail, chosen of the gods.

As one, everyone in the room-from low-born bordermen to the hierarchs of the holy church-knelt as well, repeating Quarath’s words. Beldinas Lightbringer regarded them all with a smile, then turned toward the dais and climbed the steps to his throne.

The Great Temple of Istar held many secrets, places only a handful of high clerics had ever seen. The Fibuliam within the sacred chancery was only one. There were also reliquaries filled with holy artifacts, treasuries brimming with gold and jewels, hidden sanctuaries where the church’s leaders could gather in times of trouble. Of all the church’s secrets, however, none was guarded more closely than its dungeon.

The prison was small, less than a dozen cells and a room where the clergy could conduct the rites of inquisition. It was not a place for common criminals-the Lordcity had a vast jail for such miscreants-but rather for those the hierarchs felt were dire threats to church and empire. Black traitors, high priests of the dark gods, and those declared Foripon had all languished within its walls. The only way in or out was a long, narrow stairway that cut deep into the earth, guarded not only by a squad of handpicked Solamnic Knights, but also by glyphs graven into the walls that would burn anyone trying to escape to ashes. No one in the empire’s history had ever broken out of the dungeon, and Kurnos knew he wouldn’t be the first.

His cell was small, bare stone with a straw pallet, a clay pot for night soil, and nothing else. It had no windows-there was nothing to look out on anyway-and its thick, ironwood door blocked out all sound and light. The air was frigid, damp, and musty, and a strange, sharp smell hung in the air. The scent maddened him for hours as he tried to figure out what it was- then he recognized it, wishing at once that he hadn’t.

It was his own fear.

Kurnos had no idea how long he lay there, curled in a ball and staring at nothing. With nothing to see or hear, time became amibiguous. Hours might have passed, or days. In the gloom, his mind drifted back to the last time he’d ventured so far beneath the Temple. It had been the night after his coronation, when he’d come down to the Selo and gazed into the empty crypt. He’d worried, then, that he might soon lie within it. Now he wept-how naive he had been! He would never lie beside the other Kingpriests now-no, his grave would be plain, nameless, unconsecrated.

He sobbed for a long time, unable to stop himself. When the fit finally ended, his breath hitched in a throat that felt like he’d swallowed razors. “Oh, Paladine,” he sobbed. “How I’ve failed thee…”

“Your god ca

He cried out at the cold voice, close in the darkness. The chill in the cell suddenly grew biting, painful. Robes whispered in the shadows, and he shrank away, whimpering.

“Go away,” he moaned.

“Not yet,” Fistandantilus hissed, so near that Kurnos could feel the wizard’s breath on his ear. “I have something to say to you first. After that, we are finished.”

Kurnos trembled uncontrollably. He didn’t know where to look. The sorcerer’s voice seemed to be everywhere, a part of the blackness. It took him nearly a minute to find his voice.

“Speak, then.”

Fistandantilus smiled. It was too dark to see, and his hood would have hidden his face even if the cell were in full daylight, but Kurnos sensed the cruel grin anyway.

“Very well,” the wizard said. “I want to thank you.”

“What?” Kurnos blurted. “Thank me? Beldyn’s alive. I failed!”

“Yes. I know you did.”

Kurnos stared blindly at nothing, his mouth working silently.

“I wanted Beldyn to live,” the dark wizard hissed, his voice barely more than a breath. He chuckled. “If I truly desired his death, I would have killed him myself.”

“I don’t-I don’t understand.” The world swayed like the deck of a storm-tossed galley.

“Of course you don’t,” Fistandantilus sneered. “You’re a fool, Kurnos, a Footsoldier upon my own private khas board. You dreamed of ruling this empire, but my designs are greater.