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To achieve them, I need a true holy man on the throne. Now, with your help, I have him.
“I saw Brother Beldyn first, you see-years before Lady Ilista, in fact. I searched Ansalon for the man I wanted… and found a boy. I thought to wait until he came into adulthood, but the god called Symeon earlier than I’d hoped, so I had to act.
“I knew there would be discord within the clergy if he simply came here, you see,” the dark wizard went on. “Many would have been reluctant to follow him-he’s young, after all, and from a heretical order. The hierarchy would have fac-tionalized, and another war could have begun. I needed the church united… so I turned to you.”
Kurnos moaned, shrinking beneath the weight of the wizard’s words. Tears streaked his face. “Me?” he breathed.
“You. I fed your yearning for power, gave you the tools to craft your own downfall. If you succumbed to evil in your desire to keep the throne-used demoniac magic-the hierarchs would have to look favorably upon Beldyn. It took more trouble than I expected, perhaps, but in the end you did as I knew you would.
“The empire will follow him now,” Fistandantilus finished, pitiless. “Those who matter have beheld his power and the depths of your depravity. I am done with you.”
Kurnos wanted to scream, to curse, to grab the sorcerer in the darkness, smash his skull against the wall… but he found suddenly that he couldn’t move. His body might have been made of lead, rather than flesh.
“You bastard,” he sobbed. “I’ll kill you… I’ll kill-”
“No, Holiness,” Fistandantilus whispered. “You won’t, but you’ll tell them about me now, won’t you? They probably won’t believe you, but then again, they might. I’m afraid I can’t take that chance. Sathira.”
There was no light in the cell, but after Fistandantilus spoke the name, the shadows grew deeper still, thickening until they were almost solid. A loud rush of unholy wind, more wintry than the chilliest Icereach gale, filled the room. Kurnos felt the last fragile threads of his sanity fray as the demon’s familiar presence took form. He mewled in terror… then his mind finally gave way, and he began to laugh and laugh, an uncontrollable glee that turned to screams as two slits of green appeared in front of his face.
“My old friend,” Sathira growled. “I have longed for this.” Her talons found him, tearing through skin, flesh, bone.
Kurnos shrieked with delight and knew no more.
“Enough,” Fistandantilus said after a while.
Sathira did not heed, continuing to rip ragged strips from the twitching thing on the floor. Blood sprayed the walls. She hissed with delight, devouring Kurnos, digging deep to claw out the choicest bits. Fistandantilus felt neither joy nor disgust at the sight-only a
“I said enough!”
The demon flinched as a spark of white light struck her, then cowered away from the fleshy ruin, snarling. She watched the wizard with menace in her green eyes. He paid her no mind. He knew spells that could tear her to pieces if he chose, and she knew it.
She had served him well. Twice she could have destroyed the young monk, if she’d chosen, and twice she had let herself appear to be defeated. That had been her end of the bargain they had struck.
“Go now,” he said, making a gesture. “Back to the Abyss and your queen.”
Her eyes flashed, a flare that lit the room for an eyeblink, displaying the scattered bits of wet bone and gristle that covered the floor. With an inward swirl of wind and a sound like distant thunder, Sathira was gone.
Fistandantilus stood alone in the cell, looking down at what had once been the Kingpriest of Istar. He could see very well, despite the lack of light, and he knew he could not leave things like this. If the guards found this dripping mess, there would be questions. Worse, the Lightbringer might come up with answers. That would not do.
Shrugging, he raised his hands, weaving his fingers through the air. Spidery words slipped from his tongue, and the sharp, darkly euphoric rush of magic filled him, an old friend. His only friend. Focusing his will, Fistandantilus spun the power into a spell.
The air in the cell shivered, growing warm. When it stilled, the gory mess the demon had made was gone, and Kurnos lay whole once more, his body unharmed, his eyes closed in peace. Seeing him as he was now, the guards would think he had simply died in his sleep. Not even the new Kingpriest, with all his divine might, would guess the horrible truth.
Fistandantilus nodded, smiling within his hood. “Farewell, Holiness,” he said. In a flickering, he vanished from the cell.
Epilogue
Cathan couldn’t feel his legs. He’d been kneeling all night upon the stony path in the Garden of Martyrs, surrounded by the grandeur of the Great Temple-basilica, manse, cloisters, and riots of fruited trees and night-blooming flowers. Birds sang above, and nocturnal lizards, bred to resemble tiny silver and gold dragons, shuffled through the undergrowth. Behind him, the Kingpriest’s private rose garden-blighted and brown when he’d first beheld it, more than a fortnight ago-had turned a brilliant green, and though it was the wrong time of year, huge, fragrant blooms covered the trellises with crimson and gold.
He paid no attention to any of it. His eyes were fixed on the cenotaph.
It was a tall, oblong slab, hewn of moonstone, that glistened blue in Solinari’s light. Many such monuments loomed among the garden’s almond trees, graven with hundreds upon hundreds of names: the honored dead, who had given their lives for the holy church. The earliest were older than the Temple itself, from the days of the first Kingpriest’s rise, and they went on from there, down through the empire’s history. Here were the missionaries who had perished in the crusades to civilize the borderlands. Over there were the casualties of the A
The cenotaph where Cathan knelt, however, was mostly blank. The sculptor Nevorian of Calah had chiseled the first names into its smooth surface over the past few days. Cathan stared at them, a hardness in his throat.
Gareth Paliost, Knight of the Sword.
Durinen, Patriarch ofTaol.
Ossirian, Lord ofAbreri.
Ilista, First Daughter ofPaladine.
There were others, too: Gareth’s Knights, Tavarre’s man Vedro, and those who had fallen-on either side-in the Great Battle of Govi
Some had argued, in fact, that his name still belonged on the cenotaph. He had died, after all-was he any less a martyr, because the Lightbringer had restored his life? The scholars would, no doubt, keep debating the matter for months, but he knew he would have plenty of chances, in the coming years, to earn an unchallenged place on the monument.
For this day, Cathan MarSevrin would become a Knight.
That hadn’t been an easy thing, either. Lord Holger had been hard against knighthood for him and still was. The Solamnic orders, he contended, required years of training in arts both martial and courtly. Knighthood wasn’t something awarded lightly-and only seldom to a commoner or to one so young.