“I don’t know,” he replied, gazing out at the shimmering mist. “I remember little of my childhood and nothing of my parents. I was an orphan in Xak Tsaroth when I met Brother Voss.”
“Voss? The monk you sent for me today?”
Beldyn nodded. “Most of the monks here were once clerics in the city. Voss sometimes went among the poor, giving them what aid he could, and one day he saw me lay hands upon a woman dying of the gray fever and heal her sickness.
“Yes,” he said as Dista’s eyes widened, “the god’s power was in me even then. Voss brought me back to the temple of Paladine and told the patriarch what he had witnessed. That was a mistake-the patriarch called it blasphemy to think an untrained child could perform such miracles when ordained priests could not.” He shook his head. “There are many in the church who would not believe in my powers.”
Dista bit her lip, thinking of other hierarchs who would react like this patriarch-perhaps even Kurnos himself. “What happened then?”
“Voss, may Paladine bless him, wasn’t so easily daunted. Instead he took me in and taught me the church’s ways in secret.” Beldyn’s eyes danced with memory. “He even consecrated me as an acolyte. When the patriarch found out, he nearly ordered us both stoned as heretics. Too many people loved Voss, though, so he banished us instead. Voss asked his brethren to come with us.” He nodded down into the courtyard, where the monks were emerging from the refectory, their supper done. “As you see, a few listened.”
“We traveled deeper into the mountains,” he went on, “and found this place. The Majereans were long gone, so we restored it and made it our home. We’ve lived here ever since… six years now.”
“Now you’re the master,” Dista said.
He nodded. “A year and a half ago, Voss named me a full Revered Son and appointed me his successor. The others accepted it-they have long known and trusted me. I became head of the abbey, and since then I have been waiting.”
“Waiting?” Ilista’s brows knitted. “What for?”
“For you, Efisa.” His eyes were silver pools in the misty light. “The night before I became master, I too had a dream. In it, a woman rode out of the north, pursued by beasts on shadowy wings. She said to me, Pilofiram fas-you are the Lightbringer-and then I woke. I told Voss, and he said it was a vision from the god. One day I would meet the woman, and my life would change forever.
“Ten days ago I had the dream again, and I knew it must be time. I sent one of my monks to Xak Khalan, with a message- which, of course, you found. A few days later, when I saw the wyverns had taken wing in the storm, I knew someone had roused them, so I went to help you. I only wish I had been quicker, so others might have lived.”
They stood together silently. Silhouetted by the mist, Beldyn looked as he had in Ilista’s dream, and in her vision during the Apanfo. I found him, the priestess thought, overjoyed. I truly found him.
“Your wait is over,” she said softly. “The time has come for you to leave this place.”
“Yes,” he replied. His eyes shone. “Have you dined, Efisa?”
Qista blinked, taken aback. She had been too excited to eat earlier, but now her stomach growled hungrily. “No, Brother.”
“Nor have I,” he said, extending his hand. “Will you join me?”
She hesitated, suddenly afraid. A jolt of fear ran through her as she remembered what his touch had done to her earlier. She wasn’t sure she could bear the feeling again. A moment later, though, she shook herself, thrusting the thought aside. This was a man of flesh, not light. Biting her lip, she laid her hand upon his wrist. He was solid, warm, human. Smiling, she walked with him down to the courtyard, the mist ablaze behind them.
Chapter Ten
The gray stallion was frothing and dust-caked, blowing hard as it galloped toward the Lordcity’s western gates. The rider astride it seemed in even worse shape, her billowing blue cloak torn and dirty, her hair pasted to her scalp with sweat and grime. She was pale with weariness, her eyes red-rimmed, and she seemed apt to fall from the saddle at any moment. She wore no armor or helm, no sword or bow, though her livery resembled that of the Scatas who made up the empire’s armies. Instead, what she clutched in her hand as she pounded up the broad, stone-paved road was something much more dangerous: an ivory scroll-tube, bearing the insignia of the Little Emperor.
The empire of Istar was vast, and sending urgent messages required a network of post-houses, where riders could stop and change horses to speed them on their way. Even so, the woman on the frothing gray had been riding for four days and nights since she’d left the highlands, and by the time she reined in before the tall, gilded gates, in the shadow of the statue of Paladine that crowned them, she could barely keep her head up long enough to present the silver scepter that identified her as a member of the Messenger’s Guild to the sentries. The guards regarded the scepter, with its winged horseshoe crown, for a long uncertain moment, then nodded and handed it back, waving her into the city.
It was mid-afternoon, and the streets were quiet. Istar sweltered in the summer, and its folk repaired to the wine shops and baths during the hottest part of the day, emerging as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Rather than the press of robed bodies that filled the city in the mornings and evenings, the rider encountered only a few people on her way to the Great Temple-soldiers, clerics, and a long-bearded Holy Fool who leaped and threw pebbles at her as she thundered past. The broad, tree-lined avenue led straight from the gates to the great arch that let out onto the Barigon, then on to the sprawling church. Galloping across the plaza, she clattered to a halt before a Revered Son and half a dozen acolytes who had come to receive her. They took the reins from her shaking hand and thrust a goblet of watered wine at her once she’d swung down from the saddle. She gulped it down quickly and ate a snow peach another youth offered, which invigorated her enough that she could at least walk without leaning on anyone-for now, at least.
The priest asked her for whom her message was intended, and she looked at him sourly.
“The chief of the imperial kitchens,” she snapped, holding up the scroll-tube. A silken ribbon dangled from it, bearing the imperial triangle-and falcon. “Who do you think?”
She went in through a side entrance, the priest puffing along beside her as he kept up with her long, quick strides. The King-priest was still ailing, he told her, and not taking visitors. The regent, however, would be glad to receive her at his first convenience. She nodded at this and pressed on, scattering several squalling peacocks as they made their way through the gardens to the basilica. Within, the Revered Son bade her wait in a bright, pillared antechamber. She washed the road’s grime off her face with a basin of cool, lemon-scented water while she bided. Presently the cleric returned and led her down a hall hung with red roses to the Kingpriest’s private study.
First Son Kurnos sat behind a desk of polished mahogany, poring over a set of ledgers. He was not in a good mood. The papers tallied the yields of the gold mines the empire maintained in its newest colonies, far to the south on the frozen islands of Icereach. He scowled, running his fingers down the columns. Ore production was down considerably from last year. He didn’t notice the courier at first when she entered, and when he finally looked up his forehead creased with annoyance.
“Bring it here,” he snapped.
The rider strode toward him then dropped to one knee and proffered the tube with both hands. Kurnos took the rube and opened it, leaving the messenger on her knees while he removed the parchment within and broke its crimson seal. Unfurling the scroll, he scanned its words-then stopped, his eyes narrowing, and read it again.