“Aulforo,” the boy said when Kurnos looked up, “you should go to the manse at once. Emissary Loralon has a report to make, word from the First Daughter in Kharolis. His Holiness bids you attend.”

His Holiness, Kurnos thought, shivering. He could feel the ring’s power tingle throughout his body. All he had to do was speak one word, one nonsense name, and the title would be his to claim.

No, he thought. Not yet.

Scowling, he made his way out of darkened study, into the hot evening air.

“They have… set out for… home, then?” Symeon asked. “They’ve left… the mon-monast-” He broke off with a wince, breathing hard.

Loralon bowed his head. The four heads of the church had gathered on the balcony of the manse again. The city glimmered beyond the Temple’s walls, a sea of golden lights.

“Yes, sire,” the elf replied. “They rode out this morning. Only-they are not sailing back to Istar. Lady Ilista has chosen to travel overland.”

“Overland?” Balthera echoed, her voice rising with dismay. She was a small woman, thin and birdlike, with hair the color of straw. “They’ll need to pass through Taol!”

“Yes,” Loralon replied. “Under the circumstances I cautioned her against it, but she insisted. It will take less time than riding all the way to Tarsis, then taking a ship back here-and they will be passing through the southern part of the borderlands, far from Govinna.”

Balthera’s frown deepened, but Kurnos spoke before she could.

“Why is it so important she arrives quickly?” looked at the Kingpriest, who sighed.

Symeon said, “she wants… to get here… I still… live. She thinks this… young monk… might… heal me.” He slumped, breathing hard, as the other high priests looked at one another. When he had his wind back again, he chuckled. “Well. I doubt… the god’s… will shall be so… easily thwarted, but… we should… still pray for… Ilista’s safe… return.”

“Iprummu, Holiness,” Balthera said solemnly. I shall.

“As will I,” Loralon agreed.

Kurnos hesitated, his gaze lowering to the marble floor. He sighed. “I as well, sire,” he muttered. As he spoke the words, however, his fingers strayed to his left hand, to the emerald ring.

The Garden of Martyrs was quiet tonight, save for the chirping of crickets. Kurnos stood in its midst, looking out past the moonstone monuments toward the manse. Light glimmered from the high balcony, where he had left the Kingpriest. Symeon had been dozing quietly when he and the other hierarchs departed the manse. Soon Brother Purvis and his servants would come to bear him to his bed.

What if it really happens? he wondered, fists clenched at his sides. What if this Brother Beldyn’s powers do heal him?

He could see it now, unfolding like the plot of an Ismindi high tragedy. The throne, nearly his, slipping from his grasp. Symeon’s reign would continue, and his weak will might well be Istar’s undoing. Symeon would not send the army to Taol, and rebellion would spread, flourishing throughout the provinces. Before long, it might well spiral into civil war.

No, Kurnos thought. It cannot happen. It will not.

He looked down at the emerald ring and shivered despite the evening’s warmth. The moons were hidden now, behind clouds red with the Lordcity’s glow. The gem sparkled with alluring light anyway. He held it up to his eye, peering within. He could see nothing there, save for the vague flicker of a shadow, but he could feel it-a presence trapped in the crystal, longing to be free. He could feel its eyes upon him.

Do it, a voice seemed to whisper. Say the name…

He took a deep breath, his lips parting. “Sathira,” he whispered. “Come forth and heed my words…”

Green light flashed within the ring, making him squint and turn away. It washed out in waves, the white obelisks around him reflecting its gangrenous glow. The ring grew warm, then hot, until he felt his skin begin to blister beneath it. Kurnos clutched his hand, groaning in pain and wondering if the Dark One had tricked him. Was this just some elaborate ploy to destroy him? Would the ring’s green flame consume him, burn him to ashes?

Just as the heat threatened to wrench a scream from his lips, however, the emerald’s glow flared sun-bright, then died with a noise like cloth tearing, only deeper. Like a pall of smoke, shadows billowed from the gem. They poured forth in a great gout, devouring what little light there was in the garden, surrounding Kurnos in blackness. The shadows eddied and swirled around him, colder than the frozen gales of the southern sea. Wisps broke free, dancing like witchfire, utterly soundless.

Kurnos stood amid it all, shuddering and biting his lip to keep from crying out. The iron taste of blood mixed in his mouth with coppery fear.

At last, the final shreds of shadowstuff flowed out of the ring, and their churning began to slow. Bit by bit, they coalesced, pulling inward and condensing until they seemed to take on physical form… arms… hands… fingers. Kurnos’s mind told him that pure black could get no darker, and yet the shadowstuff did just that, becoming so thick that it drained the light out of the world around it. The air in the garden grew freezing, so cold it burned, and the leaves of nearby bushes turned brown and withered.

The shape the shadows took, at last, was that of a only by the barest of margins. The shadow-was legless, dissolving into inky wisps where her should have been, and her ringers were far too long, ending in sharp points. Her body wove back and forth in a way that resembled a snake more than a human, and tiny, pointed wings sprouted from where her shoulder blades ought to have been. Worse of all, though, was the head: long and narrow, bald and featureless, save for two slits of venomous green light in place of eyes. These moved back and forth, taking in the garden, then widened, flaring brightly when they settled on Kurnos.

“Master,” Sathira said. Her voice was the snarl of jackals, the hiss of vipers, the mad buzz of wasps. “I hear and obey. What is thy will?”

Kurnos couldn’t find his voice. More than anything, he wanted to stop, flee, order the horrid creature back into the ring. He knew, though, that it was too late. He couldn’t say why, but he was sure Sathira would not retreat until she had tasted blood. She waited, staring at him with the unblinking flatness of things that lived under stones.

Palado Calib, he prayed. Forgive me for this. It must be done. It must.

He beckoned and tried not to cringe as the shadow-thing moved nearer. Unable to meet its cold gaze, he drew a deep breath, shaking all over, and spoke.

“Listen to me,” he said. “There is something you must do…”

Symeon sat alone in his bed, a book propped in his lap. His illness had robbed him of many pleasures-strolling his gardens, playing khas, attending banquets-but his love of words remained. Tonight, as with every night of the past week, he sat up late, poring over the Reflections by the philosopher Pendeclos of Majere. His mind was elsewhere, however, so though his eyes slid across the words on the page, he barely noticed what they said.

The dilemma he faced was one Pendeclos, who had loved theological quandaries, would have enjoyed. On one side of the coin, Paladine himself had foretold his death. Even many months later, Symeon recalled the dream vividly, the god’s honeyed voice telling him to uncrown. On the other side, though, was the young monk Ilista had found, this Beldyn. If he indeed had the power to heal, did that not also come from the god? What if the boy came to Istar and offered to cure his ailment? What then?