The villagers looked to Beldyn with deeper awe than before. They had seen him heal; now they had seen him destroy. Too, they had seen what it cost him, for the shrouding light did not go away. It still shone brightly, like a second silver moon come to earth. He rode in a daze, head bowed, and did not look up. Several times he slumped and would have fallen, had Cathan not been at his side to bear him up.

Still he rode, refusing to stop, and so the borderfolk followed him, fighting through their own weariness to keep going well into the night, finally halting in a narrow cleft, out of the frigid wind. Huddled around smoldering fires, they ate a meager supper, then fell into restless slumber.

Not everyone found rest, however. Ilista sat alone on a boulder outside the camp, staring skyward, where dark clouds scudded, blurred by her tears. She had tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she saw Sir Gareth, standing defiantly before the bridge, his broken sword ablaze with sunlight. Again and again she watched him fall, the Lightbringer’s name on his lips. He had given his Me, died with honor, but only the people in her ragged band would ever know. The word that went back to Istar would be that he’d fallen protecting traitors and bandits from the iron weight of the law.

Who is to say that isn’t true? she wondered, shaking her head. Kurnos is the crowned Kingpriest-Symeon named him so. Who am I to act against him?

“You are my servant,” said a voice, “doing my will.”

Starting, Ilista rose to her feet There was someone there, in the darkness, a shadow against the night. She drew back, reaching for her mace-then stopped, realizing she’d left the weapon at camp.

“Who is it?” she hissed. “Show yourself!”

He did, stepping close enough that she could make him out in the moonlight, a fat man in a white habit, a smile brightening his florid face. It was Brother Jendle, the monk she had dreamed about, these many weeks ago, in her room in Istar.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She didn’t-couldn’t-move, but only stared with her mouth open. His eyes sparkled with starlight.

“You’re having doubts,” he noted, “after what happened today.”

She blinked back tears. “Sir Gareth-he was sworn to protect me.”

“He did. If he hadn’t held the bridge, the soldiers would have caught you. I wish things could have been different, but Sir Gareth did what was right. We should not mourn those who die fulfilling their purpose in this world,”

Dista looked away, out into the dark. What purpose? she wanted to rail. What are we doing? What are we? A small, hungry band of ruffians, with both the church and the imperial army arrayed against us. How can we stand against the might of Istar? How do we know we’re even right to try it?

“Damn it, Paladine,” she whispered, “what do you want of me?”

When she looked back, though, the monk was gone.

She stayed on the boulder until the silver moon set. Then she returned to camp. When she slept at last, Ilista did not dream.

Chapter Eighteen

The hippogriff cocked its head as it peered at the hunk of raw meat, its raptor’s eyes peering intently in the light of late afternoon. Its feathered tail twitched as it pawed the grassy earth with a forehoof. Its hooked beak opened and closed hungrily.

“That’s right,” Kurnos murmured. “Supper’s here. Now come take it, you blasted wretch.”

He’d had the meat torn from the hindquarters of an antelope his cooks were preparing for the evening banquet. Its bloody scent filled the air as he stood within his rose garden- bloomless still, more than a month after Symeon’s death-facing off against the hippogriff. Since his coronation, the beast had steadfastly refused to come near him, though he knew it to be docile. The old Kingpriest had fed it from his hand, but around Kurnos it held back, no matter what he did. Now it finally seemed to be overcoming its reluctance and took a step toward him as he stood still, the meat dangling from his hand.

It ought to have. He’d been starving it for days.

He couldn’t say why it was important that the hippogriff accept him, but that made it no less true. Certainly the imperial court had accepted him-once he’d gotten rid of the last dissenters, of course-and the folk of the Lordcity shouted his name in praise whenever he emerged from the Temple. When he’d attended a recital by a renowned Dravinish dul-cimist last night at the Arena, the citizens had applauded louder for him than they had for the musician. Indeed, all the empire seemed to have little objection to his fledgling rule-except the bandits in Taol, of course, and the army would deal with them soon enough.

The hippogriff was another matter entirely.

It edged closer, head held low. He shook the meat a little, and the beast froze, watching him warily. Kurnos held his breath, leaning forward. Take it, damn you, he thought. Take it, or we’ll be dining on more than antelope tonight.

Nothing moved. Somewhere in the gardens, someone laughed at an unheard joke. A gobbet of fat dropped from the meat into the grass. He looked down, watching it fall… then, in the instant of distraction, the hippogriff made its move.

Its wings-clipped since it was a foal to keep it from flying away-spread wide, and it reared back on its hind legs, letting out a whickering hiss. Kurnos gaped as it towered above him, at the forehoofs churning the air. He envisioned them coming down on him, breaking bones, maybe even cracking open his skull. With a shout he leaped back, tripped over his robes, and fell, sprawling in the grass as the hippogriff came down again. The meat fell from his hand, and he reached for it quickly-but not quickly enough. The beast’s head darted forward with the speed of a striking snake, and it snatched up the morsel in its beak, then wheeled and galloped away to the far side of the garden.

Kurnos watched it go, hate brimming in his eyes. If he’d had a bow at hand, he’d have shot the animal dead. Instead, he took off his sandal and hurled it, but the throw fell far short. The hippogriff pranced, wolfing down the meat with three quick bites. Kurnos growled a curse as he pushed himself to his feet. At least no one had seen the humiliating scene, he told himself. He was alone in the garden.

No sooner had he thought that, however, than he saw the dark hooded figure. It stood in the shadows beneath a barren rose trellis, its shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Kurnos flushed with anger and froze with fear all at once.

“You!” he breathed.

Still chuckling, Fistandantilus stepped out into the reddening sunlight and crossed the garden. Seeing him, the hippogriff let out a terrified squeal and edged back into the garden’s far corner. He glanced at the creature, shrugged, and turned back to the Kingpriest.

“Smart beast,” he said. “It knows evil when it sees it.”

Kurnos heard the double-edged meaning. “I am not evil,” he snapped. “I am Paladine’s voice.”

Fistandantilus shrugged again.

Kurnos glowered, rubbing his fingers. The emerald ring had grown warm against his skin, and it was all he could do to keep from looking at it.

“What do you want?” he growled.

The wizard’s beard-the only part of his face visible within his hood’s shadows-moved as he smiled. “That is what I like about you, Holiness. You’re very direct. How does your war proceed?”

A scowl creased Kurnos’s face. He’d received his first report from Lord Holger only yesterday. They had entered Taol and were subjugating its southern fiefs even now. The Lord Knight had been concerned, at first, about the coming winter, but now he was certain the army would reach Govinna before the snows started falling. The Kingpriest said nothing of this, though. He remained stonily silent.