Kurnos did not.

He stood alone-Brother Purvis and the other servants had long since retired-on the high balcony overlooking the temple grounds. He leaned against the rail, his brow clouded, and looked down at the rose garden below. The flowers there still refused to bloom, and worse, since the hippogriff s death the grass had begun to die as well. He’d never caught anyone at it, but he knew people were whispering about the strange blight. Some called it a sign-but then, someone in the Temple always called such things signs. An apple couldn’t fall in the orchard without some old priest claiming it was a portent of the god’s displeasure.

Kurnos chuckled without feeling any pleasure. Every night, when he tried to sleep, his dreams tormented him. Symeon haunted them, his eyes accusing, his childlike face drawn into a snarl of pure hate. Always it was the same. The dead Kingpriest reaching out, fingers clutching like talons, and when Kurnos raised his own hands to ward him off, he saw his hands glistening with blood.

Mine, Symeon’s voice rang in his ears, echoing in the darkness even after he woke, bathed in icy sweat Mine. You killed me…

Kurnos shivered, shutting his eyes, and brought his fists down hard on the balustrade. It had to be done, he told himself, repeating the words like a mantra. It was for the good of the realm. I did what I had to do.

“Of course you did.”

The cold voice didn’t surprise him this time, nor did the chill in the air. That was the other reason he was still awake. He was waiting. Opening his eyes, he turned now to see the black-robed figure, standing by the archway that led back into the manse. As always, the man’s hood obscured his face, but he could envision Fistandantilus’s mocking look. He forced himself to smile.

“I’ve been expecting you, Dark One.”

“I gathered as much.” Wry amusement shaded Fistandantilus’s voice. “Do you know, this is the first time I have ever received an imperial summons. It was… flattering.”

Kurnos scowled, ignoring the sorcerer’s derision. He had sent a messenger to the Tower of High Sorcery earlier that evening, bearing a sealed, nameless scroll, with instructions to leave his missive in a certain empty anteroom.

Fistandantilus stepped forward, toward Symeon’s enchanted khas table. The game-pieces upon it stirred, looking up as he regarded them with unseen eyes. Kurnos didn’t think the khas pieces could be afraid, but still, he couldn’t shake the impression that they trembled.

“Fine workmanship,” the sorcerer said, nodding. “Do you play, Holiness?”

Kurnos swallowed. It had been some time since his last good game of khas. He could find no opponent whose skills matched his own. The closest thing he had to a worthy rival was First Son Strinam, but the man was dull, unimaginative. He simply couldn’t foresee the consequences of his moves, and defeating him proved too easy to hold interest. He’d trounced Strinam a dozen times in a row, playing in the evening’s glow-using the white pieces now, as was his right. First Daughter Balthera hardly knew the rules. Quarath professed not to care for the game. Lord Holger-a fair player, who had beaten him in the past- was in the field, marching on Govinna even now. And so on.

“Yes,” he said.

“Excellent,” Fistandantilus declared, and sat at the table, before the dark pieces. “Let us play, then, while we talk.”

The wizard made a gesture, and Kurnos felt a rushing, as if a gale had sprung up to blow expressly in his face. With a dizzying lurch, he was sitting at the table, before the white pieces. He shuddered, staring at the dark-robed form across from him. The mage had used sorcery on him! Fistandantilus met his shocked gaze, then shrugged, letting out a rasping laugh, and gestured at the table.

“The forces of light are yours, Holiness. Make your first move.”

Kurnos gaped down at the pieces arrayed before him. All he knew of strategy, all the books he had read, fled from his mind. He forced himself to take a deep breath. With a glance up at Fistandantilus, he leaned forward and whispered to footsoldier. The tiny soldier bowed and strode forward, his mail rattling. His spear trembled in his hands as he eyed the dark form looming before him.

The dark mage snorted, his hand gesturing slightly, and one of his own pawns came to life and marched ahead to thwart Kurnos’s.

The Kingpriest stared at the board. Fistandantilus’s man had moved where he wanted it to go without the slightest word having been spoken. He knew the mage had done it to intimidate him, and it did. He steepled his fingers, trying to think of a gambit.

“You used the ring again,” the sorcerer said, nodding at the emerald glittering on his finger.

Kurnos scowled, snatching his hands back. Rather than reply, he murmured to one of his champions, and the little Knight galloped diagonally across the board.

“I did,” he admitted, when the piece came to a halt. “I sent the demon to slay my enemies, as you suggested. She failed.”

He wasn’t sure what response he expected Fistandantilus to make, but the wizard’s shrug disappointed him all the same. “Did she?” he asked, advancing a second Footsoldier. “How?”

“That’s why I asked you here,” Kurnos replied. He spoke to one of his Wyrms, which then slithered through the ranks of his men, moving to threaten the wizard’s ranks. “I commanded her to go to Govinna, to kill Lady Ilista and this Brother Beldyn. Last Moonsday, when I woke, she was back inside the gem.”

Fistandantilus brought forward his Guardian. “I should think that is a good sign,” he said.

“So did I,” Kurnos snapped, glowering at the pieces. The dark mage’s moves didn’t seem to have any pattern or strategy, and that worried him. He was being toyed with. He advanced another Footsoldier to protect the Wyrm. “But I’ve heard rumors since that Beldyn is still alive, and… there’s something wrong with Sathira.”

That caught the wizard’s attention. “Interesting,” he said after a long moment, raising his gaze from the board. He retreated his Guardian two spaces-again, with no aim Kurnos could see-then clenched his age-spotted hand into a fist. “Let me see.”

Kurnos felt a sudden chill on his hand. He looked to the ring, then caught his breath. It was gone from his finger. Glancing across the table, he saw Fistandantilus’s fingers uncurl to reveal the emerald, glinting in his palm. The wizard raised the gem, peering into it, then waved his other hand over it, his fingertips weaving the air.

“Apala ngartash” he murmured. “Urshai maivak toboruk!”

There was a sound like cloth tearing, and green light flared from the gem, billowing over the table like mist. The fog flowed around them, then, slowly, shapes appeared, pale and hazy, like ghosts. They stood in a well-appointed study, the details of which were vague. Kurnos recognized some of the figures-Durinen was sitting at a desk, and Lady Dista was there as well-but the bearish warrior with them was unfamiliar, as was the fourth person. He knew, though, as soon as he saw the young man, with his white robes and long hair, that it was the Iightbringer.

He caught his breath. “What is this?”

“What Sathira saw, just before she attacked,” Fistandantilus replied. “Now, watch.”

The wizard made a flicking gesture with his fingertips, and the spectacle began. Kurnos watched, rapt, as the shadows took on the demon’s familiar form, seizing Durinen and killing him, then two fighters running into the room, then the bearish warrior as well. In moments, all four were dead, and the demon was stalking the two priests.

He saw Ilista reach for her medallion, saw the resolve in her face, saw the demon lunge, its claws ripping into her, as she shielded herself with the medallion and gave a shout. A light flashed and the vision ended, the green glow vanishing like fog burned away by the sun. The ring went dark.