“Advent of the Lightbringer,” the elf translated.
Dista scanned the page. The prophecy was short, only two stanzas long:
Vesinua, yuzun horizua,
Bon drova bruvli, Istogizua,
Vilo lush vevom su behomu,
Vizilovra, gavos avizua.
Ita deg dridiva so anevunt,
Sogonnunt, sos volbua sivunt,
Su ollom viu nirinfo vesuu,
Ita muzaba susilva sognivunt.
“What that means,” Loralon explained, “is this:
“
From the west, the setting of suns,
In troubled times, with Istar endangered,
Carrying lost riches he comes,
Lightbringer, bearer of hope.
“And though the darkness shall fear him,
Hunt him, seek his destruction,
He is the savior of holiness,
And the gods themselves shall bow to him.”
Ilista shook her head. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. It might as well be a lunatic’s ravings.”
“It is,” Loralon said, smiling. “Psandros was quite mad, but time and again, his words have come true-the Third Dragonwar, the rise of the Kingpriests, the Trosedil… you see? Of course, some of it hasn’t happened yet-Chaos has yet to walk the land again, thank the gods-but still, this is a dangerous book, Efisa, and your dream matches the prophecy. Didn’t you say this man of light came out of the west?”
Ilista stared at the ancient words. The Fibuliam was warm, but she found herself shivering. “What does it mean? What should we do?”
Loralon smiled, closing the book again. He walked back down the ramp and slid it back into its place on the shelf, then turned, his hands folded within his sleeves. His eyes shone in the elf-light.
“Not we, Your Grace. You,” he said. “The god wishes you to find the Lightbringer.”
The Kingpriest had adjourned his court for the day, and the three high priests had retired with him to his private audience room in the manse. Outside the windows, the clouds shone dusky rose, and the sound of someone playing a long-necked lute rose from the gardens. Soon the bells would summon the faithful to evening prayer. Out in the city, merchants were putting away their wares and linkboys were lighting the thousands of crystal lanterns that made the Lordcity seem a sea of stars at night. Before long, the folk of Istar would fill the wine shops, the concert halls, and the theaters, while young lovers strolled the gardens and byways, taking full advantage of the mild spring weather.
Kurnos had intended, that night, to go to the Arena. A troupe of mummers from bronze-walled Kautilya were performing there this week, and tonight’s fare was a favorite of his: The Death of Giusecchio, a bloody tragedy of treason and regicide. Now, looking from Symeon to the First Daughter, he couldn’t help but think there was enough intrigue in this very room to slake his thirst for such a drama. Ilista looked wan and weary, and whenever his eyes met hers, she glanced away and started fussing with the cuffs of her sleeves. Ilista had told them of her vision the night before, the fat monk who had appeared to her and proved in the end to be the platinum dragon. He could tell, though, that there was more she wasn’t saying. Something was afoot-but what?
“A voyage?” Symeon asked, sipping watered claret from a crystal goblet. He regarded Ilista steadily from beside one of the golden braziers that flanked his throne. “Beyond the empire, no less?”
“Only to Solamnia and Kharolis, Majesty,” she replied, eyes downcast “Both lands pay us homage, and the Solamnic Knights guard this very Temple. I would ask a company of such men to escort me, as protection while I follow my vision.”
Symeon’s lips pursed. “All this to seek a man of light, glimpsed in a dream.”
“A god-given dream, Holiness,” Loralon corrected. “No different from the one you had last year.”
Kurnos shook his head. He wasn’t sure he believed any of it. Symeon was still healthy, after all, and he had long since begun to wonder if the Kingpriest had simply imagined Paladine’s visitation. It rankled him, particularly after the past two days. If he were Kingpriest, several thousand Scatas would be marching toward Taol even now, to exact justice upon the bandits there. Symeon was a firm ruler when it suited him, but he relied too much on others’ advice-particularly Ilista and Loralon. Even now, he was regarding the latter over the rim of his wine glass, weighing his words.
“That may be so,” the Kingpriest allowed, and shifted back to Ilista. “This man of light, who do you think he is?”
“I do not know,” she replied. “I will need to search for him. I am sure he will already have shown signs of the god’s touch, though.”
“If you find him?” Kurnos tugged his beard. “What then?”
“I will bring him here.”
The Kingpriest nodded, but Kurnos didn’t smile. He stared first at Ilista, his mouth a lipless scowl, then at Loralon. The Emissary returned his gaze with a mildness that made the First Son’s ears redden. He is complicit in this, Kurnos thought. He’s holding something back-they both are. If anyone had asked him to give a reason for his suspicion, he would not have been able to. He was sure, though, the man of light was a danger.
Symeon, however, did not share his mistrust. “That is well,” he said finally. “I should like to meet this man, if he exists. Kurnos, send word to the harbormaster to ready a ship to carry the First Daughter to Palanthas. I shall contact Lord Holger and ask him to provide a Knight to lead the escort. Efisa, you will sail before the week is out.”
Ilista stood at the aft rail of the Falcon’s Wing as the great galleon glided across Lake Istar’s crystalline waters. The ship’s white wake stretched out behind, and beyond it lay the Lordcity, a distant jewel sparkling on the shore. The gleaming beacons of the God’s Eyes flashed at the harbor’s mouth, even from miles away. The deck creaked and rolled, and gulls shrieked above, diving now and again into the surf to snatch up shimmering fish. Up high in the rigging, men shouted to one another as they scrambled about; below the deck, broad-chested minotaurs snorted and growled as they worked the twin banks of the vessel’s oars.
The past three days were a blur in Ilista’s mind. It had been a remarkably short span to ready for such a voyage, and she’d found time for little else, aside from prayers and a few hours’ dreamless sleep each night. She had named Balthera, one of her most promising aides, to act in her stead while she was away and had instructed her attendants in packing her vestments and the other accouterments she would need for her travels. The rest of the time she’d spent writing: missives to high members of the Revered Daughters elsewhere in the empire, a few last decrees she needed to issue, and even a testament, declaring her wishes for her order, should some ill befall her while she was away.
Finally, this morning after prayers, she had gone to the basilica with the other high priests for the Parlaido, the benediction of Leavetaking. Symeon himself had daubed her forehead with seawater blessed by Nubrinda of Habbakuk and spoken the ritual farewell, and then she had left the Hall of Audience, bound for the harbor.
Her escort had been waiting on the temple’s broad steps. Sir Gareth Paliost was a Knight of the Sword, a seasoned warrior of fifty summers, the gray hairs in his hair and moustache outnumbering the brown. He was to be her only companion as they sailed. Other Knights would join them in Palanthas. He was a taciturn man and had spoken perhaps a dozen words to her since this morning, half of them “Efisa” or “Your Grace.” Otherwise, he kept to dour silence, his hand seldom far from his sword. Lord Holger gave him full commendation, however, so it was a comfort to have him at her side.