Loralon said nothing, only waited patiently, his hands folded before him.
For a long moment Kurnos hesitated, staring into the emerald’s guttering depths. Finally, he sighed and slid the ring onto his finger. It felt strange-too heavy, too tight, still retaining the warmth of Symeon’s body. His eyes shifted to the King-priest, lying weak and vulnerable in his bed… and then he heard it again, the voice, chuckling coldly in his head.
Very well, the dark man said. That will do… for now.
Chapter Six
The sun sank behind the Kharolis mountains, setting the clouds ablaze and flooding the valleys with shadow. On any ordinary evening, the town of Xak Khalan, a scattering of slate-roofed houses nestled in one of those valleys, would have been thriving: children playing beside the riverbank while their mothers stirred pots over outdoor cooking fires; rough, bearded woodcutters sharpening their axes for the next day’s work; old graybeards sitting on logs and swapping tall tales about how, when they were young, they’d spied a band of centaurs or kissed a dryad in the wild woods to the west. Later, folk might have gathered about a fire to dance or gone to a nearby hollow to listen to a wandering poet, while the moons’ red-silver light streamed down through the boughs of aspen and oak. It was a small town, and poor-particularly compared with the pillared, greenstone halls of the city of Xak Tsaroth two days to the south-but the people were happy with their simple lives.
Tonight, however, was no ordinary night.
Word had spread quickly when the First Daughter of Paladine came to town, accompanied by a dozen Knights from the fields of Solamnia to the north. That had been yesterday, and today the lumberjacks hadn’t gone out into the forests, keeping near home to see what was afoot It had been years since any priest higher than Falinor, the local Revered Son, had come to Xak Khalan, and talk had flown thicker among the villagers than the blackflies that hummed in the summer breeze. At last, as the westering sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks, the sound of silver bells filled the valley, and folk answered the call, flocking out of town until all that moved in Xak Khalan were a few stray goats and the creaking wheel of the mill. They went east, roughly six hundred in all, following a stone-paved path up the edge of the valley to where the church stood.
The town’s houses and shops were plain, but its temple was not. When Kharolis adopted the Istaran Church as its faith more than a century ago, the people had abandoned the forest glades and stone rings where they once worshiped, choosing to build high, domed halls in Paladine’s name. Xak Khalan’s church was nothing beside the cathedrals of Xak Tsaroth and downright tiny compared with the sprawling temples of the east, but it was still fine, its seven copper spires burning crimson in the twilight Lush ivy crawled up its stone walls, and its tall, brass-bound doors stood open, beckoning. Within, its stained windows cast shafts of blue and green light through the worship hall, falling over oaken pews and frescoed walls, serpentine-tiled floor, and a triangular altar of white stone. Smoke from a dozen incense burners and scores of candles eddied in the glow, making it look as if the vaulted chamber were underwater. The bells chimed on, falling still only when the last of the pilgrims from Xak Khalan had taken their seats.
llista stood by the altar, clad in her ceremonial vestments- silvery cassock, white surplice fringed with violet, and amethyst circlet-and laving her hands in a golden bowl. She kept her back to the villagers, staring up at the domed ceiling. The mosaic there was crude by Istaran standards but had a primal force the eastern artisans lacked. It showed Paladine as the Valiant Warrior, a white-bearded knight astride a cream-colored charger, thrusting a lance into the heart of a five-headed serpent. She focused on the god’s image, her lips moving in prayer.
“Please,” she implored. “Let this be the one.”
She had first performed the Apanfo, the Rite of Testing, in Palanthas, two days after she and Sir Gareth made port. The patriarch there had listened to the tale of her dream, and the figure of light, and told her yes, there was one among his clerics who might well be the one she sought. He was called Brother Tybalt, a middle-aged priest who could conjure water out of dry air. If anyone in Palanthas was the one she sought, the patriarch told her, it was him.
She had looked on as Tybalt prayed to the god, holding his hands over an electrum basin, and watched with amazement as the flesh of his palms opened and clear, cold water instead of blood flowed forth to fill the bowl. The miracle was one thing, however; the Apanfo was something else. The Rite of Testing had found him wanting, his character flawed with pride in his own powers. Dista wasn’t sure how the rite would reveal the Lightbringer to her, but whatever the case, by the time the prayer ended she had known it wasn’t him. Disheartened, she had assured the patriarch that while Brother Tybalt was a fine priest, he was not the one she sought. After that, she had turned her eyes hopefully to the road before her.
So it had gone, as she and Sir Gareth’s Knights wended their way across Solamnia’s plains, from city to town, castle to monastery, never staying in one place for more than a day or two. Time and again, the clergy had brought forth its brightest lights, men and boys who could work all manner of wonders through their faith, and time and again they had failed. Always, there was something lacking. The old graybeard in Vingaard loved his wine too much; the young initiate at the abbey near Archester nurtured lustful thoughts about a girl in town. The tall, swarthy deacon at Garen’s Ford doubted his own faith, questioning whether he’d chosen rightly in swearing his vows, and the cherubic scholar in Solanthus had once struck a novice in a rage. They were good men all, but the hoped-for revelation never happened when she spoke the Rite. None was the one, and each time it grew harder to look ahead with hope as she and the Knights set forth again.
Finally, they had left Solamnia, passing beneath the tall, white arches that marked its border. The fields gave way to hills, and then to mountains. That had been eight days ago, and she had tested no one in that time. Kharolis was a sparse kingdom, with only two great cities: Xak Tsaroth in the north and seaside Tarsis in the south. Other than that it was wilderness, deep forests and rolling grasslands where barbarian horsemen ruled. The hinterlands seemed an unlikely place to find the man she had dreamt of.
Then they had come to Xak Khalan, and things had changed. Revered Son Falinor, a bald, stoop-shouldered priest of more than eighty winters, had listened to her tale, then nodded, telling her of one of his charges, a young priest who could purify spoiled food with a kiss. As always, she had demanded proof of the boy’s powers and watched, impressed, as he pressed his lips to a moldy ear of corn and the blight lifted from it, leaving ripe, golden kernels behind. So, here she stood in Xak Khalan’s hillside church, ready to work the Rite one more time.
She removed her holy medallion and dipped her fingers in the bowl, dripping water on each of the amulet’s three corners. “Patodo Calb, flina fo,” she prayed in the church tongue. “Mas auasfud, tus mubofesum.”
Blessed Paladine, I am blind. Be thou my eyes, that I may see.
She turned, looking out at the expectant faces of the townsfolk. She had looked at thousands of those faces, these past months, watched their anticipation change to disappointment again and again. Behind them stood the temple’s clerics, three dozen in all, the bent form of Revered Son Falinor smiling toothlessly in their midst. On her left were Sir Gareth and his men: ten young Knights of the Crown, their armor gleaming in the turquoise light. To her right was an alcove, separated from the rest of the worship hall by a curtain of pale blue velvet. She could sense the man behind it, waiting as she signed the triangle over the assembly.