“Efisa?” he asked. “Are you well? I heard voices-”
She shook her head. “It was just me. Come in, Gareth.”
He did, looking uncertain as he shut the door. He strode toward her, armor rattling, then stopped a respectful distance away and stood erect, hands clasped behind his back.
“My men have secured provisions,” he said. “We stand ready to march at your word.”
“Very good,” she replied. “We shall leave for Xak Tsaroth at dawn.” There was no point in lingering here when she was unwelcome. She sighed, tugging her sleeves. “Tell me, Gareth- do you think me a fool?”
The Knight’s moustache twitched. “Efisa?”
She waved her hand, taking in the whole hall. “You saw what happened here,” she said. “That boy could have been a great priest. The god is in him-but after today, I’m not sure I’d blame him if he quit the clergy.”
“Ah,” Gareth replied, looking uncomfortable. She hadn’t spoken like this to him before.
“You know what I’m searching for. Am I a fool for doing so?”
“My lady, Draco Paladin himself bade you undertake this quest,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care. “The god doesn’t send his servants on fool’s errands.”
Ilista shook her head. “You’re a man of great faith, Gareth.”
The Knight shrugged.
He remained as she finished packing her trappings, then they left the temple together, making their way down the path to Xak Khalan. They left the accouterments behind. Gareth’s men would come later to fetch them. He did his best to guide her around the town, keeping to its perimeter and out of sight, but even so she could feel the stares of those villagers who were still awake, the resentful looks that always seemed to follow her when she left a place. She repeated Gareth’s words, telling herself she was working Paladine’s will, but it didn’t make her feel much better.
They had made camp on a hilltop overlooking the town, pitching tents amid the crumbling, vine-choked walls of what once-centuries ago, from the looks-had been a small keep. Two Knights met them as they climbed the path to the ruins and fell in alongside, carrying torches to light their way. Most of the others were still awake amid the cluster of tents and campfires, sharpening their swords and polishing their shields. They stood and bowed as Dista passed.
The feeling that something was wrong struck her as soon as she saw her tent, but she didn’t know why. She frowned as she regarded it: a pavilion of white and violet silk, the sacred triangle mounted on a pole before it, another hung above the…
She stopped suddenly, catching her breath. “The flap. It’s open.”
The Knights snapped to a halt, and Gareth stepped forward, sword half-drawn. She had pinned the flap closed that afternoon, before setting forth to perform the Apanfo. Now it hung loose, waving in the evening breeze.
One of the younger Knights swore under his breath. The other coughed softly. Gareth glared at them both. They were the same pair he’d set on guard duty while the rest attended the ritual, newly dubbed boys who couldn’t be much more than twenty.
“Jurabin, Laonis,” he growled. “If any harm has come to Her Grace’s belongings, I’ll have both your spurs. Get the others.”
Their faces pale, the Knights turned and hurried away. In moments they were back with the rest of the Knights, bare swords in hand. Half fell in around Ilista, forming a ring about her. The rest gathered by Gareth, awaiting his orders. He dispatched them quickly, sending two to watch the tent’s other side, and putting two more to either side of the entrance. His face grim, he crept forward. His blade rasped free of its scabbard, and he used it to flip the flap wide, then stepped inside. Jurabin and Laonis followed, torches in hand.
Ilista tensed, waiting for the sound of ringing steel. Instead, all was silent for a long moment, then the flap flew aside again and Gareth emerged. He still had his sword, but in his hand was something else.
“There’s no one within, Efisa,” he said, Jurabin and Laonis still searching behind him, “but I found this.”
He held it up, a roll of rough parchment, tied with plain hempen cord. It bore no seal. She stared at it, swallowing, then reached out and took it from his hand. Her fingers trembled as she untied the cord and unfurled it. It was two sheets, in fact, not one. The first, she saw, was a map of some sort. She gave it a quick, frowning glance, then turned to the second page, and her breath left her in a rush.
You have traveled far, First Daughter, it read, but your journey nears its end. Go not to Xdk Tsaroth but into the mountains. Follow the map.
I have been awaiting you. I am the Lightbringer.
Chapter Seven
The orb caught the candlelight, gleaming as she opened the box’s golden lid. There was something else to it, though-a faint, blue-white shimmer that owed nothing to the tapers burning within the tent. Ilista held her breath, watching the ghost-light dance. like most Istarans, she found sorcery strange and a little frightening-even the magic of the elves, whose wizards wore the White Robes as a rule. Her apprehension had been enough, so far, to keep her from using the orb. Now, though, was different.
She looked at the scroll, resting in her lap, and the simple words on it. The Knights had searched and searched but found no trace of whoever had left the message. She practically had to beg Sir Gareth not to stand guard within her tent, and she knew he was just outside, even now, in case of trouble. She’d read the scroll fifty times, its words chilling and exciting her all at once. Loralon had to know, as soon as possible, so she reached into the box and lifted out the flickering orb.
It was lighter than it looked-perhaps hollow-and cold as snowmelt. The bluish light swelled as she cupped it in her hand, swallowing the candles’ dim glow and making her shadow huge upon the tent’s wall. She caught her breath, glancing toward the flap, but Sir Gareth didn’t burst through as she feared.
The Knights didn’t see the witchlight, which was good. Istarans mistrusted magic, hut the men of Solamnia loathed it. Dista swallowed, gazing into the orb. Its shimmer caught her gaze and held it She muttered a quick prayer, asking Paladine’s forgiveness for meddling in sorcerous ways, then drew a breath.
“Loralon,” she whispered.
For a time, nothing happened, and she began to wonder if she’d done it wrong, and the spell hadn’t worked. As she was looking up, though, the magic took hold, so quickly she nearly dropped the orb. The crystal warmed in her grasp, and the light began to spin and swirl, making a sound like a mad flautist’s song. She peered into its depths when she recovered, trying to make out shapes within the boiling glow-and slowly they emerged, resolving into a blurred image, like a fresco painted in bad plaster, then sharpening until it became Loralon’s bearded face. It was past midwatch now, morning closer than sunset, but the Emissary looked neither tired nor disheveled. Instead he smiled at her, a little sadly. Her skin rose into bumps at the sight of his disembodied visage, resting in her hand. She would have to say a long cleansing prayer, when this was done.
“First Daughter,” Loralon said. “I have been hoping you would contact me. I have grave tidings.”
He told her about Symeon’s illness, and though the King-priest had seldom been warm toward her, she found herself weeping all the same. The Kingpriest still could not speak, and his right arm and leg remained paralyzed. The people of the Lordcity, on hearing of his condition, had gathered in great numbers outside the Temple to pray for him, but no one in the church believed he would survive.