Loralon, Emissary for the elves of Silvanesti, rose from a cushioned seat on the room’s far side. As he did, he signed the sacred triangle-one palm atop the other, thumbs extended to a point beneath-that was the holy sign of Kurnos’s order. It was a courtesy, for the Silvanesti took the pine tree, not the triangle, as their gesture of blessing. Kurnos nodded in reply, stepping forward as Purvis shut the door behind him.
The elf gestured toward another chair, and Kurnos sat, regarding him carefully. Loralon was as always: calm, reserved, eyes sparkling in the glow of the lamps that lit the room. He was old, even for his long-lived people, having seen more than five hundred years. Though his face remained unlined by age, his hair had turned silver, and a snowy beard-rare among the elves, found only among the most ancient-trailed down his chest He was clad in full raiment, from the golden circlet on his head to the jeweled slippers upon his feet. He looked neither tired nor annoyed, and Kurnos wondered, not for the first time, if the elf ever slept.
They exchanged pleasantries, then sat in silence for a while, sipping from jeweled goblets of watered claret, mixed with spices from Karthay. In time Purvis returned, leading a tall woman, whose long, raven-black hair was pulled back into a severe bun that made her look older than her forty years. She wore robes of pearly satin trimmed with lavender and silver jewelry at her ears, wrists, and throat. Her dark eyes swept the room.
“It seems,” she declared, signing the triangle as Loralon and Kurnos rose, “that I’m the last to arrive.”
“First Daughter,” the elf said, smiling kindly. “You were always the deep sleeper.”
Ilista, leader of the Revered Daughters of Paladine- companion order to Kurnos’s own^folded her arms. “What is this about?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
Kurnos and Loralon exchanged tight-lipped glances.
“I think it likely,” the elf replied, “but as to why His Holiness has called us here at this hour, milady, I fear neither of us know any better than you.”
Purvis stood aside while the Kingpriest’s advisers greeted one another. Now he stepped forward, making his way to a pair of gold-chased doors at the room’s far end. Engraved upon them was the imperial falcon and triangle-the one, symbol for the empire, the other for the god. The doors opened at his touch, letting white, crystalline light spill through; then he turned to face the three clerics, bowing low.
“His Holiness bids you welcome,” the chamberlain intoned. “Gomudo, laudo, e lupudo.”
Enter, behold, and adore.
The audience chamber was smaller than the great throne room that occupied most of the basilica, but it was still far more opulent than those of other sovereigns. It brought gasps from those beholding it for the first time, but to Kurnos it was a familiar place. He scarcely noticed the mosaic of interwoven dragon wings that covered the floor, the strands of glowing diamonds that hung from the ceiling, the platinum triangles and lapis falcons that adorned its walls. Instead, his gaze went directly to the marble dais at the far end, beneath a violet rose window. Atop the platform stood a golden throne, wreathed with white roses and flanked by censers of electrum that gave off tendrils of pale smoke. His eyes slid past these, focusing at last on the man on the satin-cushioned seat.
Symeon IV, Kingpriest of Istar, Paladine’s Voice on Rrynn, was not a physically imposing man. Nearly sixty years old, he was small and plump, pink-cheeked and beardless. At first glance, he looked almost like a child, though there was sharpness in his black eyes that left no doubt he was the most powerful man in all Ansalon. Many men, expecting him to behave in the manner of a eunuch, had quailed and broken before that unrelenting gaze. His golden, jeweled breastplate and the sapphire-studded tiara on his brow gleamed in the white light. He raised a hand that sparkled with precious stones.
“Apofudo, usas farnas” he said, beckoning.
Come forward, children of the god.
Obediently, Kurnos moved to the dais with the others and mounted the first step. They bowed their heads as the King-priest signed the triangle over them, murmuring a soft benediction. Symeon sat back, smoothing his silvery robes.
“You have questions,” the Kingpriest said. “Here is my answer. I have called you here because the time of my death is near.”
Kurnos started, surprised. Beside him, Loralon’s brow furrowed, and Dista’s eyes widened.
“Sire?” the First Daughter blurted.
Symeon was a hard man-not cruel, but distant. All knew that while Istar honored him, there was little love for the King-priest among the common folk of the land. His midnight eyes glinted, and Dista looked away, unable to meet his stare.
“Holiness,” Loralon ventured, drawing Symeon’s gaze away from the First Daughter. “How can you know this? Has something happened?”
“Yes,” the Kingpriest replied. “Something has. Tonight, as I was reciting my midwatch prayers before taking to my bed, a visitor came to my chambers. A dragon.”
“What?” Kurnos said, and all at once the imperious glare was on him. He weathered it, though he could feel his face redden. “Pardon, Holiness, but there are no dragons left in the world. All know that Huma Dragonbane banished the wyrms of evil a millennium ago, and Paladine himself bade the good dragons leave soon after.”
“I know the history, Kurnos,” the Kingpriest declared coldly. “Nevertheless, the dragon was here. Its scales shone like platinum in sunlight, and its eyes were diamonds afire. It spoke to me, in a voice of honey and harpstrings. I knew at once it was Paladine himself, taken flesh.
“ ‘Symeon,’ said the dragon, ‘most beloved of my children. Within a twelvemonth, I will call you to uncrown. From that day, you shall dwell evermore at my side.’
“And so, my children, I have called you here to share this news. The coming year shall be my last.”
The audience hall was utterly still. Kurnos and Dista stared in shock. Loralon stroked his beard, lost in thought. The rose window made the only sound, hissing as snow pattered against the glass from outside.
Finally, the First Son cleared his throat “How can this be?” he asked. “It’s only seven years since you were crowned, Majesty.”
The Kingpriest nodded. “Yes, but Paladine’s word will not be denied. Soon I shall be with him.”
“There is precedent,” Loralon added. “A century and a half ago, the god appeared to Kingpriest Ardosean I as he lay dying.” The elf regarded Symeon evenly. “You are fortunate, Holiness. Most clerics live their entire lives without beholding such a sight”
“Our luck is as poor as yours is good,” Dista added. “It is hard not to envy Paladine for taking you from us.”
The Kingpriest nodded, accepting the compliment as his due. “There is another reason I have summoned you three here,” he said, his gaze falling upon Kurnos. “If I am to go to the god, I must name my heir.”
For a moment, the First Son blinked, not understanding. Then he saw the way the dark eyes glittered, reflecting the gems of Symeon’s tiara, and he felt his throat tighten. His skin turning cold, Kurnos tried to speak, but his voice failed him. He looked down, unable to meet the imperial gaze any longer.
“Yes, Aulforo,” Symeon said. “It is my wish that you take my place upon the throne. When I am gone, you shall be the next Kingpriest of Istar.”
The rest of the audience passed in a blur. Later, Kurnos dimly remembered the rite of succession that followed the Kingpriest’s pronouncement: a long liturgy by Symeon, to which he responded at the proper times, like a man half-awake. Loralon and Dista both served as witnesses, vowing before Paladine and Symeon alike they would support Kurnos’s rule. Finally, the Kingpriest recited the final “Sifat”-Be it so-and the ritual ended.