As one-some with visible relief-the Scatas unsheathed their blades and tossed them to the ground. The scarred man signaled to his fellows, and several dropped their crossbows and darted in, snatching up the swords. Another took the reins of the pack horses that carried the Patriarch’s gold, and yet another pair emerged from a gully and came toward Blavian himself. One held a cocked crossbow, the other an unloaded sling. The Revered Son knew at once that the second man-no, a boy from the looks of him-was the one who had dared to strike him.
“Your purse, sirrah,” said the crossbowman, “and your jewels.”
Blavian goggled, reaching for the heavy golden necklace he wore as an emblem of his potency within the church. “You cannot do this!” he cried as the robbery continued around them. “I am a servant of the god!”
The slinger bent down, ignoring his protests, and plucked a small object up from the ground, a white chunk half the size of a clenched fist. Blavian thought the thing that had hit him had been a stone or perhaps a lead pellet. Instead, he saw it was a chunk of broken ceramic. The boy pressed it briefly to his lips, then tucked it into his belt. Then he turned to the cleric, his lip curling.
“This is for Tancred,” he snarled.
The Revered Son had only a moment to wonder who Tancred was before the boy drew back his foot and slammed it into the side of his head, crashing his world down into blackness.
Chapter Two
They were arguing again in the throne room.
It wasn’t Ilista’s habit to arrive late to the imperial court, and the First Daughter could hear the buzz of voices as she dressed in her private vestiary. Most belonged to minor courtiers, but others she recognized: Kurnos’s firm, clipped sentences, Loralon’s soothing tones. Then, as her attendants helped her don a snow-white surplice over her violet-trimmed robes, another voice cut through the rest, silencing them. The Kingpriest normally presided over the court in austere silence, letting his advisers do the talking, but today he was clearly angry-not quite shouting, as he sometimes did when his temper broke loose-but with an edge to his words.
Ilista scowled impatiently as the servants set an amethyst-studded circlet upon her head. The velvet curtains that led to the throne room muffled Symeon’s voice, and she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She had half a mind to go into the audience hall in her sandals, but propriety stayed her long enough for her attendants to help her into her satin slippers. Hurriedly she genuflected toward the golden shrine in the vestiary’s corner, then parted the curtains and stepped through.
“-will not stand!” Symeon snapped, his voice ringing throughout the hall. “If these varlets dare put swords to the throats of Paladine’s servants, their heads should be mounted atop Govinna’s gates!”
The Hall of Audience was enormous, as was only proper for the holiest and mightiest man in the world. It was a perfect circle, two hundred paces across, bathed in soft light from the crystal dome that arched overhead. The floor was rose-veined marble, polished mirror-bright; the walls were lacquered wood carved to resemble scarlet rose petals, so that the chamber seemed to rest within a vast, living bloom. Golden censers filled the air with the scents of spice and citrus, and platinum candelabra held hundreds of flickering white tapers. Garlands of spring flowers-starblooms, daffodils, and pink roses-hung everywhere.
Around the room’s edges stood Istar’s elite, clad in rich garments, the men and women alike perfumed and powdered, jewels glittering at ears and throats, fingers and wrists, ankles, brows, and even toes. Several Solamnic Knights stood in a cluster across from Ilista, splendid in their polished, engraved armor. Elsewhere, the First Daughter spied Marwort the Illustrious, the white-robed wizard who represented the Orders of High Sorcery at court. There were the hierarchs of the other churches, too: Stefara, the High Hand of Mishakal, in her sky-blue healer’s robes; Thendeles, Majere’s grand philosopher, in his faith’s plain red habit; Peliador of Kiri-Jolith in gold, Avram of Branchala in green, and Nubrinda of Habbakuk in purple, and with them, the high clergy of Paladine-Kurnos, Loralon, and other human and elven priests, all in shimmering white.
Ilista looked past them all to the far side of the room, where a blue mosaic swept across the floor to surround a pure white dais and a golden, rose-wreathed throne, twin to the one in the imperial manse. The Kingpriest sat upon the throne, all in silvery robes, gem-encrusted breastplate, and sapphire-studded tiara. His cherubic face burned red as he glared at an aging Knight who stood before the throne. Ilista recognized Holger Windsound, Lord Martial of the Knights in Istar. Holger was a proud man and not easily cowed, but he bowed his snowy head beneath Symeon’s wrath.
A bell chimed in the galleries above the hall, heralding Ilista’s arrival. She gritted her teeth as a hundred heads turned to look at her-including the Kingpriest’s. His black eyes glittered in the light of the crystal dome.
“Efisa,” Symeon declared. “We are pleased you have chosen to join us.”
Ilista had a good excuse for her lateness. One of her priestesses had come to her that morning, claiming she was losing her faith. The girl’s mother had died suddenly the night before, and she had demanded to know how the god could let such a thing happen. Ilista had stayed with her, drying her tears and telling her Paladine was wise and good, and everyone had a time when the god called her to his side. Eventually, the girl had agreed to meditate on the god’s grace; she might yet leave the order or she might not. It was the best Ilista could hope for-there was no point in forcing people to believe.
She said nothing of this to the Kingpriest, however. Instead, she bent her knee to him, signing the triangle.
“Holiness,” she said softly. “I apologize for failing thee.”
Symeon glowered at her a moment, then waved her forward. “Come, then. Join your peers.”
Everyone watched as Ilista strode across the chamber to stand alongside Loralon and Kurnos. They nodded to her as Symeon turned back to the aging Knight.
“Lord Holger was just telling us of an… incident that has happened in the highlands,” the Kingpriest stated irritably. “Tell Her Grace what has happened, man.”
Holger bowed, turning to face her. His face was like steel and showed none of the weariness of age. His hoary moustache drooped over a mouth that had never, in the two years Ilista had served as First Daughter, broken a smile.
“Banditry, milady,” he said, all but spitting the word. “An ambuscade aimed at imperial funds bound for Govinna.”
An outraged murmur ran through the assembly, even though Holger was repeating his news purely for her benefit. The others fell silent, however, at a gesture from the Kingpriest, and all eyes returned to the First Daughter.
“Palado Calib,” Ilista murmured. Blessed Paladine. “What happened? Did the robbers succeed?”
The aging Knight nodded. “They took the soldiers by surprise, and forced them to surrender the gold, Efisa. After, the bandits turned them loose without horse or sword, and disappeared into the hills.”
Kurnos stirred beside Ilista, his brows knitting. “What of Blavian? The Revered Son traveling with them?”
“He fared less well, Your Grace. The bandits beat him badly, and his injuries were grievous. He lives still,” the Knight added as the court stirred. Kurnos’s face had turned nearly as livid as Symeon’s. “He is resting at a Mishakite hospice and will recover, though it will take time.”
“And the funds?” Symeon asked.
“Gone, sire. I know not where.”
The Kingpriest’s rosebud lips whitened, as did his knuckles as he gripped the arms of the throne. The courtiers looked at one another uneasily. Ilista watched Symeon carefully, looking for signs. His fury could be terrifying, but she had learned it was usually short-lived and could be tempered by reason. That was her job and the other advisers’. Today would be difficult, however, for Kurnos was every bit as upset as the Kingpriest. She exchanged glances with Loralon, who nodded. The next few moments would be crucial.