“Bos cor purdamo,” he spoke in the church tongue.
Old woes forgotten.
Holger paused, and all over the plaza breaths stilled as his hand shifted to his own dagger and drew it out. His gauntlet clattered to the ground as he cut himself in turn.
“E parpamo” said the old Knight, uncustomarily smiling.
And forgiven.
They clasped hands then, their blood mingling, then leaned forward to kiss each other formally on the cheek. So the imperial army and the bandits of the Taol made their peace, and a great cheer arose from the crowd, voices rising in jubilation.
The cry only lasted a moment, however. Stillness descended again as a pair of figures appeared in the temple’s doorway.
The first was a young warrior, clad in a snow-white tabard. His eyes swept over the mob, looking for signs of trouble. He then stepped aside, letting the second man come forward.
Tears stung Holger’s eyes as he beheld Beldinas Light-bringer up close for the first time. Though he was weary and pale, the young man made a surprisingly regal figure, mantled in shining light and embroidered robes. His hair tumbled in rich waves over his shoulders, and his eyes burned with zeal. On his brow, gold and rubies and all, was the Crown of Power, die Miceram worn by the Kingpriests of old.
Site ceram biriat, abat, Holger thought, staring at the crown and the onetime monk who wore it.
Slowly, the old Knight doffed his helm and fell to his knees. Behind him, his officers did the same. They all drew their swords, kissed their quillons, and laid them upon the steps. They bowed their heads as Beldinas strode up to them, signing the triangle. When Holger looked up again, brushing white hair from his eyes, his cheeks were damp and glistening.
“Holiness,” he said, “I cry your pardon. I have defied you, in my blindness.”
Beldinas shook his head. “The fault is not yours, Lord Knight. You have been tricked by the servant of darkness who sits the throne. I ask you to help me set this aright. Will you follow me?”
Holger drew a long, slow breath. In the silence a hawk skirled, riding the winds above the city. Exhaling, he leaned forward, touching his forehead to the floor. “We shall, my lord,” he said.
A murmur ran through the crowd, then fell silent as Beldinas raised his hands in blessing.
“Let it be so, then,” he said. “We shall remain in this place three days longer to tend our dead. When that is done, let us go forth to the Lordcity, and none of us rest until we have thrown Kurnos the Usurper down from his ill-gotten throne!”
The people’s shouts ran long and loud across Govinna.
Of late, the messengers within the Great Temple had come to view the imperial manse with dread. Indeed, most within the church grew nervous when they looked upon the Kingpriest’s palace, but it was the messengers who feared it most, for they had to go inside there.
They had been going back and forth for days now, bearing missives from the imperial courtiers. None knew the contents of the scrolls, but there was no question the news was bad. Any good messenger gained a sense, when he delivered a message, of whether the tidings he bore were good or ill, and it would have taken a blind gully dwarf not to guess rightly in Kurnos’s case. Each time, his mood grew fouler, until the Temple’s messengers took to quarrelling over who would deliver the next one-or rather, who would not.
Handril, a skinny, straw-haired acolyte who’d lost the latest argument, swallowed as he approached the manse’s great platinum doors. The Knights who stood watch outside kept still as he raised his hand and rapped. After a time, the doors cracked open, and Brother Purvis emerged. The old chamberlain looked older and frailer than Handril had ever seen him, his back stooped and weary, his brow an anxious wrinkle. He said nothing as he turned and led Handril in. They walked through the rich entry hall and on down sunlit passages. Finally, at the top of a long, curving stair, they came to a halt before the golden doors of the Kingpriest’s private audience hall.
Purvis gave the boy a sympathetic look. “He awaits within, lad. Give him the message, and do not linger.” Pushing the doors open, he gestured Handril through.
It was dark within, the curtains drawn, a few candles flickering. It took Handril’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, so the first thing he noticed was the stench. It was a stale smell and sour, the reek of dried sweat and grime. He wrinkled his nose, wondering how long it had been since Paladine’s Voice on Krynn had bathed. Biting his lip, he stepped inside.
“H-Holiness?” he asked.
Nothing.
There was no one on the throne or anywhere else he could see. Scalp prickling, Handril looked about, but there was no sign of the Kingpriest. Slowly, he crept toward the dais, an ivory scroll-tube in his hands. His sandals clapped against the marble floor as he went, then halted. There was something there-many somethings, in fact, scattered upon the dais and down its steps to the floor. Handril peered at them, then started forward again.
He was nearly to the dais when he saw what the things were, and a frown creased his face. Why had the Kingpriest strewn khas pieces about the floor? Stopping again when he reached them, he bent down and picked one up, his breath catching when the dim light touched it. Handril knew little of khas, but he knew enough to understand that the white champion in his hand should not be slumped against his horse’s neck, his back raked with tiny sword wounds. He rose again, shivering, turning to look around-
The hand that seized his throat was like a band of iron, squeezing off all but a thin trickle of air as it jerked him forward. Handril wanted to shout, but all he could manage was a squeak as Kurnos loomed out of the shadows.
The Kingpriest was a terrible sight, a pale, drawn apparition whose beard stuck out in red tangles. His robes were dirty and disheveled, and the sapphire tiara on his head sat askew amid tufts of silver-frosted hair. The worst, though, were his eyes. They were wide and red-rimmed, and a wild sheen lit them. They were filled with anger, fear, and madness.
“What do you want?” Kurnos hissed.
It took Handril several wheezing breaths to find his voice. “A-a dispatch, sire,” he gasped, raising the scroll-tube. “From the-First-Daughter.”
The Kingpriest’s eyes narrowed to twitching slits. His grip tightened, and black spots whirled before Handril’s eyes. With a growl, he snatched the tube from the messenger’s hand and shoved the boy back, letting him go.
“Out,” he snapped.
Clutching his bruised throat, Handril all but sprinted from the room.
Kurnos stood silently for a time, staring at the scroll-tube, then, scowling, he opened it and slid out the roll of vellum. Violet wax sealed the message, bearing the seal of the Revered Daughters of Paladine. He tore this away, then unfurled the message and read it.
A moment later he flung it away.
Word of the Battle of Govinna had reached the Great Temple six days ago. A courier, caked with road dust, had arrived from the borderlands, bearing word from Lord Holger. Kurnos’s heart had leaped as he unfurled that scroll-and died, just as suddenly, as he read the old Knight’s account of what had happened. The traitorous bastard had changed sides, gone over to the damned Lightbringer! Even now, the wretched pretender was marching toward Istar itself, with both the bandits and the imperial army at his back.
Kurnos had quit the basilica at once, hiding in the manse to keep the news from his court. It didn’t work. Holger had sent other missives to Istar, and soon the Temple’s halls echoed with whispers about the Crown of Power and silvery, healing light.