The writs of Nio Celbit-withdrawal of support from the reigning Kingpriest-had started arriving the next morning. Nubrinda of Habbakuk was first, declaring her intention to side with Beldinas when he arrived. It made sense, of course- how could she not, when he wore the Miceram and had thousands of Scatas at his command? Kurnos cursed her anyway, declaring her Foripon along with Holger and every soldier who marched with him.
He’d hoped the denunciation would give the other hier-archs pause. He was wrong. Soon after, Stefara of Mishakal had dispatched a writ of her own, then Peliador of Kiri-Jolith. Marwort, the court wizard, revoked the support of the Orders of High Sorcery, and Quarath of Silvanesti had done likewise for the Chosen of E’li-the first of Paladine’s clergy to forsake Kurnos’s reign. Even the high priests of Branchala and Majere, whom Kurnos had appointed after his coronation, denounced their patron. When he’d woken this morning, only the First Son and First Daughter had remained loyal… and now he’d lost Balthera. Kurnos felt his reign crumbling like rotten mortar.
Snarling a vile oath, he raised the scroll-tube high, then smashed it down on the floor at his feet. Splinters of ivory skittered across the floor.
A cold laugh rasped behind him. “Really, Holiness,” mocked Fistandantilus’s voice. “That’s hardly decorum befitting an emperor.”
Kurnos whirled, hands clenching into fists as he faced the Dark One, barely visible in the room’s smothering shadows.
“You!” he growled, stabbing a finger. “You foul, lying bastard!”
The sorcerer inclined his head.
“You said you’d help me,” Kurnos snapped. “You said you wanted me on the throne!”
“So I did,” the dark wizard replied. “Apparently I underestimated the forces arrayed against you.”
Kurnos reached to his left hand, where the emerald ring sparkled, the darkness that had haunted it gone. It had refused to let go of his finger before. Now he could pull it off easily. “Underestimated?” he shrieked and flung it at Fistandantilus.
The sorcerer caught the ring easily, eyed it, then closed his hand around it. “Even I can be mistaken, Holiness. I did not think the young man would find the Miceram. Now the Lightbringer comes to Istar. You cannot stop him.”
“You could.”
Fistandantilus shrugged. “To what end? You have lost the throne anyway.”
The room fell silent. Kurnos trembled with fury. He’d lost the army, the church, Sathira… and the people of the Lordcity would soon follow, once word of the miracle of Govinna got out.
“Is there nothing I can do?” he asked.
Chuckling, Fistandantilus raised the ring. He peered through the emerald a moment, then passed his fingers above it, leaving trails of green sparks in the air as he muttered an incantation. The air around the gem shivered, and a faint rumble sounded from it, like the roll of distant thunder. With a viridian flash, it vanished.
Kurnos felt a sudden pressure on his finger, and a groan burst from his lips. The ring was back.
“Now,” the dark figure hissed, staring at him from the depths of his hood, “listen carefully, Holiness. When the Lightbringer comes, he will confront you. His men will search you for blades, but they will not have cause to notice the ring, and that will be his undoing. The enchantment I have laid upon it is a killing spell, released when you speak the word Ashakai. Get close to the boy, point the ring at him, then…” His voice trailed into silence.
Kurnos stared at the emerald. Within it, where Sathira’s shadows had lurked, a tiny stormcloud billowed and flashed, spitting forked lightning.
“What about me?” he asked with a shudder, looking back up. “What will happen-”
Fistandantilus was gone.
Spitting an oath, Kurnos looked back at the ring again. For a moment, he considered turning it on himself. The sorcerer had told him how to use it. All he had to do was point it, speak the word… then one last flare of pain… he wouldn’t have to endure the shame of being cast down from the throne… the sapphire tiara lifted from his brow…
“No,” he whispered, the word no more than a breath.
Kurnos had nothing left. All he’d striven for, all he’d been, was ashes now. He’d betrayed his god, and Paladine had turned his face away. There was one last thing he could claim, before the game was over, one sweetness to temper the bitter thing his life had become. He laughed, the mad glint in his eyes becoming a flame.
He would have revenge.
Chapter Thirty
“Is that it?” asked Wentha. “Is that Istar?” Cathan held his sister steady as she leaned forward, afraid she might fall from his saddle. She had ridden with him the whole distance from Govinna, her eyes wide with wonder at the sight of the lowlands, the aqueducts towering over the rolling fields, the towns with their whitewashed villas and domed cathedrals, the sapphire waters of Lake Istar, where the floating boat-city of Calah stood, all towering masts and gliding outriggers.
All of it was as strange to her as it was new to him, which was part of the reason Cathan had taken her along, when most of the common folk-from Luciel and Govinna both-stayed behind. Mostly, though, she’d come because he couldn’t bring himself to leave her behind again, as he’d done that summer. No one had argued with his choice, though Tavarre and Holger-both commanders of Beldinas’s legions now- frowned on the notion of bringing a young girl when there might still be battles ahead. In the end, Cathan was the Light-bringer’s favorite, and the Lightbringer had said yes.
Now, looking ahead along the marble-paved High Road, Cathan smiled, a shiver of awe running through him. “Yes, Blossom,” he said. “That’s it.”
The army had been inarching steadily for more than a month, coming down from the highlands with the winter’s first blizzards at its back, then crossing the grasslands of the empire’s heart. Lowlanders had gathered to watch in amazement as they passed, murmuring at the strange sight: Scatas and Taoli marching together, priests and soldiers alike singing hymns to Paladine… and at the force’s heart, the shining figure of Beldinas, bestride a mighty chariot and wreathed in light, the Miceram glittering on his brow. Seeing him, the lowlanders bowed their heads, signing the triangle in reverence. A century past, the Trosedil had raged across their fields, and all still knew the legend of the Crown of Power. Truly, whoever the strange man in the chariot was, he was the Paladine’s chosen.
Now the army stood halted on a cliff along the shore of Lake Istar. It was a misty morning, fog filling the hollows and eddying across the water. Just ahead, a huge arch straddled the road, twined with bas-reliefs of roses and dragons, divine triangles and falcons’ wings. Atop it blazed three great fire urns, their flames leaping high, and a huge, plaque of gold shimmered at its apex, etched with letters ten feet high:
Calsa, Agomo duruc, du nosomforbo ciforud.
Calsa duforbo sebais mifusas.
Calsa, bosodo arburteis, du Istar.
Welcome, O noble visitor, to our beautiful city.
Welcome to the city beloved of the gods.
Welcome, honored guest, to Istar.
Two miles down the road, the Lordcity shone like a jewel at daybreak. Its domes and minarets, gold, alabaster and lapis, strove skyward from within its mighty walls, topped by the bloody finger of the Tower of High Sorcery. Keen eyes could spot the fabled Arena, the Kingfisher Keep, the silken canopies of its market stalls. Trees-cedar, almond, orange, and others-showed green in its gardens, and statues and fountains dotted its plazas. Sails of countless colors flew in its harbor, and spread out across the waters beyond. Amid it all, like a silver promise, shone the Great Temple.