And in the midst of the city, at the heart of the world where all Istar’s roads met, the Great Temple of the Kingpriest would resound with joyful music. Its crystal dome would shine as though a second sun had kindled within. Thousands of worshipers, from all over the city, the empire, and the world beyond, would pack the Barigon, the huge, statue-ringed square that stood before the Temple, coming together to receive blessing from the Kingpriest himself. They had done so for thirty-seven years now, since Beldinas the Lightbringer came to the throne. Gods willing, they would continue to do so for years to come.
Today, however, life in the Lordcity went on as it always did. Mighty trading galleys and tiny fishing boats slid across the harbor and glistening lake beyond, a riot of bright sails billowing on then masts. Folk clad in robes of satin and velvet bustled through the sheets, or stood in clusters is in the plazas and gardens, talking and laughing and arguing. The markets swarmed with color and noise as merchants sold everything from Tarsian rugs to unguents from Karthay, pearls and ivory from Seldjuk, jugs of fine Taoli wine, even shards of old wood said to date from the lance of Huma Dragonbane himself. The Scatas, the blue-cloaked soldiers who were the backbone of Istar s armies, marched on patrol, led by white-coated knights on horseback. Priests and monks made processionals among the city’s many shrines, chanting hymns of the Kingpriest’s mercy and glory. Pilgrims from all over Krynn prostrated themselves before the Temple’s steps, chanting over and over:
Beldinas Cilenfo … Beldinas Pilofiro … Beldinas Babo Sod …
Beldinas the Healer. Beldinas the Lightbringer. Beldinas, the true Kingpriest.
On the highest balcony of his towering manse, overlooking the mist shrouded gardens of the Temple, the Kingpriest stood, listening to the chorus murmuring his name. Thirty-eight years ago, he had come to Istar for the first time. Mere months before, he had been known to only a close circle as Brother Beldyn, a monk of scarcely seventeen summers, yet one who could work miracles of healing with his touch. Then lady Ilista, high priestess of Paladine, had visited his abbey, led by divine visions to find him. His coming to Istar had brought a schism within the empire, and caused Ilista’s own death; near open war had ended with the downfall of Kingpriest Kurnos, now called the Deceiver, who had used the darkest of magics in a mad attempt to hold on to his throne. The people of Istar had rejoiced when, wearing the long-lost Crown of Power, Beldinas had taken the throne. They had begun to chant his name that glorious day.
Thirty eight years, and the people still hadn’t stopped. For more than two thirds of his life, it had been the first thing he heard when he woke in the morning, and the last before he fell asleep. Even when he left the Lordcity, and went on processionals throughout the empire’s provinces-to the deserts of the south or the jungles of the north, the ports of the east or the highlands of the west-the admirers and chanting followed him. Hearing it now, he leaned forward, setting his hands on the balcony’s platinum balustrade, and let out a weary sigh.
“Holiness ”’ asked a voice behind him-soft, solicitous, polite. “Is something wrong?”
Beldinas turned, though he didn’t need to. That voice had been a constant in his life all these thirty-eight years. Other disciples had come and gone, friend and foe, counselor and courtier, but Quarath had always been there close by his side. Though his official title was Emissary of the Silvanesti elves, he had become much more. He was the Kingpriest’s most trusted advisor, and nearly as vital to the empire as Beldinas himself. Nothing happened without the elf knowing it: if Beldinas was Istar’s beating heart, Quarath was its sleepless brain.
The elf’s face-still youthful, unchanged even after so many years-was set in a frown of concern. A delicate hand rose to push back an errant strand of honey-colored hair. Quarath’s silvery robes, embroidered with gold and emeralds, shimmered with the movement.
“You seem tired, Aulforo,” he said. “Did you sleep poorly?” Beldinas hesitated. “No, Emissary. I am rested. No ill dreams troubled me.”
Quarath nodded. As far as he or anyone else knew, the Kingpriest did not dream at all, good or ill. It drove the imperial soothsayers mad. “What is the matter, then?” the elf asked. “Do not tell me it is nothing.”
“I wouldn’t think to,” the Kingpriest said with a smile so slight it was barely noticeable. “You know my mind as well as I do. Perhaps better-so you tell me, Emissary. Look, and tell me what troubles me.”
The elf made a show of studying Beldinas, his brow furrowed with concentration. A silver lizard-bred, by means since forgotten, to resemble a winged dragon-flew up from the gardens below, inspected the both of them, then swooped away when it determined neither was about to give it food. When it was gone, Quarath raised his eyebrows, pretending to understand only now.
“It is the war,” Quarath said sympathetically. “You worry over the struggle against darkness.”
Beldinas shrugged. “What else? I have been fighting to drive evil from the world most of my years, and I fear I will not live to see victory.”
“Don’t say that, Holiness,” Quarath said. “You’ve accomplished a great deal. The Divine Hammer have rooted out the last of the evil gods’ worshipers. The goblins and ogres are gone too, and the wizards-” both paused to touch their foreheads as a ward against sorcery “-are exiled, and will not return.”
“I know, Emissary,” assented Beldinas. “It is all I hoped for when I first donned the crown … but it isn’t enough. Evil is beaten, but it is not destroyed. Even now, the knights still find forbidden cults in the wilderness.”
Quarath couldn’t help but acknowledge the point with a grim nod. Just yesterday, the court had been stunned to learn that the Divine Hammer had rooted out a hidden sect in Falthana, one which secretly worshiped a many-armed god. The cultists had fought back, but the forces of light had prevailed, smashing the false deity’s idol. They had brought the pieces back to Istar as a trophies.
“Evil abides, Quarath,” Beldinas declared, and sighed again. “No matter how ruthlessly we strike at it, it will not die. It only appears somewhere else, because there is one place it hides where I cannot reach. The hearts of men.”
The elf looked toward the basilica, shining brilliantly in the morning light. “It will be … difficult… rooting it out from men’s hearts, Holiness,” he ventured. “The gods made my people for good, just as they made the ogres and their like for evil. But they gave men both, to choose between them. So it is written.”
“I know that,” the Kingpriest replied somewhat acidly. “I have read the holy scriptures, you know. Even so, I must seek a way.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know,” Beldinas said, turning back to look out over the garden. “At least not yet, Quarath.”
The elf’s eyes narrowed. He bit his lip, uncertain how to reply. Luckily, he didn’t have to fret long. As he gazed at the Kingpriest’s back, he heard the sound of footstep; jeweled slippers whispering across the marble floor. Proud as always that his keen elven senses had picked out the noise before Beldinas could hear, he turned to peer through the archway leading back into the manse.