Quarath, though he recognized the signs, did nothing to warn Beldinas of the prophecy that had been left to him by Lord Revando. Even the elf’s faith remained strong. Good would triumph over evil, and nothing would stop it.
High above, still unseen by the star-watchers, a new red star burned across the heavens.
Chapter 30
Most years, winter came hard and early to Kharolis. Nestled in the south, far from the balmy breezes that kept most of Istar warm year-round, its plains and mountains caught the brunt of the cold that blew in off the Icereach Sea. Normally, the air turned chill in the first days of autumn; by early winter, Kharolis was accustomed to slumbering beneath a blanket of snow.
Not this year. The festival of Yule had come and gone four days ago, and still Kharolis baked as though it were high summer. Not a flake of snow had fallen. People slept on rooftops or under the stars, to escape the stifling indoors. The province of Abanasinia had become a blackened waste with fires raging across the grasslands. The people of Kharolis-be they barbarians of the wilderness or civilized city-folk-prayed to the Lightbringer that the terrible time would soon end.
Xak Tsaroth, the Serpentine City, stood at the edge of the ravaged plains, looking down from its perch in the foothills of the Eastwall Mountains. Though a dozen of Istar’s cities were bigger, it was a vast metropolis by Kharolian standards, forming a ring around a lake of crystal blue water, fed by foaming waterfalls at both ends. The pillared rich and mighty halls of built in the block style of ancient Ergoth, their rooftops lined with dragon-headed gargoyles-glistened pale green in the sunlight, winking with inlaid gold and silver. Its palace and two great temples-one of Paladine, the other of Mishakal the Hand-crowded along the cliffs at the lake’s eastern shore, where the land was highest. They were sprawling, many-towered structures, paneled with green and white jade, their roofs sharply angled to shrug off the snows that had not come this year.
The elders who ruled Xak Tsaroth enjoyed their privilege and power, using the town guard mercilessly to preserve order. Before this year, there hadn’t been a riot within its filigreed walls in seven generations; even tavern brawls were seldom. Tsarothan justice was swift to those who broke the peace. Lately, however, things had changed. Fleeing the flames that consumed their grassland homes, many of the Plainsfolk had come to the hills. The guards had tried turning them away, but the tribesmen just kept coming, until finally the elders had to open the gates. The barbarians and the city-dwellers didn’t mix well; hardly a day went by without some scuffle coming to blows, some fracas in the streets. All that kept things from exploding were the clerics, who preached and led prayers in the city’s plazas and marketplaces. All of Kharolis, savage and cultured, had long ago converted to the Istaran church, and the faithful gathered in great masses, exhorting the Kingpriest to save them from the evils surrounding them.
Amid the bedlam and fervor, a lone man in gray, road-stained robes drew little notice. The guards-rough men with green tassels on their helms and carrying broad-headed glaives-noted a bulge beneath the man’s cloak that could only have been a sword, but they made no move to frisk him. Kharolis was a dangerous place, and most travelers went about armed-particularly in dire times such as these. More concerned with a band of Que-mun tribesmen that followed behind the lone man, they dismissed him as a pilgrim and let him pass. So Cathan MarSevrin came, unheralded and unnoticed, to the Serpentine City.
It had been a long, hard journey, first through the Khalkist mountains and across the marshes of Schalland, then into the Eastwalls. Cathan had spent most of the trip cold and tired, and hunger had left him even weaker than before. His wounded leg had healed, but his shoulder throbbed where he’d been stabbed, and it was a miracle the cut hadn’t festered. Every time he moved his arm, lances of pain drove deep into his spine.
Still, that wasn’t the worst. The hardest part of the journey had been the memories. Not an hour went by when he didn’t see Tithian’s face, pale and red-lipped, staring at him as his life slipped away. He’d killed the one man left in the world he truly cared for, who had been his squire, his companion, his friend.
Cathan walked a while with no destination in mind, borne along by the currents of the crowds packing Xak Tsaroth’s streets. After so long on the road, the city smells-unwashed bodies, roasting meat, nameless ordure-battered his senses. A young plainsman in beads and buckskins jostled him, looking for a fight; moments later, an older man with an embroidered coat and oiled hair gave him a belligerent shove. Both backed off when he opened his robes to reveal Ebonbane’s hilt. Every place had its bullies who lost interest in prey that fought back.
Finally, he reached the lake’s edge, where jetties poked like fingers out toward the far shore. Fish dead from the heat floated on the surface, adding to the general stink. Putting a hand to his brow, Cathan leaned against a railing of green stone and stared out across the water at the looming temples. This was the Lightbringer’s birthplace. The priesthood had wanted little to do with him when he was a mere, unordained orphan who could heal the sick with his touch; they cast him out as a heretic, forcing him and his disciples to live in a secluded abbey somewhere in the mountains to the north, where Ilista had found him years later.
Now a huge statue of milk-white stone, some fifty feet high, stood before the church of Paladine. It was not of the god, but of the Lightbringer, as people imagined him: beautiful and benevolent, not prematurely old and frightened. Cathan shivered under the icon’s beatific smile. He couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, Beldinas could see him through the statue’s blank stone eyes.
Subconsciously, as he had countless times over his weeks-long trek, he shifted his good hand to touch his pack. Even through the well-worn leather, the shape of the Peripas was reassuring. He tried not to think of the spellbook.
“Well,” he murmured to himself, “I made it this far. What now?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Cathan started, his hand shifting to his sword as he turned to face a short, obscenely fat monk. The man was silver-haired, with a red, cherubic face. His white robes-which, given his girth could have sheltered a small family-were shocking against the smoke-blackened sky to the west. His eyes twinkled with light, though the sun was behind him and the moons had not yet risen.
Cathan stared, remembering. He’d seen this man once before, a lifetime ago. That had been in the Garden of Martyrs, on the eve of his dubbing-the first time he’d experienced the vision of the burning mountain. This monk bad been with him at the time. He struggled for the man’s name then found it.
“Brother Jendle…?”
The monk chuckled heartily. “That would be one of my names, yes. Lady Ilista always used it. Speaking of which, she sends her regards. We knew you’d make it to this place, Twice-Born.”
At once, all doubt left Cathan’s mind. This must be Paladine, the god taken mortal form. Funny, he looked nothing like the images men made of him-either a wise and gentle old man, or a warrior grim and fierce-but still there seemed no doubt Cathan could feel the divine power surging in this unlikely form. Reflexively, he began to lower himself to his knees.
“Don’t you dare!” said Jendle, his jowls quivering. “No groveling here. Someone might see.”
Cathan blinked, then nodded. “Forgive me.”
“And quit apologizing. Come on, old fellow-we must talk, but somewhere discreet.” Reaching out a pudgy hand, he took hold of Cathan’s elbow. His grip was deceptively strong. “As it happens, I know just the place.”