From the west, the setting of suns,
In troubled times, with Istar endangered,
Carrying lost riches he comes,
Lightbringer, bearer of hope.
And though the darkness shall fear him,
Hunt him, seek his destruction,
He is the savior of holiness,
And the gods themselves shall bow to him.
“There,” Jendle said, as Cathan stared in shock. “Just as I revealed to poor, addled Psandros the Younger. Ilista read it, and thought it was about Beldyn. So did he, more’s the pity, but who can blame either of them? It fit. He brought the Miceram to the Lordcity, after all, and defeated the false Kingpriest.
“But in truth, you also came from the west, when you rode out of the borderlands. And now you bear the Peripas, lost riches indeed. Not to mention the wizard’s spellbook.” He winked. “Yes, I knew about that. Don’t worry about Fistandantilus, Twice-Born. We have plans for him. “And as for god bowing…”
The fat monk lowered himself to his knees, chins bulging as he bowed his head.
“Pilofiro,” he intoned.
Cathan’s hand reached for the Disks within his pouch. He could feel the other presences prostrating-Mishakal and Jolith and all the rest. This wasn’t right-Beldinas was the Lightbringer. He was just Cathan MarSeverin. The Twice-Born.
Jendle looked up. “Ah, but you’re more,” he said. With much grunting and sweating, he heaved his bulk upright “Why would I restore your life, Cathan, when you died untimely? You have a divine purpose, and it is to be here, in Xak Tsaroth, when the mountain falls. For you are not merely the Twice-Born…”
There was a shimmering, and a flash of silver light Cathan averted his eyes, gasping. The smell of honey and roses filled the air.
“You are the Lightbringer, and the light is my word.”
The voice had changed, grown deeper, with an edge like a sword. When Cathan looked up, he felt no surprise at all to see that Brother Jendle was gone.
In his place was a dragon.
An enormous, serpentine shape coiled around itself again and again. Its scales gleamed like silver … no, platinum … its eyes were glistening amber, full of wisdom and regret. Its teeth and talons were twice as long as swords, and a hundred times as sharp. This was Draco Paladin, as they called him in Ergoth… E’li, in Silvanesti… Thak among the dwarves … the Great Dragon in Solamnia. Paladine.
The golden gaze bore straight through him, piercing flesh and bone, right into the depths of his soul. Cathan wept, overcome with awe, terror, and inestimable joy.
“You know what to do,” said the god’s voice in his mind.
All at once, he did.
Laughing, crying, he fell senseless to the floor, and slept well. He did not dream of burning hammers.
Bron heard the rider approaching well before he came into view. He gestured to his men-a dozen in all, young knights who had never seen true battle before-and they moved into position quickly. Crossbow strings were cocked, helmet visors lowered. His own sword rattled as he loosened it in its scabbard. The Eastwall Mountains were wild, full of dangers. He wasn’t about to take any chances.
He’d figured out, early on, that Cathan was bound for Kharolis, not Solamnia or Ergoth. The Lightbringer was well known, and would be spotted easily in civilized lands. In this rougher country, he might pass without notice. Bron and his force had arrived a little over a week ago, making camp in the mountains. From here, he’d dispatched messengers to the nearby cities-the Plainsmen were eager to please, if given gold-and telling them whom to look for.
The clatter of hooves drew steadily nearer. He held up a hand, and the crossbowmen tensed, sighting down their quarrels. Holding his breath, he waited… waited…
When the rider rounded the last bend, Bron’s hand started to jerk downward… then stopped, and stayed up as the man reined in. He was young, rangy and tan, wearing the feathers of the Que-kiri, one of the Abanasinian tribes. Panic whitened his face as he saw the crossbows aimed at him.
“Weapons up! He’s one of ours!” Bron commanded.
The knights lifted their sights away from the Plainsman. He let out a sigh of relief, but stayed where he was, eyeing the Hammer warily.
“Come here, lad,” Bron beckoned.
It took some coaxing, but the young barbarian finally got down off his horse. His hands shook as he bowed, offering Bron a jade scroll-tube.
“Message,” he said, his accent thick enough to mangle the word.
Bron took it, then turned away from the Plainsman as he pulled out the parchment inside. He read it, then read it again … and then a third rime, making sure he had it right. When he looked up again, the barbarian had skulked away-but no matter. He had what he needed. He turned to his men, and nodded firmly.
“Make ready at once,” he said. “We ride for Xak Tsaroth.”
Chapter 31
FIRSTMONTH, 963 I.A.
The storm began the morning after the whirlwind smashed the Durro, and did not relent for thirteen days. Black clouds closed in, illuminated by flashes of crimson lightning. Thunder battered the Lordcity, a constant hammering like the din of a thousand blacksmiths. Wind tore away banners and awnings, uprooted trees, and threatened to knock the sentries off the city walls. Rain pounded down in sheets. By the end of the first day, many of Istar’s streets were veritable rivers, running a foot or more deep; its plazas became large ponds. The waters of the harbor rose so high that the piers and wharves disappeared. Hail pelted the city, stripping the leaves from gardens and smashing windows and glass domes.
Yule came and went without celebration. So did the New Year. The people of the Lordcity huddled indoors while the cellars of their homes filled with water. Although the citizens prayed for salvation, their prayers were half-hearted, for in their hearts they already believed it wouldn’t be long before the Lightbringer called on the gods. This was a final test of their faith, nothing more.
Babo dolit, they told one another.
The Kingpriest will provide.
Then, on the third day of the year, the storm stopped.
It ended so suddenly, it was hard to believe. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the clouds simply vanished, the rain ended, and the thunder gave way to the calls of night birds. The winds dropped to nothing. When the day dawned, the sky was neither black nor the strange green that had heralded the whirlwind, but sapphire blue, clear and lovely. Even the heat seemed less-still warm for early winter, surely, but not as stifling as before. It was a glorious morning.
The first people to step out of their homes gazed up at the sun-a gold coin once more. They murmured thanks to the Lightbringer, kissing their fingertips as they looked to the Temple. There was no mistaking the timing: this was the day the Kingpriest would call upon the gods. In years to come, the folk of Istar believed, they would tell their children of the storm the dark gods had sent to frighten them, and how their faith in Beldinas had saved them. The children would not understand, though-not really. They would never know evil.
Soon after sunrise, more good news came. The Games of Yule, postponed for so long by the weather, would take place today. Rockbreaker sent criers out all over the city, and before long, crowds had begun to gather at the Arena. The Barbarian would be fighting today, and the Red Minotaur, and Pheragas of Ergoth too-all the greatest gladiators in the land. By midmorning, the air was filled with the clash of steel as men and monsters dueled upon the sands. And from the Temple, voices rose in song, praising the Kingpriest in his sacred task.