Chapter 23

Quarath padded up the steps of the imperial manse, moving as quickly as decorum allowed. His face betrayed no emotion, none of the worry or irritation he felt. He had awoken to the sound of knocking at his chamber door. His steward, an elf named Melias, had apologetically handed him a scroll with the falcon-and-triangle seal of the Kingpriest. Quarath hadn’t even bothered to break that seal; he knew it was an imperial summons. He’d received many these past few weeks.

The frequency of the summonses was about annoyed him. The worry was over what awaited him when he arrived.

It was still a little more than an hour before dawn, and the windows at the top of the stair were dark. A young acolyte whose name the elf neither knew nor cared to learn stepped onto the landing to greet him.

“Eminence,” the boy said, signing the triangle. “We are glad you could come—”

“What is it this time?” Quarath snapped. “Can’t you people deal with these episodes?”

The acolyte flushed, bowing his head. “We have tried, Eminence. He locks himself in, and will not let us enter. He says he is waiting for one he trusts.”

Quarath rolled his eyes, waving the boy out of his way. “All right, then. You may go.”

The boy was gone in an eyeblink. Quarath pushed through a door at the top of the stairs into a parlor decorated with brocaded tapestries showing scenes from legend, including the forging of the dragonlances, the surrender by the Khan of Dravinaar to Kingpriest Theorollyn I, the crowning of Beldinas before the Pantheon of Govinna. The hangings rippled as Quarath swept up to a second door at the room’s far end. It was plated with gold, etched with the eleven-pointed shape of the Miceram. The elf stopped, smoothed his robes, and tugged a silk cord beside the door. A soft chime, bells made of silver, sounded within.

“I told you to go away!” came the muffled reply. “I will not see anyone!”

Quarath sighed. He heard the tightness of that voice, the tremor in its tone. “Holiness,” he replied, “it is I. Will you not let me enter?”

There was a silence. When it came, the voice was closer. “Emissary? Are you alone?”

“Of course, sire. I wish only to enter, and to speak with you alone,” Your servants have all fled, he added silently.

Again, the voice didn’t answer right away, giving Quarath time to reflect. I should be glad, he told himself. The Kingpriest would not dare meet with anyone else when he was like this—not First Daughter Elsa, not Grand Marshal Tithian. There was no First Son these days, for none had been named to replace Lord Revando, but if there had been, the elf knew Beldinas wouldn’t trust him, either. But Quarath had been the Lightbringer’s right hand throughout his reign. The Kingpriest—all Istar—could not function without his guidance.

“Holiness?” Quarath ventured again.

The answer was a soft click, a bolt opening. The door made no other sound as it swung open an inch; the hand that opened it darted back into the shadows of the room beyond. That hand glowed with inner light, but the fingers trembled like leaves in an autumn wind.

Quarath entered without pause. He shut and bolted the door behind him, his hand lingering on the latch, then bit his lip and turned to face the source of the only light in the room. The windows were covered over with satin drapes, and the candles on the bedside table and the corner shrine stood untouched.

Beldinas was back in his bed, huddled under goose-down in a frame of bejeweled snowwood, swamped in great drifts of cushions and pillows. The sheets appeared in disarray, tangled and sweat-soaked. The Kingpriest trembled as Quarath stepped toward him. He still wore the Crown, which half-obscured his face.

“There is nothing to be afraid of, Holiness,” the elf declared, gesturing around him. “It is you and me only. No one else is here.”

Beldinas shuddered, radiating mistrust, and didn’t answer, though he slowly sat up. It was all Quarath could do not to gnash his teeth. It had been like this every morning, since the Kingpriest’s return from the Forino.

He suffered night terrors—and often day terrors too, if truth be told.

“Sire?” Quarath pleaded. “Will you not come here?”

Hesitantly, the Kingpriest nodded, then rose from the bed.

“He’s close, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, Holiness?”

“Lord Cathan,” Beldinas declared. His voice caught, with something between relief and disappointment. “Has he not come?”

This again, Quarath thought, biting his lip to keep from speaking aloud. Quarath had been sure the episodes of terror would pass, but if anything they were getting worse. This was the third time this week he had come here, while the sky still held no promise of dawn, to soothe Beldinas’s mind.

“What did you see in your dreams this time, Holiness?” he asked. “Tell me.”

Beldinas’s band rose to his mouth, stayed there a moment, then fell. “Trees,” he said. “Trees… with daggers. I tried to run, but my legs would not move… .” He bowed his head, gasping.

Quarath reached out, penetrating the holy aura, to rest a hand on the Kingpriest’s arm. He’d heard Lord Tithian’s report, of the charms the traitors had used to make themselves seem as trees, so they could hide in wait for him. The bloodblossom oil the Twice-Born had given him had burned this image into Beldinas’s mind. No doubt that explained his ravings about Lord Cathan, as well—ridiculous, when the man was locked away for good, in a place from which there was no escape.

“It is all right, sire,” the elf said soothingly. “There are no trees here, and no daggers either. There is only you and me, don’t you see?”

Beldinas shifted, pulling away from Quarath’s touch, but just then something flashed on the floor beside his bed, a metallic gleam catching his glow. The elf frowned, then leaned in to peer closer. His breath caught when he saw rune-stamped platinum: the Peripas! The gods’ true words, the manifestation of their very will, and here the Disks lay in a heap, as if the Kingpriest had simply cast them aside. A rush of indignance flooded Quarath, its vehemence surprising even him.

“I can’t find it,” Beldinas muttered, following his gaze. “I can’t find the answer.”

“You’ve been looking for only six months,” Quarath responded mildly, as though to a child, while stooping to lift the Disks from the floor. “Scholars could pore over these for half a lifetime, and still not read them all.” He set them gently on the foot of the bed. They made delicate music as they left his grasp.

The Kingpriest stared at the Peripas. “It didn’t take Huma Dragonbane this long to find the gods’ power. He had their help, and I do not.” He rapped his knuckles twice against his temples, hard, then crept over pillow and blanket to kneel before the Disks. “Why do they hide their grace from me? They must reveal to me their insights and power! They must—I am their chosen!”

“Certainly, Holiness,” Quarath replied, shrugging inwardly. He had heard this speech before; his irritation matched the Lightbringer’s frustration. The Disks required patience—anyone could see that. “Will you not be leaving the manse today, to see to affairs at court?”

“Court?” the Kingpriest shot back. He grabbed up the Peripas, which clanked and clattered unpleasantly as he raised them. “When I still haven’t found what I need from these? No, Emissary—of course I won’t be leaving the manse today. I have too much reading to do.”

“I understand, sire.”

Beldinas half-rose, turning away. “Good. Now go, and do not interrupt me again!”

Part of Quarath rankled at being dismissed so abruptly, but it was something of a relief as well. In truth, he told himself as he walked back to the door, he preferred days when the Kingpriest stayed in his room, when he could govern the empire without distraction. There would be no court today ; he would spend the day in his own study, reading reports from across Istar, issuing decrees and writs and proclamations in the Kingpriest’s name. He had spent many years waiting patiently for the chance to rule, and he relished every opportunity.

Quarath eyed Beldinas from the doorway, his brow faintly furrowed. He’d seen one Kingpriest go mad, when Lord Kurnos’s allies had abandoned him and embraced the Lightbringer. Now, regarding the frenzied way Beldinas was leafing through the Disks, he knew it was happening again.

“I will return after evening prayers,” he declared solemnly. “Please eat something before then, Holiness.”

Beldinas ignored him, his attention fast upon the Peripas. He muttered to himself as he read, searching for the secrets. One eyebrow raised, the elf withdrew, easing the door shut behind him. The bolt quickly shot home behind him.

Quarath glanced back, then shook his head and looked down. He ignored the young acolyte’s questioning look as he passed him, his mind already on the day ahead. The Lightbringer was meditating, he would tell the courtiers. Perhaps he would attend to them tomorrow. They would be disappointed, but he didn’t particularly care. Istar could go on perfectly well without the Kingpriest, with him in charge.

Out the front doors of the manse, and down the garden path in the predawn darkness, his mind traveled ahead of him. His thoughts were so intent, he never saw the shadow watching him from the shelter of the Garden of Martyrs.

Cathan crouched low in the Garden of Martyrs, watching Quarath. He’d found sandals and a clerical habit in a wardrobe near where Lady Ilista had left him. With the hood drawn low to hide his eyes, and his scabby hands hidden in huge sleeves, he looked no different from the other priests in Istar—and there were hundreds of priests. He could move about the Temple with freedom—until the guards in the dungeon noticed he was missing, and raised the alarm. With luck, it would be hours before that happened.

When he’d seen the Emissary emerge from Beldinas’s manse, however, he’d scrambled for cover. Quarath’s senses might pick up on something the human clerics missed. Cathan knew that if the elf got a good look at him, his disguise might not matter. So he hunkered down, losing himself in the shadows, keeping quiet. Finally, when Quarath disappeared into the basilica, he let himself breathe again.

He also relaxed his grip on the wooden cudgel he’d managed to procure from a storeroom. He would have preferred a sword, but he felt lucky enough to find any weapon. He would have used the club on Quarath if it came to that. The thought sickened him, but he recognized that the elf would be dead soon anyway, with or without his help. So would everyone else in the Lordcity. He glanced at the sky, feeling the hammer hanging above him, and shivered.

The manse was guarded as always: two knights, armed with halberds, stood watch, and more than a dozen others would materialize at its front gates in a heartbeat, if the call went out. Fortunately, there were other ways in, besides the gates. There was a servants’ entrance that the acolytes used, but it too had guards. The upper levels had many windows and balconies, but he would be spotted if he tried to climb in from below. There was even a covered walkway that ran directly to the basilica, but there was no way he could reach it from the ground.

Still, there was one way known only to the Kingpriest’s innermost circle. He walked gently on the crushed-crystal paths, around to a quiet bower in the southernmost part of the grounds. Silvernut trees grew there, their drooping branches heavy with their long, white fruit, and a reflecting pool ringed with benches stood in its midst. The place was deserted, though one small, gold-furred monkey that was perched on the back of a bench watched him with curiosity.

He prayed to Paladine for luck.

Clenching his teeth, he edged forward. The monkey watching him suddenly shrieked; there was a shudder all around him, and the monkey’s cry was cut off. He felt for a moment as if he were pushing through warm liquid, then the air around him changed, from cool and breezy to warm and stifling. The scent of silverfruit changed to faint incense. He opened his eyes, and saw he was inside.

Symeon, the first Kingpriest, had ordered this entrance put here when the Temple was built. In those days, the Orders of High Sorcery had still been friends to the church, and so the imperial manse was built with an open archway on its south side, hidden from view by magic. The Kingpriests and their advisors used this way only rarely, and then only in times of trouble. Fortunately, though wizards were long gone from Istar, the enchantment remained.

He found himself in a small meditation room, dark but for one candle burning before an icon of the platinum dragon. Ruddy light spilled from beneath a door. Swallowing, he moved to the door and cracked it open, just an inch.

There were stairs on the other side, and nothing—no one-else. They led up into the Kingpriest’s private chambers. Blue carpet cushioned each step. Cathan climbed them quickly, as silent as dust falling, and stopped when he reached the doors at the top. They were gilded, marked with the imperial sigil. He held the cudgel ready, praying that he would not have to use it, and bent to listen.

No sound came from within: no voices, no prayers, not even the bustling of servants. Cathan’s breath came quick and sharp. He didn’t know how he knew the Peripas would be in here, in the Kingpriest’s own chambers, but even so he had never been so certain of anything in his life. Holding his breath, he pushed on the doors. They opened without a sound.

The chamber was dark, completely still. And now there was a slight sound. It came from the bed, set in its midst. The Lightbringer was snoring softly.

Cathan almost smiled as he crossed the chamber, club in hand. He stopped when he drew near, however, sucking in a startled breath. The Kingpriest lay curled up like a child, wrapped so tight in his satin blankets that they might have been funeral windings. His face was pinched with fear, twitching with every breath he drew. Cathan barely recognized him at all now—he seemed to have aged twenty years in the past six months. A film of sweat glistened on his face.

Cathan raised the cudgel. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until it was poised above the bed like a headsman’s sword. His face turned grim: it would be a mercy of sorts, putting an end to Beldinas’s fear—his ill-fated life.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make his hand move, couldn’t kill this old man who had been his friend. He stood there for more than a minute, club held high. In the end he gave up, bowing his head as his arm lowered to his side again. The Kingpriest went on sleeping, unaware.

Cathan spied the Disks then, lying on the floor. He blinked for a moment, stunned that they should be in plain view like that. Then he swooped down and picked them up. They jingled as he did so, but the figure in the bed did not stir. Clutching them to his chest, Cathan turned and looked at the Kingpriest one last time. He knew he would never see Beldinas again—not in this life, anyway.

“Oporum, Pilofiro,” he murmured.

Farewell, Lightbringer.

Then he was gone, back the way he’d come. The golden doors shut noiselessly, the stairs flew by in a blur, the meditation room was still dim and empty. He paused there, long enough to regard the Peripas in the candlelight. They glimmered like silver water. He steeled himself, tucked them into his robe, then walked straight into the room’s south wall…

… back out into the cool of the garden again…

… and stopped, staring at the golden monkey lying dead on the ground, its fur rimed with ice.

“Well done, Twice-Born,” said Fistandantilus from the bower’s far side.