Chapter 25

Curiously, Beldinas showed a dramatic improvement after the Twice-Born’s disappearance. It was a gradual process, but day by day he recovered from the madness that had gripped him while he pored over the Peripas. He emerged from the manse for the first time in months, often walking in the gardens, lost in thought. He returned to the basilica, to lead the prayers and hold short audiences. Soon he was appearing on the steps of the Temple once more, to receive the adulation of the masses. They cheered for him as he stood upon the steps, and he pronounced blessings upon them and all who followed his light.

Three weeks after his first public appearance, he invited his court—save for Lord Tithian, who had departed the city—to a grand feast. It was the day before the month-long preparations for Yule were due to start. There were fried goose livers, and greenfish crusted with salt, and sweets made from the honey of the Temple’s rare, ruby-hued bees. There was claret, and moragnac brandy. A shaven-headed boy from West Dravinaar sang and played a plucked dulcimer called the cimbello.

The hierarchs didn’t come for food, drink, or song, however—even if they did savor such pleasures. They came with questions, many to do with the day-long closing of the city’s gates a month ago, and the increase in the Scatas and knights who walked its streets. Beseechinging eyes watched the flowing figure at the head of the table.

Quarath watched the Kingpriest too, wondering what His Holiness was up to. Beldinas had to answer the many questions, but didn’t dare tell the truth. It was a delicate matter, one Quarath would have preferred to handle himself—no chance of that, now. He sipped his wine, watching everyone until finally the soft scrape of a chair against the floor brought conversation, dining, and music to a halt.

The Lightbringer had risen.

He stood there for three full minutes, saying nothing. The dining hall seemed to roar with silence; the courtiers froze where they sat, afraid to make the slightest noise. Quarath watched with admiration as the hierarchs waited and waited, respectfully. The presence of the man was awe-inspiring. Staring intently down the table, radiating benevolence, he exuded power. Even the elf felt it. This was the chosen of the gods; who could doubt it?

“The time,” said the Kingpriest, “has come.”

The words hung there until, directed by some imperceptible signal, the hierarchs leaned forward, their faces intent. Beldinas continued.

“The forces of darkness have struck at me this year. They came not cloaked in hatred and fear, but in a guise far more disturbing and terrible. They came as friends to the empire. They seeped into the hearts of those we once loved. I speak, of course, of First Son Revando, and the MarSevrin family, and the many others who plotted and schemed to steal my Crown, and undo all the good work this church, and this empire, have done.”

A murmur of disapproval echoed around the table. What had nearly happened at the Forino was well-known by now. In the wine-shops and marketplaces, men spat whenever Revando’s name was mentioned. This was, however, the first time Beldinas had spoken openly of the plot, outside his inner circle.

“This is the guise evil takes,” the Kingpriest went on. “As the shadows dim, it finds new places to dwell—even within the light. We could fight it for a thousand years, until not a single goblin or wizard remains on the face of Krynn, and still it would find places to hide, and thrive. It is cunning, insidious.

“I will not have it so. Yule is coming, and it will be a merry season regardless, and all must know this: it will be the last while evil survives in Istar. For on the last day of this year, I shall go into seclusion, and gather my strength. For three days I shall remain so, cleansing my spirit. And then on the third day of the new year, when the sun is at its acme in the sky, I shall call upon the gods themselves, and thus banish the darkness from the world forever!”

The dining hall might have been a tomb, for all the noise the hierarchs made now. Tears streaked their faces, and their lips parted in silent rapture. Only Quarath breached a slight smile.

The feast ended soon after, the courtiers’ many questions not only unasked but forgotten. The guests left with amazed faces, speaking little. Quarath studied each as they left, looking for signs of doubt, or fear. He saw nothing of the sort.

Only when they were alone, looking out from the balcony of the Kingpriest’s parlor over the dusklit city, did Quarath himself ask a question.

“You found the answer you sought?”

Beldinas remained silent. Moths fluttered about his light.

“Holiness?” Quarath urged. The secret… was it in the Peripas?”

“The Peripas do not matter.” Beldinas replied blandly. They never did. I understand now—I was guided to them, but not to learn the secrets of the gods. No… it was to uncover the traitors, to lure them into the open. The Disks were only a means. They were not an end.”

Quarath blinked, startled. “Then… ?”

“Here,” the Kingpriest said, laying a hand over his heart “The answer is here, and it has been all along. I was too blind to see it… but now, it has come to me. I will call the god’s name, and he will answer. I will command him, and he will obey. The power is here.”

He thumped his chest again, and his radiance flared, forcing Quarath to blink, then look away with pained eyes. The Kingpriest briefly shone like a star… and Quarath wondered. Neither man spoke again, for quite some time.

It was almost midnight when the elf finally left the manse, and Beldinas retired to his bedchamber. With a word, Fistandantilus let his spell of cloaking slip away.

“I had wondered when you might show yourself, Dark One,” the Kingpriest said, greeting him without the slightest surprise.

Fistandantilus allowed himself a brief smile. Revealing himself like this usually unnerved people. Beldinas must fear him—how could he not, knowing what powers the wizard could summon with a mere twitch of his finger?—but he showed none. Now, he drew himself up with head held high. Fistandantilus admired him for that, even though he rarely admired a cleric of the light.

“Well?” asked the Kingpriest. “Have you come to pour poison in my ear and call it honey? How will you try to pervert me, Black Robe?”

The archmage shrugged. “How long have I served in your court, Lightbringer? Nearly twenty years, by my count. And have I ever sought to corrupt you, in all that time?”

Even Beldinas had to admit that was true—the few times Fistandantilus the Dark had given counsel to the imperial ear, it had been for the general good of Istar. Usually, the Dark One simply sat and observed the affairs of state. That didn’t stop tongues from wagging—but then, Fistandantilus had learned long ago that the only thing that stopped tongues from wagging was a good, sharp knife.

“You have not abused your position,” the Kingpriest said. “But things are different now. You know what I intend to do, when the new year comes?”

“I do.”

“Do you not fear the gods’ wrath?”

No more than you do, the wizard thought “That is between the gods and me.”

“Then what is it you want?”

Fistandantilus had lived for centuries, feeding off the life-essences of lesser mages. Istar had been a bundle of squabbling city-states in his youth. Now, looking at Beldinas, he felt a stab of impatience. After all this time, after all he had done to bring this man to Istar, to put him on the throne, and to keep him there. He’d brought down the mighty, orchestrated wars, caused the deaths of thousands, all to have the Lightbringer at his disposal, when the time came.

He didn’t care about Beldinas’s plans to command the gods, for that would never happen. The Kingpriest was powerful, but Fistandantilus’s power was greater still; he would use his magic to bedevil the man. Together, they would recite the words the mages of old had written, in the certainty that no one would ever speak them. The Portal would then open, and they would enter the Abyss. And the Dark One would take his place among the shadow gods.

“I want you to come here,” Fistandantilus said.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about his voice, no echo, no volume, no depth. But the hidden energy of it flashed across the room like an invisible whip, ensnaring the Kingpriest in its coils. The Miceram’s light flickered faintly. Fistandantilus smiled. The Crown of Power was a mighty relic, but he owned dozens just as mighty in his collections. Blinking as though suddenly tired, Beldinas leaned forward, and began to walk across the chamber.

“Good,” the wizard said. He waited until they were nearly face to face. “Now stop, and remove your Crown, Holiness.” Despite his best attempts, the last word still came out as a sneer.

Dreamily, the Kingpriest reached up and lifted the Miceram from his brow. The holy light dimmed, fading into shimmers of silver about a tired, frightened face as Beldinas set the Crown down on a nearby table.

“Is this enough?” the Kingpriest asked. “Will it satisfy you?”

Fistandantilus savored the moment, letting the magic flow out of the black moon and into him. It sang in his blood, like sweet wine or bloodblossom oil. He raised his hands, the fingers bent and spotted with age, held them still a moment, then reached forward and laid them on either side of the Kingpriest’s balding head. Then he shut his eyes and let himself slip gently into Beldinas’s mind.

They were standing together on a mountaintop, the cliffs on all sides assailed by monsters, sorcerers, and demons. There were men among the attackers, too—Lords Revando and Cathan, Wentha the Weeping and her sons, among many others. Fistandantilus floated in the air, untroubled, but Beldinas was on the verge of panicking, clinging to a pinnacle of stone like a shipwrecked sailor to flotsam. The wizard glanced at him, saw the terror writ plain on the man’s face, and knew at once something was wrong. This was not the calm, self-assured man who had assumed the throne years before. Something had changed in him—what had once been pure, sweet music now evinced a sour discord.

As Beldinas’s foes closed in on all sides, Fistandantilus understood. This was what the world looked like to the Kingpriest: danger all around, and no way out. He was only holding on to gather more power; then he would unleash it, and bring the mountain down. His enemies would be destroyed.

But so would he, and he didn’t realize this.

The image vanished, and Fistandantilus let go, stepping back in astonishment Beldinas was not the pure vessel he required—not any longer. He’d wielded too much power for too long. He had wrath and envy in his soul—and pride, worst of all. The very means the wizard had used to get close to him had brought his ruin. He was not right for the ritual; the Portal would never open to him.

Softly, the Dark One began to laugh. It was strange laughter, tinged with self-mockery. What a fool he’d been, all this time! Pulling the puppets’ strings, making them dance—and never noticing that those strings and the Kingpriest’s were growing entangled. So many years, wasted on a hope that was false…

Fistandantilus laughed and laughed.

“Very good,” he said, glancing up to the heavens. “Oh, clever indeed!”

Beldinas only stared, still under the charm.

“So be it, then,” Fistandantilus murmured. “Let him smash the empire. It matters not.”

He passed a hand in front of Beldinas’s face, allowing a burst of magical energy to pass through as he chanted spidery words, “You will sleep,” he said with a hint of bitterness. “When you wake, you will have no memory of this.”

The Kingpriest nodded. Following Fistandantilus’s command, he climbed up onto his bed and lay down his head. In less than a minute he was snoring.

The Dark One stood over him a moment, then nodded to himself and let the cloaking spell slip over him once more. He still had work to do.