CHAPTER 2

The beautiful elven voices rose higher and higher, their sweet notes spiraling up the octaves as though they would carry their prayers to the heavens simply by ascending the scales. The faces of the elven women, touched by the rays of the setting sun slanting through the tall crystal windows, were tinged a delicate pink, their eyes shone with fervent inspiration.

The listening pilgrims wept for the beauty, causing the choir's white and blue robes—white robes for the Revered Daughters of Paladine, blue robes for the Daughters of Mishakal—to blur in their sight. Many would swear later that they had seen the elven women transported skyward, swathed in fluffy clouds.

When their song reached a crescendo of sweetness, a chorus of deep, male voices joined in, keeping the prayers that had been sweeping upward like freed birds tied to the ground— clipping the wings, so to speak, Denubis thought sourly. He supposed he was jaded. As a young man, he, too, had cleansed his soul with tears when he first heard the Evening Hymn. Then, years later, it had become routine. He could well remember the shock he had experienced when he first realized his thoughts had wandered to some pressing piece of church business during the singing. Now it was worse than routine. It had become an irritant, cloying and annoying. He had come to dread this time of day, in fact, and took advantage of every opportunity to escape.

Why? He blamed much of it on the elven women. Racial prejudice, he told himself morosely. Yet, he couldn't help it. Every year a party of elven women, Revered Daughters and those in training, journeyed from the glorious lands of Silvanesti to spend a year in Istar, devoting themselves to the church. This meant they sang the Evening Hymn nightly and spent their days reminding all around them that the elves were the favored of the gods—created first of all the races, granted a lifespan of hundreds of years. Yet nobody but Denubis seemed to take offense at this.

Tonight, in particular, the singing was irritating to Denubis because he was worried about the young woman he had brought to the Temple that morning. He had, in fact, almost avoided coming this evening but had been captured at the last moment by Gerald, an elderly human cleric whose days on Krynn were numbered and who found his greatest comfort in attending Evening Prayers.Probably, Denubis reflected, because the old man was almost totally deaf. This being the case, it had been completely impossible to explain to Gerald that he—Denubis—had somewhere else to go. Finally Denubis gave up and gave the old cleric his arm in support. Now Gerald stood next to him, his face rapt, picturing in his mind, no doubt, the beautiful plane to which he, someday, would ascend.

Denubis was thinking about this and about the young woman, whom he had not seen or heard anything about since he had brought her to the Temple that morning, when he felt a gentle touch upon his arm. The cleric jumped and glanced about guiltily, wondering if his inattention had been observed and would be reported. At first he couldn't figure out who had touched him, both of his neighbors apparently lost in their prayers. Then he felt the touch again and realized it came from behind. Glancing in back of him, he saw a hand had slipped unobtrusively through the curtain that separated the balcony on which the Revered Sons stood from the antechambers around the balcony.

The hand beckoned, and Denubis, puzzled, left his place in line and fumbled awkwardly with the curtain, trying to leave without calling undue attention to himself. The hand had withdrawn and Denubis couldn't find the separation in the folds of the heavy velvet curtains. Finally, after he was certain every pilgrim in the place must have his eyes fixed on him in disgust, he found the opening and stumbled through it.

A young acolyte, his face smooth and placid, bowed to the flushed and perspiring cleric as if nothing were amiss.

"My apologies for interrupting your Evening Prayers, Revered Son, but the Kingpriest requests that you honor him with a few moments of your time, if it is convenient." The acolyte spoke the prescribed words with such casual courtesy that it would not have seemed unusual to any observer if Denubis had replied, "No, not now. I have other matters I must attend to directly. Perhaps later?"

Denubis, however, said nothing of the sort. Paling visibly, he mumbled something about "being much honored," his voice dying off at the end. The acolyte was accustomed to this, however, and—nodding acknowledgement—turned and led the way through the vast, airy, winding halls of the Temple to the quarters of the Kingpriest of Istar.

Hurrying behind the youth, Denubis had no need to wonder what this could be about. The young woman, of course. He had not been in the Kingpriest's presence for well over two years, and it could not be coincidence that brought him this summons on the very day he had found a Revered Daughter lying near death in an alley.

Perhaps she has died, Denubis thought sadly. The Kingpriest is going to tell me in person. It would certainly be kind of the man. Out of character, perhaps, in one who had such weighty affairs as the fate of nations on his mind, but certainly kind.

He hoped she hadn't died. Not just for her sake, but for the sake of the human and the kender. Denubis had been thinking a lot about them, too. Particularly the kender. Like others on Krynn, Denubis hadn't much use for kender, who had no respect at all for rules or personal property—either their own or other people's. But this kender seemed different. Most kender Denubis knew (or thought he knew) would have run off at the first sign of trouble. This one had stayed by his big friend with touching loyalty and had even spoken up in his friend's defense.

Denubis shook his head sadly. If the girl died, they would face—No, he couldn't think about it. Murmuring a sincere prayer to Paladine to protect everyone concerned (if they were worthy), Denubis wrenched his mind from its depressing thoughts and forced it to admire the splendors of the Kingpriest's private residence in the Temple.

He had forgotten the beauty—the milky white walls, glowing with a soft light of their own that came—so legend had it— from the very stones themselves. So delicately shaped and carved were they, that they glistened like great white rose petals springing up from the polished white floor. Running through them were faint veins of light blue, softening the harshness of the stark white.

The wonders of the hallway gave way to the beauties of the antechamber. Here the walls flowed upward to support the dome overhead, like a mortal's prayer ascended to the gods. Frescoes of the gods were painted in soft colors. They, too, seemed to glow with their own light—Paladine, the Platinum Dragon, God of Good; Gilean of the Book, God of Neutrality; even the Queen of Darkness was represented here—for the Kingpriest would offend no god overtly. She was portrayed as the five-headed dragon, but such a meek and inoffensive dragon Denubis wondered she didn't roll over and lick Paladine's foot.

He thought that only later, however, upon reflection. Right now, he was much too nervous to even look at the wonderful paintings. His gaze was fixed on the carefully wrought platinum doors that opened into the heart of the Temple itself.

The doors swung open, emitting a glorious light. His time of audience had come.

The Hall of Audience first gave those who came here a sense of their own meekness and humility. This was the heart of goodness. Here was represented the glory and power of the church. The doors opened onto a huge circular room with a floor of polished white granite. The floor continued upward to form the walls into the petals of a gigantic rose, soaring skyward to support a great dome. The dome itself was of frosted crystal that absorbed the glow of the sun and the moons. Their radiance filled every part of the room.

A great arching wave of seafoam blue swept up from the center of the floor into an alcove that stood opposite the door. Here stood a single throne. More brilliant than the light streaming down from the dome was the light and warmth that flowed from this throne.

Denubis entered the room with his head bowed and his hands folded before him as was proper. It was evening and the sun had now set. The Hall Denubis walked into was lit only by candles. Yet, as always, Denubis had the distinct impression he had stepped into an open-air courtyard bathed in sunlight.

Indeed, for a moment his eyes were dazzled by the brilliance. Keeping his gaze lowered, as was proper until he was given leave to raise it, he caught glimpses of the floor and objects and people present in the Hall. He saw the stairs as he ascended them. But the radiance welling from the front of the room was so splendid that he literally noticed nothing else.

"Raise your eyes, Revered Son of Paladine," spoke a voice whose music brought tears to Denubis's eyes when the lovely music of the elven women could move him no longer.

Denubis looked up, and his soul trembled in awe. It had been two years since he had been this near the Kingpriest, and time had dulled his memory. How different it was to observe him every morning from a distance—seeing him as one sees the sun appearing on the horizon, basking in its warmth, feeling cheered at its light. How different to be summoned into the presence of the sun, to stand before it and feel one's soul burned by the purity and clarity of its brilliance.

This time, I'll remember, thought Denubis sternly. But no one, returning from an audience with the Kingpriest, could ever recall exactly what he looked like. It seemed sacrilegious to attempt to do so, in fact—as though thinking of him in terms of mere flesh was a desecration. All anyone ever remembered was that they had been in the presence of someone incredibly beautiful.

The aura of light surrounded Denubis, and he was immediately rent by the most terrible guilt for his doubts and misgivings and questionings. In contrast to the Kingpriest, Denubis saw himself as the most wretched creature on Krynn. He fell to his knees, begging forgiveness, almost totally unaware of what he was doing, knowing only that it was the right thing to do.

And forgiveness was granted. The musical voice spoke, and Denubis was immediately filled with a sense of peace and sweet calm. Rising to his feet, he faced the Kingpriest in reverent humility and begged to know how he could serve him.

"You brought a young woman, a Revered Daughter of Paladine, to the Temple this morning," said the voice, "and we understand you have been concerned about her—as is only natural and most proper. We thought it would give you comfort to know that she is well and fully recovered from her terrible ordeal. It may also ease your mind, Denubis, beloved son of Paladine, to know that she was not physically injured."

Denubis offered his thanks to Paladine for the young woman's recovery and was just preparing to stand aside and bask for a few moments in the glorious light when the full import of the Kingpriest's words struck him.

"She-she was not assaulted?" Denubis managed to stammer.

"No, my son,” answered the voice, sounding a joyous anthem. "Paladine in his infinite wisdom had gathered her soul to himself, and I was able, after many long hours of prayer, to prevail upon him to return such a treasure to us, since it had been snatched untimely from its body. The young woman now finds rest in a life-giving sleep."

"But the marks on her face?" Denubis protested, confused. "The blood—”

"There were no marks," the Kingpriest said mildly, but with a hint of reproof that made Denubis feel unaccountably miserable. "I told you, she was not physically injured."

"I-I am delighted I was mistaken," Denubis answered sincerely. "All the more so because it means that young man who was arrested is innocent as he claimed and may now go free."

"I am truly thankful, even as you are thankful, Revered Son, to know that a fellow creature in this world did not commit a crime as foul as was first feared. Yet who among us is truly innocent?"

The musical voice paused and seemed to be awaiting an answer. And answers were forthcoming. The cleric heard murmured voices all around him give the proper response, and Denubis became consciously aware for the first time that there were others present near the throne. Such was the influence of the Kingpriest that he had almost believed himself alone with the man.

Denubis mumbled the response to this question along with the rest and suddenly knew without being told that he was dismissed from the august presence. The light no longer beat upon him directly, it had turned from him to another. Feeling as if he had stepped from brilliant sun into the shade, he stumbled, half-blind, back down the stairs. Here, on the main floor, he was able to catch his breath, relax, and look around.

The Kingpriest sat at one end, surrounded by light. But, it seemed to Denubis that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the light, so to speak, for he could at last begin to recognize others with him. Here were the heads of the various orders— the Revered Sons and Revered Daughters. Known almost jokingly as "the hands and feet of the sun," it was these who handled the mundane, day-to-day affairs of the church. It was these who ruled Krynn. But there were others here, besides high church officials. Denubis felt his gaze drawn to a corner of the Hall, the only corner, it seemed, that was in shadow.

There sat a figure robed in black, his darkness outshone by the Kingpriest's light. But Denubis, shuddering, had the dis tinct impression that the darkness was only waiting, biding its time, knowing that—eventually—the sun must set.

The knowledge that the Dark One, as Fistandantilus was known around the court, was allowed within the Kingpriest's Hall of Audience came as a shock to Denubis. The Kingpriest was trying to rid the world of evil, yet it was here—in his court! And then a comforting thought came to Denubis—perhaps, when the world was totally free of evil, when the last of the ogre races had been eliminated, then Fistandantilus himself would fall.

But even as he thought this and smiled at the thought, Denubis saw the cold glitter of the mage's eyes turn their gaze toward him. Denubis shivered and looked away hurriedly. What a contrast there was between that man and the Kingpriest! When basking in the Kingpriest's light, Denubis felt calm and peaceful. Whenever he happened to look into the eyes of Fistandantilus, he was reminded forcefully of the darkness within himself.

And, under the gaze of those eyes, he suddenly found himself wondering what the Kingpriest had meant by the curious statement, "who of us is truly innocent'?"

Feeling uncomfortable, Denubis walked into an antechamber where stood a gigantic banquet table.

The smell of the luscious, exotic foods, brought from all over Ansalon by worshipful pilgrims or purchased in the huge openair markets of cities as far away as Xak Tsaroth, made Denubis remember that he had not eaten since morning. Taking a plate, he browsed among the wonderful food, selecting this and that until his plate was filled and he had only made it halfway down the table that literally groaned under its aromatic burden.

A servant brought round cups of fragrant, elven wine. Taking one of these and juggling the plate and his eating implements in one hand, the wine in the other, Denubis sank into a chair and began to eat heartily. He was just enjoying the heavenly combination of a mouthful of roast pheasant and the lingering taste of the elven wine when a shadow fell across his plate.

Denubis glanced up, choked, and bolted the remainder of the mouthful, dabbing at the wine dribbling down his chin in embarrassment.

"R-revered Son," he stuttered, making a feeble attempt to rise in the gesture of respect that the Head of the Brethren deserved.

Quarath regarded him with sardonic amusement and waved a hand languidly. "Please, Revered Son, do not let me disturb you. I have no intention of interrupting your dinner. I merely wanted a word with you. Perhaps, when you are finished—”

"Quite . . . quite finished," Denubis said hastily, handing his half-full plate and glass to a passing servant. "I don't seem to be as hungry as I thought." That, at least, was true. He had completely lost his appetite.

Quarath smiled a delicate smile. His thin elven face with its finely sculpted features seemed to be made of fragile porcelain, and he always smiled carefully, as if fearing his face would break.

"Very well, if the desserts do not tempt you?"

"N-no, not in the slightest. Sweets . . . bad for th-the digestion th-this late—”

"Then, come with me, Revered Son. It has been a long time since we talked." Quarath took Denubis’s arm with casual familiarity—though it had been months since the cleric had last seen his superior.

First the Kingpriest, now Quarath. Denubis felt a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. As Quarath was leading him out of the Audience Hall, the Kingpriest's musical voice rose. Denubis glanced backward, basking for one more moment in that wondrous light. Then, as he looked away with a sigh, his gaze came to rest upon the black-robed mage. Fistandantilus smiled and nodded. Shuddering, Denubis hurriedly accompanied Quarath out the door.

The two clerics walked through sumptuously decorated corridors until they came to a small chamber, Quarath's own. It, too, was splendidly decorated inside, but Denubis was too nervous to notice any detail.

"Please, sit down, Denubis. I may call you that, since we are comfortably alone."

Denubis didn't know about the comfortably, but they were certainly alone. He sat on the edge of the seat Quarath offered him, accepted a small glass of cordial which he didn't drink, and waited. Quarath talked of inconsequential nothings for a few moments, asking after Denubis's work—he translated passages of the Disks of Mishakal into his native language, Solamnic—and other items in which he obviously wasn't the least bit interested.

Then, after a pause, Quarath said casually, "I couldn't help but hear you questioning the Kingpriest."

Denubis set his cordial down on a table, his hand shaking so he barely avoided spilling it. "I . . . I was . . . simply concerned . . . about—about the young man . . . they arrested erroneously," he stammered faintly.

Quarath nodded gravely. "Very right, too. Very proper. It is written that we should be concerned about our fellows in this world. It becomes you, Denubis, and I shall certainly note that in my yearly report."

"Thank you, Revered Son," Denubis murmured, not certain what else to say.

Quarath said nothing more but sat regarding the cleric opposite with his slanted, elven eyes.

Denubis mopped his face with the sleeve of his robe. It was unbelievably hot in this room. Elves had such thin blood.

"Was there something else?" Quarath asked mildly.

Denubis drew a deep breath. "My lord," he said earnestly, "about that young man. Will he be released? And the kender?" He was suddenly inspired. "I thought perhaps I could be of some help, guide them back to the paths of good. Since the young man is innocent—”

"Who of us is truly innocent?" Quarath questioned, looking at the ceiling as if the gods themselves might write the answer there for him.

"I'm certain that is a very good question," Denubis said meekly, "and one no doubt worthy of study and discussion, but this young man is, apparently innocent—at least as innocent as he's likely to be of anything—” Denubis stopped, slightly confused.

Quarath smiled sadly. "Ah, there, you see?" he said, spreading his hands and turning his gaze upon the cleric. "The fur of the rabbit covers the tooth of the wolf, as the saying goes." Leaning back in his chair, Quarath once again regarded the ceiling. "The two are being sold in the slave markets tomorrow."

Denubis half rose from his chair. "What? My lord—”

Quarath's gaze instantly fixed itself upon the cleric, freezing the man where he stood.

"Questioning? Again?"

"But . . . he's innocent!" was all Denubis could think of to say.

Quarath smiled again, this time wearily, indulgently.

"You are a good man, Denubis. A good man, a good cleric. A simple man, perhaps, but a good one. This was not a decision we made lightly. We questioned the man. His accounts of where he came from and what he was doing in Istar are confused, to say the least. If he was innocent of the girl's injuries, he undoubtedly has other crimes that are tearing at his soul. That much is visible upon his face. He has no means of support, there was no money on him. He is a vagrant and likely to turn to thievery if left on his own. We are doing him a favor by providing him with a master who will care for him. In time, he can earn his freedom and, hopefully, his soul will have been cleansed of its burden of guilt. As for the kender—” Quarath waved a negligent hand.

"Does the Kingpriest know?" Denubis summoned up courage to ask.

Quarath sighed, and this time the cleric saw a faint wrinkle of irritation appear on the elf's smooth brow. "The Kingpriest has many more pressing issues on his mind, Revered Son Denubis," he said coldly. "He is so good that the pain of this one man's suffering would upset him for days. He did not specifically say the man was to be freed, so we simply removed the burden of this decision from his thoughts."

Seeing Denubis's haggard face fill with doubt, Quarath sat forward, regarding his cleric with a frown. "Very well, Denubis, if you must know—there were some very strange circumstances regarding the young woman's discovery. Not the least of which is that it was instituted, we understand, by the Dark One."

Denubis swallowed and sank back into his seat. The room no longer seemed hot. He shivered. "That is true," he said miserably, passing his hand over his face. "He met me-"

"I know!" Quarath snapped. "He told me. The young woman will stay here with us. She is a Revered Daughter. She wears the medallion of Paladine. She, also, is somewhat confused, but that is to be expected. We can keep an eye on her. But I'm certain you realize how impossible it is that we allow that young man to simply wander off. In the Elder Days, they would have tossed him in a dungeon and thought no more of it. We are more enlightened than that. We will provide a decent home for him and be able to watch over him at the same time."

Quarath makes it sound like a charitable act, selling a man into slavery, Denubis thought in confusion. Perhaps it is. Per haps I am wrong. As he says, I am a simple man. Dizzily, he rose from his chair. The rich food he had eaten sat in his stomach like a cobblestone. Mumbling an apology to his superior, he started toward the door. Quarath rose, too, a conciliatory smile on his face.

"Come visit with me again, Revered Son," he said, standing by the door. "And do not fear to question us. That is how we learn."

Denubis nodded numbly, then paused. "I—I have one more question, then," he said hesitantly. "You mentioned the Dark One. What do you know of him? I mean, why is he here? He— he frightens me."

Quarath's face was grave, but he did not appear displeased at this question. Perhaps he was relieved that Denubis's mind had turned to another subject. "Who knows anything of the ways of magic-users," he answered, "except that their ways are not our ways, nor yet the ways of the gods. It was for that reason the Kingpriest felt compelled to rid Ansalon of them, as much as was possible. Now they are holed up in their one remaining Tower of High Sorcery in that cast-off Forest of Wayreth. Soon, even that will disappear as their numbers dwindle, since we have closed the schools. You heard about the cursing of the Tower at Palanthas?"

Denubis nodded silently.

"That terrible incident!" Quarath frowned. "It just goes to show you how the gods have cursed these wizards, driving that one poor soul to such madness that he impaled himself upon the gates, bringing down the wrath of the gods and sealing the Tower forever, we suppose. But, what were we discussing?"

"Fistandantilus," Denubis murmured, sorry he had brought it up. Now he wanted only to get back to his room and take his stomach powder.

Quarath raised his feathery eyebrows. "All I know of him is that he was here when I came, some one hundred years ago. He is old—older even than many of my kindred, for there are few even of the eldest of my race who can remember a time when his name was not whispered. But he is human and therefore must use his magic arts to sustain his life. How, I dare not imagine." Quarath looked at Denubis intently. "You understand now, of course, why the Kingpriest keeps him at court'?"

"He fears him?" Denubis asked innocently.

Quarath's porcelain smile became fixed for a moment, then it was the smile of a parent explaining a simple matter to a dull child. "No, Revered Son," he said patiently. "Fistandantilus is of great use to us. Who knows the world better? He has traveled its width and breadth. He knows the languages, the customs, the lore of every race on Krynn. His knowledge is vast. He is useful to the Kingpriest, and so we allow him to remain here, rather than banish him to Wayreth, as we have banished his fellows."

Denubis nodded. "I understand," he said, smiling weakly. "And . . . and now, I must go. Thank you for your hospitality, Revered Son, and for clearing up my doubts. I-I feel much better now."

"I am glad to have been able to help," Quarath said gently. "May the gods grant you restful sleep, my son."

"And you as well," Denubis murmured the reply, then left, hearing, with relief, the door shut behind him.

The cleric walked hurriedly past the Kingpriest's audience chamber. Light welled from the door, the sound of the sweet, musical voice tugged at his heart as he went by, but he feared he might be sick and so resisted the temptation to return.

Longing for the peace of his quiet room, Denubis walked quickly through the Temple. He became lost once, taking a wrong turn in the crisscrossing corridors. But a kindly servant led him back the direction he needed to take to reach the part of the Temple where he lived.

This part was austere, compared to that where the Kingpriest and the court resided, although still filled with every conceivable luxury by Krynnish standards. But as Denubis walked the halls, he thought how homey and comforting the soft candlelight appeared. Other clerics passed him with smiles and whispered evening greetings. This was where he belonged. It was simple, like himself.

Heaving another sigh of relief, Denubis reached his own small room and opened the door (nothing was ever locked in the Temple—it showed a distrust of one's fellows) and started to enter. Then he stopped. Out of the corner of his eye he had glimpsed movement, a dark shadow within darker shadows. He stared intently down the corridor. There was nothing there. It was empty.

I am getting old. My eyes are playing tricks, Denubis told himself, shaking his head wearily. Walking into the room, his white robes whispering around his ankles, he shut the door firmly, then reached for his stomach powder.