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.”
For one of his girth, Brother Jendle moved with remarkable alacrity. It was all Cathan could do to keep up as the monk waddled down Xak Tsaroth’s green-paved streets. The crowds parted before Jendle like gossamer, but jostled and bumped Cathan, jolting his wounded arm. Now and then, he cast a furtive glance behind, looking for signs of the town guard-or the Divine Hammer. There were probably a handful of knights stationed here, to accompany the Kingpriest’s legate to the elders’ court. But he saw no guards or knights among the shouting, arguing throngs. No one paid them any undue attention.
They were passing a fountain where jade dolphins frolicked amid the spray when the monk caught him looking over his shoulder. White eyebrows rose. “What’s the matter?” Jendle asked. “You act like somebody’s following us.”
Cathan reddened. “Just nervous,” he muttered.
“Oh?” Jendle replied, his eyes twinkling. “You might have cause. Look over there.”
The monk nodded to his right. Cathan looked-and saw him right away: a grubby, scrawny boy of maybe ten summers. He regarded Cathan with narrow eyes, then quickly paled and darted away into the crowd. Jendle’s hand caught Cathan’s wrist, stopping him from any thoughts of pursuit
“Don’t bother,” the monk said. “You’d never catch him, and you’d just draw more attention.”
Cathan muttered a curse.
“He’s been shadowing you since you first walked through the gates,” Jendle noted dryly. “Probably a spy for the city elders. They’ve learned to make good use of their urchins, ever since one of them grew up to be Kingpriest.”
Then he was off again, and Cathan had to hurry to keep up. The elders would learn he was here, soon enough. The gods knew what would happen then.
“Nothing will happen-not right away, anyway,” said Jendle. “Relax, Twice-Born-you’re safe for the nonce. Now keep up, will you?”
They moved farther away from the lake, into Xak Tsaroth’s southern quarter, the Old City. At last the crowds thinned. The buildings here were crumbling and run-down, and some showed scorch marks and missed their roofs. There wasn’t a single unbroken window. Rubbish littered the streets and faded graffiti covered the walls. Cathan was startled to see that what was scrawled there was far from the profanity and lewdness youths wrote on buildings in other places. It wasn’t even in the vulgar tongue. Pilofiro, it said, and Beldinas Babo Sod. A few triangles and crude falcons and hammers accompanied the words.
“Worshipers of the gray gods once dwelt here,” the fat monk explained. “The church drove them out… the ones that were lucky, anyway. They say this place is cursed now, so hardly anyone comes to this part of the city any more. Ah, here we are.”
He stopped so abruptly Cathan nearly piled into him. Brother Jendle pointed to a low, square building with pointed turrets and a curving flight of steps leading to its entrance. The pillars had raptor’s claws for capitals, and above the door, etched into the marble, was a relief that had been mostly chipped away. It had been a griffin, rampant and roaring; Cathan could still pick out a wing, the tip of a beak, and a leonine foot
“Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed.
“Yes?” asked Brother Jendle.
“This is a temple of Shinare.”
“Was,” replied the monk. Now it’s a wreck. The pious saw to that some time ago.”
Shinare, the patron of commerce and industry, belonged to neither the light nor the darkness. The Kingpriest had declared Shinare’s followers Foripon thirty years ago, claiming they were greedy and hoarded wealth that should have gone to the needy, or to Istar. At the time, Cathan had believed Beldinas wholeheartedly, and had even helped clear out a few Shinarite sects as one of the Hammer. Now … what did he feel? Sorrow? Shame? Regret? No, all he felt was anger-at the Kingpriest, at the church, and at himself for letting this happen.
“Come on,” said Jendle, puffing as he climbed the steps. “We’ll be safe there.”
Cathan blinked. “Wait. Can you go in?”
The monk stopped, glancing over his shoulder with wide eyes. “Why not? It’s not like this place ever belonged to Takhisis, you know. Shinare and I have always been on good terms, despite what your Kingpriest insists. Although,” he added in a loud whisper, “I’m certain Shinare cheats at dice.”
In he went Cathan shook his head, which was beginning to throb a little. Within, the temple was cool and dark, lit only by shafts of twilight that stabbed through its windows. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but the place was empty… unnaturally so, even for a ruin. The altar and pews had been removed, leaving only a few chunks of stone behind. There were no fonts, no scraps of tapestries, not even sconces left on the walls. Someone had painstakingly chipped away every last tile from the mosaics that had once covered the ceiling. The Revered Sons were thorough at cleansing the churches of forbidden gods. Cathan had seen their handiwork many times, and looking upon the result now made him wince.
“Not pretty, is it?” Jendle asked. “Nearly every Shinarite house is like this now, from Seldjuk to Ergoth. The same for temples of Gilean, Sirrion the Flowing Flame… even Reorx of the dwarves. The gods aren’t pleased about that, I can tell you.”
Cathan suddenly felt other presences in the room-a weeping woman in blue, a horned warrior with swords in six hands, and others. The gods of light had assembled here, at Jendle’s call-even Solinari of the White Robe mages. The gods didn’t speak, and they faded quickly from his sight, but they remained here just the same. And there were darker presences, too-gray and black shadows.
“This is why we must do what we’re going to do,” Jendle finished, waving a pale, pudgy hand. “The Balance isn’t just in danger. It’s collapsing.”
“And so you have decided to smash Istar…?” Cathan said. He was appalled to hear the tone of accusation that had crept into his voice.
“Huh! Decided?” the monk replied. He drew himself up, suddenly furious. “Do you honestly believe I would choose to kill so many? I do not want this, any more than you wanted to kill your squire, Twice-Born. But I do it for the same reason Lord Tithian lies dead today-it must happen.
“Everyone who believes the Kingpriest can destroy evil gives him the power to do so.”
“Surely there must be another way,” Cathan said, shaking his head.
Jendle shrugged. “We try to warn the people even now, all across Krynn. That is why Abanasinia’s grasslands burn, why brother turns against brother in Solamnia, why the northern ports run red with blood-water. We have sent the folk of Krynn many, many signs … but those who should heed them do not understand. Did you, when you first saw the fiery hammer fall on the Temple?”
Cathan bowed his head, saying nothing. For most of his life, he’d believed the vision was only a dream. He sagged against a column.
Jendle laid a remarkably strong hand on his shoulder. “The people are blind, and they refuse to see. Believe me, I will weep when I do what I must. I take no joy in any of this, Lightbringer.”
Cathan felt as if a thunderbolt had struck him in the forehead. He stiffened, looking up at the monk in astonishment, “What did you call me?”
“Lightbringer,” repeated Jendle, smiling slightly. He waved his hand. “Yes, yes. Astounding, incredible, and so on. Certainly not what Lady Ilista expected, when she read the prophecy. She too was quite surprised when she found out the truth. You see, she went to seek a new Kingpriest … and to find the Lightbringer foretold by prophecy. She found Brother Beldyn, and thought he was the Lightbringer, and everyone believed that was true, naturally. But the prophecy wasn’t about him, Twice-Born. It was about you.”
The monk gestured, and words appeared on the dusty floor, burning white as they etched themselves into the stone:
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.”