Chosen Of The Gods by Chris Pierson

Author:Chris Pierson [Chosen Of The Gods]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

“Your Honor,” she replied, then faltered, seeing something in his eyes, beneath the sorrow—a deeper unhappiness as his gaze met hers. “What’s wrong? Is it Beldyn?”

He shook his head, pulling forth the scroll-case. “I’m sorry.”

Ilista took the scroll-case from him and undid its lacing to remove a sheet of parchment. The wind tried to snatch it away, but she held on, unfolding it with trembling fingers. Something’s happened, she thought. To Loralon? Was that why he’d turned silent?

That wasn’t it. It was much worse, and as she read her skin turned cold.

There were three degrees of censure in the Istaran Church. The first, Bournon, was a simple reprimand for minor sins, easily lifted wifli an atonement tithe and three nights of fasting. The second, Abidon, was an official reproach and not so easily removed. It took a patriarch or a hierarch of the Great Temple to do so. The church bestowed it upon those who committed some great affront to Paladine, and while it was in effect, the condemned could receive no sacraments, nor could he set foot on consecrated ground. The clergy declared hundreds of folk Boumon each year, and perhaps a few dozen Abidon.

The third degree was different Foripon was a full declaration of anathema casting the condemned out of the church. Often it led to inquisition and death. Only the Kingpriest himself could revoke such a denunciation, and none had ever done so. In her years at court, Ilista had only seen Symeon cast out a single man, a soldier who had pissed on a roadside shrine and refused to do penance for it.

Kurnos’s reign was only days old, and he had already doubled that number.

Written on the parchment were two names— hers, less the title of First Daughter, and that of Brother Beldyn. For black heresy and consorting with traitors, it declared—

and beneath their names, a promised reward of a thousand gold falcons.

Tavarre reacted quickly, rushing to catch her as her knees buckled, but he couldn’t stop the parchment from dropping from her hands. The wind caught it, sending it soaring over the keep’s walls. She watched it spin away.

“No,” she murmured. “It has to be a mistake.”

The baron didn’t reply, but his grip tightened. It was a familiar gesture, one of kinship. They were both outlaws, now. She shuddered at the thought.

Then another occurred to her. “Beldyn. Does he know?”

“No, Efisa.”

She nodded, then took a deep breath, and pushed away from Tavarre to stand on her own. “Come on, then,” she said, turning. “We’d best—”

A sound rose, eerily filling the air as it echoed among the hills: the mournful howl of a wolf. Hearing it, Tavarre stiffened and muttered a curse.

“What was that?” Ilista asked as the howl died away.

“A signal,” the baron replied. “The sentries have returned.”

He whirled, his cloak flapping, and hurried up the steps to the battlements. Ilista followed, hardly breathing as she looked down from the keep into the vale below. In the distance, two frothing horses were galloping along a trail to the village.

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