Kirven sat and listened to Jaudin, the head monk of Harnspire.
The main chapel of the spirecrown was lined with statues of Tarl-an-Gig, the balancing figure. Behind these the eight-branched star of Iftal. As High Leoric she did not have to attend the daily speeches or the small sacrifices. Her presence was not expected and she generally did not concern herself with such things. She felt it gave Jaudin a form of authority over her, they were the mouthpiece of Tarl-an-Gig, though that really meant they were the mouthpiece for the Skua-Rai of all Crua in faraway Tilt.
But sometimes she came here because the words spoken were familiar. The stories ones she knew by heart. Even the walls, decorated with pictures of Iftal for the many people of Crua who could not read, reminded her of her childhood. Of a room in a small white building, of a droning voice she had barely listened to and the close comfort of her mothers and fathers. She needed familiarity, needed to lose herself in it. Because otherwise all she could think about was Venn. Her child, in the forest with a man who should be dead, a false Cowl-Rai.
He could be nothing of course, weak, a pretender, a malicious report from jealous neighbours.
Or he could kill them with a thought.
Her hand tightened on the wood of the bench before her. The porcelain statue of Tarl-an-Gig on a piece of leather threaded through her fingers swung back and forth, the familiar smell of burning herbs filled her nostrils.
“Venn,” she said to herself. Closed her eyes. Tried once more to lose herself in the droning of the monk.
The stories had changed since her youth. When she was young the monk had been for a forest god named Caralan-the-Many-Horned, though they did not call them forest gods then. Now the stories were of Tarl-an-Gig. But the meat of them? That did not change. The creator, Iftal-of-the-Tree, made the land and the gods and bade them guard his world from his palace in Great Anjiin, and promised all a paradise found along the Star Path if they did. The gods made the people to help them. But some gods became jealous because Iftal was fascinated with the people. The gods split into two factions: gods, who were wise and good, and Osere who were jealous and cruel. They trapped the gods and Iftal in Ancient Anjiin and hid the fabled city from all. Then they took over Crua where they ruled and the people suffered under them. Worse, the Osere denied the Star Path to the people and this broke the balance, stole the seasons from the world. And Iftal, the great god, suffered in seeing its creation so unbalanced.
All this was familiar, the same as it had always been. But then it began to change. Once, Iftal would have broken itself to break the bond between its children and Crua, banishing all from palaces of Great Anjiin and freeing a thousand gods, strewing them throughout the forest for the people to find. And when they were found the gods gave the people cowls and asked the people to give of themselves in return, to keep the gods alive so that one day they may cause Iftal to be reborn and all would walk the Star Path without need for death once more.
So the people fought the Osere using the cowls, as the gods could not. There were many heroes, many deaths, many sacrifices. Eventually, the Osere were beaten and forced below, where they would never see the Star Path, and even then they had to be promised the worst of the people as slaves and for below to be their land, where they could rule.
In the stories told now there were no other gods, only Tarl-an-Gig. And though most of the Osere were sent below, not all of them were. Some escaped to hide in Wyrdwood where they called themselves gods, ready to trick and lie to the people, ready to betray them once more.
Kirven no longer believed the stories, any of them. Oh, Iftal had existed, she did not doubt it, and the gods gave them cowls and maybe the Osere did live below. But Tarl-an-Gig being the one true god was most likely a lie used to seize power. If there were no other gods no new Cowl-Rai could ever rise, power could be best maintained through ruthlessly suppressing the hundreds of small monasteries that had once littered Crua.
“No roots, no trees.” That was what Kirven had been told in Tilt, by the Skua-Rai herself. And here she heard the same, said more subtly maybe, but none the less it was said.
People walked up to the front of the temple, left their tribute and she heard them say, “I do not walk with the old gods of Wyrdwood but in the light of Tarl-an-Gig,” then walk away. This, coupled with the rewards, offered for those who reported any who held to the old ways, had proved effective at establishing Tarl-an-Gig as the only god.
She heard the great doors open. Turned to see a soldier, one of her personal guard in a deep blue cloak. Kirven felt her heart speed up as the soldier approached.
“High Leoric,” she said softly, going down to one knee.
“Yes, trunk commander Vetar?” She pulled the figure of Tarl-an-Gig into her hand, ran the leather between her fingers. “Why do you disturb me at worship?”
“I am sorry, High Leoric,” she said, “but you told us to let you know the moment we saw anything.”
“Rai Galderin is back?”
“A marant approaches,” said Vetar, “whether it is Rai Galderin or not I cannot be certain. They are still a way off, but there are few marants in Harn.” Kirven nodded. She liked this trunk commander, Vetar, the woman was sensible, accurate. That was why Kirven had put her in command of her spireguard.
“No signal, no mention of the trion?” Her mouth was dry.
“They are too far away for light mirrors,” said Vetar. “We have time if you wish to finish here and offer tribute, High Leoric.” Kirven shook her head and stood.
“Trunk commander Vetar,” she said, “my entire life is tribute to Tarl-an-Gig. If that is not enough to put me on the Star Path then I doubt a bowl of fruit will help.” Vetar nodded but did not smile or laugh. She was committed to her duty and humour was not part of it. “Let us go to the spiretop, meet this marant.”
“Your guard awaits,” said Vetar, and they left the head monk of Harn to continue his blessings.