The Krous family was powerful, to be modest. There was remarkably little that even the lowliest members of the family wanted for. Even the bastard children of Towdra Krous had more money than most could conceive of, and it is fair to say that Towdra cared little for any of his offspring, legitimate or otherwise.
Most of the family was quite content to stay where they were, fully aware that anything they desired was theirs so long as they behaved themselves.
There are always exceptions. Towdra himself was fine with the current situation. He and his great-niece got along well enough; though there were many members of the family who believed he felt otherwise, Nachia sitting on the throne suited his purposes.
Laister Krous was not as content. He believed that he was better suited for the throne, that his long years of making connections and preparing the way for his eventual accession should have paid off already. For him, Nachia was a nuisance and a problem. The only purpose the girl could have served in his eyes would have been as a good bartering tool to the appropriate parties. Want a country to behave? Offer them a fine looking woman to serve as obedient wife and mother of royal children and call it done. But Nachia on the throne was offensive to his sensibilities.
She was now on the throne and that was a problem, but not one that couldn’t be surmounted with the appropriate actions.
It was for that reason that the men were sitting together in a small tavern called the Adze and Axe just outside of Freeholdt. A night’s hard ride would have him back in Tyrne and no one the wiser and he had chosen his timing flawlessly. The sorcerer was gone on one of his very rare excursions from the castle. Nachia herself was too busy looking into the possibilities of war – or perhaps pleasuring herself with her new general, who could say? – to notice his absence. Brolley was, of all places, with Desh Krohan on his little search for answers to what had happened to the Roathians. The boy was hardly an issue in any event, especially after his public humiliation at the hands of the barbarians Pathra had invited to visit from the Blasted Lands. Since then, Brolley seldom let himself be seen in public. Most likely it was Nachia keeping him out of harm’s way. She was an overprotective sibling and Brolley needed all the protection he could find. Danieca was staying well away from everything ever since she’d tried confronting Desh Krohan. Whatever the man had said to her was enough to convince her to keep herself to herself for the present time, but Laister already knew where she stood on matters. She was with him.
The rest of the Krous family was a herd of simpletons as far as Laister was concerned. They would follow whoever was leading and for the moment that meant they obeyed the whims and desires of Nachia.
The men in the room with him were not as loyal or as easily swayed. They required hard coin for their devotion and a great deal of it. Laister himself was not at the table where the negotiations were taking place. He left the particulars to Losla Foster, his personal assistant. Losla was a quiet man with a quiet way about him. Most everyone who met him forgot he was even there, which was exactly why he was so very successful in his endeavors. Losla sat in the shadows of the tavern’s western corner and spoke softly to men who were far easier to remember and much more likely to cut a throat. They were exactly as hungry for money as they appeared, and they looked to be starving for the stuff.
There were four of them, all from the east. It seemed all the best mercenaries came from the east, normally from Elda or even farther away. Laister did not listen to the negotiations. Instead he concentrated on his surroundings and seeing everyone in the room. There were the five men concentrating on their shadowy business. There was the fat sow of a tavern keeper’s wife, a woman who had long since moved from buxom to unpleasant, though at the right angles a ghost of her old beauty lingered. There was the tavern keeper himself who was even larger but had an infectious smile and a pleasant attitude. The two of them made sure customers were happy and otherwise stayed out of the way. There were three others in the place: two road-weary men who looked like they would be finishing their meals and then taking rooms upstairs, and a woman who might or might not have been an aging whore. She was attractive despite her peasant’s clothes and her common features, but old enough that Laister wouldn’t bother even if he were so inclined. Whatever the case, she paid him no attention and, aside from noting her presence, he returned the favor.
The biggest danger, in other words, was that Laister would grow bored enough to find the whore an interesting notion.
Losla saved him from that fate by nodding and rising from the table. The men with him did nothing to indicate that they much cared one way or the other and Losla left the tavern after gathering his cloak and saying a few words to the tavern keeper.
Laister would wait a few minutes before meeting him outside. He had no desire to be connected with anyone in the place. The inquisitors tended to investigate when dignitaries died and Laister had already endured enough polite questions regarding Pathra’s death. They were always polite when dealing with the Krouses. It was in the best interests of everyone to avoid offending the Imperial Family.
When the tavern’s owner started talking with the men Losla had spoken with – nothing untoward, merely pleasant chatting as he cleared away a few emptied mugs – Laister slipped outside.
It was time.
He met up with Losla on the road back to Tyrne, riding in the darkness with relative ease. If he could say nothing else for Pathra, he could agree that his dead cousin had managed to keep the roads well tended.
Laister asked, “The situation has been handled?”
Losla nodded his head, looking away from the road ahead long enough to eye the surrounding area for possible bandits. They rode at night and that meant a certain element of danger.
“They are good at what they do. Your cousin will be dead soon enough.”
Laister shook his head. “Pity. I always rather liked Nachia. I just don’t see her as the sort who should run an Empire.”
“She’s a lovely girl. I made them promise she’ll feel no pain.”
“Poison?”
“Likely. Their leader is a man I’ve dealt with before. He does excellent work.”
“Have you had a lot of people poisoned before, Losla?” He already knew the answer, of course. The man had worked for him for over fifteen years.
“Me? Hardly. I’m just a facilitator. All I do is answer correspondences and occasionally make certain appointments are kept.”
“Must be hard work.”
Losla smiled. “My employer can be demanding from time to time, but he pays well enough.”
Laister snorted. Losla was paid handsomely indeed. He kept his mouth closed and he handled everything Laister did not want to handle. For that reason he was worth every coin he earned.
“When will it happen?”
“Your cousin has been very good about letting herself be seen. Probably the next time she goes out in public.” The light from the tavern grew brighter, highlighting the side of Losla’s face and the back of his head.
Laister looked, wondering for a moment if the hired cutthroats had decided the offer of coin would be better handled as a reward for turning in the men who planned to kill the Empress. Stranger things had happened, true enough, but neither Laister nor Losla were foolish about these things. They were wise enough not to pay much in advance, only enough to whet appetites.
There were no lanterns following them, nor men on horses charging to find the traitors. Instead, the tavern was burning, the roof of the place fully aflame and lighting the night sky.
“Gods, man, what happened?” Laister’s words were out before he even thought about it.
Losla looked over his shoulder and frowned. “Perhaps they decided it best not to leave witnesses. Dead tongues cannot tell secrets.”
Laister nodded his head. Sometimes innocent people had to die in order to accomplish goals. He did not have to like it, merely to accept the fact of it. He’d always liked Nachia well enough. She was one of his favorite relatives, but she stood in the way and had to be removed as an obstacle. The burning tavern merely proved a proper reminder of that fact.
As he looked back toward the road, the roof of the Adze and Axe collapsed in on itself with a faint groan, and a gout of fire danced toward the Great Star.
Without another word, the men moved toward home. The ride would be a long one and the night would hide their secrets.
Swech shook her head and took the closest horse. She did not like the animals, but she could ride them well enough. Her body knew how, just as it understood the secrets of the face she hid behind.
She had listened to the fools whispering their plans of murder and waited until the men paying them left the tavern and then she had done as Paedle told her she must. The mercenaries died as they lived, choking on the poisons she slipped onto their drinks and food.
The tavern keeper looked at the dying men and opened his mouth to scream. Swech ran her blade across his throat before he could make a noise and then buried the same knife in his wife’s heart. The other woman was heavy and dropped with a thump. The last two men had been sleeping, but at the sound of the tavern keepers’ bodies hitting the floorboards of the place they awoke.
Swech broke their necks as quickly as she could and then started away from the tavern.
When she heard the sounds of someone above her whispering, she merely shook her head and carefully climbed the stairs. There were four rooms. Two of them were empty. One of the occupied rooms held a sleeping man who kept one hand on his sword. His death was fast enough to prevent him drawing the blade from its scabbard. The last room held the whisperers: two lovers who knew nothing of the murders below and merely spoke softly to each other.
They died as one, the borrowed sword cutting through both hearts in one stroke.
After that, setting the fire took only a moment.
Sometimes the best way to win a war required the deaths of thousands of soldiers. Other occasions required the deaths of innocents who knew nothing of the war. Whatever the case, Swech was ready to do what was required of her to show her gods that she was loyal and worthy of their trust.
For the present time the Daxar Taalor wanted Nachia Krous kept safe.
Swech would see to it as surely as she had seen to the death of the previous Emperor.
“That’s just the problem. Nothing was supposed to be out there.” Jeron gestured at the old maps, which had likely been hanging in his walls for longer than he could remember, and then at the new maps, copies carefully drawn out and given to him only a few days earlier by Goriah herself. The main difference was simply that a large portion of the area left blank previously had been expanded as a result of meeting the Sa’ba Taalor.
Goriah shrugged. “Well, we now know differently. Now we need to know what is out there and you’re one of the very best at scrying. Desh needs you to do this.”
“First Desh needs my knowledge of history and now he needs me to scry.”
Goriah let out a low chuckle. “You’re the one constantly telling me and the Sisters that you are a man of many talents. Though to be fair you normally tell us separately.”
The man had the decency to blush a bit as he smiled. “You win. I’ll make an effort.”
“We need to know what’s north of the range as well. We need to know whatever you can find.”
“If it were easy we’d have mapped the entire thing out centuries ago.”
“If it were easy, Jeron, Desh would have asked a lesser sorcerer to handle the task.” A little flattery often went a very long way; a lesson Goriah had learned a lifetime earlier.
“Several of us, those adept at the Sooth, believe there are dangers in Tyrne.”
Goriah nodded. Desh believes so, too. Right now he’s actually gone out to investigate the possible causes.”
“He actually left the Summer Palace?” Jeron leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I thought the walls there too jealous to ever let him escape.”
Several of the others, who had been remarkably quiet during the exchange, added their laughter to Goriah’s. Most of them knew Desh Krohan well enough to understand how seldom he left the side of the ruler.
“Given the gravity of the situation, Desh is making an exception.” Her smile quickly hardened into a sterner expression. “Still, we must do what we can here to prepare for the challenges coming our way. If they do listen and do leave Tyrne, a great number of people will come this way.” She shook her head. “Most of them, really. We need to start preparations for taking in, well, thousands and thousands of people.”
“This is called the City of Wonders for a reason, Goriah, as well you know.”
“Of course.”
She had not been alive then, though both Jeron and Desh Krohan had. Still, she’d heard the stories. Disasters happen. They are inevitable. Great storms batter shorelines, the earth itself shrugs and the land changes shape. Old Canhoon, the original and still formal capital of the Empire, ran across a disaster once upon a time. The earthquake caused a rip in the ground and a portion of the city had fallen away into that unexpected chasm before the land closed shut around it. No one was certain exactly how many were lost, but the number was well above a thousand. Foolish people made their share of mistakes along the way and fires blossomed in the rest of the city.
Canhoon trembled and burned, many of the structures collapsed, burying still more people. Back in those days the people of the Empire had tried raising a city that towered all the way to the clouds. After the Great Cataclysm, Canhoon was the largest city in the known world, second only to the memory of Korwa.
The city was old, but the Empire was new. The wounds on the face of the world were still fresh and sometimes bleeding and the nations around the Fellein Empire still fought against the notion that one ruler could make the world a better place. Kings had sent armies to break the crown and sunder the Empire. They’d have succeeded, too, if not for the wizards.
The Empress, she could not remember which one of the Krouses it was, had demanded the help of the sorcerers. In exchange for that assistance, Desh Krohan had demanded the title of First Advisor, a role he had already been handling but without any formal compensation or recognition. The Empress agreed.
Desh Krohan, Jeron and their peers had been the ones who’d stopped the fires and reclaimed the land. The City of Wonders had risen from the flames and ashes, from the desolation of most of the city. The buildings had grown forth from the ground. The streets paved themselves. The great walls that still stood today had been raised in a moment, and the Silent Army had stood against any who dared attempt an attack.
The Silent Army was long gone to dust, but their sacrifices held a nation together, as surely as the sight of the City of Wonders rising from the flames and ruination had cowed many an attacker and brought out the fiercest determination from the people of Canhoon.
That had been a very long time ago, however, and there were not so many of the sorcerers left these days. The cost of raising Canhoon had been high indeed and few were willing to endure that sort of sacrifice twice in their lifetimes.
Jeron looked down at the table before him, his eyes lost in the memories of what had gone before. Goriah knew the look well enough. She saw the same expression on Desh’s face when he thought no one was paying attention.
“Still, Jeron, perhaps it would be best if we did all we could before having to summon that sort of power again, yes?”
He chewed at his lip for a moment and nodded. “Indeed. Most decidedly. Let’s see what can be done. I’ll have Seshu and Corin look into it.” He turned his head to the two he’d named. Seshu nodded her head and rose from her seat with a tight smile. Corin nodded but did not rise. He would go at his own speed and remarkably little would ever change that.
“So, while we’re all together, have any of you ever heard of the Mounds?” Goriah pointed at the new map and the odd symbols marking the place the Sa’ba Taalor claimed was forbidden by their gods.
Seshu looked over her shoulder and stopped at the doorway. She’d just been ready to cross through. Like the rest, she stared at the point on the map of the Blasted Lands.
When Seshu spoke her voice was hesitant. “It’s impossible to say for certain, of course, but by the map’s size, I could guess that it is close to the center of the Blasted Lands. If that is the case, if that is true and the lands settled as quickly as Desh believes, these Mounds you speak of could be over the site of Korwa.”
Goriah nodded. “Desh said something similar.”
Jeron sighed. “Korwa was destroyed. We know that. The land itself was shattered. Nothing could have survived that sort of devastation.”
Goriah looked to the man and then lowered her head. “You are the expert, Jeron. That’s one of the reasons I was sent here, to check with you. If not Korwa, then what?”
“Who’s to say? These Sa’ba Taalor have their own gods. Perhaps they have their own demons as well.”
Corin spoke up, which was a rare enough event that Jeron actually flinched at the unexpected noise. “These gods of theirs. Has anyone spoken with the temples and churches here to see if there is any connection?”
Goriah shook her head.
“I’ve certainly not the time, but might I suggest that someone do that very thing? Gods have power.” Jeron gestured with one hand in a sign that maybe they did and maybe they didn’t. Contrary to his words. “That is the claim I’ve heard all my life at least. Perhaps it’s time someone found out if there is truth to the claim.”
“I’ll mention it to Desh. He might have a few notions.” Goriah smiled. “And I must be on my way. I have to find him and that’s going to take a bit of time. Thank you, all of you. There’s much too much happening of late to leave anyone comfortable.”
Corin made a rude noise they all knew was his way of agreeing. The rest said their goodbyes.
“This place is horrid.” Brolley Krous’s voice was small. He stood only five feet away from Desh Krohan but from that distance he sounded almost like a child.
Desh turned back to look at the young man. “It is horrid. There were people here, Brolley. There was a town. And now?” He reached down and grabbed a handful of ruined earth. The black dust and ash mingled with the soil and he let it drift from his fingers. “Perhaps we will be fortunate and plants will grow here again someday.”
There were ruins all around them. It had been a very long time since Desh had been to Roathes, but he doubted much had changed until recently. The houses were built to withstand rough storms and harsh gale-force winds. They should have taken anything thrown their way, but the fires had burned them down to skeletal remains.
“How did this happen?” Brolley shook his head and then brushed his thick hair back with his fingers. A trail of soot ran along his brow as a reminder of his actions.
“The Guntha Islands are gone, Brolley. They’ve been destroyed by that volcano. But that’s not what did this.” He pointed to the ground and the deep tracks that still showed in a few spots where the wind had not scoured them away. There were footprints, to be sure, human enough in size. There were also massive paw prints as well, treads with heavy claws that made deep impressions.
“The winds brought a lot of this ash, but they didn’t bring these marks. Others have been here. Most likely the Sa’ba Taalor.”
Brolley shook his head, and for a moment he seemed younger still, and then his face hardened back into a man’s angered expression. “Haven’t they done enough?”
“We’ve been preparing for war, Brolley. You know that. This is the first of many steps, I suspect. But we need proof.”
“What more do we need?” The horror in the boy’s voice pleased Desh, but he kept that fact to himself. Not that long ago, Brolley had been willing to get himself killed over a comment about the Sa’Ba Taalor. His actions had nearly led to a war by themselves. That had been the first step in the boy becoming a man. Apparently that particular transformation was continuing apace.
“A paw print that might be from a trained bear is not enough.”
“Never seen a bear that size. Have you?”
“Oh, yes. They can be very large. Most of what you’ve seen have been cubs.” He scowled. “Beastly habit, training bears to be pets. Never goes well.” The fact that Brolley had once ranted and screamed for weeks about wanting a pet bear was not lost on Desh. Now and then he felt a need to remind the Imperial Family of their occasional lapses in judgment.
“Where are all the people, Desh?”
“Gone. I suspect a lot of them fled when the clouds came. We certainly saw enough on our way down here.” Which was the truth. Nearly every town they’d passed had been inundated with families that had fled the ash and deadly winds from the ocean. A good number of the people travelling had suffered from deep, wet coughs and ragged breathing, a sign that they were suffered from inhaling too much of the poisonous fumes.
“Aye, we did. But not enough.” Brolley shook his head. “Roathes was a large kingdom with a lot of people. Where would the rest have gone?”
“That’s what we’re examining here.” Desh sighed. “If we are lucky we will discover that a lot of people fled to the south and east.”
“And if we are not?”
“Then the Roathians have gone the way of the Guntha, and the lovely Lanaie is the Queen of a dead people.” Brolley’s brow grew stony indeed at that notion. He was as infatuated with Lanaie as Pathra had been, but not old enough to know it was merely infatuation. That was why he’d asked to come along on this journey, and why Desh had agreed. The others, the dozen soldiers standing in the distance, were there solely to appease Nachia’s need to protect her loved ones.
“Barbarians.” Brolley’s lip curled in disgust.
“Barbarians? Hardly. They’ve lived in an area where few could hope to survive. The Sa’ba Taalor are violent, yes, but not barbarians. Warriors. Survivors. And currently they are our enemies, if I am right.”
Brolley said nothing to that. Instead he stared out at the black waters and the black sky.
Desh shook his head. The air smelled of sulfur and worse, and the breeze from the waters was hotter than it should have been. That damned mountain growing in the distance was the culprit, of course.
“We have to move on.”
“No. I think we have our evidence.” Brolley sounded very sure of himself, sure enough that Desh turned to see what he was speaking about.
The woman stood exactly two arm lengths away from the Empress’s brother, her arms at her sides, within easy reach of her weapons.
Desh Krohan had not heard her approaching, had not seen her, and for him that was a very rare thing indeed.
That she was Sa’ba Taalor was a given. Her skin would have given her away, the light gray color of it, so close to the ash that painted the ground. Her attire would have given her away as easily: the leather pants, the vest, the insane number of knives. The veil over her face. The eyes that glowed even in the light of the sun.
“You are the wizard, Desh Krohan.” It wasn't a question.
Desh nodded his head and wondered if his cloak would stop whatever the woman intended to throw his way.
“This is for you.” She tossed a metal tube at his feet. The dust kicked up when it landed. He watched the object as it rolled to a stop at the edge of his robe and when he looked back up the woman stood directly behind Brolley. “Read it. I will be here waiting for your response.”
He nodded his head silently and lifted the container. He wasn’t at all worried about poison or being attacked. If they’d wanted him dead he would have already achieved that state. The fact that the woman – by her stature he guessed “child” more accurate; she was likely no older that Brolley – had virtually manifested from nowhere made it clear that she could have killed him at any point. Even now the soldiers in the distance were just realizing that there was a problem. He could hear their cries of shock.
Desh held up a hand to warn them against any foolish actions. Despite their surprise, they listened. He could see the man in charge – damned if he could remember a name – pacing like a caged animal. No one liked to be caught completely unaware.
Desh read the scroll inside quickly. The note was five simple words: Do You Wish To Parley?
“Yes. Yes we do.”
The girl nodded. He’d seen her before, he was sure of it. “When?”
“Choose a time and a place. We will meet for the parley.” He kept his voice as calm as he could manage. “What happened to the people in this town?”
“King Tuskandru was attacked by your soldiers.” Her voice was calm. “The Council of Kings felt a message needed to be delivered.”
“I would imagine I’d have been just as happy with a note on the subject.” He tossed the tube back to the ground to make his point.
The girl nodded. “Some messages need to be made more clearly.”
“When and where do your kings wish to arrange a parley?”
“What your people call the Temmis Pass will do. Ten days from now, when the sun rises.”
“How many people from each side?”
The girl tilted her head, considering. “As many as you like. This will be a discussion of peace.”
Desh’s eyes looked around a second time, trying to understand how the girl had seemingly manifested from nowhere. It took a moment, but finally he saw the marks in the ash-painted sand. “What if we had attacked you instead of agreeing to parley? What then?”
“I would have lived or I would have died and the Daxar Taalor would have had their answer either way.” She slid back from Brolley, who, to his credit, did not try to reach for his sword. Desh had half expected the boy to try to defend his honor.
“Ten days from now. Until then we are at a peace?”
“Until then.” She spread her hands out from her sides and bowed in formal accord.
Desh returned the bow.
A moment later she turned and walked away, heading toward the Blasted Lands. It would take her longer than ten days to get home and that in and of itself told him more than he had known before.
One of the soldiers looked as if he might go after her, but the commander said something from too far away for Desh to hear and the fool stopped. Good. That was good. He had no particular desire to kill a soldier who was only trying to do his duty.
Brolley took a step toward him and then shivered as quietly as he could. “By the gods where did she come from?”
Desh pointed to the marks in the soil. “She was waiting here.”
“What?”
“She was waiting here. Waiting for us or for someone else, I’m not completely certain. But she was waiting. She rested under the sand.”
Brolley walked over to the indent and shook his head, his face showing clearly his surprise at the notion. “For how long?”
“Who can say? Long enough to surprise us and we’ve been here for a few hours.”
Brolley looked after the retreating figure. “Jost. I think her name is Jost.”
“You’re right. I couldn’t think of her name to save my life.”
“So they want peace?”
Desh looked at the Empress’s brother and shook his head. “It’s hard to say what they want. Peace? Possibly. Or they might be hoping to find us in a vulnerable position and attack then.”
“Who will handle the parley?”
“That is for your sister to decide. And Merros Dulver as well.”
Neither of the men said much more as they headed for their horses. They had the answer to what had happened in Roathes. They had all the answer they needed for the moment.
And they had new questions.
“What will happen in the meantime, Desh?”
Desh Krohan looked out at the bleak sea of ash and dead fish and shook his head. “I have hopes to accomplish several impossible tasks.”
Danaher spread out before the Pilgrim, a collection of towns that had grown into one city over the course of centuries. The last time he had been in the area, the towns that had become a city had been little more than villages. Times had changed and for the better it seemed.
Still, looks could be deceiving.
He walked into Danaher without event, and only a few people noticed him at all. He had changed his clothes since awakening and his flesh had taken on a more healthy color.
Little remained of the towns he knew from long ago. Certain buildings, the way roads cut between two hills here or there. Mostly nothing was the same, but there were always exceptions. Near the lake’s edge a rough wall – Danaher’s Wall, actually, where the great man had first settled the area and decided to raise his family – ran for a quarter of a mile, holding back the earth that had, in distant times, been soft and prone to collapse. The roots of trees had long since hardened the earth’s grip and the tendency to slough away was a thing of the past, but the wall remained, mostly intact. The Pilgrim walked the length of the wall and occasionally let his fingertips trace the rough stone. He followed the length of Danaher’s wall to the temple of Plith. The path was clear of weeds and the stones placed for walking the length were worn from generations of feet.
Plith was the God of the Harvest, who aided the farmers in their efforts and, in her wilder days, had also been known to drive men wild with lust. In those times, she’d been portrayed as a beautiful woman with harsh features and vast antlers. The statue he saw of her now was a different thing entirely. There was a statue of a woman covered in vines instead of the lusty figure he recalled so well. He suspected there were changes in more than the way she was portrayed.
He would find out soon enough.
There were many people who spent lifetimes seeking to better understand the gods and those who wished answers often went to the priests and priestesses to get them. That was exactly what the Pilgrim did.
The temple itself was in fair shape. The original building had been expanded several times to make room for more worshippers, as was to be expected when a small personal temple became the center for something larger and far more formal.
Danaher had been a good man. He had also been an excellent leader of men. The temple was only one of his legacies.
The interior of the temple was clean and warm, inviting, as it should have been. Plith was not an angry god, but a generous one. Did she not offer of herself to strangers? Did she not help make the most meager of crops enough to allow a family to thrive? Had she not offered herself to the people of this region?
His presence did not go unnoticed. The man who approached him was smiling as he stepped toward the Pilgrim. “Welcome. Well met.” The man held his hands together, cupped as if to accept water from a fountain. Puzzled by the gesture, the Pilgrim nonetheless returned it.
“How can we help you, my son?” The priest’s voice was warm and soft. His eyes shone wetly in the well-lit temple.
“I would speak with Plith.” The Pilgrim bowed his head in the old ways, showing his respect.
The priest’s face worked in a strange way. “She is not here, of course.”
“Where else would she be?”
“Well, Plith is among the stars with the other gods, looking down upon us all.”
The Pilgrim’s mouth cut into a harsh line. “Where in all the teachings does it say that Plith resides among the stars?”
Again the man seemed puzzled by his words, as if the Pilgrim was speaking in a language that seemed almost like one that made sense, but only sounded close to right.
“It is common knowledge.”
The Pilgrim closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them after waiting for patience in the darkness of his head. “No. It is not. ‘Plith may be found in her temples and in the great woods and in the fields when the harvest time has come.’ This is her temple and I would speak with Plith.”
“Plith resides among the stars, with the other gods. There is nothing that I can do to make her show herself in this place if she is not already here.”
The Pilgrim took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Then you are not a priest of Plith and you should not be here.”
“I am a priest of Plith, my son. I am the First Priest of Plith. The teachings of Fornuto and Polemea reside within this temple.” The priest’s voice had taken on an edge and his eyes looked past the Pilgrim, seeking, perhaps someone to assist him.
“Fornuto was second to Treidin and Polemea was a follower of Tyrea, not of Plith.”
“You are mistaken, my son.” The priest now spoke with a definite edge to his tone.
“No. I am not.” The Pilgrim’s hand lashed out, striking the priest in the throat. The priest staggered back and hit the wall, coughing, trying to understand exactly what had happened, his hands probing the damage.
The Pilgrim walked forward and held the priest’s shoulders, looking into the man’s panicked eyes.
“I would speak with Plith. Now.”
From so very far away, he heard the voice of Plith. It was a faint sound, barely above a whisper as it came from the mouth of the priest.
The Pilgrim listened as best he could to the voice that should have been so very much clearer.
This was the first of his gods whom he sought to speak with. Plith would not be the last.