Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (26 page)

Twelve wings fanning out around the horseshoe foyer
needed enough space for an entire city block.  And that excluded the buildings
further back, off limits to the general public.

When Marik had explained the additional destination
that morning, he’d hoped the others would not be too upset.  Instead, taking
him by surprise, they all fell in with the idea.  His companions had never
struck him as being religious fellows, and the lack of temples around Kingshome
had never produced the grumbles that the kitchen running short on bread rolls
could. 
Still
, he reflected,
we are all of us mercenaries.  We take
our opportunities when they come, and try not to think about them when they
don’t.

Hilliard in particular had been enthusiastic.  On the
road he had been deprived of his regular observance.  Now, it seemed, he
intended to make up for lost time.

Shalla left them to their own devices, uninterested in
whether or not Marik actually did anything after the trouble she had taken to
shame him into it.  She headed further into the grand hall and entered a
left-side arch down the way.

Few people cluttered the centermost aisle down the
hall.  They tended to head straight for the archway leading to their particular
temple.  Most stayed closer to the walls, which left the middle free.  Marik
took his time.  He slowly walked to the opposite end, staying in the middle and
studying the Twelve’s major temples.

The first chapel to his left from the entrance, the
one he had first peered into, was obviously Sheirleon’s, the Goddess of
Goodness.  Of the Twelve, She was one of the two largest.  Correspondingly, Her
congregation matched Her status, having the most followers.  Her wing, facing
the street, also showcased an entire stained-glass window-filled wall.  The
artists behind its creation had succeeded in capturing entire scenes within the
panes, depicting moments from traditional stories Marik had heard every
Summerdawn festival during his youth.

Inside Sheirleon’s chapel the floor changed from stone
to tan parquet wood.  He had the oddest feeling that light emanated from the
floor, the sun shinning from below as much as through the windows.  The entire
wing spoke of brightness, and Marik could sense the pull that drew men to Her
faith.

Priests in white robes milled around the dais at the
far end.  None apparently had duties that needed tending.  Sheirleon’s services
would run later, leaving Her priests available to whoever might have need for
them.  Several spoke privately with worshipers.

Across the way, in the first wing on the right side,
Marik found Her counterpart, Vernilock, God of Evil.  Though He commanded a far
smaller congregation around Galemar, He was the other side of Sheirleon’s
coin.  Seen by many as the mother/father gods, it made sense that their chapels
should be the first in the cathedral.

His walk brought him to the next pair.  Statues of
Amit, God of Peace, flanked the left archway.  Directly across, mirroring His
partner god, Marik quickly recognized Ercsilon, his own God of Conflict.  He
would stop there later but he wanted to see the other statues first.  Their
stone was more than simple material from which a likeness had been crafted. 
The statues somehow embodied the very deity they represented.  While he gazed
at Amit’s serene features, Marik felt at peace, the worry over his
responsibilities as Hilliard’s protector fading.

Either the stone sculptors had been exceptionally
gifted or the deities’ presence had settled in their church’s stronghold. 
Whatever the cause, it drew Marik further on.

The next to his left was Hall’Kyon, Goddess of
Prosperity, matched across the way by Shiconn, God of Cunning.  These two were
odd in that they complimented each other while at the same time opposing their
partner.  Perhaps all the partner deities did so likewise but it was most
obvious with this pair.

A curious mix loitered around Shiconn’s archway. 
These were either well-to-do men in finer clothing or scraggly fellows who
could have stood a visit to a good seamstress.  Marik always found this
interesting.  Merchants and thieves, natural enemies if ever there were any,
both paying service to the same god.  While the merchants prayed for cleverness
in their business dealings, the thieves knelt nearby, praying for ingenuity in
their schemes to rob the merchants.  Shiconn’s statue hinted at slyness with
true intentions concealed behind a stone mask.

Shalla’s archway was the next on the left, revealed as
the chapel to Urliel, God of Knowledge.  That she chose to be a follower of His
came as no surprise.  Urliel commanded one of the smallest congregations in the
Twelve, tending to attract only the scholarly type, as Marik saw her.  To the
right was His partner goddess, Fate.  The faces on Her statues were blank,
surfaces as smooth as the wall.  Her true name remained forever hidden from the
world so men called Her by Her domain.  She would have commanded the fewest
followers were it not for the archway beyond Hers.

Though that archway remained intact, it had not been
maintained.  Many cracks webbed the stone.  Only broken bases remained where
once had stood twin statues.  The archway had been sealed with stone centuries
ago, the hatred toward the Unnamed God driving the cathedral keepers, devoted
to all Twelve simultaneously, to block access to His wing.  All sense of a
higher presence, pulling at him from the other archways, was absent from this
one.

Marik stared at the sealed archway.  It had only been
left intact as a sign of contempt.  He searched his memories for stories regarding
the Unnamed God.  To his surprise he realized he hardly knew any.  Barely any
mention had been made in the many songs he’d listened to at Puarri’s Tavern.

As best he could recall, the Unnamed God had once
owned a name and been worshipped alongside the other eleven.  Then an ill wind
had blown.  Exactly what was never clear.  The fragments he remembered
suggested the god had gone mad; a terrifying concept.  A war waged between the
gods, the madness of the Unnamed God granting Him the power to stand against
the others.  Or perhaps it had been nothing like that at all.  Marik could
testify firsthand on how minstrels mangled the original facts.

The lyrics he struggled for were vague to begin with. 
A hero had finally succeeded in killing Him in a faraway land.  Mostly myth,
Marik knew, but that was the problem with bards.  No laws required the songs
they wrote to be accurate, or even truthful.  Since he recalled no other
references, he suspected the history’s validity.

But no one could deny the ages-old, sealed archway. 
Whatever had actually happened, it left the people with a searing hatred so
vile it led them to destroy everything down to His name in mortal world.

Marik, curiosity mildly piqued, glanced to the left so
he could see who this god’s counterpart had been.  Lor’Velath, Goddess of
Magic.  Seeing Her wing soured his mood considerably.  If Tollaf were standing
there beside him, and Marik were struggling to decide which god to call his
own, he knew exactly what the old man would push him to do.  Just as well there
weren’t any temples around Kingshome after all, else the chief mage would be
harping on him to leave Ercsilon behind as often as he bitched about Marik
wasting his time in sword practice.

He wasted no further speculation on the Unnamed God’s
nature.  The last pair waited at the horseshoe’s far end, their archways
located on the wall’s curve.  Nearly side-by-side, which seemed strangely
fitting, the chapel for Eross’Drose, Goddess of Love, occupied the left side
while Alon’Vule, Goddess of Vengeance, claimed the right.  Between the two
wings, broad doors were set in the wall, neither marked for the public’s
benefit.  They led deeper into the cathedral to parts unknown by outsiders.

The love goddess’ statues tantalized, yet were also
strangely motherly and matronly at the same time.  It was as though two
different sculptures rested on the same stone base.  Each existed inside the
other at the same time.

Marik’s eyes blurred until he stepped away, returning
to Ercsilon’s wing and noticing his companions.  Hilliard followed the left
wall around.  So far he had made his way to Urliel’s archway where he stood
before the statue depicting an elderly man, speaking to it.  He held his purse,
and Marik noticed for the first time that set within the statues’ bases were
donation boxes.  Secured by an iron padlock, the boxes were hardly noticeable,
the stonework design having incorporated them.

Hilliard finished his conversation with the stone
representation then walked further to Lor’Velath’s wing.  One archway in the
other direction, Kerwin did much the same.  The box into which he dropped his
donation belonged to Hall’Kyon.  Marik smiled.  Of course the gambler would
naturally be as attracted to the Goddess of Prosperity as to Ercsilon.  Landon
was not in sight, so he must have entered the chapels.  Dietrik hovered in the
crowd within paces of Hilliard.

At the God of Conflict’s wing, Marik noticed a service
proceeded.  He decided to stay outside after all.  Only sixty or so worshipers
sat listening to the lone priest wearing a stole that was black on the left
side and white on the other.  Pews were absent from this wing.  Straight-backed
chairs without arms took their place, all arranged in an intimate circle around
the minister.  The floor was of a different type of stone than the central
cathedral’s.  Brown sandstone cut into equal sized blocks formed the flooring.

Massive tapestries depicted many scenes.  Many were of
men in battle, as would be expected.  Others were of a much simpler nature. 
Men in conversation gesturing firmly with opposing viewpoints were presented in
startlingly realistic stitch.  A different hanging work showed a fire
struggling to stay alive in the midst of a raging storm.  Around a large table,
groups of men in separate dress argued vehemently, the subject having to do
with the maps strewn across the surface.  On the far wall behind the standing
priest hung the simplest of them all; half white, half black.  All these scenes
served to remind that Ercsilon was no barbarian war god, but had dominion over
conflict, whatever its form, and only through conflict did change result.

Marik remained outside.  He sought out the donation
box in the statue’s base.  A few coppers would not do.  It would probably
insult the god rather than pay tribute.  He had several years worth of worship
to make up, and a great deal of piety to represent.  His purse bounced on his
palm while he considered.

Most of the silver from selling his cottage in
Tattersfield still remained, as did the major portion of his wages through
two-and-a-half years on contract with the Crimson Kings.  With a month in
Thoenar ahead, considering all the possible need for coin that entailed along
with Dietrik’s desire for possible luxury shopping, he withdrew ten silvers,
hesitated, then pulled out another pair.  He fit them through the slot one by
one.  As he did, he thought loudly toward the statues.

Most priests I know say it doesn’t matter if the words
are spoken aloud, so let’s keep this between the two of us.  I’ve managed to
come through two years of fighting as a mercenary, and I’m still kicking.  I’ve
had close calls, but guys like Hayden can’t say that anymore.  I doubt I’ll
live a long life in this line of work so I won’t ask you to always let me be on
the winning side.  I’m not sure what to ask for, except I hope you hear me when
I talk to you on the battlefield.  Tollaf keeps trying to turn me away from my
lifestyle, so maybe that’s earned me a handful of faith credits.  I try my best
with my sword instead of resting on my Class within the Kings.  I guess I can
ask you for that, then.  Help me advance through my training until I’m worthy
of being a true B Class warrior.  Help me live up to the rank Torrance dropped
on me.

Marik expected no response as the last thought
accompanied the last coin into the dark interior, and the world lived up to his
expectations for a change.  If Ercsilon heard his thoughts, the god gave no
tangible evidence of it.  But he felt a little better.  Lighter in a way he had
not expected for having thrown away twelve silvers.  He remembered the days of
scraping for coppers to buy medicines for his mother.  Twelve silvers then
would have seemed like the wealth of kings.

And I suppose it is.  The wages of a Crimson King.  An
emperor of the battlefield, dripping crimson blood from hand and blade.

Marik returned to the hall’s less traveled center and
watched Hilliard circle his way around the cathedral.  Kerwin joined him while
he waited, full of good cheer.  The rest gradually rejoined them until Hilliard
finally stood before Vernilock’s archway.

The last of Hilliard’s words reached Marik’s ears when
he crossed over to the youth.  “…and so I ask that you turn your gaze from my
friends and family.  Please dampen the greater evils throughout the world and
only charge the necessary evils to those who may bear their load.  This, I
pray.”

He dropped a ten-copper coin through the slot.  Marik
commented, “A lot of people in my hometown skipped Him during Summerdawn
festival.  Judging by the hollow sound from your coin, I’d guess most city
people do to.”

A negative headshake accompanied Hilliard’s response. 
“I can understand why they would, but Vernilock should not be ignored. 
Some
evil is needed in the world, lest how can acts of goodness and kindness have
value?  With His control over evil itself, who better to prevent it from
befalling the innocent?”