Chapter Two #3
Once Shadach had begun to see Shadows being born, once he had begun to see every lie, every softened truth, Aristen had realised he had two choices: stop being friends with Shadach or refuse to lie to him.
To Shadach’s surprise, Aristen had chosen the latter.
Of course, there was the occasional lie, but Shadach had learned to give Aristen a bit of grace.
The lies were often unconscious ones that Aristen told himself rather than intentional ones he told to Shadach.
For Aristen, telling Shadach the truth was cathartic.
It was the only place he could be honest in his line of work.
It was cathartic for Shadach, too. He didn’t have to worry about Aristen’s motives, his lies.
His schemes. It made Shadach almost trust him.
Almost.
“So then.” Shadach leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table. “What are you really doing here? You never come here anymore without an ulterior motive.”
“Shadach, it’s the slums. I’ve never come here without an ulterior motive.”
“Out with it then.”
Aristen’s eyes went sombre as he thumbed his glass, leaving streaks in the condensation. “The slums are going to go through some … changes. In fact, the whole Kingdom is going to go through a lot of changes. You should get the Knitting Widow in order in case things down here are rocky for a while.”
“What’s happened?” Shadach’s voice was as tight as the rope of a drawbridge.
Aristen polished off the last of his cocktail. “The Emperor’s dead.”
~*~
The temple of the God was thick with people.
Shadach walked into the main worship hall that night at the same time he had for the midweek service every week for the past ten years.
Five minutes before the start. On a normal night, he and about ten other people worshipped in the massive temple.
Tonight, he would be lucky to find a place to sit.
Every man, woman, and child in the Emperor’s City was sitting shoulder to shoulder on the lush, crimson rugs covering the stone floor, hoping for their chance to change their lot in life.
The Emperor was dead, which meant the God would soon choose another. One who was worthy of the God’s favour.
The city was suddenly filled with devotees.
Shadach’s bare feet left temporary imprints in the rugs as he searched for a place to sit, his feet still wet from the ritual washing at the temple entrance. The ritual washing was a recent addition. Shadach suspected it had more to do with keeping the rugs clean than a spiritual cleansing.
Priestesses carried incense burners through the throngs of people, whispering prayers while Shadows trailed after them.
The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming roses as Shadach spotted a sliver of space next to an alabaster pillar, one of many holding up the vaulted ceiling.
Stories of the God, of the people of the Kingdom, were carved into the ceiling panels, faded with time, but no less extravagant than the day they’d been made.
Shadach wedged himself between the pillar and an elderly man he recognised as a local dignitary. Here in the temple, commoner mingled with courtesan, thief sat next to military. Only the priestesses brought their high social status into the temple.
The High Priestess entered from a side passage at the front, a woman far too young to be the leader of all the temples in the Kingdom.
She wore thin robes of violet and thick, gold earrings that framed her neck and brushed against her shoulders.
Carrying a heavy torch, she chanted a verse from the God’s first words of worship.
The crowd tried to follow her words, but most stumbled through the archaic phrases.
Shadach could recite them in his sleep. He resisted the urge to cringe at every misspoken word from the people around him.
Worship was about the heart, not the words.
But it was still hard not to laugh when the woman in front of him accidentally said, “How thine big toe maketh me weep with joy” in Ancient Selatian rather than “How thine great power maketh me weep with joy.”
When the chants finished, the time came for the giving of personal offerings. People made three unordered queues at the back of the temple, one in front of each statue depicting a different representation of the God: the God of Night, the God of Shadows, and the God of Lust.
Shadach first queued for the God of Night whose likeness was a valiant warrior with the head of a cat holding a staff of stars.
Before he became part of the God, the God of Night was the god of the Selats.
At the head of this queue was Aristen with an offering of a sharp blade.
Custom made, no doubt, and worth more than Shadach had made in the Knitting Widow’s ten years.
Shadach wondered how Aristen had gotten to the front of this queue so quickly.
He must have queued before the chants were even finished.
Shadach was shoved forward then shoved back as more and more people crowded around him.
After giving his offering of a healing balm, Shadach queued for the God of Shadows, his likeness depicted as a cloaked figure with a knotted walking stick.
Before he became part of the God, he had been known only to Shadach’s people, the Halcin.
Though saying there was “a queue” was a bit like saying stubbing one’s toe was the worst injury a person could endure.
At least no one was bumping into him here … except to get to a different queue.
Shadach gave his offering of a whispered secret to the Shadow God then glanced at the queue for the God of Lust. The long ago patron god of the Xana.
Worshipping this form with sexual lust and desire was far and away the people’s favourite.
Whether woman worshipped with woman, man with woman, or man with man did not matter.
What the God of Lust held sacred was the heart of the worshipers.
The trueness of their passion. This queue more than the others was raucous and unordered with people desperate to get into the worship rooms near the God of Lust’s statue.
Despite the sexual nature of their patron god, the Xana were a modest people, and tradition dictated that worship was private, behind closed doors, with either a fellow worshipper or a willing priestess.
Even so, walls and doors could not contain the sounds of lust emanating from the rooms. Moans and cries of delight, screams of overwhelming pleasure and pleas to never, ever stop filled the air.
Shadach would give offerings to the God of Lust another time.
This form more than the others felt personal.
Intimate. Desire, raw and unbridled, was essential.
How was Shadach meant to worship, untainted and true, with someone who created a Shadow nearly every time they spoke?
Queuing to leave the temple, Shadach felt a migraine setting on. The deafening noise from the crowd was bad enough, but all the people meant the temple was hot and sweaty, too.
“Come to put your blood in the Book?” Aristen came up beside Shadach.
“I came to worship.” Shadach shuffled forward when a modicum of space opened up in front of him. “What are you still doing here? I thought you gave your offering ages ago.”
“I decided to go back and give another.”
“You can’t bribe the God into making you Emperor.”
“No, but you can bribe the High Priestess,” Aristen laughed.
A woman shoved into Shadach. And did not apologise.
Up ahead, an elderly woman stood before a golden pedestal with a book open to a fresh page.
She wrote her name in the Book using her blood as ink.
From these crimson signatures, the God would choose the next Emperor.
There were books with names in every major temple across the land with this same ritual happening in a hundred locations at once.
Yet, people had travelled across the country to come to this particular temple in the Emperor’s City.
The last five Emperors had been chosen from this exact book.
“Come now,” Aristen slung an arm over Shadach’s shoulders, “you’re really not going to put your name in?”
“I don’t want to be Emperor.” Shadach was shoved from behind. He stood his ground.
“Everybody wants to be Emperor,” Aristen laughed.
“I don’t.” There were plenty enough people in this Kingdom willing to stab him in the back because he was a Halcin. He didn’t need to become Emperor and extend that pool of people to the entire world.
“Then,” Aristen said, “why are you here?”
“I always come here.”
“Ah yes, Shadach, the one true believer.” Aristen threw out a hand as if making a grand statement to crowds of millions. “You know it’s a sham, right?” Aristen leaned in close. “The next Emperor is already determined.”
“The God chooses the Emperor.”
“Shadach, it’s really time you gave up that naiveté of yours.” Aristen gave Shadach a pat on the shoulder. “It’s hard work and endless bribery that chooses the next ruler.”
The man in front of Shadach wrote his name in the Book, whispering prayers for the God to bless him as he left. Shadach was next.
“The God is more powerful than human bribery.” Shadach stood before the pedestal, the ancient book open to a fresh page. It stank of age and mortal history, centuries of blood, thousands of names that had come before written on each page.
“If you really believed that,” Aristen glanced at the Book as if it were a cheap toy, “you’d write your name.”
“What would that prove?”
“You’re the most devout believer in the Kingdom. If the God chooses someone else, he clearly doesn’t exist. Here, I’ll prove it.” Aristen drew a knife from his belt. Taking Shadach’s hand, he made a swift cut in Shadach’s palm.
“What are you—”
“When you don’t get chosen, you’ll know I’m right.” Aristen squeezed Shadach’s wound, allowing the blood to drop onto Aristen’s palm until a small pool had formed. Picking up a quill on the pedestal and dipping it in Shadach’s blood, Aristen wrote Shadach’s name in the Book.