"To Be Chosen"

OF GODS AND MEN

Chapter 8: Two Prayers

                 An hour later found Tarsus inside the cathedral of Malthus.  The large, oval room was the base of the GodKing’s palace and, fittingly, the seat of his rule.  This was where the masses gathered to worship their God.  This was where the priests held council and wrote the policies of the city.  This place was the very heart of Malthanon.

            Inside were rows upon rows of ornate, ivory pews that ran the length of the cathedral.  They were split down the center of the room by a long, lush red carpet that covered the aisle leading from the cathedral entrance all the way to the dais at the opposite end.  On the dais sat a simple white alter, from which the High Priest of Malthus delivered his sermons, all sitting under a maze ceiling of glass and metal latticework that bathed the room in fractured moonlight.

But for all the beauty the cathedral offered, nothing was so magnificent as the great stone statue of the GodKing himself.  It stood behind the alter, fifteen feet high at least, showing Malthus in a terrifying warlike pose: with hands held up over his head and gripping the hilt of a stone Malthir. 

Tarsus was mesmerized.  He sat low in one of the pews at the very front of the cathedral, marveling at the detail of the GodKing and his enchanted blade.  He wondered if Malthir would look that way when they found it.  Then he stopped himself; finding the sword was a long way off.  Surely greater men and women than he had tried to bring back Malthir, and clearly none of them had succeeded.  Why should he, a second rate swordsman in league with only two other average warriors, hope to succeed? 

“Because there is nothing else for me,” Tarsus whispered to the silence all around him.  “Nothing in Briarden.  Nothing in Malthanon.  Nothing.”

He stood up; stood up straight and tall, looking up at the statue of Malthus with a fiery determination.  He lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head, resting his forehead on the back of the ivory bench before him.  He closed his eyes in supplication before the altar, and before the image of the GodKing himself.  “My Lord Malthus, I do not know if you can still hear our prayers.  Perhaps you can…so long as it is one of your chosen doing the praying.  The High Priest perhaps, or Cecily.  But I am not one of your chosen.  Truth be told, I’ve never been chosen for anything.”

Behind him, something clacked in the darkness.  Tarsus turned, but saw nothing.  He turned back to the statue and looked up at the hard, stone face of Malthus looking out onto the cathedral.  He bent his head again, closing his eyes to the feeling of cool ivory.  “I have never chased after anything before.  Not really.  Not like this; and the hard part of our journey hasn’t even begun yet.  I pray that when it does, you’re with us Lord.  That you’re with me.  For I…I do not know what strength I have in me.  So I pray, when the hard times come, that you will help me to have enough.”

Tarsus stayed where he was, with head bowed and eyes closed.  He did not speak, rather, he allowed himself to be swallowed whole by the silence of the cathedral.  It was customary to pray out loud when asking for a god’s favor, but Tarsus had always liked repeating his prayers a second time in his mind.  His parents had always taught him that there were three ways of speaking with the gods: with words, thoughts and deeds.  Prayer could accomplish two of those, and it seemed foolish not to take advantage of its fullest potential. 

As he finished his silent prayer, he was struck with the recollection of what Finnian had said to him outside, just before departing for the White Light Inn.

“Gods lie too.  They’re no better than we are.”

He and Finnian never talked about the gods precisely because Tarsus knew his friend held this sentiment.  To Finnian, the gods were only another part of the natural world.  Yet the power they held over mortals made Finnian uncomfortable.  Creators or no, Finnian and others like him felt that the gods had no business exerting their will over mortals. 

“If my father cannot force me into taking over the family flock, what right do the gods have to force me into paying tithes, or sacrificing a prized lamb, or going on a journey that meant certain death only to spread the good news of their divinity?”

Tarsus understood Finnian’s argument: it was logical and fair minded.  But it was different for Tarsus.  Something deeper in him stirred when it came to the gods; something beyond logic and reason. 

He had always been captivated by their divine majesty.  To Tarsus, they were not simply rulers or kings, but creators; beings that had pooled their talents and creativity into the genesis of this one world.  Yes, they were petty.  Many of them governed their own provinces, trying to carve out a piece of their collaboration to call their own.  But so too did human artisans who had collaborated on a craft.  Yet the gods must have known that no lines on a map could truly define which god made what.  In that way at least, they were not all-powerful.  They were governing a shared thing; signing their name to a story they all had authored.  The whole could only be so because of all of their separate pieces, yet none of the pieces alone could be whole. 

As he knelt there; in the dark, alone with these thoughts; Tarsus was moved to pity for these heavenly creatures.  He felt a kinship with them he could never explain; a kinship a son might feel for his father.  The gods were much more complicated than the likes of Finnian chose to consider.  He saw some of them in himself, and that made them human to Tarsus.  And yet, they were also divine.  How could those two natures coexist?  Which nature ruled the gods more?  These were the mysteries that compelled Tarsus’s fascination, and his reverence. 

From the back of the cathedral, there came the echoes of footsteps on stone.  It was clear to Tarsus that someone had just entered.  The footsteps stopped abruptly.  Most likely, the worshipper had decided to stay at the back of the holy place.  He decided he should stand and make his exit before this new person began praying.  It was only right; prayers were still meant to be private, even if said out loud.  In the quiet dark of this stone room, without hundreds of other worshippers offering up their prayers, this other fellow’s whispers would carry all the way to Tarsus’s ears.

But then he heard something.  It was not the words of a prayer, but sniffling.  Whoever had come in had been crying: could still be crying.  Tarsus moved to stand.  He did not raise his head; he did not want to startle the person.  He put a hand each on the pews in front of and behind him.  He slowly pushed to lift himself up.

“My king?”

He stopped himself, his knees barely lifted off the stone floor.  He knew that voice.

“What do I do now?” he heard Cecily ask.

Tarsus lifted his head a bit.  The statue was as grim and unforgiving as ever, with flecks of silver in the stone now glimmering in the moonlight.

“The priests tell me there is no Summa Temple,” Cecily went on.  “They say the Under Isle is a myth.”

Tarsus was stunned.  He had heard stories of the Summa Temple and the Under Isle all his life and no one ever claimed them to be myths.  No one in Briarden had ever been to either of them, but that was the wisdom of shepherds.  They had seen so many incredible things traveling with sheep that they never took for granted what could or couldn’t be out in the world.

“I told them you came to me.  That you ordered me here to seek help,” she went on, her voice wavering now.  “They told me not even the High Priest has spoken to you.  Not once in his lifetime.  Neither the priest before him nor the one before him.  They say…you have abandoned us.”

Tarsus looked up at the face of Malthus inquiringly.  Was this true?  Did the clergy truly believe the GodKing was gone?  Why would they run the city in his name then?  Maybe he should have told them what Adulatio said back in Briarden.  Perhaps he still could.  If the High Priest knew that the GodKing was dying…

“I have followers here,” Cecily went on.  “Only two.  But they followed me when no one else would.  What do I say to them now?”

Tarsus’s questions faded away, and he the pity he felt a moment ago returned.

“Tell me what to do,” she pleaded.  “Is this a lark?  Am I wasting my time?”

It dawned on Tarsus then that even Cecily must not have known that Malthus was dying.  He had always assumed that she did.  She claimed the GodKing had visited her, after all.  Wouldn’t Malthus have told her of his plight? 

But none of that mattered now.  Tarsus faced a choice in this moment.  He could tell Cecily the truth: that Malthus was dying and not even Malthir and salvation meant killing the GodKing.  Or he could stay silent, and let Cecily wrestle with this on her own.  Either way meant that she could give up the quest.   But Tarsus could not let that happen.  He had to see this through.  Whatever else, he had to see this through.

“Am I insane?” he heard Cecily whisper as clearly as though she had shouted it.

“No!” he exclaimed into the cavernous cathedral.

He stood up and turned to face his captain.  Slowly, but deliberately, he walked toward her.  She did not look surprised to see him, but she did not look happy either.

“I swear, I looked around this room like a hawk for any sign of another living soul and found none,” Cecily said as he approached.

“Perhaps Malthus showed you what you needed to see,” Tarsus replied.

“Why did you let me pray for so long?” she asked.

“I’m sorry.  I tried to leave before you started, but I was not fast enough,” Tarsus offered her a weak smile.  “Besides, I don’t like being interrupted when I pray.”

“I suppose you and Finnian will be leaving now?  Heading home?” she asked without really asking.

“No.”

“Tarsus,” she sighed, shaking her head.  She looked up at him from her seat in the pew.  “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“None of us do,” Tarsus replied easily.  “But I do know that you’re not insane.”

“How?” Cecily asked genuinely.  “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I know that Malthus…” Tarsus paused.  This was the moment.  There would be no going back from this.  “Malthus is dying.”

“What?” Cecily got to her feet quickly.  Her tone was one of accusation; accusation, disbelief and a demand for an explanation all at once.

“The night before we left, Finnian and I were visited by Adulatio,” Tarsus began.  “He told us that Malthus is dying, and has been dying, for a thousand years.  That is why no one has seen him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Cecily pressed.

“We thought you already knew,” Tarsus said, burning inside.  He was lying; even if he did not yet know he was lying.

“I did not,” Cecily declared, confirming Tarsus’s dishonesty.

Cecily moved out of the pew and began walking up and down the center aisle.  She was pacing: planning.

Tarsus was silent.  There was more to tell.  They had to find Malthir and use the GodKing’s own sword to slay him.  Then, one of them: the one to kill Malthus: would take the GodKing’s place as the new GodKing…or GodQueen.

Tarsus took a breath.  He had to tell her everything.  That was the right thing to do.  He opened his mouth to speak…

“We must find the sword,” Cecily said before Tarsus could utter a word.  Her eyes were alight with renewed purpose.

Tarsus was silent, even as his mind screamed at him to tell her everything.  Yet his mouth would not listen.  Cecily was committed again, and the only way they would find this sword is if they did it together.  Tarsus knew that.  He did not know how, but deep in his bones he knew that the three of them could make a whole that was better than any one of them could be alone.  They were like the gods themselves, authoring an adventure that could become legend; pushing each other past themselves, into the ether of greatness.

“Tarsus,” Cecily called.  “Will you help me?”

“I pledged I would,” Tarsus replied, offering her a smile.

“And Finnian?” Cecily asked hesitantly.

“We won’t leave you,” Tarsus assured.

“Thank you.”

She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him.  She squeezed tightly, like someone greeting an old friend they had not seen in years.  Then, she let her head fall onto his shoulder, very unlike someone greeting an old friend they had not seen in years.

Tarsus embraced her in return and let his head rest on hers.  The two of them were still for a while; basking in the silence that covered their ears and bathing in the moonlight that flooded the cathedral.
         “Come,” Cecily finally said, breaking their hold.  “Let’s head to the White Light and get some sleep.  Tomorrow…we sail!”