Faith is Earned 1, page 34
The gates didn’t loom with menace, but they loomed all the same, two great doors of ironwood banded in bronze, opened wide to reveal an arch lined with symbols from over a hundred faiths. At their base stood a dozen guards, clad in white and cobalt-blue, armored in a way that declared preparedness. Each bore a curved blade sheathed at the hip, a round buckler strapped to the left forearm, and a circlet woven from dyed threads at the brow. They watched the arriving pilgrims and travelers with calm professionalism, speaking in clear tones, gesturing with practiced care, ushering some through, pausing others. There was no shouting, no clamor. Only the careful rhythm of a place accustomed to being the center of too many stories.
Luke stepped forward.
A [Guardswoman], broad-shouldered, mid-thirties perhaps, hair bound tightly in temple-wrapped cords, raised her hand. Her expression held no challenge, only ritual.
“Step, please. [Inspect]”
She lifted a hand glowing faintly with internal light and activated a simple Skill and by how she murmured a second, not-so-simple Skill as well. It brushed him like a soft breeze and he felt his Class flare, just slightly, as the effect took hold. She looked at the result, whatever was revealed in the air between them and nodded once, her voice shifting subtly as she spoke the rite.
“[Votary of Xelreth], sworn in justice and cloth. May your God speak truly and your Vows remain unbroken… Huh. That’s a new greeting.”
Then she intoned the laws, as both a warning and as a scaffolding of peace.
“No preaching without temple permit. No miracles within one hundred feet of another God’s sanctified ground. No divine conflict in public or civic space. There are other, simpler rules, but hold fast to these three and you should have no major issues.”
He inclined his head. The gates parted without resistance and he stepped through.
The world opened.
The first thing was scent. More than just one smell, an orchestra of them, honeyed wax, hot stone, pressed flower garlands wilting in the heat, faint threads of incense trailing from unseen doorways, and the sharp tang of metal, brass, iron, gold. The crowd pulsed around him, robed [Pilgrims] in yellow, tradesfolk in sleeveless dust-streaked linen, armored [Initiates] moving two by two. Languages swirled together in the air like overlapping litanies. Bells chimed in patterns that weren’t timekeeping. A child ran past with feathers sewn into her cloak, whispering words as if practicing a Spell. Someone laughed. Someone else wept, quietly, into the hem of their sleeve, though Luke saw mirth on their face.
The buildings towered. Temples as opposed to houses of worship, monoliths of stone and purpose, rose in every direction. Some carved with flame-edged halos. Some painted in colors so vivid they seemed to hum. One, nearest the inner plaza, had entire myths etched into its columns, heroes drawn kneeling, rising, bleeding, weeping. The art did not confine itself to the walls. It spilled. Archways had wings. Drainpipes spoke water into glyphs. The city bled its faiths outward and as they walked the streets in form and formality, Luke saw that nothing here ended where it began.
He moved slowly, not trying to hide his Class. There was no need. His presence here had already been noted, cataloged and weighed, though he thought his God was not well known, if at all. He carried it now like a borrowed name spoken by others before him. He passed a shrine made from sand-glass, inside of which floated motes of light shaped like moths. Another, built into the hollow of a tree, offered bowls of wine to passersby and sang softly in a language he almost remembered, weirdly enough.
Then came the sound.
Laughter first, quick and bright, rolling like a wave. Then drums, syncopated and defiant. Bells clapping in rhythm. A chime like polished bone, footfalls in chorus. And a voice, dozens of voices, chanting something half joyful, half prayer, the syllables bending like metal in heat.
Luke turned toward the sound and quickened his pace.
He turned a corner and found a boulevard.
Wide as any courtyard he’d seen, paved in patterned claybrick and lined with copper-banded posts where streamers flew in loops. On either side, crowds swelled, a thousand, maybe more, pressing in toward the center. Children sat on shoulders, dogs barked at shadows and older women clutched charms to their chests, whispering blessings under their breath.
And in the center, the parade arrived.
He saw the chariots first, drawn both by horses and by creatures he could not name easily. One pair resembled lions with silver-plated manes, while another was led by hooved beasts with eyes glowing green like emerald glass. Each chariot bore a figure atop it, standing tall, robed or armored, haloed by their Class or their cause. And above each, banners unfurled.
He recognized one.
Excena, Lady of Fortune, Whim and Wonder. Her banner was pink and white, edged in spinning coin-sigils and her faithful tossed rose petals onto the cobbled path. Her holy one stood barefoot on the chariot’s edge, smiling and speaking blessings as dice danced around her like hummingbirds.
“Excena’s luck is luck you earn. She doesn’t hand it out like candy. But she loves candy.”
Luke saw a [Priestess] smile winningly at the [Bard] who spoke.
“[Minor Boon: Fortunate Note]”
Luke laughed alongside the [Bard] who began to play his lute again, wonder in his eyes.
Two more followed.
One banner red and gold, with stylized ledgers drawn in arcane script, Tymalda, Goddess of trade, transaction and profitable enterprise. Her faithful wore robes cut like merchant coats, sleeves embroidered with contractual clauses, eyes painted with inked seals.
The third was the smallest.
Pale blue, embroidered by hand. A Goddess Luke had never heard of, Mirami, it read in delicate strokes. Beneath her name, no title. Just a phrase: She who binds what frays. A family Goddess, perhaps. A minor one, most likely. But her chariot bore no arrogance and her acolytes beamed as they walked, the air growing warmer and smelling like a hearth.
Luke flinched. The feeling was a good one, but after the Mind God, he was wary of Gods toying with his mind and emotions.
“Don’t look so scared, traveler. It’s just a [Soothing Aura], compliments of yours truly. May your family be healthy and in good numbers! And if you need help starting one, stop by the temple later.”
Luke waved a bit self-consciously at the young woman grinning down at him, but decided to let his guard down a bit.
Most Gods are dicks. But maybe not all of them.
The crowd pulsed forward and Luke followed, not from compulsion, but from curiosity and joy in numbers.
He let himself be drawn along, the music rising, the banners unfolding, the city opening like a story that had waited too long to be read as the parade stretched onward.
The parade didn’t move quickly, nor did it drift lazily. It wound through the city with a pace that matched the heartbeats of those who followed, pulsing through Ischaratot like a vein of woven celebration. Luke stayed close to the side, just near enough to be part of the crowd, just far enough that his instincts could breathe. He watched as petals were thrown in measured handfuls and minor miracles bloomed like sparks from fingertip gestures and half-sung prayers. The acolytes of Excena flipped coins through the air that landed standing upright on windowsills. Tymalda’s priests were passing out contracts, satirical ones, Luke realized, offering divine interest rates on laughter and blessings. The Mirami followers offered sweetbread and warm cloths to families watching from rooftops.
He felt a tug at his sleeve. Looking down he saw a boy, perhaps twelve, wearing a garland of red peppers and holding a chalk tablet with tally marks.
“You’re new. You’re walking like it’s your first breath of temple air.”
Luke smiled, a bit caught off guard.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re looking up too much. First-timers always look up. Look sideways. That’s where the Gods sneak through.”
Luke glanced down the street. At first, he saw only painted walls, patterned cobble, flags flapping high. But then he noticed small details. Shrines tucked beneath windows, lintels carved into prayer positions, a baker rolling dough with symbols pressed into her knuckles. A glassblower who whispered over each molten shape. Faith wasn’t just enshrined here, it was lived.
“Thanks. You’re a local?”
The boy puffed his chest.
“My parents serve Inhol, Keeper of Fair Debts. You know? No? He’s in the employ of our Lady Excena. But he’s still a proper God! Our temple’s near the Southern Bend, where the market curves east. I help guide pilgrims there sometimes. Want directions?”
“Actually, I was just wondering… where do people stay here? There aren’t any inns that I’ve seen so far.”
The boy nodded like a merchant reciting prices.
“Most pilgrims lodge in temple quarters or monastery annexes. If you’ve a Faith Class, the temples usually offer guest space. Depends how friendly they are… or who your God is. Can’t have one of the horny ones in a temple of Chastity. Or you can sleep in the Lay Pilgrim’s Ring, but you need to register.”
“The what?”
“The outermost curve of the city. The temples that don’t have enough room to host everyone set up common halls there. Big ones. But you gotta pray with them to stay and the prayer list is rather long.”
Luke thanked him again, then slowed his pace as the parade rounded a plaza. The boy vanished into the crowd and was replaced by a woman in robes of emerald green, carrying a satchel heavy with ledgers. She caught his glance and smiled.
“Tymalda’s faithful. Are you looking to sign a minor pact? One prayer and ten gold pieces return one minor blessing.”
“I’m just… observing. Learning.”
She tilted her head, then looked at him more closely.
“Ah. You’re marked. [Votary], yes? I’ve not heard of it. Not a common Class here, then. Whose service?”
“Xelreth.”
He waited. She blinked.
“I don’t know that one.”
“That’s… common, I’ve found.”
She wasn’t unkind, he observed, just uninterested in names she hadn’t heard of. From her perspective, Xelreth must have been a minor God, perhaps not worth knowing until the need arose.
She bowed slightly.
“Then walk well and let profit follow virtue.”
He nodded, stepping aside as she rejoined her procession. The music shifted again, bells tuned to thirds and fifths and the Mirami contingent came next. Luke moved toward them, drawn by the warmth of their presence, the scent of spiced oil and sweetbread.
A [Healer], broad-faced and sun-browned, caught his glance.
“Pilgrim?”
“Something like that.”
“Then may your roots remember water.”
He passed Luke a small ribbon of woven fabric, dyed in soft hues of blue and red.
“What’s this?”
“A token. It represents family ties. You carry it until it no longer feels like yours.”
Luke turned it over in his palm.
“And then?”
“Pass it on, of course! Your son or daughter will stand to inherit it and a good deal of blessings from it. Or, if you have trouble getting one of those, just leave it at a Mirami shrine with a prayer.”
“That’s the second time today one of yours implied I should get a family. Though the first was a girl telling me to swing by your temple.”
The man laughed heartily.
“Oh, yes, they do that. Mind you, if they take a fancy to you and you prove to be a true family man in the eyes of our Lady, you can expect them to wed you before you can blink. Many, many children come from our- Oh, what now?!”
Luke turned his head and froze so hard that the person walking behind him slammed into his back.
How- How can they be so casual about it?
As the parade passed in front of a number of temples, multiple Faiths had come out to either join the celebrations, wave merrily or, more rarely, look down upon them. The temple they were walking by right now stood in the first category. But the way they were expressing their joy and Faith was… a bit too public.
First time seeing an orgy and first time seeing one in public. Check-check.
“Shoo! Shoo, you ecstatic children! At least, get back inside your temple!”
“I, uh, take it you don’t like them much. Does this sort of thing happen often?”
“Oh, not that often, not outdoors I mean. They were probably riled up by the music and people. And it’s not that we don’t appreciate them, our Faiths actually get along rather well. It’s just that, well, lovemaking should perhaps be a more private matter. That is also a thing we could get around, but…”
“Yes?”
“Well. Most of them use contraceptive Spells. Some even have Skills for that. The nerve. That’s just… silly. Why negate a long-term gift for a short-term joy? Eh, they’ll grow up eventually.”
Luke laughed at the man’s actual reason for mock offense and the man laughed as well, before he tilted his head, then asked gently.
“You seem touched by other kinds of weight. Not just ours.”
Luke’s voice lowered, but he decided to try his Luck.
“Have you ever followed a God you didn’t expect to admire?”
“Friend, most of us didn’t expect to follow Gods at all. But life calls louder than planning.”
They shared a quiet nod, then Luke drifted on again. The crowd had thinned slightly at a narrow bridge spanning two levels of the city. From here, Luke saw more temples, one built into a spire of blue stone, another carved from bone-pale marble. Some were festooned with relics, others unadorned but crowded with visitors.
There was a man beside him who wore robes stitched with question marks, looking archly at everyone. Including at Luke so he decided to preempt his question.
“What God?”
The man’s scowl changed into a grin.
“I forget. Or perhaps I follow Forgetting. Depends which week you ask.”
Luke couldn’t help but laugh, though he noted how no one else around them reacted. The city allowed for that. Even nonsense had a place, provided it behaved.
The crowd surged again and now they passed a temple with black steps and humming walls. Words vibrated faintly across its stone. Luke paused.
“Which one is this?”
An older woman nearby answered.
“Sorvhel. The God of Whispers. Silent clergy, mostly. They serve a deity of Secrets… not the type of secrets one uses in dealings.”
Luke stared.
“What happens if you spill those secrets?”
“No public judgment, but you feel it... Sorvhel doesn’t punish, he just makes sure you know.”
Luke shivered.
Further along, the path led to a junction where smaller roads bent into alleys and minor squares. From each, other temples could be seen. A forge-temple where fire never dimmed. A moss-covered temple for the sleep-God, where all visitors walked barefoot. A market alley run by priests who bartered memories instead of coins.
They reached a main plaza, in which Luke started to see the rise of three temples. Two massive, but one still big enough it could be confused for a villa. And as the parade slowed down, Luke smelled an overpowering smell of wine drift in the air.
Then puke. Smelled, yes, but also, felt, straight down the back of his robes.
“Ugh. Better out than in, that’s what I say. …what?”
Chapter 38
The three temples rose like witnesses to the divine theatre now dissolving in the square, their forms carved with more than simple reverence, with vanity, ambition and a strange kind of affection.
Excena’s temple gleamed with absurd joy, its tower an impossible curl of white-plated metal and pink-veined marble, capped with rotating golden dice that caught the sun in facets like a gambler’s smile stretched across the sky. Streamers looped from its crown to nearby rooftops, and on its steps, illusion spells flickered like mirages: shimmering coins, laughing masks, runaway playing cards chased by shrieking children.
Tymalda’s temple loomed beside it, tall and cold and perfect, its angles calculated, its windows stained not with saints but with diagrams, contractual sigils, transaction glyphs, diagrams of divine exchange. Statues along its columns bore ledgers in one hand and quills in the other, each one different, each frozen in the act of writing a name.
And nestled between them stood the temple of Mirami, its façade woven from honey-brown wood and soft cream stone, its windows circular, like eyes gently closed in sleep. Small ribbons fluttered from every post. It looked like a home more than it looked like a shrine, and that, somehow, was the holiest thing of all.
The square between them had been remade for the finale. Lanterns danced in the air warmed by spellfire. Acrobats leapt in wide arcs trailed by bursts of gold-silver smoke. Children ran laughing, chasing illusion-animals that giggled when caught and exploded into petals. Someone was singing in a language Luke did not understand, but which made his spine warm in recognition. The three temples had aligned their final rites into one harmonious act of spectacle and veneration: coins thrown for luck, papers signed with radiant ink, blessings passed between generations in embrace.
Luke noticed none of it.
Because someone had just vomited on him.
The wet slap hit like a curse, half-digested wine and festival meat sliding thickly down the back of his robe, pooling cold and sticky against the chainmail beneath. He went still, utterly still, the way a man goes still not to calm himself, but to stop himself from breaking something. Or someone. He turned, slow as pulled thread.
Behind him stood a man. Or boy. Young man?
He seemed to be near Luke’s age, in truth.
At least, he was near enough to be a man, though clearly not quite, since the waves of vapor coming off him made Luke question his sight. His hair was a tangle of sweat-brown curls and his cheeks were flushed beyond reason, nose red from drink, smile wide and utterly lacking in care. In each hand he held a clay bottle, one swinging freely, the other uncorked and tilted. His shirt had long since surrendered to festival stains.
