aster Simagh, would you like to explain to everyone present why you find the contents of your own empty head more illuminating than my lectures?”

Mog jolted awake when Cantor Imbril’s cane rapped his shoulder. Disoriented, he stared like a fool at the angry priest standing amid the center of the circle of snickering boys. The stately figure folded his hands behind his back, his knuckles popping. Acolytes wore unbleached linen cassocks over dun breeches. The Cantor stood out like a peacock in his fine embroidered robes.

“No, Sir.”

“I thought not. Let us proceed then to the Book of Divine Adoration. Master Simagh, what are the Eight Sacred Acts?”

He swallowed, aware of eight pairs of eyes fixed upon him. Mog had always been sensitive to the moods of others around him. Lately, however, he was beginning to worry that he was going mad. He could have sworn Stinky Strenko had just called him an idiot but the boy was on the other side of the circle looking away. Mog cleared his throat, speaking quickly after his long hesitation.

“To protect, to see, to give, to speak, to listen, to honor, to surrender and to love.”

The Cantor seemed disappointed that he had no further ammunition with which to torment Mog.

“Master Simagh, why do those who embody the goddess perform their duties while masked?”

“Mortal eyes cannot gaze upon the goddess unveiled. Those who see her are struck dead, blind or dumb.”

“Let us hope that should the goddess appear before your eyes she cannot strike you any dumber,” Cantor Imbril said darkly. Mog blushed as more snickers erupted around him, “Students, pay close attention now, for you are nearing manhood and soon your path will be made clear to you. I chose the Eight Sacred Acts because they describe the ways in which one serves Lyssa.”

Mog lowered his face and stared at his hands and the dusty writing slate perched on his lap. He was all too aware that he was growing up. He towered over his peers and had received the moniker of Ginger Giant. He was alternately hungry and drowsy at all the wrong times and the temple was strict about when an acolyte should eat and sleep. As if to make him more miserable, he had taken a sudden interest in girls. His body was doing everything in its power to humiliate him.

“Not all who are called to serve Lyssa do so as priests. One of you may be among those who serve as protectors and your path will lead away from here and onto the field of battle,” Imbril said, his dark gaze falling upon Mog meaningfully, “Others of you will hear the intoxicating song of the Muse and a few shall become healers of the mind and spirit.”

Mog’s stomach rumbled pathetically and Cantor Imbril yelled at the boys to be quiet now that the room had erupted into unruly giggles and crude imitations of the sound. Once the Cantor had them all back under control, he assigned them enough homework to keep them busy through the entire Festival of Splendor. He then dismissed them and demanded that Mog stay behind.

He remained sitting as everyone else filed glumly out of the stuffy little room. Their anger and irritation washed over him and he knew they would get even with him even though he had done nothing wrong.

“Master Simagh, how long have you been an acolyte?”

“Nearly a year, Sir.”

“I’ll be blunt with you,” Imbril said quietly, turning away, “You do not belong here.”

His stomach knotted and unwelcome tears came to his eyes. As miserable as he was now, this was where he wanted to be. He loved the rites and the music. Most of the priests and priestesses were kinder to him than his own parents. The very thought of leaving was horrible.

“May I speak, Sir?”

“Yes.”

“I have been dutiful and obedient and I have never failed to answer your questions correctly. I am a better student than at least half of the others.”

“High Priestess Vivane wishes to see you after the noon tide meal. Before you dine, please return your books. You are excused.”

Mog departed, his head down to hide his emotions as he walked slowly toward the dormitory. Not wanting to be teased by his peers while he was upset, he took the longest route possible, winding through the mazy halls and alleys of the temple complex. He glimpsed the female acolytes learning some slow graceful dance to the rhythm of drums. His libido threatened to ruin an already horrible day but he thought about Imbril and all desire left him.

He cut through the back of the oldest and most holy part of the temple with is rich woodwork screens and lush carpets and tapestries. A golden statue of Lyssa rose at its center, the twins forever enfolded in a blissful embrace. He glanced up at it for possibly the last time and felt a new wave of grief well up inside of him.

“Why are you crying?” asked a soft voice that could only belong to someone young and decidedly female. Mog blushed and turned toward the source of the voice. He heard the soft hiss of fabric as a long dress moved over the dark marble floor. Someone stood on the other side of an intricate black lacquered screen inlaid with mother of pearl.

“I’m... sad I guess,” he murmured, drawing closer but he could see nothing more than a willowy silhouette through the tiny holes in the woodwork,

“What is your name?”

“Mog,” he said, “Do you have a name? Are you one of the Acolytes?”

She had to be one of the holy people. Only the anointed could come here.

“I’m not allowed to tell you my name,” she said, “I’m not even supposed to be talking to you.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve seen you before,” said the mysterious girl, “I think you’re cute.”

Mog grinned despite himself. No one had ever said that about him before. He was at a loss for words and his body was poised on the brink of embarrassing him.

“How come you’re sad?” she asked again.

“Cantor Imbril said I don’t belong here.”

“I don’t like him, he’s mean.”

Mog grinned, relieved that he had found a kindred spirit.

“I don’t want to leave,” said Mog, “This is the only place I have ever belonged.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she replied, a faint note of anger in her voice, “You aren’t like the others.”

Now he blushed, feeling exposed and embarrassed.

“That’s kind of you… but Cantor Imbril’s word is final. Everyone knows that.”

“But who will play pipes for me in the morning?”

Mog turned an even deeper shade of red. He had always assumed that he had found the most secluded corner of the temple in which to practice. The free hour after breaking fast and morning song was his only opportunity to commune with his beloved pipes.

“You like them?” he asked, incredulous. He had only ever tried to play them in the dorm once and had been pelted with shoes.

“Yes,” she said, “Music is sacred.”

He smiled, then plummeted into even deeper despair upon realizing this was about to end and he would be going home. The bell that marked the half-hour tolled and he realized he was about to be late to his final interview with High Priestess Vivane.

“I must go,” said the mysterious girl, “May I give you a present?”

“I uh… alright.”

“Stay right there and close your eyes. Promise me you won’t open them.”

“I promise,” he said, obediently closing his eyes. He felt her drawing closer, his mind inexplicably awash with strange sensations and colors. Unearthly music tolled in his ears and he stumbled as gold and scarlet flared before his inner eye. Her hands were upon his face, swathed in silk and smelling of rose petals. A jolt of heat burned through his body as their lips met and her adoration washed over his newly awakened senses. Then she was gone in a swish of silk and soft footfalls.

“Come back,” he cried as her beautiful presence faded from his consciousness. Never had he encountered something so sublime and profound. He reeled drunkenly, intoxicated, his vision clouded by strange sheets of color that limned everything in fire. He dared to glance upon the golden statue of Lyssa and whimpered as the formerly stationary figure awakened to life and gilt faces turned to gaze down upon him. Unable to think straight, he staggered toward the door.

He barely made it outside before his legs stopped working and he dropped to his knees. The sky was now a coruscating sheet of turquoise pulsing with chaotic threads of magenta and silver. Passing acolytes and laity were burning knots of silver and gold and suddenly is mind was filled with foreign chatter. A chorus of voices pushed out his own terrified thoughts.

Someone was with him. Their hands guided him gently back to his feet but he could no longer see anything past the vivid swirl of colors. He may have begged for help but it hardly mattered. A moment later he passed out.

“Mog?” said a far away voice. It may have been minutes or hours later. He was lying on his back and it was dim and quiet.

“Mother?” he croaked. Everyone called the High Priestess that and for Mog it was truthful and heartfelt.

“Yes, Son?” she replied gently. He wept as her touch brought him relief.

“What is wrong with me?”

“We have been waiting for this,” Vivane said, “Drink this, it will calm the visions a little.”

She helped him sit up in the simple bed. Now he took in his surroundings. It was a penitent’s cell, simple and functional. There was no ornamentation, no images, just a bed, a chair, a lantern and a prayer mat.

“Lyssa has called upon you to be one of her champions,” Vivane continued when he had downed the bitter concoction. He nearly sprayed her with it but somehow managed to swallow and cough, “You are experiencing her aura, your mind and heart have been opened and soon you must begin training to learn how to harness your new gifts.”

“I don’t want to be her champion,” Mog whimpered, knowing what that meant. Cantor Imbril must have known what was about to happen. Why had no one told him?

“Few are Chosen, Mog. The goddess has given you gifts that you must use to protect the weak and powerless. It is a sacred duty.”

“But I don’t want to leave,” he wept and Vivane took him into her arms and held him.

“I knew this would be difficult for you,” she said softly, kissing his forehead as if he really were her child, “It is possible that your aura presages healing talents that could be used in the sanitarium. I will arrange for your magical training to take place within the temple. If it turns out that you are indeed one of her champions, however, you will be required to seek training beyond these walls. It is the way of things. Until then, you will also begin training in the priesthood as a Cantor.”

“A Cantor?” he stammered, hardly believing his ears.

“Until the aura passes, you will be sensitive and in need of sanctuary and rest. I will pair you with Cantor Nuine and she will begin teaching you the techniques you will need to shield and relax your mind.”

He relaxed and she urged him to lie down. He admired her pretty face and golden hair now streaked with silver. She smoothed a sheet over his breast and stroked his brow.

“Mother?”

“Yes, my Son?”

“Could you open the window so I can hear the song of the Sacred Twins?”

The woman smiled and leaned down to kiss his brow. Her love for him was tender and limitless, he felt it flowing over him like sunlight. The whole of his being rejoiced at this new sensation. Vivane propped open the small window above his bed before regaining her seat. The long shadows of late afternoon poured into the room. He heard the clock toll six times and saw Vivane close her eyes to savor what was to come.

And through the aura he heard their song as he had never heard it before, sweet and sorrowful as it called and responded across the temple grounds. The two girls had grown into young women and now dwelt apart. Each morning and evening they rose to the two highest points of the great temple and sang what was in their hearts. Today they sang of the festival, their voices weaving an intricate pattern of longing and joy as they described the handsome young acrobats and the procession in which they would stand together once more.

“O Sister, thou art beloved to me.
First you were to fill my ears with laughter
And hold me in the night.”

“O Sister, sorrow not my sweet one.
Rejoice for there is no separation in the heart.
The sun shines equally upon us.”

Mog smiled, his head nodding with weariness as he took in the beauty and warmth of those words. The Sacred Twins had lamented during the week of their parting, but now they had accepted it and were joyful once more. It gave him hope that he would also be at peace with his new life.

“Just let me stay here, Lyssa. This is my home and sanctuary. Please don’t send me away.”