s your friend and as someone who loves you, I believe this is a mistake, Mog,” Nuine said quietly, “I know that after what you have been through this seems a worthy choice, but I fear you are exchanging one kind of prison for another.”

“Is that not for Lyssa to decide?” he asked.

“Of course, I do not presume to know the will of the gods,” she replied, her face tense with concern for him.

“I am sorry to disappoint you.”

“No, Mog, you have never been a disappointment to me,” Nuine sighed and he blushed to see the pained expression upon her face, “I may not agree with your choice, but I offer myself as a friend and mentor at need.”

“That means a lot to me, Nuine.”

Nuine bowed to him and did not speak of her concerns again. During the past eight days she had been with him nearly all of his waking hours ensuring that he had adequate food and drink. She had taken time off from her duties in the sanitarium to support him in his preparatory rites of cleaning and fasting. Until now she had said nothing about her misgivings although he had sensed them. Perhaps she had thought all the hours of introspection would make it self-evident that he had chosen the wrong path.

“Have you ever doubted anyone else who took the vows?”

She sat on the edge of the bed beside him and lifted her hand to brush the stray wisps of hair from his brow with all the tenderness of a mother.

“So few arrive at the threshold of Her door in their youth. Most go to Lyssa after having enjoyed a full life. Each serves the goddess in their own way. It is not my place to question what is in your heart. I apologize.”

Wordlessly she helped him don his pale robes. After ensuring he was wearing the requisite colors and insignia, the two of them walked toward the inner sanctum of the temple in silence. The steely light before dawn peered through the intricately carved screens that lined the narrow halls around placid cloister gardens. All was still except for the staccato beat of his heart now that the day had finally arrived.

At the boundaries of the temple’s sacred core a gold inlaid door towered between him and the dwelling place of the priests. He knew henceforth he would give all of himself to serving the temple and the goddess in her many forms. His devotion would extend into the hereafter, into Lyssa’s court where she rewarded her faithful with eternal bliss and beauty. He felt a surge of joy at the thought of shedding his worldly cares, of belonging and being wanted.

The minutes stretched by in silence as the two of them stood there. When nothing happened, he stared blankly at the door. Its swirling patterns held no clue to how it was opened. There was no handle, no keyhole, no guardians. He glanced at Nuine and she gazed placidly back at him. He had expected someone to be awaiting him here but the temple was silent.

“How do I proceed?”

“It is said the Hallowed Door opens for those whom Lyssa deems worthy,” Nuine replied evenly.

Mog studied his surroundings, taking in the long sunlit corridor that had brought them here. Considering Nuine’s words carefully, he decided that this was some kind of test. Cantors and priests did not need to be gifted with magic to be accepted into service. Often priests served as Cantors prior to giving themselves to the goddess. It would not be something requiring his mesmeric talents. All he had to do was think.

He studied the door, seeing that it was split down the middle so that the gilt pattern lay over smooth ebon wood on one side and ivory on the other. Life was a cascade of choices, a chaotic cacophony of might have been and endless potential. It was this power his kind harnessed; it was Lyssa’s gift, the mark of sentience.

“This is my first trial,” he thought, “and the first circle of attainment is gained by asking to serve.”

“O Divine Beauty, I place myself at your flowered feet. Let me go where you go, O Goddess. Lead me into beauty.”

He knelt before the door, his head bowed humbly as his voice curled in the pre-dawn silence. Holding his breath, he waited, relieved when the door split open along its center, the bright and dark half parting.

“Lyssa blesses your path. Come within, Seeker, and make your offering.”

Sweet musky sandalwood and resinous incense wafted from the darkness beyond the doorway. He could not see the woman who spoke from the inky depths of that chamber, but his mind sensed her and several others. Nuine knelt behind him, her face cast down. There was an expectant silence and he hesitated, not certain what was expected of him. Researching for this ritual had done him no good and now he had no idea what Lyssa would possibly want from him.

“All that I have is of the Goddess and I give of it freely,” he replied in a flash of inspiration.

“Enter as you came into the world. Your raiment shall be your offering.”

On the threshold he shed his clothing and a masked priestess came forth to claim them. Her form was draped in shapeless layers of black silk and her steely visage bore no expression. Ghost-like she ducked back into the darkness to rejoin the others.

“Choose your path, find your way,” came the susurration of voices drawing him beyond the door. Naked and bewildered, he hesitated, suddenly filled with misgivings.

“Mog Ruith, I have called to you,” came a keen voice that sent a thrill of fear down his spine. He knew that voice, it had sung him awake many times while he dwelt at the temple. Ushered inside by another masked figure, the door boomed closed behind him and a finger of silvery light shafted down to illuminate the goddess incarnate, the sacred twins. Not since that long ago Festival of Splendor had he been granted the privilege of gazing upon them, and now as he approached the raised dais upon which the two of them stood, he felt insignificant and humble. Moon and sun, their gray eyes blazed down at him through their ornate masks. The pale white lady held a blood red rose while the moon faced one held a dagger. Between them they clutched a silvery chalice in which a magenta fluid fizzed and glistened with chaotic potential. The dramatic chiaroscuro gave their stylized poses a mythic grandeur and they appeared to tower over everything around them.

“Seeker, two paths emerge.
Which will you choose?”

Mog noticed the circle of dark figures surrounding them. His mind was awash with confusion, unable to read anything more than his own trepidation. He realized that was why they were chanting the strange mantra. He would not be able to use his mesmeric abilities to seek cues from those around him.

“I surrender to Lyssa,” he said, knowing only that this was the one sacred act extolled by her holy people.

“Bright is the path of inspiration.
Let the Muse sing of mysteries,
Too old and strange for mortal souls.
Breathe life into dreams,
Give voice to the music of the spirit
And surrender to the dance of life.”

It was the bright twin who spoke. Her strange mask blazed in the thin light shafting through the high windows. Its rays and gold inlay seemed to spin and flutter like fire as she drew in the circle of worshippers. There was a rustle of sistrums and a wailing from the shadowy figures around him. The dark twin chanted.

“To the pure of heart,
In whom beauty dwells,
Walk in the lady’s shadow,
gifted with words that kill.
Speak them into the darkness.
Deliver death to preserve life.”

He had imagined himself making music and perhaps even learning how to heal those broken in mind and spirit. Long had he adored the Muse and the Innocent, the Lady of Truth and Beauty. It had never occurred to him that her twin might claim him instead.

“Lyssa, let me walk in your light.”

“When you have walked in my shadow, my light shall burn more brightly,” the pale twin replied softly.

“In darkness, the child quickens in the womb and the seed emerges from its husk,” pronounced the moon-masked twin, “In sorrow, do we learn the meaning of gratitude and so win the key to the kingdom of joy.”

“But I don’t want to kill!” he protested silently, knowing it was improper to contradict the goddess, especially since he had surrendered himself to her will. He felt naïve and frightened as the Lady of Lies, Spite and Trickery cast her darksome gaze upon him. She favored the clever and powerful. He had never considered himself to be an exemplar of either.

“Drink the Wine of Lyssa, Seeker. Open the eyes of the Dreamer.”

He was not sure which of them spoke, but the two of them held forth the shimmering chalice and its chaotically blazing brew. They knelt as one so that they could feed it to him one bitter swallow at a time. Mog somehow choked it back as the circle closed in on him and hands gently clasped his arms and shoulders, guiding him away from the sacred twins and into a small chamber beyond their dais.

It was utterly dark there and he stumbled, feeling nauseous as he was guided down onto a nest of silken cushions. His vision seethed with strange shapes and colors and he turned his head, afraid that he had been abandoned with something horrible as the others withdrew. Soft chants and rustle of sistrums dulled his ability to focus as he sought for the comforting chatter of other human souls. He was as alone as a mesmer could be now, cut off and unanchored. Mog staggered to his knees as his surroundings emerged from the shadows and took form in the light of red lanterns.

The tiny chamber was octagonal and each segment of wall bore a smooth plane of polished obsidian embellished with swirling patterns of silver and gold. A cry of alarm curled from his throat, and though he knew he was intoxicated by the strange wine, what he saw was as real to him as the holy people standing vigil outside. Shadowy figures emerged from the mirror glare of obsidian and he snarled a hex, his instincts telling him to fight or die. He was vaguely aware that he was shouting, enraged that these filthy creatures had dared to defile this sacred place. Still they swarmed toward him and he fought, his rage and magic honed to deadly precision. They shrieked and hissed, dying and vanishing in smoky wisps as his hexes tore at them.

“He is Tenebrae!” came a swell of voices beyond the chamber in which he struggled and fought. They abandoned him to his fate, sealing the door and leaving him to fight for his life. Mog cried out in dismay, unable to do anything more than utter hexes as the clawing shadows curled around him.

He did not know how long the battle continued, but in the end he was exhausted, his back pressed up against the cold stone as he panted and called for help. His vision cleared a little and the shadowy figures faded. Blood splattered his naked form and he turned over to vomit. His initiation into the priesthood was not supposed to be like this. He had expected music and beauty but had encountered the most terrible rage and fear of his short lifetime.

Tenebrae, they had called him. The memory burned and he wept to realize what that meant. He was to be among the priests that dealt death, the vengeful ones who roamed the world doing the goddess’ dark will.

“No, Lyssa, I beg of you, do not ask this of me.”

As if to answer him, one of the gleaming panes of obsidian swung open to admit a pair of masked figures. They knelt beside him, and though he could not see their faces, he knew it was Vivane and her consort, Culach come to end the ritual. He sensed their concern, perhaps even fear that he was still under the fey influence of the wine. He had injured someone in his intoxicated rage, their blood upon him was proof of it.

“I don’t want to be Tenebrae,” he wept and Vivane gathered him into her arms and held him, rocking him gently.

“Do not sorrow, Mog, this is why you were Chosen. It is your sacred duty.”