og!” cried Nuine, “Or should I say, Rision! Congratulations.”

He forced a laugh and smile for her as he met her at the boundary of the inner sanctum. It was late afternoon on a beautiful autumn day and his ornate motley shimmered with rich brocade and a rainbow of colors.

“Thank ye,” he said, grinning shyly. His enormous frame stood out even more now that he was decked out as a sacred fool. Mog should have been happy. He spent his days learning songs and stories. High Priestess Vivane had even arranged for a master piper to give him lessons twice a week and he was free to practice whenever he was not engaged in ritual or lessons.

“I’m happy for you,” Nuine said, squeezing his hand as he led her toward the walled garden. Mog flashed another false smile.

“I brought you a present,” Nuine said as she sat down beside him in the shade of an old cypress tree. He watched her remove a small cloth-wrapped parcel from her sleeve and hand it to him.

“Yeh shouldn’ ‘ave,” he said.

“I hope you like it,” she said, smiling broadly and causing lines of joy to deepen around her hazel eyes. Such beautiful eyes and he would never see her again. He unfolded the homespun cloth slowly, savoring the moment for it was a high point after the past month of toil. A perfect golden tin whistle dropped into his open palm. Emotion knotted his throat and he squeezed her hand before taking it up carefully and testing its fingering. It was a mark of how well she knew him that she had found one so perfect for his reach. Its tone was sweet and sparkling as lark song. It even had a knotwork of birds scrawled over its surface.

“I love ‘t,” he said and proceeded to play a simple tune for her. Nuine smiled and clapped, blissfully ignorant of what he had truly become.

“You seem sad,” she said as he set the whistle aside on his lap. The silence between them was no longer the comfortable stillness of two good friends. It was awkward and strained.

“I miss yeh.”

“Is the brogue part of your training?” she asked.

“Aye.”

She assumed, of course, that he had adopted the mask of a simple country oaf as part of his Rision training. The truth was much darker than that. It was the persona he was building to mask his true nature. He was being split into two distinct personas, the better to fool the magical guardians his targets might employ. Eventually no one would believe that an affable buffoon would be able to quietly kill the master of the house in his sleep. And when questioned, he could say in all honesty that he had not killed. His Rision self was incapable of such things.

“I know this time is challenging,” Nuine confided, “and you are not at liberty to share the trials and rituals you are experiencing. But if you need a friendly ear or someone to sit with, I’m here. Just send for me.”

“T’is kind ‘o yeh,” he murmured, humbled by her once again. He missed her so much.

The sixth bell of the afternoon tolled. They both had evening prayers to attend, each in their own chapel. They rose and embraced and he watched her hobble stiffly away. He sighed and headed for the Hallowed Gate beyond which only Lyssa’s ordained priests could go. Now that he bore her mark, he could simply bow before the seal and the doors parted for him. It had thrilled him the first time, now it was just another means of reminding him of how foolish he had been to ignore Nuine’s misgivings.

He attended a short ritual of lighting the flames of knowledge, drinking the sacred wine of wisdom and singing the eight duties of the devotee with four others of his cycle. The priests who could leave the inner sanctum celebrated with the Cantors in the main temple complex along with the lay people and guests. Terpsia Arun, the most ancient of the priesthood, remained behind to lead the observances for the new priests and to keep them in line. That day he managed to fall asleep shortly after the wine jar was passed around the circle and had to be carried to his room. Mog was duly elected for that duty on account of his size and youth and therefore missed the short meal that followed. Stomach growling, he went to his room and crawled into the bed he shared with Tenebrae Akemi.

It was still light outside but the sparse little room’s high windows were veiled with heavy cloth so that it was bathed in perpetual shadows. Happily Akemi was away and with any luck he would be asleep before she arrived. Given that he was effectively training for two roles, she did not begrudge him his rest. It made his mind sharper, and as far as he could tell, that was all Akemi cared about. He stripped out of his Rision garb and carefully hung it up in his wardrobe. It was important to keep his side of the room clean. Akemi frequently denied him light, insisting that he learn to move comfortably in darkness since that was how he would be performing many of his priestly duties.

It was sultry and stuffy. He tossed and turned for a while, annoyed that he could not sleep but wanted to so badly. No sooner had he finally drifted off than did Akemi arrive. Mog stared into the inky darkness, sensing her stalking cat-like at the foot of the bed.

“Is it time?” he croaked, letting her know he was awake to avoid provoking her ire.

“Ceremonial robes, Consort. Now.”

Her clipped Canthan accent was even but uncompromising. He had been the first Tenebrae called to the Temple of the Sacred Twins in nearly four generations. A sister temple in Kaineng had sent a Tenebrae to be his mentor and partner. He decided early on that they had selected the most angry, bitter person possible to curb his adolescent urges. Akemi was not unattractive, but she was at least ten years his senior and her nature was as hard and unyielding as her plentiful daggers.

He staggered around in the dark until he found the wardrobe and felt the raised brocade and adornments of his rarely used ceremonial robes. Mog had been a priest for a full turning of the moon, but thus far he had worn the robes only once when he had been ritually bound to Akemi.

“Hurry,” Akemi snapped, and he sensed an unusual anxiety, perhaps even excitement.

“What is happening?” he hazarded.

“A rare thing,” Akemi said reverently, “The Goddess desires the Ninth Rite. She has come of age and wishes to choose her Sacred Lover.”

Mog realized the tension he was sensing was not just Akemi’s. As they strode out into the dimness of the temple garden he realized all the priests were whispering surreptitiously in their elaborate robes as they filed toward the Hallowed Gate.

“Who does she choose?”

“All priests attend her and She chooses one. Do not worry, She will not choose you,” Akemi said scornfully, “There are others far more handsome or beautiful.”

Mog bit his lip, wishing he could point out that she was not exactly stunning, either. But of course, Akemi was right. He was a tall, gangling creature incapable of growing more than peach fuzz on his chin. He had little time to contemplate the matter; however, for no sooner had he filed into the round chamber than did the crowd fall breathlessly silent. An elder priestess guided him to the edge of the circle to kneel beside the other new priests near the threshold. He found it oddly amusing to imagine the Goddess choosing wheezy old Arun or bitter Akemi who by dint of rank comprised the inner circle around the dais where the Lyssae had stood during his initiation.

For the first time he saw all the priests of the temple in one place. They numbered a little more than a score, a small fraction compared to the Cantors, temple guardians and lay people who dwelt outside the high walls of the inner sanctum. Nuine had been correct to question his age of entry. Nearly everyone was old enough to be his parent if not his grandparent. He was the youngest at nineteen summers, at least ten years younger than any of the others.

Bells tinkled and the rustle of sistrums presaged the arrival of the Goddess manifest in the form of the Sacred Twins. The Hallowed Gate opened and four temple guardians resplendent in their pale masks and silk raiment bore aloft a palanquin draped in cloth of gold. Little golden bells chirped like crickets with each solemn step of the litter bearers. In the pale candlelight, the gauzy golden fabric taunted them with the faintest of outlines of the young woman inside. All eyes fell upon her as the litter drew up beside the dais and Vivane and Culach each took a heavily be-ringed hand and guided her out into the open.

She was beautiful, queenly in her misty layers of golden silk and jewels that flashed like stars. Her masked visage gazed down upon them serenely, but the alluring roundness of her breasts stirred above her richly embroidered corset as her breath quickened with excitement. Her hair spilled down around her pale shoulders in a midnight river as she leaned forward to look upon the circle of kneeling priests.

“Goddess, we surrender to your divine will. Choose who will serve as your Lover now and until the end of time.”

Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths as the lone figure stepped down from her place of worship to stand among them. Mog could hear the soft hiss of her gown over the staccato beat of his heart. She towered over them, tall and stately, the epitome of grace and majesty. Without a word she strode past the outer ring of priests, pausing to take in each on of them in turn.

“Mog Ruith,” she said into his mind and he nearly fell over, “Why do you stare at the ground? Do you not desire me?”

And it was as if Lyssa herself were speaking to him and he cowered, humbled and frightened. So many gifts she had given him and he had pushed them away, questioned her, his goddess.

“I will serve you with all of my heart and soul, Goddess.”

“My Love, my Tenebrae, my beautiful boy,” she whispered in words only he could hear. He was faintly aware that all eyes were upon him now as the goddess approached. She placed her hand under his chin and urged him to look into her keen gray eyes. She dropped a perfect red rose at his knees and a wail of joy went up among the celebrants.

“The Goddess has chosen!” they chanted even as a leaden sensation clenched his gut. Sistrums and bells filled the chamber as the lone twin departed in her golden palanquin. Once more he was gathered up by the hands of the other priests and brought forward, the center of their attention as they pushed him onto the dais as if he were now some minor deity officiating in Lyssa’s place. His robes were ritually taken away and amid song and high ceremony he was blindfolded.

“Do not gaze upon the Goddess unmasked,” whispered Vivane into his ear as he was guided down to be bathed and anointed with oils, “Do only what is asked of you, speak only when required to speak.”

She was afraid, he sensed it in her trembling hands. Too young, one of the priests murmured behind him. Yet the Lyssae were of the same age, another pointed out. There was jealousy and he cringed away from a pair of harsh hands as he stepped out of the water. His wrists were bound.

“He is in readiness,” pronounced the High Priestess, “Let the Rite of the Ninth Hour commence.”

The mental chatter of the other priests fell away as Vivane guided him alone through a strange passage. He had no idea where he was or where he was being taken.

“This is a great honor, one that only a very few are granted,” Vivane whispered.

Mog nodded, still stunned by this strange turn in events. Part of him wanted to tear the blindfold off and run as if his very life depended upon it. But there was another part that was strangely excited and awed.

“Goddess, I have delivered your Sacred Lover,” announced the High Priestess beside him. She placed pressure on his shoulder and he went to his knees cushioned by swathes of silk and pillows. The air was heavy with a musky sweet perfume and he felt giddy with anticipation and its heady odor. Then Vivane was gone and he heard the boom of a distant door sealing him inside alone with the bright curious mind of the goddess.

“You are so beautiful,” she whispered. She was in front of him, her voice nearly in his ears, “Why are you afraid?”

“I am filled with awe that you have chosen one so humble as me.”

Her laughter tinkled around him and he blushed, ashamed of himself for being so ignorant and clumsy.

“I have wanted to get you alone for a long time,” she said sweetly, “Do you remember our kisses behind the screens while you were a Cantor? I missed you so much while you were at the academy.”

Mog nearly choked, then laughed in spite of himself. Oh, he remembered. They were too few but sweet and heady as wine.

“That was you?”

“Yes. I’ve adored you since the first time I saw you playing your pipes… when you were an aspirant. And now you’re mine.”

Mog did not know what to say, although he knew something was expected of him. And he was relieved that the goddess before him was simply the mysterious girl he had kissed behind the great statue when no one else was around.

“I’m… not sure what I’m supposed to do now,” he murmured, “I suppose we could start where we left off.”

“Yes, I would like that.”

She released his bound hands and guided them to the silky smoothness of her waist. Their lips met and this time they did not hold back. He basked in her tenderness, awkward at first as they held one another. He breathed in her essence, whispered fragments of love poetry he had learned as a Cantor, for all such poetry sang of Lyssa. And she called to him, begging him down beside her until instinct and her ardent pleas guided him. He abandoned his mind and surrendered, the whole of his being wanting nothing but her.

Their minds melded in those magical hours, deepening which each encounter. For weeks they were seldom parted and he experienced a bond so close and perfect that its absence was almost intolerable. It still haunted him years later in the belly of the night when he lay alone and sleepless.

“Maeve!” he cried, seeking her across a chasm of despair. How could the gods be so cruel to take her away from him again? He would have done anything to find her had he known she were alive.

“Maeve!” he coughed, his throat so dry it ached. He tried to move but his body taunted him with its heaviness.

“The manling makes a noise like an angry raven,” rumbled a deep voice.

Mog struggled like a drowning man to the surface of consciousness. He remembered the muffled cries of the unknown dwarf that had been captured with him. The dryders had prolonged the poor man’s life for hours until he had died breathless and bloodless. In shock from the poison and the numbing terror of the dwarf, Mog remembered how the elder dryder had exposed his throat and dined slowly upon his blood until he was too weak to struggle, until he grew cold and sleepy. There had been an argument or perhaps a fight and then the oppressive minds of the dryders were gone.

“Olga, your pet woke up,” boomed a second, followed by hoarse laughter. Mog opened his crusted eyes to the faint golden glow of firelight and deep shadows.

“About time,” said a woman’s voice some distance away.

“Maeve?” he croaked, hoping she was there with him, that by some miracle these people had saved them all. He fell silent when an enormous golden-haired woman knelt down beside him. He flinched away from her calloused fingers as she reached down to feel the reedy pulse of his jugular. They were hands that could crush his puny head like a melon.

“Do not fret, manling. The dryders drained you like a flask of wine,” she said, “Drink this, it will restore your strength.”

He was a large man but she propped him up effortlessly with one arm while her free hand guided the flagon to his lips. Mog was too tired and confused to disobey her. He managed three swallows of the salty broth before she laid him back down and wedged a pillow behind his head. She adjusted the nest of furs around him until she was satisfied he was warm and comfortable.

“Olga should have children instead of nursing every stricken animal she finds in her path,” rumbled the first man.

“Quiet, Lars, I want to test the mettle of these humans,” said the second man, “Let Olga mend him.”

“That’s enough,” Olga said brusquely, “We agreed that he was my share of the treasure. You will not fight him unless I will it, Horst.”

“I do not regret the steel I gained for my new helm. All you have to show for our magnificent battle is another worthless beast to crowd your fire.”

“Not all worth is measured by brute strength,” Olga snarled.

“No, only most of it,” chuckled Lars and Mog caught a glimpse of a muscle bound figure standing a short distance away.

“Raven’s way is not by strength of arms,” Olga said, “If you insult Raven, then you insult me and my ancestors.”

There was steel in her voice and tension that suggested swords loosened in their scabbards.

“No insult intended,” Lars said finally.

“We should go,” Horst announced, “Tell the wind when you are able to rejoin our hunt. Perhaps Raven will deliver the message to us.”

Mog lay there in silence as the other two departed. It was difficult merely to keep his eyes open let alone make sense of the strangeness around him.

“Others?” he managed when he heard a heavy door draw closed. He sensed Olga was nearby but he could see very little where he lay on the floor beside the fire.

“Does it talk?” murmured Olga to herself before stalking closer.

“Were there others with me?” he wheezed, barely able to speak louder than a whisper.

“A dead dwarf,” Olga said, “Was this a friend?”

“One of them,” Mog closed his eyes, already knowing what the answer would be. Oh gods no, please don’t let Maeve be dead. He could not take losing her again. Once had nearly broken him.

“There may have been others,” Olga said, seeming to sense his despair, “we did not see them. We killed the elder; he was mighty and a challenge. Lars has his fangs if you wish to see them.”

“No thanks,” Mog coughed, closing his eyes against an upwelling of grief. The old despair clamped down on his heart and he turned his face away, chanting softly, calling back the Rision, the fool that felt no pain.

“Rest, manling. I will take care of you now.”

“Thank ye’ kindly.”