Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  She stared silently at him for a moment before replying. “Because you think you're so special,” she said angrily. “Because you're the only boy, so you get to be Father's apprentice because he says women aren't strong enough to be smiths. And you're the youngest, so Mother treats you nicer than she treats the rest of us. You get your own clothes made new, no hand-me-downs. You're so big for your age the other kids all treat you almost as if you were a grown-up! You don't act like the other boys – you never get tired or whiny, as if you're too good for that. And that silly priest came when you were born and said you were some sort of gift from the gods, so whenever we talk to anyone in the village they always ask us, 'Oh, how's that brother of yours, how's little Malledd, isn't he wonderful?' I've been hearing that as long as I can remember, and I'm sick of it, you little weasel!”

  “That isn't anything I did!” Malledd protested. “I can't help being a boy, or being big, or being the youngest!”

  “So what?” Deleva demanded. “I'm still not going to let you get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?” he asked, baffled. More of her complaints were sinking in, but he didn't understand them – she was upset because he didn't tire easily, or get ill-tempered? Those were the very things other girls professed to despise in their younger siblings!

  “With thinking you're special!” she shouted. “You're not anyone special, you're just my obnoxious little brother who deserves to get dumped in the mud sometimes!”

  “I don't think I'm special,” Malledd protested.

  “No? If you don't, you're the only one in Grozerodz who doesn't! Nobody else had a priest show up when she was born!” Deleva's voice cracked and she blinked as if something was bothering her eyes.

  “I don't want to be special!” Malledd insisted.

  “Are you finished?” Deleva demanded. “Because if you don't have anything else to say, I'm going back inside. It's getting chilly out here.”

  “Go ahead,” Malledd said – though it wasn't chilly at all; summer was still strong, and the gentle breeze from the east was warm.

  He watched as Deleva went into the house and slammed the door; then he stood there in the kitchen yard and looked up, past the drying linens, up at the darkening sky.

  A dozen moons were overhead, a large reddish one he thought was Ba'el and several little ones in various colors – the homes of the gods.

  “Why'd you have your stupid priest pick me?” he shouted up at them. “I didn't ask to be picked!”

  No one answered, and he remembered suddenly that according to those travelers, the gods were no longer answering anyone's questions. He blinked, startled.

  He had known, for as long as he could remember, that the day he was born a priest had walked into Grozerodz and come into their house and told his parents that he, Malledd, had been touched by the gods, that the long-vanished birthmark on his face meant that he was the divine champion, the gods' chosen defender of the Domdur Empire – not that the empire needed a champion any more.

  He didn't even remember having a birthmark, but everyone agreed it had been there when he was a baby.

  His father dismissed the whole thing as nonsense, and had on several occasions suggested that priests probably went around to any number of places telling people they'd been marked by the gods somehow. He said the Empire didn't need any champions any more, so there weren't any, and if there were they'd be princes or nobles, the same as they had always been before, and not the infant son of an ordinary smith, and it was all absurd.

  Malledd's mother had never said anything about whether it was nonsense or not, but she had told Malledd some stories about the ancient champions who had helped build the Domdur Empire – how Rubrekir the Destroyer had broken the siege of Rishna Gabidéll, how Prince Greldar of the Domdur had hunted down the Red Traitors, and so on. Malledd liked her stories much better than Seguna's scary ones.

  He noticed that some of the champions his mother talked about weren't born princes at all, but were given titles after their adventures. No one ever mentioned that detail to Hmar, though; Malledd's father was not a man anyone cared to argue with.

  Malledd thought there might be something genuinely unusual about him, since he was so much bigger than the others his age, and since he did not begin to tire until long after other boys were exhausted – but was that a gift of the gods, or just a bit of ordinary good fortune?

  Malledd's mother had explained once that when Malledd was grown up, if he wanted to find out more about his birthmark or the priest's visit, he could always go to the temple in Biekedau and ask the priests there.

  Except now, Malledd thought, with the oracles silenced, the priests might not know anything.

  That was bad. He didn't like that thought at all. If he was going to be hated by his sisters, and maybe by others as well, for being the chosen of the gods, he at least wanted to know more about why he was hated.

  Frowning, he lowered his gaze from the moons to the back door of his home, and hurried back inside, through the little back room into the main living area.

  Vlaia was sitting by the hearth, talking quietly to Hmar, who stood poking the ashes in the fireplace – Malledd guessed they were probably discussing potential husbands. The other four girls were all giggling in their shared bedroom – the house had two real bedrooms, both large and airy, parents in one and daughters in the other, and also a small, poorly-ventilated loft where Malledd slept.

  It occurred to Malledd that all the time he had envied his sisters their closed little community in that shared room, Deleva had probably considered his own tiny, stuffy space to be a special privilege. He thought it was lonely, but she probably thought of it as private.

  Anything that marked him as different would anger Deleva, he realized.

  Malledd's mother Madeya was sitting silently in one corner of the main room, cross-legged on the wide, low stool she preferred, sewing; her needle dipped and rose, dipped and rose, ducking in and out of a mass of golden-brown cloth. Malledd stood by her side and watched for a moment before speaking.

  “Mother?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, and the needle paused.

  “The priest who came to see you and Father when I was born,” Malledd asked. “What exactly did he say?”

  Madeya pulled the thread tight and put her sewing down on the carved wooden box that held her needles and threads. “I don't remember exactly,” she said, unfolding her legs.

  “You didn't write it down, or anything?”

  “No, I didn't write anything down, but the priest did leave a note for you.”

  “He did?” Malledd was astonished. If anyone had ever mentioned this to him before, he'd forgotten it.

  “Yes, he did, in a fancy ivory case.” She got to her feet. “Let me see if I can find it. You're old enough to read it for yourself now.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, as she led him into the master bedroom. “Your father and I read it almost as soon as the priest had left.”

  “And you never told me?” He couldn't help sounding hurt.

  “It's really not all that exciting, Malledd. You already know just about everything in it. You'll see.” She opened a drawer and rummaged through it, pushing aside iron combs and ragged handkerchiefs, then pulled out an ivory case, somewhat yellowed by age. She flicked open a brass hook and flipped up one end, then handed it to Malledd.

  He peered inside and found a rolled-up parchment; he drew it out and unrolled it carefully.

  He knew how to read; his parents had insisted that all their children learn to read, on general principles. Hmar had justified it to them by saying, “You never know when it may come in handy. If you ever get a job order in writing, for example, it's helpful to be able to read it yourself, instead of hunting up a priest or scholar. It's not as if it were hard to learn.”

  So Malledd had learned. He hadn't had much practice, though; they didn't own any books. Even though the writing was unusually clear, it too
k him several minutes to puzzle out everything in the note.

  “To the son of the smith of Grozerodz, greetings,” it said. “By the time you read this you will undoubtedly have heard tales of the great champions of old, who were given great gifts by the gods so that they might help the Domdur, Chosen of the Gods, to attain mastery over all that lies beneath the Hundred Moons. These tales, though sometimes exaggerated, are substantially true. In the distant past the gods saw that it was not good that the world should be divided, and that nations should war one against another, for not only did these wars cause much suffering and kill many of those who worshipped the gods, but they often divided the gods against themselves.

  “Accordingly, the gods debated amongst themselves, and at last resolved that one people, ruled by one house, should alone be given the favor of the gods, that that people, and that house, might unite all of humanity in peace and prosperity. Though some among the gods were not pleased, yet was a great magic made that prevented forever after any of the gods from aiding any people other than the Domdur.

  “That proved not in itself enough to bring about our present happy state. Many of the other nations, though abandoned by the gods, yet fought valiantly against us, and there were likewise powers in the earth that defied us, strange dark powers that hated us. At times the resolution of the Domdur weakened.

  “Those among the gods who had resisted the decision to grant the Domdur dominion over all lands prevented the other gods from interfering too directly in human affairs, but it came about that an agreement was reached whereby the Domdur would at any given time have one champion, gifted by the gods with supernatural endurance and vitality, who would serve to rally the people of the Domdur Empire, who would fight always for the good of the Empire and the power of the Domdur. These champions, each in his turn, led us in battle against our foes, and cast down enemy warlords and the creatures of dark magic.

  “Now, of course, we have no need of a champion, for the Domdur Empire holds sway over all, yet the gods' magic still holds its course, and there is always a chosen champion.

  “The last champion who was actually called upon to serve the gods was Faial the Redeemer, in the year 854 of the gods' favor. Upon his death the duty passed to a man named Dunnon, of whom no service was ever required; nor did the gods ask anything of his successor, Mannabi.

  “As I write this, on the morning of your birth, Mannabi has been dead for three days, having perished on the second day of Sheshar's Triad. Three of our oracles, speaking for Samardas, Ba'el, and Vevanis, have informed me that you, the still-unborn and nameless child of the only smith in Grozerodz, are to be the next champion. We know nothing of you, save that you will be born on this second day of Ba'el's Triad with the red mark of the war-god's claw across your face, and that this mark is the sign of the chosen champion who is charged with the defense of the Domdur Empire, and gifted by the gods with supernatural endurance. It seems likely that, like Dunnon and Mannabi, you will live out your life without ever being called upon; still, we feel it appropriate to warn you that should the Empire ever be endangered, it shall be your duty to defend and preserve it.

  “Since it is likely your services will never be required, we see no need to reveal your identity widely. I have informed Bonvas, the Archpriest of the Great Temple at Seidabar, and all in all some eight of us here in Biekedau know of your existence, but no one else has been told as of this writing. I suppose the delivery of this letter will spread the news to the village of Grozerodz, but that should be the end of it; I do not expect you to be besieged by petitioners seeking your aid.

  “Should you have any questions or concerns about your duties, every priest in the Empire, including most particularly the oracles, is required to render you whatever aid you might need.

  “May all the gods bless you.

  “Signed, Dolkout, High Priest at Biekedau, on Midsummer's Day, the second day of Ba'el's Triad, in the year of the gods' favor 1082.”

  Malledd read this through carefully, then went back to the beginning and read it through again.

  “Me?” he said.

  “You,” his mother said. “But as your father has surely told you, you mustn't take it too seriously. Hmar thinks this is some sort of priestly trick – that the priests give these out to one boy in every village, to make them more loyal to the Empire. It says right there that they haven't even told the Empress, after all, and does that seem reasonable? Besides, even if every word of it is true, who ever heard of this Dunnon, or Mannabi? So don't go thinking you've got some great destiny waiting if you run away to Seidabar, Malledd – you're a smith's apprentice, and you'll be a fine smith, and probably no more than that.”

  “Oh, I know, Mother,” he said, carefully rolling up the parchment and stuffing it back into the ivory case. Then he stared at the case for a long moment, thinking.

  He didn't particularly want to be a hero like Greldar or Rubrekir or even Faial – those stories were exciting, but all that fighting and killing and dying sounded nasty, and besides, the Empire had been at peace for two hundred years. Nobody needed heroes now.

  Being chosen as the champion of the Empire wasn't exactly a great honor any more. It wasn't as though he'd done anything to earn it; the gods had apparently chosen him before he was even born, if the birthmark really meant what the parchment said it did.

  It didn't do him any good to be chosen. In fact, so far, all that silly parchment had done for him was get his sisters angry – and if the oracles had stopped giving answers, that was probably all it ever would get him.

  The best thing he could do, he decided, was to forget it – and to make sure everyone else did, too. He handed the case back to his mother, and turned away as she tucked it back into the drawer.

  The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he would be better off if he could convince the rest of the village to forget all about it.

  For the next several years he tried his best to do just that.

  Chapter Three

  “Ale,” Malledd said, a trifle nervously, as he sat down. He was several days past his sixteenth birthday, and Bardetta had made a point of serving him ale to celebrate his coming of age, but he still wasn't entirely used to the idea.

  “Coming right up,” Zenisha, Bardetta's new serving girl, said. She turned with a swirl of skirts and headed for the taps.

  Malledd settled back in his chair and looked around the tavern. It was a rainy afternoon, driving the farmers in from the fields, so the room was fairly crowded, and the air was heavy with the moisture brought in on wet clothes. There was no fire on the hearth, not this time of year, but the place still seemed to be steaming.

  Malledd could have been working, since the forge had a sound roof, but he had decided he could afford a break – especially since Anva was likely to be here with her father.

  His heart quickened and his hand trembled slightly at the thought of her. Anva was, in Malledd's opinion, the most beautiful creature to ever walk beneath the Hundred Moons – tall for a woman, and shapely, with great dark eyes and smooth clear skin. And she spoke, when she spoke at all, calmly and well, not at all like the giggling nonsense of most girls Malledd knew. The mere sight of her took his breath away.

  She wasn't here yet. Her father Drugen was, though, so Malledd was still optimistic. If Drugen stayed for any length of time his wife would almost certainly send Anva to fetch him home, and when that happened Malledd could lend a supporting arm. He could at least say a few words to Anva as they helped her father home, and Drugen would probably be too drunk to notice if Malledd stole a kiss or two from Drugen's daughter.

  Drugen was at the big table in the center of the room, with several of his friends about him, all laughing at some jest Malledd hadn't heard; Malledd watched, then glanced at the door, to see if Anva might be arriving.

  Sure enough, just then the door opened, admitting a swirl of warm rain, but it wasn't Anva who stepped in; it was Gremayan the merchant.

  A dozen voices greeted G
remayan, who waved to everyone with one hand while shaking the rain from his hat with the other. He glanced at the unlit hearth, then threw his soaking-wet cape across one chair and fell heavily into another. The hat landed on the table before him.

  “Bardetta!” he called, “brandy!”

  Bardetta was not present, but Zenisha quickly thumped Malledd's mug of ale down and hurried to fetch the brandy Gremayan demanded.

  “Back from Biekedau, are you?” Drugen bellowed drunkenly at Gremayan.

  “Just as you see me,” Gremayan called back. “And believe me, a ten-mile ride in this rain is something I'd not wish on anyone!”

  “Better the ten miles from Biekedau than the twenty from Duvrenarodz!” Drugen replied. He looked around as if expecting a laugh, but got none. He subsided and gulped beer.

  Zenisha reappeared and handed Gremayan his brandy.

  “Thank you, lass,” the merchant said, pushing his hat aside to make room for the brass cup. “Would you have a little water to go with that? You'd think I'd have had enough of water, I suppose, but it was all on the outside, and my inside is dry as dust.”

  Zenisha nodded and hurried away again, as Gremayan called after her, “And could someone see to my ox?”

  Malledd cautiously sipped ale, watching Gremayan, and watching the door.

  “So what's the news in Biekedau?” someone asked, as Gremayan tossed the brandy down his throat.

  “Oh, they're all abuzz there, they are,” Gremayan said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “They've just heard the latest, relayed from Seidabar by the temple magicians – it seems that someone out in the eastern lands somewhere, in Govya or some other godsforsaken place like that, has discovered a new sort of magic.”

  The farmers turned to stare at him, and several voices muttered.

  “A new kind of magic?” someone asked. “How can that be?”

  Gremayan shrugged. “I have no idea, but they say it's true.”