Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  No, he couldn't see how that would matter. He suspected there was some simple trick to this that he was missing, something his father could explain in a few moments, but Hmar wasn't around to ask; he'd gone up to the minehead at Yildau to haggle for a better price on the ores they used, and wouldn't be back for at least another two days.

  If Bardetta had wanted it smaller Malledd could have shaped it around a cartwheel, but she wanted a great huge thing, big as a millwheel...

  A millwheel. Was there any way he could get a millwheel? Malledd glanced up through the open side of the smithy in the direction of Biekedau; there were grist mills there, two or three of them. One might have an old stone, though transportation would be...

  Then he blinked in surprise, leaving the thought unfinished. Someone was coming down the lane from the highway – someone wearing a white robe. At first he thought it might be Onnell, dressed up as a joke, but he dismissed the notion quickly – this was a stranger, his walk very different from Onnell's familiar swagger.

  No one in Grozerodz ordinarily dressed like that, and while Malledd thought that he and Hmar were widely known to be proficient at their trade, nobody from Biekedau or Duvrenarodz would bother coming to Grozerodz for smithing work. They had their own smiths.

  Travelers did turn up at the forge occasionally, with a thrown horseshoe or a broken axle fitting or the like, but what sort of traveler would wear something as utterly impractical as an ankle-length white robe?

  As the stranger drew nearer Malledd answered his own unspoken question. There was only one answer, the obvious one. “A priest,” he said aloud. That was who would go traveling in a white robe.

  “Ho there!” the priest called, when he saw Malledd looking at him. He waved a greeting.

  Malledd put down his hammer and tongs, leaving the unfinished metal band draped across the anvil, and wiped his hands on his leather apron. He peered out of the smoke-blackened gloom of the smithy into the sunlight.

  The priest looked harmless enough; he was an old man, older than Hmar, his hair and beard streaked with grey, but still broad in the shoulders and standing straight and tall – as tall as Malledd's own shoulder, perhaps. He appeared unarmed, but Malledd thought almost anything might be hidden in those ridiculous oversized sleeves.

  The priest was strolling along briskly, paying no attention to the iron-fenced graveyard or the fading, grassy meadows, or the bright colors of the autumn leaves. He passed the firebreak without hesitation, and Malledd met him at the door of the smithy.

  He had never really spoken to a priest. He had seen them many times, of course – officiating at festivals, or conducting the annual graveyard ceremony that was supposed to assure the souls of the dead safe passage to the afterlife and guard their bodies against defilement. The priests at the temple in Biekedau had conducted the wedding ceremony when Malledd had married Anva, a ceremony where Baranmel's non-appearance had been the subject of some uneasy jests among the villagers of Grozerodz. Priests also oversaw the shrine of Dremeger when Malledd made his annual pilgrimage there, and one could hardly reach the shrine without seeing half a dozen assorted priests scattered around the temple.

  But Malledd had never had any reason to talk to a priest outside the temple, or discuss anything other than ritual with one. Furthermore, after having his childhood ruined by the pronouncement of a priest, Malledd was not particularly eager to have anything further to do with them. The wedding and the annual pilgrimage were necessities, and Malledd had never hesitated where necessities were involved, but he had no desire to go beyond necessities in his dealings with priests.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, looking down – though not so far as usual – at the priest.

  The priest smiled up at him. “Perhaps you can, my friend. Now, would you be the same smith who was here twenty years ago? You look too young.”

  Malledd's eyes narrowed. “Would you be the same priest who was here twenty years ago?”

  The priest's smile widened to a grin, but he shook his head. “No, no,” he said cheerfully. “That was Mezizar. I know him, but my name is Vadeviya. You know about Mezizar's visit, though?”

  “The whole village knows about that visit!” Malledd growled.

  The anger in his voice penetrated, and the priest's smile vanished. “You don't sound pleased about it,” he said, cocking his head curiously to one side.

  “What do you want here, priest?” Malledd asked wearily. Half a dozen sentences had been exchanged, and already he was tired of the man.

  “I'm looking for the child who was born that day, the one Mezizar found,” Vadeviya replied. The lighthearted tone was gone; he spoke quite seriously.

  “Why?” Malledd demanded.

  “I wish to talk to him.”

  That seemed obvious. Malledd considered his options. He doubted the priest would give up if he said he was not the right man, and anyone in town would direct the priest back here, so he might as well get it over with.

  “You are talking to him,” Malledd said.

  “Ah,” the priest said. He studied Malledd's face silently and intently.

  Probably looking for the long-vanished birthmark, Malledd realized angrily. “You said talk, not stare. What did you want to talk to me about?” he demanded.

  Vadeviya didn't answer directly; instead he asked, “Could we sit down? I've walked a long way.”

  Malledd frowned again, but he stepped aside, allowing the priest into the smithy, and gestured to an iron bench against one wall, a bench that Hmar had made years ago as a showpiece. The priest settled onto it with a grateful sigh, but Malledd remained standing.

  Some smithies, he had heard, served as gathering places for the locals, at least in winter – even with the shutters open, the forge was too hot for comfort in the summer. The smithy Malledd and Hmar shared, however, did not welcome visitors; Malledd and his father preferred to keep their business and their social lives separate. As a result of this attitude there were no good seats other than the ornate bench and the well-worn stool by the bellows, and most visitors hesitated to use either of those.

  Vadeviya did not hesitate. When the priest was comfortable he ran a hand along the bench's elaborate scrollwork, then looked up. “Lovely work – yours?”

  “My father's,” Malledd replied. “But you didn't come here to talk about ironmongery.”

  “No, I didn't,” Vadeviya agreed. “You've read Dolkout's letter?”

  Malledd resisted the temptation to ask which letter the priest meant. He nodded.

  “Then you know that you are the god's chosen champion, the defender of the Domdur Empire.”

  “I know that someone signing himself Dolkout said so,” Malledd replied.

  “Oh, it was Dolkout, all right,” Vadeviya said cheerfully. “I happened to be the messenger the oracles sent to fetch the high priest, and I remember it well. A chance to notify the new champion comes no more than once in a lifetime, after all, and even then to only a single temple in all the world, so it was quite an event for those of us who knew about it. Dolkout didn't announce it widely, either, so we were a select few. He kept the privilege of writing that note entirely to himself, wrote it with his own hand – his two secretaries were furious, as they knew it meant something important was happening, and they were excluded. All the rest of us who had heard the news were envious of Mezizar, since he would be the first to see you.”

  “I doubt I looked like anything very special. One newborn is much like another, they say.” Malledd watched the priest suspiciously. This talk of how extraordinary an event his birth had been made him nervous. He had not spoken openly of his supposed divine selection for years.

  “Most don't have Ba'el's clawmark across their faces,” the priest said.

  Malledd decided not to pursue that; instead he asked, “So Dolkout really was the high priest?”

  “Oh, yes, of course he was!” Vadeviya looked shocked. “A fine man. Dead for seven... no, eight years now.”

  “And you claim that
everything he wrote in that letter was true?”

  Vadeviya blinked at him in surprise. “Did you doubt it?”

  “I still do, priest.”

  “But don't!” The old man's expression was suddenly intent. “You are the one and only divinely-appointed defender of the Empire.”

  “No other temple sent out similar notices?” Malledd asked. “There isn't some fine strong lad in High Karamador or the Veruet Isles who was told the same thing?”

  “Certainly not!” Vadeviya folded his arms across his chest and jerked his bearded chin up. “It was a great honor that the gods should choose someone within my temple's jurisdiction. We few who knew about it were all surprised and pleased.”

  “Ah, yes, a great honor,” Malledd said, nodding. “Yet in almost twenty years no one from the Biekedau temple ever before bothered to come take a look at me.” He made no attempt to conceal his bitterness. “The letter said that every priest in the Empire is required to render me whatever aid I might need, but none of those priests ever came to see whether I might have some request to make. I don't suppose that that could possibly be why you are here?”

  “Not exactly,” Vadeviya admitted, unfolding his arms, “though in fact, since you remind me of my duty, I hereby place myself at your service.” He bowed his head.

  “The letter also mentioned that the oracles in particular are to help me,” Malledd growled.

  “And there are no oracles now,” Vadeviya said. “Yes, I know. You have no idea of the consternation the oracles' silence has caused my order.”

  Malledd snorted. “I'd suppose it probably cut the temple's income considerably,” he said. The high fees oracles had charged for consultations were still legendary.

  Vadeviya shrugged. “Some,” he said, “but we aren't suffering from that. It's not knowing whether we're really doing the gods' will that hampers us. Before we could simply ask if there was any doubt, but now there's constant bickering about every least little detail – and about major issues, as well. There are some people who maintain that if the gods no longer need oracles, they no longer need any priests at all – and we can't prove that's wrong. I wouldn't ordinarily talk of such things to an outsider, but you, sir – you haven't told me your name – are a very special case.”

  “My name is Malledd.”

  Vadeviya nodded. “A good name. It will look well in the records. Faial, Dunnon, Mannabi, Malledd.”

  “And outside Grozerodz and the temple at Biekedau, no one will ever hear of me any more than they've heard of Dunnon or Mannabi,” Malledd said.

  “Perhaps,” Vadeviya said, sitting back and folding his arms again. “If the peace continues. Or if you wish it. And that, Malledd, brings me to why I have come.”

  “About time,” Malledd growled. “Get on with it.”

  “There are rumors,” Vadeviya said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He seemed to be incapable of sitting still. “From the east, from Govya and Olnamia and so on. For more than a year now we've had reports of murders, banditry, assassinations – bureaucrats found strangled or dismembered in their beds, shrines desecrated, and so on. Do you know anything about any of that?” He looked up hopefully.

  Malledd glowered. He picked up his hammer and hefted it. “I'm a blacksmith,” he said. “How would I know anything about what's happening in Govya or Olnamia?”

  “You are also the chosen of the gods,” Vadeviya replied calmly. “We'd thought that perhaps they had seen fit to inform you of these events.”

  “Well, they haven't,” Malledd said bitterly. “Nobody's sent any oracles here. No god has spoken from the bellows or written me messages in the coals or sent visions down from the moons. Baranmel did not dance at our wedding, let alone tell me any secrets there. Maybe you think I've been touched by the gods, but I haven't seen any sign of it.”

  “No odd dreams, perhaps? Prince Greldar used to say he had prophetic dreams.”

  “Prince Greldar?” Malledd shouted. “In the name of the gods, Greldar was a prince, not a smith! Not to mention that he's been dead for hundreds of years!”

  “And you have his old job,” Vadeviya retorted, shouting back.

  “Well, I haven't got his dreams! I don't know anything about Govya or Olnamia; I probably couldn't even find them on a map. Is that what you came to ask me?”

  Vadeviya shook his head. “Not really,” he said.

  “What, then?”

  “These rumors from the east have some of us very concerned,” Vadeviya explained. “Strange things have been happening during your lifetime, Malledd, things that have us wondering what the gods are up to. The oracles have fallen silent, and the New Magic has been discovered, and now, from almost the same part of the world as Vrai Burrai and the first New Magicians, there are these stories of unrest. There are reports of black magic involved in some of these troubles, Malledd. Some people say it's the New Magic, fallen into the wrong hands, or that the New Magic has unleashed forces we don't understand – and the Empress has established the Imperial College of the New Magic right in Seidabar.”

  Malledd frowned.

  “We don't know if the stories of black magic are true,” Vadeviya continued, rising to his feet and beginning to pace hither and yon. “Even if they are we don't know whether there's a connection to the New Magic, but whether there is or not, the stories are worrisome. So far, it's only rumors and a few dead or frightened officials and merchants, but if it should become more than that, if there's really something mysterious that could strike even in Seidabar, then it might threaten the Empire itself.” He stopped pacing and pointed a finger at Malledd's face. “If it should come to that, Malledd of Grozerodz, will you fight for the Empire?”

  Malledd stared down at the priest silently for a long moment, frowning.

  At first he wanted to reply, “Of course not! It's not my problem. I'm no champion, I'm a blacksmith.”

  Then, almost instantly, he thought better of it and wanted to answer, “Of course I will! I'm a loyal subject and of Domdur blood.” After all, even if this talk of being the gods' champion was nonsense, he had a duty to his people, didn't he?

  But he was a blacksmith, not a soldier. He had a home and a family. He almost shuddered at the thought of leaving Anva and Neyil – he hadn't spent a night anywhere but his own bed, with Anva beside him, since their wedding, and he never wanted to. And he had plenty of other friends and family in Grozerodz and the surrounding area – his parents, his Uncle Sparrak, his sisters and their husbands, Onnell and Bousian and the other men he drank with at Bardetta's sometimes.

  But he was no coward, and there were things a man had to be ready to do for his people and his gods.

  Torn between those two extremes, he almost said, “I don't know.” He didn't say it aloud, though; he wasn't satisfied with that. The priest might have accepted it, but Malledd wouldn't accept it of himself.

  What he did finally say was, “That would depend.”

  Vadeviya lowered his finger and stared up at Malledd. He nodded thoughtfully. “On what?” he asked.

  “On the nature of the threat. On what was expected of me. On what it would mean for Anva and little Neyil.”

  “Who are they?”

  Malledd was irrationally angry at the priest for not already knowing. “My wife and son,” he said. “There might be another child coming, too; we aren't sure yet. I'm not going to go running off to Govya to see if some nasty rumor is true, not when my family needs me.”

  “But if the enemy is real?”

  “It would still depend. The Empire has armies and a navy, it has all you priests and your magic, it has the Imperial College of the New Magic that you just spoke of – what would it need with a blacksmith?”

  “You are the gods' champion,” Vadeviya pointed out.

  “So you say,” Malledd growled.

  “It's true.”

  Malledd turned away and tossed the hammer on a handy shelf. “Well, even if it is, maybe the Domdur don't need a champion any more.”


  “But maybe they will again someday,” Vadeviya said. “If that day comes, and all that stands between a deadly foe and the gates of Seidabar is your strong right arm, will you be there?”

  Malledd didn't look at the priest as he said, “If I see the need – if I see the need, not some priest or general – then I'll do my best.”

  “Do you think you'll know when you're needed? Do you not trust, say, the Archpriest to call upon you only when necessary? Or the Empress?”

  Malledd hesitated, knowing he was about to say something that the priest would probably not want to hear, something that a good many people would find offensive.

  It was the truth, though. “No, I don't trust them,” he said. “What do I know of your Archpriest, or even of the Empress, if it comes to that? The gods chose Beretris to rule the world, but I don't know why they did, any more than I know why they chose me, and I won't trust her to know what's right for me.” He turned back to face Vadeviya. “But if an army is at Seidabar's gates, I think the news would reach me even here in Grozerodz, would it not?”

  “It should, certainly,” the priest admitted.

  “That's good enough, then. If I'm needed, the gods can find a way to let me know, I'm sure. I don't want a bunch of courtiers and imperial bureaucrats calling on me because some bandit's killed a magistrate somewhere; better they never know that the gods still choose champions. Assuming, of course, that the gods truly still do.”

  “The gods chose you,” Vadeviya said, “but the courtiers in Seidabar don't know you exist. Only a handful of priests know – four of us who yet live in Biekedau, and perhaps the current Archpriest, I'm not sure. But no one else was told. Not even our present high priest knows.”

  “Good,” Malled said emphatically. “Don't tell him.” He jabbed a finger at Vadeviya. “Don't tell anyone – and you can tell your fellow priests that, too. I don't want anyone who doesn't already know I'm supposed to be the champion to find out. Bad enough that everyone in Grozerodz knows, without all the world finding out. If I'm needed and I don't find out for myself, one of you four priests can come tell me about it.”