Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Then she blushed and glanced at her husband, who was grinning foolishly, paying no attention to what she was saying. He had an arm around Berai's waist, but was talking to one of the other guests.

  “I'm pleased to meet you,” Malledd said awkwardly. “May all the gods smile on you and your new husband.”

  Berai smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she said. “I'm so pleased to meet you, too!”

  They had scarcely had time to exchange a dozen more words, though, when someone else demanded Berai's attention, and a cousin began talking loudly to Darsmit about their shared boyhood adventures, allowing Malledd to step away, into a corner by the shrine.

  He wasn't comfortable here. He didn't know anyone but Darsmit, and who wanted a stranger at a wedding? Besides, when Darsmit introduced him to anyone, he always mentioned the fire; if Malledd was going to be here at all, he wanted to be just one of the revelers, here amid the red flowers that represented new life to celebrate Berai and Gharman finding each other. He didn't want to play the hero, or distract attention from the bride and groom.

  Besides, he didn't like being in the Great Temple; he was afraid Vadeviya would turn up and say something, take his presence as a sign his resolve was weakening, get him involved in something. He didn't even want to be in Seidabar any more, let alone the Great Temple. If his resolve was weakening at all, it was in favor of going home to Anva. He had missed her painfully ever since her brief midwinter visit.

  Someone who looked like another of Gharman's relatives pushed a glass of wine into Malledd's hand, then turned and called, “Does everyone have a drink?”

  “I don't!” a voice bellowed, and a figure appeared in front of the curtain just to the other side of the shrine from where Malledd stood – but Malledd hadn't seen the curtain move, or seen this figure emerge. He stared, puzzled.

  The chatter faded suddenly as half the fifty or so people in the hall turned to see who had shouted, then died away completely as the other half turned to see why their friends were staring silently. The music missed a beat as the piper, too, spotted the new arrival – and recognized him.

  “Baranmel,” someone whispered loudly in the unexpected quiet.

  “It is!” another said, somewhat louder.

  Berai let out a piercing shriek of delight.

  The new arrival smiled broadly and raised his hands in acknowledgment, but didn't speak.

  Then the silence vanished in cheering and applause. Baranmel shouted over the racket, “Where's my drink? Why aren't we dancing?” He swept forward into the room, snatching up a beer in one hand and a young woman in the other as the piper began a new tune, a song of welcome.

  Malledd shrank back in the corner by the shrine, staring at the god's back. The uneasiness that had been nagging at him since he set foot in the Great Temple bloomed into outright fear – he was in the presence of a god.

  There was no possibility of doubt or deception. Baranmel wasn't particularly large or overwhelming – he was perhaps the second-tallest person in the room, after Malledd – but he was still unmistakably more than human. His face was oddly undefined, so that Malledd could not describe any part of it when the god was facing away from him, but it left an impression of supernal beauty; he moved with grace and smoothness even in such vulgar actions as gulping beer. The giggling woman he held under one arm seemed stunningly beautiful merely because he was holding her.

  And there was no darkness anywhere about him. It was not so much that he seemed to radiate light as that the rest of the world seemed shadowy in contrast – his blouse was so brilliantly white, his breeches so richly golden, that the people around him in their bright wedding clothes seemed dim and dull. His hair and beard were a light brown that seemed to shift hue as Malledd watched – and maybe it did; after all, this was a god. His physical form was whatever he wanted it to be.

  The other guests were clearly delighted with his presence; they cheered when he kissed the bride, a kiss that was rather more emphatic than would have been appropriate from anyone else but the groom. They cheered again when he swept the woman under his arm upright and set her back on her feet, and swirled into a dance with her, somehow managing to swing his just-refilled beer mug about wildly without spilling a drop. The piper was playing far better than he had before, and someone had begun drumming, using the various kegs and barrels as his instruments.

  They were all overcome with joy, and Malledd knew that that was as it should be – after all, this was Baranmel, the god of festivities, whose presence was a sign of good luck for years to come. “May Baranmel dance at your wedding” was the most widely-used blessing beneath the Hundred Moons; Berai and Gharman were assured by his presence that they would love each other as long as they lived, that their lives together would be long and full and rich, that they would have fine children. Not one couple in a thousand was so fortunate, and the guests were all sharing in their friends' happiness.

  All but Malledd.

  He didn't know Berai or Gharman, after all – and the presence of a god raised too many issues for him.

  It wasn't that he hadn't believed the gods were real; he had never doubted their existence. He had, however, doubted just how involved they were in mortal affairs. His father Hmar had always been suspicious of gods and priests, had sometimes wondered aloud whether the oracles actually heard the words of the gods or merely gave sensible advice on their own, had accused the priests of trickery of various kinds. Hmar had always maintained that the gods weren't any of his concern – he would deal with the world as he found it, and he hadn't found any gods in his forge. Dremeger had put the ore in the earth and given mankind the skills to work it, and Hmar had given thanks for that annually, but he hadn't expected the gods to interfere in his life, nor did he try to interfere in theirs.

  Malledd had picked up that attitude as far as he could, but his own life had been marked by the gods from birth – according to the priests, anyway – and he hadn't appreciated it. The gods had interfered in his life, as they hadn't in Hmar's, and not for the better. Since boyhood he had been trying to escape that interference, to have as little to do with the gods as possible. He had taken the silence of the oracles as a sign that the gods were not meddling any more. He had taken fact that Baranmel had not attended his own wedding as a sign that the gods had no more interest in him. The oracles had abandoned the Domdur, and that suited Malledd just fine; it meant he could make up his own mind about just what duties he might have as the chosen of the gods, since the gods weren't telling him.

  But here was Baranmel, not a dozen feet away, not three days after the Imperial Palace burned, in the midst of the greatest crisis the Domdur had faced in centuries. Could it really be a coincidence?

  Malledd had heard often enough, from his more religious or mystically-inclined friends and companions, that there are no coincidences, that everything is part of the plans of the gods. Certainly, being dragged to a stranger's wedding where Baranmel just happened to appear would seem awesomely unlikely.

  But if it was not a coincidence, just why was he here? Were the gods angry with him for not revealing himself as the defender of the Empire? Were they going to remove his recognition and declare that the Domdur had lost divine favor? Would Baranmel strike him dead for failing to make his way to the Grebiguata to confront Rebiri Nazakri?

  Malledd was not afraid of much, but he feared the gods. They were inscrutable and all-powerful – how could he not fear them?

  He hung back, wishing he were anywhere else. He couldn't get to the door without pushing his way through the crowd and passing even closer to the dancing god.

  The first dance ended, and Baranmel changed partners for the next, whirling an aging redhead across the tiny dance floor. Malledd stood and watched, accepting the wine someone passed him and downing it quickly.

  Berai danced the third dance with Baranmel; for the fourth the piper played an old marching tune, the volunteer drummer beating it out on the barrels. Baranmel flung his arms over the shoulders of Gharman
and Darsmit, and the three of them drunkenly bellowed the words as they reeled through a traditional Domdur war dance.

  When that ended, the musicians announced they were taking a drinking break – “I haven't enough spit left for another note,” the piper gasped. That was the cue for most of those present to tackle some serious eating and drinking, as the pastries vanished rapidly and the barrels were “retuned.”

  Baranmel clapped his winded fellow dancers on the back, fetched himself a mug of ale, and then turned.

  “Ah, Malledd,” he said, as he strode over to the corner by the shrine.

  Malledd backed up until he was leaning against the curtain and could feel the cold stone beneath the cloth, but there was nowhere he could go, no way to avoid the god.

  That inevitability forced him to think, to consider what he could say, and despite his fear he saw that this was his chance to finally get some straight answers, clear instructions on what, if anything, the gods expected of him. That gave him the courage to straighten up and look Baranmel in the eye.

  “What do you want of me?” Malledd said.

  “I? I want you to cheer up!” Baranmel said. “Have a drink! Smile! Dance! I see at least a dozen pretty girls here, and your wife won't mind if you just dance with one!” He grinned and handed Malledd a cup of wine.

  Malledd took it, but didn't drink.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  Baranmel cocked his head to one side. “Malledd, I am the god of joyful celebration – what else would I want of anyone?” He smiled a charming, ingratiating smile, then gulped beer. He wiped foam from his lip with the back of his hand.

  “Am I just anyone, then?” Malledd asked warily. “You know my name.”

  “I know everyone's name!” Baranmel shouted, flinging his arms wide. “I'm a god, Malledd!” He turned and, without looking, tossed his empty mug aside; a man by the nearest beer barrel caught it and refilled it, but Baranmel didn't wait for its return, but instead snatched another that was being passed nearby.

  “Thanks!” he called, hoisting the mug in salute. Then he turned back to Malledd and said, “No, you're not just anyone, Malledd. Forget your doubts – you are, indeed, the chosen defender of the Domdur. And isn't that something to celebrate? Drink up!”

  Malledd sipped wine and stared at Baranmel's dripping beard as the god emptied his mug again.

  He was the divine champion, then. It wasn't a priestly hoax, or an error. And Baranmel had said “are,” not “were.”

  “Then why weren't you at my wedding?” he asked.

  Baranmel lowered his mug. His perpetual smile faded.

  “I think you can figure that out,” he said. “You know what my presence here means.”

  “It means Berai and Gharman are going to live long, happy lives together. And Anva and I...”

  Malledd didn't finish the sentence.

  “Well, let's just say that your future isn't as certain,” Baranmel said. “Don't think I'm telling you you're doomed, or Anva is; I don't mean that. I just mean you aren't inevitably fated for long-term marital bliss. After all, Malledd, you're here, and Anva...?”

  “She's back in Grozerodz.”

  “Exactly.” That winning smile reappeared.

  Malledd decided not to press further about his marriage; he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Instead he said, “You must know the future, if you can foretell happiness – so tell me, will Rebiri Nazakri reach Seidabar?”

  Baranmel laughed. “Is that anything to talk about at a wedding?”

  “Yes!” Malledd shouted. “Yes, it is, blast you!”

  Then he stopped and looked around, expecting to see shocked faces – but he didn't; the wedding celebration was continuing undisturbed.

  “That's my doing,” Baranmel said, waving his beer at the other guests. “I thought you'd prefer our conversation to go unnoticed. So it will.”

  “They can't hear us?” Malledd asked, looking at an old woman standing not three feet away who was paying no attention to them at all.

  “They won't hear us,” the god said. “It's not quite the same thing.”

  “You did that?”

  Baranmel nodded.

  Malledd hesitated, embarrassed by his presumption, but then asked, “Did you come here, to this wedding, because you wanted to talk to me?”

  The god smiled and winked. “Let's just say that matters were arranged so that we might meet.”

  “Do you ever give a straight answer?” Malledd demanded, annoyed.

  “Yes,” Baranmel said, grinning broadly. “But you have to ask the right questions.”

  “All right, then just tell me why you're here, and what you want to tell me.”

  “Ah, that's not the right question. I'm here because I dance at the weddings of the blessed, Malledd – it's part of what I am. Why you're here, why this particular couple is blessed, that's another matter.”

  “Ba'el! Can't you just tell me what's going on?”

  Baranmel's smile vanished. “Not if you invoke my half-brother again,” he said.

  “Your...” Malledd stopped. He had forgotten that particular relationship, but yes, Ba'el was said to be Baranmel's older half-brother. Malledd glanced at the shrine; the gods' relationships, as exemplified by the double idol of Vevanis and Orini, could be complicated.

  But what did that have to do with anything?

  “Baranmel, please,” he said. “Just tell me what the gods want me to do.”

  Baranmel smiled wryly.

  “Which gods?” he asked.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Malledd stared at the god's face, puzzled – and fascinated by his beauty, as well. For a moment he was unable to think clearly enough to respond, but then he tore his gaze away and said, “The gods of the Domdur, of course – what other gods would I concern myself with?”

  “Ah, but which gods of the Domdur?” Baranmel asked. “We aren't in agreement.”

  Malledd blinked in confusion. “What?”

  “We aren't in agreement,” Baranmel said. “Did you think we always are?”

  “Well... yes, I suppose I did,” Malledd admitted.

  “Haven't you heard the tales of how we failed to choose a king?”

  “Of course I have,” Malledd said.

  Baranmel didn't have to comment further on that; now that he had pointed it out, Malledd saw that it was implicit in the stories that the gods didn't always agree with each other. Malledd had somehow never thought about it – he was so accustomed to hearing people speak of “the will of the gods,” in the singular, that he had almost forgotten the gods were plural.

  But that complicated everything. If he was the chosen of the gods, and the gods disagreed...

  He needed to have this explained, and Baranmel didn't seem willing to explain it. He had to find the right questions. He wished he could speak to an oracle, instead of Baranmel – the old stories said that they would give direct, simple answers. Sometimes, anyway.

  Of course, sometimes the answer had been, “That's not for you to know.”

  Most of the oracles had been devoted to Samardas, not Baranmel – maybe that was the problem. Most gods had had at least a few oracles scattered about, but Malledd had never heard of any devoted to Baranmel. Baranmel wasn't the god of wisdom, or answers – he was the god of celebrations.

  But maybe there was a way to use that. After all, what was a party without a storyteller?

  “Tell me a story, Baranmel,” Malledd said. “Tell me the story of how I came to be here, at this wedding.”

  Baranmel grinned more broadly than ever, more broadly than humanly possible. “I thought you'd never ask.” He turned and leaned back against the edge of the shrine, tossed his beer mug away to be miraculously caught, then spread his hands in a storyteller's gesture.

  “Long ago,” he said, “the world was home to a thousand squabbling mortal tribes.” He pointed. “Over here, the Veruet Isles were home to pirates and plunderers. Over there, the Farista idea of a good time was burning
enemy villages. The Greyans fought the Matuans, the Sautalans fought the Dradieshna. Among the Hundred Moons above, Ba'el, god of war, was chief among the gods, mightiest of them all, for was not all the world below a confusion of little wars? The farmers might worship Vedal, and the hunters might worship Barzuar, but everyone who fought was serving Ba'el, and the war-god laughed with joy when he saw mortals slaughtering each other. The wars went on and on, and the gods often sided with their favorites; if a tribe of farmers fought a tribe of hunters, then Vedal would favor one side with her blessings and advice, and Barzuar would support the other, and the strife would thus spread to the heavens themselves.”

  Malledd had not expected the tale to begin so far back in time, but he nodded and listened.

  “In his place among the gods, Samardas looked at this world below, at its constant warring and all the needless death and suffering that the wars brought, and said, 'This is stupid.' For that reason, if no other, he despised it, for Samardas is the god of wisdom and cannot abide stupidity,” Baranmel continued. “He resolved to put an end to the wars – but how could he do that, when Ba'el had fed on the strife and become the strongest of the gods, and Ba'el wished the wars to continue? So Samardas, in consultation with his allies, devised a plan to fool Ba'el into destroying his own power.”

  This was not quite how Malledd remembered the tale. He had always heard that the gods simply decided that they were tired of war, not that Samardas had tricked anyone. He leaned forward attentively.

  “Samardas went to Ba'el one day and said, 'What a shame the wars are so small. If the tribes were larger, then the armies would be larger – what carnage you would see then!' And Ba'el listened, astonished; he had never thought of such a thing. 'How could we make them larger?' he asked. And Samardas said, 'Why, if one tribe were able to conquer another, and then another, it would become large and mighty, able to wage much better wars.' Ba'el agreed that this was so, and looked down at the world, and said, 'We must allow one tribe to conquer others!' 'More than that,' Samardas said. 'We must aid one tribe in conquering the others! Come, let us talk to the other gods, and see to it!' So together, Ba'el and Samardas went to the other gods in their convocation and presented Samardas' plan.” Baranmel paused and smiled a cockeyed smile. “My brother was never all that bright,” he said.