The temple gardens were expansive, spreading their green embrace about the west side of the city. From any place within the gardens, one could see the temple to the east, its high, rounded dome rising over Fastid between its four bell towers as a gilded imitation of the sun in the mountains. The tower of the Elders stood sentry to the south of the gardens, and to the north, the abbey, the school and the library huddled together as if in conference. Compared to the temple and the tower, the other buildings were drab and unassuming—perfectly matched to their white-robed residents.

But the gardens were the only thing to the west, spreading out away from the city until the well-tended green merged with knots of forest. These small knots eventually looped together into a great tangle which twined around for quite some time before it came loose in a vast explosion of prairie, to the surprise of no one but a few deer—and they were only surprised for a few hours after birth.

Brethinn loved the gardens—loved any excuse to be outside—and often took her books outside after class. In her grass-stained acolyte’s robe, she would haul her massive texts out to this rosebush or that mound of pampas and lie in the soft grass or perch on the edge of a fountain.

Today, she was copying a lesson in Torkmanish, stretched out in the grass, her inkwell disappearing in the lush vegetation so that she stuck her pen into the ground next to it, as often as not. As she laboriously translated the faded script, a shadow fell across her page. She looked up to see Ellis standing over her, frowning.

"Could you move out of the light, please?" she asked, blinking up at the older boy.

"Why do you bother, Brethinn?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Why do you bother with your studies?" he repeated. "You’ll just put it all aside when you get married and start kicking out babies, like you’re s’posed to."

"I mean to be a priest, Ellis," protested Brethinn.

The boy laughed derisively. "You won’t get that far." He shook his head. "Girls just don’t have the…the…whatever stuff it is you need to be anything. Leave it to those who’re s’posed to be doing the work. Father Gorthas says…"

"Gorthas?" asked Brethinn. "You listen to him? Half the novices are afraid of him and the other half laugh at him." Brethinn stood to look Ellis in the eye, angrily. "He’s a slimy son of a motherless…" She stopped herself quickly, took a calming breath and continued, "He doesn’t know what he’s talking about."

"He knows a lot more than that fat old Father Naldo you follow around like a lost puppy. Father Gorthas makes a lot of sense, and a lot of people listen. You’re just rebellious and untrained. That’s what he says. And Father Gorthas says Father Naldo used to be a bard. Father Gorthas says he makes up everything he says. It’s all just one big story for him. And Father Gorthas says there’s no place at the temple for girls like you when you should be home taking care of your babies."

"I don’t have any babies to take care of," snapped Brethinn. "My parents sent me here to be educated and do something with my life. Someday, I’m going to be an Elder."

"What about your brother?" sneered Ellis. "You were supposed to take care of your brother." Brethinn flushed with anger. "Your parents sent you here because you were worthless at home," accused Ellis. "You stole and you disobeyed all the time. That’s what Father Gorthas says." Ellis folded his arms defiantly across his chest. He raised his chin and looked down his nose at Brethinn. "You can’t be an Elder. You’re just a stupid tavern wench, and that’s all you’ll ever be. That’s what Father Gor…"

With a snarl, Brethinn leapt at Ellis and began to pound on him with all her might. Taken by surprise, the boy fell back into the grass beneath her. Realizing that a mere girl was beating him, Ellis started pounding right back, and the two rolled over and over, growling and shouting. After a moment, they rolled into something sturdy and felt two strong hands pull them apart. Shaking his head, Father Naldo put the two wrestlers down and glared sternly at each in turn.

"You two know better than this," he admonished. "How can we ask for the common people to live lives of peace when our own novices, nay, mere acolytes can not learn this simple lesson? Stephnos watches us, my children, and knows our deepest thoughts—do you think your present thoughts would please him? Are they thoughts befitting future priests…or pirates?" Father Naldo folded his hands at his ample waist and looked from one young face to the other. "I expect this kind of behavior to be found in the alleys of Fastid, not the temple gardens. I expected much better from you two, but you disappoint me.

"Brethinn, I know Ellis has been tormenting you, but—and I assume that this is because you are still young in your training—have you learned nothing from your lessons? Followers of Stephnos value life. A priest’s weapons are his knowledge and his forgiveness, first; his wits are his weapons before his fists. Perhaps I was wrong about you." Brethinn was near to tears. She had expected shouting, perhaps a slap, as at home. This quiet rebuke and expression of misplaced faith was far worse. She hung her head.

Father Naldo turned to Ellis’ defiant gaze. "And you," he said, a harsher note creeping into his voice, "This is not the first time I have had to speak to you. Where has my prize student gone? You had so much potential, but you’ve taken to taunting and needling, two traits one does not find in a successful priest—most certainly not in an Elder. Do you wish to fight so badly? Perhaps the Imperial Guard has more use of you than we…" The older priest looked long and hard at the young acolyte.

Ellis glared at Father Naldo. "I learned the truth," was all he would say—and that, only grudgingly.

Father Naldo stared at the boy and shook his head. "You have learned only one truth of many, Ellis. Father Gorthas’ truth. The Truth must come from inside you. As the best swordsmen forge their own swords for perfect balance, so must you forge your own truth in the fires of your heart and temper it with cold logic from your mind. It is not an easy thing to come by, as the best prizes are not easily won. For some, a life of soul searching brings them no nearer, while still others see the first glimmers as they breathe their last breaths. Parroting the words of another brings you no nearer to the Tong. Your path lies through learning and reaching to the people around you, not pushing them away. The search for Truth must include humanity, for ruthless logic is the sign of a limited mind." Ellis just glared. Father Naldo harrumphed and looked down his nose at the boy. Ellis wavered a bit. "Now, young Ellis," continued the rotund priest, "go into the kitchens and scrub the floors while you think on what I have said. And you," Father Naldo turned back to Brethinn as the boy trudged away. The priest gave her a small smile. "You must go indoors to finish your lessons. No studying in the gardens for the rest of the week."

Brethinn’s face fell, but she nodded, staring balefully at her feet. She saw that, during the fight, her ink had spilled across her lesson. She would have to start all over. She sighed.

"That is the sigh of deep thought, my child," said Father Naldo. "What is weighing so heavily on your mind?"

"Father, if the Tong love us, then why are there bad people, and bad things that happen to people who are trying to be good?"

Father Naldo sat down in the grass beside the golden-haired girl, careful to avoid the spilled ink." In order for the world to continue to exist as it is, certain things must happen. These ‘bad things’ are a product of free will. Do you know what that is?" Brethinn shook her head. Father Naldo smiled. "You see, Squeak, humans differ from animals in that they can neglect instinct in order to change their behavior. To do so is proof of a spiritual side. But, to exercise this control, the world must be understandable—consistent and governed by certain rules. Without these rules, the world would be a meaningless, moral-less chaos. You would never be able to depend on which direction it might rain—up, down or sideways." Brethinn giggled.

"What about magic?" asked the young girl.

"Ah, but you see, magic is governed by certain rules." Father Naldo tapped his head. "This is where it comes from. A little thought, a little concentration focused through a word, gesture or strange object, and poof. It is no different than any other practiced skill. It may create or destroy, succeed or fail. A change due to magic is no different than a change in weather due to the wind. Perhaps the ramifications are more severe, and the more liberty a mage takes with the rules, the harsher the physical punishment that is inflicted upon him." The priest looked thoughtful for a moment. "The Tong lend priests their power, and are certainly able to set aside these rules, but for the most part, they don’t—nor should they. To regularly interfere with natural destructive processes such as disease, droughts, floods and corruption would undo creation."

Brethinn sat silently for a moment. "But just a little nudge in the right direction is all right sometimes?" she asked.

Father Naldo nodded. "And sometimes the nudge is unseen." Brethinn looked confused. "Let me tell you a story. An Elder was traveling to a distant temple, in lands far from his own, on a pilgrimage. With him, he took only one young novice-priest, to teach him the ways of the order. Along the way, they stopped at a poor farmhouse. A young man, his lovely wife and their two sons lived in the house and farmed a small plot of land. The year had been hard and the crop, small. Still, the people took in the two religious men and gave them shelter.

"The house was small, built of thick boulders and thick mud mortar, cracking dry in-between. The windows were open to the air in the summer and stopped up with rocks, mud and wood in the winter. The floor was dirt, the ceiling thatch, the blankets scratchy hemp, the mattresses rough straw and the fire a pit in the center of the hut. The roof was thin and the two travelers were glad that the weather was mild and dry.

"They were given fresh milk from the old cow and eggs from the lean chickens, and the man sent his boys hunting for rabbits for supper. ‘We only eat bread an’ milk or potato chowder, on usual days," admitted the woman. "It ain’t much, but ‘nuff that the boys is fed an’ healthy-like." She smiled warmly at the two visitors. "I ain’t complainin’ mind you. We get visitors rare ‘nuff ‘round here that ‘tis a celebration for us." The novice offered help, but the woman snapped at him in mock offense. "One would be thinkin’ you think I don’t know how to give courtesy, young man. Sit down an’ wait, as you’re guests an’ all." And with that, she shoed him out to the yard.

"That night, the man and his wife slept on the floor with their boys, giving the two visitors the single bed. In the morning, the cow was dead. The priest blessed the family and his novice companion gave them some coin to put toward the purchase of a new cow. Several days later, they stayed at the manse of a rich merchant. Built of wood, inside and out, and two stories tall, there were grand marble fireplaces and a huge common room in the house. It held many bedrooms, all with fresh-smelling feather beds and there were marvelous things from around the world—or so the stable boy told them. The merchant refused to offer up more charity than that of his hayloft and a meal of bread crusts and water. The two religious men stayed in the straw with the spiders and mice, the barn owls and lice and were promptly awakened at dawn and heartily encouraged to leave.

"Before the two visitors departed, the Elder spent the morning helping to rebuild a fallen wall and blessed the house. He thanked the merchant profusely for his kind generosity, and for the opportunity to help rework the wall. The novice merely watched. As they made camp, that night, the novice lost his temper and cried to the Elder, ‘Why?’

"The Elder looked up in surprise. ‘Why what?’ he asked.

"’Why did you do so little for the poor farmer and so much for the rich merchant?’

"’Ah,’ said the elder, knowingly, for all Elders speak so, ‘Ah, but you see, the poor farmer was to lose both sons to a fever in the spring, but instead, the Tong have repaid his family’s kindness by merely taking their cow.’ Here, the Elder nodded sagely at the novice’s surprised expression. ‘The merchant, had I not helped him, would have found a great treasure hidden in the wall. As it was, I was able to remove it so that he may not become richer than he already is.’ With that, the Elder reached into his robe and removed a small pouch. Into the novice’s hands, he poured a small fortune of gold and a sapphire as large as his palm. ‘And we, my friend, have one more offering for the temple.’

"So, you see, Squeak, the Tong know well what they do, and the question to ask is not ‘why do bad things happen to good people’, but ‘how does one live so that the good things are not withheld?’"

Brethinn nodded as sagely as possible, trying her best to act like an Elder. Father Naldo laughed and asked, "Now then, what did young Ellis say to stir your choler like that, Squeak?" He rose and indicated that they should head towards the library.

"He said I couldn’t ever be an Elder ‘cause I’m just a stupid tavern wench." Brethren scowled and kicked up a clod of grass.

"Now, now," said Father Naldo, "Tis not the grass’ fault. Nor is it Ellis’, that someone else is thinking for him. ‘Stupid’, I agree with, for letting a young, opinionated adolescent make you angry." The priest patted Brethinn’s shoulder. "I heard a story once, about a young man who could not control his anger. Would you like to hear it?" Brethinn nodded, and her face brightened with a smile.

Father Gorthas smiled to himself as young, white-robed acolytes and apprentice-priests scurried out of his way. Generally, the unbroken ones hid in the library so they wouldn’t have to face him—face the fact that he would break them, eventually. The scrawny priest smiled grimly to himself. He had the most luck with the young ones, luring them in before they understood what he was doing, but he enjoyed watching the older ones agonize as they realized their world was crumbling.

The gaunt, robed man blinked his hollowed eyes as he stepped from the bright, open hallway into one of the book-shadowed reading rooms. It was a nice day outside and very few of the students had gathered in the heavy, musty gloom when they could lounge on the steps and cobbled patios in the temple gardens. Most of the earnest scholars that insisted on confining their studies to the silence of the library gave Father Gorthas a wary, searching stare before hurriedly returning pallid faces to their books.

One small girl, however, was glued studiously to her books, her sun-streaked blonde hair shrouding her face. Father Gorthas growled deep in his throat. It was Father Naldo’s protégé. She had been being difficult, resisting all of his teachings. Taking a breath, Father Gorthas wiped the scowl from his face and slunk to her side. Brethinn looked up, startled, as she felt two bony hands grip her shoulders. She tried to hide a frown as she saw Father Gorthas’ face over her shoulder.

"Yes, Father?" she asked. She gave the priest a wide-eyed look that she hoped read something to the effect of go away, I have important things to do, and I don’t like you, anyway. Father Gorthas’ hands slid down her shoulders and she squirmed a little. He turned her chair away from the table and squatted in front of her so that they were eye to eye. Brushing Brethinn’s hair gently back behind her ears, Father Gorthas stared at her for a long moment. Brethinn waited, patiently for him to speak. His eyes seemed to glaze over, then, and Brethren saw a hungry wanting look playing about his eyes. She looked away, knowing the look had more place in a tavern than a temple. She raised her eyebrows. "Father?" Abruptly, the look was gone, as though the priest had shuttered a window.

"Such a beautiful day for you to be scribbling in the library," said Father Gorthas sympathetically. His sickeningly sweet tone left a bad taste in Brethinn’s mouth. Brethinn had kicked off her sandals beneath the table and Father Gorthas took one small foot in each hand. "Such small feet," he murmured. "So dainty." He looked up at Brethinn. "So why are you here?"

Brethinn pulled her feet back from the priest and cleared her throat, nervously. "Father, I was fighting in the garden and this is my punishment."

Father Gorthas quirked his mouth. "So learning is a punishment for you, my child? There is little place for you here, then, I’m afraid."

"No, Father," said Brethinn hurriedly. "The lesson is not the punishment, the library is. I like to study in the gardens much better, when the weather is right."

"Ah, my child, I see," said the priest, giving Brethinn a searching look. He put his hands on her knees. "My child, if Father Naldo is ever harsh to you, you may come to me. I will make things right for you."

Brethinn shook her head. "The punishment is just, Father. I should not have been fighting."

"Perhaps," said Father Gorthas, nodding sagely. "Perhaps you were right in fending off some provocation?"

Brethinn squirmed. "Well, Father, you’re right. It was Ellis. He told me Fa…" She stopped, remembering who was listening. "He told me that I could never be an Elder."

"Why is that?" asked the priest, innocently.

"Because I am a stupid tavern wench," said Brethinn, narrowing her eyes at the priest. And you told him so.

Father Gorthas gasped. "That was horrible of him, my child. You had every right to punch young Ellis, to defend your honor and teach him a lesson. You should still be in the gardens, dear, enjoying the sun. Come, I’ll walk you there, myself." Father Gorthas rose and held out his hand. "What an awful thing for Father Naldo to do to you."

Brethinn stared at the proffered hand for a moment, almost accepting the offer. "Thank you, Father," she said finally. "But I find that I like it in here. The quiet helps me concentrate."

Father Gorthas frowned at Brethinn’s innocent smile. "Ah, well then, my child, remember," said the priest as he left, "when you need me, I shall be at your disposal. But an offer many times refused fades and dies like a plant left too long in the shade."

"Yes, Father," said Brethinn. But it is better to fight with wits than weapons. I will be no one’s hidden dagger.

You know? I never would have liked it there at the temple, if it hadn’t been for Naldo...I mean Father Naldo. I mean, out of all the apprentices and acolytes and stuff, he chose to look out for me. I mean, who am I? Nobody. My parents own a tavern, and here I am, a priestess. I get a lot of grief about that. I mean, why should I care if my parents serve ale and let whores work in their tavern? They’re better jobs than stealing. Whoring is an honest way to earn wages...not that I would do it. Not me. I’d rather join up with the army, like Kayle. To fight for what you believe in... now there’s a job.

But I digress. I think Naldo saw right away that I didn’t want to be there. I think that he thought he saw some glimmer of potential in me. I think he was hallucinating. He went out of his way to help me learn the prayers and chants and all. He taught me how to use my spear. He didn’t coddle me or anything. Never think that! I would have loathed coddling. (Father Gorthas tried that and I made sure that our relationship didn’t last long.)

Naldo...Father Naldo took me aside and told me the wherefores and whatfores of what I was supposed to be learning. And he told me the grandest stories. And it was all the better that he had a great, deep voice and expressive face. He could mold his features into a mask of caricature without the use of orisons. I think that if he hadn’t become a priest, he would have been a bard. Sometimes he got all wistful in his telling, like he still wished he had become a bard. Perhaps that’s why we got along so well...birds of a feather and all...

I began to love Stephnos for who he was, not because he was a Tong to worship. I did miss my old habits of running rampant through the street, fighting with my brothers, and talking to the drunkards at the tables in the tavern, though. Ma and Da stopped letting me do that when I got older and the drunks stopped just telling me I had pretty hair and instead reached out for it. That scared me. They always had a funny look in their eyes when they did that. Kinda the way they looked at the girls who ‘worked’ in the tavern...kinda not. That look always gives me the shivers.

I began to take what I was doing a bit more seriously after I met Father Naldo. He taught me so much. And he never looked down on me for being a girl. All through the eight years of my home life, I had to keep proving my worth...to my brothers, to my parents... I was so desperately afraid they would send me off with one of their rich merchant customers with the funny eyes. They wouldn’t have, I think, but I was ready, just in case. That’s why I learned to use daggers.

Gorthas...now he was Naldo’s complete opposite. Where Nal...Father Naldo was studious and reverent and loved life, Father Gorthas...well, he had the funny eyes, too. Not like the drunks, per se...but worse. Like a weasel. He had his own agenda and it didn’t coincide with the majority of others. He just looked slimy, like things I saw in an alley, once. I don’t know what they were...you never want to get too close to things like that. He was all angles and lines, but he drooped like a soggy spider web, like his skin weighed him down. I don’t know what he was really like, but I felt like he was trying to win me over to his ‘side’ when I first arrived. Like an eight-year-old would further his ‘cause’.

I pretty much kept to myself and to Nald...Father Naldo through those years. Perhaps that’s why they sent me out in the world—to learn some ‘people skills.’ For some reason, the Elders seem to think that those are a necessity for a priestess. I can’t imagine why...

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