“Depends on how big and life altering the change is, how many fates are woven into it, that sort of thing.” Brouse waved a hand about his head, as if he could fan away the bothersome questions. “Usually more subtle and less spooky. But yeah. All the time.”
The current high scribe stared up at the face of his former rival. “How often?”
“Beg pardon?
“Within the last year, how often have you seen this?” the high scribe reiterated.
Brouse stared blankly. “Well, I did mention all that other strangeness over at them other temples,” he grumbled.
“But moving statues? Shifting when nobody’s looking? Inanimate objects making direct efforts to communicate?”
“Not… as much,” said Brouse. And then, with defiance, he added “This year.”
“The past decade, maybe?” the Elf asked.
“Well, maybe not often,” conceded the friar.
“But you’ve seen it before?”
“Not ‘seen,’ per se.” Brouse sucked air through his teeth. “But you hear about it, right? Like the old legend of how Lady Tiaga followed a path of whispering trees to find her clay army, or the story about how the Stennish statues bowed their heads and wept blood when Issan marched on Andarun.”
There was an expectant pause that extended into a strained silence. When High Scribe Pathalan broke it, he spoke in the punctuated rasp of a man who is one inane response away from embarking on a homicidal spree. “So… you heard about things like this in legends from ages past?”
Brouse’s years in support work had rendered him impervious to such hostility. “Yeah, and other places. Those are just a couple examples everybody knows. It’s not like you’re familiar with all of the people who almost had a destiny.”
“You can’t ‘almost’ have a destiny,” protested a young scribe. “You either have a destiny or you don’t.”
“No, everybody has one,” said a junior priestess. “Just most of them are dull, so we don’t talk about them. Nobody wants to hear that they’re destined to retire from accounting when their eyes give out, move into a small pensioner apartment, and play dice with the other old folks for the rest of their days.”
The theological support friar scoffed and pulled a piece of thick twine strung with stone beads from his case. “That’s no destiny.”
“Well, it isn’t much, but my grandad seems to enjoy it fine.”
Brouse thrust the string of beads up toward Niln as though it was a lantern. “Fine for him, sure enough, but a destiny has a purpose. A mission. And you aren’t born with it,” he snapped, wiping the smug smile off the acolyte’s face. “Maybe some prophecy or scripture out there calls for the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, or a lad with red eyes and white hair, or a low-born king, but even if you’re one of them, you aren’t the only one on Arth, or the only one who will come along.”
“So what is destiny at all then?” asked an acolyte.
Brouse snorted at some inscrutable reading in the beads and shoved them back in his case. “Destinies are places where the weave twists, like them whirlpools in the river. They show up at certain times or under particular circumstances, and if the right sort of person gets caught in their pull, they’ll be drawn toward the middle. Past a certain point, there’s no escaping it. But before then, people can pull themselves out.”
“They just walk away?” asked the priestess.
“Sure, or fail in a task, or reject a calling. The Elven armies were led by some nameless general before Issan took over and stood against the Sten, but the nameless fool didn’t take the chance to kill the Dark Prince. And who knows how many young ladies chose not to climb the desert paths that Lady Tiaga braved? History’s full of people who might’ve saved the world if they hadn’t decided to take over the family business or see how things worked out with a lover.” He thought about that for a moment. “I mean, history’s not full of people like that. But they were there. You get my point.”
Pathalan grimaced up at the statue. “So all this is happening because someone’s getting close to… what? Finding an army? Or leading one?”
“I leave that for the gods to sort out.” Brouse gave a noncommittal shrug. “There’s all kinds of different fated verses and prophetic whatsit out there waiting for their respective chosen one, or the stars to align, or the sun to hit some gem just right, and different gods are always angling to get different ones fulfilled. That’s why they’re always muckin’ with things. And it’s probably why all you temples have this strange stuff going on.”
“You think the gods are behind this?” Pathalan, like many members of the clergy, had a strong faith that the gods were responsible for much of the past, and an even more emphatic belief that they almost never had anything to do with the present.
“Probably. They’re usually behind this sort of silliness.” Brouse cast a suspicious eye at the clergy. “Shouldn’t a bunch of priestesses and clerics know all this? What are they teaching you here?”
The assembled clergy suddenly took a great interest in the floor and ceiling. A few acolytes cleared their throats. “The All Mother’s teachings are less practical than some other gods,’” said High Scribe Pathalan with well-rehearsed understatement.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Brouse darkly.
“But what do we do about the statue?” asked an acolyte.
The monk shrugged. “Got any young priestesses with a secretive past? Portentous birth marks? Unknown lineage coupled with a vague sense that life should hold something more?”
“Alithana has a weird mole and acts like she’s better than everybody,” offered one acolyte, earning herself a smack on the head from a nearby priestess.
“Well, I’d keep my eye on her, then. Or anyone else who might fit the bill.” Brouse began packing his suitcase back up. “Seen destiny in action before. Something’s coming to a head, and we won’t know what until we’re on the other side of it. With luck, it’s just someone who needs to realize they’re actually capable of slayin’ a bugbear or avengin’ their mum or something.”
“And without luck?” asked Pathalan, edging away from the statue.
“Then a real hero of legend might rise,” Brouse said.
“That seems like a good thing,” said Alithana. “The world needs more heroes these days.”
“Nah, the world needs more caring people willing to do hard work for the common good.” Brouse grabbed his pack and grimaced up at Niln’s face. “But bein’ nice and sacrificing for others don’t get you in the Agekeeper’s scrolls. To be a legend? To have some big, reality-warping destiny, a hero needs somethin’ really horrible to stand against. You don’t get that sort of hero without a darkness that might destroy all of Arth.”
Chapter 18
“A vile foe that menaces all of humanity… fate of the world rests in the balance… great shadow falls over the entire world…” Heraldin skimmed the scroll, murmuring key passages to himself as he read. He had to squint to see in the gloom of the tavern; even at midday, only a few veteran rays of light managed to fight through the dark clouds hovering over the city and the layers of grime on the glass.
Gaist hovered in the shadows next to the bard’s table, apparently content to let the paper speak for itself.
Beneath the boilerplate sections on doom and gloom, respectively, the parchment outlined a job.
Mandatorily Assigned Imperatively Necessary Quest
Let it be known that the hero
Gaist
as one of the six Heroes of the City, is hereby summoned by His Royal Highness,
Johan the Mighty
King of Andarun, Champion of Tandos
and
Weaver Ortson
Grandmaster and High Councilor of the Heroes’ Guild
To undertake a MAIN Quest to save the kingdom and slay
