cold, so utterly chill, the feeling that he got when he sat in his bedchamber.
Chill.
He looked at the great god before him, Alhveh Himself, the god of Empty Skies and Death. The statue, boldly hewn of granite, was of a man-shape in elaborate stone folds of clothing, all details of Him merely suggested at by geometric flow, except for His Face and His Hands, which were exquisite, and covered by a thin layer of precious metal. In the irregular torchlight those parts gleamed.
Alhveh wore the Face of a beautiful cold man. And His Hands, detailed elegant and powerful—each finger exquisitely formed on a grand scale—His Hands were strangely harsh yet gentle. For, one great Hand was slightly extended forward, palm upwards, in a gesture either of receptivity or of offering, while the other was clenched in a fist of locked power.
The boy gazed up, straining to see the Face and simultaneously ignore the Hands. For, somehow They frightened him in Their ambiguity, while the Face, though cold, was open to him, and therefore to be comprehended.
From where he was, at the very base of the statue, he could only see the chin and the fine flaring nostrils of the god, while the brows and forehead and the ambiguous flowing stone hair ended fifty feet high and far into the shadow.
Lord Alhveh . . . It is I again. So bland, so passive on the surface, in actuality his very thought trembled.
You can hear me, can You not, lord? I know You don’t like to answer directly into my head, but—I know that someday, yes, I will hear from You. Yes?
I know it’s not time yet. When it will be time, You will tell me. And I will know, yes.
And since as yet there was silence from the god, the boy—knowing and expecting nothing else, really—continued standing passively, blankly, his outer shell of apathy unbroken.
From behind him, someone called. An old unsteady voice. “Your Grace, Heir Lissean!”
And when the boy turned, seeing the familiar old priest, the man said kindly, “What brings you yet once again here, my lord?”
“ Good day to you, Priest Nestre. I’ve come to contemplate the god Alhveh. My studies for today are over, so this is my own, free time.”
“ Ah, of course,” said the old priest. The same three words as always. He looked at the young child-man before him, softening and for a moment forgetting that this was anything more than a boy. But the child’s precocious bearing and serious tone (not to mention the silk clothing and glittering seal-ring on his small thin hands) did not fail to remind that this one was a prince of Grelias, and the Regent Heir.
The boy-prince came here regularly. Old Nestre took notice of him earlier, but began to speak to him only after seeing that Lissean was here obviously of his own free will, and not due to some conventional duty placed on him by his elders. He would come in, almost creeping, silently, and stand beneath the god’s statue, sometimes almost an hour, in an autistic state that never quite approached that what the priest was used to seeing as worship, at least from others. And then, just as silently, he would leave, never having spoken words of prayer out loud, never having bought a sacrificial candle to place at the god’s feet.
When the first time he was approached by the priest, the boy turned cold, clear, haughty eyes on him, quite unlike what Nestre expected in that instant. And he merely said that he was here to “contemplate Alhveh.” His voice had been measured, adult, and its control chilled the old priest.
But from then on, the prince took polite notice of him and greeted him regularly. And gradually, he would come to talk to him, at last bestowing trust, so that the priest began to know his reasons for coming here, or at least, to guess at them.
For, why would a young boy come to visit such a god as Alhveh? Were there not more appropriate, brighter deities to serve, for a boy his age, than this Shadowy One? And why Serve at all? Nestre remembered his own
Chill.
He looked at the great god before him, Alhveh Himself, the god of Empty Skies and Death. The statue, boldly hewn of granite, was of a man-shape in elaborate stone folds of clothing, all details of Him merely suggested at by geometric flow, except for His Face and His Hands, which were exquisite, and covered by a thin layer of precious metal. In the irregular torchlight those parts gleamed.
Alhveh wore the Face of a beautiful cold man. And His Hands, detailed elegant and powerful—each finger exquisitely formed on a grand scale—His Hands were strangely harsh yet gentle. For, one great Hand was slightly extended forward, palm upwards, in a gesture either of receptivity or of offering, while the other was clenched in a fist of locked power.
The boy gazed up, straining to see the Face and simultaneously ignore the Hands. For, somehow They frightened him in Their ambiguity, while the Face, though cold, was open to him, and therefore to be comprehended.
From where he was, at the very base of the statue, he could only see the chin and the fine flaring nostrils of the god, while the brows and forehead and the ambiguous flowing stone hair ended fifty feet high and far into the shadow.
Lord Alhveh . . . It is I again. So bland, so passive on the surface, in actuality his very thought trembled.
You can hear me, can You not, lord? I know You don’t like to answer directly into my head, but—I know that someday, yes, I will hear from You. Yes?
I know it’s not time yet. When it will be time, You will tell me. And I will know, yes.
And since as yet there was silence from the god, the boy—knowing and expecting nothing else, really—continued standing passively, blankly, his outer shell of apathy unbroken.
From behind him, someone called. An old unsteady voice. “Your Grace, Heir Lissean!”
And when the boy turned, seeing the familiar old priest, the man said kindly, “What brings you yet once again here, my lord?”
“ Good day to you, Priest Nestre. I’ve come to contemplate the god Alhveh. My studies for today are over, so this is my own, free time.”
“ Ah, of course,” said the old priest. The same three words as always. He looked at the young child-man before him, softening and for a moment forgetting that this was anything more than a boy. But the child’s precocious bearing and serious tone (not to mention the silk clothing and glittering seal-ring on his small thin hands) did not fail to remind that this one was a prince of Grelias, and the Regent Heir.
The boy-prince came here regularly. Old Nestre took notice of him earlier, but began to speak to him only after seeing that Lissean was here obviously of his own free will, and not due to some conventional duty placed on him by his elders. He would come in, almost creeping, silently, and stand beneath the god’s statue, sometimes almost an hour, in an autistic state that never quite approached that what the priest was used to seeing as worship, at least from others. And then, just as silently, he would leave, never having spoken words of prayer out loud, never having bought a sacrificial candle to place at the god’s feet.
When the first time he was approached by the priest, the boy turned cold, clear, haughty eyes on him, quite unlike what Nestre expected in that instant. And he merely said that he was here to “contemplate Alhveh.” His voice had been measured, adult, and its control chilled the old priest.
But from then on, the prince took polite notice of him and greeted him regularly. And gradually, he would come to talk to him, at last bestowing trust, so that the priest began to know his reasons for coming here, or at least, to guess at them.
For, why would a young boy come to visit such a god as Alhveh? Were there not more appropriate, brighter deities to serve, for a boy his age, than this Shadowy One? And why Serve at all? Nestre remembered his own
Similar Books
