by M. M. Perry
Callan felt his stomach lurch. He wiped away some of the sweat that was pouring down his neck, which he would have liked to blame on the humidity. He tried to distract himself from what lay ahead, wondering what Oshia would look like. Cass had said Oshia would appear to him in a form that he would find irresistibly attractive. Again, Callan briefly feared Oshia would appear as Melody. Would the god bespell him as well, he wondered, confusing him into thinking it really was Melody before him? He gripped his reins more tightly, pushing that fear from his mind, and resolutely urged his horse to travel a little faster to cover the short distance that remained. He would rather, he’d decided, not have any more time to think about the coming confrontation.
When they arrived outside the temple Callan was momentarily overcome by its wild beauty. What they hadn’t been able to make out at a distance, through the mist that clung heavily to the ground, was that the entire area under the temple’s stone canopy was blanketed with flowers in every hue and combination Callan had ever seen, and many he never had. The few spans of marble edging and bits of gilded statuary that managed to peek through the thick matt of plants hinted that the area before the temple had once been a well-tended garden, but had been left to grow wild at some point in the distant past. Marble pots, lavishly embellished with gold and silver wire as thick as a finger, would have gone unnoticed by the party because they all overflowed with cascades of flowering vines that hid them almost completely from view, had they not passed directly under one, parting the overhanging vines as they did so. Pools of water that had likely once been home to beautiful fish decorated the area, but were now so choked over with lilies and other aquatic plants that the water inside, and any fish that might still thrive beneath the flora, were hidden from view. Flowering trees grew out of control, their branches no longer pruned carefully, wildly reaching in whatever direction they chose. So captivating was the unkempt beauty of the temple garden that they had arrived at the entrance almost before Callan realized it. He got off of his horse, intending to march right in and demand Oshia heal his wife, only to pause before the dark entrance to the temple.
Gunnarr hopped down off of his own horse and fished a jug and a set of nesting wooden cups out of his pack. He began handing one to each of them, pausing at each person to fill each cup to overflowing. Callan turned when the big man nudged him, to find a cup being offered to him. He took it and wordlessly allowed Gunnarr to pour the sweet ale into it. Finally, Gunnarr filled a cup for himself, then set the jug down next to his pack.
“For Braldashad men, our lives are often spent at sea. We know as we set out on each voyage there is a chance we will not return to see our homes. So we have a tradition. No matter how far we’ve traveled from our home, nor how long since we last had the chance to get well and truly drunk, we always save our last jug of ale. It is only opened on one of two occasions. When we land ashore, to celebrate our survival,” Gunnarr said solemnly as he looked at Cass, “or when we realize all hope is lost, and we know the sea is soon to claim us.”
“Which is this then?” Callan asked with a weak smile.
“We’re at the temple,” Viola said, a note of exasperation in her voice, “obviously we’ve made it ashore.”
When Gunnarr didn’t speak up to contradict her, Viola raised her glass in salute to her new friends and upended it into her mouth. Nat and Inez followed suit. But Cass and Gunnarr just looked at each other, their glasses still full.
“Well then, I guess this is it,” Callan said, sipping from his own cup, rather than taking it in one go. He’d spent enough time around Gunnarr to know that any beverage he cherished highly enough to save for a last drink would be potent stuff. The ale was so sweet that it had an almost viscous quality. Yet as sugary as it was, it didn’t entirely mask the potentially flammable concentration of alcohol in the beverage.
He finished his beverage in three more quick gulps, then handed his cup back to Gunnarr. Then he fished around in his breast pocket, his hand shaking a little. He pulled out a wrinkled letter. It was very thick because of the fine vellum he had written it on, as well as the fact that it was several pages long. Callan walked over to Nat.
“I have left instructions in here for my wife. If I don’t… well, just bring that to her. I’ve made certain she will compensate you all. And far more than we originally agreed, too. Make sure it goes directly to her, though. Don’t let anyone know why you are seeking her out, especially not my mother, as they’ll just detain you and try to intercept this,” Callan said, offering him the missive.
Nat took the letter reverentially.
“I swear by my honor,” he said, holding the letter solemnly in both hands, as if it were a holy relic he feared to damage, “none shall have this save your queen.”
Callan smiled weakly. He’d really come to like this lad. He was so gravely earnest for someone so young. Then Callan unhooked his coin purse from his belt and handed it to Gunnarr.
“I trust you will take care of dispensing this accordingly,” he said.
Gunnarr took the sack and nodded. Callan bowed slightly to Cass and Viola.
“At first, I didn’t like you,” he said looking at Cass, “and I’m still not sure I particularly care for you. There’s a touch too much uncouth irreverence about you. But I do respect you immensely. It has been an honor to travel with you. With all of you.”
With that he turned and strode into the temple. The blackness swallowed him up as soon as he stepped over the threshold.
“I know why he’s doing this. He made that clear last night,” Viola said suddenly as she stared at the temple, “But why did we bring him here if his cause was so hopeless? I thought warriors chose their quests carefully. I don’t understand why you’d help him essentially throw his life away,” Viola asked confused.
“Because he is doing what his heart tells him he must. And that is a type of nobility that doesn’t come from bloodlines or royal decrees. And because we can make sure he succeeds,” Gunnarr said.
Viola looked up at Gunnarr confused.
“Oshia,” Gunnarr said, “wants few things more than another chance to snare that warrior who walked out on him so many years ago. He may even give Callan his wish, and let him keep his life, in exchange for that chance.”
Cass handed her full cup of ale back to Gunnarr. She gave him a kiss—one long lingering kiss that held more volumes of meaning than words ever could, overflowing with love, sorrow, regret, hope, longing and loss. When their lips finally parted, the couple held a long, silent gaze. Cass was the one that finally broke it off, turning abruptly and following Callan into Oshia’s temple. Nat watched as she was likewise swallowed by the gloom.
“She’s the one,” he said suddenly as realization dawned, “she’s the warrior that escaped Oshia.”
“Yes,” Gunnarr said bitterly.
He carefully poured the ale from Cass’ and his own cup back into the jug and stoppered it back up. Then he sat down hard on the ground, flattening a dozen flowers, and watched the entrance to Oshia’s temple in silence.
Callan hesitantly shuffled through the darkness blindly until his finger brushed a wall. Then he kept one hand on the wall, and the other in front of him as he made his way deeper into the temple. He waved a hand right in front of his face, but could make out nothing; the absence of light in the temple was complete. He wondered if there had ever been light there or if the gods could simply see in the dark and had no need of it. The wall his left hand trailed was slick with moisture from the ever-present mist, as was the floor. Callan travelled slowly to ensure that he neither slipped and fell, nor ran into anything. He was beginning to think the chamber he was in was endless, perhaps a godly jest, when his left hand finally brushed something metal. He carefully felt around it with both hands to discover it was a great ring of iron. When he traced his way back a few steps more slowly, his fingers delicately probing the wall, he discovered a seam in the wall he had missed before. Moving forward again, over and past the iron ring, he found another
seam. This was a door, he decided, and the ring its handle. Callan gripped the massive ring in both hands and pulled hard on it. His boots slipped under him on the wet stone as he struggled to open the colossal door. He planted his feet more firmly and tried again. This time, his efforts were rewarded. The heavy door broke free, moving an almost imperceptible amount. A thin line of golden light shone through one of the seams. Callan redoubled his effort and pulled again. This time, the door rumbled forward several inches.
Callan managed to wedge an arm and most of a leg into the opening. He pressed his back against the wall and grunted as he pushed with all his might. The door budged a few more inches, just enough for him to squeeze in. He began to brush at the thin paste the mixture of dust and moisture left on his tunic, but rapidly gave it up for a lost cause. Besides, he consoled himself, a bit of grime seemed befitting his position as beggar here before a god.
He finally took a moment to survey the room. The golden glow that filled the room was being made by hundreds of candles. They lined every wall, set into evenly spaced niches apparently made for the purpose. He wondered who lit and maintained them all. At first he could see no sign of occupancy beyond the candles, by either people or deities. Then he noticed there was an arch on the wall opposite him, leading into another chamber. He determined that was where Oshia had to be, or at least somewhere in that direction, as it was the only exit from the candle-lit room besides the door he had entered through. This main area of the temple would, if anything like the temples in his own kingdom, have been designed for offerings and other ceremonies, and not for habitation. A large shallow hemisphere had been carved into the stone in the middle of the floor. It was littered with what Callan assumed to be the remnants of ancient offerings; a smattering of glittering that hinted at some real gold objects poking out from heaps of less pure, tarnished coins and figurines, the remnants of vases and statues that had at some point fallen over and broken into pieces. All of it was covered in a layer of dust that obscured any details. The light from the candles was sufficient to reveal the high domed ceiling above him, but not any of the artwork that had been rendered on it beyond broad smears of light and dark.
The ceiling of the large room was supported by several dozen pillars that were alternatively wrapped in bands of marble and carefully wrought gold reliefs that depicted various gods. Callan found himself drawn to them. He made his way to one of the niches and plucked the burning candle from it, and then quietly walked to the nearest pillar. This set of reliefs depicted Natan in his serpent form next to a beautiful but angry looking woman. He wondered if that was Freesus. Then he noticed the walls behind the pillars. Here the reliefs were etched directly into the stone, but had been set with bits of gems, rare colored stones, and marbles of various hues. He walked over to one that portrayed a scene he thought he recognized; the Plains of the Dead Gods. The gods in this image, which each stood twice his height, were clearly not only alive, but fighting with each other. Several were struggling with each other in hand to hand combat, towering over the forests below. Callan continued along the wall until he found the next scene in the sequence—an image of Natan, holding high the stone that destroyed all the old gods. Here the other gods were shown frozen in place, their likeness no longer adorned with jewels and marble, but instead composed of the raw, rough material of the wall, to depict that they had been turned to stone.
Callan reached out and touched Timta’s figure. This was the place his journey had truly begun, he thought, the place where he had faced the first of many harrowing challenges—the harpies. He smiled thinking back on it now, how terrified he had been at the time. He wondered if he would even be frightened now, if he were to encounter those creatures again, after everything he had been through. Then Callan noticed something that made him lean in and squint. At the base of Timta’s statue was a figure portraying a woman, hiding just behind one of the massive toes. She held her tiny finger up to her lips in the relief, as if warning all who saw her there to keep silent about spotting her. Callan was amazed at the artistry that had gone into so carefully working the representation. Despite its diminutive size, the exposed portion of the figure peeking out from behind the toe was only a few inches tall and wide, he could make out the waves in her hair, wrought from what seemed to be highly polished delicate slivers of amber with fine gold threads highlighting it. When he got closer, he found he could even discern there was, hanging from her tiny neck, a medallion of the sun. On closer inspection, he decided it was the same one seen on Timta’s statue. Callan stared at the little woman, trying to figure out what it meant.
“Oh how the mortals of this world lie about us. Such beautiful, indelible lies carved here, and in many other such divine places,” a smooth voice said behind Callan.
Callan jerked around, surprised, and in doing so dropped his candle. Confronting him was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon. Her face was smooth and white, her cheekbones high and noble. Her eyes were lavender, and slightly larger than any Callan had seen before; not so large as to appear disproportionate, yet large enough to make them appear like jewels amid her creamy skin. Her lips were full without being grotesque, and a pink that was just shy of being unnatural. The hair that cascaded down her back was a smooth, fluid sheet of white gold. Her breasts were modest and youthfully firm. They nudged gently at the iridescent, diaphanous white cloth that was artfully wound about her, leaving almost nothing to the imagination, the rosy hue of her nipples visible beneath it as they danced under the fabric as she moved. The dress, if so little material deserved such an appellation, was gathered together at her neck, held in place by a white silk choker set with the largest purple sapphire Callan had ever seen. As the material flowed down, it became gradually more opaque. The visibility of her skin through the translucent silk-like material tantalized as it dipped below her belly button. Just before her most intimate parts could be revealed, the material shifted to an opaque white, modestly hiding the space between her legs. From there the hands-breadth wide strip of cloth remained opaque and fell nearly to the floor, leaving her hips bare of all but a silver chain that hung there loosely. She moved her tall, curvaceous body so sinuously across the floor toward Callan, the movement of her hips jingling little silver bells affixed there, that she seemed to be pouring herself toward him more than walking.
“But you know this,” the woman said, her voice running across Callan’s skin like warm water. He felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. “You are here, so you know the stories are not true. I am a kind and benevolent god, not the evil one the mortals make me out to be. You have come here for my blessing, have you not?”
The woman trailed her fingers across Callan’s chest as she circled him, and his tunic simply disappeared beneath her touch, leaving Callan in only his trousers. He was having a hard time remembering why he was here. He was glad this beautiful woman had reminded him.
“Yes, I am,” he said breathlessly.
Oshia smiled like the cat that had just cornered the mouse. She made another circle around Callan, drawing her fingers over his now bare chest again, finally stopping to stand before the king and staring into his eyes.
“You have travelled far, or I would not be here. I will give you a boon for making this long journey simply for the privilege of worshiping me. I reward all those who are true to Oshia,” she said. She playfully drew an expertly manicured fingernail across his chest, ending at the tip of one of his nipples.
Callan quivered under her caress. It felt as if Oshia was touching more than his skin—rather that she was stroking his soul. He wanted to pull her to him, to inhale her scent, to kiss her skin, and more than anything else, he wanted to be inside of her, loving her for all eternity. The thought of his wife, pushed so deeply into his subconscious by the power of the god before him, had no hope of ever resurfacing. All he could think of now was Oshia. All he wanted to think of was Oshia. He would die to make her happy.
“I wish only to be by your side, forever and always. If
you should grant me this wish, I would never want for anything again. I know it is impertinent to ask, that I am so far from worthy I fear to speak it, but if I should be so blessed as to be allowed to love you, as a man would a woman… I would give you everything that is mine, onto my very life,” Callan said, frustrated that his rebellious mouth and its laggardly words refused to be spoken fast enough for him.
Oshia smiled again, yet this time there was less playfulness in the expression—a darkness tinged it. She ran her fingers across Callan’s waist and his trousers disappeared. She leaned in close to him. Callan was trying his best to behave for the god, but his body ached for her with a passion he would previously have never thought possible.
“As you wish,” Oshia said.
Then she leaned in and kissed him softly. Callan moaned, the sound an animal noise coming from deep within him. Pleasure coursed through his body as he jerked. He immediately felt the warm, viscous fluid spurt onto his belly and begin its slow slide down into the hair below.
Oshia backed away from Callan, and surveyed his already flagging manhood. A look of first exasperation and then disappointment crossed her pretty face.
“Mortals,” she said, shaking her head, “what a disgrace you all are in the bedroom.”
Callan stood, insensate, as if he hadn’t heard her admonishment. He wavered slightly on his feet, trance-like, his eyes glazed over as he stood before her naked and trembling. Oshia glanced down at herself to make sure none of Callan’s mess had soiled her. She’d already lost interest in this man, the latest among many who had risked their lives to see her, so she began to head back into her inner chambers.
