by Holly Lisle
Father Dark, watch over me
As the long night comes.
Nothing now will frighten me
As the long night comes.
We remember those now gone,
Souls that through the darkness roam.
Light our candles, one by one,
To guide our loved ones home.
Father Dark, love all of them.
Do not let them fear.
Guide them and watch over them,
Do not let them fear.
We remember those now gone,
Souls that through the darkness roam.
Light our candles, one by one.
To guide our loved ones home.
Faia was grateful for the darkness of the room, because Kirtha would not see her weep as she lit the spirit candles. One for her mother, one for her mother’s father, one for her sister and each of her brothers, one for each of her sister’s children, one for Rorin, one for Bayward, one big candle for the rest of the village of Bright, and another for those who had died during the second Mage/Saje War in Ariss. One for Nokar. And though she suspected it was sacrilege, one for each of her two dogs, Chirp and Huss, and one for her goat Diana.
The room grew brighter, and glowed yellow and warm with the spirits’ guidelights. Faia stared into the flickering flames, and wept silently. She realized she beheld more spirit flames than she knew living people.
This was the first Month of Ghosts since the plague in Bright that had killed everyone she had ever known. Faia had been fifteen years old during the Sacred Month before that. She and her mother and her brothers and sister had burned candles for her father and her mother’s mother—both of them dead of old age. Two candles had seemed to be so many, when in Bright many families burned no candles at all. She and her mother, her brothers, and sister had cried over those two flames, and sang the songs to lead the spirits to the Wheel so they could circle back to a new life, and tried not to be bitter because they had lost so much. But in the Month of Ghosts her sister had conceived a child, and one of her brothers had sired one—so her father and grandmother had been offered new homes among their loved ones, if they chose to accept.
Faia stared into the mass of flames and whispered, “I have no lover, and I bear no child. I can offer no new life for any of my family.”
She was old enough; if she had been in Bright—if there still were a Bright—she would have taken part in the Celebration of New Souls. But Faia and Kirtha were alone in the world except for each other. Faia’s mother, her brothers and sister, her nieces and nephews, her lovers and friends—all of them would have to find a place among strangers. She prayed that they would find families who loved them and cared for them.
“Were they nice?” Kirtha asked softly.
“They were wonderful,” Faia said. “I wish you had known them. I wish they had lived to meet you.”
“Me, too, Mama.”
Faia closed her eyes and remembered her mother the last time she had seen her—the two of them standing in the yard and saying good-bye before Faia and the dogs took the sheep into the highlands for the summer.
Would I have gone, if I had known they would all be dead when I got back? she wondered. Or would I have stayed and died with them, so that I did not have to be so alone?
Then she looked over at her daughter, who sat staring at the many flames trying to understand. Loose curls blew around the little girl’s face, and her hair gleamed red and gold in the candlelight. She seemed tiny to Faia, but already her fingers were long and tapered like her mother’s, and she was nearly a head taller than the village children her age. She was beautiful, Faia thought. Beautiful, and perfect.
Faia leaned over and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. I would have gone, she thought. I would have gone to the mountains and lived, so long as I also knew that I would someday have you, little one. My mother would have loved you so much.
A chill descended on the room. The doors were closed, and the room was not drafty, but the candle flames winked and danced in a sudden faint breeze.
She is very lovely, Faia, a voice whispered. She looks like you when you were her age.
Faia had not heard that voice in years, but she could never forget it.
Mama, she thought. You sound so near.
Kirtha had turned around. “Who are you?” she asked someone.
I am Faia’s mama. Your grandmama.
Faia turned and stared at the misty shape standing near the door. “Mama?” she whispered.
You’ve done well, Faiachin, her mother said. You listened, even when I thought you had not. You remember to be kind—and you are a good mother. Risse laughed. There was a time when I thought you would only be a good mother to your flocks. I am very proud of you. But you need to find someone. You have been too much alone.
Faia was stunned to see her mother again, looking just as young and beautiful as she had remembered. At first, she could not believe her eyes. Her father had not come when the family burned candles for him. In truth, Faia did not know of any spirits who appeared among their families during the Month of Ghosts. But there her mother stood, and if Faia’s mind was uncertain, her heart was not.
Faia rose, trembling. “I know, Mama,” she said She wished she could hug her mother, wished there was some way to touch her. She had missed her so much.
Risse moved over to Kirtha’s side and crouched next to her. Hello, Kirthchie, she said softly. I have enjoyed watching you grow up.
“Hello, Gramma,” Kirtha said. “Mama said you were always with us.” She reached out a hand to touch Risse, and her fingers went right through her. “Oh!” she said, startled, and drew her hand back quickly.
Risse looked overwhelmingly sad. This is the best I can do, dearest, she said softly. She reached out as if to stroke Kirtha’s hair, then stopped herself. She looked up at Faia.
I cannot stay long, Faia—and there is something you must know. You cannot keep hiding in this village. You have the Lady’s power in you—and the time is coming when you must use it.
“Everyone has the Lady-gift of magic now, Mama. No one needs me.”
Daughter of mine, Arhel will not survive without you. Everything you have lived until now has been practice for what will come. You will have a test—a test of your courage and your will—and, too, of your love for your friends, and for all the people of Arhel. You alone have both the magic and the spirit to do what must be done. Her mother stood and sighed. Oh, Faia, how I have missed you.
“Oh, Mama…” She stopped the lump in her throat choking off further words. She had so many things she wanted to tell her mother—so many things that had happened and she could not even think of where to begin.
Faia thought she saw tears in her mother’s eyes.
Risse whispered, The long night of the spirits is finally here, and my time as Risse is over. Where once I was dead, but not gone, now I shall be gone but no longer dead.
“But I will remember you, Mama,” Faia whispered “I love you.”
And I love you—but once I pass to the Wheel, I will forget. I must, Faiachin. If I remembered, I could not bear to go on.
“I know, Mama. I know.” Faia wept. “I am so glad we get this time. I have so much to tell you—I never thought I would even have the chance to say good-bye.”
Her mother stiffened, her eyes suddenly focused on some far-distant place. The Dark One calls, and I must go, she said. Good-bye, Faiachin. Good-bye, sweet Kirthchie.
“No!” Faia begged. “You cannot go yet. Not so soon, Mama. Please, tell Father Dark you cannot leave yet. You just came—”
Her mother began to fade in front of her eyes, began to stretch and swirl into the chill breeze, growing paler and fainter. She tattered, slipped—
Not again. Faia would not lose this chance to say goodbye again.
And, choking, sobbing, she still managed to whisper, “Good-bye, Mama. Find new life and happiness.”
Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears long after Risse vanishe
d. Find happiness, daughter. Find meaning, and find love.
Chapter 5
THE candles guttered, and Faia’s legs were numb from long kneeling. She had no tears left; she’d pled with Father Dark to let her mother come back just once more—but Father Dark remained as unbending as stone. In the perpetual dark, time had ceased to mean anything. Faia only knew she’d prayed long, and without answer.
Sudden pounding rattled the workroom door, and a desperate voice shook her out of her near-trance. “Faia!” Witte shouted. “Faia, come quick! Help!”
She staggered to her feet and tried to run; stabbing pain shot through her legs and feet, and she nearly fell. She opened the door and clung to it while her legs came back to life. “What?”
“FAIA! You’ve got to come out of there! You have a terrible problem! You have…” Witte looked up at her and paused. She heard distress in his voice, and saw fear in his eyes. “You have gods in your garden.”
“Gods? In my garden?”
“Gods.” He nodded vigorously. His face looked pale in the candlelight, and his eyes were round.
Faia had been frightened by the urgency and panic she heard in his voice, but her fear became disbelief and annoyance when he insisted on the impossible—on the ludicrous. She leaned against the door frame, crossed her arms over her chest, and gave him the same look she gave Kirtha when Kirtha said oogins ate the last handpie. “Truly.”
“Upon my word. You have only to look and you will see.” He seemed sincere. Perhaps he was having some sort of relapse and was feverish. She left the candles burning, picked up Kirtha, who’d fallen asleep in a pile of undyed yarn, and came out, pulling the door shut behind her.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” Witte said. He danced from one foot to the other, impatient. “They might be gone before you get out there.”
“If they are, then I will no longer have a problem, will I?”
“I wouldn’t stake wagers on that.”
Faia shook her head. It was time she came out anyway. Father Dark had already given her more than she had a right to ask of him. She needed to thank him for the few moments she’d had with her mother. Those moments would have to be enough.
She limped down the breezeway with both feet tingling and coming awake; she lugged Kirtha into her room and tucked her into bed while Witte paced. Then she turned to the little man. “Well. Now I am ready to go see your gods.”
Faia followed him down the breezeway and into the garden—and suffered a shock. This was not fire-breathing birds or flying cats, nor any other prank Witte had concocted. She had a garden full of gods.
She recognized the patron deity of Omwimmee Trade, Galtennor; the townspeople had erected a statue to him in the center of town next to the government building, and he looked just like it. He was shouting and waving his top two sets of arms around. His third set he’d crossed over his massive chest, while he’d set the fourth akimbo. Thessi Ravi stood arguing with him—Faia recognized her because her hair was on fire and her breasts looked like spear points. There were pictures of her about town, as well. Faia knew she was the patron deity of warfare in one of the local religions, but could not recall which one. The only other two Faia recognized, Hada and Bnokt, were amatory gods with some fertility duties. They were carrying out their official functions in the middle of her vigonia patch. Others she did not recognize at all.
“What are they doing here?” she whispered.
Witte gnawed on his lower lip. “Quite a lot.”
Faia shivered, though not from cold. Her skin prickled, and she felt the little hairs on the back of her neck and her arms stand up. “That is not what I meant to ask.” She tried not to stare at Hada and Bnokt. What they were doing should not have been possible with only two arms and two legs apiece. She caught herself trying to see if they had extras, and, embarrassed, turned away. “Where did they come from? And why did they choose my garden to… to do whatever they are doing?”
Witte shrugged. “Why don’t you ask them?”
Thessi Ravi and some statuesque blonde had joined forces and were backing Galtennor through the garden toward Faia.
“I tell you the Dreaming God holds all of reality in his dream, and we too exist because he dreams us!” Galtennor roared.
Thessi Ravi’s face twisted with anger, and sparks of lightning flew from her fingertips and sizzled in the greenery. “What sort of sniveling godlet are you? The Dreaming God is myth!” she screamed. “Myth, I say! I owe allegiance to no other god! None!” She waved an arm around to drive home her point, and caught the thatching on fire.
“Heresy!” shrieked the buxom blonde.
“Oh, no!” Faia yelped. She gathered up a cloud—as she had when the bird set the roof on fire before—and doused the roof with rain. Her emotions surged, though, with the stress of discovering her uninvited guests, and what she had intended to create as a single cloud was born instead as a torrential downpour, complete with thunder, lightning, and screaming, twisting winds. The rain soaked the gods, and the lightning struck them, and the thunder drowned out their arguments.
She dissolved the storm as quickly as she’d created it, but the damage was already done. The gods stopped what they were doing, and one by one turned and stared at Faia.
“Oh, my!” Faia whispered.
“Indeed,” Witte agreed.
Slowly, as if they progressed in a dream, the gods began to glide toward her.
Faia covered her mouth with her hand. Her heart raced and she backed up. “Oh, no!” she whispered, horrified at what she had done.
“Precisely which upstart god are you?” Thessi Ravi glowered at her, and Faia saw the sparkles of lightning crackling between the god’s fingers.
Faia became aware that Witte was tugging urgently on the leg of her breeches. She looked down at him, and saw renewed terror in his eyes. He beckoned her to his level with a hand. She crouched, and he whispered in her ear, “Lie to them.”
“Lie?” Startled by the suggestion, she glanced back at Thessi Ravi, who moved closer, with the other gods, all angry, following behind her.
He nodded vehemently. “Lie! Tell them you’re a god. If you don’t, they will do terrible things to you. Mortals don’t go around dousing gods and smacking them with lightning bolts without expecting retribution.”
Faia thought about that for an instant. It made sense—though she wished she had some idea what the gods intended to do to her if they decided she was one of their number.
She had no time to worry. The gods expected an answer. She stood, and glared at all of them—and for an instant, she felt as she had all those years ago when she walked into the Greathall at the University in Mage-Ariss, and faced a room full of hostile strangers. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and said, in the coldest voice she could manage, “I am Faia, of course. And just who are you, and what are you doing here uninvited?” She put hands on hips and looked down her nose at them, as if they were vermin she had just discovered in her pantry.
Her answer might have been a bit vague, she decided, but she had the tone exactly right. The gods stopped moving toward her, and one after the other, they muttered, “Oh. Faia. I recognize that name,” while their faces registered nothing but confusion.
One of them said, “Faia—isn’t she the goddess portended to bring death to all the gods?”
“Or perhaps one of the goddesses of hearth and wisdom,” another whispered nervously.
“If you don’t know who I am, you aren’t important enough to know,” Faia told them coldly. “Go back to whatever holes you crawled out of, little gods, and infest my house no more.”
Then one of the gods glared at her, anger dark on his face. “But we were invited. All of us were invited.”
Faia hid her discomfiture as well as she could, and kept her response icy and superior. “I did not invite you.”
But the angry eyes were not fixed on her this time. Instead, they were focused on her guest—Witte A’Winde.
He was responsible for this?
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. Of course he’s responsible for this. Gods don’t appear in gardens any more often than wings appear on cats. He’d called himself Witte the Mocker—but that did not seem to define the little man appropriately right at that instant. Witte the Troublesome would be closer, she thought darkly. Or Witte the Prankster. Or even Witte the Soon-to-be-Sleeping-in-the-Street. She glowered at him. He gave her a shrug and a weak smile.
“Did you do this? Invite this rabble into my home?”
Witte threw himself prostrate at her feet and wept “Oh, please, please don’t smite me!” he howled. “Please have mercy, O Benevolent Faia. Don’t blast me! Don’t rend me limb from limb! I meant no harm—truly.”
Faia pulled her ankles loose from his armlock and did not kick him in the head, though she was sorely tempted. She looked back to the gods, intending to ask them to leave—only to discover the last of them was at that instant creeping out through her front gate, his forked tail quite literally tucked between his legs. As she watched, the tiptoeing god reached back and quietly pulled the inner gate shut behind him.
She jammed her hands into the pockets of her breeches and studied the gate thoughtfully, then looked at the still prostrate and weeping Witte.
“You can get up now,” she said, her voice dry. “They’ve gone.” She looked back at the gate again, and tipped her head to one side. “Though I haven’t the slightest idea why.”
Witte jumped to his feet, all pretense of remorse gone as though it had never existed. He chuckled while he brushed the dirt off his silks. “They fell for that one?” He shook his head ruefully. “What a bunch of rubes. City gods would never have gone for that bit—” He looked up at her, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Though you did a nice turn as the great god Faia. Where did you come up with the haughty act?”
