'In a loud voice Jerrath's father declared he could not choose one God over another, so he would leave it in the hands of the Gods themselves to decide. Upon hearing this, all assembled understood what he meant by this, for Aineer was a city that loved competition and wagers as much as the child they were fighting over. The temple coffers were filled by taxes upon both these activities and offerings from competitors.
'Jerrath's father declared that on his daughter's birthday a race would be held in the streets of Aineer. The priests of each temple were to carry the statue of their God from one temple to the next, following the path Jerrath took each morning. The first to reach the Temple of Alterr on the far side of the city would be declared the winner.'
The Harlequin paused and took stock of its audience, standing in rapt attention. Gian followed its gaze around the room; only she moved; her guests and servants alike were statue-still, as though frozen by some ancient spell.
'The day of the race,' it continued, starting straight at Gian, who felt a sudden cold chill, 'the whole city lined the route before the first rays of dawn touched the rooftops. Bets were laid and a feast prepared for the winner, but a surprise awaited them all as the sun crept into view. Drawn by the fervent prayers of their servants, the Gods themselves stood in the bright morning light outside the house of Jerrath's father, surrounded by the priests of their temples.
'Jerrath's father walked out of his house to start the race and the blood drained from his face. Before him were the eight most prominent Gods in the city, as tall as houses and terrifying to behold: Tsatach, with his great flame-bladed axe and fat copper bands on his arms; the Queen of the Gods in robes of red and orange — she whose true name is accursed for the pity she demonstrated during the Great War — and beside her stood proud Larat in his patchwork cloak of every colour in the Land. Behind them were Veren, God of the Beasts, alongside his winged brother, Vellern; then the sister-Goddesses of Love, Triena and Etesia, whose purple ribbons danced in the air, and grey-faced Kebren, God of Justice, with his huge brass scales across his shoulders.
'The Gods were silent, all watching Jerrath's father as he stood in the doorway of his house, shaking with fear, until Jerrath herself squeezed past him and bowed to each God in turn, prompting him to follow suit.
'With the Gods themselves thus arrayed on his doorstep, Jerrath's father announced that the priests should not carry a statue of their God on a litter but the God itself. The crowd watching cheered his words immediately and in the face of such enthusiasm the Gods agreed. They lined up as best they could in the street, and each of the Gods sat upon a litter with a dozen of their strongest priests carrying them.
'With a great roar from the crowd the priests started off towards the first of the temples — all but Kebren's servants, who, try as they might, could not manage to stagger more than a few steps under the weight of their God's enormous brass scales. All twelve priests fell to the ground, exhausted. As hesitant laughter rang out from the crowd, Kebren gave a roar of fury to silence the voices and disappeared in a clap of thunder.
'And seven remained.'
Gian frowned. She had heard this story only once, years before, but it sounded strange to her ears. 'That's not how it happened,' she muttered. 'The Gods suggested the race themselves, I'm sure of it, and Kebren did not fly into a rage.'
In the hushed room her voice carried and a number of people turned to glare at her. Gian almost gasped at the furious faces turned in her direction.
'What do you know, were you there?' growled one.
'I've heard this story before,' Gian whispered.
'You think your memory better than a Harlequin's?' hissed Peira, her favourite aunt. The old woman's face was contorted with spite. 'Everyone knows what the Gods are like; of course they were angry.'
'But I'm sure-'
'Shut up,' said burly Vorren, her cousin, as his fat fingers flexed and closed tight into a threatening fist. 'Stop defending them.'
Gian raised her hands, trying to placate him, but Vorren immediately bristled at the gesture. She lowered them hurriedly and looked down, feeling the anger in the room like a fire blazing. She bunched her sleeves in her fists, trying to stop her hands shaking as they all stared at her. The moment lingered, her fear deepened — and then the Harlequin spoke again, resuming the story and defusing the suddenly choking atmosphere.
'Seven, the remaining Gods numbered, and seven sought to turn events to their advantage. As they reached the first temple, that of Kebren, the Queen of the Gods realised her feeble priests would not last much longer, so old and infirm were they. She adopted the form of her chosen creature, the phoenix, intent on carrying both litter and priests in her claws, only to have the conflagration of her outstretched wings burn the priests to cinders.
'Seeing this attempt at treachery, Vellern gave his bearers wings of red and blue plumage, but without hands to carry the litter they left their God behind. Both Triena and Etesia stopped by the wayside to charm a watching company of knights and have them carry both priestesses and litter, but the soldiers started to fight amongst themselves for the honour and blocked the street.
'Veren, Lord of the Beasts, imitated his brother Vellern and changed the legs of his priests to those of powerful stags. They raced ahead of the others and had the next temple in sight when they became trapped in a drain gutter, quite unable to move. Tsatach bestowed upon his priests the strength of the Chetse heroes that were first among his followers, but so sure were they of their superior strength that once they had outdistanced the rest they
stopped to drink at a tavern. There, as the Chetse, Tsatach's chosen people, are wont to do, the priests quickly started trying to impress their lord with feats of drinking — but of course the God outdid them all, leaving them drunk on the ground.
'The last of the Gods in the race, Larat, stopped his priests as soon as he saw the others begin to fail. Realising that pride would be their undoing, he did nothing to his priests and instead turned the litter into a chariot. A golden whip appeared in his hand and the traces ensnared his priests like striking snakes. With a crack of the whip he set off again, laughing as hard as the crowd lining the street while his priests yelped and howled.'
The Harlequin's voiced dropped until it was low and mournful. 'And so it was Larat who won the race, Lord of Cruelty and Manipulation, and the last sight of Jerrath afforded to her father was the sight of her trailing after Larat, the golden whip caught around her neck, as he dragged her away for fifty years of service.'
That's not right, Gian thought, biting her lip hard enough to make it bleed so she would not speak the words aloud again. That is not the tale I heard.
She looked around the room and saw tight faces and angry expressions, but more than a few of her guests were nodding at the Harlequin's words, as though recognising a great truth. Careful not to draw attention to herself Gian slipped the bronze charm to Kitar hanging around her neck inside her dress, away from the eyes of her guests.
'Merciful Gods, what has happened to them all?' she whispered.
CHAPTER 22
Doranei leaned forward, his eyes on Legana. The woman gave no sign of noticing him; she was looking around the room like a blind woman, instinctively turning at each small sound. At her side was the priest, Antil, fussing over her like a lover.
The thought stopped Doranei in his tracks. A bitter bubble of laughter welled up in his throat and he had to cover it with a cough.