"Oh, I see." She smiled, the expression all the more horrible in the wash of green light that fell across her from a nearby window. "It must have been a surprise to see it empty."
"Yes, it was."
"You are welcome to take the dust, if you wish."
"Thank you; I appreciate this courtesy."
"It makes no difference to us; we sweep off the altar every few months anyway."
"Oh." Garth pulled the bag from his belt and looked at it dubiously; it was of a moderately coarse weave. It was quite likely it wouldn't hold dust very well.
But then, how much could that matter? It was, all in all, only dust. He knew nothing of magicks, but surely dust was dust. Feeling foolish, he scraped up a heap of dust from the altar, gray fluff of no distinction whatsoever, and stuffed it into the bag. That done, he knotted it shut and shoved it back under his belt.
"Thank you," he said again.
"Is that all you came for, then?"
"Yes."
"So I have spoken to no purpose?"
Garth did not like the tone of the priestess' voice. "I have found your words very interesting, woman. Do not feel that you have wasted your time."
"Have I not?"
"No. This visit has been most informative, truly."
"It may be more than that, of course." Her smile had returned.
"How mean you?"
"You have been in our temple for some time; perhaps the hand of the goddess is already upon you."
"What do you mean?"
"All those who serve P'hul here bear her signs; her priests are the senile, the diseased, those with leprosy and cancer and tuberculosis and all the other wasting sicknesses. The very air of this shrine is rich in disease. You have spoken at length with a leper, where most men flee from my slightest touch. It is very likely that you already carry some illness within you; if not my own, then one of the others."
Garth said nothing; he felt a brief instant of panic, but suppressed it immediately, reminding himself that, despite what this creature might believe, no overman had ever contracted leprosy. Nor were most other diseases worth his concern; very few human diseases could affect overmen, and those that could were either not contagious, or of the more virulent and fast-acting sort, not wasting sicknesses. Overmen had their own ills.
"Shall I escort you out, then? You have what you came for."
"I am in no hurry. I do not wish to offend your goddess by so quickly shunning her shrine."
"Truly? Perhaps I have wronged you in my thoughts."
Garth shrugged.
There was a sound behind them; both turned to see a bent, shuffling figure at the head of the stair, on the far side of the antechamber beyond the still-open doors.
It was a man, clad in the soft gray robes of a priest of P'hul; he was shriveled with age and moved slowly, as if in pain. His hair was white and unkempt, straggling down about his face, tangling indistinguishably with his beard. He blinked at the overman and the priestess.
"Greetings, Tiris. This overman is a visitor to our temple." The priestess spoke loudly, slowly, enunciating every word as carefully as she could with her deformed lip. The old man shuffled nearer; she said softly to Garth, "His hearing is poor. Tiris is the oldest of our priests; he is said to have the special favor of the goddess, to see things that others do not."
Garth was not impressed. He had seen enough of humanity to suspect that men and women were far more gullible than his own people; age and a mysterious manner could be sufficient to create the reputation of a so-called wizard. He could not deny that true wizards existed and that magic was abroad in the world; he had been confronted with the real thing on several occasions. That did not mean that he was willing to bow before every crazed old man with a trick or two on hand. He said politely, "Greetings, Tiris."
The old man stopped and studied Garth thoroughly with squinting blue eyes. Suddenly, in a voice that did not shake, a voice that was far stronger than the man's withered form seemed capable of holding, he announced, "Greetings, Bheleu."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For a moment no one moved; Garth and the priestess were too startled, and the old man had apparently exhausted himself. Then Garth said, "I am not Bheleu; I am called Garth of Ordunin."
Tiris shrugged and said, "As you please."
Garth was irritated, but tried not to show it. It seemed plain to him that the old man had confused him with the idols of Bheleu that were sold in the market; perhaps the senile old fool was not even aware that he was an overman, but assumed the idols depicted a unique being, in which case his bizarre error seemed almost reasonable. He considered pointing out that, quite aside from the absurdity of casually meeting a god in a temple not his own, he carried no sword and wore no helmet, but it would do no good, he decided.
The priestess was edging away from him. He found that amusing; a leper, the most shunned creature in all the world, avoiding an ordinary overman because an old man called him by a god's name.
"I assure you, I am no god."
"As you please. Whatever you are, you are beloved of our goddess; if you are not her brother lord, you are his representative. The Age of Bheleu begins tonight, you know; you have come just in time."
"In time? In time for what?"
"To receive P'hul's service. Her power wanes as her age ends, yet she owes her elder brother fealty; before she withdraws from our mortal realm she will do her duty and serve you, to aid the cause of the Lord of Destruction."
The priestess was now openly backing away from the overman. Garth muttered, "This is absurd. I have no connection with any god." He was uneasily reminded of the prophecies cited by the Seer of Weideth; people seemed determined to see him as a bringer of destruction.
"Perhaps you are not aware of your role. We all serve the gods, and you more than any other."
Garth was unsure whether the reputedly deaf old priest had heard his remark, or merely guessed his thoughts. Whichever it was, he was not pleased. He wanted to retort that he served no one, but could not do so, since he was in fact serving the Forgotten King. Strange as the old man was, he was no god.
Was he?
What was a god like? Could the mysterious old creature be some sort of divinity? It seemed unlikely.
"I serve no god," Garth said.
Tiris shrugged, but said nothing further; instead, he turned and shuffled away, along one side of the sanctuary.
Garth turned to his guide, who was now almost cowering against the wall. There could be no doubt that she, at least, believed completely in the old man's mystical powers of discernment.
Disgusted, he marched past her and made his way down the rusted spiral stair; he had what he came for.
He strode down the passage, ignoring the creaking of the floor. The door at the end still stood open; he passed through that, then through the one he had burst in with his fist. Across the outermost chamber and out onto the sun-drenched steps he went.
Only at the last minute did he recall that he had been pursued to the temple's entrance, and that his pursuers might well be waiting for him.
They weren't. Luck was with him.
It was early afternoon; the avenue was spattered with strolling citizens, enjoying the warm sun that had long since erased all trace of the morning's rain. Several noticed him emerging from the brooding darkness of P'hul's temple, but raised no outcry, preferring instead simply to give him the widest possible berth. Remembering the leper-priestess' face he understood their attitude, and was grateful for it. He would not be bothered for a few moments, at least, not so long as it was known where he had just been.