The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 20: The Unworthy, Part 2

 Barthim showed Casimir the proper way to pay his respects to the trophies kept in the Hethraeum's grand hall, but didn't make him perform them himself. "You are no entered acolyte, Cass, so be thinking of this more like one of Ammas's lessons." 

Casimir, whose experience with temples of the Ninefold faiths was limited to the Othillic library and the ruin where he now lived, was too fascinated with what he saw to argue. The Vilais Hethraeum was of a traditional design: a long underground hall of many columns carved to resemble great warriors who had pledged themselves to the First Knight, smoldering braziers flickering between the sculpted figures. All was made of white marble and polished to a high gloss. On the walls behind the pillars were hung weapons of every description imaginable. Some were supposed to have been used in great deeds performed in the name of the Hethmar. Barthim pointed them out to Cass, whispering that some were real and some were not.

"It is the tale which is important, not whether this is really being the axe that the Sultan took from the King of Atrolom and gifted to Il-Hethma." Casimir, who knew how fond Ammas was of stories of the lost city of Atrolom, sighed a little at that, scuffing his feet along the black polished floor. Barthim watched him curiously. "If you are wanting to see the real weapons, not the clever fakeries, you will want to be closer to the Hethmar himself." 

Barthim led him along the grand hall, which gradually sank deeper into the earth as it stretched toward its far end, where a handful of Blades were busy in prayer. The icon that dominated the end of the hall, which for the Hethmar served as an altar, was the largest Barthim had ever seen, and he had seen over a dozen Hethraea in his time. He stepped ahead of Casimir and knelt before the icon, gazing up at it reverently, his eyes huge as he drank in the details of Il-Hethma wrestling a winged and hooded figure bearing swords in all four of its arms. 

Casimir watched him, fascinated by the respectful awe in Barthim's face. "And there he is," Barthim whispered. "Il-Hethma crushing the fallen angel Shirrinvir, destroying him for turning the gardens of the First Empire into the Scorched Desert, stopping him from letting the desert devour the world."

"Ammas says the Scorched Desert happened because of a failed magical experiment."

Barthim laughed. "Ammas is not knowing everything."

Casimir shrugged and wandered away from the icon, letting Barthim finish up his devotions. Barthim watched him, bending to kiss the edge of the icon's plinth -- worn to a glassy smoothness by similar gestures made over the years -- and rose to follow him, watching the boy's face as he studied the shape of a spear that had, supposedly, been used to kill a Summervale dragon.

"Is Ammas saying Il-Hethma never lived, too? He is most irreverent sometimes."

Casimir shook his head. "He says Il-Hethma was a real man, a real warrior, and he probably did fight an angel, but he doesn't think it happens the way -- um -- the way you do." He blushed, biting his lip and hoping he hadn't offended Barthim.

But Barthim was smiling as broadly as ever. "Sometimes your master is being too smart for his own good. But I am sure he will let you make your own decisions when it comes to the gods."

Casimir shrugged again, perching on the edge of a bench usually used by the Hethraeum's older worshipers, or, more commonly, those who had suffered some crippling injury. Barthim watched him closely, his lips smiling but his eyes gleaming with concern.

"He is not right about everything, you know, Cass. We are disagreeing on quite a few things. But he is a wise man, a kind man, and I am very glad he is taking care of you."

"Barthim," Casimir said haltingly, "do you think Ammas would ever hurt Denisius?"

Barthim knew something had been troubling the boy, but this took him totally by surprise. "Hurt Denisius?" he exclaimed. "What is this, Cass? Why would you think such a thing?"