The Reluctant Champion

The Hidden God

Scrtch—scrtch—scrtch.

Scrtch—scrtch—scrtch.

The noise was faint, at the very limit of hearing.

Scrtch—scrtch—scrtch.

Once heard, it became one of those noises that is impossible to ignore.

Scrtch—scrtch—scrtch.

What was it? A homey noise, one heard and ignored many times, too familiar to notice. Here it hovered in the void, placeless, nagging for attention.

Scrtch—scrtch—scrtch.

First sound, then attention. Now awareness. Who was she, listening to this unplaced sound, lost in this void? No name came to her. Yet images did come: A woman in fluttering silk. A man, crowned in majesty, people on their knees all around him. A pony, cantering to her across a summer field, mane and tail blowing in the wind.

Scrtch—scrtch—scrtch.

It was the last image that triggered a flood of memory. The pony that was the first of many; her father in his palace; her mother, only dimly remembered, for she had died young. War. The plague. Her long journey. Galen. The black watcher under the trees.

Her eyes snapped open.

A vaulted ceiling towered above her, so high that her eyes refused to focus on it at first. She was lying on some hard, cold surface. Stiffly, she turned her head to look around her. On one side, wide shallow steps led up to a dais on which stood an elaborate altar. At least—it appeared to be an altar, but where she expected an image of a deity, there was nothing at all. She struggled to push herself up on her elbows to see it more clearly.

There was a gasp and something clattered to the floor behind her.

She turned, and the hall wobbled crazily around her. When she could focus again, she saw that she was lying in front of the altar, at the end of a long, cavernous hall. Dim gray light filtered through tall, narrow windows. Perhaps five yards away stood a young woman—girl, really—clutching her hands to her breast and staring at Lidah wide-eyed. A broom lay at her feet.

"Who—who are you?" stammered the girl. "How did you get there?"

Who am I, she thought. A name fluttered around her just out of reach, then settled.

"Lidah. My name is Lidah. Where am I?"

There was a panicky edge to the girl's voice. "But you weren't there a moment ago! I just swept that spot! Where did you come from?"

"I—I—" Lidah's head spun again as she considered answers to that question. She tried to push herself into a sitting position but the vertigo sucked into her diaphragm and she retched hacking, dry heaves from an empty belly. The girl squeaked and Lidah heard her bare feet running the length of the hall. Weakly, she slumped to the cold stone floor and her senses scattered in confusion.

#

When she came to herself again, she was lying in a bed under cool sheets. Someone was smoothing her forehead with a wet cloth, calling her name gently. Lidah allowed the ministrations to continue for a while, luxuriating in the timeless moment before waking. Then at last, she opened her eyes and said, "Where am I?"

"The Temple of the Hidden God, child," said a quiet, old voice, and the cloth left her forehead.

An old woman sat by her side, dressed like the girl Lidah had met earlier: a simple gray robe, hair covered with a gray veil. She wore no jewels or special decorations, but she needed none. Despite her age and fragility, her black eyes were steady and her air of casual assurance suggested one who was used to power.