The Reluctant Champion

Interlude: Dagon

Dagon the Fifth knelt before the ten-foot high statue of Kama'i as he had knelt for the past twenty-three hours. His back hurt; the simple cushion he knelt on was hard and unforgiving; he could no longer feel his legs at all—except for his knees, which ached as though pierced with sharp knives; and his bladder was full. No matter. He had reached the stage where none of these demands on his attention touched him. His mind floated above them, contemplating the face of the goddess.

Kama'i of the Thousand Blessings. In this representation she was shown with a sculptor's approximation of a thousand arms, raised all around her, each hand holding a symbol suggesting a different blessing. Her right hands held the Blessings of Man—abundance, wisdom, long life, happiness, and on and on. Her left hands held the Blessings of God—plague, famine, war, and death. The common people called these Kama'i's curses and prayed that she would preserve them from them; but the priests maintained that these, too, were blessings, when properly understood.

Oh Kama'i, Dagon thought. We have been over-blessed by your left hand of late. I shall do like the common people and burn goats for the preservation of the kingdom. But he would not. Being king imposed certain obligations, and refusing the descent into easy superstition was one of them.

The face of the goddess gazed down on him compassionately. He had gotten to know all her moods on these long vigils. Every ten days, the king would withdraw and spend a night and a day in prayer and fasting before the goddess. He made sure that this was publicized abroad because it comforted the people, but that was not why he did it.

This was the mood he liked best. There was a moment in the first gray light of dawn when she looked quite cruel. And soon the ray of sunlight that entered through a high window and lit the wall behind her would slide across her headdress. Then it would fall on the great diamond on her forehead, and that would light up, and all the lesser jewels would reflect its great light, and Kama'i would be crowned in a blaze of glory. Then she was triumphant, ruler of the universe indeed. That would be his signal that his vigil was over. But Kama'i herself would be too exalted to touch. It was only now, in the sleepy light of afternoon when the shadows under the arches abandoned their continual feud with the sunbeams striking down from the high windows and merged languorously with them so that sun and shadow seemed truly two halves of the same being, that Kama'i seemed to look and see him, and smile.

Yet all these moods are hers. Useless for man to say he likes this, dislikes that. The face of god is the Face of God, and the blessings she offers are her blessings. It is not for man to grasp eagerly after some but turn away from the rest. Learn to love the Kama'i of the early dawn, of the left hand, for she is the one I deal with now. Perhaps if I learn to love this goddess I will learn to deal with these times.

He let his eyes wander up the hands she stretched out to her left. Death, famine, war, plague, and pain. Death, famine, war, plague, and pain again. And again. The sculptor appeared to have run out of inspiration on this side. He looked to her right hand. There, a myriad of blessings—good food and wine, the love of woman and the delight of children, knowledge and work and truth and honor.

Against that, the right side with its few symbols: skull, broken bowl, sword, frog, and flail. They were represented differently so as to present a good appearance—first the sword of war was straight and double-edged, next curved, then crescent-shaped—but they all came to the same thing in the end: five symbols, endlessly repeated.

Is it so, Kama'i? Are You so sparing of the troubles in your gift? Yet, is it not so? The blessings Kama'i bestows on this life are uncountable. And do not all our troubles come down to nothing but war, pain, plague, famine, and death? Oh, pain and plague come in their different forms. But in the end, we have so little to plague us, and so much to be thankful for. Where then do all our troubles come from?

The question, once asked, was easy to answer.

From ourselves. From each other. Do I not know it? Kama'i, Kama'i, I crouch before you in the dust knowing how faithless I am, how much I am at fault. This latest news from Tynat, is this not the fruit of my own actions? I could have made an ally of Genneret last year or the year before but I would not for my own pride. I could have seen to our defenses to the north, but I was too busy thinking of trade routes to increase my own wealth. I have been vain and foolish and self-centered and this is the result.

A waste of time now to regret his past actions. They were gone beyond recall. All there was for him now was to deal with the situation as it was.

There are no second chances. What I have done is done. My actions are mine and I must own them and live with them. The disaster before me is of my own making.

Yet he knew he was no worse than many kings, no worse than his own father who would have peasants flogged in the square for nothing more than insolence. He was a good man, as men went. He loved his family—painful subject, drop that—he loved his kingdom. He was a good king. Wasn't he?

Very well, I will see myself as I am without hypocrisy. It does not matter if I am a good king or a good man. It does not matter how I compare to others. What matters is whether I am good enough—good enough to meet the current crisis. Good enough to have laid a foundation in this realm that will hold. Good enough to see the way forward. Kama'i, unshutter my blinkered eyes, free my captive heart. Help me to find the safe path through these dangers, for my realm if not for me.

Ah, that was the rub, wasn't it? How selfless was his concern? Every ruler kept half an eye on the history books, on generations yet unborn. How many times had he read the histories of Napesh, the rise and fall of dynasties, invasions repulsed and invasions succeeding. Caradoc the Unready, who lost the kingdom from incompetence; Elmesh the Cruel, butchered by his own people. Would he appear in the history books as Dagon the Merchant, who lost his kingdom, his wealth, and his head to the Alliance of the North? Was that fear the real reason for his anguish?

I cannot tell. I do not know. Kama'i, it will take all your thousand arms to untangle the motives of my heart. I would not wish that my name be fouled by this war. Yet I would—a thousand times I would rather that my name be remembered with hissing and curses and my body be trampled in the mud if my people could only be spared. I do not know if this is the wish of my heart. But it is the wish of my mind and my soul and my spirit, and that will have to do.

Grand heroics, but not immediately practical. Would he do the simple work that was actually required?

Yes. I will stand and I will hold. But give me eyes to see Your path that I may not step off it. Give me ears to hear Your words that when a chance comes, I will recognize it. A heart-pang. And while you're at it, give me back my daughter, wherever she is.

And as he knelt there under the goddess's gaze, he knew he had the strength to do as he promised. He felt her strength around him, as intangible and as close and as unavoidable as the dust motes that danced in the sun. The knowledge of her strength was his strength, was armor about him. Above, the great diamond caught fire and he looked up into the goddess's shining, triumphant face and saw that she looked down through the blaze.

Her smile was compassionate, personal, and intimate. And he saw for a moment—just for a moment—that it was possible that the priests were right. Perhaps the gifts of the left hand were truly blessings after all.