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  A flush painted Berylina’s cheeks. Ranita and her lover had tried to be discreet. They had tried to keep their actions from the other travelers, tried not to let anyone know about the moments that they stole.

  But how foolish did they think she was? How many times could any two reasonable people forget valuable items in their saddlebags, after the horses had been stabled? How many times could doors creak in the night, even in the least maintained country inn? And how many times could Mair’s crying baby be an excuse for changing rooms, for bleary eyes and soft smiles in the morning?

  Berylina shook her head. She did not care about Ranita and Tovin. She did not care what they said or thought or did. After all, the Thousand Gods blessed the bodies of men and women. Berylina only cared because poor Father Siritalanu had been embarrassed. He had looked at the princess with concern, as if she might expect him to protect her from the indelicacy of the situation.

  She was no child. She was a princess of Liantine, the youngest girl in a family with four brothers. She knew the ways of men and women.

  And she knew that she would have none of them.

  Berylina smoothed her fingers down her green caloya robes, and the silk warmed against her flesh. The Thousand Gods did not call upon all of their servants to be chaste. Men and women were permitted to marry and remain in service to the gods. Nevertheless, the purest of the worshipers, the inner circle of those who remained true to the Thousand, proved their dedication by remaining pure in body and in heart. They remained devoted. They remained strong. Berylina was determined to be one of their number, to dedicate her chastity to the Thousand Gods and First Pilgrim Jair.

  And she might as well start here at Jair’s very birthplace. She raised her chin. “Very well, Father. Let us enter.”

  Siritalanu smiled upon her, and she was warmed by the kindness on his face. He understood. He appreciated her. He knew what she meant, by bringing her pilgrimage here to Brianta. He nodded once and pushed open the door.

  Berylina blinked and stepped over the threshold.

  Darkness. As Siritalanu let the door close behind him, Berylina caught her lower lip between her teeth. Who cared if the movement emphasized her heavy jaw? The First Pilgrim knew her and loved her, even in her stunted, broken body. He would watch over her, no matter the appearance of her teeth.

  Making a holy sign across her chest, Berylina took a single step into the room. A post stood by her right hand, and she reached out to caress the prayer bell that hung there. The jangle was sharp in the chamber, alive, tinkling with power, and Berylina had to smother the urge to wrap her fingers around the bell. She did not want to disturb the other pilgrims. She did not want to summon them from their worship.

  No one even looked up, though. No one acknowledged the princess’s presence. Thousands of pilgrims touched the bell every day; thousands of worshipers offered up their anonymous prayers in this temple, in the birthplace of the First Pilgrim.

  When Berylina blinked hard, she could make out people in the shadows, men and women who knelt at the low altars that lined the walls. She knew all about this holy place; she had heard tales from other travelers and read accounts in Morenia’s great library. Each of the altars was dedicated to Jair; each contained a relic of his life, something that the First Pilgrim had touched, had used, had blessed.

  Legend said that there were one thousand relics of the First Pilgrim, one for each of the gods. Certainly there were not that many objects in the temple. The counting was a mystery, a token of faith among Liantine pilgrims.

  Berylina’s knees ached to kneel before the holy objects. Her fingers twitched. She had not had a chance to draw during her long journey to Brianta—her crayons and chalk had been carefully packed away. She had needed to set aside the images of the gods as they came to her, promised to capture the images later.

  Those promises had borne fruit, though. With her visions of the gods held at bay, her other sensory impressions had waxed. Every step through the Briantan streets had been a titillation, a stimulation of her nose, her mouth, her ears, her flesh.

  As she took another step into the chamber, her eyes began to adjust to the dim light. A single candle burned in the center of the room, thick as her arm and fashioned from plain white wax. The light was suspended from a wrought iron chain that wound its way to the ceiling. One altar huddled beneath the candle, but it was surrounded by a thick knot of worshipers.

  Berylina knew why they gathered there. The central altar was built on the precise spot where Jair had been born, more than one thousand years before. His holy mother had crouched before her midwife, delivering the child who would change the world, the child who would open the hearts and eyes of mankind to all the Thousand Gods.

  Berylina closed her eyes and breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the room’s holiness. Her fingers tingled, and the roof of her mouth thrummed with power. The power of the Pilgrim. The power of the Thousand Gods.

  Worshipers moved about the room, crawling from altar to altar upon their knees. Women sobbed; men grunted their devotions as they crouched before the holiest of relics. Berylina wanted to join them; she wanted to be filled with the glory that was Jair. She turned to Siritalanu and half-whispered, “Father. . ..”

  “Aye, child,” the priest breathed. “I feel the power.”

  Siritalanu guided her to one of the altars, his hand trembling against the small of her back. He knelt beside her and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Hail, Holy Pilgrim Jair. Look upon this penitent with grace and compassion and bless the journey that she undertakes in your name. Keep her and protect her from harm, that she might continue to offer up praises in your name to all the Thousand Gods. Blessed Jair, we thank you for your guidance and your wisdom in all things.”

  Berylina’s heart expanded with the words; her chest rose, and her breath came faster. Jair would watch over her. He would protect her. He would keep her safe from harm. Exhaling slowly, Berylina opened up her heart to Jair, expecting to feel the Pilgrim’s presence fill her with his unique essence, with whatever sight or sound or touch or taste or smell heralded the First Pilgrim.

  Nothing.

  Berylina took another deep breath, and the room’s close air rushed across her rabbit teeth. She closed her eyes, cutting out all distractions, limiting the warped vision from her twisted gaze. She told herself to ignore the whispers of prayer from the other pilgrims, to ignore the flicker of light from the single candle at the center of the room. She told herself not to hear the prayer bell as a newcomer brushed against it. She told herself not to smell the stifled air, not to think about the press of close bodies.

  Focus on the Pilgrim. Feel his grace. Feel his protective mantle settle about her shoulders. Know that he stood with her, beside her, before her, and above her, that he was ready to guide her on her mission through Brianta, through the city of the Thousand Gods.

  Nothing.

  Berylina’s eyes popped open, and she fought the urge to reach for Siritalanu’s hand, to fumble for comfort like a child seeking a nurse in the night. After all, what did the priest really understand of the ways that she knew the gods? How much could he really know of the sights and the sounds, the tastes and the touches of the gods? How could he comprehend that she could smell the very deities, that she could taste them? And what would he make of her feeling nothing now?

  Staying on her knees, Berylina crawled to the next altar. She squinted in the dim candlelight, and she could just make out an ivory comb centered on a golden cloth. Its teeth had been weathered by the years, most of them splintering, so that only four long prongs remained. Berylina imagined Jair’s mother combing his hair, teasing his unruly locks into some semblance of submission.

  She imagined the touch of ivory beneath her fingertips, the way the comb would warm beneath her hand. She thought about working the four sad teeth through her own hair, manipulating the instrument to untangle her wiry snarls. “Hail, Holy Pilgrim Jair,” she repeated with Siritalanu. “Look upon this penitent with grace
and compassion and bless the journey that she undertakes in your name. Keep her and protect her from harm, that she might continue to offer up praises in your name to all the Thousand Gods. Blessed Jair, we thank you for your guidance and your wisdom in all things.”

  She forced herself to focus on each word, to feel each element of the prayer. Surely Jair would come to her when she had proven her persistence. Once he knew that she was not going to give up, that she was not going to be swayed by an instant of invisible silence inside her mind, he must reveal his distinctive pattern.

  When the First Pilgrim remained distant, Berylina dragged herself to the next altar. Another worshiper knelt there, an old woman who raised one wrinkled hand toward the spoon that rested in the place of honor. Berylina focused on the glint of candle light that reflected off the bowl of the utensil—she could see that the tiny flame was upside down against the pewter. The princess tried to use the image to concentrate, to bring her attention to bear. She was certain that she could break through to Jair, certain that she could prove her worthiness by staying on her knees, by opening up her heart and soul.

  After all, some of the other gods had proven elusive when she first met them. When Berylina first tried to listen, first tried to hear above the chaos that Liantine’s Horned Hind had sown in her mind, she had scarcely been able to make out the voices of any of the Thousand.

  Berylina was being tested here. Well, she had been tested in her father’s house, and in her new home of Morenia. She was tested every time that she—a sixteen-year-old girl born with cast eyes and rabbit teeth—proclaimed some special knowledge of the Thousand. She had risen to such challenges before, and there was no reason to think that she would not succeed this time. “Hail, Holy Pilgrim Jair,” she began again. She schooled her voice to patience. “Look upon this penitent with grace and compassion. …” She finished the trope mechanically, trailing off on the final word, “wisdom”, trying not to let her fears carry her away.

  Maybe she had approached Jair incorrectly from the very beginning. Maybe she should have waited until a place had cleared at the central altar, at the platform that marked his birthplace. Maybe she should have purified herself before coming to this holy house—she should have bathed another time, or fasted another day.

  But Jair should not be so demanding. He should not be that difficult, that aloof. After all, he was not actually a god himself. He was a man, a human man, who had found the truth of the Thousand Gods within himself. He was a signpost, a guide, a starting point for all those who thought to worship strong and true. He was a guiding light for Berylina.

  Another pilgrim entered the sanctuary and jangled the prayer bell. Berylina looked about the room, trying to see it with fresh eyes. Once again, she was struck by the realization that there were far from a thousand relics. There were only two score altars against the walls. Each held one item precious to the First Pilgrim, something from his life, his journey through all the castes. Each relic, then, must be counted in a special way if the symbolism were to work, if the counting were to reach one thousand.

  The comb, for example. Perhaps each tine should be considered separately. Four teeth, and the total of the comb—five was the counting for that relic. The spoon should be one. But perhaps it was two. Perhaps the top of the bowl and the bottom of the bowl counted separately. For that matter, the handle might be an item unto itself. Or the top of the bowl, the bottom of the bowl, the handle, and the spoon as an entire entity. One god, two gods, three gods, four. …

  What was Berylina doing here? She was no mystic. She was no scholar. How was she to tell when she had measured out true faith? How was she to know when her worship was acceptable to the gods? In the past, she had always been instructed, first by her nurses, then by Father Siritalanu. She had always prayed and reached the point when the gods came to her, when they opened up within her mind, expanded inside her senses. Jair did not seem inclined to appear.

  But he must come to her. She must start her pilgrimage by honoring the First Pilgrim. She must begin at the beginning, here in the house where Jair had entered the world, where he began his mystical journey. She dared not proceed with her true mission, with the initialization of her cavalcade and her journey to the shrines of several gods, until she had received the First Pilgrim’s blessing.

  Trembling, she crawled to the next altar.

  A young man’s tunic, narrow in the chest, flared across the hips, a style so ancient that it had not been worn for centuries. Laces ran down the sleeves, crossing themselves over and over. Berylina started to count the eyelets for each lace—was each symbolic of a god? What if she miscounted? What if the tunic were to be taken as a whole, but something else, another relic was to be broken down into nine hundred ninety-nine pieces? “Hail, Holy Pilgrim Jair,” she started to say, but she could not bring herself to complete the prayer. Instead, she lowered her head to her fists and fought back tears.

  Here she was in Brianta, traveled all the way across the land, and she was too weak to make her worship meaningful. As the tears came, hot and pulsing behind her eyes, she felt Father Siritalanu’s touch upon her shoulder.

  “My lady,” he whispered. “Do not fret so.”

  “I can’t feel him,” Berylina said, horrified that other pilgrims would hear her in the close, dark chamber. “All the gods I can feel or smell, taste or hear or see, but the Pilgrim is invisible to me.”

  “For now,” Father Siritalanu chided. “For now. Come, child. Come kneel here, in the center of the room. Forget the relics. Forget the signs. Kneel beneath the candle and say your prayers with me.”

  Berylina let the priest help her to her feet. She let him guide her to the raised altar in the center of the room. Beneath the candle was a child’s play thing, a ball that had been carved from a single piece of wood, as white as the candle above.

  Berylina caught her breath as she stared at the toy. It was perfectly smooth, completely even. There were no marks on the surface, nothing to distract a watcher, nothing to disturb the counting of the object. It was one. One undivided piece. One single entity.

  “There, my lady,” Father Siritalanu whispered. “There is Jair’s first relic. Meditate on it and find peace. Find power.”

  Berylina turned her head to the side so that she could look at Siritalanu with her good eye. Did he understand? Did he think that she was mad, trying to establish some sort of rapport?

  No. He believed in her. He always had.

  Berylina took a deep breath and lowered her head. When she exhaled, she heard a slight whistle, the sound of air passing over her jutting teeth. She set aside her embarrassment, though, set aside her anger and frustration about her differentness. “Hail, Holy Pilgrim Jair,” she started.

  This time, the words were different. This time, they were loaded with power, with potential, even as they formed at the back of her throat. “Hail, Holy Pilgrim Jair,” she repeated. Her vision grew within her. No, not vision. Jair was not a shape. He was not a color, not an odor, not a taste. He was a solid, complete wholeness, an impenetrable sphere. He was the power and the essence and the solidity of the ball that stood on the platform, of the child’s toy that graced the very center of the temple.

  Berylina felt the wholeness with her entire mind, she understood it with every fiber of her body. She reached toward the sphere, stretching her fingers toward its infinite completeness. “Look upon this penitent with grace and compassion,” she said, and she understood the words; she knew that they were True. She gathered in the power that she recognized as uniquely Jair, that came from the holiness of this place, and she raised her voice, “And bless the journey that she undertakes in your name.”

  In one tiny part of her mind, Berylina knew that other pilgrims must be staring at her; they must be focused on her. They could hardly ignore her as they struggled to pay attention to their own worship, their own recognition of the power and glory of Jair.

  Nevertheless, Berylina could not quench the certainty inside her, the absolute knowledge
that she was right, that she was strong, that she was revealing the true core of First Pilgrim Jair, or having it revealed to her. Her voice rang out: “Keep her and protect her from harm, that she might continue to offer up praises in your name to all the Thousand Gods.” Tears streamed down her face, and she stretched her arms, held them toward the child’s toy as if she were summoning the very core of the universe. “Blessed Jair, we thank you for your guidance and your wisdom.”

  The ball moved.

  It rolled from the center of the altar, from the center of the room, from the precise place where Jair had crowned between his mother’s knees, more than a millennium ago. Gathering force from somewhere, summoning power from some secret well, the smooth, white ball rolled across the altar and into Berylina’s waiting hands.

  She could feel the power there. She could feel the energy of First Pilgrim Jair beating beneath the smooth surface. She recognized more colors than she had ever known, scents more delicate than the entire universe could hold, sounds and tastes and touches that she had barely imagined.

  All were contained inside the sphere. All were encompassed by First Pilgrim Jair. All pulsed against her palms as she caught the ancient relic, as she cradled it against her chest.

  And then, she remembered to breathe again. She remembered that she was a mortal woman. She was standing in the center of a temple, beneath the light of a candle that had flared high, had burned bright enough to attract the attention of all the surrounding pilgrims.

  “Father,” she croaked, and she extended her hands to Siritalanu, offering him the relic.

  “My lady,” he said, and for a moment, she thought he would be too afraid to take it, too awed to accept the gift she had to give. Then he seemed to understand. He took the ball from her, and he set it back in the center of the altar. Seeing the toy in his hand, she shuddered, like a dog casting off a coat of morning dew. The motion brought her back to full awareness, back to the temple, back to Liantine.