Read Online The Book of Fire by Marjorie B. Kellogg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marjorie B. Kellogg
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They set it all down together with a hunted glance at their priestess, then at their God. The God waves them out of the room. They cower and hesitate, then scurry away when he glares at them, one of them turning back hastily to shut the door.
Paia bows low. “My lord Fire. What a pleasant surprise.”
The God snorts, jerks his head at the champagne. “You’ll have to pour it yourself, of course.”
Paia raises her eyes. No wonder the servants cower. Everything about the God’s chosen man-shape is calculatedly reminiscent of his true and terrifying reality. He is tall, broad and beautiful, and supremely arrogant of bearing. His finely chiseled lip seems always poised for a snarl. His skin has a human grain and tawniness, but its surface is luminous with a faint metallic sheen. His hair is longer than her own, and the rich flame-gold that Son Luco labors so hard to emulate. Sometimes the God wears it loose, in shimmering waves across his shoulders. Tonight he has it in a neat queue down the middle of his back. Assuming his most civilized aspect, Paia notes uneasily. Unlike most of her faithful, she prefers dealing with the more obvious terrors of God’s natural shape. In man-form, he is always at his most devious.
“The Temple has missed you, my lord. Was your journey a successful one?”
Perhaps, if she can keep him in his present good mood, he will tell her something of what he does in his travels. She has asked before. Usually he tells of his tours among the farther-flung villages of the Faithful. Once he came home particularly sullen and flicked a finger in response. “Old business,” was all he would say. Once, he even made a joke: “Visiting a relative.” And Paia had laughed. How could a God have relatives?
She moves obediently to the table and picks up the bottle. The heavy old glass is deliciously cold. He’s even made them chill it, probably in the Sacred Well itself. She’d like to hear what Son Luco thought about that. She pours a little into her great-grandmother’s crystal and raises it to the God in salute. He returns a mocking, courtly nod, and she drinks, savoring the trail of icy, sweet liquid down herthroat, but not the shiver she feels trying to guess what the God has up his gilded sleeve this time. She sips her priceless champagne and eyes him, waiting.
“The Temple has missed me? What about you? Have you missed me?”
He stares her down, golden-eyed, until she must avert her glance. Then he saunters over to her bed. With a nod, he shapes her pillows more to his liking and reclines among them as gracefully as a lizard. He puts his feet up and clasps his manicured hands behind his head. His illusion of substance is flawless, and his eyes offer their usual frank invitation. Again, Paia asks herself why he bothers. Perhaps to keep her off balance, which it surely does. Perhaps because he can’t help himself. Perhaps even a little wishful thinking. She’s often wondered how different their fractious relationship would be if the God in his man-form possessed the actual material reality to carry out what his eyes always promise. It would certainly solve the Suitor problem, but would she have more power over him, or less?
Watching her watch him, the God grins his snarkiest grin. “Well, I know. But it
was
a pretty good show, you’ve got to admit.”
Paia sips, trying for even a fraction of his self-possession. “Do I?”
The God throws his head back in the pillows and laughs.
“A man gave his life for your ‘show’ . . .”
“Oh, yes. And was convinced that such an end was worth more than all the sorry rest of it put together.”
“You bullied him! You threatened him!” Only when he is in man-form can she say these things to him. “He did it out of fear, not faith!”
He cocks an elegant eyebrow. “Is there a difference?”
Paia looks away. She used to think there was. Lately, she’s not so sure.
“These people have so little to look forward to in this life. The life
Paia bows low. “My lord Fire. What a pleasant surprise.”
The God snorts, jerks his head at the champagne. “You’ll have to pour it yourself, of course.”
Paia raises her eyes. No wonder the servants cower. Everything about the God’s chosen man-shape is calculatedly reminiscent of his true and terrifying reality. He is tall, broad and beautiful, and supremely arrogant of bearing. His finely chiseled lip seems always poised for a snarl. His skin has a human grain and tawniness, but its surface is luminous with a faint metallic sheen. His hair is longer than her own, and the rich flame-gold that Son Luco labors so hard to emulate. Sometimes the God wears it loose, in shimmering waves across his shoulders. Tonight he has it in a neat queue down the middle of his back. Assuming his most civilized aspect, Paia notes uneasily. Unlike most of her faithful, she prefers dealing with the more obvious terrors of God’s natural shape. In man-form, he is always at his most devious.
“The Temple has missed you, my lord. Was your journey a successful one?”
Perhaps, if she can keep him in his present good mood, he will tell her something of what he does in his travels. She has asked before. Usually he tells of his tours among the farther-flung villages of the Faithful. Once he came home particularly sullen and flicked a finger in response. “Old business,” was all he would say. Once, he even made a joke: “Visiting a relative.” And Paia had laughed. How could a God have relatives?
She moves obediently to the table and picks up the bottle. The heavy old glass is deliciously cold. He’s even made them chill it, probably in the Sacred Well itself. She’d like to hear what Son Luco thought about that. She pours a little into her great-grandmother’s crystal and raises it to the God in salute. He returns a mocking, courtly nod, and she drinks, savoring the trail of icy, sweet liquid down herthroat, but not the shiver she feels trying to guess what the God has up his gilded sleeve this time. She sips her priceless champagne and eyes him, waiting.
“The Temple has missed me? What about you? Have you missed me?”
He stares her down, golden-eyed, until she must avert her glance. Then he saunters over to her bed. With a nod, he shapes her pillows more to his liking and reclines among them as gracefully as a lizard. He puts his feet up and clasps his manicured hands behind his head. His illusion of substance is flawless, and his eyes offer their usual frank invitation. Again, Paia asks herself why he bothers. Perhaps to keep her off balance, which it surely does. Perhaps because he can’t help himself. Perhaps even a little wishful thinking. She’s often wondered how different their fractious relationship would be if the God in his man-form possessed the actual material reality to carry out what his eyes always promise. It would certainly solve the Suitor problem, but would she have more power over him, or less?
Watching her watch him, the God grins his snarkiest grin. “Well, I know. But it
was
a pretty good show, you’ve got to admit.”
Paia sips, trying for even a fraction of his self-possession. “Do I?”
The God throws his head back in the pillows and laughs.
“A man gave his life for your ‘show’ . . .”
“Oh, yes. And was convinced that such an end was worth more than all the sorry rest of it put together.”
“You bullied him! You threatened him!” Only when he is in man-form can she say these things to him. “He did it out of fear, not faith!”
He cocks an elegant eyebrow. “Is there a difference?”
Paia looks away. She used to think there was. Lately, she’s not so sure.
“These people have so little to look forward to in this life. The life
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