~*~
Donald and his party took a room at the modest Redfruit Inn in the relatively small town of Dale. Before settling in for the evening, they refreshed their supplies at the town market and slept soundly that night, exhausted from their travels.
The next morning, they enjoyed a breakfast of grainflake porridge and jam included in the price of their room. Although a traditional Gotroxian breakfast, it is also common in the eastern part of Westgrove. Donald and Kwestor found the porridge sufficient. Muce supplemented his with a couple of eggs, bacon, hash brown potatoes, and fresh bread and butter.
“I don’t suppose we can take it a bit easier today,” Kwestor suggested. “We’re making good time.”
“No,” Donald said, gathering his pack. “Not until we get to Gondford. If we don’t have any unexpected delays, maybe we can rest there a day or two.”
This ended the discussion and they left shortly after full dawn. The main road out of Dale led east toward Kartok. They took a different one heading more toward the southeast. Donald asked Kwestor about the weather. Gray clouds hung low in the distance. The ranger told him it would not rain. Donald believed him.
They traveled in silence over an hour, the thud of their boots on the packed dirt road and the occasional bird reminding the world of its existence being the only sounds they heard. The rural road stretched empty before them.
“I don’t know what to make of the things Reverend Tripgood told me,” the prince said, verbalizing a thought bothering him on and off and pretty much constantly since they left Dale. Much of what the cleric said did not sound quite right to him. Although not his favorite subject, Donald did study theology as part of his education. He could recall nothing about the gods making giant stone warriors though. He would have remembered something like this. Such exciting things abounded in his adventure stories.
The Scriptures of the Faith contained many passages with plagues, curses, bloody sacrifices, and other violent things no self-respecting religion could be without but no giant warriors. Well, they did have one about a giant, but he was just some big, dumb, hairy man who eventually got killed by some little guy favored by one of the gods for sacrificing a goat—or maybe it was his sister—something like that. It did not seem to be a significant point in the story.
To be honest, Prince Donald rather doubted the gods really existed at all. The old stories told about them, he suspected, were probably just that. He found many of the adventure stories he read far more interesting and with more believable characters than those populating the scriptures of the Faith. However, you could not say such things. Not in public anyway. Not being devout was socially acceptable. Not believing at all was not.
“I’ve heard of him,” Muce said, interrupting the prince’s thoughts.
Donald tried to recall the last thing he said aloud. “You say you’ve heard of him? Tripgood? What have you heard?”
“Well, nothing really worth mentioning.”
“What kind of nothing?” Kwestor asked.
“Just that he’s like the top priest or whatever they’re called in one of the smaller sects of the Faith.”
“He was right, Your Highness. It wasn’t worth mentioning.”
“No, that’s not entirely true. It’s not much, but at least it lets me know he’s actually a cleric and has some kind of following. I wasn’t sure before. Do you know anything about his sect, Muce?”
“Not much. I know there are some of them in Dolphin Point because one came to the Lucky Lady once to collect contributions for his church. They often let clerics do that. This guy got kicked out after a while though because he started to get preachy and was annoying the other customers. I suppose that’s what made it memorable. Some of them get that way, but most are pretty nice.” He paused for a moment, as though trying to formulate an especially difficult thought.
“There seem to be two types of cleric,” he continued. “There’s the kind who likes to help people and really seems to care about them, and then there’s the other kind who just likes to tell people how bad they are all the time and how they need to feel guilty about it. You know what I mean?
“That’s not good for business, especially at a place like the Lady because people go there to have fun, and having fun is one of the things they say you should feel guilty about. I don’t know why they think the gods don’t want people to enjoy themselves since—”
“Muce,” interrupted the prince. “You were telling us about Tripgood’s sect.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. But that’s when I heard of this Tripgood guy because the cleric would say things like, in the words of the Great Reverend Tripgood, and then he went on with some stuff about how the god Ariman wants this and doesn’t like that and stuff.”
“That follows,” Donald said. “Tripgood mentioned Ariman when we were talking. He is one of the main gods.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Ariman is the god of people.”
“Yes, I know. He also mentioned Lestog and Flora. They’re the god of animals and the goddess of plants, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Well, not all animals and plants. Betam and Betal are over some of them—except cats, of course.”
“Cats?”
“There isn’t a god for cats.”
“How come?”
“I’m not sure really. Maybe they don’t want one. My dad once said that a cat is its own god, but I’m not sure what he meant.”
Donald thought he did. His sister owned a cat once, although owned might not have been the way the cat viewed it, and he could not imagine any god worthy of the name being willing to admit any kind of relationship to it, not that the cat seemed to need or want one to. He looked at Muce with a new appreciation. Donald thought he really should know more about the popular religion of Westgrove because it seemed to be an important aspect of many commoners’ lives. Whether he believed it himself or not did not really matter.
“You seem to know a lot about religion, Muce.”
“Well, my mom talked about it sometimes. She likes all kinds of magical and mystical stuff. She has little statues of the gods around the house, and she goes to some of the churches and temples to make offerings and listen to the clerics, every now and then. I’m nowhere near as devout as she is, but I know a little about most of the major gods.”
“Have you ever heard of a battle of the gods or of them making warriors to fight it?”
“Uh, no. Not that I remember anyway. For the most part, I thought the gods got along together pretty well. I mean, each has certain things they’re responsible for, like, well, how you’d pray to Gotarian for good luck in a card game but to Hydeera for good luck when you go fishing. But they all cooperate to make things work right, like Pneuton and Hroosh working together to make waves on the sea, or both of them with Lomaris and Flora to make sure the crops grow right.
“If they fought, then everything would be all messed up, wouldn’t it? I mean, wouldn’t you end up with trees not bending in the wind if Flora and Pneuton didn’t work together or something like rain falling and not being pulled into the ground if Hroosh and Lomaris were on the outs?
“From what I can see, they all seem to be getting along just fine.” He waved his arm to indicate the landscape around them, which seemed to be functioning pretty much the way it should.
Donald made an inexpert scan of the scenery. He did not know much about botany or zoology or nature in general, but he noticed nothing bizarre happening. Everything seemed the way it should, as far as he could tell. The trees all stood with their leafy parts the right way up, anyway, and Muce’s claim this provided evidence of cooperation between gods could be one way to explain it, although, Donald suspected, probably not the best way. Of course, even if the gods were real in some sense, and even if they were cooperating now, it did not mean they always maintained such cordial terms.
“Well, I don’t know, but Tripgood claimed the Warden was created by the gods to fight in a battle between them long ago. I don’t suppose you know anything a
bout it, do you Kwestor?”
“No, I don’t concern myself with such things. Reality is depressing enough for me.”
“Uh, right.”
“You shouldn’t be depressed, Kwestor,” Muce said. “There’s always good stuff and there’s always bad stuff. You have to focus on the good stuff. Like when I’m hungry, I think about how good my next meal is going to taste. Seeing the bad side all the time is like thinking about how hungry you’ll be later right after you’ve just eaten. I mean, if you thought like that, you wouldn’t be able to enjoy anything!”
“You shouldn’t try to be a philosopher. You’re not good at it,” the aging scout replied.
“Don’t you really enjoy a good plate of eggs and bacon?” the young notso continued undeterred. “Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“The hen probably wasn’t overly pleased to have her eggs stolen. And I doubt very much the pig contributed the bacon voluntarily. Life is tough and ugly, kid.”
“Well, yes. I mean, it can be but—”
“Drop it, Muce,” the prince interjected to end the pointless conversation. Actually, he saw merit in both points. He just could not determine which might be the better one.
“So I take it neither of you can corroborate Tripgood’s tale about the origins of the Warden.”
“No,” said Kwestor.
“Huh?” said Muce.
“Right, well, in a couple of weeks we should be there, and we’ll see what we’ll see. For now though, let’s just pick up the pace and make it to Gondford.” This would be the next town of any appreciable size they came to on the way to the Warden, and the last one of any size on the Westgrovian side of the border.
Four days later, they arrived, but the reality of Gondford did not match the image of a quiet little town Donald expected.
Chapter Eight