He had run out into the night, and screamed his rage at the stars.
Chardyn stayed for the funeral, and even made the Soul Journey prayer at the graveside, when his mother’s body was laid alongside that of her husband, and the two children who had died in infancy. Then he had journeyed to the Nicolan monastery, where his old teacher, Parali, was the abbot. The old man had welcomed him with a hug, and a kiss upon the cheek.
‘I grieve for your loss, my boy,’ he said.
‘I called upon the Source and He did not answer me.’
‘Sometimes He does not. Or if He does He answers in a way we do not like. But, then, we are His servants, not He ours.’
‘I no longer believe in Him,’ admitted Chardyn.
‘You have seen death before,’ Parali reminded him. ‘You have watched babes die. You have buried children and their parents. How is it that your faith remained strong during these dread times?’
‘She was my mother. He should have saved her.’
‘We are born, we live a brief time, and then we die,’ said Parali. ‘That is the way of life. I knew your mother well. She was a fine woman and, it is my belief, she now resides in Paradise. Be grateful for her life, and her love.’
‘Grateful?’ stormed Chardyn. ‘I organized a celebration feast to give thanks to the Source for her recovery. I was made to look like an idiot. Well, I will be an idiot no longer. If the Source exists then I curse Him, and want no more to do with Him.’
‘You will leave the priesthood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I pray you will find peace and joy.’
Chardyn had spent a year working on a farm. It was backbreaking toil for little reward, and he came to miss the small luxuries he had taken for granted as a priest, the comfort of life in a temple, the abundance of food, the times of quiet meditation.
One night, after a day of cutting and binding straw for the winter feed, Chardyn had been sitting with the other workers around the Feast Fire, listening to them talk. They were simple folk, and before they ate the roasted meat they gave thanks to the Source for the plentiful harvest. The previous year, following a failed crop, they had given thanks to the Source for their lives. In that moment Chardyn had realized that religion was what crooked gamblers dubbed a ‘no lose proposition’. In times of plenty thank the Source, in times of famine thank the Source. When someone survived a plague it was down to divine intervention. When someone died of the plague they had been taken to glory. Praise the Source! Faith, it seemed, regardless of its obvious cosmic stupidity, brought happiness and contentment. Why then should Chardyn labour on a farm when he could be adding to the happiness and contentment of the world by preaching the faith? It would certainly add massively to his own happiness and contentment to be living once more in a fine house and attended by skilled servants.
So he had donned the blue robes and journeyed across Kydor, taking up a position at the small temple in the centre of Carlis. Within weeks his sermons had trebled the congregation. Two years later, the coffers swelled by donations, a new temple had been designed, twice the size of the old. Three years after that even this imposing building struggled to contain the masses who came to hear Chardyn.
The adulation of the congregation was in sharp contrast to the low regard in which the church authorities held him. Parali had seen to that. Yet it did not rankle unduly. Chardyn now lived in a large house, with many servants. He had also managed to put away a sizeable sum to indulge his taste for fine foods, expensive wines and soft women.
Indeed, he was as content as a man could be. Or, rather, he had been until this morning, when riders from the Duke had arrived demanding his presence on an expedition to exorcize demons from the ancient ruins in the valley. Chardyn had no experience of demons. Nor did he wish to acquire any. However, it would not be wise to refuse the Duke’s summons, so he had swiftly gathered several scrolls dealing with the subject of exorcism and had joined the riders.