Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [14]
How many times had he made the trek up that bill, humbling himself before the priests of Lathander? Corin tried to ignore the foul taste welling up from his stomach, tried to block out the dark memories. But the fight in the Fair had sobered him up. The effects of his morning drinking binge were fading. As the veil of alcohol faded, he saw the past was still there waiting for him- just as it always was.
Without looking up again, Corin knew what he would see as Lhasha led them ever closer to the mount around which Elversult had been built. The gleaming spires and stained glass windows of the Dawnbringer's temple would reflect and refract the light of the sun, a shining beacon of hope atop the hill for all to see. False hope, for those foolish enough to believe. Corin had been one of them, once.
After the slaughter of his White Shield comrades, after the loss of his hand, Corin had turned to religion in search of help and healing. Out of the pantheon of churches within Elversult, Corin had chosen Lathander's-the god of the Morning Sun, the god of the New Day, the god of New Beginnings.
The priests had welcomed him into their temple- welcomed him and his gold. Corin had foolishly handed it over. Bit by bit, visit by visit, coin by coin. His entire life savings. Each time the priests would chant and pray, and spread perfumed incense on the air and speak about the glory of the Dawnbringer. Each time, they would end the day by telling Corin that Lathander had not seen fit to restore bis hand at that time.
Only now could Corin see what a fool he'd been. How gullible. At this time. An implied hope for the future- hope Corin had invariably seized upon. He accepted their failures to help him without question, convinced the next day's pilgrimage up the winding, dusty path to the top of Temple Hill would end with him being made whole again. That hope was all he had-the hope that his hand could be restored. The priests of Lathander continually fed that hope with their false promises.
After a year of almost daily treks up the bill, Corin's money was all but spent. But the priests were not done stealing from him. If they had sent him on his way when the gold ran out, Corin might have been able to forgive them. He understood greed and theft-as a White Shield he had dealt with thieves every day.
There was still more he could give, the priests had explained, something more valuable than all the gold he'd donated. Corin could give himself, in every fiber of his being, over to the Dawnbringer. He could prove his devotion through service, in a way mere donations never could. This, the priests had assured him, was the way to salvation, redemption, and healing. To open his soul by serving Lathander.
Corin had served. Cleaning the church grounds, scrubbing the stones and statues of the temple's interior. Washing the stained glass windows. Polishing the spires and steeples of the edifice proclaiming Lathander's greatness. Toiling in the gardens within the walls. Preparing meals for the clerics, and cleaning up the dishes when they were done. Every menial, degrading task the servants of Lathander felt was beneath them, Corin did. He humbled himself in the eyes of the Dawnbringer, convinced such servitude would bring about a miracle.
After three months of toil, Corin had approached
Hathala Orndeir, the high priestess of Lathander. He went to her and begged her to help him, begged on his knees for her to implore her god to heal him.
Her reply was simple. "Those who serve only for their own gain are