Under Fallen Stars - Mel Odom [53]
He'd tried the temple of Ilmater before coming here, but their resources had already been drained. He'd stayed long enough to say his prayers to the god and make his peace with the night's events. Remembering how well he'd been treated at Lathander's temple in Atkatla, he'd decided to try there when one of the people on the street he'd asked had mentioned it.
"Child," the old priest said as he stepped back from the door, "enter and we'll see what Lathander has seen fit to provide us. Even now new donations are being received to help with the victims." He was short and broad, with a belly on him that spoke of familiarity with wine casks. His red and yellow robes hung loosely about him, stopping just short of the smooth stone floor.
Jherek stepped into the foyer and felt some of the chill hanging over the city drain away from him. He hadn't taken the time to change his drenched clothing, and it clung to his body with the touch of ice and rough salt.
While the temple back in Athkatla had been modest, this place spoke of opulence. The decor was ornate, steeped in inlaid gold and silver, constructed of polished and burnished woods carefully fitted together. Beyond the foyer, rows of long benches filled the space, all turned toward the dais where a huge rose quartz disk almost ten feet tall occupied the back wall. Rendered hi the glowing pink stone were rose-colored swirls centered around a pair of golden eyes.
Jherek flushed with embarrassment to think that the temple would need any or even all of the coins he'd been paid for the caravan work. Quietly, he followed the priest down the aisle.
Several people in agitated states sat in the benches. Many of them prayed out loud while others cried and wailed for lost loved ones. Other priests moved within the groups, offering solace or a healer's touch. As Jherek passed by one bench, he saw a young priest not much older than him on his knees reaching up to close the eyes of a Flaming Fist mercenary who'd stilled in death. Beside him, the dead man's wife and children clung to his legs and cried.
The young sailor quickly averted his gaze, not wanting to intrude on their grief. He knew none of the people, but he knew the anger and frustration and fear that filled them. In his life, he'd known little else until he'd escaped his father and reached Velen.
The priest led him to a back room where foodstuffs and other stores were kept. The room was large and generous, filled with well-stocked shelves and lit by candelabras. Priests worked with parishioners, sorting through the boxes and baskets of supplies that were being unloaded from a cart at the back door.
The priest called one of the acolytes and asked him to search for the things Jherek needed. In quick order, the young priest rounded up the necessary materials.
Jherek offered his coin purse. "Take what you feel is just."
The priest regarded him with renewed interest. "Pardon me for saying so, boy, but you look as though that pouch contains the last coins you have."
Jherek felt another sharp pang of embarrassment. The pouch in his hand looked pitifully slim, and he'd been so proud of it that afternoon when the caravan had arrived in Baldur's Gate. "If it's not enough, I'll bring more at another time if you'll trust me for it."
The priest shook his head, reaching out and curling the pouch back in the young sailor's hand. "You misunderstand me, boy. Lathander doesn't just take from a community; he gives back. Else how can he work the miracles with the new beginnings he speaks of?"
Still, Jherek felt bad. The priests at Ilmater's shrine hadn't dissuaded him of making a donation there, and he'd gotten nothing from them except apologies.
"Just remember Lathander, boy," the priest said. "The Morninglord knows the wheel turns. We all give and get alternately, each as to their needs. Every day is a beginning of some kind for everyone."