Then Beggars Might Ride

She sits on the street in front of the Temple to the Unknown God. Her eyes are covered and her dress is tattered and she holds a cracked bowl. Her hands are younger than her face—but no one sees them or her. Occasionally, a coin falls in her bowl from a penitent who approaches the temple with heavy burdens or a repentant who leaves lighter than before. Either way, she takes the coin to her tongue, tastes the metal, then hides it away—and no one notices.

When the sun goes down, she stands and swiftly walks down the street with her eyes still covered. Down an alley and over a wall—she is now directly behind the temple. Only then does she take the cover from her bright gold eyes. A person with eyes like that has no real reason to beg—those eyes are a gift from the Unknown God to his priests.

Although all his priests are men.

She hides the coins behind a brick and curls herself under an old sack. Shivering a bit, she settles into sleep. But not to dream. She lost her wishes during the festival, nearly a year ago.

This night, before she finally falls into oblivion, there's a flash and a clash and she startles awake. She covers her eyes and cowers back.

“Hail! Chosen vessel of the Unknown God.”

Through the gaps in her fingers, she sees a towering figure in red, which is the sacred color of the Unknown God—not even worn by his priests. She scrambles back onto the wall, ready to abandon her bowl and her coins, ready to run and never return. But on the top of the wall, her arms are caught by clammy hands and she is wrenched into the light. She screws her eyes closed.

It doesn't matter. A gentle finger touches her closed eyes. “It is you.”She can feel despair welling up. She moves her head away, but cannot escape his touch. His voice is as sweet and cold as wind off a glacier or honey coated poison. “You wanted to be found—why else would you lurk in front of my temple?”

Tears leak. “I tried to go, but when I am out of sight of the temple, I can't breathe.” She kneels at his feet. “Please, let me go. I'm not worthy.”

He laughs and the sound is the shrieking of a knife losing its edge on bone. “Of course you're not worthy. But you're mine. I keep what is mine.” He looks around the space with a sneer. “Gather these . . . treasures? . . . and my chosen vessel. We have much to do before the festival.” With another flash, he disappears.

She stands and watches as the guards strip her little corner between walls to the bare stones. They even find the coins behind the stone and toss them in the sack with the rest of her meager belongings. Neither of them will meet her eyes.

Then, like a whirlwind, she is whisked into the temple. She is placed in a red and gold chamber with no windows. The sack is tossed into a corner and door is locked behind her. She paces for long hours before she finally sleeps on her rags in a corner of the room.

Time passes. She can hear the noises of the temple rise and fall with the day. At some point, her room is invaded and she is bathed and perfumed by priests who will not meet her eyes. Always, in the back of her mind, lingering like the stench of rotten meat, she remembers the voice of the god.

She is sitting in her corner, when, with a flash and a clash and he is there, laughing. “Come.” With a guard at each arm, she is led to the stable. There are two horses, ornamented and brushed so that they glow. They mount.

Together they parade through the city. The crowds cheer and throw flowers that catch in her hair and drape in a blanket over the horses. At one point, he stops. She turns to him.

“There she is.”

She meets the gaze of a young woman who throws a lily. She closes her own eyes, but not before she sees the young woman's change to liquid gold.

“She reminds me of you.” His voice is as cruel as death. “Aren't you pleased? Your duty is nearly done.”

The parade marches on, but her attention is with the new Chosen One, wanting to warn her, to give her power enough to escape. “Too late.” She remembered the realization, the horror on the faces of her kinsmen, her father making preparations—the sound of the god's laughter over the screaming as she ran away from her childhood home.

He laughs. “Wise. I hadn't anticipated wisdom from you, even here at the end.”

Back at the temple, the altar is ready. The fires are hot and smell of spices. He kisses her once on the middle of her forehead—it is only the second time she has ever felt his touch.

The priests are efficient as they bend her back over the altar. But they do not see her. Even as she stares at the ceiling and the fires approach her golden eyes, they will not meet her gaze.

He brushes back her hair. “Thank you.” His voice is vibrant with her life.

Blind, tongueless, dying, the cold stone at her back and the fires of the god etched into her body, she fades away.

word count: 934