Free Krispos the Emperor by Harry Turtledove Page A

of speaking. He rather hoped the former was true. The usage might be unusual among Phos' followers, but he liked its spirit.
    Still grumbling, the Halogai grudgingly let him go into the temple, though one preceded him and the other followed close behind. A few icons with images of Phos hung on the roughly plastered walls; otherwise, the place was bare of ornament. The altar behind which the priest stood was of carven pine. His blue robe, of the plainest wool, lacked even a cloth-of-gold circle above his heart to symbolize Phos' sun.
    The good god's creed and liturgy, though, remained the same regardless of setting. Phostis followed this priest as easily as he had the ecumenical patriarch. The only difference was that this ecclesiastic spoke with an upcountry accent even stronger than that of Krispos, who had worked hard to shed his peasant intonation. The priest came from the west, Phostis judged, not from the north like his father.
    When the required prayers were over, the priest surveyed his congregants. "I rejoice that the lord with the great and good mind has brought you back to me once more, friends," he said. His eyes fixed on Phostis and the Haloga guards as he uttered that last word, as if he wondered whether they deserved to come under it.
    Giving them the benefit of the doubt, he continued: "Friends, we have not been cursed with much in the way of material abundance." Again he gave Phostis a measuring stare. "I praise the lord with the great and good mind for that, for we have not much to give away before we come to be judged in front of his holy throne."
    Phostis blinked; this was not the sort of theological reasoning he was used to hearing. This priest took off from the point at which Oxeites had halted. But he, unlike the patriarch, lacked hypocrisy. He was plainly as poor as his temple and his congregation. That in and of itself inclined Phostis to take him seriously.
    He went on, "How can we hope to rise to the heavens while weighted down with gold in our belt pouches? I will not say it cannot be, friends, but I say that few of the rich live lives sufficiently saintly to rise above the dross they value more than their souls."
    "That's right, holy sir!" a woman exclaimed. Someone else, a man this time, added, "Tell the truth!"
    The priest picked that up and set it into his sermon as neatly as a mason taking a brick from a new pile. "Tell the truth I shall, friends. The truth is that everything the foolish rich run after is but a snare from Skotos, a lure to drag them down to his eternal ice. If Phos is the patron of our souls, as we know him to be, then how can material things be his concern? The answer is simple, friends: they cannot. The material world is Skotos' plaything. Rejoice if you have but little share therein; would it were true for all of us. The greatest service we can render to one who knows not this truth is to deprive him of that which ties him to Skotos, thereby liberating his soul to contemplate the higher good."
    "Yes," a woman cried, her voice high and breathy, as if in ecstasy. "Oh, yes!"
    The butcher who had spoken to Phostis still sounded solid and matter-of-fact. "I pray that you guide us in our renunciation of the material, holy sir."
    "Let your own knowledge of moving toward Phos' holy light be your guide, friend," the priest answered. "What you renounce is yours only in this world at best. Will you risk an eternity in Skotos' ice for its sake? Only a fool would act so."
    "We're no fools," the butcher said. "We know—" He broke off to give Phostis yet another measuring stare; by this time,
    Phostis was sick of them. Whatever he had been about to My, he reconsidered, starting again after a barely noticeable pause: "We know what we know, by the good god."
    The rest of the people in the shabby temple knew whatever it was the butcher knew. They called out in agreement, some loudly, some softly, all with more belief and piety in their voices than Phostis had ever heard from the prominent