Free The Bone House by Stephen R. Lawhead

intrude on your meditations,” replied Turms. “I came only to prepare for a divination this evening. All is in order, there was no need to disturb you.”
    “Your presence is never a disturbance, O King,” replied the aged priest with polished deference. “I have good news for you. Your tomb is almost finished.”
    “That is good news,” said Turms, nodding with approval. The building of a tomb was the priest king’s first, highest, and most sacred duty. His own plans, modest in comparison to some few of his predecessors, had nevertheless been fraught with complications of many kinds. The delays resulting from these difficulties had pushed the completion further and further into his reign.
    “The artists assure me the tomb will be ready before the equinox,” said the old priest. “The inauguration can take place in the spring.”
    “Well done, Sethre. Your experience and service have been invaluable.” It was true, the old man had guided the construction with an unflagging determination. What Turms did not say was that it was an error on Sethre’s part that had resulted in the first setback; the site chosen along the Sacred Way had proven wholly unsuitable owing to an unseen fault in the tufa stone—a fault that should have been detected in the divination ceremony long before construction ever began.
    “I knew you would be pleased.” He gave a bow, then turned to go, hesitated, and asked, “The rite you are planning tonight, my king. Would you like me to assist?”
    “There is no need,” replied Turms. “It involves the birth of a child.”
    “A simple matter, then. I have a dove that will serve.”
    “Not as simple as we could wish,” said the king, who went on to describe the fear that the child might be dead inside the mother. “Have you ever encountered such a request?”
    “Only once, my king. It was many years ago.” He put a finger to his pursed lips. “I used a ram, then, as I recall. I don’t think I would use a ram now.”
    “No?”
    “A lamb would be better,” he said. “Or even a kid. With an older animal you risk too many complicating factors. It could cloud the issue unnecessarily. You want a young beast, and a healthy one.”
    “Wise counsel, Sethre. I yield to your judgement,” said Turms. “Yes, as I think about it now, I would like you to assist me this evening. See that an unblemished lamb or kid is prepared.”
    “As you will, my king.”
    Satisfied that all was in order for the ceremony, Turms returned to the lodge and, after informing Pacha that no one was to disturb him, he helped himself to a plum from a bowl on the table outside his chamber. He removed his robe, hung it on the stand beside the door, then lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. But he did not sleep.
    Instead, he turned the events of the day over in his mind and was instantly overcome with a sense of the rightness of all things. Everything that happened in life happened for a reason. His long acquaintance with Arturos, for example: the happy years they had spent together in one another’s company and, later, his own troubled ascendancy to the kingship and the years of intense study and preparation that followed—perhaps it had all been leading to this day, a day when that friendship could be called upon in a time of need. Turms was impressed once again, as he often was, how even the most seemingly insignificant and trivial actions and associations could, in the fullness of time, command great import.
    Despise not the day of small things . . . Was that how it went? It was a saying he had learned in Alexandria from a bearded eastern sage—a wise man of the cult of Yahweh—the god, it was claimed, who reigned above all others, who ordained and sustained all things for his creation, and who was worshipped by Hebrews to the exclusion of all others.
    Turms the Immortal thought about this, and his heart soared anew on the knowledge that in the eyes of the wise there were no small things.
    In a little