Around the perimeter of the entire room were shrines to each god. Some of the shrines hid themselves strangely in the un-illuminated half of the room, while others appeared as beacons there- amid the chaos. The collection of statues was eclectic, but many of them appeared far too rich for such a roughhewn space.

The shrines met the fresco at its center point, where a statue of the Sun God stood directly in front of the magnificent backdrop of King Helios in fresco, descending from the clouds in glory.

The king of the gods was depicted in traditional style on the wall, a large man in flowing robes with pure white in his beard and hair. A typical representation of divine authority, enthroned in power and majesty.

The statue, by contrast, depicted a younger Helios as the avenging son. He was vaguely elven, but with clear musculature revealed by careless nudity. A depiction of the god in his aspect as a symbol of male virility. The statue was gold, but Vero believed it only to be an exterior coating. Even so, she thought the overall effect was rather marvelous.

To the Sun God’s right was Queen Luna. She was painted on the fresco with aristocratic features, and a harsh judging gaze. Above Her was a waning half-moon. Vero did not like the overall impression, tradition and the authority of a matriarch. She turned to the statue quickly.

Maiden Luna was sculpted and plated in silver. She appeared to be a companion piece to the statue of Her husband, and was almost certainly carved by the same hand, or members of the same school. Soft curves and inviting eyes suggested beauty and female allure. She wore the short chiton of a female stadion runner, which reminded Vero of her own competition in the Lunar Games as a child. Around the neck of the statue was a pendant necklace, showing the waxing crescent moon.

Vero much preferred the statue, but the stern picture of the Matron loomed up eerily over its shoulder, even as the rakish posture of the elven maid intrigued her. Vero would have preferred a shrine to Mother Luna, the protector and provider. Most prayers she knew in Liturgical were to Luna in Her full moon aspect, but Vero would make do and hope her goddess understood her intentions.

She genuflected before the silver idol.

It had previously been Vero’s habit to only offer prayers once a month, except as necessitated for spellcraft.

Crossing the valley to the fortress there was- difficult. Vero could almost believe that the Fiend really did live beneath this foul mountain.

She prayed to Mother Luna then, but how could she expect the goddess to know her when Vero was such a negligent daughter towards Her? Vero resolved to be more diligent in her faith should she live. And live, it appeared, she had.

When Vero finished her prayers, she noticed that Pentarch had moved to the central dais, and assumed a quiet meditative posture facing King Helios.

Beside Luna on the fresco were Terra and Mare, depicted in traditional Imperial style as a tempestuous and feuding marital couple, dressed in patrician attire. Vero considered it a trite urban artisan’s conception of natural forces.

The statue of the Earth Mother at her shrine was carved from wood.

“Larch,” Pentarch helpfully informed her.

When Vero turned to look at him, he gave no sign of having interrupted his meditation.

The Earth Mother’s face and fine features were indistinct, due to the primitive artistry of the workman. Her large breasts, and belly swollen to the point of bursting with child, were both more evident. It looked very old, and was probably the oldest statue in the room.

The statue of the Ocean Lord was much smaller than most of the shrine idols. Despite its size, it might have been the most expensive of them all, rendered in pure jade. The figure was unique, the god was depicted covered entirely in silks, like a genuine high elven lord. Not even the face was visible, and the figure could only be identified by the trident he held.

Next in order came Agape, the god of feasting and drunkenness. He was painted as a red-faced and round figure, chuckling with joviality at the quarreling lovers to the left of him. A clearly male patron of revelry.

The associated statue was a bronze-cast hermaphroditic figure. It bore enlarged sexual characteristics, both male and female, carved out of ivory. The workmanship resembled that which she had seen in the Oasis Cities on the southern continent. The posture was very wanton and beckoned Vero to examine its finer details, but she refrained for the time being.

If she wished, she could easily return when Pentarch was not present.

Vero half expected the next image on the fresco to be defaced, but it was not. Moros, goddess of loss and sorrow, stood surrounded by abandoned babes, wretched orphans, and widows. Nearly all Imperial style images of the goddess were altered or completely removed when the Grand Conclave declared the faith to be heretical, some fifty odd years previous.

Obviously, the censors never ventured out so far as this.

It was a very contentious issue at the time, and a crusade was even declared on those who refused to recant their beliefs. Some of the fighting was still ongoing when Mama was a child. She told Vero stories about her Grandmother Veronique – Vero’s namesake – sheltering refugees from the war and helping them cross the Whitewood into the Republic, where they could find a ship to the southern continent.

Mama and Grandmother Veronique were much aggrieved that the Pontifex of Luna did not support their co-religionists in the Grand Conclave during the crucial votes. Grandmother Veronique even spoke in the peasant delegation during the general council of the church which ultimately removed that pontiff, Vero could not recall her name.

The one who replaced her was called Joan, the fourth of that name. Often called Joan the Good.

Mama told her that Joan the fourth was the greatest pontifex of their faith in two hundred years – and Vero remembered that Pontifex’s name as well, because it was Joan the second – who had been styled Joan the Blessed. Unfortunately, Joan the Good had died since.

She passed at the extremely venerable age of ninety-six, when Vero was only four years old. And then replaced nine times further since.

It would soon be ten, if rumors about the current office holder’s health were true.

Vero shook herself out of her reverie, and turned to the lead statue associated with the forbidden religion. It was a small, spritely, almost gnomish figure. Somehow it seemed to obfuscate itself in the hidden angles of the room’s dark half. She suspected it was crafted by the same Oasis City artist who rendered the dual-gendered lust idol.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

On the southern continent such works were always made in pairs for feasts. They were sibling deities according to the southerners; the God of Debauchery was originally a woman, but she stole her brother’s penis to use it herself. The now-genderless spirit of the sibling became a vengeful djinn of hangovers and unwanted pregnancies.

Thus, for a feast to be blessed by the God of Revelry, they believed a statue of ‘Moros’ must be hidden in the house. If any guest finds it, they will suffer terrible misfortune unless they, in turn, hold another feast for everyone present. But, if it is nearing morning and the statue has not yet been found, the search becomes frantic. Because if it is not discovered by dawn, all of those present will suffer misfortune from which there can be no relief.

Vero realized that walking through the strange side of the room was having odd effects on her mind. She stepped towards the mural in the sane part of the room again, and waited a moment for her head to clear.

At the extreme end of the right half of the fresco was Termina- Vero bowed with respect towards the image.

The wretches of humanity, which Moros looked down towards helplessly, turn to bones beneath the feet of the Death Goddess. The bones then collapse to ashes as the fresco ended. The divine figure was obscured by veils, but Vero avoided looking towards her face regardless.

When she was certain that she had oriented herself again, Vero went back into the wyrd area, to search for the next statue in order. When she found it at last, she stood unreasoning for a moment.

It was a woman, rendered in tin, and it was the color which first made her aware that something was wrong. The Veiled One should have been depicted in white marble, and was, immediately adjacent to the blasphemous image before her.

Now that Vero had the sight of it, the marble statue stood out like a lighthouse to her amid the turmoil around it. She could use it as a landmark to orient herself.

Threat of death has a way of clearing the mind.

Once her eyes were off the heretical shrine for a moment, however, the evil talisman tried to hide itself again. Vero kept a dead reckoning sense for the general direction of it though, and eventually it was forced to reveal itself once more.

When she had caught it; she made a sign of warding. Vero did not let herself lose track of it again, no matter how the room shifted, until she was safely back in the light half of the chamber.

“Why are you keeping such an abominable thing here?” she asked.

“Is something wrong?” Pentarch turned to watch her emerge from the dark space.

“The Plague Goddess is evil. It’s heresy to keep an idol of her.”

He smiled, no doubt to tell her that he was waiting for her to say something to that effect. “It’s heresy to keep a shrine to Moros, but you had no objection to that.”

“That was all political. The followers of the Sorrowful God were persecuted unjustly, and treated with deliberate cruelty. The priestesses of Affliction and their Poisoner’s Guild are criminals.”

“Oh? How did you come to know so much about things that happened before you were born?”

“Mama- my mother told me about the pogroms, the burnings-!”

Vero started to feel very heated, but Pentarch interrupted her. “-And in a hundred years no one will remember your mother at all. The excesses of the crusade will be an obscure part of history. And the worship of Moros will still be heresy. Or do you believe there were no pogroms and burnings when the worshipers of the Pestilent Goddess were declared apostate a thousand years ago?”

“They deserve to burn. There’s no moral equivalency between the two at all. The followers of Moros were peaceful until the crusaders descended on them-”

“According to Mama?”

“She knew them! She spoke to them! And I have my own personal experiences with the Poisoner’s Guild. They’re evil. Not simply greedy, evil! They spread misery, disease, and corruption however they can. It’s the central tenant of their beliefs. Their religion is abhorrent at its foundations. You may as well keep a shrine to the Fiend!”

“This whole mountain is a shrine to the Fiend.” Pentarch grumbled something else Vero could not hear.

She prepared to say more, but Pentarch held out his hands as a sign of peace. “Pax, Vero. I’m only trying to make you think about why you feel as you do, rather than simply repeating your inherited prejudices. I wasn’t aggravating you just for the pleasure of it.”

“Is there really a daemon under these mountains? I felt fingers prying at my mind when I journeyed here, but I thought-”

“-That it was something we had done?” Pentarch shook his head. “We do use it as a guard dog, but we certainly weren’t the cause of it. Nor do we control it. It’s all we can do to ward this fortress against its influence. Think about that before you offend any goddess, even – or especially – one renowned for her cruelty.”

Vero did not return to the cursed idol, and it was not auspicious to consider the Veiled One too often. She simply remained in the rational half of the room.

On the fresco, at Helios’ left hand, knelt two beautiful figures. They were a pair of conservative and scholarly dressed goddesses, Orphia and Thesmos. The two demurely cast their eyes downward from their king, and held each other’s hand lightly to symbolize the union of their church.

A name trailed on a streamer between them reading ‘H-K-O--’. It was faded, but Vero presumed it was the name of the mural’s artist, almost certainly a follower of these divinities.

There was only one shrine for both goddesses. The sculpture there was utterly beautiful. As a technical work of art, Vero considered it the most fascinating thing in the whole chapel.

It was composed of two pieces, one of copper and one of glass. They were both fashioned by a master of the craft, and in tandem, so that each blended and flowed seamlessly with the other. Neither piece could be separated without either cutting the metal or shattering the glass.

The figures were abstract. Although they stood in the light half of the room, something about their form was reminiscent of the arcane geometry elsewhere in the chapel. Their soft curves reminded Vero of her final night with Dora.

She left the girl in the last Velian city before the border. The inn with the absurd little room, which only just had space for a bed so small it could hardly accommodate two people. Still, that suited them just fine.

Vero turned away before she could grow melancholy.

In fresco, Vedio appeared in humble monk’s garb. He tended to the garden of medicinal herbs from which he fashioned panacea, the divine medicine that could cure any illness.

The statue at his shrine was of modest size, and fashioned from obsidian. Vero was uncertain about the origin of the craftsmanship, and the style of artwork was unfamiliar to her. Only the ordering of the shrines and the material used suggested that it was intended for offerings to the Healing God.

The next pair of renditions had a wide dichotomy between them. Painted on the wall was the massive-shouldered smith, Bellus, toiling at his labor. At the shrine, cast in brass which very nearly mimicked the look of gold, was a wealthy merchant patrician dressed in the style of the Whitegate Republic.

The technical craft of the statue was excellent, but Vero preferred the traditional rendition of the Industrious God.

The next dichotomy was even wider. In fresco, Francisa knelt beside another gathering of widows and orphans, whom she sheltered behind the skirts of her plain home spun dress.

There was no statue or sculpture at her shrine, only a clay pot. Despite being placed far into the dark half of the room; it was not difficult to find at all. It did not stand out quite so prominently as the Marble Woman, but Vero considered the pot a more auspicious anchor to use when traversing the unnatural space.

Such vessels were created to collect goodwill offerings for charitable works. It was etched with rings of images showing narratives of Francisa performing acts of compassion. She fed orphan babes at her own breast and they grew into great heroes, she washed the bodies of the leprous with her own hair and they were healed, and so on.

Vero checked the interior and found it empty.

“No worshipers of Lady Mercy here-” Vero had been lost in thought and started at the suddenness of Pentarch’s voice. “-so far as I know.”

“And what would you do with an offering if one was made?” she asked.

“I’m not certain. Lothair is supposed to check it every time he sends for supplies, but he always finds it empty. Probably someone – Lothair himself even – would just take the money for themselves, if anyone was fool enough to leave any.”

“Perhaps then, you should make the speech you gave to me about not offending the gods again, more publicly.”

He did not reply.

Vero returned to solid geometry and examined the final figure depicted on the mural, the tremendous masculine form of Enyalio. He was painted in the nude, as befitted an athlete in the games. There was something greatly appealing to her in the taut muscular stance of the deity.

Vero considered it the finest portion of the fresco.

After some time spent in appreciation of male fitness, Vero steadied herself for a final journey into the odd space. The associated shrine was not hard to find. It held a large ugly iron work in the vague shape of a male warrior.

She could not precisely explain how, but the way through to the War God seemed well trod. Vero believed it was likely one of the most frequented in the chapel. She saw nothing very appealing in it herself though.