Raz froze at those words.

Master of the East Wind.

He had not known Hanaweh was called such. A cold tremor moved through his being as it became sure in his mind that yet another great being was interested in him, and this one far more mysterious than Nissaya or Vennir, and likely… far greater. Everything about him was unknown, except that there were those who worshiped him as the great god of the sky who had made all in the beginning, and Johadon had claimed to have stolen the world from him and made it better.

Supposedly there was a broken down temple to Hanaweh in Cathedris, the holy City of the Gods at the heart of Hyraon, the continent at the center of the Inner Ocean. Johadon had left it there as a testament to his victory over an evil and forgotten creator, his rule defeated along with all others in the long forgotten Ascension War. Razavan had little doubt the temple was there, but who knew what was truth when Johadon was involved. The late King of the Gods had been famously unreliable, the only thing predictable about him being his penchant to stir things up whenever he got bored. That left Hanaweh as a total unknown.

Raz did not want to deal with the unknown.

But the unknown, it seemed, wanted to deal with him.

He let out a deep, long sigh, and clenched one fist at what had been a very long day. When he opened his eyes, old Beffir was watching him, unmoving, as if he could stand there all day. It wasn’t true, his knees would probably give out before much longer, but Raz appreciated the look. Stand before everyone showing your best, and never let them know how close you were to the edge.

It was a thing any of the Catfolk would understand.

He met the old man’s warm brown eyes in that long silent moment and held them as he struggled to figure out how to deal with a life that had gotten immensely more complex. The words to reply to Beffir’s question escaped him, and he had to line them up one at a time.

“I… fell. Today,” Raz said. “A gust of wind, from the east, moved me to safety. I prayed to Haneweh for help. Before that.”

“I see.” Beffir nodded, his ears swaying again with the motion. “And so you feel you must give thanks. It does seem most unusual, on a day like today where the south-western breeze has been going non-stop.” The old man chuckled. “And to think I picked that title for him out of the ten or so others I know. A very unusual day, indeed.” He turned to the altar and waved with one hand. “Well, I won’t keep you from your destination.”

Raz watched him take a step back, then turned his gaze to the altar. As he walked closer, it became clear it was made of uncut stone. Rough chunks, like the kinds farmers pulled up with their plows and built into walls. Just like those walls, it appeared to be dry stacked. He couldn’t see any mortar, even when he was a few steps away. The surprisingly flat top was large enough to hold at least four of him, or about one full adult cow. About as high as his lower chest. The stones of the top were charred, swept clean but still with enough ash on them to show that burnt offerings were a common thing.

He didn’t really have any animals to throw up there and incinerate. Would an offering to the cash box be suitable? He looked down at the base of the altar where a glint caught his eye and saw a large brass plaque there.

“Mercy, not sacrifice.”

The words were graven in the bright brass in a strong clear hand and blacked to make them easy to read. He read them again. Then a third time. Three short words shouldn’t have been that confusing, but it seemed very strange to have a plaque on an altar used for sacrifice that pointed people away from sacrifice. He turned to Beffir and pointed at the sign.

“What does this mean?”

Beffir approached again and stood next to him before the altar. He was very steady for someone who looked so frail.

“It means Hanaweh doesn’t want sacrifice, but kindness.”

“But you have an altar here,” Raz gestured at the obvious charring. “I can tell something was burned on it. There are villages where people burn animals as offerings to the local spirits. This looks a lot like that.”

Beffir smiled. “The prophet Hodram Kipriret fasted seeking Hanaweh for an answer to one question: ‘What sort of sacrifice do you desire?’ For the whole time, he said it was as if a great darkness hung over him, a thousand screaming voices telling him to give up. He persisted for three months under that cloud.”

Raz turned to face the old man a little more and settled back onto his heels. The books he had read when he was learning about spiritual religions had said very little about Hanaweh, and certainly hadn’t mentioned any prophets.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Beffir continued. “This went on until Hodram was dying from hunger and losing his sight. On his last day, he said it was as if a single light pierced the darkness and he heard a soft voice say, ‘Hanaweh has given the sacrifice. Know this, and do mercy. The deed will be known again.’”

Beffir reached out a hand and laid it on the altar. “Hodram died shortly after, but he was able to explain what he heard to one of his assistants before he did. Some of the words are more complex in the language he used. ‘Sacrifice’ carries a sense of finality to it, a thing that is done once and never again. ‘Know’ can also be translated as ‘believe’, and ‘mercy’ can mean ‘kindness’ or ‘goodness’. Hodram himself said the deed and the sacrifice were linked, but he could discern no more. So, we do not actually make sacrifices here. People bring animals and we cook them on the altar, then give the meat to the poor. Money for the box pays for the grounds and the rest goes to the poor.”

Raz pondered the words, but could discern little more than the obvious. Hanaweh had already given a sacrifice, so no sacrifice was required. Instead, Hanaweh requested goodness or mercy. He wrinkled his brow and felt his tail twitching back and forth on its own. He wasn’t sure what he had been planning when he came. Probably some cash, or maybe go buy a chicken to burn. He hadn’t really known. But now he was at something of a loss. He had intended to say thanks, a symbolic gesture. Hanaweh had saved his life. Anything he really had to give wasn’t a sufficient return and he knew it. But, Hanaweh had already given a sacrifice. So, was any repayment Raz might think of already covered? He knew so little.

Another question for Beffir occurred to him as he wrestled with the unknown.

“Why was Hodram wanting to make a sacrifice? Was it to give thanks?”

Beffir smiled wider, as if pleased that Raz was asking serious questions on what was known of Hanaweh.

“An important understanding,” Beffir said. “Hodram wasn’t seeking to give thanks, but to appease. Many wonder how the forgotten Creator feels toward us, even feeling guilt as if they are a party to Johadon’s theft of the world. Others feel guilt for their deeds and wonder if Hanaweh waits for them when their lives end. It is well known that Johadon declared he had no wrath or blessing prepared for us when our times in the Game were done. He said he wanted to set us free from such fears, but few have found his declarations comforting. I imagine even less so now that it appears he has died.”

Hmmm. So, not thanksgiving. That meant… Hanaweh had given a sacrifice to himself to appease… himself. Strange. Unless he hadn’t really understood Hodram’s question. An amusing thought, but it never paid to assume the Powers were stupid, and he thought that would go as much or more for the Creator.

Beffir stepped closer to him and patted him on the shoulder.

“I see you are very confused. If I may?”

Raz nodded to him.

“If you just wish to give thanks, then perhaps a few coins to the offering box to put some food in hungry bellies. You can save considering what more might be expected of you for the future. My counsel on the matter is to show mercy as you have been shown mercy. A simple concept, but most find it very hard to do.”

Raz glanced at the man then took a deep breath. The old man was right. He could ponder what to do about something he knew next to nothing about all day. He would be better off giving a small gift of gratitude and letting the full answer work itself out over time. Hopefully, if Hanaweh had something more he wanted he would make it clear himself.

He approached the cash box and pulled a gold paw out of his storage, slipping the heavy coin into the slot without showing it off. It made a dull metallic clunk on a pile of other coins. He had learned running around with the Blues that one did not flash large amounts of cash anywhere outside of the rich districts. Not and expect to avoid trouble.

When he turned around Beffir was still smiling. He gave no sign that he had seen Raz drop enough money to buy a small carriage into the offering box. Raz himself was a little stunned that he’d gone for the biggest coin Takara had. He had his own stock in the family business, and a healthy allowance of money and arete, but spending a whole gold paw was still something he would think hard about.

But next to his life, it felt like nothing. That was probably a good thing.

“Thank you, Grandfather. I may be back, but I have other business today.” His fist still had an appointment with Avvin’s face. Maybe a few stabs in some non-critical areas.

Or maybe something more permanent. He’d see how it shook out.

“Any time I am here I will be glad to answer more questions, young Mister Issistran.”

Raz made a small bow and turned to the alley to leave. A young Catfolk woman, sun-haired and silver-furred with large green eyes, was standing there, waiting patiently. Raz stopped as he sighted her. Her simple high-collar silk daydress was probably white in ordinary light, but in the last light of the setting sun it burned, wrapping her feminine figure in fire and shadow that traced every line and curve, and igniting her blonde hair to molten gold. The part of him that kept track of attractive women noted pertinent facts, such as her age, which looked to be close to his own, though that was always difficult to tell with catfolk, and the lack of any marriage jewelry. The part of his brain responsible for sketching and illusions longed to capture a vision of her forever, and he deeply regretted that he didn’t yet have the ability to record his vision straight to a spell slot.

“Shiaile!” Beffir called. “Come meet this young man. He has come here with questions about Hanaweh.”

Raz grimaced as the old man plunged him into a meeting with an unknown that felt much more dangerous than any Power or god. He gave the seemingly kind Long-Ear a hard look laced with his sense of betrayal. Beffir wasn’t looking at him at all as he beckoned the young Catfolk woman over. As she approached Raz noted more details that told him she was Dostemi, by large the most populous subrace in the city of any. She came near, her gate smooth and graceful, and stopped a respectful two paces away from Raz, closer to Beffir.

“This is Mister Razavan Issistran, Shiaile,” Beffir said, making the gestures of introduction. “Mister Ississtran, this is Shiaile Marpelten, my granddaughter.”