Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

She placed one half-open white rose, a sprig of thyme, and a ripe red tomato on his altar.

He was the only elven god she regularly worshipped. The human pantheon seemed more forgiving of her dual nature. One goddess shared both pantheons. She was the goddess of the hunt, archery, and wild things; and she had a vindictive nature. She was half-elven daughter of Urle, human smithy god, and Shalinelle, elven goddess of beauty. She stood with the humans in the hall of gods.

Keleios laid a short dagger she had made herself, and a rabbit skin that had been killed and cured with her own hands. Urelle or Wolelle always demanded sacrifices that had been done by the hands of her worshippers.

Urle, god of the smithy, was next. He was Keleios’ personal god, for she was a minor priestess in his temple, as were most enchanters. She laid a plain gold ring on his altar. It was the ring of protection she commonly wore and had made with her own hands. She did not usually give such rare magic to the altar. Urle understood what work went into such a simple thing. He was content with less for all but one day a year. If this were to be the last

time she worshipped Him, Keleios wanted it to be special. The ring was all shining magic, and she felt good about giving it to her god.

Zardok, consort to the All-Mother, was next. He was the sorcerer among the gods, and Keleios would need all her sorcerous powers tonight. She placed a flawless opal, the size of her middle fingernail, on his altar. Zardok was the god of wealth and would accept only jewels and precious metals. He was not a poor man’s god. He was also the god of madness, and for that reason alone Keleios worshipped him as little as possible. He was too unpredictable and too powerful.

She knelt before Loth’s altar, god of bloodshed, war, and violence. She came empty-handed and drew her dagger. She made a diagonal cut across her left fore arm and let the blood drip onto the altar. She laid her bleeding arm directly on the cool stone and said, “I do not often come to you, great god that you are. But I come to you now, offering myself as sacrifice, my own blood to coat your altar. Guide me tonight; let my blows be swift and sure, let my enemies hide themselves in terror. Give me victory tonight as I give you blood today.”

There was a small sound behind her, and she whirled, knife held ready in her right hand. Lothor stood there, a strange half-smile on his face and a tied but living hawk under his arm. Keleios could see the bird’s frantic heartbeat as its chest rose up and down.

He wore a priest’s garment over his clothes; perfect blackness with the blood-tipped sword of Loth sewn across the chest. “Well, Keleios, Loth’s two favorite sacrifices, a bird of prey and his follower’s blood. I wonder which he will favor?”

She said nothing but cleaned her dagger and put it away. She walked past him without a word, and he called, “Keleios.”

She stopped and half-turned.

He strode toward her and made a lightning grab for her right wrist. She pulled back, but he was quick, almost elf-quick. His pale face flushed and he said, “Your arm, show me your arm.”

There was something about his voice, a note of urgency; she did what he asked. She held out her left arm.

“The wound.”

He seemed almost afraid, and she showed him the underside of her arm without a word. He brushed the blood away with his long fingers, but there was no wound. He hissed through clenched teeth. “You are a woman; he would not honor you.”

Keleios stared at the unblemished flesh. She was shaken, a sign of favoritism from an evil god was not always a good sign. But she spoke boldly, calmly. “You say it is an honor.

What does it mean?”

He stared at her, angry.

“You are a priest of Loth; act like one. Perform your priestly duties; interpret this sign for me.”

He nodded and spoke. “Any sign that the god Loth has deigned to use his powers is an honor. It could mean that he is well pleased with your offering and nothing more. It could mean he will grant what you asked—victory over me tonight, I would think. It could mean

that he will lay a heavy hand on your life in the next few days. That is what it could mean.”

“Thank you, priest. May your sacrifice be as blest.”

She turned to go, and he did not call after her.

Keleios walked into her room to find a crowd. Melandra sat on the bed, stroking Poth. Her dress was forest green and flattered her thick gold-brown hair. Keleios had helped her pick out the cloth. It was time the girt stopped dressing like a peasant.

Tobin and Belor stood quietly talking. The younger man’s bright orange-red clothing was a sharp contrast to Belor’s casual grey and brown. They had laid her armor, weapons, and spells out on the bed; Keleios crossed to the water basin and poured water from the pitcher to the bowl. She cleansed her bloodied arm hurriedly. Tobin stepped close to her and said quietly for only her ears, “What’s wrong?”

“I sacrificed to Loth.”

He stared at the smooth unbroken skin of her arms. “An animal?”

“No.”

He smiled. “Then it means victory. You will triumph over Lothor tonight. “

“Over a high priest of Loth? Over the crown prince of Loth’s pet country? Something is wrong with that.”

“You worry too much, Keleios. Take it for a good sign and let it go.”

“When the gods are near, trouble is never far behind.”

“If you are determined to think badly of this, then I can’t help you. But by Magnus’ red hand, don’t let it spoil your concentration.”

Belor had heard some, and she had to repeat the tale for the entire room. Melandra’s brown eyes were a sparkling glint from her veil of hair. Both she and Tobin should have been elsewhere, and Keleios knew how much favor swapping had gone into it.

"I'm glad you are all here.”

Tobin grinned, and Melandra dipped her head even lower. Keleios had spent a great deal of time helping the girl gain some sense of worth. Now she looked up, and the scar that twisted her mouth made the smile an uncomfortable thing to see.

Melandra was very brave to do it with her beloved Belor in the room.

They dressed Keleios in the leather armor with its gold-plated studding; it was a familiar snugness. The magic bracers went on over the arms of the leather. A long knife for in fighting was fastened at her right hip. Luckweaver was secured at her left-hand side. The golden helm, a gift from her elven grandfather, she laid back on the bed. It was a thing of great craftsmanship. It was the sculptured head of a bird, each feather etched, the eyeholes in the center like an owl, so she could see. The nosepiece was a small hooked bill. Her chin and mouth came where a lower mandible would have been. The feathers covered to her collarbone, carved to fluff at the edges as if real feathers rested on her shoulders. The helm was a thing of beauty but no magic. The spells lay encased in cloth

bags, a clay vessel, all enchanted and secure against breakage. They would hang on a cross strap across her chest attaching to her sword belt. The last thing to lie on the bed was a golden shield. It had been a gift from her journeyman smithy master Edan. The shield held a small magic dweomer. It had cost him dearly to magic the shield.

Keleios unbound her hair, and Melandra brushed every tangle from it. It was a wavy frothy mass. Keleios braided only the hair on either side of her face, leaving most of it free but holding it back from her eyes. It was an elfish custom, something the half-elven Loltun wouldn’t recognize. For all he knew of elves, he might as well be wholly human.

She asked them to leave then. They did, all but Poth. The cat rolled onto her side and stared at Keleios with lazy golden eyes. Only Poth watched the last few weapons go into place. It was a rule among the Nagosidhe that no one but a fellow warrior watch you. The Nagosidhe were a tiny sect of the Wrythian army. Men called them assassins. Though Keleios had only brushed the surface of the dark and efficiently violent way of the Nagosidhe, she did not break the rules. Her elfish uncle, Balasaros, said Keleios did not have the temperament for true Nagosidhe. Keleios was never sure if he was complimenting or insulting her.