You'd think after two days I would have noticed the flock of refugees, but here they were. Honestly, thinking back, they must have gone to a doctor or something similar the morning after the event, or maybe been questioned by the guard to see where they had come from... something. They had definitely not been there all the time, although they had been there the night it happened, and now they were here again. Some were eating, some were resting on cots, and Nency was using sorcery to heat up what was clearly bathwater, with some pews set up on their end to act as a privacy screen. Someone, probably from the town, had donated a lot of spare bread and some fruit, and they were congregating and eating here.

Somehow I got the impression that the sight of them bothered Alanna quite a bit, but I couldn't say exactly why.

Both of us were immediately recognized, and Lucile put on a bright face as a great many people rushed over to say thanks for the help she (as the priestess) and Alanna had done for them. I was also immediately recognized as the one whom Alanna had credited as reporting the crime, and the people stumbled over themselves to thank me.

I... got a creepy vibe off of them. A feeling that reminded me dimly of that black, necromantic soul flame. Perhaps that was what Alanna disliked about their presence, since they were in her church. But I put on a brave face and tried to graciously accept the thanks, deflect most of it to the goddess, offer any help I could, and back off to get a bit of breathing room. I was not an extrovert, and didn't really want to be.

Some part of me recognized that was something I would have to change to be successful at godly endeavors, though, so after taking a moment to catch my breath, I did walk through the room and ask how people were doing and what I could do to help. Most of what I could do others had or would, or else couldn't be done; they needed to send a message to relatives, they needed clothing, they wanted jobs so that they could pay off what they owed, they wanted to bury their fellow victims, they wanted to spit on the graves of the pirates.

But some, perhaps thinking that I was a priest of Alanna, asked questions of a spiritual or philosophical nature.

"Why does evil exist?" asked a young woman, a very pretty one, with a healing knife wound across her shoulders and probably chest, one large enough that it would leave a nasty scar. "Why can't the gods take care of it all?"

I was sure, somehow, that Alanna was judging me in the silence as I thought about the question. Coming from Earth, I knew the Christian answer to the question, but that answer assumed that their god was responsible for everything in the universe, and so therefore it had to all be going according to plan. I also knew that other religions had other answers, but I wasn't sure that any of those answers matched with a world where goddesses descended in beams of light from the sky.

So I sat down next to her on the pew and I thought about the question. I thought about it as a representative of Alanna, as an outside to this world, but also as a god myself. If I had power, would I really go around fixing everything? Why or why not?

"Do you think that the gods have perfect judgement?" I asked quietly, not really sure what I was saying.

The woman snapped her her head towards me. "What do you mean?"

"When you say the gods should take care of it all, doesn't that mean that you entrust not only your own life, but every life, to the care of the gods, even those lives who might object?" I looked up at the pulpit where Nency had stood when I first saw her. "You were rescued by Alanna, but also by the god of storms--you know, I don't actually know his name offhand. I remember the sight of him so clearly. He was massive, intense, powerful. The storm he summoned raged all that night and into the next morning..."

"So let me ask you," I turned my head back to the young woman, who was looking at me closely. "When you say that the gods should destroy evil, was that god the one you envisioned scouring the earth and smiting everyone who was evil? When you say the gods should take care of it all, what exactly should be left in his hands?" I was tempted to add 'What should be left in mine?' but I caught myself.

The woman shook suddenly, looking like a I could blow her over with a cough, and she crawled to the other end of the pew from me, shaking her head. "No... no. Not him. Only the Goddess. Only the one who saved me."

"But he--"

"The Lady Alanna saved me, and no other." The woman moved to cover her ears with her hands, but was wracked by pain, clearly from her recovering wound, and she yelled. "Aaah..." Her eyes, I thought, were a mix of fear, and pain from her wound.

I started to move towards her, but Nency and her wheelchair were there faster, laying a hand on the poor woman's head. "Gently, my dear, gently." She glared at me. "What did you do?"

I shook my head at Nency, but kneeled down before the woman. "I'm sorry," I said, raising my voice just a touch to get through her moans. "That was... unkind. But we must divide the world into tasks for mortals and tasks for gods. It is true that the gods can smite sinners and save mortals... but we must be there, seeing the sins of others, discovering and spreading the truth. The god of storms can do little to discover evil, even if He can be called upon to stop it. Alanna, too, though She be a goddess of knowledge..." I had a feeling that what I was about to say was right, and I hoped it was true, "...that knowledge must be offered to her. She cannot know all the affairs of mortals, any more than a book can know more than its authors. She may do great and important things, but it is with the knowledge gained by mortals, and given to her as tithe."

"The gods and goddesses of this world are great," I said, putting one hand on the woman's, which was laid on the pew. "But they are not mortals. Before they may interfere with our lives, they must know what we know, see what we see, feel what we feel. It is our duty to offer to them, and our privilege to request from them, but they are very different than we are. Not all offers are received, and not all requests fulfilled." I smiled, hoping it was genuine. "We love the gods for their greatness, and we forgive their mistakes, as they love us for our potential and forgive our failings. Evil does not exist because the gods permit it. It is... sometimes overlooked, sometimes out of reach, sometimes misunderstood. The gods have different failings, but they do have them. And, those failings are worth forgiving."

In the quiet that followed, I realized that there was a feeling in the air that I had never felt, and I turned to find almost the entire group of refugees looking silently at me. Even Lucile seemed a bit dumbstruck.

But although I felt embarrassed and about ready to apologize, I realized that the feeling in the air was worship, an enormous tide of invisible blue and silver flames, hanging gently, wondering if I had anything else left to say. And when I released a nervous laugh, that seemed to break the trance, and the whole tide, one probably five times larger than I'd felt from Nency's sermon, all flowed into the seal at the front of the church. I did my best not to notice their movement, and not to turn to look at the seal.

"I didn't mean for that to turn into a sermon," I offered in a dry tone. "Was it too much?"

The woman I'd been speaking to, wordlessly, turned her hand to take mine, gave it a squeeze, and said in a quiet voice, "No. I needed that; thank you." A few others nodded their heads. Lucile gave a headshake, but it was a wry one, not disapproval.

Since I was done, the murmurs and side convesrations started back up. Nency stayed with the injured young woman; she let go of my hand almost as soon as she took it, and I didn't stay, since I felt she was uncomfortable having me around. After a quiet circuit of the room, I ended up by Lucile, who was being talked at loudly by a tall man who was perhaps the one out of the whole crowd of former slaves who was in the best shape, clearly coming from and intended for hard labor. But somehow, when I approached, he seemed nervous and made an excuse to step away. With a thankful smile towards me, Lucile announced loudly that she needed to rest, but she would see anyone who needed help in the morning. She, and I a moment later, went down the stairs.

She waited at the base of the stairs to have a word with me, before turning to her rooms. "You know," she said, and her voice was warm, "you might not be half bad at this stuff." She popped her door open and stepped through, offering over her shoulder, "Still, you have a lot to learn."

I shrugged and just accepted the compliment.