Barthim showed Casimir the proper way to pay his respects to the trophies kept in the Hethraeum's grand hall, but didn't make him perform them himself. "You are no entered acolyte, Cass, so be thinking of this more like one of Ammas's lessons."

Casimir, whose experience with temples of the Ninefold faiths was limited to the Othillic library and the ruin where he now lived, was too fascinated with what he saw to argue. The Vilais Hethraeum was of a traditional design: a long underground hall of many columns carved to resemble great warriors who had pledged themselves to the First Knight, smoldering braziers flickering between the sculpted figures. All was made of white marble and polished to a high gloss. On the walls behind the pillars were hung weapons of every description imaginable. Some were supposed to have been used in great deeds performed in the name of the Hethmar. Barthim pointed them out to Cass, whispering that some were real and some were not.

"It is the tale which is important, not whether this is really being the axe that the Sultan took from the King of Atrolom and gifted to Il-Hethma." Casimir, who knew how fond Ammas was of stories of the lost city of Atrolom, sighed a little at that, scuffing his feet along the black polished floor. Barthim watched him curiously. "If you are wanting to see the real weapons, not the clever fakeries, you will want to be closer to the Hethmar himself."

Barthim led him along the grand hall, which gradually sank deeper into the earth as it stretched toward its far end, where a handful of Blades were busy in prayer. The icon that dominated the end of the hall, which for the Hethmar served as an altar, was the largest Barthim had ever seen, and he had seen over a dozen Hethraea in his time. He stepped ahead of Casimir and knelt before the icon, gazing up at it reverently, his eyes huge as he drank in the details of Il-Hethma wrestling a winged and hooded figure bearing swords in all four of its arms.

Casimir watched him, fascinated by the respectful awe in Barthim's face. "And there he is," Barthim whispered. "Il-Hethma crushing the fallen angel Shirrinvir, destroying him for turning the gardens of the First Empire into the Scorched Desert, stopping him from letting the desert devour the world."

"Ammas says the Scorched Desert happened because of a failed magical experiment."

Barthim laughed. "Ammas is not knowing everything."

Casimir shrugged and wandered away from the icon, letting Barthim finish up his devotions. Barthim watched him, bending to kiss the edge of the icon's plinth -- worn to a glassy smoothness by similar gestures made over the years -- and rose to follow him, watching the boy's face as he studied the shape of a spear that had, supposedly, been used to kill a Summervale dragon.

"Is Ammas saying Il-Hethma never lived, too? He is most irreverent sometimes."

Casimir shook his head. "He says Il-Hethma was a real man, a real warrior, and he probably did fight an angel, but he doesn't think it happens the way -- um -- the way you do." He blushed, biting his lip and hoping he hadn't offended Barthim.

But Barthim was smiling as broadly as ever. "Sometimes your master is being too smart for his own good. But I am sure he will let you make your own decisions when it comes to the gods."

Casimir shrugged again, perching on the edge of a bench usually used by the Hethraeum's older worshipers, or, more commonly, those who had suffered some crippling injury. Barthim watched him closely, his lips smiling but his eyes gleaming with concern.

"He is not right about everything, you know, Cass. We are disagreeing on quite a few things. But he is a wise man, a kind man, and I am very glad he is taking care of you."

"Barthim," Casimir said haltingly, "do you think Ammas would ever hurt Denisius?"

Barthim knew something had been troubling the boy, but this took him totally by surprise. "Hurt Denisius?" he exclaimed. "What is this, Cass? Why would you think such a thing?"

Casimir shrugged, looking away. Barthim was not dissuaded. He knelt by the bench and curled a huge hand behind the boy's head, gently urging him to meet his eyes. Casimir did so, but said nothing, his face as troubled as Barthim had ever seen.

"Tell me, Cass. Did he say something? Did Lord Marhollow say something?"

"I -- " Casimir looked down. "I'm not supposed to know."

Barthim shook his head, but he was still smiling. "You have been listening at keyholes again."

Casimir nodded. "Othma said something to him."

Barthim's smile curdled. "The good Doyenne? I should not worry too much about anything she said, Cass. She is an old woman who has suffered terribly. I am feeling bad for her, to be sure, but I would not be putting much store by her words."

"Ammas does."

"He does," Barthim agreed. "But Ammas is not a child, or a simpering fool who does everything some old woman says. And anyway I am not understanding why the good Doyenne would be telling him to do such a thing. Are you sure you heard right, Cass?"

"I heard right," Casimir said quietly.

"Then why?"

Casimir didn't answer for a long time. Barthim, who knew the boy better than anybody, even Ammas, knew enough not to pressure him. "Do you think he'd hurt Denisius if it meant -- if it would let him have Carala?"

Barthim stared at him, shocked. "This is what Othma was saying?"

Casimir nodded.

"Cass -- I -- pah, you were at the Lioness for a long time. You know how strange men can become when a woman is involved."

Casimir nodded again, his face darkening.

"But you are also knowing Ammas is not the kind of man you would ever see in the Lioness."

"Maybe he went to other places."

"No." Barthim shook his head. "It is why the girls there liked him -- one reason, I suppose. They were silly enough to find him handsome and mysterious, however ugly he is." Barthim winked, and Casimir smiled reluctantly. "They liked him because he is not being the sort of man to use a woman like that. And I do not think he is the sort of man to hurt another man to get what he is wanting."

"But you don't know," Casimir insisted.

"No," Barthim agreed. "No one can know how a man will behave until he is being put to the test. But Ammas is a good man. Whatever his Doyenne is telling him to do, he is no puppet on a string. And there is something you are forgetting."

Casimir looked up, a subdued hope in his eyes. "What's that?"

Barthim smiled. "Let us say he is wanting Carala. And let us say she is wanting him instead of Denisius. It is possible, you know, their marriage is political, not because they are lovestruck with each other. You are coming to know Carala. Do you think she would want Ammas if he were wicked enough to hurt Lord Marhollow just to have her?"

Casimir looked away. "No. But a werewolf might."

Barthim shook his head. "Do you know what Il-Hethma teaches us of such things?"

"What?"

"The soul is the soul. It is what we fashion it to be. It is how we choose to act when the evils of the world try to break it. Nothing, not even a blood sickness, can be changing your soul. It can only reveal it for what you have made of it. And I do not think Carala's soul is being the sort that can be won through evil deeds. If I see that, Ammas does too. Make no mistake of it."

Casimir shook his head, scowling. "That doesn't make any sense. Werewolves kill people, Barthim. They do it for fun."

"No, Cass. Some lose control, I am thinking. Having an animal inside you must be a terrible trial, not to act like one. But for fun?" Barthim shook his head. "The ones that do that were only waiting all their lives to be indulging themselves. Or they have had their soul chased from them. They are just being shells. That girl is many things, but not that."

Studying the icon of Il-Hethma, Casimir nodded, his face knotted in concentration. "Should I talk to Ammas about it?"

"I am thinking that is a fine idea. But wait until the moon is not so bright. Do you understand?"

Casimir nodded.

"Good. Just remember, Cass. I am trusting Ammas enough that I let him take you away from Madame Laurette. If you are wondering about his judgment, try to believe in mine."

A smile brighter than Barthim had seen in days lit Casimir's face. "I can do that."

Barthim clapped him on the back, nearly making him tumble off the bench. "Good lad. You should be trusting the better chess player anyway."

*