The paths of men are flawed, leading to chaos and ruin. The paths of the Gods are perfect, leading to perfect order. Through the Bonding, men conform with the Gods' will.
- The Canon
[Cyril]
I have no fate, no destiny, no chosen path. Those were the Seer's unspoken words.
Why have the Gods forsaken me?
"This cannot be. It is impossible." The Seer shook her head, clattering the colored beads woven into her stringy gray hair. "We shall make another attempt."
I knew it would not make a difference. Why would a third try produce any other result?
Low murmurs rose from the watching crowd that stood in a rough semi-circle outside of the Temple of Demeter, our patron goddess of agriculture. Carved limestone pillars holding up a triangular cornice framed the Seer on the steps above me. A Bonding always attracted interest in the village. This was a tangible action of the Gods, if only indirectly. Every man and woman of age was duty bound to appear before a Seer. Through connection to the Moirai, the givers of destiny, the Seer would bond a person to a life-path and purpose. All by the will of the Gods.
For reasons he would not divulge, my father had forbidden me the bonding. But suspicious glances and mumbled voices took their toll, tearing away at my thin excuses. I was my own man now, aside from the will of the Gods. Besides, I had hoped that the Seer would allow me to continue blacksmithing here with my father. We shared a profitable and useful trade that benefited the community. The Gods would surely have granted me that.
And perhaps I would be allowed to court the fair Gwendolyn. With flowing strawberry curls, soft ivory skin, and full ripe lips, she took my breath away by mere presence. But now, those piercing green eyes that held mine from the crowd, narrowed from adoration to suspicion.
The crowd hushed as the Seer again raised the Seeing Glass, turning the polished orb before a squinted eye and chanting in an unknown language. Her white gown fluttered in a rising breeze. For others the Glass glowed in the colors of the sunset, revealing to the Seer a destiny chosen by the Gods. But for me, nothing.
The Seer frowned and let out an audible breath. "Young Cyril, son of Pedar, you are not seen. The Moirai know not your name."
What could go wrong, I had thought. This.
Faint murmurs within the people grew in volume as they shuffled about, turning to one another. Scattered exclamations broke out, and the crowd boiled like a pot above the fire.
"What is he?" a voice yelled.
'Demon!' another exclaimed, raising a fist. "The Chaos has taken him!"
Still another shouted. "The Gods will seek retribution!"
The words scorched my heart. These were my neighbors, my friends, and my love. Had we not laughed together, sang and danced together? Had my father and I not forged their tools and repaired their plow shares? Did we not share in the bounty of the Lands?
The accusations blended into a roar. Even the Seer cast contempt with her eyes before stepping aside.
A stone flew my way. I dodged it, but another glanced from my forehead and yet another struck my shoulder. I staggered as my mind dazed, bringing my forearms up to my face for protection.
My eyes pleaded with Gwendolyn as she stood with hands on her hips, but she just huffed as a deep frown darkened a beautiful face. Lifting her long green skirt, she turned away, leaving me to the mob.
Father, what had you not told me?
The throng advanced like an approaching storm, people reduced to a primitive righteous rage. Fists pummeled me and feet kicked at me as I crumbled to the ground. Pain pelted my body, and I tasted blood and dust. Far worse than the pain was the heartache of betrayal.
"Enough!" The village magistrate bellowed, his eyes blazing. He stood tall on the stone steps, casting an intimidating presence with his massive girth. The mob froze. "What is the meaning of this?"
The Seer pointed a crooked finger at me and spat the accusation. "Cyril! He is not of the Gods! The Moirai do not claim him. I have seen it!"
The mob erupted again, raising fists and voices. 'Demon!', 'Chaos!', they cursed me with barbed words. The magistrate raised his hand, temporarily silencing them.
One older man stepped forward, his face twisted in rage, and spoke for the mob. "He is a demon. He must be purged or the Gods will turn on us!"
I gulped as I stood on wobbly legs, wiping blood from my nose. I knew what he meant by 'purged'.
"And you are the hand of the Gods? Do you judge as the Moirai?" The magistrate drew down bushy eyebrows as he threw back an accusation to the people. The old man retreated a step.
The magistrate stood before me, but his eyes held none of the other's contempt. Still, he pronounced judgment. "Cyril, son of Pedar, you are banished from the town of Kelde. By dawn, you must leave." The crowd murmured as they dispersed, apparently satisfied with the verdict. The magistrate put a hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry, Cyril. That was the best I could do."
*****
"I suppose it was inevitable." Father sighed, not portraying surprise at the lack of bonding nor anger at my disobedience. "Pour us some ales. I have much to tell you and not much time to do so."
I clutched my mug, leaving the ale untasted as I listened to my father's tale. His eyes, set in a leather face weathered by a long life, alternately gleamed and glazed. "What I did not tell you of your mother was that the Gods themselves condemned her, hunting her down like a vile beast. She was nearly to her last breath when I found her. I hid her away and nursed her back to health." He smiled as his eyes focused far away. "She was so beautiful, her heart the most of all. We fell deeply in love, and from that love came you, my son."
I asked, "But would not the Gods or the Moirai have found her? They see all."
"Not her." Father shook his head, then locked his eyes on mine. "She is of the Chaos. Invisible to them. And so are you."
Somehow, I knew that to be true. I always felt different, even if I could not define it.
Everyone knew the Chaos was evil, the enemy of Gods and order. Or so we were taught. I had dim memories of my mother as a young boy, memories of gentle smiles, laughter, and warm hugs. Love cloaked everything I remembered of her.
"The Gods serve only themselves." His words became laced with anger. "They are unworthy of worship!"
I nearly gasped. Although a cynical man, a trait he passed on to me, I had never heard him express such hatred of the Gods. If openly said, such blasphemous words would be punished with death.
My breath hitched as another realization slammed into me. "Wait. You said she 'is'?" I had always believed the Moirai snipped her thread.
Father smiled. "Yes. She is alive and well. She left those long years ago to protect us, because eventually the Gods would have found her here." He rose to retrieve a dark leather tube from the bottom of a locked iron-banded chest, unrolling a parchment page from within. "She sent this message at great risk. This map will tell you where to find her. There you must go."
I smoothed the map on the table within a fading sunbeam. My finger traced a dotted line extending from Kelde eastward to the Blue Lakes and across the formidable PisoDrácko Mountains. One time I had traveled to the foot of the mountains to buy raw iron for our blacksmithing trade. Beyond the mountains laid the Forbidden Lands. Guarded by fierce beasts, it is said no man would return alive.
"Will you come with me?" I asked.
Father shook his head. "You have become a strong man." He squeezed the muscles in my upper arm. "As much as I wish, I am too old for such a long journey. And who else would look after your sister?"
Kit was still young, barely eleven cycles old. Deaf, mute and alone, Father took her in as a small girl, such was his compassion. I felt another shadow cross my heart. Fully a loved sister, I would miss her bountiful energy and silent giggles.
"I have something else for you that once belonged to your mother." From the chest, he brought forth a bundle wrapped in burlap. A few dark arrow points and a knife fell out, clattering to the old wood table, when he pulled back the cloth. With a blade of knapped black obsidian and a jute wrapped handle, the knife looked ancient. A strange tingling came to my hand as I lifted the blade.
Father pointed. "It is infused with the Chaos. I cannot wield it, but you can. Your mother called it a god killer."
I turned the knife before my eyes, the blade half again as long as my hand. No wonder the Gods pursued her.
Well before sunrise, I rose from a sleepless night. Kit found me and bounded into my arms, wrapping her arms around my neck. Her curly black hair tickled my cheek. Pulling back, she signed to me in our special language. "<I don't want you to go.>"
"<I am sorry, little squirt, but I have to.>" I set her down, rubbing her head playfully. "<Take care of Father. You know how lost he can become.>"
As I lifted my heavy pack, filled with supplies for the trip, Father led in our old burro. "Take Dash to help with your burden." A small grin came to my face from a family joke. While steady and sure, Dash never actually dashed.
Father grappled me in his arms, saying a silent farewell. This was the first time I had seen tears spill from his eyes.
With a heavy heart, I set out. I looked back one more time as the sun peeked over the hills before me, catching the sad acceptance of my father's eyes and the tearful sadness of my sister. To leave was to give up my life and replace it with another cursed by the Gods. A life unknown. A destiny unbonded.