eventualities he had foreseen. Thus, he had begged their indulgence to allow him to commence running the affairs of the temple immediately, rather than waiting the traditional grace period while the previous Grand Syndar lay in state.
What Lavant had described was a very different temple than the one Pilos had known to that point. The rotund leader was taking them in a decidedly more militant, aggressive direction than the temple had seen in many years. Pilos wondered just what Mikolo would have thought of such changes. He wondered what Waukeen thought of them, returning his attention to the moment.
'Even during those years of our Lady's absence,' Lavant was saying, 'Mikolo Midelli was resolute, devout, never faltering in his belief and faith. He did not turn his back on the Merchant's Friend to bathe in the holiness of other gods. He sought to continue Waukeen's teachings, even when Waukeen could not walk among his flock herself.'
That's a dangerous thing to be saying, Pilos thought in mild surprise. He's all but naming Mikolo as a surrogate god. What does that say about those who shifted their allegiance to Lliira when Waukeen went missing? How many of the clergy is he alienating?
As if to punctuate the Abreeant's concerns, numerous priests sitting around him began to shift in their seats uncomfortably or grumble among themselves.
'He will be missed,' Lavant said, 'but his works will live on in the glory of the temple for generations to come.'
There was a pause, and Pilos wondered if the Grand Syndar was finished with his eulogy. What came next surprised and angered him.
'Mikolo Midelli's time at the helm of the temple was a time of peace. It was a time of prosperity. Those days are gone, and we move now into a new era-a time of danger, of the shadow of war.'
He's giving an acceptance speech! Pilos silently fumed. He's actually going to stand there and talk about himself during the man's wake! Pilos wanted to throw something, and he was shocked by his own vehemence, his own outrage. He wondered if he was not seeing things properly, seeing them as Waukeen perhaps did. The thought made him strangely sad, imagining that his own thinking might be so out of alignment with that of his goddess.
'But war can also be a time of prosperity,' Lavant continued, 'and I humbly endeavor to seek that prosperity in my own ministrations to the temple.'
No, Pilos thought, shaking his head, Waukeen has never taught us to prosper through the cultivation of war.
Grand Syndar Lavant droned on for several more minutes, but Pilos lost interest in the new temple leader's words. Instead, he bided his time on happier memories, recollections of the time he had enjoyed serving Mikolo. He would miss the old man, but Pilos realized he wasn't saddened so much by the spiritual leader's passing as he was by being left behind. The young Abreeant felt some pangs of jealousy, for he knew that Mikolo was finding true gratification in Brightwater for all of his years of loyal dedication to Waukeen. There was a small part of Pilos that wished-no, aspired, he decided-to find himself by Mikolo's side there someday. And though he wished to live out a long and full life in Waukeen's service, the chance to rise to that higher spirituality that he knew would come after his death was one he eagerly awaited.
Suddenly, the speech was at an end, and Pilos could feel a pervasive sense of discomfort. He wondered if Lavant's pronouncements had ended with an expectation of applause, but none was forthcoming, if only because of the impropriety of it in the presence of the body resting before the altar. He looked around and noticed that many other members of the clergy seemed to be similarly disturbed, but no one said a thing.
At last, the audience that filled the great hall of the temple began to rise and make their way out into the sunlight of the day beyond, and musicians and a choir arrayed in the loft above began a somber, if cathartic, dirge. The music was gentle and rolling, and it filled the chamber and helped to muffle the quiet conversations that began to hum throughout the gathering.
Pilos would have liked to have moved closer to the dais and kneel before Midelli's sarcophagus, but the flow of the crowd would have made it nearly impossible. Lavant had never even offered the Abreeant a chance to mourn privately in the presence of the deceased Grand Syndar, and though he was disappointed, he was far from surprised. By the time he could have let the throngs of people move past, allowing him to slip up the center aisle and to the resting place of his departed leader, it would be too late. Already, the burial escort was gathering around the sarcophagus, preparing to place the lid on and bear the thing away to chambers deep in the bowels of the ground, below the temple.
Pilos would have to pay his last respects down there, later, when he could be alone.
Sighing, the young man made his way toward one side of the great hall and slipped into a corridor that would lead him back to his own room. There were few others about, for most of the other clergy members were still gathered in the main temple, conversing, no doubt discussing the various revelations of Lavant's speech. Those few who did cross Pilos's path gave him a knowing nod and smile, for they must have seen that his heart was still heavy with grief and disappointment.
He hurried to his room, shut the door behind himself, lit the lone lamp with a taper from the cinder pot, and slumped into the single straight-backed wooden chair that he normally used at his desk. Fatigue and sorrow washed over him, and for a long moment, Pilos let those feelings course through him, giving in to them and allowing himself a few moments of unbridled emotional release. He did not cry, though his eyes brimmed with tears more than once. It felt good just to let go of his pent-up sentiments.
When he began to feel somewhat better, Pilos decided to pray. Rising from his chair, the young man knelt on the oval carpet in the center of his floor and closed his eyes. He did not voice a specific prayer initially but instead just tried to find his center, his focus, and hoped that Waukeen might bless him with a modicum of her presence. He wanted to feel close to his goddess for a while, to let the cares and troubles of the past couple of days wash away in a gentle bathing of her radiance.
He wasn't sure when he first began to sense that he was not alone, but Pilos got a cold, prickly feeling on the back of his neck, as though someone had entered his room and was peering at him, looming over him from behind. He opened his eyes and turned, just to assure himself that it was his imagination, to prove to himself that his meditations had drawn him far enough away from his mortal being that his subconscious was playing tricks on him.
The apparition of Mikolo Midelli hovering there, but a pace behind him, caused a strangled cry to leap from Pilos's throat.
The ghostly form was barely discernible in the dim light of the single lamp, or perhaps, Pilos thought, it was visible only because of the dim light. The image of the deceased Grand Syndar was dressed as he had been the night of his illness, when Pilos had first come upon him. It hovered in the air, its edges insubstantial, and there were no feet visible that could touch the floor. The thing's body seemed to shine with an inner glow, a radiant beauty that was something out of a prayer, a lesson on the glory of Brightwater. But the face of Pilos's former leader and mentor did not radiate peace. No, Mikolo Midelli's ghost looked decidedly disturbed.
Pilos stifled his yelp and scrambled back, away from the apparition hovering in his room. He pressed his back against the far wall of his chamber, staring stupidly at the thing, wondering, as all who see such things do, if he was imagining the whole experience.
Perhaps it is a test, Pilos thought, an ordeal inflicted upon me by someone who wishes to know my heart.
'Pilos,' the ghost said, and though it was Mikolo's voice, it sounded distant, faint. 'Pilos, I need your help,' it said.
'Who are you?' Pilos asked timidly, trying to determine some way of discerning whether the figure before him was real, imagined, or a conjuration of magic by someone with a terribly inappropriate sense of humor.
'Do you not know me?' The apparition asked, seemingly surprised. 'Do you not recognize this face?'
'Yes, of course, but-' and Pilos felt foolish. Asking the ghost to prove to him that its identity was genuine seemed absurd. 'I know you, but I do not know if you are real,' he finished.
'Ah,' the apparition said, nodding. 'A reasonable concern.' The ghost seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, and its features brightened. 'The last time we spoke,' it said, 'we were walking in the garden.'
Pilos nodded, swallowing.
'We were discussing the merits of generosity to the lame and mentally unsteady, and you asked if it weren't
