take it seriously!”
“Ah,” Agor said, his face blank.
“Yes,” Sterren said.
“So you expect to lose a battle? Do you want me to try and get a god’s blessing on our troops, is that it? I don’t suppose that would violate the ban on using magic to fight wars.”
“No! Or at least, not just that, though I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” He paused, considering. “Would it really help?”
“No,” Agor said, without an instant’s hesitation. “I’ve explained this to everybody before, but I suppose you weren’t here. The gods don’t approve of war or fighting and they won’t have anything to do with it. They don’t take sides.”
“I don’t approve of it, either! Are you sure they wouldn’t be willing to take into consideration that we’re being attacked, that we don’t want to fight?”
“It wouldn’t matter. The gods swore off war after they wiped out the Northerners two hundred years ago and they don’t change their minds easily. Besides...” This time Agor did hesitate, but at length he said, “besides, can you tell them that we did nothing to provoke an attack?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“But did anyone?”
Sterren remembered what Lar had told him about King Phenvel’s behavior. “I suppose so,” he admitted.
“Then the gods won’t help. At least, not directly.”
That reminded Sterren of his original intention in visiting Agor. “But they might indirectly?” he asked.
“Oh, certainly. It might seem odd to a layman, but the fact is, the gods tend to be very careless indeed about the long-term consequences of their actions. You could probably get a great deal of useful advice from them, as long as it’s not overtly military.”
Locating a powerful wizard would hardly be overtly military, but Sterren decided to check out other possibilities first. He asked, “Could they, perhaps, do something to stop Ophkar and Ksinallion from attacking? Start a plague, or something?”
Agor was visibly shocked by the suggestion. “A plague? My lord, how can you think such a thing?”
“Could they?” Sterren persisted.
“No, of course not! My lord Sterren, I am a theurgist, not a demonologist! The gods are good; they do not do evil. Plagues are the work of demons!”
Sterren’s cynicism, drummed into him by years on the streets of Ethshar, came surging to the fore. “The gods don’t do evil?” he inquired, sarcastically, remembering that he, himself, was in Semma, facing eventual execution, because of a god’s interference.
“Well,” Agor said, “not directly. Sometimes their actions can have evil consequences, for some-”
“I would think so!”
“But they won’t start a plague, or anything else like that.”
Sterren considered this.
Agor was probably right. After all, he was a theurgist and surely he knew his business. All his life, Sterren had heard from priests and theurgists and even laymen that the gods were benevolent, that they did not approve of any sort of destruction or disorder, that the evil in the World was due to demons or human folly.
It was probably true.
Or if not, at least it was probably true that he, Sterren of Ethshar, would be unable to get the gods to take his side in the upcoming war.
“All right,” he said, “We’ll forget that idea, then.” Another thought popped into his head, though, and he asked, “Might they protect us from the invaders? Stop the war somehow, or at least provide us with what we need to withstand a siege? You say they don’t like war; could they prevent this one?”
“Excuse me, my lord, but wouldn’t that violate the traditional ban on magical warfare?”
“What if it did?” Sterren snapped, his frayed temper breaking. “I never agreed to any such ban and I’ll be killed if we lose this war! I’m no Semman, and I think it’s a stupid tradition.”
“Ah,” the theurgist said, nodding. “I see.”
“Does breaking the ban bother you?”
“Well, not really; it’s none of my business.”
“Then, can the gods do something to prevent this war?”
Agor hesitated and chewed his lower lip for a moment before replying, “Well, maybe...”
“Maybe?”
Agor blinked uneasily and shifted on his sheepskin. “Well, actually, my lord, they...” He stopped, visibly unhappy.
“They what?” Sterren urged.
“Well, actually, my lord, some of them would probably be glad to do that sort of thing-”
“But what?”
“Well...” Agor took a deep breath, then admitted, “but I don’t know how to contact them.”
CHAPTER 11
Sterren stared at the bony theurgist, who stared back miserably.
“What do you mean, you can’t contact them?” Sterren demanded. “Aren’t you the royal theurgist here?”
“Yes, my lord, I am.”
“Are you a fraud, then?”
“No,” Agor said, with a touch of wounded pride visible through his dismay, “I’m not a fraud; I’m just not a very good theurgist.”
“You aren’t?”
“No, I’m not. Ah... do you know anything about theurgy?”
“I know as much as most people, I suppose,” Sterren said, glaring.
“But do you know anything about how it actually works?” Agor persisted.
“No, of course not!”
Agor nodded, as if satisfied with Sterren’s answer. “Well, my lord,” he said, “it’s like this. A theurgist is just a person with a natural talent for prayer, who has learned how to pray in such a way that the gods will actually listen.”
“I know that,” Sterren said sharply.
“Well, anybody can pray, of course, but the odds are that the gods won’t hear, or won’t answer. Have you ever wondered, my lord, why the gods don’t listen to everybody, but they do listen to theurgists?”
“No,” Sterren replied flatly. This was not strictly true, but he didn’t care to be sidetracked.
“Well, it’s because of the prayers we use. We learn them as apprentices, just as other magicians learn their spells. The gods are too busy to listen to everything, but there are certain prayers that catch their attention, just the way certain sounds might catch your ear, even in a noisy place, the rattle of dice, for instance.”
Sterren realized that Agor really had taken an interest in him; coming up with that particularly appropriate example could not have been a coincidence. His annoyance faded somewhat. “Go on,” he said.
Agor continued, “Some people are better at some prayers than others. I don’t know why, they just are, just as some people are better at drawing pictures, or singing.”
Sterren nodded. He knew, firsthand, that some people had a talent for warlockry, while others, like himself, emphatically did not, and he could see no reason other magicks, such as theurgy, should be any different.
“There are many, many gods, my lord. I only know the names and prayers for nineteen of them; that was all my master knew, all he could teach me during my apprenticeship. It’s not a bad number, really. Many of the best theurgists only know a dozen or so specific prayers, and I’ve never heard of anyone who knew more than perhaps
