Epiphany at the Temple of the Shadow Goddess

by Catherine Yeates 

Steam poured off the seared edges of the columns that littered the temple floor. Brother Anselzar stepped carefully through the wreckage, his long robes trailing over the rubble. The light of a dim and cloudy sky filtered onto the broken altar. Behind it, the obsidian statue of the shadow goddess, Lachrymona, had once towered over her congregation. 

Now the remains slowly oozed across the pedestal, the glassy stone softened into a molten syrup. 

Sweat dripped down Brother Anselzar’s neck. Despite the moisture licking at him like warm breath, his robes remained hot and stiff, as though they’d been baking in the midday sun. Magic still suffused them, glittering like motes of light—reminders of Solsulien’s lingering influence. It should have been comforting, but instead, it merely filled him with dread. 

A wail cut through the humid air. A young man in a rough-woven tunic huddled against a stone column, his ankle swollen and purple. His eyes widened as Brother Anselzar approached. 

“I’m only here to help,” he said. 

The man nodded slowly, his jaw clenched in anguish. 

Anselzar knelt, magic springing to his fingertips as he gently touched the injured limb, searching for a break in the bones. He found none. With a gesture and a few whispered words, he cast a spell to soothe the swelling and ease the pain. 

As the young man muttered his thanks, one of Lachrymona’s priestesses arrived. She shot Brother Anselzar a pinched look and helped the man to his feet, her dark robes swishing as she led him away. 

Brother Anselzar’s breath caught in his chest when he stood. Head swimming from the heat, he ducked through the nearest intact doorway into the alley behind the temple. The sounds of groaning and panicked conversation carried through the streets, and he fought the urge to vomit. 

Anselzar removed his embroidered stole and unbuckled the leather belt that held his book of scripture from a pair of thick clasps. He unbuttoned his robe—gold, like the color of late afternoon sunlight. He set the robe and stole in a pile in the alley, where someone who needed them might find them. Perhaps to wear for warmth in the coming winter. 

Or to use as kindling. 

The cold breeze seeped through his loose shirt and trousers, a blessing against his feverish skin. After a moment’s hesitation, Anselzar refastened the belt around his waist. His book of scripture rested heavily against his thigh. It’d been gifted to him thirty years ago, each page of the illuminated manuscript hand-copied from the crumbling texts in the monastery where he took his vows. He knew the stories they told of Solsulien, the god of light, by heart. 

Solsulien was a warrior god who fought only for just and holy causes. He was a friend to farmers and blacksmiths. An ally to the weak and healer of the sick. Rival of the trickster goddess, Lachrymona. Darkness was her domain, and she cared not whether her followers used her power for good or ill. 

Even in the many years since Solsulien last walked the earth, his light still found those who venerated him. His priests performed miracles in his name and shared the divine messages they received. Anselzar’s magic had grown considerably in the years he spent honing it in honor of his god. 

Then, after two centuries, Solsulien returned. 

He had emerged in the plaza where the city’s temples formed a ring. He stood inhumanly tall, radiating might as his bronze hair streamed down around his bare chest. Anselzar and the other monks had stared in awe and awaited his teachings. 

Solsulien headed for the temple of Lachrymona, stumbling as though drunk.  

He raised his hand, and a searing beam of light sliced the temple in two. The god let out a booming laugh as the round stone roof cracked like an egg. He collapsed to the ground, pounding his massive fist against the cobblestones in mirth and turning them to gravel. His task finished, he pulled himself to his feet and vanished. 

Lachrymona’s priests and the strongest mages nearby had desperately tried to keep the roof from collapsing long enough to empty the temple. 

Now, the rubble lay steaming, and many of Solsulien’s monks stayed hidden inside for fear that helping the wounded would earn the god’s retribution. 

If Solsulien remembered this day at all in his drunken stupor. 

Anselzar followed the buzz of activity back to the plaza, where tents had been set up, and healers and priests from every temple in the city tended to the wounded. Some of Solsulien’s followers were among them. Sister Danuška, a priestess of Lachrymona whose arm was in a sling, used her free hand to cast healing spells over a man’s bruised ribs. 

Anselzar found a woman with an injured wrist in need of healing. She flinched at the light glowing from his hands. He could only murmur that he was sorry and he was there to help. The process repeated for hours. Pain and distrust followed by healing and muted gratitude. 

When the injured were finally stable, Anselzar sat on a broken stone column and traced his fingers over the pages of his book. It felt like a brick in his lap. Today, he thought of each passage of scripture, each sermon about healing and peace, and doubt overwhelmed him. Every memory of warm summer days with his fellow monks was now tinged with horror, just as his sleeves were tinged with blood. 

His god had walked the earth, and the only miracle was that no one died. 

With a quiet sigh, Sister Danuška sat beside him. He sent her a questioning glance. 

“I know who you are,” she said. 

“Then you know that there’s nothing I can say to you that will help.” 

“No. But we will still need healers tomorrow.” 

“I will be here.” 

Storm clouds gathered, gray and melancholy. Raindrops hit the steaming stone of the temple, washing away the heat and sorrow.