Omin looked at the little girl in the nurse's arm, and the severe old woman who stood nearby. It was early in the morning, an auspicious day, and he woke up early knowing he would be busy the entire day. Couples showed up with presents for the priests who named them. The new moons were festive times. By the end of the day, the temple was left filled with the remnants of their festivities.
The party in front of him was not festive. The infant was swaddled in a thick embroidered blanket, but the child wasn't wearing the customary flower garland. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. Fathers, the priest had grown to not expect. The war had left many families without fathers, husbands, and sons.
"And what shall the lovely lass be called?" the priest asked.
"Miran," came the dark reply.
After years of blessing infants and naming them, the priest considered himself good at knowing which children were boys and which were girls. He took off his spectacles and gave them a cleaning with the edge of his robe.
"My mistake," he said, taking another look at the child, who still looked like a girl. It was alright, a boy could be beautiful rather than handsome. "Miran is quite the handsome little man."
The nurse leaned forward and whispered, "She's a girl."
"You want to give a girl a boy's name?"
"It shall be her name after the ceremony is complete," Taro said. "Now, may we proceed with the ceremony, Brother…?"
The priest bowed sheepishly, "Father… Omin."
"Father Omin. We do not have much time for this ceremony. I wish to leave before the commoners arrive."
So she wasn't a commoner. It was always the nobles that gave their children strange names.
"And your contribution to the temple?"
The old woman dropped a small pouch into his hand, and Omin grinned at the sound of clinking metal. Usually, the contributions were more personal. Loaves of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables, sometimes even an odd family heirloom the family no longer had no use for. Cold hard coins, the most valuable and least personal, were a rarity.
"Thank you, kind lady," he said, changing the pouch from one hand to the other. "I shall start the preparations immediately."
As he walked through the halls, he extracted three coins from the pouch, each gold and new, and tucked them into the pockets of his robe. The brotherhood was kind to him, offering an old man shelter and food. But they weren't exactly generous.
The main prayer room was empty, each of the altars of the nine gods empty and covered in dust. He started to clear off the first of the altars, that of the child goddess Hessa, protector of the young. The altar was the smallest of them all, matching the simple copper statue of a young girl that rested behind it.
Hessa was most popular when it came to ceremonies and prayers for children. He started to clear the altar of dust and the wilted flower petals and grains of rice of the prayers from the day before.
"Not this one," Taro said. She looked at the statue of Hessa with scorn. Hessa was the protector of the weak, and she had no intention of letting her granddaughter be weak. She walked past it to the statue at the very end. While the other idols were made of copper and bronze, the idol end was carved out of a slab of black granite and polished till the stone was smooth and shining. If it wasn't for the flecks of mica sparkling in the stone, it would be nearly invisible in the darkened corner of the prayer room.
"This one," she said. Servants brought in fruits and vegetables, swords and bows of all sizes, and started cleaning the altar, arranging for the weapons to be blessed by Rakt, the god of war. The idol's statue was of an enormous man with eight arms, each holding a different weapon.
The baby's arms reached out of its swaddling cloths. Rakt's part of the prayer room of metal and lamp oil. Omin rushed to light the lamps hanging from hooks on the wall. The dark stone took on a reddish hue from the burning lights, and the prayer room warmed with the heat of people's bodies and fire.
Taro took the baby into her arms and sat cross-legged on the floor to the side of the altar. The servants were faster than Omin, and within minutes were done. Incense was lit at the corner and placed wooden holders, smelling like the saffron scriptures said Rakt preferred. Omin sat on his knees in front of the god and began praying.
"Lord of War and Victory, bless this child with strength and valor," he said, leaning forward into a bow. He rose slowly and raised his arms to the sky.
"Lord of Weapons and Cunning, bless this child with intelligence and skill," he said, leaning forward to his second bow.
"Oh Lord who is unparalleled in this world, protect this child from defeat and injury," he said. "From malady and ills. From fear and hesitation."
He bowed again and again, as every time he looked up he didn't see a satisfied look on the old woman's face. When he could bow no longer, and one of the other fathers walked into the prayer room with another family, he made his final bow.
"Bless this child, Lord Rakt. Please bless Miran of house Carmanor, and grace her with your infinite power."
He rose and raised his arms upward. The other priest stood by shocked. Omin knew he was one of the most experienced priests, but it was the first time his prayers had left a person speechless. But the priest was not looking at something behind him and Omin turned around. A creature in a red veil stood in front of him, its pale thin red lips stretched into an inhumanly wide smile.
"I will inform our master of the child's name," Reizim said. "You have done your part well, priest."
"Demons in the house of the gods! I've never heard of–" Omin spluttered out. He fell backward. The demon was tall and looked to be under the service of some wizard. But he did not trust wizardry, and he grabbed one of the child-sized shields from the altar and held it in front of himself.
"Why are you here, demon? We have agreed to uphold the promise, but my granddaughter is not grown yet."
"Yes," the demon said slowly. "But the master wishes to know how the child is growing. He has ordered me to keep watch over the child, our Miran."
The last word came out as a hiss, and Taro steeled her jaw at the strange emotion in the voice. She kept her white-knuckled anger at bay and looked at the priest.
"Continue, father."
Omin picked up the small box of powdered saffron. He cupped his palm and mixed a pinch of the powder with water, smearing the paste onto the child's forehead.
"Miran Carmanor, I wish you all the prosperity and luck in this world," he whispered into the baby's ear. The child squirmed at the bursts of air that accompanied his voice. From his brief window into Miran's life, he could tell it was complicated. "You shall need it."
"I think you might need luck more than the child, at present, father," Reizim said.
Omin glared at the demon. The audacity of the creature to enter the domain of the divine and raise its tongue. "Silence, beast!"
The demon's smile grew wide.
"Father Omin!" the other priest said.
Omin looked away from the demon and towards the priest calling him. The pouch Taro had given him was on the altar, and the three coins he had pocketed were in the priest's hands, and an accusing look on his face.
"Perhaps more praying and less bowing in the future," Reizim commented. "But what do I know, I'm merely a beast."