The nearest of these tablets ended just above my head, and peering through the gloom at this, I read names. Some were easily recognized: Tom, Harley, Diana. Others were more exotic: Akim, Shadan, Caratacus. Some were in Western script; others appeared to be Chinese or Japanese, Arabic or Hebrew. There must have been thousands of names. Maybe tens of thousands.

While the well was basically circular, one wall was flattened, and on this wall no golden tablets glowed. Instead there was a hugely tall painting, or perhaps what is called a fresco—paint saturated into fresh plaster. I could see only the bottom of it clearly but still had the impression of three distinct sections.

One was a sort of group portrait, seven strong and proud people in flowing robes, their heads wreathed in a yellow mist, almost like a halo.

The second was a single female figure. She was tall, dressed in armor, with a leather skirt and greaves on the legs and arms. She held a short sword in one hand and hefted a shield with the other. She did not look as if she were pretending to be a warrior. She looked like she’d been born a warrior.

“You gaze upon the picture of Isthil, goddess of justice and wickedness.”

“I thought it might be,” I said. “This is old.”

“This place was old before the first pyramids,” Messenger said.

“Isthil is one of the seven in the other portrait,” I said.

“Yes. The Heptarchy, seven gods given dominion over the affairs of man, in service to the Source. Estrark, goddess of harvest and hunger. Gabril, god of flesh and spirit. Ash, god of peace and war. Yusil, goddess of creation and destruction. Ottan-ka, god of pain and joy.”

“Isthil makes six,” I pointed out. “Who is the seventh? The beautiful . . . well, I can’t tell if it’s male or female.”

“That is Malech. Malech is neither male nor female, for Malech is the god of pleasure and denial. Malech . . . well, you must understand that there is no peace between the gods. Some have retreated from the world, no longer necessary. Some are true to their calling. But Malech, and Ash, too, have turned against man.”

“Oriax,” I said, realizing it even as I said it. “She’s Malech’s messenger. As you are Isthil’s.”

Messenger didn’t speak, leaving my statement to stand as truth.

“The last picture. I can’t even . . . It’s just a sort of sun, or star, or . . .” I frowned. The picture of the Heptarchy and the portrait of Isthil were both realistic pictures within the limits of an earlier artistic sensibility. This last was abstract—symbolic, perhaps.

“The Source,” Messenger said.

“And what is the Source?”

“The ultimate balance, more important than any other. Each of the gods maintains a balance between ends of a spectrum. Harvest and hunger. Creation and destruction. But the essential balance that transcends every other is between existence and nonexistence. Existence is not a simple thing. It takes work. It takes balance. In our small way, we labor to maintain the balance.”

This was without doubt the most words Messenger had ever spoken to me. I understood that his willingness to answer questions was because an important lesson was being taught. This was school. I was determined to get all from him that I could.

“Where are we?” I asked Messenger. “This place.”

“This is the Shamanvold. Here on these gold tablets are written the names of all the Messengers who have served Isthil and the balance She maintains.”

I tore my attention from this overpowering display to look at Messenger. He gazed up with an expression of profoundest respect. But that respect was not simple awe. This was not worship. Rather he seemed moved and determined, but also terribly sad.

They had buried my father at Arlington National Cemetery. It is a sacred place with its row upon row of stark-white marble markers, each testifying to a man or woman who has died in service. Everyone there had been sad and reverent and respectful as they lowered the casket into the ground. But I had looked past our own funeral, past my mother and my relatives, and I had focused on the face of a very old man, an old soldier who was no part of our ceremony. He was a man who was not just seeing but remembering, knowing in his bones and to the depths of his soul what the place represented. Such sadness. But pride, too.

I was looking at that old soldier as the honor guard fired their rifles for my father. He had looked up then, seen me watching him, and raised a feeble hand in salute.

I saw now a reflection of that same sadness and pride on Messenger’s much younger face. Messenger wasn’t a visitor to this place—he was part of it, part of whatever it represented. He understood in a way that I did not, what we both were seeing.

“One day, when my service is done, my name will be inscribed here. And yours,” Messenger said. “Then we will each face a choice.” He didn’t elaborate, and I could see his briefly open expression closing down.

“I don’t understand it all,” I admitted.

A sound came from him then that I would not have thought possible: he laughed. “Nor should you, yet. As I said, not everything can be taught. Many things must be lived.” He cocked his head, looked at me appraisingly, maybe even with a glimmer of affection, and said, “Enough for now. Pain is balanced with joy, and it is time you learned something about that. There are small joys and compensations in this duty we perform.”

“Joys?” I was incredulous. If there were joys to be found in this doom I had chosen, I failed to guess what they might be.