"Oh, great Messor Vitavi, our defender and our justice, look kindly upon young Lord Arden," Musara prayed loudly as she placed the crown on the youth's head, letting the silver circlet settle into his sandy hair. "You chose him from among his brothers to lead your people. Grant him your wisdom and reasoning, that he may lead them well."

Musara turned and took up the golden coin that rested upon a pillow in the attendant's hand. She returned to the new lord's side and, as she fastened the iron chain around his neck, allowing the golden coin to rest on his chest, she said, "And, as you are the one who chose him, Messor Vitavi, may this coin of fate remind him of his office and your true sovereignty. He serves you and leads your people at your whim."

The people gathered in the dusty square murmured as the coin flashed once, though clouds hid the sun.

"May you rule the people well, Lord Arden," she murmured to him as she stepped away.

Several armored guards came forward and knelt before the newly crowned lord, loudly swearing fealty as Musara turned away from the ceremony and stepped down from the back of the dais.

Musara heard the crowd cheering as she exited the town square. Someone loudly began a chant of the new lord's name, the crowd quickly taking it up, "Arden! Arden! Arden!"

She smiled faintly as she moved through the empty streets. Give them something to cheer about. Between the fires and the plague, there isn't much else going right around here.

A person lay motionless in the dirt ahead of her. She stepped over to them quickly, peering as close as she dared, careful not to touch even the edge of the man's tunic. Not breathing. Must be gone already. She gently prodded him with a toe. The body rocked from the prodding, but settled back into its place. She prodded again with her boot, more firmly this time. The body rocked, then rolled, one arm flopping out to strike the wall of the nearby building.

Musara gasped, holding the edge of her cloak over her face. The man's skin was a sallow, unhealthy yellow and waxy looking; his eyes had almost completely sunk into his head. His nose, mouth, chin, and entire front of his tunic were drenched with a darkness that could only be blood. Plague, her mind whispered. As she quickly stepped away, she made a mental note to send the corpse crew to dispose of the body before it spread the contagion to someone else.

"Milady priestess!" a voice called from down an alley.

Footsteps came closer. "Priestess Musara?"

A flurry of footsteps came then, and a horde of voices demanded, "High Priestess?" "Musara?" "Lady?" "Priestess?"

Musara stopped and turned. A gathering of eight people drew closer, some leaning on each other, their clothing ragged and boots cracked. Others had dusty, bare chapped feet and shaking hands that reached out, fingers open, grasping, begging...

"Please. Priestess Musara. It is New Lord's Day. They say, on the day a new lord is appointed, Messor Vitavi grants a healing miracle to his priestess. Please, pray that this sickness leaves me..."

"I saw her first!" another voice said, elbows pushing through the crowd. "She should heal me."

"Please, Priestess, I've been ill for two weeks. I haven't much time left, unless you pray my healing..."

"You're too old!" another spat. "Healing you wouldn't be worth it! The one to be healed should be me!"

"No, me! I have a wife and a new babe at home! I need to be healed, to take care of them!"

"I've three kids at home. Haven't dared go to them since I got sick... Don't wanna take them to the grave with me..."

"Please, priestess, my baby..." a woman held out a limp child. "My baby's dying... please, save him..."

"Please! Priestess, have pity on me!"

The voices all blurred together as all the people made their pleas, each clamoring to be heard over the others. More sick people came, walking or crawling from the surrounding alleyways until they hemmed her in on all sides, eyes open and despairing, hands reaching, pleading, desperate...

Oh, great Messor Vitavi, Musara silently prayed, so many people need healing, but the power to heal leaves me after just one... If there's to be only one healing this day, point me to who you will to be healed. You can see their hearts. Guide my choice. Musara looked over the pleading faces again, carefully looking into each pair of desperate eyes, despite wanting to close her own in despair. Only one. Why? In such times as these, when the need was great, why only one?

A heavy presence leaned into her mind and she heard a whisper in her head, Choose.

Yes, it is a heavy choice upon me, Messor Vitavi, Musara pleaded with the presence. Please, guide my choice in your infinite wisdom.

The voice repeated, Choose.

My lord, Musara replied, if you will it, you can grant me the power to heal them all this day. Will you fill the hands of your servant with your healing grace?

One.

Musara bowed her head, eyes closing against the tears as she clenched her hands into fists at her sides. Why?

Yours is not the power to heal. Yours is the choice. Choose.

Musara took in a deep breath. Will you guide my choice, oh great lord? She fingered the pouch in her pocket, feeling through the thin cotton cloth the edges of the coins of fate. As she drew out the deep red pouch, the presence left her mind.

Shaking fingers untied the strings holding the pouch closed as she told the pleading crowd, "Everyone who wishes to petition for today's healing should make a row, four abreast, in front of me. Everyone else, line up behind the first ones in groups of four."

The crowd obeyed, people grumbling and elbowing as they jostled for positions. Finally, four lines stood on front of her and continued into the alley.

She looked at the four people immediately before her and drew out four golden coins from the pouch, then pressed one, murmuring a prayer, into each person's hand.

"Oh, great and merciful Messor Vitavi, these people, your people, are here before your priestess, asking for your healing. You have granted me the power to only heal one. Make known to us your choice; let the one to be healed overturn the wheat sheaf. And may you deal kindly with those who find instead the shield." She gestured to the group of four. "When you're ready, say your prayer to Messor Vitavi and flip your coin, letting it fall to the ground at your feet."

Four coins flashed in the air, flipping and falling for what felt like ages before they fell with small puffs of dust into the dirt.

Musara leaned down at looked at the coins. All four coins reflected the overhanging grey, smoky clouds from the shiny face of the imprinted shields.

She swallowed and eyed the four, saying quietly, "I'm sorry. Messor Vitavi has not chosen you to receive healing this day." She picked up the coins as the four left, one of them sobbing.

Musara cupped the four coins in her hands, repeating the prayer to the ever-watching god as the next four stepped forward.

Each outstretched hand received a coin.

Each penitent murmured a prayer before flipping the golden coin of fate into the air, eyes desperately pleading as it slowly tumbled to the dirt.

Musara held back her tears as four more people walked or crawled away, crying or cursing.

Four more hands for four more coins and four more desperate pleas.

Four more people, heads bowed, dragging their feet as they walked away.

With shaking hands, Musara handed out the coins once more, barely able to look the people in the eye.

They were the last, and they had stood in the dust, waiting, for their chance to ask their sovereign lord for healing. They had watched as everyone walked away, disappointed and still sick. Instead of feeling hopeful at their odds as the crowd dwindled, they eyed each other, wondering what the point of it all was; if this was some cruel jest on the part of their so-called God of Abundance. The only abundance anyone saw now was dust. And smoke. Fire. And plague. Death.

One young woman clasped her coin in her fist, bumping her fist against her sweating forehead as she bowed her head to pray one last desperate plea.

"Ah, just flip it, girl," one of the others, an older woman, derided. "It's just gonna be a shield, like the rest of us. Messor Vitavi don't give healing no more—he only gives plague."

The young woman ignored the older woman, instead still bumping her clenched fist against her forehead, whispering incoherently.

"Need me to do it for you?" one of the nearby men asked. "I can flip it for you. I get that you're scared; seeing only one hope for survival and watching it disappear before you hurts. None of us got what we hoped for today. Why would you?"

"Come on. Hurry up, so the priestess can go back to praying for this trial to end," someone else called. They added in a mutter, "Not that it does any good."

Musara looked bleakly around at the dispirited and faithless people. No wonder Messor Vitavi has allowed such tragedy, if this is how his people feel about him. She swallowed and licked her dry lips, gesturing at the heckling crowd as she said quietly, "Let her be. You all were given a chance. Allow her hers."

The young woman slowly unclenched her fingers and let the coin drop. Her hand immediately covered her eyes, hiding the coin from her sight as it flipped through the air, slowly turning until it fell lazily into the dirt with a small puff of dust.

Musara leaned down to look at the final coin. She placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, saying gently, "Look."

The young woman looked down, then gasped and looked at Musara, tears streaming from one brown eye while blood slowly oozed from her plague-corrupted eye.

At the girl's feet, wheat glowed softly on the golden face of the coin.