“I’m almost finished with my statue of the unicorn,” the Builder said. “As yet, the figure on his back is still in uncut stone. I had offered it to the Singer, but he will have nothing now to do with mountain gods. I wonder, Sarkon, if you might consent to be my model for the rider of the unicorn. Be mindful that it will be years before his temple is complete, but when it is you will be there, timeless in the stone.”

Sarkon agreed to be the model. Praxis’ chisel would leave him for the generations yet unborn to see. Sarkon loved his great deception. The Singer’s followers would die for believing far too much. And those who called them atheists would die believing nothing much at all. But he would play the temple game with rare delight.

All who refused to kiss the unicorn would die. The very thought of Everyman and Anthem bowing at his marble horse and crying out repentance for their atheism filled him with anticipation. He could barely wait for morning when lower Urbis would be poisoned. The lucky would die swiftly in the vaulted fuming caverns. The rest would live to be the sport of those who loved the temples and the bloody Games of Karnos.

“Do you believe in mountain gods?” Sarkon asked the Builder.

“Of course not,” answered Praxis.

“Nor I,” responded Sarkon. “Isn’t this a glorious destiny? The labels are so cleverly applied and misapplied. All living is called death and truth is called a lie by liars. Nothingness affirms itself and substance is denied.”

Before long they entered the sculptor’s studio. A great unfinished statue stood before them.

“How long will this take, Builder?” Sarkon questioned as he undressed to sit upon a modeled framework of a gallant steed. His brutal nakedness led the Builder to applaud and trace the sign of Urbis in the air.

“Six months I need to finish,” said the Builder, pointing to the statue.

“And will you promise me your soul were I to give it to you in the morning quite complete?”

“Impossible!” the Builder cried. “But if you think it can be done … well, yes. I’ll give you anything you ask.”

“Very well. Leave me and you will see me clearly in this clot of stone come morning.”

The Builder left and Sarkon gloated once again that he was soon to claim the souls of men who trusted both the mountain gods and the Singer. But best of all, he also owned the soul of an artist who believed in neither and therefore was most vulnerable of all.

When the sculptor came early to his studio the next day, he was stunned by the finished statue. In flawless polished marble his young friend Sarkon, god-like and gallant, sat astride the giant unicorn. Across his back hung the lyre of the Singer—a divine riddle in marble. Was he the Singer or the Anti-Singer? Had he the power of Earthmaker or the mountain gods or neither?