Dreibrand looked around the inner sanctum of the temple. White columns lined the circular wall, and between the columns, rich frescoes of brilliant color filled the spaces. Each fresco featured a portrait of Onja in various settings. Sometimes she was the aloof Queen on her throne, in others she walked in lush meadows and seemed to beckon the bloom from the plants or she brushed her blue hands across the golden tops of ripening grain. In one pose, Onja stood over a mother and new infant, which immediately disturbed Dreibrand although he realized it was supposed to be appealing. In another portrait, only the starry night surrounded Onja, but no matter what the setting, she always bore the same beautifully indifferent face.
He counted twelve portraits and in the last space stood a statue instead of a painting. Carved from the blue stone of the Rysamand, her polished form was larger than life, and the glow from the orb on the pedestal reflected on the jewels set in her eyes.
“What do you think? Are you a believer yet?” Taischek said.
Dreibrand smiled. “No, King Taischek. But the art is quite good.”