“Why are you armed and armored? Pilgrims do not come here ready for battle.”
“We are not followers of Eston—we have our own beliefs,” Sir Ako responded. “This is how Knights of Serica travel. Torsihad is no safe place, and there are bandits in the forest and even along the river below. Are you afraid of ten men? I assure you that we have not come here to burn down your temple.”
Lord Vaina spoke up: “Many rich pilgrims and wealthy widows come escorted by armed guards. It is common practice to let them in, so long as they are of peaceful mind. No doubt you have heard of the Knights of Serica. The Kitran, at least, do not love us for our deeds. Others may seek to do us harm, and we will not be taken. I tell you: you cannot defend us from our enemies.”
The leader of the monks looked at him questioningly, and Jori realized the words he used indicated he was a man who gave orders to officials. Jori had been in charge for so many years—it was hard to speak like a commoner.
“Setting aside what you have said, this is a place of peace,” the monk in the yellow robe said. “There are no Kitran here, at least, not that I know of. Kitran nobles come here rarely of late.”
“So you say,” Jori replied. “Think of us as interested visitors.”
“Very well, you may proceed. But I shall send word to the abbot. He may wish to speak with you.”
“Of course. We would be happy to see him.” Indeed, Jori secretly hoped the abbot would send for them, as he doubted more than four or five men knew the location of the hidden treasure. All of those in the know would be at the apex of the temple hierarchy.
The knights left the monks behind and took the path leading up to the magnificent tower, stopping at several buildings on the way. The Kelten knights expressed surprise at some of the things they saw. The Hall of Terrors in particular provoked a good deal of comment with its life-size statues of demons and sinners, both male and female, all naked and subject to terrible torments. Jori kept his mouth shut, fighting back the urge to explain the background of the hall and the reasons for it. The explanations offered by Lathe and Filpa to the Keltens were superficial and indicated neither had studied the teachings of Eston with any seriousness, which was just as he expected. The only people who had been allowed to go on this mission were those who did not believe in Eston.
Another thing Jori expected: entry into the great round tower was forbidden to all but the monks of Flame Iris. Pilgrims slowly walked around the exterior of the monumental building, chanting prayers or reading out loud from the holy books. Three monks on the inside accepted donations and then brought out pieces of paper with holy words written on them. Other monks standing around would, for an additional donation, interpret the holy words for the pilgrims. All of this was considered supremely effective for obtaining spiritual merit.
Jori, having experienced this firsthand in his years at Yellow Dragon, knew the holy phrases handed to the pilgrims were carefully chosen so they could be interpreted in many ways. The real work was done by the monks standing outside who saw the pilgrims, talked with them, offered advice and, with luck, even a few words of wisdom.
One pilgrim looked at the knights with recognition; he came up and greeted them. “This humble weaver from Hutinin greets you. You must be the Knights of Serica. My son serves with the Red Crane Army and came home on leave after the Northern Expedition. He talked about you when he recounted the Battle of Devek.”
“Every man who fought with us at the Battle of Devek is a hero,” Sir Ako said, while Jori tried to edge away without seeming to do so.
“You are visiting the temple? Very good, a very meritorious act. This humble man makes it a point to visit the Flame Iris in the second week after the New Year when it’s not so crowded,” the weaver said. “In the summer, you cannot imagine how many people make the trip here. People from all over Serica, thousands, every day. And this is what they come for, right here in front of you: the mostly holy place of the most holy shrine of Eston.” The weaver, balding with thick, wrinkled hands, pointed at the building behind him. “May Eston bless this land and keep all his followers safe from the northern enemy.”
“Brave men armed with swords are more reliable,” Sir Ako replied.
Jori turned and walked away from the holy tower, trying to suppress his misgivings. He wanted to make an end to this whole charade. He didn’t want to be reminded of his former friends in the Yellow Dragon monastery or the fact that many of his people truly believed in Eston. He told himself he had no choice—the wheels were set in motion. What mattered was that his state, his government—it had to survive. He needed the gold.
As they walked down the steps past the Hall of Terrors, the young knight, Wiyat, spoke to him. “That place makes my skin crawl. Why did they create such horrible statues, Sir Jomagtaro? I’ve never seen anything like it in Kunhalvar, or anywhere really.”
Jori stopped and faced the young Kelten. “It is designed to scare the pilgrims, Sir Wiyat. And you are right, outside of the monasteries, you don’t see this, which gives it great power over visitors. Art is supposed to be uplifting, to contain moral messages, to teach lessons from the Great Sage. But here, the Hall of Terrors reminds people of the horrific suffering they will undergo if they don’t follow Eston’s teachings. It is very manipulative, and it works best on simple folk who have done little wrong in their lives. I remember one old lady who came through our Hall of Terrors, accompanied by a rather nasty monk who took a sick delight in frightening women. At the end of her tour, pale and trembling, she took off her outer robes and handed over her wallet to the monk, saying, ‘I’ll do anything to avoid such a fate—anything at all.’
“I was disgusted. In those days, I believed there was much that was good in Eston’s teachings. But convincing people to accept Eston’s words by fear, by gruesome depictions of the suffering they will undergo after death—that I thought unworthy of the religion. I still think so, especially as I no longer believe Eston’s ideas are correct.”
Sir Ako spoke slowly, measuring his words. “Sho’Ash teaches us that the righteous will live once again, in bodies made new, by his side at the final, glorious battle. When the Black Terror is destroyed and his army vanquished, the souls of those who fought for the Black Terror will be cast out into the endless void while the righteous will enjoy the world perfected, living in peace and harmony.”
Jori replied, “I know you don’t think much of the Red Swords, but what you say of your religion is not dissimilar from what the Red Prophet taught us. When do you believe this final battle will take place?”
“We do not know, and it is forbidden to name a date,” Sir Ako said. “Some time, in the future. But the war against the Black Terror and his minions is ever present. I don’t know if the monks of Eston are servants of Naktam or not. Even people who seek to do good sometimes end up doing evil. In Kelten, more than a few who claimed to work for Sho’Ash were judged later to have been servants of the Black Terror. After all, who admits they follow evil?”
Three monks approached them as they stood talking. Judging from their robes, Jori guessed these were priors; one of them, an older man with a thin face, looked like an abbot’s aide. The man caught Jori’s gaze and stared at him with a perfectly neutral expression. He knows who I am, Jori suddenly thought. Had he met this man before? He didn’t think so, but he had met thousands of men and didn’t remember all of them.
The thin-faced monk said, “Please follow us. Our abbot, Bright Peak, wishes to meet with you.”
Sir Ako agreed. It was hardly reasonable to say no, even though this was not part of the plan.
As they walked down and then up to the northwest section of the karst, Jori’s mind spun with alternatives. Deny? Demand? Accuse? Accept? Number Eight had suggested he put on a more careful disguise, or if not that, then stay behind at the base. But no, Jori had wanted to come; he craved the excitement, the risk. Pulling the saber cat’s whiskers, as the old expre
ssion had it. He would just have to improvise and trust his luck. Where had Number Eight gone? He hadn’t seen his spymaster since just before the top of the stairs. Presumably, Number Eight was out contacting his agents, but where?
Abbot Bright Peak met them in the garden of his house, an exquisite home of flowers and hedges, carefully tended by several monks without so much as a single leaf withered or a branch unpruned. The abbot, a little older than River Reed and with a sly and shifting glance, held in one hand a set of beads carved from brilliant yellow amber. His robe was a vivid shade of green-yellow, and its only decoration was a set of five interlocking circles sewn above his heart. Jori recognized this symbol—it indicated the abbot claimed spiritual authority over all the followers of Eston within the province. It was probably true, Jori admitted to himself.
For some time, the abbot contented himself with trivia about the knights’ journey upriver and seemingly pointless questions about Omot, which Filpa answered with ease. Jori found it increasingly hard to restrain himself, but time was on his side, not the monks of Flame Iris. After an hour, another prior came up to the abbot and whispered in his ear. After this, the abbot’s voice lost its singsong quality and became more direct.
Addressing Jori, the abbot said. “I wonder at your presence here, Governor. What brings you here, at this time? You have closed monasteries throughout Kunhalvar, forced thousands of monks to renounce their spiritual lives, and taken land, food, and furnishings that was dedicated to Holy Eston’s use. What can you hope to gain by coming here with your Knights of Serica? I strongly doubt you are here to ask for forgiveness.”
Jori’s mind settled on one choice; all the other ideas fell aside in an instant as he spoke with calm confidence. “I am Arch-governor Vaina, ruler of Kunhalvar and Zelkat, and I am here to take possession of the Last Chancellor’s treasure, held here in the Flame Iris Temple for eighty-seven years.”
There was a gasp from the prior who had just delivered the message to the Abbot Bright Peak, but Jori noted the abbot betrayed only a flicker of emotion.
“Your power has grown, Governor, but you do not yet control Torsihad, to say nothing of the other nine provinces of Serica. You say we have this treasure of the Water Kingdom, but if we did, why would we give it to you?”
“My rule will extend across all of Torsihad within six months, as you well know. Kisvar will submit to my authority before the end of summer. Next, Vasvar will fall, and with it Buuk. After that, it is only a matter of time before I am king of all Serica. It is therefore obvious why you must do what I want, when I want. And I want the treasure now.”
Abbot Bright Peak closed his eyes. Only his tight grip on his amber beads betrayed any emotion. The garden was silent; the gardeners had all withdrawn out of sight. The late-afternoon sun illuminated only the top of the wall on the eastern side. Jori stood there, outwardly relaxed. Inside, he was a still point amid a whirling tornado of ideas and speculation, plans and counterplans.
Suddenly the abbot’s eyes snapped open. He said, “How did you find out? This has been a secret known to very few. Who told you?”
Jori liked Bright Peak’s admission and didn’t see the harm in telling him the truth. “Abbot River Reed of the Temple of Noon in Tokolas revealed it to me. He recognized that I will be the king of Serica.”
“River Reed? River Reed of the Temple of Noon? Who is that?” For a few heartbeats, the abbot’s eyes darted among the knights gathered before him, searching for clues. “Oh. So that’s where Moss Pond escaped…ended up. In Tokolas, with a new name. I’m not surprised he became an abbot. He always was good at pretending an aura of holiness.”
Jori thought to himself: If you see him again, that will be the last person you will see in this incarnation.
Abbot Bright Peak continued, “Since Moss Pond told you about the treasure, obviously he also told you where it is. So there is no use pretending it’s not here. Would you like to see it? It is very beautiful. I had some of the gold taken out of the chests and stacked. It still has the same luster as it did when it was melted into ingots. In the light of a dozen oil lamps, the gold has an indescribable effect on the soul. Why, I believe a monk who meditated in its presence would rapidly attain perfect understanding of Eston’s teachings.”
Jori did want to see the treasure—he had been dreaming about it for weeks. How big was the treasure? Could he pay off the salt notes? Could he build a fleet bigger than Vasvar’s? Could he double the size of his army? Launch a new offensive this summer? After a struggle, he resisted the temptation. “We will wait,” Jori told the abbot.
“Wait? Wait for what?” the abbot said. “Ahhh. There are more coming. I should have guessed. We discovered a pilgrim nosing around where he shouldn’t have been this morning. He belongs to you, no doubt. That explains the curious number of visitors who really do not know much about Eston.”
Despite himself, Jori was impressed. He’d assumed the abbot of Flame Iris would be a man like Abbot Oakheart, skilled in the political infighting that was the bread and rice of a monastery but ignorant of how the game was played in the real world outside monastery walls. But this abbot was savvier than Oakheart, well informed about the outside world, and sharp minded. Also, this meant that Bright Peak was more dangerous than Jori had guessed. Potentially a valuable ally or a deadly foe.
“What do you think of Abbot Oakheart of the Water Moon Temple?” Jori asked. It was a question with several layers of meaning.
“He is, by all accounts, a worthy head of that great temple. He and I have exchanged letters over the years. At least I think they were written by Oakheart. But, of course, you have seen him far more recently than I have.” Switching topics without a noticeable pause, the abbot said, “Like Water Moon, you will leave Flame Iris alone even as you close smaller monasteries. You, Governor, never officially came here and thus didn’t take anything from here. We never had the Last Chancellor’s gold in the first place. Your new wealth was most likely found in the old palace of Kemeklos.”
“Then we understand one another,” Jori said to him evenly, as though they were discussing the chances of rain. “Remember, Bright Peak, you have no authority over the temples and monasteries in Kunhalvar.”
“I never said I did. The grand master for the province of Kunhalvar is Brother Whitewing. He lives in Tokolas, does he not?”
“So it is said, but age has crippled him, and his aides admit no visitors. For all I know, Brother Whitewing’s soul has transmigrated already, and his aides retain power by inventing words out of silence.”
“That would be wrong of them.”
“It has happened before,” Jori replied.
“I am confident that Brother Whitewing lives. Would you like to see my—I mean, the abbot’s house before the evening meal? You may appreciate some of the art even if your companions do not.”
Jori said, “You will be eating with us.”
“Of course,” Bright Peak replied as though he never considered any alternative. “The master of prayers will preside over the chants in the great hall tonight. My presence will not be missed. In truth, being abbot here is more of a ceremonial position. My chief of staff keeps things running smoothly, just as the wheel carried the cart that Eston rode on in his later days when he spread the words of truth.”
Jori didn’t believe Bright Peak for one second.
Inside the abbot’s spacious house there were ancient scrolls, screens of the finest art, and a few statues of Eston carved from marble and decorated with delicate traceries of gold filigree.
Bright Peak directed his words to Lord Vaina. “I can tell you that a few of these came from the treasure below. It seemed a terrible waste to have them lying in boxes in the dark when they could be brought up here and appreciated. They are some of the greatest works Serice craftsmen ever produced, and no one has made anything like them since that time. Yes, the treasure below is not just gold and silver. There a
re many wonders to behold, and some of the loveliest pieces are not suitable for an abbot’s residence so they’ve remained hidden, unseen for nearly a hundred years.”
Jori knew the abbot was tempting him, and he did want to see the treasure. He kept reminding himself that everything would be brought to his palace in Tokolas. He could inspect the artwork then, with his learned experts at his side to point out the subtle details in each painting and artifact. Naturally, they would, ever so subtly, point out to him what an ill-educated man he was for not knowing the stories and backgrounds alluded to in the artwork and the hidden meaning contained in the images of birds and plants and even the shapes of clouds. Jori sighed in exasperation, anticipating the slights he was sure to endure.
At dinner, the food bore no relation to the type of meals he remembered from the Yellow Dragon. For the abbot and his guests, Bright Peak’s cooks created dish after dish of varied vegetables and fruits with spices and flavors that smelled and tasted marvelous. Abbot Bright Peak ate with gusto. Jori couldn’t figure out how Bright Peak could poison them under the circumstances; nonetheless, he exactly copied the abbot in the food he ate, and the same quantities.
During the meal, Abbot Bright Peak pointed out one bowl, a magnificent creation of bright yellow with no other adornment. When Jori picked it up, he was amazed at how light it felt; from its weight, he would have guessed the material was lacquered silk, but no, it was Serica-glass, of such a pure color that it held him spellbound for few seconds. Bright Peak caught his eye and pointed down, indicating it came from the treasure below.
After dinner, they drank hot water, not tea. “We aren’t like those stick-breaking monasteries in Godalo,” the abbot explained. Jori understood the abbot’s reference to the unusual version of Eston worship followed in the coastal provinces where the worshippers were famous for drinking copious amounts of tea and breaking sticks over the monks’ shoulders unexpectedly in the midst of meditation.
The Flame Iris Temple Page 24