As the evening progressed, the Keltens were increasingly on edge. Jori felt the tension as well. Bright Peak’s geniality seemed ever more forced. Finally, after night had fallen and the shutters were closed against the chilly mountain air, one of the abbot’s aides came in and started to whisper in Bright Peak’s ear.
The abbot said, “Tell our guests the news, as I suspect it concerns them.”
“Venerable Abbot and honored guests, a group of unknown men are coming up the great stairs. They are armed for battle and carry small oil lamps. What are your orders?”
“Those are my men,” Jori said. “They will cause no harm unless violence is offered. Nothing above ground will be touched.”
Bright Peak held his hands out, palms up. “This is a place of peace. As Eston teaches, evil is the fate of those who let hate fill their souls. Have the night watch direct these visitors to the great hall when they reach the top.”
“The great hall? Why?” Jori asked.
“That is where the stairs into the deep cavern are located. Shall we go see it now?”
Jori nodded. The plan was proceeding smoothly. The abbot’s aide withdrew as the abbot draped a heavy cloak around his body and spoke, almost to himself: “The Last Chancellor entrusted his treasure to us only temporarily. It never belonged to the Flame Iris Temple. Only the elect will ever know it was here.”
Outside the abbot’s house, the wind blew bitter cold. Behind him, the knights grumbled, for they had been wearing armor all day, and it chafed. Only Sandun seemed immune to life’s vicissitudes. As was his wont, Sandun had merely tasted the food; only the plain hot water gained his favor, and of that he had drunk several cups. Jori had known only a few monks who ate less than Sandun, and they had been attempting to eliminate the pleasures of the flesh through rigorous fasting.
Few monks were outside; they hurried past without words, their robes flapping.
“Most monks are at their nightly meditation, and the pilgrims who are staying the night are in the dormitory, praying or sleeping,” the abbot explained to no one in particular.
The great hall turned out to be a building they had passed earlier in the day. Unimpressive from the outside, inside it was much larger, apparently partially excavated from the rock below. Many stone columns held the roof up, but there were no interior walls, just moveable screens. A few monks were sweeping the floor, their twig brooms making a dry scratching noise that echoed into the near silence.
A priest dressed in a robe decorated with interlocking wheels approached as their group neared the rear of the building. He looked about Jori’s age, with a serious mien. “Abbot,” the man said.
“Prayer Master,” replied Bright Peak. “We are going into the cavern below. Find lamps and accompany us.”
The prayer master bowed and snapped his fingers. Lamps were found, and he led the way to a partition in the rear, where a small stairway went down to a room one-tenth the size of the room above. This room was filled with old prayer mats, screens, stacks of paper, and four or five large crates that smelled like salted fish.
Two monks took down a silk hanging, uncovering a door; they pushed it open, and air whistled through the crack. The whistle changed to a moan as the door was forced wider. On the other side were wooden stairs and blackness. Jori somehow could tell that the darkness concealed a large space, and he felt a strange sensation: fear.
Abbot Bright Peak commanded the prayer master: “You will accompany us down to the chamber of statues.” From an inner pouch, the abbot pulled out a piece of flat metal shaped like a knife blade without the handle. “You have your key?”
The prayer master searched within his robe and then produced a piece of metal that looked like the one the abbot held. The abbot said, “We shall now descend. Follow me.”
Feeling both fear and a strong desire to show no fear, Jori took one of the lamps and said loudly, “Lead on! Darkness does not scare me!” With his left hand, he reached up and touched his chest armor; under it, he knew, the glowing Kelten orb was still there, hanging around his neck, and right now he wanted the assurance of its magic.
At first, the stairs they descended were made of wood, old beams that creaked and shifted slightly as the heavy knights followed the abbot down. Jori noted that the wooden beams supporting the stairs were thick and set into holes in the cavern wall. Looking down, he could see nothing below, and the far side of the cavern appeared at least one hundred feet away.
“What is this place?” Jori asked Bright Peak. He tried hard to suppress the tremor in his voice. He was not afraid of darkness or empty space!
“We call this the Eighth Void. I’m sure you know why.”
Jori understood the meaning. In the eight-spoke wheel, the last gap between the spokes of nonthinking and balanced thought was often called the eighth or final void.
The abbot continued, “Discovered long ago, this space has been used for many purposes over the years. But most proved unsatisfactory. Those who stayed down here to meditate soon grew sick or became mad, talking of voices that no one else could hear. And after heavy rains, water seeps from the stone walls, ruining perishable items and unprotected wood. Since we know this, we take adequate precautions.”
Jori could tell; there was a dampness in the air and the stairs, for some distance, had changed to stone, carved from the side of the cavern.
“How deep is this?” Sir Ako’s voice rumbled back at them, echoing from the cavern walls.
“Twenty-two spears from the top to the bottom,” the abbot said, turning to look back at the knights following them. “We are near the end now. Go carefully—the stairs here can be quite slippery.” But just as the abbot said this, he seemed to lose his balance and slipped. With a cry of pain, he fell down several stairs. His lamp flew from his hands and clattered down stone steps; the fire went out.
“I’m all right,” Bright Peak said after a few seconds. “Not the first time I’ve warned against a danger only to fall victim to that same danger shortly after.”
Jori carefully edged down to the fallen abbot, feeling acutely how his boots seemed to have little traction on the damp and slimy stone. He found the abbot sitting on the ground at the foot of the stairs, massaging his left knee. The flesh below his left kneecap was discolored and already starting to swell, but it wasn’t bleeding. Around him on the sandy floor were many shapes, most wrapped in dark canvas and tied with old ropes: stone carvings of wheels, Eston heads, hands, square tablets, and other icons of the faith. In the dim light from the oil lamps it felt eerie, a bit like the strange graveyards of Buuklos where all the tombs were above ground.
The prayer master found the abbot’s oil lamp and, after he lit it, he silently handed his own lamp to Bright Peak. At the time, Jori thought nothing of that decision. The abbot stood up gingerly and motioned the prayer master to guide the way. The prayer master, holding the abbot’s lamp high, moved across the floor, threading his way between the unmoving shapes.
Jori could imagine storing partially carved stones down here, or projects of long-dead monks, or representations of Eston’s theology that were no longer considered proper. But what other things would be stored here in such an inaccessible location? Aside from a treasure that the leaders of Flame Iris clearly kept out of view of nearly everyone.
Of course, Abbot River Reed had described the location of the treasure, but hearing his words was nothing at all like descending the cave into utter blackness and seeing these ominous shapes, like the bodies of dead ancestors wrapped in heavy cloth and buried in clan tombs. The Keltens seemed unaffected by the descent, as though they had been to places like this before. They were made of steel, and he had to be as well.
The prayer master halted before the cavern wall. As Jori examined the stone, an outline of a door gradually became apparent. They were not quite opposite from the base of the stairs and standing behind a large stack of stone slabs laid flat on th
e ground. Clearly these slabs had been placed here deliberately to conceal a view of the doorway. He doubted he would have paid any attention to this section of the wall if the prayer master had not stood there, waiting with a fixed expression for the abbot to join them.
Bright Peak limped up to the waiting knights and leaned against the oddly smooth rock wall, breathing heavily. Taking the metal knife-key out, he held it up, staring meaningfully at the prayer master. With his left hand, he pushed at a nondescript piece of the wall; it rotated up, revealing a keyhole. The prayer master did the same to his section of the door. On the count of three, the two men inserted the keys and twisted them. Jori was impressed; he had never seen any locking mechanism as sophisticated as this before, and he had seen a great many locked chests and doors since he had become the governor of Kunhalvar.
The prayer master pushed on the door and it, reluctantly, with a faint grinding noise, opened. Their oil lamps revealed a corridor sloping down steeply. The prayer master broke his long silence as he led the way down. “Flame Iris is a very ancient temple, and it has not always been dedicated to the teachings of Eston. Many of the old statues were broken or recarved when Eston’s teachings triumphed, but some were kept safe, though out of sight. They have guarded this place for centuries, here in the heart of the karst. Behold the great Mafena, savior of the world!”
The prayer master stepped into a room the size of a large house. There were fifteen or twenty statues around the perimeter, but the one in the center commanded all the attention. From the hips upward, the figure was a naked woman holding an ancient spike-sword in one hand and a rose in the other. The lower half of her body was covered in scales, like a snake or a dragon. The statue, some twelve feet tall, shone like gold and was astonishingly beautiful. Beside Jori, Sandun chuckled as though something in the artist’s depiction amused him. Jori was filled with wonder: the sword and the rose were symbols of the Mavana, yet the Mavana, the goddess of the Red Swords, was never depicted as half snake.
As he walked around the golden figure, he heard a faint grinding noise coming down the passage. That was the sound the door made when it had opened! And where was Abbot Bright Peak? He was not in the chamber of statues.
Jori raced back up the corridor only to see the door closing; from the other side, he heard the abbot’s taunting words: “Now the well is in the bucket!”
Jori dropped his lamp and put on a burst of speed, but the door closed before he reached it, and he felt the vibration of the locking mechanism falling into place as he tried to push on the door with all his strength, to no avail.
“Seize the prayer master!” Jori called out. “He must know how to get out of here!” While three knights pushed vainly at the stone door, Jori ran back down the corridor and approached the prayer master, who was on his knees with Sir Ako holding a dagger to his neck.
“How do we get out!” Jori demanded. He had been played for a fool by the abbot and could barely hold his fury in check.
The prayer master shook his head. “There is no way to unlock the door from the inside. Only the chief of staff and the master of discipline have keys.” Taking the key from around his neck, he held it out to Jori. “Take it if you like. But I suggest you use these last minutes to reflect on your misdeeds and pray for Eston’s mercy that you will be reborn as a better person in your next life.”
“Pah! I’m not going to die here,” Jori retorted. “My men will find this place and open the door. I’ve had spies here for days. But tell me, is the treasure here? These statues are valuable, no doubt, but the last chancellor didn’t bring these with him to the Flame Iris Temple.”
“If you wish to spend your last minutes of life gazing on gold and silver, I pity you. But, yes, the treasure is here, on the far side of that stele.” The prayer master pointed at a large rectangular piece of carved green stone.
Jori strode over to the stele. Words were carved on it, some of which he recognized. No doubt this was one of the heretical books of Eston. On the far side was a small tunnel, heading upward, though not steeply. Piled on both sides of the tunnel were bars, ingots of gold and tarnished silver. Small, heavy chests were stacked on top of each other; they looked just like the chests in his own treasury, used to transport gold and silver from one town to another. Loose coins covered the floor as far back as his lamp illuminated. Behind him, Sandun whistled.
“The treasure is real,” Sandun said. “But what’s that noise?”
Jori heard the noise also, a curious grating sound. It seemed to be coming from behind them.
“Over here!” Basil was pointing at a statue made of dark metal, in the shape of a triatismas, one of the demonic enemies of Eston. Unlike the other statues, this figure was not free standing but was built into the wall. A thin trickle of water was coming out of one of the rectangular holes that lined the base of the glowering figure. The grinding noise continued, and the volume of water coming out increased rapidly. Soon it was gushing out, covering the floor of the chamber.
Suddenly Jori understood. “It’s a valve. That bastard abbot is opening a value and releasing water into this room! He is going to try and drown us all!”
Sandun closed his eyes and held his hand up in the air. A muffled rumbling noise came to them. Jori had no idea what had caused the sound but after it ended, the grating noise could no longer be heard, though the noise from the water had perhaps already drowned it out.
“Abbot Bright Peak is dead,” Sandun announced. “But we still need to find a way to stop the flow of water and break down the door.”
Sir Ako issued orders to the knights as everyone took off their armor. Jori watched as the strongest knights attempted to pry the door open with their weapons, but their swords bent or snapped, leaving the door unmoved. Other knights attempted to block up the water, but that effort was equally fruitless, for the pressure of the water was intense and there was no leverage, no way to keep any of the torn clothing in place. Jets of water spurted out from many openings in the statue: the eyes, the mouth, the top of the head. The water couldn’t be stopped with what they had. In addition, the water was bitterly cold and seemed to suck the very life out of the men as they struggled to stop up the holes.
The prayer master sat silently with his back to the great statue of the Mafena goddess. The water was nearly up to his neck and rising fast.
“Aren’t you going to move to higher ground?” Jori asked the monk. As he said it, Jori wondered why he cared. The prayer master had almost certainly known the abbot would try to kill them all. The fact that the monk was prepared to die with them shouldn’t have made Jori feel differently about the man, but it did.
“This body does not matter,” the monk replied with a carefully controlled voice. “This life is unimportant. My soul has passed through countless incarnations before. One more is of no consequence. All that matters is breaking the cycle of rebirth.”
Jori’s rage and fear boiled up, and he punched the monk in the face. “Your soul is damned! You led us here, knowing the abbot was going to try to trap and drown us! You think heaven will judge you blameless for this? By rights I should kill you now, assassin, but I won’t. Consider the ways you have failed to follow Eston’s teachings in the final minutes of your life.”
Jori turned and waded out of the chamber, up the corridor to the blocked door. The knights were still hammering away at the rock door with bits and pieces of broken stone. The remains of several shattered statues lay in the corridor. They had tried to use three of the statues as battering rams, but the figures had been made for beauty and were of no use against the solid door.
They all turned to look at him as he came up holding the glowing Kelten orb in his hand. Their faces were greenish in the orb’s light, and he half expected them to be angry or scared and to blame him as he blamed himself. But, no, the looks on their faces were hopeful. They expected him to lead them out of this danger. The Keltens had fought for him on the No
rthern Campaign and trusted him, even now. He wondered if he deserved their faith. This had been a massive failure, and the blame was squarely on his shoulders. If he had just waited for a few hours, Bright Peak would never have dared to spring this trap. Jori would remember this failure, like the others that he never talked about, for the rest of his life.
“The water is rising,” Sir Ako told him grimly. “It is said when ships sink in lakes, sometimes air pockets remain for hours. We sing a song about a sailor who didn’t drown when his ship sank as he hid in one of those lucky spaces for a day underwater. Eventually your soldiers or Frostel’s men will find us and break down the door—it’s just a question of time. At least this is the highest ground.”
“The treasure corridor slopes upward as well,” Jori told him. “Perhaps the flooding waters will not reach the end of that tunnel either?”
The other knights who had tried to block the gushing water soon joined them, struggling up the passage from the nearly submerged room, shivering with cold. Sumetar was on her knees, chanting a prayer to Temo Tio.
Basil said something rather loudly in Kelten and then repeated it in Serice: “If I had my stone-cutter knife, we would have no problem! How sad that Kagne never gave it back to me.” The other Keltens all nodded in agreement.
“What do you mean?” Jori asked Basil. “You had a knife that could cut through stone?”
“I did. A gift of the…Junithoy. Kagne took it, rescued Sandun, and then didn’t return it.”
The idea that one of the Keltens had a stone-cutter knife and had never used it or mentioned it to anyone was so absurd that Jori had to laugh. King Banatar the Great had traded an entire palace for a stone cutter! That knife had been added to the regalia of the Gold Kingdom and ceremoniously worn by more than dozen later kings. These Keltens seemingly had no conception of how valuable a stone cutter was.
As he laughed, something that had been bothering him for the last few minutes crystalized in his thoughts. Where was the water coming from? From above, obviously—water runs downhill. But they were close to the top of the karst. This was certainly rainwater, stored in some large reservoir. But would the abbots of Flame Iris drain their drinking water to kill people who found the treasure chamber? It seemed absurd. Everyone would wonder where the water had gone, and the treasure room would not stay a secret if that happened. No, this water must have been stored in the stairway that he had read about in the old book which he had borrowed from the Great Sage Temple. The description of Flame Iris Temple mentioned a fissure that went nearly straight down into a chamber. After the monks carved the fissure into a spiral stairway, the chamber was used for meditation. At the end of the section, the author had written: “Just a few years ago, the monks discovered a much larger chamber close by which is said to be a vast empty room of darkness.”
The Flame Iris Temple Page 25