by Scott Rhine
“We’re all ears,” said Sarajah.
“No, just the boy,” insisted Simon. “He’s the pure one. Only he’s fit to judge.”
The seeress looked offended, but recovered quickly. “I’ll wait outside, then. The rain has stopped, and I could do with some fresh air.”
Simon nodded and told the steward to grant her free access on the estate grounds. As they prepared to share the tale, no one in the study noticed Sarajah taking the backpack from the foyer on her way out.
Sophia, the Mistress of the Manor, left the study, closing the door quietly behind her. She knew the story well and wasn’t eager to relive it. Worse, she feared the looks of horror and revulsion on Brent’s face. She had waited four cycles for this day, twenty-eight years. Every year, the weight grew heavier, the burden more impossible. But she couldn’t bear to listen to the evidence, the condemnation. Instead, Sophia sat vigil in the dining hall, like a woman on trial waiting for the judge to return from deliberation. Even in this extreme, she directed the staff in laying out the linen tablecloths and good silver for this week’s formal dinner. No one suspected anything was amiss, except for the new wash woman.
In the study, the master of the manor sat next to the boy and spoke in a hoarse, hushed tone. Simon’s shoulders were slumped, “Thank you for hearing me out. It’s not Sophia’s fault. She’s the lone innocent in all of this, the one shining light in a cesspool. You have to believe that.”
Brent felt a moment of pity, but squashed it. “You agreed to tell me a story, sir.”
“It is difficult to speak of those days,” began the architect.
“Is it restrictions on the secrets written on the Foundations?”
Simon snorted. “I’m not bound by such. My problem is the pain, the shame, and not knowing where to start.”
“Tell me about how you met your wife.”
The architect paused. “Her father was a gifted builder who never refused a challenge. She was a tomboy who worked with him. I was friends with her for a month before I even knew she was a girl.” Simon smiled as he remembered, his eyes far away. “She’s been my best friend ever since.”
“Your father y probleided stone for large projects. Your families worked on the Final Temple together,” Brent deduced.
Simon narrowed his eyes. “The cursed place did play a role in bringing us together and has cast a shadow over our lives ever since. I appreciate your perceptive skills, lad. But please allow me to tell this at my own pace. It’s been many years since I have pulled a barbed hook from my skin. This is not only her story, but my own.” Brent dipped his head in agreement.
“I’ll begin with the impersonal. The Final Temple was to be the greatest and most ambitious of them all. Great thinkers from all over gathered to create a haven that united part of all the arms of the Traveler church under one roof. The foremost of these sages, the order that owned the land, were the Healers. For them, the Temple would be the home of the greatest infirmary man had ever known. The mineral spas of the mountain pass would provide refreshment and invigoration for any infirm person who could make the pilgrimage. While resting in this tranquil valley, the Healers would treat them for free. Indeed, the dream was almost completed when the Great Silence fell.
“What good is a messenger for a god who refuses to speak? Without their words of power to deliver to kings, the followers of the Traveler were nothing. They had no money to finish their temple and no way to defend themselves from the Kiateran tribes. So they began to sell their treatments to old, rich men, just to have the money to remain open for the poor, sick people. It’s easy to slip into a mineshaft; you just walk on the shale littering the slope.
“Their order always pushed the boundaries and found ways to extend the lives of these powerful, rich men longer than anyone thought possible. The first thing the order did upon becoming wealthy was to recruit soldiers like the sheriffs to protect their temple from the Kings and from those who would steal their secrets. They restored peace to a bandit-ridden region, and then they slowly revived the project to rebuild and even expand the Great Infirmary. War brought famine to the region, so few hardy traders braved those mountain passes. Often people agreed to do the backbreaking stone moving for food and a warm place to sleep. Our families were lured in near the conclusion of this project. The plans had evolved significantly over the decades, and two previous architects had died in the construction. Sophia’s father was the only one in the civilized world who could finish it for them. Gods damn the fool, he did just that.
“The Left Hand, a small but important sect, wanted to know why the Traveler had stopped speaking. It was only natural to wonder. I suppose discovering the reason might have been the key to restoring their former glory. I think the Healers were so old and corrupted themselves by then that they were getting desperate. It all began as the exploitation of an obscure passage in the Final Book of the Traveler about sendings. It was a euphemism we never understood until it was too late. You see, the Traveler wasn’t the only way to get a message to the gods. In this remote place where the eternal touched the earth, the altar itself was built over a hole to other places.
“It was a cold, black pit, covered all but a hand’s breadth by the huge, round stone. It was a crack in the world where we could hear the wind from the next one howling. Those who stared too long into this gap in reality could go mad. This inner sanctum was guarded at all times by members of the Left Hand.”
Simon closed his eyes. “On this nightmarish border, newly deceased could carry a message to the Halls of Eternity. A small parchment with a message could be sent to the gods if placed in the mouth of a dying man. At the instant of crossing, the parchment vanished in a bright glow, like a star in the sky. It was meant to be part of a funeral service for the members of the order who passed. In the end, they perverted even the sacred.
“At first, the victims were bandit chiefs and murderers sentenced to death. Soon thieves were tried and executed in secret. Gradually, the level of offense necessary for a Sending grew lower and lower. The construction crew had no idea; I thought they just had a low crime rate near churches. Soon vagrancy, or even being a foreigner, became grounds for selection. Sometimes sounds came from the hole during these ceremonies or the ground would shake. The Left Hand determined that the Traveler had a higher affinity for such people and the strength of the message must therefore have been higher. If they met certain interesting criteria, even strangers enjoying the hospitality of the order would be kidnapped in the dead of night.
“When the temple was finished, the workmen were rounded up in a big celebration. Sophia’s father was sacrificed first. He knew too many secrets about their precious building. As children, we were kept in the basement while they worked their way through our friends and family. Sacrifices were always done at twilight, the moment the sun left the sky but before the light faded. It’s the most potent time for the Sending ritual. The Left Hand experimented with the method of execution to see if it too had a bearing on the intensity of the Sending. The last adult on the crew died by burning. This not only ruined the parchment, but interfered with the devices used to measure the ghost light.
“Then they got creative.” Simon began to cry. “We could hear them reading the list of methods, trying to decide which one should be tried next. I was chained closest to the door and would be chosen to die next. I broke down. Sophia sat next to me, still dressed as a boy. Maybe they wouldn’t have taken a girl if they had known. We were both orphans and both scheduled to die in horrible ways. She comforted me. And when the killers came to our cell, she asked to be taken first.”
Simon grabbed Brent by the wrist. “She wanted to save me, even if for another day. If you find someone who’d do that for you, never leave them.” Here he paused to regain his composure.
“I don’t know the details, but whatever they did heated up the altar metal enough to brand the patterns into Sophia’s back. I could hear her and the wind screaming from my cell. The very walls shook. Then the bastards
got what they wanted. The light blinded those closest. The pit opened all the way and swallowed her whole.”
Simon had to wait until he stopped shaking before he could continue. “Those present spent some time debating what the critical variable had been in the procedure. Meanwhile, Sophia reached the cursed Traveler with their blasted question. He did something he’d never done before.”
“He sent back the Answer,” whispered the boy.
“Sophia came back. But they weren’t paying attention. So she did what any sane person would do. She ran! Sophia dashed back to the basement and opened as many cells as she could. There were only a handful of children left. We grabbed torches and any weapons we could. I carried a fire poker. Since she’d helped her father so often, Sophia led the way out through the maze by ways I hadn’t imagined. She took us by way of the unfinished crypts.”
A cold shiver ran down the man’s back. Brent closed his eyes and visualized the model. He spoke more quietly, as if from a distance. “Thho’d dole time, my Sophia refused to speak. Words burned and twisted inside her wanting to be born. She fought against the words, wanting our safety above all else.”
The story was like a loose tooth, not wanting to come out too soon because of the pain, but needing to. “The priests knew something was wrong by then and sent someone down to check. Alarms went out. A single guard caught us by the iron gates. The last child had passed. Two other guards were in sight, running straight at us. I couldn’t delay or we were all lost. I did something I’d never done before because I had no choice.”
The words came out one at a time until silence wrapped them.
Brent held his hand and whispered. “You killed him.”
The architect shook his head. “I wish it were so, lad. His momentum added to the weight of my blow, but his armor deflected my aim from the heart and it went through the lung instead. The blow was still mortal but not immediately so. Then came her scream.
“My weapon was stuck fast so I left it and fled out the gate. The man folded and lay dying with blood frothing from his lips. Then, my love spoke, unable to contain the words any longer. She stood on the boundary of the temple and the graves. Her voice was older and filled the space as if she were a choir in the loft. Her proclamation will haunt her till the end of her days. It was the wrong place and worse word choice, but the spirits infused her speech with miracle power. ‘By the will of the Traveler, no more people shall die in this temple.’
“All of us stared as the man on the floor slowly stood again to his feet. The bastard was reaching for Sophia, but she was paralyzed by her mistake. I swept her over my shoulders and ran as the guards examined their comrade in amazement. They took out the poker but no blood gushed forth. I ran through the tunnels and up the stairs. Soon the guards clambered after. The injured guard remained alive until he crossed the boundary line. The second he left the temple grounds, he fell over, bleeding from the mouth and chest. When the children shot their arrows, only one man made it back to the other side of the gate. He rushed back to tell the priests of their good fortune.”
Brent’s mouth formed a small ‘o.’ “She wanted to stop the murders but accidentally made her killers immortal. But only inside that building.”
The architect nodded. “Now you see why she’s reluctant to speak.”
Chapter 26 – What Now?
Sarajah had to escape. But with the Viper hunting her and no powe
rs, she didn’t know any of Zariah’s contacts who’d help. Oddly enough, she considered Jotham as one of the few people qualified to give her advice. Conflicted, she ran back to the group.
Jotham sat by the fire reading the Book of Dominion. His face was rapt. The historian turned the pages using a cuttlebone letter-opener so that his fingers didn’t stain or damage the ancient document.
Boys and their toys, she thought, shaking her head. “Learning how to build a catapult? Sandarac loved that lesson.”
“No, I just figured out who the anonymous author of the book is!” he blurted, holding the cuttlebone up like a toy flag at a sporting event.
“Good for you,” she said, dripping sarcasm. “You’re oicially qualified to be emperor.”
Jotham shook his head. “No, I’m short two fingers and two testicles for that.”
“That’s not stopping Sandarac. Besides, you seem to be able to change your appearance with magic.”
Unable to refute either argument, Jotham changed tactics. “Why are you back so soon? And where did you get that outfit? It’s a little . . . clingy.”
She looked down at her newly displayed curves. “Yeah, this is the tamest clothing Jolia had.”
“Did the architect expel you, too?”
“No, Brent’s convinced that Simon’s young wife is your precious Answer.”
Jotham dropped the cuttlebone. He was so still and silent, she was afraid the priest was suffering an attack of sorts. When she moved forward to shake him, he snapped out of his trance. The eunuch hopped backward to avoid her touch.
“I’m not going to give you the plague. I was trying to help. Don’t worry; I won’t make that mistake again,” she said.
“Nobody can. I have to save all my virtue for the spell,” he squeaked, barely audible.
“What spell?”
“All my students have surpassed me, spoken with the greats—correcting my assumptions.”
She scoffed. “Boo hoo. For the kid’s sake, I gave you the message. But we have a serious problem: Jolia and I encountered one of the Viper’s spies.”
“Oh dear, I do hope you didn’t hurt him too badly,” said Jotham.
“I left him tied up in the concubine’s room. Thank you for your concern.” Sarajah leaned closely as if to whisper in his ear, and then shouted, “There’s a death warrant out on me!”
“You’re distressed,” he said mildly, rubbing his ear.
“The Viper is trying to kill me. He must know I’m not the daughter of the dragon anymore. I know too much, and he’s trying to clean up loose ends.” She started pacing.
“Don’t be too hasty. The Pretender probably has nothing to do with this. The Viper only knows you’ve been stripped of your handmaidens and your powers, and wishes to strike while you’re weak. He wants to blame the sheriff for your fall and to nominate one of his puppets for the empty council seat.”
“So I just make a public appearance, and I’m safe.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
Her eyes flashed, and she widened her stance for a fight. “You are not my master. No man is!”
“Why do you hate men so? You must learn to forgive.”
“You’re never had them chain you up and rape you.”
“Actually, I have. There were no women in Tor Mardun.”
Sarajah opened her mouth, but said nothing for a moment. “I stand corrected. But there are things about me you don’t know. I hunger for life-force like an addict who wants one more dose.”
“It will take time. You’ll overcome it. You’ll become yourself again.”
“I don’t know who that is anymore.”
“The magic chain will keep you safe until you do,” the priest insisted.
“I’ve already broken your precious chain!” Sarajah shouted. “I tried to drain the spy. I’m dangerous!” Her breathing was ragged. “I held the sheriff in the palm of my hand when I met him at the river. He’d have done anything to be with me, with Alana again. I can’t be trusted with that kind of power.”
“You’re stronger than you realize. We can start with exercises that will help to center you . . .”
She wanted to shake him, make him see. “I’m not here to learn relaxation. I’m here to decide whether I turn you all over to the Pretender, or even kill you myself. Can you think of one reason why I should help you? You all hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, and neither does the boy, nor the sheriff,” Jotham said. “Either would die to protect you. Tashi treats you like a Brotherhood recruit because he doesn’t know how else to
interact. Right now, you’re a wounded wild animal who needs my help. You might bite me, but I won’t hold it against you.”
“I’m not a dog or a pack mule. I’m a woman and a sensitive. I’ve seen a great deal of secrets during my imprisonment and know more than any other mortal about the hunting practices of the Dawn creatures. The leaders of the world would beg for my wisdom.”
“You’d serve Sandarac?”
“I could. I have nothing to fear from him, but also little to gain unless he wins his little war.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t want to traipse around lost in the woods with you all,” she snapped.
“You need protection and instruction.”
“Somehow I doubt travel with you will be safe.”
“You’re a spiritual void, asking to be filled.”
“Yes, I’m the Hungry Ghost,” she admitted. “You made me that.”
Tatters stood up from where he had been crouching at the edge of the woods. He’d been listening to their debate for some time. The filthy man in rags shuffled up to the former priestess of sleep. He had a tic in his right eye, and his left looked filmed with white. For the first time in her memory, the gravedigger spoke. His voice was soft as leather. “You’ll find yourself again eventually; you just have to listen closey instead of reacting. Always ask why—because you can.”
Sarajah stared at him. “You’ve been ridden . . . possessed by a spirit?”