Temple of the Traveler: Book 02 - Dreams of the Fallen

by Scott Rhine

  Everyone at the table was staring. Jolia asked from the kitchen door, “And the drawbacks?”

  “To build them fast and sturdy, you need metal. But that’s in short supply. Whatever you’re trying to obliterate has to be worth what you’re spending to do so,” the boy recited.

  “What are you teaching him?” asked Simon.

  “He’s been reading over my shoulder and has an eidetic memory. It’s probably the bards’ influence. They can recite hours of text verbatim,” explained the priest.

  Sophia brought a piece of vellum to the table and handed him a piece of charcoal.

  “Can you draw what you saw?” asked the architect.

  Brent proceeded to sketch a chart of arm position versus throwing distance. His sketch of the mechanism was boxy, but accurate. Awed, Simon said, “He’s a prodigy. Our boy is gifted.”

  Jotham smiled. “He has many virtues. This one may be transitory.”

  Sophia patted him on the head and brought over her own chalk set. She made a show of gifting it to the boy. “Thank you. I don’t know how to use it,” Brent said.

  She smiled and signed, “I s-h-o-w you.” Brent had already picked up most of the signing letters, but Simon often echoed the exchange so that all the guests could hear the conversation.

  “Not now,” decreed the architect. “Dinner’s not the time for work. Sophia made that rule herselrent, please wash your hands or you’ll soil the tablecloth.”

  Jolia brought him a wet rag.

  “So what can we do during meals?” the boy asked.

  “Philosophy,” Simon announced. “Who has a good abstract question?”

  “What is writing?” asked Tashi.

  Sophia raised her eyebrows at this unexpected source of the discussion. “Indeed,” the architect said, agreeing with the proposed topic. “Jolia, you go first.”

  The former concubine looked uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to another as she became the center of attention. “A way you don’t forget something you need to do?”

  “Memory,” Simon summarized.

  “Or memorials, like on the gravestones and battlefields,” Owl expanded.

  “We record positive achievements, too,” another guest chimed in. “And I’ve seen new laws posted in the village square.”

  “Communal, long-term memory,” said Simon as he wrote on his wax tablet.

  “Letters are also a way to send a message to someone else far away.”

  “Long-distance communication,” Simon echoed.

  Brent said, “Not just far in distance, but time. The book of the Bards spans many lifetimes, knitting them together in a common thread.”

  “Communication of what?” asked Jotham.

  “Military orders.”

  “Proclamations of love,” Jolia said, warming to the game.

  “Ideas,” Brent generalized.

  Simon nodded. “Impressive. Writing is a way to store or transport ideas outside of time or bodies.”

  Tashi grunted. “More than a container, it’s a vector for infection.”

  “I wouldn’t use the word infection, but reading is a door into a person’s most intimate places,” Brent suggested. When Jolia raised her eyebrows at this, the boy added, “The thoughts and personality.”

  “It’s how nations and religions infect humans,” Tashi insisted.

  Sophia spelled out, “B-i-t-t-e-r?”

  “Am I wrong?” Tashi asked harshly. Several people bit their lips to avoid conflict. “Our alphabet came from the state-run temples. They were codified to propagate the teachings of the church and state.”

  “Words don’t make people into slaves,” Jotham insisted. “But along the propagation lines, you could call them seeds. They’re used to grow ideas in young minds.”

  “Eew,” Jolia exclaimed. “You’re saying writing is sperm of the gods, trying to . . . you-know . . . our brai” This was met with laughter.

  Simon intervened with, “Let us agree that writing is a seedpod for ideas—the source and intent are irrelevant. As with many tools, it can have a variety of uses.”

  Jotham mused, “When I write my histories, paper is a medium that enables me to examine an event from every angle. I agree that the process steps outside time. But to be read, we still have to present it in a linear fashion.”

  “In Imperial,” noted an artisan. “But when I make drawings for my cabinets, everything stays frozen in that moment in time, and the reader chooses the path.”

  “Even the same words can have different meaning to different people, depending on context,” Tashi said.

  Simon nodded. “Seeds for multidimensional ideas, flattened down to only two dimensions.” When the dessert arrived, the architect announced, “Enough mental confection for today, we have the real thing in front of us.”

  Brent thought it the best meal he’d ever eaten.

  That night, as Sophia was tucking him into bed, the boy told her, “I’ve been thinking. You don’t have to go back to that vile place. If all you’re after is absolution, I am a high priest of the Traveler; I give that to you now.”

  She signed, “I love you for o-f-f-e-r.” After Sophia kissed him on the forehead, she added, “I m-u-s-t.”

  Chapter 28 – Idiot Savant

  The bulk of Sandarac’s forces near the Vale fell back to cover the wounded as th

  ey were carried to the transport ship. Both sides called a momentary truce to collect and bury the dead.

  Legato’s motley band marched northward, away from the conflict. The prince’s wound didn’t fester, but neither could it heal while he walked. Chased by a patrol of Imperials, the smith slung the injured man over his shoulders and ran. Their band stopped at a small mill town. They set up camp with minimal fires.

  “Do that again, and Defender or not, I’ll reach down and pull your breeches up to your ears,” complained the prince.

  “We need a wagon,” the smith insisted, ignoring the threat.

  “I’m not that heavy,” said the prince.

  “For the Obsidian Throne,” the smith said, referring to the symbol of the Kiateran monarchy. No new king could be crowned without it.

  “We don’t even know where that is.”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t plan. Pinetto, tell him.”

  “Well . . .” The tall astronomer looked to Ambassador Sajika, who gave him an imperceptible nod. “Yes. We need a wagon, food, water, ropes, lights, iron spikes, hammers, support timbers, pulleys.”

  The prince grunted. “We’ll travel at one-third of our peak speed.”

  “We could get you a palanquin so you could ride like Sandarac—but that’s still about half-speed. We’ll just use our bare hands to dig, eat tree bark, and backtrack to find a wagon once we have the throne.”

  They were conspiring to make him ride, but he let himself be persuaded. “Fine, you handle the bean-counter stuff.”

  Pinetto tapped the camp cook on the shoulder. “Go get what you need. Find someone who knows mining or loading cargo on ships. Get provisions for our trip. What do we do for money?”

  Legato scratched his cheek and looked the other way. “We could ask for donations from the grateful natives.”

  “We can’t steal that much. The locals will report to the authorities, and the army will know where we’re heading,” explained Pinetto.

  “We don’t know where we’re going!” Legato hissed.

  “If we pay, the merchants won’t dare tell or they’ll be jailed as collaborators.”

  “I don’t have money for this,” the prince complained. “I brought just enough to pay my troops and a little for bonuses.” Sajika cocked her head and stared at Legato. He wilted under her glare and tossed Pinetto a small purse. “All right, I can give you this much, but we’d better find some loot to divide up soon.”

  “We’re heading toward a mine,” said the smith. “There’s got to be something good there.”

  Legato shrugged. “The only mines I know of in Semenos are fertilizer and a barel
y solvent iron works. You can’t carry anything away in your pockets from either one.”

  “We’ll need almost twice this much money,” Pinetto announced.

  Sajika handed over her gold-plated sextant. “Use this. But make sure we get change.”

  “This was for you,” her lover insisted.

  “You’re sweet, but in war, we use what we have when we have it. There might not be a tomorrow,” she replied.

  “Oh no, you’re more adorable, pumpkin,” Legato sneered and mocked. “Can we get back to the problem of the mine’s location?”

  Sajika shook her head. “There is no place on any map called the Crystal Grotto.”

  “Maybe it’s too small,” Pinetto suggested. “Or maybe they’re hiding it, removing it from modern maps. If we were at the Library, I could find an old one. The ones I borrowed from the Queen’s people have no clues. We need a city where we can do our research.”

  “Not an option, pumpkin,” said the prince.

  “Never go in blind. Or the gods will . . . you-know-what you in the backside,” Pinetto asserted.

  The smith raised a finger. “Although I agree with our esteemed wizard on principal, this particular god wanted Legato to understand. The message was very specific.”

  “Did he call me by name?” asked Legato.

  “Not when we were together. He just called you Lugwort’s heir.”

  “Lugwort the Jeweler. Crystal grotto,” recited Pinetto. “Could it be a gem mine of some sort? He⇙d know where they all were.”

  They all exchanged looks. The prince pulled his father’s maps out of a pocket and looked them over. “Dip me in stink and call me a sheep. Astronomer, you’ve earned your victory nookie for the day. My dad has a town here none of the other maps did—Crystal Springs.”

  “You could just call me a genius,” grumbled Pinetto. “Or say thanks like normal people.”

  The smith clapped him on the back. “Good job. That reminds me. During the raid, those wards on your tent were phenomenal. They didn’t give off puny sparks like the ones on the boat. White light flashed and they didn’t know what hit them. You knocked those ghosts for a loop. How did you charge that circle? You said you were tapped out.”

  Sajika stared at him. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?” asked the smith.

  “He knows what he did!” Sajika’s face clouded over.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would work. It was a tiny experiment in sex magic,” mumbled the wizard.

  Legato chortled lustily. “A whopping successful experiment! You’re going to be the most famous spell caster of all time when this gets out.”

  “Let’s try something new,” she mocked as she stormed off into the dark. “That’s the last time we do that!”

  “Don’t be childish,” the Imperial astronomer began. The smith waved his arms, trying to warn him.

  “Excuse me?” she said, chilling the air.

  “I . . . I just meant I can see better in the dark and . . .,” Pinetto said feebly.

  “Then you can see this fine,” she said, flipping him an obscene gesture from the shadows and leaving their clearing.

  The astronomer started to follow her, but Legato held out an arm to block him. “Let her cool down or she’ll mistake you for the enemy and remove something you’re going to want to make magic with later. Now that was a genius idea.”

  When Pinetto tried to step around, Baran said, “Listen to him. If anyone knows about pissed-off women, it’s the prince.”

  “That’s right,” Legato agreed, too quickly. Then, he glared at the smith. “The more passionate they are in one direction, the stronger their emotions are in another.”

  “Maybe I’ll relax here for a few hours,” said Pinetto, sitting on a boulder.

  “Good lad,” the prince sniffed. “Besides, we still have work to do.” Making sure nobody else was around to listen in, he explained, “The Obsidian Throne isn’t one unit. That’s not how members of the Artisan aristocracy work. The throne is an elaborate puzzle, with twenty-nine pieces in all.”

  “For gods’ sakes why?” asked the smith.

  In a low voice, Legato said, “Each king has to assemble it from scratch at the startis reign before he can sit upon it. He can use up to five advisors because the parts are bloody heavy and awkward. I’d like you fellows to be two of them. I can only tell you the rest if you agree.”

  “Kind of like groomsmen for the crown,” Pinetto suggested.

  “Stop with the poetry, the unprintable-female-slur isn’t around anymore,” the prince said. Then, Pinetto snapped. Everyone else could tell exactly when the punch was coming. Legato ducked easily and jabbed him in the kidneys. When the astronomer was on his knees, the prince smacked him in the mouth so hard Pinetto’s upper lip bled.

  Baran separated the two. “Oh, that’s going to swell. You might need to get some cold water from the river. What were you thinking?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Pinetto. “Should I treat him like a gentleman?”

  “No,” the smith said, grabbing the prince’s arms from behind. “You signal me. I grab the rabid badger, and you pop him in the gut. It hurts, and there’s no evidence. My brothers taught me this.”

  The prince didn’t struggle. “Go ahead.”

  Pinetto shook his head. “I can’t, not like that.” The smith released Legato, who smoothed out his shirt with a smug grin. “I’ll just have her piss in his beer some night when he’s not expecting it.” All three men smiled, but Pinetto winced in pain afterward.

  “Do you still want us for your team?” asked the smith.

  “Hell, yeah. You’re strong, he’s smart, and you’re both loyal to a fault,” said the prince, handing Pinetto a wine skin. “Some of that’ll help everywhere you’re hurting.”

  When everyone had settled again, Legato continued. “Intaglios and Semenos didn’t install a puppet ruler in my country; they couldn’t because when Hagnar the Chancellor saw the invaders at the gate, he pulled out the keystone piece of the puzzle. The piece eventually made its way to my father. Not one for combat, my father gave it to me as my birthright.” The prince pulled a round medallion of stone from around his neck and showed the others. “We left the thieves with nothing but pieces that won’t stay together without my keystone. The invaders had no choice but to bury the rest.”

  Pinetto asked, “Why the odd number? I can imagine two long posts, two short posts, arms, the seat, and say four seat supports. Are the other eighteen parts for decoration?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted the prince. “Every smug bastard that figures it out keeps his mouth shut. The largest component is the seat, which takes about three men to move and then only for short distances. Those men won’t be able to fight. You were right to demand a wagon, but we’ve got to haul it out of that mine on foot.”

  “How big are the other pieces?”

  “From the size of my fist to the size of my arm. From what I know about lore and stone density, I’m guessing each man can carry about three pieces, plus a weapon, and still be able to run. You can’t count me because I’m a gimp. Since I only want to give whatever’s in that mine one chance to kill me, we need to do it in one trip.”

  “Not counting you that’s . . . three plus nine . . . twelve men,” Pinetto figured.

  “Double that because the traps are going to kill half of us,” the smith guessed.

  “Twenty-five men. That means I need to appoint three more consultants and get nineteen volunteers out of this crowd,” the prince said, doing his own math.

  “Who in his right mind would volunteer?” asked Pinetto.

  The cook came back shortly after. “Sir, we could only find one wagon. But the man will only sell it if we buy the beer barrels that are already loaded on it.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Pinetto. “We’d have to empty it all off before we could load the rest of our mining gear and rations.”

  The smith raised a hand. “Those terms will be satisfactory,
Cook. Make the purchase.” When the servant left, the smith bumped fists sideways with the prince. “And that solves the volunteer problem as well. The gods guide our way.”

  Pinetto grumbled, “Are the gods going to get me back into my tent tonight?”

  Legato put an arm around the astronomer. “You don’t need divine intervention for that. You just need to . . .” Then he whispered in the young man’s ear.

  The astronomer looked wary. “Are you sure that’ll work?”

  “I’ve got five children from three different women,” confided the prince. When the other two raised an eyebrow, he added, “It’s my duty to ensure the royal line doesn’t die out.”

  The smith sighed and dug in his pack. He removed a tortoiseshell comb and handed it to his friend. “Offer to comb her hair and listen to her the whole time you’re doing it.”

  Pinetto looked at the fine gift and blinked. “This is beautiful. You were saving it for Anna.”

  The smith pointed to his friend and bragged, “He heard me say her name once and he remembered it. This is why he gets the women.”

  “That’s why he is the woman,” complained Legato. “She wears the pants and he whines. I can’t take it. Get out of here; I have beer to pour and real men to deceive.”

  “Thank you both,” Pinetto said, leaving.

  At full dark, Queen Lavender’s forces moved west toward Semenea, the capital of her kingdom.

  Chapter 29 – Trust

  Humi’s warship sailed up to the Reneau docks. The royal couple-to-be was greeted in style, with trump