The Temple

by Jean Johnson

  “Well, your punishment for your failure is going to be severe,” Dagan’thio told them. “You’ve lost this nation a great deal of status, wealth, and power, and you will be flogged dail—“

  “Elder Disciplinarian!” Pelai barked, stressing his title. “I should not have to remind you of the law.”

  That earned her a very dark look. “Do not interrupt me! You are second, not first among Disciplinarians, and—“

  “The law is the law, even for the Elder Hierarch . . . and the law clearly states that no Disciplinarian may assign any specific punishment to their own kin, nor oversee it in any way,” Pelai countered, tightening her guts against even the slightest possible hint of hesitation in her tone, her stance, her stare. “By the spirit of the law, you should not even be sitting there in judgment. You can agree or disagree to what the others propose, but by its letter, you are not allowed to propose any sort of judgment or punishment.

  “Any of your political enemies would surely pounce upon such a breach of the law, wielding it as a lever to remove you from your office,” she added in slightly softer warning. Only slightly. Dagan’thio’s eyes narrowed in thoughtfulness at her words. “I suggest the other four discuss an appropriate length of time, and leave the details of their punishments up to me and anyone I appoint to assist me. I am, as you say, currently the second-ranked Disciplinarian. It is my duty to take up the tasks that you by law cannot handle yourself . . . and I will see to my duty quite thoroughly, I assure you.”

  “What of your apprenticeship to the Elder Mage, Doma Pelai?” Anya’thia asked her. “Will that not interfere with your duties as Second Disciplinarian?”

  Dammit, did you have to ask that openly? Pelai thought, though she concealed her annoyance at the query. Facing the Elder Librarian, Pelai bowed her head. “I will do my best to ensure it does not, Elder Librarian. I admit the Guardian has been preparing to step down due to health concerns, but I would like to oversee the punishments of Puhon Krais, Puhon Foren, and Puhon Gayn as my last act as Second Disciplinarian. I wish to preserve in the eyes of all the honor of the incomparable Puhon Dagan’thio, who has been an outstanding example among our many Elder Disciplinarians in ages past.”

  Unlike Tipa’thia, who had grown too old for politics, Pelai was still quite young. Roughly half her life had been spent here on the Temple grounds, learning how to be a mage, a Painted Warrior, and a Disciplinarian. Learning how to manipulate those she did not like without losing her moral center included phrasing things very carefully to sound suitably flattering.

  “This burden is meant to be mine to bear,” Pelai repeated, turning her attention to the others. “I undertake it so that the Elder’s honor is not stained in any way. I assure you, I will make sure their punishments are exactly what they deserve for their overwhelming failures. I may become the Elder Mage within the next few days, but I will always remain a Disciplinarian by honor and by training . . . and I will do what it takes to preserve the Domo’thio’s honor in this matter. Just ascertain their culpability by truthstone, give me a time frame for how long their punishments are to last, and I will handle all the details for you after that.”

  At the words overwhelming failures, the Elder Disciplinarian relaxed ever so slightly. When she finished stating the rest, he bowed his head in turn. “Very well, Doma Pelai. I grant you leave to properly punish my sons. Domo Nahak, truthstone them. Confess your sins,” he ordered his sons, staring sternly down at the kneeling trio. “Your punishments will be slightly lessened by the color of your words.”

  The Disciplinarian in question pulled a white marble disk out of the black pouch slung at his waist and approached the eldest Puhon son.

  Chapter Three

  Krais did not hesitate. The moment the stone landed in his upturned palm, he gripped it and spoke spoke. “I am the Elder Librarian.” Revealing the black marks on the stone from his lie, he waited a few moments while the blemishes faded, then spoke again. “I am Puhon Krais, eldest son of the Elder Disciplinarian, and I was directed by him and other members of the Hierarchy to retrieve a Living Host from the lands of the Empire of Katan, and the now established Empire of Nightfall. I traveled with my brothers, Puhon Foren and Puhon Gayn, along with a fleet of ships given for our use by the Elder Commander.

  “Upon reaching this Nightfall land, we attempted multiple methods of trying to find and get our hands on the Living Host, an Aian woman named Arora or Rora,” Krais continued. “But we were unable to do so before our capture. We escaped and tried again, searching for records of where she might be located, but were thwarted a second time. By that point, the Convocation of Gods and Man had already opened . . . and the Gods spoke to us, and let us know that Nightfall is now under Their joint patronage.

  “This patronage includes the protection of Menda, Goddess of Writing and Patron of Mendhi.” He kept his gaze on the space between his father and the Elder Exchequer, Hala’thia. Krais could not bring himself to look at his sire directly. Not and keep his expression neutral, his demeanor one of acceptance. Submitting was not easy for him, no. “We are therefore forbidden to go to war with them, which includes attacking them in any further way.

  “I acknowledge my failures in my Hierarchy-appointed task . . . and I will accept the punishments given to me by our Goddess and the Second Disciplinarian in penance,” he finished. The weight of his brothers’ confused stares was nothing compared to the frown of his father. Unfurling his fingers, he held up the stone, displaying its all-white surface.

  He did not mention the fact that he had foolishly, stupidly, dishonorably accepted a contract at the time to kill the incipient queen, that strange, redheaded outworlder woman. At the time, it had . . . seemed reasonable to a son gone mad with the need to try to prove he would do anything for his father’s praise. Now, however, Krais realized Dagan’thio was not their father. Their sire, without a doubt, but not a father, not a man who taught his sons right from wrong. Dagan did not know the difference anymore, in his eldest son’s opinion.

  “He speaks clear and true,” Domo Nahak said. Taking the truthstone from Krais, he handed it to Foren.

  The middle of the three brothers eyed his elder sibling, sighed, and stated bluntly, “I am Puhon Foren. I was directed to try to get the Living Host bound and returned to us for the glory of Mendhi . . . and I admit I failed,” he grudgingly confessed, clearly not happy about it. “But I will point out we went up against both Gods and prophecies, and were fated to fail.”

  His stone proved unblemished, too.

  Gayn did not hold out his hand for the stone when Domo Nahak took it from his elder sibling. Instead, he stared up at their father and dared to ask, “Do I have to, Father?”

  Dagan’thio was not the only one to narrow his brown eyes in affront. The Ashua-Dakim narrowed his own as well. Gripping the carved scrolls of his armrests, Yulan’thio leaned forward in his seat and growled, “He is the Elder Disciplinarian to you! When you kneel in judgment before the Hierarchy, you will show respect!”

  Gayn grunted in pain when Domo Nahak pushed the disk into his fingers. Krais wanted to speak, to defend his brother for that injury . . . but bit his lip and held his tongue.

  “Fine! I failed. And you’re all insane for blaming us for going up against the Gods!” He didn’t fully fling the stone onto the basalt floor, but Krais suspected that was because Gayn’s fingers did not quite work right due to the mix of numbness and pain plaguing them.

  Still, the stone clattered, spun, and wobbled a little on its lenticular surface. And . . . blackened. Or at least turned a medium gray. The Disciplinarian picked up the disk, let it fade, then pressed it into Gayn’s hand once more. “Try again,” the middle-aged man growled, ignoring the youth’s gasp and grimace. “Without your patently false opinion.”

  “I failed my task! There, see?” Gayn repeated through bared teeth, again dropping the disk with another clatter. No stains from untruths. Blemish free, th
e stone stopped spinning and wobbling.

  “You should be punished extra hard for your disdain for the truthstoning,” Dagan’thio growled. “Second?”

  “I will take that into careful consideration,” Doma Pelai stated blandly.

  Foren twisted to peer at her. So did Krais, but his middle brother was the one to speak, not him. “Gayn’s arm was injured by a bad storm on the return journey. It was not set perfectly. His nerves are damaged, and he cannot hold large objects for long without great pain. Lightweight things like pens, yes, but not heavy ones.”

  “I will take that into consideration as well,” Pelai stated, again speaking blandly.

  Krais eyed her. The doma stood there with her feet braced, her hands clasped behind her back, looking more like a Painted Warrior in the Elder Commander’s care than a Disciplinarian, despite her black-and-pei-slii gilded clothes. Her hair looked rather rumpled, however, caught up in a proper braid but with stray black wisps straggling out here and there.

  Naranna Pelai was strong, intelligent, talented, and attractive. He had once considered flirting with her, over a decade ago, until learning she was a dedicated Disciplinarian apprentice. Most women who became domae liked their partners to be subservient, but that would never be him. Even now, the only reason he submitted was because he’d seen his Goddess. Heard Her speaking to him in his mind. And wisely chose to heed Her warnings.

  “Well, they’ve all confessed,” Anya’thia stated. “How long should they be punished?”

  “I would suggest six months’ worth of punishment, since it took them six months to return to us . . . but as Doma Pelai said, that is not my decision. However . . .” Dagan’thio glanced to either side, weighing his fellow Elders, before continuing. “I do need to point out that they did fail the direct orders of the Hierarchy. They must be punished for a suitable length of time. Elders?”

  “The average length of a punishment for failing the Hierarchy has been three months,” Anya’thia stated before anyone else could speak. “The longest was twenty years of hard labor . . . but that was for murdering the Hierarch of the day, the Elder Craftsman. These men failed to acquire a person. However important that would have been, it does not compare with murder.”

  Krais flinched internally at the mention of murder. Blinded by thoughts of wealth, he had allowed himself and his brothers to accept the contract to kill that strange woman, Queen Kel-lii. Thank Menda we didn’t go through with it . . .

  Anya’thia continued. “I have confirmed that they attempted their task in the face of half a dozen prophecies indicating their inevitable failure . . . so I would be lenient, and give them one month at most.”

  “They wasted our time—wasted twenty ships’ worth of time!” Yulan’thio argued. “We have been short a full score of ocean-worthy ships of the fleet for well over half a year because of their failure! I would agree with Dagan’thio. Six months is appropriate!”

  Krais held his tongue.

  Foren did not. “Complain to the Goddess!” he argued, lifting his subtly tattooed jaw. “She commandeered the fleet. Do you think you should punish us for Her choice in doing so?”

  Oddly enough, their youngest sibling chuckled a little at that. He even quipped dryly, “Even I would not have that much hubris.”

  Though Father certainly would, Krais thought, but only to himself. That was, himself and the Gods, who unlike living mortals could hear the thoughts of others. He studied his father’s tight mouth, flaring nostrils, and knew Dagan wished otherwise, even if only a little.

  “Silence.” Dagan’thio stared down at his sons, then turned to the other two. “Elder Craftsman?”

  Nalai’thia shrugged. “They cannot be at fault for the will of the Gods. One month.”

  “Well, I do not know if they tried hard enough to thwart it. We do have free will, after all,” Hala’thia countered. “Three months, for the three brothers who failed. That would properly balance the ledgers.”

  “One month,” Nalai’thia asserted, lowering her head slightly in her determination. “The Elder Priest himself would state most clearly that a failure caused by the will of the Gods must not be punished harshly—you do not fault the craftsmen for failure when the wood they were assigned to use has dry rot inside.”

  Just as they all opened their mouths to argue, the purple kingswood doors swung open and the Elder Citizen hobbled inside with the help of a crutch, proving the Elder Librarian’s words to be true. “I am here! We can begin! I . . . huh.”

  “The evidence has been heard, Sandu’thio,” Anya’thia called out to him. “All three confessed truthfully to failing to complete their Hierarchy-assigned task. They were, however, thwarted by prophecy and the will of many Gods, including apparently the will of our own Goddess.”

  Frowning in annoyance, the elderly man peered at the other Hierarchy members through his mop of white curls, streaked in reverse of the usual way with touches of dark brown at his white-curled temples. Somewhere in his ancestral line lay the source of his lighter skin, curly hair, and hazel eyes. With the family name of Gianan, some speculated that Sandu’thio’s ancestor came from Guchere, but Krais doubted it.

  “Why are you telling me all of that?” he demanded testily. “You’re telling me I hurried here for no reason.”

  “I’m telling you because Dagan’thio is kin to the three accused,” Anya’thia stated blandly. “His judgment should not be used on assigning how long each of the brothers is to be punished. The Elder Commander is annoyed that Menda Herself commandeered twenty ships of the ocean fleet to aid in sending all those priests and priestesses back to their homelands, and wishes to blame the brothers for it by assigning them six months of punishment. Nalai’thia and I think one month is sufficient punishment, because all these men failed to do was try to grab a woman to bring her and her power back here to Mendhi. The Elder Exchequer thinks that they should be punished for three months, three for each brother—I presume you mean for each brother to serve a three-month-long punishment?”

  Hala’thia nodded. “That is correct. A punishment month for themselves failing, and a punishment month for failing to help each sibling succeed. How long would you assign them a punishment, Sandu’thio?”

  Sandu’thio swayed on his crutches a little, his elaborately pleated kilt swaying in beautiful twist-dyed saffron, brick, and peach orange hues around his knees. He frowned in thought, and finally grunted, “Two months. One month is insufficient, but three is overmuch. Not when they failed by the will of the Gods. That is what you would have given them, correct, Elder Disciplinarian?”

  “I would have given them six,” Dagan muttered.

  His gaze fell on Krais, who clenched his fingers together but said nothing.

  “Oh, well then. I think—“

  “Two will be suitable,” Nalai’thia stated, speaking over him. “Anya’thia, what do you think?”

  “Two is not unusual,” the Elder Librarian confessed. “Hala’thia?”

  “Two would be acceptable,” the Elder Exchequer agreed. “We have a majority. Two months shall be the le—“

  The doors swung open again, accompanied by the aging, pudgy figure of the Elder Agriculturalist puffing, “I’m here! I’m ready to . . . huh. You started without me?”

  Krais found himself stoically avoiding the urge to laugh at this second, equally comedically late interruption.

  “Three out of five have agreed,” Anya’thia said, moving the judgment forward briskly. “The sentence of punishment for the three Puhon brothers is to be two months of Disciplining. Doma Pelai, as the Elder Disciplinarian is forbidden by law from casting any punishment upon his own sons, are you prepared as second-ranked to leash the powers of all three mage-warriors and discipline them suitably?”

  “I am,” Doma Pelai agreed.

  Krais shivered. He and Pelai knew each other well, but they had never gotten along. Her comments earl
ier about properly punishing him and his brothers had smelled faintly of the bitter herbs of revenge. The sort of revenge that came from someone finally gaining some power over a rival . . . especially since Krais could have been apprenticed to Tipa’thia as the next Guardian. All three of his brothers were strong enough, even if Foren only just barely so. Yet she spoke with dead certain confidence she could confine the magics of all three males? Warily, he watched her approach his youngest brother and plant her hands on Gayn’s vest-covered shoulders.

  While she held a lot of magical power, Krais had been led for years by his father to believe Naranna Pelai was morally weak, lacking the discipline to do whatever it took to make Mendhi a great nation. Part of that, Dagan claimed, came from her commoner background. Daughter of a common baker and a stasis cabinet enchanter, a disdainful thing what with the head of the Puhon household acting as if powerful mages could only spring from holy sanctioned bloodlines. Why, in contrast, the Puhon line alone had six generations of ever-stronger mages in it! Except the third generation, which had been weaker. But all of them served Mendhi in some way; it was their destiny!

  A family destiny that has led to the very hubris my brother joked about, Krais acknowledged. A hissing sound from that brother showed Gayn gritting his teeth, his sun-browned face looking a little sickly with pain. She released him, and stepped from behind Gayn’s back to behind Foren’s. Those brown hands came down on the middle brother’s shoulders . . . and Foren choked, spasming a little.

  Krais had a dozen seconds to wonder just what that felt like, to worry and even dread a little, before she released his sibling and stepped behind him. . . . Don’t resist, don’t resist, don’t resist . . . you do not want to be reponsible for a demonic invasion succeeding . . .

  He flinched when she clamped her hands on his shoulders. Felt the calluses of her outer two fingers brushing and gripping his deltoid muscles, the front two and her thump pressing against his flesh through his silk vest. And then she squeezed. Not just his skin and his collarbones and his muscles and sinews, but squeezed him somehow. Suffocated him, for all her fingers never got near his actual throat. Krais found himself hitching air into his lungs in panicked little breaths under the weight of that smothering sensation, despite the fact his lungs breathed in the air just fine.