The Desert Palace

by David J Normoyle

  Lukin righted the chair he’d fallen over. The barmaid had stopped sweeping the floor to watch, and Lukin raised a hand in her direction. “Sorry about that.”

  He took a seat as Flechir sat opposite him. “You agreed not to interfere in my life,” Lukin told him.

  “No I didn’t. I agreed to stop traveling and let you live in one place for a while.”

  “So I could make my own life.”

  Since Lukin had been very young, Flechir and he had traveled the length and breadth of Mageles. A year before, Lukin had finally grown old enough to insist that they put down roots.

  “Making your own life? Is that what you call sleeping all day and drinking all night? On my topaz.”

  “I’m an adventurer.”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “I’ll soon have my own topaz.” Before he’d left, Guerin, or whatever his name really was, had thought about his employer. Pormustin. Lukin could cut out the middleman.

  “What’s that?” Flechir grabbed Lukin’s wrist and twisted it so he could see the ring. “No markings, but it looks solid gold. Who did you rob it from? You know you’ll lose your hand if you get caught stealing.”

  Lukin snatched his wrist away. “It’s mine. I didn’t steal it.” The revelation that exploded inside Lukin’s mind was so obvious that he wanted to slap himself over the head for not realizing earlier. He refrained from hitting himself, though, since he’d already looked like an imbecile enough times for one day.

  Of course the ring was allowing him to hear thoughts. He’d never heard of a magic object giving someone thought-mage powers, but that had to be what was happening.

  “There’s no way you had enough topaz to buy that. And even if you had, why would you buy a ring? Don’t lie to me.”

  Lukin stood. “It’s mine, and I’m not going to sit here and listen to you call me a liar. I don’t need you any more. I can take care of myself.”

  “Like you were doing now? You were lapping up what that charlatan was telling you when I entered.” Still a dumbass kid.

  “How did you know to find me here?” Lukin knew Flechir would treat him like a seven-year-old forever if Lukin let him.

  “A guess.” Overlapping the word came a thought: Sonny.

  Lukin had two beefs with his friend, or perhaps ex-friend. Sonny had set Lukin up with Guerin, who only wanted a patsy, and, worse, told Flechir about it.

  “Well stop guessing about what I’m doing.” With that, Lukin stamped out of the tavern. He knew the old man was watching, and he went for an I-am-my-own-man walk. However, he feared he didn’t get it quite right and might have done a toddler-temper-tantrum stamp instead—in Flechir’s eyes at least.

  Outside, he sniffed the air. Something was wrong. He took a moment to realize what it was. A lack of beer smell. He still hadn’t recovered from not getting even a sip of Guerin’s beer before it had spilled. He couldn’t go back inside the Fox, but the next nearest tavern wasn’t far away. In Soirbuz, it never was.

  Lukin glanced down at the gold ring. He still had no idea how it had gotten into his room, but it seemed the kind of thing that would happen to a true adventurer. The ring had arrived for him just in time to prevent the old man from ruining the opportunity he’d won for himself. Guerin might try to hire a different patsy for the job, but Lukin had the jump on whoever that might be.

  All he had to do was be the master thief he’d pretended to be and burgle the most heavily guarded mansion in Soirbuz.

  The Silver Portal – Chapter 3

  The cold only pained Mortlebee because his heart was impure. That and because I’m naked on the side of a mountain in the middle of the bloody night, a little voice said. He mentally hushed the voice, for it had gotten him into trouble in the first place.

  Curing an impure heart didn’t happen in one night, so for the moment, Mortlebee was stuck with more physical methods of keeping warm. On top of a platform of fern leaves, which he had created to form a thin barrier between his skin and the freezing ground, he hopped from foot to foot. He had been doing that a while and was beginning to tire.

  He hadn’t realized that cold could cause a bright physical pain, a burning sensation with searing cold instead of heat. He hadn’t known his teeth could chatter hard enough to give himself a sore jaw. Those things weren’t what Father had sent him outside to learn, but he found it hard to concentrate on what he was supposed to be thinking about.

  When he’d first been sent out, he’d worried about his nakedness more than the cold, concerned about Dell’s sisters looking outside and seeing him. They wouldn’t have seen anything but shadows, of course, unless they had looked out at the exact moment he lit up like a firefly—a giant naked firefly. Magic is violence of the spirit, Mortlebee remembered.

  He wasn’t ready to even think about what he had found and swiftly hidden under the heather bushes on the far side of the Eagleview trail.

  Too tired to keep hopping, he allowed himself to fall onto his backside. He hugged his knees and rocked back and forth, not letting any part of his body touch the ground for long. Racking shivers ran through his body.

  The inky blackness of the mountains cut a jagged pattern out of the starlit sky. A distant wind whistled, and closer, the village stream churned against the rocky riverbed. Orange firelight crept out between the shuttered windows of the houses of the village. The families in Bluegrass would be sitting around fires, cooking their evening meal, small as that might be. Mortlebee’s thoughts weren’t on the food but on the crispy heat of the fire. He’d give everything he had for a moment beside even a small blaze, not that he had much to give—at that moment, not even the clothes on his back.

  How long until Father decides I have learned my lesson? “One who is always learning never makes the same mistakes,” the scrolls of Kale taught. Mortlebee rubbed the blocks of ice at the ends of his ankles. His fingers still had some feeling in them since he was using them constantly to warm the other parts of himself—impossible as that task was.

  Let’s review how I arrived here, Mortlebee decided. The setting is a pleasant one: a little creek burbles past two young friends chatting. Mortlebee snapped two small leaves off one of the ferns and bent both in half so they stood by themselves. He placed them before himself so the two leaves faced each other. Their conversation is not pleasant.

  He nudged the leaf on the right. “Something must be done, Dell,” leaf-Mortlebee said. “Everyone in the village is starving. It can’t go on like this.”

  Then he poked the leaf on the left and continued in an even squeakier voice. “We are doing everything we can,” leaf-Dell said. “Our family prays each evening.”

  “We must do more. It’s not Kale’s fault we have no food. It’s those blasted clerics. Lackma knows we can’t give him all he asks. Yet he demands more each time.”

  “We can’t do anything about him, Mortlebee,” leaf-Dell squeaked.

  “We must stand up to him.”

  “Bend like the willow tree until the storm abates.” Leaf-Dell quoted the scrolls like the good leaf he was.

  “Kale can’t know what’s happening to us. We have to make our own decisions,” leaf-Mortlebee said like the blaspheming leaf he was. Then the idiot leaf went and made it worse. “We should show him that we won’t be pushed around. If we fight back, then they’ll leave us alone.”

  Mortlebee sprang to his feet, scanning the darkness, looking for anyone watching and listening. He’d said the last part louder than he’d intended. Idiot. He’d just repeated what had gotten him in trouble the last time. One of the elders had been passing by on the Eagleview trail, had overheard the conversation, and had told Elder Daimell, otherwise known as Father.

  Mortlebee flicked both of the fern leaves away and resumed rubbing the coldest parts of his body. He glanced at the silhouette of his house. Father would expect Mortlebee to be contrite when he returned from the cold, to have understood what he had done wrong and to promise never to speak so again.

  What i
f I can never do that? He could lie, of course, but that would only make things worse. The problem was his impure heart, after all. Unless the real problem is actually that my family and the rest of the village is slowly starving to death. There it went again, that little voice, determined to get him into trouble.

  Mortlebee’s gaze flicked in the direction of the heather trees. Some of Zubrios’s clerics were said to be able to do magic, but no one had seen evidence of that from Lackma. What if Lackma knew that the Tockians had magic? He mightn’t see them as such an easy mark then. Mortlebee didn’t think violence was necessary. He had been exaggerating when he’d told Dell they should fight back. He had wanted to put forward an extreme position so the other boy could talk him down to a middle ground. Of course, the elder had dragged both boys away from the creek by their ears before Mortlebee figured out what that middle ground was.

  “Fighting back only leads to escalation,” the scrolls of Kale said. On that, they were very clear. Possibly, that was the central point of all the scrolls. Mortlebee remembered the magic bow he’d found and imagined confronting Lackma with it. How much would I be sinning? Mortlebee wouldn’t have to use it. He just had to scare the cleric. “The threat of violence and violence itself are two branches of the same tree.” The scrolls of Kale didn’t provide much flexibility to his followers.

  Mortlebee’s backside was beginning to freeze, so he sprang back up and resumed his hopping. His heart was impure, and the cold night air wasn’t helping. Mortlebee wondered if he could remain false to the principles of Kale for a few more days until after Lackma left them alone for good. Then he could return to the fold and beg forgiveness. Afterward, he could spend as many nights out in the cold as was needed to cure his heart.

  Mortlebee had found it easier to accept the principles when his family had more to eat in the evenings. Elder Daimell explained the senselessness of war and how peaceful capitulation was the only way to avoid the cycle of slaughter that plagued mankind down through the ages. No one ever truly won a war—the destruction always left both sides worse off. And so it was with all violence between men. The teachings had made sense in the classroom.

  A horse neighed, and Mortlebee squinted down the trail. He saw nothing, but he heard the distinctive clip-clop of an approaching horse, and that was enough to tell him who was coming. Only one person rode a horse between the villages.

  He ran to his house, threw open the door, and stepped inside. “The priest is coming.”

  His two sisters giggled. Mortlebee’s hands dived down to cover his crotch, and he twisted sideways.

  Father picked a blanket from a chair and threw it across the room. “Cover yourself.” He walked past Mortlebee and waited for Mortlebee to join him outside.

  Mortlebee, red faced, wrapped the blanket around his waist. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Your punishment does not give you the right to parade your nakedness in front of others.”

  “No, Father.”

  “You were glad of the interruption, I’m sure.”

  “No, Father. I mean, yes, Father.” Mortlebee blinked several times. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be glad that the cleric’s arrival had cut short the punishment.

  “Did you think on what you said?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And?”

  Mortlebee didn’t know what to say. He had never lied to his father before. “The cold served to focus my mind.”

  “You need more time?”

  “No!” Mortlebee searched his mind frantically for a way to avoid having to spend another night in the cold without lying to his father. “I need to reflect further on what I did. Over a longer period of time. During the daylight. While clothed.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “It is? Reflecting is good, right? You told us that.”

  “Of course. One should be always reflecting. But in this instance, it shouldn’t take so long to see clearly.”

  Lackma and his horse became visible. The horse’s flank was tinged with an orange glow as it reflected the firelight from inside the house.

  “Think long and hard tonight and tomorrow, and we’ll discuss it again tomorrow evening.” Father turned and bowed his head toward the rider. “Cleric Lackma, you honor us with your visit.”

  You’d honor us more if you showed us your backside and disappeared from our lives, the little voice inside Mortlebee said.

  “Ull Lackma, now. I’ve been awarded the eagle crest for my good work in Tockery.” Lackma showed them the gold emblem pinned to his chest, displaying the profile of an eagle’s head.

  “What promotion will you get when we have all starved to death?” Mortlebee blurted out.

  Father shook his head sadly. “Go inside and get dressed, son.” The disappointed look was worse than any shout.

  Mortlebee lowered his head and returned inside their single-room house. He heard Father apologizing to Lackma.

  “It’s fine,” Lackma said. “A bit of forthright discussion is at times required.”

  Mortlebee scampered inside and darted to the fire. He crouched before it, allowing its glorious heat to wash over him. Mother brought him clothes, and he put them on under the blanket. His sisters whispered to each other and giggled. Mortlebee glared at them, but that just made them giggle even more. From outside came the modulating hum of voices as Father talked with Lackma.

  The warmth cause spikes of pain as parts of his body thawed out and blood began to flow again. Mortlebee moved away from the fire and rubbed his toes and the bottoms of his feet, where the pain was worst. Mother crouched down close to him and put some bread and cheese in his hand. “Don’t let Father see you eat that,” she whispered.

  Mortlebee stuffed the food into a pocket just as Father entered with Lackma behind him. Mortlebee wiped the breadcrumbs off his hand on his pants leg.

  Father addressed Mother. “Lackma mistimed his journey back to Leeside, so he will be staying with us tonight.”

  Mother gave him a pained look then smoothed out her features and addressed Lackma. “Welcome to our home. We haven’t much, but what we do have, we will of course share.” She moved to the corner where she kept kitchen supplies.

  “We only have one room, but we’ll set aside a place for you beside the fire,” Father told him. He shooed Mortlebee and the two girls into the far corner.

  There, the three of them mock-fought over blankets before finding comfortable places to settle down for sleep. Because they were farther away from the fire than usual, they made sure to stay close to each other.

  Although they added layers rather than shedding them, during the process, Mortlebee caught a glimpse of Kataya’s bare midriff. Ribs shouldn’t stand out that starkly on anyone, and certainly not on an eight-year-old girl.

  In contrast, Lackma’s round, pudgy face was bowed over a plate of bread and cheese, chewing noisily. He was a short man with black wispy hair and ate with his mouth open. Mortlebee forced back the anger that flared up and instead reached into his pocket and took out the crust of bread and chunk of cheese Mother had given him. He showed it to Kataya and Hessina, touched his finger to his lips, and divided it in three.

  The mouthful did nothing to ease Mortlebee’s hunger, but the happiness at sharing with his sisters more than made up for that.

  “Good bread,” Lackma said, his mouth still full of food. “You don’t have a morsel of meat to go with it? Or some mead to wash it down?”

  Mortlebee’s happy feeling deflated in an instant. Is having a pure heart possible with the likes of him around?

  Mother handed him a mug. “Only water, I’m afraid. And we’ve no meat to share. I’m sorry.”

  Lackma grinned. “You keep the good stuff for yourselves. That’s fine—I understand.”

  “We do not,” Mortlebee shouted, unable to stop himself.

  “Mortlebee, that’s enough,” Father said.

  “A bit of spirit in the young is no harm,” Lackma said. With a piece of bread,
he gestured at Father, who was sitting at the other end of the fire. “It’s a bad state of affairs when the village elder has no meat at his table.”

  “We’ve had a hard winter,” Father said, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders.

  Tell him we can’t afford to pay his ridiculous tributes, Mortlebee ordered mentally.

  “You know it doesn’t need to be so hard for you,” Lackma said. “Just agree to let us set up our temples in your villages. We’ll reduce your burden.” He looked over his shoulder. “What does your opinionated son say?”

  “He’s said enough,” Father said before Mortlebee could answer.

  “Let him speak. Words never hurt anyone.”

  “Respectfully, I disagree,” Father said. “Words have caused more harm in the world than all the swords put together.”

  “Come now,” Lackma said. “That’s not possible.”

  “I’m not trying to convert you to our beliefs,” Father said. “But the scrolls of Kale explain that most wars and other evils have come from the wrong words or ideas at the wrong time.”

  “You and your queer religion.” Lackma chuckled. “If the boy isn’t allowed to answer, then what does his father say?”

  “The Council of Elders have said no to any temples in Tockery.”

  “And you?”

  “I say no.”

  “Still? What are you afraid of?

  “It’s not about fear.” Father had explained to Mortlebee that the cleric’s temples didn’t have real religious purpose and were just used by the Lord Protector to recruit the youths of Tockery and use them as soldiers.

  “If you aren’t afraid that your son and daughters will convert to the religion of the Lord Protector, then there shouldn’t be a problem, right? We’ll just have empty temples.”

  “Because we trust someone doesn’t mean we throw temptation in their face.”

  Lackma chuckled again. “A wife might trust her husband, but she won’t bring him to visit the house of a woman of ill repute, is that it?”

  “Sir, there are children present.”

  “As you say.” Lackma bowed his head. “You are correct that I haven’t read the scrolls of Kale. But your religion is weak—do you know how I know this?”