The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  The Temple of Heart and Bone

  S. K. Evren

  Copyright © 2013 S. K. Evren

  All Rights Reserved.

  My heart-felt thanks to:

  Martha – For Life and Opportunity

  Stephanie Marie – For the Letter that I opened 13 years late

  Cindy Sue – For Being, Cindy Sue

  Gideon – For Cover, always cover

  Ron – For Championing

  Jennifer Anne – For Everything

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Mistakes

  Chapter 2 – The Wind and the Leaves

  Chapter 3 – Ritual

  Chapter 4 – Harvest

  Chapter 5 – Pain

  Chapter 6 – Suffering

  Chapter 7 – Rising

  Chapter 8 – Fence

  Chapter 9 – Structure

  Chapter 10 – Chance

  Chapter 11 – Stick and Stone

  Chapter 12 – Skipping Stones

  Chapter 13 – Slate and Clothes

  Chapter 14 – Forest

  Chapter 15 – Æostemark

  Chapter 16 – Touch

  Chapter 17 – Fishing

  Chapter 18 – Rising Star

  Chapter 19 – The Path East

  Chapter 20 – Observations and Identifications

  Chapter 21 – Forward and Back

  Chapter 22 – Still of the Night

  Chapter 23 – Arlethord

  Chapter 24 – Voices

  Chapter 25 – Pastor and Pastry

  Chapter 26 – Reunion

  Chapter 27 – Ythel

  Chapter 28 – Chance Encounters

  Chapter 29 – Staging

  Chapter 30 – Into the East

  Chapter 31 – Pendant

  Chapter 32 – History

  Chapter 33 – Offspring

  Chapter 34 – A Spirited Chat

  Chapter 35 – Serpents

  Chapter 36 – Eyes in the Night

  Chapter 37 – Written in Rock

  Chapter 38 – The Quick and the Dead

  Chapter 39 – Revelations

  Chapter 40 – Dust to Dust

  Chapter 1 – Mistakes

  The last rays of sunlight smoldered under a cloud-thickened sky. Mottled waves of gold and amber stretched under darkening thunderheads, as if they were the first breaths of flame in some ancient divinity’s forge. Settling with sunset, the coal of the clouds at last caught fire, golden flames flaring into the red of molten steel. That crimson and gold light spread so quickly that it soon overwhelmed the sooty gray of the clouds, bathing the world below in the colors of autumnal leaves. The diffuse light touched all that it could, tinting tree and town, forest and field, lake and lane.

  On the edge of one such lake sat a cottage. It was a well appointed little home, too small to be considered a manor, too large and neat to be a simple shack or hovel of the peasantry. It was, in truth, a small country estate, a lakeside retreat meant as an escape from the trappings of society, including servant and title. The cottage had been in the Ythel family for generations, and its construction was of such quality that the years drained from its sloped shoulders as easily as water slid from its slate-tiled roof.

  Tints of gold and red sunk into the wood of the cottage that late afternoon. The wind stirred up ripples on the nearby lake, making it appear to be surfaced with a surging treasure of gold and rubies. A small boat bobbed insistently, tethered to its pier. Leaves whispered rumors of coming rain to surrounding trees. Inside the cottage, staring through the imperfections of a glazed window, a woman watched the play of light and movement on the water.

  She had serious eyes, gray like clouds, which, having threatened rain, poured forth their contents and sought the light of happier skies. Dark blonde hair streamed over her shoulders to the middle of her back. Her lips were closed, though her expression at once seemed to be on the verge of asking the meaning of life or answering the self-same question. She stood half the way between five feet and six, and though she was wearing a simple, brown, homespun dress, she wore it as if she were every inch an empress. She was a beautiful woman, and she believed that her beauty was as much a forging of her personality as it had been the accidental gifts of birth.

  She continued to stare out at her domain, waiting for the hiss of rain on the waters outside, and waiting, also, for something else. Her fingers played with a golden pendant, set with a single red jewel. She moved her head behind the window, watching the glittering water change shape and size through the myriad flaws in the glass. She sought in the pane a place of perfection, a part of the glass devoid of error where she could observe the truth of the water outside. She leaned and stretched. Her dignified manner slipped away in curiosity and challenge. A small smile lit up her face. Just as she had stretched as far and as awkwardly as she could, the door banged open behind her, pushed in sharply by the gusting wind.

  She spun to see a man framed in the doorway. He was slightly taller than she was fully outstretched, and his head was cocked to one side in question. He was in his middle-twenties, perhaps a year or three older than she, herself. A look of embarrassment flickered across her face only to dissolve in the warmth of her smile. Her eyes and face lit up and she dashed to the door, catching the man in a near-tackling embrace.

  He coughed a bit as the woman holding him squeezed the breath from his lungs. Just when it seemed she would let him breathe, she gave him another little squeeze and a small whistle escaped his lips. He began to smile and silently laugh, the corners of his moustache twitching with merriment. His eyes, a dark green, locked onto the gray eyes before him.

  His smile dropped slowly away in wonder. The mischievous narrowing of her gray eyes rounded out in surprise. Her grip loosened slightly. A shy look altered her features and instead of squeezing him, she pulled him closer to herself, as if reluctant to ever, ever let go. Warmly, he caressed her hair and brushed it from her face, continuing to gaze down into her eyes.

  They stood in that doorway in uncounted time. The wind whistled to them from the corners of the frame. It whispered to them in the leaves outside. Still, they clung to each other as if all the hope in the world were caught between them. A chill rose in the air. Moving as one, the embracing couple shuffled a few steps from the doorway, and turned to close the door on the wind.

  The man took off his work coat and hung it on a peg by the door. He too, had dark blonde hair, though much darker than the woman before him. It was so dark as to be almost brown. His mustache and close-cropped beard, however, revealed strong hints of reddish-blonde. He stretched his arms and neck, and smiled at the woman who returned to watch out her window.

  “I love you, Li,” the man said to his wife. He said the words with heartfelt meaning, rather than the practiced repetition of a household phrase. Again, her eyes widened. She turned to look back at him, eyes soft and lips gently parted.

  “I love you, Droth,” she replied, her heart in her voice.

  He asked her what she was watching out the window, and she pointed out the imperfections in the glass. Together, they canvassed the window, looking for one clear image of the world outside. When Li found a spot she was certain was perfect, she turned to point it out to him, her hand, in the process, poking him in the eye. He laughed painfully and she fretted and apologized. She begged him to let her see what she’d done, and tugged at his hand to move it from his eye.

  “No way,” he replied. “I’m not giving you a second chance.” He continued to cover his eye and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Don’t pout,” he told her, “it’s unbecoming.”

  She glared at him. They both knew it wasn’t true. She was beautiful on her worst days, and she was stunning when
she pouted. She had been aware of it for most of her life, and had used it to her advantage when necessary. She continued to pout at him, watching behind calculating eyes the concentrated effect she had on him. She saw his resolve, quickly thrown up in defense, and watched as the edges tattered and crumbled. She was sure she had him, but he kept resisting. In the end, she resorted to the simple expedient of tickling him. His hands dropped from his eye, revealing it to be watering heavily and bloodshot. Her playful manner stopped short in guilt and she began again to apologize.

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine. Show me the good spot in the window,” he begged her. She turned and pointed at a clear portion of the glass, and Drothspar leaned forward to look. He could see that the glass was probably clear, but his bloodshot eye, and its sympathetically watering twin, refused to focus on the outside world.

  “I’m so sorry, Droth, I really didn’t mean to hit you,” she said sincerely. “Isn’t there anything I can do for you?” She caught the smile forming in his moustache. “We can talk about that later, Dear,” she said properly, but not without a hint of promise. “What can I do for you now?”

  “Well,” he said, “if you’re really going to insist on making this up to me… you could take my turn to cook,” his voice trailed off hopefully.

  “I cooked last night,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied, “and it was wonderful. I’m sure my eye would feel better if it could look at something as good as your cooking.” She put her hand on her hip and looked at him archly. She seemed about to challenge his last statement, but then she realized she was caught. She smiled wryly and sighed.

  “All right,” she said, “I’ll cook. Besides, it’s the least I can do after you went through all the trouble to cover the garden and pick up the honey.”

  Guilt swept over Drothspar’s face. He leapt to his feet and stared hard at his coat, thinking fast. He was looking for some excuse to go back outside when she turned and saw his expression.

  “You did get the honey, didn’t you?”

  “Well, Li, I was a little busy canvassing the plants you know. There are quite a lot of them.”

  “Drothspar,” she said in a flaring voice, “you promised me! That’s the third time this week you’ve forgotten. You know Mrs. Fern will be out of honey by tomorrow!”

  “Li, I’m really sorry. I promise I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  “No, Droth, not this time! You’ve said that every time you’ve forgotten. It’s not that far, you get yourself out there and get some now.” Her voice had risen a bit higher than she had intended. She saw the look of surprise on his face, and was surprised herself. Drothspar, for his part, had been considering sneaking out, but became stubborn when her tone became scathing.

  “It’s going to rain,” he said, knowing it was a challenge.

  “I don’t care,” Li retorted, knowing she had been challenged, but refusing to back down.

  “You never do,” Drothspar said and regretted it instantly. He knew it was a lie and so did she. He winced.

  “What did you say?” she asked, her voice pitching up slightly higher.

  “Nothing,” he said sheepishly, knowing he’d gone too far and just as certain she’d heard him anyway. Li felt her mind dash for a moment, and then accepted the first thing it handed her.

  “It wouldn’t have been a problem if we’d have stayed in the city.” A cold feeling gripped the pit of her stomach. She saw the pain pool in his eyes. She watched him close his eyes to the pain. Without a word, he snatched up his work coat and headed for the door.

  He had to get out before she could touch him. He was too hurt to be reasonable, too angry to trust anything he could say. If she touched him, he’d have to melt, turn his hurt and anger aside, and he was too young to know exactly how to do that. He did the only thing he thought he could; he left.

  He reached the door a few steps before she got to him. Wrenching it open, he burst out into the gusting night, closing the door firmly behind him. He had managed not to slam it. That might at least earn him a few points when he got home. Even as the door closed, a slate shingle fell from the roof, narrowly missing his head. Turning away, he walked quickly toward the forest and the Ferns’ farm.

  Chapter 2 – The Wind and the Leaves

  The wind would help. It would carry off any words that called out from the cottage. Drothspar didn’t look back. He walked under the roiling clouds and into the coming night. The reds and golds of sunset had faded, and a pale blue light hazed the land. Looking up into the shadowy trees, he considered his hasty decision to leave. His only other choice would have been to turn around empty-handed, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that. He had thought about sneaking out before the argument had started, and that would have been only moments earlier. He knew the path through the woods fairly well, dark or not. Besides, it would be good to have a peace offering to bring home.

  Drothspar breathed deeply. He inhaled the scent of the trees and the coming rain. The more he breathed, the more his pain and anger subsided. He felt his steps fall on the soft ground of the forest floor. He touched his hands to the coarse bark of the trees. He wished he could flash back to the cottage, apologize to Li for being forgetful and for what he had said.

  He shook his head. They could not have remained in the city. She knew that. It would have been too great a risk—for them as a couple and each, individually. Excommunication was no small matter. They would have been beyond the protection of the law. Even her family, powerful as they were, would have risked dispossession and loss of title had they tried to shelter the couple. He chewed over her words and realized that they had been a reflex, a reaction to his own.

  He knew that she cared. She cared more than anyone he’d ever met, certainly more than most of the priests he had ever served with. Many priests and their wives were more concerned with status and power than compassion or spirituality. Li had been helping an injured child when he had first met her. The child was Eastern, a child, so he’d been taught, of heresy. That hadn’t stopped Li from helping. Moved by the woman’s disregard for prejudice and his own concern for the child’s injury, Drothspar had stopped to ask if there was anything he could do to help. In that helping he had found the sort of love upon which dreams—and lives—were built.

  He could feel her, still, in the growing night. From the moment they’d met, helping that injured child, a bond had grown between them. It wasn’t just the warmth of love, it was physical. He could feel her presence. He knew when she was close. There was a palpable feeling in his chest. When she was far away, the feeling diminished. It faded to a profound emptiness.

  She felt the same, although her senses were a bit sharper. She could tell, for instance, when he’d been hurt. Once he’d been working the garden and cut his hand deeply. He’d simply wrapped it up and kept working. When he arrived at the cottage, she’d known before he’d gotten his hand out of his coat pocket. He had even tried hiding injuries from her, just to test it. Somehow, she always knew. He shook his head and smiled. He would ask Mrs. Fern for her best honey, and two jars at that!

  It had to be close now, he thought, the Ferns’ farm. He strained his ears to listen for the lowing of the cattle. The wind, continuing to gust, carried away all sounds in the distance. Drothspar looked up toward the sky, but all he could see were the dark crowns of massive trees. He watched the leaves flutter and twist, softly whispering secrets that only the wind would share. Light had almost completely drained from the world.

  Drothspar walked on, stumbling at times, over covered roots or broken limbs in the moss-covered carpet of the forest floor. He was sure he was close to the farm when a vast hiss and rattle rose in the trees above him. He watched as the leaves on the surrounding trees flipped over, revealing their undersides. Like a wave, the leaves began their reversal moving from east to west, against the wind. Following their progression, Drothspar noticed a sooty orange light seeping through the trees ahead. The light was unnatural, out of place. Slo
wly he understood. The Ferns’ farmstead was burning.

  A muffled thudding intruded itself on his thoughts. He strained his ears and neck trying to make out the approaching sound. It was rhythmic and quick, like a gathering of heartbeats—or hoofbeats. Turning his head, he saw a number of shadows darting through the forest. They dodged in and out of the trees. As they rushed closer, Drothspar could see that they were soldiers. Some carried lit torches in their off hands. Others whirled swords, inversely-curved sabers that glittered orange and black in the torchlight. They shouted fierce cries that were torn away by the wind. Some few of the horsemen noticed Drothspar on the path. A detachment of five riders broke off and headed toward him.

  Drothspar looked at his surroundings. There was no place to hide. There were no weapons to be had. He gathered his thoughts and realized he was about to die. He looked into the wild eyes of his killers and understood the meaning of the flames at the Ferns’ farm.

  He thought of Li, and almost dashed off to the cottage. He knew he would never—could never make it. If he ran to her, he would die struck down from behind, all but pointing the way to the cottage.

  They were closer now. A rider wearing Maryndian plate armor urged his horse toward Drothspar. There was a look of fierce joy in the man’s eyes. Strangely, Drothspar thought, the rider sheathed his sword and drew a long dagger, a double-edged blade with a curved, golden hilt. Drothspar saw it coming, felt it pierce deep between his shoulder and neck. The blade was cold in his chest, cold like winter’s ice.

  Grasping the hilt of the weapon with both hands, Drothspar clutched the dagger to himself. He held to it fiercely, as a mother might hold her child from a thief. Though he pushed it deeper, he refused to let go, and he pulled the rider off balance. Through the fog of pain, he noticed the man’s armor looked familiar. In a flickering, illogical moment, his eyes fixed on a spot on the breastplate, a place with two rivet-holes, and the outline of what had once been, most likely, a crest.