The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  The Necromancer concentrated for a moment, and Troseth coughed and sputtered into consciousness. He quickly looked about the room, as if wondering where he was, his hands settling in a cold pool of his own fluids. He looked up at his Master, his fear showing plainly on his face.

  “Welcome back, boy,” the old man said. “I will accept your word in this matter, and discuss it further with Poson on our return. In the future, I hope you will share these sorts of warnings with me, realizing that I do not like to be surprised. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” Troseth answered weakly, barely squeaking the word through his hoarse throat. “Yes, my Lord,” he said more clearly, trying to sound like the soldier he was.

  “Excellent, Troseth, that’s truly excellent. I do so hate to lose my faithful servants. Keep our little chat in mind. I would find it distressing to have to demote you.” Fear and dark understanding rose in the young captain’s eyes.

  “Of course, my Lord,” he answered, his voice still shaky, but deeper and more firm than before, “and thank you, my Lord.”

  “You are quite welcome, Captain Troseth.” The Necromancer stared deeply into his eyes, and Troseth, for a moment, saw a thousand years of suffering before the window of his intuition closed. “One of my underpriests is waiting for you outside. Go with him and get yourself cleaned up properly. It would not do to have your men see you in such condition. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Troseth answered firmly, the quivering gone from his voice. He stood slowly and headed for the door.

  “Captain,” the old man called after him.

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “Have the priest find you something to drink, as well. It should help to stabilize your body and remove any lingering effects. If not, at least the alcohol will serve to explain your shakes.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” came the reply, “of course, my Lord.” With that, he bowed unsteadily to the old man and stepped down from the wagon.

  The priest outside showed no emotion as he led Troseth away. Soap and water in a basin were already prepared. A new uniform and clean underclothes were laid out on a table. The priest busied himself with other things while Troseth washed his body and changed his clothes. The captain was ashamed to see what he had done to himself, the records quite clear in his clothing, but he felt much better on changing into the new uniform. He was about to ask the priest for strong drink when he was handed a wax and twine encrusted bottle and a large loaf of bread. Troseth took them, nodding to the priest, who left him alone to his food and drink.

  Troseth uncorked the bottle and drank deeply. He took two or three pulls from the liquor before he even considered the loaf in his hand. The priest, he thought to himself, certainly hadn’t read his mind. He had either seen this method of interrogation before, or been subjected to it himself. Troseth shuddered at the memory of the pain, and took another long pull at the bottle. The spirits mixed with his blood and started to restore some of the color to his face. He bit into the bread ravenously, as if he hadn’t eaten in days, and thought back to the wagon.

  He had told the truth. Poson had warned him that the cat might try to interfere with the ceremony. He hadn’t mentioned that he was encouraged to kill the beast, nor had he mentioned any of the other conversations he had with Poson, but, he thought to himself, he had told the truth. All things considered, he was a loyal commander, as he always had been, and he knew the path to his goal was through proof of that loyalty. This interrogation certainly wasn’t the first time he had been tortured. The questioning in the wagon had caused him some pain, true. It had also eaten no small measure of pride, but at least it was done behind closed doors, out of the sight of his men. For their part, he thought, they would simply see him returning from the Master drunk and in a new uniform. Let them infer from it what they may. He would retain their loyalty, and in turn prove his own.

  That, he thought was the key, just as it had always been. Loyalty was to be expected and rewarded. It was the foundation of martial structure. His men were loyal to him, and would obey him in battle, even if they didn’t understand his commands at the time. They had to believe, had to trust that their loyalty would be rewarded not only with victory, but their very lives. This was the burden they set upon him, and he knew it was part of his responsibility for the loyalty they showed him—the sacred bond of trust, loyalty, and reward.

  He had always been faithful to his men, so long as they were faithful to him. These men, this cavalry he now led, had seen victories under his command, and few had lost their lives serving him. They had served him loyally, not like the others, not like the soldiers of Marynd. Those men had shown where their loyalties had truly rested. He shook his head and took another pull at the bottle. Good, strong spirits, he thought, wolfing down another bit of bread. Loyalty, he thought to himself, loyalty is always the key. Tilting back the bottle for another drink, he decided to head back to his men and share in their loyalty. He found another couple of bottles on a table near the basin and took them with him for his men.

  When he got to their encampment, he tossed the full bottles to his sergeant.

  “Share them with the men, Sergeant,” he shouted, “let them all drink to loyalty!”

  “At once, Captain,” the sergeant smiled, “to loyalty and their Captain!”

  “To loyalty and their Captain,” Troseth shouted back, raising his own bottle to his lips. He walked to his bedding and clutched his bottle and bread to his chest. It was good to have loyal men around him. Loyalty, he thought, good to have loyalty. He took another drink from his bottle and his head nodded down against his chest. He fell asleep, still holding the bread and bottle, like a child might hold their toys at bed time.

  Chapter 6 – Suffering

  As the door closed behind Troseth, the imperious pose dropped from the face and form of the Necromancer. Pain, just as real and just as sharp as that which he had inflicted upon the captain, clouded his eyes and bowed his body. Moving to his desk, he pulled his own loaf of bread from one of the many compartments and began eating. The old man did not eat as one who was hungry. It was an effort for him to chew and swallow each bite, but he worked at his task diligently. Almost as an afterthought, he threw a glance at the door into his wagon and concentrated. A large iron bar fell into place securing the door, and a clasp seated itself over the bar. Satisfied, the old man returned to eating. His eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed in pain. His breathing came in short, shallow bursts.

  He looked at the bread disgustedly. After he’d eaten about a quarter of the loaf, he pushed the remains away with an obvious effort. On a work table near the desk sat many alchemical tools, glass and crystal vials containing liquids and powders in various shades of reds, golds, and browns. The old man drew up his strength and walked over to the table. At the very edge, looking no different from the rest, was a small vial containing a clear golden fluid. Beside it was a taller, thicker vial of water. Reaching with trembling fingers, the old man grasped the gold-filled vial and drank deeply, as if his life depended on it. The drink was beyond bitter, forcing him to cough and gag as none of the recently unearthed dead had done. He eagerly caught up the water, washing down the taste and revulsion, then found himself a seat and waited.

  His face bore its pain patiently. A small frown of resolve twisted his lips downward, his eyes focused on the water in his hand. It would take time, he knew, but time would pass. He was no stranger to waiting. He was no stranger to time. Within half an hour, the crease in his brow began to relax. The white knuckles of the hand holding his water began to flush with signs of blood. His breathing, short and shallow before, became deeper, easier. His shoulders, bent forward in tension, relaxed, and eased back into line. Carefully, the old man rolled his neck on his shoulders. He still felt the stiffness and pain, but they were subsiding. The relief of pain, though slight at this early stage, was still significant enough to seem as if a hot iron had been removed from his body. Certainly, the burn was still there, but the source o
f the heat had, at least for the time being, been removed.

  Within an hour, the pain had subsided to the point that the old man could move and think clearly. It had been no glowing iron which had caused his pain. It had not been some spell, he thought, conjured by a crotchety old mage. He smiled wryly. That was a good sign. He knew relief had come when he could smile again, however briefly. The pain which had so wracked the old man came like wisdom. It came with age.

  He had served the Empire for nearly three hundred and fifty years before its fall. The pain had started in those early years, before his long slumber, before the glory and knowledge of over two and one-half thousand years had been dragged into dust. His bones, as many old bones did, became rough and sharp. The cushioning cartilage had been all but decayed, so sharp edges met, sometimes fusing, sometimes just grinding one against another.

  The physicians of the Empire had worked with him, trying to find him some relief, even some cure. Fortunately for him, their pharmacology had evolved to the point that the pain could be dulled, even removed. For a time, the physicians had even found a way to rebuild some of the cartilage between his bones. That knowledge, like the Empire itself, had been lost to him. The golden liquid which eased his pain was something he had learned to make for himself.

  For seven years it had been necessary to forgo the comfort of the liquid. He had needed all his wits about him to trap the souls of thousands and finally wake them from their slumber. He had looked upon the ritual of the Harvest with a dual anticipation. On the one hand, it would begin the long process of re-forging the Empire. On the other, it should have been the day that his pain dissipated.

  For seven hundred years of enforced slumber, he had endured the constant ache. As still as he had been, however, the pain had not been agitated. His bones had been at rest, not grinding against each other. Upon his awakening, Poson had even had the golden liquid waiting for him, an offering he gladly accepted. As he had prepared for the ritual of the seeding, he had known that seven years of unrelieved, aggravated pain would follow. It would continue, draining his reserves just as much as the seven-year-long spell itself. It would continue, he had known, until the ritual of Harvest had been completed. Then he should have found respite.

  The death of the great cat had caused a hitch in that plan. The old man needed to know why the cat had been killed. The creature, connected as he was to his sibling sister, had been the Necromancer’s connection to his base of power. What one cat saw, the other had been able to see. The old man had learned how to leech this information from the cats, and even how to impress upon them what he had needed to see or know. For centuries during the reign of the Empire, the cats had served him, bonding with him more closely than any human ever had. When he had been ordered into his long slumber, the mystical cats had joined him, preserving themselves while remaining with their Master.

  Someone had severed that bond, cut down the link which had lasted over a thousand years. The old man had known who had severed the link, but not why. He had resolved to prolong his pain long enough to question the “who” in search of the “why.” While the golden liquid did not entirely diminish his powers, nor cloud his mind completely, it did dull them. He would not allow his plans for the rebuilding of Empire to fail simply to ease his own pain. He had taken a full day to decide the best method of interrogating the man who had severed his link, and the method he had chosen was elegantly appropriate.

  He decided to share his own pain with the good captain. One thousand years of pain distilled into a few glittering moments. He’d had to modulate the pain, of course, lest he kill the subject outright. The application of his pain, however, had seemed to do its work. The boy eagerly shared the information about Poson and, knowing the nature of the pain as he did, the old man knew the boy would have no time, nor thought, to lie. Had the killing of the cat been a direct attack against his own person, or against his immediate plans for his new army, he’d have known instantly. As it stood, the evidence pointed to Poson, and the old man would think long and hard about how to properly question that servant. For now, he reasoned, he could risk the easing of his pain.

  He walked back to his sketch and looked at the charcoal image of Empire. Sketching had once been a true joy for him. It had been his reward for hard work. He had learned it in a place and time that had encouraged the shared benefits of practical education and art. In truth, many of the philosophers of the Empire argued that education and art were all one in the same thing, multiple facets of the same brilliant jewel. Looking back, he realized that his golden remedy would not, could not ease this pain.

  This was the pain of two and a half thousand years of Empire, shattered by unwashed barbarians. This was the pain of two and a half thousand years of Empire toppled by greed, lust, and ambition. This was the pain of losing two and a half thousand years of art, culture, knowledge, and philosophy. He closed his eyes, hoping the alchemical solution in his body might come, once again, to his rescue, might save him once again from himself. He waited in his new ancient agony, but no respite presented itself. He opened his eyes and stared back into history.

  He remembered the glittering cities of Empire. He once again saw the fountains leaping into the air. He heard the choral music of their waters, crashing down onto stone, washing their listeners with a soothing sound that spoke at once of wealth, art, and civility. He gazed up into architectural marvels, watching their marble sheathings blaze white in the fiery light of the sun. He watched the slow and measured pace of citizens walking through the plazas, engaging each other in lengthy discourses on science, beauty, philosophy, and magic. He relaxed with them, knowing their time was eternal, feeling the total lack of pressure that comes with believing you are the master of your own destiny, secure in the knowledge of your own power.

  He watched again as the fountains tumbled under the greedy hands of looters. He winced as the blazing of marble changed from brilliant white to a soot-stained orange. He panted with the running citizens, fleeing the blood-stained instruments of murder, assault, and torture. He closed his eyes as the images of Empire shattered once again before him.

  Why? Why had all of this fallen? Jealousy, he offered himself. Greed, he added to the list. Ignorance, he acknowledged as another companion of destruction.

  The Empire had been a vast society forged out of disparate cultures. Like some mystical alloy, the forging created a strong foundation of cooperation, where thoughts and ideas fused with one another to build something new, something better than had ever previously existed. What none of the single elements had been capable of alone, their combination achieved in excess. Voices speaking in dozens of languages ceased being a cacophonic noise and blended into a symphonic harmony.

  Education was a constant in the Empire. Not only were citizens allowed to study, they were encouraged to do so. In academies around the Empire, girls and boys, men and women gathered to learn about the wonders of their Empire. They shared each others’ languages. They learned about and discussed various theologies and philosophies. Knowledge of architecture, science, magic, even sanitation flowed from one vast border to the other, because the Empire had believed that an educated citizen was not only capable of helping themselves, but the Empire as a whole. Water ran to regions which had never before been able to support crops. Communities blossomed like wildflowers, spreading civility and wonder across the land. The towns, villages, and cities of the Empire did not compete with nature, but shared it, encouraged it, and enhanced it.

  Life was not simply a matter of survival in this society. Certain communities had developed around the providing of foods and services, while others had grown around art, literature, and drama. Traveling troops of artists moved like missionaries throughout the land, as welcome where they appeared as a good warm meal or cool summer breeze. They shared their talents equally in large cities and small farming communities. Actors played out scenes that would be retold around dinner tables for years to come. Musicians and singers shared songs that were remembered and
continued to accompany the farmer at his plowing long after the troop had left. Mural paintings appeared on granaries, sculptures stood watch in cities, and artwork challenged the minds of citizens far and wide, feeding their thoughts as surely as grain fed their bellies.

  This was the Empire into which the old man had been born. This was the memory, the life he had sworn to protect and resurrect. This was the system that had educated him, taught him the skill, science, and art of magic. This was the world that had taught him the potential of life in the world. This was the Empire he watched crumble and fall before Jealousy, Greed, and Ignorance.

  Although the Empire had spread over a great deal of the continent, its borders did not include all the peoples of the land. Those who were in the Empire were happy to let those outside continue in their barbaric ways, and would even trade with them for exotic goods not found in the Empire itself. As the centuries passed, the barbaric cultures outside the Empire began to form simple governments of their own, above and beyond the clan systems of family which had once sustained them. They began to enter into treaties with the Empire, formalizing systems of trade and hopes for peace. Children of these external cultures were taken in to the educational system of the Empire to share in its vast culture and knowledge. Thus it was that education had been the first step of downfall for the Empire.

  The barbaric children educated in the Empire eventually returned to their own cultures with fantastic tales of riches pulled from deep under the ground, water redirected from rivers to crops, and unimaginably, water, hot water, flowing into the very buildings in which people lived! Some in these external cultures thought the children to be telling tall tales or mistaken. Others thought they had, perhaps, become so enamored of Imperial culture that they wanted to give up the freedoms of their own society to become Imperial subjects, taking the entire culture along with them. Still others thought the returning children, no longer children, were trying to build up bases of power with which to take over this or that tribe. The uneducated and unwashed barbarians, for whatever reason, decided to attack that which they did not understand.