The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  A sharp thump sounded on the pier behind him. Turning he saw Chance in all her traveling gear standing and watching him.

  “Well,” she said, “are you ready to go?”

  Drothspar stared at her.

  “You might want to check the cottage,” she suggested. “I tried to secure it as best I could, but, well, you might want to check it yourself.”

  Drothspar handed her his stones and walked off to check the cottage. Could he really have slipped off the hook so easily? He opened the cottage door and looked around. Chance had covered the windows with scraps of wood and cloth, cleaned out the fireplace, and even closed the flue. He shook his head in amazement. His worrying had once again been for nothing.

  They set out for Arlethord that morning. Both were quiet as they walked along. Both thought back to the cottage they were leaving. Drothspar remembered walking out into bad weather seven years earlier. He remembered the useless argument that had separated him from his wife. He regretted never being able to tell her he was sorry. He was sorry that the last words she had heard him say were not “I love you.”

  Chance thought about the person she had met unexpectedly. She had come to the cottage with the simple hope of escaping an unpleasant situation. She had expected to spend the time alone and well-hidden. Walking in the front door, she had been accosted by a set of bones, a set of bones that walked beside her now. The same set of bones that had walked with her to Æostemark and had carried her out when the smoke and heat had overwhelmed her. The same set of bones that had taught her to skip stones, fish, and bait a hook.

  Certainly, she thought, there had been revulsion at first, an internal horror at facing something dead, something unnatural. She remembered swooning when she felt and saw his fleshless hand grasp her ankle. She had made a stab at the floor before she had seen what had caught her, but when she had seen, when she had felt, she had swooned. She had never swooned in her life! There was no other word for it, though. She remembered feeling light headed, as if her spirit were trying to escape through her forehead. She remembered the odd feeling of her own eyes rolling back in her head. There was no doubt about it, she had swooned. She shook her head silently.

  This was the same man, she thought, looking at the robed figure beside her. It was the same set of bones, anyway. Why wasn’t she swooning now? She waited, daring herself to fall unconscious. She wouldn’t, and she knew it. She was no longer afraid of the aberration that walked beside her.

  If they had met under different circumstances, if she had seen a skeleton approaching her on open ground, she was certain she would have run in the opposite direction as fast as she could. That was probably only natural, she thought, though she was just as certain that there was nothing natural about a skeleton approaching her on open ground. If she had run, if they had not actually “met,” what, then, would she have lost?

  Her father had been content to sell her, body and soul, to seal a business deal. Had he concerned himself when the prospective buyer had disappeared with her? No, not at all. Had her father come looking when the nice young man decided he needed to sample the goods before he bought? No, not at all. Had her father, or anyone for that matter, come when she screamed? Had they come to assist her when the young man tried to take by force what she would not give willingly?

  No, not at all.

  Of course, they hadn’t come when she pulled her dagger on the young man, either. No one came to hear him whimpering as she slit him open in just a few sensitive places. No one came to stop her when she knocked the little darling unconscious and bolted out into the night.

  She had run away alone. Money had been her only companion, and only currency brought her help, compassion, and assistance. Even Petreus, dear and sweet as he was, didn’t offer to escort her. He only gave her knowledge of a place to stay.

  He had, in the grand scheme of things, given her more than just that knowledge. Intentionally or not, the old priest had led her straight into the set of bones beside her. She frowned silently to herself. Drothspar was more than just a set of bones. If he didn’t have the flesh to be considered a man by most, he had the honor and courtesy to be more of a man than any other she had met.

  This man, this Drothspar, had aided her when all others had failed her. Everyone needed something in their life. Drothspar needed answers, probably more than anyone she’d ever met. He’d lost his wife. He’d lost his life, for God’s sake, and still he was, for lack of a better word, alive! Who in creation could need more than this man needed answers?

  Had he turned her aside to search for those answers? No, not at all. Had he tried to force her to aid him in any way? No, not at all. Had this stranger, this aberration, this lost soul been anything other than kind, compassionate, and understanding?

  No, not at all.

  He had done everything he could to help her to hide and to survive. He spent his time with her. He fished with her. He shared his home with her. He told her about his life, and he listened, always curious, about hers.

  She hadn’t, of course, told him everything. At first, she could hardly accept his existence, let alone his trustworthiness. Later, as they had come to something approaching a friendship, she was uncertain of how he might react to some of the things she had done. She thought back over those things and walked on lost in her own thoughts.

  They bypassed the Ferns’ farmstead. Drothspar had told her about the inky black forms around the farm. He told her he suspected they were the trapped souls of the family and farmhands. Chance had been shocked when he told her, feeling the shortcomings of her education. Her professors had been so adamant that such things as souls, trapped or otherwise, could not exist. The case, however, was hard to argue against an animate skeleton. There was little they could do to comfort or free the unfortunate souls of Ferns’ farm, so they moved on around it, heading west to the city of Arlethord.

  They made the trip in easy stages. Scattered rains fell as they walked, and the sky seemed perpetually cloudy. Once they moved past the Ferns’ farm, the forest opened up, letting more of the day’s light, and rain, fall from the sky above.

  When Chance slept for the night, Drothspar would forage for what food he could. Most nights he found only nuts, which Chance gratefully accepted in the morning. Privately, he suspected she wasn’t quite as fond of them as she let on, but she knew he had done his best. One night, Drothspar almost stumbled across a sleeping rabbit. Chance woke the next morning to the smell of roasting meat, and her eyes warmed with gratitude. The rabbit hadn’t been very large, but it had provided her with something more substantial than nuts.

  It had been weeks since she had eaten warm food, and Chance felt her spirits rise. Her last warm meal had been with Petreus, and they were on their way back to him. She smiled to herself, aware of a certain lightheadedness, but unconcerned.

  “He’s going to be excited to see you, you know,” she said unexpectedly. Drothspar looked at her with a certain amount of surprise. She hadn’t spoken while they walked in days. It had been taking all of her effort just to keep walking. He scrambled to free his slate from his robe. Chance noticed him fumbling and laughed a warm laugh.

  “Petreus,” she said, answering the question he didn’t have time to write. “He’s really quite fond of you, you know. He told me so several times.”

  Drothspar looked closely at the young woman’s eyes and noticed they weren’t quite focused. Her voice was lighter than he expected. She seemed to him almost intoxicated, and he recognized the symptoms of her enforced fast. The nuts and roasted meat had been enough to keep her going, give her a bit of energy, but she was still starving, and her mind was starting to wander.

  “You know,” she said, “when I was a little girl, I always dreamed about walking in the forest. We had woods on the estate, but it wasn’t the same. The trees were all planted neatly in a row, and the groundskeepers plucked out weeds and other ‘unsightly’ plants.

  “I’d heard stories, though, of princes and castles and great, enchanted fores
ts. This forest probably isn’t enchanted, and there certainly aren’t nearly as many animals as there were in my stories, but it’s still a lot closer to what I imagined than those manicured woods on the estate.” She walked along, skipping just a little every few dozen steps.

  “I dreamt that I’d walk through a forest with some handsome young prince who would be happy just to be with me. He didn’t care about my family or the estate. He didn’t care if I would grow up to be ugly, beautiful, or plain. He would just hold my hand and be happy. And so would I. That was my idea of love.”

  Drothspar watched as a frown stole away her smile and her eyes narrowed and hardened. It looked to him as if a cloud had passed over her face.

  “Did I ever tell you about my classes at the university? Did I ever tell you about my ‘Humors of Love’ professor?” She paused as if waiting for him to respond, but continued on before he had a chance to write a word.

  “When I first arrived at the university, I thought it was wonderful. The buildings were tall and elegant. The grounds were well-maintained. The campus was a structured little city, planned from its conception to be what it was, its logic and method clearly visible. There was a serenity about the place, as if it were removed entirely from the surrounding world. There were no merchants hawking wares in the streets. There were no drunks staggering into—or out of—public houses. Flower gardens bordered green lawns and cobbled paths led from structure to structure. When I first arrived, I was happy.

  “I remember enjoying my first few classes. All of my fellow students were girls around my own age and station in life. Our first courses revolved around the structure of society, etiquette, and one called ‘Form and Balance of Movement.’ I think they were trying to ensure that all the young women would be proper, polite, and graceful. We paid attention where it was necessary, and talked about boys and parents in our off times.

  “The boys were strangely absent, though we saw them occasionally walking in monitored groups about the grounds. The professors and staff maintained a meticulous schedule designed to keep the genders separate. We ate in the same dining hall, but the girls dined before the boys. We were up earlier and in bed earlier. Our classes were structured and segregated so well that in the first three months I was there, I never once spoke to a single boy or older man. Even our professors were women.

  “After a short holiday at home, I returned for my second session at school. This must have been what my father had been waiting for. Our classes continued in the subjects of etiquette and grace, but we had a new one called ‘The Humors of Love.’ Everyone thought this was going to be wonderful! We were delighted. Romance filled our thoughts and all the questions of life were answered in the beating of our innocent hearts.” She snorted derisively.

  “‘Love,’ the professor started out on the first day, ‘is an illusion.’ He was a cold old man named ‘Krekel.’ He looked like a dried old fish and had slightly less charm. He explained to us that love was just a chemical humor of the body, much like pain. Like a fever, it was designed to express to the mind the physical needs of the form. ‘We are creatures,’ he would say, ‘not unlike the animals which wander in forests or farms. We breed to sustain life, to propagate our bloodlines and ensure some measure of immortality. Just as a fever indicates to the initiated that the body has an excess of heat which must be bled, so love translates for the mind the need of the body to pass on its blood to the next generation.’

  “‘Our societal structure,’ he would say, ‘has evolved for the express purpose of protecting the process of bonding, mating, and propagating our bloodlines. Men love for so long as it takes to secure a mate. They are capable of spreading their seed often and in quantity. Women, being tied to the cycles of the moon and the longer cycle of bearing a child, love for longer periods. Thus we know that the fiction of love and the strictures of marriage are ideals forged into reality by matriarchs who banded together to leverage the securing of a mate for a man against the woman’s need for extended support.’

  “He had us perform exercises to demonstrate his theories. For the first time since we’d started, we were allowed to speak to the boys in our school. For short periods of ‘common time,’ the genders were allowed to mingle in the courtyards. The sessions were closely monitored, as were the number of participants. At first, there were more girls than boys. In just a few sessions, the boys had each chosen to focus their attentions on specific girls. I didn’t understand the exercise at first, and I didn’t really care. I was well dressed and groomed, and I had a number of boys arguing over me until a rather cute one seemed to win the argument. Other girls didn’t find anyone, and were very disappointed.” Chance stared out into the distance and Drothspar waited for her to continue.

  “In the following weeks, Krekel changed the ratio of boys to girls. For a short time, our numbers were equal, and I felt quite happy. The ratios continued to change, and the boys soon outnumbered the girls. In time, the pool of girls was changed to another class in one of Krekel’s later sessions. As the weeks progressed, to a boy, each male chose a new girl to shower with affection. Eventually, our class of girls was introduced to a new class of boys, their numbers greater than our own. In time, each of us found a new boy to shower us with affection, having seen our former suitors change allegiances against us.

  “At the end of the school session, Krekel explained to us that we shouldn’t be personally hurt by these events. He had apparently kept close track of which boys had focused on which girls, and later which girls had focused on which boys. He demonstrated the male pattern of securing a mate and the female pattern of seeking security. We entered the class warm and full of hope. We left it the progeny of Krekel, cold and uncaring. I spent four years at that school, and I had Krekel at least one session each year.”

  Chance sighed, finishing her tale. She whistled erratically and sang fragments of old songs. Drothspar’s mind drifted over her experiences. He’d never heard of such things being done. For him, love had always been love. Love wasn’t a matter of need or desire, it was an overwhelming joy brought upon by being with a specific other. For him, it had been Li. They had shared an invisible bond, but rather than restricting one or the other, somehow it had expanded both. When they were together, they were more than the sum of their parts. When they were separate, there was a longing—an emptiness.

  Oddly, regretfully, he didn’t feel it now. Where had it gone? Had their bond expired with his life? Had their marriage truly been shattered in death? He wasn’t even sure if she was dead.

  The questions rattled around in his hollow mind until he put a stop to it. He had to let it go for now. If he kept fueling the anxiety, all he would do is burn himself out. All things in their time, he tried to tell himself. All things in their time. Worry, he knew rationally, was useless.

  It was also damn persistent.

  Chapter 22 – Still of the Night

  Drothspar listened as Chance talked sporadically throughout the day. He heard the changes in her voice as hunger tightened its grip on her mind. He yearned for the city of Arlethord, eager to find the young woman shelter and food. They were close now; they would reach the outskirts of the city as early as tomorrow night.

  He sat with Chance until she fell asleep. Sleep had not come easily to her that night. She was restless, tossing and turning on the ground, occasionally jerking spasmodically. Drothspar wished that he could speak to her, wished that he could whisper some comforting phrase to let her know that she wasn’t alone, that it would all be okay. He couldn’t touch her, not with his cold, dry hands. If he didn’t startle her outright, he was certain she’d find little comfort in his touch. He knew that a kind word and a warm touch could go a long way toward comforting someone. He was sorry he could offer her neither. He waited for her to fall asleep before going to forage for food.

  Traveling through the woods, they had managed to avoid contact with strangers. Foraging close to Arlethord raised the risk of an encounter. Most people would not be overly gracious to a s
trange skeleton. It wasn’t himself that he worried about. He’d been stabbed recently and it hadn’t made all that much of an impression. If someone followed him back to their camp, however, that could present a serious problem. Although he was dead, Chance was quite alive, and if someone found her in his company, they might take steps to alter that condition. He had to get her into the city. They had to get to Petreus.

  Focused on thoughts of caution, it took Drothspar a moment to become aware of the scents being carried to him in the air. He stopped moving and started sorting out the various smells. Something sweet was cooking, possibly corn, if his phantom senses served him properly. There was the smell of smoke, of the cooking fire. There was the acrid odor of stale sweat, sweat mixed with alcohol. He tried to gauge what direction the scents were coming from and listened closely. He could see no light from any fire, but he could hear rustling in a bramble thicket.

  If someone had set up a camp for the night and fallen asleep drunk, he might be able to examine their food supply. He knew it wasn’t the most noble thought he’d ever had, but promised that he would only take something if he was certain the camper could spare it. After all, he thought, he wouldn’t want to inflict starvation on a stranger.

  Drothspar moved stealthily. His body, light without its mass of flesh, hardly stirred the crumbling leaves on the ground. He edged closer to the thicket, noticing the spines in the bramble. He decided to take off his robe so it wouldn’t get caught on the thorns. He packed the cloth stuffing and his dagger into his robe and stood exposed to the night. It had been a while since he had been stripped down to simply bones. He found he could move more easily and enjoyed the freedom.

  Drothspar slid around the outer edge of the thicket trying to find a way inside. He worried about being seen, but having come this close, he decided to risk it. If he could walk away with any sort of food, it would help Chance get through the next day. If worse came to worst, he could always run in a direction leading away from their camp. Moving slowly, he caught a glimpse of flame through the mesh of branches. He heard the crackle of the fire and what sounded like snoring. He continued around the thicket, keeping an eye on the direction of Chance’s camp.