The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  “Arle and Thord always sided together in times of trial and doubt. The kind Maker blessed the inhabitants of both cities with a love for each other as dear as husband and wife. Like most couples, they would argue over unimportant matters, but when faced with any real challenge, they worked together. Over time, the bond became stronger and stronger. Two hundred and thirty years ago the cities joined in municipal matrimony, and the West has prospered in their union.”

  Drothspar thought back over the history he had learned, and, counting the seven years he had been, well, more dead, Arlethord became one city closer to two hundred and fifty years ago. It was her story, however.

  Passers-by nodded with appreciation as they heard their city praised in wisdom and blessings. Chance continued reciting her account of Arlethord’s history, even as she smiled and waved to the other travelers. Drothspar noted the saddened looks on the strange faces as they glanced briefly his way. He also noticed that none of them offered alms or any of their own blessings. Not that he really was a beggar, but it wasn’t as if they knew that.

  Chance stopped at a small shrine just short of the outskirts of Arle. Drothspar approached her but kept the proper distance for their fiction.

  “We should wait until it’s close to twilight,” she recommended. “Your disguise is good, but we shouldn’t really push our luck.”

  Drothspar nodded his agreement.

  “A little hazy light should keep the guards from looking too closely at you, and I’ll see if I can’t keep their attention focused on me.” She raised her hand to her bodice and loosened the front of her shirt slightly.

  Drothspar tilted his head to the side in a silent question.

  Chance shrugged her shoulders in a silent answer.

  Drothspar stood nearby while Chance knelt, apparently in prayer, at the little roadside shrine. Just as the sun began to redden in the west, she stood and signaled the continuation of their journey.

  Entering the sections of Arle that had been built outside the old wall, Drothspar felt the unwelcome stares of the inhabitants. No one raised their voice or hand against him, but he could feel their animosity washing over him. They wanted nothing more than to see him pass by as quickly as he could. Certainly, he thought, it wasn’t the mercy and love of the Maker they were sharing.

  He understood their fear. During his novitiate, he had worked to soothe and comfort the sick and injured. He, too, had felt revulsion and fear of disease. He had often prayed for guidance and the strength to suppress those feelings. It had been hard. It was probably the hardest thing he’d ever done, alive or dead. Sometimes, he knew, he had failed. He had seen the pain in an old woman’s eyes when he first saw her and had winced at the sight of her open sores. He had not, however, turned away from her. Her own eyes softened as she acknowledged that he was trying. Before he had left, they were each grateful to the other.

  Chance slipped a drink of spirits from her personal flask as they approached the guards at the Old City wall. One of the guards stepped forth to challenge her and eyed her appreciatively.

  “What’s your business in Arlethord?” he asked gruffly.

  “I bring this poor soul to seek the ministrations of the priest known as Petreus,” she answered meekly.

  “We are about to close the gate for the night, do you intend to stay in the Old City?”

  “If the Maker’s Servant will allow us, we will stay. If not, I have sufficient means to shelter us for the night.”

  The guard looked back at his comrade then leered openly at Chance. “Why don’t you let this peasant go on to the priest alone?” he said, saying the word peasant as if he were being forced to put his hands in offal. “I’m certain I could find you shelter for the night.”

  Chance started to object when the guard put one strong hand on her shoulder. Drothspar tottered close to the guard and racked his body as if about to vomit. The guards brandished their weapons and advanced as Chance started to speak.

  “Ethoril,” she said loudly, “you must be careful! You know what the Abbot said about your wounds. If they break open you could infect anyone around you. How many times am I going to have to clean you up?” she asked, her voice exasperated.

  The two guards raised their weapons and backed quickly away from the pair. Chance looked innocently at the guard who had approached her.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but he has trouble seeing, you know. His eyes are filled with boils and bleed often.” She rubbed her thumbs against Drothspar’s vacant eye sockets as if she were trying to clear away the blood. She wiped her hands on her legs and turned back to the guard. “Did you say, kind sir, that you could offer me shelter?”

  The guard’s face had gone pale and he stared at his hand as if it were a snake. He blinked twice and looked back at Chance. “What? No, move on,” he said, trying to regain his authority. “Get yourselves to the priest and take your diseases off of the streets.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said ingratiatingly. “The Maker will reward you for your actions.” The guard’s eyes flickered between Chance and the heavens above and a worried frown creased his forehead. Chance and Drothspar passed through the gate and up the street as quickly as decorum would allow.

  “What were you doing?” Chance whispered sharply when she was sure they were out of earshot. “You could have gotten yourself speared!”

  Drothspar stared at her steadily, not bothering to take his slate from his robe.

  “Well,” she asked, “aren’t you going to answer me?”

  Drothspar continued to stand in silence.

  “What were you thinking?” she asked, referring to him but no longer talking to him. Her brow furrowed in thought. Her eyes widened as something occurred to her and she looked back at him. He remained silent, unmoving. Her eyes went soft around the edges, reminding him momentarily of the old woman he had comforted so many years ago.

  “We’d better get moving,” he heard her say. “We’ll want to reach the chapter house before night falls and the patrols start challenging people.

  Drothspar and Chance moved away from the walls and headed for the chapter house. Light faded from the narrow streets as the sun slipped below the horizon. Burghers rushed about their remaining business and urged themselves toward home. Shops closed for the night and windows were covered with cloth. Daylight business sought comfort in home and hearth, fire and family, surrendering the city to the shadows of night.

  Public houses erupted with the sounds of yelling and laughter. Like bottles of fire tipped on their sides, they spilled ruddy light carelessly out into the streets. Shabbily dressed women patrolled the roughly lit areas, offering passers-by the chance for a good time. Acrid smells of stale sweat, ale and rotting food radiated out from the open tavern doors. Occasionally, a heated discussion would roll outside into the street, and the sporadic smack of fist to flesh would punctuate the cacophony from inside.

  After walking around a fight that had drawn a fair number of patrons and their drinks into the street, Drothspar and Chance found their way into the old Arle Square. The square was wide and open, with shops and businesses lining all four sides. In the center, seeming small in the vast space, was the old council chamber, the building which had functioned as the old city’s center of government. Even after the unification of the cities, the Ratter House, as it was called, served the governing of the district. Torches flickered around its stately walls and burnished guards stood at the main doors.

  Past the Ratter, on the northwestern corner of the square, stood a building much taller than those surrounding it. The building had a massive bulk of a body and twin towers which rose at its front like mighty antlers into the darkening sky. The body of the building stood equal with the largest buildings in the square, but the towers, reaching ever upward, made the building stand out among its peers. This was the Cathedral of the Benevolent Maker, the chapter house that had been the spiritual center of Arle long before any visionary had thought of unifying two cities staring across a river.

  B
road and polished steps climbed upward to the main doors of the structure.

  Their flow inclined even the casual onlooker to follow their line past the door, over the building and along the towers toward the heavens. In purpose and design, the building existed as a signpost, a reminder of, and a guide to, the Maker and His gift of Eternity.

  This had been Drothspar’s home. In the years after Gathner had pulled him from the stagnant quagmire of his life, he had spent days on end praying in this very structure. He had lived on the Cathedral grounds. He had explored the cool chambers and walked silently with his God. This was the place that had given him so much hope. This was the life he was living when he had been blessed with the love of Li.

  Chance followed him to the front stairs, surprised by his sudden move to the lead. She stopped to glance around the square, looking to see if anyone had been watching. The guards of the Ratter were focused elsewhere. Staggering bodies lurched carelessly to or from the public houses, but no one, that she could see, was watching them.

  Drothspar was already at the doors when she turned around. She started up the stairs when a sudden thought caught her breath. What would happen when he went inside? Everyone knew that evil couldn’t stand the presence of the Maker in His Own House. His Churches provided the only safe refuge against vampires, ghouls, and other fell evils that haunted the night. She hadn’t considered the problem before because she’d always been taught that such things could never exist.

  “Drothspar,” she called in a hoarse whisper, “wait!” She raced up the stairs, two at a time, whispering as loudly as she dared. She watched as he grasped the handles of the doors. In the image of the moment, she noticed the gleam of the shining metal handles, polished by the touch of thousands upon thousands of hands. She reached out with her own, hoping to catch hold of his arm or robe. He pulled the doors open before she could call out once more.

  It was too late, he had stepped inside. She followed quickly, feeling the rush of cool air washing over her and into the night.

  “Are you okay?” she asked worriedly, stepping in beside him.

  He turned his head to look at her, slowly, calmly. He nodded his head.

  “Are you sure?” she asked quickly, concern sounding in her voice.

  Again, he nodded.

  “It’s just that, well, you know,” she paused looking for some way to explain her fears, “your condition. I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to… well… survive in here.” She looked around as if expecting avenging angels to descend from their statues.

  Drothspar gently rested one hand on her shoulder. She looked at him curiously. He had hardly ever touched her. She had become accustomed to men handling her without permission. Her father had ushered her along since her earliest memories, showing her as he might a prized possession. Young men at the university had been forward enough to hug her and even sometimes handle her as “one of the boys.” She had been a very private person in her youth, unaccustomed to the warm touch of affection in her own family. She had thought herself beyond the need of a gentle touch. School had taught her that casual familiarity was to be accepted, even when it wasn’t encouraged or desired. It had all become so customary to her, until she met him.

  Granted, he was dead. Granted, he didn’t even have the flesh for a warm touch. He had, however, never tried to “man-handle” her. He had never ushered her before him or physically guided her where he had wanted her to be. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had touched her, and she could even ignore her thumb in the counting.

  It wasn’t a lack of affection that brought all of this sharply to her. It wasn’t that she missed the rough handling of the thoughtless. It was the sheer amount of respect he showed her by keeping his hands to himself. In all honesty, she thought, there had been times that she might have liked a comforting hand to be placed on her shoulder. Thinking back over those times she could count on her fingers, each time he had actually touched her had been one of those times. Each had been a time just like this one.

  He had removed his hand from her shoulder while she was thinking and drawn out his tablet. He wrote a single word.

  “Home.”

  She looked up into his hollow eyes and nodded her head. She didn’t need his voice, she didn’t need to look into his eyes or see the expression on his face. She could feel the emotion resonating from that single word. She smiled quickly and mechanically, and looked away as he stared out over familiar surroundings. She felt her eyes well with tears as she realized that there was no place, not even one, that she felt she could truly call “home.”

  She had been in the Cathedral many times throughout her life, when her family had been visiting Petreus or making the obligatory “pilgrimage.” In all those other times, her mind had been focused on visiting the old priest or desperately wanting to leave. She looked around the church as if seeing it for the first time. She felt the cool, dry air of the place surround her, calm her. She watched the shadows play in the flickering light of candles.

  Glistening statues seemed to come to life in the shifting dance of light. Beautiful faces of cherubic angels smiled and laughed playfully as they watched her. Mighty figures with gleaming metal swords looked down over her with watchful, caring eyes, guarding her body and soul as one. She looked deeply into those eyes, eyes that told her they could see more than flesh and bone and blood.

  Other figures were carved in repose over the covers of their sarcophagi. Hands folded peacefully over their chests, some cradled swords or scepters while others held flowers that would never wilt or fade. Chance looked over the figures, linking their meaning to their place. There, underneath the heavy lead and marble covers, rested the bodies of men and women she had learned about in her history classes. Never before had she made the personal link between the words she had been taught and the physical presence of the figures. It seemed to her a profound moment, a moment when she, herself, had reached out to touch history.

  The interior of the Cathedral was lined, filled, with statues and sarcophagi. Her eyes measured the length and breadth of the place, and she had a sudden urge to examine everything very closely. She wanted to reach out her hands and her mind and touch these moments in time. She smiled to herself. She felt more at peace in that moment than she had ever felt before. She understood how Drothspar could consider such a place “home.”

  Touching him with her thoughts, she realized he was no longer beside her. The peace within her shook for a moment until she spotted a dark robed figure kneeling at one of the little chapels which were interspersed with the sarcophagi along the outer aisles of the Cathedral. She walked slowly, softly, to place herself behind him. Her eyes flowed across the polished marble floor as she walked, amazed at the brilliance and pattern of the floor stones. She stopped and looked over Drothspar’s shoulder, examining the chapel before him.

  The figure of an older man stood before a work bench. The features of his face were warm and gentle. His eyes gleamed at once with kindness and a vast, incomprehensible wisdom. Tucked into his belt were the tools of a workman, hammers and files, tools for carving and for measuring. He stood before an anvil, his arms open, inviting all to see his handiwork. There, gleaming in marble on the workbench before him, was a skeletal arm and hand. The bones were perfect, and the hand rested open, ready to accept whatever the craftsman set inside it. She realized at once that there was something significant in this. The hand hadn’t been formed into a fist. The arm wasn’t poised to strike. The hand had been left open, inviting anything into its grasp.

  She had taken courses in art at the university, but she had never attempted to interpret a statue for herself. In all her life, it was the first time she had ever connected in such a personal way to any form of art. She smiled to herself, feeling a single tear slip away from her eye. She had been to this place so many times before, but she had never seen the things she had seen this night. She had come seeking refuge, and she had found more than she could have ever wanted. She looked at the b
ack of the figure praying before her. She smiled and understood the difference. This time, she thought, this time, she had come with her friend.

  She waited while he continued to kneel, wondering if it would be okay to kneel beside him. She had never really been keen on prayer; she’d never seen much purpose in it. She felt, however, a powerful need to connect with him at that moment. She wanted to share her discoveries with him right then and there. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, interrupt him as he prayed, so she nervously knelt on the wooden kneeler beside him. She looked at him and clasped her hands before her, resting them on the upper portion of the kneeler. She looked back at the craftsman and the hand, letting her eyes glide over the smooth marble. Drothspar turned to look at her, his skull pale and unemotional. Slowly, his head turned to face forward.

  Sometime later, Drothspar stood and backed away from the chapel. He watched as Chance, still kneeling, noticed his absence. He saw the faintest hint of regret cross her eyes as she, too, stood and backed away.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she said softly, her voice filled with wonder.

  Drothspar tilted his head to the side then nodded slowly.

  “There is so much I’ve never seen before,” she said, her eyes still on the statue. She turned to look at Drothspar. “But I’ve seen all this so many times before.” She shook her head in wonder.

  Drothspar turned his body toward the sanctuary of the Cathedral and beckoned her to follow. Chance stood a moment longer looking back at the statue. She checked to make sure Drothspar wasn’t watching, then turned back to the statue and waved a tentative hand. In that moment, she was certain that the gentle smile of the craftsman was for her. She put her hand quickly down to her side and rushed to catch up with Drothspar.

  The body of the church remained empty as they headed back toward the sanctuary and the courtyard beyond. Tall beeswax candles burned around the altar. Chance looked at the stone altar and realized just how similar it was to the anvil of the craftsman far behind. Gold and silver glittered around the altar, supporting the wax candles and gleaming amidst the polished marble.