The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  Drothspar paused at a wooden door on the far left side of the sanctuary. He simply waited, his body showing no signs of impatience. Chance tried to hurry, but her eyes wanted to be everywhere. Having found so much that she had missed before, she looked now to see everything. Finally, she looked at Drothspar and smiled. He opened the door and held it for her.

  They followed the hall to the exit and stepped out into the Cathedral grounds. Though the night was dark, the paths were lit by torches and the courtyard was well kept. Chance walked with purpose through the night, eager to see Petreus and tell him about her discoveries. She was also certain the priest would be happy to see his old friend.

  Though the courtyard was wide and peaceful, it took only moments to reach their destination. The rectory was filled with the glowing light of candles and the chatter of its inhabitants. Chance knew the way to Petreus’ quarters and led them inside and down the main hallway. They took the stairs up to the third floor and walked to Petreus’ cell door. Chance was just about to knock as the door opened.

  A man stood in the doorway holding a bowl of stew in one hand and a frosted pastry in the other. His head was mostly bald, save only for a few wispy white hairs that clung tenaciously to the sides. His face was flushed and his breath carried the warm smell of spirits. His eyes were a merry blue, and widened as they settled on Chance. He spread his arms wide, displaying a portly frame as he smiled broadly at the girl. Dimples sprung to life in his cheeks squeezing his eyes nearly closed.

  “Sasha,” he exclaimed brightly, “what are you doing here?” He looked her over quickly and noted the sallow, fallen features of her smiling face. “You look as if you haven’t eaten for days,” he exclaimed, noticing her eyes dart to his up-flung hands.

  “Petreus,” she cried, slipping under his arms and hugging him about the waist. He laughed pleasantly and balanced the food in his hands.

  “What in Heaven’s name are you doing here, child? You know they’re still looking for you, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I imagine they are, but I had to leave the cottage.”

  “Why?” he asked, concern starting to wear at his smile.

  “I’ll tell you all about it,” she promised. “Is it all right if we come inside?”

  “Of course,” he agreed, “of course! I’m sorry, dear! I didn’t mean to keep you like a heathen in the streets. Come in, come in!”

  “Who’s the food for?” she asked, still eyeing the steaming stew.

  “Brother Steadword,” he replied, looking away from her.

  “He’s fasting, isn’t he?” she said accusingly.

  “What? Well…,” he blustered, coughing and taking a sudden interest in straightening up his cell. His room was more comfortable than the word “cell” implied. A single bed fitted to one corner of the room allowed space for a dresser and wooden desk. Petreus set the food on the desk and seated himself in a chair. Chance sat on the bed, smiling broadly, and Drothspar stood a few feet from the door.

  “I brought you an old friend,” she announced warmly. “He’s really not himself as you knew him,” she warned, “so please try to take it easy.”

  “Old friend, you say, Mmm… Well, old ones are good ones, I always say. Who, then, have you brought me, dear?” He eyed Drothspar curiously. Drothspar had worked to keep himself covered and hidden from the priest’s eyes. His hood was drawn tightly about his head and his hands were tucked inside his pockets. “Don’t be so shy,” he heard Petreus say, “We’re all friends here, under God.”

  “It’s okay, Drothspar,” Chance said, “I’ll think he’ll understand.”

  At the sound of the name, Petreus stood quickly, as if faced with a ghost. His jaw dropped open and he inhaled sharply. Slowly, Drothspar turned and drew his hands from his pockets. He faced the priest and pushed his hood and wrappings back away from his head.

  Petreus stared at the hollows eyes of the skull, his own eyes threatening to leap from their sockets. The red drained from his face to be replaced with a pale white and he took a step fearfully back. Drothspar reached one hand out toward his old friend, but that was too much for the priest.

  Petreus stood as still as if he had been made from the same marble as the statues in the Cathedral. He drew his hands together and started speaking the Old Tongue in a forceful, monotonous voice. Chance watched him, the smile bleeding from her face. Petreus moved his hands in a stately and crisp fashion, the precursor, she realized, of the peasant’s sign to ward off evil. The candles in the room flickered and dimmed though no breeze stirred in the room. Drothspar took an unsteady step back, as if some pressure were applying itself to his body.

  “Be gone!” Petreus shouted and pushed his hands out at Drothspar. His own eyes widened as he watched a brilliant white light flash from his hands to strike the robed figure full in the chest and head. Drothspar was pushed violently back across the room to slam into the wall. The flowing light held his body suspended against the wall for a moment before dropping him sharply to the ground.

  “Stop!” Chance jumped off of the bed and flew to Drothspar’s side. “Stop it!” she shouted again, as Petreus began to chant once more. She stood and grasped the old priest’s hands, putting herself between him and the fallen figure on the floor.

  “What are you doing, child?” he nearly shouted at her. “Get out of my way!”

  “No,” she yelled stubbornly. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

  “What do you mean, ‘I’m hurting him?’ What evil have you brought before me?”

  “No evil,” she said pleadingly. “That’s the man whose home you sent me to. That’s Drothspar, your friend,” she cried, “and mine!”

  “What?” the old man said, his voice quavering. “What are you telling me?”

  “That is your friend you just blasted into the wall!”

  “It was a horror,” he defended himself, “a vacant-eyed skull!”

  “That too,” she said, “but it’s still Drothspar, and he is still my friend!”

  “Oh sweet Maker! Child, what is all of this?” He sat down heavily on his bed, his hands trembling and his face uncertain.

  Chance moved back to Drothspar’s side and took his hand in hers. She thought for a moment to feel for a pulse but quickly pushed the thought aside.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered urgently. “You have to be okay. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  Petreus looked down at Chance and the hand she held in her own. He tried to calm himself just as he heard a knock at his cell door.

  “Petreus?” a voice called from outside, “are you all right in there?”

  “What?” he called back, nervously approaching the door, “Of course I’m all right, and why shouldn’t I be?”

  “I heard some shouting coming from your cell, I just wondered—”

  “I stubbed my toe on the bed,” he said gruffly, cutting off the other man. “Hurt like the Fallen. Stupid design, these beds, all of them ought to be changed. You watch yourself,” he urged the man on the other side of the door, “yours can get you just as easily.”

  “Um… of course,” the other man agreed suspiciously.

  “That’s the way the Fallen work,” he said, opening the door to face a large-nosed priest outside. “They can’t attack the righteous soul directly, so they nibble at us from hidden places like bedposts.” His voice resounded with conviction.

  “Who’s the food for?” the man in the hallway asked, eager to change the subject and sniffing at the air.

  “Brother Steadword,” Petreus replied.

  “Wonderful!” the other man said, a broad smile creasing his face and pointing his nose toward his chin. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay, Petreus.”

  “Thank you, Brother, the Maker bless you for your vigilance.” Petreus patted him on the shoulder and waved as he walked down the hall.”

  “Busybody,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Can’t keep his nose out of anyone else’s business. No wonder, I suppose, with a
nose as big as his. Probably smelled the stew on the second floor and couldn’t wait for an excuse to come and investigate.”

  He closed the door behind him and stared down at Chance. She looked up imploringly at him, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Can’t you do something to help him?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  “Sasha,” he said, his voice faltering, “I don’t—” He jumped back from her and gasped loudly.

  “What?” she said urgently, looking from his face to her fallen friend. Petreus pointed slowly behind her. She watched as nothing happened. Suddenly, one of Drothspar’s legs twitched. She rolled him over onto his back and slipped her leg under his head.

  Drothspar’s body lurched, arching his chest upward. Chance and Petreus both felt their hearts leap.

  “Oh God,” they heard a hoarse voice whisper. The sound was low and quiet. It sounded like air slithering out from an opened tomb. Chance covered her mouth as she listened to Drothspar speak for the first time.

  Chapter 24 – Voices

  Petreus moved his hands about his head and chest, protecting himself with the ancient Sign of the Maker.

  “It speaks,” he whispered falteringly. His eyes were wide and he worked his mind to accept the impossibility before him.

  “I guess he does now,” Chance said, her eyes just as wide as the priest’s.

  “You mean it didn’t speak before?”

  “He, Petreus, he,” she said, looking up at the priest. “This is Drothspar. This is the man whose cottage you sent me to.” A thought crossed her mind, calling her attention back to Drothspar. “And no,” she said absently, “he didn’t speak before.”

  “Great Maker protect us all, in folly and fortune, amen.”

  “Amen,” Chance said, noticing the grateful look on Petreus’ face as she acknowledged his prayer.

  An unintelligible whisper came from Drothspar.

  “Droth, are you okay? What did you just say?” Chance leaned down to hear more clearly. In a moment, she nodded her head and smiled.

  “What did he say?” Petreus asked.

  “‘Amen,’” Chance replied.

  After some fast talking and winsome smiles, Chance managed to convince Petreus to help Drothspar to the bed. Petreus winced several times as he took hold of Drothspar’s body and lifted. Surprise shone in his face as he felt the light weight in his hands. Chance smiled at him repeatedly through to process. Every time Petreus looked as if he might balk or question their behavior, she would smile at him warmly, and he would lose his thought and smile back. Once Drothspar was safe in the bed, they covered him and retreated to the desk.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Petreus asked his young niece.

  “I really don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “What exactly did you do to him?”

  “It was a prayer to purify evil spirits,” he explained, “I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, I’m not really sure, you see. I’d only read about it in an old book.”

  “What kind of book?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I found it in the library down in the catacombs. I go down there fairly often, you know. It’s really quite a fun place. Most of the other priests are deathly afraid of it.” He grinned roguishly. “There are lots of fun places to explore,” he added, “including an old and very large wine cellar.”

  “You’re kidding?” she said, disbelieving. Petreus pulled a very old and dusty wine bottle out from behind his dresser. He passed it over to Chance. “How old is this?” she asked, amazement filling her voice.

  “Older than you or me,” he replied, “and older than the two of us put together. Probably wiser, too. It wasn’t traveling in the company of skeletons the last time I checked, and it certainly didn’t have any dead men sleeping in its bed. Next door, maybe, on the other side of the wall even, but not in its bed.”

  “The book, Petreus?”

  “Oh yes, the book. Well, you see, in truth the catacombs are a little… exciting. Sounds and lights, you know, happening in strange places. Old cracks in the stone work, most likely, wind whistling, light leaking, you know. It has an odd feel to it, either way.

  “One day when I was down there exploring, I heard a sound that seemed to be heading my way. I looked out into the hall, and it was empty. Well, I thought, of course it’s empty. No one ever comes down here but me. I got back into my exploring and I heard the sounds again. Sounded just like footsteps. Well, I didn’t want to be found out, you know, didn’t want to give away my ‘private cellar,’ as I’d come to call it. I ducked quickly into the old library and nosed around the books and scrolls. You never know what you’ll find in there. Once I found a stash of sweet rolls Brother Chelton was keeping for himself during his fast. They were really quite tasty.” He smiled warmly at the memory.

  “The book,” Chance prompted him again.

  “The book, yes, well, as I was saying, I was nosing about the library, trying to look scholarly, when I started to actually look at the books. Most of them were dull like lead, but here and there were some little gems of interest. I stumbled on this book of ancient prayers, old ones, really, even when the book was written, hundreds of years before. I’ve always had a fondness for old things, and I’d swear to you this was the oldest book down there. I brought it over to a table and started flipping through it.”

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  “Prayers mostly, girl, weren’t you listening?”

  Chance rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “And that’s where you found this ‘purifying’ prayer?”

  “If you’d like to tell me how the story went,” he said, “I can wait until you finish. At the end, we can compare notes and see if your version comes at all close to mine. Or,” he said, “you could just let me tell it and see if it’s to your liking.”

  “Sorry,” she said and smiled.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said, “you’re not stealing my chickens you’re just being annoying. That’s not a sin, for the most part, though Brother Trethold, the creature with the long nose, pushes it right to the edge.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “where was I? Oh yes, the book. So I took the book over to one of the study tables and moved a couple of lanterns in close. Fantastic prayers in the book, really, prayers I’ve never heard even in legend or story. Some were more than prayers though, bordering on magic.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, leaning close to his niece.

  “Sasha,” he said softly, “some of those prayers were not simple petitions, they were invocations. They were calls to the Maker to partake of His Own power. My eyes burned across the pages, knowing that if I were caught with that book I’d probably be as slender as you by the time I’d finished fasting. And a fine sight that would have been, a priest that thin tied to a stake for a burning. Half the crowd would have complained they’d seen nothing more than a greasy stick smolder. Mangy dogs wouldn’t have found an ounce of charred gristle to argue over in the ashes. Priest’s have been excommunicated for little,” he said eyeing the bed meaningfully, “and killed for less.” He smiled an impish smile and winked broadly. “That’s what made it the most fun.

  “Anyway, that prayer for purifying evil, well, it was really more of a petition than an invocation, a request rather than a demand. It seemed like a handy thing to know, something to impress the other priests with, anyway. The words are archaic; few of the younger priests these days even speak the older languages. Never have time, what with getting married and tending flock and children. So I scribbled the prayer down on a scrap of old parchment and hid the book away.” He reached into his desk and flipped through piles of parchment until he found an old and yellowed scrap with fresh-looking writing. He smiled again and handed it to Chance. “Don’t see calligraphy like that out of these snot-nosed vicars, I’ll tell you that,” he said, pride resonating in his voice.

  “No,” she agreed, “you certainly don’t. This is beautiful!”

  “Thank you,” the
priest said, beaming a broad smile. He looked at the parchment and frowned. He snatched the piece out of her hands and turned it over as he handed it back.

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s nice, too.” She reversed the parchment again. “What was on this side?” The scrap looked as if it had been torn from a very old parchment.

  Petreus harrumphed and coughed, muttering the words “scripture” and “ancient.”

  Chance looked closely at the words that Petreus had written. She thought she recognized the roots of common words, but the meanings tantalizingly escaped her.

  “So what was the prayer really supposed to do?” she asked, holding the scrap of parchment up to the light.

  “Like I said, Sasha, I’m not really sure. It’s not like I have a handful of evil spirits to practice on, you know. I could try it on Trethold, I suppose, maybe see if I could banish a foot or two of his nose, but that’s a risky proposition at best.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked smiling.

  “Mainly because those extra pounds of flesh keep the man tired, lugging them up and down stairs all the day long. If he were suddenly free of the burden, he’d probably turn up in someone’s pocket, or even that stew.”

  Chance eyed the stew hungrily, her mouth watering as she stared at it. Petreus took the parchment back from her hands and fanned himself with the edge.

  “If I had to guess,” he continued, stirring the scent of the stew toward Chance, “I would say that the prayer was meant to snap the spirit of the departed out of this mortal realm and send them to the Maker for proper judgment.” Chance dragged her eyes from the stew with tangible regret to stare at the priest.

  “Why didn’t it work?” she asked.

  “‘Why didn’t it work?’” he repeated. “You’d be better to ask that of him than me. It certainly did something,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “In all my years in the priesthood I have never seen such a brilliant display of the Maker’s power.” He shook his head in wonder.