The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  The captain led them to an audience chamber that was forty paces deep and twenty paces wide. Polished flagstones reflected the daylight streaming in through the windows. The floor was raised at the opposite end of the chamber from the main door. A well-dressed man sat in a high-backed chair on the platform. Two armed guards stood to either side of the chair and slightly behind. Elaborately carved columns supported the ceiling and formed a channel that focused attention on the dais.

  Petreus, Drothspar, and Chance followed the captain past the columns to the foot of the dais. The man in the chair looked down at them with heavy-lidded eyes. His face was careworn, lined with age. The lines disappeared into the man’s short-cropped, gray mustache and beard. His brow was wrinkled from the practice of reading in low light. His silver hair was combed straight back from his forehead.

  The man wore a black velvet mantle embroidered gracefully in silver. The long sleeves flared out at the cuffs, split, and were pinned back to his shoulders. The split outer sleeves revealed a silver silk lining and fine, white inner sleeves. The collar stood straight up at his neck, covering his throat in silver-trimmed black. The whiskers of his pointed beard reached just above his collar. Black riding pants covered his legs, which ended in black leather thigh boots. A heavy-looking golden ring glittered from his right hand. It tapped against the wooden arm of the chair with the rhythm of an annoyed cat’s flickering tail.

  “Good afternoon, Petreus,” the man said by way of greeting. His voice was deep and strong. It was a voice accustomed to giving orders.

  “Good afternoon, my Lord of Ythel,” Petreus responded, bowing. “I trust we’ve found you well and in the Maker’s keeping.” Petreus stood resolutely before the dais, his face also neutral. Whatever fear he had brought into the room, he had hidden with the skill of a gambler. He steeled his nerve with resentment. Resentment was better than fear, he thought to himself, and Ythel could expect no more. Petreus was certain the man would respect nothing less.

  “Why have you intruded yourself upon me, Petreus? Our relationship was concluded long ago.” The man’s voice was calm, as if he were merely curious. There was, however, a note of steel in his tone, indicating that he expected to be answered.

  “My Lord, unique information has been brought to my attention, I was certain you would find it appealing to your interest.”

  “Share this information quickly,” the man said with a slight tone of disbelief, “and then be on your way.”

  “I shall endeavor to be brief, my Lord,” Petreus replied, concentrating to keep his indignation in check. “I would prefer to share the information with you alone, my Lord,” Petreus said evenly.

  “My guards are here to ensure my safety,” Ythel explained as if to a child. “They are completely trustworthy.”

  “Ah,” Petreus said, “as trustworthy as one of your former cavalry commanders, perhaps.” Petreus noticed the narrowing of Ythel’s heavy lidded eyes. Even the guards looked insulted. “Still,” Petreus continued, “if my Lord of Ythel feels threatened by the presence of two priests and a young girl, who am I to challenge him? My information was for you, alone, however. If you don’t want it, I will take it with me as I leave. Good day, Ythel.” Petreus turned on his heel without waiting for dismissal. Chance gawked at her uncle for a split-second before turning to follow him. Drothspar also turned hesitantly from the dais.

  “Stand where you are, priest,” Ythel said firmly, standing. His voice rose with insult and command. Petreus turned to face Ythel, whose eyes were no longer heavy and disinterested. “You risk your life, priest,” Ythel threatened openly, spitting out the word “priest” as if it were something poisonous.

  “And you waste my time, Ythel,” Petreus retorted with equal contempt. “Are you afraid to stand before me without your henchmen? When have I ever raised my hand against you?”

  “When have you raised your hand against me?” Ythel scoffed. “When you played your part in stealing away my daughter,” he hissed. Petreus looked slightly stricken at Ythel’s words.

  “If you had had the courage to stand up to Gathner, my Lord of Ythel,” Petreus began quietly, “perhaps your daughter would not have felt it necessary to leave your company.” Ythel’s eyes flashed momentarily as the words sounded against his own personal guilt.

  “Captain!” Ythel shouted as if the man were across a parade ground.

  “Yes, my Lord,” the captain responded, his eyes alert and attentive.

  “The priest and I can insult each other without your supervision. Take your men and leave us.”

  “My Lord?” the captain said in disbelief. It was clear that this was the last order he had expected.

  “Leave us. Now, Captain! I will summon you if needed.” Ythel’s tone brooked no dispute.

  “Yes, my Lord,” the captain replied, saluting. With a curt gesture of his head, the guards formed on his flanks and followed him from the hall. He closed the doors quietly behind him.

  “Speak, priest and make it good,” Ythel commanded, retaking his seat.

  Petreus, his face no longer neutral, returned Ythel’s glare. He remembered the tears and questions he suffered as Ythel’s soldiers dragged him from the cottage. He felt his teeth pressing harshly into each other and the muscles of his face aching as they formed the grimace that glared back at Ythel.

  “My niece has just been to Æostemark,” Petreus ground out between clenched teeth. “She tells me that the city has been destroyed. Again. She tells me that the destruction is complete this time.”

  “Petreus,” Ythel interrupted contemptuously, “if Æostemark had been destroyed, I would have heard about it from more reliable sources than your niece.”

  “She also passed by the cottage,” Petreus continued as if Ythel had not spoken a word. “She brought something back with her.”

  “You dare enter that cottage,” Ythel rose, his cheeks flushing and his voice rasping. “Who gave you the right?” The force of his anger had been turned on Chance, but she stood unflinching before him. Ythel seethed as he waited for her to respond. “Answer me!” he shouted.

  “He did,” Chance replied evenly, pointing at the hooded figure beside her. Ythel was taken aback by her answer. He had expected deceit, subterfuge, even apology, but not an answer. The pace of his fury was broken, like a horse stumbling in its stride. He wrestled to regain his balance.

  “And who are you, priest, to give this whelp the right to enter that which is not yours?”

  “I am a man of gentler disposition than you,” Drothspar’s cold, dead whisper responded, chilling Ythel and drawing the color from his face. “And I have every right to offer the comfort of that which is mine.” These last words slithered across the hall to sink into Ythel’s mind.

  “Who are you?” Ythel demanded.

  “I am your son-in-law, Ythel,” the cold voice continued. “I am the owner of the cottage, the husband of your daughter, and the man who has come to question you. I am Drothspar.” His rasping words echoed throughout the hall, lingering accusingly about the dais. He lowered his cowl, exposing his skull to Ythel.

  Wide eyed, Ythel took a step forward just as rushing steps raced toward them from behind. Drothspar felt a tug at his robes as a sword slid effortlessly through them and continued on toward Ythel. Petreus and Chance stepped back in shock and Ythel’s eyes widened further as he watched the point of the blade pressing nearer. Something heavy hit Drothspar from behind, carrying him and the sword closer to Ythel. Drothspar grasped the blade and wrenched the point to his right. Thrown off balance, the assailant behind him passed to his left and tripped on the steps beside the pale Ythel.

  Drothspar pulled the sword out of his sagging robes and gripped it firmly in hand. He looked at it with interest and leveled the point at his attacker. It was Ythel’s captain.

  “Too late, Captain,” Drothspar’s skull rasped at the man who’s pallor matched his master’s.

  “W-what… what are you?” Ythel breathed through a throat constricted with fe
ar.

  “I am the soul of Drothspar, though how exactly I am bound to my body I do not know.”

  “Are you here to kill me?” Ythel asked, his eyes eager and pleading.

  “No,” Drothspar whispered, “I am here to ask you about Li.”

  “Li,” Ythel repeated, his face jerking in a spasm of pain. “Li? What can I tell you about Li?”

  “What did you see in the cottage when you sent Petreus away?”

  “The cottage,” Ythel repeated, his voice heavy with macabre bemusement.

  “What did you see?” Drothspar insisted.

  Ythel was a noble, a Duke, a leader of men, yet he looked like a child lost without his parents. His eyes drifted in and out of focus. He was a man accustomed to controlling his situation, though the situation of his daughter had flown apart despite his power and station. He looked at Drothspar, at the remains of the man who had taken his daughter away, and sat heavily on the edge of the dais.

  “Blood,” Ythel said finally, “dark, black, blood.”

  “Whose blood?” Drothspar pressed.

  “Hers, yours, someone’s,” Ythel said wearily. “How should I know whose blood it was?”

  “She wasn’t in the cottage?”

  “There was only blood in the cottage. Blood and the stale smell of smoke.”

  “Did you search the area?”

  “My men swept the forest around the cottage. They searched for two full days. We found nothing.” Ythel’s head fell heavily in his hands. Petreus stared at the noble with a mixture of anger and disbelief. Chance stood off to one side watching the exchange. Her eyes were wide in shock, as if she had just watched a storm carry away her house and family. Ythel’s captain sat near his master, breathing heavily. Drothspar stood, silent and unreadable.

  “I thought,” Ythel began, breaking the silence, “I hoped that she had escaped somehow. Escaped with her husband.” He looked up from his hands. “Escaped somehow with you.” Ythel looked at the grim form of his son-in-law. “Where were you?”

  Drothspar regarded Ythel in silence, feeling pangs of guilt that had started seven years before.

  “Where were you, Son?” Ythel continued in painful derision, “Where were you when my daughter disappeared? Why don’t you know where she was, where she is? What were you doing when you should have been beside her?” Scorn and contempt filled Ythel’s voice as he unleashed seven years of fear and anger. Drothspar staggered under the impact of that voice, reliving his death and his guilt. “Where were you?” Ythel’s shouting echoed mockingly back from the walls.

  “I had gone to get honey,” Drothspar explained quietly. “It was late, a storm was coming. I was walking to the neighbor’s farm to get honey. I’d forgotten about it. Li and I… Li and I had an argument. I walked out into the night to get honey.”

  “You left her?” Ythel’s words were little more than a shocked whisper.

  “I walked out into the dusk for honey,” Drothspar continued, gesturing to Ythel with his fleshless hand, showing his palm as if to prove it was empty. “I was at the edge of the woods. I saw riders coming from the farm…”

  “You left her,” Ythel whispered again, answering his own question.

  “The riders came,” Drothspar went on, ignoring Ythel. “They left the burning farm and entered the woods. They were riding toward the cottage. A few of them broke off after me. One of them killed me—”

  “You left her,” Ythel’s voice sounded in a harsh, accusatory whisper. His eyes burned as they settled on Drothspar’s skull. Sensing the look, Drothspar’s hollow eyes bored into Ythel. He drew the rusted dagger from beneath his robes.

  “I left her,” Drothspar agreed, his rasping voice thick with pain and anger. “I died clutching this,” he said and brandished the rusted blade. The captain’s eyes judged the distance from Ythel to the armed apparition, but his muscles refused to carry him between them. Drothspar continued. “One of the riders discarded his sword, pulled this dagger from his belt and stabbed it down into my chest. He tried to pull it free, but I wouldn’t let him.” Drothspar looked around at Petreus and Chance, at Ythel, even the captain.

  “I could never have out-run the horses,” he explained. “I had no weapon to fight them. I never expected anyone to fight.” He bowed his head, the weight of guilt pushing it down to his chest. He raised the dagger, its blade muddy-looking in the sparse light. Ythel’s eyes lost some of their fire as he looked at the corroded weapon.

  “The man who killed me struggled to pull this free of my body. If nothing else, I knew he could never use it against my wife.” He paused and lowered the dagger to his side. “It was all I could do,” his voice rasped slowly, “steal the weapon of my murderer.” The blade fell from Drothspar’s hand to clatter loudly on the marble floor.

  Ythel was no longer looking at Drothspar, but staring at the dagger on the floor. His eyes widened and he moved closer to the weapon. His hand stretched out to touch the handle.

  “Sweet Maker, merciful Maker,” Ythel pleaded, his head shaking side to side. He clawed at the handle with his outstretched fingers, dragging the dagger closer to him. “No,” he said, “it can’t be, sweet God, please don’t let it be.” He took the handle in his hand and held up the blade as Drothspar looked down at him. “Oh my sweet Maker,” Ythel said, his voice breaking, “I know this weapon. I had it… I had it made for the… for him…”

  “Troseth,” the captain breathed in comprehension, touching a similar looking dagger at his own side.

  “Dog’s blood,” Ythel cursed and threw the dagger across the room. He had turned the blade with his hand and thrown it aside as if it had cut him. He rubbed his hand and looked for blood. “It was cold,” he whispered finally. Petreus’ eyes widened and he turned to go after the weapon.

  “Who was Troseth?” Drothspar asked, his rasping voice neutral.

  “My predecessor,” the captain answered from the floor.

  “Troseth was a captain in my service,” Ythel explained as he looked up from his hand. “He was an excellent soldier, but he upset Li.” Drothspar looked at him. “It was perhaps a year before she met you,” Ythel explained, feeling Drothspar’s stare. “Li came to me one day and said that one of my officers was making her ‘uncomfortable.’ I told her I’d look into it. The man was following her in his off-duty hours. He seemed afraid to approach her openly, so he set up elaborate plans to place himself in her way, to make himself seen.” Ythel shook his head.

  “He was too good of a soldier to lose, so I transferred him to a border company.” He looked at the dagger that Petreus bent to retrieve. “I gave him that dagger as a reward for his service and loyalty.”

  Petreus’ hand touched the dagger and he took it away quickly. He shook his hand as if it had been dealt a serious blow.

  “Tell me,” Petreus said in an almost casual tone, “do you always give cursed weapons as rewards for service and loyalty?”

  “What?!” Ythel exclaimed, his face reddening with indignation.

  “That dagger is cursed,” Petreus continued calmly. “I’ve never actually touched anything like it before,” he admitted, “but I could feel it trying to draw the life out of my fingers.”

  “Nonsense,” Ythel retorted hotly. “I had the blade forged by a local smith. Cardalan here has one made by the same man.” The captain’s hand fell again to his dagger and his eyes rolled nervously.

  “May I see your dagger, Captain?” Petreus asked politely. The captain drew his weapon and handed it, blade reversed, to the priest. Petreus inspected the dagger, turning it over and over in his hands. Drothspar looked at the glittering weapon that could have been a perfect match to the dagger that killed him.

  “Very nice,” Petreus said, returning Cardalan’s weapon. He noticed the look in the captain’s eyes. “It’s not cursed,” Petreus assured him. “You can check for yourself, if you like. I imagine that if Ythel here could feel the chill of that dagger,” he pointed to the floor behind himself, “you could just as well.” />
  “If there’s any curse on that dagger,” Ythel said glaring at Petreus, “who’s to say that it didn’t come from that.” He pointed at Drothspar.

  “Well,” Petreus said, resting one hand on Drothspar’s arm, “I suppose I am. To say, that is.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ythel snorted.

  “I tried to cast the evil out of him when I first saw him, Ythel,” Petreus explained as if talking to a child. “It was really rather spectacular. Not your common, household prayer, I’m afraid. Knocked the poor boy clean on his back. As you can see, however, he’s still here. Gave him his voice, too, as chilling as it may be.”

  “Priest,” Ythel said between clenched teeth, “if you hadn’t involved yourself in my daughter’s life, none of this would have happened!”

  “My Lord of Ythel,” Petreus replied, his own voice thick with contempt and anger, “if you would have had the courage to face Gathner, to stand up for your daughter and the man she loved, you would have been able to protect them!” Spittle flew from Petreus’ beet red face as he shouted at the man on the floor.

  “Stop it!” Everyone looked in shock at Chance, who had been silent the entire time. Her own face flushed slightly from the effort of shouting, but otherwise her demeanor remained calm. “Thank you,” she said evenly, touching her hair to make sure it wasn’t out of place. “This isn’t helping anyone. What’s done is done.”

  Petreus glared at Ythel and Ythel stared back at him. After several long moments, the two men looked away from each other. Petreus shuffled his feet like a schoolboy and Ythel straightened his mantle. Drothspar looked at Chance but said nothing.

  There was a loud, booming knock at the doors to the chamber. Drothspar hurriedly raised his hood up over his skull as Ythel raised himself from the floor. The doors swung open before anyone could respond. Ythel looked with displeasure at the man sweeping into the room. The man, uniformed in the scarlet livery of the Crown, took in the odd scene, dagger, sword, and all, with one look. Unperturbed, he marched up to Ythel and knelt.