The Flame Iris Temple

by Colin Glassey

  Ako stroked his moustache as he thought about that question. Sandun responded. “It is a fine land that did evoke memories of Kelten, but there is a more important reason. Next to the hamlet of Essebeg is a long-abandoned city of the Junithoy, and that is where the knights will make their permanent home in Serica. I believe our fort is already built.”

  Lord Vaina didn’t move as he stared searchingly at Sandun. “You’ve seen this? With your own eyes? A hidden city of the Junithoy is actually in the hills east of Jupelos? I was born less than three hundred tik from those hills, and I grew up listening to stories about the mountain Junithoy. But…they were just stories. When I have some free time, I should very much like to see this Junithoy city you have found.” Lord Vaina glanced around at the others. “I can tell Sir Ako didn’t know about this, but your wife did. You must tell me how you discovered what generations of Serice explorers have failed to find.”

  “Certainly, but it’s a long story. I intended to tell you about it on the way back from Kemeklos, but…I never had the chance.”

  Lord Vaina noted the lateness of the hour. “Since both Ituka and Iela expect and deserve my attention after tonight’s performance, you will have to tell me about the Junithoy city on our trip to the Flame Iris Temple.”

  “You have decided to go?” Sandun asked.

  “I have. The plan is already in motion. I hope to leave in less than three days. I am counting on the assistance of all the Knights of Serica in this adventure. After all, one of your disciples is getting married.” Lord Vaina smiled at Sir Ako’s confusion. “Filpa, my former swift messenger, is getting married to a girl from his hometown of Omot, and we are all going to be there for the wedding, though I will be there in disguise. I’d like you both to come back tomorrow for a private lunch, I’ll explain the plan then.”

  Turning to face Valo Peli, Lord Vaina said to him, “War Minister, I believe you knew of Sandun’s discovery of a Junithoy city in the hills. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Valo Peli replied stiffly, “Arch-governor, after Sandun’s capture and subsequent disappearance, there was nothing this scholar could tell you. This one would very much like to examine the place Lord Sandun has found, but at present, there is no time to explore the mountains east of Jupelos. If Advisor Sandun is right, it will—someday—be known as one of the great discoveries in Serica’s long history.”

  “I take your point, War Minister,” Lord Vaina replied. “If anyone other than Sandun had made this claim…but he did, and we must believe him.”

  Hours later, Sir Ako, having proved once again that he could drink all of the Serice generals under the table, returned home with Sandun in a carriage thoughtfully provided by Lord Vaina’s staff. Their wives were barely awake as the two men half carried the women into the embassy courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, Sandun caught sight of a figure standing in the shadows near the doorway to the dining room.

  His blood ran cold as he recognized her face and clothing: it was Ashala, dead now for close to a year. In the second world, her spirit withdrew as her ghost disappeared from view, soon lost among the multitude of spirits that resided in Tokolas. Sandun’s mind was filled with questions as he put his living wife to bed, and then he returned to the courtyard and sat down in the center.

  Why had Ashala’s spirit come here? Was she now haunting this place? Did she want something from him? An old pain, which had once consumed his life for months, bubbled to the surface of his mind. Strange that for all his new power and knowledge, this sadness, this grief still hurt, still twisted his insides, stabbing him like a knife. He had failed to save Ashala’s life, and the world they would have shared had shattered, never to return.

  As the sky lightened on this, the first dawn of the new year, Sandun stood and breathed deeply. He had to put her aside. Whatever Ashala’s ghost wanted, Sandun had important work to do right now. He and Lord Vaina and the other Knights of Serica would be heading off to the Flame Iris Temple, and there was much to do before they left. The world of the living must take precedence over the wishes of the dead. Later, there would be time to help to this ghost of his past.

  Eight days flew by, and Sandun found himself back in Omot, a small town in Torsihad in which he had spent the night, eight months ago. At that time, he and Basil had been traveling as fast as they could in a desperate quest to find an antidote for the poison that was slowly killing all the other Keltens and Valo Peli’s family. Now, they had returned to Omot by a different route and in a much happier mood.

  For six days they had sailed up the Sukanea River as it made its wide loop, first heading south, then bending east, and finally turning northward. The river and the hills around it were now under control of Kunhalvar’s Red Crane Army. Much of Vasvar’s army had gone south to conquer the province of Buuk, which allowed Lord Vaina’s regional commander, General Sutro, to seize the ridgeline above the river. Thanks to Sutro’s capable leadership, the Sukanea River was once again the chief artery for the supply of the city of Tokolas. As their little flotilla of four ships sailed upriver, a constant stream of boats passed them going the other direction, loaded with food, coal, livestock, lumber, iron ore, and more, all bound for the capital.

  The Knights of Serica travelled in good company along the river. Lord Vaina, dressed and armored just like them, was on board. He had given himself a pseudonym—Sir Jomagtaro—and no one was allowed to use his real name. Also, Sumetar was traveling with them, as well as Frostel and Lord Vaina’s chief spy, Number Eight, along with five of his agents, posing as servants. Two other boats held soldiers, ostensibly reinforcements for the border city of Lagilosek but actually acting as guards for Lord Vaina. The last boat held some supplies but was mostly empty, in expectation of being loaded with treasures from the Flame Iris Temple.

  They passed several sections of rapids by means of locks that raised boats by using the river’s own current to fill temporary catchments of water. All the Keltens watched the lock operation with interest, as such mechanisms were rarely found on Kelten’s rivers. Lord Vaina watched everything and kept a scribe busy writing notes, recommendations, and orders. These would be delivered a day or two later under the guises of a report from one of his government inspectors.

  Past Lagilosek, the river snaked its way through some hills and then, very strangely, stopped twisting and ran as straight as an arrow for many tik. To Sandun, the river looked like it had changed into a long, narrow lake. Midway along this straight section was the amusingly named town of Mousetail. It was inside the province of Torsihad, but—over the last six months—towns and villages all along the north side of the Sukanea River had declared their allegiance to Kunhalvar.

  Lord Vaina, ignoring the warnings of his ministers, sailed right through the independent city-state of Nogisvi. Their boat’s captain simply paid the toll and explained to the city’s toll collector that they were going to a wedding. The officer on the cutter accepted the explanation, and they were allowed pass without incident.

  Number Eight had laid the groundwork for this story. For more than a week, garrulous agents, posing as merchants from Tokolas, had spread the word in taverns all the way from Lagilosek to Anessa about a young hero from Torsihad who had joined the Knights of Serica and was going to get married to his hometown sweetheart in Omot, and the knights were coming to his wedding.

  As they rowed past the docks of Nogisvi and observed the city, Lord Vaina said, “The man who rules Nogisvi, the so-called lord of the Sukanea, he is wise to seek good relations with Kunhalvar. Soon, every town on this river will acknowledge me as ruler. He may be the last to submit, but he will, and sooner rather than later. After all, the great majority of their trade is with Tokolas by boat, not overland to Lakava.”

  To Sandun’s eye, the farther they went upriver, the poorer the towns became. He had noticed this before in his hell-bent trip to the Great Sage Temple, but now he could see the change day by day. Even Lagilosek looked more
prosperous than Nogisvi. When he asked Lord Vaina why, the arch-governor shrugged.

  “I can’t explain it, Sandun. I can tell you that Torsihad has always been one of the poorest provinces of Serica. It has timber, but the trees are not as good as those around Hutinin or Lake Sarken. It has iron, but not like the iron mines around Naduva or in western Sakhat. It has farmland, but nothing like the rich lands that lie alongside the great Mur. We have an old saying: ambitious men are born in Torsihad, but none live there.”

  North of Nogisvi, the Sukanea steadily narrowed and became more snakelike until they reached the wooden bridge town of Anessa. Sandun said, “That’s where we met Blue Frostel.”

  “And got into a brawl with the belligerent monks from Telihold Tanul,” Basil replied.

  “Really? A bar fight? Sandun, I’m surprised at you,” Sir Ako said teasingly, and so Basil had to explain the whole event. The afternoon air was surprisingly warm and pleasant, and they had been drinking; consequently, Basil’s retelling of the story provoked peals of laughter from the other knights.

  Nearly six hours after noon, they finally docked at Omot, where Filpa was waiting for them. He talked fast and waved his arms around in a comical fashion as he said, “All is ready. Expected you have been since fast boats brought reports from downstream for last three days. Wedding is for tonight. Is good, yes? Leave next morning for the Flame Iris Temple!”

  Lord Vaina nodded. “Remember, I am Sir Jomagtaro. No one is to know otherwise until I say so. Treat me like Sir Ako.”

  “Yes, my lord…sir…Commander.” Filpa stumbled over his words and then simply saluted him in the Kelten style.

  “The other boats will be coming tomorrow. I thought it best to have them come separately to avoid drawing too much attention,” Lord Vaina explained to Filpa as they walked from the docks into Omot proper.

  “Is Zaval here?” Sandun asked.

  “Yes, last evening he rode in. With latest news from Hutinin for…Sir Jomagtaro.”

  Filpa’s family greeted them at the city gate, along with the bride’s family and the mayor and many other family leaders. If Filpa’s parents were surprised by their son’s sudden need to marry and the arrival of the Knights of Serica, they concealed it well. By all appearances, they seemed happy, as did the bride’s family. Indeed, the whole village of Omot appeared to welcome them.

  As Number Eight put it, the best lies were those closest to the truth, and in this case, it was the truth that Filpa once had his heart set on the prettiest girl in Omot, named Naili. Her parents thought she could marry better than the son of the town shoemaker, but a marriage offer not made could not be rejected. Knowing her parents’ attitude, Filpa left Omot and sought his future in Kunhalvar. In short order, his circumstances rapidly improved: first he was accepted into Kunhalvar’s messenger service, and then, after he escorted Sandun and Basil, he was promoted to the rank of special courier. After the Northern Expedition, he was accepted into the Knights of Serica. Filpa was now the most famous man in Omot, a local boy made good. So when Number Eight came up with the idea of a wedding as an excuse for the lord of Kunhalvar and the knights to go to the Flame Iris Temple, he interviewed Filpa, and the plan all fell into place. With some money to grease the wheels, the wedding was arranged in a few days.

  So, a real wedding would take place, and one of their members would marry a woman from his hometown. And yet, it didn’t sit right with Sir Ako, as he confided to Sandun while they walked through the town streets.

  “Lord Vaina’s spymaster arranged this. All of us, Knights of Serica, are involved in a sort of deception. Would Filpa have married this woman otherwise? I think not. And yet, as Filpa told me before he left, this was a dream of his, to marry this girl. How can any of us in good conscience, oppose the wedding? The Arch-governor, the man who created the knights in the first place, has asked this of us. And after the temple, we will have our own land to rule in Serica. Our own domain! What wouldn’t we do for such a prize?”

  Sandun agreed with what they were doing; indeed, he had no qualms. He could no longer say when he would return to Kelten, if ever, and he wanted his friends to stay in Serica with him. But they needed a place apart from Tokolas, a place where the Knights of Serica could be themselves. Stead Half Cliff was a near-perfect location, given a few years of improvements.

  The New Year’s festivities had been draining on the Keltens, and even Sandun had felt the strain of the constant barrage of unexplained things that simply had to be done, one after the other, day after day. Everything was out of the blue, and every time anyone asked “why,” they were looked at as though they were ignorant children. Sandun wondered if someone from Serica would find living in Kelten equally mystifying. Perhaps he would, thought Sandun, as he watched the wedding preparations in Filpa’s family home. No matter how hard he tried, he simply could not imagine living in Kelten and yet not knowing how Keltens behaved.

  In a large tent set up in the street, Sandun saw Number Eight conversing with a stranger, likely one of his secret agents. Sandun knew that other spies had already passed through Omot, nearly all of them pretending to be pilgrims going up the Tilsukava River to the various temples in the Towers of Heaven. The news had already been spread that the Knights of Serica were leaving Omot the next day to visit the Flame Iris Temple. This appeared to make sense to the people of Omot, and townsfolk told him the second week after New Year’s was still a good time to receive blessings at the temple and gain merit by donations. Sometimes, they explained, newlyweds went to Flame Iris to pray for a child as soon as possible. Apparently, no one in Omot knew that Filpa had recently converted to the religion of Sho’Ash.

  Many of the citizens of Omot looked curiously at Lord Vaina—Sir Jomagtaro—as he put an act, strutting around with his chest out, always with a drink in one hand, periodically bellowing challenges to the sky such as, “I’m the best warrior in Torsihad!” and “I can outdrink anyone in this town!” Sandun decided that Lord Vaina was mimicking the Keltens, and it amused him. They weren’t really like that…were they?

  The wedding proper was like the small-town weddings that Sandun had known in his youth. Half the village was invited. The young men who wanted the girl for themselves stood at the outskirts and drank till they passed out. The older men sampled the spicy river fish, the roast deer, and many different versions of fried rice while the women sat together in groups, holding babies and talking rapidly.

  When the bride, Naili, finally appeared, the Keltens nodded to each other in approval. Filpa hadn’t been mooning over a cow; instead, the girl could more than hold her own among the pretty women of Tokolas, although her hair was put up with such a plethora of hairpins that Sandun thought it detracted from her beauty, this being his usual criticism of Serice women.

  As honored guests, the knights were put up in the largest house in the town, whose owner operated several ships, including the fast boat that Sandun, Basil, and Frostel had taken upriver to the Great Sage Temple.

  Despite his drinking performance of the previous day, Lord Vaina was up at the break of dawn, eager to get under way. The knights assembled in the courtyard of the mansion, silently checking their weapons and armor while the house servants plied them with hot tea. With everything ready, Lord Vaina, Lathe, and Squire Hikki consumed bowls of steaming egg soup while Farrel whipped up his usual scrambled eggs and pancakes for the Keltens. As they were about to depart, Filpa ran through the gate, his shirt undone.

  He cheerfully announced, “I return! To heaven this night went I, but even an adesari sleeps, wouldn’t you know it? My earthly duty calls.”

  “All right, squire.” Sir Ako tossed a pancake over to him. “Here are your earthly tasks: check your gear, pay our hosts, and get down to the river shore. We will see you there.”

  The knights retraced their steps back to the river just as the sun climbed above the mists that coiled and billowed over the rippling waters. The second boat
of their flotilla came into view as they boarded their own ship.

  “The second boat is right on schedule,” Sandun said to Number Eight.

  “Yes,” said the master spy. “We worked with a merchant who sails the Sukanea to get the timing right. Our chief danger lay at Nogisvi, but you saw how they treated ships from Kunhalvar. The ruler of Nogisvi hopes to remain in charge after the arch-governor takes over, and his desire is not unreasonable.”

  The second boat was ostensibly carrying pilgrims from Tokolas to the Flame Iris Temple. Abbot River Reed wasn’t traveling on this boat but the one following. He was coming just in case they needed someone to take over the Flame Iris Temple after they acquired the treasure.

  Filpa rushed up the gangplank, and their boat cast off, even before the other ship docked. Number Eight raised and lowered a flag three times, and a shadowy figure on the other boat mirrored his acts, but no words were exchanged.

  Turning to Sandun, Number Eight spoke for his ears only. “The stories that came out of Nilin Ulim’s camp after his death were so incredible, I didn’t repeat them to the arch-governor because I hate being wrong. But you were there, so you can tell me what happened. I have this…need to know the truth. An obsession, really.”

  At Number Eight’s words, Sandun’s mind returned to that day, that day of days, and his heart began to pound. Sandun took several deep breaths and restrained his desire to dunk his head into a bucket of cold river water. “I’ve known you for nearly a year, Number Eight. Yet I know nothing about you. I propose a deal: you tell me something of your life, and I will tell you something of what happened that day.”

  Number Eight smiled briefly. “Information exchange. You have the instincts of a good spy. All right. I was the seventh son in my family, but there was an older sister, so, eight. I was the eighth. I had a name, which my mother used, but the rest of the family just called me Eight. My father, a wealthy merchant, had several wives, and my mother was the youngest and least important. I learned much by staying quiet, hiding in the shadows, avoiding attention and the inevitable beatings that resulted from notice. After my fifteenth birthday, I escaped from the household, leaving my name behind but taking some things of value that took on new forms in the days that followed.”