An hour later, they turned a bend in the river, and Frostel pointed to a large gate, painted black, with the words Rulon Mors written across the top in gold leaf. Around the gate, forty or fifty men were waiting. A big smile lit up Frostel’s face, and he boomed out, “Whose anger burns his helmet?”
The men on the shore stood and shouted back, “Temo Tio!”
Frostel leapt off the boat and waded onto the shore. He called out again, “Who shouts away rain before battle?”
Again, the men responded, this time saying, “Lord Mairen!”
Satisfied, Frostel strode up to the assembled men. Sandun, Lord Vaina, Number Eight, and Sume followed behind.
The men were Frostel’s age or younger, and they were all armed with swords and spears. Each warrior or todoskar seemed to have a backpack, likely with armor inside. Frostel seemed extremely pleased with the turnout, and he spoke to many of the men by name. They formed a semicircle as he addressed them.
“I, Arna Frostel, second of that name, ask you all to accept me as your commander. You know what that means.”
One of the bearded men, about thirty years old, stepped forward and spoke. “Your message said you intend to set up a new school in Tokolas. Is this true?”
“Yes, Kerko. My Vir Rulon Mors will be in Tokolas, and we will serve Arch-governor Vaina, just like the Knights of Serica and the scholars of the Great Sage Temple.”
“And what about the Flame Iris Temple?”
“You must all swear to follow me before I tell you about Flame Iris Temple. Will you acknowledge me as the true heir of General Frostel?”
Kerko got down on one knee and held his right hand up, making a fist. “You inspired the army at the Battle of Devek. You broke the siege of Kemeklos. You slew the mighty Kitran captain on the steps of the great palace hall. You are the true heir of General Frostel.”
The other men all said, “This I swear.”
Frostel grinned. “Good. Here then are my orders. You will make your way, undetected, to the landing of the Flame Iris Temple. Two more boats will arrive in the evening, Lucky Arrow and Silver Fish, carrying more than ninety soldiers of Kunhalvar. At midnight, dressed in full armor, you will go up the stairs into the Flame Iris Temple. Let none stand in your way.”
“What have the monks at Flame Iris done this time?” Kerko said.
“You will learn soon enough,” Frostel replied. “There are other allies concealed among the pilgrims. They will be known to you because they will say one word: Devek. Once you are at the top, you are to help secure the temple.”
“This is clearly part of a larger plan,” Kerko said thoughtfully. “Kunhalvar is taking over Flame Iris. Curious. Well, it shall be done as you command, True Heir.”
Sandun spoke up: “You should go with them, Frostel. Lead your warrior-disciples.”
Frostel looked back at Sandun and then faced his men. “Lord Sandun is right. I shall lead you into the Flame Iris Temple!”
Frostel’s armor and weapons were passed down from the boat. Without further ado, the boat continued upriver, while Frostel’s men marched into the dense forest that covered the land right down the river’s edge.
Number Eight expressed a measure of satisfaction. “Forty-eight men joined Blue Frostel. Better than I expected.”
“And they didn’t drop an oar beat at the prospect of fighting the monks of Flame Iris,” Lord Vaina said. “Also as you predicted.”
“Neighbors and not friends,” Number Eight replied. “There are rumors of unsavory things going on at the Flame Iris Temple these last few years. We may be doing Serica a great service by taking over the place.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Lord Vaina replied. “Since the government in Daka stopped supervision of the temples ten years ago, the monks have enjoyed unfettered power. I lived in a monastery, and I know how Eston’s monks behave when no one is watching. However, we are not taking over Flame Iris. We are leaving with the treasure.”
“Of course, my lord. I misspoke.”
Filpa caught some of the anxiety of the other knights. Sandun saw him pacing the deck and speaking to himself: “A day passes, two days at most, this forgotten. My wife comes with me to Tokolas. Happy then.”
Around noon, their ship turned another bend, and the Flame Iris Temple came into view. Much of the building at the top of the huge karst remained hidden, but spires of gold shone brightly in the sunlight, and two enormous images covered the sheer cliffs on either side of the steep stairs that led up to the temple. On the left, Eston’s face, expressionless, eyes closed; on the right, a gargantuan wheel with eight spokes decorated with animals and symbols in between each section. At first, Sandun couldn’t tell if the images were painted in bright colors or if they were carvings, but as the boat turned and the sunlight played on the cliff face, he became convinced these images had been carved into the rock and then painted.
“It would take a thousand men working their entire lives to make that,” Sir Ako said as he contemplated the two massive carvings.
“Perhaps. As it happened, it took more than two hundred and fifty years,” Lord Vaina said. “I heard the project started with just three men, all former stonemasons. Declared complete just before Naduva’s fall, ninety years ago. All told, thousands of monks worked on the carving, hanging from ropes through rain and heat. This book we received from the Great Sage Temple talks about the work which was ongoing, and also describes large images painted on the cliff face.”
They neared the base of the karst and saw five or six buildings by the shore. Perhaps a dozen boats were tied up to the piers. The buildings were well maintained with bright colors: red, blue, and green. One building in the back had scaffolding around it, likely being painted that day. At least thirty people were slowly ascending the ten-thousand-step stairway while other figures were coming down.
“This is impressive,” Basil said. “There is nothing like it in all of Kelten. I think you’d have to go to Akia in the Archipelago to see anything comparable.”
“If even there…” said Sir Ako.
Seeing the changing mood of the warriors, Lord Vaina planted himself at the prow of the boat and addressed the Knights of Serica. “This is just a monastery dedicated to Eston: a false prophet of a misguided religion. It was made by men and is run by men, and they are sitting on vast treasure that I, the future king of Serica, need now. All this land will be under my dominion in a few years’ time. Heaven has decreed my rule. Sandun has spoken with one of the divine adesari and has relayed its words to me.
“Do you believe in the teachings of Eston? No. Do I? No. Do the followers of Temo Tio and Lord Mairen believe in Eston? No! We will succeed because we are right and they are wrong. I am going up there, and I am coming back down with the means to rule the land of Serica. Are you coming with me, or must I go alone?”
Sandun replied with force, “I am with you. You are my purpose.”
Sir Ako said, “The Knights of Serica are with you. Carved cliffs and a steep stairway don’t cause me to change my mind. Sho’Ash is our god, none other.”
Sume stood before Lord Vaina and drew her sword. “True believers in Lord Mairen, like me and Master Frostel, have never accepted Eston’s teachings. Eston was mistaken in every way, and his monks are no more holy than a horse in a field. A horse lives, eats, and dies—it has not lived a human life or done anything of worth. The monks of Eston seek to live like a horse or a cow, thinking of nothing, doing nothing, leading worthless lives. I am with you.”
Sandun looked at Sumetar and saw Damar looking at her also, with a questioning expression.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you say something like that,” Damar said.
“It’s an unpopular opinion. Others who believe as I do see little point in debating with the followers of Eston. But if Master Frostel sets up his school in Tokolas, I will join him.”
Damar paused for a moment before responding, in Kelten, with an old saying, “Well, there are always more fish in the ocean.” Then he turned away, his face full of pain.
The other person who paid attention to Sume’s speech was Number Eight. Sandun could see with his second sight that Number Eight was reconsidering Sume’s position in the world, reshuffling her location on his vast game board of pieces and players. Which raised the question: What had she been before? If she was now an ally of Frostel, where had her loyalties lain before today?
Perhaps someday Sandun would learn what had brought Sumetar into their little world. But maybe not. Life threw changes at you, and every day something new presented itself. Sometimes the new thing stayed; more often, it vanished, never to return.
Half an hour later, they reached the docks. At the end of the pier, a man dressed as a well-to-do merchant waved at them and then held up both hands in fists. Then he turned and walked back down the pier.
“Everything is in place, my lord,” Number Eight said quietly. “The plan is proceeding.”
Lord Vaina nodded. “Be prepared for deviations. No plan survives once the enemy starts responding to the attack.”
“Armor up!” Sir Ako commanded. “The Knights of Serica don’t go into the Flame Iris Temple dressed like pilgrims. We go in dressed like knights.”
Chapter Nine
Flame Iris Temple
Lord Jori Vaina led the way up the stairs. At the first landing, he felt the urge to halt and catch his breath, but he resisted the temptation and kept on going. I’m out of shape, he thought to himself. Too many hours spent sitting in meetings, not enough time walking around. But what choice did he have? He was no longer simply running a city, no longer just in charge of a province. He was in charge of more than two provinces. The day before he left on this journey, his council had debated a petition from the new leaders of Kemeklos to send part of his army north and protect them from the bandits and scattered remnants of Nilin Ulim’s old army. Of course, they couldn’t afford it. To do anything required silver, and he had run out.
Jori now understood the true power of a religion: people did things without being paid. The Red Swords had no money, and naturally they spent nothing on their soldiers, or their administrators, or their workers. Everyone just did things because they all believed in the imminent arrival of the Mavana. Of course, that couldn’t go on very long; a year, yes; two years, perhaps; but not a decade. People needed to eat, they needed a place to sleep, they needed clothing. Also, soldiers needed weapons, miners needed picks and shovels, weavers needed flax or silk, farmers needed seeds. At the end of the day, everyone needed money.
He had left the Red Prophet and abandoned the faith because he recognized the manifold problems of trying to build a government, a functional government, based on faith. Jori paid his staff; he hired good, competent people; and he paid them. He didn’t send his soldiers out with sticks and stones—they were equipped with iron and steel. But everything cost money in his world, which meant his government had to collect money. And if revenues didn’t cover the expenses? Then bills weren’t paid, complaints mounted, tempers frayed, and the machinery of government slowed, became less responsive. And he couldn’t go back; he couldn’t rejoin the Red Swords, not after having executed the Holy Counsel outside the walls of Kemeklos. No, he was well and truly trapped by his own decisions.
He had thought that closing the monasteries would be a source of easy revenue, but so far, it had failed to produce much. Yes, there was land for sale, but the potential buyers, the wealthy men, were reluctant to buy former monastic land—afraid of being cursed or fearful that the land sales would be revoked by a later decision from the government. The farmers who worked the land were petitioning to have the land given to them for free because they had no money.
He had thought that all the young monks would welcome leaving their boring lives of prayer and contemplation, just as he had. Jori had hoped that these men would be a fresh source of labor and would start paying taxes as a consequence. But in most cases, the young monks acted like little children, demanding his government give them jobs and pay them since they were no longer allowed to live in monasteries. Eventually, this would work out. But right now, he didn’t have the money.
Ussi, his finance minister, kept showing him the numbers, week after week. If nothing changed, he would be out of silver in a month. What would he do then? Stop paying his soldiers and see half of them lay down their arms? Or worse, switch sides to join the Iron King—who, by all accounts, really did have money? Stop building ships? That would leave him at the mercy of Two-Swords Tuno, who kept building ships at his massive shipyards on Lake Sarken. Could he stop paying his officials? Impossible. Who would collect the taxes and carry out his commands?
No, Jori told himself as he drove his body up the endless stairs, this was his best hope. Despite the risk, despite the immorality of stealing a treasure held secretly in one of the most famous temples in all of Serica, this was the least bad alternative. The irony of claiming this treasure as the future king of Serica when he, alone of all the rulers in Serica today, had not assumed the title of king, was not lost on him.
Yes, he did want to be the king of Serica—someday. But not now, in fact, not until he was old. He couldn’t do this if he were king. This mad adventure would be absolutely out of the question if he were king. His administrators would have all resigned or threatened to commit suicide if he had proposed to leave the capital, in disguise, and travel with group of foreign opmi. As it was, only a few people knew what he was doing. Officially he was visiting Hutinin and was now unwell but being treated by Master Donath. Master Donath’s reputation as scholar and doctor meant that most people would feel confident in Jori’s swift recovery. With luck, no one would ever know he had come here.
Jori halted at the next landing and looked around, taking in the view. He was enjoying himself. This was like the old days, the wild days when he led his band of Red Swords along the Mur and Nava, fighting with the Kitran, camping on grassy islands in the middle of the river, sleeping under the stars.
These Keltens, they treated him like a man, a warrior, a battle companion, someone they respected. True, they could never become real friends like the men he had grown up with in his hometown, like Pojo Erdis, Esko Kun, and Sinki Vereb—men who understood him and whom he trusted completely. But, unlike almost everyone else, the Kelten knights didn’t expect him to make all the decisions. It was refreshing to live a few days and not be in charge. But that vacation was over. Soon, Sir Jomagtaro would vanish, perhaps never to return.
Sandun spoke to the marksman, Basil, saying, “This climb is much easier than the path up to the Great Sage Temple.”
“No comparison,” Basil replied. “And to my mind, these stairs are more impressive than the carvings on the cliffs.”
The second landing was adjacent to the carving of the great wheel, and a few pilgrims were here on their knees, gaining merit by veneration of the massive stonework. Jori knew all the symbols and the meaning behind the figures within the wheel. He had forgotten nothing; the long hours spent memorizing the sacred texts of Eston still lived in his mind to this day. If he wanted to, he could have spent hours explaining to everyone there what the wheel represented: the eight spokes, the four sacred truths, and so on. But he didn’t talk about Eston’s philosophy to anyone. It was all locked away in his mind and rarely allowed out. His years at Yellow Dragon hadn’t been a complete waste of time—he had learned how to read and write, and that was a gift of priceless value. But studying the military campaigns of the Water Kingdom or reading about the effort of Tors Sakay to reform the government would have been far more useful than learning the Doctrine of the Void or the Book of Air.
At the top of the stairs, even he was impressed. The Yellow Dragon Monastery, where he had spent four years as a novice, was old, and before its destruction at the hands of the Kitran, it had some fame, at least i
n Kisvar province. But the buildings and the statues of Flame Iris Temple put his old monastery to shame. The paint on the buildings shone in the sunlight, the spires and roof tiles gleamed golden. The statues carved from stone were magnificently detailed and lovingly painted in rich colors.
The top of the karst sloped up in both directions from where the great stairway ended. And yes, there were more stairs going upward both northwest and southeast. The largest temple buildings were on the higher, southeast side. By the look of the northeast buildings, Jori guessed they housed the monks and the classrooms. At the highest point, the largest temple building stood, a magnificent circular structure that rose at least one hundred and fifty feet into the air, with its six roofs and its hundreds of intricately carved roof beams.
He had no doubt that some of the Last Chancellor’s treasure had been used to make improvements to the temple, but if Abbot River Reed spoke the truth, the monks of Flame Iris hadn’t used it all.
A group of monks came out from a shelter by the stairs and accosted them. They carried staffs and were adjusting their robes. Naturally they were all shaved bald, wearing robes of heavy silk, mostly green with embroidery. The leader wore a yellow robe with many designs on his sleeves. Jori almost laughed at them; he had never before seen monks wearing robes of the same high quality as that of his chief ministers.
The leader said, “Who are you, wearing armor and carrying weapons to this holy place, the great Flame Iris Temple!”
Lord Vaina let Sir Ako speak. The plan called for continued deception, even now. Number Eight had mingled with other pilgrims, so it was only the knights standing in a group.
“We are the Knights of Serica. Half of our number are from Kelten, and none of us has been here before,” Sir Ako replied. “One of our group recently married. He is from Omot. After attending the wedding, the people said we should come here to see this local attraction. Here we are.”
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