The Flame Iris Temple

by Colin Glassey

  “We sweat blood for this, didn’t we?” Sir Ako replied. “But now, we need to get dry clothing and find a fire before we turn into icicles. And I must get the rest of my men out of the other corridor.”

  “I’ll get them,” Sandun said.

  He went through the door and swam to the statue chamber, which was still three-quarters filled with water. He continued on into the treasure corridor and surfaced to find Basil staring at the slowly lowering water.

  “Sandun, you are a sight for sore eyes. We have been counting the ingots of gold while we waited to see if we would drown or die from bad air or be rescued. There is a great deal of treasure here, so much that we stopped counting the silver and still haven’t finished counting the gold. How many bars did we count, Wiyat?”

  “Two thousand, three hundred and seventy-one.”

  Padan came over with a small lamp in his hands. “Found this near the end of the tunnel. If we’d died, we would’ve died the richest men in the world.”

  “Where’s Farrel and Filpa?” Sandun asked.

  “Farrel’s at the back, unconscious. Filpa’s not here. He left some time ago, saying he would bring one of the others.” Basil suddenly fell against the wall and had to steady himself for a few seconds. “I feel a little lightheaded. The air has gotten close, hasn’t it?”

  “You should leave now. I think you’re correct—the air has gone bad.”

  Sandun wondered: where could Filpa have gone? There didn’t seem to be many alternatives, but he had to get his friends out of the tunnel as soon as possible. “Come on, men, follow me. There is fresh air in the statue room, and beyond lies freedom. Let’s get out of here.”

  Sandun made his way up the treasure corridor, stepping over chests, piles of silver, the decayed remains of bags of filled with coins, and what he guessed were precious objects wrapped in old silk. At the end of the corridor he found Farrel, unconscious, his arms around a large, intricately carved lacquer vase. Sandun pulled the archer up to his feet, encouraging him to start moving back down the corridor. Once they were all knee-deep in water, the chill brought some focus to their thoughts, and he guided them into the statue chamber. The water level had sunk such that Wiyat could stand on the highest spot of the room with his head out of the water. All the Keltens clung together by the wall and breathed deeply, inhaling the fresher air of this room.

  Sandun took this opportunity to dive down, holding his glowing glow orb out in front of him. His heart sank as he saw through the troubled water that there were two bodies in the deepest part of the chamber near the base of the statue of Ajh. He came closer and confirmed his fears: Filpa’s body was motionless, on the stone floor, not six feet from the body of the prayer master. Sandun grabbed Filpa’s arm and pulled the young man up to the surface. Filpa’s arm and face had no warmth, and he didn’t move or react in any fashion. Sandun cried out, “I found Filpa. He may have drowned!”

  “Holy shit!” Basil exclaimed. “What happened? By Sho’Ash, I should have been swimming to the others, not him. He was cold and shivering the last time he went in. Why didn’t I go? What I was thinking?”

  “Help me get him out of here. If we can get the water out of his lungs, perhaps there is some hope.”

  They all helped to pull Filpa’s limp body out of the statue chamber and through the entry corridor. The others outside cut short their greetings and helped make a flat surface above the water in the great chamber using the pieces of marble. They tried to empty the water out of his lungs, and they slapped his face and pushed on his chest for several minutes, calling out his name, imploring him to wake, but there was no response, Filpa was dead.

  Sandun said, “Filpa died trying to save others. He died a hero. This is another death that can be laid at the feet of the monks who tried to kill us all. I guess more than a few men of the Red Crane Army have died this night alongside our young squire.”

  All the Knights of Serica stood in a circle surrounding the body of the young man. Sir Ako, his voice choked with emotion, led them in the short prayer for the dead on the field of battle.

  Sandun felt some measure of loss at Filpa’s death; he hadn’t talked much to the young man, but had it seemed clear to him that the former messenger-rider needed both training and maturity before he would become a knight. Filpa was so eager to prove his worth that he took great risks. A rash youth, as Sandun’s father would have said. He could easily imagine what happened: Filpa had pushed himself too hard, become disoriented in the darkness, perhaps had struck his head on a wall or on one of the statues. A tragic loss, a life cut short especially for one newly married, with the world ahead of him.

  Solemnly, Sir Ako said they needed to collect Filpa’s armor and weapons from the chamber of statues. All their armor and weapons had to be found and put back on before they could leave the cavern. “Our task is not complete,” Sir Ako told them. “Duty, honor, and now, vengeance.”

  Sandun, using his glowing orb, fished their equipment out of the water while the others formed a chain, passing their armor and weapons from hand to hand out of the chamber.

  After Sandun found the last item, his own boots, made by Filpa’s father, he waded over to Padan, with Sir Ako at his side. Sir Ako said, “This is our second death in less than a year. We have recruited three and lost two.”

  “Filpa was just a squire. He wasn’t a knight like Sir Gloval,” Sandun replied.

  “True, but I think with a year of hard training, he would have become a capable knight. He certainly had the courage.”

  “We all saw that,” Padan said as he dragged armor up the corridor. “Every mission, it was I’ll do it, let me try.”

  “I propose to make him a knight now, in death. What do you think?”

  “Do the Knights of Saint Hurin do the same?” Sandun asked. “Promote their fallen squires in death?”

  “I don’t know, but Filpa died doing what he thought would best serve this fellowship, his fellowship. One can even say he died in battle. We were certainly fighting to stay alive. Further, I guess the true tale of the events this night will not be written down.”

  “I agree,” said Padan. “Let our telling of Filpa’s story inspire future squires to great deeds.”

  In the cavern, as the knights laboriously strapped on their armor, Sir Ako announced, “It is my will that upon burial Filpa shall be elevated in rank to that of knight, making him the eleventh of the Order of the Knights of Serica. Let us always remember that he died attempting to save the lives of his fellow knights. May his spirit find a place beside Sho’Ash’s side.”

  “Hear hear,” said Wiyat vehemently as the others murmured agreement.

  The knights trudged up the many stairs, leaving Filpa’s body behind for the present. At a landing near the top, Sir Ako said to Sandun, “You are steaming, my friend, and I noticed your sword was glowing faintly, though it did not just two hours ago. You look quite the demon. Why, place two of King Pandion’s orbs in front of your eyes and all who face you will run in terror.”

  Sandun snorted. “Am I a demon now? Methinks if I were a fiend from hell, I’d be less helpful to others. Instead, I seem to spend all my time working to effect other people’s salvation. I’d rather be normal Sandun again.”

  Sir Ako didn’t respond for a half a minute and then he spoke. “The saints whose stories I know—they don’t give up being a saint. Ever! You have a lifetime appointment, and you are going to have to get used to helping us ordinary folk. I am very grateful for my life. But don’t expect me, or anyone, to feel sorry for you. A man who doesn’t feel the cold, who never gets tired, and who can kill, at a thought, even behind a wall of stone! I would accept such power, yea without a second thought. But have no fear, I do believe you are a servant of Sho’Ash, we all do. But others who don’t know you, may be forgiven for drawing a different conclusion on first glance.”

  Exiting the prayer hall, they found the ear
ly light of dawn driving the stars from the sky. Following the sounds of battle, they retraced their path from the previous afternoon. There were occasional bodies on and beside the path, but more often they encountered groups of prisoners, monks all of them, tied with ropes and guarded by a pair of Red Crane soldiers. Outside a large dormitory they met Lord Vaina in command of more than seventy men.

  “If they will not surrender, set fire to the building!” Lord Vaina shouted angrily. “Their position is hopeless, but if they wish to deny the reality of the world, let them also deny smoke and flames, if they can.” Noticing Sir Ako, Sandun, and the other knights in their armor, Lord Vaina said, “Stay here. I think these are the last holdouts. I will not waste any more lives of my men or the todoskar of the Rulon Mors.”

  His soldiers made a pile of broken furniture and mattresses beside the wall and then doused it with oil from lamps and set it alight at Lord Vaina’s command. A few monks ran out the door, crying for mercy. When questioned as to how many yet remained inside, they said twenty-five or more were all together on the second floor, chanting verses from the Book of Diamond Wisdom.

  Frostel’s second-in-command, Kerko, pointed at the column of smoke and said, “Men and women in the temples around will see this and wonder greatly. News will spread.”

  “None of this will remain hidden for long,” Lord Vaina replied. “Secrecy was but a hope, and it has been dashed already. Have your men keep the embers from spreading flames to the other buildings. I have not yet decided if this entire place will be destroyed.”

  As the roof caught fire, a few blood-curdling shrieks came from inside. Then, the only sounds were the roaring of the flames and the sound of hissing from the roof beams. The other buildings were saved, as the heat of the fire sent most of the burning ash high into the still morning air. What drifted down from the sky was only gray flakes.

  The surviving monks were sent off the karst, under guard, for later judgment. Taking up arms against Lord Vaina and his soldiers could be seen as an act of rebellion because of his claimed authority over Torsihad province. Regardless of the legal niceties, the Flame Iris Temple belonged to the arch-governor now. One hundred soldiers were placed under Number Eight’s authority, and he was given the task of taking all the treasure out of the chamber below.

  Sandun and Sir Ako went looking for Frostel; they found him lying in a building near the entry plaza. Sume was beside his makeshift bed along with some of his men from the Rulon Mors Temple. She was distraught, and her eyes were red. One of the military doctors explained that Frostel had suffered a serious injury to the back of his head.

  “Will he survive?” Sandun asked.

  “I’ve never seen any man with a similar injury live more than a day,” the doctor said quietly. “When there is a swelling in the brain, there is nowhere for the swelling to go. And so, this usually results in the patient’s demise. We gave him willow-bark tea when he was awake, but…all we can do is hope.”

  Sir Ako asked where Frostel’s helmet was, perhaps hoping to find out what weapon caused the injury. One of Frostel’s followers said he wasn’t wearing a helmet that night.

  “By Saint Pellar’s blood! Damn the man!” Sir Ako nearly lost control of himself, but he took several deep breaths even as he clenched his fists with barely suppressed fury. “What madness possessed him to not wear his helmet into battle? Frostel…we wear armor because it works!”

  “He was wearing chest and shoulder armor,” one of his followers said, and he lifted the armor from the floor to show Sir Ako. “But not his helm. He wanted to stand out…” The man could not complete his sentence and sank back to his knees with tears in his eyes.

  Sandun sat down beside Frostel but spoke to Sir Ako. “I suggest you gather the knights and get some rest. I’ll stay here with Frostel and send word if there is any change.”

  Sitting there in the infirmary, Sandun closed his eyes and woke to the second world. He had observed several people as they were dying and knew there was a change to their spirit as they died, When a person was alive, their spirit was quite different from when they were dead: they shifted color, in a sense, and became harder to see. Sandun could tell Frostel was dying, and he felt sad about this, but here in the second world, his own emotions were muted. After watching Frostel’s spirit slowly change, Sandun moved off to visit the rest of the karst.

  There were many dead, but they were recent, and his experience in Tokolas had taught him to leave the newly dead alone. Such spirits were in a state of shock, still tied to their previous physical life and unable to comprehend the world they had been suddenly thrust into. Most spirits would begin moving in a week, and in the unlikely event that he was still here in a week’s time, he could then set about the task of pushing those that were stuck. For now, Sandun searched for old stuck spirits of those who had died months or even years ago and were still tied to this place.

  He found none. This pleased him. Even though much of what the followers of Eston believed was not true, their prayers for the dead were apparently effective. At least some of the monks of Eston could influence the dead and convince them to move on.

  What Sandun did find was akela, which was strong all over the mountain top, but more so a short distance away, perhaps at the site of the largest building. He could not discern the source of the akela, but it felt like it came down from the sky—pure, fresh. It was no accident that they had built a temple here. Even people who had not been granted the sight of the gods could sense there was some energy here which was not found in other places of this world. Sandun felt refreshed as he slowly traced a great circle around his physical body.

  One of the living spirits he passed seemed unusually bright, and as he studied it, he soon recognized it as River Reed, the abbot of the Temple of Noon. If all had gone well, River Reed would have remained in the last boat, but obviously he had been summoned. If Lord Vaina did decided to spare the Flame Iris Temple, River Reed would take over as the new abbot.

  Sandun returned to his body and saw that Frostel’s face had a deathly pallor and his breathing was shallow. River Reed entered the sickroom and, after greeting Sandun and the doctors, he stood and intoned prayers before each injured soldier.

  Frostel stirred and opened his eyes as River Reed prayed beside him. Sandun took Frostel’s hand and said, “I see you, my friend. Are you in pain?”

  “No. The pain is gone…but this is my final hour.”

  Sandun nodded slowly and gripped the dying man’s hand tightly.

  “Where is Kerko?” Frostel said to one of the younger men. “I have words to say to him before the end.” The young man stood and said he would find him and, at Sandun’s request, find Sir Ako as well.

  “I defeated the master of Telihold Tanul, I remember that. We have captured the Flame Iris Temple?”

  “We have. The monks that surrendered have all been taken sent down the mountain. Lord Vaina has not yet decided what will be done, but I think River Reed will be the new abbot of this place.”

  The old priest bowed in response and said, “I hope my prayers do not offend you, Master Frostel.”

  Frostel waved his other hand and then let it fall. Looking at the people around his bed, Frostel spoke to them all, softly but clearly. “In my life I have done my best to honor Temo Tio and Lord Mairen. Old insults have been avenged, and our school, our way, has been proved superior. I die with the certain knowledge that the two gods I followed all my days will lead my spirit to the land of a thousand fountains.”

  The other todoskars from Rulon Mors repeated back his words saying, “Lord Mairen and Temo Tio will lead our spirits to the land of a thousand fountains.” Sumetar joined them in this while tears trickled down her face.

  Kerko came into the room, and Sandun up gave his place at Frostel’s bedside to the warrior.

  “Kerko, my friend. These are my final words. Tell my wife I forgive her, and my spirit will not haunt h
er. After the time of mourning, she can remarry as she wills. Tell my son and daughter of my victory this day and that my spirit will be watching over them both. Tell them…you must tell them…I go now. Lord Mairen calls me.”

  With those words, Frostel gritted his teeth in sudden pain, his muscles strained like corded ropes in his arms and neck as though he was putting forth a supreme effort. Then he closed his eyes and his body relaxed; in a little while, he stopped breathing.

  Sandun found Sir Ako, Basil, and Lathe standing near the door. The four men stood together, their arms around each other, heads bowed.

  “A mighty hero has died this day,” Sir Ako said, his voice thick with emotion. “My heart is overfilled with grief, though I knew him only a little while. Our time with him was too short.”

  The four men knelt facing Frostel’s body, and they chanted the short prayer for the warrior dead in battle, just as they had said these words for Filpa in the cavern below. Sandun spoke the words even as he heard Frostel’s followers from the Rulon Mors saying different prayers and River Reed saying something else. Three different religions, each one mistaken about the truth. And yet, were they so wrong? He knew the truth, but he was forbidden to talk about it.

  When Ajh told him he must never talk about what he knew, he had accepted her command without question. But now he wondered: Why did the gods allow different religions to flourish and spread around the world? When he was with her, Sandun had thought of Ajh as one of the angels, the immortal servants of Sho’Ash. But Lord Vaina had immediately understood her as an adesari, one of the divine beings who protected Eston from the demons. So even though Lord Vaina no longer believed in Eston’s teachings, he was willing to believe in a goddess that served Eston. Perhaps Frostel would have understood Ajh in his own way also, as a servant of Lord Mairen. Even Sandun’s own understanding of the truth was limited. Fifty days with Ajh, and he barely knew anything.