The Flame Iris Temple

by Colin Glassey

  “Your son is too young for such a journey,” Sir Ako said gently. “This year, none of us are crossing the Tiralas. Next year, who knows?”

  Miri went back to her room and gave in to grief. She threw herself onto their bed and wept. Why had her husband left her? Was it because of the questions she had asked him after Blue Frostel’s funeral? He hadn’t seemed angry with her at the time, but what was she supposed to do? Not talk?

  Chapter Twelve

  Sacred Glass

  Sandun had been gone for three days. Every morning, Miri prayed for his safety with a heavy heart. A letter from Sandun arrived on the morning of the fourth day. It had been written in the town of Solt’Varkas. She couldn’t read more than a few words, as it was written in Kelten, but Basil translated it for her. The letter said that he was well and would be crossing over to the west bank of the Mur. Further letters would be unlikely due to the troubles on the western bank, what with the conflict between Kunhalvar and Vasvar.

  This was the first letter she had received from her husband. She looked at the strange characters and considered: Should she learn the written language of Kelten in addition to the spoken language?

  Very few books in the Kelten language could be found in Tokolas, and most were copies of their holy book. The princess was learning the Kelten religion by rote memorization, but Miri felt little pressure to copy Russu in this matter, for she sensed Sandun’s worship at the temple of Sho’Ash was perfunctory at best. Other Kelten writings were limited to a few very old books, all written by hand in faded ink. Sandun himself wrote, with a pen, nearly every day, but these were short log entries that he gave to Basil to recopy weekly. The full log of the Kelten expedition now ran hundreds of pages, and this was meaningful.

  Perhaps Sandun had gone not because of her questions but because she had not made enough of an effort to be his wife. She had not taken his religion. She had not learned to read Kelten. That much she could do, at least. She could learn to read her husband’s language. Miri resolved to spend an hour each day on Kelten writing, an hour reading Serice, an hour on the garden. This still left her with plenty of time to practice music on her timbal and visit with Lady Eun every other day.

  The Knights of Serica finished their preparations for their first ride of the new year. War Minister Boethy suggested they go with a small number of cavalry from the Red Crane Army. Sir Ako concurred, and so the plans were adjusted. They would sail north to Jupelos and then ride west to Betesek before returning to Tokolas.

  After the knights left, the embassy was very quiet. Jay and Ven had gone with the knights, leaving only Miri, Princess Tuomi, Basil, Olef, their child, the servants, and the guards. One afternoon, Miri and the princess were taking care of little Niksol while Olef was out shopping. Miri mentioned that she had heard of a temple, a day’s journey outside of town, that the women of Tokolas visited when they wanted to get pregnant or when they wished pray for a safe delivery.

  Miri knew the Lady Eun had mentioned this temple to her as a not-so-subtle reminder that it was her duty to bear Sandun’s children—which was going to be impossible if he stayed away from her bed. Eun could be very trying at times, and the way she kept insinuating that Miri was a cold fish who should copy Eun’s seductive ways was aggravating, at least in part because Miri herself believed it might be true.

  However, the effect of this news on Russu was dramatic and unexpected: the princess insisted they must go out to visit the temple as soon as possible. “It’s too late now, but we can leave early tomorrow. You must come with me. We will spend the night, maybe two, and be back before the knights return. This is the perfect opportunity. You have to come with me—it would be so strange to go alone.” Russu took Miri’s hand and looked at her pleadingly.

  Miri just had to laugh at the princess’s funny expression. “What’s the rush?” she asked. “The men will be gone for another week, and maybe this temple isn’t the best. After all, Lady Eun has only been in Tokolas for a year and a half—she doesn’t know everything.”

  “No, I sure she is right about this,” Russu said. “You said it was called the Compassionate Cloud Temple? I’ve heard it mentioned. But we have to go now. Who knows when the temple will be closed down by the arch-governor’s commission? Perhaps the orders have already been written up!”

  “That…could be true,” Miri admitted. It seemed every day there was a temple, or monastery, or nunnery being closed. The few monks left at the Temple of Noon didn’t talk about where Abbot River Reed had gone, but they did pray for the well-being of priests, monks, and nuns who were forced to leave their residences, and their prayers changed each time Miri visited. So far, only a few of the temples in Tokolas had been shut down, but that wasn’t true outside the city.

  Russu clapped her hands. “Well, that’s settled. We are going together. This trip will be a secret, just between us. I’ll tell Opmi Basil that we are going to spend a few days with the new delegation from Rakeved. He can’t object to that. We will take two or three of the Boethy clan guards; they know how to keep their mouths shut. Yes, this will be work out perfectly.”

  Feeling excited and a bit giddy, Miri went along with the plan. She suspected the reason why the princess wished to go, but there would be time to talk about that on the journey.

  In the morning, they rode out of Tokolas, both wearing large hats and traveling cloaks. The war minister had insisted that six of his clansmen accompany them. This seemed excessive to Miri, but Minister Boethy issued the order. Their small company passed out through the massive West Gate without notice. “We are just two wealthy Serice women, out for a ride on a fine day,” Russu said to Miri gaily as they rode past cart after cart bringing food, coal, lumber, and all manner of goods into the great city.

  Obtaining directions to the Compassionate Cloud temple presented no difficulties. They simply asked the first monk they found on the road and gave him an orange. The monk, pleased with the fruit, told them all they needed to know: it was fifty tik southwest of the city, right off the main road. He told them that any person within ten tik knew where it was located. “It’s on a large hill. You can’t miss it.”

  Neither of the women had done much riding since they returned to Tokolas from the Northern Expedition, but both had been trained, and riding a horse simply wasn’t the sort of knowledge one forgot. When the road cleared, Russu and Miri urged their mounts to a canter. Less than an hour later, they pulled up, hot and breathing hard but grinning from ear to ear. They ate a leisurely lunch of steamed buns with tea from a roadside stand. Their guards, all skilled horsemen, sat in a group and talked with each other in their strangely accented dialect of Serice. Miri gave each of them an orange, and they thanked her. “Kinswoman from Shila is fine rider,” said one. Miri was pleased by the compliment.

  They went slower in the afternoon, an easy pace for the horses as they talked about this and that. Finally, Miri had to ask, “Is there some special reason why you wanted to go to the Compassionate Cloud?” The hill the temple was on had just come into view; a farmer by the road had pointed it out to their guards.

  Russu smiled shyly and said, “Yes, there is. I think I’m expecting.”

  “How late are you?” Miri asked.

  Russu leaned over to speak for Miri’s ears only. “More than month. In Rakeved, among my family, the women always pray and give a donation at a specific temple when they are fairly certain. Seek the blessing of Eston for an easy delivery, that’s what they say. My husband wouldn’t approve, and so it’s best he doesn’t know. After all, he’s not doing the work from this point forward.”

  “Congratulations. I won’t say a word until you do,” Miri told her. The idea of being married to a man who wanted you to change your religion was hard for Miri to accept. It just didn’t happen in Shila, where everyone followed Ekon. Well, not everyone. Not the foul Kitrans who sacrificed people to their sky-eagle god. And the country shamans and witch women, they
didn’t worship Ekon, did they? But obviously, Rakeved was different from Shila. There it was expected that a woman followed her husband’s religion, no matter what.

  She wondered what she would do if Sandun told her that Ekon was false, and, like the Kulkasen, her religion bore no relation to the truth the adesari had revealed to him. What would she do? She had to admit to herself that the practice of worshiping Eston here in Serica felt “off” to her. It was too much, too florid, too many statues, too many shrines—not like the more austere and refined temples to be found in Birumaz. But that was just the exterior, the front of the religion, the truth was unseen, on the inside. A simple stone statue of Ekon in the forest was just as meaningful as the large golden statues in the biggest temples of Tokolas.

  They came to the gates of the Compassionate Cloud Temple near sunset. Russu spoke to the wardens, saying they were two women come to seek the special blessing for children. Russu handed the warden one silver cat, as did Miri, who kept her hat low. The warden looked pleased, but he went into an apparently oft-repeated speech about how the temple’s accommodations were unfitting for two such fine ladies, and the food they had at hand was meager and unlikely to be good for the delicate digestion of women of such refinement.

  Russu had apparently heard something like this before and calmly assured the door warden that they were both married women and had already learned that the temple was not dedicated to luxury but only to the worship of Eston and they were quite content with just a cup of water and a bowl of rice or porridge.

  “If you say this, I must believe you,” the door warden said. “We have several clean rooms in the women’s wing of this temple where other women before you have prayed with the most wonderful results. You must speak to the abbot and see if he will allow you to worship before the sacred pink glass image of Eston, which is especially efficacious in helping women bear healthy children without troubles of any kind.”

  The Boethy horse-soldiers left them at the temple and went back down the road to an inn where they would be spending the night. The rooms for Miri and Russu were solitary cells with windows that faced north. Miri looked out the large opening: the great Mur leapt into view as it wended its way toward the joining with the Nava river. Below her window, she saw a steep, rocky cliff dotted with old, gnarled pines. Were there patches of snow amid the trees or just white rocks? She couldn’t tell, but it seemed like snow. Sparkling light reflected off the distant river as the sun hung low in the west. Curved ponds near the river surrounded by trees also reflected the rays from the afternoon sun. What a landscape! thought Miri. Even if prayers at the temple had no effect at all, the view was worth the trip.

  Dinner, brought to each woman’s room, was simple fare but exquisitely presented in ancient cups of Serica-glass the color of celadon—rare these days as it was no longer fashionable. It seemed everyone in Shila wanted two-color glazes or the new “cracked eggshell” style, which made the plate or cup look like it was ready to fall into a thousand tiny pieces if you so much as frowned at it. Miri liked celadon; it reminded her of the Serica-glass they made back home in Shila.

  A bell tolled, summoning both monks and visitors to the evening prayers. Miri had dressed appropriately for the ceremony, as had Russu: stiff green silk robes, head covered by an optimistic pink gauze veil. Before the service began, a representative of the abbot came over to the two women. He asked them if they would be interested in praying before the holy pink glass, the most sacred object in the temple. The monk extolled the virtues of the glass, saying it dated from a thousand years ago, etched by masters of glass from the distant south. He told them that a few years after the glass was installed, one of the king’s wives had prayed before it for a full day. The woman, wishing for a child, had consulted doctors and had prayed at all the temples in Solt’varkas, to no avail. But after she prayed at this temple, a miracle had occurred: the glass changed color from clear to pink, and then the queen became pregnant, later giving birth to a son who eventually succeeded his father on the throne.

  Miri was skeptical of this story but remained silent, as she had since she arrived, except for some private words with the princess. Russu eagerly said yes, she would like to pray before the sacred glass. However, the monk didn’t go anywhere; instead the bald-headed man began talking about the state of decay in the temple’s south wing, and the Book of Air, which as they all knew spoke of the importance of giving up worldly possessions so as to gain true understanding.

  Miri, seeing little reason to pray before etched pink glass, guessed what the abbot’s representative wanted and grew annoyed. She did not know of any etched-glass representations of Ekon anywhere in Shila. It seemed wrong to her; Ekon’s image was always painted on silk or cast in bronze statues, not glass. But Russu held out two silver cats, and these were swiftly pocketed by the monk. Even by the standards of the Kirdar clan, this seemed like an excessive offering. Did silver have no value these days? Two silver cats was enough to feed a family for a month, or it used to.

  She tried to calm her mind as she silently followed Russu and the monk upstairs to the third floor of the temple. In a small room, a wonderfully colorful embroidered carpet led up to a large sheet of glass, set in a wooden frame, positioned to catch the last evening light. For a moment, the glass seemed like it was made of living fire, and Miri caught her breath in surprise. It was beautiful, a color deep and rich, alive with light. What at first she thought were cracks in the glass were revealed as the face and body of Ekon, somehow drawn in lines of glinting red. The true color of the glass was hard to determine, but whether it was pink or red, the pane was an amazing sight. It gathered the colors from the evening sky and glowed like living flame in the otherwise dim room.

  The two women sank to their knees and prayed. Russu bowed again and again in front of the glass image, whispering words of devotion. Miri did not bow as frequently; it was considered unbecoming for a member of House Kirdar to pray like commoners did, bowing to the floor as soon as one finished saying each line. Not that Russu was a commoner; she just acted like one by Shila standards. No one else joined them, and the room continued to darken. Soon, only flickering candles illuminated the sacred glass pane. As the evening light faded away, the glass lost its beauty, but Miri couldn’t deny that it had been an extraordinary experience. For thirty heartbeats, Miri had felt a sense of awe that she had not felt for years. At her side, Russu continued to pray even as Miri became increasingly bored and, truth to tell, a little irritated at the princess’s devotions.

  Miri reflected on her feelings. She was praying for a child also, wasn’t she? She mouthed the words, the prayer to Ekon for his blessing, but what was in her heart? What really was she praying for? Did Ekon hear her prayers any longer? She didn’t know. Did she love Sandun? Did he love her? Uncomfortable with both her knees and her thoughts, she rose to her feet. Russu looked up, and Miri whispered, “You stay as long as you want.” The princess nodded and returned to her prayers.

  There was no sign of the abbot’s representative and no sign of the abbot either, which struck Miri as odd. Was it really commonplace for Serice women to donate two silver cats just to pray before a glass etching for half an hour? If they were visiting a monastery in Shila, the abbot himself would have been fawning over them, ringing a little bell every five lines they recited from the Book of Wood, and offering them tiny cups of aromatic tea. Here, she and the princess were ignored, apparently not worth any attention. She went down the stairs and, feeling a bit rebellious, wandered off in a different direction.

  In what was surely the monks’ area, she heard two men talking in what seemed to be Shila accents. Out of curiosity, Miri stopped near an open door.

  “Old Greedy Eyes just doesn’t listen, does he?” said one man. His voice sounded to Miri like the way a local of Pomoz would speak Serice, with that distinctive twang to his words.

  A reply came, also with a Pomoz accent. “He was told not to let anyone stay, and wha
t does he do? Two high-class women show up and wave silver in front of his nose and all is forgotten. A Serice priest that doesn’t think—how typical.”

  “And now they are praying before the holy glass, right overhead. Harmless, he says.” Switching to the language of Shila, the first man said, “Between ourselves, brother, this is much more dangerous than the brethren believe. If this goes wrong, we could all be dead in a week. Perhaps the women are from Tokolas? It’s not as if Vaina the triatismas doesn’t have supporters.”

  At these words, Miri’s blood ran cold. To call someone a triatismas was to call them a servant of absolute evil, literally a devil-man. There was nothing, nothing at all that would be forbidden in a conflict with a triatismas. Occasionally, in Shila’s long history, several temple leaders had joined together and declared a man a triatismas. They had pronounced a formal curse on him and sent their warrior monks out to kill him. Naturally, the followers of a man cursed by a group of abbots would desert him rather than fight against the monks. Miri knew of two examples of people accused of being triatismas who’d had molten lead poured into them, a terrifying form of execution saved for only the most horrific of crimes.

  Miri continued to listen, and her fears were confirmed as the two monks talked about the plan and how all the associates of Vaina, the triatismas, would have to die.

  “Can the princess be saved?” the second monk asked. “Suppose she withdraws to a nunnery?”

  “I doubt even that would save her,” said the first monk, still speaking Shila’s language. “Word is she is carrying his child, but her fate is not for us to decide. Let the abbots figure it out after the triatismas is boiled.”

  Miri’s heart raced as she heard the monk talk of killing the princess. At first, Miri thought they were talking about Russu, since she was a princess of Rakeved. But if the monks knew Russu was here, why weren’t both of them being watched? Or already confined? Or worse? As Miri drew away from the door, she felt certain they couldn’t be talking about Russu. Instead, the princess the monks were talking about was most likely Eun of House Tols, a princess of Shila.