by Greg Curtis
But for the sylph, the sprites and the elves and a few others, the Heartfire Temple was the greatest known source of magical might in all the worlds. Those who sat on the thrones – who continued to sit on them every six months – were their most respected casters. Their strongest. And to do so in realms where magic was the life blood of the people, was to elevate themselves above all others.
“And some cannot be trusted with such power,” she replied. But she noticed as she said it, that Fylarne seemed a little distant. Sad in some way. And he was normally, never either of those things. He was proud of his station and happy to perform his duties as a guardian.
Her people were the guardians of the Heartfire Temple purely for historical reasons. They had found it. It wasn't surprising. They had been the first to find ways to travel between the worlds, and the first to start exploring. The Darisen had been the Temple's guardians for over a thousand years. And they had run it impartially for all that time. They could be trusted.
That unfortunately didn't mean that other people from other realms didn't want to wrest control from them under one pretext or another. Even the easy going giants who would only visit the Temple once in their lifetimes, and sit only on one throne, wanted to have some say in how it was run.
But they couldn't give the sprites the benefit of that excuse. They had to operate the Heartfire Temple for the good of all, without fear or favour. Which was why she could neither encourage the human Chy to push himself further in attaining his magic nor discourage the dwarf Yarin from coming. Nor could she suggest to either one of them what throne they should sit on. In fact what she could say to them was fairly limited and prescribed by protocols and set down in great tomes.
“Can anyone truly be trusted?” Fylarne asked her, a disturbing, almost haunted look unexpectedly appearing in his eyes. “I think the best we can hope for is that we do our best, and that the gods step in when some do not.”
That was a strange thing for him to say, Elodie thought. And the look on his face troubled her. He was not usually one to give in to melancholy. But she quickly put his attitude down to the coming visitation.
Fylarne was going to be the one to deal with the sprites, she knew. And he was likely anxious about the affair. He was every year when they came for their inspection. She wasn't even sure how the sprites had decided that they should have the right to inspect the Temple – or why the other races had supported their claim.
“They will leave their constructs on the terrace?” She asked, because it bothered her when the sprites' elementals wandered the passages of the Temple. Even with all the protections that were in place, they were dangerous creatures. Their presence bothered the other guardians too. But also the conversation was becoming maudlin and she wanted to change it.
Besides for too long the sprites had brought their elemental servants, horrid creatures that scared her to the bone, and which didn't belong anywhere near the Temple.
“I will see to it,” Fylarne replied. “They will not enter the Temple.”
“Good.” Though really they shouldn't bring them at all. But at least they didn't bring their slaves any more, she thought. But it wasn't out of respect for the Temple. They had no respect. Instead they didn't bring the people they kidnapped from a dozen or more worlds to serve them, for more practical reasons. They had learned some hard lessons. Not only did they tend to lose their slaves on the journey – most weren't magical and didn't have the ability to resist the calls from the other sides of the road – it tended to get them into trouble.
There had been battles on the terrace itself, when the dwarves had discovered some of their number in chains being shepherded around by little people with gossamer wings. The sylph had waged an actual war on them when they'd discovered their own people in the same situation. It was one thing to keep slaves and another to show the rest of the universe your evil.
And then there was the true horror – they had elves in chains as well. Copper elves! Her people! Darisen enslaved! And as guardians they were prevented from doing anything about it. They couldn't fight those who came. They couldn't free their slaves. And they couldn't even deny the sprites who came, access to the Heartfire. That was the oath they swore. It was for everyone who came, regardless.
Elodie was glad that she didn't have to deal with their visitors. But not so glad that she had work to do. After having spent so many hours watching Chy Martin receive his blessing, she thought she was due a rest. Maybe even a cup of fresh camomile tea.
But such was the life of a guardian she told herself as she turned for the Temple. Still she was troubled. There was something about Fylarne this day that was off. Something sad. And he was their leader. He should not be sad.
And he should kick the sprites out!
Chapter Four
A little confused and worried by their conversation Elodie left Fylarne and headed inside to check that all was in readiness for their next worshipper, even as she wished the dwarf wouldn't come. There were as always a few things to do between visits.
Mostly it was about checking that their worshippers had left nothing behind. Often enough they forgot things – the blessing could be rough on a person – and after they could be disoriented. Though with Yarin she knew, it would be his endless bottles of wine and ale which he would hurl around the temple with abandon that she would likely find. But there were also books to be updated. Every worshipper had to have the date of his or her visit and the throne he sat in recorded. That way they could be certain that no one was pushing themselves too hard. There were consequences for that. It could kill a worshipper. Of course sometimes the work involved removing the bodies, though thankfully that was rare – mostly because they didn't allow worshippers to return more than once every six months.
The offering had to be placed in the tray ready to be counted. Though the counting wasn't of its value. The purpose of the offering had nothing to do with wealth. It was about the determination of the worshippers to receive their blessings. Whether it was five pearls or a couple of river stones, the only thing that mattered was that the offering had required significant effort of the worshipper to obtain. And that was what they counted. The offerings themselves just went in a storage room and were never looked at again.
Cleaning though was most of what she did. It was amazing how many of the worshippers threw up, pissed themselves or cut themselves and bled everywhere after a blessing. Some pulled their hair out. And then there was the resetting of the various enchantments and making sure they were all in working order.
It was surprising how much work was involved in running a temple which only received a few visitors a day.
There should be more than that, of course. The Heartfire Temple was a great boon to the worlds. A symbol of greatness. But the vast majority of those who were summoned, never came. And then the vast majority of those who did visit, only came the once.
Elodie sighed and grabbed the broom. It was going to be a long day. But still, such was the life of a guardian – and she had chosen this life.
It was going to be longer than she would have thought possible, as it turned out.
She only realised that several hours later when she returned to the terrace to greet Yarin Coldstream, saw the iron coach arrive with a screech, and then watched the door open and Yarin exit the foul smelling machine by promptly stepping down on to the ground, then collapsing and being violently ill all over the stone terrace.
Elodie did her best not to react as she saw the dwarf on his hands and knees, vomiting copious amounts of yellow and green fluids everywhere. But it wasn't easy. It was a disgraceful sight. Even more than the iron wagon he drove.
The dwarves and the humans both had these great steam powered machines that rolled along the roads without needing horses or unicorns or magic to pull them. And no matter which of their iron wagons it was, they all smelled and they all hurled great amounts of dirty black smoke into the sky. But the humans' wagons were larger, powerful machines that hauled great loads bet
ween cities. The dwarves' iron wagons were instead coaches with steel sides and hatches in them from which they could fire their weapons. They were weapons of war. That was even worse. And this one had been driven here by a drunkard.
Yarin had arrived completely drunk. How had he even managed to steer that infernal machine in that condition, she wondered? How had he not veered off the magical path? And how could he have got himself into such a state?
But it was worse than that. When he was done, when there was finally nothing left in his stomach, the dwarf staggered to his feet, wiped the worst of the foul smelling slurry off his face though of course his beard was completely sodden, and then pulled out another bottle of whatever he was drinking and started guzzling it down.
How by the grace of Elenar was he going to be able to receive the gift? He could barely even stand! But she tried to keep her thoughts to herself as she waited for him to get his bearings. It wasn't her job to ask such things of the worshippers.
Unfortunately he spotted her standing by the entrance, waiting for him.
“Goose!” He yelled out with a horrible smile on his face. Then he took another swig from his bottle, and started walking towards her on legs that were far from steady. “I missed you!” Naturally he fell over on the way and had to stagger to his feet again before he could complete his journey.
“Well met Yarin Coldstream,” she greeted him formerly as she was supposed to. Though she doubted it would have mattered if she hadn't. He was so heavily into his cups that she doubted he'd remember anything of this day. Or even his own name. She couldn't even have asked him to stop calling her Goose. She hated that name. But even if it hadn't been improper to ask him not to call her that, he wouldn't have remembered anyway. “You have come to take a seat in the Temple of the Heartfire?”
“Course Goose!” he slurred at her. Then he spent some time eyeing her lecherously. Mostly he stared at her breasts which because of their relative heights, were at eye level for him. And then unexpectedly he fell on her.
A heartbeat later he was grabbing on to her with the strength of a limpet to a rock, his arms around her waist, while his hands were busy exploring her arse.
“By the Stonecutter's wart ridden arse girl, you're too damned tall and too damned thin, but that is nice!” He started squeezing with his hands.
“Lecher!” Elodie grabbed his wrists and practically had to peel his hands off her arse and somehow do it while trying to maintain some degree of decorum. She didn't completely succeed, and twisted his wrists as she grabbed them, hard enough to make him yelp. Then she pushed him away, and hoped he had learned not to do that again. He might be immensely powerful thanks to his magic, but she was a guardian. She was no weakling.
Unfortunately she doubted he had learned his lesson. He glared at her angrily while shaking his fists in anger. For her part Elodie just desperately tried not to breathe. The smell of sick and unwashed flesh was all but overpowering. And worse still the drippings from his beard were all over her nice clean robes.
But at least she had been able to dissuade him from trying again for a bit. And somehow she even kept herself from slapping him across the face or swearing at him. Still he kept staring at her breasts, wobbling unsteadily on his feet, and failing to say anything.
“You have brought your offering?” she finally asked if only to break the silence.
“Naturally Goose.” He stared at her, looking a little confused, as if wondering why she was asking. And then finally some sort of understanding reached his wine soaked brain and after a little more confused shaking of his hands he reached for his belt and the leather pouch that was attached to it.
“Three perfect opals as always.” Somehow he managed to slur the words together until they became almost one confused syllable. But he managed to pull out the opals for her to see, and then drop them on the ground at her feet.
Elodie cursed under her breath, then bent down to pick them up, keeping an eye on him just in case he tried to grab her again. But thankfully he didn't. He just stood there, swaying a little on his feet, and staring at her.
“The price is accepted,” she told him formally. And then she began through the entire speech about what was goig to happen in the Temple when he received his blessing. Elodie doubted he heard a word of it as he stared at her breasts some more.
“Follow me,” Elodie instructed him when she was done. Then she turned and headed inside the temple, letting him follow her as best he was able, and doing her best to look circumspect. As if she wasn't covered with vomit and steaming with anger and disgust at his impropriety. And the dwarf followed her at a distance. Possibly because he was having trouble walking let alone keeping up, but equally possibly, she guessed, because he wanted to stare at her arse. Pervert!
How could the man get himself into a state like this? Especially today? He knew that this was a day when he had to be prepared for the gift of the Heartfire. The message had been sent. She had sent the summons herself. He should be at his best. Instead he was so drunk he could barely stand.
But then again, she thought, maybe this was his way of dealing with the ordeal ahead. Receiving the gift of the Heartfire was hard. It required a lot of a worshipper. Actually it demanded sacrifice. And it hurt as few could understand. Maybe drinking was the way he intended to cope with the pain. But if it was, she doubted it would work. The pain was of the soul. There was no amount of wine or cider that could shield a man from that.
“So which is it?” He asked, for once his words almost clear. “Strength or stone?”
Elodie didn't answer him. The choice was his and his alone. As a guardian she could have absolutely no part in his decision. But really, in the state he was in he would be lucky if he chose either. The chances were that he could barely even see, and he'd likely just take the nearest seat.
“I asked you a question Goose!” He raised his voice a little.
“I cannot advise you, Yarin Coldstream,” she replied calmly. And he knew that. Even in his cups he should know that. It was spelled out to worshippers on the very first day they arrived, and every time after that whenever they asked the question.
“Bah!” He snorted at her, clearly unhappy.
But oddly, she noticed, he appeared to sobering up as he walked through the passageway. His thoughts seemed sharper and his stride steadier. His words weren't so slurred either. Was that simply because he was getting closer to the Heartfire? Pain and fear could sober up a man quickly. Maybe he could already feel it?
“You know Ebendor Long!” He unexpectedly accused her in a loud voice.
“I don't know anyone by that name,” Elodie replied. Though she did know the name. Long was the clan chief he was trying to depose. Yarin had often mentioned him – in less than flattering terms. He called him a coward and a traitor, and worst of all, not a true son of Strongvein. For the dwarves that was practically a declaration of war and if Ebendor Long had heard him, there would have been a battle to the death.
“I don't believe you Goose!” He retorted. “You know him! You're in league with him!”
“I don't know him,” Elodie repeated calmly. “I don't know anyone from your world other than those who visit the Temple.” And that he should surely know – at least if he was sober. How could she, an elf, visit his world and not be noticed? And why did he insist on calling her Goose? That annoyed her. Not that she was allowed to show it.
“But he knows you!” The dwarf snapped back at her. “He knows this place. And he hates those who can cast!” Yarin took a huge breath and puffed out his chest. “He's a worshipper, isn't he Goose?!”
“You know I cannot speak of those who worship the Heartfire,” Elodie reminded him. And again he knew that. Unfortunately that seemed to be an admission to the dwarf.
“I knew it! That ore pissing bastard! No wonder he denies my right to lead!”
It was more likely that he denied the dwarf's right to lead because it would mean giving up his own right to lead the Strongvein Clan, Elodie thought.
But there was no point in mentioning that to Yarin. He was no longer as drunk as he had been, somehow, but he wasn't going to listen to her. And obviously things weren't going well for him in Stalen. He'd had some sort of set back in his quest to take the leadership of the clan. He had to blame someone.
Thankfully the heat of the chamber was just ahead of her and the journey was over. She was grateful for that.
“We're here Yarin Coldstream. You may choose a seat.”
“And by the Stonecutter's pick I will!” He growled at her. “And there will be no more lies!” With that he was off, rushing, still a little unsteadily, for the sphinx.
That surprised Elodie. The dwarf was always heading either for the tri-horned bull or the golem. Force and strength or Earth. But this was apparently his choice for the day – mind. Maybe, she hoped, it was a sign that he was growing as a man. Becoming more rounded. Unfortunately she doubted it. He was drunk and for some reason paranoid. And he thought the sphinx as the master of riddles and mysteries of the mind, could help him unravel whatever was happening in his realm that he didn't understand.
