Temple of the Traveler: Book 02 - Dreams of the Fallen

by Scott Rhine

  The bell swung upward so forcefully that the belfry ripped free of the roof and sailed out over the streets. Wind shrieked in their ears. Lean-tos at the fringes of the ramshackle town collapsed. Tatters and Owl were tossed like cherry tomatoes in a salad as the rules of physics governing the room switched briefly.

  The Door thundered closed with a syllable Brent could have sworn was, “Done.”

  ****

  The sound resonated farther than possible for natural thunder.

  Jotham swayed as he crossed an ornamental footbridge that left the capital. Jolia meant to catch him, but momentarily lost her sight in the invisible lightning strike that ripped through the sky. In the orphanage named after her, the half-breed children woke from their naps and complained of headaches.

  Sandarac dropped thourglass he had been holding and stared as the sands poured out the rupture.

  Ripples crossed the sea through the undergirding as a tremor.

  At the Imperial College of Wizards, at the Center, the blind sage of Muro sat patiently in the dean’s waiting room. When the dean’s favorite perpetual-motion machine fell off its rocker, and his crystal decanter set fell off its sesterina tray, the sage stood. “My task is done.”

  The minor clerk in the room said, “Sir, I pray you’re not offended. The dean will see you eventually. I know it’s been a few days, but he’s a busy man.”

  The blind man smiled. “Boy, what I came to warn him about, he now knows for himself. Fear will war with chaos until we are one with the silence. If you think he’s been busy up till now, just wait.”

  ****

  The face of the carved stone dragon turned to sand and melted off. Hissing began all around them in the now-closed Temple of Sleep. “The bags are over here,” Brent said running.

  Tashi jogged alongside the boy. “You’re well prepared for catastrophe.”

  When they reached the front door, the ceiling was already rumbling ominously, plaster falling all about them.

  “I knew our journey would start again soon,” the boy said, lifting two packs. Tashi dragged the woman and the third pack out one of the giant double doors. By the time he returned for the treasure bag, the walls were already falling inward. He managed to grab the sack of gold before the avalanche of dust and debris forced him choking out into the street.

  Owl and his louse-infested assistant Tatters returned about the same time the dust settled. Brent was giving water to the woman, bringing her around, while Tashi scanned the horizon. Both had been shaking the small brass bells to avoid detection from any followers of Sleep remaining. Tashi said, “The Pretender’s men are coming in fast. We’d best move along now. Here’s the gold we promised.”

  “Much obliged,” said the dark-eyed Owl, taking the sack. He briefly considered the notion that he could have carried more, but not far.

  As the gravedigger gave his final condolences in preparation for leaving, Tashi said, “There’s more where that came from.” That got the attention of both diggers. “Would you honor a geas, a holy favor, from a priest of the Traveler?”

  Cautious, Owl admitted, “’Tis technically against the law of Kings. But seeing as I’ve used His name so often in my work, I’d be a poor businessman and a sorry gentleman if I refused. What would the favor be?”

  Tashi shook his head. “You know the rules. Accept or decline with no other information. If you say no, there will be no ill will; however, I will be forced to take that holy symbol away from you.”

  “And more treasure if we agree?” asked the professional skulker.

  “If you survive, what is mine is yours. I will withhold no material treasure you have more need of than I. This is also the way,” said the sheriff.

  The two gravediggers stepped aside and whispered to each other for a while. Brent caught snatches like “live like Kings” and “retire.” Greed and morality warred with common sense. Then Owl came back. “Sir, no offense, but how do we he rule ye are truly a priest of that nature?”

  Tashi watched the horizon instead of his companions. “Brent, go touch his friend for me.”

  The boy obeyed, and Tatters let out a squeal. Every insect on the wretched man’s body jumped off at once, scattering on the ground.

  “That was gross,” said the woman sitting beside him.

  “This is better than falling oxen,” said the boy. Realizing that the woman was conscious, he turned to address her. “My name is Brent.”

  The woman hesitated to take the miracle-charged hand. “I know who you are. I could listen most of the time; I just couldn’t control anything.”

  “How long has Zariah been in control?” asked the sheriff.

  “Since I was nine. I was a slave in the South, and I found this funny rock . . .”

  Tashi nodded and held up a hand to avoid the long version. The sheriff turned to the boy and said, “I see no reason to punish her. But we can’t afford deadweight if we’re going to catch up with Jotham. I say we leave her here.”

  “How hard did that beast hit you in the head?” the dispossessed woman asked. She felt uncomfortable in her new body. It was taller than when she’d left it and more ample in every respect. She could feel men’s eyes on her when she moved. The added weight and width threw off her sense of balance. Only her voice felt normal. She sounded like herself, only older.

  “Why does everybody keep asking me questions like that?” wondered Tashi.

  Brent tried to be polite. “Since she’s not really the High Priestess of Sleep anymore and she can’t control all those Somnambulists, leaving . . . um, I don’t know what to call you, miss . . .here alone would probably be a death sentence.”

  Tashi nodded. “The Viper would love to torture her for any secrets she might remember.”

  The woman shrieked. “Why do you insist on talking as if I weren’t here? My name is Sarajah.”

  “What’s the difference?” asked both priests, as the new name sounded so similar to the old.

  “The language, and one of them is me,” she insisted.

  Brent said, “We have to take her along, at least for a little while.”

  “We can’t trust a total stranger,” countered Tashi.

  “I can understand not trusting people,” admitted the boy. “After all, Nigel turned you over to the emperor.”

  “You offered to take those two vagrants, Owl and Tatters, along,” she pointed out.

  “First, they’re rich now. Second, they have useful talents. Third, they’re younger men accustomed to the rigors of the road,” said the sheriff.

  Sarajah ticked off the points on her fingers, her cheeks flushed with a rosy hue. “First, the light gemstones in my pockets are worth more than that untouchable is carrying in metal. Second, I have all sorts of knowledge you may need. Third, how dare you call me old and lazy, you sanctimonious, sexist . . .”

  Brent interrupted. “We’re responsible for her. She was bound to serve a sentence for us. Although I’m not sure that would still be valid if she’s really another person.”

  The sheriff suddenly changed tactics. “The coin! Where is it? Show it to me.”

  Sarajah closed her robes more tightly. “No, pervert.”

  “If it does come off, it technically belongs to her,” said Brent.

  “Number four,” said Sarajah, leaning forward to show the medallion on a silver chain around her neck.

  The boy thought for certain she was going to stick out her tongue. They heard someone shouting a cadence and the sound of boots marching. “Soldiers!” said Brent, grabbing his gear.

  Tashi growled as he loaded up his own pack and handed the smallest one to the woman. As they passed the grave robbers, he said, “Time’s up. Will ye follow?”

  The rat-faced grave robber scratched his chin for a moment. “Call me a damn fool, but aye. I will.”

  “We’ll tell you the rest on the road north,” said Tashi. Brent led the way through the village trash dump.

  Chapter 18 – Stopping to Weed the Garden

  Th
e fugitives Jotham and Jolia made it as far as they could through the crowded city streets of Reneau. However, as the density of buildings and people thinned, it became harder to blend in. He also feared patrols, priests, and informants were at every gate and corner looking for them. When they reached the last city wall, which was the height of three men, Jotham located a house with a large vegetable garden. “Let me do the talking,” he said.

  Leaning over to exaggerate his age, he knocked at the front doorpost of the moderately sized, but plain home. A woman in an apron and scarf covering her hair came to the door with a two-year-old clinging to her leg. “How may I help?”

  Jolia smiled and waved at the child. In a voice creaky with age, Jotham said, “We are travelers from the East who came to your great city for the promise of great things. But I fear our bellies are empty of aught but those dreams. We are not afraid of work, good madam. I note your garden. The two of us would be more than happy to help weed yon garden for the use of some of its bounty.”

  The cloak of Archanon must’ve worked its magic, because the housewife was instantly at ease. The mother sighed. “You’re welcome to it. But begone before my husband returns, and don’t trample my herbs.”

  “You have my word and my blessing for your kindness,” he said, bowing.

  Jolia had no idea what was happening but followed the tenor’s lead. Once she was satisfied that Jotham knew his weeding, the woman of the house departed, keeping watch from time to time from the kitchen window. Jotham coached his companion on how to pull out the worst of the volunteer grasses and pluck numerous destructive insects from the plants. “Kneel down. Make it look good for our hostess.”

  “Why are we doing this? We have money. I can buy what we want,” Jolia protested.

  “Patience,” he counseled. “I’m waiting for something.”

  Taking him at his word, she dug in the dirt, frequently stopping to brush back her hair. She smeared her cheek with mud several times without realizing it. Jotham gave her a handkerchief to tie back her hair in a ponytail. “Take out the rocks, but leave the worms. Worms are good for the soil. Working the loam helps it breathe, and encourages plants to grow.”

  She smiled and nodded politely, beginning to wonder about the eunuch’s soundness of mind.

  After half an hour, the woman brought out a fresh loaf of bread and a cool pitcher of water for the pair to share. Both thanked her politely. Jolia groaned with pleasure at the food’s smell. Jotham held up a hand and broke the bread with a traditional Mandibosian prayer, offering the end piece to the hostess first. She declined, but the two-year-old greedily accepted. Before she left, the hostess noted how stained Jolia’s dress was becoming. “I have an old burlap sack you can use as an apron.”

  Jotham thanked her when she brought the old sack and helped the former concubine tie it around her waist. Their hostess had also brought the priest an old straw hat to shield him from the heat of the day.

  Soon, he concentrated on the trees near the stone wall, pruning, removing ivy from the trunk, and trimming smaller trees that grew too close. He also collected some dried apples, raisins, and nuts from the family’s root cellar. After another half-hour of digging in the dirt alone, Jolia broke a nail and cursed. “What’re you waiting for?”

  The priest leaned over and examined her grime-encrusted nails. “That should do it. We can go. Leave the silver bracelet.”

  “What?” Jolia protested. “That’s worth thirty hours at least.”

  The eunuch attempted to use his teacher’s voice on the tall courtesan. “This woman has given us her hospitality and two very important things.”

  “Dry food?” she said, incredulous. “The patrols are going to be looking for us.”

  He sighed. “Although it is difficult to find good meatless fare on the road, that’s not my primary reason for gratitude. Who are the patrols looking for precisely?”

  “Me!”

  “And would you ever in your life wear a burlap apron, a handkerchief pony tail, and smear yourself with soil and sweat?”

  “Never.”

  “So she’s given you a perfect disguise,” he concluded. Jolia’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Eventually she just fished the silver bracelet out of her bag and placed it atop the pile of stones that she had removed from the garden.

  “And second?” she asked at last.

  He looked up one of the trees closest to the wall. “She gave me an excuse to mark the routines of the wall guard. We can climb over and be free of the city any time you’re ready.”

  Jolia wrinkled her brow. “Are you sure you’re not a magician?”

  Jotham smiled as he helped her to climb.

  Chapter 19 – The Architect

  Jotham and Jolia camp

  ed that night, out of sight of any road. They found a large pine tree with soft bedding and wide boughs to shelter them from any rain or prying eyes. Jolia had slept outdoors like this before, but never alone. The priest wouldn’t let her even hug him in thanks for her escape. After four hours of sleep, he stood watch. He heard nothing of import, but was convinced that the gods worked against him in the dark, waiting for the slightest mistake.

  Breakfasting on dried apple, they resumed their travels before dawn. Jolia was stiff and silent, angry at him for some reason. They walked cross-country toward the highest hill around. Her feet were sore by midday.

  “We should be there by now,” she griped, collapsing onto a rock to caress her reddening left heel.

  The priest scanned the horizon. “If we wanted to get caught, perhaps. Indirect is slower but more reliable. You should have worn traveling shoes.”

  “I made the best choice my wardrobe would allow. Boots would have meant ringing a servant. How much longer?”

  “That’s the river. You said the architect’s place had a beautiful view of it. You also mentioned rocky outcroppings. I’m guessing that’s their hill over there.”

  She blew out a sigh and tightened her ponytail. “If we hurry we might get there by dinner.”

  A small village of builders and craftsmen had sprouted at the base of the hill, filled with the workmen sanctioned by the architect. Often, people who couldn’t get the famous home designer would settle for someone who worked with him frequently and was known for quality results. The small homes in the village were each tiny showcases of workmanship. The fugitives, however, hid from the townspeople. Between the village and the mansion on the hill was a flagstone path, complete with gutters for proper drainage. Jotham climbed the trail rapidly to avoid detection by the locals. Jolia arrived at the gates a few moments behind him, her broken shoes stowed inside her bag.

  The twelve-foot wall around the estate was stone, and the gate was thick, stained mahogany. Over the gate was a brass plate engraved with the title Sanctuary.

  “Knock,” the priest told her.

  Panting, she said, “Do it yourself.”

  “There’d be repercussions if they refused me. I’d prefer that you asked for their hospitality. Avoid mentioning your former station for now.”

  Jolia frowned. She had hoped to impose as a royal guest. She knocked at the gate. A wrinkled, toothless, little man opened a peephole and shouted down to them. “No more students or applicants. We’re all full up.”

  The former concubine said, “Actually, we’re tired travelers hoping for a meal and some rest.”

  The wrinkled man seemed to hesitate.

  “We’ll be glad to work on the grounds or pitch in with the housework. There’s probably a lot of extra work to do with all those people,” Jotham offered.

  The gatekeeper scratched his head. “I don’t know. We could use a hand, but Master Simon does all the hiring himself.”

  “Could we speak to him, then?” pleaded Jolia.

  “All right, but you can’t disturb his lesson. Wait patiently until it’s over and then speak your piece,” cautioned the wrinkled man. “No asking his nibs for money, and hands off the rock.”

  “Sure,” she agreed, sli
ghtly puzzled. The peephole closed and then the massive door opened outward. Inside, four men with crossbows tracked their progress as the pair of travelers entered. At first, they were both frozen in place by the splendid view. At the center of the grounds was a narrow outcropping jutting toward the sky. Perched atop the rocky finger was a wide, flat, weather-beaten boulder, perfectly balanced. It had to weigh at least five tons and stretched for at least two paces on each side of the fulcrum.

  A walking path spiraled down from the balanced boulder. Each major loop of the walk formed another terrace. The first terrace contained a rock garden, and a veritable sea of spotless, white sand. The second terrace held a strip of close-cropped grass and ash trees. The third terrace was a colonnaded flagstone path along the dwellings built into the estate wall. The layered rooftops formed a pleasant, descending geometric pattern, terminating in the arched entry to the main house. Jotham felt the peace and equilibrium emanating from this place.

  “We haven’t got all day,” groused the wrinkled man. “Head for the open-air classroom.”

  “The benches with all those young men?” asked Jolia, smoothing her hair down again, and wiping her cheeks with her sleeve.

  “Aye,” muttered the gatekeeper. The door was closed and re-barred in short order.

  The pair wandered toward the benches, eavesdropping on the lesson. “Simon is a genius, and a recluse,” she whispered as they approached. “His father was a wealthy quarry owner. Simon made his name when someone wanted to solve some nasty problem with a foundation. They came to his house and asked him how to do it. He said something like, ‘Turn it on its side and pound it into the river bottom.’ The emissaries thought he was telling them to go away. When the king ordered him to the construction site personally, he took ropes, turned it on end and had the slaves pound it into the river bottom. Then he laid the beams the same day, charged them double the price, and walked home. He can be quite dashing and innovative. One of his secret passageways is a must for any fashionable mansion . . .”