by Scott Rhine
Tatters nodded, but said nothing more. Reeking of sweat, dirt, and his trip through the garbage dumps, the near-vagrant gave her a hug. Instead of pulling away screaming, the terror of the north shore let him. For the first time since she was a girl, she cried.
Owl, drawn by the shouting, helped Jotham pack up the camp. Tashi stood at the perimeter and watched the embrace with longing.
When the priest noticed his student, he strode over, excited. “The Book of Dominion was written by the Traveler as . . .”
“. . . penance to the tribe of Osos. Yes. I know,” said Tashi distantly, his eyes still riveted on the woman’s back.
“You knew?” Jotham said, aghast.
“I can’t do this anymore,” the sheriff said, removing the totem from the Temple of Souls from around his neck. “A man with these thoughts can’t be an abbot.” He held out the symbol of office for the old priest.
“We can find a way to . . .”
“Take it,” Tashi ordered, as if instructing a student who didn’t want to touch a fencing foil. The priest stared into his eyes, not intimidated. Neither man moved until he added, “Please, Jotham.”
Sighing, the priest accepted the symbol. The tiny model of the temple had interlocking infinity symbols on the bottom. Tashi said, “I abdicate and pass my knowledge on.”
An invisible lighting bolt struck Jotham to the ground, his eyes wide open.
The sheriff gasped in relief. “Finally!”
Sarajah ran over when she heard the collapse. “Is this catalepsy contagious?”
Her every word was musical to Tashi. He replied, “Transmitted by a vector. Yes. It will take him a while to process it all. Now I’m free. Alana, will you marry me?”
She gawked at him. “What is this, an opera?”
“What’s an opera?” asked Owl.
“An entertainment for the masses that Sandarac is trying to cultivate. It goes on far too long and never ends well,” she explained to Owl. “Get that travois and put the Imperial on it.” To the sheriff, she said, “I just got my freedom back after decades. Why would I throw it away the next day?”
Tashi held up the top of his chainmail. “You drained the pain with a touch. The links you held are clear again. This is proof: we’re meant to be together.”
“It’s proof that I drink pain like mead. Look, you’re a decent guy and not bad to look at,” she said, causing him to light up like a bonfire. “But inside, I’m still nine. I’ve never held hands with or even kissed a boy.”
“I’ll wait if you ask me,” Tashi said, transfixed by her gaze.
“You don’t want these hands on you.” When he nodded, she groaned, “Arrgh.”
Sarajah pulled the kalura she’d borrowed out of her sack. “I return what I have taken from you.”
The sheriff took off the torn, bloodstained shirt he wore and put on the clean kalura. When he breathed in her smell, she almost screamed again. Instead she said, “Nightingale.”
The sheriff froze.
She laid a finger to her lips to warn the others to silence. “I release you. When I clap my hands, you will no longer be in thrall to my voice. The pain that the handmaidens caused you will be forgotten. You’ll remember that Alana is dead and let the wounds she caused begin to close. You’ll realize that you are worthy of someone better. Now, rest for ten bits and during that time, don’t listen to anything else I say.” When she clapped her hands, the color leached out of five more links of the armor. Tashi stood like a statue in a cemetery.
To Tatters, she said, “Put the old shirt on the mound of dirt. Make it look like a grave.” The raggedy man nodded. To Owl, she said, “If anyone asks, the sheriff died here today. I ripped out his heart. Tell people that the tattooed man is no more.”
“Yes, Miss. I’ll need help with the Imperial.”
The work was mildly offensive, but she owed Owl. She sighed and helped to pull the priest onto the litter. “You freed Tatters from possession as well?”
“Aye, Miss. Found him in a graveyard, I did,” said Owl. “He was confused. Needed his nails trimmed and a good meal. Afterward, he followed me like a puppy.”
“If I had more money, I’d give it to you, sir,” she said sincerely. “If I’m ever in a position to aid you, don’t hesitate to ask me.”
As she pulled away from the Imperial, the Cloak of Archanon clung to her arm. Then it flowed, almost grew, up to her elbow. “It likes you, Miss,” said Owl.
The sensation was not unpleasant, so she helped it on the rest of the way. She was immediately warmer, and the sun’s glare no longer disturbed her. “I think it’s chosen me. Just to be fair, I’ll leave the Promise of the Traveler for him as a trade.” She took the chain and coin out of her sack and dropped it on the stretcher next to Jotham.
“Very good, Miss,” Owl said to his former employer. “What about the cards?”
“I’ll hold on to them for the nonce. Take these disasters to the architect,” she ordered. “I’m going to take care of a snake.”
As her last act, she stood on her tip-toes and kissed Tashi’s forehead. “Goodbye.”
Chapter 27 – Four Days in One Place
When Tashi snapped out of the trance, he looked for Alana. Then,
he remembered. Instead of reaching out or weeping like others might have done, he pushed the emotion down into the pit and guarded it with anger. Owl watched the sheriff’s face transition to stone. Seeing this frightened the gravedigger more than the boy’s story about Tashi walking through a Door to nowhere and besting the Somnambulists and a dragon. Tashi strapped his shoulders to the travois and started pulling. Even loaded down, this man walked faster than the gravediggers.
From time to time, Jotham would mutter a random phrase. The sheriff explained, “He’s processing the information from the abbots and the question session in the City of the Gods. I found a way to sneak forbidden knowledge to him.”
“Did that knock you flat, too?” asked Owl.
“No, he’s probably on his back because of the bleed-over from my trip through nightmare, the dark side of the undergirding.”
The sheriff started to explain, but the gravedigger stopped him. “Sorry, sir, there’s things we don’t want to know nothing about.”
Tashi nodded, understanding.
Only when the travois bottom smacked into the first step at the base of the hill did Jotham break free of the effects. “Gently. I’m not a cartful of tin pots.”
“If you can complain, you can walk,” said Tashi.
“Fair enough. Untie me, please,” Jotham asked. “What happened to the witch?”
Tashi dropped the top of the travois. The frame smacked into the stone path, knocking the wind out of the Imperial priest.
“Don’t ask,” whispered Owl, undoing the ropes and sashes holding him to the frame.
Together, the four followers of the Traveler trudged to the top of the hill in silence. When Jotham knocked on the architect’s gate, a voice from the other side said, “Go away.”
“Make us,” Tashi demanded. When there was no counter, the sheriff said, “I’m going to knock this door down at the count of ten, so I’d get out from behind it if I were you.”
Changing his stance to the Boulder to make himself heavier, he skipped straight to, “Ten!” It took three weight-augmented kicks before the latch shattered on one side. The old caretaker and guests were running from his assault.
Simon, the owner, charged down the colonnaded cobblestone path with a halberd raised. Roaring, the architect swung the curved blade down on the sheriff. Tashi didn’t flinch. He clapped his hands and caught the pole between them. “How?” the architect muttered.
Jotham covered his eyes and said to the sheriff, “Don’t hurt him.”
Tashi shifted to the side, disarming the architect. The sharp blade nicked him on the tip of his right middle finger and he tossed the halberd aside. He didn’t seem to notice the blood dripping. Simon turned to flee, and the sheriff gave a short shout of his own. He
shoved the architect hard between the shoulder blades, and the man slid to the cobblestones, scraping his face. The sheriff’s blood streaked the back of the landowner’s vest.
An archer on the wall said, “Surrender.”
Tashi placed his foot on the neck of the architect and said, “You surrender.”
The archer lowered his weapon.
Leaning to address Simon, the sheriff said, “My master asked you. The boy asked you. Now you have to deal with me. I’m not your enemy, but I can remove you from the equation if you continue to impede us.” “You can’t have the boy; I won’t let you sacrifice another innocent,” hissed Simon, with his face mashed against the stone. When he whipped his hand around to attempt a wrestling take-down, Tashi caught it.
“You’re brave, but accuse me of that again, and I’ll kick you through your rock garden hard enough to topple that stone,” growled the sheriff.
“Forgive me, he’s not normally like this,” Jotham began.
“Why are you trying to reawaken the gods?” asked Simon.
The priest scoffed, “They aren’t asleep; we just can’t hear them.”
“I’m tired of people and gods telling me what to do,” the sheriff announced. “I’m going to finish shutting down the temples for good, and I want your wife to give me the weapons.”
“That, I can help you with,” said the architect.
“Parley?” offered Jotham, and the man on the ground agreed.
Tashi helped the architect to his feet and dusted him off a little, smearing even more blood in the process. “All clear, they’re here to talk,” the landowner said to his people.
When Jolia stepped out of the house, she was livid. “You brute!” she accused the sheriff. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” She fussed over Simon.
“I’m two inches shorter than he is, and unarmed,” noted Tashi.
The concubine-turned-washerwoman glared daggers at him. That somehow stung him worse than the blade had.
“Indeed, the sheriff seems to be worse off from the exchange,” said Jotham. “Close that gate, Owl, and use the thick bar this time, not that broken little latch.” He handed Tashi a clean cloth for his fingertip.
“I didn’t even feel that,” Tashi said.
“It’s very sharp,” explained Simon, picking up the halberd again.
“What’s that?” asked Jolia pointing to the back of the blade. “Ew!”
When Tashi saw the piece of flesh, he retrieved it and stuck it back on. Jolia remarked, “It’s bleeding a lot. We may need a heated fire poker.”
Tashi winced. “No need. I’ll just twist this cloth tight for a while.”
“When the flow slows, it should be sticky enough to hold,” Jotham explained. “He heals well with time and quiet.”
“Let’s sit you down,” Simon said, ushering the motley bunch into his living room.
The sheriff removed his boots to be polite. Tatters helped remove everyone’s outdoor footwear. Then, Tashi sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed.
“He’s certainly settled in,” commented the architect.
“The calming will help,” Jotham predicted. To Owl, he said, “Make sure no one disturbs him.” The priest walked their host back into the hall for a private word.
“I’m sorry. You’re priests of the Traveler; since there’s only one temple left, I thought you members of the Left Hand,” said Simon.
Quietly, Jotham asked, “Where’s the boy?”
“I’ll buy his apprenticeship from you,” said Simon. “How much?”
“Where?”
“He’s with Sophia, my wife. She wants to be his mother.”
Jotham looked at the door to the study where the architect had glanced. “If he’s willing, I won’t take a copper beat. But I would ask three things from you. The first two are trivial, and you may refuse if you wish. The last isn’t negotiable.”
“Ask.”
“First, I need to borrow a blank ledger book and a cot to stay in for four days.”
Simon almost laughed at the simplicity. “Done. Whatever for?”
“I need to copy a book in my own handwriting.”
“I’ll even throw in the ink,” offered the architect. “Second?”
“What was the artifact of the final altar?”
“A special piece of rope.”
“A silver cord,” the priest guessed. “It’s how she found her way back.”
“Yes.”
“Might I see it? Not touch it, just to look.”
“My wife wears it around her waist.” Simon opened the door a crack. Jotham could see that she was still young and that she doted on Brent. Her hair was swept back with a blue ribbon, and she wore an apron around her front. But from the back, they could see the silvery rope peeking out beneath the apron strings. Home and hearth radiated from her. She was the center of this complex.
“It maintains her life-force and the balance of this whole place,” Jotham observed. “How?”
Simon shrugged. “She described it once as a standing wave.”
The priest nodded. “So many things are falling into place and beginning to make sense.”
Sophia noticed them first and wrinkled her brow. She touched her nose and pointed to her husband.
Simon shrugged. “I . . . ran into the gate when our guest was opening it.”
She spelled out the word “c-o-l-d” with her fingers.
“I’ll get a compress in a few moments,” the architect agreed.
“She chooses to be the Mute, another of the Arcana,” Jotham noted.
When Brent heard the tenor’s distinctive voice, the boy burst from his chair and ran to greet him. “Master, you’ll never believe what I found! It’s a wonderful place. Can we stay here?”
Simon patted the boy on the shoulder. The two had the same hair and eyes. They could have been related.
“Our host has agreed to let me stay four days. I confess that it’ll feel strange being under a roof again. Even when I worked for the Library, I was seldom in one place for long.”
“Is that because of your time in prison?” asked Brent.
“Possibly,” Jotham admitted.
Simon seemed surprised. “What?”
Sophia laid a finger on her lips to silence him. She signed, “Don’t j-u-d-g-e. You w-e-r-e in, too.”
“I meant stay permanently,” Brent prompted.
“If you so desire. But it hinges on the reply to a last request, one that our host won’t like,” said Jotham.
“Ask,” Simon demanded reluctantly.
“Not you. My request is for Sophia,” Jotham said, facing the woman in a teenager’s body. Her smile reached clear to her eyes, which were shining with excitement. “I’ll grant you absolution and your fondest wish, but only if you accompany us to the Final Temple.”
“Over my dead body!” Simon insisted.
She signed him to silence again.
“We plan on closing the foul place like we have all the others of its kind,” Jotham explained.
She gestured to the priest as if to say, “There you have it.”
“It’s dangerous and arduous,” her husband insisted quietly. She pointed at his belly and made a rounding motion. “True, you’re in better shape than I am, but I’m a man.”
She cocked an eyebrow.
Jotham announced, “Brent, let’s wait in the living room.”
The boy followed as Jotham shut the study door behind them. “Why do you need her?” asked the boy.
“All the artifacts have to be assembled in one place, at the only remaining Door.”
“Why?”
“I intend to find out when I assemble all the pieces,” Jotham promised. “That’s why I have to write out my own copy of the Book of Dominion—the Traveler left secret messages that only appear when we dovetail the teachings. We are agreed that he is held prisoner. I believe that the books he wrote give us the secret of how to set him free.”
“Do you need the Book of t
he Bards?” offered Brent.
“Not yet. I can only add one dimension at a time and hold it within my mind,” said Jotham.
“Before you get too busy, let me show you the cookies,” said the boy magnanimously. “They’re very good.”
****
The architect eventually relented. He and his wife would be going along. Simon and Sophia spent the next few days packing. She also took the time to sew Brent another set of clothes and scheduled a farewell feast for the final day. The servants would let the Viper’s spy loose the day after the group departed.
The priest transcribed day and night, halting only briefly to rest his hand, eat, and sleep. Brent looked over his shoulder on a number of occasions, but did not interrupt. Jotham thought nothing of it until, over lunch the next day, the boy asked, “Why is the type of tree important for the trebuchet?”
Jotham stopped buttering his bread. “You need a balance between strength and light weight. Do you know what the chief advantages of the man-powered catapult are?”
Brent shrugged. “You can make them anywhere that has trees and stones. A small team can launch a boulder the weight of three men with surprising accuracy.”
