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

by Scott Rhine

  “And more on the way,” the smith said, encouraged. “We have the advantage now.”

  Pinetto hissed, “Did you get hit in the head?”

  “He’s right. This area’s too unstable for you to remain,” the eagle insisted.

  Pinetto pulled his hair in grief and consternation. “We have orders. I need some kind of sign if the men are going to follow me.”

  Then the beacon from the Door blazed across the sky, so bright that it cast shadows.

  The smith nodded and shouted, “The wizard signaled for us to fall back now!” Baran Togg poked his friend in the chest with a finger. “Buddy, you be damn careful what you ask for the rest of today.”

  ****

  Surrounded by a dozen men, Tashi didn’t waste time gawking when two thirds fell over in the earthquake, unconscious or incapacitated. He cleaned up the rest of the defenders before they knew what was happening.

  Sarajah whistled to him. “Good job, boyfriend. Let’s head for the border.”

  He shook his head. “You need to take that artifact to Jotham. Why does it keep evading us? Doesn’t it want to travel through the Door?”

  “It’s a tool; it has no desires,” she insisted. “And just where are you planning on going?”

  “We promised to handle our thirty on the ground,” he said, waving for the eagle’s attention. With dazzling faith, Tashi leapt from the parapet, hanging at least a hundred feet off the valley floor. The eagle he couldn’t see swooped down to slow his fall again.

  “You could’ve flown me down first,” she complained. Then she searched for a window into the inner sanctum.

  Chunks of stone were plummeting from the ceiling when Sarajah anchored the grapnel hook and lowered herself to the center of the chaos. Jotham was visible below her, arranging magical items on the snow-covered floor. The seeress whistled for his attention as she dropped the last few feet. “No one’s ever going to invite you to their church again. But I kept your boneheaded apprentice alive.”

  Softly, the priest said, “We lost Tatters and Sophia.”

  Dazed, the seeress staggered over to the empty dress. “No, she did it on purpose, for me. She made herself the Lover.”

  “She did it for all of us,” Jotham said, taking the tuning fork from her unresisting fingers. “Are you the Traveler?”

  Sarajah looked shocked. “ought for a while Tatters might have been. But, no.”

  Daylight leaked through a new fissure in the dome.

  “Then I need you to help me,” asked Jotham.

  “You kill off my only friend, send my almost-lover to his doom, take my only weapon, and destroy every temple in the world. What more could you ask for?”

  “I need you to find some way to seal this Door behind me.”

  “To lock you in a permanent Hell? Sorry, I don’t do that.”

  “But you can?”

  She avoided his gaze.

  “I’m asking you to save the rest of the world from an ever-expanding pit.”

  “It doesn’t need to be with you inside.” She pointed to the original rune-covered stone door underneath the broken altar. Shoving one of the fragments off, she pointed to the writing. “I don’t know why, but I can read that. Maybe from Zariah, maybe from the cloak of Archanos. If we reattach it to the top of that ramp, we can seal it off.”

  “You’ve been manipulating it, using its power more than Akashua. You were causing time to slow for them all.”

  “Conservation of energy,” she agreed. She bent over and removed the top card from her Tarot Deck. As expected, the card she drew was the blank. The seeress showed it to Jotham. “Between the spell written on the old door and this card, I can seal the entrance. You don’t need to be trapped inside.”

  “There’s another exit,” he explained. “In the emperor’s throne room at the Center.”

  She nodded. “Very well. Free your god; face your personal hell. I’ll meet you on the other side. But if Tashi doesn’t make it, you’ll wish you’d stayed inside.”

  “Express caring with words of kindness,” said the priest. “The world has enough threats in it already.”

  “Every time I think I have something worthwhile, you take it from me.”

  “Water lets go and appreciates the new scenery. Only stone clings to the past.”

  “That was oblique and impersonal enough.”

  “Sarajah, dear, you are something worthwhile.”

  She kicked another piece of altar away. “You won’t even let me hate you, you bastard. Grab your end of this beast before I change my mind.”

  Together, they dragged the stone into place beside the opening.

  Gathering up all the supernatural implements, Jotham waded down the ramp into the liquid darkness. She could see him clamp down on some suppressed fear that threatened to swallow him. As he stood in night up to his chin, she encouraged, “Don’t think of the hole as something external. Think of it as something inside of you—some void of your own that you’ve conquered and made a part of your soul.”

  Jotham blinked. “Disturbing, but helpful.”

  “You’ve alreay beaten it. You just have to remember. Your imprisonment in Tor Mardun is history. You, whoever you choose to be, are the future.”

  Jotham the Historian took a deep breath and submerged himself in his fate. Sarajah, former slave girl, sealed the past from him with chanting and the final card. Laid across the latch area, it expanded and oozed over the quarter-inch gap between stone and metal. With the final syllable of the incantation, the stone floor of the temple smoked. The flare of Door light blinded her for a few moments, and she rocked from the forces that passed through her. She felt like a wineskin after the party, spent and discarded alone on the floor.

  “Excellent work,” said the grinning pie-faced soldier who stood behind her—Archanon. “Have you decided on my offer?”

  “You sound confident. I’m still playing around with the tenets.”

  “I read them,” he said, tossing Sarajah the backpack she’d left by the border. “They’ll do.”

  “I wasn’t done yet,” she objected.

  “Too late. I’ve endorsed them. The pages have turned to gold. Whoever I get as high priestess can implement them.”

  “The day isn’t over yet,” she insisted.

  “The new era will begin at any moment. You need to decide.” For once, the archdemon was serious.

  “So you’ll take my cloak and leave me to die here if I say no?”

  He cocked his head. “You make me sound like a sodding council of gods’ member.”

  She laughed. “You are.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Now you’re just being rude.”

  “You won’t strike me dead the first time I make a mistake? Because I will. I’ve wrecked a lot of religions lately.”

  Archanos smiled. “That’s one of the things I value most about you. But I promise to give you at least three warnings.”

  “Could I trade one of the warnings for you keeping my boyfriend out of danger?”

  He held out his hands. “Please. Even I can’t work that kind of miracle.”

  “You’re honest, but not particularly helpful,” the seeress lamented. It all came down to what Tatters had said. For better or worse, she got to choose. “Fine. I’ll do your dirty work. But don’t expect any thanks.”

  The god roared with laughter. “After you carry the crown to Legato, he’ll owe you. Have him fashion a thin tiara for you.”

  “Why?”

  “As my high priestess, you’re also ruler of my nation. Queen Lavender will support you because another female ruler strengthens her claim. King Legato will agree because of his d to you, and Jotham, the new emperor, will back you because he knows the rules.”

  “You’re making me Queen of the Pirates? That’s not a promotion; that’s a curse.”

  “Once you help my fellow fallen, get thee to the Center, my shrew. Osos whipped them with lashes, but I shall use your tongue to scourge the nations. You’re free of th
e other gods for three generations.”

  “What’re my instructions?”

  Handing her the backpack, he said, “Do everything you can to stay free, woman.”

  Chapter 51 – Meeting

  When Sarajah sealed the Door, the pressure changed. That’s the same way he could tell someone was coming for him in Tor Mardun. The key would scrape and the pressure would drop. Part of Jotham was still with that boy, shackled in the dark. Part of him suffered unde

  r the Green Towers of Semenos. His life stretched out as a long, silver cord, and with practiced skill, he knit a new self out of the tattered skein.

  Jotham felt suspended in the moment just before a fall from a great height. Anything could happen.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the void, there was enough light to see, but his human senses couldn’t make sense of anything in this untamed place. The continued heat of the sword countered the cold of the vacuum. The artifacts kept him alive; however, he wasn’t technically breathing. With no idea of how to navigate, the priest needed to find Calligrose. The dust of the spirals seemed solid enough to walk on, but they shifted into new shapes.

  How had Tashi, with his limited capacity, threaded the maze?

  Answering his own question, Jotham pulled the coin out of his pouch—except it was no longer a coin. He held a small disk of skin in his hand. So much for easy. How would the boy do this? He liked problems of mechanics.

  The last priest of the Traveler pulled Brent’s metal holy symbol, the flare anodyne, out of his pocket. The device was no longer tin, but golden wire floating in a round box. Placing the disc of flesh in the center of the magical compass, Jotham said, “Where is the bringer of freedom bound? Where is the writer who cannot speak of his own need?”

  The needle turned; he followed.

  Without a heartbeat, it was hard to measure time. Jotham kept following for an endless time. His Eog armor darkened steadily. After a while, pain began to leak through the chainmail like waves lapping over the dike on the Inner Sea. Soon after the discomfort, he noticed the fused-glass path under his feet. It curved slightly as he progressed. It was a model of the Emperor’s Road, or perhaps the road in the other world had been built to mimic this one. The circle grew tighter the farther he traveled. Was the path spiraling, the realm shrinking, or was he growing?

  Jotham could hear his footfalls again. In the center, on the ground, he could see golden light seeping into this realm from below. It would be simple to leap through the hole and end his suffering. In a single step, he could become emperor and live the life of luxury.

  Yet he followed the compass and made one final circuit around the golden ring.

  The road vanished.

  He was now in a tower room similar to his cell in Tor Mardun. There was a bed, a desk, and a wall of books. From the window, he could see the morning sun over the Inner Islands. In the center of the room was a giant hoop of black metal anchored to the bedrock of the foundation. Fastened to the anchor by a long chain was an androgynous, young man. The shackle around his ankle was squeezing his flesh and grew tighter as he matured. The young man was clearly in pain.

  Jotham said, “I don’t know the ritual greeting for this. I never finished the Book of Dominion.”

  “There is no ritual. Here, you decide. But fear not, all necessary data was duplicated.”

  “Your face isn’t constant. It’s a melding of every character in the Tarot deck at once.”

  “I’ve projected into your dream world as all of them to plan this escape. But some things one cannot do oneself.”

  “How can a child cut his own umbilical cord?”

  “You see. Bless you.”

  “What do I call you? All your names are titles,” noted the priest.

  “As are yours,” echoed the Traveler.

  “You’re different than the gods, so much more. But somehow you’re still constrained.” Tying a tourniquet around his own questions and needs, Jotham asked the question he’d been preparing for decades. “Do you wish to be freed?”

  “Yes.”

  Jotham attached the tuning fork to the hilt of the sword. Tremulous and melodious, the tenor performed the Ceremony of Freeing, dragging the blade behind him. The friction caused the sword to heat further and glow white. The fork resonated with the song, amplifying each note sung. Repeating the chant until he held a small star in his hand, Jotham brought the weapon down on the chain with the weight of giants.

  The weapon only bit a third of the way through the supernatural metal, but Jotham didn’t relent. Pressing down with all his will, he began to recite the hidden rites dovetailed from the seven sacred teachings. The Traveler cried out in distress as the heat conducted through the chain and burned his flesh. When Jotham paused, the youth hissed, “Continue. There is no going back.”

  The end would be freedom or death—for both of them.

  Dimensions peeled back in layers. The chain wore away so gradually that it felt like the wing of a dove wearing away a mountain. When he finished the last rite, a small tooth of metal remained in the link. A thread the width of three hairs bridged the gap.

  The Traveler watched expectantly, teeth clenched.

  Miserable, Jotham stared at the holdout. He hadn’t been good enough, hadn’t saved enough mana, hadn’t followed the path closely enough. The boy should’ve done this, not me. I should’ve been the one to resign.

  The prisoner’s face brightened.

  Jotham blinked. Awkwardly, he removed the collection of holy symbols from his pouch and from around his neck. Placing all the artifacts on the floor intoned, “As the sole high priest of your order, I release you from your penance of servitude. I renounce the path and free you from any obligations. You may now write whatever you wish.”

  The final link snapped and the young man pulled his leg loose from the restraint. “Yes!” His form aged and his voice deepened. Laying a hand on Jotham, he said, “Blessings upon you for a hundred generations. I name you Pagaose—for you have met me. Be whole and likewise heal the world.”

  Warmth tingled through the former priest’s extremities. His hair darkened and his chest broadened, causing his clothing to rip apart. He grunted as another finger sprouted on his undamaged hand. Still touching the new emperor’s forehead, the Traveler smiled. “Now you look the part.” Pushing him backward through the window, he said, “It’s time for the world to wake.”

  ****

  The party at the Center had gone all night. Gifts were exchanged. Fountains full of sparkling wine were consumed. Anna seemed to be the only one not drinking. Breaking with fashion, she wrapped her shoulders with a red, wool shawl, and fed coal to the brazier near the throne. The former slave despaired of ever meeting the College of Wizards.

  By the time dawn broke, many of the wizards were asleep, collapsed in corners or on stairs. Growing angrier by the moment, Anna picked fruit peels off the sconces and underwear off the doorknobs. She had a broom in hand, ready to thrash a man who’d vomited in the potted palm. “Have you no sense of decorum, no respect for the old ways?”

  Suddenly, the light in the room flickered. Notes like dropped silverware tinkled above her. A naked man fell from the skylight, arms windmilling. He bounced off the throne and skidded across the floor toward Anna. Groaning, the man rose to his feet. Then he noticed his lack of clothing. “Forgive me, miss. I’m the victim of a jest. Might I beg you for the use of your wrap?” His voice was regal and compelling. His face was shining in the Door light, open, pure, and honest.

  “Where . . .?” she asked, gawking.

  “I’ve travelled the Halls of Eternity. I’m not sure how long I’ve been gone.”

  She handed him her wrap with the traditional words: “A traveler in need is welcome here.”

  “That’s a lovely . . . necklace,” he said, voice deepening. “It matches your manners—elegant and from another era.”

  She blushed and turned away as he tied a breechcloth. “We need to get you something else to wear. I cleaned off a t
able over here; we can use the cloth until we get you real clothes.”

  “What’s everybody else doing around here?”

  Anna grabbed the gold-trimmed fabric and hurried back to the throne. “Nothing much useful. Celebrating their own importance.”

  “Thank you. Your kindness will be rewarded,” he said as he knotted the brocaded cloth into a cloak. On anyone else, this would have seemed absurd, but with his well-defined pectorals, he might set a trend. “Miss . . .”

  “Anna, the master brewer,” she said meekly. He reminded her of the smith brothers in many ways. “And you are?”

  “A humble historian. I have recently been renamed Pagaose.”

  The skylight hummed again and a white sword dropped through. The man caught it with ease. “Thanks,” he said to the ceiling. “It wouldn’t do to forget this.”

  Only glancing at the pommel did Anna notice the number of fingers on the newcomer’s hand—six. The other matched. She knelt awkwardly on one knee. The sword was still ringing in his hand.

  Some of the drunks were stirring, puzzled by the commotion.

  “Anna, you don’t need to bow to me; you’ll tear your nice dress,” he whispered.

  Sliding the necklace over her head, refusing to look him in the eyes, she handed him the Togg rubies. He accepted them, seeming to realize the import of her offer. But as he pulled them over his own head, the stones melted. He now had three red teardrops tattooed on his forehead.