Temple of Cocidius

by Maxx Whittaker

  Freya watches me, and I can feel Finna and Meridiana hovering at my back. They’re weighing me.

  “No, not exactly. I deceived Mynogin by making him believe I’d saved his life. And when that won me the honor of being his champion, he tasked me with running the temple for him. I swore to him I would collect the artifacts for the rightful king of Loria.”

  “You are the king,” whispers Meridiana, looking unbalanced for the first time since I met her. “You truly are.”

  I close my eyes for a long moment. “I am. My father was Travian Kynthelig, king of Loria and Hestia until Mynogin usurped him. Murdered him.”

  “If he defeated your father, doesn’t that make Mynogin king?” asks Finna.

  “If Mynogin defeated him the field of battle. But that would be defeat, not usurpation. Mynogin used deceit and magic to steal the throne. He used the Oryllix.”

  Freya drops her book. The others gasp.

  “I didn’t realize they were so famous.”

  “The Gardener told you who they were?” asks Meridiana.

  “An aspirant and an artifact.”

  “Did she tell you who they serve?”

  “Helreginn,” whispers Freya. “Of course.”

  “Of course what?” I’m lost.

  “That’s how Helreginn forced her way into your trial. It’s why our challenge in the frozen wastes with Callista was so complicated. Mordenn’s hand is in all of this.”

  “But he wasn’t a presence in Finna’s realm, or Kumiko’s or Meridiana’s…”

  “Mortals.” Kumiko nods. “Mordenn has limitations when it comes to trifling with magic beings, creatures, gods and demi-gods. He was stripped of nearly all that power by Heijl for an outrage against the Pantheon. But any realm with mortals…”

  “Freya’s realm is Titans, draugr,” I argue.

  “But I am half mortal,” says Freya. “He had influence.”

  “Was Mordenn a part of the temple before?” They must know; they’ve been attached to it for so long.

  The women shake their heads.

  “I’m rarely surprised by anything anymore,” says Meridiana, falling onto a couch. “In this case, I’d be happy to stay bored.”

  A woman appears at the far end of the terrace. Her movements catch my eye not just because she’s new, but because her legs and hips, arms and shoulders seem to move independently, graceful swells of her limbs.

  Her skin gleams like white silk in the sun. Her eyes are as black as the mass of hair spilling in waves to her waist sparkles with prisms like a raven’s wing. Her black velvet robes hug a shape that’s feminine but not quite human, too lithe and carefully made to be real.

  When she reaches me, she holds out her hand. Her fingers are long and slender, deft looking but beautiful. Somehow, I know what she wants, and I reach out, touch my fingertip lightly to hers.

  The spider slips from wherever she’s hidden on me, and moves eagerly to the woman’s arm, her shoulder. Its tiny form disappears into the loose vee of black velvet at the woman’s breasts.

  Her eyes close and she hums, a familiar sound, and somehow her body becomes more doll-like and lovely. Color spread through her cheeks.

  She opens her eyes and smiles. “Tamlir Kynthelig. Last aspirant of the gold leaf cycle.”

  Fuck me. “You?”

  “No one ever saves the spider,” Finna whispers, looking just as awed. All the women do.

  “Andraste,” says the Gardener. “Once, before the trials.”

  A cold realization cuts through my shock. “If I didn’t save the spider, I couldn’t win the temple?”

  “An aspirant who gathers all the artifacts defeats the curse. But the interests of others may not–” Andraste catches herself.

  “There’s more to the temple than the artifacts,” I guess. I can take them and go, but there’s more I can do here.

  She remains withdrawn. “I serve the temple and it’s laws.”

  I watch her carefully as she says this.

  She has no age. Her face betrays no lines or fullness. Her voice has no distinct quality; trickling water, the music of a breeze. There is something about her that feels primordial, bedrock. And worthy of fear if she weren’t bound here.

  “Rest. Recover your strength. Eat. I would say take your pleasure but–” Andraste laughs, scooping a glob of Finna from my chest piece, then places it gently on the slime girl’s forehead. Finna nods her thanks.

  The Gardener turns. “The sixth door awaits you.”

  “What should I expect?”

  “Darkness.”

  “More night, huh?”

  “No. Darkness.”

  That’s ominous. “Nature of the trial?”

  “Cleverness. And perhaps a...resistance.”

  This time, when she moves toward the grove, her feet roll over the grass and her limbs are breezy.

  The rest of us exchange looks in silence.

  Callista rounds the grove, agile and light despite her size.

  Kumiko gasps, and her ears draw back. I know what she’s feeling, have felt it myself. The instinct to run, when prey spots predator.

  “It’s alright.” I gentle her shoulder.

  “Callista.” Freya smiles, looking her over. “How are you feeling?”

  The half circles of Callista’s ears perk and she frowns. “Sore, for being rutted by a mortal.”

  Silence is thick enough to cut, along with my embarrassment. Meridiana smirks. Finna leans in, licks me again, and hmm’s. I’m the only one bothered, apparently.

  “What will we do, if you win, when we leave here?” asks Kumiko, eyes still trained on Callista.

  “Kill Iden, defeat the Oryllix. Avenge my family and save my sister.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple anymore.” Meridiana chews her lip. “Freya is the only alimaðr in the Middle Realms. Finna, Kumiko, me; the only ones.”

  “And Callista is the last of the artaois,” adds Freya.

  I meet her eyes, remembering our talk on the way to Verdajln. “A collection.”

  “Each cursed.” Meridiana shakes her head. “Cocidius brought us here to help break the curse. It’s Mordenn who’s trying to collect us.”

  “And the Oryllix are his hounds.” It all fits together. “I’ll have my hands full when we leave here. We all will.”

  Callista crosses arms over her taut middle. “We’re ready. I’ll take my chances with whatever waits out there, rather than be bound to Verdajln.”

  “Then we’d better push on.” I poll the women. “Darkness, but not night. And resistance. I think it was a clue.”

  Finna nods. “I felt like she meant protection, not force. What’s the worst that happens if we’re wrong?”

  “Uhh…” I gesture at everyone.

  Finna laughs. “You take the fun out of a joke.”

  “Maybe it’s premature,” says Kumiko, “but I, for one, am really proud of you, Lir. And amazed. We’re free, and you’ve made it further than any aspirant that’s come before you. Even if–” She sucks a small breath, looking around the garden. “I’m grateful for my time in the garden. Together we’ve gained something wonderful.”

  Even if it doesn’t last. I hear what she doesn’t say. It’s not a lack of faith in me, but a resignation that comes with what they’ve endured.

  I will not fail them.

  “Ready?” I ask Finna. She doesn’t seem surprised that she’s my choice, like she’d already guessed.

  “Meet you at the door? I need a dip in the pond on my through. There’s–” She slides a finger through her breasts and comes away with white strings of goo, “–something foreign I need to wash out.”

  My body stirs, and I shudder. “I’ll join you. After the last realm, and what happened when in the garden…” I blush and can’t believe I’m still able to. The women laugh. “But hands to yourself. We have a trial to beat.”

  Finna ripples with a giggle, and a bit of her dislodges from my chest on a slow lick, a piece I hadn’t realized
was still there. It runs down my leg, then across the grass, rejoining her. “You’re no fun,” she pouts.

  It’s going to be a long sixth realm.

  -God of War-

  The bust between the south doors hasn’t changed or improved in appearance, but the once smooth alcove behind it is lined with a carved inscription.

  Cocidius was warned by the Four Hundred of the Tribunum not to cross the Tavia. He prayed and made sacrifices to Heijl and Berynwen all that night. In the morning, on the day of the winter solstice, he led his army over the Tavia and conquered Corinium Magnus before the sun had set.

  There’s nothing else and I need more. Cocidius. The solstice. It’s the beginning of the end of a story.

  “Ready!” Finna startles me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Look at this…”

  She leans in, squinting. “What! And then? Then what!”

  “Exactly!”

  “Only the arch is covered. Maybe there will be more later?”

  I nod. “The bust appeared, and then it changed, so maybe. Guess we’ll find out when we get back.”

  “Don’t die. If I don’t get to read the rest, I’ll find you in Helheim and suffocate you.”

  “Whoa, who says I’d go to Helheim? Fólkvangr at a minimum. And that’s a hefty threat.”

  “You’re not getting into Valhalla. And it’s not a threat, it’s a promise.” She plants a sticky, wet kiss on my cheek.

  “Uh, I think this is actually a solo realm. You can stay here.”

  “Hm-mm.”

  “I’ve got this one.”

  Her eyes flutter. “Nope.”

  “Sit this one out.”

  “Are you afraid of me now?”

  “Of course not. After you.”

  That poor fucking dryad.

  -Eirenè-

  Etain

  Wind whistles up the road like air through gapped teeth. It stretches away at our backs like there was never a portal, and to a horizon where the moon rests like a jewel in a sickly green band. Underneath, the road disappears in a sword point.

  It is night, but the darkness The Gardener mentioned is a feeling, an aspect that permeates the air. Its weight is palpable. No stars mark the dark sky. No insects creak, no night creatures coo or howl.

  Finna shivers. “There’s something about this road.”

  I see what she means. Something about its straightness, despite rises and ruts, feels like the narrow run of a fox trap.

  Mist rises from the leaf litter and detritus, filling the gullies on either side where it’s heaped back into a black forest. It mingles with a green haze that tints everything, even ghostly wisps of cloud that claw the moon’s disc.

  Finna takes a few steps. “Tik!” she swears, thinning a little.

  I jerk my blade, search for whatever’s got her on edge.

  “It’s alright. Just startled me. I thought...It’s still hideous,” she gestures, “but it’s not a creature.”

  She gestures to the trees at the forest border. Their branches arch the road like skeletal fingers poised to snatch up hapless travelers. The whole of each tree is stunted, gnarled, bark thickened and peeling, indistinguishable from fungus and disease. Holes, knots, and broken branches give every single one for as far as I can see the appearance of a menacing, tortured face.

  A fickle wind clacks the branches like dried bones, and in response they cut the sharp breeze until it screams and dies.

  It’s next gust sounds like a voice. I look at Finna and shake my head. “Already getting under my skin.”

  “And no clue what to do. Follow the road? Move into the wood?”

  The wind-voice grows louder. Maybe this place is poisoning me like the Tiste, and I’m going mad.

  If so, I chose the right companion.

  Come to me.

  Finna snaps around, form quivering.

  “You hear it, too?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Come to me.

  At first, it came on the wind, from all around. Now, between gusts, it has a direction. Finna and I creep to a tree whose snaking roots wind closer to the road than the rest.

  Pick me up.

  Cold iron clutched tight in one hand, I skim the other over tree bark, first a quick brush and then a longer stroke. I push. Its roots are stout, trunk parasite-ridden but dense.

  Pick me up, the voice insists, feminine and muffled, coming from deep inside the wood.

  Putting doubt aside, I grip the wide trunk and heave with all my strength. Wood groans.

  “Not the tree, you idiot!”

  I leap back and Finna yelps.

  With my sword tip I rake at the mound of blanched wet leaves between the roots.

  It sputters, spits out a twig and more leaves. Its firefly eyes light on me, and the expression twists to one of disgust.

  “You have got to be joking. A moron and a puddle are my hope of salvation?”

  “Hey!” Finna cries.

  “Just cover me up.” The being squeezes her eyes shut, snuffing their golden fire. “Cover me back up. I’ll take my chances with the next aspirant.”

  Now I’m helping her out of sheer spite. I reach for her head. She jerks side to side, bright teeth snapping, trying to bite me.

  I reach behind her, and my fingers burrow into hair under the loam. “I’ll hold her,” I tell Finna over my shoulder. “Can you–”

  The head comes up. Just a head. “Fuck!” The mouth hangs slack, eyes closed.

  Finna loses a few blobs on the ground. “Did you...tear the artifact apart?”

  I thrust an arm between the roots. Solid ground. I’m not buying this. Gripping the hair tighter, I shake the head like a dog.

  Her eyes snap open, glow going from soft firelight to inferno. “Stop! Stop that. This is ridiculous! I am Etain of Eirenè!”

  Finna and I stare, agape, waiting for why this matters. And also, because a disembodied head is the thing saying it.

  “My armies consumed Thornwood. Hell’s Half Acre submitted to my conquest!” Her chin thrusts, stabbing at Finna. “Give me your body. His is hideous.”

  Finna looks at me and shrugs. “Whatever gets this over with.” Her face loses shape and her head and neck flow between her shoulders, leaving a well for the neck of this hateful thing we’ve found.

  “Taller! I’m at least as tall as you,” she spits at me.

  Finna lengthens, barely. She could do more, but she won’t. I smirk.

  “Now, carry me to Teme Hollow,” demands Etain.

  Finna’s body jerks, confused.

  “Where?”

  “Ugh. Just…” Finna’s arm raises and her finger flicks. I don’t know if she should attach herself so fully to something this awful, something that can apparently control her. I have a moment of panic, imagining Etain stealing my companion, disappearing into the forest. My fingers twitch, ready to grab the head and rip it off the artifact if I have to.

  Etain’s voice is imperious. “Just go that way. And stay off the road.”

  I shuffle into the gully and past the trees.

  “And don’t go into the Tanglewood!”

  My back teeth grind. I stagger into the tangled gully.

  “Arachniths lay their eggs in there!”

  “Would you like me to levitate?” I snap.

  She snorts her disgust. “I’d like you to shut up until we reach Teme Hollow, or until you’re dead. But either way, you walk behind me.”

  This is why the road is so long and straight. It gives a clear view of how high and far I’m about to drop-kick her noggin.

  We weave along, not on the road or in the gulley or gods-fucking-forbid in the Tanglewood. Etain makes inpatient noises all the while. I don’t walk behind her; if she tried to make me I’d have Finna envelop her damn head, at least until Etain gnawed her way out. I walk beside her and steal glances in the sickly light.

  Her skin is the same shade as the poison wisps, green and dewy smooth. Her nose is small and pert, lips pillowy and made for pouti
ng. Her red hair is not the deep impossible shade of Meridiana’s but copper and fire, and as we walk, and she seems to draw some vitality from Finna, and its luster grows, and waves bounce and flow on an otherworldly energy that radiates from her.

  What I first mistook for a circlet is an arc of tight black stitches at the border of her hairline and her high forehead. Another set borders her jaw and chin. A small stitched heart dots her right nostril like a piercing.

  She’s undead, I realize. They were one of the few creatures on which the Tiger Mountain monastery were well versed. Not a corpse; the magic aura animating a sluagh removes decay and corruption, but it can’t give life. It only preserves the vessel. She’s beautiful, imperious. A pain in the ass, but beautiful. I can only imagine what the rest of her must look like.

  “If you go any slower we’ll be moving backwards!”

  Or maybe I could trade what I have for what’s missing.

  The lane into Teme Hollow was a wide road once. The ruts are visible beneath seasons of dust and choking roots, and sparse grass grows patchy at the borders where carts once made wide turns. Beyond the lane’s mouth is a tree court. Branches and weeds rule the path, leaving a space hardly wide enough for a person to pass. But torchlight dances in the clearing ahead. There are people here, and thatch-roofed houses. Their side yards and pigpens sit empty, and fields along one half of the clearing sit fallow, once-tilled dirt crusted from neglect and the ceaseless, mind-numbing, airy gusts.

  Slat doors creak open and villagers blink in the smoke and haze. I wait for Etain to start sucking their souls, or for the mob to charge shrieking with hay forks.

  Instead, they come out, apparently of their own volition. They don’t seem afraid. They almost seem...happy? As happy as straw-haired, hollow eyed, twitchy figures can seem.

  “Lady Etain…” They shuffle and bow, murmuring her name like a chant.

  A woman with dry dull skin and a head like a potato smiles, face stretching enough to tear. “We’re so grateful you’re back, lady. Things will be better now.”

  “I need the men,” Etain proclaims, but her haughty tone is gone. “All the men to help me stop the bàsachadh.”