The Temple

by Jean Johnson

  From the markings on his shoulder guards, the tall, muscular male held the rank of an akim, the lowest rank of officer. The ones trusted to handle matters appropriately without bothering anyone of higher rank. Bird-dogs, in other words, sent to find and carry around whatever the hunter couldn’t be bothered to fetch himself.

  “Doma Pelai,” the man stated as soon as he came to a stop. “The Elder Disciplinarian, Dagan’thio, has received word that the final ship in the long-absent fleet has confirmed the sighting of the lighthouses of Mendhi. The Navy estimates they will be here by morning.”

  Pelai didn’t have to guess why this poor man had been sent off in the middle of the night. “Let me guess. After he received it, the Elder Commander had you relay this news to the Elder Disciplinarian, who told you to come here, wake me up, and inform me to be ready by dawn?”

  Despite the less than bright glow of her porch light crystal and the tanned brown of the man’s Mendhite-round face, he blushed visibly. “You are to come with me to report to the Elder Disciplinarian for instruction on how to discipline your charges once they arrive.”

  That narrowed her eyes for a moment. Pelai didn’t have a lightning-fast temper—no Disciplinarian ever would, since that hazard was weeded out early on in the training—but she could get rather hot. Thinking quickly, she smiled and said, “Thank you for informing me of the long awaited arrival of Dagan’thio’s sons, Akim . . . ?”

  “Akim Jodo Belak,” he told her, straightening into a more formal posture.

  “Thank you, Akim Jodo,” she stated, using his family name paired with his rank to help make it seem like she was taking this moment quite seriously. She was, just not in the way her superior clearly wanted. “I now deputize you to go back to the Elder Disciplinarian in my place, to take careful written notes on everything he wishes to be done to them, and to deliver those notes to me before I am to meet the Puhon brothers for their Disciplinary evaluations in the morning.”

  His lips parted soundlessly for a moment, almond brown eyes blinking in confusion, before he stammered, “But I—you cannot—you are summoned by the Elder Disciplinarian!”

  “I am certain that, as it is the middle of the night and he is groggy from sleep, he has forgotten that he cannot give any orders on how his own sons are to be Disciplined. So you are to go back to him, and ask him what he wants done, and to write in your own handwriting as an impartial witness how, exactly, he hopes they will be disciplined,” Pelai explained patiently. “I will be available for making my independent Discipline evaluation in the morning, and will take his thoughts into carefully neutral consideration at that time. I am not available right now.”

  “But he commands you to come, Doma!” the Akim protested, though the certainty in his voice wavered.

  Tipa’thia hadn’t had much energy for politics in the last several months. The elderly woman’s strength and attention for such things had been slowly waning for several years before that as she aged past the point where magic could sustain her inner energies. But she had been the Guardian of the Temple for decades. Part of Pelai’s instruction over the last three years had included how to pay attention to political maneuverings . . . and how to cover one’s kilt in the case of being asked to do something potentially illegal.

  Above all else, Tipa’thia had stressed to her tattooed pupil that the Elder Mage, the Guardian of the Temple, must remain free from corruptive influences. Admittedly, Tipa’thia was not interested in correcting the injustices that the Elder Disciplinarian was attempting to enact on his sons, but that was due to her failing health. A health that was so bad, she had sent for Pelai in the middle of the night.

  “I am second in rank among Disciplinarians, Akim,” she informed the protesting sergeant, stressing his own lowly rank. Technically all Disciplinarians who passed out of their journeyman stage were equals, save for the Elder, but in practice there were many different levels of competency, power, and proficiency displayed. She had not been given second-rank in vain. “You have been deputized to go in my place and take written notes. I will keep abreast of when the Puhon sons will be arriving, and make myself available at an appropriate hour for their proper evaluation shortly after their arrival.”

  She stared him down until he sighed and turned away, trudging back up the path to go do a very unpleasant thing: tell a member of the Hierarchy someone said no. Pelai held up her hand in silent, subtle signal to the Healer. Only when she was sure the soldier had gone did she nod and finish closing the door to her home, locking it with a simple press of her palm upon the security rune next to the knob.

  “I apologize for delaying, but hopefully that will remind the Thio that his attempt to interfere in how his sons are to be evaluated for disciplining is against the rules,” she murmured to the priestess, Robyn.

  The other woman shook her head, her knee-length taga rustling far more quietly as they walked together up the path than the faint creaks and squeaks and strip-skirt slaps of Pelai’s uniform against her own legs. “The Goddess knows what’s wrong with him. Ever since this whole mess with the Convocation started . . .”

  It was Pelai’s turn to shake her head. “No, he’s been this way for the last three or four years. Just . . . not as obviously out of line. The rest of us should have spoken up earlier. If he keeps going in these directions, someone will have to call a conclave about him. Maybe even a tribunal.”

  “Of the whole Hierarchy?”

  “What? No, of course not . . . at least, I hope not,” Pelai murmured. “The Disciplinarians should take care of our own first. Hopefully, the orders I gave the akim will get the Elder to wake up to his wrongdoings.”

  “I won’t hold my breath, though I will hold my hope,” the other woman returned dryly.

  She fell silent for a few minutes while they navigated the gardens and buildings of the Temple grounds. They walked along paths bathed not only in the dim glow of crystals on little posts set knee-high on the edges of the gravel, but also by the light of the half-full Brother Moon high over their heads, and the rising, full Sister Moon coming into view on the eastern horizon. Finally, Robyn spoke again.

  “I think she intends to retire as soon as you arrive. It would help immensely where the strain on the Guardian’s body is concerned.”

  That’s going to be awkward, Pelai realized as they entered the Temple itself through a side door near the rear of the building, far from the grand front entrance with its towering statues of Painted Warriors holding aloft the ornate portico in carefully sculpted and colored, if weathered, stone. As soon as I am officially Pelai’thia, Guardian of the Temple, I technically stop being an underling who can take on the disciplining of the Puhon brothers.

  If I’m no longer within the hierarchical branch of the Disciplinarians, that means Dagan’thio could assign one of his cronies to discipline his sons . . . and no doubt instruct them behind everyone else’s backs to go overboard in said punishing.

  She believed in her heart that the Puhon brothers should not be punished. Over the last year, ever since Guardian Kerric had first contacted Tipa’thia and the others about a coming demonic invasion, Pelai had seen the inevitable in the words of God-touched Seers from a dozen different lands. If the Convocation of Gods and Man happened—and it had—then that invasion had already been forseen as happening within the grasp of another land. Which it had, in former Mekhana. She had been there, trying to help control the Vortex. She had seen the demon-princeling being summoned.

  It was possible to go against a prophecy, to misinterpret it, and of course to try to avert it. Some could be thwarted, and many had been changed. Others had turned out to be a bit more inevitable.

  The entrances to the inner sanctum looked like somewhat realistic paintings of doors on the walls. There were no knobs, but none were needed; anyone who had the blessing of the Guardian could pass through them. Out of habit, Pelai shut her eyes. Seeing a painted wall rushing at her face alw
ays made her want to flinch and stumble, trying to check herself before she smacked into a solid surface.

  Of course, if I ever do smack into one of these wall-doors because my eyes are closed, that’ll hardly inspire confidence in the next Guardian, will it?

  There were other ways to instill less than clear confidence in a Guardian. Tipa’thia had berated her half a year ago for not being able to handle the Vortex Fountain. Pelai had managed to get it through the elderly woman’s stubborn, thick head just how chaotic that other Fountain was, but the disappointment—based on expectations of a neat, orderly Fountain—had carried over for a month afterward in their interactions.

  The two did not always agree, but Pelai respected Tipa, the woman, as well as Tipa’thia, Elder Mage of Mendhi, Guardian of the Temple of the Painted Warriors of Mendhi. When the two reached the inner entrance to Tipa’thia’s private quarters, Pelai braced herself with a deep breath, closed her eyes, and passed through yet another painted wall-door.

  The other side smelled of herbs and unguents. Magic was a complex cycle. Animals—humans especially—generated it, plants enhanced or suppressed it, and when—not if, but when—a human died, they took some of that energy with them on their trip through the Dark to the Afterlife. It came back out again with every new birth, whether it was of a foal in the pasture or a seed in the field . . . but it also came spilling out wherever a rift in the Veil between Life and the Dark opened.

  Some of these rifts were natural-born, literally born in the body of a Living Host, who carried around the seed of a Fountain until their death or careful separation from it. At that point, the Fountain-seed had to be constantly moved, or it settled in one spot, anchored itself, and turned into a permanent Fountain.

  One of those women had been born somewhere to the east on the continent of Aiar, a former empire that had been shattered by extraordinary circumstances over two hundred years before. The current Living Host had made her way to the southeast, to a place called Nightfall. Puhon Krais, Puhon Foren, and Puhon Gayn had been sent to capture her, secure control of her Fountain-seed, and bring it back to Mendhi, so that they could use its energies combined with their own permanently anchored Fountain to open the Convocation of Gods and Man. To bring Mendhi back to supreme prominence through religious, political, and magical superiority.

  Half the Hierarchy wanted to drag Mendhi back into world prominence. The other half thought they were quite prominent enough; belief gave power to the Gods, and Menda was revered at the very least in passing as the Goddess of Writing in every other corner of the world that understood the value of the written word. Tipa’thia could have been the deciding vote, but she had been ill for a very long time. Her increasing lack of involvment in the greater world had led to this mess.

  It occurred to Pelai, crossing from the front chambers into the back rooms to Tipa’s bedchamber, that these quarters would soon be hers. A disquietening thought, but the Guardian always lived within the Great Temple itself, the only non-priest to do so. Decades of decorative and personal touches lay everywhere. Writing desks with inkstones and inkjars, quills of a specific type of bird alongside glass dipping pens, brass nibbed pens, charcoal and graphite pencils, oil pastels . . . and all the drawings and quan-style poems the woman had created over the years. By comparison, Pelai’s quarters were quite austere, but she was less than half Tipa’s age, and hadn’t yet acquired the possessions one accumulated simply through the sheer passing of time.

  Entering the bedchamber, Pelai took in the thicker than usual pallet on the bed, how narrow and long it was, and how fragile Tipa’thia looked. Her skin had wrinkled more and more in the last year, a sign of lost reserves, lost vitality. Now the lines and hues of her tattoos looked more splattered and disjointed than smoothly connected. Withered, with the life-energy being sucked out of her.

  A man sat on the edge of the bed, clad in lavender clothes. The trim on his taga alternated in dark purple and light pei-slii. He held the elderly mage’s hand gently in his. At Pelai’s appearance, he looked over his shoulder and nodded. “Good, you have arrived.”

  “Elder Healer Luo,” Pelai murmured, fear creeping up into her throat. He was not the Elder Priest of his department within the Hierarchy, but he was the foremost Healer within their sub-group, and thus set all the policies for healers across the nation, had access to all the records and information on potions, powders, and spells for keeping someone well. To see him here, personally, in the middle of the night? “ . . . Is it that serious?”

  “It is time to make the transfer of Guardianship, Pelai,” Tipa’thia stated. She didn’t open her eyes, and her voice came out a little more gravelly than usual. But it was still strong. “I am told it must be done slowly, one piece at a time, instead of more efficiently doing it all at once. An annoying thought, since I am ready to be relieved of this burden right now.”

  “Her health cannot withstand any shock right now, such as a sudden release from the burden of her duties,” Luo murmured. “Control must be transferred slowly, with pauses for recovery at regular intervals. This will prolong the effort and be more draining in its way, but it will be a lesser pain to endure. Right now, I am giving her my personal energies to help supplement her magical reserves, and I will levitate her to the Fountain so that she will not waste her physical reserves. Above all else, she must not die while still in the Fountain. The Library’s records on such things are rare, but suggest it is a very bad idea.”

  “We have discussed that, yes,” Pelai confirmed. “I have enough skill in Healing magics to lend her some of my personal strength to cushion whatever will happen. And I am ready to begin whenever the two of you are.”

  “I will clear the way,” Robyn murmured, “and hold all but the last door open. The Elder Mage must open that one herself.”

  Tipa’thia nodded, a shaky little jerk of her head. Luo murmured a spell that lifted her gently, and Pelai moved into position behind the pair. The other two Healers remained behind, doing something with the bedding, either from actual need or simply from the urge to do something useful while they waited to see if their charge lived or died.

  According to Library records, the most common form of death for a Guardian was dying by accident somewhere outside the event horizon of their Fountain, somewhere out in the rest of the world. When that happened, their Fountain reverted to its most commonly used state. Over time, however, it would grow wilder and wilder, its normally focused, channeled energies spilling free and warping the world around it. That required a new Guardian to surpass any lingering protections and hopefully be a strong enough mage to enter the singularity wellspring; if they could, they needed to attune to the energies so those could be tamed, a long, arduous, strenuous, dangerous task.

  Dying while inside a Fountain as its Guardian sealed the singularity. Plugged the rift. Cut off the flow of the Font. Such a death twisted together all of the energies spilling into the mortal world and shut them off . . . because the death of the Guardian tied into all those energies pulled the Guardian into the Dark where those energies came from, and pulled those spilling energies back into the Dark, where they would have to find some other exit point.

  That was not commonly known information, because Guardians, while powerful, were still mortal and thus fallible. In fact, the only reason why the Elder Librarian had allowed Pelai to read those text stemmed from her need to understand that Tipa’thia was not allowed to die while within the Fountain. Even the best of Guardians could be surprised, ambushed, assassinated . . .

  It wouldn’t be an explosive death, but it would be a far worse failure—a legitimate failure—to accidentally cause the termination of an established Fountain than merely failing to secure a Living Host for acquiring a second singularity point. Grim thoughts for going into this task, but necessary to keep in mind.

  Chapter Two

  They met no one on their trip through the halls; apparently Healer Robyn had shooed away everyone fro
m watching their progress. Pelai appreciated that. Questions led to delays, delays made for opportunities for sabotage, and somewhere out there, a group of ex-Mekhanan priests wanted to sabotage the world to get their hands on pure power. Demonic magical energies seemed to be their current choice, but Fountains would be easier to control. Cleaner for the soul.

  Walking quietly, the trio reached the grand south corridor, the one placed below the main sanctuary and boasting a long, unbroken wall covered in a beautifully painted mural depicting the lakes, gardens, and jungle-cloaked hills beyond the great city. Windows on the south side overlooked the moon-drenched landscape, and lightglobes gleamed dimly in wrought-iron posts set at intervals along the northern wall, illuminating the panoramic art. Pelai loved the images, even though she thought the lack of written words on this wall made it a sort of giveaway that this wall was unusual. It wasn’t up to her to hide this place, however. Yet.

  Tipa’thia gestured for Luo to stop about one third of the way along the mural’s length. Reaching out with an unsteady arm, she caressed one of the images of a swan gliding on the water, trailing her fingers down the creature’s white-painted neck. It came instantly to life, wings flexing and webbed feet paddling. In the wake of its passage, the wall softened, allowing them entrance into the darkness beyond.

  A screening wall made of dark basalt stones blocked the actual glow of the Temple Fountain from being immediately seen. Maneuvering around it, Elder Healer Luo moved Tipa’thia’s floating body around and through the hundreds of scripts hovering in midair. He stopped her by a section of green symbols, tilted her carefully upright, and waited until the Elder Mage lifted her hands to those runes, tapped into their energies, and nodded.

  “I will stand back here by the entrance and guard you, as well as witness the transfer,” Luo murmured.