The Temple

by Jean Johnson

  Tipa’thia snorted, clearly amused by the absurdity of his statement. “A Healer guarding a Guardian? How do you plan to fight, by healing someone to death?”

  “In learning how to heal a body of various injuries, from mild to severe, do we not also learn where the worst injuries could be applied?” Luo countered philosophically. His magic gently lowered her to her feet. “It is acceptable under the right circumstances to take life, in order to preserve life . . . else we would have nothing to eat but salt, and nothing to drink but water.”

  “I accept your offer, Healer,” Pelai stated firmly, cutting off further banter between the two. “Thank you. Tipa’thia, the sooner we get started, the better.”

  “I’m not dying yet. Close to it, but not yet,” Tipa’thia countered, her tone acerbic. “In a hurry to see me die, Pelai?”

  “Absolutely not. I need you to still be alive in the morning, still being called the Guardian, when I take control of disciplining the Puhon brothers for their supposed failure,” Pelai countered.

  Tipa’thia snorted, but tottered toward the center of the chamber. The heart of the Fountain Hall was the actual singularity, a bright spark of light spewing ribbons of colorful energies into a sphere that formed an opalescent soap bubble, perched above a rounded basin. An ephemeral lacework of glowing runes, letters, and symbols encased that sphere. Each controlling word pulsed a packet of energy up and out and down, into the hovering sigils scattered around the hall. Including the grass-green healing sigil the elderly Guardian had touched.

  Pelai followed, but waited respectfully while Tipa’thia hooked her fingers into the cage of the sphere and tugged it into rolling. The lattice did not move away from the singularity; it just spun like a globe with no fixed axis, a decorative ball bearing the size of a small cottage. Turning the globe this way, that way, she finally settled on a set of copper-gleaming runes. The moment she pressed and spoke, her voice echoed in a strange way that had nothing to do with the warbles of advancing age.

  “This is Guardian Tipa’thia to the Guardians of associated Fountains. I am transferring my Guardianship to Pelai over the next little while. I have judged her worthy, strong enough in mind and heart and character as well as in body and power for the responsibilities and duties that lie ahead. Give her your respect as you have given it to me . . . and do not contact either of us until we are through.”

  Another tug on the sphere turned it again . . . and a beautiful, complex, multi-toned chime rang through the room. More than that, the source of it came free, forming into solidity from a sphere that existed somewhere between a physical lattice and a magical overlay of mere light and color.

  “Who do you serve, Pelai, Heaven or Hell?” Tipa’thia, Elder Mage and Guardian of the Temple Fountain asked. For the first time in months, her voice came out steadily, without the slightest waver.

  “Heaven.” There was no doubt in her mind. Heaven was the realm of the Gods, and the Gods were an extension of the will of the people, and the Goddess of Mendhi was a kind, compassionate, educated Patron who gave Her people plenty of freedom to write their own stories while encoding the laws of civilized behavior to ensure that those freedoms were not used to abuse others. “I serve Heaven and the people, and never my own glory.”

  When Tipa’thia nodded, Pelai stepped up beside her, next to the Fountain sphere. Curious, she eyed the Sacred Bell. This one was not a cone on the end of a handle so much as it was a series of partial spheres nested one inside the next, with the largest no bigger than a chicken egg in diameter. Crafted from gold, it bore the marks of a writing form not used in Mendhi in roughly fifteen hundred years. A true Artifact, steeped in the harmonies of the energies pouring out of the Fountain.

  Past Guardians had speculated that the shape of the pinprick hole through which all that magic spilled caused the energies to resonate. Like the way breath blown past the mouth of a flute caused the air to vibrate, or how wind whistled through a gap in a poorly fitted window or door during a storm. Save, of course, that these magically blowing energies made a sound that was far more felt than heard.

  She knew what to do, when Tipa’thia rang the bell a second time. Sound magics weren’t her best form of magic, but she had been in the Fountain several times over the last three years. The sound was merely a mnemonic aid to remind her of what those energies felt like, and to help her shape her own. A third shake of the nested bell had it ringing again—and then Tipa’thia pressed it to Pelai’s forehead, pushing the energies through the younger mage’s hastily lowered wards.

  The moment Pelai attuned, reshaping herself to echo the Fountain, the bell burned into her skin, branding her brow. Pelai didn’t know how anyone else might have reacted to such pain, but she was a fully trained Disciplinarian. She did not flinch, did not even hitch her breath, just accepted and rode through the agony as it seared, sharpening into a sweet piercing ache . . . and then the bell vanished, and the edge of Tipa’thia’s fisted hand thumped against her skull, no longer holding onto the handle because even the handle no longer existed.

  “ . . . Sorry. I forgot it would do that,” Tipa’thia added. Lowering her hand, she turned to the great sphere. “Join me in the Fountain now.”

  “Of course.” Following the elderly woman, Pelai waited for Tipa’thia to step through the lattice sphere as if it did not exist. Prior to this point, she had needed Tipa’thia to open a physical entrance, an opening her body could slip through. Now . . . she just stepped through the cage. Her forehead hurt again, but a sweet ache this time. A good ache, like stretching a muscle that hadn’t been flexed in a while.

  This time, she didn’t need Tipa’thia touching her to help her lift up into the heart of the sphere, nor to protect her from the strong magics spewing out of that tiny rift. The energies flowed through Pelai, invigorating her. A shift, a slight swimmer’s kick, and she rose up toward the bright pinprick at the heart of the magic. In its shimmering, iridescent glow, Pelai realized Tipa’thia’s face held a series of concentric circles centered between hairline and eyebrows. She had never seen it before, and she blinked, peering a little more closely.

  “The brand of the Sacred Bell will never be seen by another, unless they themselves have been branded,” Tipa’thia murmured, her voice wavering but her hand steady as she touched that spark point. Its energies bolstered her own. A false energy high in some ways, like eating a lot of honey and buzzing like a bee from it, but it energized her nonetheless. “Neither will the tattoos that go with controlling the Fountain from a distance be seen by others, unless you will them to be seen. They are written on the underside of our skin, on our muscles, ligaments, organs, and our very bones.

  “The Guardian of the Fountain is the Elder Painted Warrior . . . but it is wiser to leave the day-to-day managing of those forces to someone else. Managing the Mages of Mendhi along with the needs demanded of the Temple Fountain will take up most of your energy and time.” Tipa’thia hesitated, studied Pelai, then quietly added, “You are about to have many ties and attendant demands on your time, Pelai. You may find it difficult to discipline the Puhon brothers as well as manage the Fountain’s needs, manage the Mages of Mendhi, and do your part in tracking down the false clerics of Banished Mekha, who are destined to come here to the Great Library. If we have interpreted the prophecies right.”

  “That is why I am going to continue to refer to you as Tipa’thia,” Pelai said. “I need to arrange for a few Disciplinarians I trust to punish Dagan’thio’s sons. If I am not the second-ranked Disciplinarian when they are to be assigned their punishments, Dagan’thio will simply assign someone who thinks as he does, and their disciplining will be unjust.”

  “I do remember you discussing this with me,” Tipa’thia murmured. “And I think I have a way to get around you being declared no longer a part of the Disciplinarian hierarchy. After all my years of service to Mendhi, I do deserve to retain the title-suffix of ‘thia attached to my name . . . thus
making me sound as though I am still fully and solely the Guardian. But you may also still need to continue to punish at least one of the brothers visibly yourself. Whatever you choose, consider your choices carefully, Pelai. You are going to be exhausted by all of your responsibilities, even if you are young and strong. How long will you have to discipline one or more of the Puhon boys?”

  “I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. It is not the length of time that is under debate; they failed a task set by the Hierarchy, and that will require several weeks of time. It is the intensity of those punishments that is up to their individual Disciplinarian to decide,” Pelai explained. This was not something openly admitted to outsiders, but here in the Fountain, she supposed they were safe to discuss the matter. Tipa’thia would no more divulge the secrets of Disciplinarians than she could divulge her own secrets. “The Goddess tells us how much they need to suffer, and gives us various clues as to each individual penitent’s needs.

  “If a penitent cannot abide the sound of fingernails being scraped along a slate board, then that could be their punishment. If they don’t mind that sound, but cannot abide eating pickled foods, then that could be a punishment. It isn’t always about being flogged,” she clarified. “Though most people find that to be unpleasant. Not all, but most. That is why we carry the flogger as the symbol of our office.”

  “Heh,” Tipa’thia laughed briefly, her wrinkled face creasing in amusement from some thought. “I never thought of it that way. Goddess . . . that does make me wonder about old Jimen’thio. I caught him making the weirdest faces eating pickled eggs for lunch once. He was in a relationship with a Disciplinarian fellow at the time. Wonder what he did wrong to earn that for a punishment. Ha! Never mind, child. Jimen’thio was before your time. He served two Elder Commanders back before Yulan’thio became the current Ashua-Dakim.”

  Pelai nodded and shrugged it off. She wasn’t concerned with old history so much as current events right now. “Have you recovered enough energies to begin transferring the controlling tattoos of the Guardian?”

  Tipa’thia thought for a moment, then nodded. “They are more a set of awareness tattoos, but yes, they do control things enough that you can smooth the daily turbulence. You will still need to check the runes every handful of days, of course. I always did it in the morning on Family Day, and then I’d go have supper with my children and grandchildren. . . . Anyway, we do need to get moving.

  “We will start with the left-side ones.” She switched hands, bringing her left one up to the singularity spark, and lifted her chin, her withered jowls wobbling a little. “Touch it at the same time as I do, with our left forefingers. The first will be the bone-deep ones that allow you to to sense the health of the kingdom’s lands.

  “With these marks, you will be able to sense and shift magical energies around at a thought, transferring them to the various plants and animals, helping them when they have a blight in a particular crop, or to heal a storm-damaged orchard,” Tipa’thia lectured. “Or to cure a plague blighting the goat herds, ruining their wool production in a particularly wet and rainy season . . .”

  Listening carefully, Pelai concentrated on accepting the glowing symbols shifting up along the length of her mentor’s aging arm and burning their way down beneath her own skin. Slow, ongoing pains and aches like this often hurt worse than quickly suffered bursts, but this was not about Pelai’s own comfort. This was about Tipa’thia’s health, her comfort and her safety in transferring these things.

  It still hurt, like peeling away a strip of cloth soaked in honeyed wax to remove body hair. Something better done quickly than slowly. Pelai just kept telling herself it was worth it. The more sub-skin sigils she acquired, the more she could sense of the Fountain’s true power. When they had only transferred about two-thirds of the total, one spellbound sigil at a time, that sensing included an awareness that somewhere outside, the sun now peeked over the horizon.

  She also saw just how little energy Tipa’thia had left.

  “Enough,” Pelai finally told the elderly mage. “That’s enough for now. You’ve transferred all of the most vital tattoos yes?”

  “ . . . Most, yes,” Tipa’thia agreed. She shivered, eyes closing. “I should . . . transfer the rest. We’re still both jointly Guardian.”

  “You need to rest before we transfer the ones that are left,” Pelai told her. “And I need to report to the Elder Disciplinarian. His sons were due to arrive about now.”

  Tipa’thia frowned, her aged brow wrinkling further . . . then a sly smile curved her lips, creasing her sun-brown cheeks. “I see where you’re going with this. I am still technically a co-Guardian with you at this point . . . and by right of sheer experience, I am your superior. This makes you not the Elder Mage . . . so you’re still capable of serving as the second-ranked Disciplinarian. Clever girl.”

  “That’s actually the lesser part of it, though a very convenient part,” Pelai replied. “I can sense how low your reserves are right now. I cannot let you exhaust yourself to the point of dying in the Fountain. Not only would that be an act of treachery against the welfare of the nation, but I’m not certain if that would yank me into the Dark after you. I’d rather not find out firsthand, so we will finish this tonight. Or perhaps tomorrow. You will exit, you will allow us to carry you out of here, you will eat, sleep, and in general rest.”

  “You’re as fussy as if you were my own daughter . . . but you do have the wisdom to match someone of that many years,” Tipa’thia muttered. She frowned petulantly, but pulled herself away from the singularity point. Moving somewhere between swimming and wading, she made her way to the latticework containing, protecting, and filtering the energies around them.

  Pelai moved faster than her. Emerging with a twist, she dropped to her feet, and turned to magically catch and cushion the elder female. The Healer-priest, Luo, moved to join her in supporting the now sagging, exhausted-looking chief Guardian.

  “Did it all go well?” Luo asked.

  Pelai shook her head. “We are not yet finished, but Guardian Tipa’thia needs to rest for a while. So if you would levitate her back to her quarters so she may recover, that would be appreciated. I need to report elsewhere on a matter of urgency, now that it is dawn.”

  “Of course. This way, Guardian,” Luo urged the elderly mage. “Would you like me to levitate you back to your bed?”

  “I’d say no . . . but I am getting tired, Luo,” Tipa’thia murmured. She reached out and gripped Pelai’s forearm, patting it. It felt partly like reassurance, and partly like a warning, as did her words. “If we get delayed further, if . . . if my premonition feelings are true. . . . You have been an admirable pupil, Pelai, and an excellent apprentice to me. Even if that foreign Vortex thing confused you, there is no doubt you can handle the Temple. And if I . . . if I die before we see each other again, you can reconstruct the rest of the controlling runes from the Library. Anya’thia knows which archives to check.”

  “Thank you, Tipa’thia,” Pelai told her. The awkwardness of discussing Tipa’thia’s death made her fall back on more formal words. Comforting cultural ritual. “We haven’t always written the same words on our pages, but I do respect you. The story of my life will be diminished when you are gone.”

  “The story of my life has been enhanced by your presence,” Tipa’thia replied. Squeezing one more time, she nodded at the Healer. “Lift me and carry me home. I need to sleep.”

  Since she now had equal control of the Fountain hall and its security measures, Pelai moved ahead of the pair, assisted them through, and sealed the chamber behind her. Morning light did indeed shine through from the side; the sun peeked through the trees on the grounds, illuminating the hallway in blue shadows and golden streaks. However, though they started going in the same direction, Pelai did not follow the pair for long. Shey only went as far as the last corridor before the Temple proper connected itself to the building where the mage a
djuncts lived, the administrators who oversaw all the various aspects of magecraft in Mendhite government.

  Instead of going through the doors, where Robyn could finally be seen again, chatting with a tattooed Temple guard, Pelai turned left and kept going until she reached a door that led outside. A plethora of modestly small buildings awaited her outside. Small, when compared to the towering, vast structure of the highly carved Temple behind her. Large, in that the structures she passed still had three and four stories to them, were equally ornate, and even boasted scaffolding in a couple places, though right now they lacked the workers who would be scrambling all over them later, repairing and restoring those sections of each affected building. The last three monsoon seasons had not been kind to the stonework, leaving many sections long overdue for repainting.

  Breaking into a steady, loping trot, the half-elevated Disciplinarian made shorter work of the longish run. Now that the thick walls and strong spells of the Fountain chamber no longer sheltered her ears, she could hear the music swelling and falling in the ritual of morning prayers up in the main sanctuary, accompanied by the organs and instruments of the Temple musicians. The sounds of the priesthood worshipping Menda filtered through the whole of the Temple grounds, even down here among the maze of buildings housing the actual governance of the nation. Not the Hierarchs, but the rank and file, the clerks who wrote and read reports, organized work crews, ensured that every branch had the supplies and personnel needed to make Mendhi run.

  Since she wasn’t completely sure where the Puhon brothers would first be brought, and since it was on the way, Pelai went to the Disciplinarian’s House, a mansion overlooking the same section of gardens that eventually led back to her quarters. It also overlooked the administration section of the grounds, in a reminder that the servants of the nation toiling to keep it functioning faced consequences if they grew corrupt, failed to act out of laziness, or simply proved themselves incompetent.