The Temple

by Jean Johnson

  He blushed and ducked his gaze again, but nodded. “I did like it. And yet I’ve scratched myself hundreds of times over the years—thousands, if you count soothing an actual itch. Only the latter ever came close to feeling like that.”

  “If you’d gotten past the submission test, you’d have learned that, most of the time, arousal starts in the mind. It starts with how we receive and how we perceive various stimuli,” Pelai told him. “You can be physically stimulated against your will, of course, but it’s a simple body stimulation, and not an actual act of desire.”

  He gave her a sardonic look from under his brows. “Are you going to keep bringing up my failure to submit in the past? I am submitting now.”

  Pelai flashed him a grin. “Maybe I’m slightly jealous it took a Goddess to get you to submit, and not someone like me.”

  Thankfully, he took it in good jest. Splaying his hand over his bare chest, Krais mock-sighed and retorted, “Sorry, there’s only room for one Goddess in my life, no matter how good-looking you are.”

  “Ooh, you think I’m good-looking?” Pelai purred, leaning forward a little more, bringing her head closer to his.

  “Gorgeous . . . and off-limits as my assigned Disciplinarian.” He dropped his smile and wrinkled his nose. “I like you more, now that I’m getting to know you, Pelai . . . but . . . we’re in a mess, aren’t we?”

  “Based on what I learned last night, I’m only your assigned Disciplinarian when in public, and only as a ruse to prevent corruption. If the Elder Disciplinarian were anyone reasonable . . . and not related to you,” she said, spreading her hands, “then I could take you to them, have them assess your sins through the power of their own tattoos, and get your sentence commuted. As it is, we have to go through with this farce in public, or you’ll get pulled away from me. And then either someone else with less seniority will have to try to convince your father and the other Elders that you’re not in need of any penance . . . or you’ll be punished unjustly by one of his friends.”

  “I know that.” Bringing his legs up and pushing down the folds of his kilt, Krais braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed at his face. “Thirty-plus years of parroting my father’s every word . . . I know what he is capable of. If he doesn’t think I’m being punished enough, he’ll push and push to have my case handed to someone else. A quorum of Disciplinarians could be polled to vote to take my case off your hands.”

  Pelai started to respond to that, but a rune blazed to copper-hued life in the air over his head. She blinked, shifted to reach for it—and realized it was attached to her vision, since it moved when her head moved. A moment later, she realized which rune it was, and shifted to holding up her finger, forestalling his confusion. “I have an incoming message. Please be quiet.”

  That quirked his brows, but he wrapped his arms around his kilted knees and merely watched. He didn’t know—and she had forgotten—that the bone-deep tattoos linking her to the Temple Fountain allowed her to access some of its more useful pre-purposed powers wherever she went. One of those controlling spells included the communication channels, or Fountainways, magically interlinked conduits that allowed Guardians to communicate with each other.

  Prior to a year ago, most Fountainways were only set up to allow connections between singularity points . . . save for the Tower Fountain, on the eastern seaboard of the Aian continent, a third of the way around the world from Mendhi. The Tower’s Guardians had long ago figured out a way to send scrying mirror images, because the Tower was a form of entertainment for mages who could afford to watch such things, paying for their entertainments either in time or in gold or other tradeable goods.

  One year ago, the current Guardian of the Tower, Kerric Vo Mos, had shared interconnected scrying mirrors with all the Guardians willing to help him to thwart an incoming demonic invasion. The very same invasion her own Goddess had personally warned Pelai about recently, through prophetic verse. What the Guardian of the Tower did not know was that the controlling tattoos of the Temple Guardian allowed him or her to see these images directly. If they allowed it.

  Pelai did. Reaching up, she “touched” the glowing copper sigil that represented a communication from the Tower. Pelai willed it to unfurl into a slightly translucent, mirror-shaped rectangle once her hand intersected the magic visible to her eyes alone. As expected, the man who appeared within the rectangle had the paler skin of someone born more to the north, gray eyes, light brown curls, and a brown-and-gold-trimmed tunic that fastened down one side of his chest, Aian-style.

  “Naranna Pelai,” he greeted, his voice audible in her ears alone, his head, shoulders, and upper chest floating just above and to the right of Krais’ figure. “How is Guardian Tipa’thia doing?”

  Oh. Right. I forgot to tell the other Guardians what happened. Becoming the new Elder Mage ahead of schedule meant scrambling to get things done; it was understandable that things lower on the priority list had been overlooked. Pelai cleared her throat. “Guardian Kerric. The . . . circumstances have changed. Guardian Tipa’thia passed into the Afterlife earlier today—it would have been yesterday, close to noon, your time. I am now Guardian of the Temple Fountain in full, not just in part.”

  “Ah. My condolences, Guardian Pelai,” he told her, his expression somber yet sympathetic. “Guardian Tipa’thia was a good woman and a good Guardian. Her insights were valuable.”

  “She was acerbic and opinionated, and set in her ways . . . but she was a good person, a good magem and a good Guardian, yes,” Pelai agreed. Then she cleared her throat and corrected him. “And the proper way to address me is now Pelai’thia, not merely Pelai. I am the Elder Mage of Mendhi, with her passing.”

  “Ah. I wasn’t aware of the cultural significance of her name. I see now that it is a suffix, and not a mere deuterotheme,” Kerric replied. “I will spread the word to the others to call you Guardian Pelai’thia from now on.”

  Her tattoo twitched, the pale blue one encircling her eye and ear and trailing partway down her throat. Pelai hadn’t realized there were names for the parts of a name. At least, in Aian, if not in Mendhite. Or maybe there is, but I never bothered to study names and language parts all that closely. . . . Out loud, she asked, “Thank you for the courtesy. Did you have any news for me, or a question?”

  “I know it’s close to bedtime out there,” he reassured her. “I’ll keep this brief. My temporal mirror has seen a resurgence in demonic activity recently. We know from the prophecies that the next triggering event will take place at or near the Painted Temple. Have you seen or heard or sensed anything?”

  Bored, hearing only one side of her conversation, Krais returned his attention to his plate of artistically arranged food, and started munching on more pieces of it, starting with the pickled-onion “head” of the chickpea paste beast.

  Distracted by watching him eat, Pelai shook her head. “I’m sorry, no. Tipa’thia’s passing caused a little bit of an upheaval. I thought I’d have at least a few more days. The transition is going to keep me . . . busy . . .”

  She trailed off, blinking and focusing on Krais. Who was a powerful mage, even if before his ordeal overseas, he never would have passed Tipa’thia’s standards for how a Guardian should think and act. Krais, who needed to be seen in public undergoing tasks for her as part of his ongoing punishments. Krais, who was a fully trained Painted Warrior mage, capable of stealth, guile, observation, independent action . . . and who knew about the demonic invasion.

  All the Guardians involved had eventually agreed to keep this information quiet, since while most people would be appalled and try to help them thwart it . . . there were those few, found in almost any group, who would seek to sow chaos and destruction by attempting to help it. And we have a prophecy of three brothers wherein one of them will try to do just that, as it is. He won’t need any help—or get any, if we can help it.

  Chapter Ten

  “ . . . Pelai’thia?” Ke
rric inquired when she remained silent, staring at Krais—whom he could not see—instead of him. “Is something wrong?”

  “No . . . no, everything is right. Or going right, so far,” she cautioned. “I shared the prophecy my Goddess gave to me when I was struggling to control Guardian Alonnen’s Fountain . . . but it turns out to have a companion verse, similar to mine but different in several details.”

  Kerric frowned softly, then blinked. “The . . . one about the three members of humanity? Is that it?”

  She nodded firmly. “I have in my care the one who will save humanity. I think.”

  Well, thank you very much for your confidence in me, Krais mouthed at her, before biting his way into one of his carrots with a crisp set of crunches. He rolled his eyes, too.

  Ignoring his moment of sass, she returned her gaze to her fellow Guardian. “I am going to use him to try to find the ex-Mekhanan priests. Him, and his two brothers, though only he will know what he is to look for. The other two, because of the prophecies involved, will either act as dowsing rods . . . or as lightning rods.”

  The Painted Warrior sitting on her floor gave her a look that told her he wasn’t entirely happy about his brothers being used like that, but he did not actively protest it. Another point of proof in just how far Puhon Krais had come. While the three sons of Dagan’thio were known to fight amongst themselves, they had always closed ranks against any outsiders. Which makes me wonder if he’ll revert to habit in a crisis, supporting them over outsiders, including me . . . or expose himself by thwarting that habit?

  Mortals did have free will, after all.

  “Is there anything the Tower can do to help at this time?” Kerric asked her. “And will I be receiving a copy of the latest prophecy?”

  “Um . . . yes. You’ll get a copy of Puhon Krais’ version. Krais, come up here and sit by me,” she ordered, since she didn’t have any fine-tuning controls on what the tattoo-scrying could see, other than whatever sat right next to her. Obedient, Krais rose, turned, and—“Not there!” she scolded, while Purrsus slept on, oblivious in his nap at her side. “You’ll sit on my cat!

  “Sorry! I forgot. He blends into the gray of the fabric, and the black of your leathers, if not the golden parts.” Shifting over to her other side, he sat down, and . . . jumped a little when she wrapped her arm around his shoulder, adjusting the magic so that he saw the hovering rectangle with the outlander Guardian, whose face at that size looked almost half again as large as it should’ve. “Who . . . the . . . ?”

  “This is Guardian Kerric Vo Mos,” Pelai said, introducing him. “Guardian Kerric is in charge of the Tower, which has a way to cast scryings of mirror-recorded images around the world. I, in turn, have a way to relay those communications to my location wherever I am. Kerric, this is Puhon Krais, one of the top Painted Warriors of Mendhi.”

  “I know that face,” Kerric murmured, frowning through the connection. He raised a hand, pointing it at the other male. “You were in the recordings of the Convocation we broadcasted! You . . . you were one of the prisoners, one of the trio that attacked Queen Kelly!”

  Krais flinched, but nodded, admitting, “Yes, that was my brothers and I . . . and I am deeply sorry we agreed to try anything that happened on Nightfall Isle. My Goddess has opened my heart to my sins, and I have repented them . . . and I repudiate them. I wish it had never happened.”

  Kerric stared for a moment, then shut his mouth with a snap. His light brown eyebrows worked for a moment, scrunching and quirking in thought. After a moment, he sighed heavily and shook his head, his curls bouncing around his skull with the quick back-and-forth toss. “No, no, don’t say that. It’s obviously it had to happen to give us a chance to fix everything that has, is, or will be going wrong. Pelai . . . thia,” he corrected quickly, “how much does this fellow know?”

  “Not a lot. I myself only just realized this hour that he can ‘stand by my side’ as a part of his repentance efforts, from the Guardians prophecy,” she confessed. “But he does know a few things. In the morning—our time, afternoon in yours—I’d like to have him connect to the Tower’s archives on all the information the Guardians have collected about the demonic invasion so far. Information, speculation . . . everything.”

  “The Tower has pledged its resources, and that is one of our resources, yes,” Kerric agreed. “If you vouch for him.”

  “I do,” she confirmed, without hesitation. What she had sensed of his soul through her tattoos had burned away all doubt on that score. “I have judged him—formally, and with magics loaned to me by my Goddess—to be a man capable of saving humanity.”

  “Or possibly the one who might walk away . . . but not, I hope, betray?” Kerric mused. He held up his hand, looking over at Krais. “No offense meant, young man. A Netherhell invasion is a serious matter. If we are to strengthen our defenses, we must examine them to be aware of every possible weak spot.”

  “I do not take offense, Guardian Kerric,” Krais returned calmly. “A year ago, it might have been a different matter, but half a year ago, I changed.”

  “A year ago is when my source material showed me the invasions gaining ground, winning battle after battle across our unprepared world,” Kerric retorted. “Unfortunately, I had a hand in both starting and preventing them. Secondhand, but still, a hand.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Krais murmured.

  Guardian Kerric shrugged. “I’m the one that created the special mirror that made me aware of images of an invasion in the future, because my specialty, when I’m not busy with Tower business, lies in mirrorcrafting and mirror magics. I chose to exile the Aian mage Torven Shel Von close enough to wind up in Mekhana, and did so in time for him to fall into company with the priests of Mekha, just as their False God got dissolved at the Convocation, leaving them stranded in a hostile nation with no backup from their False God to help them bully others into obeying them.”

  Krais eyed the other mage and quipped dryly, “I suddenly wonder if this is Godly retribution for stupidly accepting a contract to kill that queen of theirs. It sounds like you want me to find this Torven fellow and eliminate him . . . but for a much more just and righteous cause than that first one.”

  “Actually, we do not want Torven Shel Von killed,” Kerric countered, shaking his head again in that quick way that sent his curls bouncing. “We determined six months ago that Torven is the one who gave the others the idea of conjuring a demon under controlled circumstances,” Kerric continued. “Remember, I saw the initial invasion before choosing to exile him anywhere. Without his influence, when Mekha was dissolved and the leadership of Mekhana collapsed, that means someone in Mekhana would’ve thought about conjuring a demon anyway, in the need to try draining it of its magic to restore their power base. But they would have done so without the right attitudes, precautions, and training.

  “Without Torven’s exacting teachings, emphasizing care and control, that sloppily conjured demon would’ve slipped the priesthood’s control, opened a Netherhell Portal to invite its many friends across, and their armies would’ve destroyed five or six kingdoms on your continent by now,” Guardian Kerric concluded grimly. “So it’s a mixed blessing that I made the choices I did. It all would’ve happened anyway, and I know it, but we would not have known in advance and been able to prepare if I hadn’t made the mirror that spotted the start of it all.”

  “So you’re feeling a mix of guilt and relief?” Krais summarized.

  “Exactly. An unpleasant mix that I don’t want to think too strongly about,” Kerric said. He frowned a little, closed his eyes, and rubbed at their inner corners. “Anyway, I digress. I apologize. I’m still trying to wake up. . . . Right. The demonic activities have picked up again, Pelai’thia, and it does seem centered on Mendhi as the starting point. With this new prophecy revelation, do you have any leads on what to do, or where to look for the ex-priests?”

  Pelai g
lanced at Krais, her arm still around his shoulders, sharing her view of Guardian Kerric. “I don’t think Krais’ variation in the prophecy is something that requires much analysis. It talks about accepting his circumstances, and of silence leading him to the right place. Mine speaks of the writ—formal information—being different from the sound, and spoken words aren’t what scrolls show. . . . Oh.” She almost smacked her forehead with her free hand. “Right. . . . Something he needs to investigate will lead us to the right steps that will save humanity.”

  Kerric didn’t say anything, but he did raise his brows in an encouraging Keep going . . . expression.

  Once again, Pelai eyed Krais. “How much do you know about the secrets the librarians keep?”

  “Quite a bit, for someone who isn’t a librarian,” he replied, eyeing her back. “My mother is one, remember? Karei has actually hired the three of us several times for Library-related quests. I don’t have access to everything, but I know more about where things are found than most other non-Librarians. Including some of the restricted subjects.”

  “The three of you?” Kerric queried. He corrected himself in the next breath. “Right, you have two more brothers. The Three Brothers Prophecy. Speaking of which, where are they and what are they up to right now? If they’re part of the prophecies, we need to know.”

  “Right now, hopefully they’re settling down to sleep,” Pelai told him. “All three have been assigned to punishment for failing to secure the ability to host the Convocation here in Mendhi. Originally, I was going to handle all of the Disciplining, but Pelai’thia’s fading strength required me to pass the other two along to a pair of reasonably trustworthy Disciplinarians—there’s a bit of politics happening here in Mendhi, nothing that the Guardians need be involved in. I think.”