The Temple

by Jean Johnson

  Pelai blinked a couple times, sitting up and back. “I . . . That’s actually a really good idea. . . . Go looking for that in the stacks, this afternoon. I don’t know where it’d be found . . . maybe the subsection on Espionage Magics?”

  “That sounds reasonable. I’ll go look,” he promised her. Digging into the pouch, he asked, “Which one is a sigil you didn’t know? I’ll get you the notes on that one, and destroy the rest.”

  Pelai flicked through the five pages, and showed it to him. Krais separated out the relevant notes, took the summary sheets back, and bundled the whole stack of useless writing together. Holding the stack between his hands, he flexed the finger tattooed to make his flesh temporarily heat-resistant, and muttered an incineration spell. Fire flared bright and hot between his fingers, forcing both of them to squint, even to shut their eyes.

  A few moments later, white ash crumbled and dropped from his grasp, fluttering all over his lap and the floor. A muttered cleansing spell bundled up all the ashes into a compact ball the size of a smallish quail egg. “ . . . Thank you for giving me access to my magics. I’ll take this mess out and dust it over a flower bed on my way back to the Library side of the Temple grounds,” Krais told her. “If and when I find a good spell to bind our ability to share sight and sound, do you want me to look for different variations, or do you want me to just bring back the first viable one?”

  “Several different varieties,” Pelai decided. She started to say something more, but a knock on her door interrupted her. “ . . . Yes?”

  Koret opened the door, poking his head and upper body through. “I have more reports collated from the Border Mages for you, Pelai’thia. Do you have room on your desk?”

  “No, but I will once I send Krais back with his tray. Krais . . . bring supper here for both of us at six,” she instructed, giving her Second a wry look. “I suspect I’ll still be here until eight or later. Check on Purrsus, too, to make sure he is fed and well.”

  “I’ll do that before fetching food for us,” he promised. Slinging the satchel over his head, he tucked the ash-pellet into it, then helped her gather up their dishes onto the tray. Covering everything, he headed for the door. “Koret, did you eat?”

  “Not yet,” the aging, stripe-clad mage told him, entering with a thick stack of papers in his hands. “But I’m about to, now that this is ready for the Elder.”

  “Then I’ll walk with you,” Krais offered. “The staff promised to reserve seconds for the new Elder if she wanted any, so I should be able to get you something in her name.”

  “How sneaky. I approve,” Koret told the younger male. He added over his shoulder, “We’ll see you later, Pelai’thia.”

  She nodded, dismissing them both. Krais nodded as well, but her attention had already gone back to the interrupted mountain range of paperwork found in a kingdom dedicated to the Goddess of Writing.

  * * *

  * * *

  Later came all too soon for Pelai. Still, the interruption to her work ended up being quite delicious. Poached eel in a spicy cream sauce, still steaming hot baked roots slathered in a butter garlic sauce, the last of the leftover crunchy salad preserved in chilled stasis just for the new Elder Mage, and for dessert, frozen berries drizzled in a sweet cream sauce, refreshing and soothing in the lingering heat of the day. With the meal appreciated, she pulled over the summary list of Krais’ research.

  He waited while she read for a bit, then offered, “There are two that I think could work very well for our needs. One involves wearing something called a torc, a sort of stiff, arc-shaped necklace set with enspelled crystals. They can record and project, and if enspelled in the complex version, they can be set to show images only to the persons wearing the interlinked torcs.”

  “That sounds good. And the other?”

  “It’s a pair of linked tattoos . . . so it’s a permanent bonding,” he warned her. “The necklace version can be taken off, which is an advantage, but anyone who touches it can see the images being shared, so that’s the disadvantage. The matching tattoos can only be seen by the other person with the exact same tattoo link, but it can be invoked by one person to spy on whatever the other is seeing.

  “There are other advantages and disadvantages,” Krais continued. “The necklace version can physically store images in its crystals, and there’s a variation where you can make the crystals detatchable, and of course it can project those images in a way that anyone can see them. The spells to craft the necklace are in the Restricted Section, but not in the deepest archives. I didn’t go looking just yet to see how long it takes to craft the necklaces, but the Index Hall records indicated it shouldn’t take too long. The tattoo version, on the other hand, is very private since it is only shared between those two people. It is therefore untraceable, unrecordable, and requires authorization from one of the Elders of the Hierarchy to access the accounts of what inks to use and which marks to make under the skin.”

  “That is a tough choice,” Pelai murmured, reading through the notes. “What about this one, with the half-mirrored crystal eye-lenses? Sort of half scrying mirror, half reading glasses? Actually, I think that’s what Guardian Callaia uses. . . . It says here they can be enchanted to give different levels of access depending on who picks them up to look through them. Why didn’t you recommend those?”

  “I don’t know where this Guardian Callaia that you mention got hers, but the Index books said they’re a crafting specialty of the Jenodan Isles. They haven’t shared the secret of the actual magics involved with the Great Library, just a few of the details of what they can do,” Krais told her. “I made a mark about it and put a note on the back of that page.”

  Pelai turned the sheet over and lifted her chin. “Oh, right, there it is. . . . Well, that’s an oversight that’ll annoy Anya’thia to no end . . .”

  “With the loss of long-distance Gate travel, unless you have a way to get there and back, the fees for transporting the goods from mirror station to mirror station would cost a couple hundred embosses, if not more. Embosses, not silver seals. I don’t have that much gold to spend,” Krais added.

  She lowered the summary to her desk and rubbed her brow. “Technically, I do, but I’d have to justify its use on the budget. . . . Actually, I have a secondary—and much more direct—way to get my hands on two of them. If they’re already available. Guardian Callaia actively guards the Jenodan Isles and the surrounding sea,” she murmured. “But keep that to yourself.”

  “Of course, Doma,” he murmured promptly, without hesitation. “I won’t mention it. I didn’t recommend it at first because I didn’t know how to get ahold of that kingdom’s craftsmen. They’re far to the west by months of road-based travel, and by far too much gold for mirror-based, as I said. Easily scores of mirror-Gates would have to be linked.”

  “Well, it’s still earlier in the day out west,” Pelai said. “Close the door so no one else can eavesdrop, please, while I see if I can contact her directly . . .”

  Sitting back in her chair, she focused, flexed, and murmured a command word. Krais busied himself by quietly putting all the supper dishes back onto the tray. The illusion that arose in front of her hovered just within reach, over the edge of her desk. A moment later, one of the underlings who worked for Guardian Kerric appeared.

  “Greetings, Guardian Pelai’thia,” the dark-skinned male stated. She couldn’t remember his name off the top of her head, but she knew his face, and knew him to be efficient as well as friendly. “Do you need to reach the Master today?”

  “No, but I’d like to be linked to Guardian Callaia, please,” she replied.

  “One moment . . .” His smiling head and torso disappeared, replaced by a pulsing blue field for a few moments. Then it resolved into an image of Callaia, pale-skinned, thick blond ringlets, and eyes either blue or gray behind those half-circle glasses.

  “Guardian Pelai? What can Freedom’s Thought d
o for you?” the young woman asked.

  “Greetings, Guardian Callaia . . . and it’s Guardian Pelai’thia,” she corrected. “The ‘thia part is an honorific attached to my name to help indicate my position as the Guardian of the Painted Fountain.”

  “Ah. So Tipa’thia was originally Tipa. Clever. I presume, however, this isn’t an impromptu, random cultural lesson?” the younger mage asked in a rather dry tone. Visible from the shoulders up—clad in soft spring blue—and moving among shelves of books, she swept her arm up into view, lobbing upward what looked like a book, if only glimpsed as its spine came into view and left the edge of the scrying field.

  Slightly distracted, Pelai wondered who had taught the younger woman what was such an obviously Mendhite Librarian trick for reshelving books without having to climb up tall ladders to do it physically. Shaking it off, she focused. “I need to connect myself with a remote agent investigating something for me, but do so in a discreet way. The Great Library’s records suggest that viewing glasses like the ones you wear could be used to project scrying images—both sight and sound—to a matching pair worn by someone else.”

  “Ah. Yes, that could be done, but we don’t usually authorize the crafting of such things. Ones like these,” Callaia stated, tapping the corner of her lens frames, “are readily available because they aren’t linked directly to any other pair. However, they can be easily linked to a standard scrying crystal to record whatever is needed for storage and later replay.”

  “No, I need to be able to consult immediately with the person wearing the other pair, as a time-saving feature,” Pelai stated.

  “Ah. Well, if I recall correctly, the forging time for linked pairs takes about three weeks,” Callaia stated, her gaze focusing somewhere in the distance while she recollected the facts. “But on top of that, it’ll depend on whether or not the magesmiths at the Glazing Academy have the time to do such things. We’re three weeks away from finals here at the university, so . . . they probably wouldn’t be able to begin for four weeks—with a week for grading final assignments, tests, and papers . . . so you’re looking at two months to delivery. Unless, of course, you paid extra to have someone else take over the grandmaster’s classes while they worked on a rush forging order.”

  “I think I’ll pass. I’d like to get my research-by-proxy settled a lot sooner than that,” Pelai demurred.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more immediate help,” Callaia murmured, and shrugged wryly. “That is, I’m presuming you want them to be twinned viewing lenses, only able to scry upon each other for security’s sake. Now, if you don’t mind anyone being able to ‘eavesdrop’ on the scryings involved, intercepting the scrycasting, I could link up a pair and ship them straight to you by the end of the day.”

  “No, definitely not. I’m trying to do two things at once, but it’s very sensitive information. Thank you, though, for the suggestion,” Pelai told her.

  Callaia flicked a hand and caught a book coming down from somewhere above and behind her, opening it even as it dipped below the scrying rectangle’s bottom edge. “I’m surprised you don’t have a tattoo or something that would do the exact same thing. Your people seem to place a lot of stock in such things.”

  “Would you want to be permanently bound to someone who could peek in on you at any point in time?” Pelai asked dryly. “That takes a great deal of trust.”

  Callaia hesitated, then shrugged, but it wasn’t the transparent image of the golden-haired Guardian in blue that caught her eyes. Instead, it was the tattooed male in dark red that sat across from Pelai. He had stiffened slightly at her words . . . but didn’t say anything. In fact, he just blinked a couple times, breathed deep, and exhaled slowly. Quietly. Meditatively.

  Like a man who was reminding himself to submit.

  I do think I just hurt his feelings, Pelai realized. She blinked her focus back to Callaia’s figure and nodded. “Thank you for the suggestions, Callaia. I’m still working on the need to thwart any demon-summoning ex-priests. I’ll let you and the others know what’s happening as soon as I know it. Have a good afternoon.”

  “Have a good evening, Guardian Pelai . . . Pelai’thia,” Callaia corrected. At Pelai’s nod, she gestured and ended the connection.

  “That was rather interesting,” Krais murmured, eyeing her not quite warily.

  “What was?” Pelai asked him, refocusing her attention on her erstwhile penitent.

  “I couldn’t hear any of that,” he explained. “I saw your lips moving, and I could read some of what you were saying, but I didn’t hear a single word of it.”

  “Huh?” she asked . . . and then remembered. “Oh, right, privacy mode. That . . . that is actually some very impressive intertwined enspelling. It was all set up a year ago, and I remember now Tipa’thia telling me how she had to translate the magics from scrying mirror magics to controlling tattoo magics. She had it set for privacy, which meant a sound-shield goes up when I use those things . . . unless I’m touching the person I want to share the sounds and images with, like we did last night.”

  “Ah. That makes sense. Actually . . . that’s some very powerful privacy magics,” he murmured thoughtfully. “And I’m about to delve back into some very private files in the Restricted Archives . . .”

  “Yes, I was just thinking about that,” Pelai agreed. “Tomorrow morning, go track down the tattoo version.” The startled, almost vulnerably surprised look he gave her cemented her decision. “I do trust you, Krais. The new you. I like and trust this version of you. You’re still in many ways the same man you were before, but you’re your own man, and an honorable one. A set of viewing lenses with the privacy settings we need would would take too long to craft. I suspect the torc necklaces would also take that long, so we will go with the tattoo. If you’ll agree, of course.”

  “ . . . I’ll make sure to find a privacy variation so that the scrying tattoo isn’t activated without permission on both ends,” he reassured firmly. “If you want, I can go right back into the archives tonight. It shouldn’t take me more than a few hours to find everything. I think.”

  “No,” she decided. “That’s tomorrow’s work. Tonight, you get rewarded.”

  “Rewarded? For what?” he asked. “I failed to get more than one new Fountain sigil located for you.”

  “You still looked willingly, and your report on your findings were all concise,” Pelai pointed out. “Plus, you switched subjects readily, and found all these different means to communicate at a distance with me. So, you will wait while I finish up the current report—you could probably take the supper tray back to the dining hall and come back—and then we’ll go home and I will reward you.”

  “What sort of reward, exactly?” Krais asked. “We’ve already had dessert.”

  Pelai smirked at him. “I will punish you. With a flogging, a spanking, and I think we’ll test some laundry pins.”

  He blinked, nonplussed. “Laundry . . . pins?”

  “Your father never used laundry pins on his subservients?” Pelai asked, her turn to feel taken aback and a little bit adrift at his blank look. “The spring-loaded bits of wood that open when you squeeze the ends, and then you can use them to pinch things when you release them? The things that you use to secure wet laundry to a drying line?”

  “I know of them, but my father became a Disciplinarian long before I was born, with the attendant pay,” he reminded her. “We’ve always been able to afford having our clothing professionally cleaned. There was no need for laundry pins. We certainly never lived in a neighborhood that hung its laundry out anywhere it could be seen . . . and I was never allowed to play in or linger around those areas of the city that did.”

  That made her roll her eyes. “I clean my laundry with spells, and I still have laundry pins, simply for the sensation play of it—trust me, Krais, you’re in for a treat. We’ll start them on the least sensitive body parts. You can apply them your
self so you’ll see how hard they pinch. But first . . . take the tray back to the dining hall, Penitent Puhon,” she directed formally. “And return here to await my leisure as I finish this last bit of work.”

  Sighing, he rose and hefted the tray. “Of course, Domo Pelai’thia. I will do exactly as you say, without hesitation . . . though I’m still not sure about using laundry pins.”

  “Some of the greatest sensory experiences can be derived from the most common of household goods,” she told him, moving the current status report back in front of her for review. “Trust me. You will see.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Safe in the privacy of Pelai’s bedchamber, Krais squeezed the ends of the clothespin cautiously. Warily. The metal spring rubbed against the wood, making it creak softly. Trying it a few more times, he made it groan low when he squeezed slow and squeak comically high when he pinched fast a few times. Amused, he did it again.

  His doma cleared her throat. Pointedly. But only after a dozen squeaks or so, letting him know it was okay to play a little bit. But only for a little bit, because she quietly urged, “Go on . . .”

  Right. The edge of my palm first. She said it’s a fairly neutral spot. Lifting his left hand, he pried the jaws of the clothespin wide . . . and then wider still. He had big hands, meaty with muscle. It wasn’t easy to get the clothespin to stick. When he finally did, about two thirds of the way down from the base of his little finger, on the edge of the pad of his palm . . . it hurt a little bit, yes, but not unbearably so. Instead, what captured Krais’ attention was the odd tingly feeling of his flesh being firmly squeezed.

  “How does it feel?” Pelai asked.

  “I . . . I like it,” he confessed. His face heated even as he said it, but Krais didn’t care. “Should I leave it on or . . . ?”

  “Yes. Apply a second one,” she directed. “Same hand or the other one, your choice. Don’t be in a hurry for anywhere else just yet, so stick with your hands for the moment.”