The Temple

by Jean Johnson

  “And what do you get out of it?” Foren asked skeptically, starting to mop the table where their mother had sat, moving each dish out of his way, closer to Krais.

  Again, the eldest flicked his eyes skyward in a show of impatience. “Impress upon my doma that I’m doing an excellent job, so she can stop beating me so hard.”

  Foren eyed him, then gave a half grin and reared way over the table, reaching for his brother’s shoulder. He flicked at the wax on Krais’ right deltoid with a fingernail. “Yeah, you’re looking a bit flaky, there, Brother.”

  “Knock it off,” Krais ordered, batting his hand away.

  “But still, you’ve offered to encourage them to beat us,” Gayn said. “I’m not interested in being beaten. I just said that to kiss Father’s feet.”

  “And that’s the only reason why I’m suggesting it, so that it looks like they’re doing more of what our father wants,” Krais said. “The three of us know that Domo Anso and Doma Dulette are not going to exaggerate what they read. Whatever they read, whatever the Goddess writes of our need for punishment, that’s what we will get, in whatever measure, large or little, She decides we deserve.”

  Gayn arched a brow at him. “Are you implying that some of our Disciplinarians ignore the Goddess’ judgment?”

  “I’m saying some of them might exaggerate it, in order to curry favor with the Elder Disciplinarian . . . and with his fellow Partisans. Who sent us on a mission that ended up pitting us against the Gods Themselves,” Krais stated quietly.

  “Father lost a lot of face when we failed,” Foren murmured, following his elder brother’s meaning. “That’s why he’s still so angry. I think he promised the others that Mendhi would be restored to the pinnacle of the world. We failed, which meant he failed.”

  “It is true that Father does not like to fail,” Gayn muttered, forced to be fair. “But we did fail . . . though my arm is punishing me more than enough—while you’re looking up things for these outlanders, why don’t you look up a spell that’ll get my elbow healed right?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Krais promised. An absolute truth, in the midst of . . . well, setting up his brothers for a horrible fate. To be the instruments of Fate . . . and for one of the two to end up betraying humanity somehow. The food in his stomach soured at that realization. Clearing his throat, he started gathering up plates in earnest. “We need to get the table cleared and the dishes washed . . . and since we’re all suppressed under our penance spells, we’ll all have to do it by hand.”

  Both of his siblings groaned in disgust at the reminder. None of them had scrubbed dishes by hand in years, but being dutiful sons, they did move. Gayn grabbed the dish of uneaten grains to carry to the stasis cupboards for storage, and Foren resumed scrubbing the low table clean. Stacking some of the dirty dishes in his arms, Krais rose and carried the first load through the kitchen to the scullery.

  Yesterday, there had been someone who would scrub these dishes—probably that youth that had answered the door. Tomorrow, there would be someone as well, and probably for breakfast and supper today, too. But today, luncheon was Family Day.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Penitent Puhon! What are you doing here?”

  Gayn jerked and swung around, startled by the unexpected, harsh, male-voiced demand. Turning, however, smacked his bad arm into the reading stand, making him hiss and clutch at his elbow while the waves of pain washed over him in icy-hot pinpricks. Overwhelmed, he didn’t reply—and gasped again when the stinging leather tails of a flogger smacked across his cradled arm, snapping his eyes wide.

  “I asked you a question, Penitent!” Domo Galen snapped.

  Shocked at the attack, he tried to defend himself. “I—I’m Doma Dulette’s penitent—“

  “Doma Dulette was struck by a runaway horse two hours ago, walking back from Family Day at her aunt’s place,” Galen informed him. He gave the other two men in their corner of the stacks a hard look, Brother Alger and a fellow named Brother Steer, of all things. “Who are they?”

  “I was assigned to help them today!” Gayn half-lied quickly, his arm still pulsing in waves of pain from the double jarring. The idea came partly from the fact it was a much more enjoyable duty than suffering spit up from and wiping the bottoms of orphaned babies, and partly from the conversation at luncheon with his eldest brother. Their father had approved of the idea of Krais demonstrating how a Puhon son could take a beating and still give service . . . damn his stupid sibling. “Doma Dulette gave me the whole of Family Day off because I’d been doing well with my penance duties, but then it was said I should help these outlanders from the Traveling Brotherhood until they don’t need me anymore, as part of my penance.”

  “—We do need him,” Brother Alger quickly interjected. “He’s been immensely helpful and patient, even though we’ve been rather trying with all our questions about how the Library works. We still need his help tonight.”

  “And for the next few days,” Brother Steer added on his verbal heels. “Easily the next few days, if not a week. Our Brotherhood is very grateful for all the help he’s been giving us.”

  “Hmphf.”

  “What happened to Doma Dulette?” Gayn asked. She’d been very gentle with him, and he did not wish her ill. “Was she . . . ? Will she live?”

  “She will, but she’s bedridden for the next month, as the collision broke both of her legs, namely her thigh and her opposite shin . . . so she cannot tend to your disciplining anymore. Second Disciplinarian Belaria has assigned you to me for the duration of your penance.” Galen started to say more, then stopped, eyed the two outlanders, and asked, “And what, exactly, has my new penitent been helping you to research?”

  Both young men eyed each other, then blushed. So did Gayn, feeling his face heat up. When they just cleared their throats awkwardly, the domo struck Gayn on his cradled arm again, making him cry out in pain. Brother Steer jumped and Brother Alger widened his eyes in shock. Though Domo Galen had not yet assessed him and could not yet punish him in full . . . he could use his ceremonial flogger to discipline any penitent who did not answer promptly. A single blow per dozen heartbeats, but a hard-smacked blow nonetheless.

  Gritting his teeth, Gayn answered the demand for them. “They . . . they’re researching how to make power storage crystals.” He struggled to breathe through the pain throbbing in his arm. Another thwack made him cry out. “Ahh!”

  “And?” Domo Galen prodded. “This is the section on binding spells to crystals. What are you going to bind to these power crystals?”

  “And . . . T-They’re trying t-to see what . . . what kinds of energy can be raised. Tantrically,” he mumbled, embarrassed and angry at being beaten and thus debased by his new Disciplinarian in front of the two outlanders, younger males who had looked up to him as an authority figure until this humiliating treatment.

  “Hmphf.” Galen eyed the three of them a long moment, then snapped, “Kneel, Penitent Puhon!”

  Still cradling his elbow, Gayn knelt in front of the stocky, older man. Head bowed, he felt those meaty, callused palms clamp down on his shoulders, felt the surge of energies wash over and through him, as they had done so just a few days before. When it finished, Galen stared down at him a long, long moment, then squeezed Gayn’s shoulders and spoke.

  “ . . . I can see the Goddess wants you to help these outlanders . . . but I can also see Doma Dulette was far too lenient with you in your physical punishments. Those punishments will begin now. Remove your vest, and get on your hands and knees, with your head bowed.”

  Flushing hot with shame, Gayn knew he had no choice but to obey. Unbuttoning his top, he set it on the ground and braced himself in the required position, head tucked down between his braced arms. The right one protested at taking some of his weight, but he didn’t have a chance to shift to a more comfortable stance. Domo Galen immediately started flogging his back.

&nbs
p; The blows didn’t harm him, but they did sting painfully sharp. Not nearly as painful as the humiliation of being flogged right there in front of the two outlanders who had been looking up to him, but now would only look down on him, literally and figuratively. Face burning, injured arm trembling with pain, the youngest Puhon brother squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that tried to well up.

  It wasn’t until a good forty strokes later, when his back felt hot and stung all over, that the domo stopped and murmured, “There. That’s much more in line with what you deserve. I don’t have to be ordered to know what to do with you.”

  It was said that the Goddess sometimes gave Her Disciplinarians a good deal of leeway in whether to be kind or cruel with their punishments. Without a doubt, Domo Galen intended to be very cruel. In that moment, Gayn remembered that Galen was a friend of his father’s. His father, who had ranted and railed at his sons for six months about how they deserved to be publicly flogged, and flogged hard and long. His father, who had been proscribed by law from applying that harsh a punishment to his own sons, or even ordering it done.

  In that moment . . . Gayn felt a terrible betrayal stinging through his insides with the realization that his father had clearly told Domo Galen what he would want done to the three failures that were his sons . . . and that Galen was clearly prepared to carry it out despite not having been ordered to do so . . . since after all, the Second Disciplinarian had passed Galen into his hands. Not the Elder Disciplinarian.

  “Good. Now, stay on all fours, while I question these two young men. You’ll be allowed to help them again tomorrow, when I know exactly how useful you’ve been to them so far . . . when you weren’t of much help to the Hierarchy, all those months ago.”

  Gayn burned with shame and a burgeoning, helpless anger that his beloved father would plot to bend the law like this. But there was no way to escape now. His penance had been handed over to one of his father’s cronies. His fate, sealed. He remained where he was, shifting his degrading stance just enough to take most of his upper body weight on his uninjured arm, and let the rage of his betrayal simmer deep within, without letting it show at the surface.

  He would obey. For now. Someone was going to pay for this betrayal, though. Particularly if it got worse. He just wasn’t sure if he could take his vengeance out on his own father. Gayn loved his father . . . his father could do no wrong in his eyes . . . so . . . someone else must have prodded Dagan’thio into this excessive madness, this pursuit of punishing even his most favorite son. . . . Right?

  * * *

  * * *

  Eyeing the cat rubbing that silver-to-black face along his naked toes, Krais decided he just might be getting used to Purrsus. Certainly the cat is . . . heh . . . rubbing off on me . . . ha! Smiling, squirming a little from the teasing of those long white whiskers, he decided he liked the feline. The feel of that fuzzy sleek face bumping and rubbing and nuzzling, occasionally sniffing at and tickling the soles of his feet, contrasted with the scratching and scraping taking place along his chest.

  Purrsus had not yet been given the pleasure of tending his doma’s feet simply because Pelai had settled in a kneeling position at Krais’ right. The position allowed her to use her fingernails to make a scratchy, scrapey, red-welt-raising mess of the wax still clinging to his chest. The way she coarsely picked at his skin contrasted with the smooth, sleek fur butting against his feet. The contrast had his kilt tented, the engorged pen underneath already leaking lover’s ink.

  Platonic affection for my feet . . . lustful cruelty for my chest . . . “I think I could come from this alone,” he murmured. At her soft hmm of inquiry, he explained. “Domestic bliss with the cat, contrasting with the punishment you’re giving my chest. The contrast is . . . indescribable.”

  “You’re not much of a writer,” she observed dryly.

  “I don’t have to be loquacious or eloquent to be a writer, but I don’t have to be a writer to be a Mendhite,” he reminded her. “I just have to be able to read and write. Besides, someone has to actually do all the great deeds authors put to paper. It might as well be—ah!”

  Pelai pulled her hand back. “Did I scrape too hard?”

  “You scraped out a chest hair with that clump of wax,” he muttered, eyes wide. “That was an unexpected pain.”

  “Oh. Sorry . . . Or did you enjoy it?” she inquired politely, settling back on her heels.

  In answer, Krais grabbed the folds of his kilt and flipped it up, showing how his shaft had escaped the gathers of his undergarment. Liquid smeared more than just the tip, giving it a glistening sheen. His flesh twitched, and a fresh rivulet seeped from the slit. “I’d like to think that’s rather obvious, seeing as how I nearly came just now!”

  “Are you complaining?” she asked dryly, one hand going to her hip. The other scraped lightly over another patch of beeswax. Too lightly to actually remove it. Most of the thinner edges had flaked off from all his movements in the time between pre-luncheon and post-supper, but there were still plenty of thick blots in need of removal.

  “No . . . but I am wondering if I’ll ever get to dip my pen in your inkwell,” he said. He gave her a sidelong look, relaxing into the cushioned back of her couch. “You’ve taken me in your mouth, and I’ve licked at your inkwell . . . and I love both, but . . .”

  Trailing her finger down to his navel, Pelai circled the dimple with her nail, brushing aside some of the little bits of fallen wax with the act. His stomach tensed under her touch, but he held himself still, permitting whatever she wanted to do to him. “Part of me wants to hold off until we know these ex-Mekhanans have left Mendhi.”

  “Why?” he asked, curious.

  She slanted him a look from under her dark lashes, her deep brown eyes warm yet wary. Or rather, cautious. “Given that the Song of the Guardians says that ‘Repentance is the Temple’s grace,’ it sounds like you’re supposed to remain my penitent until the situation with these ex-priests is resolved.”

  “Ah. That makes an unfortunate amount of sense,” he muttered, looking away.

  Lifting her finger to his jaw, she gently urged him to turn his head back to her. “Part of it is because . . . I don’t want you for a lover.”

  His breath sucked in through his teeth. That . . . that hurt, more than he’d expec—

  Her finger touched his lips. Pressed against them. “I want you for more than a mere lover.”

  Blinking, Krais studied her in surprise. He quirked a brow, since she still had her finger sealing his mouth silent.

  “It’s still early, but . . . you and I are getting along far better than I’d ever have imagined a year ago. You have enough willpower and motivation and determination to stay this new man that I like. And I know you’re going to stay this way, because true change only comes from within oneself . . . and you changed yourself.”

  Krais nodded, still muffled under her touch, but agreeing fully.

  She tipped her head thoughtfully, and asked, “Do you like me?”

  More enthusiastic nodding. When she pulled away her finger, he spoke. “I’m no longer viewing you through the color of my father’s viewing lenses.”

  That tilted her head again. “Your father has viewing lenses?”

  He quirked his brows at her . . . and chuckled when she grinned, showing him in a flash that she was teasing him. Shaking his head, Krais confessed, “You would know more about that than I do, these days. I hadn’t seen him in nine months, up until the last few days, remember? You’ve been working with him all along. I haven’t.”

  “Then you are truly your own man,” she stated.

  Wrinkling his nose, Krais said, “Not really. Technically, I still live in his household. When I’m not being your penitent.”

  “Then move out,” Pelai urged. “I’ll be moving out of these quarters in just a couple more days, according to the staff tending the Elder Mage’s hall. You could move in her
e as soon as I’m gone. If Purrsus refuses to follow me to my new home, at least I know you’ll give him a daily dose of stinky feet . . . right?”

  Krais nodded. The feline in question had settled into a paw-tucked loaf-of-bread pose, leaning a little against the sole of his left foot, and the edge of his right, thanks to the way his ankles were crossed. “That’s a good idea. It doesn’t feel completely right, as a solution, even though it is. Sort of. But it would get me out of their household and into my own. Which might break my mother’s heart, since she’s always claimed none of us can move out until she’s approved of her future daughters-in-law.”

  “I doubt she would approve of me,” Pelai murmured.

  “Actually, she probably would,” he countered. “She likes strong, confident, dominant women. You know, like her . . . even if you’re only superficially like her, thank the Goddess . . .”

  “Speaking ill of your mother?” she asked, lifting the brow surrounded by her pale blue linguistics tattoo.

  “More like knowing what she’s like. We had a cat when I was little—just a common mottled stray, not a Temple breed like yours. He died when Foren was just six or so. Both of us were heartbroken, and we wanted another pet to love . . . but Mother refused. She said they were too much trouble. Now, if your cat refuses to leave this house, and I moved in here and he was still hanging around here . . . I’d be tempted to keep him, just so I could have a pet to love once again. But I’d be more inclined to scoop him up and bring him to you.” He held her gaze, wanting her to see how earnest he was. How changed from his old self. “I’d never deprive you, or anyone, of someone you loved.”

  Pelai studied him a long moment . . . then rose up on her knees, straddled his lap, settled down . . . and murmured, “Sartorlagen.”