The Temple

by Jean Johnson

  “One more thing, Master Krais,” the Nightfallite stated. “My wife, Seer Haupanea, had a brief message for you. At least, I think it’s for you.”

  “Go on,” Krais urged, wary but willing to listen.

  “‘Fated to fall, fated to stall, and fated to flee,’” the fellow recited, checking a piece of paper in his hand. “‘Love as you will, but let them all go; do not block Destiny.’ It sounds like you may be tempted to try to stop your brothers from choosing their path. I suspect if you do change that path . . . it will put someone into place we cannot predict.”

  “You’re asking me to allow at least one of my brothers to go ahead and betray this wole world,” Krais reminded him. Reminded all of the others.

  “I know we are, Krais,” Pelai told him, twisting to face him. “I know it’s a punishment to allow it to happen . . . but you have to bow to it.”

  “Sometimes, we have only two very fecally filled options to choose from,” one of the males stated, a fellow with tanned skin and short-cropped dark brown hair. “Speaking of which, I’m going to have to drop out of view for the next few weeks. I’ve finally found the solution needed to fix a problem my kingdom has been suffering for decades. It will require me to shut down my Fountain from contact. Kerric, you’ll need to reroute messages meant for me. I will not be available to accept and to read them . . .”

  Pelai murmured a farewell and gestured with her hand, banishing what looked like a conversation between the other Guardians that no longer concerned her. Just in time, too. Krais nodded a polite greeting to the approaching mage, now close enough to have seen their gazes focused on things that to outsiders would not appear to be there.

  I suppose if I’m going to take up a lifetime of serving Pelai’thia . . . because I will not serve my father ever again . . . then I should get some white armor made. The thought amused him. It would irk his father to no end, seeing his eldest son go from wearing black leathers to wearing white. Switching his allegiances and loyalties visibly from the Elder Disciplinarian to the Elder Mage. I’ll have to sun myself a bit more, make my skin a little bit browner so that it contrasts better with a white war-kilt.

  Huh . . . I think I just talked myself into working for her, once my penance months are done. It makes sense, though. The remainder of my repentance lies in standing by her side, to give the Temple its grace . . . or something like that. Goddess, I am glad I’m not someone who has to dissect prophecies for their living. That way, madness lies.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next day, Krais discovered just how badly Domo Galen had treated his brothers. Both Gayn and Foren moved with stiff limbs and sullen expressions, their welts and bruises—and even scabs on Gayn’s skin—testament to just how harshly the Disciplinarian believed his brothers should be punished. If he hadn’t had the Nightfallite Guardian’s warning cautioning him, Krais might have tried to comfort his brothers. Tried to intervene.

  The fact that he could not—not without being the brother who betrayed humanity in all the wrong, uncontrollable ways—left him with a sour stomach for two days. He did not need a dream-warning from Menda not to interfere, though. Krais chose to be the brother working to save the whole world. His brothers had different choices to make.

  The outlanders were suspicious of Krais coming to help them. Particularly the ones older than Krais himself. But they did accept when he offered to show Brothers Grell, Alger, Elcar, and an elderly fellow named Loker where the carefully guarded tomes on extradimensional and Veilway theory were located. Such things were restricted due to power and to politics and a host of other reasons; a poorly crafted Portal could destabilize, even explode, damaging the aether. Such things were not for the undertrained to examine.

  Krais coaxed the librarians tending those tomes to make copies of the less dangerous books . . . and distracted those same librarians into looking the other way while the priests hastily scribbled a couple of extra spells into the blank pages at the back of each copied book. Nothing too helpful got into their hands, but it did give Krais a chance to work with Pelai and the other Guardians to plant carefully falsified information on how measurements by Mendhite mages—which he had “overheard” while working for the Elder Mage—had caused a cyclic rhythm to the disruptions in the aether. Those disruptive cycles would weaken first in specific locations at specific times of the year; he suggested pacing out each attempt at trying complex Portal attempts at six month intervals . . . and provided them with a set of false-planted notes found on the Library shelves on how they had just missed the previous window’s chance.

  That suggestion came from one of the Guardians who kept their face wrapped up, Kelezam of Charong, just two nations to the west of Mendhi. Their face, because Krais had no idea if the Guardian was a him, a her, or a they, so it was best to assume they were a they until told otherwise. They seemed a clever mage, versed in strategy and tactics, possibly some sort of battle-mage. Guardian Kelezam pointed out that if they had a technical reason to do something at such-and-such time, in such-and-such place, and that paired that with an appropriate “discovered” prophecy, it would seem all the more true, all the more real and thus believable.

  Once that particular research task was done, however, the proto-priests scattered, making it difficult for the eldest Puhon brother to track their movements and their progress. Oh, they thanked him, even came back to him every so often to ask for a little more help, to give a little bit of coaxing and a flash of that nice enameled white badge he wore so that specific librarians would stop fussing over outlanders trying to read more sensitive materials . . . but they did not stay long. They did not trust him. Krais could not blame them; deep trust only came with time.

  The youths, however, took a shine to Krais. Namely on the third day. After hearing what one of them wanted to research, Krais led the quintet of outlanders plus his two brothers straight into the Hall of Tantric Magics. There, he showed a special pei-slii badge enameled in rainbow hues—given to him by Anya’thia for just such a use—to the librarians guarding the Restricted Archives. Those librarians cast spells on the outlanders; they exiled two of the outlander group from the archives for being “judged too immature to read such things,” but let three of them pass through, sending the other two packing to “go find something else to do.”

  With Brothers Alger, Fran, and Steer—an odd name, considering it meant castrated bull in Mendhite—following in his wake, and with the lattermost fellow taking copious notes, Krais helped them to research several different ways on how to raise magical energies through sexual activities. He even helped them find a variation on scrying magics coupled to area-sensitive spells that would allow them to raise even more energy from those watching such activities, even if the watchers did not themselves participate. With his pei-slii-shaped monocle giving him the ability to look at pages that seemed like nothing more than a scribbled mess to the others, Krais found himself pressed to translate the more esoteric tomes. That meant pressed to give them just enough information to gain their trust without giving away too much delicate, dangerous knowledge.

  All the talking he had to do dried out his throat. After the third coughing fit to try to clear away the tickles of dust invading his lungs, he declared a break to go fetch water from the drinking fountain by the nearest refreshing room. Foren went with them, muttering about how awfully dry the air felt. Brother Fran, coughing a bit as well, followed both Puhon brothers to the alcove. Krais gestured for the outlander to stay back however, to let his middle sibling drink first.

  As soon as Foren slaked his thirst, he nodded to the two and headed back. The image hovering in front of his left eye, of an androgynous ex-Mekhanan named Rexei Longshanks, gestured in an impatient flip of her hands for Krais to speak up. “Do it now, while you can!”

  Nodding, Krais touched Brother Fran’s shoulder just as the youth dipped his head to the water arcing up out of the faucet. “Don’t choke on the water,” he murmured, “but
I have a message for a man who knows how strong a clip can be.”

  Brother Fran sputtered and choked anyway. Coughing, he righted himself, looked around quickly, then turned the fountain back on. “That, ah,” he rasped, “is a fascinating statement. Odd and irrelevant, but fascinating. What does it have to do with me?”

  “She says she remembers you,” Krais recited, while the ghostly overlay of the young woman in question nodded quickly. “She remembers what you offered to do . . . when you unlocked her collar six months ago.”

  “Oh Gods,” Brother Fran breathed, clutching at the rim of the stone drinking basin, his body trembling for a moment. “She remembers me . . . You have no idea what that means to me.” Stiffening his limbs, he coughed to clear his throat, and asked quietly, “What do you need to know? And how do you know?”

  Krais watched him dip his head to drink from the stream of water, and pitched his voice for Fran’s ears alone. Or rather, for Frankei’s ears. “My brothers are not to be trusted. They are working for the Brotherhood, I think out of budding friendship. I am working for She Who Remembers You, for the reasons you know. We need a list of all the things you’ve been researching. The things your brothers want and especially need to know. We need that information to figure out how to counter, neutralize, or redirect everything. And we need to figure out how to get a special prophecy to fall into their hands, to further direct them on where and when to go, in ways to our advantage, not theirs.”

  Brother Fran nodded as he finished drinking. Moving back, he blotted the excess liquid from his lips and chin with the back of his hand, giving Krais room to move in for a drink of his own. “I can get that. The lists of spells . . . the lists of kingdoms that might possibly favor our needs . . . I’ve been ingratiating myself with the ones who are keeping track of such things—it helps that I learned how to do the special encoded writings of the Priest’s Guild. I even made a couple of spare copies of everything, but you’d need someone to translate it. Guildcode wasn’t shared with just anyone, even among my fellow priests. It’s half cryptography, half occultology, enchanted to obscure itself from unauthorized eyes. Translating it will take time.”

  Hearing footsteps, Krais peeked over his shoulder, spotting his brother Gayn approaching. He quickly tapped the edge of his viewing lens and murmured cagily, indirectly, “This thing allows me to read almost any encrypted code, even some of the highly classified ones only our seniormost librarians can access. So if you have a special, highly restricted tome you want to read . . . I might be able to do it for you.”

  “And you said you got that thing because you’re helping the, ah, Elder Mage?” Brother Fran asked, giving Gayn a brief nod in greeting.

  “Tipa’thia—the prior Elder Mage—died abruptly, leaving certain needful things incomplete,” Krais said, moving back so his brother could drink from the spigot unobstructed. “The new Elder Mage, Pelai’thia, does not have the time to research what she needs herself, so she sends me to do it, knowing I am a strong mage. Mind you, she has zero need for Tantric spells, so I technically should not be here . . . but I remember what it was like to be your and Gayn’s ages, with all the drive and energy for that sort of thing. I’m not that old.”

  Chuckling as he straightened, wiping his mouth, Gayn scoffed, “Of course, you get all the pleasure you want from being whipped by an Elder, these days.”

  Flushing hotly, Krais glared at his brother. “If we weren’t trying to be decorous and respectful in case any librarians are watching, I’d kick your kilt for that. I love you, Gayn, but I’d kick you for it.”

  “Penitents aren’t allowed to fight, remember?” Gayn countered. He reached up and flicked at the chain connected to the viewing lens. With his off-hand, since the outlanders had brought him a sling for his right arm to rest in while they worked, taking the pressure off the damaged joint. Krais moved out of his reach before he could touch it, making the youngest brother scowl for a moment. Only a moment, though; Gayne adopted a sly, almost loftly look. “Besides, while I am grateful for your help with my new friends, I’m also your little brother. I’m obligated by thousands of years and thousands of cultural traditions around the world to be a pain in your kilt.”

  He flicked at the chain again, smirked when Krais gave ground again, stepping back to keep it out of reach, and swaggered off. The youngest Puhon limped as he did so, but he did try to swagger. Whatever Domo Galen did to him, beating his body each morning and each night, the youngest Puhon was not letting it beat his spirit down, too.

  Watching him go, Krais felt a mix of pride and sorrow. Either Gayn or Foren would betray humanity, and the other would walk away from humanity.

  Either way, I won’t be likely to see my brothers again.

  “Okay, he’s gone,” he heard Rexei Longshanks say. “Back to Frankei. Tell him we need a list of all priesthood members, their original names and their known aliases. And see if there’s a way he can get images of each man’s appearance, so that we can have scrying images or sketches made, so that we’ll be able to keep track of them even if they decide to change names and methods and everything.”

  That was an awful lot to convey in just a few murmurs. Rolling his eyes, Krais spoke under his breath, trying his best to condense it before any of the others came near and overheard.

  * * *

  * * *

  He had exactly one window of opportunity for his plan. Seizing it while his brother Foren, oblivious to Gayn’s intentions, used the refreshing room at the house the Brotherhood rented, the youngest Puhon brother approached the leader of the group. Setting a scrap of paper on the flat table meant for dining, but which the outlanders used as their writing surface instead of a properly slanted desk, he met the gaze of Brother Elcar.

  “What is this?” Elcar asked, picking up the paper to peer at the teardrop-shaped item and its scribbled loop.

  “It’s a thing I want you to make,” Gayn said. “It’s a kind of viewing lens, on a silver chain. Make it as fast as you can, to the dimensions drawn on that page, which I made as exact as I can . . . and I will get you the real one to use. I can also get my hands on a badge I can use to get you whatever it is you’re really seeking . . . but while the badge is easily stolen, the viewing lens will be much more likely to be missed.”

  Brother Elcar eyed him a long moment, looked at the drawing, then back at the Mendhite again. “And why should we craft something so expensive as a ruse? As a kind gesture on your part? I think not. What will you get out of it, Pwan Gain?”

  “I want you to help me get my hands on the real viewing lens, because the kind of spell I want to find is encrypted too heavily for me to even see it without that lens,” Gayn told him and the other elders of the Broherhood. He pulled his arm out of his sling, hissing in pain from how the shifting forces put extra pressure on his nerves. He didn’t dare wear the sling in his Disciplinarian’s presence, so he had to leave it here each night. “My magics are currently suppressed. There is a spell—I’ve seen it listed in the Restricted Index—that will ease those suppressions. With that easing, I can use my magics to take the pressure off my arm with levitation and cushioning spells. With healing charms.

  “This pain is driving me mad,” he added tersely, speaking the absolute truth. “And that bastard assigned to discipline me is bullying me. But I cannot take my complaints to his superiors, because everyone in the hierarchy above him sympathizes with my father, who ordered me beaten. Your Order is all about protecting those who are being bullied. Some of you say you want to learn physical fighting skills so you can protect yourselves that way, as well as with magic. Well, I want my magics back, so I can protect myself from these cruelties.”

  He turned to show them his lash-striped skin, fresh scabs added to the older ones from where Domo Galen had scourged him. Movement in the shadows of the mid-hall resolved into the figure of his elder brother. Gayn froze, and Brother Elcar casually turned the paper over. Foren padded for
ward, approaching them, his gaze flicking from face to face.

  “ . . . Well?” he finally asked. “Are you going to help my brother thwart his tormentor? Or is your Brotherhood a lie when it comes to claiming you’ll stand up for those who are bullied, regardless of their origins?”

  Brother Elcar smiled slightly. It almost looked like a grimace, but then Foren’s demand probably tasted bitter. “We are many things, young man . . . but yes, we are willing to help you. We’ve seen reading lenses in the marketplace not too dissimilar from this one; Brother Loker knows some spells that will turn metal and glass malleable, allowing us to create this . . . pointed shape . . .

  “As for why we’d help you . . . well, we do prefer to help each other against bullies, but it carries a strong risk of being denied access to the Great Library. Still . . . your brother is right. We are seeking highly restricted information . . . and oddly enough, what we seek also involves breaking through magics that otherwise would stop us, albeit not quite the same sort.”

  “We have bullies of our own that we still have to deal with,” Brother Grell stated, confirming his words. “Bullies that are magically more powerful than all of us combined . . . which is why we were forced to go into exile. There is no way to win against them without a secret way to wedge open their defenses, and a way to crack them apart from the inside.”

  “I don’t trust your eldest brother,” Brother Hando stated. He was the bald one with the long, gray-streaked beard, looking very much the outlander with it when everyone else in their Brotherhood had started sensibly shaving off the heat-catching strands from their chins days ago. “He seems sharp and clever. Will a fake version distract him from noticing it’s the wrong one?”