Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity

by Scott Rhine

  The gem-studded priest asked, “Which is what?”

  The emperor answered, “When the ships are ready and the signs are right, we’ll use our navy to invade.”

  The fire mage shared the priest’s disquiet at the persistent vagueness in the Imperial plan. “A stunning scheme, sire. How sure are you of its success?”

  Sandarac remained quiet for a moment. “I’d bet my throne on it. In the last few weeks, the power of my dreams has increased manifold. I’m not sure how or why, but I believe it to be a sign that the gods are ready to stand behind me.”

  The fire mage, careful not to directly oppose the Pretender said, “Your Majesty, other sorcerers report no such surge in mana flow.”

  Sandarac said wryly, “Which is why they aren’t going to be emperor. I’ve looked upon our western flanks in my sleep and seen the mistakes the bumbler Zanzibos makes. He’s pulled all of his troops out of Barnham, leaving his frontier undefended. Lest you doubt me, this fact has been confirmed by bird messenger this morning.” Sandarac dropped the stack of dispatches on the table. “Urgot, I rely on you to capture this treasure for us as soon as possible. For in addition to being a very rich city, Barnham is the gateway to half our destiny and the soft underbelly of our foe. Fifty swords should be sufficient.”

  Zariah confirmed, “My reading of the plaques for Barnham suggests a nearly bloodless coup, the beginning of an avalanche of success.”

  Hisbet added, “My sources report that Barnham is ill-prepared for a siege.”

  The fire mage almost salivated at the prospect. He knew it’d be difficult. They couldn’t bring their most effective weapons to bear against a city they wanted to keep intact. The river and city walls were still formidable obstacles. He’d be forced to employ the Swamp Rats, a loose band of irregulars with no uniforms or command structure. Barely a step above mercenary, these disrespectful, mud-grubbing soldiers were the closest unit available that Intaglios could muster. But he felt confident the Rats would accomplish the task and do the necessary bleeding for the right price. Urgot nodded, accepting his mission.

  Sandarac conferred briefly with Vinspar over some administrative details and wrapped up the meeting with the rhetorical question, “Any new business to discuss before we adjourn?”

  Hisbet surprised everyone by saying, “Just one anecdote that may entertain his majesty. My sources report that some lunatic, who claims to be a member of the ancient order of sheriffs, is on his way toward our capital.”

  Sandarac closed his eyes at the confirmation. This dream would come to pass.

  Chapter 34 – The Green Tower

  Jotham and the boy were moved to cleaner and lighter quarters in one of the so-called Green Towers while awaiting the Judgment of the Gods. The Green Towers were actually enormous trees spaced evenly around the palace perimeter. Platforms in the highest branches could be used as look-out posts, quiet retreats for the more pious clergy, or elegant-but-cramped prison cells for misbehaving nobles. The high priest of the Traveler slept much better in this richly paneled aerie, as there was no unpleasant resonance here, only echoes of contemplation, birdsong, and rainfall. He relaxed all morning until Brent returned.

  The boy chatted amiably with the guards as he climbed the final spiral staircase and the ladder up to their cell. “The woodwork is so beautiful for a fortress. Those neat, tree-shaped cut-outs in the walls are so detailed.”

  “Everything has a purpose. Archers look out through the leaves of the cut-out while aiming the arrows through the narrow trunk slot. That way, enemy archers can’t shoot back.”

  “Why do the holes face the courtyard as well?” the boy asked.

  “They keep watch in case a prisoner tries to escape. So be careful not to get too far ahead of your guards.”

  The trapdoor opened and Brent crawled through, carrying a small pot of tea wrapped in a towel. “Thanks!” he called as the guard barred their door from below. The boy smiled as he held the pot out to his teacher. A breeze chose that moment to rock their perch and the pot almost went clattering to the floor. Jotham darted an arm out to support the boy. “Sorry. I’m still not used to buildings that sway like this. I brought the tea you asked for. The cook wondered why anyone would ever want to drink something that bitter, but he had orders to make us comfortable. I ate two whole raisin muffins while I was waiting for the High Gardener.”

  Jotham asked “Good and strong the way I wanted it?” Brent nodded. Jotham took the gift. “Wonderful. Thank you.” Humming merrily, he then poured the bulk of the dark-brown tea down the privy hole until just the tar-like residue at the bottom remained. This he transferred to his belt pouch. Contact with the damp herbs stained the leather even darker. Brent wrinkled his brow but said nothing out loud.

  Very quietly, Jotham said, “If we ever do get out of this city, magra root makes a very good temporary hair or skin dye. It may help fool people who are looking for a white-haired Imperial.” He winked at his new apprentice. More loudly, the Tenor said, “What did the High Gardener have to say to us this morning?”

  Brent suddenly remembered the important message and other questions he had. “He’s leaving today to face the other heretics on the field of battle. He wanted to give us one last chance to recant. The scribe said that, with recent events and the Unification War beginning, they might see fit to let us live if you publicly admitted to being the prophet, and well…”

  “Declared for the Pretender,” finished Jotham. The boy nodded. “And you told him no?”

  Brent answered slowly, “He got really mad. The Gardener was all dressed up in this armor made of thin, wooden splints. Parts of it even curved to fit his shoulders and elbows. The mask was the best. It was scary-looking and well-painted, but it didn’t seem very practical. Even I could have chopped it apart with a firewood ax.”

  Jotham grunted in recognition. “That wood was holy myrtle. When properly blessed in the sanctuary, anything carved from it can be made harder than stone. Each god was allowed one gift for their people; Semenos chose a wood you can take into battle. The staves of her priests are all made of this special wood, and they renew the blessings every year. The oldest ones are almost unbreakable.”

  “That sounds strange for a lady god who’s known for fruits, flowers, and pretty things.”

  Jotham stared over the edge of the parapet into the courtyard where troops massed. “Gods change in times of war.”

  Brent sat on the edge of the platform with his feet dangling many stories above the ground and watched the caravans of wagons and conscripts take shape below. This activity diverted both of them for a time.

  When the breeze shifted again so that any conversation would be blown away from potential eavesdroppers, Jotham resumed his role as sage and instructor. “The kingdom of the vineyards has a gift known as the Wine of Mercy. It is a sacrament given to those who are dying and infirm. It takes away memories of pain and gives ease. The same wine in a different concentration is known as the Wine of Truth and compels a man to tell the truth about whatever he’s asked.”

  This news excited Brent. “This could be used to solve any number of crimes.”

  Jotham nodded. “They use it sparingly because the wine is very costly, in more ways than one. Not only does it take several rare ingredients and the perfect conditions over several cycles to make, but the recipient also pays a heavy price: he loses all memories surrounding the event, sometimes for days or months, depending on the dose. What good is it if a man admits to a crime that he can then no longer remember? Is justice served by his punishment?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “What if you were innocent and the priest administering the wine lied? How would you know? What if the Prefect of Bablios thought you were guilty of something and would confess with just a few more doses? How many years would you lose before they gave up?”

  Brent opened his mouth to protest that a priest would never lie or abuse power, but then closed it again.

  “The master of intrigue trusts no one in
his fear. I once saw a man questioned until he no longer knew his own name.” Jotham stared out the window. “All things change. Did I tell you that I worked for many years in the Great Library? I was good at what I did and was rewarded accordingly. Research seemed very detached and safe. It also comforted me because the building once was a great temple of our faith. But the greed and paranoia of little men twisted it from a bastion of learning and understanding into a pit of blackmail and secrets that could kill.”

  The Tenor fastened his bright-blue eye on the boy, trying to etch this message into his soul. “In every instance, in every holy site, our faith has been twisted into a vile thing. It started with corrupting the writings of Calligrose, copying half-truths and lies. They banned or destroyed the originals. Once those who knew the truth died, only the false words survived. Most people cannot read and believe whatever they are told.”

  The boy could hear anger building in his teacher’s voice. “The house of hospitality was made into a prison, and the hall of justice made into a den of assassins. I kept telling myself that the mockeries would die off just like the prison did, but somethig of the old power remained. Some element of the old religion was feeding these new monsters. After years of quiet study of the true path, I found out what it was.”

  Huddling near Brent, and pulling him close, the half-Imperial whispered in the faintest hiss, “There are Doors.”

  Back-lit by the glow of the late-morning sun, talking in riddles, the priest looked insane. Brent began to worry that the dungeons may have unhinged his teacher. “You told me about the one in the prison,” said the boy, trying to help.

  “Yes,” Jotham raised a finger. “There is a Door in every temple of the six-fold way. They are the holes through which the heavens pour, the gates through which religions are upheld, and the cracks through which unworldly magic creeps on tiny rat’s feet. They must be closed.”

  “But won’t another Door appear any time someone builds another temple?” asked the boy, afraid of the manic energy his friend manifested regarding this topic.

  Jotham shook his head. “No, Doors aren’t built in temples. Temples are built around Doors. In the borderlands between all kingdoms, in the wild places, lie the gaps. Only six were discovered and hidden by our order. Originally we were the guardians who prevented other things from beyond the undergirding from coming in. As high priests, we hold the keys. When I passed through, I closed the first one behind me, ending the power flow into the Temple of Tor Mardun.”

  He stared at Brent, making sure that the uneasy boy was taking in every word. Jotham spoke slowly and distinctly as he shared his revelation. “It took years to deduce this, but that’s when I knew why I’d been spared. After years of living in meaningless comfort, I had something important to do. My mission is to close the sacred places before the abominations living in them learn how to tap into the power flowing through the Doors.”

  Jotham stared into the skies, remembering. “Between us, the sheriff and I have closed all of the Doors in the southern kingdoms.”

  Clamping an oversized hand around Brent’s stick-like arm by surprise, the towering priest said, “If I don’t survive the Judgment of the Gods tomorrow, you must carry on.”

  “How can I? I’m just a kid,” Brent protested, looking helpless.

  “Find the sheriff I told you about. You can meet him on the road where east meets west. Help him close the last of the temple Doors. Promise,” the priest insisted.

  “Sure. But let go, you’re hurting me.”

  Jotham released him, his hand shaking with emotion. “It was important that you know, that you see.”

  They sat in heavy silence for the remainder of the afternoon. The boy tried to nap in several positions, to no avail. The troubled priest lay on his back, not finding slumber either. After three hours, and waiting to make sure the guard was asleep, Brent asked, “Are you afraid of dying?”

  A reassuring smile played on Jotham’s lips. “No. Death is the crossing of an important boundary, but it doesn’t change who we are. I am afraid that I might not get a chance to finish my task, though.”

  The small voice asked the next logical question. An adult would have been too ashamed to utter it, but the question would have hung in the air all the same. “Are we going to die?”

  “Not if we get a miracle,” the priest said matter-of-factly.

  “How do we get one of those?”

  “Pray.”

  This was not satisfying the boy as it might have an older acolyte, so Jotham continued, “Having faith in the Six-fold Path means remaining faithful to our precepts even when the way forward is not convenient or obvious. Don’t worry. I have plans for you to escape even if the judgment goes against me.”

  Encouraged, Brent exercised some new-found, legal reasoning. “But the High Gardener said we would share the same penalty because I’m your lawyer.”

  Jotham raised a finger, impressed by his own cleverness. “Ah, but the Gardener is gone and has no say in the matter. I have drawn up a document disqualifying you as my counsel under the laws of Semenos. A child cannot enter into a contract without the written consent of a parent or guardian. Since I as guardian wrote no such letter, the contract cannot be upheld. This will negate your death warrant and the young king can’t draft another without the permission of his own regent, who will be absent indefinitely. Renald wouldn’t dare execute you illegally. I’m sure your scholarly monk friend will stand behind you on this point. I believe that there may even be a minimum age to choose the ceremony.”

  Brent was somewhat relieved, but not convinced. “What if the king refuses to hear the petition before the ceremony begins?”

  Jotham’s face fell. He seemed less pleased by the alternative. “Then I’ll be forced to provide a distraction to cover your escape.”

  Another painful silence carried them well into the afternoon. But the boy was able to doze lightly. When he awoke, Brent announced, “If I am to be a priest and carry on your task, you need to finish my training.”

  The abruptness of the demand amused Jotham. “All before dinner?” When he saw the boy was serious, he sighed and asked, “What do you want to know? Because of your promise, I withhold nothing from you.”

  Eager to hear the next tale, Brent sat cross-legged on the platform and asked, “How did the Traveler solve the problem of Osos?”

  A weight settled on Jotham’s shoulders and face as he sat beside the boy and asked, “Are you certain you wish to know? Some words cannot be unheard, some lessons cannot be unlearned. Beyond this border you will be crossing into manhood. We usually don’t inflict this knowledge on a person until age sixteen or so.”

  Brent gave the warning due consideration. “It’s important. Please tell me.”

  “In the old days, all gods had their own lands,” Jotham began. “And all lands clustered around the mountain of Osos, at the center of his kingdom. The Traveler had no land of his own because he needed none. His price for solving the problem was for the other gods to reinforce in divine law what was already true in practice. The Traveler wanted to be named Lord of Boundaries, including the border with our own, mortal realm. There is power in difference. To fully appreciate some of this, you would need some specialized mathematics, but I’ll try to explain it to you in layman’s terms.”

  Brent was puzzled. “Priests use math?”

  Glad for the digression, Jotham explained, My boy, even wizards use math to describe the physical world: the path of boulders launched from a catapult or the power of lenses to focus light. Why should the metaphysical world be any less precise? Mathematics is the foundation of existence itself.

  “The more difference in the energy of two things, the more power you can tap by connecting them. For example, the height of a waterfall affects the power of the stream. If water falls off of a drop as high as your waist, the added strength of the current could knock you off your feet. If the water fell from the height of my head, it could turn a large, stone wheel in a gristmill. You can see
how the water from a tall-enough waterfall could crush any living thing put beneath it.”

  The boy had recently performed such experiments from this very tower with acorns and covered wagons, so he nodded sagely while the older priest continued. “Long ago, the Traveler learned how to tap this power for food instead of the life force of other beings, but kept the method secret. Osos coveted this ability. The clever Traveler allowed himself to be captured crossing the elder god’s domain. As the price for his release, Osos demanded to be taught the secret so that he could be master of all mystic energies and feed his growing hungers. After a month in the dungeons, being questioned every day, the Traveler explained the technique of harnessing the energies of difference.”

  “He doesn’t seem too clever to me so far,” mumbled Brent. Any fool could get thrown into a dungeon and tortured. It took a truly skilled individual to get out of such a situation.

  Jotham frowned at the commentary. “But before sharing the secret, Calligrose extracted two promises. First, Osos had to have the Traveler escorted beyond the borders of his kingdom before the spell could be used. Second, the spell could not be used within ten leagues of any living thing. The intent was to force Osos into a remote region where nothing could live and where nothing else would be harmed. In his lust for power, Osos agreed.”

  The teacher paused, trying to adapt the tale to his audience. “As expected, Osos couldn’t wait to try out the new ability. The head of the gods wanted to grab as much new power as possible as soon as he could. But because gods must honor the letter of their agreements for magic to work, Osos had to find a loophole in the agreement. Instead of traveling to a safe area, Osos flew straight up from his throne at the navel of the world until he was ten leagues above the highest living thing in his realm. The more distance he put between himself and the ground, the bigger his influx of energy would be. Therefore, Osos flew even higher until he couldn’t restrain his hungers any more. Then he opened himself wide.