The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  The barman scowled, looking over Halas’ bedraggled appearance. “Not cheap. Fifty a night.”

  “Fifty?” Halas looked at the roll of detricots in his hand. His heart fell. They had only thirty-six.

  But fortune was on his side. At the sight of the money, the barman’s face turned to a smile. He put a hand on the bar. “Fifteen of those will do.”

  Halas raised his eyebrows. “Fifteen detricots?”

  “Fourteen’s as low as I will go.”

  “Fifteen is fine. Here you are.”

  “You’re all right, kid. Even if you are squirelly.”

  The barman took his detricots, handed over a key and directed him. From his position at the bar, Halas could see what he thought were the rooms— straw huts that looked like they’d collapse if you even leaned against one. He returned to his friends briefly. While Garek, Des, and Aeon went to their room, Halas stayed out in the commons to order supper. He ignored the din of the other citizens. Everyone seemed to be talking about what had happened at the docks. Luckily, no one knew much. Stories ranged from a potential invasion to a dragon attack.

  Halas stood at the bar, waiting for the barman to come down so he could order. A group of well-dressed men and women sat at a table nearby. They, of course, were debating the night’s events. Halas gleaned that they had narrowed it down to two possibilities: a Western Isles invasion and a riot. “What do you think?” one of the women asked. Halas kept his back to her, but when she took his elbow he had to acknowledge the question.

  “He doesn’t know,” a man at the other end of the table whispered. “Look at him, he’s a mess.”

  “And just look at his clothes,” murmured another.

  “I’ve not heard much,” said Halas. He wanted badly to tell these people everything, to wipe the arrogant looks from their faces, but that would arouse suspicion, even if it would make him feel better. It was bad enough that he was in full uniform; he had to hope no one would identify it as such. “I know that there was a fire. Do you think the Islanders could be invading?”

  “I think it’s certainly possible,” said the woman. “At least some people in this town have common sense! You’d best be getting home, my young friend. If it is the Islanders, your family ought to be made aware.”

  Halas forced a smile. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be sure to let them know.”

  But she had already turned back, and he was lost to the crowd, just one more impoverished face to be utilized and then discarded. Shaking his head, Halas caught the attention of the man behind the bar and ordered.

  Each hut looked the same, and none appeared to be numbered. Halas found their room with some difficulty and sat down across from Garek and Des. Prince Aeon slumped against the wall, staring into nothing, his eyes red and swollen. The shaky feeling persisted, and would for many days to come.

  “What do we do?” Garek asked.

  “Father spoke of a friend before we left. He said his name was Jaden Harves. Father told me that he could help us if we needed it.”

  “Did he say anything about where we might find him?” Des asked. He stood above the washbasin, wringing pink water out of his shirt. He did it as easily as he would clean dirt and grass stains, seemingly unaware of the fact that this was blood, that this had been pumping through a man’s veins a mere hour before.

  “Not a word.”

  “I suppose we could ask around town. Someone here must know.”

  “Would that be wise?” Garek said. “Those were soldiers of Queen Anaua back there. Should we broadcast our whereabouts? It’s likely that we are wanted fugitives.”

  A knock came at the door, and all four tensed. Des knelt down beside the basin, his hand closing around his hatchet. Halas walked to the door. “Who’s there?”

  “I’ve supper for Darius Conroy and…consort.”

  Halas looked back at his friends, signaling them to hide. Garek shrugged. Desmond and Aeon disappeared behind the bed, and Garek slid under it. Halas cracked open the door. Before him stood a gnome, carrying a large and heavy tray. Halas took it and the gnome waddled away, saying something about the bill. Halas closed the door. He had ordered a roast chicken and a large wheel of sharp cheddar cheese. It was the best he’d eaten in years. Even Prince Aeon had something. They said not a word until every morsel was gone.

  Prince Aeon reached to his lap. A discontented look passed over his face. After a moment, he reached up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned to Halas. “Surely Earlsfort has an information directory.”

  “A what?” Halas asked.

  “An information directory. Cordalis has one. My governess used to take me there. It is an archive of sorts, not quite a library, where you can find addresses and dates and such. Perhaps this place has one as well.”

  “Perhaps. We’ll go looking in the morning,” Halas said. “For now, we should get some rest. It has been a long day.”

  Garek and Aeon took the bed. Garek had long since fallen asleep, as had Desmond. But Halas and Prince Aeon lay awake for most of the night, neither knowing that the other was up, both thinking about the fate of The Wandering Blade. Halas remembered the gripping fear he had felt, like a cold hand closing around his heart, causing it to beat faster than it had ever before and somehow not at all.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He thought of the two he had killed, the twisted looks on their faces as they realized that they were breathing their last breaths. He thought of their warm blood on his hands. Looking at them now, he realized that he hadn’t washed, that he had eaten a full meal with his hands coated in dry blood.

  Halas ambled over to the basin and scrubbed until his skin was red and raw, but clean. Prince Aeon rolled over on his side and watched, bleary-eyed. Halas knelt by his bed and touched his shoulder, intending to give some sort of comfort, some bleak condolence that would help the boy sleep, but he could find no words. What could be said?

  Could Halas go through that again?

  He’d have to; he knew that much. As much as he wanted his journey to be over, he knew that it was not so. Halas knew that he would have to fight many more battles before he could go home. Aeon’s eyes said that the young prince knew the same. The very thought caused Halas to choke, but he drove the fear away. It was for his brother, his friend, and—what exactly was Prince Aeon to Halas? He was more than an authority figure; in fact, Halas had not even thought of the boy as an authority figure until now. At first, he had been a mystery, and then somewhat of a nuisance. But what was he now? A friend?

  A friend. That would do, for now. Satisfied, Halas nodded to Aeon, who nodded back. Halas returned to his spot on the floor, but he didn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep.

  Before he knew it, the sun was up.

  Of the four, three of them had the ability to read. Garek knew a few words, but hardly enough to help in the search for Jaden Harves. So, leaving Desmond and Garek at the room, Halas and the prince set out to look for the information directory. They left the inn shortly after breakfast. As they passed through the common room, Halas saw that it was just as packed as it had been the previous night. The fire pit had died down, and the conversation was low, but everyone seemed to be accounted for.

  The walk was soothing, and Halas got a better look at the city. Earlsfort was a tropical place. Palm trees waved in the warm air. Sand had scattered from the many beaches into the streets. The people were dark and dressed for the climate, in shortened sleeves and trousers. Halas was painfully aware that he and Aeon were dressed strangely for the area, in their silvery uniforms. None of them had thought to bring spare clothes; their escape had been far too harried.

  Fortunately, only the shirts displayed the symbol for the Agerian Navy, so Halas and Aeon stripped those off. Most of the men outside were barechested, and while Halas and Aeon certainly looked peculiar in their matching silver pants, they were no longer recognizable as a uniform. Their hair was different, but they could have passed as brothers.

>   But that was not the only issue at hand.

  “We may have a problem,” Halas said.

  “Yes?”

  “What if they recognize you? Your face may well be known throughout the realm.”

  “We will just have to trust in distance, I suppose. Back home, I rarely strayed from my father’s keep, and when I did I was often concealed in a litter. I would not bat an eyelash if the people of Cordalis did not know my features. How could these, so far away?”

  “I would not bat one if they did.”

  “Well, yes, there is our luck to take into account.” Aeon managed a weak smile. “Trust in distance, my friend.”

  “We will see.”

  They found a man walking the streets who pointed them in the right direction, and soon found the directory itself. The man did not recognize the prince.

  The archive reminded Halas of Conroy’s manor, his study in particular, though on a much grander scale. Books and scrolls stacked well above his head, cabinets bursting at the seams, a general musk in the thick air. Unsurprisingly, the feeling that overwhelmed him was an unpleasant one, but surprisingly, it was not claustrophobia. It was homesickness. An old woman sat behind a counter, cleaning her spectacles, her gray hair wrapped in braids and beads down to her hips. “Should we ask her?” he asked the prince.

  “About what?”

  “Addresses, I suppose. They’ve got to be organized…somewhere.” Halas looked around, but it all looked the same to him.

  “Madam?” Prince Aeon said apprehensively, going to the counter. “Excuse me, madam. Where are the addresses logged?” The corners of his mouth tugged with nerves; now was the ultimate test. If anyone were to know the prince’s face, it would be this woman, this librarian.

  “Over there,” she rasped, pointing a thin, bony finger. “Any address in particular you seek?” Halas and Prince Aeon, masking sighs of relief, looked warily at each other.

  “We’re looking for the house of Jaden Harves,” Aeon finally admitted.

  The librarian pondered into her wrinkled hands for a moment before looking up. Halas choked when he saw her eyes had changed to a very dark black. They were cold and dead. Maggots wriggled through gaps in her teeth. He gasped and stumbled, but when he looked back the woman’s eyes were pearlblue, and her smile was kind. Aeon had a worried hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m all right.” She’s just an old woman. Surely I’m only imagining things. It’s been a difficult day. “Do you know Mister Harves?”

  “I’m afraid not. But as I said, the addresses are logged over there.” She pointed again as if they’d forgotten, and the two friends followed her direction. The area looked exactly like the rest of the archives.

  “Well,” Halas said. The prince coughed.

  Try as they might, neither could figure out if the archives were organized by name, number, or some other category. They spent hours pouring over thick book after scroll after thick book, scanning them page-by-page. It made no sense. ‘Ato Joel’ was before ‘Delbert Renward,’ and then came ‘Eldece Bannock.’ Halas put his head in his hands, and then went back to work. He glanced over at the old woman. He didn’t want her out of his sight. Many times the oppressive heat forced them outside into the open air, where they waited for their sweating to abate before returning. Halas wondered how the old woman tolerated the climate, but she appeared to be none the worse for wear, smiling politely each time they reentered the archive.

  “What brings you to Earlsfort?” she asked Aeon sometime during the day. Ha-las was just coming back inside from a short walk. He paused in the doorway.

  “Jaden Harves is a friend of my father’s. Herb and I,” he said, gesturing to Halas, “wish to pay him a visit. Unfortunately, father is quite ill, and…” he choked. Halas moved to his side. Aeon’s tears were very real.

  “Mister Harves is father’s dearest friend, and since our mother passed, he has had no real contact with anyone. We wish to find Jaden, before…before it is too late.”

  “I see,” said the old woman. She looked somberly over her desk at the two, studying them for—what, exactly? She was suspicious of their story, but it was solid, and Aeon’s grief was, again, quite real. Halas was once again stricken with dislike for her. Could she be an agent of Queen Anaua? His vision before had seemed so real. After encountering the witch on the boat, Halas felt more inclined to trust the things that floated through his head. “I am sorry for your father, boys. I only wish there was something I could do. Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, thank you,” said Halas. “We’d rather just get back to our search. It is terribly hot in here.”

  “Is it? Hm, I hadn’t noticed.”

  After hours of pawing through documents, when Halas was beginning to think he’d skipped over it by mistake, he found the address. He found it by sheer luck, but he found it. ‘Jaden Harves,’ sandwiched between ‘Allan Ladyblossom’ and ‘Linford Croft.’ “172 Kingston,” he said. “172 Kingston. Ennym, please memorize this in case I forget. 172 Kingston.”

  “172 Kingston,” Aeon echoed. Halas didn’t think he’d even noticed that Halas used the name Tormod had given him.

  They moved back to the librarian’s desk. She was watching them out of the corner of her spectacles, and smiled when they approached.

  “I have one last question, ma’am,” Halas said. “Do you know where Kingston is? We’ve found the address.”

  “Kingston’s a big place, dear. Where in particular?”

  Halas and Aeon exchanged a worried glance, but it lasted barely a second. “Nevermind,” Halas said. “Do you have a map?”

  “Of course I do. Kingston?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “That will cost you four squashes.”

  Halas frowned. “Squashes?”

  “Coins,” Aeon whispered.

  “You young people! Most folks nowadays use those detricots, but I find coins far easier to handle. You can’t ruin a squash in the rain, am I right?”

  “Of course,” Halas said, laughing nervously.

  “We do not have any squashes,” Aeon said. “I’m afraid we don’t use them in our village.”

  The old woman smiled sadly. “Then this one is on me,” she said. She bent over the desk to get closer to them, and winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Halas grinned. Perhaps their fortunes had reversed after all. The old woman had seemed suspicious at first, but that seemed to have been a mistake on his part. At least, Halas hoped it had.

  The woman ducked back into another room for a few moments, and returned with a map case. She pried off the cap with some difficulty and removed the old, yellowed parchment, flattening it on the counter. “Take your time,” she said. “Where is your village?”

  “I’m sorry?” Halas asked, stalling for time, and not cleverly. It seemed an innocent enough question, but was it?

  “I asked about your village. Is it far?”

  “Not far at all,” Aeon said. “We live to the west, in Ponce. It is but a few hours away on foot.”

  “I see. I hear it’s lovely there. And they really don’t use squashes?”

  “No, madam, we do not use currency at all. Our people barter extensively. It is truly crippling when one wishes to travel the outside world.”

  At this she laughed. Halas and Aeon knelt over the map, and Halas quickly realized he had no idea what he was looking at. He’d seen maps during Conroy’s lessons, of course, but he’d never really cared for them, and thus never paid much attention. Once again, he counted himself incredibly lucky that Aeon was there, because the prince scanned it expertly. It took him seconds to find Jaden Harves’ home and memorize the route.

  “That will do,” Aeon announced, surprising Halas and the woman, who both thought it would take longer. “Thank you, madam. Our father is a chef, and has taught us many recipes. Do you like fruitcake?”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, you’re a dear child, but that will not
be necessary.”

  Aeon smiled. “I’ll see to it you get a cake. Thank you for your aid.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  They each bought a bowl of baked nuts from one of the many kiosks on the street and went back to the inn. Halas remembered the way, though he more than suspected that Aeon did as well. Walking toward the building, Halas laughed.

  “What was that bit about fruitcakes?” he asked. Aeon grinned from ear to ear.

  “I felt it made our tale more convincing, don’t you think?”

  “Prince Aeon, grand master of lies. What else are you not telling me?”

  Aeon’s face clouded over, and he took Halas by the arm. All the mirth had gone from his features. He drew close. “I have another secret. Would you like to hear it?” Halas nodded, so caught up in the moment he didn’t notice the corners of Aeon’s lips twitching.

  “I’m actually the prince of Ager.”

  Halas paused, looking quizzically at Aeon. Aeon responded by bursting into uproarious laughter. He clapped Halas on the back. Halas caught up with the joke, and laughed as well. He hadn’t expected such a thing as a joke from the boy, but it was good to hear.

  So they laughed, doubled over in the street unfamiliar and frightening to both of them, and cried tears of laughter. Men and woman passing by gave them a wide berth, those curious children in odd clothes laughing like fools, but neither Halas nor Aeon cared. They laughed until their sides hurt, and Halas straightened, wiping his eyes. As he did, he felt a weight lift from his chest. Halas felt relieved, he felt good. About father and the forest, Cailin, the ship, everything.

  He almost felt at home.

  Halas started walking toward the inn. Aeon was still laughing. They drew a few curious eyes from the common room as they passed through it. It was getting late, and the streetwalkers were about. As Halas and Aeon passed, one leaned over to her buyer and remarked, “Children. Hmph! Who needs em?”