Read Temple of the Traveler: Book 02 - Dreams of the Fallen Online
Authors: Scott Rhine
“I never told anyone about us,” he said, confusing Sarajah with the woman whose image she wore.
“I know. You protected my honor well. Wash quickly. I won’t look.”
She saw more than she intended, though, as he removed his kalura. Her eyes were drawn to his back initially because of the circular burns from the chainmail, and the map of older scars that lined his body. This man knew suffering. Her eyes lingered because every muscle in his upper body was sharply defined; he was a magnificent specimen. The wording was Zariah’s, but the hunger was her own. She turned away in shame. “I see your uniform on the shore. Let me rinse it and hang it in the sun. It’ll help with the smell.” The armor on her forearm burned, but she carried the black armor without flinching.
“Alana,” he said softly. “I never had another, before or after you.”
The formerly possessed woman closed her eyes. “You can; I release you. We’re both free now.”
“I have died twice and drunk the wine of the gods, Alana. Even that did not erase your memory. I chose your embrace over my own name. I’ll never be free of you.”
Such devotion was seductive. His confession begged for some excuse on her part, why his step-mother had been faithless. She could only tell him, “You deserve better.” Then, she ran back to the camp, taking his dark-gray sheriff’s uniform along.
She could hear Owl and Tatters nearby. The gravediggers divided their treasure trove into two equal and highly polished piles. The last coin could not be divided equally. Eventually, they threw dice for the odd coin. Soon, the two began wagering other coins from their troves. Tatters was luckier, but Owl cheated more cleverly. In the end, they balanced out. So they passed the time.
She hummed as she hung the uniform up by the fire. When she tried to hang the chainmail on a branch next to the clothing, the tree withered where the black glass touched. However, a nearby rock jutted twenty feet into the air and would provide a convenient shelf for the burden. When she tried to lay it down, the mail shirt stuck to her like a spider’s web.
“That looks cursed.”
Sarajah screamed involuntarily when she saw Jotham atop the rock. This drew all the men in, including a still-dripping Tashi.
“Pardon me; I didn’t mean to startle. I was just finishing my exercises,” the priest apologized.
The sheriff bowed to his teacher and took the armor back from the flustered woman. “This is mine to bear. Thank you for your . . . kindness.”
Brent wanted to give his master a hug, but had to settle for a deep bow al.
“We’ve closed all the temples except the one up north,” announced Brent.
“You’ve done very well,” Jotham praised. “Who vouches for these others?”
The sheriff nodded at the gravediggers. “Those two joined the quest in service to the Traveler.”
“And I brought Sarajah along,” the boy chimed in.
“Zariah the Witch?” asked Jotham.
“Sarajah the slave girl,” explained the boy. “She was possessed, and she’s under our protection now.”
The old priest made several deductions using the new piece of information. “She’s a half-blood from the desert tribes. It makes sense now. Her mother was probably . . .”
“Are you always this rude?” asked the half-blood in question.
Jotham touched his forehead and gestured in courtly fashion. “A thousand pardons, but I was just so excited. I’m also of mixed descent. You have no idea how rare that is. One union in a hundred conceives, and then only near a border.”
Brent noted her distinctive, pale-green eyes and asked, “What’s your people’s gift?”
She opened her mouth to object to the bigotry again, but she owed the boy. “I don’t know about the pure-bloods from my mother’s tribe, but being part Imperial, my eyes can see invisible spirits and even the gods themselves.”
The boy gave a low whistle. “I’ll bet that’s handy for a witch.”
She rubbed the spot above her left eye where the headache was starting. “Seeress. I’m called a seeress because I can use my talents to observe and bargain with the unseen world.”
“Enough witch chat,” decreed Jotham. “Let’s find out what you’ve all been up to since we parted ways.”
The priests each took turns throughout the morning telling their individual stories. Tashi said almost nothing about what happened once he reached the Holy Mountain.
When Tashi remarked on the increased effort it took to close each temple Door, the woman explained, “Simple aetheric flow.”
“My dear, there’s nothing simple about it,” responded Jotham.
Turning to Brent, Sarajah asked, “Why does a teapot whistle when it boils?”
“All the steam has to push through a tiny opening.”
“What happens when you open the larger hole to pour the hot water?” she asked.
“The steam gets out easier.”
“If you tried to plug the last hole?”
“You might get burned or a weak pot might rupture,” said the b, who had repaired many tin pots in his day.
“
He
understands the nature of power flow. If you don’t, perhaps you shouldn’t meddle,” remarked the seeress. She made no more comments during the exchange of stories, but built a clearer picture in her own mind of the religious brush fires these men had touched off in a dozen places. Much of what they related seemed impossible, but these men doubted nothing.
Jotham told a longer tale, but left a similar gap. About his escape, he mentioned only that he had helped the emperor’s concubine escape. Sarajah might not have believed the tale, but his eyes
had
changed color since the Stone Monkeys had captured her. The boy’s story dovetailed the two strands together.
After conferring for a while, they took inventory of the amazing number of god-formed artifacts they had collected. Tashi had his glass armor, the Key of Souls amulet, and the iron-hard myrtle-wood staff. “You look uncomfortable without a sword. We should find you one,” said Jotham.
Tashi shook his head, “I’ll be better off without one for a while, thank you.”
Jotham raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
The sheriff continued. “The boy has the Book of the Bards. The woman has the coin known as the Promise of Calligrose around her neck.”
“And a very special deck of cards,” added Brent.
“From the altar of the School of Bards?” asked Jotham.
Sarajah nodded slowly.
Jotham almost leapt with joy. “I carry the Cape of the Archanon, and half the Book of Dominion. This is astounding. Forces are converging on a grand scale.”
“What about the gloves from Tamarind Pass?” Tashi reminded him.
“Yes, they give the wearer immunity to extremes of temperature. Astonishing!”
“They’re
gloves
,” remarked Sarajah, unimpressed. “They all do that. That’s why you buy them, unless you’re going to a royal ball.”
The boy glared at her.
Undeterred by sarcasm, Jotham continued, “That hilltop yonder is a focal point for tremendous philosophical energies. I’ve discovered a new and unmapped holy site. Do you know what that means?”
“What?” asked Brent.
You want to destroy it like you did mine?
thought Sarajah, remaining silent.
“I have no idea, but it’s exciting!” exclaimed the gray-haired priest.
“You stole something from the archfiend?” asked Owl in awe.
Jotham waved the question away. “It was a gift from a friend. The sheriff met him as well.”
“Have the heavens shifted?” asked Tashi.
“The estate on the hill isn’t a touch point for either the heavens or below. It’s mundane, but also perfectly balanced. It defies my understanding. I’d investigate further, but I’ve been banned from the site,” said Jotham.
“Perhaps after we’re done sharing our adventures, I could go look for you,” suggested Brent.
“Not alone,” cautioned the Tenor.
“I can attend him. Perhaps while we’re gone, the teacher should read . . .” Tashi began before another fit struck him.
“He does this a lot—brain damage,” explained the woman. “Maybe he wouldn’t be the best representative to send.”
“Last time it was caused by the armor and smelling perfume. I’m not sure what triggered it this time,” said Brent.
Jotham rubbed his chin. “I suspect this has to do with his visit to the City of the Gods. They place strictures against revealing too much. My good friend needs to learn to be less blunt and more circumspect.”
“When pigs fly. The Way of Stone is seldom subtle,” Sarajah chuckled.
Jotham examined his options. “Perhaps he’d heal best without this woman’s influence. He does appear to be highly distracted. Her temporary absence may help. Take her with you, Brent. But say nothing of temples or miracles until the architect does.”
“Talk to
me
, old man, I’m standing right here,” said Sarajah. She attempted to poke the tall priest in the chest with her finger but missed by a wide margin when he dodged.
Brent grabbed her by the other arm and tugged. “Please, he doesn’t like to be touched.”
“Because I’m a girl?” she asked, jerking away.
“By anyone,” whispered Brent.
Sarajah rolled her eyes.
Jotham spoke directly to the boy. “If you can’t control your parolee, we’ll need to take steps to ensure her good behavior.”
“Like what?” she snapped back haughtily.
Brent pointed to her waist pouch. “Give me the cards. You can get them back when we return.”
“If you behave,” stressed Jotham.
She was indignant and huffed, “If I refuse?”
Jotham glanced at the boy. Brent spoke up. “We let Tashi decide when he wakes up. If I remember right, he wanted to tie you to the tree and make you cook dinner. I stopped him last time.”
Sarajah seethed and fumed for several long moments before handing the tarot deck over wordlessly. Then Jotham related the story of his visit to the architect in great detail. When he had finished, Brent chewed on the information.
“But you suspect that there is much more to this man than meets the eye. What?” asked the boy.
Jotham the Tenor held out both hands. “Anger.”
When the woman looked confused, Brent tried to puzzle out the clue with her. “He got angry at Jotham. The whole time I’ve known him, he’s been polite to everyone. The only people to wish him ill were high priests of other religions, yourself included.”
“Close enough,” said the man with the high voice. “In all other things, Simon was balanced and well-reasoned. This one point stood out, overcoming even a gift from the Dawn race.”
“He’s hiding something,” concluded Sarajah.
“He loves secret passages,” recalled Brent.
Jotham gazed into the boy’s eyes, watching wheels turn with pride. Holding his hand so close to Brent’s forehead that the boy could feel the heat, the priest whispered a blessing. “Go.”
When the two had begun ascending the hill, Owl noted, “Sir, what will we be doing on this quest?”
The old priest turned to the scruffy man. “Hopefully, nothing for weeks. While the boy is away, I’ll be reading the Book of Dominion. My friend the sheriff risked much to suggest this, and I don’t take his sacrifice lightly. You and your partner are free to do as you wish while we wait.”
The gravediggers buried their loot and then set about drawing themselves a treasure map.
Even with the book of ancient mysteries opened before him, Jotham’s eyes were drawn to the hill. The boy was becoming a master in his own right. The sheriff no longer bore his marks either. Jotham couldn’t bear children; nonetheless, these two had been his to raise as a father.
With effort, the melancholy tenor forced himself to read. There were secrets that needed to be seen before the world could move out of infancy.
When Emperor Sandarac first heard the news of his bride-to-
be, and her demands, he railed. The timing was inconvenient.
How dare she force him to leave the Holy Mountain?
The irritation was followed closely by acute embarrassment. He’d lost the sheriff, the one item she had wanted out of this exchange. Furthermore, he had invited her without sending a proper escort.
Sandarac could be childish in his chambers, but in public he knew how to behave in order to command the respect of his troops and his people. He’d never been afraid to face the difficult or to endure discomfort for the sake of gain. Having walked many miles on his hands through ice and snow, being carried by bearers to the Temple of Sleep would be easy. Giving up the illusion of control was the hard part. In the end, Sandarac convinced himself that he could do nothing in his palace today to hasten the search or the battle. By making the trip, however, he would cement his new alliance and stand a very good chance of finding out what had happened to his old friend Zariah.
It was the longest voyage he’d ever taken by palanquin. What began as a restful stroll in the country for his entourage ended in mire and squalor. His bladder ached with every jostle. The stench of the Dreaming City turned his stomach. Between his nervousness and the environment, Sandarac ate and drank nothing that morning. He arrived shortly after Lady Kragen’s rally.