Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (33 page)

“The proof is in the battle, general. But supply lines, numbers, and mobility are my challenges, not yours. You’ll benefit from another project Vinspar has been shepherding for me in the Cedar Hills.” A veil of secrecy had draped that portion of the river for years. Today it would be lifted. “The combined might of our people and the Book of Dominion has put us in possession of five medium warships, a fleet we shall use to crush the unsuspecting south. You, Garad, shall lead two ships full of your troops and mine to the Vale of Somber Reflection and deploy them in secret, ensuring both surprise and numerical superiority.”

Garad seemed overjoyed at the prospect of entering military history for this command. Vinspar, however, turned even whiter than normal. “Sire, perhaps my reports were not clear. Forgive me. But we have only
three
ships completed. At full production speed we might accelerate the two closest to completion in a matter of weeks.”

Sandarac smiled at this apology. “Fear not. Zariah has agreed to help make our shipwrights more efficient. Under her spell, they shall work day and night without rest until the warships are usable as transports. This should get me the two ships I need for the final phase of my plan by next week.”

“But sire, won’t the workers need to sleep?” asked Vinspar, fidgeting in his shining, white tunic.

“Most of them will be asleep the entire time,” confided Zariah in chill, confident tones. “It’ll be exhausting in the short term, but my emperor assures me that it’s necessary for his swift and final victory.” Recalling her eerie, Somnambulist guards, no one contradicted her. Although it might have been tempting to use her in combat, Sandarac wanted the seeress close at hand for two reasons. First, he wanted her guarding his shore to the south. Second, he needed her help in searching for the sheriff, the elusive turning point in his bid for a united empire.

Sandarac continued handing out assignments around the table. “Hisbet, take a ship full of your best saboteurs and spread them along the coast of Bablios, as we have discussed, to blind the Prefect and hamstring his domestic defenses.”

Beryl protested. “One ship of men spread along his entire coast will hardly be worthwhile. What if they get captured or sunk? Why not use it to transport more men and equipment to the battle?”

The Viper smiled. “Isn’t your objection supposed to be the moral one: we shouldn’t soil our hands the way our vile enemy has?”

The priest blushed. “I just meant that it would st of edless waste of valuable assets and lives.”

Hisbet bowed. “Your concern for the welfare of our operatives touches me. But his majesty has shown me a fascinating diagram on his map. The blue strings denote the flow of intelligence data through the Babliosian network. Note that many of the most important arteries have only one point of failure. No matter how vital the news, one slice of that string will stem its flow. If his majesty is correct, and he always is, the sacrifice of this single ship and its men will blind the Perfect to what is happening in his own backyard.”

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.

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.”