Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (7 page)

Any person who survived a week in isolation with no signs of the contagion would be set free. Often one of the kingdom’s priests would inspect the victim, even shaving the person’s head to check for the disease’s trademark lesions. After three weeks, everything remaining of the village would be burned to the ground. The ashes wouldn’t even be sifted for precious metals. Survivors would leave this place carrying no more than on the day they were born.

Very near dusk, Jotham strode up to the gate, trying to keep his eyes in the shadows. A priest of Semenos might recognize his mixed ancestry and keep him out on principle. Fortunately, the guards for that evening sympathized with an Imperial fallen on hard times, the legal guardian of a twelve-year-old boy who had been wrongfully abandoned. He was able to pay these guards the last of his silver for clean clothes that could be sewn to fit the boy, a place of shelter in the quarantine zone, and passage into the inner stockade. The building assigned was a forge, warm and serviceable, with stone walls. It had the advantage of being set a goodly distance from any other building. After assembling workmen’s benches together to form a crude cot, he stoked a roaring fire in the forge. As his final preparation, Jotham left all his belongings except his loincloth and gloves ooor. He had no fear of theft with so many armed guards and no money.

He put on the Traveler’s gloves to avoid touching the boy or any other diseased item directly. The gloves were finely woven, dark blue, and fit perfectly. They stretched from his wrist to his elbow. Jotham didn’t feel any magical effects while wearing them. Then, the priest walked into the stockade where not even the bravest warrior would march. The silence of this inner prison was complete.

In the last dim hour of twilight, the priest found Brent in one of the stables as the tinker had predicted. He looked a little taller than the average twelve-year-old, perhaps the reason he’d been apprenticed to a more physical profession. Delirious in the hay, the boy was pale with dehydration and fever. After an examination of the boy’s skin and listening to his breathing, Jotham proclaimed, “You haven’t got the plague, child. But you’re sick enough to die just the same. If we don’t break this fever, you’ll not live out the night. And I’ve walked too far to let you get away from me.”

While he was stripping off the boy’s diseased clothing, which would not be allowed to cross the zones, Jotham brushed his elbow against the bare skin of the boy’s arm. He felt a small shock pass at the bare-skin contact. Some of the virtue he had accumulated on the long journey passed to the child like a spark to a brass doorknob in wintertime. All of the lice that had taken up residence on the boy’s body jumped off at once, leaving him suddenly parasite-free. Exerting his will, Jotham held back the rest of his energy for the necessary ritual.

Carrying Brent to the edge of the icy stream, he said, “What I am about to do may be traumatic at first, but it is the only way I know to cure you. Normally one must consent, but your master has given me his writ of authority and that is sufficient.”

Singing in his high, clear voice, Jotham waded out into the stream and lowered the boy into the frigid, snow-fed waters. Immersion pained him as much as it did the boy, but the action was essential. Conveniently, the gloves shielded his hands completely from the cold.

After performing the extensive rite of cleansing, he carried the blue-lipped, blue-fingered boy back to the sweltering-hot forge. The guards who opened the gate didn’t harass them, but kept a respectful distance from the white-haired Imperial and his ward.

He lay the boy down on the blanket-covered cot. Once both were dried and the priest had donned his vestments, the boy’s shivering turned to sweating. For the fourth time in his life, Jotham began the Ceremony of Freeing. To increase the chances, he used the boy’s own tin healing talisman in the ritual. Because he had no ink, Jotham used a small quantity of his own blood to draw the appropriate protective runes on the boy over each of the body’s points of spiritual nexus. “These won’t be permanent,” he apologized. “But they should last until you learn to resist on your own.” There was a brief spark of static electricity that passed between the boy and the talisman at the completion of the ceremony, the surest sign of success. Then, he placed the holy symbol on a lanyard around Brent’s neck.

Every member of every kingdom was linked by invisible threads to the god of that kingdom. Gods fed from men in this way, sometimes weakening the human body beyond its capacity for self-repair. The Freeing was the earliest mystery given to man by the Traveler and the sole rite of passage common to branches of his church. The ceremony both cut a recipient off from all national bonds and eliminated this drain, enabling the sick to utilize all r own energies for healing. Although those who decided to walk the path of the Traveler had their cultural ties ripped away from them, they often lived longer by way of compensation.

Such karmic detachment rarely happened naturally but had been known to occur with half-breeds, drowning victims, those who fasted to extremes, and people with traumatic head injuries. Once detached, that person stood out like a bonfire to spirits. He would be regarded as different by all the attached humans around him without knowing why. Freed people seldom stayed in a kingdom for long because of the animosity of those surrounding them. Reattachment of some kind was inevitable unless the individual could learn to resist it through a regimen of rigorous mental and physical exercises.

Jotham had experimented for years to replicate the ceremony properly from the ancient scrolls. To further complicate matters, the ceremony would only work when performed by a free individual and with the consent of the recipient. Any attempt to bribe or threaten either the recipient or the liberator would negate the transaction. In this respect, the ceremony of freeing was more of a meta-legal maneuver than a spell.

Having tended to Brent’s spiritual needs, the priest wrapped him in baggy clothing and blankets and then fed him a lightly medicated paste made of tubers. Adding wood to the fire, Jotham noticed that the gloves protected him from extreme heat as well. Making sure no one was watching, he touched a live coal with the glove’s fingertip in order to cleanse it of all trace of the disease. It turned black, but no heat transferred to the wearer.
Interesting.
He passed each glove through the flames to satisfy the strictures. His loincloth had to be burned and replaced with a clean one.

Once the boy’s fever had broken and he passed into a true sleep, Jotham curled up on his own cloak on the floor.

At dawn, the town’s remaining rooster crowed, causing the boy’s eyes to flutter open. “I had the strangest dreams,” he said groggily.

Tall Jotham sat up. His wild hair was even more matted and deranged-looking from laying damp on the floor. In his high voice, he piped, “You can tell me all about it later, Brent. For now you need some rest.”

“But the cock crows, and I must attend to my duties or my master will be cross. Who are you, sir?” the boy asked, barely able to lift his own head. He noticed that he had his favorite symbol back again, hanging from a new cord around his neck. It comforted him to see that the stranger wore a similar device.

“You may call me Jotham the Tenor. You’ll be my apprentice for the rest of this year. The tinker is… no longer with us.”

The boy formed a small o of understanding with his mouth. “What must I do?”

“First recover from your illness. Fortify your mind and body against disease. When you are judged whole, we’ll travel together to meet someone, another friend.” This friend had led a hostile mob in the opposite direction so that Jotham could escape unseen. Yet he had no doubt that the capable swordsman would meet him again somewhere near the northern tip of the Emperor’s Road.

The priest was braced for all manner of curious questions from the child. He was almost disappointed when the lad murmured, “Sure,” and fell promptly back to sleep. Such was the way of the innocent, Jotham mused.

Fully awake, Jotham stretched and stepped into the next room to begin the morning ritual called “greeting the sun”, which was part prayer and part exercise. Because he would not be travelling any time soon, the priest spent extra time on the deep leg bends that kept his muscles limber and strong. The circular, flowing motions looked more like dance than the foundations of a centuries-old, martial art. Jotham had lost track of time during the meditative workout, so there was no way of knowing how long the boy had been sitting there watching.

In his high voice, the priest asked, “Did you need something?”

Brent shrugged. “I had to pee. What are you doing?” the boy asked bluntly.

“I am practicing the Art of Peace. It helps me stay healthy by stimulating the flow of my ki,” the tenor began to explain. Suddenly, the boy’s face scrunched, as if the word meant something illegal or dangerous. Jotham hastened to ease Brent’s mind. “I’m not one of those vile leeches, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“But your eyes…,” the boy began.

“Hogwash! You can’t tell a wizard by the color of his eyes. The followers of Semenos have been spreading horror stories to weed out the mixed breeds. Magic doesn’t control how you look, your parents do. Do you think they should be able to burn me in their purity bonfires just because I was born different?” asked Jotham. The boy shook his head as the priest continued to fume. “And just because someone knows a thing or two about ki doesn’t mean he’s evil. There are far more disciples of the Art who use their knowledge to heal, sooth, and protect others than exploit it for consumption. The tin you hammered could be made into symbols of faith as easily as weapons.”

Jotham paused. Aware of how defensive he sounded, he shifted his emphasis. “Even the exercises that strengthen muscles can be used to harm, which makes my role as a teacher all the more critical. Students must develop moral grounding and practical knowledge to balance the secrets. One should never be taught to inflict more damage than one can heal, nor learn more than one can protect.”

It was Jotham’s turn to ponder. This was the sign of a good student. “One would suppose that priests are concerned with
why
something is true and its moral value. A wizard is generally only concerned with the results. Priests are usually affiliated with a higher being. You and I follow the Way of the Traveler, who has handed down the Six Divine Teachings, also known as the Six-Fold Path. Each branch of our order has a temple dedicated to the propagation of one of these teachings. At the pinnacle of learning, the high priest may appear to work magic but is really operating on divine principle. Do you understand?”

Bored, Brent said, “Sure, you guys have to do lots of dull stuff before anyone tells you anything important.”

Jotham blinked several times, but he found himself unable to refute the child’s reduction of the situation. The priest couldn’t help but smile. The boy sleeves hung down six inches past his hands, and the tunic had room for two. “Perhaps it’s time we started teaching you some of that dull stuff. After I teach you to sew your own clothing, I’ll tell you your first mystic secret. How’s that?”

Brent agreed enthusiastically. Jotham pulled two needles and a ball of brown twine from his pack. It wasn’t elegant, but it would match the handed-down, home-spun garments well enough. Needlework gave the child something to concentrate on during his convalescence, and sharing the sewing made it go more quickly. The tinker’s apprentice already knew one crude stitch with leather cord and another for darning socks. Jotham did the fine work while leaving the hem for the boy. Brent was particularly interested in his trick to turn excess sleeve length into useful arm pockets. He almost applauded when the priest showed him how to perform the same feat
inside
a piece of clothing so that the pocket’s existence could be kept private. However, Brent sighed heavily whenever the white-haired man made him take stitches out and do them over.

“In the long run, this will save you time,” the priest pontificated, echoing an old man who had once taught him the same art. “A silver hour well-spent can be worth more than a gold week.” The memories triggered by the tired, old expression forced him to wipe his eyes. Old Eustace would have been proud. It was a shame he’d died in that prison before Jotham learned the Way of Freedom. Jotham cleared his mind so the boy wouldn’t see him shed tears and think him senile.

Once the boy demonstrated adequate stitch-work on a consistent basis and hit a rhythm, the priest began relating a story from the holy writings. First, he made a show of checking for eavesdroppers and then pulled the outside door shut. Jotham began in a formal voice, “Your first lesson concerns the gods and how they were made. These things were told to us by the Traveler, the only one who speaks to both men and the higher beings. He told us that we might know the Truth and grow. Not all men may hear this teaching. Give it only to those who are willing and have undergone the Ceremony. Do you still wish to hear the first teaching?”

Brent nodded. When the teacher remained silent, he said, “I do, sir.”

For the rest of the lesson, Jotham spoke in a gentle cadence, often in couplets, but softly enough that it wasn’t quite in song. “Many ages ago, the gods were men, not unlike ourselves. But through study and meditation, their sages uncovered the cornerstones of the cosmos. Some of their artifacts from the Dawn Times still exist today, but we understand little. To shield us from the harm these tools would do in immature hands, the Traveler has not told us all of their ways.

“It is important to realize that the higher beings who rule this world did not create it; rather, they learned enough about its rules to make themselves different—immortal. This did not make them better, only more powerful. Avoid bowing to gods.”