The Temple of Heart and Bone (27 page)

Drothspar stared at her, his head
tilted slightly to the side. Chance blinked a couple of times and looked down
into her corn. The slightest hint of red flushed into her cheeks but
disappeared before it could spread.

“So what you’re telling me,” she
said changing the subject, “is that the last thing this man saw was your bony
bottom wiggling out from his thorny hideout?”

Again, Drothspar’s head snapped
upright as her words settled in his mind. He could almost feel his cheeks
redden. He almost raised his hand to his face to make sure they hadn’t
reappeared. Again he took up his tablet, writing furiously to finish the story.

“He followed you out? He must
have been determined.” She smiled. She continued to read. “You stared at each
other.” She took another bite of corn. “You waved at him?” She coughed a few
pieces of corn out of her mouth as she burst out in another gale of laughter.

“Oh sweet Maker,” she said,
trying to catch her breath. “Oh how I wish I could have seen that.” She looked
at him archly. “Show me,” she demanded playfully.

Drothspar looked at her for a
moment then set down his tablet. He picked up a jug and the pail of corn, put
them both in his hand, stood facing her, and waved his hand quickly side to
side. The corn rattled against the inside of the pail and the pail clattered
against the side of the jug. Combined with his ever-grinning skull, the image
forced Chance into another bout of laughter.

“Oh my dear Drothspar,” she said
as he settled back down to the ground, “that’s just really too precious.” A
sudden thought occurred to her. “Have you ever stolen anything before?”

Drothspar looked at her quietly
then shook his head from side to side.

“How did it feel?” she asked,
curiosity brimming in her voice.

“Kind of guilty,” he admitted,
writing slowly. He looked around as if expecting someone might be reading over
his shoulder. “But wickedly fun.”

She smiled at him warmly. “Isn’t
it, though?”

They relaxed while Chance ate as
much of the corn as she could. Drothspar thought about their conversation and
his nighttime adventure. He wished once again that he could simply talk to her.
He felt restricted by the tablet, but admitted that it was better than nothing
at all.

He wasn’t sure if she knew how
close they were to Arlethord. He had told her before she went to sleep, but
she’d been vacant and tired when they stopped for the night. He picked up his
tablet and started to write.

“Ooh,” she said excitedly, “did
you remember something else from last night?”

Drothspar shook his head. “We
should reach Arlethord sometime tonight,” he wrote.

“Oh,” she said, the excitement
drained from her voice.

“Do you think you’re up to
bluffing our way past the citizens into the old city?”

She sighed. “I don’t see why
not.” She eyed the one of the jugs Drothspar had stolen the night before. “What
have you got in those?” she asked innocently.

Drothspar passed her the bottle.
She cracked the wax top and worked out the fresh cork. She passed the bottle
under her nose and blinked a couple of times at the odor.

“Wow,” she said, “pungent.”

She put the jug to her lips and
tipped it back gently. She swallowed the liquor and reached quickly for her
water bottle.

“Wow,” she said again, trying not
to cough. “That’ll clean the rust off your dagger.”

Drothspar looked down to where he
concealed his weapon.

“Just a figure of speech,” she
said smiling, her face beginning to glow. “Yes,” she said suddenly.

Drothspar cocked his head to the
side.

“I think I’m up to bluffing our
way wherever you like.” She pulled her empty little flask from her travel bag
and filled it with the contents of the jug. “I’m sure it will all be fine.”

They spent a little time rearranging
Drothspar’s padding under his robe. Chance adjusted the rags here and there
until she felt it was right. She took one rag and dirtied it in an unwholesome
looking red-brown mud. This last rag she bound around Drothspar’s head and
face. The end result made it appear that he had suffered a grievous head wound
that occasionally seeped a sickly blood.

“Remember,” she said, as they
packed away their little encampment, “rack your body from time to time if
someone’s watching. Even if you can’t make a sound, make it seem as if you’re
coughing. If someone tries to get too close to you, just act as if you’re
coughing in their direction. They’ll lose interest quick enough.”

Drothspar nodded.

“And keep your slate in your
pocket,” she advised him. “Let me do all the talking. Let’s try to keep any
attention from fixing itself on you.”

Drothspar carried the jugs and
the pail and trailed slightly behind Chance. She slung her travel pack over her
shoulder with a strength he hadn’t seen in many days. They agreed to resume the
fiction they had worked out for their trip to Æostemark.

“Penitent and pilgrim,” she said
brightly as they walked along. I’m sure it will work out just fine. Besides,”
she said, looking over her shoulder, “we never did get to try it in Æostemark,
did we?”

Drothspar looked at her and held
up the jugs, quietly asking her their purpose in her play.

“Well,” she explained, “you can’t
very well be asking the citizens of Arlethord to forgive your behavior during
the last invasion.” She shook her head. “No, this time, you’re chronically ill,
suffering from skin-rot and Death’s Breath. That’ll explain the coverings on
your face and your silence.”

Drothspar nodded as she looked
back at him.

“We’ll be on our way to see a
holy man named ‘Petreus.’ We heard about him from the Abbot at Thenensfron. ‘A
miracle worker,’ he told us. ‘A pillar of piety and sanctity,’ he said. The old
man with me brought the fruit of God’s vine, blessed spirits brewed by his own
family as gifts for the Representative of the Maker.” She smiled back over her
shoulder at him.

“And, of course, I’ll, once
again, be guiding you as a penance, suffering the proximity of the unwashed as
punishment for my wicked, wicked life.” She made an indelicate sound. “Have to
be careful with that one, though,” she explained. “Some might think that’s an
invitation.”

The
sun arced overhead as Drothspar and Chance walked the remaining distance to
Arlethord. Drawing closer to the city, they began to encounter sporadic groups
of travelers heading east and those moving quickly toward the city. Few other
travelers were on foot, and most gave a wide berth to the pair after one look
at Drothspar’s bandaged face. Chance maintained a sorrowful look and marched
resolutely toward the city. Drothspar kept his head down and followed in a
shuffling gait.

“Very good,” he heard her say
after a party of travelers passed. “Try to remember to cough from time to time.
It has to look natural—and unhealthy.”

By early afternoon, they were
approaching some of the more established outlying settlements. Although they
couldn’t see it, they could smell the humid fragrance of the Vistel, the river
that ran through the city of Arlethord.

“Arlethord was once two cities,”
she said to Drothspar over her shoulder. “The city of Thord crouched on the
west bank of the Vistel while the city of Arle was built on the east.”

Drothspar had heard the story
many times. He had spent the majority of his life in the streets of ‘Thord. It
had been on those very streets that Gathner had found him so many years before.

“The cities lived and thrived on
both sides of the river. Trade grew between them along with a wary alliance.
The instances of confrontation between the two cities have always been
surprisingly low. Many pious scholars rightly acknowledge the Hand of the
Divine in the wisdom of the aldermen of both cities.”

Drothspar considered this last
statement. It was true, of course, that the Church credited the peace between
Arle and Thord as a gift of the Maker’s Grace. In all his time with Chance,
however, he had never heard her talk about the beliefs or customs of the
Church. It just didn’t seem in character… That was it! She was
being
the
penitent character. She was sharing her education and piety with the
unfortunate peasant that trailed her. He smiled mentally to himself. She was
probably also bored with the silence, he thought, smiling again.

“Arle and Thord always sided
together in times of trial and doubt. The kind Maker blessed the inhabitants of
both cities with a love for each other as dear as husband and wife. Like most
couples, they would argue over unimportant matters, but when faced with any
real challenge, they worked together. Over time, the bond became stronger and
stronger. Two hundred and thirty years ago the cities joined in municipal
matrimony, and the West has prospered in their union.”

Drothspar thought back over the
history
he
had learned, and, counting the seven years he had been, well,
more dead, Arlethord became one city closer to two hundred and
fifty
years ago. It was her story, however.

Passers-by nodded with
appreciation as they heard their city praised in wisdom and blessings. Chance
continued reciting her account of Arlethord’s history, even as she smiled and
waved to the other travelers. Drothspar noted the saddened looks on the strange
faces as they glanced briefly his way. He also noticed that none of them
offered alms or any of their own blessings. Not that he really
was
a
beggar, but it wasn’t as if
they
knew that.

Chance stopped at a small shrine
just short of the outskirts of Arle. Drothspar approached her but kept the
proper distance for their fiction.

“We should wait until it’s close
to twilight,” she recommended. “Your disguise is good, but we shouldn’t really
push our luck.”

Drothspar nodded his agreement.

“A little hazy light should keep
the guards from looking too closely at you, and I’ll see if I can’t keep their
attention focused on me.” She raised her hand to her bodice and loosened the
front of her shirt slightly.

Drothspar tilted his head to the
side in a silent question.

Chance shrugged her shoulders in
a silent answer.

Drothspar stood nearby while
Chance knelt, apparently in prayer, at the little roadside shrine. Just as the
sun began to redden in the west, she stood and signaled the continuation of
their journey.

Entering the sections of Arle
that had been built outside the old wall, Drothspar felt the unwelcome stares of
the inhabitants. No one raised their voice or hand against him, but he could
feel their animosity washing over him. They wanted nothing more than to see him
pass by as quickly as he could. Certainly, he thought, it wasn’t the mercy and
love of the Maker they were sharing.

He understood their fear. During
his novitiate, he had worked to soothe and comfort the sick and injured. He,
too, had felt revulsion and fear of disease. He had often prayed for guidance
and the strength to suppress those feelings. It had been hard. It was probably
the hardest thing he’d ever done, alive or dead. Sometimes, he knew, he had
failed. He had seen the pain in an old woman’s eyes when he first saw her and
had winced at the sight of her open sores. He had not, however, turned away
from her. Her own eyes softened as she acknowledged that he was trying. Before
he had left, they were each grateful to the other.

Chance slipped a drink of spirits
from her personal flask as they approached the guards at the Old City wall. One
of the guards stepped forth to challenge her and eyed her appreciatively.

“What’s your business in
Arlethord?” he asked gruffly.

“I bring this poor soul to seek
the ministrations of the priest known as Petreus,” she answered meekly.

“We are about to close the gate
for the night, do you intend to stay in the Old City?”

“If the Maker’s Servant will
allow us, we will stay. If not, I have sufficient means to shelter us for the
night.”

The guard looked back at his
comrade then leered openly at Chance. “Why don’t you let this
peasant
go
on to the priest alone?” he said, saying the word peasant as if he were being
forced to put his hands in offal. “I’m certain I could find you shelter for the
night.”

Chance started to object when the
guard put one strong hand on her shoulder. Drothspar tottered close to the
guard and racked his body as if about to vomit. The guards brandished their
weapons and advanced as Chance started to speak.

“Ethoril,” she said loudly, “you
must be careful! You know what the Abbot said about your wounds. If they break
open you could infect anyone around you. How many times am I going to have to
clean you up?” she asked, her voice exasperated.

The two guards raised their
weapons and backed quickly away from the pair. Chance looked innocently at the
guard who had approached her.

“I’m sorry, sir, but he has
trouble seeing, you know. His eyes are filled with boils and bleed often.” She
rubbed her thumbs against Drothspar’s vacant eye sockets as if she were trying
to clear away the blood. She wiped her hands on her legs and turned back to the
guard. “Did you say, kind sir, that you could offer me shelter?”

The guard’s face had gone pale
and he stared at his hand as if it were a snake. He blinked twice and looked
back at Chance. “What? No, move on,” he said, trying to regain his authority.
“Get yourselves to the priest and take your diseases off of the streets.”

“Of course, sir,” she said
ingratiatingly. “The Maker will reward you for your actions.” The guard’s eyes
flickered between Chance and the heavens above and a worried frown creased his
forehead. Chance and Drothspar passed through the gate and up the street as
quickly as decorum would allow.

“What were you
doing
?”
Chance whispered sharply when she was sure they were out of earshot. “You could
have gotten yourself
speared
!”

Drothspar stared at her steadily,
not bothering to take his slate from his robe.

“Well,” she asked, “aren’t you
going to answer me?”

Drothspar continued to stand in
silence.

“What were you thinking?” she asked,
referring to him but no longer talking to him. Her brow furrowed in thought.
Her eyes widened as something occurred to her and she looked back at him. He
remained silent, unmoving. Her eyes went soft around the edges, reminding him
momentarily of the old woman he had comforted so many years ago.

“We’d better get moving,” he
heard her say. “We’ll want to reach the chapter house before night falls and
the patrols start challenging people.

Drothspar and Chance moved away
from the walls and headed for the chapter house. Light faded from the narrow
streets as the sun slipped below the horizon. Burghers rushed about their
remaining business and urged themselves toward home. Shops closed for the night
and windows were covered with cloth. Daylight business sought comfort in home
and hearth, fire and family, surrendering the city to the shadows of night.

Public houses erupted with the
sounds of yelling and laughter. Like bottles of fire tipped on their sides,
they spilled ruddy light carelessly out into the streets. Shabbily dressed
women patrolled the roughly lit areas, offering passers-by the chance for a
good time. Acrid smells of stale sweat, ale and rotting food radiated out from
the open tavern doors. Occasionally, a heated discussion would roll outside into
the street, and the sporadic smack of fist to flesh would punctuate the
cacophony from inside.

After walking around a fight that
had drawn a fair number of patrons and their drinks into the street, Drothspar
and Chance found their way into the old Arle Square. The square was wide and
open, with shops and businesses lining all four sides. In the center, seeming
small in the vast space, was the old council chamber, the building which had
functioned as the old city’s center of government. Even after the unification
of the cities, the Ratter House, as it was called, served the governing of the
district. Torches flickered around its stately walls and burnished guards stood
at the main doors.

Past the Ratter, on the
northwestern corner of the square, stood a building much taller than those
surrounding it. The building had a massive bulk of a body and twin towers which
rose at its front like mighty antlers into the darkening sky. The body of the
building stood equal with the largest buildings in the square, but the towers,
reaching ever upward, made the building stand out among its peers. This was the
Cathedral of the Benevolent Maker, the chapter house that had been the
spiritual center of Arle long before any visionary had thought of unifying two
cities staring across a river.

Broad and polished steps climbed
upward to the main doors of the structure.

Their
flow inclined even the casual onlooker to follow their line past the door, over
the building and along the towers toward the heavens. In purpose and design, the
building existed as a signpost, a reminder of, and a guide to, the Maker and
His gift of Eternity.

This had been Drothspar’s home.
In the years after Gathner had pulled him from the stagnant quagmire of his
life, he had spent days on end praying in this very structure. He had lived on
the Cathedral grounds. He had explored the cool chambers and walked silently
with his God. This was the place that had given him so much hope. This was the
life he was living when he had been blessed with the love of Li.

Chance followed him to the front
stairs, surprised by his sudden move to the lead. She stopped to glance around
the square, looking to see if anyone had been watching. The guards of the
Ratter were focused elsewhere. Staggering bodies lurched carelessly to or from
the public houses, but no one, that she could see, was watching them.

Drothspar was already at the
doors when she turned around. She started up the stairs when a sudden thought
caught her breath. What would happen when he went inside? Everyone knew that
evil couldn’t stand the presence of the Maker in His Own House. His Churches
provided the only safe refuge against vampires, ghouls, and other fell evils
that haunted the night. She hadn’t considered the problem before because she’d
always been taught that such things could never exist.

“Drothspar,” she called in a
hoarse whisper, “wait!” She raced up the stairs, two at a time, whispering as
loudly as she dared. She watched as he grasped the handles of the doors. In the
image of the moment, she noticed the gleam of the shining metal handles,
polished by the touch of thousands upon thousands of hands. She reached out
with her own, hoping to catch hold of his arm or robe. He pulled the doors open
before she could call out once more.

It was too late, he had stepped
inside. She followed quickly, feeling the rush of cool air washing over her and
into the night.

“Are you okay?” she asked
worriedly, stepping in beside him.

He turned his head to look at
her, slowly, calmly. He nodded his head.

“Are you sure?” she asked
quickly, concern sounding in her voice.

Again, he nodded.

“It’s just that, well, you know,”
she paused looking for some way to explain her fears, “your
condition
. I
wasn’t sure if you’d be able to… well… survive in here.” She looked around as
if expecting avenging angels to descend from their statues.