The Temple of Heart and Bone (28 page)

Drothspar gently rested one hand
on her shoulder. She looked at him curiously. He had hardly ever touched her.
She had become accustomed to men handling her without permission. Her father
had ushered her along since her earliest memories, showing her as he might a
prized possession. Young men at the university had been forward enough to hug
her and even sometimes handle her as “one of the boys.” She had been a very
private person in her youth, unaccustomed to the warm touch of affection in her
own family. She had thought herself beyond the need of a gentle touch. School
had taught her that casual familiarity was to be accepted, even when it wasn’t
encouraged or desired. It had all become so customary to her, until she met
him
.

Granted, he was dead. Granted, he
didn’t even have the flesh for a warm touch. He had, however, never tried to
“man-handle” her. He had never ushered her before him or physically guided her
where
he
had wanted her to be. She could count on the fingers of one
hand the number of times he had touched her, and she could even ignore her
thumb in the counting.

It wasn’t a lack of affection
that brought all of this sharply to her. It wasn’t that she missed the rough
handling of the thoughtless. It was the sheer amount of respect he showed her
by keeping his hands to himself. In all honesty, she thought, there had been
times that she might have liked a comforting hand to be placed on her shoulder.
Thinking back over those times she could count on her fingers, each time he had
actually touched her had been one of those times. Each had been a time just
like this one.

He had removed his hand from her
shoulder while she was thinking and drawn out his tablet. He wrote a single
word.

“Home.”

She looked up into his hollow
eyes and nodded her head. She didn’t need his voice, she didn’t need to look
into his eyes or see the expression on his face. She could feel the emotion
resonating from that single word. She smiled quickly and mechanically, and looked
away as he stared out over familiar surroundings. She felt her eyes well with
tears as she realized that there was no place, not even one, that she felt she
could truly call “home.”

She had been in the Cathedral
many times throughout her life, when her family had been visiting Petreus or
making the obligatory “pilgrimage.” In all those other times, her mind had been
focused on visiting the old priest or desperately wanting to leave. She looked
around the church as if seeing it for the first time. She felt the cool, dry
air of the place surround her, calm her. She watched the shadows play in the
flickering light of candles.

Glistening statues seemed to come
to life in the shifting dance of light. Beautiful faces of cherubic angels
smiled and laughed playfully as they watched her. Mighty figures with gleaming
metal swords looked down over her with watchful, caring eyes, guarding her body
and soul as one. She looked deeply into those eyes, eyes that told her they
could see more than flesh and bone and blood.

Other figures were carved in
repose over the covers of their sarcophagi. Hands folded peacefully over their
chests, some cradled swords or scepters while others held flowers that would
never wilt or fade. Chance looked over the figures, linking their meaning to
their place. There, underneath the heavy lead and marble covers, rested the
bodies of men and women she had learned about in her history classes. Never
before had she made the personal link between the words she had been taught and
the physical presence of the figures. It seemed to her a profound moment, a
moment when she, herself, had reached out to touch history.

The interior of the Cathedral was
lined, filled, with statues and sarcophagi. Her eyes measured the length and
breadth of the place, and she had a sudden urge to examine everything very
closely. She wanted to reach out her hands and her mind and touch these moments
in time. She smiled to herself. She felt more at peace in that moment than she
had ever felt before. She understood how Drothspar could consider such a place
“home.”

Touching him with her thoughts,
she realized he was no longer beside her. The peace within her shook for a
moment until she spotted a dark robed figure kneeling at one of the little
chapels which were interspersed with the sarcophagi along the outer aisles of
the Cathedral. She walked slowly, softly, to place herself behind him. Her eyes
flowed across the polished marble floor as she walked, amazed at the brilliance
and pattern of the floor stones. She stopped and looked over Drothspar’s
shoulder, examining the chapel before him.

The figure of an older man stood
before a work bench. The features of his face were warm and gentle. His eyes
gleamed at once with kindness and a vast, incomprehensible wisdom. Tucked into
his belt were the tools of a workman, hammers and files, tools for carving and
for measuring. He stood before an anvil, his arms open, inviting all to see his
handiwork. There, gleaming in marble on the workbench before him, was a skeletal
arm and hand. The bones were perfect, and the hand rested open, ready to accept
whatever the craftsman set inside it. She realized at once that there was
something significant in this. The hand hadn’t been formed into a fist. The arm
wasn’t poised to strike. The hand had been left open, inviting anything into
its grasp.

She had taken courses in art at
the university, but she had never attempted to interpret a statue for herself.
In all her life, it was the first time she had ever connected in such a personal
way to any form of art. She smiled to herself, feeling a single tear slip away
from her eye. She had been to this place so many times before, but she had
never seen the things she had seen this night. She had come seeking refuge, and
she had found more than she could have ever wanted. She looked at the back of
the figure praying before her. She smiled and understood the difference. This
time, she thought, this time, she had come with her friend.

She waited while he continued to
kneel, wondering if it would be okay to kneel beside him. She had never really
been keen on prayer; she’d never seen much purpose in it. She felt, however, a
powerful need to connect with him at that moment. She wanted to share her
discoveries with him right then and there. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t,
interrupt him as he prayed, so she nervously knelt on the wooden kneeler beside
him. She looked at him and clasped her hands before her, resting them on the
upper portion of the kneeler. She looked back at the craftsman and the hand,
letting her eyes glide over the smooth marble. Drothspar turned to look at her,
his skull pale and unemotional. Slowly, his head turned to face forward.

Sometime later, Drothspar stood
and backed away from the chapel. He watched as Chance, still kneeling, noticed
his absence. He saw the faintest hint of regret cross her eyes as she, too,
stood and backed away.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said
softly, her voice filled with wonder.

Drothspar tilted his head to the
side then nodded slowly.

“There is so much I’ve never seen
before,” she said, her eyes still on the statue. She turned to look at
Drothspar. “But I’ve seen all this so many times before.” She shook her head in
wonder.

Drothspar turned his body toward
the sanctuary of the Cathedral and beckoned her to follow. Chance stood a
moment longer looking back at the statue. She checked to make sure Drothspar
wasn’t watching, then turned back to the statue and waved a tentative hand. In
that moment, she was certain that the gentle smile of the craftsman was for
her. She put her hand quickly down to her side and rushed to catch up with
Drothspar.

The body of the church remained
empty as they headed back toward the sanctuary and the courtyard beyond. Tall
beeswax candles burned around the altar. Chance looked at the stone altar and
realized just how similar it was to the anvil of the craftsman far behind. Gold
and silver glittered around the altar, supporting the wax candles and gleaming
amidst the polished marble.

Drothspar paused at a wooden door
on the far left side of the sanctuary. He simply waited, his body showing no
signs of impatience. Chance tried to hurry, but her eyes wanted to be
everywhere. Having found so much that she had missed before, she looked now to
see everything. Finally, she looked at Drothspar and smiled. He opened the door
and held it for her.

They followed the hall to the
exit and stepped out into the Cathedral grounds. Though the night was dark, the
paths were lit by torches and the courtyard was well kept. Chance walked with
purpose through the night, eager to see Petreus and tell him about her
discoveries. She was also certain the priest would be happy to see his old
friend.

Though the courtyard was wide and
peaceful, it took only moments to reach their destination. The rectory was
filled with the glowing light of candles and the chatter of its inhabitants.
Chance knew the way to Petreus’ quarters and led them inside and down the main
hallway. They took the stairs up to the third floor and walked to Petreus’ cell
door. Chance was just about to knock as the door opened.

A man stood in the doorway
holding a bowl of stew in one hand and a frosted pastry in the other. His head
was mostly bald, save only for a few wispy white hairs that clung tenaciously
to the sides. His face was flushed and his breath carried the warm smell of
spirits. His eyes were a merry blue, and widened as they settled on Chance. He
spread his arms wide, displaying a portly frame as he smiled broadly at the
girl. Dimples sprung to life in his cheeks squeezing his eyes nearly closed.

“Sasha,” he exclaimed brightly,
“what are you doing here?” He looked her over quickly and noted the sallow,
fallen features of her smiling face. “You look as if you haven’t eaten for
days,” he exclaimed, noticing her eyes dart to his up-flung hands.

“Petreus,” she cried, slipping
under his arms and hugging him about the waist. He laughed pleasantly and
balanced the food in his hands.

“What in Heaven’s name are you
doing here, child? You know they’re still looking for you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, “I imagine they
are, but I had to leave the cottage.”

“Why?” he asked, concern starting
to wear at his smile.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” she
promised. “Is it all right if we come inside?”

“Of course,” he agreed, “of
course! I’m sorry, dear! I didn’t mean to keep you like a heathen in the
streets. Come in, come in!”

“Who’s the food for?” she asked,
still eyeing the steaming stew.

“Brother Steadword,” he replied,
looking away from her.

“He’s fasting, isn’t he?” she
said accusingly.

“What? Well…,” he blustered,
coughing and taking a sudden interest in straightening up his cell. His room
was more comfortable than the word “cell” implied. A single bed fitted to one
corner of the room allowed space for a dresser and wooden desk. Petreus set the
food on the desk and seated himself in a chair. Chance sat on the bed, smiling
broadly, and Drothspar stood a few feet from the door.

“I brought you an old friend,”
she announced warmly. “He’s really not himself as you knew him,” she warned, “so
please
try to take it easy.”

“Old friend, you say, Mmm… Well,
old ones are good ones, I always say. Who, then, have you brought me, dear?” He
eyed Drothspar curiously. Drothspar had worked to keep himself covered and
hidden from the priest’s eyes. His hood was drawn tightly about his head and
his hands were tucked inside his pockets. “Don’t be so shy,” he heard Petreus
say, “We’re all friends here, under God.”

“It’s okay, Drothspar,” Chance
said, “I’ll think he’ll understand.”

At the sound of the name, Petreus
stood quickly, as if faced with a ghost. His jaw dropped open and he inhaled
sharply. Slowly, Drothspar turned and drew his hands from his pockets. He faced
the priest and pushed his hood and wrappings back away from his head.

Petreus stared at the hollows
eyes of the skull, his own eyes threatening to leap from their sockets. The red
drained from his face to be replaced with a pale white and he took a step
fearfully back. Drothspar reached one hand out toward his old friend, but that
was too much for the priest.

Petreus stood as still as if he
had been made from the same marble as the statues in the Cathedral. He drew his
hands together and started speaking the Old Tongue in a forceful, monotonous
voice. Chance watched him, the smile bleeding from her face. Petreus moved his
hands in a stately and crisp fashion, the precursor, she realized, of the
peasant’s sign to ward off evil. The candles in the room flickered and dimmed
though no breeze stirred in the room. Drothspar took an unsteady step back, as
if some pressure were applying itself to his body.

“Be gone!” Petreus shouted and
pushed his hands out at Drothspar. His own eyes widened as he watched a
brilliant white light flash from his hands to strike the robed figure full in
the chest and head. Drothspar was pushed violently back across the room to slam
into the wall. The flowing light held his body suspended against the wall for a
moment before dropping him sharply to the ground.

“Stop!” Chance jumped off of the
bed and flew to Drothspar’s side. “Stop it!” she shouted again, as Petreus
began to chant once more. She stood and grasped the old priest’s hands, putting
herself between him and the fallen figure on the floor.