If Lapis had not walked the halls of the Cloister, she doubted the gold inlays and silver sconces would have sent shivers down her back and distrust raging through her, but they did. Everything in the entry gleamed, from the metallic paint used in the elaborate murals depicting deities, to the veins of gold and silver in the marbled tiles, creating a show of fake divine presence.
The white light in the sconces shimmered and wavered, a beautiful, ethereal display, and she understood why generations of shanks interpreted the light as ghosts instead of gods. How many of the illumination sources remained in working order throughout the tunnels? And why light them when they no longer functioned for a religious purpose?
“I knew someone would eventually make it to the temple, but I didn’t expect you.”
She blinked the spots in her vision away and focused on a bent, white-haired man in a black coat that hung to his ankles, an odd blot of dark against the brilliance surrounding him. His gnarled hand rested on a lever, which she assumed opened and closed the door, while the other remained behind his back. Priests of the Seven Gods would walk with one arm cocked behind their back, an ancient code that signaled they were not ready to draw a sword and fight, but rather conduct peaceful talks. Her uncle told her about the lore when she asked why people in her childhood picture books walked in so uncomfortable a position. She thought it silly, and he chuckled at her lack of awe.
An ancient ritual for an ancient time, he said. Modern usage made a mockery of a serious custom, for few, if any, of the holy people employing it understood its history.
“Us?” Patch asked, warily confused.
The man eyed him with brown eyes swimming in reddened whites. “I remember you as a lad, racing through the tunnels. You almost got into the Sarcaricium a time or two, through the double-barred gates leading to the shallow stairs.”
Patch’s face blanked, and Lapis swallowed. Who was this older man? What was he doing down there? He did not look like a syndicate shank or someone who worked for Diros, but who else could he be?
His attention turned to her, and she hoped her suspicion did not show. “I’m Lady Lanth, a chaser in Jiy,” she began.
“Ah!” He smiled at her as he shoved the lever down and the doors closed with monumental slowness. Tuft stepped out of the way, then focused on the man, stiff and distrustful. “The one who runs the reading circle!”
She nodded. He must not spend all his time down there, if he knew that.
“And you are?” Patch asked, as cold as she ever heard him. His patch swirled with activity, a warning that the man pushed him in the wrong direction.
“Darl Keter. I’m caretaker of this place. It’s gotten a bit harder since the syndicates want to knock down the walls, but we’ve managed to keep it hidden so far.”
“And what is ‘this place’?” Tuft asked, as suspicious as Patch.
“The Applebell’s Temple, dedicated to Chewraineve taming Omerdewrane’s wild nature and ushering in settled farming. It was once the main holy site for the Jils, and pilgrims from all over western Theyndora traveled here to pay homage. It’s got a long history, forgotten nowadays but for a few sentences in a snotty scholar’s book.” He shuffled away from the lever and motioned for them to follow him; while he wore a heavy coat, fluffy slippers that squeaked on the tiles covering his feet. Did he live down there? “Come, come. We don’t bite or judge. We leave that to the Seven and their Stars.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Path asked, her typical upbeat self. Did she not feel concerned about a stranger meeting them in a stranger place?
“The Bell sect,” he said. “We’ve kept to the old traditions since Taangis drove us underground.” He pressed a panel to the side of a doorway, and the clear glass parted for them. Clear glass. Lapis had not realized it blocked their way into the next room. That seemed very unlike something found in a traditional temple. “There’s more of us than you think scattered across western Theyndora. We’re descendants of the Jils, the Rams, the Albas, the Dens, and other tribes, and we take care of the remains of that heritage. Not that we follow the Omerdewrane religion, mind—most of us don’t—but there’s more to these hallowed halls than godly representations. In this shrine resides who the Jils were—and still are.”
What did that mean?
Path followed him, no reservations, and Lapis trotted to catch up, realizing he was their way out of the underground. Patch, Nolin and Tuft trailed them, stern and suspicious, which did not bother the stranger. They walked through a room with benches surrounding a central pool, the orange-gold tint to the tiles making the cyan water appear brighter. A pattern of knotted squares decorated the walls and repeated to the ceiling, where a pale blue sky heavy with clouds resided.
“This is where the priestly used to wash before entering the Tree Room,” Darl said, as if he gave a tour to history buffs. “That’s the one we just left. It’s where the main altar sits. The altar’s beautiful, made from sunset keltaitheerdaal, and was the envy of all tribal temples when in use.” They reached another glass barrier, which slid apart without a prompt. Who watched them and opened doors along their way?
She glanced at the others; only Path seemed more interested than wary.
“And this is the Salt. Before they washed, the priestly would lounge here and drink red water laced with a salt concoction. Why salt? Well, this mixture was supposed to represent them drinking the earth’s blood, so it needed to have the color, consistency and tang of blood. It’s why they used ceramic cups, too. An earthy vessel for an earthy drink.”
The new room had a plethora of wooden chaises with red cushions and golden stands next to them, and round golden carpets beneath each one with an apple in the center. The same orange-gold tiling subtly glowed, giving the air an ethereal vibrance.
“How did you keep all this hidden?” Lapis asked.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he admitted. “Especially when Jiy constructed the train tracks. The caretakers had to out themselves to the Cultural Conservation and Management House and claim cultural heritage to keep them from wrecking the temple. Luckily they had a few sympathetic administrators who kept their presence secret, more or less, so when Dentheria brought the hammer down, they could fade away into obscurity again without the invaders any wiser. And now? Well, ghosts are a handy thing.”
She had no idea how to interpret the look on Nolin’s face, though Patch’s skepticism brought a small smile to her lips. She knew one Ghost, and one was plenty.
“Upkeep’s easier now since the underground started selling tech. We have access to advanced materials to replace older things and machines that just don’t work anymore. Historians love to pretend Theyndora was a backwoods continent ripe for technological empires to plunder, but that simply wasn’t the case. There was tech, just not of the weaponry variety. Like the glass doors. A wonder, those. Pressure plates in the tiles trigger and open them based on weight.” He wobbled his head back and forth. “And we have as many cameras down here as the palace. Tells us when the rowdies are getting too shanky, and we take action.”
“Like employing the white lights?” Tuft asked.
“Yes. Scares them every time. Don’t know why—it’s just light.”
Not just light. Spooky shimmery light in a normally dark environment.
“And if the white lights don’t work, well, green lights and vibrations do.”
“I can’t breathe through the vibrations,” Lapis said, setting a hand to her chest.
“Most have problems,” he agreed. “It’s a low enough frequency it can jiggle your insides and interfere with sensors. Ah, Marel, there you are.”
“You foolish old man.” A woman using a cane walked to them, the wariness they felt reflected in her deep brown eyes. She wore her shiny brown hair in a tall bun, and long dark robes and a coat kept her warm. Lapis recalled similar outfits worn by nobles in picture books that took place before Taangis invaded Theyndora.
“I told you they wouldn’t harm me,” he muttered. “They aren’t shanks. Besides, it’s better I let them in than them prying the doors open.”
“That’s not your primary purpose,” she reminded him. She stopped and shook out her bell sleeves. “No, we’ve been watching what’s transpired in Dentheria.” Lapis fought not to shrink under her penetrating gaze. “And we think we can help Jilvayna weather the coming storm.”
