The Heart of the Thief: The Temple

 Previous Chapter: The Palace

In the beginning, there was nothing. When God, known as Rankar to our race, awoke, time and space were born, and God realized his own existence. A great loneliness filled His being, and this loneliness manifested a desire for creation. In a sacrificial act, God sundered his form. Out of the hollow of His body, the three tiers of the world were made. The Heavens were made from His skull, the Earth from His rib cage, and the Underworld from His bowels, the rest of His organs being distributed amongst the Earth. Whoever found a piece of God was granted the Gift of Rankar—awareness of their own being. How many pieces of God existed is not known, though since Man is thought to have been made in His image, some scholars believe that for every organ of Man, Rankar left a corresponding part. What we do know is that our sentience is tied to the Heart, which lies in the buried Pyramid of Arat, housed in the Temple of God. Were it to suffer the Corruption, the devolution of our race would ensue. Soul-less husks we would become: Lilu, creatures doomed to madness and slow decay. For this reason, the Heart shall never leave the Temple. For any but a Priest to speak of It is forbidden. Any man who does not heed this edict is sentenced to death, and dishonor follows his house for ten generations. So shall this Age continue, and the evolution of Man be protected.

Sisyphus Herodotus
On the Creation of the Maat, and the sacrifice of Rankar, Vulgate of Herodotus

 
The Temple
It was cool and quiet in the antechamber save for the omnipresent sound of dripping water. Flickering torches danced with the shadows, painting violent shapes on the cavernous walls. The Thief traced his fingertips against the stones and withdrew them wet. A humid wind gusted through the tunnel, bringing with it the smell of mold. Setting down his lute, the Thief removed a crimson robe from the instrument and pulled it over his clothing. It was a disguise meant to fool at a distance, for there was only a handful of priests permitted to enter the inner temple and all were known to each other. He pushed the lute into a corner out of sight and continued down the passageway, head bowed, hands clasped together in the manner of a holy man. Could never stand them, he thought. Gloomy bastards preserving the social order with false promises and divine justifications. At least they don’t ask us to cut off our balls. A heretical sect seemingly populated solely by madmen and former drunks, the Anti-Natalists prowled the slums of Capetia, preaching of the futility of life while wearing their own severed genitalia around their necks. Religion was for the rich or the loonies; the working people prayed to minor gods of the hearth and home, if they prayed at all. This was the Thief’s observation, and he himself had no use for gods. Of course, every thief had to pay dues to Lady Luck, whether that meant leaving a sovereign in her fountain on the Square or taking just a little less on a job than one could have. But the Thief considered the Lady an elemental force of the universe akin to gravity rather than a sentient being receiving prayers and dispensing fortune. He saw no contradiction in tossing coins before a statue and viewing the Cultists with derision.
    He came upon a four-way junction. To his left, he could see nothing but darkness, and the air was foul. The passage on his right was also gloomy, but he thought he could see figures in the dark, spider-like shapes whose limbs stretched to the ceiling, searching the emptiness with feigned blindness. Straight ahead, the stone walls gave way to tile arranged in an alternating pattern of red and blue, and this was the way the Thief chose, though he stopped and took off his boots before walking across the tile, which was wise, for at the end of the passage, tucked into an alcove that he didn’t notice till he was too close, was a guard sitting in a chair. It had a jackal’s head; great paws with worn claws rested upon its knees. The head was bent down with weariness, and its eyes were shut, though the long ears stood erect, while the nose twitched, tasting the air. A cudgel leaned against the chair, an evil-looking weapon adorned with heavy metal studs. The Thief didn’t know what to make of the thing—Cassilda had warned of enchantments and traps, not jackal-headed sentries—so he stood and watched it for a moment. The jackal breathed slowly, its chest expanding and collapsing in a rhythmic sequence. He looked down at the marble floor and saw it was shiny and unmarked. With agonizing slowness, he stepped into the light. The jackal did not stir, but his nose ceased twitching for an almost imperceptible second to take a sharp sniff. The Thief took another step. The long, stiff ears rotated towards his position, and the thin lips parted to reveal long, sharp teeth. The Thief moved quickly now, lunging forward. The jackal jumped out of his chair just as the Thief leapt past him, and his claws scraped the tiled floor. He snarled and snapped his jaws on nothingness before turning and looking in the Thief’s direction with gleaming eyes. The passage was dim, but the Thief stood only a few paces away, and it was possible that the creature could see in the dark. He did not move, didn’t dare to breathe; his body was stagnant, a part of the nothingness that surrounded it. The jackal stood staring for a minute, then with a sniff returned to its chair.
    The Thief walked out of the tiled passage into a large circular chamber. Three huge statues loomed in the center of the room, a pedestal before each. The statue on the left depicted a satyr, with pipes in one hand and an apple in the other. Its face smiled a malevolent grin as though it were witnessing a lynching or some other evil deed. The Thief thought of the painting of the faun in Dazbog’s tower, and he was sure that the statue was a rendition of Prax, one of the Heretical Seven, the god of the pagan forests.
    The second statue portrayed a slender creature with long, elegant limbs leaning against a tree stump. It possessed a delicate neck and a small head that held large, circular eyes that reminded the Thief of a lemur’s orbs. There were two rabbit-like ears atop the creature’s head. It looked to be a thing at home in a forest glen or gully, taking shelter beneath the trees, appearing like a shadow out of the early mists of the morn, seen at the riverside at a distance only to vanish with a second glance. He felt no loathing towards it as he had the statue of Prax; rather, it calmed him to look upon a form so interesting.
    The third statue was of a man. He held a scepter in his left hand and a sword in the right, and upon his brow was a crown of rings. His visage was noble, but there was danger in it, as though he were capable of great wrath. At his feet were a scroll and an olive branch. The Thief knew little of history, but he guessed that the man must be the Pallas Emperor, the great conqueror who came from an unknown land four hundred years ago to unite the divided countries of Ur.
    Before the statues and the pedestals was a pile of stones. The Thief stared at them for a while before he realized they were shaped in the likeness of the body’s organs. There was a brain, liver, lung, kidney, and heart. It was a test, he surmised—a door stood behind the statues, solid and smooth. He would have to place the organs on the correct pedestals to open the door.
    The Thief picked up the heart stone and placed it in the pedestal before the Emperor. Though he had nearly no formal education, he was Capetian and every Capetian, from urchin boys to wealthy merchants, knew that the Pallas Emperor himself had given the Heart of Rankar to the Dukedom of Massalia. Now he had four organs and two statues left. After several minutes of racking his brain for the slightest hint, he came away empty of mind and bitter of spirit. He was a thief, after all, not a scholar or loremaster, and he might have stood there forever had he not noticed a single imprint on the pedestal before the second statue. Checking the first pedestal, the Thief discerned three slight round spots where stones had sat. He had a one in four chance of guessing the correct order.
    “I will give you a sovereign, Lady, if you kiss my hand,” he whispered, blindly reaching towards the stones. His hand seized upon the lung, and so he brought it to the second pedestal. The rest he lay on the altar of Prax. As soon as his hand had left the last stone, the door groaned and opened.
    There was emptiness beyond the door, a black expanse dotted with far-away lights, stars perhaps, or maybe fireflies lost in the gloom. There were slabs of stone floating in the nothingness large enough for a man to stand on. The Thief balanced himself on the doorway and leapt. He was tall but light and agile, and he landed squarely on the first stone. For a moment the instinct to look down seized him, and he did as those who climb great heights know to do not. Infinity yawned below, an endless gulf that would kill with madness before one reached the bottom. The Thief steadied himself, banishing the fear, and reached into his pockets to feel the sovereign he had promised the Lady. If he died, who would toss the coin into Luck’s pool? This reasoning gave him faith, and he was able to make the jumps. At the last stone, there was a door, its outline wreathed in veins and arteries. He had no choice but to pass through.
    He was in a small, candle-filled chamber. Murals covered the walls, depicting the bequeathal of body parts to strange peoples. In the center of the room, there was a table with two chairs, one of which was occupied by a hooded figure who sat with his hands before him, presumably staring at a small red object that pulsated on the table. He turned towards the Thief and beckoned, gesturing to the chair. The Thief turned around and discovered that there was no door behind him. Seeing no other option, he stepped forward and took the other chair.
    “You are a thief,” said the man in a voice that was almost a whisper. His words reeked of dust and disuse.
    “I am the Thief,” said the Thief. The heart on the table was red and glistening, as though it had just been removed.
    “You want the Heart? Go ahead and take it.”
    The Thief didn’t move. He looked around the chamber for any hint of an exit and saw a sarcophagus in a corner. The lid was ajar.
    “This is a tomb,” he said, wondering if it would be his own.
    The man’s face was visible for a split second, and the Thief saw gaunt, fleshless skin pulled taut like sun-dried leather. He almost pushed his chair backwards, but he knew that there was nowhere to escape.
    “They think that their spells and illusions keep it here, arrogant as they are. I have been with it for a very long time. It speaks to me, and though I do not know the words, I understand. The Emperor gave me the draught that ate my flesh and prolonged the years. Four-hundred seasons have passed since I saw the sun, and the moon is the eye of my memory. With your arrival, my long vigil has ended. Though I know naught of your purpose, the Heart of the Elder God is yours. It is not something you can steal.”
    Then the man took the Heart from the table and pressed it into the chest of the Thief. As soon as this was done, the man’s cloak dissolved into dust, leaving behind a pile of bones that were dry and splintering. The Thief staggered out of his chair, clutching his chest. With every beat of his heart, he felt the walls shake; the room shuddered in his vision, as though unsure of what it would become. He saw a light shining out of the sarcophagus, a green glow, and he made his way towards it, stumbling from side to side, heart racing like a beaten drum. Time was of the essence, some trap had been triggered, and so with a final lurch, the Thief fell into the light.
    He hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact to rest on his side. A guttural voice shouted and told him to remain where he was. There was Cassilda running towards him with panic in her eyes and a flask in her hand. She pulled him to his feet and told him to run, and the Thief obeyed, for he saw the Medjay warrior coming at him from the side, spear poised, bright helmet-plume billowing madly in the mountain breeze. He ran with the sorceress to the edge of the steps and peered down into the abyss below, feeling his stomach curl as he beheld the fathomless gulf.
    “Trust me,” said the witch in his ear. She thrust the flask into his hand.
    “Drink from it and jump.”
    The Thief was about to protest, but then Cassilda leapt off the mountain, and his words hung in the air like the memory of her falling form. The rational part of his mind refused to work, so he pressed the bottle to his lips, swallowed the briny-tasting liquid, threw the flask in the direction of the charging Medjay, and stepped off the ledge into thin air. Several seconds passed before he opened his eyes and saw that he was plummeting through a cloud, the surface of the earth far away, but growing closer every second. The wind swept through his ears, roaring, and the Thief opened his mouth to scream a silent scream. He had thought the potion in the flask to be magic of some kind and had half-expected to grow wings or float through the air like a zeppelin. Had the witch given him salt-water? Did she think to pillage his battered corpse for the Heart? He looked around madly to see if Cassilda flew about him to bear witness to his death and pick his bones. When he looked down again, the earth was rushing towards him, and he shut his eyes, unable to watch the end.

    He felt a massive tug on his body, as though someone had caught him and held fast. The next second he was planted face-first into hot sand. After a few moments the hammering in his chest subsided, so the Thief rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. The mountain loomed above, gigantic, the buried pyramid at its apex obscured by clouds. He picked himself up and examined his surroundings. He was in the desert on the far side of the mountain, the great Dash-Margot, where sand storms could tear the flesh from your bones and the wild tribes of the Haliurunnae roamed. It was a world apart from Capetia, for the sun burned hotter on the wastes, and a drop of water was more precious than gold. He had begun to shed his priest’s robe when a voice rang out, causing him to sputter in the sand.
    “I wouldn’t take that off if I were you,” said Cassilda. “It will provide shelter from the sun, and we have a decent walk ahead of us. It’s nice to see that you were able to make the jump. I probably should have discussed our escape more thoroughly with you, but I guessed you would have balked at jumping off a mountain. Had things gone differently, we would have walked back down through the palace. I assume that you obtained the Heart?”
    The Thief looked down at his chest. Cassilda marched up to him and tore the neck of his robe, revealing a battered breast with one prominent scar etched across his left pectoral, purple and fresh. She whistled as she saw it.
    “Did it hurt?” she asked.
    “It still hurts,” complained the Thief. “How are we to get it out of me?”
    “Leave that to me. It shan’t be terribly difficult, though you may have to carry it for a while.”
    “Awhile, huh? And just how are we getting out of this desert? We can’t walk around the mountain. That’s the way they’ll be coming for us.”
    “Really, master thief, you shouldn’t be incensed. Everything went rather splendidly. Frankly, I didn’t expect you to succeed. We had no way of knowing what was in the pyramid, but you seem to have been up to its challenges. This will be another story to add to your legend. But first, as you said, we must escape this wasteland. We will go into the desert, which is not what they will expect. Several miles from here is a ruin, and within the ruin is a portal that we must activate. That’s how we will get back to Capetia, and from there access a ship to take us elsewhere. Doesn’t sound too difficult, no? Let us get started.”
    Cassilda marched across the desert heading west, and the Thief followed. The sand was thick, and the sun beat down upon them with blistering heat, yet Cassilda showed no sign of discomfort or burning, despite the meager protection her courtesan dress provided. The amulet around her neck sparkled emerald as they crossed dune after dune, the landscape unchanging except for the random presence of a stunted cactus or sage bush. Once the Thief thought he saw something slithering in the distance, a row of spikes jutting from the sand, but then the horizon shimmered, and it disappeared. His throat soon grew parched, and though he wished to ask Cassilda for water, he was quiet, for he did not want her to think him weak. After several hours of walking, the sun began to sink in the sky, and the heat subsided somewhat. When they saw a cave in a rocky outcropping, they decided to rest for a while.
    “Have you ever been in the desert before, Thief?” asked Cassilda, taking off her slippers. Her feet were red and blistered. The Thief found his to be in little better condition.
    “I’ve had no cause to wither under the merciless sun. I prefer a roof above my head and drink to be within arms reach.”
    “Thirsty?”
    She took a small stone from her dress and gave it to him.
    “Wring water from a stone?” asked the Thief.
    “Some wizard’s idea of a joke. Squeeze it, and it will become moist and slippery.”
    “Now is not the time or place, woman. I feel as though my chest is about to burst. Any excitement is liable to kill me…”
    “You are being quite absurd. Do as I say, and you will drink.”
    He found that she was right. The stone trickled several drips of water onto his parched tongue, and despite the meager amount of moisture produced, he found that his thirst had been quenched.
    “Really, Thief, there is far more to life than sex. Not that I am a maiden or a prude, but it is advisable to occupy your thoughts with more than breasts and arses from time to time.”
    “You’ve been in here,” he said, tapping his skull, “so you know that I am a very complicated person.”
    “Complicated compared to what? A doorknob is complicated to an ape. Your psyche was not layered like an onion. You are a simple man, in fact. Which is fine, Thief. There are no good reasons to yearn for complication.”
    “Simple people are easy to please. They do not operate outside of the normal channels of society because they do not know better. I am an outsider. A rule-breaker. A man of many talents…”
    “Yes, yes. You are the greatest thief that ever lived, and there is no way that such a legend as yourself could ever be considered a simple man. Let me ask you something, master thief: can you sum up your occupation in three words?”
    “I steal things,” said the Thief.
    “That’s your raison d'être. The summation of your being. I rest my case.”
    “You make magics. There. I did as you did.”
    “Surreptitiously burglarizing a joint is not comparable to manifesting extra-dimensional energies.”
    “Comparing what I do to common theft is like comparing you to a fire juggler.”
    “Alright, let’s not get carried away, or you’re liable to be turned into a toad or something far worse…”
    “I am not a child, I know magicians cannot transform people into animals…”
    “I am astounded by your knowledge. I think we have rested enough. Get out. Back into the desert, oh vessel of the Heart.”
    They walked for about thirty minute before Cassilda stopped. They stood atop a dune, and a valley lay below them.
    “What do you see?” asked the Thief.
    “I see the same waste as you. I feel something, however. The Haliurunnae may lie in wait below. At dusk their robes appear no different from the desert sands.”
    “We have nothing to steal. Would they kill us for sport?”
    “They’d probably take you to sell as a slave to the Northrons. As for myself, they would remove my head and scatter my limbs in different directions. The Haliurunnae detest mages and consider magic an abomination.”
    “You are no longer bound by the enchantments of the pyramid,” pointed out the Thief. “What do you have to fear from witch-hunters?”
    Cassilda sighed and touched her amulet. The Thief heard a faint buzzing noise and noticed that the valley wavered as though he were viewing it through a cloudy lens.
    “A dagger to the heart is just as lethal to a witch as a thief. If they are out there, then they should not be able to see us. They could still hear us, though, so keep quiet.”
    The Thief mumbled something rather foul, but Cassilda pretended not to hear. They slid down into the valley, taking care not to tumble down the steep slopes, watching as they descended for any sign of the Haliurunnae. The Thief had a faint conception of the tribesmen based on tales told around the hearth during his adolescence, most of which involved cannibalism, ritualized blood-drinking, and giant sandworm steeds. He was about to ask Cassilda about the veracity of such stories, particularly the giant sandworms, when she stopped walking, took his shoulder, and pointed. A white ruin shimmered in the distance like a ghost materializing in the near dark. It was little more than a set of stairs and an archway, but figures sat before it, smoking pipes and talking in soft, quiet voices. Three camels huddled nearby with their long legs folded beneath them, weighted down with heavy packs, their prongs twinkling in the eve. The Thief had seen a camel before, but that beast was unimpressive compared to these creatures, who were larger and double-humped. He wondered why their prongs glowed and surmised that it must be some form of communication evolved to cross the vast distances of the desert.

    “It’s rotten luck that they’re here. That archway the tribesmen are sitting under is the portal. I must perform an incantation to open it, and such an action will require a great deal of energy, almost more than I can muster. I won’t be able to waste any effort on these people, and anyways, it is likely that they’ll be wearing wards to protect them from spells. The Northrons trade with them, selling outdated weaponry that surpasses anything the Duke’s men wield. It looks to me like that one on the right has a gun resting across his lap. I know a spell to stop projectiles, but I don’t think I could cast it quickly enough at close range.”
    The Thief looked at the witch sullenly. Saying nothing, he walked out of the invisible bubble and moved towards the tribesmen, walking swiftly but stopping every now and then to stand for several seconds like a statue, fading into the night as he did so. There must be a magic art to his movements thought Cassilda, for she lost sight of him immediately, his outline disappearing before her eyes. When she saw him again, he was on the other side of the ruin, crouched down beside the camels with a knife in hand. She wondered for a second if he meant to kill the men, but then the knife pricked a camel’s backside, and the surprised beast let loose a terrified roar and bolted, its companions bellowing at its heels. Two of the tribesmen leapt up and chased after the animals, but the man with the gun stood his ground, weapon raised. She started walking quickly to the ruin, having seen the Thief vanish, and the man must have heard her, for he pointed his gun in her direction and said something in his language that could have been a curse or a prayer. Cassilda was just about to cast a spell to prevent the sound of gunfire from reverberating across the desert when the Thief sprang from behind the man and clasped a hand over his mouth. The tribesman dropped the gun, for a knife was at his throat, and sank to his knees, babbling incoherently. Suddenly his muttering ceased, though his lips kept moving, and the man’s eyes widened in terror as Cassilda materialized out of the darkness before him. She went to the archway and placed her hands on its sides and spoke loudly in a commanding voice, the magic language of Elmeric ushering coarse and guttural from her lips as though the words came from the raw inner workings of the earth itself. The doorway shook; the space between the archway split open, and the smell of salt and brine filled the night air. The Thief heard Cassilda shouting—something had gone wrong, it wasn’t the right place—so he threw the tribesman forward on his face and ran towards her.
    “Into the portal!” she screamed, her face contorted in a grimace of pain, the amulet on her neck radiating pure green fire. “It’s about to fall apart, we have no other choice!”
    A gunshot rang out, and a bullet whizzed past the Thief’s face. Without a backwards glance, he leapt into the portal.
    Water, warm and salty, filled his lungs. He thrashed about, paddling through the darkness, unsure which way was up or down. Something swam past him, brushing his leg, and the Thief began to panic. He felt a tug on his foot and imagined jaws clamped on his boot, preparing to drag him into the deep. Fighting his instincts, he looked down and saw a blurry, human-sized image and the faint outline of a boat past it and realized that he was upside down in the water. With a few hard kicks he surfaced and breathed precious air, Cassilda appearing beside him, gasping for breath. They were near a massive vessel, a ship of iron sides, smoke rising from a tall center stack, and voices shouted and threw down a ladder for them to climb. The sorceress went first, followed by the Thief, and when they reached the deck, they found themselves surrounded by tall, stony-eyed Northrons, clad in blue and grey. The captain, a bearded man with a humorless face, directed them to a cabin, speaking to Cassilda in the Trade Dialect, of which the Thief knew little. The room was small, with one bunk atop the other, and a porthole in the wall to let in the light of the sea. After the captain left, the Thief collapsed upon the bottom bunk, and let loose a long, wheezing sigh. His legs hurt, his chest ached, and his brain wished to process the extensive events of the day, but the witch stood staring, hands on hips, the faintest of smiles on her face. He could tell that she wanted to talk to him, to ask about the precious Heart that resided within his chest. He didn’t feel up to an examination.

    “Don’t you need sleep?” he asked, turning away.
    “I find it strange that you are not the least bit curious about our present circumstances,” said Cassilda.
    “I assumed it was all part of the plan. The one you didn’t tell me of.”
    “This ship was not part of the plan, actually. I miscalculated where the portal would drop us. There must’ve been something here before it was swallowed by the sea. These Northrons, however, are heading for San-Elza, and from there I can book a ship to the Shimmering Isles. Terribly polite, these Northrons. I told him I could pay him handsomely, but he refused the offer. Said he wouldn’t dream of charging half-drowned survivors.”
    “What are we survivors of?” asked the Thief.
    “I’m not quite sure. I didn’t specify, and the captain didn’t press, being a Northron. It would probably help to get our story straight.”
    “We can do that tomorrow. Let me be,” said the Thief.
    “Very well. But I’m not sleeping on the top bunk, Thief.”
    He moved before she made him, grumbling the whole time.

Next Chapter: The Pursuers