To help with the large cast of characters,
I have put together a spoiler-free Dramatis Personae
The monk — who gave his name as Ŏnin1 — brought the two young pilgrims inside the temple as night deepened into a moonless black. They were brought to a receiving room where it was customary to bring the mourning visitors who had come to offer prayers for their dead. This room was wide, with a low ceiling and a row of simple wooden chairs all around the perimeter. Min La was placed in one of these chairs just as another monk came in with a lantern. This new arrival was younger, with wide, startled eyes.
“Ah,” said Ŏnin when he saw him. “It’s good you’re here. Please put together a pilgrim’s meal and see that the pilgrims’ cells are readied for occupants.”
The monk bowed and left. But then Ŏnin called him back and told him to leave the lantern. The little monk bowed and brought it over, setting it upon the stone floor next to him.
So Ga sat heavily in the chair next to Min La. He was sweating and breathing hard and so loosened his cloak.
The monk asked their names, but did not press them when they offered no Housename. He knelt in front of Min La and said, “I will look at your leg. Is it an injury?”
But Min La shook his head, pulling his body away from Ŏnin. “I’m fine. I just need to rest.”
“My boy,” Ŏnin said patiently, “if you do not see to it, no amount of rest will prevent it from worsening. And then you won’t be able to walk at all.”
The speech reminded So Ga of the one that Min La had given him on the night the last of his bodyswords had died, the night their companionship had begun.
He looked at Min La. “He’s right,” he said quietly. “We can spare a little time to see to your knee, or we might not make it the rest of the way.”
Min La took a deep breath, one trembling hand gripping his left leg just above the knee. Then, with a glance at So Ga, he nodded.
“We will bring you boys some food,” the monk said conversationally, as be pushed aside Min La’s golt and rolled up the leg of his linen pants. As he did so, So Ga remembered that they had both received the clothes they were wearing at the Ŏklo estate, a time and a place that felt divided from them as if by years and years.
When the monk had at last uncovered Min La’s knee, it was a frightening sight to behold. The flesh around his kneecap had swollen horribly and turned red and purple. The kneecap itself seemed to have been pushed aside by the swelling and pressed sharply against the skin on the side of his leg.
“This must have caused you a great deal of pain,” the monk said, looking up at Min La.
But he just moved his shoulders and said, “It has become difficult to walk.”
The monk tried to stifle a small laugh. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Another monk, not the young one from before, entered the room and bowed. “Brother,” he said softly, “we have prepared baths.”
“Very good,” Ŏnin said as he stood. With his hands tucked into the blue sleeves of his thick golt, he bowed and instructed So Ga, rather forcefully, to follow the monk and to bathe. Min La’s breathing immediately quickened. So Ga, of course, did not move. The monk looked with warm eyes from one to the other.
“You are both quite safe here,” he said softly. “But you also clearly haven’t washed in some days. And you,” he looked at Min La, “you need to soak that knee in some herbs which we will prepare. Only then can we reduce the swelling. Otherwise you won’t be walking anywhere anytime soon.”
At last Min La looked at So Ga and nodded once. Ŏnin watched and the monk by the door waited. So Ga stood, leaving the bag with Min La, and followed the monk, glancing back once just in case Min La changed his mind.
By the time So Ga and Min La reunited, an hour or so later, Min La’s knee had been bound by a plaster from which emanated the unmistakable foul odor of a poultice. So Ga found him resting in the little room where they brought him after he had finished bathing. Both of them were wearing borrowed monk’s robes while their own clothes were being cleaned. Min La was sitting on a simple straw-stuffed mattress, his back against the stone wall of their little room, his wet hair darkening the shoulder of his blue golt. Another mattress rested against the other wall and in between the two was a low table laden with simple monk’s fare; bread, dry cheese, a few thick pieces of salted pork, and preserved vegetables. A clay pot of tea steamed atop a stove that had been placed in the room and which had already warmed it.
The smell of the poultice became stronger when So Ga sat on his mattress.
“What is that?” he asked, grimacing.
Min La smiled. “I was too scared to ask.”
“Is it helping, at least?”
“Yes,” he answered with a nod. “It feels better.”
“Was your water hot? I don’t think I realized how cold I’d become. Like it had taken hold of my bones.”
Min La shook his head. “Mine had to be cold.” He motioned to his knee. “He was going on about driving out the heat and things like that. But that’s warm.”
He pointed to the little stove near the foot of their mattresses, which glowed hotly and poured a comforting, dry warmth all over their legs where they sat.
“We should eat,” he said, working himself gingerly across his mattress.
“What should we do—”
Min La put up a hand. “Tomorrow,” he said with a smile. “Tomorrow we’ll decide what to do. Tonight, we sleep and we rest.”
So Ga nodded and began to eat, surprised at how hungry he was. It didn’t take long for all the dishes to be emptied. He noticed that he had eaten more than Min La, which worried him a little.
After they ate, So Ga cupped his hands around his clay tea cup and scooted to the edge of his mattress. “Do you think they would let us go to the temple?”
Min La sipped his tea. “Temples of Ávoth are never closed. I don’t think they would stop us.”
“Can you walk?” He glanced at Min La’s knee.
“With a little help.”
So Ga and Min La hobbled slowly down the narrow stone hallway. The floor was bitterly cold and cut through their new socks, but the temple was quiet and the dark that gripped it gently had a comforting effect. Min La could move faster than before, but So Ga urged him not to overdo it.
“Otherwise we’ll be stuck here for days waiting for you to be able to walk again.” He meant it as a joke, but Min La seemed troubled by the words. He had seemed troubled for a while, ever since they had left the Kodas, but So Ga wasn’t sure he knew how to ask him what had darkened his mind. And he wasn’t sure Min La would tell him anyway. As always, there were still parts of him that were walled off, parts So Ga guessed he would never see.
At last they reached the main chamber of the temple. Finding it had been easy; so glutted with candlelight, the room had glowed like a beckoning star, a glow that had been visible, even faintly, ever since they had left their room.
The large, radiant room was a perfect square with a high ceiling ribbed with painted white beams arranged in the shape of a four-pointed star from the center of which hung pale amber lanterns. There were no benches or chairs in the temple, and the clean floor was smooth, white tile. All around the white, plastered walls had been painted an intricate mural depicting the key points in the story of Ávoth. Drawn in the northern style, the figures were large and the other elements done with stylized flourishes meant to represent flowing water.
On the eastern wall, where the story began, Ávoth — with his long white hair and glowing blue eyes — admired the rivers he had used to construct his world, which became his House. By his side stood his sister, Ívo, and their parents Ávolendin, the guardian of the sea, and Ethádéoth, who had gifted mankind language. Ávoth was gesturing to his rivers, remarking to his parents that they were the marriage of their two domains: the sea and communication.
Ávoth continued to tend his rivers, using them to help his cousins and their many attendants all along the remainder of the eastern wall. By the time the story reached the corner, he had received his own attendants, all dressed in blue, who tended the brilliant blue waters of Ávoth’s rivers as one would a field. And from the plowed rivers emerged story and legend. And these flowed to the empty lands that had been readied for men.
Upon the north wall had been painted the beginnings of Ávoth’s friendship with Unolreth, the son of his cousin Soranen. Unolreth was depicted wrapped in white garments, a hood encircling his head, and wide, white eyes. He admired Ávoth’s rivers and implored the warm-hearted Ădol to allow him to traverse them. In one corner of the northern wall, Unolreth’s true intention was hidden: he sought the Deep Light, longing to pervert it for his own purposes, which were not yet known. Hiding all but his eyes, he peered out from the star-shaped portholes of Ávoth’s ship hoping to spy the glowing, watery primordial light that only Ávoth and his father were able to see.
The western wall was the grimmest. So Ga and Min La stood in silence staring at the terrible depiction thereon. Here was Unolreth learning from some hidden source how he could divine the secrets Ávoth would not reveal. A shadowy, watery spirit spoke to Unolreth; his white robes had become partially black, as if soot-stained, his large eyes were red. He carried a knife partly concealed in his sleeve.
Then, with his partly altered clothes and his red eyes, he went to Ávoth, tricking him to go with him to his own estate high in the mountains to the north. Ávoth, ever-trusting, eagerly accompanied him. The cup that Unolreth used to poison him was painted black, like a shadow upon the wall. Ávoth, having just drunk from it, was sprawled on the floor of Unolreth’s black Hall. And Unolreth — robes entirely black, face as gray as death, eyes red and glowing — had at last become Volhathin, and stood over the dying Ădol, knife poised.
In the next panel, Ávoth’s bloody body lay upon a kind of stone table, or altar. Volhathin stood over him, his arms red up to the elbows, his mouth stained with blood. Below this, painted near the floor, Ávoth’s rivers burst from their carefully-ordered containment, flooding his world and all the others with river water, with death.
On the south wall stood the altar. The monks had painted it white, allowing for intricate decorations of blue along the pillars and the corners. Placed upon it was a statue of Ávoth carved from white stone, with only his eyes and his robes tinted a pale blue. He stood — as tall as a man — looking down at them, his arms outstretched, the sleeves of his golt like flowing water. Before him, upon the altar, stood hundreds of slender candles, all lighted, placed in a long stone canal filled with blue sand. The altar itself stretched as wide as the chamber. On the floor in front of it rested dozens of brass dishes, each laden with hundreds of small pieces of paper. It was the custom of pilgrims to place the names of their recently dead at Ávoth’s feet. Then, when the moon was new and the weather calm, the monks would burn them according to the rites. The ashes, scattered in the nearby Osa Lí River, would make their way to the ear of Ávoth, who would know to welcome these dead into his ships and thus convey them safely over the rivers of his House. From time to time, pilgrims would then return and light candles to Ávoth, to thank him for his care. It was said that these candles illuminated his House and that without them the rivers of the dead would be plunged into darkness and the waters would again threaten the world.
So Ga went to the side of the altar and retrieved three candles from a little wooden box. These he lit using the flames from the others and set them in the sand-filled canal with a few murmured words.
“Who are they?” Min La asked quietly.
“The others,” So Ga replied, tucking his cold hands into the sleeves of his golt.
“Others?”
“The other princes.”
“But you don’t know for sure that they’re dead.”
“I do. Before we left the Palace grounds we met one of the royal guards and he told us.” He paused, then added, “They all died in my place.”
“Did you know each other?” Min La asked.
So Ga offered him a small smile. “We weren’t supposed to.”
“But you did?”
He nodded. “We had our ways.”
Min La retrieved a candle of his own, limping slowly back to the center of the altar where he lit it and placed it near So Ga’s.
“Only one?” So Ga asked, after Min La had finished his silent prayer.
He answered, “If I lit one for each of them, I fear I would burn down the temple.” Then he turned and held out his arm for So Ga to support him. “Come,” he said, “let’s go back.”
So Ga nodded and together they returned to their little pilgrim’s room and slept deeply in their borrowed blue robes.
Tucked heavily beneath the blue of Ávoth, hidden within the walls of Ávoth, tended by the monks of Ávoth, Min La dreamt. The strange landscape of his tumultuous mind had been ripe for disturbance. And so, for the first time in many years he dreamt of the horrible night on which the Nŭnon House was removed from the world of the living, the night his family had died, the night he had failed them.
When he, a boy of eleven, had failed to procure the papers that could have saved his sister and her family, he had attempted to flee, to save himself like a coward, by running along the rooftops of his father’s estate, which was otherwise empty. A group of five royal soldiers had seen him and had begun to taunt him by throwing rocks at him. Though he had been quick on his feet — especially then — he couldn’t dodge them all. One connected with the side of his head and he fell off the roof, landing hard on the packed earth between structures.
In the distance, the many estates around the prince’s were utterly quiet. The Nŭnon House had not offered resistance. The men had brought poison to their wives and children and then, having seen their families off, they had submitted to execution with dignity and honor. That was how his father had described it, but Min La didn’t see much honor then in allowing himself and his family to be executed for a crime they had not committed. Min La’s brother had said that worse things were happening inside the estates of the officers, but Min La hadn’t known what he meant. He had merely offered to obtain the papers that could save his sister, papers that would identify her and her daughter, Min La’s niece, as residents of On Dŭn. Before his brother and his sister’s husband could say anything about his plan, he had darted off. He had never seen any of them again.
While he lay on the cold dirt trying to catch his breath, he regretted his foolish choice to travel by rooftop, instead of along the ground keeping to the shadows. He regretted wearing boots when it would have been quieter to go barefoot. But most of all he regretted that he had forgotten to say goodbye to his brother. Lying there, humiliated and defeated, he could not remember the last thing he had said to him.
The men found him at once. Talking and laughing together, they had begun to kick him and beat him where he lay, mocking his foolish attempts to escape. They asked his father’s name, and he refused to give it, and so they kicked him all the harder.
The pain of the beating made his body feel like it was on fire. Every bone, every muscle, was threaded with hot needles. Whenever he tried to breathe, a blow would land upon his chest, setting fire to his lungs. Though he protected his head with his arms — as his brother had taught him — he heard the bones in his arms break when they kicked him over and over, their boots like stones raining down on him in a ceaseless torrent.
When they finally stopped from fatigue, he felt no relief from the pain. Like a child he whimpered and cried, curled into himself, hoping they would go away. Presently, however, they were joined by another, an officer, Min La guessed, judging by the way the others treated him. He came over and nudged Min La with his boot, causing him to cry out. The others laughed.
“Put this dog with the rest of his House,” the officer ordered. Min La was barely able to wipe some of the blood from his eyes before they seized his arms and his legs and carried him. He moaned weakly against the pain, the tears mingling with blood in his eyes causing them to sting.
The moon gleamed like fresh milk along the curves of their armored shoulders and polished breast plates. The spread wings of the Sona Royal House’s elegant falcon caught the white light and glowed for a moment, until the soldiers swung hard and released Min La’s ankles and wrists. He felt himself fly, a brief second of weightlessness, and then he landed hard on a pile of bodies. Through the blood in his eyes, Min La could just make out the head and neck of the soldiers who had tossed him as they bowed their heads and closed their eyes. He would not have expected executioners to pray to Ávoth for their slain.
“What use are prayers for the dead?” said the officer, his voice like a rough stone coated in smooth oil. “Don’t bother Ávoth; have we not already given him enough to do?” An arm clad in dark green silk, with vambraces of fine black leather pulled the praying soldier away from the edge of the ditch.
“If you insist on praying,” he went on, his voice fading as he walked out of sight and earshot, “pray that we can finish this quickly and all go home.”
The voices and the soldiers that belonged to them quickly disappeared leaving Min La in silence and darkness, though he was still conscious for several more minutes. Finally, a sleep like death took him for many days. By the time he woke it was night again but the moon was thinner and the air foul with the stench of the dead.
Min La woke in a shocked panic. He felt his throat form a cry, but it was stopped at his lips. A hand was clamped over his mouth. He flailed, struggling, but then the owner of the hand brought a lantern closer to illuminate his face. It was Ŏnin, the monk. Min La calmed.
“You must come,” Ŏnin whispered. Behind him So Ga was already awake, looking pale and frightened in the darkness. “I can hide you, but you must come quickly.”
“Hide us?” Min La asked, also in a whisper.
“There are men here, mercenaries if I’m not mistaken. I think they are looking for you.”
Min La’s breath came in ragged gasps. He felt his hand reach for his bag, for the knife inside. But the monk took him by the wrist and pulled him off his mattress.
“There’s no time for that.” He gathered up the bag and pushed it into Min La’s arms. “Follow me.”
So Ga and Ŏnin supported Min La as they half-ran, half-limped down the darkened halls of the temple. Several other monks were rushing back and forth, some with lanterns, most with their blue hoods pulled low.
They made their way by a circuitous route to the main, lighted chamber of the temple, where Ávoth smiled reassuringly at them from his perch above the altar.
“I don’t understand—” Min La began, confused as to how Ŏnin intended to hide them in such a central, well-lit place.
“Wait,” the monk said, leaving So Ga and Min La at the center of the room. He went to the west wall, to a section of the mural underneath the blackened cup of poison. With the tips of three fingers on each hand he pressed the top and the bottom of the cup. Min La saw then that the deep blackness of the painted cup concealed a small catch. Once pressed, a section of the wall opened slightly. The monk gestured to them as he pushed it open the rest of the way.
As they stared at the tiny doorway another monk came into the chamber.
“We cannot delay them much longer,” he reported to Ŏnin with a bow.
“I am coming,” Ŏnin answered. And he gestured to them again, more urgently this time.
It was So Ga who pulled Min La to the door in the wall. Min La didn’t like the idea of tucking himself into a little prison at the mercy of the monks’ thin promise to protect them. It wasn’t enough. But it was all they had.
He and So Ga bent low and slid into the tiny compartment. Inside was a simple shelf laden with candles in boxes. There was barely enough space for both of them to sit on the floor with their knees tucked against their chests.
“Please,” Ŏnin said, glancing at the knife hilt peeking out of Min La’s bag. “Trust me, and stay completely silent.” Then, without another word, he closed the door.
Min La expected the room to be blackened with darkness, but he was surprised to find that the light shone through the thin doorway which, he realized then, was little more than canvas stretched over a frame.
Glancing at So Ga, he saw that he was pale, but calm. The two nodded at each other and took slow, quiet breaths. Min La’s heart was hammering so powerfully in his chest he was surprised he couldn’t hear it.
The chamber had grown silent with Ŏnin’s departure. In time, however, voices returned. They recognized Ŏnin’s, as well as two other men. Min La’s breath quickened when he realized that only a thin layer of canvas divided them from two of the mercenaries who hunted them.
The three men’s shadows played like puppets across the stretched white canvas. The monks’ abundant candlelight, Min La knew, made their own shapes invisible in the darkness in their little room.
The two shadows that were not wearing the long, loose robes of Ávoth, paused in the temple chamber.
“If you’ll excuse me,” they heard Ŏnin said, “I must go make sure your men are not destroying my temple.” He sounded cross and irritable. Min La knew he was leaving them alone in here to give them the impression that he had nothing to hide. Still, the absence of the monk made him nervous, as if Ŏnin would have been able to do anything to stop the mercenaries from killing them if they were found.
Min La watched the shapes of the two remaining men turn and face the standing statue of Ávoth. They were very still. Min La didn’t dare breathe. He put a steadying hand on So Ga’s shoulder, who nodded once. So Ga’s face was pale and his brow knitted in intense concentration. Min La wished he could tell him to relax just a little. No one could hold a tensed muscle as long as they could a relaxed one. But in the utter quiet of the temple’s glowing chamber he worried the men could hear even the pounding of his heart, much less a whisper.
A cough broke the silence so abruptly that Min La nearly jumped. Not a cough, but a laugh.
“Take care, Ŏlo Hin,” said a heavy voice, in the tone of a reproach.
One of the shadows turned away from the statue of Ávoth with a wave of his hands and scoffed. The other turned. By his shadow he was a taller, his back straight, his figure imposing. Min La wondered if this was the captain Táno Gín he heard about.
He said, “You are in a temple of Ávoth, is nothing worth your respect?”
“I’ll never understand your obsession with Ávoth of all the Ădol. Always the rites, always the burials. Always the prayers. Do you not tire of it?”
“The dead demand our care.”
“What’s the use of prayers for the dead?”
Min La blinked and took his hand off So Ga’s shoulder. The words and the voice that spoke them repeated over and over in his head, an echo. One he recognized. He had heard them before. These very words, this very voice.
The other answered, “And when you’re dead? Will you have use for prayers then?”
“I will be dead. I’ll have use for nothing. Don’t bother Ávoth on my account. We keep him busy enough as it is.”
The more he spoke, the more certain Min La was that this voice was known to him. He recalled his dream, his memory, and the green-clad officer. How was it possible that that man was here among the mercenaries? Without thinking, Min La put his hand on the shape of his brother’s seal under his blue golt.
The taller shadow turned away from the statue and moved closer to the candles. Min La heard bare knuckles knocking on the painted plaster that decorated the temple walls. The other shadow, meanwhile, approached the altar steps and kicked lightly the stone table, which gave a solid report and not the hollow echo he seemed to have expected.
The shadow by the walls began to move methodically. Two steps, then a series of taps. Two more steps, more taps, and so on. His path around the perimeter of the temple chamber would bring him to the place where they hid behind the painted canvas in no time.
Min La touched the handle of the knife in his bag and considered the advantage a surprise attack might give him. So Ga watched his hand tighten around the knife hilt and his breathing quickened.
Two more steps, tap tap tap.
He was tired, but rested. His knee ached, but he could bend it. He had no armor, so he’d have to be careful. A well-aimed fist could put him on the ground as fast as any blade. And So Ga should not be counted upon in a fight.
Two more steps, tap tap tap.
So Ga’s breathing became suddenly darker, thicker. Like he was breathing through sand. He opened his mouth and clutched his chest. Min La recognized the signs immediately. He clamped his hands hard over So Ga’s mouth as he gasped against the urge to cough.
The situation had taken a sudden turn. He heard another series of taps, louder, closer. So Ga’s eyes clenched shut, one hand clawing at his chest while the other gripped Min La’s arm. He felt So Ga’s nails dig into his flesh. He felt him tremble with each aching, difficult breath.
Tap, tap, tap.
Min La pulled So Ga away from the false canvas wall and as deep into the little room as they could go. He had to pry the prince’s hands off his arms; his nails had left little half moons dotted with blood. Min La held So Ga tightly, his hand clamped over his mouth, not quite enough to smoother him. With his other arm, he pinned So Ga’s flailing, grasping arms at his sides. Min La knew that every breath must feel like fire in his lungs. He knew that So Ga would not be able to hold out forever. It surprised him, how strong he was.
Tap, tap, tap.
The man was already near the corner of the south wall. He would arrive at their section of mural in less than twenty steps.
He looked around for some way to hide So Ga in the little room. If they found just Min La he could claim to be a would-be thief. That is, until they found his silver medallion.
It didn’t matter anyway. The room was empty except for the small shelf of candles.
He would never be able to overpower both of them before they called for the rest. They couldn’t run with So Ga in this condition.
So Ga had managed to free his arms and had taken hold of Min La again. He let him dig his nails in. Maybe it would help.
Tap, tap, tap.
If they both ran out as fast as they could—
Min La stopped thinking. The last set of taps had sounded different from all the ones before. Hollow and echoing, like a drum. The difference had caught the full attention of both the men in the temple. They began knocking on this strange section of wall. Then the knocking became a harder, rougher sound. Before long, the wall gave way with a splintering of wood and tearing of canvas. And then there was silence.
Ŏnin chose that moment to rush into the temple chamber in a flurry of flapping fabric.
“Is it not enough,” he shouted, “for you to violate our sacred spaces with your pointless searching? Must you also lay waste to our temple and our art?”
“This wall is false.”
“That is because it is not a wall, you imbecile. It is a door. And if you had wanted it opened, you need only to have asked.”
Min La heard him handle the splintered remains of the wooden panel.
“This door has been a part of this temple for over nine decades. It is older than both of you. Will you show no respect for our holy things or our history?”
“Why is this room hidden?”
“It isn’t hidden. The chamber was designed with smooth walls to feature the sacred art seamlessly. But we still needed a place to store the candles. An ingenious monk designed this little door to disappear when it was closed. He’s long dead, so I doubt we’ll be able to fix it, now.” He let out a dramatic wail. “The beauty of the unbroken scene will never be the same.”
They pushed him aside and disappeared into the shadowed interior of the little candle room. It was quiet again while they searched among the shelves and boxes.
The monk spoke again. “Are you satisfied?” he yelled into the little room, bending to peer inside. “Do you want to take our candles as well? I’m sure I could find some other priceless item for you to break.”
“It’s just a door, old man,” said the voice that Min La knew. The familiar voice, the sound of which poured like something hot into his ears and filled his heart with steam.
“Enough,” the other man said to him sharply. Min La heard the soft clinking sound of a purse.
“Fix your wall. My men will leave as soon as they’ve searched the rest of your grounds.”
The monk shoved the little purse back at the man’s chest. “All the silver in the world will not repair what you’ve broken.”
They made no reply, but left the temple chamber rather quickly, as if fleeing, while the monk followed them. Min La could hear him continue his berating speech until his voice faded out of hearing.
Min La noticed then that So Ga had loosened his grip on his arm. His eyes were closed and he had gone limp. When Min La let go of him, he slumped into a little pile. Min La held his ear close to So Ga’s mouth.
The prince was no longer breathing.
Or, if you’d prefer to make a small, one-time donation, you can
Iy-yoh-NIN
Ŏnin and his fellow monks are geniuses! Fantastic use of mounting tension. It got my heart rate up!
outstanding! I loved the use of the wall depictions to tell the ancient story.