Temple Again - X

My first thought turns back to Alemi.

His anger. His pain. His capacity—and undeniable skill, for extreme violence. The man is a threat; that much is true. But, far from the question I’m struggling with.

My real question is what are the chances that I’d met him? That the man Okuri sent me to see just so happened to bear such a grudge? I don’t have the opportunity to verify right now, but doubtless, that’s a question I’ll have to answer in time.

The other question, related to a certain degree, is why Okuri sent me there. Suppose he knew about Alemi’s grudge. Suppose he knew an altercation would occur. Then clearly, Okuri either wanted me dead or delayed.

Which begs the question: Why?

Why did Okuri want me off his trail?

I stand there, idly, thinking it over. Occasionally looking at the plants. Admiring how they almost resemble worked jewels, with their solid angles and their refracted lights.

I hear the monk yell. “Hey mister I didn’t quite catch the name of! You might want to come over.”

I do just that. He’s standing by the door of the temple. Arms outstretched, as if trying to signal something.

“There’s someone outside. They kept asking for a guy matching your exact description. So I’m doing ya a favour and warning you of a potential untimely death.”

I give a gesture of thanks. I take a brief moment to steady myself.

It could be one of the assassins who tailed me here. In which case, I’d better be prepared to take Munaku and escape.

I make myself taller and look through a small peephole. The figure is not one I recognise. Unlike the assassins, who wore short cloaks pinned at one shoulder, this one’s wearing something far longer. Harder to move in.

The figure stands statue-still. “Tell him we’re from the mainland,” says the figure, with a woman’s voice. “Tell him we’re sent by the Governor of Leren.”

The Governor of Leren. He was the one who wrote the original letter to me. Who told me to reconvene with Prince Jasi, and seek an alliance. I burnt the letter after I received it, so the likelihood they’re fabricating this story is unlikely.

There's still a risk, of course. As there is with everything. But this present situation seems safe enough, and I decide to gamble on that chance.

I drag open the door. The cloaked figure enters quickly, before shutting the door behind them. They take off their hood, and in one continued motion, raise a salute to their forehead.

I can tell immediately she’s a fellow countryman. A fellow beastkin Lagnitian. A half-breed, to be precise.

She has long, black ears drooping by her sides, and half as long black hair. Her beige skin is marked with dark, scale-like patterns. While a tipped black tail peeks from her cloak, with jagged, dangerous-looking spikes.

Despite the black cloak and general attempt at discretion, her outfit beneath is still suited for combat. A padded gambeson. No doubt, made from the bodies of some great beasts. Designed to withstand daggers, bullets, and all manner of threats.

To put it another way, she’s wearing the garb of an undercover soldier.

“Gemona Aínoun. Elite Member of the Lagnitian Special Forces. Here in Ineo on orders of the Governor of Leren.” With a smile, she looks down at me. “General Gamoun. We’re here to take you home.”

My response is swift and direct. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“And why would that be?”

“My apprentice is injured, and in need of healing.”

“No problem there. I’ve orders to wait until daybreak.”

“I need to do justice by a fallen friend.”

“You have the whole evening ahead of you for just that.”

I shake my head in the face of her constant retorts. “What are your orders?”

“To extract any personnel of importance, and bring them back home.”

“I wouldn’t count myself among those.”

“Truth be told, you weren’t initially. As far as we were concerned, the Great Gamoun was missing in action. We knew little to nothing about where you were. Besides that you had gone soul searching in Ineo for some forsaken reason. And your untimely imprisonment.”

“What changed?”

She retrieves a letter from her cloak. “I received this letter. It had come from a street urchin, though made no suggestion as to who wrote it.”

Gemona unfolds the well-worn letter. I read it over.

‘To the one who reads this.

Your beloved General will be in Ineo. As to when, I cannot say. But most likely from tomorrow onwards, he can be found roaming. Prioritise areas most discreet. Ascorso and the like’

“Recognise the handwriting?” asks Gemona.

“No.”

“Don't suppose it's someone you know then.”

“It could be. It's possible the writer had someone pen the letter for them.”

That, or it came from someone truly unknown. Though there's no one that comes to mind.

“Got any idea who it might be?” asks Gemona.

“Possibly.”

I have the tact to keep that information to myself. Out of everyone who'd know I'm in the city, the only ones that come to mind are Isa and Munaku. And I'm unwilling to disclose my connection with an Ineo Spymaster.

“Well, regardless of who your mysterious benefactor is, I'd suggest you heed their good wisdom, and come with.”

“I alrea—”

“Yes. Yes. You have something to accomplish. And so what? We'll be here until daybreak, as I said. And as I recall, you are Gamoun the Gallant. Not Gamoun the Tardy. He who leaves ladies in waiting.”

“So be it. As Gamoun the Gallant. He who acts with surprising swiftness, I shall speak the truth. I have no intention of returning to Lagnitia. Even upon accomplishing my goals.”

“Then those reasons earlier…”

“A series of polite contrivances, yes. I apologise for not being forthwith.”

“Very well. But if nothing else, I must ask: Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes.”

“For the same reason I left Lagnitia and did not return.”

“Yes… Do continue.”

“It is a terribly long explanation.”

“We've time aplenty.”

“We don't. And I shan't delve into it further. And even if I did manage to put my personal grievances aside, I would stay regardless.” I sigh.

“Is there anything that could convince you?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“If by miracle, you managed to gather every single one of my apprentices, round them on a wagon, and offer to take them to Lagnitia.” I pause. “I'm a wanted man, Gemona. I fear for my apprentices' safety, do you understand? They will be hunted by mere association with a Prince-killer. Tortured. Subject to a misery I do not even wish to consider. My intention after tonight is to find and assure their safety by whatever means possible.”

“I understand,” says Gemona, with considerable sympathy. “In that case, there's not much to be done.”

Her black locks sway with a head-turn. The woman's eyes are fixed on Munaku. Lying still on a table. She seems to be somewhat amused by the countless devices on display, though subdues that amusement to make a quick comment.

“Would you like us to take her at least? Lagnitia would never harm an apprentice of Gamoun the Gallant.”

“I'm aware. But it's not my choice to make. Part of being a teacher is letting students make their own mistakes.”

“How about this then? If she's still incapacitated by daybreak, we'll take her with us. If not, she'll be in good condition to make her own choice.”

Having been presented a rather good opportunity, I take a few moments to consider it.

The path ahead will be difficult. Treacherous even. A good number of my apprentices are scattered across the continent, but some are in Ineo, where the danger is most present.

I owe it to Munaku as a peer to respect her decisions. Though I owe it to her as a master to keep her safe. In which case, agreeing to Gemona’s proposal seems fitting.

“Very well,” I say, shifting from one foot to another. Before remembering something quite important. “Gemona.”

“Yes?”

“How long would you say there is until daybreak?”

“Five hours, give or take?”

Five. That word strikes an uncomfortable realization into my heart. Five more hours until daybreak. Five more until a guard does their rounds, and the truth of my escape comes to be.

I move from the wall. Pain starts from my torso, spreading outwards. Gemona catches it, but makes no comment, choosing instead to stretch her black-scaled leg.

I turn away.

Lifting up my shirt, I decide to assess the extent of my injury.

It’s… not stellar, to say the least. There’s obvious discolouration beneath my fur. A big patch of red, visible even without pushing anything aside. My internal organs must have been damaged, given the constant pain, but it’s nothing that won’t heal on its own.

Being aware of this, I decide not to ask Lutu for any assistance. Choosing instead to allow him full focus on Munaku.

I cast a long look at my apprentice. Her eyes are shut, but a smile is playing on her pale lips. She seems to be on the way to recovery, though I have no estimation of how long that way is.

…There's no point dallying any longer. I have to find either Okuri or Alemi and question them further. Doing so without Munaku is an unexpected development, but there's nothing to be done.

Lutu, taking a break from his countless devices, suddenly spears a glance in my direction. Like an arrow, light from a glass ceiling refracts off his hand, hitting me in the eyes.

I think he’s trying to get my attention.

I approach the monk. He puts on an agreeable smirk, as if pleased he managed to get me to come.

“Were you thinking of leaving?” Lutu asks.

“I did not wish to disturb you.”

“Disturb?” he says, as if it’s the most horrendous word possible. “Disturb you say! As in, having my innate harmony disrupted! My concentration is like that of a gambler’s zeal for bad business decisions. Unbroken, and unwavering! In what way could you talking to me, disrupt anything?”

“Forgive me, Lutu. I’m rather unseasoned in the domain of magic, curses, and anything adjacent. I simply did not wish to put my apprentice at risk, for the simple desire of wanting to ask how she fared.”

“Well, sir, you feared correctly. Your apprentice is dead. All because you disturbed me in the middle of my procedure I mean what wer—I’m joking! Calm down. Look! She’s stabilized. The girl’s strong.” Yes. Like a donkey with much to eat and little to do.”

His warm, lively words help improve my mood.

I perform a slight bow. “Thank you, Lutu.”

“My pleasure.” His crystal skin refracts light from a wayside lantern. “All things considered, I rarely get the chance to study a curse like this.”

“Is there something special about it?”

“Very much so. I mean, I assume that's why ya sought me.”

“I did. But it was on the recommendation of another temple. I believe they assumed it was a Northern curse, and that I should seek a Northern monk for it.”

“Well, I'll have them know that just ‘cause we Northerners live in the same cardinal direction, worship the same gods, poop in the same toilets, that we’ve still plenty of differences!” He says, with faux-indignation.

I smile. “I'll be sure to relay your message to these ignorant southerners.”

“Do just that, good sir! But also do listen to what I have to ask. Do you suppose that your apprentice got this curse from a scoundrel? Yes or no?”

“I see where you're going with this, and the answer is yes.”

“And this scoundrel…”

“An assassin. I withdraw what I said earlier: I don't know where you're going with this, but I warn against asking too much.”

“Why? Because knowing too much is a curse? Well, I'll tell you this: Knowing is a part of my profession. And let's not deceive ourselves, I think the situation is fairly clear-cut. You were clearly caught in the midst of a tavern-brawl, a situation spawned by your flirting with the goose of a barmaid, whereupon their lover, a begrudged northerner with nothing to lose, came upon you with a knife, slashing, only to be blocked by your apprentice rising to the occasion, whereupon you in your good conscience decided to visit a local temple, whereupon, you then decided to see me, whereupon, whereupon…”

“Whereupon I stand before you, with a question in mind. You seem to be suggesting the curse, although northern, doesn’t match your countrymen’s handiwork, correct?”

“That’s right!”

“Do you have a particular northern country in mind?”

“I do. I won’t bore ya with the technicalities of the how, or why, but the curse is Lenvelen.”

Lenvel. That’s one of the Northern countries. But not the one Lutu should be from. Built atop the remains of the gargantuan, whale-like Divine Beast, it’s considered one of the great powers of the continent. It shares a border with Ineo, and Lagnitia. Historically, the trio have shared many a war, and conflict.

“You understand how curses work, right, mister? It’s not just a poison you can rub on a bread knife and go stabby-stabby with. It’s like a fire. It needs air, and other things to keep going. It needs a Learner’s magic. Whoever cut your apprentice was actively maintaining that curse with a Divine Beast’s power right until the moment of contact.”

The thought makes my head hurt. A Northern assassin, no, a Lenvelen assassin. Why would Alemi have such an individual in his employ? Would an Ineo nationalist like him truly stoop to employing a foreign Learner for such an affair?

A decisive conclusion eludes me. The one thing I come to realise is that I’m better off fighting villains than understanding why they exist.

“Thank you, Lutu.” I match his jewel-like eyes, and offer a deep bow. “Thank you for going so far for one such as myself.”

“Eh, it’s my pleasure, honestly. It’s not everyday you get to study, much less, keep a curse like this one.”

Lutu glances at me, smiling. Then, reaching by a table, plucks what seems to be a small, crystal vial. Where the curse can be seen, a vortex of spiralling, script and darkness, twisting around like a centipede trapped for air.

“I’ve extracted the curse, but your apprentice should still be feeling their effects.” He shakes the little vial like a toy. “Want it?”

“I have no intention of killing this evening.”

“Kissafi’s light is one of purification, ya know. Most of the bad stuff has already been burnt out of it. But it’s still got the same makeup as a regular curse, in case you want to huff it a little and develop a resistance.”

“Very well. But, would you not rather keep it as payment?”

“I’m a monk, man.” Lutu smiles. “We’re not in it for the profit. Charity work and easy access to old books are all we need.”

“Thank you. You’re a good man Lutu.”

I take the vial and put it in my pocket. Over the years, I’ve cultivated a resistance to a few poisons myself. So I know what he's talking about. The problem is, of course, whether this curse is weak enough to not debilitate me.

Nonetheless, I pocket it. In the event that it’s ever needed.

“Well, I’m not sure how long she’ll take to wake up. So, I’d suggest doing what you came here to do, and come back in a bit. After all, this bandit, or assassin fella won’t exactly kill themselves, will they?”