D. C. Wynters
“The door to the temple was sealed when we arrived,” Enora said. When her husband was still alive, he had said her voice sounded like twilight. Now it filled the sunlit room as she gave her report.
She and Mophath sat in front of the chief scribe, a small lectern between them and the older man. Bronze glasses perched at the edge of his blocky nose as he recorded Enora’s report. The chief scribe’s natural height meant that she needed to look up at him, his face a mountain peak made even more distant by the lectern. Enora knew that Mophath would have gladly given the report—young women like her weren’t afraid of telling the truth exactly as they saw it—but Enora’s extra decade of life meant the duty rested with her.
“We looked around the edges of the door to see if the seal was mechanical. While we could not rule it out, there was nowhere to place a key. Mophath and I believe that the seal is arcane.”
The scribe looked at her over his glasses. His hawkish eyes bore into her. “Describe the appearance of the temple,” he said.
“It was large,” Enora said. The memory of seeing it for the first time filled her with a touch more confidence. It was the greatest evidence they had of people knowing about and worshiping the Goddess. The greatest testament that she didn’t have to be ashamed for her interest in Her. “As big as the temple here, but it looks as though it has been sinking into the surrounding area. It had two statues in the front: a weaver and a scribe.”
“Both were women,” Mophath added.
Now the scribe’s gaze turned to Mophath. Enora glanced in her direction as well. The younger woman was sitting tall, erect, unwithered by his glare.
The scribe turned back to Enora, “Is there anything else you would like to add to the report?”
“No. Mophath and I will be searching the archives to see if we can gain entrance to the temple through some other means,” she replied.
Before she could rise to her feet, the scribe said, “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Enora frowned. There was a slight smile on the scribe’s lips, as if he knew something about the matter that she didn’t. It would have been quite an accomplishment considering how difficult it had been for her and Mophath to locate the temple in the first place. And that had been the culmination of years of research.
“I don’t take your meaning,” Enora warily replied.
“The valley of Rodné has been uninhabitable longer than we have been around to know,” he said. “Perhaps the temple is part of the reason.”
Mophath interrupted, her gaze frigid and baleful, “You told us that the temple didn’t exist.”
“I was speaking to Enora,” he said.
“And I was speaking to you,” she replied. “You told us that the temple didn’t exist.”
“It doesn’t matter what I have said.” The chief scribe placed his stylus on the lectern and pushed his parchment to the side. “We now know that the temple is real, and we must adjust our theories accordingly.”
“Enora and I know the temple is real,” Mophath returned. “We have seen it.”
“And all those who read the report will know the same as you, even if they have not seen the temple.” the scribe replied. “What they will not know is if it is worth the risk of pursuing.”
“How do you know you aren’t wrong?” Mophath replied.
Enora felt acutely the sparks of the words as they glanced off the two combatants. If she was being honest, she too disagreed with the scribe’s assessment. But one didn’t tell the chief of the scribes that he might be wrong.
Enora rose to her feet, her legs straining some from being crossed. “We will consider what you have said.”
The scribe turned to her, that same smile returning. “You are very wise, Enora. It would also be prudent to discourage other magi from attempting the journey. We would not want to lose anyone to the valley.”
Enora nodded and turned to leave. She looked over her shoulder, checking to make sure Mophath was following her before walking out into the jungle.
Enora and Mophath walked through the magi complex. The scribe’s office, along with the offices of the other important magi, sat next to the great stone hall that housed the archives. On the opposite side of the square, there were rows of stone houses extending into the bush. Enora’s house sat on the edge of the clearing, Mophath and her husband’s somewhere behind. The ground there was blackened, the product of the magical combustion necessary to clear the choking underbrush. But even the carpet of ash was broken with small green sprouts.
“How does he know that a mage wouldn’t want to come with us?” Mophath hissed. “Why wouldn’t they want to know more about the Goddess?”
Enora and Mophath were the only two women dressed in the green of the archaemaji on their square. There were women dressed in plain woven fibers and men dressed in the black robes of the magi. But as of right now, no other archaemaji like themselves.
“Perhaps the magi don’t see it that way,” Enora reasoned. “They see only the building, not what could be inside it.”
“They’re afraid of what’s inside,” Mophath murmured.
On the corner of the square, overlooking both the archives and the homes in the city of Almaraz, was the temple. Its exterior was, in every respect, an echo of what she and Mophath had found in the valley, except that the two statues in the front were of men. If the temple here had been left vacant for a thousand years like the one they had found, it would suffer a similar fate. Instead of drowning in toxic dust, however, it would choke as the vines enclosed it.
Enora nodded carefully to Mophath. “If the scribe’s theory is correct—”
“Why would corruption come out of a sealed temple?” Mophath interrupted. “Is it not just as likely that whoever was in the temple sealed themselves in against the valley?”
“Anything is possible, Mophath. We just don’t know.”
Enora wondered if the interiors of the two temples matched. In the center of this temple was the reflecting pool where she had spent many hours meditating under the branches of the tree that sat at its head. Such a tree wouldn’t have survived all these years in the forgotten temple, but the reflecting pool would still be there.
Mophath lengthened her stride for a few steps and swung around to face her. “I want to know, Enora.”
Her eyes, those strong gray eyes, shone with determination, yes, but beneath the determination was a feeling that Enora knew all too well.
Longing.
She grasped Mophath’s shoulders. “I want to know too.”
“What do you think we should do?” Mophath asked.
“We go back to the archive,” she said. “We look over the records again and see if we can find anything else.”
“At what point do we look in the hidden archive?”
Enora frowned. If they did, the request would pass through the chief scribe and the chances of his cooperation were slim. The only reason he hadn’t stopped them from going to the temple in the first place was because they hadn’t attempted to recruit anyone to come with them. Almaraz needed all its children, he had said. Magi, archaemaji, and everyone else. Just not the ones who were stubborn enough to insist on leaving. As if their commitment made them less reliable servants of the people.
Mophath saw her contemplation and continued, “We’ve already looked over everything we could find in the archive. I doubt that there’s anything else we could find.”
“I don’t think we’d get permission,” Enora said. She kept walking, hoping to end the conversation. But Mophath stepped in front of her.
“I didn’t say we should ask.”
Enora’s lungs went cold. “You go too far, Mophath. I will submit a request to the chief scribe but I will not desecrate the hidden archive.” Even the thought of entering the archive without permission brought an uncomfortable pressure to the back of her mind. If she was actually there, she knew that the guilt would build to a paralyzing electricity. Nothing good would come of it, for her or for Mophath.
The two women walked in silence to where Mophath’s husband was waiting. When he saw Mophath, they embraced, and he nodded in Enora’s direction. As they walked to their house, Enora felt that familiar loneliness creep into the hole her husband had left when he passed. She wondered what he would have said if she could hear him now.
Perhaps he would assure her that she didn’t need whatever was in the temple to find him again, to find the power he had brought to their home as a mage. But he would also understand that what was in the temple wasn’t just a potential way back to him. It was a way back to Her.
The chief scribe made his way through the passages of the temple, the summons clasped between his fingers. The skin on the bottom of his feet stuck to the cool stone of the hallway, producing a soft echo with every step. No one was here now. This time was reserved for the archmage and his guests.
There was a curtain at the end of the passage, one that he had passed through more times than he could count. The chamber beyond was quiet except for the chirping of a songbird. The old man was sitting beside the reflecting pool on a stretch of moss, the bird cradled in his hand. The tree at the head of the pool had long ago shed its blossoms, leaving green, unripe fruit on its boughs. As the chief scribe approached, he noticed one of the bird’s wings was bandaged and tied to the side of its body.
“You asked to see me?” said the chief scribe.
The bird turned to look at him and then back at the old man but did not attempt to escape the man’s hand.
“Yes. Come sit with me.”
The chief scribe circled the reflecting pool and sat on a clear patch of stone next to the old man. The bird turned its black marble of an eye to him again. Though he feared coming across as too eager, the chief scribe asked, “Of what did you wish to speak with me?”
There were still seeds in the old man’s hand. The bird had made no move to eat any more since the chief scribe had arrived. The old man slipped the leftover seeds into his pocket and lifted the bird close to his face.
“Sleep well, my friend,” the old man said to the animal before he started to sing.
A blue glow wrapped around the bird as the old man’s tenor voice swelled. The bird’s eyes closed, and its head descended to rest on its body. Only then did the old man rise and set the animal in the nook of a branch where no one would step on it. Then he turned to the chief scribe, his wrinkled blue eyes holding an ocean behind glass.
“You denied Enora’s request to search the hidden archive,” said the archmage.
The chief scribe shifted in his seat, turning to face the archmage. His movement brought his weight over a twig, which snapped.
“I do not wish to hide anything from you,” the archmage continued. “You will not punish Bashi for telling me.”
The chief scribe’s anger flared at the girl. She was young and foolish, and this stunt did nothing to change his opinion of her. But the word of the archmage was law. “I have always preserved the sanctity of the archive,” the chief scribe replied. He spoke quickly, pointedly. “I would do nothing to sully it.”
There was nothing in the archmage’s expression to suggest anything but a calm sea in his spirit. His next words were calm, soft. “Enora’s search for the temple would sully your archive?”
The chief scribe bristled. “She and the other archaemaji have already read everything the oracles have written of the temple. There is nothing else for them to know.”
“You misunderstand me.” Now there were storm clouds on the horizon of the archmage’s brow. His voice was brisk. “Consider: who do you keep the archive for?”
“The Allfather,” the chief scribe replied. Sensing the expectation, he hastily added, “And our people.”
“So it is not your archive.” The statement was as cold as a shard of ice, one of only a few the chief scribe had ever heard from the man. The archmage’s voice softened again. “I will accept your decision. As you have said, your devotion to the archive is unmatched, but take care to remember your purpose.”
The chief scribe pursed his lips. The rebuke stung that much more for how calmly it was delivered.
The archmage continued, “Bashi will be running an errand for me this afternoon. I trust you will manage without her?”
The chief scribe nodded. He knew the archmage was assuring there would be no retaliation on his part for her indiscretion.
“Thank you for coming. You may return to the archive.”
As the chief scribe exited the reflecting chamber, he couldn’t help but hear thunder in his ears.
“We’ve been over these,” Mophath murmured as she dropped the scroll onto the small table between them. Enora watched as she drummed her fingers on the table’s surface, frustration rolling off her shoulders.
In truth, Enora was losing hope herself. Several days had passed while they waited to hear if Enora’s request to search the hidden archive had been approved. They had spent the time reviewing every bit of information they had gathered about the temple, trying to find any hint as to how they might open the door. She had expected a quick denial from the chief scribe. Instead, it seemed that he was determined to ignore them for as long as possible. Either way, it seemed the opportunity to fill that part of her that died with her husband was quickly fading.
She looked up as the curtain over the entrance to the library shifted. A young woman, probably about half her age and dressed in the long dress that marked the aides of the magi, noticed them and walked to where they were sitting.
“You are the archaemaji Mophath and Enora?”
Enora glanced at Mophath, wondering if she knew this girl. Mophath’s gaze appeared just as bewildered as Enora felt.
“Yes,” Enora replied.
“The archmage asked me to invite you to the reflecting chamber of the temple. He would like to speak with you.”
Now Enora locked eyes with Mophath. Few had even spoken to him, let alone in the temple. They were about to become one of those exclusive few, and Enora found the thought dizzying. There was only one reason he would want to talk to them: the temple. He might have even heard of their request to search the hidden archive.
“Now?” Enora asked.
“He said that today would be best,” the girl replied.
Enora and Mophath scrambled to their feet.
“Then we will go meet him immediately,” said Enora.
Enora and Mophath rushed out of the archive, but not before Enora cast a guilty thought to the scrolls they were leaving at the sitting table. It was considered impolite to leave a mess. As she and Mophath exited the archive, Enora saw the young woman carefully rolling up the scrolls they had left behind.
“Come on!” Mophath said, tugging her from the doorway.
The sun had dipped below the canopy an hour or two ago. The sky was turning orange behind the leaves and the shadows were lengthening. Soon the sky would be dark indigo. Enora hoped that by then, they would have their answer.
“You’re very excited to see the archmage,” Enora huffed. She was struggling to keep pace with Mophath, who was practically running to the temple.
“If anyone knows how to open the door, it would be him!” Mophath grinned at her like a little girl.
The gesture brought a smile to Enora’s lips as well. “And optimistic.”
It took only a minute to cross the square and only a few moments more to explain to the guards standing outside the temple that the archmage had asked for them. From there, it was into the twisting stone passageways. When Enora saw the light filtering through the curtain marking the entrance to the reflecting room, she felt the significance of crossing the threshold deeply. If Mophath’s optimism was rewarded, things would change once she stepped through. There would be a new temple and with it, knowledge of the things they had lost. Once that knowledge was recovered, who knew what other changes might come.
Enora and Mophath stepped into the reflecting room. It had been a while since Enora had last visited, and she had rarely come so late in the day. The shadows under the arches were deep, almost cloudy, but the pool was a brilliant orange.
Standing on the other side of the pool was the archmage. She had never seen him so close. He looked as old as the moon and his eyes as timeless as the ocean. She felt the urge to bow or kneel but restrained herself. The reflecting room was a place of introspection, not of giving and receiving honors.
“Archaemaji, I’m pleased to see you,” the archmage said. He was standing beneath the tree at the head of the pool, the hand that was pressed against the tree blending right into the wrinkled bark. There was a bird nestled in the boughs, sleeping. He beckoned them forward and the two women quickly advanced until they were underneath the boughs of the tree. The fruit on them was still green, but little bits of white shone on the bottoms.
“Your report on the temple of the Goddess was most interesting.”
“You’ve read it?” Enora asked. Enora was speechless. To think that her words had been studied by the archmage! Normally it was the other way around.
The archmage nodded, “Most carefully.”
“What did you think?” Mophath pressed.
He turned to look at her. “I was quite pleased. You two have done us a great service in bringing that knowledge back with you. I brought you here to discuss the temple.”
“You know something?” Mophath said.
Enora’s heart was racing. Her mind spun with all of the possibilities: what the archmage might say, what he might reveal to them. Would this be the moment that all their work was fulfilled?
The archmage shook his head. The small gesture sent a tremor through Enora’s chest. She thought it might have cracked her heart.
“I suspect that I do not know much more than you.”
“But how is that possible? You’ve seen the hidden archive,” Mophath protested.
“There is nothing there that would not confirm what you already know,” he said. “That the Goddess exists. That she is equal to the Allfather. And that there are those who believe she had temples as grand and as glorious as this.”
“We know she had a temple,” Mophath said. “We’ve seen it!”
The archmage nodded. The motion was slow, heavy, as if it were done while carrying a great weight. “Unfortunately, I do not believe it is yet time for any more to be discovered.”
Enora found her voice, nestled somewhere between despair and disillusionment. “What?”
“If the door to the temple is sealed, we are powerless to open it.”
“But you could come with us!” Mophath insisted. “You could use your magic to open the door.”
“It is a long journey, Mophath,” the archmage said. “I may have made the journey long ago, but now? I’m afraid I would perish long before we reached the temple.”
“Then send someone else. Anyone else!” Mophath replied, her voice pleading.
The archmage held up his hand. “You did not let me finish. If the door to the temple is sealed, it was sealed by the power of the Goddess, and only the power of the Goddess will open the door.”
Enora frowned. “But the archaemaji don’t hold the power of the Goddess. No one does.”
The archmage nodded again. “And so we must wait for Her to reveal Herself.”
A long moment passed before Mophath stood. She inclined her head to the archmage. “Thank you,” she said. The words came from behind clenched teeth, and as soon as they were uttered, she walked away.
Enora watched her leave, then looked back at the archmage.
“Go to your friend,” he said, motioning with a hand. “I will be here if there is more you wish to discuss.”
Enora stood and inclined her head before rushing to follow Mophath.
The sun was below the horizon now, and the forest was dark. The sound of the birds chirping had been replaced by the whistling of beetles. The soft light of oil lamps and fireflies lit the ash-laden underbrush as Enora hurried after her companion. She found her and her husband in their home, darting this way and that as they stuffed clothes and food into packs.
Enora caught the eye of Mophath’s husband. She wanted to ask him for a private moment with Mophath, and he seemed to understand. With a nod to her, he walked into the night.
“You can’t open it.”
Mophath whirled, her eyes sparkling embers of determination. “I’m taking Talas with me.”
“You heard the archmage,” Enora replied. “No mage can force it open. Not him and not your husband. You said it yourself: the door could be sealed to protect whoever is inside.”
“And if the mages sealed the door?”
Enora knew the question was really a challenge. Her frown deepened. The disrespect in her question—and the possible implications of the answer—made the hair on the back of her neck stand. “Why would they seal the door?” she replied.
“You think the chief scribe is the only mage that’s looked down on us? Who didn’t believe the Goddess was important? How far back do you think it would take before we found the first? Ten generations? A hundred?” She scoffed. “Men like him have always been there. Why wouldn’t someone like him seal the door? It’d keep women like us from making trouble.”
Tears welled at the edges of Enora’s eyes. The only thing she could offer in response was a weak “they wouldn’t.”
“You believe that, Enora, and you stay here waiting. Keep waiting until someone else opens the door for you,” Mophath replied. “I’m not willing to wait any longer.”
Enora could see the frustration and determination mixing in her stance, a dangerous and explosive alchemy that had finally been catalyzed. She could do nothing to stop her from going. And if Mophath went, Enora doubted she would ever see her again.
Mophath turned her back on Enora.
“Mophath,” Enora said.
She looked at Enora.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Enora said.
They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Enora hoped that Mophath would understand. Would understand that she really meant it.
Then Mophath turned away.
Enora turned too, her footsteps taking her back into the temple and back through the stone passages to the reflecting room. When she stood in front of the archmage, his gaze told her he already knew what had transpired.
“I want to live to see the day when the door is opened,” she said.
The archmage’s gaze held all the tender love of her grandfather.
“We are powerless to decide that.”
She glanced at the bird sleeping in the boughs of the tree. The words sat on her tongue. She knew once they were uttered, they would be permanent. Uncertainty screamed in the pit of her stomach. But hope pushed her to whisper the words.
“I want you to put me to sleep until She reveals Herself.”
Mophath squinted her eyes as another blast of dust buffeted her. Her robe was wrapped tightly around her, keeping every square inch of her skin protected against the hazards of the valley. She had wrapped a veil around the visor sitting on the bridge of her nose, allowing only a thin sheet of orange-green light to reach her eyes. Behind her, her husband struggled forward. He was one of the few magi who harbored curiosity about the Goddess, probably the only one willing to help her. His black robes were arranged just as her green ones were, her mirror image except for the color.
Up ahead, the top edges of the temple came into view. There were the two statues she and Enora had seen the first time, as well as the door at the top of the ruined flight of stairs. She sensed her husband stop moving and turned to see him staring at the structure in awe. She allowed him the moment before turning back to the last steps that separated her from the temple.
There was a small landing at the top of the stairs in front of the door. The statues towered over them to either side. Mophath reached her hand up to the door and rested her hand on it. Beside her, her husband asked, “Is this it?”
She nodded. She wondered if he felt any of the vertigo Enora had described, the pseudo-shame that accompanied her whenever she spoke or read of the Goddess. If he did, he hadn’t said anything to her and he didn’t say anything to her now.
Instead, she heard him inhale and then begin the song that would undo any binding a magi may have placed on it. She shivered as the feeling of magic filled the air, matched by the sense of excitement as she watched the air around them start to glow. She wondered if future magi would remember them. If they did, her husband could have the glory of breaking the seal.
She wanted to see the Goddess.
“Are you ready, Enora?”
The archmage was standing beside the small alcove where she stood. It was hollowed out of one of the walls in her home. Everything had been tidied up. Mages would visit her every once and a while to check the jury-rigged healing charm the archmage was about to cast on her. But it wouldn’t be a place for the living anymore. She wondered if any others would eventually join her. If they would read what she and Mophath had found and decide to wait for the door to open. If they did, she wouldn’t know until the door opened and someone woke her.
Claustrophobia mixed with uncertainty inside her. What if the door never opened? What if she was left standing here with the hole in her heart until the end of time? Did she really believe that strongly the door would be opened?
She wished she could say she believed it, but she wasn’t sure. This decision wasn’t based on belief. It was based on trust that the Goddess would be known as She had been to the ancient women Enora had studied, and that when She was, She would make her whole again.
She nodded to the archmage and leaned her head back on the cushion they had hung on the wall.
The deep sound of the archmage’s voice washed over her as his song wrapped around her. It reminded her of thunder, but calm and comforting. She felt goosebumps run over her skin as the magic covered her from head to toe. Her eyes grew heavy, and she let them fall. Slowly, her consciousness faded, just as it did when she had gone to sleep the night before.
It was just before the archmage finished the charm that she saw a face in her mind’s eye. It was a woman with rich bronze skin, hair that was as long as hers but the color of silver, and eyes that burned like Mophath’s. The image caused a sea of emotion to swell within her, too holy to be captured by any word she could imagine. Currents of awe and of love wrapped around her as she sunk into unconsciousness. A single thought rose out of the sea of sleep as she slipped under the waves.
She had seen the Goddess.
D. C. Wynters is a fantasy and science fiction author from the Pacific Northwest and a cohost on the writing podcast Quid Prose Quo. His work blends the thematic concern of literary fiction with the entertainment value of genre fiction. He and his wife are music leaders in their ward’s primary and nursery. Subscribe at dcwynters.com for updates on his upcoming projects.
