Fresh from an afternoon spent robbing graves, Swinebroth had become adept at erasing the evidence of the graveyard exploits they referred to instead as 'visitations'. Unfortunately for Horsey, these 'visitations' were not looked upon favorably by the ministers, and so on their return to the temple complex where the rest of their lives were to be spent, the two had to slip into a hidden pathway known only to a handful of the temple's more inquisitive malcontents.
The temple itself refused to be discreet. Mainly accessible only through the waters that bound it to the world and beyond, it stood on an isolated isle, an imposing monolith surrounded by a shimmering moat that mirrored the heavens. Vessels from far-flung nations navigated these waters, their anchors finding rest at points along the coastline.
The walls—those veined marvels of gold and bruised umber—rose along the isle's perimeter. This marked the boundaries where ships were meant to pass. From within these walls, the division between the temple's two distinct realms were bridged by a grand hall etched with reliefs rife with myth and conquest. It was here that Swinebroth, who had yet to make up his mind whether he was a lucky pilgrim or a prisoner of circumstance, often lingered with a knitted brow. The craftsmanship confounded him: how could so many hands—mortal hands, too—carve in such perfect precision? Each figure seemed both ancient and freshly chiseled, their faces somewhere between lament and laughter. As one realm plunged into shadowed depths leading to the heart of a colossal toad that ruled the subterranean bowels, the other half soared heavenward, all towering arches and clear-cut stonework, said to be a masterwork of a winged architect—a creature half-man, half-bird, and entirely inscrutable, as all true artists are.
Swinebroth crouched amidst the shrubs. From their perch on high ground, the boy gazed out at the temple complex below. Only the rustle of leaves diffused the sheer reflection of the dying sun upon the sea. "Do you think the Architect will come before Year's End?"
"Fair chance. It has been years. This is his temple, after all," Horsey said, nodding.
His temple.
That was the exciting part, the section of the tales he had heard and loved so much. The Architect had a mission: drive away the misfortunes of the dark unknown. Who would have foreseen the brilliance of his creation, the construction of these temple columns of polished limestone, and its bright pigments of ochres and indigos the visage of the ancient sea. All drawn from the local biome, this marvel of ancient engineering—this beacon that drew emissaries, monarchs, and traders from across the Mediterranean.
The boy could hardly look away.
"We shall be ready," Horsey intoned, already turning down the hidden path with the gait of one who had always walked a little ahead of consequence. "Guests will flock."
"Valuables aplenty," Swinebroth muttered, parroting Horsey's teachings.
The descending narrow trail welcomed them with its damp hush. Moss-softened ground muted their footsteps on their return. As they drew near the walls, the distant sounds of temple life reached them: exchanged words, the clatter of bowl-sandals, and the hum of vessels docking along the coastline. Sooner than they had hoped, Horsey and Swinebroth emerged through a discreet opening in the marble stronghold they called home, obscured by vines and the cunning of wild thyme blending seamlessly with the interior gardens.
Horsey had no time to waste. He took to the earth with a practiced rhythm, shoveling with the urgency of someone who knew that, in places like these, the penalty for being caught rarely resulted in just embarrassment.
"We should have left earlier," Horsey muttered.
The cicadas' waning hums gave way to silence, replaced by the occasional squawk of gulls and the distant, echoing calls of boatmen navigating the temple's silver-throated waters. The banquet was imminent—the one Horsey grumbled about all day, as though repeating the word might render it less inevitable.
Swinebroth, for his part, relished the calm that came with dusk. Ignoring his master's grumbling, he busied himself hiding the freshly unearthed spoils, stashing them in an unused drainage of stone nestled among the garden's roots. A temporary placement until he could find a place better suited. As he tucked the last treasure into its secret compartment, the familiar presence of his old master settled next to him. A hush that followed thunder. For a moment, the night did not seem so lonely. What came after? If Horsey disappeared one day—dragged off by the ministers or devoured by some form of his greed—where would the boy go? He knew only fragments of this temple.
"Horsey," he said quietly, brushing soil from his fingers, "what was the fight about?"
"What fight?" Horsey replied, his voice tight as a rope. He was fiddling with the shrubbery now, rearranging its limbs.
"The Du Ku'ams. You said there was a banquet tonight. Was it about money again?"
Horsey stopped pruning long enough to glare at him. "Textiles, boy. It was about textiles. Could you think of a duller reason?"
Swinebroth stifled a chuckle. No sooner than when he had begun living here did he learn that disputes over seemingly mundane matters carried great importance to adults like Horsey. But his old master was different; despite holding the title of elder Ku'am which granted him privileges far beyond those of the common templemen, seemed unimpressed by those kinds of concerns. The Du Ku'ams were a different breed. In all the wisdom they have acquired over the centuries, they would know better than anyone that the make of textiles could be an arbiter all on their own.
"As a result of their bickering, we shall be occupied for months," Horsey added, irritation sharpening his tone.
Horsey cared about some things other than textiles, like his layered amulets and charms. He did not feel as invincible without his choice of accessories. To add further credit to this odd trait of his, not a single soul had found him absent of such.
The boy's amusement faded as his gaze drifted ahead. "Horsey, look!" he whispered, pointing toward a group gathered near the docks, past the garden's fringe.
The two temples shared a single artery: a one-way channel of life and commerce accessible only by boat. There, about fifty meters away, a cluster of ministers stood barring an armed troop from boarding a vessel set to sail. Their voices carried across the temple grounds, enough for the two Setikosi to overhear them from the shrubbery.
"So it is true. The Maazati had asked for our protection as they traverse the lowlands," one minister said slowly. "We heard their caravans are plentiful, and so the Du Ku'am has obliged, ordering four of our best troops to accompany them."
Another minister, frowning, demanded, "Who among their party called for the Du Ku'am's protection?"
The soldiers remained silent, their oaths binding their tongues. With no answers, the ministers—who looked to be from the Ministry of Rites and Watch judging by the amethyst crest pinned over the sheer layers of fabric they wore, a purple moon hanging in the faint night sky—exchanged wary glances before stepping aside.
"Never mind. Carry on," a third one muttered at last.
The soldiers boarded in disciplined silence, the clatter of iron heels swallowed by the ship's wooden maw. From behind a nook of leaves, Horsey and Swinebroth lingered, and listened as the last two ministers, already drifting temple-ward, traded their confidence.
"It must be another relic for the Du Ku'am's tomb. His granary is down to the last grain," said one minister.
Another clicked his tongue. "And too soon. To think the Du Ku'am in the south only just recently passed."
With that, the pair vanished into the lamplit arteries of the temple, leaving Horsey and Swinebroth to shake the foliage from their sleeves and set off for the opposite direction, the winding path toward Carnelian Hall—and they had better get there before nightfall.