Talla's Fallen Temple Ch. 01

This all led him to thinking about his most recent assignment, this duty at Lyric's camp that he'd been doing for two weeks already.

Two weeks since that gods damned day when they'd forced him to -

He shuddered, trying to block out the memory.

Instead, he turned to the carcass in front of him. Lyric's men had brought in a deer for him to dress and carve up. He could do that as well as any butcher at this point. Seeing his task as a gateway to them actually teaching him how to use a bow, he'd attacked it with relish.

"It's vital," Lyric had explained to him. "Sometimes we're out there for days. You get lost, you wander off, then you have to live off the land. If you can't feed yourself, you're as good as dead."

At one point his goal had been to do just that: wander off. He could build a shelter and make simple foods. Learning how to skin a deer and smoke its meat for preservation would have been a useful skill when that had been his plan. Once he could have made things safe, he would have called for Talla and -

That plan was gone.

He wasn't going to run away now. Not after that.

The new plan was different.

That was an exaggeration. The new goal was different. He didn't exactly have a plan.

There was a fair degree of certainty, in the general desire for vengeance that had soaked into his soul, that learning how to use a bow would be useful. And if gutting the free roaming beasts that the hunters brought home was between him and a bow, then he would dissect the beasts with enthusiasm.

The other problem was that, the Temple being as large as it was, he wasn't going to be able to do anything to it all by himself. In theory, yes, he could try something crazy like assassinating the Goddess. If there were men anywhere in the city with the skills to sneak into the Temple and pull off something like that, they were most certainly the quick-footed types in Lyric's camp.

But really, what were the odds on that sort of thing? He didn't have a way of calculating it, but without any martial skills beyond what he could do to a dead deer, the thought of going up against even one of those awful women from Form in their full body leathers sent chills through his body.

What was the other option? A mass assault? That could certainly work. Enough people would eventually smash through those gates and conquer the Temple in some fashion.

Ignoring his lack of access to such a quantity of people with the will to attack the Temple, to what end would such an assault lead? Lots of dead women and men.

That wasn't the goal. So what was he supposed to be doing with his time, besides biding it?

"Zhair'lo M'han?"

Blood soaked knife still in hand, he turned to face the speaker. The contrast couldn't have been more distinct.

Two Temple girls, young ones in perfectly clean, white clothing were standing in the doorway. The one who had called his name wore the tiniest of white tops over her thin body. Along with that, she wore a skirt that barely hid her underwear. Always assuming she wore underwear. Once a messenger had, quite notably, failed to do so. Zhair'lo, his arms spattered with blood halfway up to his elbows, stood with his hands well away from the dirty apron that protected his clothing.

"Yes?"

The one with the satchel paused a moment to survey him.

"I have a summons to deliver," she frowned. "Deliver to your hand."

They had a rule about that. Scrolls like the one she held out to him, with it's green -- no, black -- ribbons and fancy seal, had to be handed directly to the recipient. They couldn't be left with his comrades, in his bedroom or any other place.

And yet this young woman with the lithe, muscular thighs of a runner eyed his hands with distaste. Under no circumstances would she see her Temple's message scrolls defiled by the grasp of one in his foul state.

"Give it here," the other girl said.

She was superior in rank. Zhair'lo knew how to tell now. The two sashes that crossed over her tiny breasts and the nearly knee length skirt meant she was of the third rank; Neophyte, one step above the Initiate next to her.

The Neophyte took the cylinder from her junior's hand and walked over to Zhair'lo, who stayed quite still. She tapped it very gently on his shoulder, the only clean spot she could probably find. She then set it down in a small nook near the doorway.

"It is a Summons for tonight," she said. "You should read it as soon as you're - " she wrinkled her nose -- "done here."

He acknowledged this with a slight tilt of his head and the girls departed in a twirl of skirts that told him that at least one of them was wearing underwear.

There hadn't been a single messenger for him since he had come to Lyric's camp. It was possible that this had to do with his new assignment, but he doubted it. There was nothing geographically difficult or physically strenuous about his current duties. After the schedule of frequent Summonses that he'd been burning through, it was much more likely that this hiatus was due to that awful mess with Talla.

He cringed, seeing the lash ... the blood.

The Temple had still sent him girls at night. Sonja, that terrible woman with the iron crown, had made it clear to him that no blame had been assigned to him. Every bit of punishment had literally fallen on Talla. He had only been warned to stay away from her henceforth.

Sonja.

Zhair'lo didn't want to assassinate any Goddess. It was Sonja who was responsible for what Talla and -- by mental extension -- Zhair'lo had been through. He'd mentally paced himself through the fantasy often enough that he had long since realized that killing Sonja would not accomplish anything useful. Surely another would take her place. He still wanted her dead, though. Or at least hurt. Maybe he could arrange it so Sonja was incapacitated and Talla could make the killing stroke. He could offer the woman's death to Talla by way of apology.

Dark thoughts. Was Talla even likely to accept such a gruesome offer? He didn't see her that way, but his opinion of her had been formed before the Temple had broken them apart. If she was as bitter now as he was, perhaps ...

He had no way of knowing. They had once shared a very special version of the mental bond created by sexual pairing. For most people, a crude sense of their partner's emotions and level of arousal was echoed from one mind to the other. For Zhair'lo and Talla, the bond had stayed intact, allowing them to communicate feelings over great distances even days after having met.

So they'd tried to get together, secretly, again and again.

That had proven to be a mistake.

Zhair'lo began cleaning himself up. He was done carving up the beast. The hide was neatly laid aside and the cuts of meat were stacked as he'd been instructed. He scrubbed hard with the soap, hoping to get not just the deer's blood off his hands, but Talla's too.

But the latter would never come off.

Cleaned up, at least in the physical sense, he looked sideways at the scroll. It was probably time to see what the Temple wanted. Would he start doing upgrades again? They'd dropped him off their schedule after the incident with Talla. There were four Sealed Virgins still to be dealt with. At least, there had been four girls. Zo'kar was a Seal Breaker, too. He hadn't been involved in a screw up like Zhair'lo had. Given that two weeks had passed and that Zo'kar, like Zhair'lo, could do an upgrade every other night, it was likely that the dorm of Sealed Virgins was indeed empty at this point.

Picking the scroll up with a bit of disdain, he noticed that this wasn't like any of the scrolls he'd been given before. The wax seal, for one thing, was black instead of green. If he took the meaning correctly, that meant it had something to do with the Goddess herself, rather than emanating from the office of one of her nine Sorceresses. Did that make it something other than a normal upgrade?

He searched through what he had of Talla's memories, scanning for scrolls that looked like this one. There was something about an all-black scroll -- wrapped completely in black paper. That image came with a tinge of anxiety in it; an admonishing eyebrow from a woman with large -- and for some reason bare -- breasts. But this wasn't one of those scrolls. This was the normal beige paper with a black wax seal and ribbons.

Zhair'lo cracked it open and unrolled the paper.

Well, this was different.

Aside from the incoherent Temple Script, the first thing he noticed was the gate marking. Every Summons he'd ever received had been labelled with the circle shape of Endowment's small gate. He'd always assumed that, at some point, he might be called to visit some other gate, to handle upgrades for the Sealed Virgins of other Divisions.

Not tonight.

The symbol was that of the Temple's main gate: a square within a circle within an equilateral triangle pointed down.

That was chilling.

As for the rest: the date, which was today's; the time, seventh bell; and a lot of Temple gibberish. There was a notable difference, but it was one that he was unable to interpret. He'd seen enough of these scrolls addressed to him that some of the scrawls, though unintelligible, were familiar. The thing he remembered was the one large word that had been exactly the same on every Summons he'd ever received.

This time, however, a different word appeared there.

Gibberish as far as he was concerned.

But, as Master Harzen had once insisted, you don't refuse a Summons from the Temple.

He stalked out of the kitchen, intent on finding his current Master. He found one of his new colleagues first, a man carrying supplies for a hunt soon to start.

"Ho, Kenji," he called out.

"Zhai," the thin, dark-haired man replied as he stopped in the hallway.

If there was an archetypical Hunter, Kenji was it's personification. Light on his feet and and quick as a cat, he had the Hunter's habit of making no unnecessary motion even when not on a hunt. Not a word, not a muscle movement, nor a breath was ever wasted.

"Where is Master Lyric?"

"Range, last I saw," Kenji replied in that crisp and terse cadence he always used. "Some Temple women were in to see him. So check the office, first."

"Messengers?"

It was contagious, Kenji's way of speaking. Once you started a conversation, you just got roped into his style.

"No," Kenji said with a twitch. "Higher ups."

Something important, then.

"Thanks," he said with a nod.

The Hunter's common room, a large space with a grey stone floor and a central fire place, always smelled of freshly cooked meat. Lyric said that a diet with a solid amount of meat in it would keep the men leaner and quicker than the average, as well as more eager for the kill. Zhair'lo, thin as he was, hadn't noticed a difference since his arrival. He felt as eager to kill as he had been the day he arrived.

Most of the men were out preparing for a hunt, leaving the room empty. As he crossed the floor to Lyric's office, he had only a moment to wonder who might be in there with him. The door clicked open and he stepped back. Two incredibly tall women stepped through the doorway and Zhair'lo found himself temporarily without breath.

Absolutely, stunningly beautiful, from the finely muscles calves all the way up to the sparkling blue eyes and shimmering hair -- one in jet black, the other in strawberry blonde.

He gulped, coming back to his senses.

"Mistresses," he said with a polite nod.

They nodded back and walked past him.

Lyric stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame in a way that was anything but casual. He hadn't taken his eye from the backs of the departing women. His glare was, surprisingly, not sexual. In fact, he looked quite wary.

Without shifting his gaze, he moved his thumb to stroke the dark fringe of beard he maintained around the edge of his jaw and spoke.

"You took care of that deer?"

"Yes, Master Lyric."

"Something else on your mind?"

"I've been summoned to the Temple."

Zhair'lo handed over the scroll.

The women having passed out of sight, Lyric finally turned his gaze to Zhair'lo. Without shifting his weight, he took the scroll from Zhair'lo and unrolled it with a snap of his wrist. His eyes scanned it quickly and locked on the word in Temple Script at the bottom.

"About damned time," he said, his tone light.

He handed the scroll back to Zhair'lo and stood up straight.

"You'd best get some early dinner and then head in," Lyric said. He looked away from Zhair'lo a moment before adding, "I'll find someone to handle the rest of your work for tonight."

"I can finish up when I get back."

"Not likely," Lyric said, a faint tinge of humour in his voice.

Something about that was amusing. A faint tinge was the most humour Lyric ever displayed.

"Off with you. Find some food."

"Yes, sir."

Zhair'lo had a little time to think as he marched to the kitchen.

What were they going to do to him this time? It obviously wasn't an upgrade. He'd done enough of those to know what the word looked like on a scroll. He also knew what the scrolls looked like. This was unquestionably different. Even Master Lyric though so.

Besides, they hadn't let him do an upgrade since he'd been caught with Talla, breaking their rules. Lyric seemed to think it would be exhausting -- or at least time consuming.

"Zhai, my boy. What's up?"

"Is'ka," Zhair'lo answered as he waved the scroll at the old cook. "Can you make something for me quick?"

"Summons?"

"Yup," he replied. "Seventh bell."

Is'ka was not a Hunter. He served as the camp's chief cook and met daily with the camp's assigned physician to make sure each of the Hunters was fit and well fortified with food.

In this company, the man looked clumsy just standing still, but he was a genius with a knife and a cabinet of spices, fresh or dried.

"No trouble," Is'ka smiled. "The fire's already burning."

A copper pan found its way to the grill over the fire. A jug of oil was tilted over it. From an already plucked chicken hanging overhead, slices of breast and leg meat found their way into the oil. A plethora of vegetables were tossed in.

"Easy, Is'ka," Zhair'lo warned. "I'm just one guy."

"A growing boy," Is'ka admonished.

He gave a nod down at the scroll in Zhair'lo's hand before meeting him eye to eye. Is'ka's eyebrows twitched upward.

"What?"

"You'll need your energy."

"For what, exactly?"

Is'ka mumbled.

"Cumin, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You're big into cumin, if I remember correctly," Is'ka said, adding a bit of powder to the frying pan.

"Yeah ... but about tonight."

"It'll be ready in a minute," Is'ka interrupted. "Go have a seat and get yourself some water."

-----------===================-------------

Illya lay on her stomach, holding her head up with her hands, and stared at the wall of her room.

She'd discarded her long, white skirt and left it hanging over the edge of her bed. Maybe if one of the other girls came back to the bedroom and found her lying like this, not even underwear to cover her skinny butt, they might do something together.

There was an aching between her legs, though, of a kind which no woman could satisfy. But the Temple wouldn't give her men, so what was she to do?

'Why won't you give me men?' she pouted at the wall in front of her.

She knew there were two very special boys. She even knew their names: Zhair'lo and Zo'kar. The other girls, the ones who'd escaped this dorm, had come back and told her about them. Every two days, two Sealed Virgins had departed. They would come back, just to be polite, and show off their enhanced muscles, their delicately sensitive nipples or their enlarged breasts.

Yes, indeed, these two boys were capable. The girls grew more excited with each successful upgrade. They were going to get out. They were all going to get out. Finally.

It was supposed to be Illya's turn next. She and Arda were waiting for the scrolls.

And nothing.

Two weeks of absolutely nothing. Not even an explanation for the delay.

They were Sealed Virgins after all. Why would anyone feel the need to keep such as them informed?

She could have taken the opportunity to walk around the Temple. All of Endowment and the central triangle were open to her. Wander at will.

Go where you like, but wear your long skirt. Let everyone know that you're a failure; a girl-child; not quite worthy of true womanhood. Let the sad, lamenting looks fall on your body. Or go for a swim. Take off the long skirt. Be naked in a place where every woman could take a single glance at your body and tell you'd never had an upgrade.

At least in Sweetness, there were upgrades that weren't obvious on the outside. You could pretend to yourself that you were a Disciple of Within.

Not so here. Your rank was written across your naked chest for all to see.

There was nothing to do but wait. And brood. She could do a lot of brooding, lying here half naked, wishing for a man.

There was a knock at the door, the familiar double rap that the other three girls used before they came in. This was the sleeping chamber for the last four Sealed Virgins. Technically, no woman should have to knock before entering her own bedroom, but the girls had adopted this courtesy so as not to walk in on each other.

"Come in," she called out.

Maybe it was Arda. Arda could be counted on to see her skinny cheeks and her pose and know what was needed. Illya turned her head away from the door and, after laying her cheek against her hands, spread her legs a little to punctuate the suggestion. Arda would sometimes finger her from behind when she lay like this. It worked for both of them.

"Illya Ch'lai?" a female voice called out crisply as the door creaked open.

Illya sat up suddenly, realizing that it wasn't one of her sisters after all.

"Sorry," the intruder said, averting her eyes from Illya's body. "I thought I heard you say 'Come in'."

"It's alright," Illya said, flustered, and grabbed her skirt. It was a wrap, really, and she tied it on quickly. "Just napping."

There was no rule, after all, about being naked in one's own bed.

"A Summons," the girl said, flattening her voice as best she could as she handed a scroll to Illya.

Illya inhaled sharply and snatched it out the messenger's hand.

Could it be? The ribbons were the right colour, at least.

She ripped off the seal and unrolled the parchment.

Upgrade.

Two days hence.

Finally.

She exhaled.

-----------===================-------------

Zhair'lo gazed up at the Temple's main gate. He'd been through here before: twice to enter; twice to exit. The first time was when he'd initiated Talla. The last occasion had been after...

He tried not to think about it but the memory bubbled up regardless of his desires.

... after he'd been forced to whip Talla.

Searing agony in her flesh, transmitted into his own mind.

He shook it off.

"What the fuck you suppose this is about?" Zo'kar asked, standing beside him.

"Damned if I know."

"Maybe we'll get to do upgrades again?"

"Took you off the schedule, too?"

Zo'kar nodded.

"Yup. Can't get any long skirts out at that farm either."

Zhair'lo noticed the derision in Zo'kar's voice. One of the fonder memories most older men had of their youth was participation in the Temple's Initiation ritual for women. Only men of the age of 18 or 19 could participate. The girls in long skirts would come running out, fetching men and dragging them back to the Temple for a bizarre sexual ritual.

The farm to which Zo'kar was assigned, which was also Zhair'lo's previous assignment, was far out of reach of such long skirted girls.

"Not liking the farm?"

"I hate horses," Zo'kar muttered.

"Shouldn't you be done?" Zhair'lo asked, trying to keep an insulting amount of surprise out of his voice. "I was only there two weeks."