Chapter 345: Need a Hand
Need a Hand
As soon as he had finished supper, Martel left for the Temple of Saint Laurentius. His reasoning was the same as before; arriving early could not hurt. And it might take a while to locate the shrine, just as yesterday.
Walking across Morcaster on a pleasant spring eve, Martel considered one thing he might do to alleviate his own fears about any kind of betrayal. After all, both the Friar and the Keeper seemed the types to take oaths seriously.
***
The Temple of Saint Laurentius looked unassuming, partly due to its surroundings. It certainly dwarfed the temple back in Engby in terms of size and ornaments. But in the temple district of Morcaster, with the Basilica a stone's throw away, the shrine looked almost humble in comparison.
The Keeper stood outside, leaning up against the wall by the entrance. His mouth formed a knowing smile seeing Martel before he pushed himself away from the wall to approach the acolyte. "Place's empty. We've got it all to ourselves."
"Lead the way."
The unusual pair entered through the door. Inside, Martel noticed how this temple differed from most. Instead of an altar, the middle simply had a staircase descending into the ground, reaching a door. The Keeper pulled out a key and went that way, Martel following. "This is just an ordinary lock. Wouldn't have been much trouble for an experienced thief," the strange fellow explained as he unlocked the door.
Having seen Weasel at work with his picks, Martel could well imagine this posed little difficulty. He was still waiting to find out how this related to magic.
They continued past the now open door to enter what felt like a crypt. The walls were austere, simple stonework in stark contrast to the gilded ornaments on the main floor. Right ahead stood a sarcophagus with the stone lid carved and painted into the likeness of a man; the only splash of colour visible by the lamp held by the Keeper. The stone hands held a small chest.
"That the saint buried in there?" Martel asked, pointing at the coffin. "And the relic inside the lockbox." Rather strange to keep his hand separate from the body.
The Keeper laughed a little, raising his lamp. "Not quite. Nothing but the saint's hand remains. This is an empty tomb, made mostly out of respect. The coffin holds nothing. But you are right about the former placement of the relic."
So they did not keep the guy's hand away from the rest of him; that made a little more sense, though now Martel wondered at the story behind his death, which left no corpse other than one extremity.
He summoned his own flames, brighter than the lamp, sending them around the room to provide proper illumination.
"Useful," the Keeper mumbled, extinguishing his own source of light.
Almost as if his own use of magic made Martel sensitive towards it, or maybe it just reminded him to use that sense, but regardless, the acolyte became aware of something intangible. Like a faint scent, except it was his preternatural gift rather than his nose informing him.
He felt a shiver down his spine as he remembered the other time this had happened to him – sensing the dreaded presence of the jinni in the catacombs.
However, this sensation felt different, practically the opposite. Martel found it hard to describe; like the sound of firewood crackling in the hearth, or the smell of onion soup simmering over the cooking fire. It made him feel calm, at ease.
"The other mage had the same expression you do now."
Martel became aware that the Keeper was studying him intently.
"I wish I could understand what you feel, what you sense. She described it to me as the smell of cinnamon and honey cakes."
Martel might have thought the odd fellow was ridiculing him, but no jesting tone lay in the words, and the Keeper watched him with a serious expression. "I guess I understand what she meant," the acolyte finally said. "Anyway, tell me about the theft."
"Yes. As said, getting through the door would be easy. The real security lay in the chest containing the relic."
Martel approached. He sensed other magic at work; it did not invoke any feelings in him, but seemed neutral. Looking at the chest with its vaulted lid, which had a curious little hollow on top, he recognised Archean script. He could even read it. 'Lock'. He assumed the magic imbued in the letters did just that. "Did they use gold to force the chest open?" Martel was unsure how it would work when gold met an enchantment like this; he would have to ask Master Jerome to tell him more.
"That would not work." The Keeper reached out to jangle the lid of the chest, showing it to be tightly shut. "You see, when you close the box, a hasp falls down to keep it that way. It is not magically locked, but nor is there any keyhole to pick. Only when the right wardstone is used, it pulls the hasp back up, unlocking the chest. You could throw this into a barrel of gold, and nothing would happen."
Intriguing design, and clever. So magic did not lock the box – it only unlocked it. "Do you have the wardstone?" Martel asked, trying to sound as if he knew a lot about them and had often seen such artefacts.
The Keeper pulled out a small, grey pebble. He placed it on top of the chest in the little hollow, and an audible click could be heard before he pulled the lid open.
Immediately, the pleasant presence of magic increased tenfold. This relic was clearly an artefact of its own kind, able to leave such a lingering impact. Martel realised he needed to know much more, and he was already fascinated by what magic caused this, though it would have to wait until he returned to the Lyceum. "Interesting how this works." Martel reached out to take the wardstone. He looked down to see the word 'Key' written on it. The Archeans seemed pretty straightforward people.
"The chest is many centuries old. Made by Archean wizards, which you probably surmised. Its design makes it impervious to gold, and no Asterian mage would possess the power to dispel or suppress its magic, I was told."
Martel looked at the Keeper. From what little the acolyte knew, it rang true, but best to confer with Master Fenrick. "The most likely solution would be that someone stole the wardstone, used it to get the relic, and returned the wardstone undiscovered."
"Why would they bother returning it?" came the reply. "Besides, it seems unlikely. The wardstone is normally in the Friar's possession. On the night of the theft, he was far from the shrine. It would have taken many hours for anyone to steal it from him, come to the temple here and take the relic, and afterwards return the wardstone. He would have noticed its absence."
Martel scratched the back of his neck, unsure what to say. He could not imagine any Asterian mage able to overpower the magic of the chest, or able to create a second wardstone; this seemed like a type of Archean magic too different from their own. But he could be wrong, of course. "I'll need to investigate this. Ask around to see what I might learn."
The Keeper nodded. "Understandable. When you have something to discuss, contact me."
"How exactly do I do that?"
The strange fellow smiled. "Across the square of the Lyceum, a young girl sells oatcakes. Buy one from her and wait three bells. I'll meet you in the nearby tavern with the sign of a silver tankard."
Martel tried to keep his expression blank upon hearing that. "Sure. I love oatcakes."
This content is taken from free web nov𝒆l.com