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| Chapter 80. The Last Sanctuary | |
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’is still a mud pit,” Mog chuckled as he gazed down on the village of Ironfast from atop the neighboring hill. The busy sounds of hammering and sawing had stopped for the evening. Maeve settled down beside him on a shelf of weathered granite with a basket clutched in her hand. A cold breeze curled up through the valley and made her nose and cheeks rosy in the twilight. The brief mountain summer was drawing to a close. “Let me see that,” she said as she set the basket down between them. He immediately riffled through it until he found the jar of ale. “I’ll share!” “No, I mean your hand.” “Eh, it’s nothing. A little hard work never hurt anyone.” Maeve frowned at him until he relented and she took his hand and flipped it over so she could see the raw skin. He had foolishly removed his gloves while helping to render logs into beams for the new guild hall. He waited patiently while she poured a little water from a flask on the wound to cleanse it, then applied Lemony’s pungent ointment before wrapping a piece of linen around his hand. The wound already felt better. “You can have your ale now,” she said, nudging him playfully. He smiled and drew her close to him with a sweep of his arm. For a moment he squeezed and rocked her, savoring the feel of her arms around his ribs. He loved this time and this secluded perch. It was where they met after a long day of toil. “Thanks,” he said finally, then kissed her firmly on the cheek. He took a long drink of the cool ale, then passed it to her. She had brought buckwheat cakes wrapped around berry jam to tide him over until they made the long walk back to the village. He was always first to arrive at the building site and last to leave it. Each morning he performed cleansing rites to chase off ill luck and danger, but once his priestly duties were done he was expected to labor like all the other villagers. “Any luck today?” she asked. Mog shrugged. “If the gods have a preference, they aren’t being very clear.” “Let’s have a look around. Maybe I can help.” Mog retrieved his satchel and the little brass censer he used for the daily rites. He broke off a piece of charcoal and lit it with a dwarven match and prayed softly over it as the last notes of bird song faded into the dusk. Once that was done he fished a piece of cedar resin from a pouch and tossed it onto the hot ember before closing the lid. With the smoking pot dangling from its embroidered handles, he rose before offering Maeve a hand up. She tucked the basket under one arm and wrapped the other around the small of his back. The two of them strode along together as they had on many another evening to walk the four corners and singing for the blessings of the gods. With the building site now empty of workers, it was a peaceful place of half-formed walkways and sketchily framed walls, a tableau of dream transforming into reality. They traversed the wide expanse of what would soon become the new guild hall. It was bounded by the first course of stonework filled with excavated dirt and stone. They climbed to where the base of a tower was taking shape like a gap-toothed smile on the highest point of the hill’s long ridge and finished their circuit and song. They stood there for a time nestled against one another for warmth as the wind picked up. Maeve gestured toward the eastern expanse of the yard where they made their nightly rendezvous. “What about there where we are drawn?” Mog chuckled and shook his head. “I already suggested that but there’s a spring nearby and they want to cordon it off within the wall.” “I quite like the idea of a spring within the temple grounds.” Mog saw the familiar rise of Maeve’s chin and the glint of steel in her gray eyes. “I was told it’s only suitable for a wall because of the seepage and prevailing wind…” “A building is made of walls, is it not?” Mog chuckled. He decided to humor her and not relay the long list of reasons he had been given. He was a priest, not an architect. “That area over there is nice, too,” he said, pointing toward the northern corner of what would eventually be a walled yard. “Too dark.” “Speaking of which, we should head down to the village while we can still see where we’re going,” he said, sensing an argument would ensue if they continued along that line of discussion. They walked in the gloaming in silence, their arms linked and their minds consumed with thoughts of the temple. Mog felt guilty for it seemed the longer the building continued, the less likely their dream of a temple on the new guild grounds became. The urgency of getting things done in the brief summer combined with the fleeting visits from Master Bei had conspired against him. “Master Bei is here tonight. I will have a word with him,” Maeve said and he knew she had sensed his worry and regret. Perhaps she could succeed where he had failed. It was dark by the time they reached the gate of the stockade. Enfys and Matilde were the appointed guards that night and the two young women greeted them with smirks as they drew open the gate. Mog greeted them with his usual aplomb and continued with Maeve to the great hall. Laughter and music issued from the hulking structure and he smiled, hoping there would be time for a few dances before the day’s labors caught up with him and he crawled off to bed. The hall was crowded and he had his work cut out for him merely squeezing past people to get his share of the food and find his friends. Armand and Brigit waved him over to the Gaenor table pressed against the wall. He could hardly hear their voices above the music. “I’m going to find Master Bei. Have a rest, you look tired. I’ll be back soon,” Maeve told him. Mog tried to call her back but if she heard him, she made no response. He felt awkward without her for Maeve was considered one of the villagers and Mog was still a bachelor and a source of humor. Not that he minded the role of jester, it was just that Maeve knew him for who he truly was, for all of him, not just the part that existed to conjure laughter. And he missed her. Their few precious hours between work and sleep sustained him. “I’m watching my cup, Army. I don’t advise you to go fillin’ it while I’m looking away.” “Eh, you’re no fun,” Armand laughed. He was largely silent as the Gaenors chatted about the newcomers and the work of the day. After exchanging pleasantries and enjoying a few songs, Mog finished his meal and drained his flagon of ale. An hour or two had passed and there was no sign of Maeve or Master Bei. Armand and Brigit rose and bid them all good night, followed soon after by Anluan and Neave. The hall began to empty out and the musicians were playing slow songs between long breaks to tell stories and enjoy a drink. Mog sighed and went alone to his bed. He was hopeful he would see Maeve when he arrived at the cottage they shared but instead he fumbled around in the darkness and lit the oil lamp above the hearth, then retrieved his tin sconce and candle from his bedroom. He glanced timidly into her room to see that her bed was empty and untouched before retreating to his own room. After going about his evening ablutions, he snuffed his candle and lay awake, listening anxiously for her arrival until he could no longer keep his eyes open and succumbed at last to sleep. When he opened his eyes again it was dawn. He scrambled to get cleaned up and dressed, then seized his satchel and rushed for the door, pausing once to peer into Maeve’s room. There was no sign of her. Disappointment vied with concern. He did not see her as he strode across the village and past the gate. As he followed the winding trail up the side of the hill, he was alone and the stillness was disturbed only by the sweet music of birds. The sun was barely above the eastern horizon when he reached the building site and discovered that he was not the first to arrive. Mog laughed with relief and amusement to find Maeve there with a half-dozen dwarves, Glorn among them. They were busily taking measurements and studying the native stone. “What are you doing?” he asked although he could see quite clearly what Maeve was planning. “I had a long talk with Master Bei and we determined that he is not going to build the temple.” “Yes, he said as much before,” Mog sighed. “So I decided we would,” she said, grinning impishly and gesturing to her dwarf friends. “Oh… but the seepage and the wind…” “It might be a difficult task for humans to overcome, but not for us,” Glorn said proudly, “And since I know you are a lover of stone, we’ll use only the best.” When Maeve approached him, he could no longer contain himself and drew her into an embrace. “You crafty goddess,” he whispered in her ear and she giggled before kissing him quickly on the lips. “Sometimes you have to work around limitations,” she laughed. “Around? Master Bei is going to be furious, you know that?” Maeve shrugged and laughed again. “Then he can be furious with me. I paid for it with Denae’s jewelry and the good will of the Ironfasts. There’s not much he can do about it.” Maeve nestled in his arms for a time as the two of them watched the dwarves draw out patterns on the raw granite in chalk. They had a piece of parchment they were studying. “That’s why I was up all night,” she murmured, following his gaze, “I told them about our home and the way the light flowed in through the windows and the screens and the fountains. And they drew it for me and said they could build a little piece of it for us.” Mog nuzzled her, at a loss for words and profoundly moved. It was as if they were being gifted with something they had once thought lost forever. A little piece of Ascalon’s splendor would survive, and with it the spirit of her people. “It is our sacred charge,” she said, “to keep alive what was good and beautiful so that it might sustain those who are to come.” “I’m going to marry you in that temple,” he whispered. “Is that a threat or a promise?” she laughed even as emotion caused her voice to break. “I promise,” he replied. |
