Arnem falls in next to Korsar, the better to hear any further explanation of his commander’s extraordinary instructions; but the yantek evidently intends no such clarification. Instead, as the men walk between the long inner colonnades, Korsar silently enjoys the chanting, which grows in volume as the men move northward toward the altar, and begins to pull at his beard, puzzling with something playfully.
“Seven blasts of the Horn,” he suddenly murmurs, as much to himself as to Arnem. “A pity, really. I would have enjoyed being the one to discover their meaning …” He walks further behind the priests, and then pauses as they reach the Temple’s apse. “But the golden god has other plans for me,” the yantek adds, maintaining his strangely detached tone.
The most ornate feature among many such in the Temple, the altar is the most obvious statement of Kafra’s love of wealth, of indulgence — and of those among his followers who worship him in a corresponding manner. A finely carved platform of various exotic woods supports an octagonal slab of granite, the eight sides of which are carved into reliefs depicting key episodes from the history of Broken. Each of these scenes is laminated in gold. The surface of the altar, by way of contrast, is composed of an almost faultless slab of black marble, quarried in a distant region of Davon Wood by the Bane.† To obtain it, the God-King Izairn (father of Saylal, the present ruler) and the Merchants Council of his time were forced to offer the Bane not only goods, but something even more precious: knowledge. In particular, the Bane demanded — and Izairn’s increasingly powerful Second Minister, Caliphestros, recommended giving them — building secrets that at least a few of Broken’s merchant leaders and military commanders did not believe the exiles should possess: techniques of leverage and buttressing, of counterweighting and joining.
But those who sponsored the creation of the altar had not believed the trade dangerous: the Bane would never, they argued, be able to make use of such sophisticated techniques — a prediction that has thus far proved true, so far as anyone in Broken can determine. And few citizens of the kingdom, upon viewing the magnificent new locus of the most important rites of Kafra, would assert that the exchange was not worth the risk. Above the altar, seeming to confirm that the bargain was indeed an appropriate one, has been suspended a most arresting representation of Kafra: a statue, also laminated in gold and suspended in such a manner as to make its supports (a web of delicately wrought iron, painted darkest black) effectively invisible in the candlelight. This apparently miraculous figure depicts the generous god as a victorious young athlete; and on his face, as always, is the smile, that gentle, seductive curl of the full lips, which has ever sparked in his followers sensations that Arnem knows he and Yantek Korsar are intended to feel tonight: benevolence, love, and the delight in life available to the righteous.
On this occasion, the statue’s serene expression prompts another of the yantek’s grunting, humorless laughs, this one particularly strange: for it is Korsar’s usual custom, at such moments in the Temple, to drink deeply of the beautiful chanting that drifts up from below the altar. So much is this the case that, for an instant, Arnem believes that he must have mistaken the yantek as the author of the caustic sound; but when it is repeated, and when Arnem places it in the context of Korsar’s earlier and more peculiar words and behavior, the sentek is left to wonder anew if his mentor, comrade, and friend — the man Arnem believes he knows better than any in the world — is in fact the simple, honest, and above all pious old soldier for which his protégé has always taken him.
The pair of silent priests touch Korsar’s and Arnem’s shoulders gently, urging them down the left side of a transept that crosses the nave before the altar and leads to a black marble archway that is the entrance to the Sacristy of the High Temple. The beechwood door below the archway — guarded by still more priests — opens; and in an instant, Arnem and Korsar find themselves within the Sacristy, the penultimate seat of power in the kingdom of Broken.
The sumptuous main room, off of which are located more intimate chambers, is a repository for those holy instruments — chalices, bowls, plates and icons — as well as the various knives, axes, halberds, arrows, and spears, that came into use when Oxmontrot’s pragmatic goal of banishing unfit and infirm citizens of Broken to Davon Wood was legitimized by the liturgy of the Kafran faith. The practical then became the sacred, and the tenets that resulted quickly became the unquestioned social and spiritual laws of Broken. Since then the Sacristy has provided at least a nominally accessible location from which religious and civic wisdom can be dispensed to various representatives of the populace. In addition, appeals to Broken’s ever-remote royalty may be made through the Sacristy, provided there is no expectationof gratificationor even reply.
The Sacristy’s trappings reflect this portentous unity of spiritual and secular purpose. The stone walls are finely finished with glittering, durable mortar† that has been sand-ground to an alluringly smooth finish, one that, like so many aspects of the Temple and the Sacristy, is nearly irresistible to human touch. Over these walls, between large panels of exquisite tapestries woven by unrivaled artisans, hang the richest fabrics ever brought up the Meloderna by Broken’s intrepid river traders: deep vermilion silks, crisp white and gold cottons, and rich burgundy wools. These drapes conceal no apertures in the building’s walls, for no such openings exist: the concern for secrecy that is the very essence of the Broken’s ruling tradition is too great to allow any such. Instead, the sumptuous draperies frame an astounding series of creations, whose effect is best appreciated during the daylight hours, as well as on nights like this one, when the Moon shines bright: the glowing results of another of the proudest achievements of Broken’s artisans, their preservation of the ancient process of manufacturing glass — glass of almost any color, and, in the case of structures such as the Sacristy, any thickness. Into secure settings of translucent alabaster are mortared thick, rounded blocks of tinted glass, created in the expansive, well-guarded studios of such craftsmen as have disappeared from almost every society that surrounds Broken.‡ The Sacristy is thereby bathed in wondrous light that vividly supports the priests’ claim to the near-divinity of the chamber. Most importantly, this effect is achieved with no reduction of the privacy of the chamber’s business.
First among the ministers who conduct that business, and second in power only to the God-King and his immediate family, is the Grand Layzin, the human vessel and instrument through whom the will of Kafra and the God-King are made not only known, but comprehensible, to the mortal citizens of Broken. The furnishings within the Sacristy clearly emphasize this: at the northern end of the chamber rises the Layzin’s dais, which runs the width of the Sacristy and is supported by granite arches which lead down into a wide entryway to the catacombs, out of which emerge the ethereal sounds of the Oxian chanters. The almost equally well-appointed furnishings before the dais (provided not only for superior citizens such as the members of the Merchants’ Council, but for anyone who has business with the Layzin) are all oriented toward that superior level, coming to an end in a deep reflecting pool cut into the floor of the Temple: a serene spot which is both protective and intended to heighten the sense of separation between the Layzin and ordinary supplicants.