The Emperor And The Temple Prologue

In history there have been many great events, as any proud scholar will gladly tell you. Great battles, the births of monarchs, the destruction of nations, deaths - perhaps murders - and encounters that would later have profound results, even while they appeared inconsequential in the moment. But if, reader, you wish to challenge a great historian - perhaps one who has become smug in her wisdom - you should ask the following question. Was there ever a time when three such events happened all at once, in three different places, the protagonists knowing nothing of each other and with no apparent connection, leastways until later? It is a difficult question, is it not? But I will give you three such instances now, as a prelude to this story. And, yes reader, perhaps I wish to impress you with my knowledge, although I have never considered myself scholarly. But every author wants to be thought of as wise. Every author craves the respect of her readers.

I will take you first to a castle by the Detz river where a stricken king lies dying in his bed. His physician is sent for and attends him in the bedchamber, where family and courtiers have already gathered. This king has not been injured in conflict - his reign was peaceful, we can at least say that of him. Rather he is afflicted by illness and now lies gasping in pain, eyes wide, devoid of recognition when his ministers attempt to address him.

The physician leans close and detects an odor as his nose passes the old king's lips. It is unmistakable! This king does not die a natural death! But now the monarch's daughter, observing these actions, puts an arm around the healer's neck and rests her head upon his shoulder. It is an act of affection - is it not? - to a well-loved servant of the royal family. Why, he even guided the girl into the world, twenty summers earlier. A difficult birth, by all accounts. But in this moment, rather than taking comfort from the princess's embrace, the physician senses a chill in the room as she whispers to him, "I suppose his heart is weak. It is common among men of his age, is that not so?"

The captain of the castle guard is standing close to the physician now. Too close! He is a large man. The lover of the king's daughter, so they say, or her plaything at least.

The physician makes a show of examining the king, prodding him, looking at his eyes and mouth, listening to his chest. At last he speaks to the room. Yes, it is his heart. Yes, the king will soon die.

And now, reader, let me take you eight days ride to the west. Here, outside the realm of the dying king, stands the City of the Goddess. It was the center of a great state once, ruled by a despotic queen, now long deposed. In recent summers the power of this matriarchal republic has waned, but still it survives, bordered by northern tribes with whom it shares an uneasy alliance. At the heart of the city sits the Temple of the Goddess, the tallest and most magnificent structure in the known world. And here, on the same day that the poor physician attends his dying master in the castle to the east, on the eleventh day of the raven, in the fourteenth year of the Republic - as the Chronicle of the Temple will record it - a barbarian princess confronts the High Priestess in her state room.

And what is the cause of this confrontation? The Temple has lately been keeping a young man of the north as a slave within its walls. And what of it? The Temple has many such slaves, it is well known. Those who hate the Goddess will shake their heads and murmur of the depravity of the priestesses. Others, perhaps more charitable in their opinions, will shrug; does not a woman who has devoted her life to the service of the Goddess deserve to be kept warm on a cold night? But this time the Temple has gone too far! The keeping of a northern boy is against the treaty that binds republic and tribes together. The visitor is angry, but the High Priestess charms her; come, sit and have wine, an honest mistake has been made. The princess is satisfied, but when she leaves she takes the boy with her.

Yes, reader, you may know something of these happenings. They have been recorded in earlier stories. The princess in the castle, soon to be queen, is Zantina. The boy, you say, is surely Tak. Or Taneric the Great, as he is known to history. Or perhaps you prefer the name Taneric the Heretic if you are a follower of Wodh. It makes no difference to me, reader. I am merely here to tell you what transpired in those days. Make of it what you will.

For our third great event we must again go east. But this time much much further than the castle on the Detz river. To a land that neither Taneric, nor his rescuer Kasmine, nor Queen Zantina, nor even the priestesses, with their ancient knowledge, can know anything of. There, on the very same day, a great emperor gazes across a green valley where morning fog is beginning to lift. He stares at the army of a rebel general. He was once loyal, this rebel, this traitor, this 'Khan', as he now declares himself. But now the lands are in rebellion, the governor in chains, the garrison slaughtered. And so, the Emperor himself has travelled north, to face the Kahn, to defeat him, to restore order to the empire. But he has miscalculated! Who could have known? The army that faces him is enormous. Other provinces have risen up and joined the Khan; he can see their flags. And they have cannon - many of them - appearing only now as the mist dissipates.

The Khan sends envoys to the Emperor. The terms are generous - he does not seek surrender. Instead, the army of the empire may leave the field, unimpeded, never to trespass upon these lands again. The Emperor's advisors plead with him to accept. After all, they can return the following summer with a stronger army, doing all they can to undermine the enemy's alliances in the meantime. There will be no disgrace, at least none that cannot be erased by later victory. The advisors are met with silence. Reader, say what you will about this Emperor. That he is a despot. That he is cruel. But do not say that he is a coward! He waves his advisors away, decreeing that the envoys be taken to the plain between the two armies and, once there, crucified.

And so, reader, I have guided you most elegantly to the beginning of our story, have I not? I told you that I crave your attention. Perhaps you will read on, curious to see what happens next. What is that you ask? Did these events really occur on the same day in history, so many leagues apart? Well, I like to think so. Close enough anyway. Grant me a little licence and I will make the story of Taneric and Zantina interesting for you. You ask about Priestesses Hanja, Ashala and Ruta? You ask about Peto, Kamhet and others? Yes, they are here too, in these pages. Would I deprive you of them so early in our story?