Stolen Eternity 1

1

Galway was a shadow moving through the trees, the soft crunch of the snow beneath his boots. In the distance, he could see the silhouette of the monastery, massive and towering, and looming even above its heights, the Great Tree stood in eternal vigil. Here and there, light shone from the windows, not the constant brilliance of electric lights but the dimmer, flickering light of a fire in the hearth or perhaps atop an oil lamp or candle.

He’d have to cross the open to reach the outer wall, but he’d cased out the temple and worked out a blind spot in the sentry’s routes.

Soon, he broke from the trees, rushing across the snow-covered field and into the shadow of the walls. Looking up into the gloom, he took stock of the challenge before him, not an extraordinarily tall wall or perhaps just dwarfed by the size of the structure it protected. He ran his hands over the smooth, cold stone, finding the subtle seem between the finely worked blocks. There were no handholds he could find, and he got the impression that the structure must be somewhat new, not having had the time to settle and form gaps.

Finally, he found a seam, the point where two blocks met, and followed it to the intersection of four. Then, setting his bag on the ground, he drew out a stack of metal rods and a hammer.

With a practiced motion, he hammered the first rod into the wall and began his climb up, using the rods as hand and footholds, beating them into the wall as he went until he could pull himself over the top.

Pausing, he looked around; above him, the Great Tree loomed, massive and ancient. He wondered, idly, how the tree maintained its gargantuan size. Was it hollow? Some sort of internal framework helping support it? Whatever the case, it was a truly spectacular sight, and there were rumors the upper boughs reached all the way to heaven. He’d find out. But first, he needed to get in; slipping from the wall, he rolled into his impact in the yard.

The snow had been cleared here, and he could move in silence. Sliding around the edge of the clearing, he kept to the shadows, scanning his eyes over the temple complex. He didn’t know the layout, but he understood he was after was in a shrine at the top.

Reaching the far side of the courtyard, he found a window that looked just large enough for him to squeeze through. Jumping up, he caught the windowsill, pulling himself up and in. Inside he found himself at the side of a large antechamber. Sliding down to the floor, he pressed himself into the wall, blending himself into the shadows. Taking a moment, he took in his surroundings and tried to warm his hands.

As he stood there, he heard voices from the next room, growing louder and closer. Casting about for any cover, he spotted wooden rafters helping to support the stone structure, and, using the nearby wall, he jumped up.

Grabbing hold of one of the wooden beams, he pulled his legs up, folding them around the shaft for support. Slowly, he shimmed closer to the door as two robed figures entered the room. The light from their candle illuminated the stone chamber, and he pulled himself closer to the beam.

“Master Fén,” one of the men said, his voice hushed, “I hardly think it appropriate to gossip.”

“It isn’t gossip,” the other man, who he assumed was this Fén, “I merely think Master Long is too easy on the students. How will they learn if we do not instill the proper discipline and raising that girl here, it’s all very unusual.”

“Enough of this nonsense Master Fén,” the monk’s companion said, “we may not always understand Master Long, but...” The rest of their conversation was lost as the pair exited the building.

He dropped from the rafters, “Trouble in paradise, huh?” he murmured to himself; the politics of an isolated monastery hardly interested him. Still, there was no telling what information might come in handy, so he made a mental note and slipped up to the archway, peeking through. The corridor was cloaked in darkness if anyone else was beyond; they hadn’t brought a candle or lamp.

Reaching up, he lowered the visor he wore over his eyes and pressed a button to activate the screen within. The hall, consumed by darkness, lit up as though by the midday sun.

Slowly, he moved through the hall, a darker patch of shadow against the darkness. Soon, he came to a doorway and slowed to a stop. Slipping up to the door, he crouched down, putting a hand to the cold wood, and he pulled a thin wire from a pouch hidden under his clothes and slipped it under the door’s bottom crack, the view in his visor switching, giving him a look at the room beyond. He moved the wire around, shifting his view, and saw no one.

Satisfied, he slowly pushed, testing to ensure it wouldn’t make too much noise, before opening the door wide enough to slip through. Inside, he found himself in a small storeroom.

Creeping into the room, he began searching through the contents; it seemed to be food storage, sacks of flour and various vegetables, salt, sugar, rice, and dried noodles. No sign of a path upward, and he was about to make his exit when he heard the movement outside. Silently, he returned to the door, listening carefully, he thought he could hear the sound of talking, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.

Crouching down, he once again slipped his camera under the door, this time looking outward. On his screen, he saw one of the monks from earlier, the one whose name he hadn’t caught, arms crossed over his chest; the monk was speaking, but there was no one else to be seen, so he assumed the man was talking to himself.

He pushed the door open and slipped out behind the monk, “I suppose I shall have to speak with Master Long,” he heard the man mutter, “leaving this to stew won’t do and-”

He kicked out, driving a foot into the back of the monk’s knee, and smothered the cry of surprise with a hand and an arm around the other man’s neck.

The monk struggled, the swiftness of his reaction speaking to years of training, but unable to brace his weight against the ground, he had no hope of throwing his assailant off, and slowly, his struggling stopped.

Galway dragged the monk into the storeroom, laying him down, “nothing personal, friend,” he murmured, patting the man down and removing the knife he found on the monk’s belt, “why don’t you rest and dream up some solution to your political problems hey?”

He peeked through the doorway, ensuring the coast was clear, and slipped out into the dark hall, making his way further into the temple complex. He moved slowly, listening for any signs of movement as they slipped through the darkened corridors. Here and there, he found more doorways leading into more stone cells, a study here, a broom closet there, privy. Finally, he came to a stairwell and stepped inside, looking upward, trying to determine how far up the stairs went.

Before he could ponder too long, he heard the sound of a commotion coming from down the hallway in the direction he’d come from. Swearing quietly, he rushed up the stairs, unsure of what lay ahead but knowing he couldn’t afford to be caught now. He reached the top of the stairs and found himself in a long hallway with doors to either side. Below him, he heard the sounds of feet on the stairs and, looking back, saw the light of a candle approaching from below.

Rushing to the nearest door, he attempted to push it open but found the way locked. Growling in frustration, he pulled a set of picks from his cloak and swiftly worked his chosen tool into the lock. Feeling the inside, he worked quickly, raking the pins with his pick and forcing the lock open, before bursting into the room.

He found himself in a bedroom and cast about, spotting a window at the far side of the room; he made his way to the sill and looked out, it’d be a tight squeeze and challenging climb, but he didn’t see many alternatives. He braced himself against the window, ready to climb out, when the room lit up behind him. He froze, turning around.

On the bed was a shape holding a freshly lit candle. The light of the flame was too bright in his display to make out the figure on the bed, so he lifted his visor.

There, looking at him with wide brown eyes, was a young woman. Galway took her in an instant, flowing raven hair dark as the new moon that hung overhead, skin a ballroom for thin fingers of shadow, bright doe eyes that shone with curiosity, and betrayed not a hint of fear at his intrusion.

He liked this girl, beautiful and a rod of steel where her spine should have been; in different circumstances, he might have struck up a conversation. As it was, there came an urgent pounding on the door. She looked; he glanced that way himself, she turned back to him, and a smile bloomed on her face. She put a finger to her lips and jerked her head.

He nodded and squeezed out into the chill night air. With a jerk of his head, he dropped his visor and looked up at the tower. It was a daunting climb, but he’d faced worse. Unlike the outer wall, the stone here was rough and afforded him plenty of handholds. He made to start his ascent when a voice rang out from the window.

“Wait,” he looked down and found the girl looking up at him. “Who are you?”

He thought about it a moment, chuckled. “It’s Galway, you?”

She smiled. “Hai, good luck Galway.” The pounding came again, “I’ll keep them busy.”

He shook his head. “Why?”

Her smile grew. “It’s exciting! Now go! Quickly!”

She retreated from the window, and he felt himself grin; yes, he liked Hai very much.

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Galway scaled the rough stone of the monastery, its weathered surface offering ample handholds, but a slip would lead to a messy end shattered against the yard below.

From this height, he might survive the fall, but looking up at the looming heights of the tree around which the monastery wound itself, he’d have to hope he didn’t have to come back out.

Slowly, he worked his way up, scaling the monastery’s outer wall. The windows weren’t evenly spaced, so he couldn’t reenter on the next floor, or the next, nor the one after that. By the time he could get back in, his arms were burning, and though he considered the virtues of going for the next window, Galway didn’t want to risk his strength giving out.

Hauling himself up to the sill, reached his arm into the slit and discovered that he’d either become fatter as he’d climbed or this window was narrower.

He could get his arm, though, but his shoulder would wedge in the stone, which meant his chest would never fit, and his one-armed grip was growing ever more precarious, so he pulled back, grabbing hold of the sill and looking up.

No choice; he couldn’t go back; he would just have to hope he could make the ascent, hope he could squeeze through the next window.

Swallowing, he let himself hang for a moment, steeling himself, looking for his next handhold, and drew himself up.

His arms shook, and, despite the chill in the air, he found himself sweating underneath his clothes. The climb seemed to drag on forever; his hands began to sting, then a dull aching numbness set into them.

Above him loomed the shadow of another window, the sight was heartening, but from where he was, it still seemed a million miles away.

He reached for the next handhold, and as he did, he felt the stone beneath his foot give. His leg slipped, hanging free, and throwing his weight out into space.

Galway clung to the wall with a white-knuckled grip and, after a breathless moment, managed to pull himself flat against the wall again. He shook his head and forced himself to keep his eyes pointed upward and keep moving forward toward his goal.

He knew immediately; that this window would avail him no more than the previous one. If anything, it was even narrower, and he didn’t waste his energy trying it.

He risked a downward glance and shut his eyes against the dizzying height. He swallowed his stomach and climbed on, hand over hand, keeping his eyes fixed above him, scanning for the next handhold.

He began to get into a rhythm, hand, foot, hand, foot, it was hypnotic, and as he ascended, he began to feel better; his arms still burned, but the burn was pleasant, and he could almost forget the drop beneath him.

Hand, foot, he’d reached another window, but he felt good, he no longer shook with the effort, and though his lungs burned with the cold, his breathing was even and steady.

Hand, foot, he hardly glanced at the next window, he probably wouldn’t fit, and besides, he felt good. So he climbed on; it had been a long time since he’d pushed himself like this; he’d forgotten how exhilarating it was.

Hand, foot, the monastery had begun to slouch over the tree, bracing against its great trunk for support, and the incline sped his progress and afforded him a better view of the building ahead.

Before him, light poured out of a window, and, curious, he stopped, removed his visor, and peered through. He couldn’t see anyone; he listened, didn’t hear any movement, and decided the room was probably empty.

This window seemed wide enough, and his curiosity tugged at him, so he shimmied through and back into the building. He was surprised to find the floor laid flat; he knew the building stood on an incline, but he wouldn’t have guessed it from here.

He’d entered a library, and the light, which seemed brighter in the moonless night, and more brilliant still through the screen on his visor, came from an oil lamp on a desk.

It seemed odd to leave it but judging by the papers and ink pot that joined it, the owner had left in a hurry, probably looking for him.

He looked around; some of the books seemed reasonably new, but others were visibly worn. One or two obviously needed rebinding. He would have liked to take more time, and see if anything interesting caught his eye, but he didn’t have time; there was no telling when he would have guests.

He checked the hall and found it empty, but as he reached for the door, something pulled at him. He turned, and on the wall hung a scroll. It was a massive thing, taking up the majority of a wall to itself*.*

He stepped closer, reaching out to run his fingers over the material, slats of wood, or perhaps bamboo, and on them a lush illustration of what appeared to be the monastery stretching its way from the among roots of the tree and up its enormous trunk. He examined the painting, something tugging on his mind, then-

He spun around, had that been movement he heard? He held his breath, listening, nothing; he couldn’t stay any longer; he decided and returned to the door. It only took a moment to check the other side, and he was out in the hall again. He crept through the darkness, listening for any signs of pursuit. But nothing stirred in the dark corridors. Hopefully, his pursuers would still be on the lower levels, combing the rooms for him. If they were above, he looked up; he’d manage.

He came to a stairwell and, seeing no lights emanating from within, began climbing. Without a map, he only knew he needed to move upward. No telling if any given stairwell would move him closer to his goal. But he couldn’t say it wouldn’t either. He’d have to try them all and double back if necessary.

As Galway moved through the pitch-blackness of the halls, he began to get the impression he was being watched. The walls seemed to close in on him, and though he tried to shake off the feeling, the higher he climbed, the stronger his sense of paranoia grew.

Galway increased his pace, and as he turned up another flight of stairs, he was practically running. He crested the staircase and slid to a halt, finding himself standing in front of a large pair of double doors.

This was his destination; it struck him as a little too easy, almost as though he’d been led.

He shook the feeling off if someone was helping him; he wouldn’t complain. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he pushed the doors open. He didn’t check for guards; if they were there, he’d deal with them.

Galway found the room empty, though, no guards, and at the other end of the chamber stood a small tree framed against a stained-glass window. Stepping closer, he crouched down to examine it. In the branches were gemstones, the wood growing around them, hanging from the ends of its boughs like fruit, clutched in the tree’s curling roots, and embedded in the trunk was a diamond the size of his fist.

Galway reached out, but before he could touch the stone, a voice sounded from the doorway. “Beautiful, no?”

He spun around, crouching low to the ground, knife leaping from his belt. In the door stood an old man, his weathered face speaking of long years and many smiles.

“It’s been a long time,” the man’s tone was conversational, as though he hadn’t seen Galway’s posture or the knife in his hand. “Since we’ve had any guests. I fear if you’ve wandered this far, my companions must not have shown you the proper hospitality.”

The monk made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Please, you must be hungry after your journey; come eat with me, and we can discuss your prize.”

Galway didn’t sheath his knife, but he did let himself relax, standing up straight. If the monk wanted to talk, Galway wasn’t opposed. “Why don’t we do it here?”

“Not the most comfortable venue,” the monk chuckled. “Don’t be unreasonable now; an old man like me needs to rest his bones.” He stepped out of the doorway, and Galway considered just jumping on him. But it didn’t feel right, and for what it was worth, the monk seemed sincere in his desire to talk. So, glancing back at the tree, he stepped out of the room and waited for his host.

The monk joined him, guiding him back down, past the library, “Oh,” the monk said suddenly, still in that same mild conversational tone. “I’ve realized I haven’t introduced myself; please, forgive my rudeness. I am Faishen Long; as the most senior master here, I am entrusted with the education of the young people brought to us for guidance.”

“Galway,” he said after a long pause.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Long said with a nod.

“If it isn’t too presumptuous, may I ask your profession, sir?”

He considered the merits of silence and concluded that being forthcoming couldn’t hurt. “I’m a scholar.”

“Yes,” the monk nodded. “Yes, I see now. May Zahara light your way, and Ratri guard the vault of your mind.”

Galway hummed to himself. “You seem fairly educated; I was under the impression your order didn’t keep with the gods.”

Long stroked the snowy white beard that hung down over his chest. “It’s true,” he said carefully. “That we do not maintain idols, nor practice prayer. But, of course, the divine cannot be denied.”

Galway nodded. “Still, these days, Zahara-Ratri is more commonly revered as day and night than knowledge and secrets; you must have spent a lot of time in study.” He said.

“Perhaps,” Long laughed. “But when one grows as old as I am, it seems like less time.”

“Can’t say I relate,” Galway said.

The monk gave him a sideways glance but said nothing, and soon they came to a stop before a door. “Here,” the monk opened the door and let him into a sitting room. A fire burned in a hearth to his right; across from him, a slit window opened into the night.

A table was set in front of the fire, and wooden stools were placed around it. Long stepped in after him and guided him to the table. “Please, sit, and I will-”

There came an urgent knocking at the door, and Long motioned for him to sit before withdrawing to answer it.

“Master Long,” Galway recognized the voice; it was Fén again. “Thank goodness I finally found you; there’s a stranger in the temple and-”

“Yes,” Long said. “Our guest, I know. Would you be kind enough to have food brought up?”

“What-” Fén sputtered. “He’s here, in here?”

Long nodded. “Yes, a fascinating individual; I met him in the arbor shrine, admiring our emblem.”

“Admiring,” the man pushed his way into the room. “More like stealing, why we should, should-”

Long put a hand on his shoulder, “Master Fén,” he said. “This man may be a thief, but he is also a guest. You shame our order by forgetting your hospitality.”

Fén glared at Galway but said nothing, so Long continued. “Now, Master Fén, please have one of the students bring refreshments for our guest, and I will edify him as to our traditions.”

The younger monk bowed. “As you say, Master Long.” He ground out, backing from the room, and the two of them were alone again.

“Please forgive Master Fén,” Long sat down across from him. “He’s well-meaning, but his temper often gets the best of him.”

Galway would have to watch that one; he’d be trouble, aloud, he said. “It’s fine.”

The old man stretched. “Tell me, we are an isolated group, living in the northern mountains as we do; how did you hear about us?”

It was a pointed question, and Galway wondered just how much the old monk knew. “I travel widely,” he hedged. “I listen.” The answer was broadly true and mostly accurate.

“Of course,” the monk nodded. “And your clothes,” he gestured at the helmet he wore and its visor, “quite strange.”

Galway shrugged. “It’s a wide world.”

“I suppose it is,” the monk nodded in agreement.

They talked about nothing in particular for a while, and the monk asked no more probing questions, but each time Galway attempted to move to the subject of the shrine and its treasure, the monk managed to deflect his questions.

Soon, there came a knock on the door, and when it opened, Hai stepped through, a platter deftly balanced in one hand. Their eyes met, and she gave him a shy smile before turning her attention to the master. “As you requested,” she bowed her head in deference as she approached the table and set the platter down.

“If there’s anything else-”

“There is,” the monk said brightly. “Sit with us.”

She blinked, “Master?”

“It’s been too long since we’ve sat together, and I’d like to introduce our guest. Mister Galway,” he gestured to Hai. “this is Hai, a rather exceptional student of our monastery.”

“Hai, this is Mister Galway, an itinerant scholar who has taken an interest in our order. I dare say you may be interested in some of his stories.”

She nodded and took a stool next to Galway. “It’s a pleasure,” she said. “I hope you’ll stay awhile, I’ve never gotten to travel, and I’ve always loved stories from the outside.”

Galway examined her for a moment, a vibrant smile and bright chocolate brown eyes that shone with curiosity and excitement. It reminded him of simpler times, and he did want to stay, he found.

He shook the thought from his head and locked eyes with the old monk. “Maybe, but before I think about anything else, I am here for a reason.”

“Of course,” Long stood. “Then I shall prepare, Hai; once our guest has refreshed himself, please bring him to the yard.”

She bobbed her head. “Yes, Master,” she said.

The monk stood, bowed, and left them alone. He watched the door for a moment before Hai caught his attention with a cough.

He turned and found her looking at him. “So,” she slowly pushed the platter toward him. “You’re going to fight the Master, then?”

He looked at her for a moment. Was he? He shrugged. “Apparently,” he said.

She nodded solemnly, then broke into a broad smile. “What’s the most interesting place you’ve ever visited?”

It surprised a laugh from him. “You’re not worried at all?”

Her lips pursed as though she was concentrating on some puzzle, then she shrugged. “I’ll ask the Master to go easy on you.”

He smiled at that, but it faded. “He’s important to you, isn’t he?”

Her head listed to one side, brow knitting together, “what’s wrong?”

He thought about it, but confiding in her would only cause problems, so he shook his head. “Don’t worry about me; I’m a big boy. You wanted to hear about my travels.”

She nodded emphatically. “Yes!” she cried. “You must have seen so much.”

He nodded back. “Yes, my religious practice,” he explained. “Involves the collection and preservation of knowledge. I’ve seen ancient ruins buried in glaciers, upside-down cities hanging from cave ceilings, collected a small fortune in gemstones, and gambled it all away to a dragon for the secrets etched into a single one of his molten gold scales.”

Her eyes widened in wonder. “You saw a dragon!” she gasped. “And lived?”

He laughed. “Of course, they’re quite civilized, dragons; it’s just- we’re so small compared to them. To their eyes, we appear much the same as insects.”

“Oh,” she said, her spirits seeming a bit dampened.

“But you know,” he continued. “Many humans find insects quite fascinating and devote entire lifetimes of study to them. Dragons are the same, spending much of their time observing us and decoding our behavior, which they find as mysterious and alien to their eyes as theirs is to ours.”

“Really?” the news brightened her mood, and he found himself smiling, caught up by her enthusiasm.

“Yes, and they like talking to humans, presuming a human can become reasonably conversant in their language.”

Stars formed in her eyes. “Talking to a dragon,” she sighed dreamily.

“Yes,” he chuckled. “But a man, or woman, should be careful when keeping company with dragons. They like to play games with their words, so much of the dragon tongue is double entendre and intricate embroideries of reference and aphorism. The literal meaning of the words is usually less important than the subtextual messages, which are often only truly clear within the context of the history and personality of the individual dragon as they refer back to their own life experience and previous interactions.”

She nodded, enraptured, and so he kept going. “In that way, it’s not entirely accurate to say there is a ‘dragon tongue’ in broad terms. More accurately, each individual dragon has their own dialect built over centuries or even millennia of life as words take on new symbolic meaning relating their experiences.”

She hadn’t stopped nodding the whole time he spoke, and when he stopped for a breath, she said, “you’ll teach me, of course.”

He laughed and slapped his leg. “Maybe I will,” he said. Hai reminded him of himself; when he’d been young, thirsty, and ravenous. Ready to see everything, desiring to know all there was to know. She seemed happy, but she was wasted here, cloistered away in the mountains, and he wondered if she wouldn’t regret it when she’d grown old.

He didn’t say anything, though; it wasn’t his business what she did with her life. So, if she was happy, that was probably enough; besides, it was better to maintain a safe distance.

She sighed wistfully. “Doesn’t seem like a fair trade, though, all that wealth for one single scale?”

He grinned and leaned in conspiratorially. “You only say that because you don’t know about dragon scales.”

She scooted closer, sensing a story. “What about dragon scales?”

“Like I said,” he murmured, as though sharing a great secret, which he was, though not one of which he was jealous. “Dragon scales are made of molten gold. They flow and shift, but always remember. Dragons write on them, you see; the text soon disappears, but with concentration and probing can be recalled. A man could spend his whole life studying an ancient scale, and his children, theirs, and their children, for generations and still not wholly plumb its depths. And I won a game of riddles, with a truly ancient dragon, for the right to purchase his heart scale, the first scale he ever formed. He wasn’t happy.”

“I bet not,” she giggled. “So, when do I get to see it?”

He snorted, “Never?”

She shoved him, grinning. “You can’t tell me about something so wonderous and then say I can’t have a look.”

He glanced around, “I just did.”

She punched his shoulder, “ass.”

He laughed, “well, maybe I can let you have a look,” he rubbed his shoulder. “If you show me you can learn.”

Her eyes glinted, yes, very much like himself. “I can learn,” she proclaimed. “Just you watch me.”

He smiled; maybe he would.

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