be friends.
“Friends,” he said softly, and pondered.
*****
The bearded priest who had called down from the top of the stairs awaited them just outside the temple’s double doors.
“Welcome to the Sanctum,” he said to Cale, Magadon, and Jak, though the hardness of his voice belied his words.
Engraved characters from a dozen or more Faerunian alphabets covered the verdigris-stained copper double doors of the Sanctum of the Scroll. Cut into the smooth stone lintel above the doors was a phrase in the common tongue that captured the pith of Oghma’s doctrine: Strength can moue only mountains. Ideas can shake worlds.
Magadon nudged Cale, nodded at the inscription, and said, “Can you mark that?”
Cale nodded, read it for the guide.
“True, that,” Magadon said, as they entered the temple.
The double doors opened directly onto a small foyer beyond which stood the worship hail itself. Cale welcomed the shelter from the late afternoon sun. Once within the foyer, the priests uttered a short invocation and removed the masks they wore.
Within the worship hall, small wooden desks stood in a circle around a lectern on a raised dais. Acolytes in unadorned black vests sat at a third or so of the desks, copying manuscripts, scrolls, even entire books. They did not look up from their work. Wooden shelves taller than Cale and stuffed with sheaves of parchment and scrolls covered much of the walls. A small dome composed entirely of glass capped the ceiling. Sunlight poured in through it. Several doors led out of the worship hall.
Cale knew the services in Oghma’s temple were often as much a classroom lesson as a sermon. The priesthood frequently offered lectures on subjects as broad as the history of the Creator Races and planar mechanics, and as narrow as brick making, leather working, and literacy. Oghmanytes served Oghma the Binder by encouraging creative thought and disseminating knowledge and ideas. Cale wondered if they maintained a lending library, like the Temple of Deneir.
“I will inform High Loremaster Yannathar of our visitors,” the middle-aged priest with the beard said to Sephris.
“Of course you will, Hrin,” Sephris said dismissively. “Tell him also what you suspect, for it is truth-these are the men who were indirectly responsible for my death. Tell the High Loremaster that they, like Undryl Yannathar himself, questioned my spirit after my body’s death. But unlike him, they at least had the good grace to let me sleep again after they’d had their answers.”
Hrin flushed at that. Sephris continued. “Tell him, too, that I am in no danger from them, or at least no more than the entirety of this realm is in danger from them.”
Cale flushed at that. Sephris went on. “And tell him finally that I am tired but that I serve the Binder and this temple still. Do you understand all that I just said?”
Hrin nodded curtly. He and his fellow priests stood around for a moment, embarrassed.
“His heart will fail him in five hundred thirty-two days,” Sephris muttered as he watched Hrin walk away. He came back to himself and said to Cale and his comrades, “Follow me.”
The loremaster led them away from the priests, into the worship hall, and through one of several doors that lined the walls. He did not speak as they went. They walked dim, windowless corridors lined with framed
maps until they came to a small conference room. A large slate hung from one of the walls and five chairs sat around a rectangular table set before it. A shelf against one wall held sheaves of papers and bound scrolls. Sunlight leaked through a small window to provide light. Cale avoided the beams,
“Sit,” Sephris ordered, and they did. The loremaster did not sit; instead, he went to the slate on the wall, took a piece of chalk in his hand, looked at it, and closed his fist over it without writing anything. He turned to the table and looked at Jak, at Magadon, at Cale. His eyes were not friendly.
“Darkness
“Friends,” he said softly, and pondered.
*****
The bearded priest who had called down from the top of the stairs awaited them just outside the temple’s double doors.
“Welcome to the Sanctum,” he said to Cale, Magadon, and Jak, though the hardness of his voice belied his words.
Engraved characters from a dozen or more Faerunian alphabets covered the verdigris-stained copper double doors of the Sanctum of the Scroll. Cut into the smooth stone lintel above the doors was a phrase in the common tongue that captured the pith of Oghma’s doctrine: Strength can moue only mountains. Ideas can shake worlds.
Magadon nudged Cale, nodded at the inscription, and said, “Can you mark that?”
Cale nodded, read it for the guide.
“True, that,” Magadon said, as they entered the temple.
The double doors opened directly onto a small foyer beyond which stood the worship hail itself. Cale welcomed the shelter from the late afternoon sun. Once within the foyer, the priests uttered a short invocation and removed the masks they wore.
Within the worship hall, small wooden desks stood in a circle around a lectern on a raised dais. Acolytes in unadorned black vests sat at a third or so of the desks, copying manuscripts, scrolls, even entire books. They did not look up from their work. Wooden shelves taller than Cale and stuffed with sheaves of parchment and scrolls covered much of the walls. A small dome composed entirely of glass capped the ceiling. Sunlight poured in through it. Several doors led out of the worship hall.
Cale knew the services in Oghma’s temple were often as much a classroom lesson as a sermon. The priesthood frequently offered lectures on subjects as broad as the history of the Creator Races and planar mechanics, and as narrow as brick making, leather working, and literacy. Oghmanytes served Oghma the Binder by encouraging creative thought and disseminating knowledge and ideas. Cale wondered if they maintained a lending library, like the Temple of Deneir.
“I will inform High Loremaster Yannathar of our visitors,” the middle-aged priest with the beard said to Sephris.
“Of course you will, Hrin,” Sephris said dismissively. “Tell him also what you suspect, for it is truth-these are the men who were indirectly responsible for my death. Tell the High Loremaster that they, like Undryl Yannathar himself, questioned my spirit after my body’s death. But unlike him, they at least had the good grace to let me sleep again after they’d had their answers.”
Hrin flushed at that. Sephris continued. “Tell him, too, that I am in no danger from them, or at least no more than the entirety of this realm is in danger from them.”
Cale flushed at that. Sephris went on. “And tell him finally that I am tired but that I serve the Binder and this temple still. Do you understand all that I just said?”
Hrin nodded curtly. He and his fellow priests stood around for a moment, embarrassed.
“His heart will fail him in five hundred thirty-two days,” Sephris muttered as he watched Hrin walk away. He came back to himself and said to Cale and his comrades, “Follow me.”
The loremaster led them away from the priests, into the worship hall, and through one of several doors that lined the walls. He did not speak as they went. They walked dim, windowless corridors lined with framed
maps until they came to a small conference room. A large slate hung from one of the walls and five chairs sat around a rectangular table set before it. A shelf against one wall held sheaves of papers and bound scrolls. Sunlight leaked through a small window to provide light. Cale avoided the beams,
“Sit,” Sephris ordered, and they did. The loremaster did not sit; instead, he went to the slate on the wall, took a piece of chalk in his hand, looked at it, and closed his fist over it without writing anything. He turned to the table and looked at Jak, at Magadon, at Cale. His eyes were not friendly.
“Darkness
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