Theodora frowns, but after a moment, she starts down the tunnel. As soon as she’s out of view, I straighten up, jogging lightly back toward the golden doorway.
The light draws me like a moth to a flame. No—not just the light. The temple itself. Le Trépas came here seeking knowledge. I can’t shake the feeling that I should do the same—to look for what he had taken, or what he had left behind.
But when I step through the doorway, thoughts of the monk fade. The temple has been carved into a grand cavern in the earth, wider than a paddy, taller than a kapok tree. But roots grow down through the ceiling, and the cracked floor is covered in leaves and rubble. Still, the souls remember that this is a holy place. They soar through the room and scurry over the rubble. The song is louder here as the wind rushes through the chamber like the whispers of the spirits.
Then the skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I whirl. But there is no one else here—no one but the souls. Their glowing light flickers across the high stone walls, illuminating the carvings. Not the usual figures from our stories, nor the stories themselves. Instead, the walls have been chipped into rows and rows of hollows, too regular to be caused by destruction. As I watch the souls duck in and out of the holes, I realize they are empty shelves.
What had been stored here? Offerings? Incense? Knowledge? I remember some of the stories about La Victoire—that the armée had burned thousands of old scrolls. But was it the armée, or Le Trépas?
The skin on the back of my neck crawls again—I feel eyes, I’m sure of it. Turning slowly this time, I scan the room, but I am the only person here. Still, the flickering light casts strange shadows in the rubble. Then I see them—eyes in the carvings on the broken altar. Faces too, or the remains of faces—an ear here, a nose there, the curve of a jawline, the rippled lines of long hair . . . the hundred forms of the Keeper, in their many human lives.
The faces go all the way around the rectangular block of stone. They’ve been marred with chisels, by the armée or by Le Trépas, and the gems have been pried from their eyes, but I know enough about the Keeper to imagine what used to be. The carvings would have watched the worshippers approach, and listened to their secrets and their dreams. There would have been a bigger statue too, there, behind the altar, though it must have been torn down long ago.
The altar itself is still mostly intact, and though the few others I’ve seen have been solid, this one is hollow, like a trough . . . or a coffin. There is even a lid, though it has been pushed sideways, exposing whatever was inside. Or is inside.
Is this where the Keeper’s book had been? A few quick steps brings me to the altar, but it is only full of dirty water. Disappointed, I trace the carvings on the lip. Life, knowledge, death, repeated all the way around the rim. Over the smell of the leaves turning slowly to humus, there is still a hint of incense in the air, and flower petals stir on the stone. Even before the armée’s defeat, there had been monks who’d come in secret to the temples; shadow plays aren’t the only way the old ways have survived. Theodora’s words come back to me: perhaps in time, we can restore what was lost.
Theodora . . . how long since I left her in the tunnel? Turning, I start toward the door, then stop short, startled by the glow of an akela standing there.
It shimmers like a column of flame—the soul of a person. I shouldn’t be surprised. Souls are drawn to temples, and death, like life, happens every day. But I had not known there were any other people nearby. Just me . . . and Theodora.
My stomach sinks, but then a scream echoes through the tunnels. Her voice. She’s alive. “Theodora!”
Breaking into a run, I pelt back the way I’d come. Souls tumble out of my way as I careen down the hall toward the yawning mouth of the tunnel. “Theodora?”
“Jetta! Stay back!” As I start into the darkness, a gout of flame punctuates her shout, bursting from what seems like a crack in the stone. In the sudden brightness, I see another figure standing there. A monk, robed in red, just out of reach of the flames. The firelight shines on the monk’s silver hair, but her eyes are sapphire blue.
A n’akela? No—when she sees me, she lifts a gun in her gnarled hand, and despite my many sins, I know I have never done anything to warrant vengeance from this monk. I don’t even recognize her. But she recognizes me. “Hello, mei mei,” she says. Little sister. “It’s good to see you again.”
THE KEEPER AND THE LIAR
In the days when our ancestors were young, the three gods walked among them. The Maiden coaxed new babies to open their eyes, the King collected souls from the dying, and the Keeper gathered all the great and small moments in between, so that no life, no matter how brief, would ever be forgotten.
Then one day, the Keeper met the soul of a liar.
The soul was eager to tell her story: magnificent adventures, endless wealth, true love, and the many grieving children and grandchildren she had left behind. The Keeper listened raptly, but as the hours passed, the King of Death kept tut-tutting, and the Maiden sighed, shaking her head. Annoyed with the interruptions, the Keeper turned to them, curious. “Why do you scoff at her story?”
“Because there was no wealth or love, nor children or grandchildren,” the Maiden replied.
The King nodded. “This girl died in her mother’s womb.”
The Keeper was taken aback, inspecting the soul with new
