Author’s Note: Thanks for all the support on this, guys. Sorry for the late update. Walking pneumonia kicked my ass hard.

Thanks to: Allen the Musician, Reta McClain, Astarael-7th, winegoldsayuri, Harmony283, Maydn, Holly-Batali, Hiwatari-Angel-15, SilverKleptoFox, NellaXIval, I’m Defective, Lohikäärmesielu, kuzon234ray, 3, AnimeM22 and everyone else for their love and support.

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“…In essence, this girl is required to, in an instance of danger, give her life so that you, the highest ranking Bookman’s apprentice, can live.”

After the explanation left Bookman’s lips, it went very still. The air was heavy with tension and heat. The old man watched as Darpan’s expression of stubbornness left his face as quickly as rushing water through a dam. His eye had widened in surprise, mouth slightly open in unmasked shock. To be told that your enemy was the person who would die for you was a concept that had clearly shaken Darpan’s perception of the world, of their Clan. His gaze turned to the girl who had most likely tortured him for the better part of twenty four hours. She was smugly grinning at him, as if she had won some incredible prize or overcome an impossible feat. Despite her cropped hair and graffitied face, Sagira looked positively pleased to have one over on Darpan.

“Yeah, you heard him right,” said Sagira, pointing an accusatory finger at Darpan, “if you get yourself into trouble, it’s my duty to die for you!” Darpan blinked at her, as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. Immediately, the agitation took place of the surprise.

“Then why the hell do you keep trying to kill me if it’s your duty to protect me?!” Darpan asked, pointing an accusatory finger back at Sagira. When he made this motion, Bookman could see angry blue bruises on his neck, beneath his short, bleached hair. Apparently it was true that Sagira had been rather rough with him.

“Because,” she said, anger replacing her triumph, “because I don’t want to be obligated to die for someone who isn’t worth it!”

After declaring this, the silence came back, heavier and more oppressive than before. Darpan did not reply to her words, his arm falling from its raised position. Instead, it fell beside him and he remained motionless. Sagira’s true motives had been realized: her antagonism towards Darpan had been out of pure jealousy and frustration. To look at all sides of the argument, Bookman had to admit that her duty to Darpan was a great responsibility. On the other hand, Sagira should have understood the complexities of the Clan, the unbreakable rules that had to be followed. She should have understood that she did not have a choice. If it came down to it, Darpan’s life was more valuable than hers.

“Nothing to say? Good! You shouldn’t! Your life shouldn’t be worth more than mine! I should have the right to live! I should be able to live even if you were in danger of dying. Why should I give my life for someone as worthless as you?” Sagira asked, her words becoming steely, more poisoned towards the end of her tirade. Bookman looked at Seeker, imploring him to still his apprentice’s tongue before he himself did so. However, Seeker did not make to quiet her, his own gaze quite hard. Bookman suddenly realized that the two of them were in the same position as their apprentices. Seeker knew his duty, after all, and if there was a way to prevent Bookman’s death, even at the cost of his own life, Seeker was obligated to do so.

That was just the way things were.

“Sagira,” said Darpan, his voice quiet, devoid of the anger and annoyance from before. Her mouth closed, eyes turning sharp as Darpan neared her. His hand did not make to strike her, remaining still by his side. Instead, his head lifted slightly so that he could look Sagira right in the eyes. Because of Bookman’s position in the room, he could not see Darpan’s expression; only those of Sagira and Seeker, who regarded the youth with hostile civility.

“What?” she asked, snapping much like one of the revered cobras that made the region famous. Darpan took a step back and tilted forward from the back, bowing low and respectful. It was a gesture only shown to elders or to those of high importance within the Clan. Darpan had taken it upon himself to resolve the issue by being the better man, even if it meant bowing to his enemy. He was showing it with respect to Sagira’s weight of responsibility and possible sacrifice. It was noble, but not overly gracious, which Bookman constituted as proper conduct in the situation at hand.

“I’m sorry,” Darpan said, his face still downcast, “and thank you.” Sagira’s dark eyes widened, anger leaving them as her cheeks flushed at those words.

“Whatever,” she replied, crossing her arms and turning around so that her back was to Darpan. Bookman caught the smallest glimpse of tears before she hid them from sight. “I’m still going to hit you next time I see you.”

“If you do that, I’ll throw you in the nearest well,” Darpan answered without hesitation.

“Just try it and see where it gets you, Cyclops,” Sagira promised.

“Stop calling me Cyclops!” Darpan growled back. The two children glared at each other as they began a rather loud exchange of insults once more. At least things had returned to a state of semi-normalcy. But Sagira still wouldn’t look at Darpan and Bookman’s apprentice kept his eyes on the floor as they exchanged their half-hearted threats. Across the room, Bookman could feel Seeker’s unwavering stare upon him. He met it for a moment: those black eyes that had held him in a dangerous state of false reality among the dusty stones in Thoth’s domain. Too many years had passed between them, with Seeker carrying the weight of obligation on his shoulders and Bookman harboring a secret unease and dislike of the aforementioned man, for anything to be so easily said and accepted as what had transpired between their successors. Instead, it was the smallest of gestures, the slightest dip to Bookman’s head that said what could not be expressed with words aloud.

I appreciate it.

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Later that evening, when Bookman and Darpan had retired to their tent for the evening, that silence returned. One green eye watched as Bookman set up the small hookah that Jahaar had generously lent them for the duration of their stay. It was only when Bookman was lighting the coals in the small tray atop the glass body that Darpan spoke.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I did not,” Bookman replied. Darpan gave an aggravated, tired sigh, his hand moving over his face in a gesture of exhaustion.

“Isn’t there a manual or something I can read so I don’t go making a fool of myself?” Darpan asked.

“You’ll learn in time,” Bookman said, stroking the coals until they were burning nicely.

“Even still, with everything, I don’t like her,” Darpan told him.

“Nothing says you have to,” Bookman replied.

“But now I feel kind of guilty about it,” Darpan murmured, drawing his knees to his chest. Bookman felt his gaze as he uncoiled one of the hoses on the hookah.

“Guilty because you feel as if you have to have some sort of attachment to the person who must die in your stead should you be in danger?” Bookman asked, taking a deep inhale from the brass nose. "Foolish of you."

“I guess so,” Darpan said.

“Push that feeling aside,” Bookman advised on his exhale. “Attachments only serve to alter your state. They affect your judgment, your records, and even your personas. They create biases. If lost or broken, attachment will only serve to injure your perception further. You will be miserable.”

“I know,” Darpan said with a sigh, “I just wonder if…I could feel absolutely nothing if someone were to die for me.” Bookman took a thoughtful inhale from the hookah. It tasted like strawberries and melons, slightly ashy from the coals that were now burning too quickly.

“Eventually, you will be able to,” Bookman answered.

“Oh,” Darpan said.

And that was all.

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The next morning, Bookman found Darpan sitting in front of a cracked mirror in their tent, making strained faces at his image as he pulled at the deadened strands of his hair.

“I can’t believe this…” Darpan grumbled, as Bookman fixed a kettle over their small fire pit.

“How on Earth did that girl get you to hold still long enough to do that?” Bookman inquired, opening several cedar boxes with different kinds of tea.

“I…was drugged…” Darpan said, with such a voice that Bookman could have sworn the corner turned darker in a visual manifestation of his despair. “She…tricked meeee…”

“I take it that in retaliation, you cut her hair while she slept,” Bookman replied, scooping out the leaves into a strainer to settle and seep in the boiling water.

“Yeaaaah,” Darpan said, a whining tenor still in his voice.

“So what did you do to her that she felt the need to do that to you?” Bookman asked, eyeing the bleached mop of hair upon his apprentice’s head.

“I drew that kanji on her face when she took a nap,” Darpan answered, a slight glimmer of victory in his eye. "I thought oni* was rather appropriate, don't you think?"

[(*Oni means "demon"])

“And why did you draw on her face?” Bookman asked, using a tone similar to that of a parent attempting to get the truth out of a troublesome child.

“She cracked me on the skull with a walking stick,” Darpan said, scooting closer to show Bookman a red, swollen lump on the right side of his head beneath those pale locks. “And hit me a few times here.” Darpan indicated the bruising along his neck and right shoulder. It was on the side where Darpan could not see, rendering the action to be rather cowardly in Bookman’s opinion.

“And she did this why?” Bookman inquired.

“No idea,” Darpan replied with a shrug. "I think it had something to do with my hair, though. Never seen someone hate a redhead so much. I think Manas and Ganesa would be rather upset."

“Hmm…” Bookman said as he produced two teacups from their borrowed utensils box. The tea had seeped and was ready to drink, so Bookman poured two equal portions of the sweet-smelling liquid into the chipped mugs.

“What are you hmmming about?” Darpan asked, once both cups were full. “She’s completely crazy. I didn’t do anything to her before all of that. I didn’t expect her to be so extreme about her methods…”

“I was merely wondering what the two of you were doing that caused the men here to tie you up like they did,” Bookman said.

“Well, that’s easy,” said Darpan in a reasonable voice. “After she found out what I did to her hair, she lost it. At first, it was just her running after me and yelling at the top of her lungs. Then she started to throw things. Then, when she couldn’t hit me, she went for fire…”

“You need not say anything further,” Bookman said holding up his hand to stop his apprentice.

“Crazy,” was all Darpan said, and went back to pulling miserably at his hair.

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Two days later, Jahaar’s men returned from their search for Simon. When Bookman joined them in the meeting cabana, they relayed only a small portion of information. Apparently, a hocus named Simon had been seen in the port of Alexandria—the same place where Bookman and Darpan had been only a week prior upon arriving in Egypt—where he was accompanied by men in black robes. From there, he was led onto a vessel in the harbor and was not seen again. The boat had left earlier that morning. One of the men in the party said that the craft was sea bound to Italy, where the men in vestments were intent on taking Simon to Rome.

“They were priests?” Bookman asked, just to clarify. It was verified when they told Bookman that they wore rosary and dressed in button down cassocks the color of sable. Another man was able to identify that they spoke in Italian, confirming that Simon was en route to Italy. Bookman knew that Rome was not far from Vatican City, right along the same western coast. That planted the seeds of questioning and suspicion in Bookman’s mind. Did the Pope have some hand in Simon’s relocation? Did the Black Order have anything to do with it? If so, what were they planning? Was Marian behind it somehow as well, pulling strings similar to the same manner of his animated corpse, Maria?

“Will you follow him, then?” Jahaar inquired, when the men exited, leaving the two of them alone. The hookah’s coals were burning, smelling of cinnamon and almonds.

“I must, as I still have many questions,” Bookman replied. “If Simon has been taken to Rome, perhaps he will be executed. The Catholics do not take well to heretics like him, after all.”

“So you will not remain here and journey with me in search of the Wind?” asked Jahaar. There was no disappointment in his voice. It was something more along the lines of expected realization.

“I have no reason to stay,” Bookman said, tone cautious. “I have fulfilled my part of the bargain and you have fulfilled yours. I cannot lose my only lead on this man, so I am sorry to say that I will be moving on in search of him.”

“Yes, that is all well and good,” Jahaar said, tilting his head slightly. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips that made Bookman uncomfortable, as if he were back in the dark of Thoth’s domain, with childish laughter in his ears... “However, I still require your services.” Bookman felt an instinctual rush inside of him to escape from the cabana, his senses on high alert. It wasn’t exactly Jahaar’s expression, or his words that created this feeling, but instead it was the sight of Darpan appearing through the white flap of the tent. There was something wrong; his single eye was too dark. It set Bookman’s stomach tying itself into knots.

“Jahaar,” Bookman said, narrowing his eyes at the man across from him as his tone turned a little more dangerous: “What have you done?”

“Not I, Bookman,” replied the Arab. Behind Darpan, a silhouette appeared, dark in contrast to the blinding sun behind it. Bookman did not need to see its face to know that it was Seeker. Had it been a trap from the very beginning, or something done out of desperation at the last, final moments?

“Seeker,” Bookman said, icy venom creeping into his voice. Darpan’s face was a blank slate. The old man could see no life behind his gaze. “Release him.”

“I think not,” Seeker replied.

“See, Bookman,” Jahaar began, leaning back against the many cushions around him on the floor, “I still need your help. I’m sure your hocus won’t get too far if you remain here a little longer.”

“You tip the scales too greatly, Jahaar,” Bookman warned.

“I do no such thing,” Jahaar said, “after all, won’t you get something in return if I were to find this treasure? Imagine, seeing such a momentous occasion with your own eyes. Is it not everything a bookman wishes for?”

“That is none of my concern,” Bookman answered, turning his steely gaze on his colleague. “This is Seeker’s territory. I am merely passing through.”

“But you misunderstand. You’re the only one who can figure out the message from the tablet,” Jahaar said.

“Certainly a man of Seeker’s intellect could translate it properly for you,” Bookman replied coldly. “I ask for no trouble; only to take my apprentice and be on my way.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Bookman,” Jahaar said, civility melting away as he looked at Seeker. It was quick; almost as quick as the glimmer of sunlight on reflective steel that nearly blinded Bookman’s eyes. Darpan had drawn Chi’s dagger from the sheath at his waist and the smooth, curved blade was held out before him in an offensive position. His body was poised to attack. “You see, friend, this boy’s volition belongs to me now. Do as you’re told and I’ll have him released when everything is all said and done.”

“Oh, but it doesn’t work like that, Jahaar,” Bookman said, using Jahaar’s same sentence structure as a means of ironic repetition. “You have no power over me.”

“Don’t I?” asked Jahaar. Bookman watched, with the most stoic disposition characterized by his title, as Darpan’s stance changed and the blade lifted higher. It was no longer held in an aggressive manner towards Bookman. Instead, the tip of the dagger was aimed at Darpan’s own throat, close to the carotid artery. If punctured, the child would bleed out within moments, resulting in almost instantaneous death. The old man did well to not react to the situation with emotion, despite the surge of protectiveness that grasped hold of him. If anything, these internal reactions allowed him to put more force into his gaze and extra poison into his voice.

“Seeker. This is a conflict of responsibility. Your duties prohibit you from continuing in this manner,” Bookman said.

“Perhaps I merely want to see the extent of this boy’s strength, Bookman,” Seeker answered. A grin appeared, showing teeth beneath Seeker’s snowy facial hair. The blade pressed into Darpan’s throat, the tip piercing his flesh. A small trickle of blood appeared. A threat.

“Despite this, Seeker, Clan law dictates that you abide by its rules,” Bookman said, narrowing his eyes, “and when in the presence of the one known as Bookman, you are to abide by his wishes.” The weapon did not move from Darpan’s throat, but it did not continue to break the skin.

“This boy’s mind is interesting, Bookman,” Seeker said, not seeming to heed Bookman’s words in the slightest. “It’s such a strange map of hallways and black doors. A little disorderly, actually, now that I think about it.” The other bookman chuckled. “Maybe too disorderly. It seems as if your apprentice can’t find his way to himself again. And that’s all he has to do, really. All he has to do is break free. If he can’t do that, then what use is he to you?”

“He has not been trained in these practices yet,” Bookman replied, mentally concerned for Lavi’s well-being. After all, the base persona had encountered some issues when the psyches had been under duress. Certainly an invasive maneuver like Seeker's could be a push in the wrong direction. “Let him be. Your quarrel is with me, is it not?”

“There is no quarrel,” Seeker insisted, “I merely want to understand why this wretch is your chosen successor.”

“And how convenient for you, Jahaar, that you have the Mentalist himself at your disposal,” Bookman said, looking from Seeker to the Arab. It took all he had to not scowl for all he was worth. Jahaar was smart, almost as smart as Seeker. The two of them knew that he could do nothing when the life of his apprentice was in danger. He had too much invested in the boy to lose him so early on in the game. It made him a pawn in a game that he had no control over. “...otherwise, you would have no leverage over me.”

“Truly it was a miraculous happenstance,” Jahaar said. His hookah bubbled. The coals had burned themselves into ashes.

“I’m sure it was,” Bookman replied, standing. He had no choice. “Unfortunately, I am in no position to argue with either of you. I will remain. In return, Seeker is to release my apprentice from his spell.”

“Done,” Jahaar said quickly. Seeker appeared disappointed, but the dagger in Darpan’s hand lowered to his side. In the moments that followed, his apprentice’s persona regained consciousness and control, the dissipating darkness returning his eye to natural emerald. He looked puzzled as to how he had suddenly come upon the three adults in the cabana. Even more bemused by the naked weapon in his hand. Darpan blinked, touching his free hand to his neck, where the small wound was bleeding in thin rivulets down his throat. When he touched the wound, it seemed as if he recalled something, his expression turning guarded as he looked from Bookman to Seeker.

“Go back to the tent,” Bookman ordered him. Darpan excused himself quietly and all but ran from their presence. When his footsteps were out of Bookman’s range of hearing, he regarded the other two men with a level stare. “I do not appreciate what has been done. Due to your impertinence, I may very lose several years worth of research by remaining here. However, I am obligated by your forced hand to act as you wish. I will return shortly with the decoded answer to your question. Excuse me.” They both stepped aside to let him leave. Bookman knew he had gotten off easy.

This time.

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“I don’t remember anything,” Darpan said, that night in their tent. He was sitting before the fire pit with a towel around his shoulders. His hair smelled heavily of strong herbs and henna; it looked like glass in the light. It was the only way that Bookman could think of to restore Darpan’s hair back to its normal color from that dead-looking white. When his hand went to touch a stray hair that had fallen on his brow, Bookman slapped his wrist with a rolled up slip of parchment to stop him.

“Don’t touch it. You’ll dye your hands as well,” Bookman said.

“Do you think I was possessed?” Darpan asked, his fingers straying from the wayward hair to instead straighten the straps of his eye patch.

“Seeker caught hold of your mind,” Bookman answered, looking up once more when he saw Darpan’s hands moving again. However, they were still fiddling with the scrap of silk fabric over his right eye. One of the loops around his ear had come loose and his apprentice made an aggravated face as he tied it back in place.

“I don’t even remember seeing him to be honest,” Darpan said.

“That is the manner in which Seeker works,” Bookman responded, unrolling the parchment in his hands, “it is difficult to see where reality becomes his false illusion.” Below his fingers, black ink stared back at him with the words of the riddle.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Darpan asked, breaking his concentration.

“What is your fault?” Bookman inquired, not bothering to glance up again.

“That we’re still here. It’s my fault,” Darpan said, touching the bandage on his throat. “We were supposed to leave today after those men came back with information about Simon, but we didn’t.”

“Don’t be so egocentric. Our services were required for a longer duration of time,” Bookman answered shortly. The fire crackled in the pit beside them. Somewhere in the camp, someone was smoking a melon-raspberry flavored hookah; its smoke wafted in the evening breeze.

“It’s because Seeker got a hold over me,” Darpan continued, as if Bookman hadn’t spoken. “It’s because my mind wasn’t strong enough to fight him.”

“Even with years of training in that field, it would be difficult to resist Seeker. He is a master at his art,” Bookman said. He had to tell himself that he was saying it so that Darpan could understand the extent of Seeker's abilities, not so that he could comfort Darpan and ease his guilt slightly.

“So there is a way to fight that sort of power?” Darpan asked.

“Of course there is,” Bookman answered, “the mind can overcome almost any obstacle if trained properly.”

“Will you teach me?” Darpan asked.

“One day, yes,” Bookman said, “but not today.” The old man didn’t have to see his face to know that his apprentice was disappointed, on the verge of sulking.

“Why not now?” Darpan asked.

“Because there are more important matters to deal with now,” Bookman said.

“Like whatever’s on that piece of paper you won’t let me see?” Darpan replied, scooting closer. Bookman rolled up the parchment before his prying eye could see.

“Go stick your head in a bucket,” Bookman told him.

“That’s rude,” Darpan said, sniffing in offense. “All you had to say was that it wasn’t any of my business.”

“No, I truly meant for you to stick your head in a bucket,” Bookman corrected him. “If that dye stays on too long, it will burn your skin and you will most likely go bald.”

“How do I know that this isn’t some ploy you came up with so that I’m kept in the dark about everything that’s going on?” Darpan asked. When Bookman looked up at him, he saw his apprentice’s eye narrowed in suspicion.

“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t. When your scalp is on fire and all your hair falls out, never to return for the rest of your life, do not cry to me as I will have no pity on you.”

Needless to say, Darpan thrust his head into the nearest bucket of water in terror.

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After Darpan had nearly drowned himself in order to make sure all the dye had been removed from his head so that he didn’t “go bald and become miserable,” Bookman had allowed Darpan to read the translated text. They then had spent the majority of the night pouring over those few lines and discussing theories. In truth, it was experiences like that night where Bookman felt rather accomplished for making such a choice in selecting his apprentice. Darpan had brought several ideas to the table and had provided stimulating, intellectual debates on some theories. In truth, if not for the situation, it would have been a rather pleasant evening.

“So we’re looking for a temple?” Darpan asked, sleepily from his nest of blankets. It was early morning and Bookman was making morning tea. In truth, he was waiting for the sound of the first bell from the main cabana, signaling the wake-up call to the camp. When that bell rang, Jahaar would be awake. Bookman could then pass along some of the information and maybe reach Alexandria in two days time.

“Perhaps. Recall that a temple could be a number of things,” Bookman answered.

“Oh, that’s right,” Darpan said, burrowing under his traveling cloak for a few more moments of sleep as the water boiled. On the table beside him, Bookman looked at the rolled parchment with the words upon them:

When Thoth is full and Nut is high

Shu holds his Pillars to the sky.

There, beneath his otherworldly back,

Resides what Amon had once lacked.

In the Fleeting temple’s Eye

You’ll find a Power that can steal a sigh

Tread with care

If you dare

To find the power of

The One True God

After discussions concerning the poem the previous evening, Bookman and Darpan had come up with a loose interpretation. In reference to Thoth (the Moon) being full and Nut (the Sky) being held up by the pillars of Shu (the Wind), Bookman knew that they were waiting for the night in the middle of the lunar cycle, when the moon was neither waxing nor waning. Following the words, Bookman deduced that there was a place beneath where Shu supported Nut, which housed the object that Amon (the Wind) once lacked: his Power that could “steal a sigh”, which was a reference possibly to the Breath of Life, otherwise known as the Wind. The most likely place to contain the object would be a temple, but it could have been an obelisk, a tomb, or even a pyramid, as all of these locations could be considered “temples” in their own rights. The only question remained was where the place was located.

“So we still don’t know what it is we’re looking for or where it is,” Darpan said, once the tea was finished. His dark auburn strands of hair poked out from beneath his hiding place when Bookman set the cup nest to the bundle he was using as a pillow. Although it wasn’t quite the same color as it had been originally, it was much better than the sickly white it had been before. A return to normalcy, almost, that Bookman found to be rather calming. It was strange to see his apprentice without that usually vibrant mop of hair.

“Exactly,” Bookman replied.

“But it’s Innocence, right?” Darpan asked, yawning widely as he sat up.

“It is most likely to be Innocence,” Bookman corrected him.

“Well, this is all speculative and stuff. Jahaar’s gonna love it,” Darpan replied, blowing at the smoke emitting from his hot tea.

“Everything within the poem is important,” Bookman said. “There are no unnecessary words. The only line that remains is ‘In the Fleeting temple’s Eye’.”

“Maybe it moves,” Darpan suggested, shrugging sleepily.

“I said fleeting not fleeing,” Bookman replied, whacking Darpan upside the head with the rolled up parchment.

“Maybe it vanishes,” Darpan amended, flattening the hair that had been disturbed by Bookman's abuse.

“Vanishes?” Bookman repeated, feeling the brightness of an epiphany emerging.

“I was just kidding,” said his apprentice. He took a sip from his tea and made a face. “This is really bitter.”

“A vanishing temple,” Bookman mused aloud.

“I really was just kidding,” Darpan said.

“It would make sense,” Bookman continued, as if the redhead hadn’t spoken. “If the temple only appears during a certain segment of the lunar cycle, then it is possible that on the remaining days, it simply does not exist.”

“Whaaaaat?” Darpan asked. Somewhere within the camp, the bell rang. Jahaar was awake. Bookman rolled up the parchment and put it inside his cloak pocket. Then he pulled out a satchel containing some bread and breakfast meat, handing it to Darpan.

“Make yourself something to eat. I will collect you shortly,” Bookman said, rising and making his way towards the exit of their tent. He was just outside when Darpan stuck his head out of the flap to regard him:

“What are you talking about? Where are you going? Seriously, I was just kidding!”

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“Folklore about a vanishing tomb? Truly, Bookman, you must jest.”

“I assure you, I do not jest,” Bookman insisted, as he was not one to find anything hilarious or entertaining. The thought of himself laughing actually gave him nightmares. “Have you ever heard any myths or legends about such a place?” In front of him, Jahaar and Seeker sat before the hookah, already burning and bubbling at the early hour of the morning. Jahaar seemed much more genial than the last time they met. Perhaps a step closer to achieving his ultimate goal had placated him somewhat. Seeker, on the other hand, was the opposite. If anything, he seemed more hostile than ever. It was a silent animosity, but still very much present in their meeting.

“This is ridiculous,” Seeker said, continuing from his previous comment. “You can’t possibly believe that a tomb can disappear and reappear at will.”

“The Temple of Wisdom could only be opened when the sun was in a certain position in the sky,” Bookman replied, “so would a tomb that only revealed itself on the night of a full moon be so farfetched?”

“Yes, Bookman, it is. You seem to forget that Thoth’s temple actually existed. It was a concrete site that was tied to the sun, but not completely relying upon it for manifestation,” Seeker answered. His tone was smug. Bookman had the urge to push him into the nearest well, much like Darpan had promised Sagira earlier. The old man entertained that thought for a second, wondering how gratifying it would feel to do such a thing.

“Hmm, actually, Seeker, I do believe that I’ve heard of this place before,” Jahaar said, bringing Bookman out of his thoughts with a near jolt of surprise. The two bookmen turned to look at him, both with similar feelings of disbelief behind their normally stoic eyes.

“You have?” Seeker asked.

“I do believe so,” Jahaar said again, cupping his own chin in thought. “As you know, Bookman, I was born in Tazirbu, within the Muhafazat of Ramlat Rabyanah. The Great Sand Sea was my home, and even there, I heard the stories from travelers concerning a mysterious place that could only be seen at night. I thought it was a ghost story meant to frighten children. But I never believed the place to actually exist.”

“Because it most likely does not exist,” Seeker said, clinging to his preconceived notions of reality. Bookman did recall that the other man was never much for mythology. Despite a collection of unreal fables, all of these stories were based upon truths, no matter how small they might have been. That just proved that Seeker's narrow mind could never truly comprehend the mysteries of the past to their fullest extent.

“If there have been rumors of it, then the theory is not entirely worthless,” Bookman replied. Seeker glared at him irritably and reached into his inner shawl to search for his pipe.

“I will converse among my men and attempt to determine a certain area where this temple may be located,” Jahaar said, taking an inhale from his hookah. He let out a breath and regarded Bookman: “I’m sure that many of them, from Libya and other parts of the country, have to have heard about it before. I will interview them myself today and return to you at dusk with the information. After all, the full moon is only a few nights away now, isn’t it?” Jahaar’s smile had more of an edge to it. Bookman had seen that same expression upon the war-crazed generals in battle, high with a feeling of extreme power.

Needless to say, it was rather unsettling.

“Upon obtaining this information, I do expect that you will no longer be in need of my services and that I will be permitted to leave with my apprentice by dawn,” Bookman said.

“You are mistaken, Bookman,” Jahaar said. “After all, what if this information is useless to me? I am back to square one. And where would I be without your intellect to help aid me? No, you and your successor will remain here. You will both journey with me in search of this treasure. You know the consequences of your actions should you decide to resist.”

“I understand,” Bookman replied. Truly, he understood why relationships were so prohibited by the Clan. It was because of people like Jahaar, who believed that they could bend people to his will, use them, exploit them. It was the first time that Bookman doubted his decision to keep ties with the man before him. However, he would never admit this faulty judgment aloud.

Bookman had a feeling that the Chancellor would be sickeningly pleased otherwise.

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“So, we’re trekking through the desert, why again?” Darpan asked.

It was dawn of the following day, the sun just peeking out over the expanse of smooth, golden dunes. A caravan of nearly fifteen people had joined Jahaar on his quest, including the two bookmen and their apprentices. They were on camels, making their way East towards where several men had asserted to be the direction of the mythical temple. It was early, so many of the group was silently urging their transport on. Someone up towards the front was drinking chai from a travel flask; it smelled sweet and good in the morning air.

“I explained this to you. Do not make me waste my breath again,” Bookman replied.

“Okay, then let me ask this: why are we trekking through the desert and I got stuck with this thing?” Darpan asked. He wasn’t referring to the camel he was riding, but rather nodding over his shoulder to indicate the girl sitting in the saddle behind him.

“Did you just call me a thing?!” Sagira shouted.

“That’s the best word I could think of at the moment,” Darpan replied, touching his chin in thought. “Actually, I think it suits you rather well.”

“Watch yourself, Cyclops. I’ll make you regret it,” Sagira threatened, pulling at his hair.

“Don’t be such a wench! Let go!” Darpan shouted, his body arching backwards with the force of her tug.

“Some things never change…” Bookman mused aloud, watching as the two of them fought, unable to move very much due to the confining area that made up the camel's back.

“No, I don’t suppose they do,” Seeker said from beside him, sitting with an intolerable air of self-possessed importance. Bookman did not warrant that with a reply. Things continued on in a similar manner for the remainder of the day, where the hot sun beat down on them relentlessly, much in the same way that Darpan and Sagira unceasingly attacked one another with no breaks or gaps in stride. It was only in the evening, beneath the moon and their erected tents that things cooled down. Sagira became calm and Darpan, although edgy, remained out of her way and close to Bookman’s elbow. The old man wondered if it had anything to do with wanting to not near where Seeker or Jahaar sat together with the girl, speaking in rather conspiring whispers among one another.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Darpan asked, in quiet Nepali. No one was listening, or at least it did not seem so, as their eyes were on their own tasks. However, Bookman was glad for the privacy, unsure whether or not the surrounding ears were friend or foe.

“I do not know,” Bookman answered.

“After this, we can leave, can’t we?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Bookman said. Beyond the crackling of the fire placed in the center of their camp, Bookman saw someone moving in the shadows just beyond the light’s reach. There were three silhouettes, all tall and broad shouldered, allowing Bookman to make the assumption that all were male. They did not make to attack or to sneak upon those in the camp. Merely, their figures walked towards the light, revealing their faces in a warm orange illumination. The two men who stood on either side of the man in the middle wore matching clothes: khaki jackets and hoods with large, black backpacks that looked more like equipment than travel gear. Their boots were heavy, industrial strength, and a Cross Rose shimmered on both their breasts. However, that was not the person whom Bookman concerned himself with the most. The man standing in between these two was the one who captured his attention. Clad in black from head to toe, with only the slightest of golden accents about the cuffs and collar, the man’s aged eyes moved from one portion of their group to the other. Among the sea of surprised faces, they landed upon Bookman. The length of his white mustache almost prevented Bookman from seeing his smile, but even still, it was apparent in his genial gaze.

“It’s been a long time, Bookman,” he said, sweeping past a bemused Jahaar and a nonplussed Seeker to stand before Bookman. The old man rose in greeting and, in a rather European manner, shook the proffered hand. “I’m glad to see that you are well, old friend.”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” Bookman acquiesced. “Exorcist General Kevin Yeegar.”

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I feel so fail guys. I was so totally ready to write a chapter a week…then I got that walking pneumonia. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to catch up. So I’m going to do better for you guys! More updates in the future! Everyone cheer for happiness now!

And yes, I’m so excited about Yeegar. He was such a cool guy, who didn’t get quite enough screen time, so I’m giving him his own little bit of glory in the next few chapters. Hurrah for cool old guys who cook good food!

Anyway, I’m ranting now. Two midterms tomorrow, and then another one the following day. I’ve got to study guys, but I’ll be sure to have an update for you ASAP, so long as you show me love (or cookies).

Lurves muchly,

Dhampir72