“Your children are not as carefree as they were when you left for Yanjing,” Dokyi said.
Rosethorn sighed. “No, Honored Dedicate. The emperor was more overwhelming than we liked. You warned us it would be so.”
“But I am sorry to have been proved right, all the same.” He hesitated, then asked, “Rosethorn, are you still heart-whole in your vows?”
“Of course, Honored Dedicate!”
“As I said, I tried to take care of this matter myself, but no matter how I tried, I could not place my feet on the road to my destination. I have not been so thwarted in my designs since I was a dedicate of only ten years.” Using great care, he opened the pack on the table and slid the leather down over the sides of the contents. He revealed a large peachwood box that contained four drawers. Letters were carved in the sides as well as the top.
Rosethorn shrank back from the waves of power that seemed to flow away from the box. “What is this?” she asked.
“This box holds the greatest treasures of our religion,” he said quietly. “Without them, the Living Circle falls apart.”
Goose bumps raced over Rosethorn’s skin.
Dokyi touched the small gold knob on the bottom-most drawer. Carefully he pulled, and the top three drawers separated from it. The drawers were not set into a single frame, but were interlocking pieces.
“Look at it,” he told Rosethorn quietly.
The contents of the bottom drawer, or open-topped box, were wrapped in silk that had not been dyed. Gingerly, using the tips of her fingers, Rosethorn separated the leaves of cloth that lay on top. Underneath them lay a cup. At Dokyi’s silent urging she picked it up, gasping as magic flowed up her arms and through her veins.
The cup was the size of her palm and made of baked reddish clay with no glaze on it. Four twisting branches of carved white aspen seemed to grow around the cup from a round, flat base. The base itself was secured to a thin granite circle. More signs she did not recognize were cut into the outside of the clay, but not the inside. It was the simplest of objects, but the power within it made her bones shiver. Somehow she managed to gently place the cup in its box and cover it again.
“Honored Dedicate?” she whispered.
“The Cup of Water,” he told her. He slid the three drawers into place on top of the cup until Rosethorn heard a faint click. Now the man touched the gold knob on the third drawer and pulled the top two off it. He motioned for Rosethorn to remove the silk cover from the drawer’s contents.
“No,” she said. She still shook from her contact with the cup.
Frowning, Dokyi motioned again.
Rosethorn reached out a trembling hand and uncovered the drawer’s contents. There lay a clear stone or crystal ball in which a flame burned, seemingly without air or fuel.
“Pick it up,” Dokyi ordered. Sensing that she was about to refuse, he ordered, “Each guardian must handle them. Pick it up!”
Rosethorn closed her eyes and wrapped her fingers around the ball. It was warm.
And then she was furiously hot, burning inside her own skin. Swiftly she put the globe back and gulped the remains of her tea. It did not put out the heat inside her. She was afraid to speak, expecting flames to come out of her mouth.
“The Blaze of Fire.” Dokyi covered the ball with silk and slid the two remaining drawers over it. He pointed to the knob on the third drawer.
Rosethorn looked at him and gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. She saw Dokyi as she had known him that winter. She also saw a towering tree, a soaring fire, a jet of water, all whipped by a gust of air. She didn’t dare argue. It occurred to her that he had been these things all along and she, a dedicate initiate of Winding Circle, had never suspected it. Embarrassed for her ignorance, she stabbed the gold knob with a finger and let Dokyi lay the third drawer bare.
It held a green jade bowl. Inside it was a motley collection of seeds, large and small, many belonging to plants that Rosethorn had never seen before. She felt the magic in each as she ran her fingers through them, but no pain. Either she was worn down, or this Earth power was friendlier to her. She raised the bowl and carefully inhaled the dry scent of the seeds, wondering how old they were. What she wouldn’t give to plant some of these!
Gently she set the bowl in its drawer and covered it with silk.
“The Seeds of the Earth.” The man covered the bowl with the last drawer and nodded to Rosethorn. She took a deep breath and touched the gold knob for the Air treasure. The wooden top of the drawer flipped up.
Under its silk covering lay a feather that was many colors and none. Every time Rosethorn’s eyes moved she saw different shades ripple across its surface. Even the feather’s shape changed as she held it in her fingers. A great wind assaulted her. Thunder rolled in the distance; lightning struck nearby. The skin all over her body rippled.
“The Feather of Air.” Dokyi’s voice was a comforting growl as Rosethorn covered the feather and replaced the lid. “Now these boxes will open only for you. These are the four sacred Treasures of the Living Circle. There are no other beauties like them. These are the embodiment of all we hold sacred. Each temple we build is touched by them, and they are in every temple. As long as we have these, our faith will not fall. As long as we labor in our charge to preserve the beauties of the world, to worship all of it in life and death, these Treasures and their blessings will be ours. Should they fall into the hands of a destroyer, however — into the hands of one such as Weishu — our temples will lose their strength. Our works and our people will become corrupt. The Treasures must be hidden outside a temple of the Living Circle.”