He finished with a pleading look toward Yatol De Hamman.
“Yes, God-Voice,” the humbled priest said, and though he offered one disapproving, even angry, look toward Yatol Peridan, he lowered his eyes obediently, giving Yakim Douan at least the hope that this troublesome business had been settled.
And how Douan needed it settled! If the rivalry between De Hamman and Peridan continued to escalate, it would likely come to a head during the time when the Yatol Council, and not Yakim Douan—for he would be in a woman’s womb, or in the body of a small child—would be holding power in all the church. De Hamman and Peridan would no doubt be strong voices in that council, as strong as any, and if they went to war with each other, the church Yakim Douan inherited at the age of ten would be in complete disarray.
If he even was able to inherit the church, for such infighting could destroy the customs that now allowed for such a transition.
A weary Yakim Douan walked away from the contentious meeting sometime later, feeling satisfied that he had put the beast back into its cage, at least for the time being. He would have to reinforce the lessons he had given to the two troublesome Yatols many times over, he knew. And if he could not find a compromise that seemed binding, he would have to hold on to his earthly coil—would have to suffer the aches in the morning, would have to suffer the uninterested looks the harem girls gave to him when they didn’t think he was looking—for a long time to come.
The tired Chezru Chieftain knew that his day was only going to get busier when he saw Merwan Ma rushing down the long hall toward him, the young man’s face bright with excitement.
“God-Voice,” Merwan Ma breathed, sliding to a stop before Yakim.
The Chezru managed to straighten his shoulders and eye the young man squarely.
“Master Mackaront of Entel has come to speak with you.”
Mackaront, the personal assistant of Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce, was an Abellican monk of great power and Yakim Douan’s principal liaison to the northern kingdom. The Chezru Chieftain did well to offer a slight smile and nod in response, did well to hide his trepidation upon hearing the name of the unexpected visitor. If Mackaront had come south with more bad news—that Abbot Olin had died, perhaps—it could put yet another tear in the carefully drawn plans for Transcendence.
“I will meet with him in the Study of Sunset,” Yakim explained to his assistant, and he walked past, turning down the next corridor.
He heard Merwan Ma’s eager footfalls, sandals clapping on mosaic floors, and hoped again that the news from the north would not bode ill.
Master Filladoro Mackaront was surely one of the ugliest men Yakim Douan had ever met. His face was cratered and blotchy, his nose bulbous and seeming almost to glow with painful rawness. His brown eyes drooped and his teeth were all broken and twisted. As if all that wasn’t enough, several huge warts adorned Mackaront’s head and neck, including one cracked black-and-brown blemish in the center of his high forehead.
“It is good to see you again, God-Voice of the Yatols,” Mackaront said with a bow. The man spoke perfect Mohdan, the predominant language of eastern Behren.
Yakim Douan motioned for him to sit in a chair to his left, with both seats facing the window, which afforded a wonderful view of sunset over the western-stretching Belt-and-Buckle. Yakim Douan had placed them this way purposely before Merwan Ma and Mackaront had caught up to him, partly because he enjoyed watching the glorious sunsets, but mostly so that he would not have to sit facing his ugly guest. He liked Mackaront quite a bit, actually, but he didn’t want to look at the man!
“Pray tell me that my friend Abbot Olin fares well.”
“Indeed, God-Voice,” Mackaront happily replied. “Abbot Olin remains strong and well, his eyes clear.”
“And his mind sharp.”
“Yes, God-Voice!”
Yakim Douan did turn then to regard the ugly master from St. Bondabruce, noting how the man’s lips could not sit straight on his face because of the jagged teeth beneath. He wondered, and not for the first time, if that physical ugliness had been the catalyst for Filladoro Mackaront to join the Abellican Church. The Abellicans, after all, frowned upon any relationships between brothers and women—mostly because the powers of the Abellican Church wanted to make certain that no widows or children were left behind to claim any inheritance over Abellican property or wealth!—so it seemed plausible that entering the Church offered Mackaront the excuse for the obvious truth that no woman would ever want to share his bed.
“Why do you call me that?” Yakim Douan asked the Abellican, quite off the cuff. Behind him, he heard the sharp intake of Merwan Ma’s breath.
Mackaront looked at him curiously.
“In your religion, I am not such a God-Voice, am I?” the Chezru Chieftain asked. “We worship different gods, do we not? We assign different meanings to greatness, and yet you address me by the title normally reserved for my personal attendants and visiting Yatol priests. Are you prepared to convert to the true religion of Yatol, Abellican Master Mackaront?”
Mackaront’s droopy eyes widened considerably at that remark, and he started shaking his head, his crooked lips moving as if he were trying to find appropriate words with which to respond.
“Or are you merely being polite?” the Chezru Chieftain asked with a grin that allowed both poor Mackaront and Merwan Ma to sigh with relief.
“God-Voice,” Mackaront began tentatively, and he quickly corrected it to, “Chezru Douan, I am sent with all humility from my master, Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce.”
Yakim Douan didn’t even hide his smile. He liked the way lackeys like Mackaront always reverted to the formalities of station when they were backed into a corner.
“I intend no offense to you,” Mackaront went on. “Never that. I offer you the respect afforded your position, using titles you have earned among your people.”
“Earned?” Yakim Douan said with a chuckle. “I was born to this position. There was nothing to ‘earn,’ because this was all decreed by Yatol, by God himself. Do you not understand?”
Master Mackaront’s expression could not have been more stupefied. He understood the reasoning, of course, for he was well versed in the customs of the Yatols. What had him stunned beyond words here, Yakim Douan knew, was the Chezru’s tone and insistence, this whole line of questioning—a conversation that Yakim Douan knew to be out of bounds.
“I am not qualified to debate the relative beliefs and strengths of our religions, Chezru Douan,” Master Mackaront said after a few uncomfortable moments.
Yakim Douan’s laughter had the man leaning back defensively in his seat.
“Nor should you wish to enter such a debate,” he said lightheartedly. “Nor do I ever desire such a course. Our worlds are very different, Master Mackaront. Abbot Olin and I have understood that for years, and that understanding has been the cornerstone of my friendship with your abbot for decades. We accept each other’s beliefs, with humility and respect, though I know that he, and you, are wrong.”
Mackaront frowned; Yakim Douan watched his every flinch and movement, taking a measure for every step along this tricky road. He wasn’t sure why he had decided to pursue this course this day. It was almost a replay of the conversation he had shared with young Abbot Olin soon after the man had ascended to the leadership of St. Bondabruce, a necessary understanding before the two men could pursue an honest friendship.
Yakim Douan came to recognize his own instincts then. When he had heard of Mackaront’s visit, he had at once assumed that Olin might have died. Thus, his instincts had sent him into this unexpected conversation, one that might lead him down a road of friendship with Master Mackaront, Abbot Olin’s possible successor. Better for Yakim Douan, for the end of this corporeal incarnation and for the early years of the next, if Master Mackaront of St. Bondabruce came to a higher understanding and appreciation of the Yatol religion.
“I know you are wrong because I am the God-Voice of Yatol,” the Chezru Chieftain expla
ined. “As your Father Abbot Agronguerre knows that I … that we,” he added, sweeping his hand out toward Merwan Ma, “are wrong in our beliefs.” Yakim Douan gave a shrug, as if it didn’t really matter. “Your Abbot Olin understands this. What we, together, have come to know is that, though our beliefs are very different, our goals are not so much so. Pious Abellicans are closer to Yatol than the highwaymen of your lands, as pious Yatols should be far more welcomed into the gates of your heaven than the unlawful pirates running the Behrenese coastline.”
Yakim Douan glanced back at Merwan Ma as he spoke, noting how the man’s eyes widened! Of course they did, and if Yakim Douan had not trusted Merwan Ma implicitly to keep this conversation private, he never would have spoken in such a manner with the man present. For the formal and public declarations of the Yatol religion were quite clear concerning the Abellicans. Their gemstone use alone damned them! To the Yatols, the gemstones were the instruments of the demon dactyls, and by that reasoning, “pious” Abellicans should have been placed at the end of the line for those seeking to enter the Paradise promised by Yatol.
While Merwan Ma was obviously confused and stunned, Master Mackaront seemed to ease back into his seat, a bit more relaxed. Yes, Yakim Douan saw, and was glad: the seeds were being planted well.
“Enough of philosophy,” the Chezru Chieftain announced. “You did not come here for such a discussion as this, I am sure, and my time is pressing. What news from Abbot Olin?”
Master Mackaront spent a moment collecting himself, clearing his throat and snorting a few very unpleasant sounds. Yakim Douan tried to ignore the man, looking back out to the west and the long line of mountains.
“Abbot Olin bade me come to Jacintha to tell you that Father Abbot Agronguerre’s health has turned for the worse,” the man from Entel explained. “He is very old and very frail, and a College of Abbots is expected within a year or two.”
“And does Abbot Olin expect to ascend to your highest post at that College of Abbots?”
“He does. He has rivals, of course …”
“That is why our ascension is placed in the hands of God, and not mortal man,” Yakim Douan couldn’t resist interjecting.
Mackaront bristled and coughed, but worked past the remark. “There is one master at St.-Mere-Abelle who will strive hard against him. And another, perhaps, a younger man, but one who was fortunate enough to find himself beside the disciples of Brother Avelyn, whose miracle rescued the kingdom from the rosy plague. That man is not ready, of course, but the emotions are high and favorable toward deceased Brother Avelyn.”
“Ah yes, the wandering heretic who blew up a mountain and defeated the demon,” Yakim Douan said with just a hint of sarcasm. “Who raised his dead arm toward the heavens and invoked the miracle you speak of, bringing down the power of God to create a mystical cure for the plague that ravaged your land.” The Chezru Chieftain resisted the temptation to point out that this supposedly God-cured plague should logically be considered a God-sent plague. And if that was the case, then why hadn’t God visited this horror upon Behren and the heathen Yatols?
For mortal men, such questions could bring great distress, but for Yakim Douan, who had lived through the centuries and who planned on living forever more, such questions were the stuff of pure amusement.
Not now, the Chezru Chieftain silently told himself. Not here and with this man.
“How much of a threat does Abbot Olin perceive from this young follower of Brother Avelyn?” he asked.
Master Mackaront shrugged and seemed content with the change of subject. “Young Abbot Braumin should not pose too great a threat. He is not a dynamic man, of himself, and it is only his ties to Avelyn’s disciples—one martyred, the other held in the highest regard of all the land, Church and State alike—that even allows his name to be seriously mentioned. It is more the other rival, a powerful Master of St.-Mere-Abelle, and thus, sitting at Father Abbot Agronguerre’s right hand, who concerns Abbot Olin, and he will have to wage a strong campaign if he is to defeat the man.”
Wage a strong campaign, Yakim Douan echoed in his mind. The words were telling indeed, and explained much about Master Mackaront’s visit.
Abbot Olin had come begging.
“Abbot Olin is prepared to wage such a battle,” Mackaront went on with great enthusiasm. “He understands the great gain to both our peoples if he can ascend to the position of Father Abbot while Yakim Douan is hailed as Behren’s Chezru Chieftain. Perhaps then our respective flocks can mend old wounds in a way that kings and ambassadors have never envisioned! Perhaps the bonding, then, of Jacintha to Entel will strengthen the ties to a point where few would ever consider war between our peoples ever again!”
“Entel?” Yakim Douan asked skeptically. “Why, Master Mackaront, if your Abbot Olin ascends, will he not be forced by custom to move to the north, far from his beloved Entel, to the dark halls of St.-Mere-Abelle?”
“Perhaps,” Mackaront responded, his momentum a bit deflected. “Abbot Olin has spoken of moving the Abellican seat of power to Entel.”
“Old traditions die hard.”
“Or, even if he is forced to move to St.-Mere-Abelle, he will ensure that St. Bondabruce and St. Rontlemore of Entel are headed by men who understand the growing relationship between our peoples. Abbot Olin wishes me to assure you that his loyalties to you as his friend will not end—”
“Of course not,” interrupted Yakim Douan, who had heard more than enough. “And please, when you return to Entel, assure your master that I am no less loyal than he. Though I suspect you will not even have to speak the words when Abbot Olin views your cargo.” As he finished, he stood up and turned for the door, and an elated Master Mackaront was quick to take the cue.
As Mackaront bowed and turned to leave, Merwan Ma rushed ahead of him to open the door.
“Return to me at once,” Yakim Douan instructed his assistant, and then he turned to Mackaront. “I will instruct good Shepherd Ma on how properly to prepare your wagons.”
“You are most generous, God-Voice,” the overwhelmed Mackaront said with another clumsy bow.
Yakim Douan just smiled and showed him out of the room, nodding to Merwan Ma, a signal for the man to hurry. Then, comfortably alone, the Chezru Chieftain returned to his seat and his wonderful view, awaiting Merwan Ma’s return and taking this quiet moment to reflect on all of the events happening about him, all of those circumstances that would determine when he could at last shed his aching mortal coil.
“I do not understand, God-Voice,” came Merwan Ma’s voice behind him sometime later, startling Yakim from a pleasant nap. He jumped a bit and turned, and Merwan Ma blanched at the realization that he had just wakened the Chezru Chieftain.
“My pardon …” he stammered, and bowed repeatedly, heading for the door.
“I prefer that my attendants are not blabbering fools,” Yakim said to him, stopping him cold. “Do not act the part of one, Merwan Ma. It is not becoming.”
“Yes, God-Voice.”
“What did you say when you entered?”
“I said that I do not understand,” Merwan Ma repeated. “Master Mackaront left here in fine spirits.”
“As I intended.”
“Of course.”
“Then what is not to understand?”
“All of …” Merwan Ma started, but he stopped and just shook his head, seeming quite flabbergasted.
“You are surprised that I would help to finance Abbot Olin’s ascension?”
“That is the business of the Abellicans, and something whose effect should end at the mountain range, God-Voice. I do not understand why we would choose to get involved. I know that Abbot Olin is your friend—”
“My friend?” Yakim gave a heartfelt laugh. “No, he is not my friend. Or at least, I would not call him my friend—except, of course, to those who need to hear such assurance, such as Master Mackaront. Abbot Olin and I have an understanding.”
“And a mutual respect?”
“He
respects me, as he should. We recognize the gains that may be made from our contact. He has things that benefit Behren, and I have things that benefit Honce-the-Bear. Such as my wealth, you see?”
“Yes, God-Voice,” Merwan Ma said unconvincingly.
Yakim Douan gave yet another laugh. “Surely you can recognize the benefit to us in having a man such as Abbot Olin seated in power over the Abellican Church. Entel is an important sister city to Jacintha, a way of trading for goods that are hard to secure south of the mountains. Most of the wood within Jacintha, including the great masts for our fleet, was brought here by Entel ships, as were many of the delicacies that we enjoy regularly at our table.”
“I do understand.” Again, Merwan Ma was not very convincing and seemed to be quite upset.
“But you know, as well, that it is not our place to help the Abellican heathens, and that is what troubles you,” the Chezru Chieftain reasoned. Merwan Ma didn’t respond verbally, but his expression showed Yakim Douan that his guess had been on the mark.
“In friendship and in trade will we infiltrate the kingdom to the north with the word of Yatol,” Yakim Douan explained. “We know that we are right. We know that our faith is strong and that the Abellicans err in their devotion to gemstones. And we are secure that they, too, will come to see the light that is Yatol. The more they see of us, the more our true faith will mock their pitiful religion in the eyes of the Abellican flock.”
Merwan Ma was standing straighter by that point and nodding eagerly, and Yakim Douan understood that he had settled this matter for good. Of course, he didn’t really believe much of what he was preaching. He knew that any who watched the transition from Chezru Chieftain to the next chosen child would be stunned, would likely fall on their knees at the sight of the “miracle.” But he knew, too, that the crafty Abellicans were pretty good at manufacturing miracles of their own, and given all the stir concerning the upraised hand of the dead Avelyn and the way that it “miraculously” cured the deadly plague, Yakim Douan knew that it would be a long, long time before many Abellicans even thought to change their spiritual course!
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 122
