“You must begin the replacement of the sash, of course,” Master Cheyes remarked. “Have you determined your road beyond that?”
“To-gai,” Pagonel replied. “I have seen the steppes and the grasses in my dreams and I know that I must return there.”
“I am old, my friend, as is Mistress Dasa. You may one day return to the Walk of Clouds to find that you alone wear the Sash of All Colors. That is a heavy responsibility, my friend, but one that you will carry well.”
Pagonel nodded and smiled warmly. He understood the truth of Cheyes’ words, of course, and the realization that his road beyond the temple might take him forever away from this dear man and his dear wife brought a moment of regret.
Only a moment, though, for Pagonel had seen his Chi. He understood now the eternity; he feared neither his own death nor that of any friends, because he knew that there was no true death, only transcendence.
Chapter 12
Pragmatism and Patience
MERWAN MA LOOKED ON WITH SURPRISE AND EVEN FEAR AS CHEZRU DOUAN grilled Master Mackaront. Merwan Ma had rarely seen his master this agitated, and this particular instance seemed very out of place for the normally controlled Chezru Chieftain.
“How many gifts must I shower upon Olin?” Yakim Douan shouted. “Shall you leave with wagons of gold and jewels, only to return for more wagons of gold and jewels?”
“The monies are not for Abbot Olin,” Master Mackaront calmly replied, even patting his hand in the air in a futile effort to calm the uncharacteristically explosive Douan. “They are to convince his followers that their voices at the College of Abbots should be heard loudly.”
“The College of Abbots,” Douan echoed, spitting the words. “By the time your College is convened, Abbot Olin will be long dead!” He came forward out of his cushioned chair as he spoke, and Mackaront shrank back beneath his withering glare and fiery tones.
“Father Abbot Agronguerre has shown remarkable strength,” the Master from St. Bondabruce admitted. “We did not think that he would live through the summer.”
“But he has, and now you come here telling me that the process of preparing the vote will take longer, that Agronguerre’s health has unexpectedly improved. He will survive the winter, so you now believe, and if that is so, then perhaps the spring and summer, as well. When will you convene your College of Abbots, Master Mackaront?”
“We cannot know.”
“Can you not schedule it for next fall in anticipation of the inevitable?”
Mackaront blanched at the suggestion. “We cannot presume to know when God will take Father Abbot Agronguerre to his side.”
“God,” Yakim Douan spat. “This is not the work of God, fool, but rather the stubbornness of an old man too afraid to lie down and peacefully die. And what does it say of your Church if your leader fears death?”
Mackaront fell back even more, but then reversed his course and stood up forcefully, glaring at the seated Chezru Chieftain.
Merwan Ma narrowed his eyes, ready to spring upon the man should he lift a hand against the God-Voice. And truly, Master Mackaront seemed on the verge of an explosion, trembling visibly, jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth were grinding.
If Yakim Douan was the least bit fearful, he did not show a hint of it. He settled back in his chair, crossing his legs and tapping his fingers together before him.
“You presume …” Mackaront started to say, and it was obvious that he had to force every syllable out of his tightened jaw.
“Enough, my friend, enough,” Yakim Douan said quietly, holding his hand up before him. “We are all anxious here, all frustrated that old Agronguerre will not quietly pass on and allow Abbot Olin his rightful ascent.”
“You cannot insult …” Mackaront pressed, apparently bolstered by the Chezru’s shift in tone.
But Yakim Douan’s fire returned instantly and he lowered his hands, freezing the man with a stern glare. “I say nothing that you do not already fear,” he replied, his voice flat and even, which gave it all the more power. “And I do not fear to speak the truth, however painful that truth might be to hear.”
“I will not—”
“You will sit down and hear whatever it is I have to say!” Yakim Douan shouted suddenly. “You come here as a beggar, seeking riches and bearing no news that rings sweetly in my old ears. So take your gold and your gems and continue the campaign for Abbot Olin. And pray, Master Mackaront, to whatever god you discover honestly within your heart, that old Agronguerre accepts the inevitable and goes to his reward.
“Because I am running out of patience. Tell that to your Abbot Olin.”
Master Mackaront started to reply, but Douan waved him away, and told him to be gone.
As the door closed behind the departing master, Merwan Ma sat looking at Chezru Douan, seeking some signal from the man. When they were told that Master Mackaront was back in Jacintha, they had assumed he had come bearing the news that Agronguerre was finally gone and that the College would be scheduled for the spring. The Chezru Chieftain’s surprise at hearing that not only was Agronguerre still alive, but apparently in better health, had not sat well upon him, obviously.
Still, the depth of his angry turn had caught Merwan Ma off his guard. Chezru Douan had voiced his wishes that Abbot Olin ascend in the Abellican Church, but still, Honce-the-Bear seemed a kingdom far, far away, separated by nearly impassable mountains. And though Entel was a short boat ride from Jacintha, neither Behren nor Honce-the-Bear could mount enough of a fleet to threaten the other. Why, then, was the continuing reign of Father Abbot Agronguerre of such great concern?
Yakim Douan sat in his comfortable chair for a long while, staring out the window at the shadowed mountains. Finally, he rose and moved to a small table at the back end of the room and shuffled some parchments about, including a message that had been delivered from the To-gai front, from Yatol Grysh, that very morning.
Yakim Douan lifted the parchment and began to read through it again.
“Do you know what they are calling one of their leaders?” he asked a moment later.
“Who, God-Voice?”
“The To-gai-ru rebels,” Douan explained. “One band of raiders has named their leader Ashwarawu.” He turned to Merwan Ma, an amused grin on his face. “Do you know what that means?”
Merwan Ma muddled over the foreign word for a few moments. He recognized the pattern of the name’s ending, and thought that the To-gai-ru word, “awu,” had something to do with compassion, but finally, he just shook his head.
“Ashwarawu,” Yakim Douan said again. “He who kills without mercy.” The Chezru Chieftain snorted and chuckled. “The pride of the conquered. They have so little left that they grasp at every fleeting hope.”
“Yatol Grysh asks for help?” Merwan Ma asked, though he knew the answer, of course, for he had perused the note before handing it to the Chezru Chieftain, as was expected of him.
“It is not unexpected,” Douan said, trying to sound resigned but coming off as more than a little bit perturbed by it all. “He asks for an eight-square of soldiers.”
Merwan Ma nodded. An eight-square was one of the basic formations of the Behrenese military, sixty-four men squared up in eight rows of eight, with all flanking soldiers carrying towering protective shields, and those in the middle holding spears to poke through the defensive walls.
“Send him his soldiers,” Yakim Douan instructed, and Merwan Ma nodded.
“No,” the Chezru Chieftain said a second later, holding up one pointing finger, as if he had just found a revelation. “Send him a twenty-square … no, two twenty-squares.”
Merwan Ma’s eyes popped open wide. It was not his place to question the decisions of the Chezru Chieftain, but two twenty-squares? Eight hundred warriors?
“Yes, God-Voice,” he stammered.
“These minor uprisings in To-gai are expected, of course,” Yakim Douan explained. “A conquered people is not truly conquered until a full generation has passed, at least.
We show them a better life, but it will take the death of the old and stubborn barbarians before the younger To-gai-ru will come to accept the simple truth. These bandits roaming the steppes are not old men, but younger ones trying to please their misguided elders. Better that we eradicate the problem without question, here and now. Two twenty-squares to Yatol Grysh, then, with instructions to Chezhou-Lei Wan Atenn to take these soldiers and scour the countryside.”
Yakim Douan’s lips curled up into a perfectly wicked smile. “Let Wan Atenn earn the title Ashwarawu.”
Despite his confidence in the decision to take powerful action against To-gai, Yakim Douan went through the rest of that day with little joy, for he understood the truth that his time of Transcendence was slipping back. He had hoped that he would not have to suffer another winter, even a mild Jacintha winter, encased in his aging bones. But that would not be, not even if Yatol Grysh took his new army and killed every rebellion-minded person in To-gai.
The Abellican Church in the north did not move quickly, Douan understood. If Father Abbot Agronguerre’s health was indeed rallying, then it would be many, many months before they could ever organize and convene a College of Abbots.
For some reason he did not understand, Yakim Douan felt that he should not attempt Transcendence until after the situation in Honce-the-Bear was resolved. The mighty neighboring kingdom seemed at peace, but it had recently been ravaged by plague, and the Abellican Church, in particular, had been turned upside down by a supposed miracle.
All that the Chezru Chieftain had seen as a bedrock base of stability seemed to be shifting under his feet.
But old Yakim Douan could accept that. The centuries had taught him, most of all, pragmatism and patience. This was not the time for him to become vulnerable. So be it.
He glanced back once over his shoulder before he entered the circular room that held the sacred chalice, though entering was certainly no breach of any rules. He was the God-Voice and could do as he pleased.
Still, when dealing with this chalice, Douan always reminded himself that he was harboring a dark secret that must never be revealed.
He approached the central podium nervously, rubbing his fingers together. Then he stopped and chuckled, considering his posture and expression. To any onlooker, he would look perfectly appropriate, for all the followers of Yatol approached this chalice in this uncertain and reverent manner. The irony was not lost on Yakim Douan, for though he was wearing the appropriate mask, he was doing so for very different reasons than his underlings might know. The chalice held nothing of the sacred, or even of the spiritual—in terms of any god-figure—for Yakim Douan. But he held it in no lower esteem. For within this item, within the blood, was the gemstone that he had learned to master, the secret to his immortality.
What were the gods of the others, if not the hope of that very thing?
As soon as he put his hands about the decorated chalice, Yakim Douan felt the connection to his precious gemstone. Though he had known that it was in there, of course, and though he had known that he could access it, it still came as a relief to him when the connection was realized.
He fell deep within the gemstone and deep within himself, exploring all the corners of his aging physical form.
He found those areas of pain, the clenched muscles and weakened bones, and he used the magic of the hematite to bring relief and healing and energy. For a very long while, Yakim Douan stood there, purging his body of impurities and infirmities. He knew that it would be a temporary and imperfect fix for the one ailment that could never be cured: aging. But this would get him through the next months in relative comfort, until the time came for him to cheat the end result of aging once again.
Merwan Ma came upon Chezru Chieftain Yakim Douan quite by accident that day. He went to the chalice chamber merely to clean the place—for the care of such a sacred area could not be entrusted to mere servants.
He was quite surprised to find Douan in there, so much so, in fact, that he gave a little cry when he noticed the Chezru.
But Yakim Douan, deep into the magic by that point, didn’t even hear him.
That lack of response piqued Merwan Ma’s curiosity. He scolded himself for intruding upon the God-Voice, and started out of the room, but his natural curiosity held him, for just a bit.
Merwan Ma could not understand what was going on in there, for it was no ritual that the God-Voice had ever related to him. And while he understood that Yakim Douan could not be questioned, nor could he err in matters spiritual, something about all of this settled uncomfortably on Merwan Ma’s shoulders.
The realization of his discomfort only prompted the loyal servant of Yatol to scold himself again and remind himself that he was ignorant.
Ignorant.
He scurried out of the room, taking care to close the door gently so that he did not disturb the great Chezru Chieftain.
He consciously denied his feelings of discomfort.
His subconscious was not so easily controlled.
Chapter 13
Never the Horse
HE WAS TO-GAI-RU, AND NOT BEHRENESE. BRYNN HAD NO DOUBT OF THAT AT ALL from the moment she had entered the tapestried room in the Yatol Temple to stand before Yatol Daek Gin Gin Yan. His hair was straight and raven black, and his skin was not the delicate, chocolate brown most common among the Behrenese, but held a ruddier hue, a touch of yellow within the rich tones so unique to the To-gai-ru. While at first glance, his physique seemed more like that of a Behrenese man, the softer and rounder lines more common among people living in the luxury of cities, Brynn noted the strong underlying musculature along his bare forearms. And when he shifted in his seat so that his flowing robes tightened about one leg, she noted, too, the muscular set of his thighs, both indicative of the hard riding of a To-gai-ru.
He stared hard at Brynn as she stood there calmly before him, with Dee’dakh, who was half a foot taller than she, at her side. The Yatol narrowed his eyes several times, and stubbornly did not blink, obviously trying to intimidate the woman.
Brynn worked hard not to match that stare. Knowing that this man was To-gai-ru made her hate him all the more. He was a traitor to his people, abandoning the old ways and embracing the conquerors’. He was everything that Brynn was not, holding fast to everything she despised—she knew that from his title and his heritage. There was little more, if anything, that needed to be said between them, as far as she was concerned. But Yatol Daek wouldn’t see things that way, she knew, and so she let him play his game for the time being.
“Kayleen Kek,” he said, a hint of derision in his somewhat shrill voice speaking perfect To-gai-ru. “I did not know that any of Kayleen Kek remained anywhere to be found. Certainly they do not proudly announce their presence.”
The insult rolled from Brynn’s shoulders; she gave it hardly a thought. She knew that she was being tested.
“I see that you chose to wear your sword,” Yatol Daek observed.
“It would bring dishonor to you if I had not,” Brynn replied. “This is a meeting of station, and my station is that of warrior. To come in here adorned differently, for our initial meeting, would be deceptive, would it not?”
She had spoken truthfully concerning To-gai-ru tradition. A sheathed sword was a sign of honesty, not of threat.
At her side, Dee’dahk bristled, giving Brynn the distinct impression that the warrior woman was not nearly as deaf to the To-gai-ru language as she had pretended at their first meeting.
“You fancy yourself a warrior, then,” said Yatol Daek.
“I am. There is no pride. There is no ambition. There is only truth.”
“A fine warrior, I suppose.”
“It is not a measure that I seek,” Brynn answered. “My skills have kept me alive through my trials, and thus, they have been sufficient.” She couldn’t help but twinge a bit as she considered that her skills had not been enough to keep Belli’mar Juraviel and Cazzira alive. Her answer was perfectly in line, again, with To-gai-ru tradition, where
such things as battle skill were not measured for vanity, but more for pragmatism. Rather, skill levels were viewed as more akin to one’s legs—long enough to reach the ground.
“There is a true warrior standing beside you, you know,” Yatol Daek remarked.
“I am well aware of the reputation of the Chezhou-Lei,” Brynn calmly answered. She subtly glanced to the side as she spoke, noting that Dee’dahk had stiffened a bit with pride.
“Perhaps I should arrange a contest between you two,” Yatol Daek said, speaking more to himself, it seemed, than to Brynn or Dee’dahk. “Yes, that might be a fine idea.”
“To what end?”
Brynn’s blunt question elicited a glare her way from the traitor To-gai-ru. “Is it your place to question?”
Brynn gave a hint of a shrug, but otherwise did not answer.
“Perhaps I will arrange such a contest for my amusement,” Yatol Daek went on. “Yes, watching two women do battle for my enjoyment …”
Brynn let it all roll away from her, thinking the man a perfect fool. She entertained a fantasy of allowing Daek Gin Gin Yan his game, of slaughtering Dee’dahk then turning her wondrous blade upon the Yatol, cutting him down in front of the whole, grateful village.
Patience, she reminded herself. Patience.
“Let me see your sword,” the Yatol said suddenly, motioning to her with one outstretched hand.
Brynn drew out the fabulous weapon and presented it vertically before her, but not close enough for the Yatol to grasp it.
“Hand it over,” he instructed.
Brynn slowly turned the blade around, allowing him to view the masterwork crafting and design, but did not move it out toward his hand at all. Her expression was not defiant, nor was it confrontational.
“The code of the To-gai-ru warrior prevents me from handing my sword to any but one who has defeated me at irysh kad’du,” she said quietly, referring to the greatest challenge in To-gai-ru society, a test of horsemanship and courage.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 137
