Yakim Douan blew out an expression of his complete frustration. Would the web of politics never free him enough that he could leave this old and broken frame in peace?
“A challenge?” Douan asked, skepticism clear in his voice. “A rogue Jhesta Tu joins with the fool Ru and wins a battle against a Chezhou-Lei. You must view that as a challenge? Perhaps this Jhesta Tu is still running about the steppes of northern To-gai. Send Yatol Grysh’s warrior, Wan Atenn, and some of his warriors scouring the land.”
“We have, God-Voice.”
That set Yakim Douan back a bit. The Chezhou-Lei were not an independent order. They reported to him, and to him alone. Or at least, they were supposed to.
“We have inquired all about the region concerning the Jhesta Tu,” Kaliit Timig explained.
“And was his presence part of a larger conspiracy from the mystics of the Mountains of Fire?”
The Kaliit shrugged, a stiff and crooked motion. “We have learned little, God-Voice,” he admitted. “But it is believed that the slayer of Dahmed Blie has retreated to the south, back to his fortress in the Mountains of Fire.”
“And you wish to march the Chezhou-Lei there?”
“We must march, God-Voice,” the Kaliit explained. “We must answer this challenge with the sword.”
Yakim Douan stood up and walked around to the front of the Kaliit’s chair, then bent low very suddenly, his scowling face only a few inches from that of the older man. “You must?” he asked. “Has the God-Voice so directed you?”
“No, God-Voice,” the Kaliit admitted.
“Then why do you presume that you must do anything, Kaliit Timig?”
“Our battle with the Jhesta Tu began two thousand years ago, God-Voice,” Thog Timig tried to explain. “It is among the most important duties of the Chezhou-Lei, to hold back the infidel Jhesta Tu. We have protected many Chezru Chieftains from the pagans throughout the centuries. Did we not rescue Jacintha from the devilish Jhesta Tu-inspired hordes three centuries ago? Did we not …”
Yakim Douan let the Kaliit’s words slip past him then, amused by the first reference. He remembered well the day of rioting in Jacintha, when the Chezhou-Lei warriors slaughtered several thousand on the streets outside of the great temple. Yes, there had been rumors that the Jhesta Tu had inspired the insurrection against the Yatol rule, but those were thoroughly overblown, Yakim Douan knew well. The people had rioted out of desperation, because of short food supplies in a time of devastating drought. But the Chezhou-Lei warriors had clung to the belief—the hope, and the heroic legend—that the Jhesta Tu had inspired that mob, and even that several of the mystics had been among the rioters.
When he tuned back into the present, Yakim Douan realized that Kaliit Timig’s recounting of the glorious Chezhou-Lei victories had only gained momentum, and so he stopped the man abruptly with an upraised hand.
“No one doubts the value of the Chezhou-Lei, Kaliit,” he admitted. “You are the greatest of Jacintha’s warriors, and your loyalty is not, and has never been, in question. But you say that you must travel south, and yet, I have reached no such conclusion, nor have I offered any such edict.”
“God-Voice.” Kaliit Thog Timig said, rising with great effort to stand as straight and tall as his old and battered frame would allow. “I pray that you will see the truth of my plea. The Chezhou-Lei must answer this act of murder—”
“It was a battlefield, Kaliit,” Yakim Douan reminded, and off to the side, Merwan Ma sucked in his breath nervously.
“A battle that did not involve the Jhesta Tu,” Kaliit Timig replied steadily. “Their mere presence there should frighten you, God-Voice, for they are a powerful foe.”
“One,” Yakim reminded, holding up a single finger. “One of them was there. A single warrior.”
“It is your decision to make, God-Voice,” Kaliit Timig conceded. “I wish only to impress upon you the urgent need for the Chezhou-Lei to respond to this act of murder. We must march south, or all that we are will diminish. I pray that Yatol gives you the guidance you need, that you can see our needs clearly in this matter.”
With that, the old man stiffly bowed and shuffled out of the room.
Merwan Ma stood at the door, looking back at Yakim Douan, his expression showing that he was unsure of whether or not he should remain behind.
The Chezru Chieftain waved him away.
Yakim Douan sat for a long time, playing through his options. He truly did not want the Chezhou-Lei marching to some distant land to do battle with the Jhesta Tu. The Chezhou-Lei were Yakim Douan’s elite guard, the iron gauntlet upon the closed fist with which he held Behren. He could ill afford to have their ranks decimated in some far-off land, and even if they marched out there and proved victorious, the length of the journey itself would keep them away from Douan’s needs for the better part of a year.
And yet, how could he refuse the request of the Kaliit? The Chezhou-Lei were undyingly loyal to the Yatols, to the Chezru Chieftain above all. They asked little in return. And among the Chezhou-Lei, the most important ideals of all were pride and honor. If they felt slighted now by their hated enemies, the Jhesta Tu, then, for the sake of their own sensibilities, they had to go and retaliate. If he said no to them, Yakim Douan knew that they would obey. But what price would they, and he, pay for that decision? What was the cost of denying the Chezhou-Lei their honor?
The weary Chezru Chieftain rubbed his tired eyes.
And what if Kaliit Timig was right in his suppositions about the Jhesta Tu being involved in the battle at Dharyan? What if this ancient order was now siding with the To-gai-ru against the Yatols? Douan knew that he had never been a hero to the heretical Jhesta Tu. The Yatol religion was not one that tolerated their strange views of the world long before he had ascended the position as Chezru Chieftain those generations ago. At one point, in a previous incarnation as Chezru Chieftain, Douan had made some overtures that he might try to mend the division between the Yatols and the Jhesta Tu. That thought had been thrown aside before it had ever manifested itself into any action that would move beyond the temple in Jacintha, for Douan had nearly been overthrown by his own priests for simply suggesting such a thing.
For the Yatols hated the Jhesta Tu as profoundly as did the Chezhou-Lei warriors. This was not a battle that Douan could easily avoid.
And did Yakim Douan really want to hold back his Chezhou-Lei warriors? If the Kaliit was correct, then what might be the implications to him? The Jhesta Tu were the ghosts of the world, mysterious and powerful, and Douan held no doubt at all that they could be the deadliest of assassins if they so chose. If the mysterious mystics had indeed taken up the To-gai-ru cause, then was he, as leader of the conquering Behrenese, truly safe?
This was just one more problem that Yakim Douan did not wish thrust upon him at that time, when he wanted only peace and stability. But like so many of the other problems, it was one that he could not ignore.
He understood then what he must do.
Yakim Douan and Merwan Ma knew from the moment that Master Mackaront of St. Entel walked into their midst that something was terribly wrong in Honce-the-Bear.
“Olin is dead?” the Chezru Chieftain asked, purely on reflex, and Douan bit his lip as he finished the words, angry at himself for the uncharacteristic loss of composure. It was just a thought, an answer to Mackaront’s troubled expression, but as God-Voice of Behren, as the unquestioned leader of the Yatol religion, it was not Douan’s place to make guesses.
“No, Chezru,” Mackaront answered, seeming somewhat confused, as did Merwan Ma, who looked upon his leader questioningly.
It was not a look that Yakim Douan desired to elicit from his flock.
“The College of Abbots has chosen Master Fio Bou-raiy of St.-Mere-Abelle as the successor to Father Abbot Agronguerre,” Mackaront explained.
“Abbot Olin is dead,” Douan reiterated, this time as a definitive statement and not a question. “His place in the Church is diminished, for he has reached th
e pinnacle of his power. His road ahead is set, to the end.”
Mackaront breathed hard, obviously trying to hold himself steady.
Yakim Douan took a good measure of him, and of Merwan Ma, standing by his side. He had dodged that errant question, he believed, but he knew that he was stretching here. “That is how Abbot Olin feels, at least,” he offered. “Else he would not have sent you here.”
Mackaront shifted on his feet and straightened somewhat.
“This is unfortunate,” Douan remarked, turning away and heading for the chairs. “For Abbot Olin is among the wisest men of your land, among the wisest I have ever known. It is a sad day for Olin, and for the Abellican Church, which would have grown far greater under his leadership. But we cannot change what has happened, and so we must find now our next best road.” Douan understood that he was being a bit condescending, because, obviously, the defeat of Olin didn’t weigh upon him as catastrophically as it did with Mackaront.
“The new Queen Jilseponie of Honce-the-Bear voted against Abbot Olin, Chezru,” Mackaront explained. “Surely that signal from King Danube is of interest to you.”
Yakim Douan sat down, motioning for the other two to join him. He considered Mackaront’s words carefully for a few minutes. Was there really a signal here, anything more than the obvious fact that King Danube of Honce-the-Bear preferred his kingdom as free of Behrenese influence as possible?
Not really, Douan concluded, and he recognized that Mackaront was just being a bit overly dramatic, and perhaps a bit retributive against Douan’s inevitable disinterest.
“Abbot Olin holds my friendship—that has not changed,” the Chezru Chieftain went on, then he launched into a long series of stories about some of his past dealings with Abbot Olin, even admitting that he had once traveled to Entel in disguise to dine with the man at St. Bondabruce.
Master Mackaront listened to it all with growing comfort, and Merwan Ma listened with growing confusion, even concern.
When he had finished, Yakim Douan stood up suddenly, with more energy than any had seen from him in a long time. “Take our friend out to the docks, to his boat, that he might return to Entel and Abbot Olin,” he instructed Merwan Ma. “Give to him the tapestry that hangs on the left wall of the entryway—it is a battle that Olin, I am sure, holds dear!” he finished with a chuckle, one that melted any forthcoming questions from the obviously stunned Merwan Ma. The tapestry in question, a beautiful and vibrant work, and one of Douan’s favorites, depicted a great sea battle, in which the Jacintha fleet chased the ships of Honce-the-Bear back to the port of Entel.
“Abbot Olin will like it!” Douan said to the stunned Merwan Ma. “He and I have discussed that ancient battle in great detail—he insists that Entel won that battle, sinking the Jacintha fleet before it could return. We know the truth, of course, that our proud ships had won a great victory over the inferior Entel ships, bottling them in their harbor and sinking most. On their glorious return to Entel, though, they happened upon a great storm, and many were lost.”
He paused and chuckled again. “Ah yes, we all have our own truths.”
When the pair had gone, Yakim Douan stood staring at the door, a grin stamped upon his old face. What a strange and momentous few weeks it had been. First comes news that the Chezhou-Lei wish to march south to do battle with the Jhesta Tu, and now the Abellican Church had just thrown aside the plans of Abbot Olin. Douan knew that this latest news from the northern kingdom should have troubled him, should have once again denied him that which he so desperately wanted, Transcendence. And yet, with these two events, the old Chezru Chieftain felt somehow more alive than he had in so many years.
His had become a cautious existence.
Merwan Ma returned a short while later, his expression showing that he was still perplexed about Douan’s reaction to the news from Mackaront and the decision to give away such a prized tapestry.
“Abbot Olin was in need of my consolation,” Douan explained.
Merwan Ma seemed to wince a bit at that.
“You wonder why I care?” Douan asked. “He is Abellican, after all. You have never been comfortable with my relationship with the Abbot of St. Bondabruce.”
“God-Voice, it is not my place—”
“To question me? No, it is not, and so you do not—openly. But in your heart, my young friend, you have questioned me often.”
“No, God-Voice!” the younger man declared.
Yakim Douan held up his hands to show his attendant that it was quite all right, that there was no offense here, and none taken. “Abbot Olin’s faith has been shaken yet again by the Abellican Church, and not surprisingly,” Douan explained. “Often has he been disappointed by his peers, as we would expect, since they follow a wayward path. Our generosity toward the man has always acted to push him farther from the heretical beliefs of his Church.”
“Do you believe that Abbot Olin might be brought to the light of Yatol?” Merwan Ma asked incredulously, and Yakim Douan laughed heartily at that thought.
“I believe that he understands much of the truth of our ways,” he explained. “I expect no overt conversion, nor would I desire one, for that would cause the Abellican Church to excommunicate the man, and likely burn him at the stake. No, the transformation of others to the way of Yatol may sometimes be done with abrupt force, as with the pitiful To-gai-ru, but with the more cultured and entrenched societies, such as Honce-the-Bear, our victory will come over the years, the decades, the centuries, as their own failings dishearten them. Abbot Olin was not the first abbot in Entel sympathetic to the way of Yatol, nor will he be the last.
“In the end, we will win, because we are right, my son.”
Merwan Ma’s smile was genuine, and Yakim Douan knew that he had once again satisfied the man that he was indeed in the presence of a God-Voice, that the machinations of Yakim Douan’s actions were far beyond his immediate comprehension.
It was a bluff that Yakim Douan had perfected over many lifetimes.
“What is it?” Yakim Douan asked his attendant, seeing the curious look upon Merwan Ma’s face.
Merwan Ma shook his head and seemed embarrassed.
“Tell me, son,” Yakim Douan said comfortingly, and he moved over and patted Merwan Ma’s shoulder, uncharacteristic behavior that seemed to confuse Merwan Ma even more.
“You seem happier of late, God-Voice,” the young man admitted.
Yakim Douan stepped back, surprised by the bluntness, and in truth, surprised a bit by the accuracy of the observation. He was feeling better, and was possessed of more energy of late. It was the gemstone, he knew. Falling into its magical swirl every day was filling him with health and strength.
“I am freed of the bonds of responsibility for now,” he replied. “You have gotten your wish, my son, for Transcendence is now an event for the future. Yatol has called upon me to remain here and oversee the momentous events of the day. Our Chezhou-Lei warriors will march south, likely within a couple of months, to do battle with the Jhesta Tu. And now this, Abbot Olin defeated by his brethren. No, Yatol will not let his flock be vulnerable during these times, and so I am called to lead. And lead I shall.”
Merwan Ma beamed at the proclamation, but there was something else in his expression that Yakim Douan could not quite decipher, and that unknown reminded the Chezru Chieftain poignantly that he had to remain careful.
Still, Douan could not help but feel refreshed.
Yes, Transcendence had been taken away from him, and yes, the hematite hidden in the chalice was giving him new strength and vitality. But the true change here, the true reason why a smile was often evident on his face, was exactly as he had explained it to Merwan Ma. For months, years even, his focus had been on tidying up so that he could make the transformation to a younger body. Even as the events of the day had continually dictated otherwise, Yakim Douan had stubbornly held on to his hope for Transcendence.
Now he had let go of that dream for the foreseeable future. These two events, with t
he Kaliit and the abbot, had shut the door and locked it. Now Douan was focused on the events at hand.
Perhaps it was time for him to revel in the present glory.
Chapter 22
A Chill Breeze on Leathery Wings
HE FELT THE SEARING HEAT OF THE LAVA AS HE PLUMMETED, AND BELIEVED THAT he would simply burst into flame, but then he landed in a great dark and wet cave it seemed. It took Belli’mar Juraviel a few breaths to understand that the dragon had caught him in its mouth, had plucked him out of the air only a few feet above the deadly lava.
The dragon winced and growled, nearly opening its mouth, and Juraviel understood that it had likely nipped the lava on its turn upward. Then came the jolts as the dragon landed back on the stone, a few staggering steps.
Spat out of the beast’s mouth, Juraviel hit the ground hard in a bouncing roll.
He came to a sitting position and looked back, then had to look away as Agradeleous began the bone-crunching, flesh-tearing transformation back to a bipedal lizardman form.
The elf glanced down the hallway, thinking that he should use this opportunity to sprint away. To what end, though? He knew that Agradeleous would easily overtake him.
It occurred to him then that he should use this opportunity to attack the dragon, to defeat it, perhaps even to force it back over the ledge into the lava.
Juraviel dismissed that notion with a shrug and a helpless laugh. How might he be able to hurt the great beast, even during this seemingly vulnerable time of transformation? And if he could find a way to win out, if he could find a boulder or something to knock the dragon over the ledge …
Juraviel didn’t want to. He would not strike at Agradeleous; he had no right to strike at this creature that had shown him unexpected mercy.
He sat down on the floor, closed his eyes, and waited for the dragon to complete its transformation.
A powerful hand grasped him by the back of his collar, lifting him with frightening ease and carrying him along. The elf stayed limp and kept his eyes closed, perfectly resigned to his fate, whatever that fate might be.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 150
