DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (162 page)

She stood there, trembling, unblinking.

“Is the potential cost worth the gain?”

That last question grounded her again, tossed aside the images of potential horror and clarified the potential victory. Victory for To-gai meant only one thing, in truth, but to Brynn Dharielle, that one thing outweighed all the pain and all the deaths.

“Freedom,” she whispered, her teeth clenched tightly.

Belli’mar Juraviel stared at her for a few moments, then nodded his approval.

She was learning.

L
ozan Duk watched the curious couple sitting at the campfire that warm summer night in the rolling foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle, a mountain range that Lozan Duk’s people considered the very end of the world. Lozan Duk was not too concerned with the female, for though her skin was darker and her eyes a bit unusual in shape, she did not seem so much different from the other bumbling humans who every so often wandered into these lands.

But the other one, with his angular features and diminutive form …

At first Lozan Duk and his companion, Cazzira, had thought the second creature a human child, but closer inspection had nullified that viewpoint. He was no child, and indeed spoke in the tones of a leader. And more than that, this one had a set of features that neither of the onlookers could have expected: a pair of nearly translucent wings.

A branch to the side shuddered slightly as Lozan Duk’s companion returned, leaping through the boughs as nimbly as any squirrel might. “Debankan,” she said with a nod, confirming their suspicions that the wings were akin to those of a debankan, a butterfly.

The two hesitated, staring at each other, at a loss. Their histories told of only one race of creatures who sported such ornaments, the Tylwyn Tou, the elves of the day.

But those creatures, the Tylwyn Tou, had receded into the oldest memories of the Tylwyn Doc. To many of the younger people, they had become no more than legends.

Was this, then, a legend come to life? For the diminutive creature down by the campfire surely resembled the Tylwyn Doc, with his deceivingly delicate stature and his angular features, except that his hair was light, where the Tylwyn Doc had hair almost universally black. And his skin, though creamy, seemed somewhat colored by the sun, where the skin of all the Tylwyn Doc, creatures who rarely if ever ventured out from under the nearly solid canopy of their forest home of Tymwyvenne, was milky white.

“Tylwyn Tou?” Cazzira asked, echoing Lozan Duk’s thoughts exactly.

“And what does that mean?” Lozan asked with a shrug.

Normally, the procedure for dealing with intruders was fairly straightforward,
and certainly of uniform intent. No reasoning being who wandered into the realm of the Tylwyn Doc, the Doc’alfar, would wander back out. Intruders were given to the peat bog.

Lozan Duk looked back down at the duo, particularly at the curious creature who seemed in many ways a mirror image of himself, and wondered.

Chapter 4
 

T
HEIR BICKERING WAS BECOMING MORE THAN AN ANNOYANCE TO
Y
AKIM
D
OUAN
.

“The pirates must be handled more delicately!” yelled Yatol Peridan, the highest-ranking priest of southeastern Behren, the land known as Cosinnida—and a man well known to be in league with many of the notorious coast runners. The argument that he was now making in Jacintha—that the crackdown Yatol De Hamman had imposed along his section of the coast, the area north of Peridan’s territory and just south of Jacintha, was unreasonable and dangerous for security—almost had the Chezru Chieftain laughing aloud. How transparent this one was! Yakim always got a good chuckle out of Peridan’s antics; he had only appointed the man as a Yatol because Peridan had done a fine job in getting valuable marble up to the palace in Jacintha for recent improvements.

“The pirates must be handled!” Yatol De Hamman countered angrily. “Leave it at that. You call for delicate handling because you fear for your own purse!”

Yatol Peridan’s eyes widened at the blunt accusation, but Yakim Douan was paying more attention to the other seven priests, who were sitting back and watching the rising conflict with obvious amusement. The only analogy the Chezru Chieftain could draw upon at that moment was that of a group of youngsters, encircling a pair that had squared off, calling for them to fight.

Yes, this was more than an annoyance. Yakim Douan wanted to begin the time of Transcendence, wanted a new and younger body. But how could he leave the Chezru flock so vulnerable when it was in such disarray, when even the Yatols, the supposed leaders of the Chezru, were bickering amongst themselves? The verbal sparring between Peridan and De Hamman continued to escalate dangerously, until finally the Chezru Chieftain slammed his fists down on the round whitewood table and rose so forcefully that his chair skidded out behind him.

“Do you use the pirates, Yatol Peridan?” he asked, the bluntness of his question drawing gasps from all in attendance. It was one thing for a pair of priests to spar and accuse, but something altogether different for the Chezru Chieftain, the God-Voice of Yatol, to ask a question with such implications.

“God-Voice, how can you ask me …” Yatol Peridan stammered clumsily.

“Exactly as I have asked you,” Yakim Douan replied with all calm and confidence. “Do you use the pirates, for your own gain or for the gain of the church?”

Peridan continued to squirm, obviously seeking an escape, but Yakim Douan fixed him with a withering glare—a look perfected over the centuries, a look that allowed no possibilities of dodge here.

“The pirates have tithed to my church, yes, God-Voice,” Peridan finally admitted, lowering his eyes. The other priests all looked to each other with concern.
Peridan’s admission was not news to them, of course, for everyone there knew the truth of Yatol Peridan’s relationship with some of the most notorious thugs sailing the coastline. But to hear the admission openly, in front of the Chezru Chieftain, was no small thing!

Yatol De Hamman sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, seeming quite pleased with himself.

“And you have used this … tithing, for the betterment of your church and flock?” the Chezru Chieftain asked, and all eyes looked at him then with continued surprise.

“I have,” Yatol Peridan answered enthusiastically after the shock of the question had worn off. “And I have spoken with many of the pirates about their activities, God-Voice. I try to alter their behavior. I seek to channel their strengths into the betterment of all.”

“They are killers!” Yatol De Hamman cried out. “Killers all!”

He started to spout on, but Yakim Douan held up his hand, halting the man. “You speak truly, Yatol De Hamman,” the Chezru offered. “And I hold little sympathy for those pirates your warships have sent into the depths of the dark waters. But as they are killers, they are also an inevitability. The pirates have run their catamarans across the coral reefs and away from Behrenese warships for centuries. They have always been there and will always be there. Accept that truth, and you will come to understand that Yatol Peridan’s profiting from the pirate activities is beneficial to the Chezru.”

“Bless you, God-Voice,” Yatol Peridan started to say.

“But,” Yakim Douan said sternly, lifting his pointing, accusatory finger Peridan’s way, “do not confuse the issue. You complain that Yatol De Hamman is sinking pirate ships, and thus sinking your profits, but to do so shows a disregard for the needs of Yatol De Hamman. How is he to rule his flock effectively if they do not believe that he can be trusted to protect them? So come not to Jacintha with complaints that your fellow Yatols are upholding the laws, Yatol Peridan. Come not to Jacintha with complaints that your temple will not be layered in gold.”

Yatol Peridan again lowered his eyes. “Yes, God-Voice.”

“And for the rest of you, find some insight!” Yakim Douan went on. “There are unpleasant inevitabilities to society, much as we see with the pirates off our coastline. We try to diminish these unpleasantries, indeed, but we are not wrong to find gain from them. As for you, Yatol Grysh,” he said, referring to, and looking to, the Yatol of the northwesternmost reaches of Behren, who presided under the shadows of the great mountains and the plateau along the borderlands of To-gai, in the great Behrenese city of Dharyan. Grysh, a bald, heavyset man with sleepy eyes who noticeably lacked any chin, was, in effect, Yakim Douan’s principal sheriff over the conquered To-gai-ru. The Yatol who had done the conquering, Tohen Bardoh, had been so brutal in his tactics that Douan had been forced to pull him back from the steppes. There were other Yatol priests in To-gai, of course, but they were either quick-promoted and expendable, eager young men, lifted from the ranks of the
Shepherds and sent to the wilderness of the steppes, or they were of To-gai-ru descent, traitors to their own people, who obviously, therefore, could not be trusted by the Chezru Chieftain. That left Grysh, a cunning and often callous man, the perfect liaison to handle the savages of To-gai.

“There are many, many bandits running just west of your domain, are there not?” Yakim Douan asked the large man.

Yatol Grysh blinked sleepily, smiled, and nodded.

“Do you not find a way to tap into their growing resources?” Yakim Douan asked slyly.

Yatol Grysh, who was easily the most confident and self-assured of all those gathered, excepting of course Yakim Douan himself, merely smiled and nodded again, his demeanor drawing a chuckle or two from the others seated about the table.

“Inevitabilities,” Yakim Douan said to them all. “We cannot achieve perfection of our world. This is the teaching of Yatol. Perfection is to be found in an existence beyond this mortal realm. We know of this, and so, while we cannot be publicly tolerant of such behaviors or risk losing our hold, I applaud a Yatol wise enough to turn unpleasantness into gain.”

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.

M
aster 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!