DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (181 page)

The tone of that last question and the glimmer in his dark eyes tipped Brynn off to Barachuk’s feelings on that particular subject, and she knew then that she was among allies, among To-gai-ru who longed for the old ways, the customs from before the coming of the hated Behrenese. Relief accompanied that realization, for though Brynn could hardly imagine many of her people surrendering their identity to the conquerors in but a decade, she had indeed feared that very possibility.

“I was with no tribe,” Brynn admitted. “I was not even in To-gai. I traveled north of the mountains.”

That widened her companions’ eyes! The To-gai-ru were a nomadic people, but their travels had distinct borders, the mountains being one of them. Few To-gai-ru had ever traveled through them; fewer still, and none in memory, had ever returned.

“Your words are …” Barachuk started to say, but he stopped and just shook his head.

“Hard to believe?” Brynn finished for him. “Trust me, both of you, if you knew all of my tale, your eyes would widen even more.” As she finished, she reached into her pouch and pulled forth the powrie beret, placing it on her black hair. The two looked at her curiously, obviously not understanding.

For a moment, Brynn entertained the thought of drawing forth her sword and setting its blade ablaze, but she held back, thinking it wise not to reveal too much, even to this couple, whom she already trusted implicitly. For they would likely talk, to friends at least, and Brynn knew that the Behrenese might well start evesdropping on Barachuk and Tsolona now, as they had already been observing her.

“It is the headpiece treasured by a race of mighty and wicked dwarves, called the powries,” Brynn explained. “Much of this armor that I wear is of powrie make, I believe.”

“You befriended dwarves?” asked Tsolona.

“No.”

“You warred with them, then. The spoils of battle?”

“No, I have never seen a powrie. This was taken from the lair of a much greater foe, in a cavern deep under the mountains. A creature so mighty that it could raze the land!”

The old couple looked to each other, a flash of amazement on their faces, but one fast replaced by a grin of doubt.

“And you killed this creature?” Barachuk asked.

“No, the dragon was quite beyond me,” Brynn answered honestly.

“Ah, yes, the dragon,” said Barachuk, seeming far from convinced.

Brynn nodded, holding her calm in the face of their obvious doubt. “But I escaped the great beast, and with some treasures.”

“Girl, you grow more curious by the moment,” the old man remarked.

Brynn smiled, and let it go at that. She was tired, and had an important meeting the next day.

Chapter 11
 

P
AGONEL STARED AT THE RED SASH HANGING ON THE HOOK BY THE DOOR OF HIS
small and unremarkable room, at its rich hues, bloodlike, the symbol of life among his order, the ancient and secretive Jhesta Tu mystics. Pagonel was one of only four among the 150 brothers and sisters to have earned the Sash of Life, but when he took it down from the hook and belted it about his waist, securing his tan tunic, he did not wear it with pride.

If he did, he would not have been worthy of the sash.

No, Pagonel wore the sash in simple optimism, for himself and for all the people of all the world. He was Jhesta Tu, dedicated to a life above the common, a life spent in reflection, in the quiet attempts of understanding, and in the hopes that such understanding of life and death and purpose would lead him to a place of absolute enlightenment.

The Jhesta Tu were not a large order; this place, the Walk of Clouds, nestled high among the volcanic mountains along the southern border where both the deserts of Behren and the steppes of To-gai came to an end, was their only temple, and few brothers were out on the roads of the wider world.

Very few, since the Yatols of Behren would not tolerate the Jhesta Tu, and the To-gai-ru had little use for them.

Most of the Jhesta Tu were of Behrenese descent, and most of those who were not, like Pagonel, traced their ancestry to To-gai. But all within the Walk of Clouds had entered at a very young age, and few had any memories other than those at the temple. They got their glimpses of the world outside from the books and oral presentations given within their mountain home, which was built into the side of a towering cliff facing, a walk of five thousands steps from the broken floor of the torn region.

A crackle and then a thunderous boom resounded outside of the one small window in Pagonel’s south-facing room, but it only amused, and did not startle, the forty-year-old mystic. Some of the younger Jhesta Tu were practicing with the magical gemstones, he knew, in preparation for the celebration of the autumnal equinox that evening. Lightning bolts and fireballs would light the ever-misty gorge beyond the Bridge of Winds that night, Pagonel knew, and he smiled at the thought, for he truly enjoyed the revelry, and knew that his contributions to the show would bring pleasure to many of the younger mystics. Few at the Walk of Clouds could utilize the gemstones as well as Pagonel, though even he was no master with them, certainly not compared to the mighty Abellican monks of the northern kingdom of Honce-the-Bear. For in the eyes of the Jhesta Tu, the gemstones were not sacred, no more than were the grass and the wind and every
natural thing in all the world. Their order was based on inner peace and contentment, a joining of mind and body and external environment that blended into pure harmony and equilibrium. While the Jhesta Tu appreciated the power of the gemstones, and particularly the inner searching required of one attempting to use the gemstones, they did not hold them as sacred and did not consider them a gift from god.

Another crackle and boom combination took Pagonel from his private reflections, and he made his way to his window and peered out, to see a group of younger mystics gathered on the Bridge of Winds, the clouds of mist rising from the gorge before them. Most wore the white belt of air, the first of the sashes, one that signified, more than any attainment of knowledge, the willingness to open one’s mind to gain insight. Some wore the second, yellow belt, which signified growth from air toward the brown belt of earth.

One that Pagonel saw, though, wore the blue belt of water, a high rank indeed, and it was this mystic, a woman of about thirty years, who was putting on the lightning display.

Another bolt shot out from her hand, slicing into the mist and crackling into a thunderous report, and the others on the bridge cheered and clapped their hands with joy.

Pagonel felt that joy, but it was dampened by a sudden insight, a realization that he would not attend the celebration that night.

The mystic moved back from the window, hardly believing the realization.

He would not attend.

He could not, would not, leave his room this day, or this night.

He saw the lightning bolt again and again, following its curious tracing through the misty air before it. A line of pure energy.

His breath coming in shallow gasps—ones that could be corrected by those wearing the white belts of air, who were learning the properties of drawing various breaths—Pagonel fell back farther into his room, fell back further into his thoughts. He pictured that bolt of lightning again, but this time it was inside of him, a line of energy running from his head to his groin, a balance, a line of power.

Pagonel cleared aside some clutter and pulled forth his meditative carpet, an intricately designed weave of sheep’s wool, one that he had crafted himself over the course of two years. He sat down upon it, crossing his legs and bringing his hands together in front of his lean and strong chest, then very slowly dropping his hands to his thighs, palms facing upward. Then Pagonel went into his conscious relaxation, visualizing each part of his body and forcing it to sink more deeply into a quiet and relaxed mode. He felt hollow and empty, letting all the clutter leave his body and mind.

Then, when his body and mind were quiet, Pagonel allowed the image of the lightning bolt to grow again in his thoughts. But rather than just picturing the bolt cutting through the mist again, he let it grow beside a sensation of power within him, the line of his own life force, the energy that defined him more than his mortal
trappings ever could.

He lost all sensation of time and space, fell into himself more completely than he had ever known possible, touched his life force with his consciousness for the first time.

And he stayed there, finding, for the first time, the most perfect harmony.

P
agonel blinked open his eyes, staring at the dark room. Slowly, very slowly, the mystic lifted his hands out to the side, then brought them in together before his chest. His breath came slow and deep as he used the techniques he had mastered in the many years he had worn his white sash, then he consciously forced that breath into his muscles, his arms, and his legs.

Moving in perfect balance, in the smooth harmony of his muscles, Pagonel unfolded into a standing position, his hands never moving from in front of his chest.

The mystic blinked again and looked around, trying to find some hint of how much time had passed. He went out into the hall, to find it empty, all the doors closed. He went down to the hall of lights, a circular room lined with rows of burning candles, and with several angled mirrors and small rock fountains strategically placed to catch and distort the light.

Pagonel caught sight of himself in one of those mirrors, and he was pleased by the contentment he recognized in his rich brown eyes. Something profound had happened to him in his chamber, he knew, and he understood what it was.

“Three days,” came a voice behind him.

Pagonel turned and bowed. “Master Cheyes.” In the Walk of Clouds, there were three other mystics of Pagonel’s level, the Red Sash of Life, and there were only two who had achieved the level beyond that, the Belt of All Colors, the symbol of enlightenment—Master Cheyes and his wife, Mistress Dasa. In all the centuries of the monastic order, the number who had so achieved this belt was minuscule, under a hundred, and to have two such masters in the Walk of Clouds at one time was almost unprecedented.

And now Pagonel meant to announce that a third would be joining them.

“I have seen the Chi,” he said quietly.

Master Cheyes nodded solemnly. “It is as I assumed when you did not emerge from your room for the celebration of the equinox, three days ago.”

Three days?
Pagonel laughed, somehow not surprised.

“I had hoped that you would see it, Pagonel,” Master Cheyes continued. “It is good that you have, for now there is a road before you.”

“I have touched Chi,” Pagonel explained. “I have grasped it. I know it.”

His stream of pronouncements had the old and wrinkled master rocking back on his heels. Few dared make such a claim, and for one of Pagonel’s tender age to touch and fully grasp Chi, as Pagonel was claiming, was practically unheard of. Master Cheyes’ wife, Dasa, had only found Chi two years before, in her seventy-eighth year, her seventy-fifth of formal study.

“I would walk the Path of All Colors, Master Cheyes,” the younger man said
confidently.

Master Cheyes nodded, for though it seemed obvious to Pagonel that he doubted the claim, he was powerless to say so. The discovery of the Chi, the highest level of enlightenment, was a personal undertaking and claim, one that went beyond the supervision of Cheyes, or of any master.

“You understand the danger?” Master Cheyes did ask, as was required. “And you understand that there is no need to walk the Path of All Colors at this, or at any, set time?”

“To wait is folly, as I am prepared,” Pagonel assured him.

“I am bound to say no more, Pagonel.” Master Cheyes bowed his head in respect, in acknowledgment that Pagonel was no longer his student or his inferior. If the man succeeded in the walk, then he would instantly become Cheyes’ peer. If he did not succeed, then he would be dead. There was no middle ground; at the moment Pagonel announced his intent, his days as the student of Master Cheyes and Mistress Dasa ended. “The chamber is ready, as it is always ready.”

Head bowed, Cheyes walked away.

Pagonel nodded confidently. He had seen the Chi, the inner life, the joining of body and soul, and in that recognition, he held no doubts about the outcome of his walk. He went straightaway to a little-used stairway in the far northern reaches of the temple. He moved down three levels, to the bottommost common area, and to an ironbound doorway that had not been opened since Mistress Dasa had made the journey. He grabbed the ring at the center of the door and felt the heat emanating from beyond the portal. A sudden jerk clicked the locking mechanism and the door cracked open, a blast of hot wind hitting Pagonel in the face.

He stepped through, onto a landing, and closed the door behind him, then turned and waited a few moments, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim, orange light, a glow from far, far below.

He had gone beyond the worked tunnels of the Walk of Clouds, into a natural cavern sloping down to the depths of the mountain. It took him almost half an hour to reach the end of that corridor, a rocky, natural chamber with a single door set in the far wall. Beside that door hung many red sashes, identical to the one Pagonel now wore.