DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (182 page)

The mystic walked to the wall and nodded as he took note of how well most of the sashes had held up over the years. Most were well over a century old, and the air in that place, with its nasty sulphuric smell, was very acidic, and took a devastating toll on most cloth.

Pagonel removed his own belt and hung it on an open peg. His hand lingered upon it for a long while, for though he had only worn it for a few years, it had become more than just a symbol, but a constant reminder of the road of his life.

The man let go and quickly pushed open the door, stepped through, and closed the door behind him, well aware that he would never see that sash, or the room in which it hung, again.

Now he was in a wide and dimly lit chamber, crowded with life-size statues in
various battle poses, a room similar to the one in which he had earned his Sash of Life.

This was not the test of his new enlightenment, though, but rather, a precaution against any who would come in there prematurely. For these statues were set on a “living” floor, a series of pressure plates that incited the manikins to action, and only one skilled enough to have earned his Red Sash could walk through there, avoiding the traps.

With complete confidence, only pausing long enough to remind himself that he had to hold his focus on the present, rather than on that which awaited him, Pagonel removed his soft slippers and started across the room.

His feet felt the subtle vibrations beneath him as he padded across. His mind and body moved in perfect harmony, turning sidelong to avoid a sliding statue, spear outstretched, then, in the same movement, ducking low to avoid a spinning statue, glaive cutting the air above him.

He came up in a leap, anticipating rather than sensing, the spikes stabbing out of the floor beneath him. He landed to the side, balanced perfectly on one foot, then stepped confidently ahead.

A spear shot at him from the shadows.

Pagonel’s torso was ducking even as his arm was sweeping up, his forearm catching the spear just under the head and turning it harmlessly high and to the side. He fell into a forward roll that brought him under two slashing swords, came up in a leap that brought him over a thrusting spear, then moved, turning side to side, even spinning about once or twice, to avoid a series of other thrusts and slashes.

And then he stood before the far door, beside a huge lever set into the floor. Grasping it tightly, he pulled it back, settling it into place. Then he waited as the minutes passed, becoming an hour, as the counterweights all refilled with sand, resetting the dangerous room. When all the sliding and scraping ended, Pagonel returned the lever to its resting position, and, with a deep breath, walked through the door, entering onto a tiny landing in a wide but low natural cavern, full of orange light and intense heat. For the chamber was split before Pagonel by the life flow of the mountain, a river of running lava.

The mystic reached quickly into himself, gathering his Chi, willing a defense against the killing heat. Human skin and blood could not suffer the intensity, but the Chi certainly could. Pagonel reached within and brought forth a shield of energy, a determination that blocked out the pain.

Settled again, Pagonel looked at the walkway before him: a narrow metal beam, stretching out across the cavern to a waterfall of orange lava. The walkway, too, glowed with heat.

Pagonel focused his inner strength into a cluster of energy, then brought it down to his feet. Slowly, without fear, the mystic stepped out onto the metal walkway, which was no more than a few inches wide. He placed one bare foot in front of the other, denying the heat and the pain so completely that it did not burn his
skin.

Out he went, to the very end of the walkway, standing just a few feet from the lava fall, almost close enough to reach out and touch it. Pagonel regarded all the area around him, for there seemed no other path, and yet he knew that he could not go back.

He nodded as he came to understand, and he backed up several steps, then fell even deeper within himself, to the power of life, and he brought it forth as a shield.

Pagonel exploded into a short run, then leaped, head back, arms outstretched, fists clenched.

He burst through the wall of falling lava, and somehow held his balance as he landed on a narrow walkway on the other side. Suppressing his elation, for this walkway too was glowing hot and any distraction that released Pagonel’s grasp of his inner force would almost instantly take the skin from his feet, the mystic walked along, finally entering a second tunnel, again sloping down.

He walked for several hours, soon in almost absolute darkness, before he saw the tiniest glow of daylight up ahead. Pagonel held his determined stride and did not break into a run, reminding himself that this day was a blessing upon him, good fortune, and should not be tainted by foolish pride.

He came out of the tunnel, into the daylight, in a deep, deep pit, a circular area barely ten feet across. There, hanging on a jag in the stone, the mystic saw the symbol of his achievement, the Sash of All Colors. Reverently, he took it in his hands. It was made of fine strands of treated silk, so narrow and finely woven that in all but direct light, the sash appeared black. When the sun hit it, though, the sash shone of every color in the rainbow, and Pagonel tilted it up then to catch the dim rays, to see some hint of its true splendor.

He would spend the next few months weaving the sash for the next one to pass the test of Chi, he understood, and when finished, he would walk to the spot far above him, the lip of this deep, deep pit, and toss it in, to wait here for years and years, decades, even centuries, perhaps.

That was the way of Jhesta Tu.

Pagonel belted on his sash, a reminder of who he was, then looked about him for a way up. The hole was several hundred feet deep, at least, and the walls were sheer.

No obstacle to a Master of Chi.

Pagonel found again the line of energy, head to groin, and brought it forth about him like a shroud, using it to counter his own body weight.

He began to float, near to the wall, and hand-walked his way up, up, until he stood among the boulders.

A short walk through a narrow pass brought him below the Bridge of Winds, at the base of the long, ascending stairway. He resisted the urge to float up to the bridge, to amaze those students who witnessed it, and walked instead, humbly, one foot in front of the other.

Masters Cheyes was waiting for him.

“I am pleased, Pagonel,” he said.

“I held no doubts.”

“If you had, you would not have survived. There is success or failure, and nothing in between.”

Pagonel nodded, understanding perfectly well. Those mystics who had attempted the Path of All Colors out of determined pride, those who had not truly seen and come to understand their Chi, had failed, to their doom. For those mystics who had reached the point of enlightenment, the test could not be failed.

“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
 

M
ERWAN
M
A LOOKED ON WITH SURPRISE AND EVEN FEAR AS
C
HEZRU
D
OUAN
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?”