[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter XLVI

[C. Matthias]

And another hcapter from my pen.  I even managed 
to include some older characters in the first scene, hooray!

Chapter XLVI

The Yeshuel Returned

         Muscles sore and dirt lodged beneath 
nearly every scale, Copernicus didn’t even have 
the energy for his favourite past-time.  The 
three-hundred pound lizard reclined in one of the 
sturdier seats at the Deaf Mule and watched as 
two of the other patrons monopolized the pool 
table.  It was just as well he was too exhausted 
to play; his pool table had been destroyed in the 
fire that consumed the original Deaf Mule.  Its 
replacement was good, but it didn’t have the same kinks he grown accustomed to.
         Even the Deaf Mule – fully rebuilt and 
once again the most popular destination for 
Keepers in need of a good meal, drink, and 
friendship – wasn’t quite the same.  But that was 
not the fault of the builders.  What Copernicus 
looked for was not fashioned from wood and tar, 
but from flesh and bone.  Too many old friends 
had lost their lives in the assault, while others 
were gone from Metamor to live elsewhere in the 
Valley, or had left the Valley entirely!
         But that was a part of life, the lizard 
reflected.  Times change, and the old moved aside 
to make way for the new.  Maybe one day he’d even 
let someone beat him at pool; the Keep would need a new champion at some point!
         He chuckled under his breath and 
stretched in his seat.  A shadow passed him on 
his right, and he was about to order a drink when 
the familiar scent of dirty beaver hit him.  The 
large rodent crashed into a seat opposite 
Copernicus and let his head fall on the 
table.  Grinning, the lizard studied the red and 
black plaid beaver’s torn and muddied 
tunic.  He’d thought the poor fellow had gone to 
the baths, but here he was, just as filthy as 
when Cope had last seen him struggling through the city’s gates.
         “Too dirty for the baths,” his companion muttered into the table.
         “Too dirty?” Copernicus chuckled at 
that, then stretched again to loosen his sore 
muscles. “I’ve never heard them say anyone is too dirty to bathe.”
         “Not too dirty to bathe, to dirty to 
bathe in the public baths.  They told me to jump 
in the river.” Michael rolled his head to one 
side and stared at the lizard irritably. “You stink of mud too.”
         “Aye,” he agreed amiably.  Seeing 
Michael so soon after returning from their 
somewhat disastrous patrol brightened his mood. 
“I’ll sponge off later; the baths are too hot for 
me right now.  Though a good rock in the sun would be quite nice!”
         “You are in far too pleasant a mood for 
somebody who a few hours ago was almost buried alive!”
         Copernicus shrugged. “It wasn’t my idea 
to climb the defile so soon after a rain.”
         “I thought I heard Lutins!” But the 
lizard just laughed.  Michael groaned and closed 
his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve been on a more 
exhausting patrol, and we didn’t even get to kill anything!”
         “Look at it this way: tomorrow you head 
back into the forest with the woodcutters.” 
Michael shot him a dark look. “And here I thought 
that would delight you.  You’ve certainly bulked 
up in the year and a half you’ve worked with 
them.” And indeed he had.  Copernicus could well 
remember the average youth Michael had been 
before the curse had made him a beaver.  Now he 
regularly hoisted split trees on his shoulders; 
Cope didn’t dare arm wrestle him anymore!
         “I want to get clean, and then get some 
food, and then go to bed.” Michael lifted his 
head and blinked wearily. “Maybe I can take some 
time off.  If I’m desperate for money, I can let 
Pascal experiment on me again.  As long as she 
doesn’t try to make me pink, I don’t much care.”
         Copernicus felt her presence before he 
saw her.  His spine tingled, and something 
brushed across his tail, silken smooth but with a 
rasp.  She had scales too. “Aren’t you colourful 
enough already?” a decidedly feminine voice 
asked.  The lizard turned his head and saw the 
voluptuous upper torso of a woman terminating in 
the coils of a snake carefully wound between the 
tables and chairs behind them.  Though her remark 
was jocular, her expression was haunted.  What was bothering her?
         “Could you spare us your stealth this 
one time, Quiz?  As you can see, we are worn from 
the dangers of patrolling Lutin-infested 
forests.” An exaggeration on Cope’s part as only 
a handful of Lutins remained in the Valley since 
the failure of their assault on Metamor last 
Winter’s eve.  The true danger now lay from 
brigands, and while dangerous enough, it was no different from any other land.
         The naga crossed her arms over her chest 
and leaned back in her coils. “Jack says you two 
were caught in a mud slide.  I’m rather surprised you’d be so careless, Cope.”
         “Tell the good castellan I’ll personally 
clean every piece of armour and blade we 
dirtied.” Copernicus straightened in his seat, 
heavy tail pressing down on the wood so hard it 
creaked. “That should be enough to keep him from spreading the story.”
         “They were all your own weapons!”
         “That’s how Jack will know I’m telling the truth!”
         Quiz rolled her eyes. “Aye, but,” she 
sighed, and an expression of sadness filled her 
face.  Both pool players were having a hard time 
concentrating, so captivating was every cadence 
of tone and glimmer of emotion.  Copernicus, 
though long used to it, found his weariness 
abating. “That is not the reason I’m here.”
         “What’s wrong?” the beaver asked, sitting up for the first time.
         “I was delivering a message to Priestess 
Merai hin’Dana when a messenger bird from Glen 
Avery arrived.  Lothanasa Raven hin’Elric 
journeyed there very early this morning to 
attempt to save the life of Ladero Matthias, Charles’s youngest son.”
         “Did she?” Copernicus asked, but in his heart he knew the answer.
         “Nae, the boy is dead.  I told Merai I 
would spread the word to Charles’s friends...” 
Quiz lowered her eyes. “I know you never met his children...”
         “I wanted to,” Copernicus replied.  The 
news was terrible, but it left him 
empty.  Sadness would come soon enough. “It’s 
been a while since Charles and I were close,” he 
admitted bitterly.  After the rat’s wedding in 
January, he’d only spoken with him once, and that 
was during the Summer Solstice 
festivities.  They’d played a game of pool and 
promised to do so more often now that Charles was 
returning to Metamor.  And then the rat was sent 
off again on some mysterious errand.  Thomas, 
Misha and the rest wouldn’t even tell him what it was about!
         Copernicus returned his gaze to Quiz. “Does Misha Brightleaf know?”
         She shook her head. “I was going to Long House next.”
         “Let me do that.  You should go to the 
Writer’s Guild and inform them.  And Michael...”
         The beaver nodded. “He’s always been a 
friend to me too.  If you are going to Glen Avery for a funeral, then so am I.”
         The lizard’s smile was faint but true. 
“Good.  Tell the rats.  They’ll want to come too.”
         “I will also inform Father Hough,” Quiz 
added. “Charles would want that.”
         The lizard and beaver rose from the 
table. “And if we’re lucky, Caroline will be with 
Misha so she can help talk sense into the maniac 
when he finds out.” Their laughter was real but strained.
         “We should meet at Long House when we 
are done,” the naga suggested.  They all agreed, 
and a moment later Quiz was gone, leaving the 
other two in a blink of the eye.  But they were 
used to that too.  Their weariness forgotten, 
Copernicus and Michael left the Deaf Mule to 
spread the ill news of their friend’s loss.

----------

         Nearly every seat was filled at the 
Bishop’s Council of Yesulam when the Questioners 
arrived bearing the seal of Mizrahek, Grand 
Questioner of the Ecclesia.  The trio kept their 
cowls raised, a fact that elicited a few 
surprised murmurs amongst the assembled 
bishops.  Why would a Questioning have brought 
them here?  Who were they?  Why would Mizrahek 
have sent them here?  Who did they expect to find?
         The Questioners moved like nightshade 
along the exterior walls, a blot of ink upon the 
gold filigree and relief work, each depicting 
scenes from the Canticles, and most from the life 
of Yahshua.  In a remote corner where the light 
of the sun shining through high faceted windows 
could not reach, they took their seats.  Though 
they were remote and blended into the shadows as 
if they belonged, few were the eyes that did not watch them.
         Kehthaek noted the stares from the 
younger bishops, and the sidelong glances from 
the older.  Those like Rott and Temasah who had 
been implicated by Jothay’s correspondence 
studied them curiously, but did not appear 
concerned by their presence.  Many of those who 
had not been mentioned, or had been named as 
troublemakers by the dead Bishop were far more 
unsettled.  In a few minutes, not a one of them 
would be sitting comfortably anymore.
         He ran his fingers along the scroll case 
tucked inside his sleeve.  Before coming, he’d 
checked the documents held within three 
times.  Kehthaek was not normally given to 
doubting his memory, but with something as 
important, and as delicate as this, he needed 
constant reassurance.  Both Felsah and Akaleth 
held their own documents.  Every piece of 
evidence they had was in their possession and 
they were prepared to present them.
         Duplicates had been made, both for their 
own protection and for that of the Driheli.  But 
for this, they would need the letters Jothay had 
saved, and the confession written by Mizrahek.
         A pair of green-liveried Yeshuel stepped 
through golden-arched doors near St. Kephas’s 
seat.  Every priest rose to their feet, aside 
from those too old to easily stand.  Behind the 
Yeshuel, bearing a brilliant dalmatic of gold 
draped over a voluminous white alb, was Patriarch 
Geshter.  He ascended the dias and stood before 
the decorative chair upon whose crest perched a 
yew inlaid with gold and sparkling jewels.
         “We gather in the name of Eli the 
Father, Yahshua His Son, and of the Spirit most 
Holy who shows us all truth.” Geshter made the 
sign of the yew, and then spread his hands wide. 
“You have been summoned to hear the testimony of 
the Knight Templar of the Driheli of 
Stuthgansk.  They have laboured long and hard to 
capture an enemy of the Ecclesia, and now bring 
him before us for justice.” Geshter then sat 
down, and with him, all assembled sat down.
         All eyes turned towards another set of 
doors, through which a single figure 
stepped.  The Questioners smiled to themselves, said nothing, and watched.

         Sir Czestadt did not pay too close 
attention to the two Yeshuel keeping an eye on 
him, Sir Petriz, and the masked man bound before 
the other knight.  They did not dare reveal 
Kashin’s identity to the Yeshuel just yet; they 
were the only unknown in this drama about to 
unfold that Czestadt was unsure of.  The Knight 
Templar of the Driheli did not like the 
uncomfortable feeling that uncertainty 
brought.  Either they would succeed, or they 
would all die.  Those were odds he could accept; 
but how he wished he knew what those odds were!
         When he heard the Patriarch’s voice 
summoning him, he nodded to Petriz, who returned 
the gesture, his face rich with familiar 
confidence.  Petriz’s faith in him had always 
heartened Czestadt at moments of doubt.  In the 
past Czestadt had seen it as a sign of minor 
weakness on Petriz’s part.  Perhaps it still was, 
but maybe it was Czestadt who was weak.  How long 
had he lied to himself about Jothay’s evil?
         This was not the time for such 
debates.  Turning to the doorway, Czestadt 
stepped through allowing the golden light from 
the dome overhead to illuminate the cross of the 
Driheli on his tabard.  He bore only a mail shirt 
and trousers beneath the tabard.  He carried a 
small bundle wrapped in sackcloth in one arm, and 
as he walked he favoured one leg.  In another 
week or so, he’d heal enough that he wouldn’t even need to do that.
         The assembled bishops turned their gaze 
upon him, but he did not make eye contact with 
any of them.  Pivoting on his booted heal, he 
knelt towards the Patriarch and said in his own 
tongue, “I, a humble servant of Eli, come before 
you now to speak of His will brought to 
fruition.  For the crusade in which I was trusted 
has been fulfilled, your holiness.”
         These words pleased Geshter, who smiled 
and held out his hand.  Czestadt leaned forward 
and kissed that hand, the many rings brushing 
underneath his chin. “Rise my son and speak of 
Eli’s will.  Tell us, His servants and His 
protectors for His Ecclesia, what you have done for Him.”
         When Geshter leaned back in his seat, 
Czestadt stood and half turned to address the 
Bishop’s.  He laid the bundle in the centre of 
the room, but did not open it. “In October of the 
year of Yahshua’s grace 706, Patriarch Akabaieth 
was slain by a man named Zagrosek, who is 
believed to have once belonged to the order of 
the Sondeckis.  There were four Yeshuel who had 
accompanied His Holiness on his long journey to 
Metamor Keep.  These were Iosef, Alfais, Lakaesh, 
and Kashin.” Out of the corner of his eyes, he 
saw the two Yeshuel standing on either side of 
the Patriarch moving their lips in quiet prayer.
         “Iosef, Alfais, and Lakaesh were all 
killed the same night as Patriarch 
Akabaieth.  Kashin was injured, but did not 
die.  As a Yeshuel, it was his duty to pursue the 
Patriarch’s killer and bring him to 
justice.  Those brave men of Eli who give their 
lives in service to the Ecclesia will always know 
that they may be asked to lose their lives as 
well.  But if it is within the Ecclesia’s power 
to bring justice to their killers, then it is 
Eli’s will that we do so.  Kashin should be 
judged on how he has performed this responsibility.”
         Kehthaek did not know many of the 
bishops, but several appeared gleeful at his 
words.  Let them enjoy their meat; they’d learn 
how rotten it was soon enough. “Bishop Jothay of 
Eavey sent for the Driheli to find Kashin.  The 
Patriarch’s killer had not been brought to 
justice.  Jothay knew that Kashin was last seen 
heading into the forests of Åelfwood.  A Yeshuel 
who abandons his duty is just as vile as the 
Patriarch’s murderer.  And that is why we Driheli 
were summoned to Galendor, to hunt down Kashin and bring him to justice.”
         Czestadt took a deep breath, glanced 
once at Geshter, and then turned back to the 
bishops. “Most of you know the Driheli’s 
reputation.  We are the military force that 
maintains the Ecclesia’s presence in Stuthgansk 
and the surrounding plains.  We are beset by 
enemies from all sides, enemies who would like 
nothing more than to throw down Ecclesia 
cathedrals and to trample upon Yahshua’s yew.  We 
are knights dedicated to preserving the Ecclesia, 
Yahshua’s eternal promise to man.  The Ecclesia’s 
enemies will find no solace from the 
Driheli.  Heretics and traitors will find even less.
         “Upon the plains of the Flatlands we 
were to hunt Kashin, and so we set sail for 
Marilyth.  I took with me two Knight Commanders, 
Sir Petriz of Vasks and Sir Lech Poznan of 
Bydbrüszin.  I and each of them had a complement 
of six Knight Bachelors, squires, riders, and a 
priest.  Sir Petriz was sent northwest along the 
Pyralis River.  Sir Poznan was sent northeast 
into the Steppe.  Three weeks into our search, I 
received word that Sir Poznan was on Kashin’s 
trail.  I sent messengers after Sir Petriz, and 
once he joined me, we headed east to the Vysehrad Mountains to intercept them.
         “In our attempts to capture Kashin, many 
of my knights were killed, including Sir 
Poznan.  But it was not Kashin who killed them, 
but the very same evil that had conspired to 
destroy Patriarch Akabaieth.  Akabaieth’s 
murderer, Krenek Zagrosek, had dark powers never 
before held by a Sondecki.  These dark powers 
were granted by an evil that wishes only to 
destroy the Ecclesia, and it is they who are 
responsible for Patriarch Akabaieth’s murder.”
         Some of the bishops who had been 
enjoying his tirade now began to shift 
uncomfortably.  A few of them scowled, sensing 
that Czestadt was heading down a path they did 
not like.  The Driheli had expected this, and so 
decided it was time to truly change the 
atmosphere in the Council. “Despite these 
hardships, we were able to track Kashin back to 
Yesulam.  We spent a few weeks searching for him, 
but he eluded our grasp.  So, I decided to send 
the Driheli back to Stuthgansk, apart from myself 
and Sir Petriz.  With so many of us here, he knew 
that we were looking for him.  With only a few of 
us, he would grow careless, allowing us to find him and capture him.”
         It was a lie, but he would seek 
forgiveness later. “And now Kashin is in our 
custody, and I would like to present him before 
you now.” Sir Petriz marched the disgraced 
Yeshuel inside.  Kashin’s face was still covered 
by a mask, and his one hand was bound against his 
chest with a rope that looped around his 
neck.  He couldn’t move that arm without 
strangling himself, or at least, that was how it was meant to appear.
         Petriz forced Kashin to kneel before 
Czestadt.  The Knight Templar took a moment to 
gaze at the Bishops, noting the suspense in their 
faces.  Good. “This is Kashin, disgraced of the 
Yeshuel, who must be judged on how he has 
fulfilled his responsibility to avenge Patriarch 
Akabaieth’s murder.” So saying, he yanked the 
mask from Kashin’s head, revealing his face and 
that single white lock of hair.  The two Yeshuel 
standing next to Geshter stiffened, their eyes 
wide in recognition.  Some of the bishops grinned 
in triumph at seeing him humbled and a prisoner.
         “So let us begin to judge him,” Czestadt 
added, his voice lower, allowing the tension to 
fade. “Kashin was meant to kill the Patriarch’s 
murderer.  And as is tradition, he was to use the 
same weapon that slew his master.” Czestadt bent 
down and picked up the sackcloth bundle.  Slowly 
he began to unroll it. “Akabaieth was slain with 
a Sathmoran blade.  But it was not Sathmore who 
was responsible.  None outside the Council and 
the leaders of Metamor knew of Patriarch 
Akabaieth’s journey.  Zagrosek was told where to 
find him by one man who knew where Patriarch Akabaieth would be.”
         He unravelled the last of the sackcloth, 
and revealed a short golden blade with jewels in 
the pommel.  Czestadt smiled at it for a moment, 
remembering the burn he’d felt when struck by its 
invisible twin.  His wound was no longer pink, 
but it still marred his face. “Kashin did not 
seek Zagrosek, for he was just the 
lackey.  Instead, he sought the man who ordered 
Patriarch Akabaieth’s death.  And Kashin has 
killed him.” The bishops were now clearly 
agitated, with some of them desperate to 
interrupt him.  Geshter’s face was purpling in 
rage, but he could not move his tongue.
         “The man who betrayed Akabaieth to 
death, as revealed in letters and in confession, was Bishop Jothay!”
         The room exploded in confused shouting, 
just as the Questioners predicted.  Czestadt 
heard his name condemned on many lips, some even 
shouting for his and Kashin’s death.  Many were 
also crying out for proof, but their voices were 
closer to anger than to reason.  Who would want 
to believe it?  He hoped the Questioner’s were 
able to convince them more quickly than he’d been.
         Geshter rapped his crozier on the dais 
several times to no effect.  His eyes bulged 
angrily, an anger he was incapable of giving 
voice.  While the shouting continued, Czestadt 
lowered the golden blade to the floor, setting it 
on Kashin’s right.  The disgraced Yeshuel did not 
look at the blade, but he knew it was there.
         After a full minute of rapping, the many 
shouts died and the bishops sat back down.  All 
but a young one that appeared little older than 
Sir Petriz.  Dark of hair with bronzed skin, he 
must be the new Bishop of Abaef, Temasah.  The 
letters they possessed from him were particularly damning.
         “Your holiness,” Temasah called out, 
fury rich in his voice.  He refused to glance at 
the knights. “The accusation made by these 
barbarians is ludicrous.  Bishop Jothay is a 
devoted man of Eli.  Even now he is on a 
pilgrimage to Marilyth.  You are addressed by 
charlatans!  Throw them out and execute Kashin the traitor.”
         Another bishop rose and shook his head. 
“I must disagree.  It has been the tradition of 
the Council to investigate accusations made 
against its own members.  While the punishment 
has never before been death, if what they say is 
true, then Kashin will be justified before 
Eli.  We would be unwise to ignore our own tradition.”
         Temasah sneered. “Appealing to tradition 
is the last thing I expect from you, 
Gavroche!  Of course you wish to hear them out; 
it was you who brought them here!” And, Czestadt 
reflected, the one bishop who had some idea of 
what was still to come.  It was the price 
Gavroche of Boreaux had sought for his cooperation.
         “And you who appeal to every other 
tradition would ignore this one?  It is not a 
conceit that you employ at whim.  Either we 
follow tradition in whole or not at all!”
         “I concur with Bishop Gavroche,” a third 
voice interjected. “As fantastic as Sir 
Czestadt’s claim, we should see some evidence 
before we render judgement.  First, I too 
believed Bishop Jothay to be on pilgrimage.  Yet 
this knights asserts he is dead.  How is this possible?”
         “Aye,” Temasah added, both voice and 
manner reeking with suspicion. “How did Bishop 
Jothay die and leave on pilgrimage at the same time?”
         Czestadt knew that he wouldn’t have the 
intellectual heft to debate these men, so decided 
to answer bluntly. “I was present when he 
died.  I saw, as did Sir Petriz, Kashin, and one 
other in this room, Jothay impaled on his own 
sword upon a pagan altar far beneath the streets 
of Yesulam.  I will swear an oath before Eli what 
I say is true, as will the other three who were there.  Jothay is dead.”
         “Who is this other person?” the young 
bishop of Abaef pressed, brows furrowed in consternation.
         The three Questioners stood and one of 
them shouted, “It is I!  I saw Jothay die just as 
the knight has said.” All eyes turned back to 
them as they glided from their seats and into the 
central arena.  They stood a short distance from 
the knights, and one of them took a step forward 
and continued to speak. “My name is Akaleth, and 
for a time I was Jothay’s prisoner in that pagan 
chamber.  I was tortured, on Jothay’s orders, by 
the very man who slew Patriarch Akabaieth, Krenek 
Zagrosek!  Jothay was guilty, and has met the end prepared for him.”
         “Outrageous!” An older bishop shrieked. “Blasphemy!”
         Akaleth did not listen. “I revealed my 
knowledge of the artifacts of Yajakali to Jothay, 
and from whom I learned of them.  For that I was 
tortured and forced to watch Bishop Morean killed 
by Jothay and the evil sword he carried!”
         Geshter struck his crozier on the dais, 
body trembling in fearful tempest. 
“Enough!  Vinsah was excommunicated for peddling 
pagan superstition in these hallowed 
walls.  Would you commit the same act of heresy?”
         Akaleth turned to Geshter and shook his 
head. “I speak only what I have seen.  All those 
who venture to Marzac are corrupted by the evil 
Yajakali set loose eleven thousand years ago.  An 
exorcism was performed there a few years ago at 
the behest of the Marquis Camille du Tournemire.”
         “Liar!” Temasah shouted. “There is no record of such an exorcism.”
         The Questioner reached into his sleeve 
and drew out a scroll case.  His fingers undid 
the latch. “Indeed.  The Book of Exorcisms in the 
library reveals no such journey.  However, there 
was a letter from the parish priest in Metamor 
last year seeking counsel regarding Marzac.  The 
reply was archived in the Great Library, and in 
it, it is revealed that an exorcism was performed 
there a few years prior.  Because of this, I 
suspected a page was missing.  We found the 
missing page amongst the many papers Jothay saved.”
         Tipping the scroll case on it side, a 
curled bit of parchment slid free.  Akaleth 
unfolded it and read, “ ‘July, 703 CR: Bishop 
Jothay of Eavey accompanied Cardinal Geshter of 
Pyralis to the Marzac peninsula in the Pyralian 
Kingdoms.  There they performed an exorcism in 
the Chateau Marzac and successfully cleansed it 
of evil demons.’ ” Akaleth rolled the parchment 
up again, and stared at the Patriarch. “You have 
also been corrupted by the evil of Marzac, your 
holiness.  I only pray that Eli can cleanse you now.”
         With the Council erupting once more into 
confused shouts, none of them witnessed the 
disgraced Yeshuel pull the slipknot loose.  With 
nimble fingers Kashin unwound the cord from his 
neck, then plucked the Sathmoran blade from the 
ground.  There was an audible hum in his mind as 
he gripped its haft, and he could feel the point 
dragging towards the man standing on the dais.
         Only when he stood did anyone take 
notice of him.  The two Yeshuel standing on 
either side of Geshter stepped forward 
brandishing their own swords.  Kashin stared at 
them, saying nothing.  Slowly, he lifted his 
blade, forcing it to rise to his face.  Ever it 
yearned to reach for the man who’d been to 
Marzac, pulled like a lodestone across the air.
         “You lie!”  You lie!” Temasah insisted 
in a shrill scream. “You have forged that of your own hand!”
         “I remember seeing Metamor’s request!” Another bishop shouted.
         “Marzac is the same pagan foolishness we 
have heard before!” an elderly bishop cried. 
“These priests speak blasphemy!  Do not listen to them!”
         “Marzac is evil!” Gavroche maintained, 
slamming his fist on the balustrade before him..
         “Marzac is a lie!” Temasah shouted back, 
waving his fist in the air like a drunken man.
         Geshter rapped his crozier again, this 
time so forcefully that the peal hurt their ears. 
“These pagan ideas sow only division in Yahshua’s 
Ecclesia, Akaleth of the Questioners.  And you 
presume to call me corrupt, Yahshua’s chief 
priest in this world?  I am not the first to be 
so maligned, and history has ever vindicated the 
Ecclesia against its opponents.”
         Kehthaek replied, his words smooth and 
sharp, “As will you, your holiness.  History will 
show that even the power of Marzac could not 
shatter the foundation of the Ecclesia.  Though 
Marzac is great and terrible in its malevolence, 
the love and grace of Yahshua, and His promise to 
St. Kephas, is greater still.”
         “You continue to accuse me of being 
subject to pagan powers!  Enough!” Geshter struck 
his crozier again, this time brandishing it as if 
it were a spear ready to impale a beast cringing 
at his feet. “And you violate the order of the 
Questioners by your cowls.  Conduct yourselves 
properly and show your faces!  And would you 
restrain this traitorous Yeshuel before he kills someone!”
         This last was said of Kashin, who still 
held the Sathmoran blade tightly before his 
face.  The two Yeshuel before him were joined by 
two behind.  Their eyes were firm, but there was 
a look of hope there too.  Four sword points kept 
Kashin in place, but he did not appear to notice 
them.  He had eyes only for Geshter.  And in his 
mind a drumbeat was beginning to sound, 
deliberate and insistent.  Something, a flicker 
of light, danced across the Patriarch’s angry  countenance.
         “We are cowled,” Felsah explained, 
“because we are doing what we were assigned to do 
– learn the truth about what happened at Metamor 
when Patriarch Akabaieth was slain.  We are still 
learning, and will tell you more of what we have 
learned.” He took his scroll case from his 
sleeve, opened it, and removed several pieces of parchment.
         “This is a letter from Bishop Rott of 
Marilyth to Jothay,” Felsah pronounced as he 
uncurled the top parchment. “ ‘Your grace, I 
write to you under alarming circumstances.  You 
promised me that once the apostate Akabaieth was 
dead, war with Sathmore was inevitable.  You 
assured me we would be able to march upon the 
pagan Lightbringers and drive them from the 
shores of Galendor.  You promised me these 
glorious victories, yet what do we 
have?  Nothing!  Hockmann’s armies were stopped 
at the border and turned back to 
Breckaris!  Ammodus twiddles his thumbs in 
Kelewair like a goose with a spit up his 
ass!  Will you do what you swore and bring us 
war! Or will you dither like the fat buffoon I thought you to be?’ ”
         The elderly Rott stammered, even as eyes 
turned upon him. “He lies!  He lies!” he 
shrieked, collapsing back in his seat. “He 
lies... the pagans put those words in his hands to destroy us!”
         Felsah set that letter aside and read 
from the second. “And this one is from Bishop Temasah of Abaef.”
         “No!  Whatever he says will be a lie!  I 
have not sent any correspondence to Jothay!” Temasah roared.
         “ ‘Your grace, I have done as you 
requested and begun spreading rumours of ill 
conduct on the part of Vinsah.  Once word of the 
Patriarch’s murder by the Sathmorans reaches us, 
Vinsah’s reputation will be thoroughly sullied 
and you can install your puppet, if even Vinsah 
survives.  Are you sure you cannot reveal to me 
your method?  I would like to know more of what you intend.’ ”
         “I never wrote that!” Temasah shrieked, 
his voice jumping an octave in horror.  The 
bishop climbed over the balustrade and stormed 
towards the Questioners. “I will stop your lies if no one else will!”
         Kehthaek turned to face him and stared 
down at the tempestuous bishop.  Temasah grabbed 
him by his collar and threw him to the ground. 
“Stop this now!  You are nothing but pagan heretics!”
         Sir Petriz moved fast, gripping 
Temasah’s arm and dragging him backwards, but 
being careful not to injure him. “You dare not touch a priest that way!”
         Temasah apparently disagreed, as he 
screamed in rage and ran his fingers down 
Petriz’s face.  The knight ducked his head to the 
side and then wrapped his arms around the 
bishop’s middle.  Temasah was pinned.  He 
screamed obscenities, kicked in the air, but 
could not break out of Petriz’s grip.
         Felsah and Akaleth helped Kehthaek back 
to his feet.  The elder Questioner took out his 
scroll case and unlatched it. “I have a letter 
from Grand Questioner Mizrahek that he will 
confess is his own.  It reads, ‘I, Grand 
Questioner Mizrahek, do confess that I conspired 
with Bishop Jothay of Eavey to hide the evidence 
of Zagrosek’s involvement with Patriarch 
Akabaieth’s murder, as well as his involvement in 
the slaughter of the Patriarch’s retinue.  I did 
knowingly prevent the Questioners sent to Metamor 
from pursuing these facts, and I knowingly edited 
their records to prevent them from being 
presented to the Bishop’s Council.  I knew of 
Jothay’s complicity in the matter, and I did 
nothing.  Further, I aided in Jothay’s murder of 
Grand Questioner Nethelek.  It was Jothay who 
ensured that Father Kehthaek was sent on the 
Questioning to Metamor, so that I would be the 
one chosen to replace Nethelek.’ ”
         Kehthaek unrolled the last of the 
parchment, eyes canning the bishops 
carefully.  They were rivetted, some shocked, 
others furious.  Temasah still struggled to free 
himself from Petriz’s grip.  The four Yeshuel 
watched only Kashin, who stood with eyes closed, 
blade pressed against his face.  Geshter watched 
them all like a beast trapped in a cage.  Licking 
his lips, Kehthaek concluded, “ ‘In each of these 
ways, I am guilty.  Jothay was the prime mover to 
destroy Akabaieth, but I have been his willing 
accomplice.  I testify that the bearer of this 
message tells you the truth.  All his accusations 
are just.  Listen to him and spare yourselves 
damnation.’  So writes Grand Questioner 
Mizrahek.  He has also confessed his desire to 
abdicate and seek a cloistered life, but that can 
wait until these matters are settled.”
         Geshter finally found his voice again, 
though it was strained and half-choked. “Where is 
Grand Questioner Mizrahek to confirm these things 
you say?  You could have penned this letter 
yourself, if you have kidnapped him.  Well known 
are the ways of the Questioners in securing the verdict they desire!”
         “Torture does that, aye,” Akaleth 
shouted. “Well I know this, for I have long used 
it to extract confessions.  Some truth comes only 
through pain.  And some comes from reason.  But 
the greatest of truths come from neither of 
these, but from revelation.  I am a witness to 
the revelation of Jothay’s crimes.  We have more 
evidence of complicity by others on the Council, 
but perhaps what we need is a revelation instead.”
         “What sort of revelation could you 
conjure forth?  You have revealed that you are 
madman already!” Geshter straightened his 
dalmatic and wrapped both hands around his 
crozier. “But I am magnanimous.  Recant 
everything you have said this day, turn over 
these forgeries, and leave.  If you do, your 
penance will be light.  If you refuse, you will suffer Kashin’s fate.”
         “Nae,” Kashin said, letting the 
Sathmoran blade pull away form his lips. “It is 
time to reveal things unseen.  Let us blind the 
darkness with light.” He cast a quick glance at 
the Yeshuel, then added, “Sir Czestadt, your power.”
         The Knight Templar spread his hands 
wide. “Forgive me, Father, for this may be sin.” 
Suddenly, the Yeshuels’ swords were yanked 
overhead, throwing all four of them off 
balance.  Kashin pressed through them, the sword 
tip driving him towards the Patriarch.  Shouts of 
horror erupted from the Yeshuel who abandoned 
their swords to Czestadt’s control to try and 
stop Kashin’s advance.  But a piercing light 
struck their eyes and they stumbled helplessly, 
trying to shut out a light that penetrated everything, even their eye lids.
         Geshter sneered at Kashin, glancing to 
the golden sword and then into the man’s face. 
“Kill me with that, and you will start a war that 
will end only with millions dead.  I will be triumphant!”
         The sword throbbed in his mind, but 
Kashin knew its particular rhythm now.  He 
allowed it to guide his breathing, his pulse, 
even the flicker of his eye lids.  The sword 
lifted his hand, the tip inches from Geshter’s 
middle.  The bishops were struck dumb with terror 
as Kehthaek read yet another letter illuminating 
Jothay’s plot; their ears hearing Kehthaek, but 
their eyes upon Kashin and Geshter.  And ever so 
slowly, what the sword had known all along they began to see as well.
         Enveloping Geshter was a tangible 
darkness, as of a shadow that had climbed form 
the floor and walls and taken shape.  No light 
reflected from it, and Kashin watched it shift 
across Geshter’s features, like holes into 
nothing.  Only where the sword drew near did this shadow substance abate.
         Kashin grinned at the stupefied priest. 
“Cenziga sees you.  And I see you, Yajakali!”
         With a hellish scream the black thing 
tore itself from Geshter and lunged at 
Kashin.  The sword flew from his grasp and 
carried the shadow substance high up into the 
dome.  The Patriarch fell back into St. Kephas’s 
seat, a look of confusion filling his face.  His 
eyes, along with all others, watched the battle 
between the sword and the darkness.
         The room throbbed alternately like the 
beat of a drum and like iron spikes scrapping 
over glass.  The black mass flinched from the 
Sathmoran blade, which twisted and turned ever 
intending to pierce the shadow.  But each time 
the shadow moved, always stretching towards the 
bishops watching in fear.  The sword chased it 
and chased it, trapping it within the dome.
         All other activity ceased.  Czestadt 
dropped the Yeshuels’ swords, Akaleth released 
them from the blinding light, and even Temasah 
could struggle no more as he watched the two 
unearthly combatants.  The moments passed into 
minutes, the audible roar of the drum and glass a 
growing agony in their minds.  Muscles tensed and 
spasmed, and hoarse cries rang out from every throat save one.
         Kashin knew this rhythm, knew the song 
of the ash mountain.  It was the purest essence 
of identity he’d ever felt.  It was dignity in a 
way few could cope.  Drawing in his breath, 
Kashin tilted back his head and roared into the 
tumult, “Eli’s servant is here, the mighty Cenziga!”
         For a split second, the shadow-thing 
paused, as if it were trying to understand the 
words.  In that moment the sword penetrated its 
depths, the black enveloping it like a glove.  A 
horrific peal like a bell smashing through 
stained glass thundered in the chamber.  A single 
flash of light erupted from the dome, and then 
the sword fell harmlessly to the floor.  The shadow was no more.
         Several seconds passed and none said a 
word.  They looked at each other, confused and 
uncertain.  The four Yeshuel were the first to 
act, rushing to Geshter’s side and helping the 
elderly Patriarch to his feet.  All eyes came to 
rest on him.  Geshter stared at the Sathmoran 
blade, Kashin, then the Questioners and the 
Driheli.  His voice cracking in sorrow he 
shouted, “It’s true!  Every word they have said 
is true!  Eli have mercy on us all, for it is true!”

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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
Ut Prosim