a time, inviting deep relaxation and also slowing the rhythms of his body, insulating it from the cold.
In that trancelike state, Pagonel's mind replayed the events of the last weeks. Why had he come to To-gai?
What role might he find there?
Also, in that trance, the Jhesta Tu mystic began honestly to examine his own feelings, toward his heritage, the To-gai-ru, and toward the Behrenese invaders. It wasn't a matter of like or dislike - Pagonel understood well that such sweeping generalizations could not be leveled upon entire races of people - races comprised, ultimately, of individuals. But there was a matter of justice and implications. The Behrenese had attacked To-gai - unprovoked, by all accounts - and they were not acting the role of benefi-cent masters!
If the Chezru Chieftain, who continued the long line of his predecessors in declaring the Jhesta Tu heretics, could so simply conquer To-gai, then what of the Mountains of Fire? Everyone knew that the true motivation for the Behrenese invasion of To-gai was the lucrative trade in To-gai ponies, whatever front story concerning To-gai as a lost province of the Behrenese kingdom the Chezru and his cohorts had concocted. Given that willingness to conquer and murder for profit, might the Chezru Chieftain turn his sights to the region surrounding the Walk of Clouds, with all its riches in minerals?
"Is that the reason my vision has led me here?" Pagonel asked quietly, his voice drowned away by the howling wind. ?Am I to view the precursor to the attack upon my order? ?
He stayed in the sheltered nook throughout the rest of the day and the night, and when the next morning dawned clear, with but a dusting of snow on the tall grasses, the mystic set out again, walking north.
He passed through another town that day and managed to join up with a caravan of To-gai-ru, heading north.
All through the journey, Pagonel sat quiet and listened to the tales of frustration, the anger, to tales of horror, where family members had been stolen away by Behrenese soldiers. In all that chatter, the only real measure of hope that the mystic heard came in the name of a rogue leader, Ashwarawu, who was apparently operating in the area.
Pagonel decided then and there that he would seek out this rogue leader.
PART 2 GRASSES in THE WIND Chapter 15 Expanding His Horizons
Yatol Grysh welcomed the twenty-square of Jacintha soldiers to Dharyan with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was glad that Yakim Douan had finally provided him with the strength he needed to restore complete control to the region. But on the other hand, the proud Yatol priest hated having to ask for the assistance.
Especially at a time when Chezru Chieftain Douan had hinted that the Transcendence might be nearing, Grysh did not want to appear weak to his fellow priests.
And why had Yakim Douan sent a twenty-square, four hundred soldiers, when Grysh had asked for only an eight-square? Did that signal the Chezru Chieftain's lack of confidence in him?
He stood on his balcony, watching the procession as expected, his visage firm and strong - as much as it could be, considering his lack of any real chin - as the soldiers marched beneath in rows of five. Ten rows, twenty rows, eighty rows!
They passed the temple balcony and assembled in the square to Yatol Grysh's right, lining up in the perfect twenty-by-twenty formation that gave them their name.
Grysh waited patiently for the formation to settle, then gave the many onlookers, including his own city brigade of two hundred soldiers and his war leader, Wan Atenn, time to soak in the spectacle. The Yatol focused on Wan Atenn for a moment, trying to read the proud man's expression. An-other Chezhou-Lei warrior had led the twenty-square into Dharyan. Might the war leader of Dharyan be feeling a bit insecure?
If he was, Wan Atenn gave no outward indication, but Grysh knew the stoic Chezhou-Lei well enough to recognize that he could read nothing from that blank look. He would speak with Wan Atenn privately a bit later, he decided, to assure the man that his position was quite secure.
All eyes, soldier and onlooker alike, were up at Yatol Grysh then, expect-mg him formally to welcome the newcomers.
Before he could begin, though, a horn blew out in the distance, beyond the city gates, a long and plaintive winding: the call for admittance.
Grysh, and Carwan Pestle at his side, and every other person about Dharyan's main square that cold morning, turned