MLZakim Douan, Chezru Chieftain of all Behren, opened his eyes on this, the 308,797th day of hislife.

The sun looked the same, peeking in his bedroom window. The springtime air, laced with the scents of flowers and spices and pungent camels, felt the same as it always had.

Yakim Douan smiled at that thought, for he liked it this way, too much ever to let it go. He groaned a bit as he rolled off his bed - a hammock, as was customary in the city of Jacintha, where the aggressive and deadly brown-ringed scorpions often crawled into the padded bedding of mat-tresses or straw. Slowly the old man straightened, cursing the sharp pain in both his knees and the way his back always seemed to lock up after a long night's sleep.

His room was beautifully adorned, with all the trappings one would ex-pect for the most powerful and the richest man south of the Belt-and-Buckle - and arguably north of it, as well. Wondrous tapestries lined the walls, their rich colors capturing the morning light, their intricate designs drawing in Yakim Douan's gaze and holding it there. How long had he been studying those same images? Depictions of war and of the human form, of beauty and of tragedy? And still, they seemed as fresh and inspir-ing to him as they had when first he had gazed upon them.

Thick woven rugs felt good on his bare feet. He stretched and widened his toes, taking it in fully, then made his creaking way across the large room to the decorated washbasin, all of shining white-and-pink marble, with a golden-framed mirror hanging above it. The Chezru Chieftain splashed cold water onto his old and wrinkled face and stared hard into the mirror, lamenting the way age had ravaged him. He saw his gray eyes and hated them most of all, and wished he had known their color before he had cho-sen this corporeal coil as his own.

Blue eyes next time, he hoped. But, of course, some things were quite be-yond his control.

His current set of orbs was quite telling to him. Never did they seem hite about the pupils anymore, just a dull yellowish hue. His body was ?xtv-two years old, and he had hated every minute of the last decade. Oh, of course he could have any luxuries he wanted. He kept a harem of beautiful young women at his beck and call, and should he desire a plaything, he ould bring in any other woman he chose, even if she was already married. He was the Chezru Chieftain, the God-Voice of Behren. With a word he ould have a person burned at the stake, or order one of his subjects to take his own life, and the idiot would unquestioningly comply.

All the world was Yakim Douan's to take, and so he did, over and over again.

A soft, polite knock on his door turned the old Chezru from the mirror. ?Enter," he said, knowing full well that it was Merwan Ma, his personal attendant.

"Your pardon, Great One," Merwan Ma said, peeking his head around the door. He was a handsome young man in his early twenties, with short, black, tightly curled hair, and large black eyes that seemed all the darker be-cause they were set in pools of white, pure white, with no veins and no yel-low discoloration at all.

The eyes of a child, Yakim thought, every time he looked upon them. Merwan Ma's face was boyish as well, with hardly a shadow of hair, and his nose and lips were somewhat thin, which only made his eyes seem all the larger. ?Shall I have your breakfast brought to you up here, or do you prefer a litter to take you to the Room of Morning Sun?"

Yakim Douan suppressed his chuckle. He heard these same words every morning - every single morning!

Without fail, without the slightest devia-tion. Exactly as he had ordered them spoken fifty-two years and seven personal attendants ago.

"God-Voice?" Merwan Ma asked.

A telling question, Yakim Douan realized, for the younger man had spo-ken out of turn, without prompting and without permission. The Chezru Chieftain glared at the attendant, and Merwan Ma shrank back, nearly dis-appearing behind the door.

Yes, Yakim could still keep the overly curious young man in line, and with just a look. That, and the fact that he honestly liked Merwan Ma, was the only reason Yakim kept this one around. While one would normally expect intelligence to be a prized attribute for a personal attendant, Yakim Douan usually went out of his way to avoid that particular strength. The Chezru Chieftain was safer by far if those closest to him were somewhat dim-witted. Unfortunately for Yakim, though, by the time he had realized Merwan Ma's brightness, he was already enamored of the young man, who had been only sixteen when he had begun to serve. Even after he had come to understand Merwan Ma's intellect and curiosity, Yakim had kept him on, and now, with ie day of his death approaching, he was glad that he had. Merwan Ma was right and inquisitive, but he was also fiercely loyal and pious, dedicated enough to Yatol to rise into the priesthood. When Merwan Ma called Yakim "God-Voice," he honestly believed the title to be literal.

"Come in," the Chezru Chieftain bade the attendant.

Merwan Ma came around the door, standing straigta. He was tall, well over six feet, and lean, as were most of the people of Behren, where it was hot all the time and extra pounds and layers of fat did not sit well. He'd seem even taller if he ascended to the priesthood, Yakim realized, for then he'd grow his hair up high, as was the custom for Yatols.

Yakim nearly chuckled again as he considered the fact that his attendant was not a Yatol priest. For centuries, the Chezru Chieftain had been at-tended only by Yatol priests; for centuries, none but Yatol priests were even allowed to speak to the God-Voice. But Yakim Douan had changed that nearly four hundred years before, after one almost disastrous transforma-tion when several of his attending Yatols had decided to make a try for the principal Chezru title themselves, claiming that the new God-Voice could not be found, despite the fact that they had a two-year-old in hand who could fully recite the Codex of the Prophet.

Luck alone had allowed Yakim Douan to continue his reign in that instance, and so when he had risen to Consciousness at the tender age of ten, one of his first edicts was to change the strata at Chom Deiru, the Chezru Palace, putting those whose power was closest to the Chezru Chief-tain out of the loop, removing personal ambition from the formula in times of Transcendence "The Room of the Morning Sun is prepared for breakfast?" Yakim asked.

"Yes, God-Voice." Merwan Ma was careful to avert his eyes as he spoke. ?But you have risen late this day and I fear that the room is already heated beyond comfort."

"Yes... well, then have my food delivered here."

"Yes, God-Voice." Merwan Ma bowed quickly and turned to leave, but Yakim called out after him.

"Have a second meal delivered, as well. You will dine with me this morn-ing, I think. We have things that we should discuss."

"Yes, God-Voice."

Merwan Ma hustled out, and Yakim Douan nodded knowingly at the tremor in his last answer. Merwan Ma had always enjoyed sitting with Yakim - the two had become friends of a sort, a mentor-student relationship - but Mer-wan Ma knew now the reason for the invitation. Yakim wanted to speak with him about Transcendence again, about the Chezru Chieftain's impend-ing death and the duties that Merwan Ma must carry out perfectly during the time that would follow, the Beheading, it was called, a period when the Yatol Church would be without an official leader, when the Yatol priests would rule by consensus and were bound to make only little changes in standing policy.

Yakim Douan was glad that his talks about the time of Transcendence so unsettled Merwan Ma. That revealed the young attendant's love for his rhezru master, and that love, Yakim believed, would help to carry them both through the vulnerable few years they must face between Yakim's death and his subsequent ascension.

jVlerwan Ma returned a short while later, along with several younger at-tendants, all bearing trays of fruits and seasoned cakes, plates and fabulous utensils, and pitchers filled with many different types of juice. They quickly set the table at the northern window in the circular chamber, the one af-fording a spectacular view of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, towering black stone and white snowy peaks. The Belt-and-Buckle was the most im-posing range in the known world, with few passes, and even those full of danger, rockslides and avalanches, great bears and cats and other monsters more dangerous by far. The view of the range from Yakim Douan's palace displayed that awesome power in all its glory. That view, with the sun splayed on the eastern slopes and shining on the white caps, and with the dark shadows looming behind every jag, was considered quite spiritual by most who looked upon it. For the Yatols in particular, it held a reminder that there was a greater power than any they might witness in the domain of humankind. It was a spiritual and humbling view - humbling even to im-mortal Yakim Douan.

When the pair sat down, the attendants hustled all about, pouring juice and serving the food, but Yakim Douan waved them away and ordered them out of the room. A couple of them hesitated, staring at the Chezru Chieftain with confusion, even disbelief, for they customarily served through-out the meal.

"We are capable of pouring our own drinks," Yakim Douan assured them. ?And of cutting our own fruit. Now be gone." He ended by waving his hands at them, and they skittered away.

He looked back to Merwan Ma, smiling, and noted that the young man seemed to want to say something.

"You will speak openly at this meal," he instructed, and Merwan Ma shifted uncomfortably.

Yakim went quiet then, but didn't begin eating. He just sat there staring at his attendant, his expression prompting the young man to speak out.

"You wish to discuss your death again, God-Voice. I am not fond of this topic."

"Everyone must die, my young friend," said Yakim, and he smiled in-wardly at the irony of the statement.

"But you are still a young man," Merwan Ma blurted, and he lowered his eyes immediately upon saying the words, as if he believed that, despite Yakim's claim, he had overstepped the bounds of propriety.

"In my bones, I feel the weight, the wrath, of every year and every morn-mg," Yakim replied with a warm smile, and he put his hand on Merwan Ma's forearm, comforting the younger man.

"But God-Voice, you seem as if you are surrendering to age without a fight."

"Do you believe in the Revelation of Yatol?" the Chezru Chieftain said suddenly, sternly, reminding the student of who he was, of his - of their - supposed purpose in life. The Revelation of Yatol wa^ the binding force of the Yatol religion, a promise of eternal life on the Clouo-oLChfez, a place of Paradise. All of the rituals and practices, all of the codes of behavior that governed the Yatol religion were based upon that promise.

"Of course, God-Voice!" Merwan Ma retorted, blurting the response with surprise and horror.

"I am not accusing you, my son," said the Chezru Chieftain. ?I am merely reminding you. If we are to believe in the Revelation of Yatol, then we should accept the onset of death with open arms, confident that we have lived a life worthy of the Cloud of Chez. Am I to be sad, then, to think that Paradise is soon to be my home? ?

"But we do not ask for death, God-Voice - "

"I know, however, when death begins to ask for me," Yakim Douan in-terrupted. ?This is part of my station, to understand when death approaches so that those around me - so that you, Merwan Ma - can begin their prepa-rations for the search for the new God-Voice. Do you understand?"

Merwan Ma lowered his eyes. ?I am afraid, God-Voice," he said.

"You will not fail."

"But how will I know?" asked the young attendant, looking up suddenly at the Chezru Chieftain. ?How can I be sure that I will select the correct re-placement? It is a terrible burden, God-Voice. I fear that I am not worthy to bear it."

"You are," Yakim Douan said, laughing. ?The child will be obvious to you, I assure you. When I was selected, I was reciting the entire Fourth Book of Prophecy."

"But could not a mother so teach her young child, if she wished him to ascend? ?

"I had not yet seen my second birthday!" said a laughing Yakim. ?And I could answer any question put to me by the Yatol Council. Do you doubt that they chose correctly? ?

Merwan Ma blanched.

"It is not an accusation, my young friend," said Yakim. ?It is merely a re-assurance to you that you will know.

Your predecessor voiced similar con-cerns... so I have heard," the Chezru Chieftain quickly added, for how could he have firsthand knowledge of what Merwan Ma's predecessor might or might not have said?

"Even so, God-Voice" the obviously nervous Merwan Ma continued. ?Once the child is found - "Then your duties are clear and with many recorded precedents," Yakim Douan interrupted. ?And those duties are minimal, do not doubt. You will watch over the child and see that he is well cared for through the early years of his life. Not so difficult a job, I would say."

"But what of his training? Who will tutor the new God-Voice in the ways ofYatol?"

Yakim Douan was laughing before Merwan ever finished. ?He will tutor you, if you so desire! Do you not understand? The child will be born with full consciousness, and full understanding of all that is Yatol.

"Do you doubt?" the Chezru Chieftain asked into Merwan Ma s scrunched-up face. ?Of course you do!" Yakim added to alleviate the tension before it could ever really begin. ?Because you have not witnessed the miracle of Transcendence. I have, firsthand! I remember those early days well, and I needed no tutoring. I needed nothing, just the climb to Consciousness, and by that time, I understood everything about our beloved Chezru, both good and bad, better than any of those around me. Fear not, my young friend. Your time of indenture in the house of the Chezru Chieftain is to end in scarcely more than a decade, it would seem."

If those words were of any comfort at all to Merwan Ma, he didn't show it; in fact, his expression revealed just the opposite.

"You know this to be true," Yakim prompted.

"As with your anticipated death, it is not a subject I am comfortable dis-cussing, God-Voice."

"Ah," Yakim answered with a great laugh, and again he patted the young attendant's arm. ?You are to serve me, and then to see the next God-Voice to Consciousness, and then you are freed of all responsibility to the Chezru. That is the way it has always been, and the way it must continue to be."

"All that I love - "That does not preclude you from joining Chezru more formally," Yakim went on. ?In truth, I would be sorely disappointed if you do not pursue your calling to piety. You will make a fine Yatol, my friend, and as such, will prove a valuable asset to the next Chezru Chieftain. Why, I have already penned a long letter to my successor and to the Yatol Council expressing my beliefs in your potential."

That seemed to calm Merwan Ma considerably, and he blushed with em-barrassment and lowered his eyes.

Just the effect Yakim Douan had hoped for. He truly liked the young man, and would indeed miss him when he came to Consciousness in the next incarnation. But on this point of ritual, Yakim had to hold fast. He couldn't take the chance of keeping one as bright as Merwan Ma around for too long.

Familiarity might bring danger.

Merwan Ma made his way through the great columned hallways of the airy palace. The whole of the place was made of stone, mostly marble, pink and white and the subtle pale yellow of Cosinnida marble from the south. The many columns, ridged and decorated, were of the type that came from the northwest, from the foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle near the border-land of Behren and To-gai. This stone was the brightest white of all, but streaked with red veins throughout, so much so that it appeared to Merwan Ma as if red vines grew all along the columns. He could almost envision large grapes hanging from the vine, ready to pluck and savor.

Merwan Ma's sandals were leather, and not hard-soled, but his footfalls echoed along the vast chambers of the palace, where every ceiling was deli-cately arched to catch the sound and roll it about. The young attendant often lost himself on walks such as this, wandering the great ways past the inspiring tapestries and the amazing mosaics tiled on the great floors. On such jaunts, he felt alone in the vast universe, and yet at one with it, as well.

He needed that now, that comfort that he was part of something larger than himself, larger than human flesh.

His master had done it again, an-other conversation about the God-Voice's impending death. How could the Chezru Chieftain be so calm about that? How could he speak in such com-monsensical terms about the end of his life?

Merwan Ma gave a great exhale, thoroughly jealous of his master, of any man who could be so at ease with mortality. Merwan Ma was a dedicated and pious Shepherd, a rank above the common Chezru folk but a rank be-low the Yatols. He prayed every day, and followed every ritual and precept of the religion. He believed in an afterlife, in a reward for his good behav-ior. Truly he did. And yet, how pale his convictions seemed next to the supreme calm held by Yakim Douan!

Perhaps he would come to such a place of tranquillity as he aged, Mer-wan Ma hoped. Perhaps he would find a day when he could so easily accept the inevitability of his own death, when he could be so confident that one journey was ending only so that another journey could begin.

"No," he said aloud, and he fell to his knees briefly and pressed his palms against his eyes, prostrating himself on the floor, an expression of submis-sion, obedience, and repentance for his last thought. He could never find a place as content as that of the God-Voice! He could never come to under-stand the mysteries of life and death as the Chezru Chieftain, and he alone, obviously understood! Not in this life, at least. Perhaps enlightenment awaited him on the other side of that darkest of doors.

With another deep breath, Merwan Ma pulled himself up from the floor and resumed his journey. He was late, he knew, and the others were likely already gathered about the sacred chalice, the Chezru Goblet, in the Room of Forever. Mado Wadon, the overseeing Yatol, had probably already pre-pared the sacrificial knife, filling its hollowed hilt with the oils of preserva-tion. But certainly, without Merwan Ma there, the others had not begun the bleeding.

Yakim Douan continued to enjoy his meal at the northern window, star-ing out at the towering majestic peaks.

He knew what was going on in the Room of Forever, and he knew well the ultimate danger to him and to his secrets whenever the seven gathered for the ritual. But the centuries had taken the edge from the Chezru Chieftain concerning this anxiety. He had watched the bleeding closely all those early years, centuries before when he had instituted the ritual.

No, not instituted it, but merely altered it to cover his secret. Since the beginning of Yatol, the selected group had kept the sacred Chezru Goblet filled with their blood, standing in a circle about it and taking turns slicing their wrists until the deep and wide chalice was full to the appointed line. That ritual of blood-brotherhood and the resultant pool of blood had proven to be a wonderful binding force for Yakim Douan, for embedded in the base of that sacred chalice was a single gemstone, a powerful hematite. When Yakim added his own blood to the pool, every week immediately fol-lowing the bleeding ritual, he somehow created a bond to that embedded hematite that he had learned to exploit from a great distance, from the other side of the palace, even. That was important to Yakim, not because he often utilized the hematite, but because he understood that if a sudden tragedy should befall him - the dagger of a rival, perhaps - he would be able to establish enough of a connection to the hematite to free his spirit from his dying corporeal form.

The only real danger to Yakim, then, came during the process of chang-ing the blood pool, for though all of the attending bleeders would be blind-folded and instructed, strictly so, never to glance into the chalice, one look with the blood level low might be enough to arouse great suspicions. For the Yatols were not fond of gemstones, magical or not, and to see one em-bedded in their most-prized religious symbol, the Chezru Goblet itself, would strike a sour note in the heart of any true Yatol. Gemstones were the province of the hated Abellicans to the north, the source of Abellican magi-cal powers, and for centuries, since before Yakim Douan's first ascension even, the Yatol priests had denounced the enchanted stones as instruments for channeling demon magic.

Seeing a gemstone - and a hematite, a soul stone, at that! - embedded in the base of that deep chalice would bring about questions that Yakim Douan did not want to answer.

But the Chezru Chieftain held all confidence that it would not come to that. In all the nearly eight hundred years he had been secretly using the magical hematite, the blood level in the chalice had only dropped to a re-vealing level once, when a young Yatol priest had inadvertently tripped and spilled the contents.

That unfortunate Yatol, so flustered, so horrified by what he had done, hadn't even paused long enough to consider the ramifications of what he had seen. He had only stammered apology after apology when Yakim Douan had come upon him, to find him kneeling on the bloody floor and crying, his head in his hands.

He had begged forgiveness frorti the God-Voice, even as Yakim's knife had reached for his unprotected, undefended throat.

That one had died confused.

Yakim Douan shuddered at the memory of that awful day. He had never wanted to kill the man, but so much had been at stake. How could he jeop-ardize his own theoretical immortality, centuries of life, against the few de-cades the poor fool might have remaining?

To Yakim all these years later, it had been pragmatism, and not hatred and not any evil lust for power, that had guided his dagger hand that fate-ful day.

Yakim Douan couldn't even remember the clumsy Yatol's name. Nor could anyone else.

Merwan Ma stood perfectly still, chanting softly the intonation of sacri-fice, his voice blending beautifully with the others standing in a circle about the small table that held the Chezru Goblet. The young attendant held his left hand out across his chest and to the right side, ready to take the knife, while his right arm was out before him, his forearm resting on a padded shelf, his wrist dangling above the sacred vessel.

He was blindfolded, as were the others. In fact, Merwan Ma, as principal attendant to the Chezru Chieftain, had been the only one to enter this holy room with his eyes open, guiding the others to their respective positions. Then, with a prayer, Merwan Ma had taken his place and reached below the table and turned the lever. He had watched the red fluid level slowly drop-ping as he had applied his own blindfold.

That lever and release under the table was counterweighted, designed to slow the flow and then close altogether as the blood in the bowl drained. This group would not replace all of the liquid, but only about three-quarters. A bell sounded as the lever closed, the signal for the sacrifice to begin. And so it had, with the chanting. The man immediately to Merwan Ma's left took up the treated knife, reached forward, and cut his right wrist, then counted out the appropriate time, in cadence with the verse of the common chant, as his lifeblood dribbled down into the chalice. When the verse ended, the man passed the blade to the man on his left and the process was repeated.

And so on, until the knife came full circle, back to Merwan Ma. The at-tendant, his right wrist crisscrossed with lines and lines of scarring, finished his duty stoically and efficiently, then reverently placed the blade back on the table.

As the song finished, Merwan Ma lifted the blindfold off of his head and looked down at their work. Some blood had spattered outside of the great goblet, as usual, and the level wasn't as high as it should have been, though within the marks of tolerance inside the chalice. Had it not been, Ken the sacrifice would have been declared void and one of the men gathred about the table would have been killed and replaced, with only the tending Yatol and Merwan Ma exempt from that fate.

But the sacrifice was acceptable, the level of red fluid more than suffi-ient to hold the sacred goblet until the month had passed and the next sac-rifice ensued.

Merwan Ma nodded at the handiwork - he'd have to come back in later and clean up the sacred vessel, of course, but other than that, the duty was done. With perfect precision wrought of months and months of practice, he took up the hand of the man on his left and led the group, joined as one line, out of the room.

In the anteroom, as soon as the door was closed, the others pulled off their blindfolds and tightened the bandages on their wrists, congratulating each other on a job well-done.

The exception, as usual, was the one Yatol in attendance. The older man looked to his wrist first, securing the bandage, but then, as he did after every sacrifice, he glanced at Merwan Ma.

The attendant saw little fondness in that look. Many of the Yatols were not fond of him, allowing their own jealousies to overcome their dedication to their religion and their god. He was not a Yatol, after all, not a priest, and yet, when the Chezru Chieftain went to his reward, Merwan Ma would, in all practicality, become the most powerful man in all of the Chezru domain. He would be the initial selector of the new God-Voice, and would have full voice at the ensuing council of confirmation. He would then oversee the early years of the chosen child's life, and while he would then have no voice in Yatol formal policy, it would be his voice most often heard in the next chosen God-Voice's ear.

Some of the Yatols were not pleased at this arrangement. Merwan Ma had even overheard a pair of particularly obnoxious priests mumbling that in times long past, a Yatol, the highest ranking of the order below the Chezru Chieftain, had served as attendant, and not a mere Shepherd.

Merwan Ma took it all in stride. He had been selected, for whatever rea-son, and his duty was clear and straightforward. He could not allow petty human frailties and emotions to deter him from his duty. His calling was to God, through the words and edicts of the God-Voice, his beloved Chezru Chieftain. It was not his place to question, nor - he reminded himself then and there - was it his place to accept or internalize the expression the attending Yatol was now sending his way. That look reflected that man's weakness, and it was not a weakness that Merwan Ma meant to share.

He ushered the group out of the anteroom, then went back into the sacred room, consecrated cloth in hand, and reverently wiped clean the sides of the Chezru Goblet, satisfied that the sacrifice of blood that day would secure the goblet and the health of the church for the next month.