Mayhiros Tesos
"Horses are strong, lovely beasts. To see them race past a window is art. But the art is only momentary, and when the horses have gone, all you have before you are their leavings. This is a metaphor for the whole Marukan Alliance. The people here are blithely unconcerned for the condition of their souls. Those few who save breath for prayer make sacrifice to their ancestors, and too many are the shrines they raise to their horse god, Hiparkes. Since coming here, I have even heard strong rumor that the Hundred Gods Heresy has taken root deep within the hills and spreads like cancer out into the plains.
"But the flock of a monk in the Scavenger Lands is widespread, indeed. There are children of the Dragons here, and I cannot leave them on their own when they ask for my guidance. Not that I am fooled into believing Tesos' chief thought is piety. He has as much authority over these backwater plains as any man can claim, and he will pretend to whatever faith he must if it can gain him the power to keep it. Nor would he be the first to use the Immaculate Faith so; even the great houses on the Blessed Isle send their children to the Cloister of Wisdom more for the puissant arts we teach than the enlightenment we offer. And I will do with Tesos what we Immaculates have done with the children of the great houses for centuries. I will send him my finest disciple, and Tesos will see the difficulty of learning our arts without also learning our faith. We will mold him into the image of the dragons yet."
-- Ragara Junet, Immaculate Abbot of Nexus
"Exile." He spoke the word slowly and licked his cracked lips. The flavor of the word was new to him; he repeated it every morning when he rose and looked up for the teak spires of his bedposts and instead saw daylight through loose thatching. He spoke the word again as he splashed cold creek water on his face, where once he had performed his daily ablutions with heated rosewater in a black marble bowl. Again he muttered the word through lukewarm oatmeal, remembering the taste of spices from the south and exotic vegetables from the east, fragrant cheeses and delicate fruits. These comforts of his manse he had disdained publicly, but when forcibly denied access to his home's pleasures, they became all the sweeter in memory.
As he tightened the straps on Flint's saddle, he looked around at his new home. The outpost was little more than a tower, a stable, a kitchen, and a bunkhouse. A relay station just thirty miles north of Three Steeds Dancing, it was a common refuge for outlaws, failures, madmen, berserkers, suicides, orphans, bravos, and exiles. Mayhiros Tesos reflected for a moment on how many of those descriptors he matched. He knew the second one was all too apt for one rider here...
"Father, riders approaching from the south!" Mayhiros Ruja waved from the tower above. The clan chief swung up into his jade saddle and peered southward under one gauntlet, pulling a lance from the stand with his other hand. He could see a low dustcloud, burnt orange and almost stationary against the horizon. Above, Ruja rattled the signal bell and the half dozen remaining riders (most were already out on patrol) sprinted to the stables, pieces of armor half-strapped to their bodies.
Tesos rode at a slow walk between their outpost and the newcomers, his lance held high and his back erect, ready to demonstrate how thoroughly he had mastered the blessings of the dragons. Gradually, twelve black horses and an immense black coach materialized at the head of the dust cloud. He paused to lift his visor, checking to make sure that it wasn't some kind of hellish warmachine. As he did so, he noticed the banners flying above the horses. White banners. Flags of truce.
