The Mandate of Heaven - 6
I could not know what the Barandiga tribe truly wanted, but one thing I was certain of. Whatever the Barandiga chieftain’s private thoughts might be, he could not abandon the title of high priest.
Even though he failed to properly fulfill a high priest’s duties, the other tribes still regarded the Barandiga chieftain as their high priest. That meant he was fervently advertising, My father is dead, but I am still the high priest. Of course I had no idea why, yet the fact remained: he was clinging to that identity.
That was enough. If the Barandiga chieftain still wore the name of high priest, if he could not cast it aside, then he would simply have to act accordingly.
“One who bears the stigma of the Eternal Blue Sky and carries a sacred relic has come! High Priest, receive him as a guest!”
The moment we reached the Barandiga encampment I shouted it with full confidence.
I bear the stigma of the god you serve and even hold that god’s sacred relic. Even if you harbor resentment toward the Empire, as high priest you cannot turn me away at the gate.
You don’t seem entirely normal either.
The mutter that rang inside my skull left me a little embarrassed. As the man who had thoroughly wrecked the faith of the Eternal Blue Sky, it was hardly a declaration I should have made so boldly.
Still, I managed to keep up the act of confidence. If I were selling out the Eternal Blue Sky purely for my own greed, I would indeed be a bastard—but this was mutually beneficial.
We’re both better off for this, so cut me some slack.
Fine. It’s good for me too, I suppose.
With that the Eternal Blue Sky fell silent again. Moments later several nomads came hurrying toward us. The fact that they carried no weapons suggested they intended, at least for now, to treat us as guests.
When we reached the central ger of the camp, a middle-aged man was already waiting. His hair was neatly swept back and his beard carefully trimmed—someone who took care with his appearance—yet the mixture of irritation and exhaustion on his face as he drank made him look more like a jobless man crushed by successive failures.
“A stigma and a sacred relic, you say.”
Confirming my entrance, the man lowered the leather flask from his lips and muttered.
“An imperial claiming to possess what even a high priest has never seen… an interesting claim.”
His expression, however, held not a trace of interest. He simply stretched out a hand and indicated the chair opposite him—an invitation to sit and talk.
As expected, there was no unilateral expulsion or attempt at violence. We still had not been formally received, so the situation remained precarious—but the mere fact that dialogue was possible made for a promising start.
“I am Gurte Batal of Barandiga, the sole high priest of the steppes. I am also chieftain of this Barandiga tribe.”
“Karl Crassius of Wiridia, granted a count’s title by the grace of His Imperial Majesty.”
The high priest, who had been sprawled loosely in his chair, flinched at my name and slowly straightened his posture.
“Karl Crassius?”
A sharpness that erased every earlier trace of listlessness settled in his eyes.
“The heretic who destroyed the Great High Priest who served the sky… and his house.”
The words now carried a weight of intimidation, yet they still fell within the range I had anticipated. Since I had approached the high priest on religious grounds by brandishing the stigma and the relic, he was free to seize the upper hand by invoking the northern faith against an imperial heretic. This meeting had been granted not because an imperial envoy requested an audience with the Barandiga chieftain, but because the bearer of a stigma and a sacred relic had asked to meet the high priest.
It did not matter. From the moment a meeting he could not refuse had been arranged, the negotiation was already under way.
“A joke in the worst taste—that the enemy of the faith should hold a stigma and a sacred relic.”
“Even an adversary is part of the myth.”
His brows knitted at the sudden remark, but I did not stop.
“And because that adversary is part of the myth, he becomes entangled with the god.”
With those words I gestured to the Fourth Section Chief, who placed the sword he had been carrying onto the table. Unlike our reception by the Kaitana tribe, our escort and armament had been restricted; the measure was unavoidable.
…No. This was the normal way of things. The Kaitana had been the strange ones.
“The first Pope of the Dawn Church died by a heretic’s hand. Yet the dagger that pierced the Pope drank sacred blood and became a holy relic, and the enemy of the faith who struck the Pope down repented and became a martyr who spread the faith.”
It was a cloudy, floating argument, but the high priest seemed to grasp something; his gaze shifted to the sword on the table.
Good. He was reasonably sharp.
“Thus it is no strange thing that the sword which slew the Great High Priest should become a sacred relic, or that the heretic who destroyed the temple should receive a stigma.”
In short: I killed your Great High Priest and razed your temple, but the relic and the stigma are genuine nonetheless.
For a moment I considered stripping off my clothes to show the stigma as well, but the high priest, who had been staring hard at the sword, gave a short snort of laughter and looked back at me.
“A man cannot know the will of a god. You have brought something precious.”
So saying, he addressed the guard standing behind him.
“A valued guest has arrived. Bring a proper table.”
“Yes, Chieftain.”
The clear declaration that he would treat me fully as a guest let me relax a little. Had things gone wrong, I would have had to dance a blade-dance inside the very heart of the faith and then escape.
That aside—he had accepted the sword after merely looking at it. Was he a genuine high priest after all? He seemed able to sense divine power.
His manner remained quite mild. As high priest he was facing the man who had brought a sacred relic of a crumbling faith; as chieftain he was receiving an envoy who might save his tribe. Of course he would be mild.
The one thing that still bothered me was that a man capable of such mildness had never once expressed a willingness to surrender—
“In a situation where we possessed neither a sacred relic nor even a temple in which to serve our lord, claiming the title of high priest has been nothing but shame.”
“You have endured much.”
“Even empty words of comfort could not reach that level. Our Barandiga tribe is bound by faith, yet even I, the high priest, felt as though I wandered in darkness—how much worse must it have been for the rest of my people? And now the Empire has shown us a sacred relic filled with the lord’s power and guided us onto a new path. Even the word ‘gratitude’ falls short.”
Hearing the high priest suddenly switch to formal speech, I understood. He had wanted to surrender but could not. He wished to yield for the sake of saving his tribe, yet the title of high priest held him back; and to abandon that title would itself destroy the tribe he sought to save.
In that maddening dilemma I had opened a path, so of course he no longer hesitated. The deliberate way he credited the Empire rather than me with guiding them onto a new path made it certain.
His surrender was no longer a mere choice for survival. It was an expression of gratitude toward the Empire that had bestowed a religious grace by bringing light to a dying faith. It was something a high priest could properly do.
“His Majesty is aware that the North possesses its own culture. He wishes to respect the northern faith and embrace it. Therefore, as a subject who has received His Majesty’s grace, I am merely returning to the North what it rightfully ought to possess, in accordance with that beautiful will.”
At those words the high priest smiled deeply. The display of the relic had now moved beyond religious grace to include the Emperor’s political intent to embrace the North. He was being given every possible reason for the Barandiga to surrender; of course he was pleased.
“However, the delivery of the sacred relic will take place only after Your Excellency has formally received a title.”
Of course the grant of a title was itself another reason to surrender. While the atmosphere was good, I pressed the advantage.
Moreover, the gift of a noble title possessed a magic that could make even an enemy smile. Offered in a favorable mood, it could advance a relationship from mere support to complete unity of purpose—a finishing stroke. The high priest, who had been smiling, froze solid at the word “title,” as though thunderstruck.
“As I said a moment ago, His Majesty respects the culture of the North. That means he intends to treat with high regard the sole high priest of the North—the Barandiga chieftain.”
Yes, he would be treated highly. The high priest would symbolize the Empire’s vast tolerance, and he would serve as the minimal shared emblem of faith for the nomads scattered across the North. For the Empire to control the North smoothly, the high priest had to become an imperial grandee.
I casually drew out the seal that had been sleeping inside my coat. The sudden motion of my hand into my clothes made the guard behind the high priest tense, but when a seal rather than a blade emerged he relaxed.
“This is His Majesty’s trust, bestowed upon Marquis Barandiga.”
“…Marquis?”
I smiled gently at the dazed reply.
My regrets to the professional collaborator Count Kaitana, but the marquisate suited Barandiga perfectly. It possessed both the symbolic weight and the history required of a marquis. Yet its actual scale was small enough that it could never overpower the other tribes by force.
Just right.
If the strongest of them became marquis, he could simply thrash the other counts into submission and become the de-facto ruler of the North. The possibility of a third Kagan had to be reduced even a little; that was unacceptable.
Therefore Barandiga. We needed a marquis of honor, not a marquis of real power.
“Congratulations on becoming the thirteenth marquis of the Empire. Well now—you have risen higher than I.”
The high priest—no, Marquis Barandiga—still stared blankly at the seal.
The storm-like negotiation was over.
“If you remain on the front lines, you never know when you may be swept into battle. First withdraw to a safe place, and once the war ends, proceed to the Imperial Capital. His Majesty will formally bestow the title upon you.”
The words the envoy had spoken just before the negotiation closed still circled inside my head.
What a dog’s life it had been.
I felt laughter rising. Ever since the nomads’ defeat in the last war, ever since Father died, life had been nothing but a string of curses. And now light had found that life.
The Mandate of Heaven.
According to the envoy, the Emperor of the Empire sought to embrace the nomads with mercy and tolerance because he had received the Mandate of Heaven.
The Mandate of Heaven. Heaven’s command.
…Heaven.
The moment the word surfaced I could no longer hold back the laughter. The high priest who served the Eternal Blue Sky had survived by the Mandate of Heaven. And what awaited him was not a humiliating submission but a life guaranteed wealth and honor.
It was enough to leave one breathless. I had thought the faith offered neither hope nor future, yet that god had still been watching the last remaining high priest.
“Father.”
As I continued to snicker, Shati, who had stood guard throughout the negotiation, carefully spoke.
“That thing earlier… was it truly a sacred relic?”
A short question, yet it conveyed exactly the confusion she must have felt. Of course she would be shaken that an imperial had brought a sacred relic that no longer existed even on these steppes.
I answered her with a smile.
“I don’t know.”
“…What?”
“I said I don’t know either.”
At the brazen reply Shati’s body went rigid.
But what else could I say? I truly did not know.
How am I supposed to know that?
I had never seen a sacred relic with my own eyes, and since Father’s death I had never once felt the power of the god.
In the first place, would it not be stranger for a high priest who received no answer from the god to recognize a sacred relic? A high priest is not omnipotent.
“Father! You surrendered without even knowing whether it was a sacred relic—”
I shook my head at Shati, who had been opening and closing her mouth with a creaking sound before finally shouting. She closed her mouth at once, yet her eyes remained full of doubt and discontent.
“Shati.”
“…What.”
“What matters is not whether it is a sacred relic or not.”
Sensing she was about to shout again, I quickly added:
“What matters is that people believe it is a sacred relic.”
Whether that sword was a sacred relic or not, even I did not know. But the imperial envoy had called it a sacred relic and, invoking the Emperor, had declared that the Empire would embrace heretics. It was as good as the Emperor himself guaranteeing that the sword was a sacred relic.
Therefore it did not matter if it was not genuinely a sacred relic. The Emperor of the Empire and the sole high priest would both declare it so.
What does the truth matter?
When the strongest nation on the continent and the party of the faith itself both say it is true, does that paltry truth still matter?
And even if it does matter—does it matter more than the peace of the steppes and the safety of the tribe?
This liquor tastes excellent.
I drained the koumiss in my right hand without restraint.
Today I would drink until I died.