The Wise Man's Fear

  The next day we went back to the cycles, but only two before midday and two after. My body burned and ached, but I was no longer delirious with exhaustion. Fortunately, with a little mental effort, I could slide back into that strange anticipatory clear-headedness I’d used to answer Tempi’s questions the day before.

  Over the next couple of days I came to think of that odd mental state as Spinning Leaf.

  It seemed like a distant cousin to Heart of Stone, the mental exercise I’d learned so long ago. That said, there was little similarity between the two. Heart of Stone was practical: it stripped away emotion and focused my mind. It made it easier to break my mind into separate pieces or maintain the all-important Alar.

  On the other hand, Spinning Leaf seemed largely useless. It was relaxing to let my mind grow clear and empty, then float and tumble lightly from one thing to the next. But aside from helping me draw answers to Tempi’s questions out of thin air, it seemed to have no practical value. It was the mental equivalent of a card trick.

  By the eighth day on the road, my body no longer ached constantly. That was when Tempi added something new. After performing the Ketan the two of us would fight. It was hard, as that was when I was the most weary. But after the fighting we would always sit, rest, and discuss the Lethani.

  “Why did you smile as we fought today?” Tempi would say.

  “Because I was happy.”

  “Did you enjoy the fighting?”

  “Yes.”

  Tempi radiated displeasure. “That is not of the Lethani.”

  I thought a moment on my next question. “Should a man take pleasure in the fight?”

  “No. You take pleasure in acting rightly and following the Lethani.”

  “What if following the Lethani requires me to fight? Should I not take pleasure in it?”

  “No.You should take pleasure in following the Lethani. If you fight well, you should take pride in doing a thing well. For the fighting itself you should feel only duty and sorrow. Only barbarians and madmen take pleasure in combat. Whoever loves the fight itself has left the Lethani behind.”

  On the eleventh day, Tempi showed me how to incorporate my sword into the Ketan. The first thing I learned was how quickly a sword becomes lead-heavy when held at arm’s length.

  With our sparring and the addition of the sword, each cycle took nearly two and a half hours. Still we kept to our schedule every day. Three cycles before noon, three cycles after. Fifteen hours in all. I could feel my body hardening, becoming quick and lean like Tempi’s.

  So we ran, and I learned, and Haert drew ever closer.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN

  Beauty and Branch

  AS WE TRAVELED, WE moved quickly through towns, stopping only for food and water. The countryside was a blur. My mind was focused on the Ketan, the Lethani, and the language I was learning.

  The road became narrower as we made our way into the foothills of the Stormwal. The land grew rocky and jagged and the road began to snake back and forth as it avoided box valleys, bluffs, and jumbles of broken rock. The air changed, growing cooler than I expected in summer.

  We finished the trip in fifteen days. At my best guess, we covered almost three hundred miles in that time.

  Haert was the first Adem town I’d ever seen, and to my inexperienced eye it hardly seemed a town at all. There was no central street lined with houses and shops. What buildings I did see were widely spaced, oddly shaped, and built to fit closely with the natural shape of the land, as if they were trying to keep out of sight.

  I didn’t know that the powerful storms that gave the mountain range its name were common here. Their sudden, changing winds would tear apart anything so upthrust and angular as the square timber houses common in the lands below.

  Instead the Adem built sensibly, hiding their buildings from the weather. Homes were built into the sides of hills, or outward from the leeward walls of sheltering cliffs. Some were dug downward. Others were carved into the stony sides of bluffs. Some you could hardly see unless you were standing next to them.

  The exception was a group of low stone buildings clustered close together some distance from the road.

  We stopped outside the largest of these. Tempi turned to face me, tugging nervously at the leather straps holding his mercenary reds tight to his arms. “I must go and make my introductions to Shehyn. It may be some time.” Anxiety. Regret. “You must wait here. Perhaps long.” His body language told me more than his words. I cannot take you inside, as you are a barbarian.

  “I will wait,” I reassured him.

  He nodded and went inside, glancing back at me before closing the door behind himself.

  I looked around, watching a few people quietly going about their business: a woman carrying a basket, a young boy leading a goat by a piece of rope. The buildings were made of the same rough stone as the landscape, blending into their surroundings. The sky was overcast, adding another shade of grey.

  The wind blew over everything, snapping around corners and making patterns in the grass. I thought briefly of pulling on my shaed, but decided against it. The air was thinner here, and cooler. But it was still summer, and the sun was warm.

  It felt oddly peaceful here, with none of the clamor and stink of a larger town. No clatter of hooves on cobblestones. No cart vendors singing out their wares. I could imagine someone like Tempi growing up in a place like this, soaking in the quiet until he was full of it, then taking it with him when he left.

  With little else to look at, I turned to the nearby building. It was made from uneven pieces of stone pieced together like a jigsaw. Looking closer, I was puzzled by the lack of mortar. I tapped it with a knuckle, wondering briefly if it might be a single piece of stone carved to look like many stones fit together.

  Behind me, I heard a voice say in Ademic, “What do you think of our wall?”

  I turned to see an older woman with the characteristic pale grey eyes of the Adem. Her face was impassive, but her features were kind and motherly. She wore a yellow woolen cap pulled down over her ears. It was roughly knitted, and the sandy hair that stuck out from underneath was starting to go white. After all this time traveling with Tempi, it was odd to see an Adem who wasn’t strapped into tight mercenary reds and wearing a sword. This woman wore a loose-fitting white shirt and linen pants.

  “Is it fascinating, our wall?” she asked, gesturing gentle amusement, curiosity with one hand. “What do you think of it?”

  “I think it is beautiful,” I responded in Ademic, careful to make only brief eye contact.

  Her hand tilted in an unfamiliar gesture. “Beautiful?”

  I gave the barest of shrugs. “There is beauty that belongs to simple things of function.”

  “Perhaps you are mistaking a word,” she said. Gentle apology. “Beauty is a flower or a woman or a gem. Perhaps you mean to say ‘utility.’ A wall is useful.”

  “Useful, but beautiful as well.”

  “Perhaps a thing gains beauty being used.”

  “Perhaps a thing is used according to its beauty,” I countered, wondering if this was the Adem equivalent of small talk. If it was, I preferred it to the insipid gossip of the Maer’s court.

  “What of my hat?” she asked, touching it with a hand. “Is it beautiful because it is used?”

  It was knitted from a thick homespun wool and dyed a bright cornsilk yellow. It was slightly lopsided, and its stitching was uneven in places. “It seems very warm,” I said carefully.

  She gestured small amusement, and her eyes twinkled ever so slightly. “It is that,” she said. “And to me it is beautiful, as it was made for me by my daughter’s daughter.”

  “Then it is beautiful as well.” Agreement.

  The woman hand-smiled at me. Her hand tilted differently than Tempi’s when she made the gesture, and I decided to take it as a fond, motherly smile. Keeping my face blank, I gestured a smile in return, doing my best to make it both warm and polite.

  “You speak well for a b
arbarian,” she said and reached out to grip my arms in a friendly gesture. “Visitors are rare, especially those so courteous. Come with me and I will show you beauty, and you will speak to me of what its use might be.”

  I looked down. Regret. “I cannot. I am waiting.”

  “For one inside?”

  I nodded.

  “If they have gone inside, I suspect you will be waiting some time. Certainly they would be pleased if you came with me. I may prove more entertaining than a wall.” The old woman lifted her arm and caught the attention of a young boy. He trotted over and looked up at her expectantly, his eyes darting briefly to my hair.

  She made several gestures to the boy, but I only understood quietly. “Tell those inside I am taking this man for a walk so he need not stand alone in the wind. I will return him shortly.”

  She tapped my lute case, then did the same to my travelsack and the sword on my hip. “Give these to the boy and he will take them inside for you.”

  Without waiting for me to reply, she began to tug my travelsack off my shoulder, and I couldn’t think of a graceful way of disengaging myself without seeming terribly impolite. Every culture is different, but one thing is always true: the surest way to give offense is to refuse the hospitality of your host.

  The boy scurried off with my things and the old woman took my arm, leading me away. I resigned myself somewhat gratefully to her company, and we walked quietly until we came to a deep valley that opened suddenly in front of us. It was green, with a stream at the bottom, and sheltered from the persistent wind.

  “What would you say of such a thing?” she asked, gesturing to the hidden valley.

  “It is much like Ademre.”

  She patted my arm affectionately. “You have the gift of saying without saying. That is rare for one as you are.” She began to make her way down into the valley, keeping one hand on my arm for support as she stepped carefully along a narrow rocky path that twisted along the valley wall. I spotted a young boy with a herd of sheep not too far off. He waved to us, but did not call out.

  We made our way to the valley bottom where the stream rolled white over stones. It made clear pools where I could see the ripples of fish stirring in the water.

  “Would you call this beautiful?” she asked after we had looked a while.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Uncertainty. “Perhaps its movement.”

  “The stone moved not at all, and you called it beautiful as well.” Questioning.

  “It is not the nature of stone to move. Perhaps it is beauty to move according to your nature.”

  She nodded as if my answer pleased her. We continued to watch the water.

  “Have you heard of the Latantha?” she asked.

  “No.” Regret. “But perhaps I simply do not know the word.”

  She turned and we made our way along the valley floor until we came to a wider spot with the carefully groomed look of a garden. In the center of it was a tall tree the like of which I had never seen before.

  We stopped at the edge of the clearing. “This is the sword tree,” she said, and made a gesture I did not recognize, brushing the back of her hand against her cheek. “The Latantha. Would you say it is beautiful?”

  I watched it for a moment. Curiosity.“I would enjoy seeing it more closely.”

  “That is not allowed.” Emphatic.

  I nodded and watched it as well as I could from this distance. It had high, arching branches like an oak, but its leaves were broad, flat, and spun in odd circles when they caught the wind. “Yes.” I answered after a long while.

  “Why did it take you so long to decide?”

  “I was considering the reason for its beauty,” I admitted.

  “And?”

  “I could say it both moves and doesn’t move according to its nature, and that grants it beauty. But I do not think that is the reason.”

  “Why then?”

  I watched it for a long time. “I do not know. What do you consider the reason?”

  “It simply is,” she said. “That is enough.”

  I nodded, feeling slightly foolish about the elaborate answers I had given before.

  “Do you know of the Ketan?” she asked, surprising me.

  I now had an inkling of how important such things were to the Adem. So I hesitated to give an open answer. However I did not want to lie either. “Perhaps.” Apology.

  She nodded. “You are cautious.”

  “Yes. Are you Shehyn?”

  Shehyn nodded. “When did you suspect me of being who I am?”

  “When you asked of the Ketan,” I said. “When did you suspect me of knowing more than a barbarian should?”

  “When I saw you set your feet.”

  Another silence.

  “Shehyn, why do you not wear the red like other mercenaries?”

  She made a pair of unfamiliar gestures. “Has your teacher told you why they wear the red?”

  “I did not think to ask,” I said, not wanting to imply Tempi had neglected my training.

  “I ask you then.”

  I thought a moment. “So their enemies will not see them bleed?”

  Approval. “Why then do I wear white?”

  The only answer I could think of chilled me. “Because you do not bleed.”

  She gave a partial nod. “Also because if an enemy draws my blood, she should see it as her fair reward.”

  I fretted silently, doing my best to mimic proper Adem composure. After an appropriately polite pause, I asked. “What will become of Tempi?”

  “That remains to be seen.” She gestured something close to irritation, then asked, “Are you not concerned for yourself?”

  “I am more concerned for Tempi.”

  The sword tree spun patterns on the wind. It was almost hypnotic.

  “How far have you come in your training?” Shehyn asked.

  “I have studied the Ketan for a month.”

  She turned to face me and raised her hands. “Are you ready?”

  I could not help but think that she was shorter than me by six inches and old enough to be my grandmother. Her lopsided yellow hat didn’t make her look terribly intimidating either. “Perhaps,” I said, and raised my hands as well.

  Shehyn came toward me slowly, making Hands like Knives. I countered with Catching Rain. Then I made Climbing Iron and Fast Inward, but could not touch her. She quickened slightly, made Turning Breath and Striking Forward at the same time. I stopped one with Fan Water, but couldn’t escape the other. She touched me below my ribs then on my temple, softly as you would press a finger to someone’s lips.

  Nothing I tried had any effect on her. I made Thrown Lighting, but she simply stepped away, not even bothering to counter. Once or twice I felt the brush of cloth against my hands as I came close enough to touch her white shirt, but that was all. It was like trying to strike a piece of hanging string.

  I set my teeth and made Threshing Wheat, Pressing Cider, and Mother at the Stream, moving seamlessly from one to the other in a flurry of blows.

  She moved like nothing I had ever seen. It wasn’t that she was fast, though she was fast, but that was not the heart of it. Shehyn moved perfectly, never taking two steps when one would do. Never moving four inches when she only needed three. She moved like something out of a story, more fluid and graceful than Felurian dancing.

  Hoping to catch her by surprise and prove myself, I moved as fast as I dared. I made Maiden Dancing, Catching Sparrows, Fifteen Wolves . . .

  Shehyn took one single, perfect step.

  “Why do you weep?” Shehyn asked as she made Heron Falling. “Are you ashamed? Are you in fear?”

  I blinked my eyes to clear them. My voice was harsh from the exertion and emotion. “You are beautiful, Shehyn. For in you is the stone of the wall, the water of the stream, and the motion of the tree in one.”

  Shehyn blinked, and in her moment of surprise I found myself firmly gripping her shoulder and arm. I made Thunder Upwar
d, but instead of being thrown, Shehyn stood still and solid as a stone.

  Almost absentmindedly, she freed herself with Break Lion and made Threshing Wheat. I flew six feet and hit the ground.

  I was up quickly with no harm done. It was a gentle throw on soft turf, and Tempi had taught me how to fall without hurting myself. But before I could advance again Shehyn stopped me with a gesture.

  “Tempi has both taught you and not taught you,” she said, her expression unreadable. I forced my eyes away from her face again. So hard to break that lifetime’s worth of habit. “Which is both bad and good. Come.” She turned and walked closer to the tree.

  It was bigger than I had thought. The smaller branches moved in wild, curving patterns as the wind tossed them about.

  Shehyn picked up a fallen leaf and handed it to me. It was broad and flat, the size of a small plate, and surprisingly heavy. My hand stung and I saw a thin line of blood trailing down my thumb.

  I examined the edge of the leaf and saw it was rigid, its edge as sharp as a blade of grass. Sword tree indeed. I looked up at the spinning leaves. Anyone standing near the tree when the wind was high would be cut to ribbons.

  Shehyn said, “If you were to attack this tree, what would you do? Would you strike the root? No. Too strong. Would you strike the leaf? No. Too fast. Where then?”

  “The branch.”

  “The branch.” Agreement. She turned to me. “That is what Tempi has not taught you. It would have been wrong for him to teach you that. Nevertheless, you have suffered for it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She gestured for me to begin the Ketan. Automatically I fell into Catch Sparrows.

  “Stop.” I froze in position. “If I am to attack you, where should it be? Here, at the root?” She pushed my leg and found it unyielding. “Here at the leaf?” She pushed at my upheld hand, moving it easily, but accomplishing little else. “Here. The branch.” She pushed gently against one of my shoulders, moving me easily. “And here.” She added pressure to my hip, spinning me around. “Do you see? You find the place to spend your strength, or it is wasted. Wasting strength is not of the Lethani.”