A Wizard and a Warlord

10

The roadside brush gave way to low trees quickly. Fortunately, what they lacked in height, they made up in width and density. Gar and Alea had to crouch to stay under the canopy of needles and had to thread their way between gnarled and twisted trunks, but they were hidden.

Then, though, they had to cross an open space between two stands of yew, and heard a shout behind and below them. Alea took a quick glance back and was amazed to see how high they had come already. Below, though, she could see soldiers dismounting, leaving one of their number to hold the horses while the rest dashed into the underbrush to follow the fugitives.

“They’re coming,” she grated.

“I know.” Gar panted. “But … no faster than … us.” That wasn’t much reassurance, but it was better than nothing. Alea forged ahead, breath rasping in her throat—this hillside was steep. Nonetheless, she tried to hurry—but needled branches and twisted roots conspired to slow her down.

Then the trees gave way to grass in a soil so hard underfoot that Alea was amazed anything could grow. There was a shout behind them but she didn’t bother to look—she knew the soldiers had seen them.

“They’re riders,” Gar wheezed. “They’re … not in shape … for climbing.”

“Neither are you,” Alea snapped, but had to admit she wasn’t, either. She wondered if anyone could ever get used to plowing up hillsides this way. She listened to the patrol’s thoughts and found them winded, having to force themselves to keep climbing. Then one said to the others, “That man … with her … he’s old!”

“Not too … old to … climb,” another man panted.

“These hillfolk … hop uphill like … mountain goats,” a third soldier rasped.

“Halt,” the sergeant said.

Alea didn’t, but she could feel the relief from his men.

“We’re chasing … the wrong … travelers,” the sergeant gasped.

“There’s a … woman…” a soldier wheezed.

“Not … worth it…” the sergeant told him. “Other women on … the road…”

She could feel their silent agreement. “Back to … the horses,” the sergeant said. His men were glad to start back down. “Keep going,” Gar grunted.

“You didn’t … have to … say it,” Alea retorted. Then, suddenly, their feet struck level ground. Gar climbed up onto a mountain ledge and stood staring at it in disbelief. “It’s a … path!”

“You didn’t think… we were the only ones … ever come … up here … did you?” Alea was grateful to climb up onto the ledge, though.

“Frankly … yes,” Gar said. “At least … I didn’t expect … anyone who wasn’t … born here.”

“They need paths … too.” But Alea saw what he meant. The path was six feet wide at least and had clearly been hewn out of the rock; she could see the original track had only been three feet across. Someone had widened it—but why?

“Must be something … worth seeing … up there,” Gar said. “Perhaps at least … someplace to … spend the night.”

“Let’s look,” Alea agreed.

They set out, and since the path was flat and slanted upward across the curve of the hill, it was nowhere nearly as steep as clambering up the hillside would have been. The going was much easier, allowing them to catch their breath. They followed the track around the curve of the hill—and came upon a man sitting at the side of the road.

He sat cross-legged, back perfectly straight, hands on his knees. He had close-cropped gray hair, a lined and weatherbeaten face that was clean shaven, and wore a robe like a longer version of a peasant’s tunic, made of the same homespun material.

Alea stopped, staring in amazement. The last thing she would have expected on this mountainside was an old man, and certainly not one who had come all this way up just to sit and admire the view.

On the other hand, any man of his age who came up this path must have to sit down and rest frequently—but looking more closely, she saw that his gaze was unfocused.

Even as she looked, though, his eyes came into focus and his face tilted upward, smile widening. “Good afternoon, my friends. What brings you to this mountain?”

“Refuge,” Gar replied.

“The roads aren’t terribly safe just now,” Alea explained.

“Not even on this mountain, alas.” The old man sighed. “Still, if we wished only safety, we should never have been born, should we?”

It struck Alea as an odd thing to say and she could tell from the polite mask that slid over Gar’s features that he thought so, too, but he only said, “Some of us didn’t have all that much choice in the matter, sir.”

“Indeed,” the old man agreed. “We live because our parents insisted—or mistook. Still, before we were born, we might have had some choice in the matter.”

Gar gave him a thin smile. “If so, good sir, I don’t remember it.”

“There are very few who do,” the old man told him, “and it takes a lifetime’s discipline to achieve that.” He rose with a fluid grace, amazing in one who had been sitting cross-legged for a long period, and said, “You must not stay your journey for a silly old man, though. Come, let us ascend the mountain together.” And he set off as, nimbly as a teenager, giving a stream of talk to which Gar listened bemused, and at which Alea marveled.

Then, suddenly, she realized that the old man was listening, nodding encouragement, while she and Gar did the talking. Little by little, he had led them into answering his questions. She tried to stop talking, but his eyes were somehow both compelling and inviting, and she found herself telling him of her parents’ deaths and the confiscation of their, property, including herself. Near tears, she took refuge in bitterness.

The old man sensed it and turned the question to Gar. “You too have learned to harden your heart, my friend, as a wound develops the hardness of a scar. What cut so deep?”

Alea was suddenly very intent on his answer, not even stopping to wonder why.

“A witch,” Gar said, “a woman who enticed me, then humiliated me.”

Well. That explained a lot. But why would he tell this to a total stranger and never to her?

Because she was a woman, of course—and because she had touched his heart.

No! Impossible! She turned her attention away from it, or tried to—but the old man had turned to her, no doubt detecting Gar’s uneasiness. “And you, young woman? Painful though it may be to be given away as a chattel, there is some deeper hurt within you—and I pity you deeply, for such a pain must be profound indeed!”

Gar turned to her, wide-eyed.

Suddenly self-conscious, she said, “When men treat women as objects, sir, that is surely pain enough.”

“Indeed,” the old man agreed, “and much more severe it must have been to be so much worse than enough.” He turned back to Gar. “But pain that belongs to the past, my friends, must not poison your futures.”

“Easily said, sir,” Gar said slowly, “but how do you prevent it from doing so?”

“How can you keep yourself from treating new acquaintances as old ones have treated you?” The old man smiled. “Ah, my friends, it is therein that we must have courage, the courage to trust!”

“And to let ourselves be wounded all over again?” Alea was surprised at her own bitterness.

“We must take the risk,” the old man said, “or live forever within the shell of ourselves, enclosed and alone, like an oyster who guards his pearl—but what use is that pearl if it is kept always in darkness, never given to the light which alone can show its luster?”

Gar winced; that had touched a nerve somewhere.

To hide it, he accused, “You’re saying that we must always expose ourselves to attack.”

“An attack that may not come,” the old man corrected.

“Or may come indeed,” Alea said with some heat, “and be worse than any we’ve known!”

“Therein lies the need for courage,” the old man agreed, “but there is never any gain without risk of loss. If we would win friendship, even love, we must open ourselves enough to receive it.”

“That is hard to do,” Gar said slowly, “when one has been hurt again and again and again.”

Alea felt the truth of the statement within herself even as she recognized that Gar’s words verified her suspicions. But what hurts had he received?

“You mean that there is no love without trust,” she said, “but trust always risks hurt.”

The old man nodded. “Therefore love requires courage. An ancient prophet said that if someone strikes you on the cheek, you should turn your face and expose the other cheek for another blow. I think this is what he spoke of, the need to always be open to love no matter how we have been hurt.”

“Easy enough to say,” Gar said with precise politeness, “but how do we dredge up such courage?”

“By waiting until we find someone else who needs to prove that people can still be trusted,” the old man said, “then be patient as they hurt us again and again, ever fearing that we will lash out, ever hoping that they will not.”

Alea shuddered. “No human being can have such patience!” She wondered why Gar glanced at her so oddly.

But he turned back to the old man and said, “We must allow someone else to hurt us because they need to learn to trust?”

“Only if they still have the potential to love.” The old man raised a forefinger. “It is very hard to tell, because one who can love but who has been hurt guards his heart well behind armor.”

Gar winced again, and Alea wondered.

“It is the pearl within the oyster.” The old man beamed. “But if the oyster never opens his shell, how can we tell if the pearl is within?”

“Do you not mean that the pearl is within the lotus?” Gar asked with a smile.

“Or is the lotus within the pearl?” the old man returned.

Alea glared at Gar and reminded herself to find out what a lotus was when they were back aboard his ship.

“If the lotus never opens its petals,” Gar said, “you can never tell if the pearl is within.”

“But if the pearl’s surface never clears,” the old man riposted, “how can you tell if there is a lotus inside it?”

Gar frowned. “You mean we must have faith.”

“Well, you must at least see the sheen of the pearl first,” the old man demurred, “to be sure that there is a pearl, or at least a lotus. But then, yes, you must have faith in the pearl.”

Alea suddenly realized what they were talking about. “And that faith is trust!”

The old man turned and beamed at her. “Exactly. Faith in another human being is trust.”

Alea eyed Gar speculatively, found him gazing at her in the same way. Both of them turned away on the instant—so it was just as well that they rounded a curve and saw a broad terrace before them with a thatched but and half a dozen people in front of it who cried out.

“There he is! The sage!”

“Hail, O Wise One!”

“Give us wisdom to ease our pain, holy man!” They all bowed and one or two knelt.

“Come, come, now, stand straight and tall, be proud of yourselves!” the old man scolded. “What nonsense is this to kneel to me, who knows no more than a deer or a wolf!”

They straightened up at once, the kneeling ones leaping to their feet.

Alea and Gar stared at the old man with amazement. Then Gar said, with deference, “By your leave, good sir, anyone who can speak of the courage to trust knows considerably more than a deer or a wolf.”

“What nonsense!” the old man scoffed. “A deer knows exactly whom it can trust—and whom it cannot.”

“You mean the wolf,” Gar said.

“Among others. But the wolf, too, knows whom it can trust.”

“And whom it cannot?” one of the people asked tentatively.

“Of course.”

“But whom can a wolf not trust, O Sage?”

“Other wolves,” Gar said slowly.

“And the deer,” Alea finished.

The old man’s smile was as bright as the sun. “There now, my friends! You knew it all along!”

“Oh, certainly,” Gar said softly but with immense sarcasm. “We only needed someone to remind us of it.”

“You see?” the old man asked. “I told you I wasn’t wise.” He turned to the people, who stood waiting eagerly. “What troubles you, my friends?” He pointed at a woman who still looked young. “Your distress is greatest, good woman. What is its cause?”

“I … I don’t want to talk about it in front of other people, O Sage,” the woman said hesitantly.

“Then come into my hut—the walls are thick enough to swallow our voices if we talk softly.” The old man beckoned as he went through the doorway. The woman glanced apologetically at the others, then followed.

Gar and Alea stood uncomfortably, shifting their weight from foot to foot and glancing at the others. Finally, to break the silence, Alea asked, “How did he know who was in the most pain?”

“That is a part of his wisdom, of course,” a village woman said with a smile. “That is why he is a sage.” Conversation lapsed; after a few minutes, the other people started talking among themselves in low tones. Alea frowned and nudged Gar. “See those sacks and jugs?”

Gar looked and nodded. “They have brought him gifts.”

“We should think about that, too,” Alea said slowly. “We should indeed,” Gar agreed, “if for no other reason than that he has given us a place where General Malachi will never think to look.”

After a while, the woman came out, looking shaken but resolved. She turned to the old man, saying, “Thank you, O Sage!” She started to bow, then caught herself.

“I thank you, too, for sharing some little part of your life with me,” the old man said with a smile. “Go now with an open mind and an open heart, and never stop learning from the world about you.”

She nodded, tears in her eyes, and turned to hurry away.

The old man scanned the other petitioners, then pointed at a man and said, “What troubles you?”

“The woman that I love has died in sickbed,” the man said, eyes bright with tears. “Why should I go on living?”

“Ah, then,” the old man said softly, “that is pain indeed.” He sat, folding his legs. “Come, let us recline, for this needs long talk. Tell me, my friends, why you embraced life before you fell in love.”

The people looked at one another wide-eyed, then turned back to the sage and sat slowly. The bereaved man said, “I suppose I lived in hope of finding love, O Sage.”

“Only in hope?” the old man asked. “Was there nothing to enjoy in life in those days?”

“Food,” one person said slowly. “Festivals,” another said. “Friends,” said a third.

Thus it began, and when all the people unrolled their blankets and went to sleep that night, none of them could say that the sage had explained anything, but all of them fell asleep content with their answers. He is a master of illusion, Gar thought.

Isn’t that the same as saying that he knows how to live? Alea returned, and fell asleep.

They breakfasted with the other petitioners, then followed them down the mountainside—but Gar and Alea fell back far enough to talk in low tones as they went.

“So the priestesses and priests aren’t the only ones guiding the people,” Gar said.

Alea saw where he was heading. “That’s not a government! There’s a big difference between ruling them and guiding them!”

“Yes,” Gar said, “the difference between being driven someplace whether you want to go there or not, and following someone because you want to go where he’s going.”

“It’s a matter of choice,” Alea insisted.

“Yes—but if everybody chooses to live in harmony with one another, it has the same effect as government.”

“The same effect from a very different cause!”

“True,” Gar agreed, “and you’re right, it isn’t a government but it does make me wonder why the priests don’t object. If there are lots of sages like this one, they’re competing with the clergy for control of people’s hearts and minds.”

Alea frowned, trying to find words to fit her objection. “I never heard him say anything religious.”

“True again,” Gar admitted, “but it does lessen the priests’ control over their people—and if they don’t mind that, they’re not like any other priests I’ve ever encountered.”

Alea stiffened. “Soldiers coming!”

Gar lifted his head, gazing off into space, and nodded. “Another patrol. At least they’re still thinking about the giant half-wit and his sister instead of the old peddler and his daughter.”

Alea stood very straight, eyes glazing as she listened to the thoughts below. “They know we’re on this mountain but they don’t want to come up after us.”

“I don’t blame them,” Gar said. “It’s not exactly good terrain for horses.”

“They’ll have us bottled up here!” Alea protested. “If we don’t come down, sooner or later they’ll come up!”

“Then we’ll have to go down, won’t we?” Gar grinned at her.

“How?” she cried, exasperated. “Do you think we can just stroll past them?”

“No,” Gar said, “I think we’re going to leave the road.” He turned aside and ducked into the underbrush.

Alea glared after him, then sighed and followed.