The Wise Man's Fear

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN His Sharp and Single Arrow

Reluctantly, I took Vashet’s advice. And though my fingers itched for it, I did not bring out my lute that night and fill my small corner of the school with music. I even went so far as to slide my lute case underneath my bed, lest the mere sight of it fill the school with rumor.

For several days I did little but study under Vashet. I ate alone and made no attempt to speak with anyone, as I was suddenly self-conscious of my language. Carceret kept her distance, but she was always there, watching me, her eyes flat and angry as a snake’s.

I took advantage of Vashet’s excellent Aturan and asked a thousand questions that would have been too subtle for Tempi to understand.

I waited three entire days until I asked her the question that had been slowly smoldering inside me since I’d climbed the foothill of the Stormwal. Personally, I thought this showed exceptional restraint.

“Vashet,” I asked. “Do your people have stories of the Chandrian?”

She looked at me, her normally expressive face gone suddenly impassive. “And what does this have to do with your hand-talk?” Her hand flickered through several different variations of the gesture that indicated disapproval and reproach.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Does it have something to do with your fighting, then?” she asked.

“No,” I admitted. “But—”

“Surely it relates to the Ketan?” Vashet said. “Or to the Lethani? Or perhaps it touches on some subtle shade of meaning you have difficulty grasping in Ademic.”

“I am merely curious.”

Vashet sighed. “Can I persuade you to focus your curiosity on more pressing matters?” She asked, gesturing exasperated. Firm rebuke.

I quickly let the matter drop. Not only was Vashet my teacher, she was my only companion. The last thing I wanted to do was irritate her, or give the impression that I was less than attentive to her lessons.

With that one disappointing exception, Vashet was a sparkling font of information. She answered my endless questions quickly and clearly. As a result, I couldn’t help but feel that my skill in speaking and fighting was progressing in great leaps and bounds.

Vashet did not share my enthusiasm, and was not bashful about saying so. Eloquently. In two languages.

Vashet and I were down in the hidden valley that contained the sword tree. We had been practicing our hand fighting for about an hour, and were now sitting in the long grass, catching our breath.

Rather, I was catching my breath. Vashet was not winded at all. Fighting me was nothing to her, and there was no time when she couldn’t chide me for sloppiness by reaching lazily past my defenses to cuff me on the side of the head.

“Vashet,” I said, mustering the courage to ask a question that had been bothering me for some time. “May I ask a question that is perhaps presumptuous?”

“I prefer a presumptuous student,” she said. “I had hoped we were beyond the point of worrying about such things.”

“What is the purpose of all of this?” I gestured between the two of us.

“The purpose of this,” she mimicked my gesture, “is to teach you enough so that you no longer fight like a little boy, drunk on his mother’s wine.”

Today her sandy hair was tied in two short braids that hung down her back on either side of her neck. This made her look oddly girlish, and had not done wonders for my self-esteem over the last hour as she had repeatedly thrown me to the ground, forced me into submission, and struck me with countless solid but generously pulled punches and kicks.

And once, laughing, she had stepped easily behind me and slapped me firmly on the ass, as if she were a lecherous taproom drunk and I some low-bodiced serving girl.

“But why?” I asked. “To what purpose are you teaching me? If Tempi was wrong to teach me, why continue to teach me more?”

Vashet nodded approvingly. “I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to ask that,” she said. “It should have been one of your first questions.”

“I’ve been told I ask too many questions,” I said. “I’ve been trying to step a little more carefully here.”

Vashet sat forward, suddenly businesslike. “You know things you should not. Shehyn does not mind that you know of the Lethani, though others feel differently. But there is agreement on the subject of our Ketan. It is not for barbarians. It is only for the Adem, and only for those who follow the path of the sword tree.”

Vashet continued, “Shehyn’s thought is thus. If you were part of the school, you would be part of Ademre. If you are part of Ademre, you are no longer a barbarian. And if you are no longer a barbarian, it would not be wrong for you to know these things.”

It had a certain convoluted logic to it. “That also means Tempi would not be wrong for teaching me.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Instead of bringing home an unwanted puppy, it would be as if he had returned a lost lamb to the fold.”

“Must I be a lamb or a puppy?” I sighed. “It’s undignified.”

“You fight as a puppy fights,” she said. “Eager and clumsy.”

“But aren’t I already part of the school?” I asked. “You are teaching me, after all.”

Vashet shook her head. “You sleep in the school and eat our food, but that does not make you a student. Many children study the Ketan with hopes of entering the school and someday wearing the red. They live and study with us. They are in the school, but not of the school, if you follow me.”

“It seems odd to me that so many want to become mercenaries,” I said as gently as possible.

“You seem eager enough,” she said with an edge to her voice.

“I am eager to learn,” I said, “not take the life of a mercenary. I mean no offense.”

Vashet stretched her neck, working out some stiffness. “It is your language getting in the way. In the barbarian lands, mercenaries are the lowest rung of society. No matter how thick or useless a man might be, he can carry a cudgel and earn a ha’penny a day guarding a caravan. Am I right?”

“The lifestyle does tend to attract a rough sort of person,” I said.

“We are not mercenaries of that kind. We are paid, but we choose which jobs we take.” She paused. “If you fight for your purse, you are a mercenary. What are you called if you fight out of duty for your country?”

“A soldier.”

“If you fight for the law?”

“A constable or a bailiff.”

“If you fight for your reputation?”

I had to think a bit on that one. “A duelist, perhaps?”

“If you fight for the good of others?”

“An Amyr,” I said without thinking.

She cocked her head at me. “That is an interesting choice,” she said.

Vashet held up her arm, displaying the red sleeve proudly. “We Adem are paid to guard, to hunt, to protect. We fight for our land and our school and our reputations. And we fight for the Lethani. With the Lethani. In the Lethani. All of these things together. The Adem word for one who takes the red is Cethan.” She looked up at me. “And it is a very proud thing.”

“So becoming a mercenary is quite high on the Adem social ladder,” I said.

She nodded. “But barbarians do not know this word, and wouldn’t understand even if they did. So ‘mercenary’ must suffice.”

Vashet pulled two long strands of grass from the ground and began to twist them together into a cord. “This is why Shehyn’s decision is not an easy one to make. She must balance what is right against what is best for her school. All the while taking into consideration the good of the entire path of the sword tree. Rather than make a rash decision, she is playing a more patient game. Personally, I think she’s hoping the problem will take care of itself.”

“How would this take care of itself?” I asked.

“You could have run off,” she said simply. “Many assumed you would. If I’d decided you were not worth teaching, that would have taken it out of her hands as well. Or you could die during your training, or become crippled.”

I stared at her.

She shrugged. “Accidents happen. Not often, but sometimes. If Carceret had been your teacher . . .”

I grimaced. “So how does one officially become a member of the school? Is there some sort of test?”

She shook her head, “First, someone must stand on your behalf, saying you are worthy of joining the school.”

“Tempi?” I asked.

“Someone of consequence,” she clarified.

“So that would be you,” I said slowly.

Vashet grinned, tapping the side of her crimped nose, then pointing at me. “Only took you two guesses. If you ever progress to the point I feel you won’t embarrass me, I’ll stand on your behalf and you can take the test.”

She continued to twist the blades of grass together, her hands moving in a steady, complicated pattern. I’d never seen another Adem idly toy with something like this while talking. They couldn’t, of course. They needed one hand free to talk. “If you pass this test, you are no longer a barbarian. Tempi is vindicated, and everyone goes home happy. Except for those who aren’t, of course.”

“And if I don’t pass this test?” I asked. “Or what if you decide I’m not good enough to take it?”

“Then things grow complicated.” She came to her feet. “Come, Shehyn has asked to speak with you today. It would not be polite of us to be late.”

Vashet led the way back to the small cluster of low stone buildings. When I’d first seen them I’d assumed they were the town itself. Now I knew they composed the school. The group of buildings was like a tiny University, except there was none of the scheduled regimen I was used to.

There was no formal ranking system, either. Those with their reds were treated with deference, and Shehyn was obviously in charge. Other than that, all I had was a vague impression of a social pecking order. Tempi was obviously rather low and not well-thought-of. Vashet was rather high and respected.

When we arrived for our meeting, Shehyn was midway through performing the Ketan. I watched silently as she moved at the speed of honey spreading on a tabletop. The Ketan grows more difficult the slower it is done, but she performed it flawlessly.

It took her half an hour to finish, after which she opened a window. A curl of wind brought in the sweet smell of summer grass and the sound of leaves.

Shehyn sat. She wasn’t breathing hard, though a sheen of sweat covered her skin. “Did Tempi tell you of the nine-and-ninety tales?” she asked without preamble. “Of Aethe and the beginning of the Adem?”

I shook my head.

“Good,” Shehyn said. “It is not his place to do such a thing, and he could not do it properly.” She looked at Vashet. “How is language coming?”

“Quickly, as these things go,” she said. However.

“Very well,” Shehyn said, switching to precise, slightly accented Aturan. “I will tell it like this, so there will be less interruption, and less room for misunderstanding.”

I did my best to gesture respectful gratitude.

“This is a story of years ago,” Shehyn said formally. “Before this school. Before the path of the sword tree. Before any Adem knew of the Lethani. This is a story of the beginning of such things.

“The first Adem school was not a school that taught sword-work. Surprisingly, it was founded by a man named Aethe who sought mastery over the arrow and the bow.”

Shehyn paused in her tale and gave a word of explanation. “You should know that in those days, use of the bow was very common. The skill of it was much prized. We were shepherds, and much set on by our enemies, and the bow was the best tool we had to defend ourselves.”

Shehyn leaned back in her chair and continued. “Aethe did not set out to found a school. There were no schools in those days. He merely sought to improve his skill. All his will he bent upon this, until he could shoot an apple from a tree one hundred feet away. Then he strove until he could shoot the wick of a burning candle. Soon the only target that challenged him was a piece of hanging silk blowing in the wind. Aethe strove until he could anticipate the turning of the wind, and once he had mastered this thing, he could not miss.

“Stories of his talent spread, and others came to him. Among them was a young woman named Rethe. At first Aethe doubted she possessed the strength to draw the bow. But she was soon regarded as his finest student.

“As I have said, this was long years and distant miles from where we sit. In those days, the Adem did not have the Lethani to guide us, and so it was a rough and bloody time. In those days it was not uncommon for one Adem to kill another out of pride, or from an argument, or as a proof of skill.

“Since Aethe was the greatest of archers, many challenged him. But a body is nothing of a target when one can strike silk blowing in the wind. Aethe slew them easily as cutting wheat. He took only a single arrow with him to a duel, and claimed if that single arrow was not enough, he deserved to be struck down.

“Aethe grew older, and his fame spread. He put down roots and began the first of the Adem schools. Years passed, and he trained many Adem to be deadly as knives. It became well known that if you gave Aethe’s students three arrows and three coins, your three worst enemies would never bother you again.

“So the school grew rich and famous and proud. And so did Aethe.

“It was then that Rethe came to him. Rethe, his best student. Rethe who stood nearest his ear and closest to his heart.

“Rethe spoke to Aethe, and they disagreed. Then they argued. Then they shouted loud enough that all the school could hear it through the thick stone walls.

“And at the end of it, Rethe challenged Aethe to a duel. Aethe accepted, and it was known that the winner would control the school from that day forth.

“As the challenged, Aethe chose his place first. He chose to stand among a grove of young and swaying trees that gave him shifting cover. Normally he would not bother with precautions such as this, but Rethe was his finest student, and she could read the wind just as well as he. He took with him his bow of horn. He took with him his sharp and single arrow.

“Then Rethe chose her place to stand. She walked to the top of a high hill, her outline clear against the naked sky. She carried neither bow nor arrow. And when she reached the top of the hill, she sat calmly on the ground. This was perhaps the oddest thing of all, as Aethe was known to sometimes strike a foe through the leg rather than kill them.

“Aethe saw his student do this, and he was filled with anger. Aethe took his single arrow and fitted it to his bow. Aethe drew the string against his ear. The string Rethe had made for him, woven from the long, strong strands of her own hair.”

Shehyn met my eye. “Full of anger, Aethe shot his arrow. It struck Rethe like a thunderbolt. Here.” She pointed with two fingers at the inner curve of her left breast.

“Still seated, arrow sprouting from her chest, Rethe drew a long ribbon of white silk from beneath her shirt. She took a white feather from the arrow’s fletching, dipped it in her blood, and wrote four lines of poetry.

“Then Rethe held the ribbon aloft for a long moment, waiting as the wind pulled first one way, then another. Then Rethe loosed it, the silk twisting through the air, rising and falling on the breeze. The ribbon twisted in the wind, wove its way through the trees, and pressed itself firmly against Aethe’s chest.

“It read:

I heard a low noise and looked over to see Vashet weeping quietly to herself. Her head was lowered, and tears ran down her face to drip deeper spots of red onto the front of her shirt.

Shehyn continued. “Only after Aethe read these lines did he recognize the deep wisdom his student possessed. He hurried to tend Rethe’s wounds, but the head of the arrow was lodged too close to her heart to be removed.

“Rethe lived only three days after that, with the grief-stricken Aethe tending her. He gave her control of the school, and listened to her words, all the while the head of the arrow riding close to her heart.

“During those days, Rethe dictated nine-and-ninety stories, and Aethe wrote them down. These tales were the beginning of our understanding of the Lethani. They are the root of all Ademre.

“Late in the third day Rethe finished telling the ninety-ninth story to Aethe, who now held himself to be his student’s student. After Aethe finished writing, Rethe said to him, ‘There is one final story, more important than all the rest, and that one shall be known when I awake.’

“Then Rethe closed her eyes and slept. And sleeping, she died.

“Aethe lived forty years after that, and it is said he never killed again. In the years that followed, he was often heard to say, ‘I won the only duel I ever lost.’

“He continued to run the school and train his students to be masters of the bow. But now he also trained them to be wise. He told them the nine-and-ninety tales, and thus it was the Lethani first came to be known by all Ademre. And that is how we came to be that which we are.”

There was a long pause.

“I thank you, Shehyn,” I said doing my best to gesture respectful gratitude. “I would very much like to hear these nine-and-ninety stories.”

“They are not for barbarians,” she said. But she didn’t seem offended at my request, gesturing a combination of reproach and regret. She changed the subject. “How is your Ketan coming?”

“I struggle to improve, Shehyn.”

She turned to Vashet. “Does he?”

“There is certainly struggle,” Vashet said, her eyes still red with tears. Wry amusement. “But there is improvement, too.”

Shehyn nodded. Reserved approval. “Several of us will be fighting tomorrow. Perhaps you could bring him to watch.”

Vashet made an elegant motion that made me appreciate how little I knew of the subtleties of hand-language: Gracious thankful slightly submissive acceptance.

“You should be flattered,” Vashet said cheerfully. “A conversation with Shehyn and an invitation to watch her fight.”

We were making our way back to a sheltered box valley where we typically practiced the Ketan and our hand fighting.

However, my mind kept spinning back to several unavoidable and unpleasant thoughts. I was thinking about secrets and how people longed to keep them. I wondered what Kilvin would do if I brought someone into the Fishery and showed them the sygaldry for blood and bone and hair.

The thought of the big artificer’s anger was enough to make me shiver. I knew the sort of trouble I would face. That was clearly laid out in the University’s laws. But what would he do to the person I had taught these things to?

Vashet slapped my chest with the back of her hand to get my attention. “I said you should be flattered,” she repeated.

“I am,” I said.

She took hold of my shoulder, turning me to face her. “You’ve gone all pensive on me.”

“What will be done with Tempi if all of this ends badly?” I asked bluntly.

Her cheerful expression faded. “His reds will be taken away, and his sword, and his name, and he will be cut away from the Latantha.” She drew a slow breath. “It is unlikely any other school would take him after such a thing, so this would effectively exile him from all Ademre.”

“But exile won’t work for me,” I said. “Forcing me back into the world would only make the problem worse, wouldn’t it?”

Vashet didn’t say anything.

“When all of this started,” I said. “You encouraged me to leave. If I had run, would I have been allowed to go?”

There was a long silence that told me the truth of it. But she said it aloud, too. “No.”

I appreciated not being lied to about it. “And what is my punishment to be?” I asked. “Imprisonment?” I shook my head. “No. It’s not practical to keep me locked up here for years.” I looked up at her. “So what?”

“Punishment is not our concern,” she said. “You are a barbarian, after all. You did not know you were doing anything wrong. The main concern is to prevent you from teaching others what you have stolen, to keep you from using it to your own profit.”

She hadn’t answered my question. I gave her a long look.

“Some say killing you would be the best way,” she said frankly. “But most believe killing is not in keeping with the Lethani. Shehyn is among these. As am I.”

I relaxed slightly, that was something at least. “And I don’t suppose a promise on my part would reassure anyone?”

She gave me a sympathetic smile. “It speaks well of you that you came back with Tempi. And you stayed when I tried to drive you away. But the promise of a barbarian amounts for little in this.”

“What then?” I asked, suspecting the answer and knowing I wasn’t going to like it.

She took a deep breath. “You could be prevented from teaching by removing your tongue or putting out your eyes,” she said frankly. “To keep you from using the Ketan you might be hobbled. Your ankle tendon cut, or the knee of your favored leg lamed.” She shrugged. “But one can still be a good fighter even with a damaged leg. So it would be more effective to remove the two smallest fingers from your right hand. This would be . . .”

Vashet kept speaking in her matter-of-fact tone. I think she intended it to be reassuring, calming. But it had the opposite effect. All I could think of was her cutting off my fingers as calmly as you would pare away a piece of apple. Everything grew bright around the edges of my vision, and the vivid mental picture made my stomach roll over. I thought for a moment I might be sick.

The light-headedness and nausea passed. As I came to my senses, I realized Vashet had finished talking and was staring at me.

Before I could say anything, she waved a hand dismissively. “I see I will get no more use of you today. Take the rest of the evening for yourself. Get your thoughts in order or practice the Ketan. Go watch the sword tree. Tomorrow we will continue.”

I walked aimlessly for a while, trying not to think about my fingers being cut away. Then, coming over a hill, I stumbled almost literally onto a naked Adem couple tucked away in a grove of trees.

They didn’t scramble for their clothes when I burst out of the trees, and rather than try to apologize with my poor language and fuddled wits, I simply turned and left, face burning with embarrassment.

I tried to practice the Ketan but couldn’t keep my mind on it. I went to watch the sword tree, and for a while the sight of it moving gracefully in the wind calmed me. Then my mind drifted and I was confronted with the image of Vashet paring off my fingers again.

I heard the three high bells and went to dinner. I was standing in line, half stupid with the mental effort of not thinking of someone maiming my hands, when I noticed the Adem standing nearby were staring at me. A young girl of about ten wore an expression of open amazement on her face, and a man in his mercenary reds looked at me as if he had just seen me wipe my ass with a piece of bread and eat it.

Only then did I realize I was humming. Not loud, exactly, but loud enough for those nearby to hear. I couldn’t have been doing it for long, as I was only six lines into “Leave the Town, Tinker.”

I stopped, then lowered my eyes, took my food, and spent ten minutes trying to eat. I managed a few bites, but that was all. Eventually I gave up and headed to my room.

I lay in bed, running through the options in my mind. How far could I run? Could I lose myself in the surrounding countryside? Could I steal a horse? Had I even seen a horse since I’d been in Haert?

I brought out my lute and practiced my chording a bit, all five of my clever fingers flicking up and down the long neck of the lute. But my right hand ached to strum and pick notes from the strings. It was as frustrating as trying to kiss someone using only one lip, and I soon gave up.

At last I brought out my shaed and wrapped it around myself. It was warm and comforting. I drew the hood over my head as far as it would go and thought of the dark piece of Fae where Felurian had gathered its shadows.

I thought of the University, of Wil and Sim. Of Auri and Devi and Fela. I had never been popular at the University, and my circle of friends had never seemed particularly large. But the truth was I’d simply forgotten what it was like to be truly alone.

I thought of my family then. I thought of the Chandrian, of Cinder. His fluid grace. His sword held easy in his hand like a piece of winter ice. I thought of killing him.

I thought of Denna and what the Cthaeh had told me. I thought of her patron and the things I had said during our fight. I thought about the time she had slipped on the road and I had caught her, how the gentle curve above her hip had felt against my hand. I thought about the shape of her mouth, the sound of her voice, the smell of her hair.

And, eventually, I stepped softly through the doors of sleep.