The Wise Man's Fear

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 Upward, 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