The Wise Man's Fear

As Vashet approached, the first thing I noticed was that she didn’t wear her sword on her hip. Instead she slung it over her shoulder, just as I carried my lute. She walked with the most subtle, solid confidence I have ever seen, as if she knew she ought to swagger, but couldn’t quite be bothered.

She had the same moderate build I’d come to expect from the Adem along with the pale, creamy complexion and grey eyes. Her hair was lighter than Tempi’s by a fine shade, and she wore it pulled back into a horsetail. When she came closer, I could see her nose had been broken at some point, and while it wasn’t crooked, the slight crimp looked strangely incongruous on her otherwise delicate face.

Vashet smiled at me, a wide pink smile that showed her white teeth. “So,” she said in flawless Aturan. “You are mine now.”

“You speak Aturan,” I said stupidly.

“Most of us do,” she said. There were a few lines around the mouth and the corners of her eyes, so I guessed she was perhaps ten years older than me. “It’s hard to make your way in the world if you don’t have a good grip on the language. Hard to do business.”

I remembered myself too late. Formal. Respect. “Am I correct in assuming you are Vashet?”

The smile tugged back onto her mouth. Vashet returned my gesture broadly, exaggerating it so I couldn’t help but feel I was being mocked. “I am. I am to be your teacher.”

“What of Shehyn? I understood she was the teacher here.”

Vashet arched an eyebrow at me, the extravagant expression startling on an Adem face. “In a general sense that is true. But in a more practical sense, Shehyn is far too important to be spending her time with someone like you.”

I gestured, polite. “I was quite happy with Tempi,” I said.

“And if your happiness were our goal, that might matter,” she said. “However, Tempi is closer to being a sailboat than a teacher.”

I bristled a little at that. “He is my friend, you realize.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then as his friend you may fail to realize his faults. He is a competent fighter, but no more than that. He barely speaks your language, has little experience with the real world, and, to be completely frank, he is not terribly bright.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Regret. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Don’t show me humility unless you mean it,” she said, still looking me over with narrow eyes. “Even when you make your face a mask, your eyes are like glittering windows.”

“I am sorry,” I said earnestly. Apology. “I’d hoped to make a good first impression.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I would rather you thought well of me.”

“I would rather have reason to think well of you.”

I decided to take another tack, hoping to steer the conversation into safer water. “Tempi called you the Hammer. Why is that?”

“That is my name. Vashet. The Hammer. The Clay. The Spinning Wheel.” She pronounced her name three separate ways, each with its own cadence. “I am that which shapes and sharpens, or destroys.”

“Why the clay?”

“That is also what I am,” Vashet said. “Only that which bends can teach.”

I felt a growing excitement as she spoke, “I will admit,” I said. “It will be pleasant to share a language with my teacher. There are a thousand questions I have not asked because I knew Tempi could not understand. Or even if he did, I wouldn’t be able to make sense of his answers.”

Vashet nodded and sat down on one of the benches. “Knowing how to communicate is also the way of a teacher,” she said. “Now, go find a long piece of wood and bring it back to me. Then we will begin the lesson.”

I headed off into the trees. Her request had a ritual air about it, so I didn’t want to run back with any odd branch I found on the ground. Eventually I found a willow tree and snapped off a supple branch longer than my arm and big around as my little finger.

I returned to where Vashet sat on the bench. I handed her the willow branch, and she pulled her sword over her shoulder and began to trim the smaller nubs of the remaining branches away.

“You said only that which bends can teach,” I said. “So I thought this would be appropriate.”

“It will serve for today’s lesson,” she said as she stripped the last of the bark away, leaving nothing but a slender white rod. She wiped her sword on her shirt, sheathed it, and came to her feet.

Holding the willow branch in one hand, Vashet swung it back and forth, making a low whop whop noise as it skimmed through the air.

Now that she was closer to me, I noticed that while Vashet wore the familiar mercenary reds, unlike Tempi and many of the others, her clothes weren’t held tight with leather straps. Her shirt and pants were bound snugly to her arms and legs and chest by bands of blood-red silk instead.

She met my eye. “I am going to hit you now,” she said seriously. “Stand still.”

Vashet began to walk around me in a slow circle, still swinging the willow rod. Whop whop. She moved behind me, and not being able to see her was worse. Whop whop. She swung the rod faster and the noise changed. Viiiip. Viiiip. I didn’t flinch.

She circled again, moved behind me, then hit me twice. Once on each arm just below the shoulder. Viiiip. Viiiip. At first it merely felt like she’d tapped me, then pain blossomed across my arms, blazing like fire.

Then, before I could react, she struck me across the back so hard I felt the impact in my teeth. The only reason the rod didn’t break is because it was supple green willow.

I didn’t cry out, but only because she had caught me between breaths. I gasped though, sucking in air so quickly I choked and coughed. My back screamed with pain as if it had been set afire.

She came around to the front of me again, giving me that same serious look. “Here is your lesson,” she said matter-of-factly. “I do not think well of you. You are a barbarian. You are not clever. You are not welcome. You do not belong here. You are a thief of our secrets. Your presence is an embarrassment and a complication this school does not need.”

Vashet contemplated the end of the willow rod, then turned her eyes back to me. “We will meet here again, an hour after lunch. You will pick another stick, and I will try to teach you this lesson again.” She gave me a pointed look. “If the stick you bring me does not please me, I will choose my own.

“We will do the same after dinner. Then the same the next day. This is the only lesson I have to teach you. When you learn it, you will leave Haert and never return.” She looked at me, her face cool. “Do you understand?”

“What will—” Her hand flicked out, and the tip of the rod caught me on the cheek. This time I had the breath for it, and I gave a high, startled yelp.

Vashet looked at me. I’d never thought anything so simple as eye contact could be so intimidating. But her pale grey eyes were hard as ice. “Say to me, ‘Yes, Vashet. I understand.’ ”

I glared. “Yes, Vashet. I understand.” The right side of my upper lip felt huge and unwieldy as I spoke.

She searched my face, as if trying to decide something, then shrugged and tossed the stick aside.

Only then did I risk speaking again. “What would happen to Tempi if I were to leave?”

“When you leave,” she said, stressing the first word. “The few that doubt it will know he was wrong to teach you. Doubly wrong to bring you here.”

“And what will . . .” I paused and backtracked. “What would become of him in that case?”

She shrugged and turned away. “That is not for me to decide,” she said, and walked away.

I touched my cheek and lip, then looked at my hand. No blood, but I could feel the red welt rising on my skin, plain as a brand for anyone to see.

Not sure what else I should do, I returned to the school for lunch. After making my way to the dining hall, I looked around but didn’t see Tempi among the blood-red mercenaries there. I was glad for that. As much as I