The Wise Man's Fear

way that can be explained to another. The teaching of the Lethani is an art I do not possess. If Tempi has managed to instill the Lethani in you, it is a great mark in his favor.”

Vashet leaned forward seriously. “Part of the problem is with your language,” she said. “Aturan is very explicit. It is very precise and direct. Our language is rich with implication, so it is easier for us to accept the existence of things that cannot be explained. The Lethani is the greatest of these.”

“Can you give me an example of one other than the Lethani?” I asked. “And please don’t say ‘blue,’ or I might go absolutely mad right here on this bench.”

She thought for a moment. “Love is such a thing. You have knowledge of what it is, but it defies careful explication.”

“Love is a subtle concept,” I admitted. “It’s elusive, like justice, but it can be defined.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Do so then, my clever student. Tell me of love.”

I thought for a quick moment, then for a long moment.

Vashet grinned. “You see how easy it will be for me to pick holes in any definition you give.”

“Love is the willingness to do anything for someone,” I said. “Even at detriment to yourself.”

“In that case,” she said. “How is love different from duty or loyalty?”

“It is also combined with a physical attraction,” I said.

“Even a mother’s love?” Vashet asked.

“Combined with an extreme fondness then,” I amended.

“And what exactly do you mean by ‘fondness’?” she asked with a maddening calm.

“It is . . .” I trailed off, racking my brain to think how I could describe love without resorting to other, equally abstract terms.

“This is the nature of love.” Vashet said. “To attempt to describe it will drive a woman mad. That is what keeps poets scribbling endlessly away. If one could pin it to the paper all complete, the others would lay down their pens. But it cannot be done.”

She held up a finger. “But only a fool claims there is no such thing as love. When you see two young ones staring at each other with dewy eyes, there it is. So thick you can spread it on your bread and eat it. When you see a mother with her child, you see love. When you feel it roil in your belly, you know what it is. Even if you cannot give voice to it in words.”

Vashet made a triumphant gesture. “Thus also is the Lethani. But as it is greater, it is more difficult to point toward. That is the purpose of the questions. Asking them is like asking a young girl about the boy she fancies. Her answers may not use the word, but they reveal love or the lack of it within her heart.”

“How can my answers reveal a knowledge of the Lethani when I don’t truly know what it is?” I asked.

“You obviously understand the Lethani,” she said. “It is rooted deep inside you. Too deep for you to see. Sometimes it is the same with love.”

Vashet reached out and tapped me on the forehead. “As for this Spinning Leaf. I have heard of similar things practiced by other paths. There is no Aturan word for it that I know. It is like a Ketan for your mind. A motion you make with your thoughts, to train them.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “Either way, it is not cheating. It is a way of revealing that which is hidden in the deep waters of your mind. The fact that you found it on your own is quite remarkable.”

I nodded to her. “I bow to your wisdom, Vashet.”

“You bow to the fact that I am unarguably correct.”

She clapped her hands together. “Now, I have much to teach you. However, as you are still welted and flinching, let us forbear the Ketan. Show me your Ademic instead. I want to hear you wound my lovely language with your rough barbarian tongue.”

I learned a great deal about Ademic over the next several hours. It was refreshing to be able to ask detailed questions and receive clear, specific answers in return. After a month of dancing about and drawing in the dirt, learning from Vashet was so easy it felt dishonest.

On the other hand, Vashet made it clear that my hand-language was embarrassingly crude. I could get my point across, but what I was doing was, at best, baby talk. At worst, it resembled the rantings of a deranged maniac.

“Right now you speak like this.” She got to her feet, waved both hands over her head, and pointed to herself with both thumbs. “I want to make good fight.” She gave a wide, insipid grin. “With sword!” She thumped her chest with both fists, then jumped into the air like an excited child.

“Come now,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m not that bad.”

“You are close,” Vashet said seriously as she sat back down on the bench. “If you were my son, I would not let you leave the house. As my student, it is only tolerable because you are a barbarian. It’s as if Tempi brought home a dog that can whistle. The fact that you are out of tune stands quite beside the point.”

Vashet made as if she would get to her feet. “That said, if you are happy speaking like a simpleton, just say the word and we can move to other things. . . .”

I reassured her I wanted to learn.

“First, you say too much, and you speak too loudly,” she said. “The heart of Adem is stillness and silence. Our language reflects this.

“Second, you must be much more careful with your gestures,” she said. “With their placement and timing. They modify specific words and thoughts. They do not always reinforce what you say, sometimes they run purposely counter to your surface meaning.”

She made seven or eight different gestures in quick succession. All of them said amusement, but each of them was slightly different. “You must also come to understand the fine shades of meaning. The difference between slim and slender, as my poet king used to say. Right now you only have one smile, and that cannot help but make a person look a fool.”

We worked for several hours, and Vashet made clear something Tempi could only hint at. Aturan was like a wide, shallow pool; it had many words, all very specific and precise. Ademic was like a deep well. There were fewer words, but they each had many meanings. A well-spoken sentence in Aturan is a straight line pointing. A well- spoken sentence in Adem is like a spiderweb, each strand with a meaning of its own, a piece of something greater, more complex.

I arrived in the dining hall for supper in a considerably better mood than before. My welts still stung, but my fingers told me the swelling on my cheek was much reduced. I still sat alone, but I didn’t keep my head down as I had before. Instead I watched the hands of everyone around me, trying to note the subtle shades of difference between excitement and interest, between denial and refusal.

After supper, Vashet brought a small pot of salve which she smeared liberally across my back and upper arms, then more sparingly on my face. It tingled at first, then burned, then settled down to a dull, numb heat. Only after the pain along my back faded did I realize how tense my entire body had been.

“There,” Vashet said, twisting the stopper back into the bottle. “How is that?”

“I could kiss you,” I said gratefully.

“You could,” she said. “But your lip is swollen, and you would doubtless make a mess of it. Instead, show me your Ketan.”

I hadn’t stretched, but not wanting to make excuses, I fell into Open Hands and began to move slowly through the rest.

As I’ve already mentioned, Tempi usually stopped me when I made the slightest mistake in the Ketan. So when I reached the twelfth position without interruption, I felt rather smug. Then I misplaced my foot badly in Grandmother Gathers. When Vashet said nothing, I realized she was merely watching and withholding judgment until the end. I began to sweat, and didn’t stop until I reached the end of the Ketan ten minutes later.

After I’d finished, Vashet stood stroking her chin. “Well,” she said slowly. “It certainly could be worse . . .” I felt a flicker of pride until she continued. “You could, for instance, be missing a leg.”

Then she walked in a circle around me, looking me up and down. She reached out to prod at my chest and stomach. She gripped at my upper arm and the thick muscle above my leg. I felt like a suckling pig brought to market.