The Wise Man's Fear

“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