The Wise Man's Fear

Faeriniel was a great crossroads, but there was no inn where the roads met. Instead there were clearings in the trees where travelers would set their camps and pass the night.

Once, years ago and miles away, five groups of travelers came to Faeriniel. They chose their clearings and lit their fires as the sun began to set, pausing on their way from here to there.

Later, after the sun had set and night was settled firmly in the sky, an old beggar in a tattered robe came walking down the road. He moved with slow care, leaning on a walking stick.

The old man was going from nowhere to nowhere. He had no hat for his head and no pack for his back. He had not a penny or a purse to put it in. He barely even owned his own name, and even that had been worn thin and threadbare through the years.

If you’d asked him who he was, he would have said, “Nobody.” But he would have been wrong.

The old man made his way into Faeriniel. He was hungry as a dry fire and weary to his bones. All that kept him moving was the hope that someone might give him a bit of dinner and a piece of their fire.

So when the old man saw firelight flickering, he left the road and made his weary way toward it. Soon he saw four tall horses through the trees. Silver was worked into their harness and silver was mixed with the iron of their shoes. Nearby the beggar saw a dozen mules laden with goods: woolen cloth, cunning jewelry, and fine steel blades.

But what caught the beggar’s attention was the side of meat above the fire, steaming and dripping fat onto the coals. He almost fainted at the sweet smell of it, for he had been walking all day with nothing to eat but a handful of acorns and a bruised apple he’d found by the side of the road.

Stepping into the clearing, the old beggar called out to the three dark-bearded men who sat around the fire. “Halloo,” he said. “Can you spare a bit of meat and a piece of your fire?”

They turned, their gold chains glittering in the firelight. “Certainly,” their leader said. “What do you have with you? Bits or pennies? Rings or strehlaum? Or do you have the true-ringing Cealdish coin we prize above all others?”

“I have none of these,” the old beggar said, opening his hands to show they were empty.

“Then you will find no comfort here,” they said, and as he watched they began to carve thick pieces from the haunch that hung by the fire.

“No offense, Wilem. It’s just how the story goes.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked like you were going to.”

“I may. But it will wait until after.”

The old man walked on, following the light of another fire through the trees.

“Halloo!” the old beggar called out as he stepped into the second clearing. He tried to sound cheerful, though he was weary and sore. “Can you spare a bit of meat and a piece of your fire?”

There were four travelers there, two men and two women. At the sound of his voice they rose to their feet, but none of them spoke. The old man waited politely, trying to appear pleasant and harmless. But the quiet stretched on, long as long, and still no word was spoken.

Understandably, the old man grew irritated. He was used to being shunned or shrugged aside, but these folk merely stood. They were quiet and restless, moving from foot to foot while their hands twitched nervously.

Just as he was about to sulk away, the fire flared and the beggar saw the four wore the blood-red clothes that marked them as Adem mercenaries. Then the old man understood. The Adem are called the silent folk, and they speak only rarely.

The old man knew many stories of the Adem. He’d heard that they possessed a secret craft called the Lethani. This let them wear their quiet like an armor that would turn a blade or stop an arrow in the air. This is why they seldom spoke. They saved their words, keeping them inside like coals in the belly of a furnace.

Those hoarded words filled them with so much restless energy that they could never be completely still, which is why they were always twitching and fidgeting about. Then when they fought, they used their secret craft to burn those words like fuel inside themselves. This made them strong as bears and fast as snakes.

When the beggar first heard these rumors, he thought them silly campfire stories. But years ago in Modeg, he had seen an Adem woman fight the city guard. The soldiers were armed and armored, thick of arm and chest. They had demanded to see the woman’s sword in the king’s name, and though hesitant, she presented it to them. As soon as they held it in their hands, they had leered and pawed at her, making lewd suggestions about what she could do to get it back.

They were tall men with bright armor and their swords were sharp. They fell like autumn wheat before her. She killed three of them, breaking their bones with her hands.

Her own wounds were minor by comparison, a dark bruise along one cheek, a slight limp, a shallow cut across one hand. Even after all the long years, the old man remembered the way she had licked the blood from the back of her hand like a cat.

This is what the old beggar thought of when he saw the Adem standing there. All thought of food and fire left him, and he backed slowly into the shelter of the surrounding trees.

Then he set off toward the next fire, hoping third time would prove lucky.

At this clearing were a number of Aturans standing around a dead donkey lying near a cart. One of them spotted the old man. “Look!” he pointed. “Grab him! We’ll hitch him to the cart and make him pull!”

The old man darted back into the trees, and after running to and fro, he lost the Aturans by hiding under a pile of moldering leaves.

When the sound of the Aturans faded, the old man dragged himself from the leaves and found his walking stick. Then, with the courage of one who is poor and hungry, he set off to the fourth fire he saw in the distance.

There he might have found what he was looking for, because around the fire were traders from Vintas. Had things been different they might have welcomed him to dinner, saying, “Where six can eat, seven can eat.”

But by this point the old man was quite a sight. His hair stuck from his head in wild disarray. His robe, ragged before, was now torn and dirty. His face was pale from fright, and his breathing groaned and wheezed in his chest.

Because of this, the Vints gasped and made gestures before their faces. They thought he was a barrow draug, you see, one of the unquiet dead that superstitious Vints believe walk the night.

Each of the Vints had a different thought as to how they could stop him. Some thought fire would frighten him off, some thought salt scattered on the grass would keep him away, some thought iron would cut the strings that held the soul to his dead body.

Listening to them argue, the old beggar realized that no matter what they agreed on, he would not be the better for it. So he hurried back to the sheltering trees.

The old man found a rock to sit on and brushed the dead leaves and dirt away as best he could. After sitting for a while he thought to try one final campsite, knowing it would only take one generous traveler to fill his belly.

He was pleased to see a lone man sitting at the final fire. Coming closer, he saw a thing that left him both delighted and afraid, for though the beggar had lived many years, he had never before spoken to one of the Amyr.

Still, he knew the Amyr were a part of Tehlu’s church, and—

“They weren’t part of the church,” Wilem said.

“What? Of course they were.”

“No, they were of the Aturan bureaucracy. They had . . . Vecarum— judiciary powers.”

“They were called the Holy Order of Amyr. They were the strong right hand of the church.”

“Bet a jot?”

“Fine. If it will keep you quiet through the rest of the story.”

The old beggar was delighted, for he knew the Amyr were a part of Tehlu’s church, and the church was sometimes generous to the poor.

The Amyr came to his feet as the old man approached. “Who goes there?” he asked. His voice was proud and powerful, but also tired. “Know I am of the Order Amyr. None should come between me and my tasks. I will act for