“Perhaps .. . Yes, it lies therein.” Kitishane felt the comment strike home. “Am I so tenderhearted as that, Illbane, that I melt at the slightest sign that he can be hurt in his heart?”
“Yes,” Illbane said at once; and, “I wish you were not, maiden, for he has been hurt, often and deeply, and that is why he has grown so thick a skin and hidden his soft heart under a hide of spines.”
“Is his cruelty, then, nothing but a shield?” she asked, low-voiced.
“No. His cruelty began because he enjoyed the sense of power it gave him, then grew because no one punished him for it. Still, he had a sense of fairness—but I think that something happened when he was very young, something that made him believe that no one else really tried to deal fairly with him—no, neither him nor anyone else. Then, convinced that justice and mercy were lies, he had no reason to hold back from cruelty.”
“Is that what you are trying to do?” Kitishane stared up at him, unbelieving. “Trying to show him that someone will really give both justice and mercy?”
“That is a part of it—but before I can show that I will treat him fairly, I must show that I do not have to, or he will only believe my justice is a sign of weakness.”
“And as it is for justice, it must be ten times so for mercy.” Kitishane frowned. “So your cruelty to him is necessary?”
“Necessary for that, and to make it clear to him that there is one who will not permit him to be cruel to those weaker than himself. There will be time for mercy, and for more.” Illbane frowned at her. “And yourself, Kitishane—do you believe people can be fair? Do you believe in justice?”
She turned away, eyes on the fire again. “Believe in it, yes,” she said slowly, “though I've more often been treated unfairly than fairly. Still, I've seen other people given justice, so I know it is possible.”
“But that the strong will exploit the weak if they can?”
“If they can, yes.” Some bitterness entered her tone. “Culaehra was no surprise, in that.”
“Is that why you learned to fight—and wish to learn to fight better?”
“It is,” Kitishane said slowly. “I do not want to have to depend on a man for justice—the more so because I do not believe any man will defend me.”
“You have been used, then.”
“No,” Kitishane replied, “but only because I could fight, at least a little.”
“And because of that, they cast you out?”
Kitishane whirled to stare at him. “How did you know that?”
“Because you are here.” Illbane spread his hands. “Here, with Culaehra and Lua and Yocote and myself. I do not know why the gnomes left their homes, but I suspect that you will find that Lua fell because of injustice or exploitation, and Yocote followed her. Then, too, this is a harsh world, maiden, especially out here in the wild. No one would choose to go about in it alone, not without good reason—and most especially a young woman who feels the need to learn more about defending herself.”
Kitishane flushed and turned away. “I would rather take my chances with a wild bear than an overbearing boy.”
“The bear would kill you.”
“Better death than life-in-death.”
Illbane concluded that she had not yet seen death, at least not wanton death. “Well, then, Kitishane, I am glad that you travel with us. We all, it seems, have some stake in proving that justice is possible, and in helping it triumph.”
“Even Culaehra?” she asked, looking up again.
“Culaehra more than any,” Illbane affirmed, “for he has the need to feel justice triumph within him, whereas we others only feel the need to see it triumph without.” He smiled gently at her. “I think you see that in him, maiden—and I think that is what troubles you.”
She looked into his eyes and, after a moment, began to smile, too. “Not anymore, Illbane,” she said. “Not anymore.”
Chapter 8
Thwack! went the wand, and Culaehra bolted up, bawling like a calf under the prod. “Be still, unruly child!” Illbane bellowed. “Up with you, now, and march!”
“March? Where? Why?” Culaehra cried.
“Where and why are my concern, runny-nose! Haul up your pack and march!”
“But it is the middle of the night!”
“Closer to dawn than that, but deep enough, yes. What troubles you, swaddled babe? Do you fear the dark?”
“I fear nothing, you doddering dotard!” Culaehra shouted. “Now be off and let me sleep!” He turned back to his bed.
Thwack! The wand struck his legs again. “Up, I tell you!” Illbane cried. “Or shall I use a stouter stick?” He thrust the wand back in his belt and hefted his staff, glaring menace.
Culaehra met his gaze, and they held glare for glare for minutes. Then Culaehra broke the look, turning away with a snarl to take up his pack.
Illbane nodded brightly to the others. “This need not trouble you. Go back to sleep; we shall see you at daybreak.” And off he went into the darkness, driving Culaehra before him.
They watched him go, wide-eyed. Finally, Yocote said, “Do I dream it, or is there actually a tone of humor under Illbane's insults?”
“If you imagined it, I did, too,” Kitishane told him.
“Could there be some affection there, even?” Lua asked.
Yocote frowned. “How could there be?”
Kitishane thought Lua might have a point. All she said, though, was, “There is no reason for us to lose sleep over it, friends. Let us find our beds again.”
“Well said,” Yocote agreed, and they all lay down. But Kitishane lay awake after the gnomes had begun to breathe deeply and evenly, wondering about Culaehra—and almost feeling sorry for him.
They came back at dawn indeed, and Kitishane already had three pheasants turning on the spit. Culaehra staggered into the camp, dropped the packs, and sat down heavily by the fire, head hanging, breathing in deep, hoarse gasps. Kitishane felt sympathy spring and held out a cup of water brewed with herbs. Culaehra stared at it in surprise, then took it with a nod of thanks—but not, of course, a word—inhaled its vapors gratefully, then slurped.
“Where did he take you?” Kitishane asked, keeping her tone gentle.
“Nowhere,” Culaehra said in disgust. “He drove me onward and onward all night, and would not tell me where we were going or why. If I dared to protest, there was that blasted wand, and that accursed staff beside it! Then, as the sky lightened, I saw your campfire, then finally saw the camp itself!”
Now Kitishane stared, and the gnomes with her. “Marched half the night only to come back to where you started?” Yocote asked. “Why?”
“Why?” Culaehra snarled. “Ask some demon, if you wish—or ask Illbane; it comes to the same thing!”
Yocote frowned. “To you, perhaps.” But even he seemed unsure.
Kitishane frowned, too. “He does nothing without purpose, Culaehra.”
“Oh, I do not doubt that! But his purpose won't do me any good, I assure you!”
Kitishane eyed him, noticing that in their time with Illbane, Culaehra had lost fat; she did not doubt he had gained muscle— and surely this was the least unpleasant conversation they had ever had! He was actually talking to her, not snarling or blasting orders or shouting. She began to realize what Illbane's purpose might be—or some of it, anyway.
From then on Illbane repeated the exercise two or three times a week, always forcing Culaehra to carry all the baggage with him, never with the same number of days between, never predictably. Culaehra could never guess when, could only know that the wand would strike him in the middle of the night with Illbane roaring, “Up, slugabed!” and they would be off into the darkened wood—or plain, or mountain. He found himself going to bed already planning to be rousted out in the middle of the night, and began to take sleep whenever he could, to be ready for the next midnight excursion. This was fortunate, because Illbane never allowed Culaehra more than six hours' sleep a night, and frequently only two or three.
/> Finally, when Culaehra was weaving on his feet as he climbed a slope and Illbane struck him with the wand, Culaehra turned about, dropping the baggage and bawling, “How am I to manage when I am half asleep on my feet?”
Illbane stilled, looking up the slope at the big man.
“It isn't really fair, Illbane,” Kitishane said, softly enough so that she hoped the outlaw could not hear. “He cannot work for you without sleep.”
“Well, then, we'll teach you how to fall into the shaman's trance. Sit down, since you've dropped your packs already.”
“What—right here?” Culaehra looked about him in disbelief.
“Some places are better than others, but any place will do. Sit with your back against a rock—there, that's good enough.”
“Where's the rock behind yours?” Culaehra grunted.
“I no longer need it, Culaehra; my back knows it is there even when it is not. Now fold your legs and sit with your back straight. Think of a string of beads, hanging straight down from a hand. Let your backbone be like that string .. .”
“What are we doing, anyway?” the big man groused, even as he imitated Illbane's position.
“We are bringing your mind into calmness and stillness, so that the energy that is all about you can flow into you, and revive you as if you had slept. It will not renew your body as fully as real sleep, but it is better than nothing.”
“Is that its only purpose?”
Illbane turned to see the source of the voice, and saw Yocote sitting cross-legged beside him, back straight against a slab of rock, legs folded. Illbane smiled. “No, Yocote, that is only the most obvious of its effects, and the only one that a man of action will truly need, or understand. Even for that, it will not serve in place of sleep if you do not also cast a spell, but it is so simple that anyone can cast it—if he has the favor of a deity who will work it for him.”
“More a prayer than a spell, then,” the gnome said, frowning.
“If you wish. My prayer is, 'Rahani is in my heart, and I in hers.' “
“But Rahani is dead!” Kitishane protested. “All the old gods are dead!”
Illbane sat very still for a few minutes, and her heart rose into her throat for fear she had offended him. At last, though, he said only, “Rahani, at least, is very much alive, I assure you.”
“Shall we say her prayer, then?” Yocote asked.
“Only if she is your goddess—and if you did not know she lived, then she is not. Recite a prayer to your own god—but be sure it is short, only one sentence, so that you may recite it over and over.”
Slowly, Kitishane sat cross-legged, hands in her lap.
“I thought this was to be my magic!” Culaehra protested.
Illbane gave him a long, level look, then said, “There will be other magics for you alone, for not everyone can cast a warrior's spells. This, though, is open to everyone. Come, now, recite your prayer, and calm your mind.”
There was more, quite a bit more, but soon enough, all of them sat still as statues, their eyes unfocused, the mountain path silent. Slowly, Lua, too, came to sit down among them, and even more slowly fell into the trance with them.
After a dozen minutes Illbane began to move again. Slowly, gently, he waked each of them, brought the rhythms of their bodies back to a faster tempo. They sighed as they came to their feet once more, amazed how refreshed they felt.
“Remember, this will not do in place of sleep,” Illbane cautioned them, “but it will refresh you when your mind is weary and you cannot take the time for rest. Take up your packs, Culaehra! You have the energy now!”
“Illbane,” Lua called softly.
“What troubles you?” The sage turned—to see Yocote still sitting cross-legged, eyes glazed.
“He has fallen back into the trance,” Lua explained.
“Then he was never truly roused from it.” Illbane knelt, peering closely at the gnome-man.
“But he rose! He walked!”
“Yes, but he walked entranced.” Illbane began to sing in a strange language, clapping his hands in an irregular rhythm.
Slowly, Yocote lifted his head. Suddenly, his eyes came back into focus. “Illbane! Must I leave, then?” he protested.
“You must,” Illbane said gently. “You have not yet enough knowledge to go wandering in the shaman world alone, little brother. Come now, rise and walk with us, for we have several miles to go before we camp for the night.”
Yocote stood up, staring at the sage. “Why did you call me 'little brother'?”
“Because there is no question of your talents now,” Illbane told him. “If you love the shaman's trance so much as that, you shall most definitely be a shaman someday. But come, we must march!”
Off they went, with Yocote bringing up the rear—and his eyes were shining.
Illbane began to teach Yocote in earnest then, that very night. He taught him the first few words of the shaman's tongue and warned him of the perils of the shaman's trance. He told a tale that all of them listened to with rapt attention. As he told it, he beat one stick against another, and before long they found themselves clapping in time to his taps. The tale was fascinating but simple, about a man who went to seek a treasure, and the monsters and demons he encountered on the way. Finally, he began to be able to turn himself into the forms of the animals he confronted, whereupon they turned themselves into men and women, and helped him to find the treasure.
“But what was the treasure?” Lua asked, perplexed.
“Knowledge,” Illbane said.
Culaehra spat an oath of disgust.
“But knowledge is not a treasure,” Kitishane said.
“Oh, but it is,” Yocote said softly, and his eyes shone with so eerie a light that even Culaehra turned away with a shudder.
The next night, Illbane conducted Yocote into a deeper trance than he had undergone before, and stood guard over him while he sat entranced.
Culaehra didn't like the idea of one of his former victims learning more than he knew. “Will you not teach me this magic, too, Illbane?”
“If you wish.” Never taking his eyes from Yocote for more than a minute, Illbane showed Culaehra a series of gestures and recited a phrase in the strange language. Culaehra imitated them as best he could, but nothing happened.
“No, no!” Illbane said. “Like this.” He repeated the gestures, then told Culaehra, “Try that much, without the words.” The outlaw did, but Illbane shook his head. “You have missed the curlicue in the first circle and the helix in the thrust, like this.” He demonstrated again. “Try it once more.”
Culaehra did, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to remember Illbane's every movement.
“Well, perhaps you need to learn the words first,” Illbane temporized. “Here they are ...” He spouted a stream of incomprehensible syllables. Culaehra repeated them as best he could, brow furrowed again. “Woleg sabandra shokhasha ...”
“No, try no further,” Illbane interrupted. He seemed almost alarmed. “You nearly blundered into a spell that would have made the ground cave in beneath you.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Try the gestures again, only this time instead of a curlicue, think of binding an opponent's blade, and instead of the helical thrust, think of turning a blade as you stab.”
This time Culaehra repeated the movements perfectly. “I've mastered it!” he cried jubilantly.
“Yes, so long as you think of it as fighting, not magic,” Illbane sighed, “and of course, there is no way to disguise the words as a bully's insult or a hero's challenge. No, Culaehra, I fear that your talent for magic is as slight as your gift for combat is great.” Seeing how crestfallen the big man was, he added, “It should not trouble you. True excellence in combat is as much a matter of brain as of brawn, just as the shaman's gift relies as much upon the body's coordination for mime and gesture as it does upon memory for the words, or intuition for understanding. Different talents are given to different men.”
“Aye, except that you were gi
ven all of them!”
“Those of a warrior as well as those of a shaman, yes.” Illbane nodded, unruffled. “But I was denied the joy of home and family. Be content with your own talents, Culaehra, especially since they are huge.”
The outlaw looked up, startled.
“Is it so surprising to hear me say something good about you?” Illbane smiled, amused. “I shall tell you the truth as I see it, wolf's head, and not trouble myself to soften it, whether it be good or bad—for surely you are strong enough to take both. Yes, you are most exceptionally gifted in combat, and will someday have as much skill as I, but with the speed and strength of youth added to it.” He saw the calculating look on his pupil's face, and hastened to add, “By the time you can beat me, though, you will no longer wish to do so.”
“No longer wish to!” Culaehra exploded. “I have many revenges to take on you, old—” He finally caught himself, forcing his jaws shut on the words, for a gleam of anger had appeared in Illbane's eye.
“Revenge will not be worth your while when the day comes, Culaehra, for you will be far too busy staying alive. Besides, even when you can best me as a warrior, you will still need to fear me as a wizard.”
“Am I not to have a second talent, then?” Culaehra demanded, barely managing to hold back his anger. “You are both wizard and warrior! Will I be only a man of arms?”
“You will also discover a gift for governance,” Illbane prophesied, “but you must learn how to live in harmony with other people before you will be able to realize that. Until then, Culaehra, develop the aptitudes you do know of, such as brawling, and leave the more subtle arts to those who have the gift for them.”
Yocote moaned.
Illbane turned away to him on the instant, leaving Culaehra to fume alone, seething at the notion of being inferior to a gnome in any way, and swearing to himself that he would someday astound Illbane with his expertise.
“Up!” Illbane cried, and the wand slapped down. Culaehra came awake cursing—then stopped when he realized that the others were rolling out of their cloaks and leaf blankets, too, and the dawn was showing. Why had that blasted old man roused them all out? Of course, he did so every morning, but why with all the extra vigor?
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