The Sage (14 page)

“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 given 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?

“On
your feet!” Illbane barked. “All of you! Yes, you, too, Lua. Mind you, any of
you three who wishes to leave may do so—but by Rahani's hem, if you stay,
you'll work your bodies into proper shape!”

Yocote
grumbled as he rose and shuffled a few paces forward of his bed, but the two
women rose with lithe turning, puzzled.

“All
in a row, now! Take a step forward on your right foot! Bend your knee! Raise your
hands like this!” He held his own up to demonstrate, elbows bent, one hand
straight, stiff, and upright, the other a fist.

“Fighting!”
Yocote cried. “He teaches us to fight!”

Kitishane's
eyes kindled; she was suddenly fully awake; but Lua dropped her hands, stepping
back, eyes wide in revulsion.

Culaehra
spat an oath and straightened up. “I already know how—”

Illbane's
fist shot toward his face. Startled, Culaehra dropped back, snapping his arms
up to block—and the sage kicked him in the belly. He doubled over, knotted with
pain, hearing Illbane's voice through the roaring in his ears: “You more than
any need lessons! Fighting is more than strength and quickness of reflex!
Straighten your back!”

“Illbane,
he is in pain!” Lua protested, but the sage stepped behind the outlaw, seized
his shoulders, and put a knee to his buttocks. “Straighten up, I said! Yes,
like that! Now hold up your arms as I showed you!”

Struggling
for breath, Culaehra did the best he could to raise his arms in imitation of
Illbane.

“Crook
the elbow like this! Hold the fist up like this!” Illbane adjusted the outlaw's
arms and hands with his own. “Well, good enough!” he grumbled, stepping around
in front of the line again. “Now draw your right fist back! Punch with it,
hard! Do it again, but step forward with your right foot as you do! Again!
Again!”

From
that time on, every day began with an hour of such practice movements, before
they journeyed onward. Culaehra lost patience with it quickly, especially since
Illbane always found fault with his postures and movements, though he fairly
rained praise on the others for the slightest improvement. But when they
actually began to strike at one another, the situation changed. Oh, Illbane was
scarcely a fountain of compliments, but as Culaehra kicked at him, he shouted, “Good!”
Of course, he diverted the kick with a swing of his staff, but he went on to
say, “Well aimed, and with each limb in exactly the right position! Now, strike
with strength!”

Reassured
and cocky, Culaehra laughed. “With strength, old man? I've no wish to maim you!”
Which, of course, was far from the truth.

“Do
you not?” Illbane frowned. “Then you are a very turtle in speed, a sapling in
strength! One blast of my breath and you will bend!”

Angered
all over again, Culaehra lashed a kick at him.

Illbane
bent to parry it with an arm. “Ah! There is the strength I spoke of! But you
let anger distract you, lost awareness of your body! Your knee locked, your
arms went stiff! If I had caught and pulled your foot, you would have toppled!”

“If
you could have caught it!” Culaehra cried, and lashed out another kick—but not
quite so strongly this time, for he was minding his posture, keeping his arms
and knees flexed.

He
forgot that the old man could move quickly enough when he wanted. He caught
Culaehra's ankle and pulled. Taken off guard, Culaehra jerked forward, but
managed to push against that bent knee and stay upright.

“Better
than I thought!” Illbane cried, and pushed on the foot. Culaehra gave a squawk
of surprise even as he hopped backward. Illbane grinned with delight. “See!
Now
a simple thrust or pull can't fell you! Well done!”

“Not
well enough,” Culaehra grunted, but he still felt a warm glow inside as Illbane
turned away to spar with Kitishane.

The
next day it was Culaehra who sparred with Kitishane, though Illbane warned him,
“Mock blows only, wolfs head! Hurt or harm her, and I'll shave your head anew!”

Kitishane
faced Culaehra with an angry glare, trying to conceal her fear. She well
remembered the last time they had fought and how it had ended—or would have, if
Illbane had not intervened. She had not learned that much more about fighting!
Why was Illbane making her do this?

“Half
speed,” Illbane commanded. “Culaehra, attack!”

The
outlaw's fist shot toward her face. Panic shot through her, and Kitishane
blocked as fast as she could, managing to duck aside at the last instant. “He
said half speed!”

“That
is half speed!” Culaehra snapped.

“Her
half speed, if you will,” Illbane told him.

“Half
speed? Perhaps a quarter!”

“Very
slowly indeed, then,” Illbane said sternly.

“Oh,
very well,” Culaehra grumbled, “but what good will that do me?”

“It
will teach you precision—and humility, Culaehra. You cannot always do things
solely because they benefit you!”

“Can
I not?” the outlaw snarled. “Prove to me that others do not!”

“I
am your proof, for only the good of others would bring me to lumbering myself
with you! Strike, now, but slowly!”

This
time Culaehra's fist moved slowly enough so Kitishane had time to raise her
forearm to block slowly, though scarcely at half speed. Nonetheless, his
forearm struck hers with numbing force. She fell back, clamping her jaw shut to
hold back a cry of pain. Fear clamored inside her, but she glared at him all
the more angrily for that.

“Gently,
Culaehra!” Illbane snapped. “Gently, I said!”

“That
was
gently!”

“You
pulled your punch, but there was still far too much force left in it!”

“Aye,
if I struck at a rabbit!”

“You
do not know your own strength,” Illbane told him, “and that is the first step
toward disaster. Do you see that dead tree by the spring?”

Culaehra
looked up. “Yes. What of it?”

“The
darker spot on its trunk is rot. Go strike at it with the same force you used
on Kitishane.”

Frowning,
Culaehra went. He aimed the blow, he struck— and rotten wood crushed under his
fist, cascaded down around his arm. He stared at it, amazed.

“Kick
at it with all your force,” Illbane told him.

Culaehra
wound up a huge kick and lashed out. The tree groaned, its groan swelling, then
fell. Culaehra stood staring.

“A
green tree that size would have only hurt your foot,” Illbane told him. “Do you
understand why you must strike with no more than a feather's stroke when you
deal with Kitishane?”

“But
she can strike with all her strength?” Culaehra said sourly.

“Let
us see.” Illbane held up a palm. “Hit, Kitishane!”

Kitishane
stared.

“Strike,
I tell you! Do not fear for me!”

Kitishane
shrugged and swung at Illbane with all her strength. He wrung his hand, smiling
sardonically. “No, not
all
your strength—not in mere practice. Now kick
at Culaehra.”

She
kicked, aiming for the groin, and had to use all her powers of self-restraint
to keep the blow from full strength, or full speed. She need not have
worried—Culaehra's thigh was there well before her foot, blocking, but she
pulled back too quickly for him to catch her ankle, even going at half speed.
Still, she reminded herself grimly, if this had not been mere practice and
Culaehra not moving so slowly, he would have pulled her off balance then and
there.