Authors: R.A. Salvatore
“I did not ask you to forget,” the mystic clarified. “Never that. We each are a composite of our experiences, good and bad, and to release any experience from our thoughts diminishes who we are. Do not forget. Do not dull the images. But do not let those images inspire self-destruction.”
Brynn looked at him as if she did not understand.
“Anger dulls the consciousness,” Pagonel explained. “Anger sets you on a path that you cannot easily break free of, even if common sense dictates that you take another course. You watched Ashwarawu die, but he died, in part, because he was blinded to the reality of the Behrenese trap, partly because of pride and partly because of anger.”
Brynn considered the words for a few moments, and did not disagree. “It will be difficult to raise another band to battle the Wraps.”
“That word rings foully off your lips, Brynn Dharielle.”
She looked hard at the mystic.
“Wraps,” he explained. “A word of belittlement, a word to dehumanize your enemy.”
“Belittlement?” Brynn echoed incredulously. “If given the chance, I would kill every Wrap … every Behrenese,” she corrected, seeing the judging scowl.
“Would you? Would you kill a Behrenese child? A poor mother? A man who has never lifted a weapon against To-gai? Are you so hardened by the bitterness of defeat that you have changed fundamentally from that woman who recoiled at the thought of finishing off Behrenese warriors who lay dying in the sand?” Pagonel stopped and smiled, then chuckled aloud at Brynn.
Brynn looked away, but she couldn’t resist. The mystic was right—again!—and she felt foolish indeed at her fiery declaration.
“Consider your feelings honestly concerning the Behrenese,” Pagonel advised. “Recognize that they are not all of one mind, and not all deserving of retribution. Recognize that they, even those you hate the most, are human beings, are creatures with hopes for themselves and for their children not so different from your own.”
“Do you ask that I abandon my cause?”
“No. I ask that you remain truthful to yourself. Nothing more. Your path will not be bloodless, should you walk the road of war again. There will be a heavy price to be paid, for the Behrenese and the To-gai-ru. Is that cost worth the prize that will be freedom?”
“It is!” Brynn said without the slightest hesitation.
“That is all.”
Pagonel turned and walked away from her then, leaving her standing on the short stone bridge connecting two wings of the Walk of Clouds monastery, far, far above the floor of a deep and misty gorge.
With just a few words, the mystic had changed her line of thinking, had shifted her perspective—just a bit, but in a direction that Brynn was already thinking might prove to be very productive.
She knew that this would be but one of many, many lessons Pagonel and his brothers and sisters of the Walk of Clouds would teach her in her stay there.
“I
am often struck by how similar we all are, though we paint different labels upon our common beliefs, different names upon our common gods, and enact different rituals to reach the same elevated state of consciousness,” Pagonel remarked as he exited the darkened room to face the eager Brynn Dharielle.
Brynn looked at him curiously, surprised by his smugness, and more than a little disappointed. She had just taken one of the greatest chances in her life, had just shown to this mystic who had become so dear to her during the last few weeks at the Walk of Clouds one of the greatest secrets of the Touel’alfar. Her teaching of Oracle to Pagonel was a huge expression of trust, for the gifts that Lady Dasslerond’s people had shown to Brynn were not to be passed along. She had expected that the mystic would be overwhelmed, would walk out of the room with that same look of disbelief upon his face that Brynn had worn in her first successful Oracle, when she had communicated, she believed, with the ghosts of her dead parents.
He had been in the room for a long time, and Brynn was certain that he had succeeded in reaching a height of intensity, a level of consciousness that transcended the bounds of mortality. And yet here he was, obviously less than impressed.
“There is only one direction, after all,” Pagonel started, but he looked at Brynn, whose face showed her disappointment clearly, and paused.
“You know of the Abellican Monks of Honce-the-Bear?” the Jhesta Tu asked a moment later.
Brynn nodded.
“They derive their power through use of gemstones that they consider sacred.”
“The ranger who trained beside me was also being trained in the use of the gemstones,” Brynn remarked, and Pagonel nodded.
“The Yatols view the stones as sacrilege.”
Again Brynn nodded. “And the Jhesta Tu?”
“We have used them.”
“And were you impressed enough to incorporate them into your religion?” Brynn asked, a bit sarcastically, given the mystic’s quiet attitude toward Oracle.
“Jhesta Tu attempt to find the same powers as the gemstones offer, the same power that your Oracle offers, within ourselves,” the mystic explained. He walked over and tapped Brynn on the forehead. “There is as much magic and power in here,” he said, and then he surprised her by running his hand down her face, down her neck, between her breasts and over her belly, all the way to her groin. “A line of strength from there to there,” he explained stepping back. “This is the core of your life energy, your Chi, and few are the people who can truly come to appreciate the power of that energy.”
“Only the Jhesta Tu?” the somewhat shaken woman asked.
“Only a very few of the Jhesta Tu,” Pagonel explained. “And only after years and years of study. Internal study.” He reached down and untied the black sash from around his waist, holding it up before the woman. “The Belt of All Colors,” he explained. “It is the symbol of understanding. Three in the Walk of Clouds now wear it, and of the others, well exceeding one hundred in number, perhaps a handful will one day find the enlightenment to earn this sash.”
Brynn reached up reverently to touch the belt, and only then did she see that it was not truly black, but was comprised of fine fibers that ran the length of the color spectrum.
The woman sat back as the mystic stepped away, replacing the sash about his waist. Despite her prior understanding of who this man, Pagonel, truly was, his remark caught her as arrogant at that time, almost belittling her years of training with the Touel’alfar.
“And what is Oracle beside such achievement?” she asked, her voice thick with sarcasm.
Pagonel laughed at her. “It is a very great thing, a precious gift, and a long stride along the road toward enlightenment.”
Brynn’s expression grew confused. “You seemed less than impressed,” she said.
“There is a group giving themselves to the wind this morning,” Pagonel said to her. “Come. I will show you our Oracle.”
“Giving themselves to the wind?”
“Come,” Pagonel said, holding out his hand to her. “As you shared Oracle with me, so I shall share this with you.”
Intrigued, Brynn took the mystic’s hand. He led her out of the monastery through a door that she had not seen before, exiting the back side of the building. Before them was a single trail, ascending the mountainside. They set off at a brisk pace, with Pagonel leading Brynn at a trot at times. A short while later, still climbing along a bare rock face, the pair spotted a line of a half dozen mystics in their orange-and-red robes, high above them.
“It is getting cold,” Brynn observed.
“That is the point.”
Brynn stopped abruptly, and Pagonel pulled free of her hand. He, too, stopped,
and turned back to regard her.
“What is this?”
“Ever impatient,” the mystic observed, and he gave a great sigh and a greater smile. “This is one of the rites of passage through the Jhesta Tu order. Though most of my brothers and sisters who are able to give themselves to the wind are older and more experienced than you, I believe that you should try. Your training has been amazing, I would guess, if you have perfected the meditation you call Oracle.”
“And this is the next step ahead of Oracle?” Brynn asked, and still there was a hint of sarcasm in her tone, one that Pagonel caught, if his laugh was any indication.
“This is a step to the side, not ahead,” the mystic explained. “This is our Oracle—one manifestation of it, at least.”
Brynn held her intended sharp retort. “Then lead on,” she decided a moment later, and she took Pagonel’s offered hand.
They continued climbing for nearly an hour, their pace slowing as the terrain grew more difficult. Soon, they caught up to the other Jhesta Tu mystics, with Pagonel falling into line behind them, Brynn behind him. The woman feared that she might not be accepted, but none of the mystics seemed to even acknowledge her presence. Besides, she realized, Pagonel was the highest-ranking of their order, along with Master Cheyes and Matron Dasa, and so she supposed that he could pretty much make the rules as he saw appropriate, especially the rules concerning his visitor to the monastery.
By midafternoon, the troupe was high up on the mountainside, with a cold wind blowing fiercely about them, and patches of snow holding fast in the shaded areas. Brynn was about to remark that she was not properly dressed for the elements, but she held the thought private, for the seven Jhesta Tu mystics ahead of her in line were wearing no more than their light robes, and while a couple wore sandals, the others were barefoot.
They came up over a rocky rise, and the path split, veering out to the left, to the facing of the steep mountainside, and continuing to the right, climbing higher. Brynn was surprised when the mystics went left, and even more surprised when she came to the cliff facing, out of the shelter of the rocks and walls. The path dipped lower there, running out to a narrow north-facing ledge.
The wind blew cold, so cold! The mystics went out calmly, the lead brother moving to the end of the ledge and sitting down, cross-legged.
Pagonel stopped and ushered Brynn past him, onto the ledge in place behind the other mystics. She looked to her mentor, then to the others, who were all settling in with that same cross-legged posture.
Pagonel motioned for her to do likewise, and so she settled down.
The others brought their hands up, pressing palms together before their faces. By the time Brynn did the same, the others released their hands down to their hips. In unison, they arched their backs, lifting their hips up and back, then rolled forward
slowly but steadily, folding up at the waist so that they wound up bent double over their crossed legs, heads pressing the stone, arms extending up above them.
Brynn looked up at Pagonel, who was still standing, and he nodded for her to assume the same pose.
With a shrug, the woman rolled her hips back, then rotated forward, bending low. She couldn’t get quite as far down as the mystics, but she was fairly limber and managed to settle into a somewhat comfortable position.
Then she waited.
And waited.
For a long time, Brynn kept peeking out under her arms to the others, expecting them to shift to another position. But none moved at all. A couple of them moaned softly, but other than that, they were all perfectly still and quiet.
The minutes passed and became inconsequential. After some time, Brynn stopped peeking out, just fell into the moment and allowed her thoughts to drift away, to memories, to fantasies, and then, to nothing at all.
She fell deeper and deeper away from the world.
A cold numbness brought her back to her consciousness sometime later. She blinked open her eyes and was surprised to see that the sun had set.
Brynn felt her muscles contracting; her teeth started chattering. With great effort, she lifted her head into the face of the cold night wind. Shaking, the cold biting at all of her exposed flesh, the woman managed to sit up.
And then Pagonel was there, beside her, wrapping a heavy woolen blanket about her and helping her to her feet, then holding her steady while the feeling returned to her legs.
He started to lead her away.
“What of them?” Brynn asked.
“They will return to the monastery tomorrow.”
Brynn stopped, her stare incredulous as she looked from Pagonel to the six meditating mystics. “They will freeze.”
“They have consciously slowed their bodies. Their hearts barely beat now, and the cold will not wound them,” the Jhesta Tu master explained.
Brynn stared at him in disbelief.
“As you learned your Oracle, so these Jhesta Tu have learned theirs. In time, you will come to understand, if you choose to learn.” He started away, and Brynn went along for a short while, before stopping and staring at him hard.
“But you were able to succeed at Oracle on your first try,” she said, again with a hint in her voice that something wasn’t quite right here, that perhaps Pagonel was mocking her.
“Are you so concerned with how you measure beside me?” the mystic asked bluntly. “Are you so concerned how your training measures against that of the Jhesta Tu?”
Brynn didn’t blink.
“All of the mystics now giving themselves to the wind are your seniors,” he explained.
“And I am likely twice your age. Waste not your time, your emotions, and your talents on such negative feelings, my friend.”
“Did you bring me here to fail?” the unrelenting Brynn asked. “To prove to me that I had a lot more to learn?”
“I brought you here not knowing whether you would fail or not,” Pagonel answered. “But it hardly matters. I will teach you the technique over the next weeks, and when you return here, you will pass the night in quiet comfort, falling within yourself to shelter from the cold.”
Brynn glanced back up the path.
“Even in winter,” Pagonel promised. “Even on winter’s coldest night.”
He led her back down to the monastery then, walking along the dark path with the ease of familiarity.
Brynn began her lessons the next day, with Pagonel teaching her how to focus her thoughts upon one part, one aspect, of her body. He showed her how to consciously relax, strengthening the connection between mind and body, strengthening her control over herself, even to the point of slowing the beat of her heart.