The Sage (8 page)

Yocote
looked up with sudden hope.

“
'Perhaps,' I said,” Illbane cautioned. “It may be, or it may not I must watch
you for a time. If you have the makings of a shaman within you, I will know it.”

“How
will you know it?”

“By
certain signs.” Illbane frowned, irritated. “One is a great curiosity about the
world all around us—one might almost say an intrusive curiosity, perhaps to the
point of plaguing those about you.”

Yocote
took the hint and shied back.

“But
another is a sense of balance, which is the core of politeness,” Illbane said,
relenting. “A shaman has an inborn feeling of the world about him, its objects
and the forces that reside in them, as well as the forces that reside only in
oneself—though few ever think to put it in those terms before they learn
shaman's lore. They simply
know”

Yocote's
shoulders sagged. “I have no such sense.”

“Perhaps
not—but perhaps so. You would not know it, if you have had it all your life,
for you do not know how folk without it feel.” He pointed his staff at the glow
of the banked fire. “Why does it burn?”

Yocote
turned, puzzled at so obvious a question. “Why, because it breathes air and
eats wood.”

“If
you can say 'breathes' and 'eats,' you may have the sense I speak of,” Illbane
told him. “Most folk would not even mention the air.”

“Not
mention?” Yocote turned back, incredulous. “Everyone knows that you smother a
fire by heaping dirt upon it, or drown it by throwing water on it!”

“Yes,
but they never think why it goes out—they only know that if you heap earth or
pour water, it will.” Illbane smiled. “There still is hope, Yocote. I cannot
say that you do have the shaman's gift—but I cannot say that you do not,
either. Sleep now—or, like the fire, your energy will flicker out in tomorrow's
march.”

“I
will.” The gnome's eyes were wide in the darkness, seeing more than Culaehra
could have, perhaps as much as Illbane did. “Thank you, sage—for hope.”

“You
are welcome. But remember!” Illbane held up a forefinger. “A woman will not
necessarily love a man simply because he is a shaman!”

Yocote
went back to his bed, deep in thought, and covered himself in leaves again.
Illbane watched, a half smile on his lips, and was amazed to feel the faint
sting of tears trying to invade his eyes. He blinked against them, and the
thought soared from him:
Ah, Rahani! There are still folk of good heart upon
this earth! What might I not do with this brute Culaehra, if he had half the
goodness of this gnome?

It
seemed that the night wind brought him answer, that owl calls and
leave-rustling formed into words, and that the breeze itself wafted sentences
to his ear.

The
night spoke, saying,
There is that much good in Culaehra and more, though it
is hidden.

Was
it Rahani who had spoken, or his own deeper thoughts, not yet surfaced as words
in his mind?
Are you certain, beloved? For surely, a man who beats small
folk and women for pleasure must be the scum of the earth!

Again,
the words breathed in his ears—or were they there inside his head?
The scum
of the earth is composed of lichens, which breathe out the good air that
sustains the greatest beasts. Even so depraved a specimen as Culaehra can be
salvaged from the mold into which he has slumped, and the good within him freed
to shine forth. Then his strength and his courage can be fashioned into the determination
and qualities that make a hero among men.

If
you say it,
Illbane thought with a sigh.
But if there is hidden good in
Culaehra, then there is hidden goodness within all men and women.

But
Rahani rebuked him sharply.
Not all, O Sage. Most, perhaps, but by no means
all.

What
man would be so foolish as to argue with a goddess? Soothed by this contact
with Rahani, the sage Illbane—who was, of course, really Ohaern—let her
reassuring presence within his mind lull him into the trance that served him as
well as sleep serves most men. His body was at rest, though it still sat
propped against a tree, and his mind at peace, though he still perceived the
glow of the campfire and the slowly breathing forms of his companions. They
seemed distant, like a painting upon a cavern wall lit by the reflection of
firelight. He heard owls call, saw a bat swoop low over the fire, heard a night
bird cry—then saw Culaehra rise in the middle of the night. He brought his
consciousness closer to the surface as the big man came cat-footed through the
night to stoop, frowning, to peer into the sage's unblinking eyes. Still Ohaern
sat motionless, waiting, wondering how much courage the man had—and Culaehra
raised a huge fist. But as he swung, Ohaern's staff leaped up to block, then
whipped about to crack into Culaehra's head. Without even crying out, Culaehra
slumped to lie unconscious at Ohaern's feet—and the sage, satisfied that the
rogue had enough courage to attack a sleeping man, but assured that he would
not have so much bravery again, let himself sink back into the stillness that
refreshed his mind and soul.

When
sunlight dappled the clearing, Ohaern let it warm his body slowly, then began
to move his arms and legs in small motions, clenching and unclenching his
fists, unpleasantly reminded of his waking in the cavern. When he felt that he
could move easily enough again, he rose, being careful to step over the
sleeping Culaehra; moved about a little; then straightened and squared his
shoulders, ready once more to become Illbane.

“Wake,
back-stabber!” He jolted Culaehra with his staff.

The
big man stirred and rolled up on one side, blinking film out of his eyes. Then
he closed them, rolling over and growling, “Go away.”

Illbane
dug harder with the staff. Culaehra shouted with pain and leaped up, crouched
and ready—but he stared into a bearded face with a staff poised beside it, and
hesitated.

Illbane
waited.

Beyond
them, Kitishane and the gnomes sat up, waked by Culaehra's shout.

The
big man said, “I had a dream in the night...”

Still
Illbane waited.

“I
dreamt that I waked and saw you ...” Culaehra's voice ran out as he realized
where he stood. He glanced at the ground, but quickly back up at Illbane, not
trusting him for a second—then flashed another glance at the watching companions.

“Yes,”
Illbane said. “That is where you fell asleep last night.”

Culaehra's
eyes widened, and Illbane could almost see the thoughts connecting in his head.
If he had fallen asleep there, and waked here, the dream must have been real! “Do
you never sleep?” he cried in outraged protest.

“Never,
while you are as you are,” Illbane returned. “No, it is not fair at all, is it?
That I will never be vulnerable to your treachery. You will have to face me
waking, Culaehra, or not at all.” Then his voice snapped like a whip. “Stir up
the coals, now, and set a kettle to boiling! We must break our fast!”

Culaehra
jumped in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed and he stood glaring at Illbane,
tensing himself, working himself up to fight...

Illbane
waited, the staff at guard, watching.

There
was no overt sign, no slumping of the shoulders or lowering of the head, but he
knew when the fight went out, of Culaehra. The big man snarled a curse, but
turned to do as he was told—and carefully kept his eyes away, so that he could
seem not to notice the staring of the gnomes and the woman.

When
breakfast was done, Illbane commanded Culaehra to take up the whole company's
baggage, what little of it there was, “For,” said he, “you have a broad back.”
The others were astounded that Culaehra only cast Illbane a look of hatred, but
obeyed without any other protest. Slowly, Yocote started to bury the fire as
Kitishane shouldered her quiver—but Illbane stopped them with a word. They
gathered around, and he gave each of the gnomes a curved slab of wood with
leather thongs tied to the corners.

“So
this is what you were carving!” Yocote held the object up, marveling. “What is
it, Illbane? Some sort of mask?”

“But
how can we see through such narrow slits?” Lua asked.

“Far
better than such huge eyes as yours will see at midday without them,” Illbane
said.

Yocote
held his up with a cry of delight. “The slits keep out most of the light! We
will no longer need to squint!” He tied his goggles on swiftly and nodded. “It
works, it works marvelously, Illbane! Thank you, thank you twenty times!”

Lua
donned hers more slowly, with Kitishane tying the thongs. “Yes, they are
marvelous,” she said. “How can I thank you, Illbane?”

“There
is no need,” he told them, “and so small a gift certainly does not oblige you
to travel with me, if you do not wish to.”

“We
wish to,” Yocote said quickly. Then he glanced at Lua and added, “Or I do, at
least...”

“I,
too,” she assured him.

Illbane
nodded. “You have said you wish to, and you are welcome to do so—but you must
understand that there are certain principles we must all agree to if we are to
thrive in this wilderness. If you find them too hard, you are free to go—except
for this lout.” He shoved Culaehra with his staff. The big man glared at him, but
didn't speak.

“What
rules are these?” Kitishane asked, feeling somewhat hesitant.

“First,
that if you stay with us, you learn what I have to teach,” Illbane said. “There
is much Culaehra will have to learn, if he wishes to live, and anyone resisting
my teaching will slow him down.”

“Gladly!”
Yocote's eyes glowed.

Kitishane,
though, frowned and glanced at the captive. “Are we all here because of
Culaehra, then?”

“He
is why we met,” Illbane replied. He turned to Lua. “Will you learn,
gnome-maiden?”

“I
will, sir,” she said slowly.

“Good
enough, then.” Illbane looked up at Kitishane.

“What
will you teach?” she asked.

“Wholeness
of mind, heart, and body, and as much of fighting as each can be trusted
with—perhaps even some magic, for those who have talent.”

“Gladly!”
Her eyes fired.

“What
other rules will you lay down?” Yocote asked.

“Not
I, so much as the nature of our journeying,” Illbane replied. “If one is in
trouble, all must seek to aid—and if all but one are in trouble, that one must
aid the others.”

“There
is sense in that, for if we do not, we shall all die,” the gnome said. “What
else?”

“None
of us must steal from another. None must fight with another, save for the
practice bouts I will give you—and that will be hard when two disagree, but we
must find ways to work out agreements without fighting.” He went on and told
them several more rules, each of which made excellent sense; they nodded
acceptance.

When
he had finished, Illbane nodded with satisfaction. “If you are agreed, then,
come with me, and welcome. Let us march.” He started to turn away, but
Kitishane stopped him by asking, “Will you not tell us we must obey you?”

Illbane
turned back, smiling in amusement. “There is no need to say it, maiden. If it
stops being plain for all to see, you will no longer wish to travel with me.”
He turned to prod Culaehra with his staff. “Go, wolf's head!” And off he went,
driving his captive before him.

The
gnomes followed, and Kitishane behind them, more slowly; she found she resented
Illbane's words, but even more resented their truth.

Twice
during that day Culaehra turned on Illbane. The first time, Illbane came up
right next to him—he was never far away, but this time he almost seemed to be
taunting the outlaw. Culaehra suddenly threw off the packs and whirled, left
fist slamming at Illbane's midriff while his right was drawing his knife.

Illbane
took the blow with only a grunt of pain, then clouted Culaehra behind the ear.
The big man rocked back, off balance for a moment, and Illbane leaned on his
staff while his foot swept out to kick Culaehra's feet from under him. Even as
he fell, though, the outlaw turned to slash at his tormentor with the knife.
The butt of the staff cracked on his hand as Illbane shouted, “Wood for steel!”
Culaehra clamped his jaws shut, and the sage leaned on his staff, saying, “Yes,
I
can
blame you for trying. Now take up your burdens, Culaehra, and
march north.”

In
absolute silence the outlaw slowly stood, took up his knife and sheathed it,
then swung the packs to his back and started off.

Illbane
followed, and Yocote caught up beside him, muttering, “You goaded him into
that.”

“He
learns what he must,” Illbane told him, “and so do you, Yocote. Be glad your
school is not as hard as his.”

The
second time was in midafternoon, and this time Culaehra deliberately lagged,
though to Lua it seemed that his steps dragged with weariness. She hurried up
beside Illbane and said, “You must not drive him so hard, sir! He is ready to
fall from sheer exhaustion!”

“Do
you think so?” Illbane said. “Then watch, Lua—but step farther away from me as
you do, please. I do not wish you to be endangered.”

Wide-eyed,
Lua stepped away—back to Kitishane, trembling.

“Don't
be frightened, little one,” the huntress said. “Any blows he receives, he
deserves.”

“Illbane
doesn't deserve to be hurt!”

“I
wasn't speaking of Illbane,” Kitishane said dryly.

Just
then Culaehra did drop, facedown in the grass. Lua cried out and started toward
him, but Kitishane caught her shoulder, holding her back.

Illbane
stepped over beside the fallen man. “Up, lazybones! We have yet a long way to
go before—”

Culaehra
jackknifed, his feet sweeping out in a half circle, knocking Illbane's feet out
from under him. “Hah! How does it feel when it's done to
you,
dotard?”
Then he threw himself on top of Illbane—but the sage, amazingly, caught him by
the front of his shirt and pulled him closer.