Fundamental Problems by Michael J. Tobias
Honestly, becoming the squire to Lord Kedrick Spires was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. Lord Kedrick, the first born of Lord Mywan Spires, was one of the greatest swordsmen in all of Amarya. It was widely accepted, at least in East River, that there was hardly a man, outside of perhaps First Counselor Tiril Rathmore, that could best young Lord Kedrick with the blade. In fact, his fame grew to such a status that men came from miles around to test their skill against his. Tournaments were organized and held and East River quickly began to grow and profit from the hundreds who would come and try to beat the one they began to call “Youngblade.”
Whence his talent had come was a mystery. His father, while quite adept at swordplay, was not considered a master. The man charged with tutoring young Kedrick, Philos Holfstead, Lord Mywin's Captain of the Guard, was better than Lord Mywin, but was quickly surpassed by his young student, to everyone's delight and surprise. Most reasoned that it was due to Philos' age and loss of agility, but this explanation proved faulty on multiple occasions when Youngblade outperformed his teacher with technique. Lord Mywin summarized the prevailing belief one day after a particularly grueling tournament had provided a young and robust challenger to Youngblade...a championship match that was perhaps the most anticipated in the short history of the tournaments. Unfortunately for the crowd and the young challenger, Youngblade dispatched the man in mere moments, causing Youngblade's father to remark, “It seems my son has been touched by the gods.”
Of course, with so many men gathering and fighting, even if with wooden blades, egos often got bruised and insults and challenges flew. This resulted in bloodshed, wherein Youngblade achieved even more glory. It was one thing to win tournaments with wood, but quite another to defend your honor with steel...and Youngblade proved just as adept at the latter as with the former. This only added to his reputation, to the degree that traveling became somewhat difficult, unless we traveled quite some distance from home.
It was on one such expedition that we happened to cross paths with the stranger. To this day, I do not know his name, which is all the more odd, since I spent almost as much time with him as I did with my master. We were traveling north, toward Coriaster, the largest city in the Northeast, to establish diplomatic relations with the House Mendax, the only noble family among the Forakan people. The Foraka, a dark-skinned race born from the intermixing of the Hama'ani, the Thalars, and the Kholuri, were not considered very bright, though they were extraordinarily industrious and sometimes cleverly adaptive. One thing they did have was their reputation for providing exceptional soldiers who were extraordinarily fit and athletically gifted. Lord Mywin considered a close friendship with the new noble family important for this reason if no other. With a boy King as ruler of Amarya and rumblings about other nobles angling to usurp him, an ally with an army of such warriors could prove very helpful.
The stranger approached our camp alone one evening.
“Evening, gentlemen,” he said with a broad smile, doffing his tricorn hat and bowing low.” He wore the suit of a nobleman, rather expensive-looking and quite dapper. “May I be so bold as to request your company for the night? While I have no secretary or assistant to travel with me, I often find it necessary to beg the indulgence of my fellow travelers, knowing that there be bandits lurking about.”
Our company totaled eight, Lord Kedrick, myself, and six guards. A man traveling alone was an oddity, unless he was a thief, which is what Lord Kedrick immediately suspected. Not that he said as much, since that would be rude, and Lord Kedrick was well-versed in the rules of propriety.
“Forgive me, stranger, I didn't catch your name,” Youngblade said.
“My Lord,” the stranger said, bowing low again, “Forgive my absent-mindedness. I am but a traveling minstrel, a jester, a teller of tales. Perhaps I can pay for a night's protection from your capable soldiers by providing a bit of entertainment?”
Youngblade looked the man up and down. “A jester? In such finery? That seems...odd.”
I noticed the stranger had still not given his name, though directly asked.
“My Lord,” he said, smiling and waving his arms in long, lazy motions as if reciting an epic poem. “Indeed such finery is beyond my meager station. It was a gift, from my previous employer, for services rendered. Unfortunately, my other clothing had become so worn, it was simply unfit for travel and my benefactor had it burned.”
“And who was your previous employer?” Youngblade asked.
“Lord Mendax of Coriaster,” the man replied.
How serendipitous, I thought.
“Indeed?” asked my master. “And what is your opinion of our newest Nobleman?”
The stranger bowed low again. “My Lord, Lord Mendax is an exquisite host and employer. He is hospitable and charitable to all, even those far beneath his rank, such as myself.”
“And I assume this suit was in addition to the normal wages for a minstrel?” Youngblade asked.
“Yes, my Lord. He is quite generous.”
“Hmmm...he must be.” Youngblade considered the man again, then nodded, knowing the stranger would be committing suicide if he tried anything. “Very well, never let it be said that House Spires lacks hospitality, even while traveling.”
The stranger's eyebrows shot up. “House Spires, my Lord? Would you then be the one they call, 'Youngblade?'”
My master flashed a mild grin and nodded once.
The stranger bowed yet again, this time nearly touching his head to his shins. “Truly, the gods have smiled upon this humble jester to honor me with the company of one bearing such a fearsome and yet heroic reputation.”
Another nod from my master and then he instructed the guards to make a place for the guest in their tents. One of them would remain awake and alert at all times, assuring Youngblade that this man would not purloin anything.
The next morning, the man was gone when I awoke. I spoke briefly with the guard on duty and he assured me that the stranger had spent a peaceful night of sleep in the guards' tents and had freely risen, dressed, and left completely of his own accord. An hour later, just after Youngblade had awakened, a small company of Foraka on horseback arrived at our camp.
“My Lord,” the company leader spoke with a heavy Forakan accent, never bothering to dismount, an action that would be considered rude under normal circumstances. “Forgive my haste, but have you met a light-skinned man dressed in a fine nobleman's suit, claiming to be a minstrel?”
Youngblade glanced around quickly, giving his guards and me a look that indicated we should follow his lead.
“We have not encountered such a one. May I ask why you seek him?”
The Foraka leader grimaced. “He came to my master's house under the guise of being a minstrel. He stole gold, a suit of clothes, and murdered four guards before he escaped.”
Youngblade frowned. “Four guards?” He glanced around at us, again, silently warning us to register no recognition.
“Yes, my Lord. If you will forgive us, we must be off. This particular serpent has proven to be rather slippery.”
With a nod, and after a return nod from Youngblade, the ten horsemen galloped away, moving back down the road toward East River. Youngblade waited until they were out of sight and quickly gathered us together.
“We must capture this rogue before they do. If he tells them of our hospitality, our hope for friendship with House Mendax will be crushed.” He looked to each of his guards now, encouraging them. “You, my guards, are the finest in this land. You are the finest warriors and the finest hunters. We must find this man immediately!”
We packed up and divided ourselves into pairs, heading into different directions. We were to signal each other, as in the hunt, if we happened to spot our prey. I can only thank the gods now that I and Frinks were not the first to find the stranger. After a half hour of searching, we heard the signal and hastily road in the direction whence it had come. We were the second pair there, arriving just before Youngblade and his partner. We sat stunn
ed in our saddles. One horse milled around unattended, while two guards lay dead, separated by just a few feet. Each of the guards had died from having his throat cut, their swords still clutched in their gloved hands. After a moment of silent cursing, Youngblade cleared his throat.
“Clearly, this minstrel is much more dangerous than we thought,” he said, frowning. “And now he is mounted.”
Unfortunately for us, Youngblade was not only the best swordsman around, he was a more than capable tracker, and before long we had caught up to the stranger who sat next to a fire, his stolen horse tied to a nearby tree. This, we spied, from some distance away.
“He doesn't seem to be afraid of being caught,” one of the guards said, a bit of fear creeping into his voice.
“Then perhaps it has been given to us to teach him fear,” Youngblade said.
He and the four remaining guards then dismounted and encircled the stranger, leaving me a safe distance away with their mounts. I watched as they slowly closed in on their prey, noting that the stranger remained oddly still, as if he were unaware of their presence. Believing they had him as good as captured, Youngblade stood straight and walked directly into the camp, in full view of the stranger.
“You, murdering thief, shall come with us back to Coriaster,” he said to the stranger, pointing at him with his sword.
The stranger finally moved, but only giving a slow shake of his head. “I'm afraid that isn't going to happen,” he said without looking up.
“Indeed?” Youngblade replied, “And how do you propose to stop us from taking you there?”
Now he looked up, leveling his gaze directly at Youngblade. “I will kill you,” he said flatly.
“Oh really?” Youngblade responded, a grin breaking across his face. “How will you kill the greatest swordsman in Amarya and his four guards?”
The stranger gave his head a half turn, eyeing the two guards to his right and behind him. He then slowly turned his head to the left to view the guards there. Then slowly, eerily slowly, he returned his gaze to Youngblade. “I don't know,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I never do.”
Youngblade narrowed his eyes, then lifted his chin and nodded to the four guards creeping ever so closer. They closed quickly, swords drawn, hoping the stranger would see reason and come peacefully. I would say that they were disappointed in this hope, except that it is much more likely that they simply didn't have time to feel disappointment. For what happened next was truly difficult to believe.
The stranger remained stock still until the guards actually reached for him. Blindingly fast, he whirled, head down, a twin nine-inch dagger in each hand, slicing lower legs as he spun. Each of the guards reacted almost identically, bending over to grab at their legs. While he continued to spin, the stranger slowly lifted himself, unbending his knees so that as he uncurled upward, his blades, seemingly with eyes of their own, ripped through the four guards' necks, dropping each of them in a manner of seconds. The stranger then stood fully, blood-dripping from the blades in his fists, his head slightly bowed, as if awaiting his next instructions. Meanwhile, Youngblade had stood and watched, sword clutched in both hands, narrow eyes taking in every move, as if he were studying. He felt no fear, for he was the greatest blade-wielder in the world. He held no doubt about what would happen next.
“You have one final chance,” Youngblade said, his voice steady with confidence. “I can either turn you over to House Mendax, or I can deliver them your head.”
The stranger didn't move, in fact, he hardly seemed to be breathing. He stood silently, clutching his blades. After a moment of silence, he finally rasped, “Do as thou wilt, Youngblade.”
I was transfixed. I expected a battle of epic proportions. Youngblade had never been challenged, even by those who had displayed remarkable skills. But this stranger seemed inhuman, a quirk of nature, some type of beast in the guise of a man. I had to remind myself to maintain control of the horses. I held my breath. Youngblade struck first, moving slightly to his left, his upper body leaning right, his sword thrust toward the stranger's torso. The stranger's reaction was frighteningly prescient, almost as if he knew exactly what Youngblade would do. He spun, to his right, ducking and almost folding himself around Youngblade's body. Before Youngblade could move, one of the daggers entered into his right side, just below the ribs, while the other sliced cleanly across his neck. The momentum of the stranger's revolution pulled both blades free, and he resumed his earlier pose, blades clutched at his sides, his head slightly bowed. I then watched as Youngblade, the greatest swordsman I had ever seen, dropped his sword and fell to his knees, gurgling as blood poured from his neck.
I exhaled slowly as I watched my master fall face-first into the dirt. I then turned my eyes toward the stranger. Again, he stood still, daggers clutched, head slightly bowed, seemingly listening. He happened to be facing my direction, at a slight angle, and when he lifted his chin and turned his face in my direction, my heart stopped for just a moment.
“Come,” he said, just loud enough for me to hear.
Without hesitation, I led the five horses to where he stood, now more relaxed, but daggers still in hand. I approached slowly, bowing my head when I got near him, afraid for my life. I held out my right hand, the hand holding the reins of the horses, and stared at the ground, trembling.
“Be at ease, squire,” he said. “I mean you no harm. You have served your master well.”
I dared to raise my eyes and met his.
“I will keep the horse I've procured, you keep yours, and the rest...” He looked away and sheathed the daggers within his coat, then gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Let them go, or sell them, though I would be careful trying to sell Lord Spires' horses.” He then sat, heavily and wearily, though what he had done had required remarkably little physical exertion. Yet he sighed loudly, as if he were burdened with a great load. Without another word, I released every horse but mine. He didn't seem to notice, dropping his chin to his chest and closing his eyes.
“My Lord...,” I began.
“I am not a Lord,” he interrupted, though softly.
“Sir,” I said, “I have nowhere to go. Lord Spires will ask why I live while his son does not.”
“Would you like me to kill you too?” There was no humor in the question. Rather, it sounded almost...sad.
I stood dumbfounded, lost. “No sir,” I finally managed. “I want to come with you.”
He sighed again. “You enjoy witnessing death?” he asked.
“Teach me what you know,” I beseeched him, feeling a bit emboldened. I was much younger then...and much more foolish.
He then looked at me, gazing into my eyes as if to measure my sincerity. “You don't know what you ask,” he said, almost pleading himself. “You do not want my life.”
“This is true,” I replied, “But I do want to learn from you so that I can make my own life.” Looking back, I suppose that was one of those inspired moments, because he relented and took me as his assistant. He refused to call me his squire since he refused to see himself as a Lord or Knight. And thus, the most exciting thing to happen to me up to that point was eclipsed.
That first week as his assistant was strange to say the least. He rarely spoke, except when we approached other travelers or a town. We headed south, though when I asked where we were going, he said nothing. We rode at a leisurely pace and I dared not ask too many questions. The third night on the road, however, I could keep silent no longer.
“Sir, I must ask...how did you kill Youngblade so easily?”
We camped just outside of Lairn, a small fishing village on the banks of the Qairyon river, a fire between us.
“What is your name?” he asked without looking up.
“Pelos, sir.”
He grunted. “I don't like that name. I will call you...,” he squinted as if he were really thinking, then said, “Cattis.”
“Cattis, sir?”
He nodded. “When I am done with you, you will be like a cat. You will
be catlike, so...Cattis.”
Personally, I didn't like it.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “So...how did you do it?”
He gazed at me and lifted his cup, taking a sip. “How? By getting out of the way.”
“I don't understand.”
He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you don't.”
“Can you explain?”
He sat and stared at me, as if he were formulating an explanation. After a moment, he said, “I don't think I can, though I will make an attempt.” Then after refilling his cup with wine, he continued by asking, “What god or gods do you serve?”
“The Trinity of Light, of course,” I said.
“Pity. Well, I serve the true god, you see. And when I say I 'get out of the way,' I am referring to surrendering myself to this god and then whatever happens...happens.”
As you might guess, this struck me as a strange thing to say. “True god?” I asked.
He nodded.
“What is the name of this true god?”
“Berefesh,” he said.
The name was oddly familiar. It was in the old Kholuri tongue, but it appeared to be a combination of two words. “Living wind?” I ventured.
This brought his eyebrows up. “You speak old Kholuri?”
“A bit.”
“Well then, that is good to know. In any event, your translation is fine, though I would translate it 'Wind of Life.'”
“And this is the true god?”
“Yes.”
I considered this a moment. I was not then a particularly religious person and while I had expressed a nominal adherence to the Lightwalker religion, I had never really considered what I really believed with regard to the metaphysical. Was there a god? I had no idea and I supposed that I was practically an agnostic. Interestingly enough, according to the stranger, this is what made me an ideal candidate for service to Berefesh.
“Only, that's not really God's name,” he said. I gave him a curious look and he explained, “It's a name I adopted to use, but the true god has no name. You can call God, simply 'god' or 'spirit' or 'chief.' The particular name you use doesn't matter.”
This struck me as odd. A nameless deity? What would be the point of that?
“So why did you choose 'Berefesh?'” I inquired.
He sipped and shrugged. “It fit with my experience.”
“So it's more about you than this god of yours?”
He tilted his head and looked at me sideways. “You asked me how I did what I did. When I get out of the way, Berefesh moves me.”
“And this god of yours wanted to kill those guards and Youngblade?”
“I suppose so.”
Well, at least he was honest. I simply assumed that he was an extraordinarily skilled assassin who just happened to be insane. A bit of a troubling thought considering I had not only asked him to mentor me, but if the notion struck him, he could easily leave me dead in the woods. Hoping that any affection for me or any hint of conscience might deter him from killing me was apparently futile. It certainly made for an interesting couple of years.
“I guess your god is a bit like Basanu, then?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Berefesh is nothing like Basanu.”
“Seems like Berefesh has no compunction about doing evil, which would make him quite like Basanu.”
“Berefesh acts and it is what it is. It is neither good nor evil. It is simply reality.”
I nodded. “Well, if this is what you must tell yourself to justify murder, then I suppose that's just the way it is.”
He looked at me sideways again. “And tell me, has your master never killed anyone?”
“Of course.”
“But that was not evil?”
“Of course not. He was defending his honor.”
He laughed. “Well then, if this is what you must tell yourself to justify murder, I suppose that's just the way it is.” This he said with a twinkle in his eye. I was confused, since it was clear to me that to defend one's honor was a just cause for killing another.
“You see no difference between why he killed and why you did?” I asked.
He leveled his gaze at me. “Oh, there is quite a difference,” he proclaimed. “My killing was in obedience to the true god while his was in obedience to a silly notion of honor.”
I paused and drank my wine. I didn't want to argue the point and I certainly didn't want to start a fire under the pot of his anger. It gave me food for thought...though I admit that at the time, I thought little more than the notion that this man was completely insane and very, very dangerous. I was stuck, with nowhere to go, at the mercy of a maniac. My only hope was that I would learn enough of his skill that I would eventually be able to escape and survive on my own.
“You said I wouldn't want your life...what did you mean by that?” I asked after a time.
He poured himself another cupful of wine and swirled it around. “I live a life of complete devotion. It is not easy. I do not enjoy killing...even when I think those I kill deserve it. It is not something I enjoy.”
“Then why do you do it?”
He paused and held his cup aloft, considering. “Because I can live no other way,” he said.
And so, my two-year odyssey began. I saw much, learned much, and forgot much. Most of what I forgot, I did so intentionally, a manner of “unlearning” you might say. One of the things I learned was just how much I had to forget. For much of the first year, the stranger taught me about swordplay and dagger fighting. He was skilled, but, as he pointed out, he could certainly not compete with the likes of Lord Kedrick apart from his devotion. I asked him again about this “getting out of the way.”
He was quiet for so long that I almost repeated the question. At last he said, “You must empty yourself completely of all desires, all thoughts, all emotions. What is left is that part of you that is genuine, that is intimately connected to the true god. And as you rest in this emptiness, you will be moved as the will of Berefesh moves you.”
I considered this a moment, then asked, “But what if the will of Berefesh does not move you?”
He gave me a sideways glance and smirked. “There are no 'what ifs' in a life of complete devotion. There is only what is and what is not.”
He also taught me several other skills, including oratory and acting, at which he excelled, some musical instruments, and some rudimentary illusions. He was giving me the foundation I would need to do what he does. He was grooming me to replace him. I eventually understood this and asked him about it one day.
“Are you planning to retire?” I inquired.
He chuckled. “In a manner of speaking,” he whispered.
“And you want me to take your place?”
He gazed at the ground and a slight smile broke across his face. We sat on opposite sides of the fire, as we always did. We were near Riverend, a long way from where we had met.
“You cannot take my place,” he said, “But you will be your own man, your own minstrel.”
“Why would I do that?”
He turned and gave me an odd look. “Berefesh will make it so.”
“I'm not a killer,” I spat out.
“No, I don't think you are,” he said. “But you can make a decent minstrel, and you know how to defend yourself. If you submit to Berefesh, you will discover an entirely different level of...being.”
I found this comment odd, to say the least. “What does that mean?”
He grinned. “You'll have to experience it to understand.”
“You can't bribe or trick me into submitting to this god of...this Berefesh.”
“Of course not,” he said, “I would never dream of such a thing.”
We sat in silence for a while, he, humming to himself and tending the fire, while I contemplated our strange conversation. I found myself doing that often...contemplating this strange man's words and life. Eventually, I developed a genuine affection for him, and I like to think the feeling was mutual, though he never said as much. Tha
t was not uncommon, in fact, it was rather the normal course of events. He almost never spoke to me plainly about anything, instead treating every conversation as an opportunity to try and drive me crazy. He seemed to enjoy this a great deal. Interestingly, my level of patience with him grew to the point where it became next to impossible for him to annoy me. He seemed to be very pleased with this evolution in me and took great pride in pointing out that it was his determination that had brought it about.
“Why is it so important that I achieve this level of patience?” I asked him, slightly irked.
He smiled and spun his dagger in his hand, making it dance along the back of his fingers, a trick he had taught me and one that had impressed at least half a dozen bandits enough to convince them to leave us alone.
“If you cannot be riled, you are less likely to make a mistake,” he said, simply.
It was this type of exchange that pretty well characterized the bulk of our conversations. It was also exactly opposite of what Lord Kedrick had shared with me, often extolling the motivating energy of anger and even hatred. On more than one occasion, he told me he imagined his tournament opponents to have insulted his honor, though this never occurred prior to any matches. This, he said, brought him a level of clarity and focus which enabled him to be unconquerable. When I told the stranger this, he chuckled.
“I'm not surprised,” he said, sheathing his dagger and standing. “Youngblade was arrogant and, as you now know, clearly wrong.”
“But he never lost before, so he must have been doing something right,” I said.
He turned to me, regarding me with an amused expression, as one would watch an animal at play. “He was only fortunate that his opponents were also wrong.” Then he walked away.
It would have been easy for me to conclude that the stranger was quite arrogant himself, but this was definitely not the case. He was certainly confident, a confidence that was born out of his devotion, but he was also well aware of his limitations and faults, which he often pointed out. He was a man who was certain of what he knew and just as adamant that his ignorance dwarfed his knowledge. Every conversation with him, whether he was “teaching” me something or not, was an exhaustingly frustrating affair. And yet I came to treasure these exchanges and I miss them immensely.
The killings. Yes, there were those in the two years I spent with him, though not as many as one might think. It was the one subject he didn't enjoy discussing and when they occurred, they always left him in a somber mood for a couple of days. It was clear that he did not like doing it, and yet he refused to question the idea that Berefesh was directing him. In two years, we had only one discussion of depth on the subject. It was about three days after he had killed a merchant in Stonecrest, the largest city in the Southern region of Amarya, and he was just coming out of his post-assassination gloom.
“I don't understand why you do this to yourself,” I said as we camped a couple of miles outside of a little village called Panrys. He cut his eyes in my direction and then shook his head.
“You cannot understand,” he said, “And I cannot make you understand. Only someone who lives a life of devotion can understand.”
“So you live completely without freedom of choice or thought? Everything you do is what you are told to do?”
He gave me a slight grin. “And you live under the delusion that your thoughts and choices are solely yours?”
“This isn't about what I believe,” I pointed out. “I'm not the one running around killing people and then being miserable for three days afterward each time.”
“Have you ever killed someone?” he asked.
“No.”
“We'll chat again when you have.”
“What makes you think I will kill someone?”
“It's a dangerous world. You will kill to defend yourself.”
“But that's different.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? And you know this from...what?”
I shrugged. “Surely, even Berefesh recognizes that self-defense is justified while murder is just murder.”
“Justified by whom?”
“By reason.”
He gave me a questioning look. “Reason? So your argument is that men of reason never disagree about the morality of their choices?”
“Of course not, but proper reasoning suggests that self-defense is obviously justified while murder is not.”
“Proper reasoning? And who is the arbiter of propriety?”
I frowned. “Society,” I said simply.
“Indeed? And this would, of course, be highborn society, correct?”
“Of course.”
“And this is your argument?”
I thought about this. I am not highborn and neither was the stranger. I had been taught that highborn society was the epitome of human existence. Was this wrong? It was all that I had known, so I was considering a perspective that I had heretofore never considered. Highborn society, as I had been taught, was favored by the gods, while those of us who were lowborn or commoners were considered servants. It had never occurred to me to question this idea. Why? Why had I never questioned this?
I gave the stranger a confused look and he chuckled. “Don't be alarmed,” he said. “Ideas are like waves upon the sea. The vast majority of them gently break upon the shore and change it slowly, very gradually. A few ideas, however, are like tidal waves. These bring a sudden and devastating alteration to the landscape, causing fear and panic. I suspect you are experiencing such an idea at this very moment.”
I looked to him with wonder. The question I had never thought, much less spoken, now formed in my mind. “What if highborn society is wrong?” I whispered.
He grinned broadly. “Quite a wave, eh?”
It was indeed. Yet, even as I considered this incredible notion, I still struggled with the idea that murder could be just as justifiable as self-defense.
“Look,” I said, “This is a fascinating insight, but I still think that self-defense is justifiable while murder is not.”
“I agree,” he said flatly.
This surprised me. “You agree? How can you murder people and still agree?”
He smiled. “I don't murder anyone. I simply present myself as an instrument for Berefesh. If people die, it is not murder...despite what others may think.”
“That seems like a convenient justification,” I said.
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“Well, what if you are wrong?”
He gave me a sly glance. “Then I am wrong. But I am at peace in my life.”
“You don't seem to be at peace when you kill someone.”
“I don't enjoy it. I find it distasteful. But I am at peace with my decision to live in obedience.”
I decided to take another tack. “Why would Berefesh want someone dead?”
He shrugged and sipped from his cup. “That is not for me to know. I must obey, that is all.”
“But have you never asked Berefesh why?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And what did Berefesh say?”
He paused and thought a bit, grinning slightly. “I was given a dream. In the dream, I saw a family who was faithful to Berefesh...father, mother, and two young children. One day, the father was murdered in the street. The mother and children were devastated, crying out to Berefesh for justice, for an explanation. They never learned why their blessed husband and father was slain.” He paused and then looked at me.
“But I was given insight, a vision of what this man would have done had he not been slain. While the woman and her children were sincere in their devotion, the man was not. He feigned faithfulness, but was actually a devotee of Basanu, and a particularly gruesome one at that.” He paused and sipped his wine.
“Some of Basanu's followers have a taste for...humans. This man was one of them. He was especially fond of the meat of children.” Another pause to allow me to digest this information. “If he had lived, he would have led a small rebellion among the dark
lings and this...ritual...would have been much more widespread.”
This was an intriguing story, though I was not totally convinced it was not a product of the stranger's rationalization. He struggled with killing others, and this may very well have been his mind's way of dealing with the conflict between his devotion and his distaste for killing. Still, it was interesting.
“So, you're basically saying, that the killing is justified because Berefesh knows the future?”
He shrugged. “Why not? Do you not believe that gods can see into the future?”
Again, given my agnosticism, I had never seriously considered the question. It was widely held that the gods of the Lightwalkers could see into the future, so it was reasonable to believe that if such a being existed, knowledge of the future was at least a possibility. Furthermore, if this Berefesh were the true and only god, as the stranger claimed, it seemed likely that such a being would know the future. One thing still troubled me, though.
“Alright, let us suppose, for a moment, that what you say is all true,” I said. “If Berefesh can see into the future and is all-powerful, why would it be necessary to employ assassins such as yourself?”
He gave me look of amused surprise. “You know, for a lowborn squire, you are quite the philosopher.”
I blushed a bit and explained that Lord Kedrick had enjoyed sharing his lessons with me. And for my part, I had found it quite stimulating and soon developed a hunger for it.
He nodded and continued. “In any event, Berefesh has no needs. Everything is done to teach, to provide opportunities to learn. The ends that Berefesh seek will be done whether we obey or not. Obedience simply allows us the opportunity to learn one lesson, while disobedience provides us with an oftentimes harsher lesson.”
I took this in and turned it over in my mind. It still bothered me, though I must admit, I found his reasoning to be impenetrable. I wondered what this meant for Lord Kedrick and his guards. Were they destined to die there in those woods? And what of Lord Gadrius Mendax? The stranger had stolen a suit and some gold, apparently killing a few guards in the process. Why? I asked him about this.
He nodded, a grim expression on his face. “Altogether avoidable situation and I wish it hadn't come to that.”
“What happened?”
“Lord Gadrius is not a bad sort...in fact, he is a rather decent man, though his recent recognition as nobility had apparently gone to his head a bit. He had hired me as a minstrel, at a price that included a new suit for me.”
“That is a bit unusual, is it not?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Perhaps, though I was simply obeying what I was told. At any rate, I was told to provide entertainment and then to request a private audience with Lord Gadrius.”
“You mean, Berefesh told you this?”
He nodded. “Yes. I was told to speak freely with this man, to tell him that supporting either side in the coming battle would be unwise.”
“The coming battle?”
He smiled wanly. “I'm afraid so. The boy king's throne is a temptation many nobles cannot resist and Lord Gadrius' army would be a terrific asset.”
This confirmed my suspicions about House Spires' desires to form a quick alliance with House Mendax.
“So what happened?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Lord Gadrius was not pleased that a mere minstrel had dared speak to him in such a way. He demanded that I leave, and when I requested my compensation, he told me to leave his house and be thankful I was allowed to go with my head still attached.”
“So you took what had been promised to you?”
“Yes.”
“And killed some guards on your way out?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And Lord Kedrick just happened to get in your way? Is that why you killed them?”
He shook his head and met my gaze. “No. Berefesh told me to seek out Youngblade.”
“But why?”
Another wan smile and slight shrug of the shoulders. “Again, I don't ask why.”
Six months before he died, the stranger began telling me things about the Shadewalker and the future of the Kingdom and that he would soon be gone. At the time, of course, I had no idea what he was talking about. He began spending more and more time alone. I would wake in the morning and his tent would be empty and he would be gone for hours. Then, when he returned, he would be quiet, pensive, almost brooding. We would pack up and ride in silence until he decided to share with me what he had been “told” or “shown.” It was always hazy, confusing, and strange. I thought he had finally gone over the edge...especially given his ramblings about this girl called Shadewalker.
“She is a young half-breed and she will arrive on a Zhaerian steed,” he said, excitedly.
The Zhaerian steeds were a mythological species, similar to, but much larger and faster than horses. They were said to be all white with silver eyes and devastating magical powers. I shook my head, feeling both sorrow and pity.
“She will unite the people and expose the mythical gods for the idols that they are,” he exclaimed. “She will lead a small band of young rebels and they will challenge the Greencapes themselves.”
The Greencapes were basically religious soldiers, a division of the Lightwalker brotherhood called “Lightbringers.” They ran down overt darklings and general troublemakers who gave no respect to the Lightwalker gods or their followers. They were very well trained, highly skilled swordsmen who were ruthless in carrying out their mission. The idea that a group of “young rebels” could challenge the Greencapes was laughable at best.
I was also troubled by his insinuations about his “leaving.” He never actually said anything about dying, but it was fairly clear that's what he meant. He was perhaps thirty, still quite a young man, and he seemed to be in good health. Of course, living as a thief and assassin meant that he had plenty of enemies, so there was always the possibility that one of them would catch him unawares. This seemed highly unlikely, however, since I had never seen him even remotely unaware.
“Where are you planning to go?” I asked him after one of these allusions.
He smiled and let go of a quiet sigh. “I don't know,” he said, shaking his head a bit.
“Are you talking about death?” I asked after a pause.
He looked up at me and gave me the barest hint of a grin. “Yes.”
“So, you're telling me that Berefesh has told you that you are going to die soon?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He smiled fully now. “Ironically.”
Of course, why would I expect any other response? As it turned out, he did in fact meet his end rather ironically...he died from an insect bite. At the time, I had no idea what had happened to him. One day, he woke up with a fever and for the next three days he drifted in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently and sweating profusely. Then he was gone. I didn't quite realize how much I had come to depend upon him until his daily absence began to pervade my life like a fog. We had only each other and now I was alone. I admit, I was afraid.
Later, I learned that his death was most likely caused by the bite of a blood beetle, an insect unknown to Amarya until the Shadewalker brought it from Zhaer. I also heard the rumors that she arrived mounted on a Zhaerian steed in the company of a group of young rebels. I shook my head in wonder and then set about the task of finding her. In the midst of my quest, I began to pray to Berefesh, and before too long, Berefesh began to answer.
I have nearly emptied myself of my old life, my dedication to my old ways and values. I am in the process of a type of reorientation, learning a new way of seeing, hearing, reasoning...a new way of living...a new way of being in the world. As I mentioned earlier, one of the greatest things I've learned over the past two years is how much I have to forget. That is the hardest part of this new path, forgetting a great deal of poor habits and limiting views that one begins learning from the very beginning. And as I walk this new path, I continue to seek ou
t the Shadewalker. Each village and city brings new stories, though some are clearly exaggerated.
One day, I will meet this young girl and her magical steeds. If she is truly to bring a new revolution, a new age, then I wish to help any way I can. The stories say that she can command the beasts of the field and air. This seems to be a fitting way for a new age to be ushered into this world – a revolution led by nature herself.
Perhaps, dear reader, we will meet someday. If you see a stranger traveling alone, do not assume he is a thief or bandit. I am neither of these. I am a jester, a teller-of-tales, a master of illusions. I am a friend of the friendless and an enemy of injustice. I protect the weak and liberate the oppressed. I am a servant of a nameless and formless god. I am the minstrel.
About The Author
Michael J. Tobias has degrees from Furman University in Greenville, SC and the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, KY. He has served in various positions in both Baptist and Methodist churches. He has also worked in camps, schools, one funeral home, and one library. He is currently putting the finishing touches on his first novel From There to Here: A Novel of Discovery, as well as working hard on the first of his forthcoming fantasy trilogy, Shadewalker. He lives and works in South Carolina.
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Whence his talent had come was a mystery. His father, while quite adept at swordplay, was not considered a master. The man charged with tutoring young Kedrick, Philos Holfstead, Lord Mywin's Captain of the Guard, was better than Lord Mywin, but was quickly surpassed by his young student, to everyone's delight and surprise. Most reasoned that it was due to Philos' age and loss of agility, but this explanation proved faulty on multiple occasions when Youngblade outperformed his teacher with technique. Lord Mywin summarized the prevailing belief one day after a particularly grueling tournament had provided a young and robust challenger to Youngblade...a championship match that was perhaps the most anticipated in the short history of the tournaments. Unfortunately for the crowd and the young challenger, Youngblade dispatched the man in mere moments, causing Youngblade's father to remark, “It seems my son has been touched by the gods.”
Of course, with so many men gathering and fighting, even if with wooden blades, egos often got bruised and insults and challenges flew. This resulted in bloodshed, wherein Youngblade achieved even more glory. It was one thing to win tournaments with wood, but quite another to defend your honor with steel...and Youngblade proved just as adept at the latter as with the former. This only added to his reputation, to the degree that traveling became somewhat difficult, unless we traveled quite some distance from home.
It was on one such expedition that we happened to cross paths with the stranger. To this day, I do not know his name, which is all the more odd, since I spent almost as much time with him as I did with my master. We were traveling north, toward Coriaster, the largest city in the Northeast, to establish diplomatic relations with the House Mendax, the only noble family among the Forakan people. The Foraka, a dark-skinned race born from the intermixing of the Hama'ani, the Thalars, and the Kholuri, were not considered very bright, though they were extraordinarily industrious and sometimes cleverly adaptive. One thing they did have was their reputation for providing exceptional soldiers who were extraordinarily fit and athletically gifted. Lord Mywin considered a close friendship with the new noble family important for this reason if no other. With a boy King as ruler of Amarya and rumblings about other nobles angling to usurp him, an ally with an army of such warriors could prove very helpful.
The stranger approached our camp alone one evening.
“Evening, gentlemen,” he said with a broad smile, doffing his tricorn hat and bowing low.” He wore the suit of a nobleman, rather expensive-looking and quite dapper. “May I be so bold as to request your company for the night? While I have no secretary or assistant to travel with me, I often find it necessary to beg the indulgence of my fellow travelers, knowing that there be bandits lurking about.”
Our company totaled eight, Lord Kedrick, myself, and six guards. A man traveling alone was an oddity, unless he was a thief, which is what Lord Kedrick immediately suspected. Not that he said as much, since that would be rude, and Lord Kedrick was well-versed in the rules of propriety.
“Forgive me, stranger, I didn't catch your name,” Youngblade said.
“My Lord,” the stranger said, bowing low again, “Forgive my absent-mindedness. I am but a traveling minstrel, a jester, a teller of tales. Perhaps I can pay for a night's protection from your capable soldiers by providing a bit of entertainment?”
Youngblade looked the man up and down. “A jester? In such finery? That seems...odd.”
I noticed the stranger had still not given his name, though directly asked.
“My Lord,” he said, smiling and waving his arms in long, lazy motions as if reciting an epic poem. “Indeed such finery is beyond my meager station. It was a gift, from my previous employer, for services rendered. Unfortunately, my other clothing had become so worn, it was simply unfit for travel and my benefactor had it burned.”
“And who was your previous employer?” Youngblade asked.
“Lord Mendax of Coriaster,” the man replied.
How serendipitous, I thought.
“Indeed?” asked my master. “And what is your opinion of our newest Nobleman?”
The stranger bowed low again. “My Lord, Lord Mendax is an exquisite host and employer. He is hospitable and charitable to all, even those far beneath his rank, such as myself.”
“And I assume this suit was in addition to the normal wages for a minstrel?” Youngblade asked.
“Yes, my Lord. He is quite generous.”
“Hmmm...he must be.” Youngblade considered the man again, then nodded, knowing the stranger would be committing suicide if he tried anything. “Very well, never let it be said that House Spires lacks hospitality, even while traveling.”
The stranger's eyebrows shot up. “House Spires, my Lord? Would you then be the one they call, 'Youngblade?'”
My master flashed a mild grin and nodded once.
The stranger bowed yet again, this time nearly touching his head to his shins. “Truly, the gods have smiled upon this humble jester to honor me with the company of one bearing such a fearsome and yet heroic reputation.”
Another nod from my master and then he instructed the guards to make a place for the guest in their tents. One of them would remain awake and alert at all times, assuring Youngblade that this man would not purloin anything.
The next morning, the man was gone when I awoke. I spoke briefly with the guard on duty and he assured me that the stranger had spent a peaceful night of sleep in the guards' tents and had freely risen, dressed, and left completely of his own accord. An hour later, just after Youngblade had awakened, a small company of Foraka on horseback arrived at our camp.
“My Lord,” the company leader spoke with a heavy Forakan accent, never bothering to dismount, an action that would be considered rude under normal circumstances. “Forgive my haste, but have you met a light-skinned man dressed in a fine nobleman's suit, claiming to be a minstrel?”
Youngblade glanced around quickly, giving his guards and me a look that indicated we should follow his lead.
“We have not encountered such a one. May I ask why you seek him?”
The Foraka leader grimaced. “He came to my master's house under the guise of being a minstrel. He stole gold, a suit of clothes, and murdered four guards before he escaped.”
Youngblade frowned. “Four guards?” He glanced around at us, again, silently warning us to register no recognition.
“Yes, my Lord. If you will forgive us, we must be off. This particular serpent has proven to be rather slippery.”
With a nod, and after a return nod from Youngblade, the ten horsemen galloped away, moving back down the road toward East River. Youngblade waited until they were out of sight and quickly gathered us together.
“We must capture this rogue before they do. If he tells them of our hospitality, our hope for friendship with House Mendax will be crushed.” He looked to each of his guards now, encouraging them. “You, my guards, are the finest in this land. You are the finest warriors and the finest hunters. We must find this man immediately!”
We packed up and divided ourselves into pairs, heading into different directions. We were to signal each other, as in the hunt, if we happened to spot our prey. I can only thank the gods now that I and Frinks were not the first to find the stranger. After a half hour of searching, we heard the signal and hastily road in the direction whence it had come. We were the second pair there, arriving just before Youngblade and his partner. We sat stunn
“Clearly, this minstrel is much more dangerous than we thought,” he said, frowning. “And now he is mounted.”
Unfortunately for us, Youngblade was not only the best swordsman around, he was a more than capable tracker, and before long we had caught up to the stranger who sat next to a fire, his stolen horse tied to a nearby tree. This, we spied, from some distance away.
“He doesn't seem to be afraid of being caught,” one of the guards said, a bit of fear creeping into his voice.
“Then perhaps it has been given to us to teach him fear,” Youngblade said.
He and the four remaining guards then dismounted and encircled the stranger, leaving me a safe distance away with their mounts. I watched as they slowly closed in on their prey, noting that the stranger remained oddly still, as if he were unaware of their presence. Believing they had him as good as captured, Youngblade stood straight and walked directly into the camp, in full view of the stranger.
“You, murdering thief, shall come with us back to Coriaster,” he said to the stranger, pointing at him with his sword.
The stranger finally moved, but only giving a slow shake of his head. “I'm afraid that isn't going to happen,” he said without looking up.
“Indeed?” Youngblade replied, “And how do you propose to stop us from taking you there?”
Now he looked up, leveling his gaze directly at Youngblade. “I will kill you,” he said flatly.
“Oh really?” Youngblade responded, a grin breaking across his face. “How will you kill the greatest swordsman in Amarya and his four guards?”
The stranger gave his head a half turn, eyeing the two guards to his right and behind him. He then slowly turned his head to the left to view the guards there. Then slowly, eerily slowly, he returned his gaze to Youngblade. “I don't know,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I never do.”
Youngblade narrowed his eyes, then lifted his chin and nodded to the four guards creeping ever so closer. They closed quickly, swords drawn, hoping the stranger would see reason and come peacefully. I would say that they were disappointed in this hope, except that it is much more likely that they simply didn't have time to feel disappointment. For what happened next was truly difficult to believe.
The stranger remained stock still until the guards actually reached for him. Blindingly fast, he whirled, head down, a twin nine-inch dagger in each hand, slicing lower legs as he spun. Each of the guards reacted almost identically, bending over to grab at their legs. While he continued to spin, the stranger slowly lifted himself, unbending his knees so that as he uncurled upward, his blades, seemingly with eyes of their own, ripped through the four guards' necks, dropping each of them in a manner of seconds. The stranger then stood fully, blood-dripping from the blades in his fists, his head slightly bowed, as if awaiting his next instructions. Meanwhile, Youngblade had stood and watched, sword clutched in both hands, narrow eyes taking in every move, as if he were studying. He felt no fear, for he was the greatest blade-wielder in the world. He held no doubt about what would happen next.
“You have one final chance,” Youngblade said, his voice steady with confidence. “I can either turn you over to House Mendax, or I can deliver them your head.”
The stranger didn't move, in fact, he hardly seemed to be breathing. He stood silently, clutching his blades. After a moment of silence, he finally rasped, “Do as thou wilt, Youngblade.”
I was transfixed. I expected a battle of epic proportions. Youngblade had never been challenged, even by those who had displayed remarkable skills. But this stranger seemed inhuman, a quirk of nature, some type of beast in the guise of a man. I had to remind myself to maintain control of the horses. I held my breath. Youngblade struck first, moving slightly to his left, his upper body leaning right, his sword thrust toward the stranger's torso. The stranger's reaction was frighteningly prescient, almost as if he knew exactly what Youngblade would do. He spun, to his right, ducking and almost folding himself around Youngblade's body. Before Youngblade could move, one of the daggers entered into his right side, just below the ribs, while the other sliced cleanly across his neck. The momentum of the stranger's revolution pulled both blades free, and he resumed his earlier pose, blades clutched at his sides, his head slightly bowed. I then watched as Youngblade, the greatest swordsman I had ever seen, dropped his sword and fell to his knees, gurgling as blood poured from his neck.
I exhaled slowly as I watched my master fall face-first into the dirt. I then turned my eyes toward the stranger. Again, he stood still, daggers clutched, head slightly bowed, seemingly listening. He happened to be facing my direction, at a slight angle, and when he lifted his chin and turned his face in my direction, my heart stopped for just a moment.
“Come,” he said, just loud enough for me to hear.
Without hesitation, I led the five horses to where he stood, now more relaxed, but daggers still in hand. I approached slowly, bowing my head when I got near him, afraid for my life. I held out my right hand, the hand holding the reins of the horses, and stared at the ground, trembling.
“Be at ease, squire,” he said. “I mean you no harm. You have served your master well.”
I dared to raise my eyes and met his.
“I will keep the horse I've procured, you keep yours, and the rest...” He looked away and sheathed the daggers within his coat, then gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Let them go, or sell them, though I would be careful trying to sell Lord Spires' horses.” He then sat, heavily and wearily, though what he had done had required remarkably little physical exertion. Yet he sighed loudly, as if he were burdened with a great load. Without another word, I released every horse but mine. He didn't seem to notice, dropping his chin to his chest and closing his eyes.
“My Lord...,” I began.
“I am not a Lord,” he interrupted, though softly.
“Sir,” I said, “I have nowhere to go. Lord Spires will ask why I live while his son does not.”
“Would you like me to kill you too?” There was no humor in the question. Rather, it sounded almost...sad.
I stood dumbfounded, lost. “No sir,” I finally managed. “I want to come with you.”
He sighed again. “You enjoy witnessing death?” he asked.
“Teach me what you know,” I beseeched him, feeling a bit emboldened. I was much younger then...and much more foolish.
He then looked at me, gazing into my eyes as if to measure my sincerity. “You don't know what you ask,” he said, almost pleading himself. “You do not want my life.”
“This is true,” I replied, “But I do want to learn from you so that I can make my own life.” Looking back, I suppose that was one of those inspired moments, because he relented and took me as his assistant. He refused to call me his squire since he refused to see himself as a Lord or Knight. And thus, the most exciting thing to happen to me up to that point was eclipsed.
That first week as his assistant was strange to say the least. He rarely spoke, except when we approached other travelers or a town. We headed south, though when I asked where we were going, he said nothing. We rode at a leisurely pace and I dared not ask too many questions. The third night on the road, however, I could keep silent no longer.
“Sir, I must ask...how did you kill Youngblade so easily?”
We camped just outside of Lairn, a small fishing village on the banks of the Qairyon river, a fire between us.
“What is your name?” he asked without looking up.
“Pelos, sir.”
He grunted. “I don't like that name. I will call you...,” he squinted as if he were really thinking, then said, “Cattis.”
“Cattis, sir?”
He nodded. “When I am done with you, you will be like a cat. You will
Personally, I didn't like it.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “So...how did you do it?”
He gazed at me and lifted his cup, taking a sip. “How? By getting out of the way.”
“I don't understand.”
He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you don't.”
“Can you explain?”
He sat and stared at me, as if he were formulating an explanation. After a moment, he said, “I don't think I can, though I will make an attempt.” Then after refilling his cup with wine, he continued by asking, “What god or gods do you serve?”
“The Trinity of Light, of course,” I said.
“Pity. Well, I serve the true god, you see. And when I say I 'get out of the way,' I am referring to surrendering myself to this god and then whatever happens...happens.”
As you might guess, this struck me as a strange thing to say. “True god?” I asked.
He nodded.
“What is the name of this true god?”
“Berefesh,” he said.
The name was oddly familiar. It was in the old Kholuri tongue, but it appeared to be a combination of two words. “Living wind?” I ventured.
This brought his eyebrows up. “You speak old Kholuri?”
“A bit.”
“Well then, that is good to know. In any event, your translation is fine, though I would translate it 'Wind of Life.'”
“And this is the true god?”
“Yes.”
I considered this a moment. I was not then a particularly religious person and while I had expressed a nominal adherence to the Lightwalker religion, I had never really considered what I really believed with regard to the metaphysical. Was there a god? I had no idea and I supposed that I was practically an agnostic. Interestingly enough, according to the stranger, this is what made me an ideal candidate for service to Berefesh.
“Only, that's not really God's name,” he said. I gave him a curious look and he explained, “It's a name I adopted to use, but the true god has no name. You can call God, simply 'god' or 'spirit' or 'chief.' The particular name you use doesn't matter.”
This struck me as odd. A nameless deity? What would be the point of that?
“So why did you choose 'Berefesh?'” I inquired.
He sipped and shrugged. “It fit with my experience.”
“So it's more about you than this god of yours?”
He tilted his head and looked at me sideways. “You asked me how I did what I did. When I get out of the way, Berefesh moves me.”
“And this god of yours wanted to kill those guards and Youngblade?”
“I suppose so.”
Well, at least he was honest. I simply assumed that he was an extraordinarily skilled assassin who just happened to be insane. A bit of a troubling thought considering I had not only asked him to mentor me, but if the notion struck him, he could easily leave me dead in the woods. Hoping that any affection for me or any hint of conscience might deter him from killing me was apparently futile. It certainly made for an interesting couple of years.
“I guess your god is a bit like Basanu, then?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Berefesh is nothing like Basanu.”
“Seems like Berefesh has no compunction about doing evil, which would make him quite like Basanu.”
“Berefesh acts and it is what it is. It is neither good nor evil. It is simply reality.”
I nodded. “Well, if this is what you must tell yourself to justify murder, then I suppose that's just the way it is.”
He looked at me sideways again. “And tell me, has your master never killed anyone?”
“Of course.”
“But that was not evil?”
“Of course not. He was defending his honor.”
He laughed. “Well then, if this is what you must tell yourself to justify murder, I suppose that's just the way it is.” This he said with a twinkle in his eye. I was confused, since it was clear to me that to defend one's honor was a just cause for killing another.
“You see no difference between why he killed and why you did?” I asked.
He leveled his gaze at me. “Oh, there is quite a difference,” he proclaimed. “My killing was in obedience to the true god while his was in obedience to a silly notion of honor.”
I paused and drank my wine. I didn't want to argue the point and I certainly didn't want to start a fire under the pot of his anger. It gave me food for thought...though I admit that at the time, I thought little more than the notion that this man was completely insane and very, very dangerous. I was stuck, with nowhere to go, at the mercy of a maniac. My only hope was that I would learn enough of his skill that I would eventually be able to escape and survive on my own.
“You said I wouldn't want your life...what did you mean by that?” I asked after a time.
He poured himself another cupful of wine and swirled it around. “I live a life of complete devotion. It is not easy. I do not enjoy killing...even when I think those I kill deserve it. It is not something I enjoy.”
“Then why do you do it?”
He paused and held his cup aloft, considering. “Because I can live no other way,” he said.
And so, my two-year odyssey began. I saw much, learned much, and forgot much. Most of what I forgot, I did so intentionally, a manner of “unlearning” you might say. One of the things I learned was just how much I had to forget. For much of the first year, the stranger taught me about swordplay and dagger fighting. He was skilled, but, as he pointed out, he could certainly not compete with the likes of Lord Kedrick apart from his devotion. I asked him again about this “getting out of the way.”
He was quiet for so long that I almost repeated the question. At last he said, “You must empty yourself completely of all desires, all thoughts, all emotions. What is left is that part of you that is genuine, that is intimately connected to the true god. And as you rest in this emptiness, you will be moved as the will of Berefesh moves you.”
I considered this a moment, then asked, “But what if the will of Berefesh does not move you?”
He gave me a sideways glance and smirked. “There are no 'what ifs' in a life of complete devotion. There is only what is and what is not.”
He also taught me several other skills, including oratory and acting, at which he excelled, some musical instruments, and some rudimentary illusions. He was giving me the foundation I would need to do what he does. He was grooming me to replace him. I eventually understood this and asked him about it one day.
“Are you planning to retire?” I inquired.
He chuckled. “In a manner of speaking,” he whispered.
“And you want me to take your place?”
He gazed at the ground and a slight smile broke across his face. We sat on opposite sides of the fire, as we always did. We were near Riverend, a long way from where we had met.
“You cannot take my place,” he said, “But you will be your own man, your own minstrel.”
“Why would I do that?”
He turned and gave me an odd look. “Berefesh will make it so.”
“I'm not a killer,” I spat out.
“No, I don't think you are,” he said. “But you can make a decent minstrel, and you know how to defend yourself. If you submit to Berefesh, you will discover an entirely different level of...being.”
I found this comment odd, to say the least. “What does that mean?”
He grinned. “You'll have to experience it to understand.”
“You can't bribe or trick me into submitting to this god of...this Berefesh.”
“Of course not,” he said, “I would never dream of such a thing.”
We sat in silence for a while, he, humming to himself and tending the fire, while I contemplated our strange conversation. I found myself doing that often...contemplating this strange man's words and life. Eventually, I developed a genuine affection for him, and I like to think the feeling was mutual, though he never said as much. Tha
“Why is it so important that I achieve this level of patience?” I asked him, slightly irked.
He smiled and spun his dagger in his hand, making it dance along the back of his fingers, a trick he had taught me and one that had impressed at least half a dozen bandits enough to convince them to leave us alone.
“If you cannot be riled, you are less likely to make a mistake,” he said, simply.
It was this type of exchange that pretty well characterized the bulk of our conversations. It was also exactly opposite of what Lord Kedrick had shared with me, often extolling the motivating energy of anger and even hatred. On more than one occasion, he told me he imagined his tournament opponents to have insulted his honor, though this never occurred prior to any matches. This, he said, brought him a level of clarity and focus which enabled him to be unconquerable. When I told the stranger this, he chuckled.
“I'm not surprised,” he said, sheathing his dagger and standing. “Youngblade was arrogant and, as you now know, clearly wrong.”
“But he never lost before, so he must have been doing something right,” I said.
He turned to me, regarding me with an amused expression, as one would watch an animal at play. “He was only fortunate that his opponents were also wrong.” Then he walked away.
It would have been easy for me to conclude that the stranger was quite arrogant himself, but this was definitely not the case. He was certainly confident, a confidence that was born out of his devotion, but he was also well aware of his limitations and faults, which he often pointed out. He was a man who was certain of what he knew and just as adamant that his ignorance dwarfed his knowledge. Every conversation with him, whether he was “teaching” me something or not, was an exhaustingly frustrating affair. And yet I came to treasure these exchanges and I miss them immensely.
The killings. Yes, there were those in the two years I spent with him, though not as many as one might think. It was the one subject he didn't enjoy discussing and when they occurred, they always left him in a somber mood for a couple of days. It was clear that he did not like doing it, and yet he refused to question the idea that Berefesh was directing him. In two years, we had only one discussion of depth on the subject. It was about three days after he had killed a merchant in Stonecrest, the largest city in the Southern region of Amarya, and he was just coming out of his post-assassination gloom.
“I don't understand why you do this to yourself,” I said as we camped a couple of miles outside of a little village called Panrys. He cut his eyes in my direction and then shook his head.
“You cannot understand,” he said, “And I cannot make you understand. Only someone who lives a life of devotion can understand.”
“So you live completely without freedom of choice or thought? Everything you do is what you are told to do?”
He gave me a slight grin. “And you live under the delusion that your thoughts and choices are solely yours?”
“This isn't about what I believe,” I pointed out. “I'm not the one running around killing people and then being miserable for three days afterward each time.”
“Have you ever killed someone?” he asked.
“No.”
“We'll chat again when you have.”
“What makes you think I will kill someone?”
“It's a dangerous world. You will kill to defend yourself.”
“But that's different.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? And you know this from...what?”
I shrugged. “Surely, even Berefesh recognizes that self-defense is justified while murder is just murder.”
“Justified by whom?”
“By reason.”
He gave me a questioning look. “Reason? So your argument is that men of reason never disagree about the morality of their choices?”
“Of course not, but proper reasoning suggests that self-defense is obviously justified while murder is not.”
“Proper reasoning? And who is the arbiter of propriety?”
I frowned. “Society,” I said simply.
“Indeed? And this would, of course, be highborn society, correct?”
“Of course.”
“And this is your argument?”
I thought about this. I am not highborn and neither was the stranger. I had been taught that highborn society was the epitome of human existence. Was this wrong? It was all that I had known, so I was considering a perspective that I had heretofore never considered. Highborn society, as I had been taught, was favored by the gods, while those of us who were lowborn or commoners were considered servants. It had never occurred to me to question this idea. Why? Why had I never questioned this?
I gave the stranger a confused look and he chuckled. “Don't be alarmed,” he said. “Ideas are like waves upon the sea. The vast majority of them gently break upon the shore and change it slowly, very gradually. A few ideas, however, are like tidal waves. These bring a sudden and devastating alteration to the landscape, causing fear and panic. I suspect you are experiencing such an idea at this very moment.”
I looked to him with wonder. The question I had never thought, much less spoken, now formed in my mind. “What if highborn society is wrong?” I whispered.
He grinned broadly. “Quite a wave, eh?”
It was indeed. Yet, even as I considered this incredible notion, I still struggled with the idea that murder could be just as justifiable as self-defense.
“Look,” I said, “This is a fascinating insight, but I still think that self-defense is justifiable while murder is not.”
“I agree,” he said flatly.
This surprised me. “You agree? How can you murder people and still agree?”
He smiled. “I don't murder anyone. I simply present myself as an instrument for Berefesh. If people die, it is not murder...despite what others may think.”
“That seems like a convenient justification,” I said.
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“Well, what if you are wrong?”
He gave me a sly glance. “Then I am wrong. But I am at peace in my life.”
“You don't seem to be at peace when you kill someone.”
“I don't enjoy it. I find it distasteful. But I am at peace with my decision to live in obedience.”
I decided to take another tack. “Why would Berefesh want someone dead?”
He shrugged and sipped from his cup. “That is not for me to know. I must obey, that is all.”
“But have you never asked Berefesh why?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And what did Berefesh say?”
He paused and thought a bit, grinning slightly. “I was given a dream. In the dream, I saw a family who was faithful to Berefesh...father, mother, and two young children. One day, the father was murdered in the street. The mother and children were devastated, crying out to Berefesh for justice, for an explanation. They never learned why their blessed husband and father was slain.” He paused and then looked at me.
“But I was given insight, a vision of what this man would have done had he not been slain. While the woman and her children were sincere in their devotion, the man was not. He feigned faithfulness, but was actually a devotee of Basanu, and a particularly gruesome one at that.” He paused and sipped his wine.
“Some of Basanu's followers have a taste for...humans. This man was one of them. He was especially fond of the meat of children.” Another pause to allow me to digest this information. “If he had lived, he would have led a small rebellion among the dark
This was an intriguing story, though I was not totally convinced it was not a product of the stranger's rationalization. He struggled with killing others, and this may very well have been his mind's way of dealing with the conflict between his devotion and his distaste for killing. Still, it was interesting.
“So, you're basically saying, that the killing is justified because Berefesh knows the future?”
He shrugged. “Why not? Do you not believe that gods can see into the future?”
Again, given my agnosticism, I had never seriously considered the question. It was widely held that the gods of the Lightwalkers could see into the future, so it was reasonable to believe that if such a being existed, knowledge of the future was at least a possibility. Furthermore, if this Berefesh were the true and only god, as the stranger claimed, it seemed likely that such a being would know the future. One thing still troubled me, though.
“Alright, let us suppose, for a moment, that what you say is all true,” I said. “If Berefesh can see into the future and is all-powerful, why would it be necessary to employ assassins such as yourself?”
He gave me look of amused surprise. “You know, for a lowborn squire, you are quite the philosopher.”
I blushed a bit and explained that Lord Kedrick had enjoyed sharing his lessons with me. And for my part, I had found it quite stimulating and soon developed a hunger for it.
He nodded and continued. “In any event, Berefesh has no needs. Everything is done to teach, to provide opportunities to learn. The ends that Berefesh seek will be done whether we obey or not. Obedience simply allows us the opportunity to learn one lesson, while disobedience provides us with an oftentimes harsher lesson.”
I took this in and turned it over in my mind. It still bothered me, though I must admit, I found his reasoning to be impenetrable. I wondered what this meant for Lord Kedrick and his guards. Were they destined to die there in those woods? And what of Lord Gadrius Mendax? The stranger had stolen a suit and some gold, apparently killing a few guards in the process. Why? I asked him about this.
He nodded, a grim expression on his face. “Altogether avoidable situation and I wish it hadn't come to that.”
“What happened?”
“Lord Gadrius is not a bad sort...in fact, he is a rather decent man, though his recent recognition as nobility had apparently gone to his head a bit. He had hired me as a minstrel, at a price that included a new suit for me.”
“That is a bit unusual, is it not?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Perhaps, though I was simply obeying what I was told. At any rate, I was told to provide entertainment and then to request a private audience with Lord Gadrius.”
“You mean, Berefesh told you this?”
He nodded. “Yes. I was told to speak freely with this man, to tell him that supporting either side in the coming battle would be unwise.”
“The coming battle?”
He smiled wanly. “I'm afraid so. The boy king's throne is a temptation many nobles cannot resist and Lord Gadrius' army would be a terrific asset.”
This confirmed my suspicions about House Spires' desires to form a quick alliance with House Mendax.
“So what happened?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Lord Gadrius was not pleased that a mere minstrel had dared speak to him in such a way. He demanded that I leave, and when I requested my compensation, he told me to leave his house and be thankful I was allowed to go with my head still attached.”
“So you took what had been promised to you?”
“Yes.”
“And killed some guards on your way out?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And Lord Kedrick just happened to get in your way? Is that why you killed them?”
He shook his head and met my gaze. “No. Berefesh told me to seek out Youngblade.”
“But why?”
Another wan smile and slight shrug of the shoulders. “Again, I don't ask why.”
Six months before he died, the stranger began telling me things about the Shadewalker and the future of the Kingdom and that he would soon be gone. At the time, of course, I had no idea what he was talking about. He began spending more and more time alone. I would wake in the morning and his tent would be empty and he would be gone for hours. Then, when he returned, he would be quiet, pensive, almost brooding. We would pack up and ride in silence until he decided to share with me what he had been “told” or “shown.” It was always hazy, confusing, and strange. I thought he had finally gone over the edge...especially given his ramblings about this girl called Shadewalker.
“She is a young half-breed and she will arrive on a Zhaerian steed,” he said, excitedly.
The Zhaerian steeds were a mythological species, similar to, but much larger and faster than horses. They were said to be all white with silver eyes and devastating magical powers. I shook my head, feeling both sorrow and pity.
“She will unite the people and expose the mythical gods for the idols that they are,” he exclaimed. “She will lead a small band of young rebels and they will challenge the Greencapes themselves.”
The Greencapes were basically religious soldiers, a division of the Lightwalker brotherhood called “Lightbringers.” They ran down overt darklings and general troublemakers who gave no respect to the Lightwalker gods or their followers. They were very well trained, highly skilled swordsmen who were ruthless in carrying out their mission. The idea that a group of “young rebels” could challenge the Greencapes was laughable at best.
I was also troubled by his insinuations about his “leaving.” He never actually said anything about dying, but it was fairly clear that's what he meant. He was perhaps thirty, still quite a young man, and he seemed to be in good health. Of course, living as a thief and assassin meant that he had plenty of enemies, so there was always the possibility that one of them would catch him unawares. This seemed highly unlikely, however, since I had never seen him even remotely unaware.
“Where are you planning to go?” I asked him after one of these allusions.
He smiled and let go of a quiet sigh. “I don't know,” he said, shaking his head a bit.
“Are you talking about death?” I asked after a pause.
He looked up at me and gave me the barest hint of a grin. “Yes.”
“So, you're telling me that Berefesh has told you that you are going to die soon?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He smiled fully now. “Ironically.”
Of course, why would I expect any other response? As it turned out, he did in fact meet his end rather ironically...he died from an insect bite. At the time, I had no idea what had happened to him. One day, he woke up with a fever and for the next three days he drifted in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently and sweating profusely. Then he was gone. I didn't quite realize how much I had come to depend upon him until his daily absence began to pervade my life like a fog. We had only each other and now I was alone. I admit, I was afraid.
Later, I learned that his death was most likely caused by the bite of a blood beetle, an insect unknown to Amarya until the Shadewalker brought it from Zhaer. I also heard the rumors that she arrived mounted on a Zhaerian steed in the company of a group of young rebels. I shook my head in wonder and then set about the task of finding her. In the midst of my quest, I began to pray to Berefesh, and before too long, Berefesh began to answer.
I have nearly emptied myself of my old life, my dedication to my old ways and values. I am in the process of a type of reorientation, learning a new way of seeing, hearing, reasoning...a new way of living...a new way of being in the world. As I mentioned earlier, one of the greatest things I've learned over the past two years is how much I have to forget. That is the hardest part of this new path, forgetting a great deal of poor habits and limiting views that one begins learning from the very beginning. And as I walk this new path, I continue to seek ou
One day, I will meet this young girl and her magical steeds. If she is truly to bring a new revolution, a new age, then I wish to help any way I can. The stories say that she can command the beasts of the field and air. This seems to be a fitting way for a new age to be ushered into this world – a revolution led by nature herself.
Perhaps, dear reader, we will meet someday. If you see a stranger traveling alone, do not assume he is a thief or bandit. I am neither of these. I am a jester, a teller-of-tales, a master of illusions. I am a friend of the friendless and an enemy of injustice. I protect the weak and liberate the oppressed. I am a servant of a nameless and formless god. I am the minstrel.
About The Author
Michael J. Tobias has degrees from Furman University in Greenville, SC and the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, KY. He has served in various positions in both Baptist and Methodist churches. He has also worked in camps, schools, one funeral home, and one library. He is currently putting the finishing touches on his first novel From There to Here: A Novel of Discovery, as well as working hard on the first of his forthcoming fantasy trilogy, Shadewalker. He lives and works in South Carolina.