Wycaan Master: Book 03 - Ashbar

by Alon Shalev

  “Are you really Prince Shindell?” the youngest ranger asked.

  “My name is Shayth,” Shayth replied.

  “The tales you have left behind are as confusing as any trail a ranger can follow. Should I believe the good stories or the bad ones?”

  “Unfortunately, both,” Shayth said. “I went through a bad time after my parents were murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’ve chosen to fight against my uncle. Still want to help me?”

  The ranger laughed. “We’ll help you to the village, and then we’ll forget we ever met.”

  “We’ll forget we ever met, but I’ll remember you came to my aid,” Shayth replied.

  They reached the road just outside a rundown village that Shayth and Rhoddan had passed through under the cover of darkness.

  “Can you manage him from here by yourself?” the ranger asked. “Best we are not seen aiding you.”

  Shayth nodded, thanked them again, and let them help put Rhoddan on his shoulder. The elf was muttering again, and Shayth could feel intense heat emanating from his body.

  He barely walked a few paces when a man rode by on an old horse. He stopped when he saw them and stared nervously at Shayth’s sword and bow.

  “My friend is ill, maybe dying,” Shayth said. “Either help me, or let me pass. I’ll not harm you or any in your village.”

  “Swear it to me,” the man said, his voice shrill. “Swear it.”

  “I swear on my sword.”

  The man dismounted and helped Shayth put Rhoddan over the back of the horse before leading them into the village. Though it was still early, people were already busy preparing for the day’s labors. They stopped and stared at the strangers. The man knocked on the door of a small hut.

  “Mistress, I bring a man–err–an elf who is badly wounded.”

  The reply was muffled, but Shayth heard bustling inside. When the door opened, a small woman, slightly younger than Shayth and Rhoddan, with spiky hair, similar to his own, stood there with her arms folded across her chest.

  Shayth gasped, but the healer just smiled.

  “Maugwen?” was all he could say.

  “It’s a long story,” she said. “First, though, let me work on Rhoddan. Tell me what happened.”

  Shayth recounted Ahad’s quarrel and the resulting symptoms. As he spoke, they lay the elf on a table. Shayth removed Rhoddan’s boots and wrapped him in a blanket. Maugwen laid steaming towels on his forehead and feet. Then she laid her hands on Rhoddan–one on his stomach, the other on his chest. She closed her eyes.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Shayth. This’ll take a while.”

  Shayth retreated to an upright log in the corner, sat down, and looked at Maugwen. He had, in truth, forgotten about her. She had been thrown in a cell with Ilana when they were all captives in Galbrieth. He had correctly suspected that she was a spy, but her attempts to extract any information were half-hearted at best. She had escaped with them, but left the group with some other refugees when they went to fight with the dwarves.

  Seanchai had confided that when he and Mhari had scryed them in the dungeons of Galbrieth, Mhari had talked of another with power. Watching Maugwen at work now, Shayth could guess what Mhari had sensed.

  She was still short, but not as round as he remembered. Her dark hair stood up like his, and this made him grin. Her big, green eyes were the same, but her body movements were more assured and confident. Gwen, the frightened little girl in the dungeon, had grown up fast.

  It was late afternoon when Shayth woke. His neck was stiff, and he was momentarily disorientated. He smelled a thick, earthy scent and opened his eyes to find Rhoddan sitting up and drinking from a bowl.

  “Hey, Shayth. Come. Gwen won’t let me eat your food. This soup is great.”

  Shayth grinned and turned to Maugwen. “I preferred him delirious.”

  She laughed. “I missed you guys,” she said. “Actually, I only missed Rhoddan. You were a mean–”

  “He’s improved,” Rhoddan interrupted. “Not much, but he’s headed in the right direction.”

  “They say a prince rides against the Emperor. Quite a change in direction, I think.” Maugwen poured a bowl of soup and passed it to Shayth. “Is it just the two of you?”

  Shayth hesitated, and Maugwen glared at him. “Still think I’m a spy?” she asked.

  “Sorry Gwen,” Shayth replied. “It’s just the two of us.”

  “I go by Maugwen now as the Wycaan predicted. Did Seanchai and Ilana go to. . . go. . . where he said he needed to go?”

  Shayth and Rhoddan exchanged glances. “I’m sorry, Maugwen,” Shayth said. “Ilana is. . . Ilana is. . .”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need. Maugwen cupped her hands to her mouth, and tears welled in her eyes. Shayth put his soup bowl down and went to her. He put his arms around her and held her shaking body. It was a while before anyone spoke.

  Finally, Maugwen turned and went to the water bucket. She washed her face and joined them, cradling her own soup bowl.

  “She was so kind to me–so strong and wise.” Maugwen’s voice was quiet.

  “We all miss her,” Rhoddan replied, his voice just as soft. “Every day, we think of her. We’ll never forget.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Seanchai stared along the shaft of the arrow. He let out his breath and shot. To his credit, he hit the target, though only just. Sellia’s arrow had almost hit the center of the log. He winced.

  “Do you notice the breeze?” the Weapons Master asked, her arms folded over her chest. Seanchai glanced over to a nearby tree and saw the leaves fluttering. She continued: “That was the difference between Sellia’s shot and yours.”

  “Good job, Sellia,” she patted the elfe’s shoulder. “If you want, I can help you find a Wycaan who shoots straight, one more worthy of you.”

  They both laughed. The teacher seemed a different elfe around Sellia, who had been allowed to join them at the archery training ground because it was outside the Wycaan compound.

  Seanchai nocked another arrow, and this shot hit the target nearer the center, but it still wasn’t as good as any of Sellia’s shots. The elfe had always been very good with the bow, but now, with the elf-crafted tips she had received and the hours she spent on the range, she was even more impressive.

  Many came to see her as she toiled hour after hour. There was nothing else for her to do, she had confided to Seanchai. He told her she was lucky. His weapons’ training was intense enough, but after an exhausting day of it, he had still been expected to practice with the elements.

  Two elderly Wycaans, the two who sat on the High Council, had taken him to different places to train. Dyfellian was the oldest elfe he had ever met, but though she walked slowly, she held her body erect with no need for a staff for support. She spoke less than her colleague, but when she did, her lessons were clear and effective. Seanchai could feel the wisdom exuding from her.

  He had, thus far, directed water, controlled the wind, and moved stones, though his control over the stones was very tenuous.

  Lymonia was younger than her colleague but still wrinkled. She watched as he worked with darkness and then taught him to create light in the dark.

  Neither teacher was forthcoming about anything beyond the work they were doing. But they constantly asked him questions, as they analyzed every step he had taken since leaving his parents’ village.

  They did not criticize or compliment, but delved deep into an action, a thought, or a decision. Often, he would provide an answer that would be followed by a long silence. At first, he found this distracting and stressful, but learned to embrace and use it to his advantage, bringing water for the three of them, or stretching an aching limb.

  He continued to spar with Cheriuk, who remained aloof, but helpful. Seanchai became frustrated that each time he raised his level, so did Cheriuk. Even more infuriating, the Weapons Master refused to teach him new techniques.


  After a confrontation with his teacher about this refusal, Seanchai stormed back to face Cheriuk, who promptly sent him flying, not once or twice, but five times. His swords were faster than Seanchai’s, as was his footwork. Seanchai glared at him, then the Weapons Master, and made to storm off.

  Cheriuk was in front of him in a flash. “Glare at me all you want, calhei,” he snarled, “but to the Weapons Master, you will show respect.”

  Seanchai considered several ways to send Cheriuk flying. None involved swords, and he did not doubt his chances. But as he looked into Cheriuk’s hard eyes, he caught just a glimpse of. . . what was that? Disappointment?

  He turned back to the Weapons Master and bowed. “I apologize. I must trust in your experience to teach me.”

  The Weapons Master did not move, but inclined her head ever so slightly. Then Seanchai turned to Cheriuk, who still stood at the ready. Seanchai extended his hands to his sides in peace.

  “You’re right, Cheriuk. I apologize to you, as well. You are a worthy teacher. Thank you.”

  Cheriuk, mimicking their Master, inclined his head, as well, but not before a smile escaped.

  Seanchai left the compound and went to his tree. He slumped down against it and put his head in his arms.

  A water skin was nudged into his hands. He looked up and saw Pyre standing there.

  “Can I sit with you?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure I’m much in the way of company.”

  “Is Cheriuk getting under your skin?”

  “A bit. I just want to feel that I can beat him. No, I want to beat him. And I want the Weapons Master to teach me how.”

  Pyre laughed. “You can beat him, and if the Weapons Master won’t tell you how, it’s because she wants you to work it out for yourself.”

  Seanchai looked at the young elfe and nodded. “That makes sense. It’s a test.”

  “Everything here is a test,” Pyre said.

  “What makes such a young calhei like you so wise?”

  Pyre laughed again. “That’s what I like about you. Everyone here is so serious. You make me laugh. But I’m not wise, Seanchai. I’m observant; that’s all.”

  “You’re smart, Pyre. Trust me. I know smart people.”

  “Denalion is smart,” Pyre said.

  “The dreamwalker? Yes, I like him.”

  “Then go to him for help,” Pyre continued. “Many of us do when we’re stuck in our training. He’s a unique teacher. He’s walked further afield than anyone else. He’ll help you because, deep down, I think he knows that you were always meant to come.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Everyone’s talking about you, the Book of Prophecies, and the teachings of Master Tansu. Many say you shouldn’t have been allowed in and that you shouldn’t be allowed back out. There are a few who stand up for you because they don’t want to let fear rule our lives. Denalion speaks as though he knows you–as though he has already decided to support you.

  “And, Seanchai, you must understand. Denalion holds a seat on the High Council, but he rarely sits upon it and almost never speaks publicly. He lives in two worlds, the real and the dream, and it gives him knowledge and power. But it also makes him uncomfortable to be among us when he isn’t needed. He seeks solace and meditation. But now he’s in the thick of discussions and debates. And he stands with you. Always. That’s why I think you should go to him, Seanchai.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  “I’m no Wycaan, Seanchai,” Denalion said when Seanchai sought him out the following morning. “You should study with them for now.”

  “I need help,” Seanchai said. “I need something extra to pass these tests.”

  “You need to learn from them everything you can, and, yet, you need to discard all they teach you.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  Denalion smiled, then his expression became serious. “You told me that you enjoyed fishing, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ask the Weapons Master for permission to spend the morning with me.”

  “And if she asks what we plan to do?”

  “Tell her the truth, of course. Tell her we’re going fishing.”

  Seanchai found the Weapons Master eating. He waited until she had finished and cleared her bowl before asking her permission to join Denalion. The wrinkled elfe smiled.

  “An interesting and wise choice, Seanchai. I’m impressed.”

  Seanchai was confused, but decided to cover his ignorance. “Actually, the credit goes to Pyre.”

  “Aah. Then I commend you for your choice in friends. That little one is very special. Wait a moment.” She went to another elf, who was also eating, and whispered in his ear. He nodded, and the Weapons Master returned to Seanchai. “Ask Pyre if she wants to join you. Her teacher agrees, but impress upon her that she’ll need to make up the classes she misses.”

  A half hour later, with stomachs full and holding long, slender poles, Pyre and Seanchai set off after Denalion, who had invited Sellia, as well. They walked north until the forest thinned, crossed a small stream, and then followed the stream west. It met a slow-flowing river, and here, Denalion put his equipment down.

  “So, fishing for you is attaching some food on a hook and putting that in the water?”

  Seanchai nodded.

  “I’m going to teach you another way, okay?” When Seanchai nodded again, he continued. “What fish are we trying to catch?”

  Seanchai shrugged. “Tasty fish?”

  Pyre snickered and quickly covered her mouth. Sellia was smiling, and Seanchai didn’t feel too much of a dunce.

  “When you went out to fight the Emperor’s army, did you stroll into the battlefield and see who might just happens to come along?”

  “Of course not,” Seanchai said.

  “Then do not fish like that, either. Do not do anything that way. Be intentional, Seanchai.” Denalion clenched his fist to stress his words. “Think like your adversary. Understand him and what he does. Come with me.”

  “Shouldn’t we bring the fishing poles?”

  “No,” Denalion said. “Let’s find the fish first. In this river are brown-spotted pikura. They are big and hungry, but also lazy. They won’t expend energy swimming against the current to find their food. Where are they?”

  Seanchai thought, and then walked along the riverbank. He pointed after a minute’s surveillance. “Over there.”

  “Why?”

  “The rocks break up the current. Whatever floats along is going to get sucked into that little pool. If I were a pikura, that’s where I’d wait.”

  “Good,” Denalion patted Seanchai’s shoulder. “Very good. Now you may fetch a fishing pole.”

  Seanchai returned with a rod and some bread.

  “You hungry?” Denalion asked.

  “It’s. . . for the fish,” Seanchai said.

  “That’s very nice of you. Have you seen any loaves floating down the river?” Denalion withdrew a soft, thin square of cloth from his pocket. He carefully opened it and pulled out a dried beetle. “These fall into the river all the time. Quite tasty to the pikura.” He took the bread from Seanchai’s hand and stuffed it in his own mouth. “This is good, too. Thank you.”

  He attached the beetle to the hook and moved to the edge of the water to cast. He began rhythmically whipping the rod backwards and forwards, watched as the line extended behind and only then casting forward.

  “Watch my form, Seanchai. It is no different than wielding a sword in a solo pattern. Learn the shift of weight, the angle of the rod, the rhythm. You don’t need to go back and forth too much. I’m just doing this as an example. Now, I’ll lay the bait.”

  He let the rod come forward until it was parallel with the water, and then locked his wrists. The line rolled out and landed upstream, imitating a beetle falling into the water. The bait floated downstream and into the pool. When it flowed back out, Denalion flicked it up and repeated the process. After three attempts, he calle
d Seanchai to take the rod from him.

  Having learned to copy forms in his exercises and combat training, Seanchai soon picked up the rhythm and principles. Denalion talked him through the movements, and, gradually, the bait flew gently to the intended spot.

  Denalion brought another rod and cast next to Seanchai. Further upstream, Pyre was teaching Sellia. As they settled into the form together, Denalion spoke.

  “Know what you seek in any exchange: to hunt, kill, or befriend. Know whom you seek: opponents, friends, potential allies. Know what you plan to do, but be ready to change direction if necessary. If one type of bait doesn’t work, try another. Change tactics, set new goals, and be flexible. Do you understand?”

  Seanchai turned to the redheaded dreamwalker. “Thank you,” he said, and bowed.

  At that moment, a fish took Seanchai’s bait. They both laughed. Catching fish seemed unimportant right now. From out of nowhere, Denalion asked, “Do you only become a bear in the dream world?”

  Seanchai was taken aback. “Is there another way?”

  “Bears are very good at fishing, Seanchai. It’s the mainstay of their diet. You must learn the other way, and learn it quickly.”

  “What other way?”

  “You must seek this knowledge from the Wycaans,” Denalion answered. “I hear you wear a scar–a claw mark from a bear pack leader. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Seanchai said. “Why?”

  “Was this the only time a bear confronted you outside the dream world?”

  Seanchai nodded.

  “The pack was expecting you to do something. Ask the Wycaans. Demand it, if you must. You need to know. Here might be your only chance to defeat the Emperor.”

  Chapter Sixty

  The next week flew by. Following Denalion’s advice to learn and also forget everything, Seanchai allowed himself to develop his own sword style. He pushed Cheriuk more each day, and the sparring became faster and more intuitive on both sides. The Weapons Master began to switch his opponents at increasing intervals, forcing him to adapt to each individual.