“Of course, Master Rindu.” he responded.
“What is your understanding of the rohw?”
“The rohw? What is…what is my understanding of it?” Sam was confused. “I thought we were well past that, Master Rindu. You know what my understanding of it is.”
“I do,” the Zouy answered, “but humor me. What is your understanding of the universal energy?”
Sam thought for a moment, wondering what the monk was wanting to hear. “The rohw is the force, vibrational in nature, that infuses all life in the world. It is all around us and all through us. To use it, I have only to channel and control it, using the energy within myself and also the energy surrounding me.”
“Good,” the master said. “But how do you use it? How do you control it and gather it?”
“I…uh… come into harmony with it and then redirect and use it according to what I desire to do.”
“Yes, that is correct. In order to use the rohw, one must be in harmony with his surroundings, must be part of all things. The more ‘one’ all things are, the more powerful the rohw. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Sam answered. “Is there something I’m missing? We covered these basic lessons long ago.”
Rindu looked into Sam’s eyes. “Ah, but did we?”
“Didn’t we?”
“Perhaps we touched upon the subject, but we did not cover it fully.” The Zouy looked pensive for a moment, the continued. “I would tell you a story when we take our next break. It will, perhaps, illustrate that of which I speak.”
Sam wasn’t sure if he was up to listening to another story from Rindu’s childhood. He knew the monk liked to use stories to illustrate his point, but at times they seemed so obscure he could barely follow them. He was pretty sure the master was making the story up as he waited for the next break. Oh, well. At least it would distract him for a few minutes.
When they stopped for the rakkeben’s next break, Sam sat on a fallen tree across from Rindu, who was sitting on a lichen-covered rock. Nalia sat down next to Sam and Skitter curled up at his feet.
What are we doing? Skitter sent to him.
Sam sent back his answer, Rindu is going to tell me a story to try to teach me something.
Will it be a good one, or one he makes up on the spot? the hapaki sent, along with a feeling of humor. He was well familiar with Rindu’s tales and sayings.
I don’t know, Sam sent back. Let’s wait and see.
Rindu looked to Sam and nodded, then began. “There was once an old, wise hapaki.”
I like this story already, Skitter sent to Sam.
Sh! Don’t interrupt, Sam sent back.
“This hapaki, being very old and very wise, saw it as his duty to teach the younger generations. To do that, he would test the youngsters in matters of skill and intelligence. His contests always promised grand rewards and the other hapaki in his large community looked forward to them.
“One year, the prize was a fair-sized pile of onekai, the favorite food of hapaki.”
He’s right about that, Skitter sent, there is nothing better than onekai. Not even granola bars.
Be quiet! Sam insisted with his thoughts. Don’t make me block you out.
A sending of feelings of embarrassment and apology filtered through to Sam’s mind from the hapaki.
“To get the prize, all the winning hapaki had to do was to reach it. Somehow, the old hapaki had put it within plain sight, on a pedestal of unclimbable rock in the middle of a deep pond.
“The pond was surrounded by many tall trees, and hanging from the trees were vines in all different lengths and thicknesses. However, none of the vines could reach the top of the pedestal.
“Throughout the day, the younger hapaki threw themselves at the obstacle. Some tried to swim to the rock and then climb it. None succeeded. Some tried to swing on the vines to reach the prize, but they ended up splashing in the pond. Some clever hapaki even swung on the vines, going back and forth like a pendulum and then jumping to try to reach the pedestal. All failed.
“The old hapaki noticed one of the smallest hapaki, a youngster only fifteen years of age. She sat and contemplated, watching the others and working through ideas in her head. After all the other hapaki were worn out from their endeavors, ready to quit, she selected two other young hapaki and conversed with them for a few minutes.
“The three discussed something at length. At one time or another while they spoke, each of them looked up toward the pedestal, to the vines and trees above, and over to the wise old hapaki. When they had reached some sort of agreement, they went up one of the trees as a group. All the other hapaki stopped and watched them.
“With some signal, all three of the youngsters snatched a vine. All of the ropy appendages attached to the same slender tree, very near the top. They jumped off their branches, swinging in unison. Back and forth, back and forth, they swung together and began to pick up speed, going higher and higher each time.
“As they swung, much to the other competitors’ surprise, the tree itself began to flex. Still they continued to swing, in perfect synchronicity, gliding through that air as one, bending the tree more and more. At a signal from their leader, all three, timing themselves perfectly, leapt from the vines. They landed almost on top of one another, directly in the center of the high pedestal.
“The other hapaki looked at them in amazement. The old hapaki looked at them with pride. The three themselves hadn’t noticed, of course. They were too busy eating their onekai, and discussing how they would divide the leftovers.”
Rindu stopped speaking and looked at Sam.
Sam looked back at Rindu.
Skitter was silent for a few seconds. Then he sent, Is that it? What does it mean?
I’m not really sure. Let me think.
The seconds stretched on, seeming to be minutes. Rindu’s expressionless face stiffened. A slight line appeared in his forehead. “Do you not understand what the hapaki learned that day?” he asked.
“That teamwork is important?” Sam guessed. From the deepening of the crease on Rindu’s forehead, he decided that it was the wrong answer.
“Harmony, Sam. Harmony. Teamwork would not have been enough to flex the tree. All three had to be in perfect synchronization with each other for it to work. They needed to be in harmony. They needed to be one.”
“Okay, I can see that,” Sam said, looking over at Nalia for help. “but I don’t understand why it’s so important. I know that your story is just an illustration and the onekai is a metaphor, but I already know that I need to be in harmony with the rohw.”
“Yes, Sam,” the Zouy said. “You know. But do you really know? To know something intellectually does not mean you truly have intimate knowledge of it.”
“But Master Rindu, I have been working in harmony with the rohw. I have been training and practicing to become one with the energy all around me. What am I doing wrong?”
“Sam, it is not so much that what you are doing is wrong, but you are not doing enough that is right. You must go further, refine your knowledge and your power. When you say you are in harmony with the rohw, you are not entirely correct. When you have attained the level where you cannot determine where you end and the rohw or your fellow energy-users begin, you will understand. It is only at that point where you will truly be in harmony. You will have achieved true oneness.”
“But how will I get there?” Sam asked. “What can I do to make it happen?”
“Ah, that is the question of importance. You must find your own path. Each person is different. As it is said, ‘At the end of the road, looking back, the way is clear, but the road ahead is misty and unfocused.’”
He just made that one up, huh? Skitter sent to Sam. Sam didn’t respond.
“I have a suggestion, though,” Rindu continued. “Try to understand other things and other people. Really understand. Without understanding, oneness is impossible. You must become the other, stepping outside of yourself and sharing feeling and experience wit
h that to which you would be in harmony. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Sam said, “I think I do. I’ll try during my meditation.”
“Good. But remember, ‘Do or do not. There is no try.’”
“Did you just quote Yoda?” Sam asked, chuckling.
“I did,” Rindu said proudly. “Was he a great scholar among your histories? His words were some that I have translated into Kasmali from one of the books you gave me.”
“Uh, yeah. I guess all things considered, he was a wise figure in our histories.”
“I thought so. His words have the ring of truth.”
Chapter 21
Zouyim master Torim Jet marveled at the immense structure in front of him. He had heard of the Gray Fortress—now called Whitehall—of course, but the reality was far more impressive than his imaginings were. The place was massive.
He had traveled north and was staying in an area around Wolf’s Run when he had first heard of the Gray Man’s defeat. His heart had rejoiced when he heard that Rindu had been victorious. He immediately started traveling toward the fortress, proceeding carefully and warily. It was only when he was in Patchel’s Folly that he heard that the name of the fortress had changed to Whitehall and somehow, with someone using rohw powers he had never heard of, the stone of all the structures had been turned white.
Almost more surprising than even all of this was what he had found while traveling through the Dead Zone on the way to his destination. He had just left Patchel’s Folly a day or so before and he had two or three days of travel until he would be within sight of the fortress.
The monk had seen glimpses of the riati already on his way through the Dead Zone. The creatures were rumored to have been leftovers from the time of the Great War. Humanoid in appearance, they were completely hairless with ash-colored skin that blended in with the landscape of the Dead Zone perfectly. Small and sinewy, they were disgusting creatures that ate anything, alive or dead. They were cowardly, though, and would not attack unless they were sure they would not be injured or killed. Because of this trait, they often ate carrion instead of live prey. The riati would not attack groups, but Torim Jet was wary that they may misjudge him as easy prey because he was alone.
The riati he had seen were far enough away that they did not bother him. So far, he had seen three groups of them, with six to eight of the creatures each. The Zouyim master did not relish doing battle with them. Rumors said they were strong and fast and most likely carried disease. Still, he was confident they could not overwhelm him. He would keep an eye out, but he would not be concerned overmuch.
On his second day out of Patchel’s Folly, Jet saw a large group of the creatures encircling something, obviously intending to kill it, if it was not already dead. Because the group was directly in the path he was taking, he decided he would investigate. Perhaps he could lend assistance. The group consisted of at least twelve riati.
When he arrived at the location of the creatures, he could not believe his eyes. The gangly monsters were circling around a single figure, none having noticed him yet. In the center of the constantly moving ring, he saw something that could not be, something out of a dream. He blinked his eyes twice, three times, and shook his head. The image remained.
There, amidst the foul creatures, was a small woman in off-white robes, same-colored trousers flashing in the dim light, with sandals laced up her calves in a criss-crossed pattern. Her pixie face was framed in short, fine, blond—almost silver—hair. She turned counter to the direction of the circle, holding her weapon at the ready. The weapon consisted of three stout sticks, just over two feet long, connected in a string by two sections of chain. The triple staff. Torim Jet knew this weapon, and its wielder, well.
Not hesitating, he ran as swiftly and quietly as the wind and then launched himself at the nearest riati. He delivered a flying kick to the neck of one of the aggressors while slicing the throat of another with his straight sword as he passed. He landed next to the woman and flicked the blood from his blade.
“Palusa Filk,” he said. “It is my great pleasure and honor to see you again. I would fight alongside you, if it would seem appropriate to you.”
Her white teeth flashed in a beautiful smile. “Master Jet, it would be my honor to destroy these creatures with your help.”
And then they set about doing just that.
The riati soon decided they were not willing to pay the price of this combat. Three more were dead before the main group had even attacked. When the remainder broke formation, some running away and some attacking and trying to eat their dying comrades, another two were killed. Within a minute, the seven that were dead or dying were lying alone on the cracked soil, the others fleeing for their lives.
Torim Jet flicked his sword and wiped the blood from it with a rag he took from his travel pouch. He put the sword back into the scabbard at his waist with a smooth motion. Then he turned to the other Zouyim monk and saluted her, his hands held in front of his chest with the right curled into a fist cradled inside the left. “Indeed it is good to see you, Palusa Filk.”
She saluted him and bowed. Then, impulsively, she rushed to him and enfolded him in a crushing hug. “Master Jet, I have missed you. I did not know if anyone else had survived.”
He hugged her back and, after a moment, extricated himself. “I, too, was unaware of any other surviving Zouyim. Any other than Rindu, of course.”
“Master Rindu is still alive?” she asked excitedly. “How do you know?”
“I saw him not two months past. He it was that defeated the Gray Man. At least, it was his party that did so. Rindu, Nalia, and their new companion, Sam. That last one is very strong in the rohw, and comes from another world. The world from which the Gray Man came.”
“Nalia as well? That is very good. Then the Sapsyra yet live. The news lifts my heart. Perhaps there is a chance yet to re-establish the protectors of Gythe. That is why I was going to Whitehall. I have heard they are creating a new government and I desire to be part of it.”
Torim Jet looked at her. It had been over eight years since he had seen her and she was obviously older, but she seemed not to have aged. Perhaps her face held a more serious cast, but she was still the pretty, young-faced disciple he had helped train when the Zouyim temple was still whole.
“That is my desire as well,” he said. “May we travel together? I would enjoy the conversation and the company. We both have stories to tell, I believe.”
“I would be truly honored, Master. It would be appropriate for two of the three remaining Zouyim to enter Whitehall together. Perhaps we will even find others who yet live.”
Palusa Filk and Torim Jet made it to the corridor cut through the forest surrounding Whitehall. As they entered the wide roadway, their heads swiveled from side to side, studying the thick vegetation on either side.
“I have never seen a forest like this,” Palusa Filk said. “It is so pale, almost as if the color has been leached from the very leaves.”
“Yes,” Torim Jet said vaguely. He seemed to be preoccupied with trying to peer into the thick undergrowth. “I had heard of this place. It is called the Undead Forest. It surrounds the fortress for miles all the way around. It is sickly, malformed, a result of the Great War and the energies released during the conflicts. This corridor is the only easy path through the foliage.”
Palusa Filk looked ahead, up the roadway. It was very wide, perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet across, and was fairly straight. From where they were, she could see the winding road in the distance, making its lazy way up the plateau on which Whitehall sat. All of the cliffs surrounding the fortress were sheer and unclimbable, from the looks of them. At this one location only there was a path, rising from the ground level up the two hundred feet to the walls perched atop the cliffs.
The road was a series of switchbacks, raised in the manner of aqueducts in some of the large cities of Gythe. The entire thing had a look of supreme attention to detail and a timelessness that defied belief.
“The fortress is more than two thousand years old,” Jet said, scanning the path, the cliffs, and the walls above it all. “Perhaps much more than that. The legend says that it was created with a power unknown in our time, even exceeding the power of technology that came later and eventually destroyed almost all life on Gythe. And still it stands, a bastion in the storm that is our world. I have very much desired to see the structures themselves, since I heard the legends as a boy. It is good that Whitehall is now under the control of honorable men instead of the Arzbedim or the Gray Man.”
Palusa Filk nodded as she looked up, and up, and up, until she could see the keep rising above the walls. It was all impossibly high. “It is amazing,” was all she could think to say.
Torim Jet’s eyes twinkled and for a moment. It seemed as if the last eight years of tragedy had not happened. It was to her like they were simply discussing some mystery, some aspect of life that was part of her training at the Zouyim temple. Just like old times.
The old master blinked and then his guarded, careful expression was back, making Palusa Filk sigh. “Shall we make our way to the seat of the new government of Gythe, then?” he offered.
“Definitely,” she said with a smile as they continued on.
The corridor through the forest ended with a flat, empty stretch of land that appeared to ring Whitehall completely. They made their way across and up the path, which started at ground level and quickly rose to a height of nearly twenty feet from the slope of the hill. The stones of the path were impressive, all fitting together cleverly to create a surface that was almost completely smooth. When looking at it from a distance, she hadn’t realized it was as wide as it was, almost as wide as the corridor through the Undead Forest.
Up they went, making the climb with little trouble. The switchbacks were designed to maintain a gentle, consistent grade. Palusa appreciated the engineering and effort required to do such a thing.
She felt something emanating from the path, a warm sort of glow. “Master Jet, are the paving stones infused with some kind of power?” she asked.
Harmonic Magic Series Boxed Set Page 68
