R. Salvatore: The Highwayman

For there was a strength about SenWi, though she wasn't much more than half Dynard's weight.

How could she ever love me? Dynard wondered as he looked down upon the beautiful creature, with her round face, dark brown eyes, and her delicate lips, perfectly shaped and balanced and brought to a pouting peak so that a hint of her white teeth showed when she assumed her typical expression, as if she were always smiling.

How different she was than he, how much more beautiful! Brother Dynard could not help but make these comparisons whenever he looked at her. Her nose was a button, his a hawkish beak. Her body was smooth and flowing, her every movement like the bend of a willow in the wind, while he had ever been a stiff-legged and somewhat hulking figure, with one shoulder forward. His black hair was thinning greatly now, more and more each day it seemed, and his once sharp jawline now possessed ample jowls.

SenWi had not fallen in love with him at first sight, as he had with her. How could she have, after all? But she had listened to his every lecture and participated in every discussion with him in those first months after his arrival, often staying late after all the others had retired, to press Dynard for more stories of the wide world north of the mountains. Dynard could still remember the moment when he had realized that her interest went beyond curiosity in what he knew and had seen, when he had realized that she wanted the stories, not for what they revealed about the world but for what they revealed about him, about this strange white-skinned man from another world. Through Dynard's tales, SenWi had discovered his heart and soul, and somehow-miraculously as far as he was concerned-had fallen in love with him and had agreed not only to formally wed him but also to travel with him back to his home in Pryd.

But first they had their respective tasks to complete.

The thought brought Brother Dynard's gaze to the row of clay pots lining the back of another terrace. The mere sight of the pots, wherein pieces of iron had been placed with wood chips, brought to mind all the condescending and dehumanizing slurs of these southern peoples that Bran Dynard had heard throughout his lifetime. "Beasts of Behr" indeed!

These southern people had found a new way to prepare iron, to strengthen it considerably by transforming it into a metal they called silverel steel. The process was difficult, the items made of it very rare. For a Jhesta Tu mystic, one of the very highest trials was to take this steel and to craft with it a light and mighty sword.

SenWi had been working on hers for years-every day, one fold a session. Brother Dynard remembered the day her work had begun, marked by a grand ceremony that had all the four hundred mystics of the Jhesta Tu assembled on the terraces, praying for her success. Amid the hum of their intoning, the blessed roll of silverel steel had been borne up the mountain stairway by the younger members of the sect. Thin enough to ripple in a gentle wind, the piece was just under four feet wide and, if unrolled, nearly twenty feet long.

Great heated stone wheels had pressed the metal to this thin state, so thin that the entire roll weighed but a few pounds. It had to be light, for this roll-all but the tiny pieces that would be trimmed at the end of the process-would become SenWi's sword, one inch at a time. That was her task: to take this piece of marvelous metal to a specially designed table that had been constructed within her private rooms for the single purpose of crafting her weapon. Many times had Brother Dynard asked about that secret process-asked SenWi and all the masters of the Walk of Clouds who had so warmly welcomed him into their home.

But, alas, this was one secret they would not tell.

Dynard couldn't complain, for the generosity of these mystics had been more than he could ever have imagined. They listened to his stories of Blessed Abelle, of his Church and its precepts, of his hopes of spreading the word. They didn't deny him the opportunity to preach his beliefs to any in the Walk of Clouds, for these mystics saw Bran Dynard as a source of increasing their knowledge, and to them that was all important. In return for his gifts of the gospel of Abelle and his instruction in the use of the magical gemstones, the Jhesta Tu had taught him their disciplines spiritual, mental, and martial-though he hadn't become very accomplished in the latter! They had welcomed his questions and welcomed, too, the blossoming love between this strange man from the northern lands and one of their own.

And they had given Dynard perhaps the greatest gift of all: they had taught him to read their language, which was quite different from that of Honce. And they had loaned him a copy of the Book of Jhest, their defining tome.

So many of their secrets were revealed within the pages of that massive tome: the lessons of concentration, of movement memory, the dance of the fighter, the dance of the lover. It was all there, and the Jhesta Tu masters offered it freely to this visitor from afar. They had provided Dynard with a similar-size and length book, but one whose pages were as yet unlettered, and had bade him to copy the work so that he could take the duplicate back with him when he returned home, and share it with the people of the northern kingdom.

"But would that not compromise your tactics and understanding of battle?" a shocked Dynard had asked when he had been presented with the intriguing prospect.

Gentle old Master Jiao had answered without hesitation, "Any person capable of understanding our martial dance will have first taken the time to learn the language of Jhest. Even then, the words are meaningless unless one first absorbs the wisdom of the Book of Jhest. Without that wisdom, without that totality of understanding, there is no power; and in one who finds that totality of understanding, there is no threat."

Every day, as SenWi went to her work in which she would accomplish but a single one of the thousand folds that would form her sword, Brother Dynard retired to his own room and sought to precisely copy a few lines of the weighty tome. He had done quite a bit of similar scribing in his first years as a follower of Abelle and always before had approached the task with trepidation, though with devotion. For bending over the table, quill in hand, had brought him aching shoulders and neck, and had left his eyes bleary. His new friends, though, even had an answer for those maladies, in the form of the morning exercises they had taught him, the gentle stretches and the connection to the earth beneath his bare feet.

He stared down at SenWi, glad that she was not aware of him at that moment of her own sweet dance. She rose to the ball of one foot, lifting her arms gracefully as she did, extended her other leg, and used it to send her in a slow turn. As she came around, her left arm swept across, with her right following, fingertips to the sky, moving straight out from her chest. Her balance shifted and she smoothly landed on her other foot. A series of shoulder twists followed, each arm coming forward in turn, hands sweeping in a rotating motion as they retracted to the opposite shoulder, then slicing back across her chest and rolling forward once again.

She went down in a sudden waist bend, her feet turning, and then she rotated back to her right, where she repeated the motions.

It looked like a dance, a graceful celebration of the wind and the earth and life itself, but Brother Dynard understood it to be much more than that. This was the basic martial training of the Jhesta Tu, and each pivot was designed to put the warrior face-to-face with another opponent. The form on which SenWi was now working, sing bay wuth, was designed to defeat three opponents; Dynard had watched it in fierce practice sessions and had come to appreciate its worth.