R. Salvatore: The Highwayman

It wasn't until the very end, his family already reaching the wooden gates of Pryd and with only fifty yards left before him, that young Bran Dynard had felt the return of fear, of a terror more profound than anything he had ever known. He was not carrying the spear, but he didn't even know at the terrifying moment that he had dropped it.

By the time he reached the gates, his cheeks were wet with tears, and he stood there before his family and the townsfolk who had come out to see what the commotion was all about, trembling and sobbing and feeling a failure.

A couple of the townsfolk had laughed-probably not at him, though it seemed that way to the teenager. His father, though, had clapped him hard on the shoulder and tousled his hair, thanking him for his courage over and over again.

Bran hadn't believed him and felt himself a coward, but then one man dressed in cumbersome brown robes had come forward and had wrapped him in a hug. He pushed Bran back to arms' length and saluted him. That was when Bran Dynard had first met Father Jerak of Chapel Pryd.

"Is it not strange that only at the end of our run, when the goal seems attainable, that we allow our fears to surface?" Jerak had said to him, and those words echoed now in his mind as he stood on that balcony of the Walk of Clouds.

The monk stepped back from the railing and turned into the fierce wind. He spread his feet shoulders' width apart and brought his arms up before him, entwining his fingers and lifting them high over his head. He found his center of energy, his chi, as the Jhesta Tu had taught him, and he extended that line of power down through his legs and feet and into the stone of the terrace.

He stood against the breeze, rooted as firmly as any tree, as solidly as any stone. With his internal strength, he denied the wind, and while his light clothing flapped wildly, Brother Bran Dynard did not move the slightest bit.

In that place and in that time, he found again his heart. Some time later, he went back inside, back to his work; and before the last rays of the sun disappeared from the light of his western window, he closed both books, his task complete. Only reluctantly did SenWi relinquish her hold on the diamond-faced file, laying the wondrous tool, one of only three such items in all the world, down at her side.

There was no need to continue; the sides of the triangular tip were smooth and even, and no amount of working them would make them more perfect.

The tip was done. The wrapping was done. The final heating and beating of the metal was done, including the attachment of the blade to the hilt and crosspiece. Earlier that same morning, SenWi had finished her own scribing, marking the lines, both delicate and bold, of the flowering vines enwrapping the length of the blade. These symbols, so precise, tied the sword back to the Hou-lei traditions, the warrior cult from which had long ago sprung the Jhesta Tu. There could be no mistaking one of these blades, for there was nothing like them in all the world. The wrapped metal ensured that the blade would only sharpen with use, as layers wore away to even finer edges.

Looking at her sword now, this weapon of few equals, crafted with her own hands, SenWi felt a sense of her past, of her kinship to those who had come before, perfecting their methods, defining the very nature of her existence in their accrued centuries of wisdom. She appreciated them now, more fully perhaps than ever before.

With hands moist and trembling, SenWi lifted the sword and felt its balance. Assuming a two-handed grip on the hilt, she stepped into a fighting stance and brought the weapon slowly through a series of thrusts and parries, as she had done so many thousands of times with wooden practice blades on the terraces of the Walk of Clouds.

She knew that a wondrous journey was before her, with the man she loved, on a road that would lead her farther from her home than she had ever imagined.

Holding this sword, this tie to her past, this tangible reminder of all that she had learned, SenWi was not afraid. In a display of dazzling colors and sound, of snapping pennants and richly colored clothing, the entire body of Jhesta Tu mystics stood on the terraces, flying bridges, and walkways of their mountain monastery. They sang and played exotic instruments: carved flutes, harps small and large, and tinny, sharp, and strangely melodious four-stringed instruments the like of which Bran Dynard had never before seen.

Sounds, smells, and colors everywhere greeted the couple as they made their way along the terraces. Propelled by the dance-inspiring music, Brother Dynard picked up the pace as they neared the end of that last terrace, the entrance to the long stone stairway that had been carved into the mountain wall eons ago. As they approached, SenWi paused, holding his hand and holding him back.

The monk looked at his new wife and recognized the myriad emotions flowing through her. This was the home she had known for most of her adult life; how terrifying it must now be for her to walk down these steps, knowing that perhaps she would never again make that long and arduous climb.

Dynard waited patiently as the moments slipped past, as the celebration continued around them. He noticed the great masters of the Jhesta Tu, standing in a line beside the stairway entrance, and he saw SenWi's stare focusing that way.

One by one, those masters nodded and smiled, offering both permission and encouragement; finally SenWi glanced over at Bran, smile widening, then pulled him along.

Down the couple went, away from the Walk of Clouds.

Neither of them would ever return.

My Dear Brothers My Dear Brothers of Blessed Abelle,

I had no idea how wide the world really was. I thought that in my studies I had learned the truth of our lands, of God and of Man. I believed that within the tomes of the philosophers and the fathers, and within the writings of Blessed Abelle himself, I could find the entirety of human existence and purpose, and the hope of ascension beyond this physical experience.

This is what we all hope, of course. This is our prayer and our faith and our reason. These truths shown us by Blessed Abelle have loosened the fear-inspired hold of the Samhaists, and rightly so!

Knowing all of this prepared me for my Journey Proselyt, so I believed. With wisdom in hand, I could travel the world secure in my beliefs and in the notion that I could extend those truths to those I encountered. My confidence in the teachings of our faith lent me confidence in the validity of my mission. And, of course, such conviction of the ultimate truths of our faith also bolstered my own courage, for my understanding of what will ultimately befall me, of the existence my spirit will find when my physical being is no more, grants me freedom from fear of the specter of death. Faith led me out of Chapel Pryd. Faith allowed me to place one foot before the other, to travel through lands unknown and dangers unforeseen, though surely anticipated. Faith allowed me to meet peoples of other cultures and lands, and to tell them with confidence of the revelations of Blessed Abelle and the sacred gemstone gifts of God.

With all that knowledge and all that confidence, I hardly expected to find, out there in the world so wide, cultures and ways beyond my expectations. With all the surety afforded by the supreme calm of blessed insight, I hardly expected that I would find my horizons widened even more!

I pray to Blessed Abelle, as do we all, and to the God he showed us; and there is no tremor in my voice-not of doubt, at least!-unless it is the usual shakiness I feel when I attempt to communicate to those so far greater than I.

And yet, my brothers, for all the beauty of Blessed Abelle and for all the completeness of serenity in his teachings, I found myself with eyes wide and heart opened once more. For I have discovered that we who follow the words of Blessed Abelle are not as alone in our faith as we assume. For I have traveled among the Jhesta Tu, generous in spirit and wise in nature. The Jhesta Tu, who understand the same sacred powers offered by our godly gemstone gifts. These mystics, ancient in their ways, are as akin to Blessed Abelle as any man might be. They, too, have found the strength of God, not from gemstones falling from heaven to the shores of holy Pimaninicuit Isle, but within themselves! With energy internal, they replicate the beauty of godly magic.