“I should clarify. You exhibit excellent martial technique. Here we teach that mastery of the outer motion must be balanced with mastery of inner stillness. You are very weak in that regard.”
“I have passed my meditation requirements, Master Keiftal,” said Teron.
“You have. And you have not thereafter made any effort to improve yourself in that arena. You’ve thrown all of your energy into bettering your combat abilities. Now while your, um,”—he glanced around again—“your situation excuses that to a degree, the fact remains that you have all but abandoned meditation and the pursuit of inner peace.”
“As you wish,” said Teron, hoping that his noncommittal answer might end this unwanted scrutiny of his inner workings.
“You do not let go of the world and embrace peace, Teron. Instead, you fight the world, hoping to crush your way to peace. But it cannot be done.”
Keiftal looked into Teron’s eyes and saw the steely disagreement therein. He sighed. “Do you know why we have not rebuilt the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude, my boy?”
“I’ve always assumed it was because Prelate Quardov hates us.”
Keiftal cocked an eyebrow. “It’s that obvious, is it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I suppose in a way, we merit his distaste,” said Keiftal with a half-smile. “We’ve never rebuilt it as a reminder to ourselves both of the results of violence, for violence made a ruin of this beautiful monastery; and the costs of failure, for our failure to protect this place brought it to what it is now. But of course, this monastery is part of Prelate Quardov’s purview. Its welfare is his responsibility. Has been since before it was destroyed. So I imagine that leaving this place as it is has become rather a sore reminder to him of how he failed to protect his charges.”
“That’s not the whole of it,” said Teron.
“Now the training for your class was rather different from what we normally teach,” said Keiftal. “I know we told you that the monastery ruins were to serve as a reminder to your—to you and your comrades, that is—a reminder of what you were fighting for. But if you look at it, my boy, you’ll see that even that approach ties back to the cost of violence and the price of failure.”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Teron.
“Then what do you mean, my boy?”
“I mean that if his reverence wanted to repair the monastery, he would. But he doesn’t want to. He has a reason of some sort.”
Keiftal sucked on his teeth. “Well, my boy—”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” asked Teron, resignation in his voice. He watched emotions rage across Keiftal’s face—shame and anger, bitter sadness and righteous indignation.
At last the elder monk mastered his face and looked about. “Do you know why we have rebuilt this garden?” he asked.
“No, honored one. Why?”
“To show that even here, even in our derelict home set smack in the middens of this ruined land, even here there is hope for renewal and rebirth. Even here there we can coax forth peace and beauty.” He looked into Teron’s eyes again and saw his words dash themselves against his quiet defiance like a toasting glass against a brick wail. He shook his head sadly, “Why do you do it, Teron?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Go into the Crying Fields? The Last War is over, my boy. Can you not accept that?”
“I can, honored one. But peace cannot accept me.”
Keiftal started to reply but paused, trying to get a mental grip on Teron’s words.
“It keeps me sharp,” said Teron, hoping to steer the conversation away from his unexpected admission. “I don’t want to rust like a neglected blade.”
“Your skills are … well, there must be better ways.”
“I don’t know of any. Who’s left who’s had the training I’ve had? No one. How can I hone my skills sparring against people I know are no threat? It’s the closest I can get to the war.”
Keiftal started to answer, thought better of it, then took a deep breath and forced it out. “You are right, my boy. Now I know your training has been harder since … well, since. But the shadows of the Crying Fields, they may look threatening and all, my boy, but they’re just … they’re just shadows!”
Teron looked into his mentor’s eyes. “Not always,” he said.
3
The Monastery of Pastoral Solitude
It was an hour before dawn, and ghostly wails and cries drifted across the Crying Fields like foul pollen. Teron lay on a thin grass-filled mattress in his ascetic monk’s cell. A sheen of sweat glistened on his skin in the light of the moons, and the night air cooled it so that his skin had the feel of a corpse. His quickened breath hissed between his teeth, and his hands clenched and unclenched as his legs twitched and pumped.
A cat appeared in the open window to his cell, leaping silently to the sill from somewhere outside. Its gray fur had black stripes and blended in very nicely with the moonlight and shadow. Its tail twitched as it aligned its ears to Teron. It sat and surveyed him for a while, and its ears slowly swiveled back, revealing its discomfort. The tail lashed even more. At last it crouched low and leaped through the darkness to the supine form. It landed heavily on his sternum, using the momentum of the jump to gather itself and leap immediately again for the low table in the corner.
The impact startled Teron from his sleep. He yelled, his voice tight and controlled but full of fear. He blocked an unseen strike as he sat up, then his frenzied eyes cast wildly about in the darkness. His gaze came to rest at last on the nearly invisible shape of the cat.
“Meow,” said the cat, in a voice that sounded far more like a kitten than a tom.
Teron blew out his lungful of air, half laughing and half relieved, and flopped back down to the mattress. He drew in a deep breath and stretched, running his hands through his hair. He heard the tomcat leap to the floor and walk over, then felt the heavy, padded step of the cat as it climbed onto his chest and settled down, kneading into Teron’s skin with its long, sharp claws.
Teron scratched the cat’s wide head, ruffling its dirty hair. “How do you always know when I need you to wake me up?” Teron asked. He found his answer in the half-lidded eyes of the cat. It started to purr, an uneven, raspy sound like a steel-booted gnoll slogging up a steep pile of gravel.
“Phew,” said Teron. “What on Eberron is that, Flotsam? Your breath smells like you ate a goblin chirurgeon’s gloves!”
Teron spent a long time stroking the cat, focusing on rubbing the tom’s muzzle and the base of its ears. The cat drooled, its saliva slowly collecting on its chin, dripping onto Teron’s chest and pooling at the base of his neck. Teron didn’t mind, though. The chance for his touch to bring pleasure instead of injury and death was well worth the nominal annoyance of some cat spittle.
Eventually he worked his hands down the cat’s back, massaging its muscles and scratching its pelt. The sky began to lighten in the east.
With the massage completed and the monastery starting to awaken, the cat knew its time was up. It stood, arched it back, licked Teron’s stubbled chin in thanks, and returned to the windowsill to groom itself and watch the day begin.
Teron rose slowly and easily. He limbered up, bending and stretching to get his blood flowing, then popped his neck, his back, his ankles, and finally cracked his knuckles all at once. When he was finished, he stepped over to the small window of his cell, placing his hands on the sill on each side of the cat. He looked at the growing dawn with a disinterested eye. The sky was a sickly hue, a wan excuse for a sunrise as was so often the case in this cursed portion of fair Aundair.
The tomcat meowed.
“I know, Flotsam,” said Teron. “I wake up feeling pretty much the same way.” He blew out a lungful of air.
“Let’s go see what’s in the larder, shall we?” he asked, and as he turned to leave his room, the cat hopped down the outside of the window.