"My son, I have meditated many hours on my dilemna, I have consulted the priests and the texts of the wiser ones, but the course for us is clear."
Azail said nothing.
"When Suretri died, we all thought it was an accident. I did think any student of mine capable of purposely killing a man as part of his training. I was sure, with closer instruction, I could prevent another accident like that, I could harness your power and talent, but..."
Azail still said nothing.
"Well, then there was Karyi, and Nhalma. Those were not accidents. You are a killer, my son, and to my shame my teaching has made you the greatest killer this world has ever known." True sorrow filled the Master's eyes.
Azail finally spoke. "A man does not forge a sword to reap wheat."
The Master's eyes widened with fear and a tragic sorrow. "No, my son, but an artisan may forge a sword of ornament for sake of beauty."
And Azail spoke to his Master one last time. "It is still a sword."
Azail walked down the steep, wooden steps of the school with deliberate care, for he did not wish to drop the large, swaddled bundle he held cradled to his arms. No one was there to see, for all the other students had been dismissed for the day, but if they were, they may have seen a glistening about Azail's eyes that may have been the beginning of a tear. Or it may not have.
When the students returned to the school the next day the Master was not there to greet them. They found his grave, at the foot of a small flowering tree near the stream where the Master was wont to spend hours in deep meditation. They never found his journal or notes on his insights into the arts and skills of fighting, for Azail had destroyed them all shortly after his death.
| Friday, October 10, 1997 |
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