The King's Road south of Valemark had the width of something planned by people who'd never actually travel it. After the first day, it narrowed to barely fit two carts passing, and by the second day, Randulph had compiled a comprehensive list of complaints.

  ?My knees object,? he announced for the fifth time that morning. ?Also my back. My feet scream through my calves, and I'm fairly certain my spine is about to leave me for a younger man.?

  ?Walking is good for you,? Venn said, though she was also looking tired.

  ?Walking is for people who can't afford horses or magic. I can afford both. Yet here I am, walking like some sort of peasant. No offense to peasants. They're probably better at this.?

  ?The pain is a tell of a life too comfortable. The body and mind need some resistance to remind it of its strength.? Reyn walked ahead, setting a pace that tried to accommodate Randulph's age while still making progress. Turnip rode her shoulder, occasionally chittering at birds that dared fly too close.

  ?Pft,? was all Randulph had to say to that. After a few more minutes, he glanced at Reyn. ?That star-sword. How did you come by it??

  Reyn shrugged, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the nameless blade. Nameless… ?It's a long story.?

  ?It's a long journey.?

  ?True.? Reyn felt the hilt, its metal always slightly warm against her palm. ?A sorcerer sent me... elsewhere. Through magic I don't understand. When I found this blade and touched it, it brought me back.?

  ?A sorcerer?? Randulph's voice dripped contempt like water off a particularly disdainful roof. ?Of course. Probably didn't even know what he was doing. They never do.?

  ?I've heard they gain their power from demons,? Venn said with the tone of someone repeating tavern gossip. ?Some unholy deal.?

  Randulph actually stopped walking to scoff properly. ?Bah! They're nothing but tricksters with no control or finesse. Wizards study for decades to understand magic's laws. Sorcerers? They stumble into power and wave it around like children with sharp sticks.?

  ?But he sent me somewhere,? Reyn said. ?Several somewheres.?

  ?Probably just shunted you sideways through the three realms without any idea what he was doing. That’s all there is. But sorcerers love to make things seem more mysterious than they are.? Randulph resumed walking, his complaints temporarily replaced by irritation. ?Mark my words, whatever that sorcerer did was ninety percent accident and ten percent showing off.?

  A rustling in the undergrowth cut the conversation short. Something large was moving through the bracken, snapping twigs with no attempt at stealth.

  ?Bugbear,? Reyn said quietly, hand moving to Good Deeds.

  The creature that emerged was indeed bugbear-ish, though calling it a bear was generous. It had the general shape, if bears were created by someone working from a vague description and plenty of creative inputs. Matted fur covered muscles that bunched wrong and on top of each other, and its eyes held the intelligence of something that knew it was supposed to be fierce but wasn't quite sure why.

  It saw them and roared, spraying spittle that smelled of rotted meat and mold.

  ?Allow me,? Randulph said, stepping forward with more confidence than his complaining suggested. He spoke a single word in the old tongue, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty: ?LEAVE.?

  The bugbear stopped mid-roar. Its eyes glazed slightly, as if it forgot what it was doing. Then, with the dignity of someone who'd just remembered an important appointment elsewhere, it turned and shambled back into the forest.

  ?Suggestion magic,? Randulph said with satisfaction, patting his hands. ?Simple, elegant, effective. No demon pacts required.?

  ?You could have done that to the rabbit,? Venn pointed out.

  ?The rabbit was already doing what it wanted. Can't suggest someone into something they're actively choosing.? He brushed imaginary dust from his robes. ?Also, I wasn't there for the rabbit. Skyrise doesn’t want to intrude in the business of Valemark.?

  When the sun reached its peak, coating the forest in thick golden light that made the dust motes dance like lazy fireflies, they stopped by a stream. The water ran clear over smooth stones, making the particular chuckling sound as if it knew jokes it wasn't sharing. Randulph collapsed onto a rock with the drama of someone mortally wounded. Venn began gathering herbs she'd spotted, their bitter green scent cutting through the afternoon warmth. Reyn did something unexpected.

  She found a flat patch of ground, sat cross-legged, and closed her eyes.

  ?What are you doing?? Randulph asked, barely bothering to turn his head.

  ?Meditation.?

  Randulph laughed. ?Barbarians don't meditate. They hit things until problems go away.?

  Reyn opened one eye. ?Who told you that??

  ?Everyone. History. Common sense.?

  ?Common sense is rarely either.? She closed her eye again. ?It's been a long time since Barbarians were... barbaric. The teachings say: 'Rage controlled is strength. Rage unleashed is destruction. Know the difference by knowing stillness.'?

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  ?Barbarian philosophy,? Randulph muttered. ?Next you'll tell me you write poetry.?

  ?I draw.?

  Both Venn and Randulph stared at her.

  ?You draw?? Randulph asked. ?Pictures??

  ?Places I've been. Things I've seen.? Reyn pulled a leather journal from her pack, weathered and worn, smelling of road dust and rain. ?It's calming.?

  ?She draws anytime we make camp,? Venn said and frowned. ?Though she won't let me see them.?

  ?You didn't ask.? Reyn opened her journal, revealing surprisingly delicate sketches. The view from Westkeep's walls. A twisted tree. Greenlake before it turned pink. The drawings varied from rough sketches to detailed studies.

  ?These are...? Venn sat beside her, careful not to touch. ?These are really good.?

  ?They are what they are. Helps me remember where I've been. Some are just things that caught my eye. See, here's one from when we got that venom for your Temple.?

  Venn leaned in to look at a landscape of the river where they'd camped. The drawing captured the way late afternoon light had turned the water golden, the rocks and reeds rendered in careful detail. In the corner, barely visible, was a tiny figure in the water.

  Venn turned red. ?That's... is that me??

  Reyn looked closer. ?Oh. Yes, you were bathing. I was drawing the river bend. The way the light hit it was interesting. You happened to be there.?

  Venn stared at the picture, her face achieving new shades of red. The figure was barely three pen strokes, completely innocent, just part of the landscape. But it was all she could see.

  ?Can you teach me?? Venn asked suddenly, voice slightly higher than normal.

  Reyn got surprised. ?To draw??

  ?To meditate. The Temple taught healing meditation, but that's different. That's about opening yourself to help others. This is about...?

  ?Something else,? Reyn said. ?Yes. Sit.?

  Venn sat cross-legged, mimicking Reyn's posture.

  ?No. You're trying too hard. Meditation isn't about effort. It's about absence of effort.?

  ?That makes no sense.?

  ?Most important things don't. Breathe. But don't think about breathing.?

  ?How do I not think about breathing while breathing??

  ?By not thinking about not thinking about it.?

  Randulph snorted. ?This is silly.?

  Reyn ignored him. ?Close your eyes. Listen to the stream. Don't count the sounds. Don't identify them. Just let them exist.?

  Venn tried. Her face scrunched with concentration.

  ?You're thinking too loud,? Reyn said, not opening her eyes.

  ?How can thinking be loud?? Venn said through gritted teeth.

  ?Yours is. I can practically hear it from here. You're cataloging everything. 'Water over rocks, flowing south-southwest, wonder if there's gold—'?

  ?How did you know that??

  ?Because that's what overthinkers think. Stop it. Start existing. Find yourself.?

  They sat in silence for several minutes. Venn fidgeted. Reyn remained perfectly still, like she'd transformed into stone.

  ?I can't do it,? Venn said finally. ?My mind won't stop.?

  ?That's because you are thinking, not being.? Reyn opened her eyes, pulled out charcoal and a blank page. ?Here. Draw something. Anything. Don't think about it. Just move your hand.?

  ?I'm not an artist.?

  ?Neither am I. I'm someone who draws. There's a difference.?

  Venn took the charcoal uncertainly. ?What do I draw??

  ?Whatever your hand wants to draw.?

  ?That's not helpful.?

  ?Help isn't the point. Doing is the point.? Reyn didn’t sigh, or shake her head, or at any time show any sign of impatience.

  Venn started making uncertain marks. Lines that might have been the stream. Or possibly a snake. Or just lines.

  ?It's terrible,? she said.

  ?Yes,? Reyn agreed. ?But you're not thinking about seventeen different things anymore.?

  She was right. Venn had been so focused on how bad her drawing was, she'd stopped cataloging everything else.

  ?Oh,? Venn said.

  ?See. Now you focus.? Reyn took the journal back, began sketching the scene in front of them with quick, sure strokes. ?In Bormecia, children learn this before they learn to fight. Stillness before strength. Silence before rage.?

  ?That's... not what the stories say about Barbarians.? Venn tilted her head to look at what Reyn was drawing.

  ?Stories are usually wrong. The more interesting, the less they are true.?

  Randulph had been uncharacteristically quiet. When they looked over, he was attempting to meditate, though his version involved a lot of sighing and position adjustments.

  ?Your knees don't bend that way,? Reyn said.

  ?They don't bend any way. That's the problem.? He gave up, stretched out on the rock instead. ?When I was young, I could sit like that for hours. Now I make noises getting out of chairs.?

  ?When you were young, you were probably insufferable,? Reyn said with a smile.

  ?I was brilliant.?

  ?Same thing.?

  They continued south as afternoon cooled toward evening. Venn kept trying to meditate while walking, which resulted in her nearly falling into a ditch twice.

  ?Meditation is for stillness,? Reyn said, catching her arm. ?Walking is for walking.?

  ?But you're always so calm while moving.?

  ?Because I'm not trying to meditate. I'm just walking.?

  ?That doesn't make sense. There's a lot of 'not trying' with you.?

  Reyn tilted her head in thought as they continued. ?There’s probably a lesson in that, somewhere.?

  They made camp as sunset painted the sky in shades of copper and wine. Randulph complained about the ground, the temperature, the lack of proper pillows, and the existential horror of sleeping outdoors. Turnip hunted something small and crunchy, returning with blood on its whiskers and a satisfied expression.

  After dinner (travel bread that had the consistency of wood, dried meat that required dedicated chewing, and Randulph's endless critique of both), Venn tried meditating again. This time, she managed three whole minutes before her thoughts exploded into analysis.

  ?Progress,? Reyn said.

  ?Three minutes isn't progress.?

  ?Earlier you couldn't manage three seconds. Tomorrow you might manage four minutes. Eventually, you might even manage to stop thinking entirely.?

  ?That sounds like death.? Venn didn’t try to hide her sigh.

  ?No. Death is probably very busy, with all that dying.?

  Venn laughed, then caught herself. ?Was that a joke??

  ?If you have to ask it was a bad one.?

  Reyn pulled out her journal again, this time drawing Venn attempting to meditate. The sketch captured the over-concentration perfectly, the way Venn's entire body tensed with the effort of trying to relax.

  ?Can I try again?? Venn asked, holding out her hand for the charcoal.

  ?Always.?

  This time, Venn drew Reyn. It was objectively terrible. The proportions were wrong, the face was longer than any human face had right to be, and one arm appeared to be coming out of her stomach. But she'd been completely absorbed in making it.

  ?I did it,? Venn said. ?I stopped thinking.?

  ?No. You just thought about something else. But that's still progress.?

  ?You're a very strange teacher.?

  ?I'm not a teacher.? Reyn looked at the terrible portrait. ?Though perhaps we should work on your observation skills.?

  ?What's wrong with it??

  ?My head’s not that round.?

  ?That's... that's your shoulder.?

  ?Is it??

  They both stared at the drawing. Even Turnip leaned over to look, chittering what sounded like artistic criticism.

  ?Tomorrow,? Reyn said, ?we work on seeing what's actually there instead of what you think is there.?

  ?That sounds like a metaphor.?

  ?No. That sounds like you really can't draw.?

  But she was smiling as she said it, and Venn was smiling too, and even Randulph had stopped complaining long enough to actually fall asleep.

  Reyn leaned back. ?We’ll need to work on your drawing and your fighting skills. Good thing we aren’t in a hurry. Get some sleep. Randulph says we’ll reach Falun tomorrow. If Patch is there, we should be well-rested.?