Pagonel stared at the red sash hanging on the hook by the door of his small and unremarkable room, at its rich hues, bloodlike, the sym-bol of life among his order, the ancient and secretive Jhesta Tu mys-tics. Pagonel was one of only four among the 150 brothers and sisters to have earned the Sash of Life, but when he took it down from the hook and belted it about his waist, securing his tan tunic, he did not wear it with pride.

If he did, he would not have been worthy of the sash.

No, Pagonel wore the sash in simple optimism, for himself and for all the people of all the world. He was Jhesta Tu, dedicated to a life above the common, a life spent in reflection, in the quiet attempts of understanding, and in the hopes that such understanding of life and death and purpose would lead him to a place of absolute enlightenment.

The Jhesta Tu were not a large order; this place, the Walk of Clouds, nes-tled high among the volcanic mountains along the southern border where both the deserts of Behren and the steppes of To-gai came to an end, was their only temple, and few brothers were out on the roads of the wider world.

Very few, since the Yatols of Behren would not tolerate the Jhesta Tu, and the To-gai-ru had little use for them.

Most of the Jhesta Tu were of Behrenese descent, and most of those who were not, like Pagonel, traced their ancestry to To-gai. But all within the Walk of Clouds had entered at a very young age, and few had any memories other than those at the temple. They got their glimpses of the world outside from the books and oral presentations given within their mountain home, which was built into the side of a towering cliff facing, a walk of five thou-sands steps from the broken floor of the torn region.

A crackle and then a thunderous boom resounded outside of the one small window in Pagonel's south-facing room, but it only amused, and did not startle, the forty-year-old mystic. Some of the younger Jhesta Tu were practicing with the magical gemstones, he knew, in preparation for the cele-bration of the autumnal equinox that evening. Lightning bolts and fireballs would light the ever-misty gorge beyond the Bridge of Winds that night, Pagonel knew, and he smiled at the thought, for he truly enjoyed the rev-elry, and knew that his contributions to the show would bring pleasure to many of the younger mystics. Few at the Walk of Clouds could utilize the gemstones as well as Pagonel, though even he was no master with them, certainly not compared to the mighty Abellican monks of the northern king-dom of Honce-the-Bear. For in the eyes of the Jhesta Tu, the gemstones were not sacred, no more than were the grass and the wind and every natu-ral thing in all the world. Their order was based on inner peace and content-ment, a joining of mind and body and external environment that blended into pure harmony and equilibrium. While the Jhesta Tu appreciated the power of the gemstones, and particularly the inner searching required of one attempting to use the gemstones, they did not hold them as sacred and did not consider them a gift from god.

Another crackle and boom combination took Pagonel from his private reflections, and he made his way to his window and peered out, to see a group of younger mystics gathered on the Bridge of Winds, the clouds of mist rising from the gorge before them. Most wore the white belt of air, the first of the sashes, one that signified, more than any attainment of knowl-edge, the willingness to open one's mind to gain insight. Some wore the sec-ond, yellow belt, which signified growth from air toward the brown belt of earth.

One that Pagonel saw, though, wore the blue belt of water, a high rank indeed, and it was this mystic, a woman of about thirty years, who was putting on the lightning display.

Another bolt shot out from her hand, slicing into the mist and crackling into a thunderous report, and the others on the bridge cheered and clapped their hands with joy.

Pagonel felt that joy, but it was dampened by a sudden insight, a realiza-tion that he would not attend the celebration that night.

The mystic moved back from the window, hardly believing the realization.

He would not attend.

He could not, would not, leave his room this day, or this night.

He saw the lightning bolt again and again, following its curious tracing through the misty air before it. A line of pure energy.

His breath coming in shallow gasps - ones that could be corrected by those wearing the white belts of air, who were learning the properties of drawing various breaths - Pagonel fell back farther into his room, fell back further into his thoughts. He pictured that bolt of lightning again, but this time it was inside of him, a line of energy running from his head to his groin, a balance, a line of power.

Pagonel cleared aside some clutter and pulled forth his meditative car- an intricately designed weave of sheep's wool, one that he had crafted rnself over the course of two years. He sat down upon it, crossing his I s and bringing his hands together in front of his lean and strong chest, en very slowly dropping his hands to his thighs, palms facing upward. Then Pagonel went into his conscious relaxation, visualizing each part of his body and forcing it to sink more deeply into a quiet and relaxed mode.

E-Ie felt hollow and empty, letting all the clutter leave his body and mind.

Then, when his body and mind were quiet, Pagonel allowed the image of the lightning bolt to grow again in his thoughts. But rather than just pictur-ing the bolt cutting through the mist again, he let it grow beside a sensation of power within him, the line of his own life force, the energy that defined him more than his mortal trappings ever could.

He lost all sensation of time and space, fell into himself more completely than he had ever known possible, touched his life force with his conscious-ness for the first time.

And he stayed there, finding, for the first time, the most perfect harmony.

Pagonel blinked open his eyes, staring at the dark room. Slowly, very slowly, the mystic lifted his hands out to the side, then brought them in to-gether before his chest. His breath came slow and deep as he used the tech-niques he had mastered in the many years he had worn his white sash, then he consciously forced that breath into his muscles, his arms, and his legs.

Moving in perfect balance, in the smooth harmony of his muscles, Pagonel unfolded into a standing position, his hands never moving from in front of his chest.

The mystic blinked again and looked around, trying to find some hint of how much time had passed. He went out into the hall, to find it empty, all the doors closed. He went down to the hall of lights, a circular room lined with rows of burning candles, and with several angled mirrors and small rock fountains strategically placed to catch and distort the light.

Pagonel caught sight of himself in one of those mirrors, and he was pleased by the contentment he recognized in his rich brown eyes. Some-thing profound had happened to him in his chamber, he knew, and he understood what it was.

"Three days," came a voice behind him.

Pagonel turned and bowed. ?Master Cheyes." In the Walk of Clouds, there were three other mystics of Pagonel's level, the Red Sash of Life, and there were only two who had achieved the level beyond that, the Belt of All Colors, the symbol of enlightenment - Master Cheyes and his wife, Mistress Dasa. In all the centuries of the monastic order, the number who had so achieved this belt was minuscule, under a hundred, and to have two such masters in the Walk of Clouds at one time was almost unprecedented.

And now Pagonel meant to announce that a third would be joining them.

"I have seen the Chi," he said quietly.

Master Cheyes nodded solemnly. ?It is as I assumed when you did not emerge from your room for the celebration of the equinox, three days ago."

Three days? Pagonel laughed, somehow not surprised.

"I had hoped that you would see it, Pagonel," Master Cheyes continued. ?It is good that you have, for now there is a road before you."

"I have touched Chi," Pagonel explained. ?I have grasped it. I know it."

His stream of pronouncements had the old and wrinkled master rocking back on his heels. Few dared make such a claim, and for one of Pagonel's tender age to touch and fully grasp Chi, as Pagonel was claiming, was prac-tically unheard of. Master Cheyes' wife, Dasa, had only found Chi two years before, in her seventy-eighth year, her seventy-fifth of formal study.

"I would walk the Path of All Colors, Master Cheyes," the younger man said confidently.

Master Cheyes nodded, for though it seemed obvious to Pagonel that he doubted the claim, he was powerless to say so. The discovery of the Chi, the highest level of enlightenment, was a personal undertaking and claim, one that went beyond the supervision of Cheyes, or of any master.

"You understand the danger?" Master Cheyes did ask, as was required. ?And you understand that there is no need to walk the Path of All Colors at this, or at any, set time?"

"To wait is folly, as I am prepared," Pagonel assured him.

"I am bound to say no more, Pagonel." Master Cheyes bowed his head in respect, in acknowledgment that Pagonel was no longer his student or his inferior. If the man succeeded in the walk, then he would instantly become Cheyes' peer. If he did not succeed, then he would be dead. There was no middle ground; at the moment Pagonel announced his intent, his days as the student of Master Cheyes and Mistress Dasa ended.

"The chamber is ready, as it is always ready."

Head bowed, Cheyes walked away.

Pagonel nodded confidently. He had seen the Chi, the inner life, the join-ing of body and soul, and in that recognition, he held no doubts about the outcome of his walk. He went straightaway to a little-used stairway in the far northern reaches of the temple. He moved down three levels, to the bottommost common area, and to an ironbound doorway that had not been opened since Mistress Dasa had made the journey. He grabbed the ring at the center of the door and felt the heat emanating from beyond the portal. A sudden jerk clicked the locking mechanism and the door cracked open, a blast of hot wind hitting Pagonel in the face.

He stepped through, onto a landing, and closed the door behind him, then turned and waited a few moments, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim, orange light, a glow from far, far below.

He had gone beyond the worked tunnels of the Walk of Clouds, into a natural cavern sloping down to the depths of the mountain. It took him al-most half an hour to reach the end of that corridor, a rocky, natural chain- with a single door set in the far wall. Beside that door hung many red ashes, identical to the one Pagonel now wore.

The mystic walked to the wall and nodded as he took note of how well most of the sashes had held up over the years. Most were well over a cen-tury old, and the air in that place, with its nasty sulphuric smell, was very acidic, and took a devastating toll on most cloth.

Pagonel removed his own belt and hung it on an open peg. His hand lin-gered upon it for a long while, for though he had only worn it for a few vears it had become more than just a symbol, but a constant reminder of the road of his life.

The man let go and quickly pushed open the door, stepped through, and closed the door behind him, well aware that he would never see that sash, or the room in which it hung, again.

Now he was in a wide and dimly lit chamber, crowded with life-size stat-ues in various battle poses, a room similar to the one in which he had earned his Sash of Life.

This was not the test of his new enlightenment, though, but rather, a pre-caution against any who would come in there prematurely. For these statues were set on a ?living" floor, a series of pressure plates that incited the manikins to action, and only one skilled enough to have earned his Red Sash could walk through there, avoiding the traps.

With complete confidence, only pausing long enough to remind himself that he had to hold his focus on the present, rather than on that which awaited him, Pagonel removed his soft slippers and started across the room.

His feet felt the subtle vibrations beneath him as he padded across. His mind and body moved in perfect harmony, turning sidelong to avoid a slid-ing statue, spear outstretched, then, in the same movement, ducking low to avoid a spinning statue, glaive cutting the air above him.

He came up in a leap, anticipating rather than sensing, the spikes stab-bing out of the floor beneath him. He landed to the side, balanced perfectly on one foot, then stepped confidently ahead.

A spear shot at him from the shadows.

Pagonel's torso was ducking even as his arm was sweeping up, his fore-arm catching the spear just under the head and turning it harmlessly high and to the side. He fell into a forward roll that brought him under two slashing swords, came up in a leap that brought him over a thrusting spear, then moved, turning side to side, even spinning about once or twice, to avoid a series of other thrusts and slashes.

And then he stood before the far door, beside a huge lever set into the floor. Grasping it tightly, he pulled it back, settling it into place. Then he waited as the minutes passed, becoming an hour, as the counterweights all refilled with sand, resetting the dangerous room. When all the sliding and scraping ended, Pagonel returned the lever to its resting position, and, with a deep breath, walked through the door, entering onto a tiny landing in a wide but low natural cavern, full of orange light and intense heat. For the chamber was split before Pagonel by the life flow of the mountain, a river of running lava.

The mystic reached quickly into himself, gathering his Chi, willing a de-fense against the killing heat. Human skin and blood could not suffer the intensity, but the Chi certainly could. Pagonel reached within and brought forth a shield of energy, a determination that blocked out the pain.

Settled again, Pagonel looked at the walkway before him: a narrow metal beam, stretching out across the cavern to a waterfall of orange lava. The walkway, too, glowed with heat.

Pagonel focused his inner strength into a cluster of energy, then brought it down to his feet. Slowly, without fear, the mystic stepped out onto the metal walkway, which was no more than a few inches wide. He placed one bare foot in front of the other, denying the heat and the pain so completely that it did not burn his skin.

Out he went, to the very end of the walkway, standing just a few feet from the lava fall, almost close enough to reach out and touch it. Pagonel regarded all the area around him, for there seemed no other path, and yet he knew that he could not go back.

He nodded as he came to understand, and he backed up several steps, then fell even deeper within himself, to the power of life, and he brought it forth as a shield.

Pagonel exploded into a short run, then leaped, head back, arms out-stretched, fists clenched.

He burst through the wall of falling lava, and somehow held his balance as he landed on a narrow walkway on the other side. Suppressing his ela-tion, for this walkway, too, was glowing hot and any distraction that re-leased Pagonel's grasp of his inner force would almost instantly take the skin from his feet, the mystic walked along, finally entering a second tunnel, again sloping down.

He walked for several hours, soon in almost absolute darkness, before he saw the tiniest glow of daylight up ahead. Pagonel held his determined stride and did not break into a run, reminding himself that this day was a blessing upon him, good fortune, and should not be tainted by foolish pride.

He came out of the tunnel, into the daylight, in a deep, deep pit, a circu-lar area barely ten feet across.

There, hanging on a jag in the stone, the mys-tic saw the symbol of his achievement, the Sash of All Colors.

Reverently, he took it in his hands. It was made of fine strands of treated silk, so narrow and finely woven that in all but direct light, the sash appeared black. When the sun hit it, though, the sash shone of every color in the rainbow, and Pagonel tilted it up then to catch the dim rays, to see some hint of its true splendor.

He would spend the next few months weaving the sash for the next one to pass the test of Chi, he understood, and when finished, he would walk to spot far above him, the lip of this deep, deep pit, and toss it in, to wait here for years and years, decades, even centuries, perhaps.

That was the way of Jhesta Tu.

Pagonel belted on his sash, a reminder of who he was, then looked about him for a wav UP- The hole was several hundred feet deep, at least, and the walls were sheer.

No obstacle to a Master of Chi.

Pagonel found again the line of energy, head to groin, and brought it forth about him like a shroud, using it to counter his own body weight.

He began to float, near to the wall, and hand-walked his way up, up, un-til he stood among the boulders.

A short walk through a narrow pass brought him below the Bridge of Winds, at the base of the long, ascending stairway. He resisted the urge to float up to the bridge, to amaze those students who witnessed it, and walked instead, humbly, one foot in front of the other.

Masters Cheyes was waiting for him.

"I am pleased, Pagonel," he said.

"I held no doubts."

"If you had, you would not have survived. There is success or failure, and nothing in between."

Pagonel nodded, understanding perfectly well. Those mystics who had at-tempted the Path of All Colors out of determined pride, those who had not truly seen and come to understand their Chi, had failed, to their doom. For those mystics who had reached the point of enlightenment, the test could not be failed.

"You must begin the replacement of the sash, of course," Master Cheyes remarked. ?Have you determined your road beyond that?"

"To-gai," Pagonel replied. ?I have seen the steppes and the grasses in my dreams and I know that I must return there."

"I am old, my friend, as is Mistress Dasa. You may one day return to the Walk of Clouds to find that you alone wear the Sash of All Colors. That is a heavy responsibility, my friend, but one that you will carry well."

Pagonel nodded and smiled warmly. He understood the truth of Cheyes' words, of course, and the realization that his road beyond the temple might take him forever away from this dear man and his dear wife brought a mo-ment of regret.

Only a moment, though, for Pagonel had seen his Chi. He understood now the eternity; he feared neither his own death nor that of any friends, because he knew that there was no true death, only transcendence.