by S A Maus
Omer lifted his head and gasped. The room, which was before drowned in deep shadows and dark corners, now seemed to be cast in twilight, the last shades of evening under a cloudy sky just before it becomes too dark to see. He could spy every Master along the wall and every chair sitting empty atop the balconies, as well as every piece of wood and dark cloth that bordered the room. All was clearer and nearer to his eyes.
“I see… everything,” he said through chattering teeth, still fighting the cold that clung to the pit of his stomach.
“And you always will, even if you deny the further Wills,” Taillus said. “In time you will understand just how far your sight goes, but that will not be apparent until a later day. It will be a boon to you in all ways of life, even should you turn about and go to an average life in a far land. But your Trial is not over and the Wills are more dangerous from here. Will you continue the Trial of Wills?”
Omer, still fighting away the cold that lingered in his stomach, nodded, but did not speak. Taillus raised his hands and pointed to the table. With a shaking hand, Omer grabbed the second flask, this one red and cold to touch, as if it had been on ice just before he grabbed it.
“That is the Will to Know,” Taillus said. “For all your years in Shalim you have known the En’shen are warriors of the magical arts, and you have trained among them to learn the ways, though your own skill has always lagged far behind. That is no remark against you, for few are the Men who naturally take to such talents. Yet, all En’shen command the Mist and its power, and the potion before is the entering gate. When you have taken it, the Mist itself will be forcibly opened to you. Many liken it to a dam breaking. It can be quite shocking, not just the sensation but the knowledge that you will be connected to. Understand, Omer, that you will see the tapestry of the worlds, the very threads that all magic is pulled from and for, where it goes and where it ends, and you will see how truly small we are within it. If you pass through the poison, then as all En’shen you shall command the power of the Mists. Not as a master, of course, for it cannot impart the years of training needed to truly wield it, but the base powers will be yours. You will connect to the tapestry and perceive the powers of the world as you have not before. Take, if you are willing.”
Omer refused even a moment to think and give himself doubt. As soon as Taillus finished speaking he thrust the flask to his lips. The liquid within was slow moving and dark. There was a sensation of heat as it passed into him, as if he had just lit a candle in his mouth. The heat slowly made its way down his throat, finding the cold at the center of his stomach. The mixing therein of those two sensations was unpleasant. His stomach roiled with sudden nausea and he curled over the table, gripping at his sides. Dull pain began to radiate from his chest, sweeping down his limbs and shaking his nerves. A sense of stinging needles prodded at his extremities.
“Embrace your struggle,” he heard Taillus say over the rush of blood that filled his ears. “The pain is temporary, but strength is permanent.”
The stinging needles grew into sharp knives, digging into his fingers and prying their way up his arms. His chest constricted, the air fled his lungs in a halting gasp. For a moment Omer wobbled above the table, fearful he would either throw up or faint from the pain, but then a new sensation joined his carnival, one of throbbing aches that rolled through his legs and up into his stomach. Control of his limbs seemed to fail then. He found himself falling towards the floor. He landed with a dull thump. Convulsions beset him and he gasped for air, for anything that might ease the agony, but it all ended with a weak cry to the dark that sounded far too foreign to his own ears, a wild animal caught in a trap, not Omer of Shalim. He looked up, forcing his head to steady as best he could. He saw the Masters there, unmoving, faces stoic as they watched what had unfolded before them a thousand times before. Briefly, he wondered if he would die there, another name to the records of Shalim, another warning to all who wished to become Hunters.
Then, suddenly, the pain faded. His stomach settled, his chest relaxed, his grip loosened, the knives in his limbs retreated. It was as if his insides had found a balance all at once, and where he had felt sick before, now he felt strangely strong. He looked up. The Masters were still there, but they were smiling, and more, Omer could sense a difference in them, a strangeness to their faces, as if he saw them for the first time, or had previously only known them from a painting, but was now seeing the real thing.
“What do you feel?” Master Taillus asked.
“I feel…,” Omer frowned and halted, gasping for air. His lungs burned. When he had calmed, he pushed up onto one arm and stared at the Masters. “I feel everything, as if I never felt before,” he said in awe, and it was true. His fingers, splayed across the hard stone of the floor, felt brand new, like freshly cut fabric replacing an old blanket, able to feel every rough grit of the stone. He touched the table, sensing for the first time every grain of the wood, each smooth divot and bony ridge. Over his skin, he felt the slight movement of the air, unknown before but now as apparent as a torrid wind on a stormy eve. Above all this, Omer could feel the presence of the Masters, brilliant lights in a dark room, shining and bright, and filled with a power that could not be contained, such that he wondered how he had not known it before. “I see power, hidden behind each one of you,” Omer said slowly.
“You see the Mist,” Taillus said. “Or, you see it pulled into the world by we Masters, dwelling in each one. From this day forward it will be revealed to your eyes. It will take time to understand this, and you will not know all powers at first glance, but in days to come, you will walk into a city and know immediately if evil dwells there, or if a Magi has taken up practice, or even if another En’shen has come. It will be a great aid to you in your work.
“Your senses are enhanced as well, of course, a side-effect of your opening to the Mist. And understand, Omer, that you are truly open to the Mist, as a door unhinged to any passerby. You will command the Mist as never before. Soon you will understand that your classes in magic here in Shalim were only teaching you to play with tinder. Now you will command fire.
“But your trial is not finished,” Taillus continued. “There remains a final, most dangerous Will. It is the Will which kills most often those fated to fail their Testing. You have felt the chill of the See and the fires of the Know, and each brought their own pain, but now the Will to Stand is before you. It is this Will which can kill even an En’shen, with all their training and power. Sit and I will tell you of your choice, for here your struggle will peak.”
Omer climbed to his knees, ignoring the lingering pain that radiated from his legs, and sat before the table. The Will to Stand roiled before him in its green flask. Omer could sense a strangeness to it now with his enhanced senses, a dark taint that curled about its edges, like a shadow that had forgotten its place.
“The Will before you is the most potent of potions you will likely ever take as a Hunter,” Taillus said. “It is deadly even to touch for common Men. In this Trial, you will not only drink that death, but seek to conquer it. You must take it in yourself and by strength of will and body come out the other side. If you do so, you will assume a near immunity to poison and disease. Your body will cease to age in the manner of Men, slowing as the waters of a stream being hindered by a dam. That stream is different from Hunter to Hunter, but most live well beyond two hundred years, and some much longer.
“Age is not the only gift, however. The components of this Will shall do violence to your body at the basest level, changing your very nature as a Man, making you into something else entirely. Muscle will knit tighter, lungs will breathe deeper, and the speed of your hand will be as the flowing wind. You found your battle with Tahr impossible? You will no more. His speed, which confounded your eye, will become as slow as the westering sun. You will run faster, and further, and without ceasing, and your body will not weary until you have gone well beyond the hardiest Man. Today, with your training, you can bear heavy burdens and go a day without sleep, bu
t if you pass this Trial, you will be able to go many days without tiring and your feats will astound the people you pass. Aside all this, the potions of the En’shen, which are deadly now, will become instead a boon, and you will be able to use the Roots of Power without ill-effect. You will become what the world believes us to be, a creature of tale and myth. You will be a Hunter En’shen.
“But for every great power, a sacrifice must be made,” Taillus continued. “No Man may change so violently or sudden as the En’shen and walk away without scars. Even should you pass through the shadow of death, a piece of you will remain behind.” His hand drifted up to his chest and he pulled down his jerkin to reveal his bare neckline. There a line of what looked to be fleshly bubbles was cast across, like boiling water that had been frozen in a heated moment, and when he ran a finger across them he winced. “My cost is to bear these growths,” he said. “They will linger until the day I pass from this earth. I will always bear their pain. But my curse is not the curse of another. Some En’shen have lost the sight of colors, some have had senses fail, and some have become infertile. The mutations can take many forms, but never has a Hunter passed the Wills and been without some burden.
“This is your warning, Omer. If you would embrace the gift of the En’shen, then you must face your very death and you must leave some part of yourself behind. Or… you may turn aside and leave this path for a safer world.”
Omer stared at the wafting smoke. He could smell now the strange tint of the poisons. It smelled like death and rot. “It is life and death,” Omer said.
“It is. Few are the Men who have tasted and lived, and they are Hunters all.”
“Will I live?” Omer asked, more to himself than to Master Taillus.
“I cannot answer. Only your choice will see the end,” Taillus said.
Omer reached out with a shaking hand and grasped the flask. It was warm to the touch, like grass that had been in the sun all day, but there was a seeping cold burrowing out of it, crawling into his fingers and causing him to shiver.
“Gaul braved it,” Omer said idly. For a brief moment, he saw his friend’s faced reflected in the flask, the wide smile beneath green eyes, and then it was gone, replaced by a distant gravestone. Master Taillus nodded but did not answer. “He would mock me if I stopped now,” Omer chuckled, and before he could dwell on it any longer he thrust the flask to his mouth and emptied it in a single motion.
He slammed the flask down, bracing for terrible pain. Even without his newly heightened senses, Omer would have been able to feel the sudden tension in the room. The Masters had shuffled forward, peering out from beneath their hoods with bated breath. Master Taillus knelt down before the table, his gaze intent and unwavering.
“How does it feel?” Taillus asked.
Omer frowned. He felt nothing. The smoky liquid had fallen through his chest and into his stomach, a murky tar that was unpleasant inside but had not been followed by anything odd. “I feel no different,” he said, and he looked up as he did.
Master Taillus was no longer here. Nothing remained where the Master had been, only blotting darkness that filled Omer’s vision, crowding out all light like a thick cloud. He looked down. The table was gone. The floor was empty nothing. The entirety of the chamber had vanished, replaced with an inky black that seemed to swirl at the edges of his eyes. He tried to stand, to feel the floor beneath him, but to his horror, he could no longer feel his legs.
“I can’t move,” Omer whispered to the dark.
Heaviness fell over him, a weighty blanket on every limb, pulling him down. At the edge of his fingertips a fire began to burn, first dim and warm, then hot and wild, crawling unseen up his hands and into his arms. He tried to scream, to flail his arms and cool himself, but his hands refused to listen, hanging limply at his side, and his voice was caught in a chest that had ceased to rise. From his lungs a thick cough formed, pushing against his throat and growing into a virulent ball that refused to leave, sticking in his core and halting the breaths he desperately tried to inhale. Tremors invaded his legs, first light but soon crashing into violent convulsions that caused him to writhe.
Then, amidst all this, Omer felt a new, strange power. His heart, which had been quiet until now, beat suddenly loud and hard, knocking against his chest like it was a visitor to a foreign home. Even amidst his convulsions, he felt the beat pull him forward. Another jerked him, and another, and another, until his ribs were pounding with dull ache. Sharp pain radiated in time with the beats, flowing out from his chest and into his limbs, sweeping under the fire, hot knives in a growing oven, traveling further and further with each thump. An ache grew in his legs and back, a weary strain that is only found through heavy burdens, and on its heels a numbness began to spread from his neck, falling down his body and into his stomach. When it reached his stomach it awoke with a sudden and violent searing. He could only liken it to a forge-coal being dropped into his center. Desperate and fearful, Omer opened his mouth to scream for mercy, but could not. His lungs had ceased their duty, unable to draw a single breath.
An immense pressure fell on Omer’s head then, a millstone that pulled him down until he was lying prostrate. The fire in his stomach was blooming out, spreading to meet all other manners of despair that wracked him. If he could breathe, he would be retching in the dark, but as it were he could simply lie there, mouth open in wordless tears as his eyes slowly drooped closed, burdened by the weight of the Trial. Rushing waters invaded his ears, filling his senses with a sound like the upturned ocean. Omer knew it was only the sound of his own blood caught in a place it should not. His body was failing. Visions appeared behind closed eyelids, dreams of strange creatures and distant wilds where impossible mountains flew in the open air. He saw clouds and high places, flying creatures and wild oceans that were born on the wind. Then the visions faded, slowly falling to black smoke, drifting into a void.
Help me! Omer cried desperately in his own mind, hoping that something in the dark would answer. Then even his thoughts faded, and he knew no more.
Chapter III
En’shen
For all the ages of Men it was believed that, upon death, the spirit went forth and fled to a place of peaceful repose until Mask, Lord of the Dead, could come to collect and send it on its way, either to earned respite or gathered punishment. This purgatory had many names, but most common was The Gray, wherein a cloud of the same color would envelop the spirit for all sight. Men would say often ‘to Gray with you’ if they were especially mad (though they rarely meant it) and a weary soul might long to ‘rest in the cloud’ when their age became great.
Hunters had their own thoughts of The Gray, though they accepted its existence all the same. There was debate and philosophizing on where and what, exactly, it was, but little contention that it was myth. After all, the spirit must go somewhere at the end, else there would not be so many contracts for the laggards who dwelt too long and became monsters on the earth.
It was The Gray Omer thought himself in upon waking. The world was a blank slate, a misty form of passing cloud-shreds and wintry cold, dim and welcoming, like a sleepy afternoon under the blanket. He wondered, briefly, if he had died and gone on, failing to pass his Trial. It was not so bad, he thought, though a bit disappointing. He wished dearly he could have visited Gaul’s grave one last time. Maybe he would find his old friend there, amidst The Gray, or at least be able to track him down once Mask came.
Then, without warning, a voice broke through the cloud, far away and faint, an echo of a word come back again. Omer strained to hear it. He narrowed his eyes and held his breath. As he did, the gray clouds began to twist and form into shapes, the blank slate giving way to the orange light of a high candle. Taillus was standing over him, a smile on his drawn face.
“How wonderful the breath of the living,” Master Taillus voice came through fully, breaking Omer out of the cloud.
Omer coughed, surprised to find himself able to breathe deeply once more. He was on his back look
ing up into the chamber, which had returned to the wood and stone he remembered. Master Taillus was standing over him, a smile on his face, and behind him the Masters had crept near, all huddled about and watching.
“Am I alive?” Omer whispered, wincing as his throat protested with fire. He felt as if he had not had a drink for days. Every breath was a hot knife scraping down his throat.
“Do you feel pain?” Taillus asked.
Omer tried to nod, but his head felt as if it weighed more than the entirety of Shalim. Finally, he whispered, “Yes,” through grated teeth.
“Then you must be alive!” Taillus declared with a laugh. “But do not try to move yet. The poison will have burnt through by now, but your body will not acclimate immediately. It would likely revolt if you try to stand. Besides, the last Will is of no danger and we will not rush you into it. You have passed the true Trial of Wills. You will stand En’shen in full, Omer.”
Omer smiled at that, though it hurt as he stretched his parched and cracked lips. “En’shen,” he whispered. “There would be far fewer if we knew what it took.”
“Without doubt,” Master Azod said from behind Taillus. “It is not a mistake that you were unaware, and it will remain so for all others you speak with. Is that understood?”
“It is, Master,” Omer answered.
“Good,” Azod nodded. Then he turned and went back to his original place on the wall of the chamber, followed closely by the other Masters, save Taillus, who knelt down beside Omer.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
“Very,” Omer answered hoarsely.
Taillus produced a new flask from his robe, this one clear and sloshing with a liquid that looked like milk. “This is a special creation of my own. Not technically approved for the Trial, but we can make an exception. I call it Magnia. It should soothe your aches and calm your thirst. It will not give you strength though. That you will have to muster on your own.”
