by S A Maus
“What does that mean?” Omer asked.
Zekhain shrugged. “Ah, old skewer we have for Azod. Most Hunters never get grey hair. Like to tease him about.”
“No, the unusual happenings,” Omer said quickly. “You are being vague about it.”
“Can only give what I have,” Zekhain declared. He threw up his hands. “I know as much as you, lad, but I’m sure we’ll know more once you’re declared fit. Come on! Up and out. Polis is liable to fall asleep if we leave him alone too long.”
Tahr rose then and slapped Omer on the back. “Sounds like adventure. I can escort Omer if you’d like, Master.”
“Oh? Convenient, when your name is up for wash duty in the archives,” Zekhain said. “No, I will notary this endeavor. Off with you. And you as well, Hilen,” Zekhain nodded at the young man. “Sword work is to begin shortly.” Hilen rose, bowed to the three Hunters, and then hurried off toward the eastern hall, joining the rest of the novices as they filed out the room. Tahr followed shortly, his hulking frame shadowing out the last of the novices until they were all gone and the door was shut, leaving Omer alone with the Master.
“Is the unusualness about a contract?” Omer asked when they had gone. “Master Azod told me not to expect a contract for a month. I am still very weary.” He clenched his hands as a tingling wave of pain rolled through his limbs.
“You will recover quickly,” Zekhain said. “Most of that weariness is in your head. The old brain does not quite know what to do with the new body, you see. Thinks it is still aching when you’re actually fine. Polis will attest it, I’m sure.” He paused a moment, then looked about to be sure they were alone. Satisfied they were, he shrugged his shoulders. “Truth is, we do not really give En’shen a month off for their body. We give them a month for the mind. You go through a harrowing ordeal in the Trial, tread near death itself and break through the other side. Few Men can shake that off in four days. Some never can and must live with it all their lives.”
“And Azod thinks I am ready?” Omer asked.
“Ready? Oh, I cannot say, lad. A hundred and twelve years and I still don’t know all that goes on behind that gnarled brow of his. He’s old and wise, and maybe a little senile. He’s nearly three hundred, you know? But no, I can only imagine what he wants or has decided. He only asked for you, but said you need your exam first.”
Omer sighed but nodded his head. “Where is Polis?”
“In the Infirm. You know where it is, but I’ll walk with you. Rules and the like. Have to have a Master there to verify.” He waved his hands in mock gesture. Then he turned on his heel and headed out the eastern door and into the long hall, with Omer close behind.
The northeast wing of Shalim was where Alchemy was practiced and researched. Many doors lined the northern side, flush with the mountain wall, and therein many strange formulas and theories were tested day and night, and always the acrid smell of chemicals sat just beyond them. The Infirmary was in the middle of the long hall, which bent slightly north at its center, amidst a circular room marked by a three-tiered pool of clear water. The statue of the Hunter Eglephin stood atop the water with a long staff outstretched towards the south, as if warding off the pestilence of the world. On the south side of the hall, great windows looked out on the gardens of Shalim. There elder Masters walked and brooded over deep and meaningful things, or simply escaped their troubles for a time.
“Never liked this hall,” Zekhain said as they passed the first great window. “Too much death being worked here.”
Omer frowned. “The Alchemies are one of our greatest weapons. We would still be performing rites and throwing pure water at ghosts without them.”
Zekhain huffed and raised a rigid brow towards Omer. “You think I’m unaware, lad? Been fighting spirits since before you were born. I know what it is. But I know what it all does, too, and some of it gets used wrong. A Firestone burns Men just as easily as any other creature of the world. I don’t like it.”
Omer fell quiet as he thought on Zekhain’s words.
They were nearly halfway down the hall, just passing a wide-open door that looked in on a room full of green smoke, when Zekhain nudged him. “Wasn’t trying to silence you, boy. You’re right, of course. We would all be dead without the Alchemies at some point or another. I simply don’t like the whole… unnaturalness of it all. And who can forgive the discovery of Scalepowder?” He narrowed his eyes and fixed a hard stare on Omer.
Omer sighed. “I already apologized for that. Many times.”
Zekhain let his stare linger a moment longer. Then, suddenly, it was replaced with a laugh and a bright smile. “I am teasing, lad. You were young and ‘itching powder’, as you so lovingly called it, is a pranksters choice. I will not often get the chance to tease now that you are Tested. Respect between Hunters and all that. And you will likely be gone more often than not, now that your training days are ended. Have you picked a patrol to take up when your first Contract is over?”
Omer fell into step next to Master Zekhain. “I have not given it much thought,” he said. “I was sleeping, mostly, and then eating, and now we’re walking to this exam.”
Zekhain turned them through an open portal and into the waiting room of the Infirmary. The sound of running water filled the air, as loud to Omer as if he was standing next to a river. Sunlight was streaming through a high window, warm and welcoming, and his face seemed to feel every individual ray. He was certain that, if he really concentrated, he could feel every smallest particle of the air moving about him. It was like seeing the world for the first time. Every color was deeper, every sound clearer. Far away, through an open southern door that opened into the gardens, he could hear the swish of rustling feet as they passed over trimmed grass.
“I feel like all lands will be new to me,” Omer continued. He looked down at his hands, flexing them back and forth as pain washed through his fingers. “The world is strange, but familiar all the same.”
“Yes, the Wills,” Zekhain said. “Another reason we give so long a break to new Hunters. You have to get used to your… well, used to your power. You are not quite a Man anymore, even if you look like one. You are closer to the things we hunt than the people we protect. It can take some time to adjust to that strength.”
“How long did it take you?” Omer asked.
“Years,” Zekhain said, stopping before the high fountain. He looked up wistfully at the leering statue. “We Lether are a small people. We do not grow up able to jump a creek like Huemen or outrun deer like the Aeilmen; we are earthbound and not athletic in the slightest. You need long years of practice to comprehend that kind of change in yourself. I still, at times, surprise my own eyes when my hands move a bit faster than they did when I was your age.”
“I am not so young anymore,” Omer said.
“And I am nearly a hundred years older!” Zekhain laughed. “You will come to regard all the novices as children, like I do, even if you do not look a day older than the lot of them. Perhaps that is what takes the most out of us En’shen. I have known three kings of Hyshan in my day and outlived them all. A good reminder to why we Hunters abstain from marrying the common folk. It is a long and hard life.”
Zekhain turned then and went to one of the wooden doors on the north wall of the chamber. He opened it carefully, peeking inside through a crack to be sure he was not interrupting anyone, and when he saw only the large form of Master Polis sitting at the table he opened it fully.
“Delivery for you, Polis,” Zekhain said.
Polis spun his rolling chair around, his squat face squinting towards the door. He fumbled about for his spectacles a moment, pulled them up to his eyes, and seeing at last that it was Zekhain he began to wave them towards one of the many patient beds that lined the room. “Sit,” he said. Omer went to the bed nearest to Polis’ desk and waited.
After a few moments of shuffling with papers, Polis stood up and waddled to Omer. “Pain? Oddness?” he asked.
“My extremities have
been bothering me a bit,” Omer answered.
“What like?” Polis asked.
“It feels like I’ve been pricked by a hundred needles, all over, all at once. It rolls up my limbs and dissipates when it nears my torso.” Omer tapped his chest. “Clenching my muscles seems to help a bit, but it is very uncomfortable.”
Polis made a face somewhat akin to a frown, but his long nose seemed to turn it into a grim smile as Omer looked down on him. He fiddled with his spectacles and leaned in, looking closely at Omer’s neck and eyes, his brow rising and falling as whatever revelations he saw came and went. Then, without warning, he reached up and grabbed Omer’s chin, twisting his head to the side and pulling hard on his ear until Omer was level with the man. He stared a moment, huffed, and then let go. Omer sat up with a wince, but Polis was already grabbing his left hand and removing the glove it bore. He tapped Omer’s fingers, one by one, though what he was looking for Omer could only guess. Then he began to twist his palm about, wringing it back and forth.
“Hurt?” Polis asked.
“No more than I’d expect,” Omer answered through gritted teeth. Polis was En’shen as well and his grip was not light.
Polis nodded. He dropped Omer’s arm and placed his hand over Omer’s chest. He closed his eyes. “Breathe deep,” he commanded. Omer did, his chest rising slowly. As it did, Polis’ eyebrows rose, as if he was seeing something surprising, but his eyes remained closed. After the breath, Polis dropped his hand.
“Body good. No odd grow?”
“Odd grow?” Omer wondered.
“Growths,” Zekhain translated. “I’m sure Taillus showed you his.”
“Nothing like that,” Omer said. Then he frowned. “I have not looked in a mirror, though. I suppose there could be something I am unaware of.”
Polis waved his concern away. “Would aware,” he said. “How often pain?”
Omer thought on that a moment. He had not been keeping tabs of his bouts. “Maybe every half-hour?” he said. “Maybe not as often. I’m not sure.”
The squat Master returned to his chair and desk. He wrote something on a blank paper that Omer could not see, then he turned back, squinting as he did. “Pain not danger. Good for contract,” he said. Then he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled from it a long pipe. He tossed it to Omer. “Use for pain,” he said.
“I don’t smoke, Master,” Omer answered.
“Not smoke. Chew,” Polis answered. He made a biting motion with his mouth. “Keep mind away.” He tapped his own fingers.
“He is well then?” Zekhain said.
“Ai, good,” Polis answered. Then, without another word, he turned back to his desk and began to work on something atop the pile of papers. He had said all he would say that day.
“Good enough for me,” Zekhain smiled. “On to Azod!”
***
They left the Infirmary and went out the southern door of the outer chamber, passing into the gardens. A few Hunters were there walking about. Most ignored them, concerned with their own work or thoughts, though Master Taillus was among them and smiled as they passed.
“You did not tell me of your Cost,” Zekhain said when they had gone a ways out from the other Hunters and would not disturb them.
“I did not think of it,” Omer said. “It’s not bad. Just a little pain.”
“Little pain can become a big problem at the wrong moment,” Zekhain said. “Sitting here in Shalim it is no danger, certainly, but even a moment of distraction against a Caloubis could see you dead. Best to master these things before you go off into anything too dangerous.”
“I will keep that in mind, Master,” Omer said.
They passed over the running creek that ran amidst the garden, coming to the lawn on the other side. Omer looked down at the short Letherman beside him, wondering how strange it would seem to an average Man if they saw these two homely fellows walking about, unaware of the power they held. It was then he noticed something he had not seen before, perhaps for lack of awareness or perhaps a lack of his newfound eyes. Zekhain walked with a limp.
“Master, if I may… what was your Cost?” Omer asked.
Zekhain looked up and caught Omer’s gaze still locked on the Lether’s feet before the younger Hunter could pull it away. “Ah, caught it, did you?” he chuckled. “Mine was an odd one. Polis had never seen anything like it, though that may be for how few Lether make En’shen.” He stopped and lifted his left leg, shaking it about. “Grew a whole extra bone, somehow,” he said. “Small one. Cannot even see it, but it added just the slightest imbalance to my walk. It’s why I don’t teach swordplay,” he winked.
“Does it bother you?” Omer asked.
“No,” Zekhain shook his head. “It did, of course, when I was freshly Tested. Very much, actually. I was constantly aware of it, wondering if folk thought I was broken or some sort, judging me as I limped. But I was young then. Time masks a lot of these things. I don’t even notice anymore. You will be the same, eventually, but do not expect it soon. A Cost is not easily forgotten. Count yourself lucky that yours was internal. Some En’shen have borne terrible mutations.” He looked about a couple times, as if searching for a spy in the bushes, and then he lowered his voice. “Rumor has it Gamin has a tail. Not that I believe it, mind you, but it would hardly be the oddest Cost of the Wills.”
Omer chuckled at the thought of a Hunter running about with a tail swinging behind them.
They went quickly out of the courtyard and into the circling outer hall that bordered the center dome of Shalim proper. Like most of the fortress, the outer hall was built for function, not style, and it was ordained with little more than whatever spare rugs could be found and the occasional tapestry of some forgotten kingdom. Here and there, hung upon the inner wall, were the occasional excess of the Hunters, paintings of Men passed down from every age, one of the few remnants of history that had lived beyond the Magi wars and the decay of years. Omer had always found the paintings comforting, though few of them were of anything homely. Most were of war and famine, burning cities and armies at battle; but now and then Men found peace as well, and the paintings of those eras were like water in a desert, full of lush forests and high mountains that cradled farms in a hinterland somewhere unknown, or stoic pictures of a great leader, regaled in finery and wearing a stern but mastered expression. Omer hoped to own one such painting someday, not of himself of course, but of something worthwhile; perhaps a city somewhere hidden away, far from monsters and Men who craved blood.
They passed the Teaching Wing, barred by its great redwood door and overseen by a single, older novice watchman whose duty it was to keep the younger novices away from the dangerous practices within, unless they were to be present for a class. Master Zekhain bowed as they passed, and Omer as well, before continuing on along the eastern wall, curving about until they were facing the high rounded walls of the Council Chamber. Zekhain waved towards a door that sat off to the side of the Chamber, this one being of plain paneling and iron and without adornment. A novice waited as a guard beside it as well, though she was seated lazily and without care; there were few disturbances in Shalim.
“Azod is in his office,” Zekhain said. “A word of advice, Omer: do not speak hastily, no matter what Azod says. I don’t know what he’s planning down there, but if I were pressed, I would say it is a contract, and a strange one at that. Think carefully before you accept. An En’shen may reject if they feel they are not ready and you may not be quite yet. Sometimes we must remind ourselves to slow down, even if we do not want to, or we may be overwhelmed. There is nothing wrong with requesting a little rest and adjustment before you go out into the wild.”
Omer bowed and Zekhain mirrored him. Then the Letherman turned to leave, but as he did he looked back with a raised brow. “Let me know when you have decided your patrol. I’ll not take all the credit for your training, but I think you owe me a special part. I would like to know where you will be Hunting, when the time comes.”
“I wi
ll, Master,” Omer said.
“Good. Off then! Azod is ancient. He may have forgotten what he even summoned you for in the first place.” The stout Hunter paused and smiled wryly. “But do not tell him I said that. He is a bit prickly these days. Even Hunters get old.” Then he waved and turned, disappearing about the corner of the rounded hall, leaving Omer before the door.
Omer stepped near to the waiting doorway. “I am requested,” he said to the young woman waiting there. She looked up with a raised brow. Omer recognized her at once. She was Isla, a Hueman from somewhere in Druaith, though he had forgotten the exact town. Her face was painted over in the odd tattoos of the tribes that still wandered there, though vaguely Omer recalled that she was not from the wandering tribes but from a settlement. She apparently enjoyed the intimidating effect of her strange adornment.
“Ai, I heard,” she replied, her high voice tinged by a short, halting accent that Omer had always considered an angry tone, even if she was quite friendly herself. “Heard about your Testing too,” she continued. “Congratulations in order? Maybe some secrets,” she eyed him sidelong, her long black hair falling out from under her hood and over her brow, hiding the mischievous smile that followed.
“Perhaps, though I should wait to accept until I have spoken to Master Azod,” Omer answered. “And no secrets,” he continued. Then he grabbed his chest in mock pain, winking as he did, remembering the heavy bruising Tahr had laid on him.
“Did it hurt?” Isla asked.
“Yes,” Omer said. Then he opened the door, revealing a long set of stairs that descended below the Council Chamber. As he entered, he looked at her with a strained grimace. “A lot,” he said, making sure to hide the smile that followed and leaving the novice Hunter to wonder just what trials Omer had been through.
