by S A Maus
“Miss Benahia,” Omer said quietly, suddenly sorry he had stepped off the path and interrupted her evening. “I apologize. I did not mean to bother you this evening. A Hunter is bound to watch closely all places where spirits may linger. I did not know if you were among them.”
Benahia did not speak, but she nodded her head as if to forgive him and then turned back to face the way she had been before. Omer looked around her and saw now that she was attempting to bind the wood together, to place a marker of sorts over an open plot. Not a grave, or at least not a proper one, but a memorial. Flowers of red and purple sat off to her side. But Benahia’s shaking hands were making her work difficult, and the bindings of ribbon fell loose, scattering the wood and drawing a sob from the beleaguered woman.
Omer stepped near and gathered the wood. He held it in his hands and made of it a marker, allowing Benahia to wrap it in the red ribbon despite her shaking. When she had finished, Omer stood and clasped his hands behind his back. Benahia stood as well, though she kept her eyes upon the makeshift memorial.
“I wish I had been more careful of my words at the bakery. I did not know they would bring you pain,” Omer said.
Benahia inhaled deeply, trying as she could to calm her shuddering breath. “You have no fault,” she said. She wiped carefully at fresh tears with her sleeve. Omer could see streaks of red lining her cheeks. When she finished, she looked up to Omer. “Were you acquainted?” she asked. “I do not know how many Hunters there are, or if all are friends of another.”
“We were,” Omer answered. “He was a good friend. He was a good man.”
Benahia’s face twisted as she fought sudden tears. “You were friends, yet he never spoke of me?” she asked, this time a little stronger. Her lips began to quiver.
“No,” Omer answered softly. “Understand, I had not seen him for some time before he…,” he caught himself and frowned when Benahia began to sob softly. “Forgive me,” he said quickly. “I have grieved in full, but you only just begin. I am speaking thoughtlessly.”
“I take more pain that he would not speak of me,” Benahia said. “Was he ashamed of me? I had thought his love true, and yet…,” she halted as her voice caught and shuddering breaths took over.
“You need no thoughts as dark as these,” Omer declared softly. “It was certainly not for lack of love that he would hold his tongue, rather, I think it is for it. It is not common for a Hunter to marry, and less so to marry one who is not of Shalim. He would not wish to burden you with the inquiries and the demands of those who disapproved.”
That seemed to calm Benahia a small bit. She wiped once more at tear-stained eyes. “Until you arrived, I felt myself abandoned,” she said. “It had been so long since he last came to Appledor. I thought, perhaps, he chose his life as a Hunter over me. At least now I know he did not, though it brings me no happiness.”
Omer nodded. “If it is of any comfort, the Gaul I knew would not leave anyone in such despair. Certainly not one he loved,” he said.
Benahia smiled faintly and turned her eyes to the makeshift marker. “Did you know him long?” she asked.
“Over twenty years,” Omer answered. “We grew up together. We trained together. I had hoped one day that we might Hunt together.”
Benahia sighed a shuddering breath. “I envy you, Hunter. I had him such a short time, only eleven years spread in fleeting days where he stopped by on some errand,” she said. “I wish there was something I could trade to gain another one of those days.”
“Eleven years?” Omer said. “You were together with Gaul for eleven years?”
Benahia’s eyes grew distant and she laughed softly. “Not in love, no,” she said. She tilted her head up to the moonlit sky. “I was tending my family’s garden the first time I saw him. He was a strange man, clothed in green and gray, a long sword in his hand and a dark look in his eye. I was captivated, though I do not think he even saw me.
“He had come to see if something called a Whicket had taken root in Macgrenna’s orchard.” Her smile brightened a moment, despite the sobs that broke between words. “I still do not know what a Whicket is, but I don’t think he ever found it. He spent that night at the inn and… I admit to seeking him out as he sat by the fire. I asked him to tell me stories, though I remember none of them now, only the glint of his eyes as the embers faded. There was no hint that he returned my infatuation that night, but he returned many times in the years after, and only later did he confess it was not for the work of you Hunters but because he wished to see me. We did not become attached until three years ago, and betrothed the year after.” The last words shuddered from her and she bit her lip, turning back to look at the grave. Tears began to fall.
They stood in silence for a time then. The moon was peeking now over the world’s rim, shedding a dim blue light on the graveyard and deepening the shadows of the graves. The breeze that fell down from the eastern mountain heights was promising a bitter chill on its edge. The storm Omer had heard earlier was slowly drifting their way, though he wondered if it would pass the mountain wall.
“He left this coat for me the last time I saw him,” Benahia broke the quiet. She grabbed at her black cloak then and parted it to reveal the green and gray dress Omer had seen earlier. “I hope it is not a dishonor to use it this way. I… I only wished to have something of his near to me as often as I could.”
Omer smiled down at her. “I can think of nothing Gaul would have wanted more,” he said.
They shared a sad smile between them and then fell to silence once more. The moon crept closer overhead, lighting the world in a sort of false twilight to Omer’s eyes. With it came a stronger wind and a deeper chill. Finally, Benahia shivered and shook her arms against the cold.
“I should return,” she said. “Father says a storm is coming. He is rarely wrong on the weather.”
“Then I will bid you farewell, Benahia, and hope your tomorrow is brighter than what I have brought today.”
“I do not hope for that,” she answered sadly. “But do not apologize, Omer. It is better I know what became of him, else I spend my days on a ghost that will not return. I have some peace now.”
She turned then to walk away and Omer let her go, lingering himself by the marker to pay his own respect to the strange life of Gaul. But when Benahia reached the edge of the graveyard she turned back and called to Omer. “Tell me, Hunter, why did you come to Appledor? I think it was not to bring me news of his death.”
Omer turned about and faced her. He did not know how much she could see of him in the dark night, but he put on a smile, just in case. “I came for the apples,” he lied. Benahia laughed softly and politely, though Omer doubted she truly believed him. Then she bowed her head, turned about, and began her journey home, her sobs carrying off into the dark, leaving Omer in silence before an empty grave.
***
Omer returned to the village as the second hour of morning neared. He found Tahr standing at the entrance, his great frame casting a long shadow in the waning light of the moon. If Appledor had been dark before, it was utter blackness now. The lamps were all extinguished and every window was void. Omer could not help but chuckle at the thought of a lone villager stumbling across the hulking form of Tahr in that dark.
“Where did you go?” Tahr asked as he came near. Omer noticed he had a loaf of sweetbread sticking out of his left jacket pocket.
“Walking,” Omer answered. “There is a graveyard a ways east. Benahia was there. I spoke with her for a time.”
“Did she offer anything to help us?” Tahr raised a brow.
Omer gave a disapproving frown. “No, and I did not ask. She is heartbroken. I won’t press her any further on this matter.”
“I suppose that is wise,” Tahr nodded. “Grief rarely gives clarity. It is a shame though. If anyone in this town knows of something odd with Gaul, she would know the oddest; or she is the oddest. Maybe both?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps she knows nothing and we would only be d
riving the knife deeper if we brought it up again,” Omer said. “I think it was some time between her last seeing Gaul and his death. She speaks of him at a distance, a memory of who he was. I think he was long away from Appledor before the contract. That does not answer any questions, though, only brings up more. Why would he stay away from his fiancée for so long? If he found a woman he loved so fiercely as to ignore all the traditions of Shalim, then what would keep him away? We have had no grave threats to the north for hundreds of years. Certainly nothing to keep lovers apart.”
“It is a mystery,” Tahr answered. “Many mysteries. We have only begun and there are questions still to be asked. Almost enough to bring down my spirits, but only almost. Tihm requested we stay the night and breakfast with them in the morning. I’ll never be one to turn down pastries by dawn, but it is your contract. Do you want to go on? It is still a long road to Timmelan.”
Omer frowned and pondered the offer, staring up into the fleeing moon. The cold wind was pressing down on his back now and in the east dark clouds had taken up the horizon, blotting out the high peaks of the Irgiklod and cutting away the stars, one by one, as shadows bore down on Hyrotha. It would be a cold and violent night.
“We will leave tomorrow,” Omer said at last. “I do not like the omens we have found here, but I like walking in storms even less. Perhaps we will discover more strange things in the village by morning light. At the least, we will not be wet.”
“Then we stay,” Tahr declared. “The inn is open to us. Master Helwits is a fine keeper and always leaves a room at the back for Hunters to stay. It is small and cramped, but we do not need sleep anyways.” He paused then and fixed a narrow eye on Omer. “I do not, I should say. You are young, and the young need rest. It will be good for you to sleep.”
“I thought it was the old that need rest?” Omer said.
“Have you ever seen Azod sleep?” Tahr raised a brow.
“No, but… I do not follow him around either.”
“Well you should, it is enlightening,” Tahr declared. “You need rest, trust me. I would never turn you wrong.”
“You beat me to an inch of death barely a week ago,” Omer said.
“Yes, but you passed that Trial, didn’t you?” Tahr said. “Steering you right.”
Omer threw up his hands. “Fine, I will try to sleep, but I feel awake as ever.”
Just then the wind rushed down in a howl, blowing across the village and creaking on wooden walls. Omer shivered. “I do not wish to stay out here, though, sleep or no sleep. Let’s go to this inn.”
Tahr did an about and led Omer toward a structure at the far end of the main road that looked like three houses had been crammed together. It was wood, like the rest of the village, but had a waist-high outlying of stone that lent it a bit more nobility compared to its brethren. Over the door was a sign that simply read Inn and nothing more. There were no lights, no horses, and no sign that anyone but the Hunters were staying there that evening, and that did not change when Tahr opened the door and waved Omer in. The interior was completely empty save for a long table on the southern wall that sat beneath a set of windows. A short bar stood against the north wall, but it was barren as well, without even a glass or rag to imply Men dwelled there. The only sound was the now beating wind outside the door.
“Is the keeper here?” Omer wondered.
“No, he has a home on the east end of town. He stays there when business is slow,” Tahr said. Then he shrugged. “Business is often slow. Tourists like their pie but they do not like to linger. Appledor is too quaint for a cultured mind. Or too wholesome, if you ask me, but do not tell them that. Nunians get awfully offended if you suggest they have the wrong of it.”
Tahr set off toward the eastern hall that broke off from the main room and Omer followed. The hall was short, hiding only two bedrooms on either side and a single room at the end, though room may have been a generous description; closet seemed like a better word to Omer. Tahr fumbled about his belt for a moment, finding his key deep within his junk drawer as he called it, the large sack on his left hip that seemed to find items that Omer would consider useless. When the door was unlocked and they were inside, he closed it up and pulled a lamp from beside the threshold. With a word, he ignited red flame and the room was cast in a shadowy, dancing firelight.
“Home away from home,” Tahr smiled. “Do not tell the Masters, but I think Appledor is more pleasing for a night’s stay than Shalim. The air is friendlier here. Apple and bread and sugar all around us. Old Helwits does me right.” He breathed in deep, inhaling the scent of baked goods that seemed to permeate all of Appledor.
“So it seems,” Omer said. He took a moment and surveyed the room. There was no bed or even a cot. There was only a desk on the right hand and a dresser on the left with a squat chair between them. “Where am I going to sleep?”
Tahr opened his mouth as if to answer, but stopped and frowned, turning his head back and forth. “I had not thought of that,” he said. He scratched his chin and narrowed his brow. “I don’t often sleep while I’m here, just work on whatever I have at hand.” He reached down and pulled from behind the desk a long piece of wood. On the wood was a relief of a ship set against a stormy sky. “Impressive, eh? Four years of work.”
Omer sighed. “Yes, impressive, but I’m not sleeping on it.”
Tahr scowled and returned his project to its place. “I suppose Helwits won’t mind my opening another room for you. Inn seems empty, after all. Just don’t tell him, unless you plan to change the sheets and wash the linen. The bedrooms are just for guests.”
“Are we not guests?” Omer asked.
“Not the kind that pay,” Tahr flashed a grin.
The huge Hunter led Omer to the first door on the right just outside his own and pressed on the handle. To both their surprise the door swung in. It had not been locked, which Omer found both quaint and foolish at the same time. The innkeeper was more trusting than he ought to be.
Tahr waved Omer in. “I’ll fetch you in the morning if you fall asleep,” he said. “If you don’t, then meet me by dawn.”
“Dawn?” Omer said. “I thought we were eating breakfast with the bakers?”
“We are. The bakers are old. They eat before the sun is up. Unholy, I know, but we are the guests and we must abide.” And with that, he closed the door. Omer heard the dull, heavy boots fade into the dark. He turned and looked. A bed was sitting on the northern wall next to a short stand and a washbasin. A thin blue blanket was thrown over its edges.
Omer took his Hunter jacket off and placed it on the bed. From within his pack, he produced the oil he would use to rub into the leather. He had often wondered in his younger years why Hunters did not simply wear armor like the knights of the east or the soldiers of Hyrotha, but now, with his Tested strength and speed, he understood that movement was far more valuable than steel. All the defense a Hunter needed was inlaid beneath the layers of leather. Soulsilver. The bane of spirits. It would do nothing to stop a sword, or a claw for that matter, but spirits loathed the concoction for the burns it caused. Chainmail might deflect the brunt of a blade, but it would do nothing to stop a Banshee from gutting him, only Soulsilver could do that. However, Soulsilver only worked in its wetted form. Master Taillus had said it had something to do with consistency, though Omer was skeptical even Taillus truly knew why it worked. Omer spent the next hour kneading the oil into the leather, pressing it down into the ever-damp powder that was inlaid on mesh beneath, and when he had finished he set the jacket off to the side to dry. His leggings were new, having been replaced shortly before his Testing and they would not need oil for weeks yet.
He was just getting ready to check his sword (out of habit more than need) when a rush of heavy wind creaked the walls. For a brief moment, Omer was swept into a memory of days long passed when he would listen to the wind howl over Shalim while he fell asleep after a long day of training. It was a pleasant memory, one of warm blankets and soft pillows, and despite h
is vigor and lack of fatigue, he decided that, for at least one night, he would try to capture the kind of rest that can only be found in the weariest soul. He shook off his boots and leggings and slid beneath the blanket, pulling it tight around his chest. It did little to warm him, his body was rarely cold now anyways, but the feel of the fabric was comforting. If he closed his eyes and dimmed his focus, he could almost imagine he was back in Shalim, fifteen years old again, legs aching from another bout of exercise.
With that vision behind his eyes, Omer smiled, rolled over, and inhaled deeply, letting his mind wander to the time of a young novice. Outside, the storm fell down and lashed the inn, but within all was at peace.
***
Omer awoke some time later to the sound of Tahr pounding on the door.
“Hello?” Omer cried out. He jumped up in a panic. “Is something wrong?” He grabbed for his sword, fear of imminent danger at the fore, but then he realized where he was. He was in Appledor and the most danger he could be in was a tree falling on the inn. He walked over and opened the door, which had not been locked and Tahr could have thrown open anytime, to see Tahr standing with a squat, fat man beside him. The innkeeper, he presumed.
“Omer!” Tahr cried. His face was in a half-smile and his eyes were wide. He was raising his brow up and down in what Omer believed to be some sort of hidden message, but he could only guess at what it was.
“What?” Omer said.
“It is time to leave!” Tahr said.
The man beside Tahr huffed and raised his bottom lip, drawing his eyes into a suspicious squint, as if expecting Omer to reveal a secret that had been tricked out of him, but Omer only raised a brow and shrugged. “Very well,” Omer said. “Give me a moment to dress.”
“Dress on the way,” Tahr declared, reaching in to grab his arm and pull him along, but Omer evaded his grip.
