Testing Page 3

  “Gaul said the Blades was easiest,” Omer groaned.

  Tahr chuckled. “Gaul’s Trial was not anything like your own. He had Master Alder. I heard about the match. Three hours Alder had poor Gaul running around the yard, not a blow to land, and poking and prodding him every step. Tiring, for sure, but not as painful. Gaul did not quit and that is the Trial in the end.”

  Tahr’s eyes grew distant then. He looked towards the window. “I miss him,” Tahr said.

  “So do I,” Omer whispered. Gaul had passed away over a year prior, fallen into a deep pit below the Irgiklod Mountains while on a contract. Omer had gone himself to tell Gaul’s parents. They had been very close, Omer and the Fallns, and it had pained him dearly to deliver the news. “I miss his stories,” Omer said.

  “Ai, he told good stories,” Tahr said quietly. “Bit of a jester, though. I don’t think half of them were true. Yours will make a better tale when you tell it. The mean old Tahr nearly killed you.”

  “If I live to the end of it,” Omer said. He felt along the bandages that pushed up through his jerkin, wincing as even the lightest touch radiated into his bones. “Why does my head hurt so much? I don’t remember anything after the match started.”

  Tahr curled his lip and a red tint took to his dark cheeks. “That may be my fault. I hit you a bit harder than I should a couple times. Hard to reign in your strength when you’re used to killing monsters, after all. Master Polis called it interior trauma. Not sure what that means. Never been one for medicine myself. Oh, and a couple broken ribs… and a sprained foot… and bruises over a large portion of your body. I would avoid mirrors until you’ve finished your last Trial. The Wills will fix most of the pain and probably the bruising, but it is not pleasant to look at.”

  “I feel as if a boulder rolled over me,” Omer groaned.

  “You look it!” Tahr said. “And I apologize. I was overzealous.”

  Tahr stood and went over to the wall beside Omer’s bed. A tapestry hung on the wall there, a green and gold and black standard that echoed the ancient standard of Ivim, the kingdom Omer’s family descended from. He ran a huge hand over the standard. A thoughtful frown took over his lips. He turned back to Omer with a raised brow. “I will not apologize for the lesson, though. It is necessary for all Hunters to learn.”

  He returned to sit down beside Omer, leaning over so he could speak lowly. “Do you know where I was born?” he asked.

  Omer frowned. It was an odd question. “No. I know you are from the Great Desert, but I’ve never heard where.”

  “Sthom,” Tahr said. “It is deep in the sands, far beyond the Roof where most Men dwell. Very closed off, very isolated. I had not seen an Aeilman until I came to Shalim and only knew of Lether by story. But I am rambling. There is a city called Krant at the edge of the Desert, right on the border of Ankoeldeon, where the desert folk live and trade. It is a harsh place. It is my home. The desert I mean, not the city. Few people live in the city. They are a corrupt and hopeless lot. Those who value work and freedom live in the desert, following the winds and the rains as they come, and returning to the rivers when they are gone.”

  He leaned back in the chair until it tilted over, tipped precariously on its back legs. “There are huge creatures in the desert. Monsters the size of hills.” He threw his hands wide to mimic their girth. “Some can eat a Man whole. Here in the north, we do not deal with such things, but in the Desert… we train from birth to fight in that land. To survive in that land. We do not have Hunters there, you know? We did once, long ago, but not since the Magi; so we must fend for ourselves. There are no weak Men in Ankoeldeon. They die quickly.”

  “I have heard,” Omer rasped. “Master Vaeln’s history lessons were not all in vain. He said that Hunters once roamed it like they do the North, but that it has become a wild place.”

  “It is,” Tahr nodded. “There are mighty dangers there. But do you know what I learned in my years before Master Zekhain found me and brought me to Shalim?”

  “What?” Omer asked.

  “It is not the big creatures we need to watch for. Kaklon are dangerous. They jump out of the sand and devour Men swiftly. But they are easy to spot, if you know what you are looking for. Or here, in the north, we have the Trimble Giants. Very dangerous, but you can see them from miles away, and we Men are always looking for the giants of the world, for the mighty warriors with swords and magic, or big kingdoms and their armies.”

  He paused a moment. The chair he leaned on was creaking and threatening to break, so he rocked back until he was in front of Omer’s face. When he had settled he lowered his voice into a grim crawl. “Those are not the great dangers of the world, Omer. Those things can be fought. You always know where they are. It was not the great Kaklon that the Men of the Desert fear. It was the small snakes and scorpions, the spiders hidden beneath stones. The poisonous small things. Creatures we do not often notice. Those are what kill Men.”

  He reached up then and patted Omer on the hand. “You faced a giant in the courtyard, but that was not the Trial. Your Trial was about the small thing, the thing you might forget.” He lightly tapped a finger on Omer’s chest, even the slight bump causing him to wince. “Your spirit may seem an afterthought, Omer, but do not ever become lax with your vigor. It is the small thing which will lead you to victory, and the small things which will kill you.”

  “Small like a wooden sword in my gut?” Omer groaned.

  Tahr laughed, the wide smiled returning to his face. He shook his head. “No, small like the stone you hit your head on during one of your falls.” He flipped his hand and a small pebble dove out, landing on Omer’s chest. It was barely the size of a fingertip, but it was stained red with blood.

  “I don’t remember that,” Omer said.

  “I am not surprised. We rarely remember the small things. But if you find yourself brave enough to look in a mirror or window on the way to the Wills, you should look at your temple. Master Polis was quite busy fixing that up.”

  Omer raised his hand, wincing through the snaking ache, and brought his fingers up to his forehead. He felt something like stick overlaid with cloth tied across his right temple. “When will I take the Wills?” Omer asked.

  “On a better day you would already have, but the Masters felt you needed a rest after our match. They will come for you soon enough. I would not-,” a knock interrupted him. The door opened. Master Azod was there and beside him Master Polis, a short, balding Hueman with a long ridge nose that seemed to cast its own shadow and a wide belly that did the same. He was the resident Apothecary of Shalim and very, very old, though his true age was not common knowledge. Rumors abounded that he would soon pass on his work to his apprentice, Apothen, and be about to his own retirement.

  “Awake?” Azod said. “Good, good, I was worried the Trial had done more harm than profit. Zekhain should have stopped it sooner, but he is prideful of his tests. It is true that a Hunter is not born of easy tasks.”

  Polis stepped in and waddled up to Omer. He placed a fat hand on Omer’s chest and, in a nasal voice that haunted all novices during their training in herbs and healing, he began to count. At the fifth count he stopped, nodded his head, and looked to Azod. “Body is bad, but heart is good. Trials will not be trouble. Should rest after,” he said in the halting accent that had confounded Omer through many a quiz.

  Azod thanked him and the squat man disappeared through the doorway, his steps echoing back down the hall for some time. “That is good news,” Azod said when he had gone. “The Wills are not easy on the body, but bruising and bones will not make the difference. If Polis says you are able, then you are able. Are you ready for the final Trial?”

  Omer went to sit up, but the eruption of what seemed to be every never in his body dropped him immediately and he fell back with a muffled thump. “No,” he groaned. “But a Hunter does not get to decline. Help me up, Tahr.” He held his hand out.

  Tahr reached over and slipped his arm beneath Omer’s chest. With
surprising gentleness, he lifted Omer into the air. “I will do more than help you up. I’ll carry you to the chamber,” he said. “A Hunter has no choice of duty, but a friend can help all the same.”

  ***

  Tahr carried Omer carefully through the halls of Shalim. A hushed awe seemed to go before and behind them. Every novice and En’shen who spied them knew Omer was on the way to his final Trial, a special rite that few souls in Shalim would ever arrive at. A few of the younger novices dropped their chores and crept along for a ways, following them along the eastern hall past the gilded armors and wintry décor that lingered from season’s end, and stopping at the entrance to the rounded doors that hid the Chamber of Council at the northeast edge of Shalim’s core. There they watched with bated breath as the wood doors were pulled open and the two Hunters disappeared into the gray light beyond. Then they returned to their duty, whispering to each other of Omer’s chances.

  The Trial of Wills was held in the Chamber of Council, a circular room lined by high balconies and low pews, overseen by hanging chandeliers of silver and brass, decorated in the manner of a great forest, with green walls and blue heights, and wooden trees between. It was here the Hunters made their plans and their preparations. On common days the room would be empty, save for Masters or returning Hunters reporting on their work abroad; but the Testing of a novice Hunter was an important event, and the Trial of Wills more so. The Wills were sworn to secrecy, not to be spoken of at all. Young Hunters knew only that the Wills would be their greatest test, and that once it was finished, they would return from the Council Chamber a true Hunter or not return at all.

  Master Zekhain saw them enter and waved his hands. When the doors were shut he called out. “Good to see you back with us! Told Polis you were a fighter. No doubt you’d be up and at them.”

  The other Masters were gathered beside Zekhain on the wooden balcony atop the far wall, all prepared to oversee the Trial. Tahr lowered Omer gently to the floor in the center of the chamber. Omer situated himself in a kneel, gritting through the pain. Then Tahr went to a door that waited beneath the balcony, a closet of sorts, and opened it, and from within he brought out a short table which he placed down in front of Omer. The giant Hunter whispered, “Good luck,” and then gave him a parting wink. He hurried out of the chamber after, leaving Omer alone with the Masters.

  “Your final Trial is at hand, Omer," Azod said when Tahr was gone. "Master Taillus will administer."

  From the center of the group, Master Taillus stepped out and descended the steps. He was an Aeilman, tall and thin, standing nearly seven feet and looming in the shadows that fell from the hanging lights. His face was sharp and serious and seemed to draw down like an arrow, framed beneath dark hair that coiled around like a helmet. When he reached the table he raised a hand and a sound like rushing wind filled the air above their heads. One by one the hanging lights went out, dropping the chamber into darkness until only one remained directly overhead, flickering and casting wild shadows about the room.

  “You have conquered the Trials of Mind, Spheres, Fires, and Blades,” Master Taillus began, his voice smooth and drawn, settling over the room like a blanket. “You stand numbered among few Men in the history of the world. You aspire to be a Hunter En’shen and you have tempered the trying road; a road rarely stepped on and rarer to be finished. But you have not stepped beyond the last stone of the path, there is one yet to pass.” Then he paused and knelt down so that his eyes were level with Omer’s own. “Do you know how many Hunters fail at this last step?”

  “I do not, Master,” Omer answered.

  “Of every ten novices that arrive at this Trial, only one leaves En’shen. Eight of those Hunters leave of their own will, either to retirement or to training once more. One leaves… of their death.” The Master’s voice fell at the last word, even as Omer’s eyes widened. Taillus stood, drowning Omer in his long shadow. “In the Trial of Blades you faced the will to press on before unrelenting odds. Here, you must decide if you have the will to stare down your own mortality. If you do, then you will partake of the final Trial. If you do not, then you will be free to go, to leave as all who reach this point are, whether to the service of an army or to care for a farm; whatever you wish. You will be bound only to never speak of this, to either other Hunters or Men of the world.”

  Omer nodded faintly. A growing unease was bubbling up his stomach, an unease he desperately tried to ignore. “And what if I am not ready?” he asked.

  “Then you may decline, and you will have one year to prepare and try once more, or else return to the world,” Taillus answered,

  Taillus leaned over the table. From his robe produced a long flask, colored blue and seeming to glow from within. “The Will to See,” he said. Then he produced another flask, this one red and covered in frost. “The Will to Know,” he said. Once more he reached into his robe, and once more produced a flask, this one green and roiling in white smoke from within. “The Will to Stand,” he said. Then he brought forth a final flask, this one black and white, and marked by a great star on its center. “The Will to Hunt,” he said. “These are the Wills of the Hunter.”

  “I do not know them,” Omer said.

  “Good, then our dropouts have been wise with their tongues and our successors worthy the cause,” Taillus said. “Every morning since you first took the Novice Oath, you have been required to drink the Master’s Brew, whether in the field or in Shalim, under penalty of expulsion for failure. You have not failed this, have you?”

  “I have not, Master,” Omer said. “I have had it every day, even in the wild.”

  Taillus nodded. “We tell all trainees that it is for the promotion of wellness, to keep you pure of body and mind. That is truth, but not in the manner you likely believe.”

  Taillus bent then and tapped the first blue flask. “This is pure Wormbint,” he said. “Extremely poisonous. Even touching the plant can break one out in hives, but ingestion is almost always fatal.” He tapped the red flask. “Bennit, Burnweed, causes severe burning when ingested, likely to death.”

  The green flask he picked up and held out before him, the roiling white fog waving about in the dim light. “This is where most Hunters fail,” he said. “Inside this flask are six herbs: Moddle, Bollitweed, Poison Brake, Deepmoss, Underwint, and the Fallow Flower, as well as the secretion of the White Viper. I use their common names with purpose, Omer, for I would not want you to be even somewhat mistaken in what lies within. Any Man who has not been privy to the grueling life of a Hunter would die within seconds of tasting this brew, and it is not uncommon for an aspiring Hunter to take the first two, but flee this third, for this is the most dangerous of them all. I said before that you were deceived about the Master’s brew. Do not think that a bad thing! You were lied to for your benefit. For every day you have been at Shalim or on the road in the company of another, you have been, by morning light, given a brew containing very small amounts of every deadly plant named here, building a tolerance to the potions you are to take. It is for this reason we allow no Hunter to be tested with less than ten years training, and encourage fifteen or more. Any less is almost certain death.”

  He placed the flask down and tapped the final potion. “Mistveil brew. You’ve likely tried a weaker version in your classes before when learning about various magics and how to defend against them. This is a full brew. Not deadly in the least, but incredibly strong, and you may only take it if you have completed the first three Wills, for once taken… you will be En’shen.”

  Then he stepped back so that he was at the edge of the light, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “Each of these are dire poisons, bred out of long science within Shalim, learned by Men who sought knowledge in dark places. They are made to change the body and the mind, forcibly, and create in us something new. A mutation, it is called, but do not think it any less a poison. These potions can kill as soon as give life, and even those who pass through safely are not relieved of all evils. All En’shen carry wi
th them some lingering damage. Some within, some without, but none pass without being changed.” He passed his hand over his chest and seemed to flinch as he did. “Do you understand the dangers before you, Omer?”

  “I do, Master,” Omer said, though he did not quite believe his own voice.

  “Will you take the Trial of Wills?”

  Omer ignored the wild beating of his heart and the gnawing worry that was creeping up his spine. “I will,” he said, leaving no time to doubt.

  “Very well,” Taillus said.

  Omer picked up the blue flask. “That is the Will to See,” Taillus continued. “Upon taking it, you will be able to see the true forms of the Spheric, and you will not be fooled by lesser illusions. You will be able to cast your eyes further than a common Man and you will perceive things which most do not, able to recall them all to your memory with clarity and surety. The power of a Wight and the guile of a Banshee will hold no sway over you. You will see clearly even in the dark of night, and the blackest depths of the earth will not hide their light from you.” Then he removed his hands from his back and held them out, palms facing Omer. “Take, if you are willing.”

  Omer lifted the flask to his lips and drank. From within the flask a glowing blue liquid fell. It tasted bitter and cold. A chill swept over him as it fell down his throat, branching out and through his limbs until he was shivering even in the warm chamber. His veins began to constrict as if his blood were turning to ice within. His feet felt laden and his hands fell to his side.

  “Breathe,” Master Taillus commanded. Omer did so, realizing that he had stopped after taking the potion. He coughed violently, inhaling the warmth of the room. The air seemed to push back the frost that clung in his veins, each breath fueling a fire in his chest, until he could faintly feel his heart beating back the cold. Then Master Taillus spoke again. “Lift up your eyes, Omer, and tell me what you see.”