"The song of the world can be heard, if we only listen."
I grunted acknowledgement. It seemed to pacify him.
All day. All bleeding day he'd kept it up. At least we had made it to the outskirts of the forest and were finally making camp; sleep, at least, promised a reprive.
First he refused a horse, which, mind you, he didn't seem to need. Ran on mud like it was tarmac. But this was before I knew that, and having to debate whether riding an animal 'divides him from the sacred mother', was not on my agenda. 'Debate'... like there was communication beyond mutual incomprehension.
I managed to get his name, or what I think is his name at least, 'Cedar Bough's Graceful Bend, Guarded Eye Expects'. He responded to Cedar, a small mercy.
But that was only the beginning.
A crow flies overhead and he's enrapt, 'night's fragment passes'. A mudodile suns itself on a boulder, 'an ancient worship breeds no discontent'. On and on! It usually related to the subject at hand, if only vaguely and pointlessly, and I thought maybe there was just a cultural gap. But I also saw him swat a mosquito, and then when he saw me watching he ate it while staring me down. So there's that.
"The trees of the forest find deeper secrets than the grass of the plain."
I grunted. He seemed to like it. Shut up at least.
The horse didn’t spout inanities, thankfully. Elskia was a capable rider, and I found the transfer of her skills to myself a lovely boon. Her senses were also sharper than my own. If I was interpreting the new signals correctly, I could see a little into the infrared and ultraviolet. My hearing was also definitely perceiving much lower tones than I previously could.
But the biggest winner was scent. I'd confused it earlier with taste, but in my defence the distinction was muddled with her physiology. It felt like my entire mouth was covered in chemo-receptors, and that wasn't the end of it. Deep into my pharynx and even through parts of my throat I could detect scents from the world.
And all I was using it for was smelling mud, horse, and elf. I hoped my disguise would last through the night. In the morning the hunt would begin, and I needed every edge I could get.
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‘I'm sure you have other responsibilities.’
An innocuous phrase, one readily passed over by any eavesdroppers. But Hugh had seen the subject of Hero's gaze; the disdainful look sent like an arrow toward Roderick. He wondered what meaning might be inferred from such a coincidence, and the Third Layer answered: Sabotage.
Working in the kitchens had taught Hugh the little food preferences and necessities of the keep. A wealth of information he never realized he had, until the Third Layer examined it with cold calculation. Strength bears many faces. The application of knowledge is but one of them, thought the Third Layer.
A serving boy bringing final rounds of vittles to aid in the preparations of the hunting party goes largely unnoticed in favour of the food he bears. Slipping the odd secret ingredient into the offerings was easy in the chaos of the kitchen. Nothing dangerous... nothing that could be ascribed to malice, just misfortune—Never seen. Never known. Never hunted. Heavy cream in the soup of an intolerant stable-hand; discreet spices for the sensitive stomach of a man-at-arms; he delivered dish after dish tailored to their victim. By the end of the morning a fifth of the party were fully occupied familiarizing themselves with the privies and Roderick was growing increasingly irate as his exit was delayed.
Hugh watched silently as accusations of poisoning and malfeasance were flung about, and listened carefully to the quieter whispers of mismanagement and poor leadership. Conditioned ground bears a plentiful harvest.
From there it was easy to position himself to be conscripted into the party. Lingering at the periphery with a stolen apron and chefs knife and he was snatched up to replace one of the three incapacitated cook's assistants.
As the party finally left the keep, a full three hours later than planned, Hugh reflected on the events of the last few days.
The pattern emerges, and our place in it.
Hugh had only heard secondhand accounts of the assassination attempt on the Lady Elskia, how the legendary nightblade company had first come for Hero, and left him for dead—Laughable. To some, death is merely one more mask. But Hero survived them! The keep was abuzz with the story of how he rallied the men-at-arms while terribly injured, and how he even managed to land the critical blow on the nightblade captain to save Elskia!
Then Hero had gone to visit the Baroness—A meeting of Powers...only to return naked and utterly coated in some kind of slick fluid!...becomes a Dark Congress. Hugh cringed at the memory of his walk back to the kitchens in nothing but his underwear—The pattern continues. His trial becomes our own. We are being shaped. If the tool is crude it is reforged. A test: will it shatter...or will it shine!
So much was happening so quickly, he had never ventured far from the keep, and the prospect of doing so made him terribly anxious, but he followed the rule given to him and tried to avoid thinking about it too much. Which leaves only instinct. Whatever happened on this journey he trusted to see Hero again soon, after all, they were fated to see each other again shortly.
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We woke at the crack of dawn, inspired by the barrage of bird song which erupted as soon as the sky brightened. Everything behaved according to their nature. The brook babbled, the elf murmured nonsense, the forest forested.
I ate a light breakfast, and I think I saw the elf licking the dew off leaves, but when he noticed me watching he stopped. I figured he could fend for himself if he was so clearly adapted to the wilderness, and made it my business to ignore him as much possible barring the obligatory grunts whenever he said something like—
"The melody of the forest is a harmony of the land and the beasts."
Unblinking elf eyes peered at me, anticipating, unwilling to divert their gaze until I...
"...Yup."
Once again he seemed satisfied by my answer. I sighed internally. It was going to be a long day.
Elskia's senses gave me a clear idea of the game trails through the forest. I guided the elf unerringly to the various routes of the woodland critters. Once we found a likely location I only needed to gesture and he'd rush to place snares and other traps while I sniffed out our next destination. As much as the elf tried me, his contribution was valuable. I'd originally planned on finding a hunter to co-opt the skills of, but with the elf I could try to maintain Elskia's shape until we returned and preserve the second use of her appearance for another time.
Ultimately, the traps were an investment. We had an additional pair of days to hunt larger game, and the traps would quietly do our work for us in the meantime. The reality of the absurdity of the trials didn't escape me: participation in a festival and sport hunting were not exactly the essential skills of a would-be ruler. It was how they were accomplished that mattered. I wanted to create an impression of quiet competence, of Elskia rising to the occasion at any challenge put before her. A diverse set of animals, caught with little aid, would reflect well on her. But my thoughts were interrupted by nonsense.
"A river's flow is crossed only when deeper waters imperil," said Cedar.
I glanced around, there was no running water nearby. I decided to try something different.
"Deeper waters hide the wettest secrets," I intoned gravely.
The elf's stride stuttered. He glanced back, but I'd already made a point of looking into the distance.
Maybe there was something salvageable from this after all.
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Hugh was instantly placed at the bottom of the pecking order. It was a familiar place.
"Tell me Hugo, tell me now... do all the keep cooks mince like they're 'fraid of the knife? Or jus' you?"
Hugh had once heard Roderick's personal cook, Grumb, described as 'uglier than the toad on a wart and meaner than a wasp up a dog's ass', but Hugh was beginning to wonder if this was being uncharitable to the wasp. Hugh glanced at the other assistant's work, if anything his own work was neater and faster, but the look was jumped on in a moment.
"Didja just peek at another cooks station Hyoog? You best be mindin' yer own work now. I don't know how they do it in the kitchens, but in the field we mind our own work," Grumb mocked.
Hugh knew that saying nothing was best, and continued to prep vegetables for the night's stew. Any slowdown would incur even more retribution. They had been forced to ride through the evening meal to arrive at the hunting grounds before nightfall. Roderick was already showing the fraying limits of his temper, held barely in check by the nobles who tagged along, and his men had been swept into the mood of their master.
The cook gave a final sniff at Hugh's lack of reaction and began to move away. Hugh let himself relax an infinitesimal amount. Wham! Hugh saw stars as the cook slammed his head against the cutting board. Hugh instinctively tried to move but the cook rammed his weight down until he fell still. The cook was breathing heavily, pulsing his stinking breath down on Hugh.
"I'll be getting no lip from you kitchen rat. If there's one thing ya should know about me, it's that," he shoved down one last time, till Hugh felt his bones creak and then he was released.
The cook moved away without another word, his dominance established, so far as he knew.
Hugh remembered the heat of the man's skin on his neck, the tackiness of his sweat. He is afraid.
Hugh smiled; not in the world, but deep inside the secret place he was learning to keep. He is afraid...and I am not.
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As evening approached we swept back through our laid traps, and I was pleased to find a pair of squirrels and a forest hare had been captured by our snares. We made quick enough work of them and returned to our campsite without incident where we hung the small game and prepared a fire.
I noticed the elf was looking a little peaked. I hadn’t seen him eat much of anything over the last couple of days, and it seemed even his stamina was running low. I decided that a hare pelt would be sufficient for the trial, and set about preparing a game stew.
Funnily enough, Cold-Blooded Murder-Guy worked on corpses. I managed to skin and gut the rabbit without difficulty: tracing a knife expertly through ligaments and joints, unerringly avoiding the bowels, and even scraping the small skeleton clean in quick efficient strokes. I dug a quick hole for the waste and buried the bones and offal to avoid any scavengers bothering us in the night.
Cedar watched me work at first, but I supposed he must have found the process boring as he quickly occupied himself with tending the fire.
Before long I had a neat little stew going. I’d added some of the dried vegetable mix, barley, and portable soup I’d packed for the journey and the aroma was spreading pleasantly through the campsite. Elskia’s discriminating nose picking out each of the individual ingredients and even, when I strained, the different species of wood we were burning.
I finally judged it finished and ladled out a couple of bowls for myself and Cedar. I tasted my first spoonful and judged it worthy of a campsite meal. Cedar looked dubiously at the stew I’d set out for him. The elf smiled graciously but began to shake his head.
I stared at him silently. He was going to eat the stew I prepared for us, that I was sure of, the only question was what kind of journey he was going to take to get there. I looked pointedly at his bowl, then back to him.
The elf pulled out a handful of leaves from a pocket, gesturing to them as if to say ‘no, I’m good. I’ve got these delicious leaves, see?’.
I continued to stare expectantly. He put a leaf into his mouth and began to chew. I maintained my vigilant watch. He did not appear to be enjoying the leaf, if anything his face was making marked expressions of unhappiness.
“You will spit that out and eat the stew,” I stated.
Cedar obeyed without argument, and I felt a small tingle of pleasure. Commanding lesser beings was highly rewarding to a Wyrm it seemed. We spent the rest of the evening in companionable silence, Cedar eating three bowls before nodding off into a stew-coma.
The light of the campfire slowly dimmed, a sliver of a moon rose, and I tried not to remember the camping trips I’d never had, with the people who’d never lived. I almost managed.
I drifted off.
The sound of screaming. I scrambled out of my bedding, desperately forcing myself into wakefulness. The dawn had barely broken, and I desperately scanned for threats in the dim light: forest! No. Sky! No. Elf... currently yipping in terror. I followed his gaze to the line where we’d hung the squirrels.
Their little furry forms were flailing, whipping the line around and around in a deranged acrobatic routine.
“Yip! Yip! Yip!” went the elf.
I felt something move against my foot. I stepped back and watched the hare’s pelt worm it’s way over to the shifting earth where I’d buried the unusable parts of the hare carcass.
“Yip! Yip! Yip!” went the elf, and I struggled against the urge to shout “Hooray!”
The dearticulated body of the hare squirmed to the surface to join the pelt, its joints shivered into place as its viscera was repurposed into a ghastly structural function. The broken carcass continued to snap and twist as the remnants of flesh aligned to reinforce joints and pull the splayed bones into order.
The one part mutilated, one part defiled thing finally finished its reassembly, shook the last of the dirt clear and was off like a shot into the darkness.
“Dead things should stay deaaaad,” the elf moaned.
I raised my eyebrow at that level of coherence. One more thing to interrogate, but ultimately I agreed with him. Dead things should stay dead, excepting myself of course, and I intended to correct the record.