Her slim finger moved along the table’s grain, deep-brown and polished by years of elbow, until it rested before a strange flower. Keter frowned at the plant, observing the flamboyant display of vast purple and oranges, shifting between one-another by flaring degrees. The stalk was dark, black enough that it seemed to swallow the light.

“Silent Promise.” Keter mumbled, then paused until she gave him an affirmative nod, urging him to continue. “Grows in dark, secluded places away from sunlight. Blooms from mid-autumn to late winter… When mixed with venom, considering the right amounts, can be used as antidote. If digested raw, one ripe bud will result in a sudden, unnoticed death by next moon.”

She gave a slow nod, then moved on to the next item. It was a bulbous wart-like growth with bumps and pits; hairs dotted its reddish flesh – the color not unlike an infected wound. He stared at the disgusting plant displayed on the aged slab of wood, running through his mental library of herbology; but remained unsure.

Keter leaned forward, inhaling carefully through his nose, and noticed a sweet aroma drifting from the wart. “River-Scar.” He said, finally, “Grows alongside streams of clear water. Can be used as a potent dye for reds, or, for the more adventurous, as a food; though unless thoroughly washed, it will leave your mouth scarlet.”

She nodded again, the corners of her lip curling into a smile, and eagerly pointed at the last item. Keter frowned at it. Unlike the rest, at first glance it looked like a normal, green leaf. Perhaps thicker than others and sporting a fresh gleam, but nothing otherwise distinct. He pulled the knife from his belt, immediately feeling the heft of it. Even though it had been grinded down to a more usable size, it was still a great deal larger and bulkier than the average blade.

Guided by Keter’s practiced hand, the edge sliced through the leaf’s center easily enough, covering the metal in a slimy mucus. Keter rubbed the sap between his rough fingers, quickly becoming very slick. He smiled. This one, he knew as well.

“Slickleaf.” He announced, seeing her eyes shine with delight. “Grows onto larger, hardier plants that keep animals at bay, such as briars and thorn-bushes. The sap can be used as an antiseptic to treat infected wounds and keeps best in a smooth-stone pot at cool temperatures.” Keter raised a playful eyebrow. “Can also, when mixed with animal fats, be used as a lubricant for certain purposes.”

Virrah blushed, yet not hiding her proud grin. “You did very well, Master Maker.” She said in her soft voice, barely more than a whisper. “It shows that you are chosen to unite the Cradle into one.”

He shrugged away the compliment. Keter had gotten more than accustomed to being showered by them over the past three weeks since he had arrived in the Hollow. He leaned back in his seat, stretching – feeling his muscles squirm and wriggle beneath his skin. Under the knowledgeable hands of Virrah and Silva, his wounds had healed at a spectacular rate. Now, even the worst of them had recovered enough for him to move about without worry of reopening them again. They only ached dully.

His vacant stare returned from the low rafters to regard a young girl who entered the room, carrying another selection of plants. But Virrah raised her hand. “The Master has spent enough time on Owl matters today, Tinder. You can retrieve these plants and place them in my workbench.”

The girl, Tinder, nodded obediently. Her hands became messy when she took the Slickleaf. There was a moment’s hesitation when touching the River-Scar. And when she went to grab the Silent Promise she found it to have crumbled away under the sun’s harsh rays. Virrah slapped her hand with a wooden spoon, had the girl yelp and quickly snatch her hand back.

“Never touch Silent Promise with your skin!” she hissed; quiet and gentle, yet still carrying an air of authority. “Unless you wish to become barren!”

Tinder paled, eyes widening with stricken horror. “Understood mistress!” She squeaked.

Virrah waved the her away. When the girl was gone, the pupil Owl casually brushed the dusted plant off the table top. Keter eyed her for a moment.

“Was it true what you said? About her becoming barren at the flower’s touch?”

“No; it was a lie.” She sighed. “But when properly applied to a seeded woman, the child will die inside. Many young girls come to this cottage to ask for a brew of Promise after a risky night. Doesn’t hurt as long as it isn’t used too often.”

“Then why the lie?” Keter asked curiously. Virrah shrunk down in her chair, wriggling her fingers and looking remorsefully at them.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Sometimes,” She said after a moment’s consideration, “girls are too ashamed to come to us, and seek the flower on their own; not knowing the proper ways of handling the medicine. It can result in sickness and pain at best. But, depending on how much of the flower’s poison she digests, a woman can become barren – unable to produce children for the rest of her life. A short one, probably. Because a promise must be kept, and the Silent Promise always follows through when treated without its due respect.”

“I see.” Keter mused.

In this village, everyone has their own set of tasks; generally, the children continue with the parent’s profession. But, when it comes to religion, herb gathering, and hunting, the children must spend one day a weak on the skill of their choice, as to help with the duller tasks. In the hunter’s case, this is gutting. For the Shaman, this is maintenance of the shrine. For the Owl, this is plant collecting.

Tinder has always chosen to aid with the Owl and is treated with a lot more trust than the other girls that come to help. This also means the punishment is harsher when she betrays that trust.

“What will you have her do?” Keter asked aloofly, prompting a soft sigh from Virrah.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps half a day pulling taintfin.”

Keter wrinkled his nose at the memory of the horrible stench that the plant radiated. They had walked all the way to the riverbed where the thing grew underwater. Bringing it to the cottage would have it reek like death for a full moon. Pulling taintfin meant diving underwater, plucking it, and leaving it to dry in the sun to rid the plant of the smell. Quite unfortunate that it was very useful to cure hides as it absorbed a lot of moisture. Thus, highly sought after by the hunters.

“Can’t say I…” Keter grumbled, “what is the word again? When I want something that is hers?”

“Envy” Virrah said smartly. “You can’t say you envy her, nor can I.”

“Envy.” Keter let the word roll around his tongue, trying to remember it thoroughly.

Language had been a big hurdle in the beginning, but once he’d grasped the basics, the rest was rather simple, and learning it proved more than doable. He mostly had Virrah’s extended vocabulary to thank for that, though. Villagers other than her, Silva and perhaps the Elder Shaman had a pitiful grasp of even their own tongue.

“The Elder Shaman will likely visit again, today.” Virrah said as if reading his mind. “Turning him away has become harder every time… I don’t know how I’ll do-”

“Let him come.” Keter interrupted her. Her face spoke before she knew, but she quickly covered it up by her mask of indifference she liked wearing so much. Keter, though, had caught that fleeting emotion tugging at her eyes; uncertainty.

“If that is your wish, Master…”

“It is.”

The power of the village used to be divided into four – the hunters, the shamans, the owls, and the people, each with their own Elder. Yet, some years back, the spokesman of the had people perished, and instead of another peasant donning his pelt, Silva took it for her own as she was his grandmother. This created a noticeable disparity in power, now Silva controlled the garb of two Elders. If she were to have the people believe that the Master Maker, too, was on her side, the chances of the rest retaliating were high.

Keter had chosen Virrah at first because he didn’t know any better and had yet to regret that decision. Even now, he still had much to learn from her and Silva. But this was double true for the Shaman; the only person in the Hollow who could, or knew how to, use magic. If Keter were to grow, he had to learn from him, too.

The all-seeing sun had risen to its apex, punctuating Hawk’s time of arrival. Keter watched coolly as the aged man struggled his way up the hill-path leading to the cottage’s entrance. Saw him curl his nose when he passed through the small garden, brimming with a wide selection of herbs that were easier to breed than they are to forage.

Some of the girls working outside bowed as the Elder hobbled past them, paying no mind to the disturbance he caused each day. Still, you had to recognize his drive to clamber up to Silva’s hospit every day for the shear hope of converging the new Master to his side. After Hawk staggered out of view, there were a series of nocks on the door; again, a certain rhythm, like always. Still, Virrah waited patiently on her seat while the man waited outside, sipping at her thee.

“Get the door, Virrah.” Keter said while gesturing leisurely. “Before he sags through his shriveled legs and has to be dragged off by the girls.”

“Yes, Master Maker.” She gave a curt bow before leaving the mixing room.

When she was gone from sight, Keter gave a growl as he pressed his finger down on the boards, feeling both his magic and bodily warmth drain away; like dew to the soil. He removed his finger when smoke started curling, leaving a blackened scar in the wood. The following sigh that escaped his lips was heavy indeed.

It seemed like just resting restored one’s reserves but slowly. It was not like that night in the tomb at all, when he had recovered all his magic in but a few hours’ worth of sleep. Well, that and a swallow of Virrah’s blood. He had tasted the stuff often enough in his previous life; his own, foes’, friends’, all alike. Yet, the memory of the girl’s bitter blood, spilling and slipping down his throat… Had his mouth water with anticipation.

There was a creak when the door was opened, and some distant mumbling. If anyone would have answers, it would be that old bat, Hawk. And if not, well…

Keter’s eyes showed nothing as the bald man entered the room, slowly shuffling his way over. Keter was not fooled. The villagers, Virrah, and even that hag Silva all both respected and feared him.

He kneeled, groaning as his knees clicked, bowing as low as his grip on the impressive bone staff allowed. He’d make no mistake; this man was a dangerous – both in knowledge and in body.

“I’ve come to offer my service again; oh, supreme Master Maker.” His scraping voice could not hide the fact that he was a sword, a shield, a spear. And a weapon discarded, could one day be pointed at you.