“Bones?” Keter asked, eying not only the bone staff, but also the myriad of ivory parts, hung and mounted and sculpted around the Tabernacle’s interior. “Bones fuel your magic? Your divine power?”
The Shaman’s lips were drawn in a flat line. Still a little distracted by Keter’s earlier show of authority, and now somewhat discontent for spilling all the secrets he’d been hoarding for a lifetime.
Something akin to candles were placed about, flickering dull and uncertainly. The great Tent’s hide did a great job of repelling the sun’s light, beating down from above. The three of them were cast in blurry shadows. Hawk, the Elder Shaman. Keter, the Master Maker. And Jeb, the First Acolyte.
“Not exactly.” The Shaman admitted. “I can draw power from all around me, and the more skin is uncovered the easier this is – these loose robes help too, but I can only absorb a limited amount. Perhaps just enough to light a campfire.” His gnarled thumb rubbed at the bone staff, along the grooves of the runes which were etched there.
“In these bones I can store power by focusing closely. It can take a while, to fill a complete piece, leaving myself rather vulnerable for a time. But –” He smiled slyly, “with enough bones, with enough power,” and he looked around himself, eyes glazed over and his face filling with glee, “I can rage a forest to ash, shake the earth so it topples great stone houses, or blow the winds and cast birds or arrows from the skies.” That was impressive indeed. Almost frightening. Almost. Keter’s act of superiority had worked up until then, fooling the Shaman into thinking Keter stronger. If Hawk would realize the truth, he could easily make Keter into his puppet. He’d be limited, chained, caged.
Keter’s eyes narrowed. No, that would never happen. He would not allow it. Not now. Not ever. The Master Maker panned across the polished bones, displayed in ornate fashion.
“So, do all of these bones give you power?” He asked, prodding at the man’s exact strength. If he needed this many bones to cause havoc, then perhaps separating him from them…
“Alas,” the aged Shaman said sadly, and he raised his intrinsic staff, “only the bones of powerful creatures can hold enough magic to be of any effect.”
Keter watched the staff warily. “Do the hunters supply these bones?” He asked. But the Shaman shook his head.
“No, awesome Master Maker. These creatures are too strong for mere mortals to hunt. The bones too, need to be just that – bone. Any fat, any flesh, any dirt that still stains it abducts from its ability to hold power.” Keter thought back of the Prowl – the Herald – and how it cleaned its prey so carefully, so delicately.
“The Herald.” Keter said in surprised wonder. “You take the bones from the Herald’s nest. The bones left after it has picked them clean.” Hawk shuffled on the hide carpet. They were all sitting on the floor, kneeling. The Hospit was one of the few homes to have something akin to chairs.
“Yes, you are correct about this, glorious Master Maker.” The Shaman said. But Keter was thinking, pondering, wondering.
“How did you get them?” He asked, remembering the enormous, raging beast as they had fought beneath the earth’s crust. Hawk blinked guiltily.
“When the time comes for new bones to aid my power,” he said hesitantly, “The divine Gods above bestow a vision upon me, a glimpse into the future or past, or maybe an idea of what could be. They help me choose a sacrifice – who to title as ‘Virrah’.” He lowered his staff, so now it was laying on the ground next to him, and he clenched his hands together on the low wooden table between them.
“When the Virrah enters the Hollows, the Herald will be contented for a time, and allow us the chance, the honor, of taking some of the bones he has kept after his great hunts.” Little Virrah, barely twelve, and consigned to die. Ripped apart limb for limb, cleaned and washed in a stream and then gorged down by some strange creature.
But Silva had known. She had aided Virrah, gifted her illuminating elixir, food and water, bandages and healing potions. Why Slickleaf though? Why her, of all girls? Was Hawk speaking the truth? Did he really get visions, foretelling him these things? Or…
No, Keter thought, Silva was amassing too much power. If she continued like this, in due time she’d rule all of Hollow’s Maw and no doubt Hawk and Grog would be Cast from their thrones. But, if she’d lose her pupil, her heir, the lineage of Owls would cease, and the power would tip back in Hawk’s favor.
“Who is Halfbloom’s father?” Keter asked. She was the second pupil. If Slickleaf died, then she’d don the Owl’s garb. Why leave the job half-done? The answer was simple, and Keter knew of it even before Hawk spoke.
“She’s Grog’s first daughter.” The man admitted, winching like a child caught in some rebellious act by their parent. Power is spun round and around. Such a fickle thing.
“So, if Slickleaf had been taken by the Herald, Grog would effectively hold three hierarchic positions after Silva’s passing.” Keter stated. He did not accuse Hawk of setting up Slickleaf as Virrah, so he could twist the Village’s power around.
“And Grog?” He asked, ever calm.
“He is my cousin, most cunning Master Maker,” he said, sweat gleaming though the air was cool, “and follows me closely.” Keter nodded.
“I see.” He said, then glanced at the Acolyte. “What about him?”
The Elder Shaman jolted from his depression. “Just a boy, really. Well, ‘just’ might not be right; he’s the first child in this Village that is born with a mantra.” Keter frowned.
“Born? Do you not learn magic?” He asked, moving his legs a bit, working some feeling back into them.
“You can, but it is very difficult and arduous to learn even a single mantra, and you’d need a teacher who excels in just that one – they can also only cast by using pre-charged bones. Some are born knowing a spell, and the ability to absorb power. The only thing they need learn is how to use it skillfully.” Keter eyed the child, who shuffled nervously under his heavy gaze.
“What can he do?” He asked. Hawk hummed, looking his disciple over.
“He has the, hmm. Its hard to explain. Pardon me, Master Maker. Jeb, my Pupil, could you demonstrate your divine power? You are only allowed to use your innate magic, though.”
The boy looked uncomfortable but complied none the less with two quick nods. His hands slipped in his scuff and he removed a neckless fitted with a bone ring Keter hadn’t seen him wearing. He glanced at Hawk. No doubt he too wore a hidden bone, here and there.
The boy looked at one of the candles, standing erect on the table. His hand moved involuntarily, a short spasm, a look, and some words. They sounded so familiar, making Keter believe he ought to know what they meant. But they were unknown to him.
The flame flickered, once, twice and snuffed out in a thin curl of smoke. He turned to another candle, one who wasn’t burning, and his hand followed. A twitch, a stare, some words and the candle sputtered to life, glowing dully. Keter watched closely, most keenly intrigued while Hawk waited patiently.
“He,” Keter started, “Can transfer energy?”
The Shaman smiled, stroking his bald pate with a hissing. “Your eye is most keen, wise Master Maker, and puts mine to shame, indeed it does. It took me many months before I figured it out myself.”
Keter scratched his chin in a habit he still retained from a time when he had a beard. “But the exchange is not exact.” He noticed the new flame to be smaller than the others, and struggle to grow on its wick. Hawk nodded.
“Yes, Master. Though he has gotten better with time. When I first got to teaching him, he needed a bonfire to spark a single ember to light! Really, I thought his power useless at first; just wasting energy, really.” Keter remained silent, thinking all the uses and implications for such a power.
The Shaman continued. “The more magic he wears, like strong bones, the greater the power is he can hold. But, the longer he retains it, the more energy will slip from his grasp, like a lively eel eager for escape.” Through all this the boy was fidgeting anxiously. To bare the scrutiny of not only the Elder Shaman, but the Master Maker also, was too much for his young nerves to handle without a certain amount of angst.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
“What about you, Elder Shaman,” Keter asked, “what can you call upon the mortal realm?”
The old man caressed the staff’s smooth and etched surface, fingertips gently gliding across.
“I can call upon fire and set anything alight I can see. With this gift I was born.” He said, face going over with remembrance. “I can call upon the wind, and sense both man and beast before they approach. This I was taught by my predecessor.” His eyes had a faraway look to them. “I can store vigor within myself, but only myself. This gift is less potent then that of young Jeb here.”
“How would you go about using that last one?” Keter asked, curious for the unknown. The Shaman tough for a spell.
“I can let myself cool down when I’m near a fire. So, later when I am out in the rain or snow, I can tap that stored warmth.” He gave a leering smile, showing two crude rows of blackened teeth. “A gift that is rendered useless if I’d just wear some furs.”
_
Keter trudged through the muddy earth, the Acolyte, Jeb, closely behind with a torch in his little fist to clear the setting darkness. At times he offered directions. ‘Turn right here, Master Maker.’ And ‘Behind that hovel, a left, Master Maker.’
They were slowly making their way to Grog-Jecher’s abode. Slowly, because for whatever reason, the boy had difficulty keeping up. Perhaps it was because of his garb, billowing round his legs with each step as the harsh wind made itself known.
“Say,” Keter spoke up, suddenly. He heard Jeb flinch behind him. “Why do you dislike Virrah?”
He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the boy was discomfited by the question. He had probably assumed Keter, or the Master Maker, had taken some liking to the girl. It did not hurt if people thought that. It would give her certain authority that might prove useful to Keter later. Still, he was apprehensive of bestowing power onto others.
“She is Virrah.” The boy finally answered. “Her place is no longer in the mortal realm, Master Maker.”
“And what if I decide she does belong here?” Keter asked. Jeb thought on that, eyes to the ground, silently trudging through the slob.
“I do not know.” He admitted, torn between the old writing, and Keter’s new ways.
“That is good.” Keter said. “Better to admit your ignorance than to lie.” Silence.
“Then,” Keter went. “What do you think of Virrah? What is your opinion of her beyond her title as Virrah?” A pause.
“I’ve heard her cures aid the aching, heal the wounded and set the crooked.” He admitted a bit apprehensively. “I’ve heard she is kind to the other girls and is not quick to anger. But, when her ire is struck, her fury is most frightening.” He gave an involuntary shudder. Maybe he hadn’t so much ‘heard’ that as lived it himself.
“Thank you.” Keter smiled. “For your honesty.”
The boy’s face brightened like a homely fire at that. They continued on for a while in a comfortable quiet. Some people followed for a time, but a pointed stare of Jeb drove most away. Others figured after a while that they probably had better things to do than to follow a God and a priest about.
“We are almost there, Master Maker.” The boy announced, having grown a bit more used with talking to Keter.
“What do you think of Grog?” Keter asked, taking another winding turn, his boots squelching the mire, slop, slop, slop. Jeb frowned to himself.
“He’s big.” He said.
“Not that big.” Keter remarked, recalling the man from their first and only meeting.
“Not like that.” Jeb countered. “More like… you just feel small when he’s around. You always hear about his hunts, how he takes down even the most ferocious beasts, fighting them with everything he’s got.”
The boy continued talking, caught in his own excitement, respect, and wariness. “They say he once killed a graffer with nothing but a flint knife. I’ve heard he fears nothing, and that when he walks the night, the shadows part for him. They say he makes no sound, unless he screams his battle cry, fierce enough to stun the moons in their journey. I’ve heard –” They arrived at a group of tents, placed close together in some circling pattern, with a firepit in the middle. The hungry tongues of flame licked an animal’s carcass, lapping at the dripping fat. They had arrived.
Jeb stopped mid-sentence, looking around at the gathered folk, going about their tasks. Or, at least, standing frozen mid-motion at the things they were working with. Numerous stares pointed at Keter. He returned them idly. Most drew runes into the air if he let his gaze pass over them, others remained in still prayer.
Jeb pointed at the nearest man who paused as he was tanning a beast’s hide. “You,” The boy called, working some iron into his shrill, childish voice, “The Master Maker demands Grog’s presence. Now.” The man’s eyes flitted from the boy, to Keter. His face blanched.
“Yes!” he said in a strangled voice and bolted off. Seeing so many people uneasy at the visit of what looked like two children would be humorous, if not for the fact Keter was one of them. He still hadn’t gotten used to this new body. Too often he misjudged some distance, finding himself coming short on reach. Too often did he need to look up to a person when conversing. Too often he missed his previous body’s vigor and strength and dexterity.
“They seem restless, Master Maker.” Jeb noted.
Keter snorted. “About anyone who sees me tends to grow so.” But the child’s words had worked on him. Yes, they indeed seemed more put-off than usual. They didn’t look revered, but scared. Not nervous, but ashamed. They had continued their labor, now, but it looked to Keter as if they were distracted somehow. He blinked away, turning. Someone was drawing near.
Not Grog, that much was certain as the twin moons. It was a woman, first and foremost. Perhaps wiry and angled enough to resemble the Elder Hunter, but not him by a long shot. Still, she walked with a particular certainty to her step. Enough so to warrant Keter’s attention.
Jeb looked at the woman, clad in hides and pelts. “You forget your place.” The boy hissed at her. “Bow.”
But the woman didn’t look like she was planning such a thing. In fact, she looked angry and hurried. “Look, Maker, Grog’s out on business in the woods with some men, and I don’t have the time to amuse you with… whatever it is you want.”
She yelped suddenly, jumped and tripped, falling flat on her behind. She stared in bewilderment at her feet, a mean burn forming at their soles. Then she stared up at Jeb, holding a dead torch, smoke hissing away into the coming dusk.
“You will show your respect, Hesh. Even if Grog is your promised.” He paused. “Especially if the Elder Hunter is your promised.” Whatever that meant. Keter figured it’d become clear soon enough.
The woman, Hesh, looked as if she would retaliate. But when Jeb moved his hand, when his fingers spasmed just a little, she swallowed heavily, taking her words with it. Keter was surprised. He had not heard the boy utter his mantra. Not once. Not the second time. He had been too focused on the woman’s dismissive tone.
She carefully touched the fresh wound, already forming a nasty blister. “Why is Grog gone?” Keter asked. “I know the hunters scourge at dawn, not dusk. So, answer.”
Hesh bit her lip, suddenly realizing who she had antagonized. Regretting her decision.
“A hunter, Bale, has gone missing during the morning hunt.” She stammered. “We’ve been looking for him ever since.” Keter pursed his lips in a gesture vaguely human.
“Why? Is one missing hunter really that great a disturbance to merit an entire party’s attention?” Her eyes widened with disbelieve.
“Because it never happens like that!” She blurted. “They hunt in groups! At least one should have seen him taken by a beast, or tripping, or drowning, or, or.” She clutched his head. “They said he was just gone! From one moment to the other! No sound, no tell!” She was breathing heavily, rapidly. Clearly frightened by the hunters’ high tales. Keter, though, just snorted.
Most likely, they hadn’t payed close enough attention.
“Was he missing before they had caught prey? Or after?” She pulled her legs closer, hugging her knees.
“After.” She muttered. He sighed, Keter did. In his mind’s eye he saw those hunters, content with their daily catch, marching back to camp. Sloppy, lazy men, not realizing one was missing. Maybe taking a shit behind a bush, maybe killed, could be anything, really. He’d seen it happen often enough in his previous life; young soldiers without the proper respect for the wilds.
“Could be he just ran, too.” Keter shrugged. Hesh looked up.
“Ran? Away from his daughter, now motherless and fatherless?” She shook her head. “Impossible.”
“Bale was a loving parent, then?” Keter asked, and she shuffled in the dirt.
“I don’t know.” She admitted. “I didn’t really know him.” Keter sighed again, deeper this time.
“Was he taken because we haven’t shown you proper respect, Master Maker?” Her voice had gone almost crazy with panic. “Because Grog ignored your coming almost entirely?”
Keter shrugged. “If you believe just so, then better to start respecting me from now, huh?” He watched her shoulders droop as she bowed.
“Yes, Master Maker. “she stuttered. “As you say.”
“Well, send him to the Hospit when he gets back.” Keter turned away, smirking. “If he comes back.”
-
As night claimed the land, casting the Hospit in shadow, Virrah found herself wondering. By now, she even referred to herself as Virrah, not Slickleaf – the name given to her by Silva. For whatever reason, the Master Maker had taken to calling her that even after he learned her true name. What did it mean? Did he still require her sacrifice? Had he sided with the Shaman the moment they’d met? Or was it just some habit, not easily rid? She did not know.
She focused back on her work. Another girl had asked for a brew of Promise, though she was no stranger to the potion. In the past year, she’d come some dozen times for the concoction. Always with new injuries, no doubt invisible to the untrained eye. But Virrah was everything but untrained. A bruise there, peeking behind her sleeve. A reddened patch there, covered by a careful hand. Virrah was no stranger to such things, they were bound to occur from time to time. If the girl did not talk of it, she would not ask. Only worry for her own safety.
Under darkness, the silent promise did not wilt and crumble to dust as it would under the sun’s bright rays. So, evening or night were the only times one could handle the plant, really. She was distracted, though. Whatever could the Master and Hawk be talking about? Magic, sure. She’d heard this the day before. Whatever else?
The brilliant peddles sunk beneath the brew’s surface, agitated by the flame’s flaring beneath. The other villages would soon start to act. It had already been too long since the Master’s arrival for no messenger to come from another abode. However would they react to the Master Maker’s arrival? She did not know.
She heard the door creaking open, then the Master’s familiar rhythm as he walked through the Hospit. Well, whatever they would do, Virrah doubted it beyond the Masters capabilities, even if she hadn’t seen him cast his silent mantra in the last weeks. She brushed some stray locks of white from her eyes, so they dint obscure her work, already so blurry for the dim lights.
She recalled his power in the mad battle within earth’s bowels. It had all happened after he had drunk her blood. A great amount. She’d been woozy after and walking on wobbly legs. She peeked at her room’s door. Perhaps it was time for the Master Maker to be fed again.