I understand that you are progressing quickly, which is to be expected. I approve of your achieving the rank of apprentice so early and urge you to use the remaining year of your contract attaining the rank of mage. That should be sufficient for your short stay there.
I have also been told of the exercise regimen that you have been helping the professors implement for the students. This is commendable and speaks highly of your dedication to the principles I taught you in the Training School.
Justan’s excitement dimmed as he read. His father had suggested she write him? So far, the letter sounded like Ma’am, the trainer, the woman that saw him as a project to be completed. His hope that her feelings for him were similar began to fade. He read on, desperate to find something that sounded like Jhonate, his mentor and friend, the woman that he had grown so close to in the final days before he left.
I would be remiss, however, if I did not warn you of some possible distractions during your stay at the Mage School. I have overheard several of my fellow academy students quite crudely speaking of the allure of certain female mages at the school. You should beware of the possible disruption to your studies these female students could cause you. In my past experience, I have noticed a tendency among young female magic users to pursue ways of using their magic to get what they want from the men around them. Do not fall victim to their wiles.
Remember, you are there to study and gain control of your abilities. This will require the same amount of focus and dedication I demanded of you at the Training School. When your two years at the school are over, you still have years of study at the Battle Academy ahead of you. There will not be time for the pursuit of females until after you have graduated.
Your father told me that you have asked of my status and suggested that I speak of that as well. I will let you know that I have extended my contract with the Battle Academy for two more years in order to further my training in the more advanced warrior tactics. So I shall be here when you return.
I want you to know that I am pleased with your growth. Every time I look at the parting gift you gave me, I am reminded of the way you advanced during your last year at Training School. I hope in return that when you use your Jharro Bow, you will remember the lessons that you learned under my tutelage.
Be steadfast. Be focused. Return with the desire to continue to increase your abilities. I look forward to greeting you at the gates of the Battle Academy when that time comes.
Your former trainer and current friend,
Jhonate Bin Leeths
He laid the letter down for a moment, unsure of the feelings he was reading into her parting words. On the positive side, she still had his ring and she had called him friend. Perhaps all wasn’t lost. She had tried to warn him off of the girls at the school, but he knew her well enough to realize that was probably just Jhonate being Jhonate. In reality, she hadn’t given him any true indication that her feelings were more than that of friendship, so maybe he was fooling himself.
He picked up the green ribbon that had been tied about the letter and twined it about his fingers. He lifted them to his eyes to examine them closer and fancied he caught a faint trace of the scent he had been chiding himself for looking for earlier. He brought them under his nose, inhaling deeply to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. The scent filled his nostrils. It was really there.
It was something that Justan had only smelled three times before. The first had been when Jhonate had held tightly to him after he helped free her from Kenn, the second when he had embraced her following his final battle against Qenzic, and the last time he smelled it was when she had leaned in to kiss his cheek as he left her in Reneul on his way to the Mage School.
It was the smell of Jhonate’s hair, an earthy smell, like the smell of the forest after a rain, not flowery or sweet, but clean and pleasant. He crushed the ribbon to his cheek, knowing at once that the only way it could smell this way was if she had taken it out of her own hair to tie the letter. Jhonate would not remove her ribbons lightly and most certainly wouldn’t have used them to wrap a letter to a mere acquaintance.
He smiled at the realization and his heartbeat quickened again. He sat and held the ribbon under his nose, keeping her scent fresh in his mind as he read the letter over and over again, this time sure that her words meant more. Justan did not leave the room until it was time to spar with his friends, and even then he kept the ribbon and the letter in his jacket pocket.
Chapter Twenty Four
Fist’s back ached as he walked up the road from Miss Nala’s farm to Master Coal’s keep. He tried to stretch and a sharp jab of pain shot up his spine. Fist winced. The long days of work combined with playing with Miss Nala’s children were taking their toll. Perhaps he would have Qyxal take a look at him when he got back, but he wasn’t planning on making any changes. It was worth the pain to be able to play with children again.
When he had first seen the children, he had found it difficult to even be around them. The horrible last memories of Cedric and Lina kept creeping into his mind. But the boys had finally come right up and asked him to play and he had not been able to say no. Fist found it irresistible how innocent and open human children were. They didn’t fear him because of his size or strength like many of the adults did. Not that the humans in this community treated him unkindly, they were always polite. But they tended to avoid being in his presence if they could.
Miss Nala was different from the others. When she had seen him playing with her children, she had come out and invited him to eat with them. She readily accepted his help with the family chores, and it became a regular habit for him to stay behind with the family after the morning work was done.
He would put the children up on his wide shoulders and give them rides all around the outside of their home, or sometimes he would pretend to be the giant that they got to defeat with their imaginary swords. His favorite game though, was one created by the smallest children who were three and four years old. They called it simply “Fist, save us” and it involved the older children pretending to be robbers or monsters and the smaller ones would run to Fist for protection.
Ogre children would not have understood such games. They may have pretended to hunt or defend the tribe, but for the most part, their play ended up devolving into a brawl with each other. The fighting could go on for hours and the adults would allow it to go on, even if one of them were hurt.
Humans treated their little ones so differently. Miss Nala for instance, was so warm and loving to her children, finding ways to make sure that each one of them felt like they were important to her. She was protective, warning them when their play became too rough, but she also knew when to let them figure things out. Since their father had died, her role had become even more important.
Fist had decided early on after spending time with Tamboor’s family that the reason humans were so much more advanced than ogres was the way that their parents raised them. Especially human mothers.
Earlier that night when Justan had shared the memories of his own mother, Fist understood why her letters had made him so homesick. Fist wished that he had a mother like Miss Nala, or Justan’s mom, or Tamboor’s wife Efflina. He didn’t even know which ogre female had birthed him.
In ogre culture, once the children were weaned, the female stopped seeing the child as hers and left them to be raised by the older females in the community. This way the females of child bearing age could return to the mating area and become pregnant with the next child. Ogre males on the other hand, sometimes took interest in the male children that they sired. Fist had been lucky enough to grow large and strong, so that his father had decided to take pride in him, but for the most part, Ogre children did not have real parental figures.
Lately, since spending so much time with these children who had lost their father, Fist’s dreams had been full of old childhood memories. Most of them were of fighting with the other children or the times when his father Crag would stop by and push him around or beat him to teach h
im toughness. But there was one dream he had nearly every night. This dream was of an old lost memory. A memory of a time when he had experienced something somewhat like the relationship humans had with their parents.
It was still foggy in his mind, but in the dream there was a human man. Fist could make out his face, the kind eyes, the easy laugh. The particular thing that he remembered the man doing was holding him close and saying comforting words. He didn’t remember why he had been so distraught in the first place, or how long he spent with the man, but it was the only time in his life before meeting Squirrel that Fist could remember feeling loved.
As Fist continued towards the keep, Squirrel scampered up to sit in his usual place on the ogre’s shoulder. The creature was content, having found a nice hollow in a tree near the farm house to stash some seeds. Squirrel did that quite often. It was his main occupation actually. He had little stashes near every location that Fist spent time in.
Squirrel usually stayed in the fur-lined leather bag that Fist carried around with him everywhere he went, but if the ogre was ever about to do anything strenuous, he would leave and go to the nearest tree to start searching for food. The children loved the little animal, but Fist had to do a lot of coaxing to get Squirrel to allow them to pet him. Squirrel wasn’t used to attention from people. He liked Gwyrtha and Qyxal, but stayed clear of Lenny and just barely tolerated Justan.
“You need to like Justan, Squirrel,” Fist chided for the hundredth time. He knew that the animal was jealous of Justan’s connection with him. “He is our tribe now. He is the leader of the Big and Little People. He needs . . . your respect.”
Fist smiled in pride. Respect was his new word that day and he could already spell it. Not that he hadn’t known the concept of respect. It was very much demanded in ogre culture, though in their minds it was more of a demand for an understanding of ones place in the tribe. But the human word “respect” meant more than that. In human culture, at least among Justan’s people, it meant consideration to others no matter a person’s status. It was a concept that Fist had always believed in. Now it was something he had a word for.
Squirrel gave a little snort and folded his arms in defiance. It was going to take more than Fist’s fancy new words to change his mind on the subject of Justan. But Fist wasn’t worried. His friend would come around sooner or later. He knew Justan’s character well enough to believe that Squirrel wouldn’t be able to dislike him for long.
As the road entered the forest that surrounded Master Coal’s keep, they came upon Samson who was heading the opposite direction on his way down to the farms.
“Good evening, Fist,” the centaur called out with a cheerful wave. He gave the ogre an appraising look. “Is that a new shirt you are wearing?”
“Yes! Miss Nala gave it to me today,” Fist said, lifting his enormous arms so that the centaur could get a better view of the long-sleeved shirt. In fact, Miss Nala had given Fist two shirts and three pairs of pants that afternoon and he was carrying them in a cloth sack over one shoulder. “It is warm. She makes good human clothes.”
“Good for you,” Samson replied. “She has made many nice shirts for me in the past as well.”
Fist had learned to prefer this human clothing over the heavier and bulkier furs that he used to wear. They allowed more freedom of movement and did not constantly itch. The only problem was his propensity to sweat through them, and the human’s insistence that they be washed often. With the new clothes he brought back with him tonight, he now had a different shirt for every day of the week.
“Are you still working tonight, Samson? You look big,” Fist remarked. The centaur was always much bigger when he was going to help with field work and much smaller when at the keep. He did not understand how Samson changed, but had decided to take it as a point of fact that it was something he could do and leave it at that.
“Yes, the men have been clearing some land at the edge of Coal’s property and there are still a few stumps that need to be pulled out. Would you like to join me?”
“Not tonight,” Fist said. “I am fight- . . . sparring tonight.” Sparring was one of the first new words Justan had taught him in the days after they bonded.
“Very well,” Samson said. “Good night then.”
“Good night.” Fist said with a smile. He enjoyed the human tradition of exchanging pleasantries. It was another way to show respect.
Squirrel felt that Fist was taking on too many human traits and was afraid that the ogre would start shrinking too. If it weren’t for all the extra food to be found around the humans, he would have taken more opportunities to scold Fist about it.
“I will not shrink,” Fist assured the squirrel as they approached the open gates of the keep. Justan had told him so. But part of him wished that he could.
If he could have the ability to shrink like Samson and grow back to ogre size only when going into battle, his life among the humans would be so much easier. He could go into regular towns with Justan without fear of attack from the people. He could ride a horse without hurting it. He could even sleep in a regular bed like the ones that Justan and Lenny slept in and be comfortable instead of sleeping on a pile of blankets and straw on the floor.
Fist entered the front door of the lodge and saw that there were only a few people still sitting at the long center table. Dinner was long over and it would be a few hours before everyone came back in for the night. Most of the rooms in the lodge were too small for his large frame, so an old storeroom had been converted into his quarters. He walked around the table and through the door at the far side of the dining hall that led to the kitchens. He headed past the sinks and ovens, but before he reached the door to his room, Coal’s wife Becca called to him from the doorway.
“Fist, dear. You are a bit late, but I . . . did set aside some food for you.” Becca was out of breath, as if she had run to get there.
“Thank you, Miss Becca, but I ate at Miss Nala’s house before I leaved-, uh . . . left. We had hot bread and tuber soup.”
He continued towards his door, but she hurried around and stood in front of him, blocking his path. “And where do you think you are going?”
“To my room. I need to change clothes and Squirrel wants to put some seeds away,” he explained, unsure why she was acting so strange. “Miss Nala made some new shirts and pants for me.”
“Mmm hmm. And have you bathed today?”
Fist winced. Miss Becca had a very strict bathing rule. All workers that stayed in the lodge at night had to bathe at least every other day. A bath house had been built out behind the lodge against the keep wall next to the infirmary. Large wooden tubs and showerheads filled the building and a wooden wall separated the women from the men. The water was pumped up from the ground below and was collected in a huge tank heated by a wood-burning stove.
The stove did an adequate job, but when many people were using the bathing area at once, the water was barely warmed at all. Sometimes Master Coal would heat up the tank with magic to give the stove some help, but that was only when he or Becca were about to bathe themselves. Most of the time, the temperature of the water depended on luck and timing.
“No,” Fist admitted. “But I can’t right now. I will be sparring with Just- Edge tonight. I would just get dirty again.”
“Alright then. Go ahead and spar in what you have on. No sense in you getting another shirt soaked,” Becca said, sticking her hand out. “You go ahead and give those new clothes to me and I’ll put them away for you. But when you are finished, I expect you to go down and bathe before coming in to sleep.”
“But the water will be coldest then,” he complained.
“Are you going to make me go in there and scrub you down myself?” she asked.
“No!” Fist said and handed the clothes to her. “I will do it.”
Her threat was not an idle one. She had nearly done so the first time he had refused her request that he bathe. He had been afraid that if the hot water made his fingers wrinkled when wash
ing dishes, it might do the same to the rest of his body. He had unknowingly let her drag him to the men’s bathing room, but when she came at him with soap and a scrub brush, he had called out through the bond in a panic. Luckily Justan had arrived in time to intervene.
Fist had to admit that it felt nice to be clean and to smell good, but the act of bathing itself was the one human custom so far that he didn’t like. Squirrel found the subject endlessly funny and often chattered in squirrelish laughter when the subject came up, but when Fist replied that it would be very easy for him to give Squirrel a bath of his own, that usually shut the creature up.
Before coming to Master Coal’s, Fist had never bathed in the way that humans did and hadn’t known what to do. Ogres occasionally played in shallow mountain streams, but cleaning one’s body was just for the women and the wounded. Justan had to show him how to use the soap with the hot water to lather up and how to rinse it out of his thick hair.
Hunt of the Bandham (The Bowl of Souls: Book Three) Page 25