by Leigh, J.
“I’m not a completely spoiled royal, Master Hatori Chann.” Jathen sniffed. “The moot is already pretty darn self-sufficient from being alone a lot.” He rolled his eyes. “I can dress myself and everything.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy.” He pointed a smoking soldering iron at Jathen. “I’m talking about the basics for the road, things I know you’ve never been taught: how to assemble a solar charm for heat, or start a real fire and clear a pit for it beforehand, how to pitch a tent, how to pack a saddlebag… hell, how to actually saddle a horse…”
“Saddle?” Jathen’s heart clip-clopped like a prancing mare. “Hell, I’ve never even ridden a horse, and you want me to learn how to saddle one?”
“What do you mean, you’ve never ridden?”
“I’m a Tazu prince, Hatori. When do you think anyone would even suggest putting me on a horse?”
“Right, right, horses and Tazu,” he muttered. “Well, we need to arrange for to you get some instruction, then.” He winked. “See? I told you there was a lot to be learned.”
Schedules were conferred and arrangements made, much to Jathen’s minor discontent regarding the horses. He remembered Thee’s request and relayed the desire to wait until after the Feast of the First King before leaving.
“Hmm.” Hatori flipped through his calendars and charts, running timetables in his head. “I’d prefer a bit sooner, but I can’t cause harm to your sister, can I?” The Clansman sniffed, then nodded. “Very well. We’ll see where the all the runes fall, but no sooner than the feast.”
“Thanks.”
Jathen departed to inform Thee. Arriving at her room, he was admitted by her overprotective guardsmen on the pretense of having been sent by their mother to escort her to dinner. The cross-examination irked him.
Jathen walked in and gasped, catching half a glimpse of Thee before wheeling back around to face the door. “Aren’t you ready yet?”
“I can’t go out until I’m more even,” she said. “It’s okay, you can look now.”
He turned slowly. Lying naked on her stomach upon a chaise, Thee was shedding, her skin peeling off in long, paper-thin sections. Attendants milled about, gently rubbing lotions and oils on her to ease the removal and maintain the flexibility and consistency of the flaking hide. The separated layers of black-striped brown were placed in towel-lined boxes to be taken to hide workers, who would craft it into fabric. Jathen had never asked after the process, since he would never be permitted to wear such. All he knew was that when they were done, the hide-cloth would shift with a Tazu.
“I just wanted you to know that Master Hatori agreed to wait until after the feast to leave.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd, though?” she asked, coming up on her elbows while still maintaining her modesty. “This rather sudden departure of theirs?”
Jathen shrugged. “They’ve been here a long time, Thee. It’s time for them to go.”
“But is it really time for you to go?” Her gold eyes became glassy. “I mean, five years is a very long time, Jathen. Think of Dolomith. He’ll have no idea who you are when you come home. I’ll be almost twenty by then and you…” She trailed off, but the unspoken concern floated between them. You’ll be a stranger.
Jathen stared at his baby sister, a coiled knot in his stomach. The shedding was a blatant reminder of her point. Thee would grow up without him. To Jathen, she was a structure still under construction, covered by an elaborate grid of support beams and scaffolding.
“I have to, Thee.”
Lips pursed, she turned away. “I can’t go out yet.”
Enduring her silence, Jathen left.
Somehow, through the buzz of the rumor mill—or perhaps Thee’s grumpiness—Rhodonith was made fully aware of his incident with the temple mirror, and she insisted upon a more enduring punishment. So, in between the preparations for the trip, Jathen was required to “work off his debt” at the temple under Hausmannith’s supervision. Jathen was more than compliant, as his work usually took the form of lighthearted chats with the Walker over more ebanna tea.
The friendship grew to the point where Jathen felt comfortable enough to broach some of the things that had been nagging at him. “Hausmannith, may I ask you something bluntly?”
“Of course.”
“Why is it you are so much more…” Swirling his tea, he struggled to find the proper adjective. “Unreserved than other Way Walkers?”
“You mean why I’m not a close-minded, superstitious, self-righteous, and prejudiced jackass?”
Jathen laughed. “That would be it.”
“Upbringing, I suppose. Being educated in Tar’citadel mattered, too. Being an old soul helps a wee bit as well. Overall, though…” His jade eyes turned sad. “I think perhaps your experiences with Walkers and even people in general are a little limited, Jathen. We aren’t all as bad as the few you seem to have been subjected to.” He smirked. “My attitude is actually more the mainstream, at least amid Montage Walkers. That’s part of why I was assigned here. My predecessor, Basimess, while a good man, was very conservative both politically and spiritually. Montage Walkers are supposed to promote tolerance and middle-Way thinking, but we are mortal and fallible. We all have our own comfortable beliefs, and we tend to share those more often rather than speak on the things that make us uncomfortable.”
“So they stuck you here to balance out the conservatives?”
“Precisely. It’s all about the first law regarding free will. If Tar’citadel feels that is being suppressed by a Walker in a position to promote it, then oftentimes, you’ll see a shift in perspective in who they send in afterward.”
“What made Tar’citadel think there was repression of free will going on here?” Jathen shifted uneasily in the overstuffed chair. “I mean, Basimess was a little paranoid about demons tainting souls and proper ritual forms and all, but he was no oppressor. Other than his constant, ‘Jathen, don’t fidget during the calling of the Ways. Disrespect to Walkers is a disrespect to Spirit.’ And ‘Silence is a path to evolution, Jathen. Practice it when you are here.’ Not forgetting the unspoken but rather obvious ‘No moot on the throne’ stance.” Grasping an epiphany running so deeply through him he could not discern whether it was a mental revelation or an actual showing of long-dormant Ability, he stared accusatorily at the Montage Walker. “You were sent here for me.”
A smile bloomed on Hausmannith’s face. “It’s also good to recall Tar’citadel is home to more precognitives, empathics, mediums, and overall Talents than any other location on the continent, and while we all might be mortal and fallible”—he winked—“we do have a decent grasp of what we are doing.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Jathen murmured into his cup. “Can I at least get you to admit you are more of a Talent than you let on?”
Hausmannith laughed heartily. “Well, I will say this: I am hardly the only one around here who is less than forthcoming about their Ability levels.”
“Oh, who else?”
“You cannot guess?”
Jathen needed only a moment, as it was painfully obvious. “Hatori Chann. He always knows things he shouldn’t.”
“Yes, I think you are right there. As a charm master, he is brilliant, a bit too brilliant at times. Though he was not the one I was hinting at.” He sipped his tea. “I would not discount you, Jathen.”
Jathen snorted. “I assure you I have no hidden Ability. I’m a sad precognitive at best.”
“Are you certain?”
“Not unless I’m far more oblivious than I ever imagined.” The thought on the revelation about Hausmannith being a dormant Ability nibbled at his consciousness. “Why do you ask? Is this because of the mirror?” Jathen suspected Hausmannith knew he’d been detouring to the alcove and its silver mirror every visit to steal a quick glance at his Tazu-like c
ountenance, but the Walker had been kind enough not to poke fun or even make mention of it.
“No. I’m still at a loss to explain your reflection, though I am looking into it. I ask because you have an inordinate amount of violet in your aura for someone who has no Talent.”
Jathen blinked in surprise, as being able to see the aura of energy around a person hinted at a very powerful energy empathic. “Can someone have an Ability and not know it? What about the life ladder? Surely any ability would be present in that.”
“Perhaps.” The Walker returned his cup to the table. “Of course, a life ladder speaks to the presence of Ability in a person, not the intensity manifested. Though Ability is tied to a soul’s level of vibration, we are all trying to evolve our souls in a lifetime, and on occasion, if someone makes a radical jump in their spiritual evolution…”
“They’ll see a jump in Ability.”
“Precisely.”
“But can they manifest an entirely new Ability, one that wasn’t present in their life ladder?”
Hausmannith shrugged. “That seems a touch inconsequential, Jathen, as you never had your life ladder drafted, correct?”
“No,” he admitted softly. “I haven’t.”
“Perhaps there is more to you than you know.”
Jathen chuckled as he stood. “Back to chanting that old mantra at me? How long are you going to keep it up?”
“Until you believe it.”
The day Jathen was scheduled to see the horses, Skaniss came to fetch him from the queen’s chambers. Rhodonith was feeding Dolomith, while Jathen and Thee were finishing the last of their breakfasts.
His mother raised an eye ridge. “You do recall, Captain,” she said in a cool voice, “I am somewhat of a medium and, on occasion, am privy to the advice of my Spirit Guides?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Good. Then you will understand when I say my Guides are prompting me to remind you of this. While you are in the service of the Monortith family, you are charged with the protection of the whole of it. They wish me bid you to recall, very specifically, ‘I will treat anyone who may raise a hand to my son, regardless of rank or station, as if they had raised a hand to me.’ Do you understand the significance of their choice in wording?”
Jathen glanced at Thee, whose eyes were so wide there was a white ring around the gold.
Skaniss stiffened. “Yes, Majesty.”
“Jathen, you and the captain both look pale.” His mother met his eyes while patting his brother’s back. “Is there something more I should know about this than what my Guides have urged me to say?”
Glancing at Skaniss, Jathen saw the worry in the Tazu’s eyes. I could end him right here, and he knows it. “No, Mother,” Jathen said softly while he watched confounded surprise come over Skaniss’s bronze face. “Your Guides have the right of it. It’s enough you remind him.”
“Good.” She bounced the hatchling, and he squeaked a burp, still sounding too soft for a nearly month-old babe. “You two’d best be off. Take care, love.”
Jathen rose from his seat to plant a light kiss on his mother’s forehead. As he passed Skaniss, he murmured, “You’re welcome.”
The old hate returned to the Tazu’s gaze. Well, that didn’t last long, but maybe now he’ll think twice before he tries to throttle me.
Skaniss led Jathen and the other few guardsmen assigned him on a long trek through the palace, rather than out over the shorter rooftop route, making him late. Outside the shop, the charm master waited, making a show of his vexation by tapping a foot and clutching his open pocketwatch. He clicked it closed at their approach. The intricate etching of the twelve-point star of the Ways engraved on the outside sparkled in the midmorning sunlight. In addition to a salmon-pink shirt with billowy sleeves, a matching black vest, and dress pants, Master Hatori sported his amber-topped walking stick and a wide-brimmed hat. “Clan aren’t allergic to the sun,” he had told Jathen many years ago, “but we ruddy well don’t like it.”
Jathen stifled his smile as he recalled Hatori’s detailing of how Clan kept a sleep schedule eerily similar to that of cats, with naps at noon and midnight and far more activity at dawn and dusk than others realized. Jathen had also inquired what the splendid gold pocketwatch did other than tell time. In response, he only got a gruff, “Nothing! Not every bit and bauble in my possession has to have a master-charm’s potency,” which evolved into a long ramble on how Hatori did not craft “mere jewelry.”
“Shoo, fly-boy.” Hatori waved his cane at Skaniss and the three guardsmen. “You aren’t wanted on this trek.”
“I am charged with protecting the Monortith family, Outlander,” Skaniss snarled at the shorter Clansman. “And today, this involves seeing the boy to the stables.”
“Hersha shit,” Hatori spat, leaning on his cane and glaring up with glittering silver-green eyes. “Don’t go spouting about responsibility when you view this as mere babysitting. The boy is as safe with me at his side as you; safer even, I’m sure, as there’s not a human or Tazu trick this Clansman can’t counter. And spare me the squeaky wheel that is ‘your duty.’ If the queen takes issue, you can have her take it up with me. Besides”—a single fang peeked out like a challenge—“you’ll spook the horses.”
Rigid, Skaniss signaled his men and stomped away.
Jathen laughed as he and Master Chann walked down the street toward the traders’ district. “I can’t believe you said that to him.” He smiled. “Actually, I can, and I’m grateful. Though I’m amazed he actually backed down.”
“Clan have a reputation,” the charm master answered. “We are feared.”
“Really?” Taking in the movements of the crowd around them for the first time, Jathen noticed people gave them a larger berth. He’d heard murmurings and whispers at the edges of court, using derogatory slang and fretful supposition on what the Clansman did at night, but the viable aura of fear around them genuinely surprised him. After all, anyone who spent even a fragment of time with Hatori knew he was mostly bluster. Also, there was a certain absurdity to fearing anyone who wore Beleskie pink as a habit, given the Child of Relationships was notoriously a lover not a fighter. A young messenger who’d been headed their direction suddenly took wide-eyed notice of the Clansman. The human scuttled across the lane to avoid them, his coffee skin paled as if cream had been poured into him.
“I realize Clan are stronger and faster than most of the races, and there is the whole Feeding aspect,” Jathen said, “but I’ve never noticed such a physical reaction to you before.”
“Oh, don’t go feeling too sorry for me, boy. I have been known to whack any dolts who think they own the street when they happen to pass too close to my cane here. That might have something to do with it.”
Jathen burst into gales of laughter that brought tears to his eyes. “Jephue is right. You are all smoke and mirrors!”
“Hardly, boy.” Hatori sounded both wounded and serious. “At least not to all of it.” Shaking his head, he adjusted his hat brim. “You’ve noticed there are no other Clan milling about in Kidwellith? No ruler wants an eternal figure whispering in their children’s and grandchildren’s ears, making to shape forever the ebb and flow of their rightful legacy to benefit the Clan Lands. Or an outright monster thinking only to devour. We don’t all do such things, but we are all quite capable of it. The Tazu have always understood this and have had enough sense to keep us out.”
“You’ve been here quite a while and haven’t usurped the country yet. Not that I think you’d ever want to.”
“Heh, you are right there, which is why I was allowed to stay so long.”
They reached the stables. Hatori was not a man who wasted time. No sooner had they entered the large indoor riding arena than they were at the center of the earthen enclosure and a lumbering chestnut beast was being led to them
. Jathen watched the elegant mammal tread across the dirt on heavy hooves, doing his best not to imagine his skull bursting like a melon beneath them.
“That a Nor’wah breed?” Hatori asked the handler. He received a nod of confirmation. “You can tell by the low stomach and shorter legs,” Hatori explained to Jathen, pointing and tapping at the animal with his cane. “A Clan horse would have a more elegant arch to the neck and leaner, longer legs.”
No small amount concerned for the beast’s temperament due to the prodding, Jathen asked from a safe distance, “That matters?”
“Aye.” Hatori grinned mischievously. “Nor’wah breeds are sturdier and more docile, which means this one is a good test for you. Clan mounts are crazy, bred for meat, blood, racing, and war. One of them would probably eat you.”
Jathen gulped as the charm master placed a hand over the horse’s pink velvet nostrils. Catching a whiff of him, the horse snorted and whinnied. Jathen took a single backward step.
“Stop being so skittish,” Hatori chided in a low tone, stroking the stripe of white that ran the length of the steed’s long face. “You’ll scare him.”
“Me scare him?” The stallion’s tail thrashed, looking strong enough to flay Jathen as easily as a leather whip. “Are you going to accuse me of scaring Kyanith next?”
Hatori snickered, covering the sound with a light clicking of his tongue. He stroked the long neck soothingly. “Easy, silly pony. Calm.” There was a note of tenderness that Jathen rarely heard in the Clansman’s voice.
Watching him with the horse, Jathen remembered his comparison of Hatori to the library in Tourmaline. The particular style of Tazu architecture was Jathen’s favorite, wherein the inside and outside were different but one was pleasantly surprised by it—not necessarily the opposite of each other, just not what was expected. Perhaps that is my preferred type of person, too. The ones that surprise you. That would explain why I know so few people I genuinely like.