by J. T. Wright
“An Herbalist can do that?” Trent lifted his chin to indicate where Kerry had rolled over in his sleep to drape an arm over Jeb’s chest. The two breathed in and out in unison, looking peaceful, though Trent doubted that peace would last if they woke in their current position.
“Herbalists do more than grow plants. You should know that; you hold the Profession yourself.” Geisel smoothed the front of her apron as she approached. “Powders, salves, and potions belong as much to us as they do to Alchemists. Some of the more impressive alchemical arts are beyond us but inducing sleep in those already tired is simplicity itself.”
“Why?” Two things kept Trent in place as Geisel swayed towards him, the fire at his back and the Dog at his feet. Both kept him talking when he thought he should be running.
Arriving within arm’s reach, Geisel pushed the tip of Sorrow downwards with one finger. “We have a few things in common, Trent. We both have secrets, for one. However, the biggest difference between us is that I am better at protecting my secrets.”
Trent sheathed his knives. He had resisted Geisel's prodding as best he could, yet she didn’t seem to notice. Sorrow’s blade didn’t so much as prick her finger. “Meaning you know some of my secrets already?”
“Your secrets are laid bare for all with eyes to see.” A surprisingly girlish laugh escaped her as she said this, and Trent blushed behind his mask. Her hands reached up and gently pushed his mask up, revealing his embarrassment. “It is wise to hide your eyes. The Verrens have spies who watch for clansmen. I hope you’ll forgive an old woman wanting to see that which she thought long lost.”
The world had descended into darkness as Trent lost the Dark Vision Ability his cowl provided, and Geisel studied him as Trent blinked and tried to adjust to the change. His face was guarded, but youthful, and for the life of her, she could not imagine how he had been left to wander on his own.
“Sit, Trent, we should talk.” Following her own directions, Geisel sank gracefully to the grass, arranging the skirt of her dress around her legs. A moment later, with a helpless sounding sigh, Trent followed suit. Sitting cross-legged, Trent opened his mouth to ask the old woman how much she knew of him, shutting it again when she pushed a mortar and pestle into his hands.
“Grind these for me please,” she said, dropping a few leaves into the stone bowl. And, lacking a reason to refuse her, Trent did so, holding the mortar in his left hand and crushing the leaves using the pestle with his right. He used a little more force than necessary to accomplish the task, but Geisel nodded approvingly rather than reprimanding him.
“Sub-levels.” She dropped a few more dried leaves into the bowl. Trent’s ears perked up and his grinding became less urgent. “In Al'rashia it was said that an Awakened can only walk one path at a time.
“For those with multiple Class slots, this meant you should concentrate on a single Class until its Skills are second nature to you, and then it is time to consider greater things.” She added a handful of white berries to the mixture forming under Trent’s hands. “The saying takes on a slightly different meaning for those who can take up both Class and Profession.
“Class or Profession, whichever you take first, will determine your Level. You are already familiar with how Levels work. Sub-levels are a bit trickier. They give set amounts of Attributes and you will never learn a Skill from their growth.” She poured a vial of liquid into the mortar and, while Trent’s eyes were glued to her face, hers never left the concoction in the bowl.
“You can learn the Skills manually or by using Stones, of course, and you should. It will be very difficult to increase your Professions if you don’t.” She took the bowl from Trent’s hands and began to dab the mixture onto her face. “Now, I've answered the question, in part, that you’ve been clumsily trying to tease out of others all day. Will you answer my questions?
“No, you won’t,” she answered for him, spreading the paste over her cheeks, “because my questions touch on secrets. Perhaps if I offer a secret of my own?”
She tilted her head back, and taking another vial from her apron, allowed a single drop of clear liquid to fall into her eyes. A clean white cloth appeared in her hand, and she scrubbed her face as she lowered her chin. When the cloth came away, Trent leaped to his feet and backed several yards away.
“Has my face become so fearsome?” Full lips pouted in a face untouched by age as Geisel mocked Trent’s reaction. “The hair I'll leave as it is, I'm afraid. Surprisingly, it’s harder to get it to look this way. You'd think the wrinkles would be the tough bit, yes?”
She tugged her white bangs straight to consider them. Trent’s gaze never left her eyes. Geisel had brown eyes, ordinary, not unpleasant. They were still a pleasant unassuming brown, but after the application of whatever she carried in the vial that she had dropped back into her apron, they lost the white and black that marked a human’s eyes and became the solid orbs of an Al’rashian.
Trent had put Geisel’s sharp bone structure down to the thinness of age. With those eyes dancing at his shock, he could only see the sharpness of Al’rashian features. It was more unsettling than the sudden bloom of youth that filled her face, more unexpected.
“Is that your real face? It could be a trick!” Trent tried to wet dry lips with a tongue that was equally parched.
“You know it is.” Geisel shrugged and settled her hands in her lap, “It’s the same face I've had for over… For many years. Since before the time of the Fall. I was the last full-blooded Al’rashian for thousands of miles, and then you came. Is this secret enough for you to tell me how you came here without Clan or escort? Do the Embras ride for Al’drossford at last?”
Trent was silent, and Geisel pointed at the ground in front of her. “Sit and speak, Trent Embra, or is civility towards one’s Elders another thing the clans have lost?”
“Ask me something else,” Trent said, slowly settling to the earth. “I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Geisel passed a flask to him, and Trent drank from it, grateful for a distraction. His gratitude fled quickly as a burning fluid seared his throat.
“Can’t.” He coughed, handing the flask back and clawing for his waterskin. “I've only met one Embra; I don’t know what they’re doing. What was that?”
“Nothing harmful,” Geisel recorked the container and tucked it away, “just a little something to bolster the spirit and calm the nerves.”
Trent felt anything but calm as he washed the taste from his mouth. He told Geisel so as he spit out a swallow of water.
“No, Survivalists don’t usually care for it. The Dusk Wraiths were the same, resisting what was good for them at times.” She held out a piece of flat bread and, when he refused to take it, Geisel scoffed, “It’s just sweet bread to remove the taste. You'll regret not taking it.”
She didn’t push it on him, and Trent found his fingers closing on the bread. He sniffed it suspiciously before taking a small nibble. As a sweetness contrasted with the heat that still filled his throat, his walls fell, and he chomped down on the rest without hesitation.
He was still young, Geisel thought to herself, her gaze shifting to Kerry’s sleeping form. Still young, and like Kerry, too trusting. They were both well and poorly matched in that regard. Kerry had good cause to be suspicious of others, and if she was reading Trent correctly, he did as well. But both boys carried an innocence that couldn’t be displaced by suspicion. Perhaps they could look out for one another, though they would need someone with more sense to fill in for their lack.
When her eyes turned back to Trent, a simple smile lit his features, and his eyes were distant as if he were studying his Status. She felt a pang of guilt looking at that face. Trent might have answered her questions without the herbs she’d fed him, but that wasn’t a certainty, and Geisel was a big one for a sure thing.
“Alright, Trent, pay attention!” She snapped her fingers, and his out-of-focus eyes swiveled towards her. “Tell me, what brought you here, and why the
Embras let you slip away. Tell me everything.”
Trent began speaking. He spoke for hours and at the end he held an egg-shaped Skill Stone in his hand, babbling about how he had to learn it, but he couldn’t learn it, and wasn’t that strange. Geisel rubbed at her brow and pinched the bridge of her nose as Trent shouted at the Stone, demanding it give him what he wanted.
She should have known better. Any Survivalist would have been resistant to her tricks, but a violet-eyed Al’rashian was built to withstand her efforts. She would have been better off trading her own secrets for his and hoping he would keep them to himself.
The information she had pried out of the boy was scattered and confusing. He said he was an orphan, but not really. He talked of kings and dukes and the Undead in a circle, and claimed fire would answer his call, but not as a Spell, and if he didn’t have a Spell how was he supposed to feed his gloves. At the end he had shown her the Skill Stone and said he needed it. He needed it and it wouldn’t come to him. Then he began shouting at the object in a voice that grew increasingly stressed and unstable.
It was laughable, really. Trent had outsmarted her. Geisel did not receive any of the answers she wanted, but she could provide the information he needed. It was absurd to meet a boy whose first Class was an Advanced one. She might be the one person alive who knew that Trent’s situation wasn’t a blessing. There was a reason the Basic Classes came first.
It had been more years ago than she cared to remember when she told Damien Dross to attend to his lessons and stay away from the river. That boy was never one to listen, though. He had been a born leader, and as a new Awakened, those tendencies had meant if you told him to go left, he ran forward. She said the river was dangerous, and he built a raft.
Damien’s stubborn belief in his own capabilities had led him into a Hereditary Trial as a Level 3 Warrior and, when he came out, Master Mage had been added to his Status. It had taken Geisel and the other elders years to figure out how he could build a Class he didn’t have the foundation for.
Trent would benefit from those years of study now.
“Trent, listen closely!” She snapped her fingers again, cutting off his babbling. His eyes narrowed, but his head wobbled as he tried to pay attention to her. “Advanced Classes do not need Basic Skills. You should already have them. If you need Basic Spear to level Survivalist, it’s because your Class is forcing you to build the foundation you should already have.
“Your situation is complicated because, while you have an affinity for the Spear Skill, your Swordsman Class is fighting against you. There are several ways around this.
“First, teach your body what it needs to learn. Jeb knows the spear, have him instruct you in the morning. After his lesson, try the Stone again. If that doesn’t work, keep practicing until it does.”
She took a deep breath. “The other way is to take a third Class, one which uses the spear. Having another Warrior Class will help balance the demands of your first two Classes. It may also cause problems of its own. However, that may be what you need. Archer, Rogue, or Warrior all have the potential to become Hunters, and all Survivalists start as Hunters.”
“Already a Hunter, Shadow Hunter, but I only hunted the one Rat.” Trent hiccupped, his head rolling on his neck. “But I will, do that… and then Mage! Pyromancer! Fire, is what I need!”
“No!” Geisel almost slapped him. She had to shake him several times during her interrogation when he got stuck on his rant. The boy had an unnatural need for a tier-one Spell that she could not understand. Neither Survivalist nor Swordsman used magic. Adding a Mage Class would compound his problem.
“No Mage Class until you’re well beyond Level 20! Survivalists don’t fight with Spells; they’re completely unrelated. The Mage Class would be a hindrance. Learn them with Stones or study if you must.” She clapped her hands in front of Trent’s nose. “Why do you want Fire Spells anyway?”
For the first time since she’d begun this arduous process, Trent’s eyes sharpened, and a growl came from the back of his throat. “Secrets are meant to be kept! That’s mine… but…”
She should have taken his knives away. That was all Geisel could think as Trent drew Sorrow and slashed at the air. He couldn’t hurt her with the bone-handled blade, but one misstep in his inebriated state could see Trent cutting himself badly. She held her breath as Trent held his right arm out to the side and sent the heavy knife dancing along his knuckles, a feat made impressive by the blade’s size as well as Trent’s intoxication.
“Close,” Trent whispered hoarsely, not bothering to watch the sharp edge he set to spinning in his palm.
“Middle.” Right hand still manipulating his knife, Trent’s left hand flashed, and a dart popped into existence next to Geisel’s knee. She let out the breath she’d been holding in a rush.
“But not far.” Trent sheathed his dagger and the dart returned to wherever he had it concealed. “Fire can be far. Or Archery, but Archery is soooo boring. More boring than reading! Almost as boring as reading…”
Trent’s eyelids drooped, and his chin fell to his chest. Geisel reached out and pushed him backward with two fingers. He fell to his back without resisting, his legs still crossed. Straightening his legs and tossing what she discovered was a Dire Bear hide over him, Geisel spoke one last time before Trent drifted off.
“Sleep now, Trent Embra, and in the morning ask Jeb to train you. If he refuses, tell him Geisel knows who dyed Farmer Greer's cows blue all those years ago. And remember no Mage Classes, not for a very long time, not until…”
She stopped speaking because Trent was past hearing. Hopefully, he would remember in the morning.
“Not even Charm Specialist?” Trent’s sudden question caused Geisel to jump. “Charms… are… fun…”
She didn’t bother answering. He was asleep now. And deeply so. Geisel stood and brushed the dirt from her dress. She paused, looking around at the sleeping forms all around. She had forgotten that there would be no one left to watch the fire after she scattered the powder that gave her uninterrupted time with Trent.
Tradition said the fire had to be allowed to go out naturally, and it must be observed. It was a tradition she had started herself, in honor of the King and his Wraiths. She settled back to the ground and started taking out the supplies she would need to reapply her wrinkles. Tradition and disguise were burdens that lay firmly on her own shoulders. As much as she’d like to, the time hadn’t come to set them aside.
Twenty-Six
“Poke me again, I dare you,” Jeb snarled without opening his eyes.
Crouching next to the old man, Trent withdrew the finger he’d used to push at Jeb’s cheek. “Ah, Elder Geisel said you would help me. Will you?”
One of Jeb’s eyes creaked open. “The sun isn’t even up, boy. Come back at a decent time and bring breakfast with you, then we’ll talk about help."
Pulling the hide that covered him up to his chin, Jeb started to go back to sleep.
“Elder Geisel said that if you didn’t help me, I should say that Farmer Greer was still curious about who painted his cows blue.” Trent didn’t see what cows had to do with anything, but given the way Jeb’s eyes shot back open, the old man did.
“That old bat can’t prove anything!” he said in a strangled voice.
“This old bat doesn’t need to prove anything. Greer will put two and two together when I remind him you ran off to join the Guard the same year his cows changed colors.” Geisel’s voice snapped through the dark like a whip. “He's still worked up over that. Twenty head of cattle that he could not sell. Not even as beef! The stain went right to the bone, and people wouldn’t touch the meat or the milk. He still has three of them that he keeps around to remind him that the culprit is out there.”
“The enchantment wasn’t supposed to be permanent, wasn’t even supposed to dye the skin,” Jeb whined weakly. “It was meant to turn the milk blue for a few days, is all.”
“I'm sure Greer will see your side of things wh
en you explain it to him,” Geisel said understandingly. “I hope he gives you the chance. He served in the Guard as well, you know. With the Scouting Regiment from what I hear. For a big man, near twice your size, Jeb, he walks soft.”
“What is it you need, Trent boy?” Jeb threw off the hide and stretched his arms above his head. “Always happy to help whomever, whenever I can. Most helpful man in the kingdom, that’s how people know old Jeb Miller!”
“You can teach me to use a spear?” The interaction between the two older people went straight over his head, but Trent was pleased at the results. Geisel, sitting next to the embers of the bonfire, wrapped in a shawl, was just as pleased. She had been waiting a long time to motivate Jeb with that threat. She just hadn’t found the right cause until now.
“Sure, I can run you through the drills easy enough, I'm a fine hand with a spear. Prefer the glaive myself, but if it has a long shaft and a point, I can use it.” Jeb tugged at his beard and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Wake up, Kerry boy, though. You'll need a partner to…”
It was at this point that Jeb discovered the arm draped across his chest, and Kerry’s head pillowed on a pack next to him. The innocent Kerry yelled and covered his head as Jeb delivered a series of curses and slaps that woke him quickly enough.
“Damn, kid, I ain’t your bleedin’ teddy bear!” Jeb came to his feet, and Kerry, not as agile as the old man, had to roll away to avoid his kicks. “Get your ass up, boy! Don’t know what they’re teaching you in that Academy. Half the day’s gone, and the chores ain’t done. It’s a good thing you didn’t join the Guard! I know a Sergeant or two that would whip that lazy attitude of yours out fast like!”
Trent nodded approvingly at the burst of energy displayed by Jeb and Kerry. This was how a person should wake up! Alert and with vigor, ready to face the day! It was exactly the kind of thing Sergeant Cullen…