Hunter spent the rest of the dinner by the door with Antonetta, keeping an eye on Ilwi. Not that they needed to; Fyodor was as gentle with her as he was delighted to have a new playmate, and Klothi was quick to chirp at them both if their games grew too rowdy.

  As the evening dragged on, so did the conversation between the Sage and Aumir. They’d switched to low, conspiratorial tones, all but ignoring the presence of anyone else at the table. Hunter was tempted to send one of his familiars closer to eavesdrop, but ultimately thought better of it. Magnificent and courteous as she was, he doubted the sage would take kindly to him abusing her hospitality.

  From where he stood, on the other hand, D’Alcyian’s conversation with Sister Ursa didn’t look nearly as engaged. The scholar was trying to argue some point, but the fur-clad woman scarcely seemed to listen.

  “I give up!” he burst out at last, throwing his hands in frustration. “There’s no reasoning with you—any of you!”

  That outburst was enough to draw the Sage’s attention. She broke off mid-sentence, her icy glance cutting across the table toward the scholar.

  “Careful, D’Alcyian,” she said coolly, “lest your ill humors give our guests the wrong impression.”

  The scholar visibly deflated. Whatever angry words he still had, they died in his throat.

  “May I be excused, Sage?” he said, defeated. “I’m afraid my weariness has taken the best of me.”

  “It is getting late, true,” Antonetta interjected. “And it’s already past Ilwi’s bedtime, besides.”

  “Naturally,” the Sage said, returning to her magnanimous self. “Beautiful as it has proven to be, this evening has to draw to its close. You may all be excused, should you so wish. Dear Hunter, a word, if you please?”

  She watched as Hunter returned to his seat between her and Aumir, warm smile on her painted lips.

  “Thank you for looking after Ilwi,” she said, letting her hand rest on his arm. “She has been through too much, the poor thing.”

  “So I’ve been told, Sage,” he replied. “ Though I’m still hazy about the details. Antonetta was not really willing to say more before you filled me in.”

  “My dear Antonetta, ever so thoughtful. Yes, this is what I wish to discuss with you. Not right away, though; I am given to understand your nature requires you to divide your time between our realm and yours, and I imagine you are eager to depart for the night. So let me instead wish you a pleasant evening, and ask that you visit me in my audience chamber come morning. Would nine suit you? I shall send my Callanthines to escort you.”

  “Nine’s fine, yes. Thank you, Sage.”

  “You are most welcome, dear Hunter,” she beamed. “Most welcome indeed.”

  ***

  After affording himself a couple of extra hours of rest, Hunter returned to Taravus around eight in the morning. Oddly enough, he again found himself in his bed, dressed down to his underwear. This was new; he made a mental note to look into it. But first, breakfast. Even if he didn’t technically need sustenance, he’d made it a habit to eat aether-infused food whenever possible. It was a steady, if slow, way for his body to grow stronger. And besides, it was delicious.

  He found Aumir in the kitchen, butchering what looked like a crustacean the size of a large dog.

  “What the hell is this thing?” he asked the huntsman.

  “Oh, you’ll see.” Aumir flashed him a gold-toothed grin. “Let Aumir cook it first, yes?”

  “You’re the boss. Any breakfast left?”

  “Breakfast? At this hour? It’s nearly lunchtime!”

  Hunter gave him a dead-eyed stare, which only made the huntsman burst into laughter.

  “In the pantry, young osprey. Klothi insisted we left you some.”

  “You look chipper,” Hunter said as he rummaged through the huge pantry—which could probably qualify as a walk-in fridge. It was awfully chilly in there. “You had quite the lively talk last night, you and the Sage.”

  “Just two old friends reminiscing,” Aumir replied. “You’re meeting her today, yes?”

  “Yes, in less than an hour.”

  “Quite amazing, isn’t she?”

  Hunter stuffed his mouth with aether-infused apple pie and mulled it over. He had been quite taken with her the previous night, more than he cared to admit. Her presence had lingered in his thoughts with a persistence that felt almost invasive, even after he’d returned to the Happy Motel. He’d even dreamed of her. That wasn’t like him.

  He told Aumir, and the huntsman laughed it off.

  “Her presence is enchanting. Literally. She probably put a charm on you. Likely didn’t even mean to; sometimes it just happens.”

  “Well, I think it just happened to you, too. You were a little too absorbed in your talk with her.”

  “Me? No, no. Old Aumir is just a bit too fond of her, is all, young osprey.”

  “Well… if you say so.”

  Hunter didn’t press the subject. He was probably overreacting, reading too much into things. Still, he thought it prudent to pin a Corpse Hair Charm behind his lapel before going to meet her, just in case.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  It wasn’t until much later that he realized he’d done the same thing the previous evening—only for the charm to have crumbled to dust without him even noticing.

  ***

  As promised, three Callanthines appeared at the door no more than five minutes before nine. Hunter followed them into one of the larger structures within Tor Taravus—the tower. The Sage’s audience chamber, as it turned out, occupied nearly the entire ground floor.

  ‘Audience chamber’ was a misnomer; ‘throne room’ fit better. The place was lavish to the point of decadence. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high, dome vaulted ceiling, bathing the room in soft illumination. Heavy braziers smoked with coils of incense and other aromatics, their perfume cloying yet strangely soothing. A thick rug stretched from the great double doors to the back of the chamber, burgundy red, soft enough to muffle even the heaviest footsteps.

  The Sage of Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Spirits awaited him at the chamber’s center, seated in a high-backed, ornate armchair, a dozen of her spectral handmaidens gathered around her. On either side stood carved lecterns of dark wood, etched with runes and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  She looked markedly different from the previous evening; her emerald-green silk gown was far less extravagant, and she wore no headdress or jewelry. Her straight black hair was styled into blunt bangs, swept up into tall, coiled shapes that resembled twin horns. She was still a stunningly beautiful woman, but that supernatural charm she’d entranced him with the previous evening was greatly toned down.

  “Hunter!” she greeted, glancing up from a large ledger. “We were just talking about you. Please, take a seat!”

  She waved a well-manicured hand, and a seat materialized before her.

  “Good morning, Sage,” he said as he settled into the chair.

  “I told you, dear; call me Jadzia. How was your night? Restful, I hope?”

  “It was, yes. Thank you for your hospitality. It’s… well, it’s much more than I’m used to.”

  “You’re welcome,” she flashed him a perfect smile. “Would you like a refreshment? Tea? Coffee, perhaps? We have quite a long talk ahead of us.”

  “Coffee sounds good. I didn’t know it was even a thing in this world.”

  “In most places, it is a rarity and a luxury,” Jadzia said. “Though one I’d rather not do without. Fortunately, Taravus is a bountiful realm. Being the Sage of Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Spirits comes with many responsibilities, but also with many perks.”

  With a flick of her wrist, a coffee table shimmered into existence beside his chair. Moments later, a Callanthine glided in, carrying a tray with what looked very much like Turkish coffee. Hunter couldn’t be certain—he’d never actually tried Turkish coffee in real life—but the Taravus version was strong, flavorful, and richly aromatic. Jadzia was delighted to she he’d found it to his taste.

  “So, how do you like Taravus so far?” she asked him.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Hunter said. “Strange, but beautiful. I can’t pretend to understand it, though. And I still don’t know why I’m here, to be honest.”

  She nodded, steepling her fingers beneath her chin.

  “Understandable. I cannot even begin to fathom how alien Aernor must seem to you, not to mention the smaller realms that orbit it in the Transmundane. Do not worry; there will be time for questions, though I cannot promise satisfactory answers to each and every one. Let us begin with the purpose of your visit.”

  “As good a place as any,” Hunter agreed.

  “Aumir told me of your accord with Herne, and of your wish to amend it. I was sorry to hear that. It is important, however, to understand this: beings like Herne, spirits, Raequir and the like, do not follow the same rationale or morality as mortals. What might seem a crooked bargain to you could still be a perfectly honest accord in the court of the Lord of the Hunt.”

  “Even so, I’d like it amended, if possible,” Hunter said, sipping the hot, dark drink. “I’m sure you can see why.”

  “Of course, of course. It is not me who you’ll have to make your case to. It’s Herne. And, I’m sorry to say, he is difficult and mercurial, the master you’ve chosen to serve.”

  “Master?” Hunter echoed. He found the word distasteful.

  “Patron, if you prefer,” Jadzia waved his reservation away. “Splitting hairs over the nomenclature will do you little good, dear Hunter.”

  Patron did sound better, so he nodded in agreement.

  “I can work with that. And, as I know Aumir has told you, my experience and expertise in said Patron’s domain leaves something to be desired.”

  “He’s told me as much, indeed. Though I will ask you to permit me to see that with my own eyes and judge for myself.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you,” Jadzia replied with gracious formality, inclining her head ever so slightly.

  “Aumir also believes that there’s no better way to place myself in Herne’s good graces than with a hunting trophy,” Hunter went on. “And no better trophy, to that end, than one taken from a godling.”

  “Aumir is wise, and his service in the court of Herne has been long besides. If that is his counsel, then I concur with it.”

  “Well,” Hunter said bluntly, “to me that sounds like a hundred-percent suicide mission.”

  That brought a smirk to her lips.

  “How so?”

  “My personal experience with godlings has been very limited. I’ve only met one: Arjen, the Aspect of Mir. In case you’re not familiar, he’s a talking, pipe-smoking grizzly bear the size of a barn.”

  “I know of the Aspect of Mir, yes,” Jadzia said, her smirk widening. “Quite the specimen, even among godlings. The one we’re set to hunt is nearly as formidable, I’m afraid.”

  “That makes two of us—and ‘afraid’ is putting it lightly.”

  “If it eases you at all, this hunt is a righteous one, even by mortal standards.” Her expression softened into something mournful, and she let out a sigh. “Until not long ago, a commune of druidfolk lived on a small, isolated island called Nies Heronnah. The Isle of Herons. Ilwi is all that remains of them now, the poor girl.”

  “What happened?”

  “A rogue godling. Mumsimmar. The island is a natural nexus of power, where several leylines converge. The circle of druids had been its keepers for generations. Mumsimmar wanted that nexus for himself, to feed upon. The druidfolk stood in his way. You can imagine the rest.”

  She shook her head and let out another sigh.

  “They sent for aid, but it was too late. And those few who survived the godling’s wrath, they fell prey to Thraggoth on their way to Taravus. As I understand it, you nearly did so yourself.”

  “Hard to forget, that.”

  “I’d sent Sister Ursa to guide them through the Desolation,” the Sage went on. “They were too many to escape the attention of its tyrant, though. At the last moment, Ilwi’s mother begged Sister Ursa to ride off and take the little one with her. So she did. She barely made it through herself.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you. I took in Ilwi, naturally. She’ll never want for anything. But that’s hardly enough. The godling must be taken down.”

  “Is that why we’re going on that hunt, then?” Hunter asked. “Revenge?”

  “No. Not merely revenge. How long do you think Mumsimmar will stay content on the Isle of Herons, drinking deep from the land’s lifeblood? Ten years? Twenty? A hundred? Sooner or later he will tire of it and move on to rampage elsewhere. Better to nip this in the bud while his power has not yet swollen out of proportion.”

  Hunter gave it some thought. On one hand, he felt a bit better knowing they would be hunting down something that had it coming. On the other hand, however… If the godling had so easily wiped out an entire circle of druids, what chance did he and Aumir have, even with the Sage of the Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine spirits at their side?

  “Sounds like you’re going on that hunt with or without me,” Hunter said at last. “So I might as well come along for the ride.”

  “Oh, dear Hunter.” The Sage smiled at him, and in that smile he caught a flash of something fierce. “You’ll do much more than that.”

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