Chương 2

Most folks don't know how to listen. But listening is key. Listening is survival. Harker's feet were numb clubs by the time he reached his home. The snow was still thick in the shadowed forest, beneath the boughs where the dubious Spring sunlight couldn't reach. It was knee high in some places but he raced through it without a second thought. Between the threat of Vinell vengeance and a few frostbitten toes, Harker knew which he would rather endure. Thankfully, there had been no sign of pursuit.

Maybe they assumed those idiots knocked the tree down on themselves. He panted at the base of a familiar cliff side. He leaned his hip against a boulder as large as a farmhouse, right where a deep groove had been polished by wind and rain over centuries. At best, that'll last until they wake up. With the Water still in their tributaries I've got... perhaps an hour before they alert their entire family. He needed to be gone before that happened. Still winded, Harker hobbled around the boulder.

Neatly hidden in a cleft of stone were a set of ancient, drooping steps and he groaned as he began his climb. Though not particularly wide, ancient carvings filled every inch of the stairway, itself cut into the cliff face by ancient hands. Well before his mother had claimed the little spot, fifteen or so years prior. The stairs curved into the cliff and out of sight, through a dark tunnel crawling with those half-vanished carvings.

Cracked arches decorated the bored out tunnel, worn almost flush with the walls and ceiling by the ceaseless touch of the elements. Little better than shallow suggestions of support. Ornamentations of a bygone era. The tunnel ended in light, and the land flattened out into an uneven platform half-set into the higher cliffs behind it. A ruin of half-walls and sheared pillars clung to the center of the platform and the cliff itself, but if a roof had ever originally existed on the structure it was long gone.

Instead there was only his thatched cabin, nestled between broken masonry and jutting cliff. Snow and shadow piled in corners, where trees twisted out of the rock to reach for the muted sun. A biting wind snaked through their thick boles, whistling ever so slightly. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Harker paused, just outside the tunnel. The sky tugged at his attention, same as it had the last few weeks.

That thunder was getting stronger, and Harker could almost feel another chill settling in; then again, that could have just been his feet, or the aching pang of his spent reservoir. Pain is a smothering cloak. Cast it off. The lesson was an old one. Having such a shallow reservoir meant he was more prone to emptying it than others. It was an everyday occurrence, in fact.

Light-headed, ennervation of the limbs, and a sourceless pain that radiated through his skin were common, though the intensity increased in proportion to Water spent. While there were tinctures to ease the symptoms, his mother had insisted he weather it alone. It had hardened him in ways that had nothing to do with Talent. With an effort of will, Harker put the pain aside. This deep in the wilds it was unwise to lose your senses—the penalty was steep.

He may not have had enough Water to use his Talent, but Harker didn't need it. His eyes and ears coupled with a certain level of concentration and patience were enough. The ruin was quiet save for the wind. Drifts of dull snow traced along the stone and Winter-dead vines. He crouched, padding as softly as he could, avoiding the crunchy patches of ice while favoring bare stone and the rot-wet detritus of Autumn's leaves. Here and there, Harker made out tracks in the white, where small game had stepped.

That was expected. What was not, however, were the set of claw marks along the outside of the cliff-born trees. Deep. He placed his hand up to the markings, finding them wider than his own splayed fingers. Big, too. Territorial markings, but —he sniffed, detecting the faintest of odors. Like saltwater gone rancid. Eugh. An Aberrant? They had been a growing problem in the wilds, another aspect of the strange Winter.

Beasts touched by the Sea, those that lingered too long near tidepools where the Horizon was weakest, they were mutated things. Creatures of scale and claw that only got more erratic as their exposure increased. Bestial Aberrants were a true danger, but far better than the one's that emerged wholesale from the Sea itself. The solution to true Aberrants was simple: run. This was different. The smell was similar, but Aberrants—Bestial or otherwise—smelled of the Sea.

The rot here made Harker pause, scanning the area for more signs of their presence. There were, but not many. Scent's weak. It's been hours since they've been here. The creature had circled his home before taking off. Good. I really don't need this on top of everything else. Thunder came again, sound without light, and unease crawled up Harker's spine. He was used to foul weather living on the edge of the wilds, but that feeling from before persisted. The sky was holding its breath. Harker didn't care to find out.

Blizzards and driving rain could make the woods all but impossible to navigate, let alone reaching his hut in the north woods. Storms had wracked them that Winter, hitting the wilds much harder than the Vale, which were protected by the knife-topped bluffs to the north and the Gnarl to the south. Living among the ruins of the ancients, Harker had less protection from the elements, though far fewer interactions with people; normally, he considered that more than a fair trade. He sidled up to his cabin.

It was made of sturdy logs where it didn't borrow the half-standing masonry of the ruins. Far smaller than the Vinell farmhouse, it was never meant to hold more than two in cramped quarters. Not so cramped anymore. Harker touched the latch, letting it jiggle left and then right while listening for the soft ratchet of something mechanical disengaging. That done, he stepped inside and shut the door quickly.

Inside was a single room, and it was dominated by a pot-bellied iron stove, a wide workbench, and a narrow bed that had seen better days. It was dark but well kept, with cubbies and nooks filled with oddments, stones, and potted plants. The place had fit both him and his mother, and evidence of her remained in the carved planter boxes filled with herbals, a lacquered stool, and mounds of quilted blankets. The old ruin had once been a temple before his mother had converted it.

She had claimed there were more in the east, but all of them were just as broken. No one in the Vale remembered why they existed, only that they were thin places where the Sea touched the mortal world. Places of ill-omen, according to some. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Harker just called it home. He hobbled toward the stove, grabbing the lacquered stool along the way. The yokels in the Vale were correct in one regard, at least.

The Sea did touch the ruins more than other places; Harker made a point of planting useful flora all around the grounds and letting the Sea charge them with potency. That was part of why he was so good at his profession; Sea-touched reagents could do things normal herbs could not. If only they could cure a spiritual infection, he mused, more than a touch bitterly. Nothing in his garden could have reversed Mari's injury. Spiritual rot was something to do with the Sea itself and had a thousand different variants.

Even if he had known which one was afflicting Mari, he lacked the power to stop it, let alone reverse it. Harker sat and ran his hands across the blackened iron before him. It was a Talent stove, a construct any smith could make, but activating the simplest of constructs took more Water than Harker could spare. Luckily his mother had modified it years back so that its well would be filled by the same ambient touch their crops enjoyed.

Harker found the labyrinth's start and slid his chilled fingers against it—immediately, trapped Water ignited into a small flame. In minutes it was putting out a cheery heat, and the healer's limbs finally began to thaw. Stupid Vinells. Harker rubbed at his feet to encourage blood flow. They were wracked with pins and needles, but that was the worst of it; he had avoided frostbite. Didn't get paid, lost my new boots.

He'd really liked those boots, and now he'd have to wear his old— Harker froze, his eyes fixed on a pair of hobnailed shoes that were sitting on his worktable… where he'd been tearing them apart for useful scraps.

"Hallowed Depths," he groaned. He'd forgotten.

"Those were my only boots." Harker bit back a second curse. His circumstances had changed, so he must change with them. He grabbed a jar from a latticed shelf. The lid was sealed with a bit of beeswax, but this close to the stove it softened quickly. Soon he was spreading the greasy unguent liberally onto his feet with short, jerky motions. It stung and smelled of sharp pine and honeysuckle, but that was only the start of it. Come on, he urged.

Only dregs remained in his reservoir, but Harker coaxed them into his tributary. It was difficult for him, always had been—with so little Water in his reservoir even when full, Harker hadn't ever had to develop a Current. Couldn't, in fact. It had taken ten years to open a single Lock—his left palm, through which he applied his meager Talent. Without proper tributaries, little to no Water could move through him, and his body would remain as unnourished as an Untalented. Still, he had his tricks.

Nothing more than a ghost of a trickle leaked from his reservoir, riding the lone anemic tributary in his body, letting its own nature move it more than anything else. Water followed the path of least resistance, and Harker trembled as he forced his body to still. He waited. Sweat traced a salted path down his spine and his cold iron chain dragged at his neck but Harker refused to so much as twitch. Ten excruciating minutes passed, and the droplet finally flowed into the palm he'd pressed against both of his feet.

With the faintest of sighs, Water seeped out. The unguent responded immediately, pushing away the uncomfortable pain from his morning trek and leaving only a pleasant warmth behind. Harker released his breath, limbs shaking and head riven with flashes of bright agony. Overdrawn and exhausted as he was, he couldn't help but smile. Alone, the unguent was an iffy countermeasure to exposure, but charged with a touch of Water it should hold him for a few hours at least.

If he'd had some of the rarer plants talked about in his old books, he could have whipped something up to eliminate his need for boots entirely… but he had neither the time nor the Water for such experiments. Still, activating Sea-touched concoctions was outside his reach. His meager Talent required a hefty helping of his reservoir, but when objects contained a power of their own, he only needed a single drop to bridge the gap. In the case of the unguent, it bore a tinge of the Sea since its creation.

With his last bit of Water, it would act as a heated barrier around his feet for a few hours, providing some measure of protection for what Harker realized was going to be a very busy day. I don't have materials to fix my boots, and the peddlers won't be around for another month. Harker frowned. I'll need to get to town for new boots. He let his gaze roam over the wall above the stove. It was a piece of the original temple, with all the decoration that entailed.

Harker had attempted to clean them up—not willingly of course. It had been his mother's favorite punishment. It hadn't made much difference. Too much time had passed and all that remained were vague shapes and blobby figures. How long did it take stone to wear away? And not normal stone either—this close to the Sea, just about everything ended up imbued with extra durability. Harker touched his cuts and bruises, wincing as he stretched too far. His ribs were definitely cracked, but it was a minor thing.

He applied a few normal poultices to his wounds, wrapping each of them carefully. For his ribs, well, there was little to do except rest and perhaps ice to keep down any swelling. Lastly, he wrapped his feet in wide strips of sturdy, sterile cotton. That would have to do. He moved to his worktable, grabbing his pack along the way. With motions born of long repetition, he emptied it out on the surface and snagged another far thicker leather satchel from beneath his bed. His emergency cache.

Quickly, he sorted out his tools, sachets, jars, and vials before putting them carefully into the satchel. It was already well stocked with the bare essentials, but his reagents needed constant resupply. They lost effectiveness continuously from the moment they were harvested, so some of the base ingredients in his emergency cache had to be discarded. Yarrow root is still good. Keppl seeds. Firemoss. Jar's properly sealed, good. Wargrass. Hm. I should keep that deeper in…

The plants he cultivated were all dangerous. Some couldn't be exposed to air, others were simply too potent to be smelled directly. Medicine, his mother had taught him, was poison by slow measures. Harker's fingers trailed over the inner lining, taking note of several hidden pockets by habit. A small bit of money was sewn into the fabric and leather, as were other, more mysterious lumps. His mother had left those, with the instructions to only retrieve them in a dire emergency.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he fought off the childish urge to open the stitching and look. But like the stool and planter boxes, after she passed the mystery of it was a reminder of her. A thing he could look at and remember. Rope, fire-starter, skinning knife, and some dried rations. Harker lifted those to his nose. Still good. No mold either. They all went back into his satchel. It was quick work, mostly due to practice. Planning for emergencies was about half of Harker's daily activities.

Law 3a — Have An Escape Route most often walked hand-in-hand with Law 3d — Follow The Plan. Observation and preparation had saved his hide a great many times in his eighteen years in the Vale. With the bag he could disappear into the wilds for a few months. Long enough for things to die down. He'd done it before—it was one of his first moves when events began to outpace his ability to survive them.

The lock on his door may keep out wild beasts, but the Vinells were a different story—not even the ruins would stop them for long. The people of the Vale might be superstitious fools, but anger was an excellent goad. Damn boots. Damn Vinells. He finished counting his emergency coin. It was too little, but perhaps enough for a new pair. Had his job gone as planned, none of this would be an issue. Harker took a slow, measured breath.

He ignored the hard twinge in his chest and the headache that tried to swallow his thoughts. Law 1b — Want Nothing. What could not be had was worthless, and chasing after it was a sign of a fool.

"A quick trip into town," he muttered aloud. The pack went onto his shoulders, over his woolen cloak and thick sweater.

"Then I'm gone."