CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  -The Hermit Did Not Remember Him

  The door opened before he could knock. The latch turned under his fingers. The boards drew inward. Cold air flowed in around him and brought the cabin’s smells to his nose: old smoke, damp wool, metal that had seen too many winters.

  The Hermit filled the doorway. His hair and beard had grown out into a tangled dark mass streaked with gray, just like Ouz remembered, only not as gray as in his last memory of the man. The lines at the corners of his eyes were there, but they hadn’t bitten in as deep. A heavy coat hung from his shoulders, dark with old wear, belted tight over a frame that still looked ready to move. One hand stayed on the latch. The other hung loose at his side.

  His gaze fell straight to the iron ring at Ouz’s ankle and the chain coiled along his calf, then climbed, taking in the dark, stiff patches dried into his shirt and sleeves. Old blood, mostly. Something in his face shifted, a small tightening at the corners of his eyes, there and gone.

  They stared at each other. For Ouz the moment stretched. The weight of two whole years sat behind his ribs. Nights by this man’s fire. Lessons that had broken him down and rebuilt him. That last fight, masks and blood and snow. All of it lived inside him.

  In the Hermit’s eyes Ouz saw none of it. There was only a boy on his threshold. A stranger with a ring on his leg.

  When he finally spoke, the words came in the steppe tongue. “I didn’t know someone was living here,” Ouz said.

  The Hermit’s brow rose a little. His answer came in the same language, shaped clean.

  “Well. Now you know,” he said. “What do you want? How did you get in here?”

  “I lost my way. A couple of times.” Ouz let his shoulders drop, playing at shame. “The forest’s strange. I thought maybe I could get a little warmth in the cabin.”

  The man held his eyes a moment longer.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “You can call me Ouz,” he said. “And you?”

  The Hermit didn’t give a name. His attention slid past the question.

  “You’re wearing more than dirt,” he said at last. “How much of that blood is yours?”

  “Enough,” Ouz said. “Enough that I’d like to sit before I fall over.”

  “What were you doing in the forest?” he asked instead.

  “I escaped from shackles.” Ouz tipped his leg so the ring showed clear. Metal bit into his skin where he’d wound it tight. “Could you please help me take them off?”

  The Hermit studied the ring, then his face.

  “Why did you think I’d help you?” he said. “Maybe I’ll take you back to the men who chained you.”

  Ouz met his gaze.

  “Well,” he said, “then I’ll need to kill an old man who lives in the forest like a hermit.”

  For the first time the man laughed. It came out low, from deep in his chest, and ended in a rough breath.

  “You’re too bold for your age,” he said. “I’d like to see you try.”

  “I’d rather let you see another day, old man,” Ouz said.

  “Do you know me?” the Hermit asked.

  “Why would I?” Ouz lifted one shoulder. “Are you someone famous? Some great warrior I should bow to?”

  The man looked him over again, from bare feet to hair. His eyes narrowed.

  “Either you lie well,” he said, “or you’ve decided you want to die, boy.”

  “Ouz,” he said. “My name is Ouz, old man Hermit.”

  That got another laugh. Shorter this time.

  “Let’s say fate brought me here,” Ouz went on. “Would you help me? Or I can turn back and go.”

  The Hermit’s face sobered.

  “If I say go,” he asked, “would you go?”

  Ouz pretended to think about it. In truth the answer never wavered.

  “Probably not,” he said. “I’m tired. Hungry. Cold. I also believe in fate. People don’t end up facing each other by accident. Not in a nowhere place like this.”

  “You seem capable,” the man said. “You found your way through this forest. You say you escaped from shackles. You must’ve trained. Learned a lot. From who?”

  “I met the best teacher in the whole land of Evren,” Ouz said. “I was lucky to learn from him.”

  “And yet you ended up chained and serving someone,” the Hermit said.

  Ouz smiled, small.

  “If we’re going to talk,” he said, “why not do it while I sit in front of the fire?”

  “Because I’m still deciding if I should kill you or not,” the man said.

  “Then decide while I sit in front of the fire and you give me something to fill my belly,” Ouz said. “I’m sick of dying hungry, and the longer I stand here the closer I’m to dying.”

  Silence held for a moment. No sound but their breathing and the faint creak of wood in the cold.

  Then the Hermit shifted aside. The space he left was narrow but enough. Ouz stepped through it. The cabin lay as he remembered. Low rafters. The hearthstone blackened by old ash. The table with its scars. The corner where armor hung under a cloth. He could’ve crossed the room with his eyes shut. He didn’t hurry. He pulled a chair toward the fire and sat, moving like someone who’d never done that before.

  “Are you alone?” the Hermit asked from the doorway.

  “No,” Ouz said. “Other boys are waiting outside the forest.”

  The man’s eyes sharpened.

  “Other boys,” he said. “You mean there are other slaves like you?”

  Ouz made a noncommittal sound in his throat.

  The Hermit shut the door. The room dimmed. His gaze slid to the hearth where cold ash slumped in the stone mouth. He walked over and stopped in front of it, lifting one hand above the dead gray, fingers spread in that small, precise shape Ouz remembered without quite understanding.

  The first time he’d seen this, he’d just stared, a half-frozen boy watching warmth pulled out of dead ash. Now he watched the work instead of the miracle, the way the man’s shoulders eased, the way his breath settled as he held his hand there.

  For a moment nothing changed. Ash stayed dull and gray, wood black and dry. Then flame threaded up through it in one clean sweep, taking the logs at once. One moment there was only cold stone and ash; the next the hearth held a living fire.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Ouz let his eyes widen in a show of surprise. He leaned back on the chair. The Hermit glanced over. For a heartbeat the man’s gaze held him in that knowing way, the look of a man who’d seen the act and filed it away. He didn’t speak on it. He turned back to the hearth and started laying on more wood.

  “So.” His voice came over the crackle. “You’re saying you and other slave boys escaped your shackles and ended up wandering this forest. Why?”

  Ouz watched the flames climb.

  “I had a feeling if I entered this forest something would happen,” he said.

  “If you lie,” the Hermit said, “learn to lie better.”

  Ouz shifted his gaze from the fire to the man’s back.

  “I didn’t lie,” he said. “That’s the truth. Now would you be kind enough to give me something to eat?”

  The Hermit snorted.

  “I’ve never seen such a shameless liar,” he said.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Ouz said, and let a real smile slip out.

  The man looked over his shoulder.

  “You’re not thinking I might kill you?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a hunch you won’t,” Ouz said.

  “You’ve got a strange sense of things, boy.”

  “My gut hasn’t disappointed me yet,” Ouz said.

  The Hermit made a low sound. “There’s a first time for that too.”

  He rose and moved to the shelf where his pots sat. He chose one, filled it at the water bucket, then took down a hanging sack and began dropping dried strips and herbs into the pot. All the while his gaze flicked back to Ouz, measuring.

  Silence stretched between them, broken by the soft thud of dried meat and the pop of sap in the fire.

  “How did you find your way in the forest?” the man asked at last.

  “I followed the river,” Ouz said.

  “That’s it?” the Hermit said.

  Ouz nodded. “Since we met,” he said, “you’ve asked the questions. My turn. What are you doing in this forest alone?”

  “Trying to stay alone,” the man said. “Until you came.”

  “Sorry for disturbing your loneliness,” Ouz said.

  The Hermit gave him a look Ouz couldn’t quite read. He swung the pot over the fire and set it on the hook. Steam began to rise, carrying the smell of broth and meat into the room.

  Ouz’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t eaten anything hot since the fort gruel at dawn. The scent here belonged to another life. Nights when his hands still ached from chopping wood and the Hermit had said nothing, just set a bowl in front of him.

  He kept his face steady. Only his fingers tightened a little on the edge of the chair.

  “Well,” he said after a moment, “if you help me take these rings off I’d really appreciate it.”

  “How do you expect me to take those off?” the Hermit asked.

  “You live alone in the forest and you’re telling me you don’t have tools?” Ouz said. “You also seem to have some tricks. I saw what you did with the fire.”

  The man turned fully then. His eyes ran over Ouz’s face, searching for a seam.

  “Show me,” he said.

  Ouz stretched his right leg out. The iron bit his skin where the ring closed. The chain wrapped his calf and pooled near his heel.

  The Hermit stepped closer. Up close, Ouz could see the small pale scar along the man’s forearm, the one he knew came from a knife that had slipped years ago while cleaning a kill. He watched him crouch, set thumb and forefinger on the iron ring to feel out its thickness.

  The man squeezed. At first nothing happened. Then the metal gave under his hand. It cracked with a dry sound, went to powder the way old bark did when you crushed it. Dust fell to the floorboards. The chain slipped free and slithered down Ouz’s leg.

  The skin beneath the ring tingled. It felt light and strange. Ouz bent, scooped the chain up, and set it on the table beside him. The heap of links looked smaller there. Harmless.

  The Hermit straightened without comment. He went back to the fire. When the stew thickened enough to please him, he took down a bowl, filled it, and brought it over. He set it in front of Ouz.

  Steam hit first, warm on his face. Then the smell rolled in: boiled grain, meat that had been dried over smoke, herbs he hadn’t tasted since that other lifetime. Ouz’s throat tightened. He wrapped his fingers around the bowl to steady his hands.

  He took a spoonful. The heat burned his tongue a little. Salt bit his mouth. The taste settled in like something that had been missing from him, not just from his stomach. He realized he’d closed his eyes when he heard the soft scrape of the Hermit’s boots. He opened them and found the man back at the hearth.

  They ate in quiet. The only sounds were the clink of spoon on bowl, the fire, and the low bubble of the pot. By the time Ouz scraped the last bit from the bottom, warmth had spread from his belly to his fingers. He set the bowl down with care.

  The Hermit stood. He stepped closer, the small movement no different from reaching to take the empty dish. His right hand shifted. Metal shivered in the corner, where a sword leaned wrapped in cloth. The blade lifted, flew across the space into the Hermit’s waiting grip, and in the same motion he turned the point to Ouz’s throat. Steel kissed skin. A thin line of chill ran along the spot where the edge rested.

  Ouz didn’t flinch.

  “Now your belly’s full and you’re warm,” the Hermit said. “So you can die. Tell me the truth and maybe I’ll let you live. Who sent you here?”

  “Nobody sent me,” Ouz said. “That’s the truth.”

  “You lie well,” the man said. “I’ll give you that. But you can’t trick me.” His eyes had gone flat, colder than the steel. “You seem to know me. You know what I can do. You’re not afraid like you ought to be. I’ll ask once more. Choose your words with care.”

  “If you have to kill me, kill me,” Ouz said. “I’m still telling you the truth. Nobody sent me. Coming here was my decision.”

  “So why did you decide to be here?” the Hermit asked.

  Ouz let the question sit. The edge at his throat didn’t move. Blood pulsed under it.

  “Even if I tell you the truth,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe it.”

  The man’s mouth curled. It wasn’t a kind smile.

  “Surprise me,” he said.

  “All right,” Ouz said. “You asked for it.” He drew in a breath. “Because I know you. I know who you are. I told you I met the best teacher in Evren. That was you.”

  “I don’t have any apprentice like you,” the Hermit said.

  “You just don’t remember,” Ouz said. “Nobody remembers. But I lived under this roof with you for two years. Until…”

  He stopped. The word sat in his throat.

  “Until what?” the man asked.

  “Just don’t kill me after my next words,” Ouz said. “Fine?”

  “We’ll see,” the Hermit said. He didn’t lower the sword. If anything, the point pressed a little closer to Ouz’s throat.

  “Until the day masked men came,” Ouz said. “They killed me. They probably killed you too. I can’t be sure. I died first.”

  The smile left the man’s face.

  “Masked men?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Ouz said. “White skull masks. You called them something like Roundtable—”

  The blade bit in. A thin hot line opened at his throat. He felt blood slip down, tickling.

  “Be careful with your words, boy,” the Hermit said.

  “I’m trying, old man,” Ouz said. His voice stayed level. “You asked for the truth. If you want to listen, then listen.”

  They stared at each other. The sword didn’t move. The man didn’t blink.

  “They called you Aeterius,” Ouz said. “You told me to run. I tried. Two of them caught me. They killed me. You were still fighting them.”

  “And somehow you came back from death,” the Hermit said.

  “Yeah,” Ouz said. “That’s the crazy part.”

  “When did they come?” the man asked.

  “Two years from now,” Ouz said. “Winter. There were, or will be, seven of them.”

  The Hermit’s jaw tightened at that number.

  “So why did you come back here now?” he asked.

  “To save you,” Ouz said.

  “To save me,” the man repeated. “How?”

  “By convincing you to come with me,” Ouz said.

  “Where?” the Hermit asked.

  “I’m going back to the steppes,” Ouz said. “You can come with me. If you do, the boys will be safer with you there. They’ll be safer anywhere near you than in that fort.”

  “Boy,” the man said, “either you’re crazy, or you had a bad dream, or both.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Ouz said.

  “Death isn’t something you bargain with,” the Hermit said. “Once it comes, nothing walks it back.”

  “Then how do I know your name?” Ouz asked. “How do I know what they called themselves, Roundtable or whatever it was?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” the Hermit said. “Maybe you can peek at the future. Maybe you work for them. Either way you know too much for your own good.” His wrist tensed on the sword. “Now leave before I change my mind and separate your head from your body.”

  “Hermit. I’m telling you the truth. Believe me—”

  “Why should I?” the man cut in.

  “Because…” Ouz felt his throat tighten around more than the steel. “Because for two years you taught me. Fed me. Because I don’t want you to die.”

  “You’re very good at lying,” the Hermit said. “Go while you can. If you work for them, tell them if they want me dead they can come do it themselves. If you don’t, then forget me and go back wherever you belong.”

  The sword left his throat.

  Ouz’s hand shot up and caught at the man’s sleeve, not to turn a blow aside but to hold him there, to make him listen. The Hermit’s knee came up. His boot slammed into Ouz’s chest.

  Air blasted out of him. He flew back into the door. Wood cracked. The latch splintered. The next heartbeat he was outside, hitting the packed earth, rolling over roots and thin snow until he came to a stop on his side.

  For a moment he couldn’t breathe. When air finally clawed its way in, it brought pain with it. Something in his ribs protested. His stomach heaved. All the warmth he’d just swallowed surged up. He turned his head and vomited onto the ground. Stew, bile, a thread of blood.

  The world steadied in fits and starts. He pushed a hand down, tried to get a knee under him. His arms shook. Blood leaked from the cut on his neck and from his lip where he’d bitten it.

  The Hermit stood in the broken doorway. His eyes looked like ice. The sword rested easy in his hand, the point neither lifted nor lowered.

  “I don’t need your protection,” he said. “If you think I do, you’re wrong. If you don’t leave this forest right now, you’ll never leave. Last chance, boy.”

  Ouz spat blood into the snow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then used the same hand on his shirt, smearing a dark streak across the fabric. He forced himself upright. The ground tilted once, then steadied. He looked at the man one last time.

  “Then you’d better protect yourself,” he said. His voice came out rough but clear. “You hear me? They’ll be here in two years, in winter. I’ll go now. I’ll get stronger. I’ll come back. I’ll take my revenge on them. And I’ll protect you, this time.”

  The Hermit didn’t answer. He stood in the wrecked doorway and watched, sword in hand, eyes unreadable.

  Ouz turned. Each step pulled at the bruise blooming in his chest. His throat stung where the blade had kissed him. The forest waited ahead, quiet in the cold. The light had already started to thin toward evening. He walked into it, one unsteady pace after another, listening to the small sounds that still lined up with the truth, until the cabin sank back behind the trees.