“The first thing I got to figure out,” Hunter said, “is whether it is in my best interest to stay in Taravus. Not that I could really leave it on my own, even if I wanted to, mind you.”

  “That is true, sir,” said Mortimer as he was fixing him his second Manhattan. “Operating the Propylon Arches and navigating the Ways seems to be beyond your current capabilities, I’m afraid.”

  “Was I a fool to follow Aumir there in the first place?”

  “The line between prudence and paranoia is a thin and ofter blurry one, sir,” the bartender shook his head. “Which is to say, hindsight is always 20/20, and, in any case, it’s no use crying over spilled milk.”

  “Got any more proverbs and pearls of wisdom for me?” Hunter shook his head.

  “Hundreds, sir, if not more.”

  “Of course you do. So, Taravus. I was thinking I should avoid binding myself to a Place of Power in there, even if I find one. That way, if I kick the bucket for any reason, I’ll return to the log cabin back in the Weald.”

  “That’s a solid line of thinking, sir. As you may recall, however—”

  “Yeah,” Hunter cut him off. “That thing Aumir mentioned before we set off to travel through the Ways, about how there was no telling what might happen if I found myself at death’s door. I remember.”

  “…which is to say, sir,” the bartender went on, “you should do your best to avoid that potentiality.”

  “So, business as usual. True. So I’m more or less stuck in Taravus, is what you’re saying.”

  “For the time being, yes, sir. I would say that the prospect of trying to leave the realm on your own might prove more hazardous than staying put.”

  “Alright,” Hunter said, frowning. “I’ll stay in Taravus, then, at least for now, and we’ll circle back to that if something changes.”

  “Sounds about right, sir.”

  “Let’s move on to the next part, then. Tests, allies, and enemies. Who can I trust in Taravus?”

  “No one, sir, I’d be inclined to say. Not by default.”

  “And you’d be goddamn right about that. What I can trust, though, is what Fawkes said. Everybody wants something. Figuring out that is as good a starting place to form a plan as any. Let’s start with the obvious.”

  “The Sage, sir?”

  “The Sage. As far as we know, she’s stuck in Taravus and sore about it. That’s what she wants from me—to use my Transient body as a way to return to Aernor. Other than that, she also seems eager to join forces with Aumir and hunt that godling that wrecked the druids’ circle. What was its name again?”

  “Mumsimmar, sir.”

  “That one,” Hunter nodded. “Whether out of some sense of justice or because it’s going to become a bigger problem down the line, she seemes eager to see that hunt through. Who knows—she may even have some other kind of ulterior motive. But in that, at least, I think we can trust our goals to be aligned.”

  “Agreed, sir.”

  “Aumir seems to think so, too, or he wouldn’t have worked with her in the first place.”

  “What about Aumir, sir?” the bartender asked. “What does Aumir want?”

  “Again, as far as we know, Aumir’s be-all and end-all is the Hunt. The court of Herne and its politics of power.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Trust him?” Hunter scoffed. “I don’t have an inkling about how the man’s mind works. He’s too strange, too unpredictable. Of course I don’t trust him. I still don’t know what exactly he wants from me. What I trust is where his allegiance lies: from what I can tell, he wants to use me as a means to gain influence with Herne. In that sense, I trust that he wouldn’t want to harm me in any way.”

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  “That would make sense,” the bartender agreed. “If he’s to introduce you to the court of the Great Spirit of the Hunt as his protégé of sorts, as it looks like he plans to, it would make sense that he wouldn’t want to see you harmed.”

  “Exactly. Though what still bugs me is the Sage’s influence over him. During yesterday’s dinner, he seemed positively entranced.”

  “Do you think he’s compromised enough for his judgement to be clouded, sir?”

  “Beats me. Would he use me as a bargaining chip and surrender me to the Sage, if it served his long-term goals better? I have to assume he would—though, as you said, the line between prudence and paranoia is a thin and blurry one.”

  That was what Hunter found most vexing about his situation. In a sense, it was political—and he didn’t know nearly enough to make heads or tails of it. He’d have to play it safe, hedge his bets, and hope for the best.

  “What about the other inhabitants of Taravus, sir?” Mort asked.

  “What about them?” Hunter shrugged. “Not that I’ve really gotten to know any of them yet, but I have to assume their allegiance to the Sage is, for all intents and purposes, absolute. My gut’s telling me that Sister Ursa’s the fair and dependable kind, but I wouldn’t risk blindly trusting her based on a gut feeling. So, for all intents and purposes, we’ll have to assume they’re all extensions of the Sage.”

  “And even if they aren’t,” Mort added, “we can assume the Sage has eyes and ears everywhere, and is keeping tabs on everyone.”

  “Exactly. She even admitted so herself, more or less: all I have to do is call, and one of her spectral nun handmaidens will come.”

  “And where does all that leave us, sir?”

  Hunter gave it some thought. Even as he drained the last drops from his glass, Mortimer was already preparing him another.

  “You know, Mort,” he finally said with a sigh, “much as I don’t like to admit it, there’s one thing I got going for me in this scenario.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “The Sage believes me to be, in so many words, so genuinely human, it borders on the mundane.”

  “I believe her exact words were fallible, error-prone, and imperfect, sir.”

  “Yes, Mort, thanks a bunch for reminding me. All of which, of course, is doublespeak for dumb. So this is the only think I can bank on right now: even after she’s been in my head, she thinks I’m dumb.”

  “Well, I don’t believe that’s the most accurate term, sir, but—”

  “If you’re trying to spare my feelings, it’s a bit late for that. Don’t worry, it’s a good thing. I can work with dumb. If that’s what I have to do, I can play dumb till the cows come home.”

  “There’s just one snag in that plan, sir,” Mortimer said. “Even if your ability to play dumb is convincing enough, the Sage has already sifted through your mind and spirit once. Who’s to say she’s not going to do so again?”

  “That’s what I needed your help with, actually. Remember that skill Harry Potter had to learn to guard his mind from Voldemort? What did they call it?”

  “Occlumency, sir?”

  “That one,” said Hunter, and couldn’t suppress a mirthless grin. “Mortimer, old sport, I’d suggest you get your loins girded—because you’ll be helping me learn Occlumency.”

  ***

  The night was wearing on, and Hunter saw no point in straining his physical body any more than necessary. He needed those hours of rest back on his side of things. Before parting ways, he and Mortimer set a strategy meeting for the following day, when they would lay out how Hunter might realistically go about learning an Ability like Occlumency.

  It wouldn’t be easy, of course; Hunter held no such illusion. But he was dead set on turning over a new leaf, that was as good a turning point as any.

  The Sage’s unkind words and observations had cut him deep. Even though might just as well have been a tactic to subtly break his spirit, that didn’t mean they were untrue.

  What she’d said about him, about his character, it had gotten deep under his skin. Not that it was news to him; it wasn’t. She hadn’t even been the first to point out some of those same shortcomings. That was precisely the reason her words had cut him so. She’d told him things he already knew, or at least suspected, about himself, and had been too hesitant to face.

  Oddly enough, it what she’d said about his gamer chops that had stuck with him the most:

  “You even fancy yourself a master of your make-believe Earth games and strategies,” she’d said, “yet the way you’ve built up this new self of yours is nothing if not directionless.”

  Taking a look at his Character Sheet, Hunter couldn’t say she was wrong about that. Sure, there was a case to be made about uncertainty, and the inherent challenge of making decisions with incomplete information. If Packman—his friend and veritable gaming genius—saw him frollicking about with a ton of unspent Aether, he’d lose it. And if Hunter kicked the bucket, and all that Aether was gone, Packman would whack him over the head with his gamepad.

  The question was, what should he spend it on?

  So far, he’d held off out of a mix of fear of missing out and sheer analysis paralysis. It was one of the plights of being, as the Sage had put it, directionless. What should he build toward? What did he want to become? And what if he sank it all into the wrong Attribute?

  There was a time, as would Fawkes would put it, to shit or get off the bucket.

  And that time, Hunter knew, had finally come.

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