As promised, after three days’ time, the strange huntsman returned. Hunter heard him long before he saw him. So did half the Weald; Aumir was singing some raunchy tavern ditty, something about a farmer’s daughter and her bountiful cornucopia, his lilting voice echoing through the morning breeze.

  “Young osprey!” the man called as soon as he spotted him. “Good morrow! Join me in the chorus, will you?”

  “I don’t know that particular one, sorry.”

  “Bah! Just as well! Klothi doesn’t like my singing this particular tune. She says it’s filth.”

  “Can’t blame her for that, can you?”

  Instead of offering a repsonse, Aumir simply burst into laughter.

  “It is good meeting you again. Aumir trusts everything’s been alright in his absence, yes?”

  “All quiet, yes,” Hunter said. “Well… until now, that is.”

  Aumir laughed again and dropped to one knee to hug Fyodor, who’d come running to greet him.

  “I hope you young ones have worked up an appetite,” he said. “Because it’s not just the farmer’s daughter whose cornucopia is bountiful. Come, let us break fast, and I’ll tell you all about my little journey!”

  Having already tried the huntsman’s Aether-infused cooking, Hunter couldn’t say no to that.

  Fyodor and the ravens ran around the woods, playing tag with Klothi, Aumir’s stoat companion, and the two men headed back to the cabin to prepare breakfast. Aumir left his bags and weapons on a rough stand of lashed-together logs and crooked branches near the hearth, then took off his headdress.

  It was the first time Hunter had seen him do so, and the huntsman’s visage took him by surprise. Aumir’s dark-skinned face was a weathered map of fine lines, deep creases, and old scars, with one eye clouded and shrunken. As for his age, it was anyone’s guess. He might have been forty, seventy, or anywhere in between.

  “Not the prettiest of sights, this old mug, eh?” Aumir asked, torn lips revealing a gold tooth.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “Not to worry! They’ve been Aumir’s for a donkey’s age, these scars. Doubt if Aumir would recognize his own face without them. Go fetch some firewood now, will you? Let’s get this sorry little flame you call a hearthfire all fed and going strong.”

  Hunter happily obliged. It wasn’t as if he’d have to go far; Biggs and Wedge had made a game of collecting dead branches and stacking them behind the cabin. He carried an armful back to the hearth and left them in a small pile by the huntsman’s feet.

  “Small branches are all we’ve got, I’m afraid,” he said. “I don’t have an axe.”

  “They’ll do just fine,” Aumir said and he started feeding the branches to the fire. “Though we might have to do something about that axe situation. We might have to do more than that, in fact, if we’re set on making a proper man of the Hunt out of you. But first, food, yes?”

  Aumir hadn’t been joking about that cornucopia, as it turned out. As soon as they got the fire going, he turned to his bags and produced what looked like a basket woven in the shape of a goat’s horn, then started to casually pull foodstuffs out of it—fruit, loafs of bread, eggs, dried meat, and even a block of cheese. Another extra-dimensional storage item; there was no way all that could fit in a normal basket that size.

  “Huh,” Hunter said. “I guess it really is a cornucopia.”

  “If only I were so lucky!” Aumir shook his head. “A true cornucopia—a Horn of Plenty, as they call it—can produce whatever your heart desires. This one, Aumir has to keep stocked himself. It does a good job keeping food fresh, though. And it can even absorb ambient Essence and infuse the food with Aether, though it only works in Places of Power.”

  “Is it a common item, then?”

  Aumir scratched the stubble on his scarred chin, thinking.

  “In this realm? It’s definitely not unheard of. But common? No. This particular one came from a dryad noble’s personal collection of artifacts. It was a reward for ridding her land from a gang of satyrs.”

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  “A gang of satyrs?” Hunter raised an eyebrow.

  “They weren’t all that bad, if you ask me. Just a bit on the rowdy side. Too bad they could not be made to see reason.”

  Aumir cooked a big omelette in a cast iron skillet over the fire, and the two of them ate it with gusto. Hunter made a few meat and cheese sandwiches, too, which the huntsman found mesmerizing.

  “Meat and cheese—between slices of bread? What kind of Transient sorcery is this? Why have I never thought of that before?”

  “Wait till you try a hoagie,” Hunter laughed. “Or pita bread with gyros. Or a California burrito.”

  “You will tell me all about them,” Aumir said, dead serious. “Though another time. We have other things to talk about, first.”

  “Like hunting a godling?”

  “Like hunting a godling. Though that, too, will have to wait a while.”

  “I’m all ears, then.”

  Aumir reached for a small leather drawstring bag resting beside his pack, loosened the ties, and pinched out a mix of dried, fragrant herbs. He packed them into the bowl of a carved wooden pipe, its surface darkened by years of use, leaned toward the hearth, caught a glowing coal on the end of a stick, and held it to the bowl until the herbs caught with a faint crackle.

  “Nothing like a good smoke after a good meal,” he said, content. “Aumir would offer you some, but Aumir’s afraid this particular strain of herb would be far too potent for the, uh, uninitiated.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” said Hunter. One whiff of the smoke was more than enough for him to tell that whatever the huntsman was smoking, it wasn’t your average tobacco. “We’re still doing the godling thing, then?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “I don’t know. Wishful thinking?”

  That drew a chuckle from the huntsman.

  “You are wise to get cold feet, young osprey. Overconfidence has been the bane of many a greenhorn. And, as far as the ways of the Hunt go, you are greener than springtime grass.”

  Hunter started to protest, then thought better of it and closed his mouth. Aumir hadn’t meant it as an insult—and besides, he wasn’t wrong. Whatever Fawkes or Wroth had taught him so far, it likely wasn’t exactly what the Great Spirit of the Hunt looked for in one of his own. If he meant to seek another audience with Herne, Hunter would do well to listen to what Aumir had to say.

  “I’m all ears, then.”

  Aumir blew a few rings of smoke, furrowing his brow as if weighing where to begin.

  “During these past three days,” he said at last, “travel far and wide, Aumir did. Far enough to reach the abode of the Sage of the Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Spirits.”

  “That’s a lot of spirits,” Hunter said.

  “It is—though their number pales in comparison to the Sage’s insight and cunning. Aumir asked her for a divination, both for Aumir’s sake and for Hunter’s. Our Wyrd is intertwined indeed, mine and yours.” The huntsman shook his head. “However, the time you have left in this realm may yet prove to be brief, Transient; so our time together must be briefer still. We must make of it what we can.”

  “I see. And where does that leave us, then?”

  “Our path remains unchanged. Aumir shall teach you the ways of the Hunt as best as he can, make a proper huntsman out of you. Together, we shall hunt a godling. The Sage’s divination was clear on that, too; there is one that needs to be hunted, a vile brute terrorizing an island in the north. The Sage vowed to bless our Hunt and offer us assistance. If all goes well, then Aumir will bring you before the court of Herne. There, with the godling’s trophy in hand, you may lay your case before him.”

  That was as good a course of action as any, though Hunter still wasn’t crazy about the idea of hunting a godling. But if the Sage of the Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Spirits said that was his Wyrd, who was he to disagree?

  “Baheep,” he said with a shrug.

  “Baheep,” his new teacher and companion confirmed. “So it goes.”

  “When do we start, then?”

  “Oh, young Hunter,” Aumir said, gold tooth shining in the firelight, “we have already started.”

  ***

  Aumir’s first lesson, as it turned out, was one of nutrition.

  “To build a body and a spirit fit for the Hunt,” he’d said, “one requires proper sustainance.”

  Back on his side of things, Hunter might expect to hear something about macronutrients, portion sizes, and hydration. This, however, was Aernor; Aumir’s idea of proper sustenance was food infused with Aether. After finishing their meal, both men assumed meditation stances and began cycling their Essence to absorb the Aether in the food they’d just eaten. Not that there was much of it; compared to the Aether marbles Fawkes had given Hunter, the amount of Aether in Aumir’s food was negligible.

  “It might not feel like a lot,” Aumir had said, as if reading his thoughts. “Make a habit of preparing your food like that, too, and you’ll soon find it adds up. Aumir will teach you that, too.”

  Half an hour later, there was not a speck of Aether left in their bellies to absorb.

  “Good, good,” Aumir said, patting his stomach. He rose to his feet, stretched, and let out a yawn. “Food for the spirit. Makes you feel good, no?”

  It really did. Hunter didn’t really need to eat in Elderpyre; and even when he did, it did nothing to curb the hunger of his physical body. Still, the Aether-infused breakfast had left him feeling full of energy, ready to take the day by the horns.

  “I could get used to that,” he said.

  “You should,” Aumir nodded. “And you will.”

  The man reached into the cornucopia again, and this time, he pulled out an apple, which he tossed at Hunter.

  “I don’t think I can eat another bite,” Hunter said, catching the fruit mid-air.

  “Eat? No, no, this is not for eating. This is for practicing.”

  “Practicing?” Hunter echoed. “Practicing what?”

  That brought a crooked smile to Aumir’s face.

  “Pray tell old Aumir, Transient,” he said. “Are you familiar with the tale of Saint William of the Thell?”

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