Atissa dropped under Mark’s hand, trying to grab her, and shot forward. Her arms wrapped around his leg a fraction of a second before her shoulder pushed into him. The shove shifted his weight to the other leg, allowing her to lift and manipulate the one she was holding. Half a second later, he dropped onto the soft forest floor.
It was a familiar feeling. They had gone through the sequence two dozen times already and he had trained it countless times before.
The girl pushed his leg aside and placed her knee on his belly. Her hand went for the knife on her belt.
Using brute strength, Mark forced his upper body up, reaching out to her. As a grown man, the fourteen-year-old girl had little chance to hold him down.
Atissa changed tactics immediately. Giving up on the knife, she grabbed one of his arms and spun around to his other side with impressive agility. One of her legs swept over his head, weighing it down. Then she leaned backward, his arm pressed to her chest.
For a moment they lay there, his arm overextended by her body weight. Then Mark tapped.
His free hand clapped twice on the leg across his face and Atissa let go immediately. She rolled backward over her shoulder and stood up, never taking her eyes off him.
Mark shook out his arm and gave her a nod. “Good armbar.”
She relaxed. Her expression changed from concentrated focus to its usual openness.
“This time you didn’t hesitate to switch from the knife to the arm,” Mark said.
“It’s hard not to go for the knife,” Atissa said, handing him the waterskin. “I’m not sure if I would make that decision if I were fighting for real.”
“That’s why you’re training. In time, the reflexes and movements will come naturally to you. I assume, when you shoot your bow, you’re not thinking about all the individual movements needed to put the arrow to the string. Through repetition it’s all so ingrained, your mind can focus on the target.”
Mark filled his mouth with water before handing back the skin and standing up. “Considering the difference in strength and weight between you and almost any man, you can’t afford to try holding on to a position by force. Even if it’s great for stabbing.” He subconsciously touched his throat. “If he gives you the opening, good. Otherwise, use his reaction to set up your next move.”
“Don’t fight the whole body, but focus on a weak part and break it,” Atissa said, repeating one of the concepts he had given her.
“Right. Tomorrow, we will start on the legs. Attacking the legs is one of the best choices for a smaller, weaker fighter. If a man can’t stand, he can’t fight.”
Atissa frowned. “But isn’t a lot of what we have trained fighting from our back?”
“Well, sure…but if you break somebody’s knee, you can get away.” He glanced down at the girl walking next to him, expecting to see a triumphant smile. But nothing. Atissa seemed to be thinking deeply about his words. Why do I keep expecting her to react like Anne, Mark thought?
The last couple of days on the river had given him too much time to ponder. To distract himself, he had insisted on taking turns on the oars. It was a great workout engaging many muscle groups and he had carefully increased the length of his turns to avoid soreness. I should put in a rest day, he thought, considering his body’s adaptation to the unfamiliar training.
“Iristos, how hard will tomorrow’s section of the river be?” he asked, as they reached the campsite on the stony beach.
Since Atissa had asked him to teach her on their second day, they had trained every evening. Considering the very real dangers of this world, he had agreed right away. If available they moved to a place with soft ground, to reduce the risk of injury.
“Same as today, master,” Iristos said, looking up from the fire. “The river only gets deeper and broader from here. We should reach the lakes the day after tomorrow. Are you guys done?”
“Yes,” Atissa said, accepting two bowls of the simple stew they had most evenings.
Iristos had watched their training on the first day skeptically. Starting out by learning how to get out from under somebody sitting on your belly, had made little sense to the muscular young man. In wrestling, he knew, you started standing and whoever hit the ground first, lost. He had quickly lost interest.
Atissa carried the two bowls over to Hermistos.
According to her, his color had slightly improved. Mark wasn’t sure about that. To him, it still looked like somebody had drained two-thirds of the man’s blood.
So far, Mark hadn’t had any luck getting more information out of him. The strange young man had slept through most of their journey. He usually woke up around dinner time. Very convenient.
Iristos handed him his bowl. The unseasoned stew was both bland and satiating at the same time. The mountain air and daily physical exertion made it palatable.
“How long would it usually take you, to get to this point?” Mark asked. He wasn’t really interested in small talk with Iristos, but discipline dictated it. You had to maintain relationships with people you depend on or might depend on in the future.
“About two weeks, master,” Iristos said, filling his own bowl to the brink. “On the rafts, we can’t go nearly as fast. And we must stop frequently to free logs that get caught on something. It’s dangerous.”
Mark observed how Iristos somehow pilled another scoop of stew into his bowl. No wonder you spend so much time behind the trees every day, he thought. In his estimation, Iristos accounted for forty-five percent of their food consumption. Considering his size and that he did most of the rowing, he couldn’t really fault him. But chewing open-mouthed was a different matter.
Mark turned away slightly, to avoid the view. It did nothing for the sound effects, though.
Having passed the last rapids two days ago the river was joining with other streams. The vegetation had started to change, and Mark felt that it had become warmer. The horizon between the mountains to the west wasn’t filled with more mountains anymore.
Something in the distance caught his attention. He squeezed his eyes together. Was that a column of smoke?
“Iristos, what’s that?” he asked, pointing with his wooden spoon. He remembered the smoke from Logger’s Home and a knot formed in his stomach.
“Master?” The young man looked up from his bowl. “Oh, that is Rehala’s Mount. Looks like she’s angry about something again.” Iristos nodded as if approving his own answer.
What on earth is he talking about, Mark thought? Iristos' explanation made no sense to him.
“Who is this Rehala?” he asked in a calm voice. “How does she produce a column of smoke of that size?”
“She’s a goddess, of course,” Iristos said, not bothering to swallow first. “She lives in a volcano. When she’s mad, you can see smoke coming from the top. Sometimes there’s molten stone running down into the lake close to Riadnos. The citizens say she gets that way when her husband messes around.”
And this is where I’m going, Mark thought. Great.
“Thank you,” he said, quickly turning away from the big man. Iristos nodded, already stuffing another spoon into his mouth.
He walked over to where Hermistos was resting. The young man had asked to be carried to a tree a little bit away from the fire. He said he wanted to lean against something but maybe he just wanted to get away from Iristos’ chewing. At the current temperature, they didn’t need a fire for warmth.
When Mark arrived, Hermistos was slowly bringing a spoon full of stew to his mouth. His hand shook a bit.
“You seem better,” Mark said. “You’re able to eat by yourself now.”
Hermistos nibbed from the spoon, swallowed, and smiled at Mark. “I feel a little better, master. But Atissa still has to help me halfway through.”
“Well, it is an improvement,” Mark said, taking an uncomfortable seat on a boulder. “I was hoping to speak to you a little more.”
“I’m honored,” Hermistos said, bowing his head slightly. “Of course, I might pass out anytime. I’m still very weak. It seems it will take a long time to regain my strength.”
Mark kept himself from frowning. It felt like Hermistos was using his weakness as a convenient excuse. For somebody who used to always have the world’s knowledge at his fingertips, this was unimaginably frustrating. He was stranded in a strange place, almost certainly not his world and his only sources of information were these three people. Two hillbillies and a guy that slept through most of the day.
“Then let us conserve energy as best as possible,” Mark said. “Atissa, why don’t you help him? So Hermistos can focus on answering our questions.”
“He should try to eat by himself,” Atissa said. “He must use his body, or it won’t heal right.”
Mark raised an eyebrow.
“That’s what they say when somebody gets injured,” Atissa said, quickly. “The gods don’t help if you lay around all day.”
We’re not trying to help him, Mark thought. We’re trying to help me. Did Hermistos’ smile just broaden? He wasn’t sure.
He prided himself in having a stoic discipline, both mentally and physically but the events of the last couple of days had put a lot of stress on him. What he needed was soap, a shower, and a razor. And he had to do something about his skin. Too much exposure to the sun had led to an uneven tan.
His hands had started to feel leathery, showing calluses from working the oars.
But before anything else, Mark needed information.
“Atissa, please help him,” Mark said. He smiled but put some emphasis in his voice.
Atissa only hesitated for a moment before complying. She showed no reluctance. Her implicit trust made Mark uncomfortable.
“Let me help you,” she said, taking the spoon from Hermistos' weak fingers.
The young man smiled ruefully again. He was truly handsome. In the modern world, he could probably find work in modeling. So far Atissa seemed to be completely immune to his charms. Not being around when the girl discovered boys was just one more motivation for Mark to find a way home as quickly as possible.
“What can you tell me about the gifted?” Mark asked. He had to be careful. Showing his total ignorance could lead to suspicions, now or later. As a presumed magi, he should probably be knowledgeable about such things.
“Again, master, there is too much to tell,” Hermistos said. “Too many stories and legends. I feel myself tiring, just thinking about it.”
“Then let’s approach it systematically,” Mark said. “If you summarize what you know from all those stories, how would you describe what a gifted is?”
Hermistos looked at him sideways. “You’re not a man with the patience for storytelling, are you, master Mark?”
“I’m really not. Not unless I charge a fee for my time.”
The young man’s eyebrows rose but Mark didn’t offer an explanation. He just stared at him, expectantly.
Hermistos started laughing which turned into a hacking cough. Atissa quickly offered him the waterskin, but he waved it off.
“Oh, you mean it! This is very good. Very interesting,” he said, between coughs. “Very well. Let’s see what we know. Atissa, what do you know about the gifted?”
Atissa looked a bit embarrassed when the attention turned to her. “Uncle Tatros told me there are sometimes people blessed by the gods. They might be very strong. As strong as ten men. In the stories, people like that are often the sons or daughters of gods.” She turned a little red and looked away. “They’re often great heroes.”
Mark understood Atissa’s embarrassment. The girl was reluctant to assume that her abilities designated her as some kind of half-god or hero.
“Well, you’re not the daughter of a god, I can assure you that much,” Hermistos said. “And you weren’t blessed by a god either. At least not yet.” Hermistos closed his eyes, leaning back. “As for a heroic future...who knows.”
“Oh…ok.” Atissa looked a bit downcast.
Mark couldn’t quite tell what she was thinking. It seemed to be not as simple as a little disappointment. He also didn’t care right now. “If Atissa isn’t the child of a god and you don’t become a gifted through a blessing, how does it work?”
Hermistos opened one of his eyes reluctantly. “The legends of great men and women are journeys of discovery. Have you considered, you and she might be meant to find out these things along the way?”
“No, that’s a stupid and inefficient way to go about things,” Mark said.
Mark had dealt with his fair share of difficult characters during his engineering career and even more so while working as a consultant. He didn’t like it, but it had taught him patience. Then again, he hadn’t been sitting on hard stones and using leaves for toilet paper during those times. His tolerance for Hermistos’ evasiveness was teetering on the edge.
He needed to learn about these Assanaten, about Riadnos, and about this world in general. But for now, he would start with magic, as ridiculous as that sounded. It, of course, didn’t exist in his world, save for frauds and performers. It was essential to gain a fundamental understanding as quickly as possible. Especially, if people assumed him to be able to use magic himself.
Mark was unsure if he should even keep up the facade or not. They were about to reach a city. What if people there exposed him as a liar? He didn’t know this world but lying and claiming authority under false pretenses was universally frowned upon. Bronze age tools likely means bronze age methods, Mark thought, feeling his stomach tightening.
“In your opinion, what’s the most likely way Atissa became a gifted?” he asked, fixating Hermistos with his gaze. He wanted it understood that he wouldn’t yield until he had some answers.
The young man pouted. “Fornication.” He made a little pause. Enough for Atissa’s eyes to go wide and a blush to start forming on her cheeks.
The smile about her reaction froze when he met Mark’s eyes.
“Yes?” Mark asked without batting an eye.
“…you’re no fun at all, are you?” Hermistos asked. Then he shrugged and turned to Atissa. “One of your ancestors had a baby with a god. You’re a descendant of a half-god if you will. Some of those will develop abilities even generations later.”
“That means a gifted is basically a watered-down half-god with some of those godly powers?” Mark asked.
Hermistos beamed. “Watered-down half-god! I like it. You do have a sense of humor after all.” He started to laugh which was immediately interrupted by coughing.
When the coughing subsided, he accepted a sip from the water skin. Atissa held it to his mouth and dried his chin when he spilled a bit. He was getting tired.
Atissa glanced at Mark, clearly concerned, but he ignored her. They were making progress.
This time Hermistos continued to speak without being prodded. “You could say that gifted are watered-down half-gods. In fact, I’m looking forward to calling them that to their face.” He giggled, suppressing another coughing attack. “But you’re wrong about the powers. Gifted don’t have the powers of the god they’re descending from. They don’t throw lightning or direct great beasts. They’re humans. Just better.”
Hermistos leaned back closing his eyes. Mark wasn’t sure if he was dozing off or just resting.
He analyzed Hermistos’ last words and added what he had learned about Atissa’s abilities. “When people lose a part of their body’s natural abilities, let’s say their ability to see, the body often compensates for that. Their sense of hearing becomes way better, for instance. Are gifted like that only stronger?”
It took Hermistos a moment to answer. Mark almost thought he’d fallen unconscious again. But he finally spoke. “You could describe it that way. But their abilities, their gifts are often more specialist in some personal way.” He tilted his head to the side and opened his eyes halfway, smiling a tired smile at Atissa. “You see, all those heroes from the legends that received powers from the gods, they were mostly descendants of gods. That’s why they were able to wield those powers. We just don’t call all of them gifted because not all of them displayed gifts before they found a patron god.”
His eyes closed.
Mark hesitated. Hermistos had told them a lot. Clearly more than he had intended to in the beginning. And he had exhausted himself in the process.
“What about magi?” he asked in a low voice. He needed to know.
Atissa frowned at him. She pulled the blanket around Hermistos and picked up his bowl. He hadn’t finished his meal.
Mark and Atissa rose intending to return to the fire.
“Magi”, Hermistos said so quietly it was almost inaudible, ”are annoying meddlers.”
Atissa dropped under Mark’s hand, trying to grab her, and shot forward. Her arms wrapped around his leg a fraction of a second before her shoulder pushed into him. The shove shifted his weight to the other leg, allowing her to lift and manipulate the one she was holding. Half a second later, he dropped onto the soft forest floor.
It was a familiar feeling. They had gone through the sequence two dozen times already and he had trained it countless times before.
The girl pushed his leg aside and placed her knee on his belly. Her hand went for the knife on her belt.
Using brute strength, Mark forced his upper body up, reaching out to her. As a grown man, the fourteen-year-old girl had little chance to hold him down.
Atissa changed tactics immediately. Giving up on the knife, she grabbed one of his arms and spun around to his other side with impressive agility. One of her legs swept over his head, weighing it down. Then she leaned backward, his arm pressed to her chest.
For a moment they lay there, his arm overextended by her body weight. Then Mark tapped.
His free hand clapped twice on the leg across his face and Atissa let go immediately. She rolled backward over her shoulder and stood up, never taking her eyes off him.
Mark shook out his arm and gave her a nod. “Good armbar.”
She relaxed. Her expression changed from concentrated focus to its usual openness.
“This time you didn’t hesitate to switch from the knife to the arm,” Mark said.
“It’s hard not to go for the knife,” Atissa said, handing him the waterskin. “I’m not sure if I would make that decision if I were fighting for real.”
“That’s why you’re training. In time, the reflexes and movements will come naturally to you. I assume, when you shoot your bow, you’re not thinking about all the individual movements needed to put the arrow to the string. Through repetition it’s all so ingrained, your mind can focus on the target.”
Mark filled his mouth with water before handing back the skin and standing up. “Considering the difference in strength and weight between you and almost any man, you can’t afford to try holding on to a position by force. Even if it’s great for stabbing.” He subconsciously touched his throat. “If he gives you the opening, good. Otherwise, use his reaction to set up your next move.”
“Don’t fight the whole body, but focus on a weak part and break it,” Atissa said, repeating one of the concepts he had given her.
“Right. Tomorrow, we will start on the legs. Attacking the legs is one of the best choices for a smaller, weaker fighter. If a man can’t stand, he can’t fight.”
Atissa frowned. “But isn’t a lot of what we have trained fighting from our back?”
“Well, sure…but if you break somebody’s knee, you can get away.” He glanced down at the girl walking next to him, expecting to see a triumphant smile. But nothing. Atissa seemed to be thinking deeply about his words. Why do I keep expecting her to react like Anne, Mark thought?
The last couple of days on the river had given him too much time to ponder. To distract himself, he had insisted on taking turns on the oars. It was a great workout engaging many muscle groups and he had carefully increased the length of his turns to avoid soreness. I should put in a rest day, he thought, considering his body’s adaptation to the unfamiliar training.
“Iristos, how hard will tomorrow’s section of the river be?” he asked, as they reached the campsite on the stony beach.
Since Atissa had asked him to teach her on their second day, they had trained every evening. Considering the very real dangers of this world, he had agreed right away. If available they moved to a place with soft ground, to reduce the risk of injury.
“Same as today, master,” Iristos said, looking up from the fire. “The river only gets deeper and broader from here. We should reach the lakes the day after tomorrow. Are you guys done?”
“Yes,” Atissa said, accepting two bowls of the simple stew they had most evenings.
Iristos had watched their training on the first day skeptically. Starting out by learning how to get out from under somebody sitting on your belly, had made little sense to the muscular young man. In wrestling, he knew, you started standing and whoever hit the ground first, lost. He had quickly lost interest.
Atissa carried the two bowls over to Hermistos.
According to her, his color had slightly improved. Mark wasn’t sure about that. To him, it still looked like somebody had drained two-thirds of the man’s blood.
So far, Mark hadn’t had any luck getting more information out of him. The strange young man had slept through most of their journey. He usually woke up around dinner time. Very convenient.
Iristos handed him his bowl. The unseasoned stew was both bland and satiating at the same time. The mountain air and daily physical exertion made it palatable.
“How long would it usually take you, to get to this point?” Mark asked. He wasn’t really interested in small talk with Iristos, but discipline dictated it. You had to maintain relationships with people you depend on or might depend on in the future.
“About two weeks, master,” Iristos said, filling his own bowl to the brink. “On the rafts, we can’t go nearly as fast. And we must stop frequently to free logs that get caught on something. It’s dangerous.”
Mark observed how Iristos somehow pilled another scoop of stew into his bowl. No wonder you spend so much time behind the trees every day, he thought. In his estimation, Iristos accounted for forty-five percent of their food consumption. Considering his size and that he did most of the rowing, he couldn’t really fault him. But chewing open-mouthed was a different matter.
Mark turned away slightly, to avoid the view. It did nothing for the sound effects, though.
Having passed the last rapids two days ago the river was joining with other streams. The vegetation had started to change, and Mark felt that it had become warmer. The horizon between the mountains to the west wasn’t filled with more mountains anymore.
Something in the distance caught his attention. He squeezed his eyes together. Was that a column of smoke?
“Iristos, what’s that?” he asked, pointing with his wooden spoon. He remembered the smoke from Logger’s Home and a knot formed in his stomach.
“Master?” The young man looked up from his bowl. “Oh, that is Rehala’s Mount. Looks like she’s angry about something again.” Iristos nodded as if approving his own answer.
What on earth is he talking about, Mark thought? Iristos' explanation made no sense to him.
“Who is this Rehala?” he asked in a calm voice. “How does she produce a column of smoke of that size?”
“She’s a goddess, of course,” Iristos said, not bothering to swallow first. “She lives in a volcano. When she’s mad, you can see smoke coming from the top. Sometimes there’s molten stone running down into the lake close to Riadnos. The citizens say she gets that way when her husband messes around.”
And this is where I’m going, Mark thought. Great.
“Thank you,” he said, quickly turning away from the big man. Iristos nodded, already stuffing another spoon into his mouth.
He walked over to where Hermistos was resting. The young man had asked to be carried to a tree a little bit away from the fire. He said he wanted to lean against something but maybe he just wanted to get away from Iristos’ chewing. At the current temperature, they didn’t need a fire for warmth.
When Mark arrived, Hermistos was slowly bringing a spoon full of stew to his mouth. His hand shook a bit.
“You seem better,” Mark said. “You’re able to eat by yourself now.”
Hermistos nibbed from the spoon, swallowed, and smiled at Mark. “I feel a little better, master. But Atissa still has to help me halfway through.”
“Well, it is an improvement,” Mark said, taking an uncomfortable seat on a boulder. “I was hoping to speak to you a little more.”
“I’m honored,” Hermistos said, bowing his head slightly. “Of course, I might pass out anytime. I’m still very weak. It seems it will take a long time to regain my strength.”
Mark kept himself from frowning. It felt like Hermistos was using his weakness as a convenient excuse. For somebody who used to always have the world’s knowledge at his fingertips, this was unimaginably frustrating. He was stranded in a strange place, almost certainly not his world and his only sources of information were these three people. Two hillbillies and a guy that slept through most of the day.
“Then let us conserve energy as best as possible,” Mark said. “Atissa, why don’t you help him? So Hermistos can focus on answering our questions.”
“He should try to eat by himself,” Atissa said. “He must use his body, or it won’t heal right.”
Mark raised an eyebrow.
“That’s what they say when somebody gets injured,” Atissa said, quickly. “The gods don’t help if you lay around all day.”
We’re not trying to help him, Mark thought. We’re trying to help me. Did Hermistos’ smile just broaden? He wasn’t sure.
He prided himself in having a stoic discipline, both mentally and physically but the events of the last couple of days had put a lot of stress on him. What he needed was soap, a shower, and a razor. And he had to do something about his skin. Too much exposure to the sun had led to an uneven tan.
His hands had started to feel leathery, showing calluses from working the oars.
But before anything else, Mark needed information.
“Atissa, please help him,” Mark said. He smiled but put some emphasis in his voice.
Atissa only hesitated for a moment before complying. She showed no reluctance. Her implicit trust made Mark uncomfortable.
“Let me help you,” she said, taking the spoon from Hermistos' weak fingers.
The young man smiled ruefully again. He was truly handsome. In the modern world, he could probably find work in modeling. So far Atissa seemed to be completely immune to his charms. Not being around when the girl discovered boys was just one more motivation for Mark to find a way home as quickly as possible.
“What can you tell me about the gifted?” Mark asked. He had to be careful. Showing his total ignorance could lead to suspicions, now or later. As a presumed magi, he should probably be knowledgeable about such things.
“Again, master, there is too much to tell,” Hermistos said. “Too many stories and legends. I feel myself tiring, just thinking about it.”
“Then let’s approach it systematically,” Mark said. “If you summarize what you know from all those stories, how would you describe what a gifted is?”
Hermistos looked at him sideways. “You’re not a man with the patience for storytelling, are you, master Mark?”
“I’m really not. Not unless I charge a fee for my time.”
The young man’s eyebrows rose but Mark didn’t offer an explanation. He just stared at him, expectantly.
Hermistos started laughing which turned into a hacking cough. Atissa quickly offered him the waterskin, but he waved it off.
“Oh, you mean it! This is very good. Very interesting,” he said, between coughs. “Very well. Let’s see what we know. Atissa, what do you know about the gifted?”
Atissa looked a bit embarrassed when the attention turned to her. “Uncle Tatros told me there are sometimes people blessed by the gods. They might be very strong. As strong as ten men. In the stories, people like that are often the sons or daughters of gods.” She turned a little red and looked away. “They’re often great heroes.”
Mark understood Atissa’s embarrassment. The girl was reluctant to assume that her abilities designated her as some kind of half-god or hero.
“Well, you’re not the daughter of a god, I can assure you that much,” Hermistos said. “And you weren’t blessed by a god either. At least not yet.” Hermistos closed his eyes, leaning back. “As for a heroic future...who knows.”
“Oh…ok.” Atissa looked a bit downcast.
Mark couldn’t quite tell what she was thinking. It seemed to be not as simple as a little disappointment. He also didn’t care right now. “If Atissa isn’t the child of a god and you don’t become a gifted through a blessing, how does it work?”
Hermistos opened one of his eyes reluctantly. “The legends of great men and women are journeys of discovery. Have you considered, you and she might be meant to find out these things along the way?”
“No, that’s a stupid and inefficient way to go about things,” Mark said.
Mark had dealt with his fair share of difficult characters during his engineering career and even more so while working as a consultant. He didn’t like it, but it had taught him patience. Then again, he hadn’t been sitting on hard stones and using leaves for toilet paper during those times. His tolerance for Hermistos’ evasiveness was teetering on the edge.
He needed to learn about these Assanaten, about Riadnos, and about this world in general. But for now, he would start with magic, as ridiculous as that sounded. It, of course, didn’t exist in his world, save for frauds and performers. It was essential to gain a fundamental understanding as quickly as possible. Especially, if people assumed him to be able to use magic himself.
Mark was unsure if he should even keep up the facade or not. They were about to reach a city. What if people there exposed him as a liar? He didn’t know this world but lying and claiming authority under false pretenses was universally frowned upon. Bronze age tools likely means bronze age methods, Mark thought, feeling his stomach tightening.
“In your opinion, what’s the most likely way Atissa became a gifted?” he asked, fixating Hermistos with his gaze. He wanted it understood that he wouldn’t yield until he had some answers.
The young man pouted. “Fornication.” He made a little pause. Enough for Atissa’s eyes to go wide and a blush to start forming on her cheeks.
The smile about her reaction froze when he met Mark’s eyes.
“Yes?” Mark asked without batting an eye.
“…you’re no fun at all, are you?” Hermistos asked. Then he shrugged and turned to Atissa. “One of your ancestors had a baby with a god. You’re a descendant of a half-god if you will. Some of those will develop abilities even generations later.”
“That means a gifted is basically a watered-down half-god with some of those godly powers?” Mark asked.
Hermistos beamed. “Watered-down half-god! I like it. You do have a sense of humor after all.” He started to laugh which was immediately interrupted by coughing.
When the coughing subsided, he accepted a sip from the water skin. Atissa held it to his mouth and dried his chin when he spilled a bit. He was getting tired.
Atissa glanced at Mark, clearly concerned, but he ignored her. They were making progress.
This time Hermistos continued to speak without being prodded. “You could say that gifted are watered-down half-gods. In fact, I’m looking forward to calling them that to their face.” He giggled, suppressing another coughing attack. “But you’re wrong about the powers. Gifted don’t have the powers of the god they’re descending from. They don’t throw lightning or direct great beasts. They’re humans. Just better.”
Hermistos leaned back closing his eyes. Mark wasn’t sure if he was dozing off or just resting.
He analyzed Hermistos’ last words and added what he had learned about Atissa’s abilities. “When people lose a part of their body’s natural abilities, let’s say their ability to see, the body often compensates for that. Their sense of hearing becomes way better, for instance. Are gifted like that only stronger?”
It took Hermistos a moment to answer. Mark almost thought he’d fallen unconscious again. But he finally spoke. “You could describe it that way. But their abilities, their gifts are often more specialist in some personal way.” He tilted his head to the side and opened his eyes halfway, smiling a tired smile at Atissa. “You see, all those heroes from the legends that received powers from the gods, they were mostly descendants of gods. That’s why they were able to wield those powers. We just don’t call all of them gifted because not all of them displayed gifts before they found a patron god.”
His eyes closed.
Mark hesitated. Hermistos had told them a lot. Clearly more than he had intended to in the beginning. And he had exhausted himself in the process.
“What about magi?” he asked in a low voice. He needed to know.
Atissa frowned at him. She pulled the blanket around Hermistos and picked up his bowl. He hadn’t finished his meal.
Mark and Atissa rose intending to return to the fire.
“Magi”, Hermistos said so quietly it was almost inaudible, ”are annoying meddlers.”
