have water to drink and grass to eat?” Malora asks.
“The freshest water and the finest oats,” Orion answers. “And jobs to do as well. Everyone in Mount Kheiron has a job to do, including the horses.”
“And your job is …?”
“I am an alchemist,” he explains.
Malora repeats the word silently. “What does an alchemist do?”
Orion smiles. “It’s complicated. But basically, I create scents in my distillery,” he says.
“So it was you who concocted Homeward Bound?”
“And Theon’s Serenity and Mather’s Bower and all the scents my cousins use. I mix essences together to create scents to inhale or burn or sprinkle. I distill the essences from fruits and seeds and plants and flowers and bits of wood and bark. I studied under Kheiron’s master alchemist, who has, unfortunately, passed away.”
Compared to hunting or healing or even basket weaving, Orion’s seems like a frivolous job to Malora. And yet there was nothing frivolous about the vivid picture the scent spawned in her mind. “Is being an alchemist an important job?”
“Anything centaurs do with our hands is considered important. Properly mixed and prepared, scents establish the very tone of society. They control emotions and set moods. I’ve seen them bring about radical transformations. They can make a drowsy soul feel lively and an overly excited one find peace. They can attract mates and repel enemies and bring forth dormant emotions and suppress unwanted ones. They can make for happy, lively, gracious households. A home without scents is a cold cell. I’m proud to have chosen alchemy as my Hand.”
“What is this hand you speak of?” Malora asks. “Apart from these things sticking out at the end of our arms?”
Each new question of Malora’s seems to make Orion happier.“The Hand,” he explains, “according to our Patron and Founder, Kheiron the Wise, is what sets us apart from the beasts. A Hand entails the making of things, like jubilation or paintings or tapestry or sculpture. Or it can be that which you can’t see, like law or religion or philosophy.”
“Or scents!” she says.
“Indeed.” He nods. “Boys and girls at age twelve choose a Hand and study it until age sixteen, when we begin to practice.”
This doesn’t sound all that different from the way life went in the Settlement, Malora thinks, except that jobs there were far more dull and practical. Entertainment and beauty were extras, fit in around more important things like survival. Women in the Settlement took pride in the pots they molded, the fabrics and baskets they wove—and some of these objects were even beautiful—but function was more important than form. Had she told her mother she wanted to study jubilation—whatever that was—Thora would have thought she had gotten into the monkey weed. A job was practical, and most children had no choice but to follow their parents. Life in Mount Kheiron sounded altogether freer and easier.
“Will I, when I come to stay among the centaurs, be able to choose a Hand?” Malora asks.
Orion’s brow creases. “That’s a very interesting question. At fifteen, you’re coming to it rather late in life.”
“Then I will simply choose horse training for my Hand,” she says airily.
“Oh, horse training is not a Hand,” Orion says.
“Then how do your horses get trained?”
“The Twani—like our fine friend Gift—train our horsesfor us. The Flatlanders train horses, too, in their own stables, but Flatlanders don’t choose a Hand.”
“What are Flatlanders?” she asks. “Another hibe?”
“No. They are centaurs, like me and my cousins, except that they are born down on the floodplains surrounding Mount Kheiron. The centaurs born up on Mount Kheiron are called Highlanders. Flatlanders are—in many ways, as you will see—a breed apart from Highlanders. They don’t have Twani, and they don’t have Hands, and they don’t have representatives who sit in our Salient, which is the ruling
“The freshest water and the finest oats,” Orion answers. “And jobs to do as well. Everyone in Mount Kheiron has a job to do, including the horses.”
“And your job is …?”
“I am an alchemist,” he explains.
Malora repeats the word silently. “What does an alchemist do?”
Orion smiles. “It’s complicated. But basically, I create scents in my distillery,” he says.
“So it was you who concocted Homeward Bound?”
“And Theon’s Serenity and Mather’s Bower and all the scents my cousins use. I mix essences together to create scents to inhale or burn or sprinkle. I distill the essences from fruits and seeds and plants and flowers and bits of wood and bark. I studied under Kheiron’s master alchemist, who has, unfortunately, passed away.”
Compared to hunting or healing or even basket weaving, Orion’s seems like a frivolous job to Malora. And yet there was nothing frivolous about the vivid picture the scent spawned in her mind. “Is being an alchemist an important job?”
“Anything centaurs do with our hands is considered important. Properly mixed and prepared, scents establish the very tone of society. They control emotions and set moods. I’ve seen them bring about radical transformations. They can make a drowsy soul feel lively and an overly excited one find peace. They can attract mates and repel enemies and bring forth dormant emotions and suppress unwanted ones. They can make for happy, lively, gracious households. A home without scents is a cold cell. I’m proud to have chosen alchemy as my Hand.”
“What is this hand you speak of?” Malora asks. “Apart from these things sticking out at the end of our arms?”
Each new question of Malora’s seems to make Orion happier.“The Hand,” he explains, “according to our Patron and Founder, Kheiron the Wise, is what sets us apart from the beasts. A Hand entails the making of things, like jubilation or paintings or tapestry or sculpture. Or it can be that which you can’t see, like law or religion or philosophy.”
“Or scents!” she says.
“Indeed.” He nods. “Boys and girls at age twelve choose a Hand and study it until age sixteen, when we begin to practice.”
This doesn’t sound all that different from the way life went in the Settlement, Malora thinks, except that jobs there were far more dull and practical. Entertainment and beauty were extras, fit in around more important things like survival. Women in the Settlement took pride in the pots they molded, the fabrics and baskets they wove—and some of these objects were even beautiful—but function was more important than form. Had she told her mother she wanted to study jubilation—whatever that was—Thora would have thought she had gotten into the monkey weed. A job was practical, and most children had no choice but to follow their parents. Life in Mount Kheiron sounded altogether freer and easier.
“Will I, when I come to stay among the centaurs, be able to choose a Hand?” Malora asks.
Orion’s brow creases. “That’s a very interesting question. At fifteen, you’re coming to it rather late in life.”
“Then I will simply choose horse training for my Hand,” she says airily.
“Oh, horse training is not a Hand,” Orion says.
“Then how do your horses get trained?”
“The Twani—like our fine friend Gift—train our horsesfor us. The Flatlanders train horses, too, in their own stables, but Flatlanders don’t choose a Hand.”
“What are Flatlanders?” she asks. “Another hibe?”
“No. They are centaurs, like me and my cousins, except that they are born down on the floodplains surrounding Mount Kheiron. The centaurs born up on Mount Kheiron are called Highlanders. Flatlanders are—in many ways, as you will see—a breed apart from Highlanders. They don’t have Twani, and they don’t have Hands, and they don’t have representatives who sit in our Salient, which is the ruling
Similar Books
