《Unsung Heroes: Tales of the End》


 Ch. 1- How This Story Begins

    Where should an orator begin their tale? How should they set the tone? What words should they use? It is of utmost importance for the audience, serving as their first impression to the tale. A bad introduction makes even the most interested listener turn away and seek other ways to pass the time. An eager audience can dwindle down to a handful of halfhearted participants in a matter of moments. Listening to a story is no small task, after all.


    Back in the ages before the novel became a popular form of entertainment, oral storytellers were one of the few sources of entertainment for poor families. In larger cities, where coins were as common as dust, to listen cost a penny, but in the more rural, poorer areas, the tales narrated cost nothing at all. Still, no man can offer a service without some form of compensation. Offerings of food and drink, and sometimes a small collection of coins, were the gifts to these great entertainers, since even the poorest of workers had their pride and would accept nothing for free. With an open invitation, story tellers, called Seanchai in those days, would have hundreds of tired workers gather around them at the noon time meal, and a great story would begin.


    Those days were so different from what the future generations would come to know. In the time of the novels, they observed each through the written word. Any reader could pick up and put down the book, which contained one tale, at their leisure, sometimes taking months to finish one and reading it any time of day. No need to hurry. The age of the Seanchai was quite the opposite. The master orators would begin the story and pause when they saw fit. Many tales took several days to narrate, telling each part for an hour at noon. To hear the complete epic, a listener would need to be present each day, from the moment the Seanchai began, to when they paused, and back again the next day when the story continued; otherwise, they would have to hear the abridged version from someone else, who never failed to butcher it from beginning to end. It would only seem fair to step aside and give one such orator the stage, for no one could tell this story like him.


    Herodotus was one of the greatest storytellers in his time, or any time. Across the country, there was not a single child who had not grown up thinking on some story that this master of his craft had told once upon a time. Most Seanchai were as the travelling minstrels and priests, traversing the world in search of new audiences to receive them; but there were some that found a permanent stage. In his younger years, Herodotus told a story in a different village every week, but those times were far behind him now. He retired from his life on the road almost thirteen years ago. Now, at the ripe age of seventy-eight, one year past the perfect lifespan, he sat in his little hut, waiting for noon, when he would tell another epic.


    His hair, what remained of it, was bright grey, almost glistening when under the sun. Wrinkles covered his entire body. A white cloak, given to him by a priest years prior, covered himself, hiding the worst parts of his aging: buckled knees, stiff arms, and sores, the red sores were awful. They itched like madness and demanded rough scratching for relief, but they oozed if he scratched them too hard, and they would scab over, itching worse than before.


    The old man was always in pain, whether he was standing or sitting. Walking was a chore, requiring a cane for one hand, and a gentle, firm shoulder to hold up the other in an ideal situation, but most of the time, he would have to get along on his own. Some of the villagers recommended that a young man or woman stay with him, serving as his helper, but Herodotus had his pride, just like the poor around him. When he had to have help, he would accept, but he would not have someone live to serve him. To him, that was a fate worse than death.


    His life felt like death. In the late hours of the night, he would lie with his eyes open, hoping that the aches would go away long enough for sleep to snuggle him into her comforting embrace, but she was always out of his reach. To pass the time, he would pray for the night to end and the sun to rise. When it did, Herodotus would thank Mnemosyne, patron goddess of all orators, for giving him strength to stand. Concluding his prayer, he would request that night would come quick and sleep might take him. To his disappointment, every night was the same and his body grew wearier with each passing day.


    He often wondered why he was still alive, as is the custom of those that have lived longer than they believed they should. Seventy-seven was perfect, many of the world''s greatest men, and women, had died at that age. King Viron, smiling on his throne, Mother Phyllis, delivering a powerful sermon in the face of her enemies, the historian Leonardo, with pen in hand, finishing his last chronicle, the warrior Cu Leon, battling a hopeless, yet glorious battle; all died at seventy-seven. Why should he be any different from them? Why should he continue lying awake at night with sores he could not relieve while they passed into legend, taking up their place among the heavens?


    To divert his attention from his suffering, he focused on the one thing that made his life tolerable. Stories. In his old age, he divided his daily life into two categories, when he was telling a story and everything else. Storytelling, no matter his age, still held that passion he had when he spun his first yarn. His anticipation would build throughout the day until he would take his stage, and for a few hours, he would feast on what zeal life had left for him. Often, he would sit in front of his hut watching the Sun crawl its way across the sky, until it cleared half its journey and his stories could begin.


    When that time comes, people from all across town, young and old, gathered around his hut at the edge of the forest. People feared the woods, telling stories of children entering and never returning. However, at noon, they would face this fear and sit before the hut, leaning forward in anticipation for the story to begin. This always brought a smile to the old man''s face. The wonder of the listener. There was no greater thrill than seeing it. After his audience had taken their seats on the rise, Herodotus would join them, with more help from a young lady as he grew older, sitting on a small stool in the center of his stage, his head hanging low. Everyone sat with bated breath; the old man waited for a revelation in his mind. His mind stirred as ripples in a pool. With time, they cleared showing what lay underneath the surface.


    Within his mind, he found the place where all Seanchai gathered their stories, at the Great Web. A clever god made it, leaving it in Mnemosyne''s care. It rested beneath the surface of a gentle lake, in which he stood knee-deep. Reaching through the water, Herodotus'' old hands caught hold of a single spider''s thread, which floated into his grasp. Images flashed through his mind in a rush. If anyone other than a Seanchai went there, they would not make sense of it, seeing only a jumbled mess, but he understood and his heart sank.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Today''s story would not be a pleasant one. He looked up, forcing a smile, but he''s not looking at them. Instead, he''s looking past his audience, viewing into the lens of history, where his story rested. After so long, he would disturb it, making it awake in the minds of the people. Taking a shaky breath, he began. "Time," he declared in a loud voice, "is always moving. History grows. The longer we live, the farther away we are from our past, but it is the job of the Seanchai, the storytellers, to remind us of those long-forgotten days, that we might remember and learn. We must always remember, these are not mere stories, but they are part of our history."


    He stood up, neglecting his cane or any assistance, despite his popping, aching bones and the itching sores, which he no longer noticed. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked around his circle in a rhythmic stride, as was his custom. When a story began, he was no longer bound by the limitations of his body, the stage was his, no flaw would hinder his performance. "Kingdoms have risen and fallen, but one was greater than all the others: the civilization of Apollo. Its greatness did not lie in the might of their army, though they could topple their enemies in a single night, or how wealthy its people were, who could lose all they had one day and wake up the next with more than ever, nor how massive their cities were, which were larger than the Isles of Jupiter, far to the south of us." A gasp of surprise rose from the children, who couldn''t fathom how large the legendary Isles were. The elderly wore an ear-to-ear grin, knowing that this story would be one to remember.


    "While they had everything that made a great people, none of it made them a kingdom unlike any other, no. It was their king who made them the greatest of all. Ehud, Emperor King of Apollo, was unlike any ruler before and there has never been one since. It is said that, instead of a throne, he sat upon a statue carved in his image. The citizens would appeal to him in his stone hands, while he sat on his own head, his council on his shoulders, and judged them, his large eyes observing all. He ruled his people with stern, but just laws. In all of his endeavors, he succeeded. All knowledge was his for the taking. No land was unconquerable. Every foe had to bend the knee. Even inescapable Death had to bow to his might. He had created an eternal paradise on Earth." This last comment made the elderly drop their jaws in amazement. "It was as if wings bore him high into the sky, carrying him to heights that no man could fathom. Many believed that the gods had blessed him with powers beyond human comprehension. Others thought he was a god...but he was a mortal man, like any of us."


    No one dared to interrupt the old man''s tale. Even crying babes were silent when his story began. Herodotus'' head swayed from side to side as his story continued. "Sometimes, man forgets his weakness, his humanity, and believes himself to be a god. It is the folly of the mortal to delude himself into being immortal. Of the seven abominations, it is one of the chief three. Once committed, he will not believe his lie long. The gods will remind him of his true insignificance in their eyes."


    A gasp from the women, a nervous gulp from the men. "After fifteen years of prosperity, the king saw a vision. A terrible one. He awoke in a cold sweat, the images burned into his mind. What would frighten a king so? He saw destruction and how his kingdom was at the center. Incurable sickness, bleeding sores, would weaken them. Their enemies, long defeated, would rise, fire in their eyes, overrunning them and overthrowing their unquestionable reign." A stunned silence took hold of the crowd. "Those that survived would have little food or water. Greed and hatred would consume those few and they would drive themselves to extinction. The king would be the only survivor, doomed to wander as a pariah, knowing who he was and that he lost everything, with his former pride as his only friend."


    Herodotus stopped walking with a sudden jerk, allowing this moment to hold the audience''s attention, while allowing a deeper revelation to come to mind. He turned, a knowing smile on his face. "But Ehud would not accept his fate. Man does not welcome his doom with a peaceful ease. Desperate, in the chambers of his forges, he had his blacksmiths make a great sword. Melted into its core were the golden horns of the Minotaur, said to tear open the heavens in its rage, with a steely tooth of the Great Snake, its eyes ever watchful of the surface from its watery prison, and the tears of goddess Niobe, lamenting the death of her children. The king took up his sword, named Heaven Shaker, and abandoned his kingdom to search the four corners of the world for some way to avert fate."


    He walked again, the flat ground of his stage crunching beneath him. "His journey took him to the peak of the highest mountain, where the great birds nest, to the lowest cave, where the foul demons hide. He fought countless beasts in search for his answer, solved the unsolvable riddles, and fetched the lost treasures for their masters, hoping to divert his tragedy, all the while praying that the gods would withhold their punishment for a little longer. After ten years of searching, he found his answer at last."


    "I bet he did," a lad of seventeen grunted in disgust from his vantage point at the back of the crowd. He sat with his head resting on his hands, a bored expression on his face, masking the more disrespectful tone of his voice. Around him, some of the listeners glared at him, a silent warning to quiet his wagging tongue. "Oh come on," he exclaimed in a far-from-hushed tone, looking around. "Are you going to keep listening to this?" Their blazing eyes told him that that was what they would do, and a few seemed ready to make the younger man quiet by any means necessary. A disgusted, but not surprised, look overtook the lad''s face.


    "Tristan," a boy of ten whispered to him, pulling at his arm. "He''s about to get to the best part. I know it. You''re interrupting."


    "Sorry Ur," Tristan replied with a huff, wrenching himself from the child''s grip as he stood up. With a quick pat of his rear, he stormed off, hands in his pockets. "I''m too old to listen to this foolishness," he announced in a louder voice.


    "Wait," the boy called, hopping up to chase after him.


    He waved the child aside, not looking back. "No need for you to follow a grouch like me. Stay. Enjoy the story. You are a child. I don''t expect you to know any better." Ur stopped following, watching him saunter off under his dark blonde hair, not knowing if he should listen to the story or follow his friend.


    In the following unsettling quiet, the story awaited for Herodotus to continue, but he remained within the wake of this interruption. Looking off in the lad''s direction, a frown formed at the corners of his lips, the look of a man knowing that in the audience, there was one untouched by the tale. If it were only himself and Tristan standing at the edge of the trees, the old man would have abandoned his oral tradition and focused on why this one boy, on the verge of manhood, acted in such a manner.


    To his own disappointment, Herodotus must entertain his audience. They waited for him, and a good Seanchai did not keep them in perpetual suspense. Forcing a smile to cover his frown, he continued his tale. "But how would a mere man accomplish such a feat? The gods reign on high," but Tristan did not hear a word, and when he would, it would be under very different circumstances.

 Ch. 2- Ariel

    "Morons," he muttered to himself, shuffling further away from the gathering, making his way back to town. At the back of his neck, he felt the glare of a few still following him with disapproval. What? I can''t say that I hate a story? Is that such a crime? he wondered, huffing under his breath. Reaching the edge of town, he paused, pushing the bangs of his shaggy brown hair to the top of his forehead as he shielded his eyes from the sun''s beams.


    He groaned, letting his hair fall back into its natural place. "Story won''t be done for a while." What was he supposed to do until then? He huffed his way back to Ariel, the ramshackle town, where Tristan, Ur, and the rest of the audience called home. They were the only village on a pass leading straight through the Mountains of Partition. Ariel served as the junction town for those on each side of the mountain range, or they used to be if the old timers told the truth. Nowadays, no one visited, thanks to the closest village down the mountain range being over thirty miles away. Not that anyone wished to brave the forest to reach the little town.


    Its settlement took place on the historical day where the countries of Tiberius and Domitian, which were once whole, dubbed the Mountains of Partition as their division line and Ariel was the border town. Before that day, a civil war exploded between the two halves, a war that threatened to destroy them both. With the foundations of Ariel as their setting, the leaders of each nation decided that peace was a better alternative than wasting their resources on a stalemate of a war, one that brought only death with no victory in sight, but that was a decision reached after a century of fighting and generations of spilled blood; still, time does not heal all wounds and neither nation was not on the best of terms, even on a good day. Again, that was if the old timers'' stories were true.


    As far as Tristan knew, there was a time when the border town flourished with caravans passing through every week, when the forest was younger and had a clean pathway. The passage to Ariel was the easier method of crossing the mountains, fraught with treacherous mountains and dangerous gulleys. Plenty of men sought other avenues and never returned. Taking the long detour around the mountains meant going months out of the way what only had to take a week. Hundreds of years before Tristan''s lifetime, both nations, and the tiny village, took their permanent residence in the firm embrace of the Hannibal empire, which used the twin rivers of Boyne and Clyde as their main trade routes in the west and east. What they lacked was a connection between the two. This was a function the mountain pass to Ariel performed. That was the town''s history, if the tale-tellers'' drinks had not dulled their memories to the point of pure fantasy. Either way, none of the former glory remained with Ariel, leaving her a dirty hovel for the vermin of the mountains.


    Even if the town''s history was a drunkard''s dream, no one sought the truth because one thing could be certain. The people of Ariel loved a good story. They would abandon all work, forgetting the woes of their lives, and become absorbed in a tale. One would be inclined to believe that the citizens never grew out of their childhood wonder. Perhaps they could not afford to lose it, or rather refused to let it go. Tristan was not sure.


    When he reached Ariel''s edge, Tristan huffed at the sorry state of his hometown. It was made of perhaps fifty buildings, each one a pitiful stone shack. That was one thing that their ancestors did right. The rains beat the spirit down. Winter chilled the heart. The heat baked their flesh for the maws of animals. Yet, stone stood since the foundation of the village. It crumbled in places, needing patchwork to avoid rain turning dirt floors to mud, but on the whole, the stone protected Ariel''s countless generations.


    No house differed much from another. The only distinguishing mark were the carvings over each door. They designated which household dwelled within. Everyone lived in the house of their fathers. Sleeping on the same beds, eating at the same table, sitting in the same chairs, relieving themselves in the same holes that their fathers had. That was a fact, and it would be the same until the end of time. If the town lasted that long.


    Tristan walked through the town, spotting the old familiar faces of those that did not partake of the Seanchai''s tales. There was old Miss Esther, the owner of Ariel''s last bakery. That was a woman who never found time to relax. She came from a family of hard-working people. Their labor never ended until the day they died. It was said that her grandfather, Old Ezra, died kneading bread, falling into it face first. The thought brought a wisp of a smile on Tristan''s face. Did they use the bread afterward? he wondered, not wanting to know the answer.


    Esther baked her wares in a huge stone furnace, a blaze that never stopped. It would take far too much work to get the fire back to its glory. She kept the windows of her bakery home open to keep from suffocating. Tristan could see her kneading dough for her next batch of loaves. The bread''s aroma wafted through the town, making drool run down his chin. Not being able to help himself, Tristan called, "Esther. Throw a roll to a hungry man."You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    The aging woman wiped her brow, approaching the window with flour covering her arms. She shielded her eyes from the noon sun. "What man?" she answered. "All I see is a ruddy boy wanting a handout. If you think yourself a man, work for your bread."


    "I will be a man this winter," he retorted with a forced grin.


    "Years do not make a man," she spat. "Work. That is all that matters. Everything else is just for show." She turned away from the window, ending the conversation. Esther was a difficult woman, but she was hardest on her "worthless husband, Mot." Her words. Years ago, he ran the mill, making her flour. That ended when his arm was caught between the millstones, crushing every bone and maiming him for life. He retired to work in the bakery, but to her, he was in the way. Many thought it was Prospero''s mercy when he passed away.


    A rusted guffaw made Tristan turn away from the window. Sitting on a rock, known as the Wingless Bird''s Perch, was the oldest man in Ariel, Hermes. A native of the town, but claimed to travel the world in his youth. He had far-fetched tales of his own that made him worthy of the title of Seanchai. No one believed his tales, claiming that he never left the village. Hermes never gave in, swearing on all the gods he could name that every story he told was true. Dejected, he wandered the streets, being a general nuisance to anyone nearby.


    "You don''t work, you don''t eat," he mocked.


    "Doddering old man," Tristan hissed under his breath, walking away. His feet carried him in no particular direction, but it made no difference. There was nowhere to go. He passed by the village well, called the Blessing of Prospero. Everyone got their water there. Since the foundation of the town, it had not once run dry. Without it, Ariel would have died a long time ago.


    Reaching the other side of the village, he looked onto the fields, ripe with wheat. The men referred to them as Prospero''s Bounty. It was here that he, and most men, worked. They distributed the wheat through the town, giving plenty to Esther. In exchange, she made bread for the hard workers. Prospero''s Bounty provided them with animals found living in the fields. With the bread and meat, the town managed to survive.


    In time, Tristan found himself in the town''s square. With a sigh, he murmured, "Everything leads back to the Tree of Prosperity." High over his head stood the great tree, casting its shade over all that sought shelter from the sun''s cruel light. On the branches, he could see the faint semblance of apple blossoms. Legend said it was planted at the town''s foundation. This was the true life source of the village. No matter how bleak each day was, the people of Ariel knew that they could endure as long as the tree stood tall. Despite his differing thoughts on almost everything else, Tristan could not help being one of them.


    Standing beneath the tree''s shade, he found himself thinking back on better years. As a child, he climbed them more times than he could count. A smile played at his lips as he remembered how safe he felt during those days. Not once had he even considered that he would fall, even though he was higher up than the tallest house. The branches nestled into the palms of his hands and groves of his feet. A child could not be safer in his mother''s arms.


    Resting at the foot of the tree, nestled between roots, a stone statue of a man stood with a stern grin on his face. He was born from a black lump of rock in an era that time forgot, darker than the skin of any man Tristan met. It stood as tall as any man if not taller with the stone slab beneath it, elevating it above the ground, but one would not notice with the overgrown grass covering the base. The sunken holes that represented his eyes stared out on the world, watching with this mixture of pleasure, but wariness. He may once have intimidated those that passed him, but time had worn on him.


    The edges of his face were round and dull, where they were sharp and striking at one point. His right hand rested on a sword, while the other held a spear in place, stabbing the butt into the stone base, but the dull spearhead looked as if it would fall off one day. Dark robes, once majestic and now brittle to the point of breaking, lay carved over his body, hiding any nakedness. Lydia, all Ariel had for a teacher, told him once that most statues displayed the deities naked. A fact that made the boy''s eyebrows raise and nose scrunch up. "It is to display them as the perfect version of mankind," she explained.


    Though the lad didn''t understand everything she taught, he knew one thing: it was odd that this statue would show the man clothed. Why would any artist do something so different from the others, if naked statues were normal? Would that person find it as gross as a child Tristan did? Not likely.


    At the base of the statue, hidden by the grass, was a name. It was the only part of the statue that was lost to time, the years eroding the lettering, but Tristan did not need a name. No one in Ariel did. "Prospero," he mused to himself. "The protector of Ariel." He scowled at the statue, wondering why anyone would want to believe that nonsense.


    Lost in his thoughts, he did not hear someone coming up behind him. Snapping out of his thoughts, he whirled around to see a young woman standing nearby. At once, his breath flew from his lungs while his heart tried to jump out of his chest. Deep brown eyes, impossible to ignore, gazed into his. Dark hair swayed in front of her breasts. A dirty brown, homespun dress clung to her body. A bucket of water spilled, but he paid no attention to it. All he could see was her. Opal. If gods did exist, Tristan wished they could make her love him.

 Ch. 3- The Roads Lonely Night

    He pulled his dirty cloak closer around him. It was cold. The summer months had harsh nights in these parts. His breath smoked in front of him mingling with the rising ashes from his fire, his main source of warmth. Though the winters were mild in this country, there was no point in denying that he was not accustomed to the cold. A mere chilled breeze made his blood run cold. If the weather was any worse, he would have to seek shelter, a luxury that one as himself could not afford.


    Drawing in a cold breath, Faris faced the truth as the fire warmed his red whiskered face. He had to leave as soon as possible, but he had to stay for the time being. His job was not completed. If he left before the term of his service was over, he would forfeit all that he could earn. What would be the purpose of enduring the cold nights if he left empty-handed? The thought of it left his stomach sour, which made empty guts worse. He struggled to remember the last time he had a full belly.


    A cloudy sky loomed overhead, blocking the light of the moon and countless stars. An ill omen no doubt, he thought to himself. There was a time when he thought omens were mindless superstitions of old, drooling women and disgusting beggar monks. That was in the distant past. Now he knew that superstition or not, it was wise to guard oneself when the world was kind enough to give some hint. That was more than most gave him.


    Averting his eyes from the sky, he looked out over the crackling embers at the land beneath him. As far as the night would allow, he saw the silhouettes of emptiness. Trees dotted the tree, rising above the barrenness, but they paled in comparison to the rocky hills that marked this country as their territory. It was said that if one could see the countryside from an eagle''s perspective, he would see a message of the gods written among the hills. On that, Faris was skeptical. What message could be so important that they would need to create such a waste of land?


    Each hill had little to offer in terms of substance. The ground was too rocky to grow most crops and the hills made it impossible for anyone to harvest a proper crop. Game was scarce with migrating birds being the most frequent visitors, and they have ended their year''s journey far from here. The creatures that called this land their home were wise, hiding in their holes and beneath the crevices of rocks when those that wanted their flesh appeared.


    Amongst the hills sat a lone city, resting on a smaller hill. Why they chose a smaller hill made little sense to Faris. Perhaps they hoped they would remain invisible when there were better places to call home. During the day, all it took was a single glance to know that such a thought in earnest would show the lack of one''s own intellect. A long dry trench ran through the hilly country, drawing passed the city. Before it was a dry ditch, it was a river, the very lifeforce of the city. Any passerby would find them. What other path would they follow other than the river?


    Looking at the silhouetted city on the hill, his stomach groaned. He longed for a hot meal and, better yet, a warm bed. If he had the coin, he would eat and have a room. Perhaps he could slide out of his stinking stained pants and tattered shirt. He would toss his sorry shoes aside, freeing his aching toes from their daily prison. A maiden would wash his clothes while he soaked in a bath, allowing the scum and grime of the road to slide off his body. He would fall asleep in that tub until the sun rose. Clothing himself, he would face a new day, refreshed for the first time in he forgot how long.


    Averting his eyes, he knew that was a vain wish. He did not have the coin for any of those, let alone all three. Such was the fate of a man of the road, one of many. There was a time when his pants had stoutness to them and his shirt had color, which he forgot. He wondered how much longer his shoes would hold together. The leather carried him far, but in another month at best, barefoot would be his method of travel. His feet cried at the thought of it. His long cloak, which he snatched while its previous owner bathed, was his newest garment, and it had its far share of use.


    Not far away, there was a rustling down the hill. His eyes narrowed while his body snapped to his feet. In his mind, he shuffled through the various causes of such a noise, and too many of them meant misfortune for himself. His right hand slipped down his body, sliding over to his left hip. It stopped, resting the fingers around the hilt of a double-edged cutlass. Slinking back from the open flame, he pressed himself into nearby bushes. In the dark, it would be hard for anyone, even a creature of the night, to spot him right away. The road taught one many things. Chief among them was wary men who lived to see the morning. Fools were at the mercy of those that knew the teachings of the road. Faris knew what it was like to be at another''s mercy. It would not happen again.


    Poised with his hand on the hilt, he listened as the rustling grew louder. The singular sound shifted into two distinct noises, one of which struggled to be quieter than the other. They drew closer until they stopped somewhere beyond the fire''s light. Faris stayed where he was, keeping his ears sharp. The silence hung in the air, waiting for one of the two parties to break it. Whoever the newcomers were, they would soon find themselves at the mercy of those more acquainted with the road''s teachings.


    "Where is he?" a voice hissed. Faris had to grin. It was surprising what one could learn from the sound of another''s voice. A man, perhaps one on the heavier side. If he was skilled with a blade, he would be the one to fight first. Heavy men carried large swords. Easy to dodge for one light on his feet, but hard to defend against. Take him down fast and deal with the second one, whoever he might be, he concluded with his fingers tightening around the hilt, but he waited. Rushing into a fight led to an unseen knife shoved in the guts.


    "Quiet," another wheezed. At this voice, Faris almost laughed. An older man, and lean by the sounds of him. This was too perfect. Old men were nothing to fear in a fight. They might as well not be there. This changed nothing. His plan would be the same. If he surprised them, it would be over in hummingbird speed, but he stayed hidden. Patience was a virtue that always paid its faithful followers.


    The quiet held for mere moments to be broken by the first speaker. "Heh, must''ve ran off," he chuckled. Clomping footsteps drew closer, far louder than the earlier approaching ones.


    "Wait you fool," the second roared, but it was too late. Both of them were in Faris''s sights, whether they wanted it or not. The first lumbered into view, revealing himself to be a large man with long dark hair. His companion, who struggled to pull the other back to no avail, was a balding man of shrunken stature, using a thick walking stick to keep his balance.


    Both men dressed in rags, worn and weary from the road. The larger man carried a huge pack that no doubt had all their valuables while the other carried the waterskin. An interesting arrangement, he mused. If either of them left the other behind, he would risk sacrificing all his belongings and having nothing of value anywhere or dying of thirst in the middle of nowhere. However, the larger man could overpower his frail friend with ease, except the elder wore a curved blade at his side. Men of the road were cunning beings, if nothing else.


    They gathered around the fire with little argument, with the older man giving up trying to deter his companion. The large man dropped his pack and laid next to the fire, stretching out. His wide eyes closed at once as sleep''s arms took him into its warm embrace. Furious, the second man thumped his dozing friend on the forehead with an open palm. "Wake up half-wit," he barked, looking around in fear.


    "Cut it out," the first said, waving his companion away. "Let me sleep in peace. How often do you find a ready-made fire?"


    "Everywhere," the elder chastised. "Because people make them. Whoever made it won''t want to share it with the likes of us."


    At this, the large man guffawed. "Who cares? Don''t think he''ll be too disagreeable with a few broken bones."


    "Gah. You haven''t lived long enough to know the danger in pushing a man away from a fire."


    "Have you forgotten what we''re trying to do? A man''s fury of losing his fire is not the worst that could happen."


    "There it is. Proof that you have not learned anything. Perhaps you need a reminder." To prove his point, he pulled down the front of his shirt, displaying some mark that Faris could not make out. "This is what a man gets for folly."


    "You keep showing that as if it is supposed to impress me," the young man yawned. "An old man''s scars show weakness, not wisdom." At this, the elder struck the youth hard with a clenched fist. He howled, leaping to his feet. "That does it. I''m tired of your pointless lectures. Perhaps you need a lesson of your own." The elder drew his sword, ready for a brawl while the younger balled his fists. Though Faris was interested in seeing how this would finish, the chill was becoming uncomfortable.


    Time to join them, he decided, stepping out of his hiding place. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    At the sound of his coming, the pair forgot their anger, looking toward the newcomer. "Who goes there?" the elder shrieked, waving his sword. The younger reared up to his full height, ready to pummel anything in sight. Even in the muted glow of the fire, the fear on his face was plain. Faris made no attempt to hide himself, allowing each step to crunch the earth beneath with sound confidence.


    As he strode into the firelight, he allowed his cloak to display the sheathed blade. "Evening," he greeted in a gruff tone, courtesy of the chilled air. He paid no attention to the threatening glares his unwelcome guests threw his way. Sitting down by the flames, he extended his hands toward the warmth, allowing life to return to his fingers. "Cold night. No friend like a fire."


    They exchanged a look. Faris regarded them with a cold stare and the faint wisp of a grin while they remained tense, unsure if they should strike. On the road, strangers were a double-edged sword, very helpful as a friend and very dangerous as a foe. It was impossible to tell which group a stranger would fall into. Those that were not wary ended up with daggers in their guts watching their blood pool beneath them.


    For a moment, nothing happened, until the elder said, "You speak true. Though no warmth is better than a woman''s." His sword lowered, but his body was more tense than before. Though he gave the tone of one remembering his courtesies, his voice betrayed him.


    He has a reason to remain hostile, Faris noted.


    "No man can agree with that," Faris answered aloud, giving no sign that he suspected. "Do you plan to stand the rest of the night or would you like to share this fire?"


    A faint smile played on the elder''s lips. Limping forward, he sat down by the flames, warming his hands. The younger remained where he was, hand on his sword. "Sit down, you oaf," the elder barked. "Do not mock the gift of our gracious host." At his insistence, the younger sat down, though his body remained rigid. He eyed the elder''s sword, contemplating making a grab for it if necessary.


    "You must forgive his manners," the elder excused, maintaining an empty grin. "He lacks the good graces that his mother possessed."


    "Many lack what their good mothers wished to impart," Faris replied with a nod. The younger dismissed everything with a grunt. Reaching for a stick, he prodded the logs, making the flames leap up. In the brightness, Faris caught a threatening look in the man''s eyes. It was brief, but with a keen eye, it was impossible to miss. Besides, it was clear that he wanted Faris to see it. What he did not expect was that the sudden light glimpsed off the elder''s finger. Nestled on his forefinger was a ring which looked so foreign on his wrinkled fingers.


    "Not that the lad can take blame for that," the elder admitted. His voice''s cadence was slow and deliberate, allowing time for another to chime in if he wanted. Faris did not. "She disappeared when he was young. Had to take him on the road with me so we could both make a living. After all, it is improper for a man to abandon his child, but I would be lying if I said that it was a good upbringing for him." He shook his head. "Perhaps we might leave the road behind. All we need is a purse dripping with coins. Heard that there was some good work up north in the royal quarries."


    "Lot of good you''ll be there," his son scoffed, while keeping his eyes on Faris.


    At this, the old man''s brow furrowed in clear frustration. "How dare you mock your father in front of our host? You forget all that I did for you." He jumped to his feet and slapped the younger one on the back of the head. The son tore his eyes away from Faris long enough to glare at his father. "While I cannot be a workhouse like you, I have my own talents that I can offer the King."


    "What would that be?" Faris interrupted, growing weary of the family squabble. If there was a point to this, he wanted the pair to get to it.


    "My mind," the elder answered with a widening grin. "I know a little of everything. Never forget anything, not even a face. Arithmetic, history, geography. It''s always fresh in my brain. If a man with my mind cannot be useful, then what good am I?" He paused, laughing. "Where are my manners? I bore you with our tales." He sighed. "It comes from having only this bum to speak with. No doubt, you have your own stories you wish to pass to a fellow stranger."


    He suppressed a frown. Not again, he thought to himself. Many men on the road were clever. They had to in order to survive, but there were some that believed that they were the cleverest. Men such as these thought that strangers were fools that could be led around as a cur with a slice of meat. Often, they lacked what they believed they possessed in abundance, only serving as a headache for those around them.


    "No offense taken," he replied. "My tales consist of nothing but the lonely path of the road before me." Trying to get information out of me, he mused. Why? The ring caught his eye again. At the back of his mind, a sudden image came to his remembrance. It made his blood run cold. At once, he knew that this conversation was at an end.


    "On second thought," he said. "There is one story that I could regale you with. Once there was a hungry wildcat. Deep in the woods, he had little food to eat where his ribs poked through his skin. One day, he caught the stench of a common rat. Long ago, he would not trouble himself with chasing after such a low creature, with too little meat and far more hassle than he is worth. Now, it will consume the rat or die like one."


    He kept his eyes on his unwelcome guests, waiting for the change in their eyes. It would not be long. "The wildcat tracked its prey for days. Drool ran down its furry chin as it thought about how much it would enjoy dining on the rat. As time passed, he grew weaker and fearful that he would never catch its quarry. At last, he found a little gulf; at the bottom of it stood the rat."


    "The wildcat stalked down to where the rat awaited, seeming to not suspect a thing. Driven out of its mind by hunger, the cat lunged for its prey. But what the cat did not know was that the rat stood in front of a spike, which he so cleverly hid with common leaves. As its own weight gored itself on the barb, the cat saw the rat''s grin. The rat knew that its predator was on its heels. It planned out the predator''s end. The rat led the cat along, always bringing it closer to demise."


    He looked up at the pair, allowing his tone to freeze into an icy dagger. "Old man, you know the dangers of the road better than your son. Have you taught him the danger of forgetting a face?"


    Careful, he answered, "Yes."


    Nodding, Faris asked, "Did you teach him the danger of relying on another man''s ignorance?" He leaned closer to the fire, allowing the light to cast a shadow on the top of his face. "Like you, I never forget a face, and I remember yours well.


    The men exchanged a brief look. Even in the dim firelight, he could see the blood draining from their faces. They knew that they were found out, but clever men were all about playing pointless games. "Not sure what you are talking about," the elder started.


    "Drop the act. If there''s one thing I can''t stand, it''s a fool who thinks he''s clever," he barked. The elder recoiled, old fingers trembling in the blade''s direction. "So who sent you starving kittens to chase me down?" They did not answer. Faris sighed. "A name is all I ask. Is that so much?" They kept their mouths shut. "Well, that tells me more than you''d think."


    "What?" the elder exclaimed.


    "If you cannot reveal the identity of your employer, he must be an important man to keep your lips sealed," Faris observed. "Besides, they must be paying you a pretty penny if they gave you a ring before you managed to track down their prize."


    A silence hung in the air. They had nothing to say to him. Neither expected this outcome. Fools. Did they believe it would be this easy at such a high price? "You know I can let you go if you leave now. Both of you can head north to find work. Wouldn''t recommend the royal quarries though. Doubt they''d want you."


    At last, they sprung to their feet, youth grabbing a fiery stick, the elder raising his sword. It was over in an instant, faster than the pair expected. No man realizes it, but death is always at his back. It overtakes him before he notices it''s there. Such as it was for these. Faris grabbed the hilt of his blade and leapt to meet them. As the cloak flew open, the dim light of the embers seemed to ignite the edges of the silver sword. Its blade was three-foot with a curved guard which was wide and silver, similar to the sabers of sailors. At the end of the hilt was a seven-edged, brilliant blue jewel, or at least a splendid imitation of one.


    Faris''s sword struck true. The youth was down first, who was too eager to meet his demise. He swung his stick, hitting the fire. Embers, sticks, and ash flew at Faris. Quick to pummel his foe, the youth charged forward into Faris''s awaiting sword. The tip pierced deep into his breast. The youth gaped as he realized Faris''s tattered cloak shielded him from his blinding attack.


    As the youth dropped to the ground, his flowing blood watering the earth, his father gave a savage battle cry, leaping forward with his sword in one hand and walking stick in the other. There is a time when a man must lay down his blade. The elder needed to do so long ago. Faris''s sword glinted in the firelight as the tip slashed through the elder''s throat. He was too slow. Gagging on his own blood, the old man dropped where he stood. The white blade was stained red by the intermingling blood of father and son.


    Faris looked down on them with a cold eye. Stooping down, he wiped his sword clean on the younger''s clothes. "Don''t want your vile blood rusting it," he murmured. Putting the blade away, he moved over to the elder. It would be best if it appeared that they met a bandit. He took whatever coins he could find, though there weren''t many. Their clothes were nothing he needed or wanted.


    The last thing he took was the ring. He glanced at the little silver band. His lip curled at the sigil. "Just as I thought," he murmured, eyeing the platinum angel. With a sigh, he stuffed it into his pocket. He kicked dirt on his fire, smothering it. He left the bodies where they were. The animals would take care of them. In the meantime, he needed a new place to sleep. Someplace far from the bodies.


    As he turned away, his clock opened on his right side. In the dying embers of the fire, the silhouette of a black sword swayed. It rested at his side awaiting his touch. His hand did not touch it. There was not a day that he didn''t curse the blade. Yet he could not cast it aside. It was his, and he feared the day when he would draw it.

 Ch. 4- Love and Friendship

    "Thank you," Opal said as the bucket rested in her arms. Water sloshed around, but unlike earlier, none of it hit the ground. She and Tristan walked along in wet clothes, which would dry out soon with the sun''s heat baking them. "I''m sorry again for getting you wet." She dazzled him with a toothy grin that made everyone smile, whether they wanted to or not.


    "I shouldn''t have scared you," he replied with a warm smile, not even noticing the damp chill. "It''s my fault as much as yours."


    "Either way, thanks for helping. Mother wanted it as soon as possible. Said she had something important to teach me today."


    Yes, her mother, he thought to himself with a growing sadness. "How is she?"


    The instant he said it, he wanted to take it back. Everyone in Ariel knew that Opal''s mother, Lydia, was sick for over a year. To make matters worse, she was all the village had for a medicine woman. Tristan could still remember the first day of the year, the day of that horrible announcement. The aging woman heaved herself on top of Wingless Bird''s Perch, being much shorter than everyone else.


    "My family has a habit of meeting the gods early. As to why, I cannot say, "she had said. "You would think that healers would be given the longest lives possible, but we cannot understand their ways. I am far from being the eldest of my ancestors, yet the gods have decided that this is all I get." Her words fell on the town as if a giant rock hit their heads.


    "Don''t bother asking about a remedy. None exists. All we can do is look to the future." It was then that her daughter, Opal, stood up beside her. Tristan watched everything from the back. Even from his vantage point, he was certain that he would see uncontrollable tears flowing down her cheeks. No one could blame her. Who could stand up in front of a crowd while their mother admitted that her death was imminent? What he saw made his jaw drop, and the image was forever burned into his brain. Opal stood next to her mother with a gentle grin. Her eyes were calm, not even close to shedding a tear. She did not show the slightest hint of weakness.


    "As to how much longer I will be among you, that is something that only the gods know," Lydia continued. "I have no final words of wisdom that I wish to impart. Never had the tongue for great speeches. All I have left to say is my appointment. My daughter will serve you just as well as I have. Please take care of her."


    Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before Lydia drew her last breath. In the meantime, she spent every waking hour training her daughter to master every trick their family knew. If he remembered right, the entire process was not completed long into adulthood. Opal had to learn everything before she was eighteen. He could not imagine how she had to feel.


    "She''s doing well," she said with a grin. "Claims that she''s getting stronger every day. She won''t get off her feet. Almost falls asleep standing up. Says that there''s too much to do to sit around all day."


    Tristan met her smile with a stony countenance. This was not how she felt. He knew the smile was phony, but he could not bring himself to say anything. "Mother said that she might be around long enough to bring my children into the world." As soon as those words dropped off her lips, the smile fell into a bitter frown. Tears welled up. Blushing, she stopped, looking down fast to hide her face.


    He said nothing, standing next to her. His hands hung at his sides, wishing to reach out to her. They remained stiff and unmoving. He bit his lip, not knowing what to do. Everything always ended up this way, ever since they were little. When was the first time he met her? It was hard to say.


    As soon as her quiet tears stopped, she raised her head with a grin. "Sorry," Opal said, wiping the tears from her face. "You didn''t need to see all that." Her arms held the bucket tight. "I think I''m okay with everything, but all the emotions keep rushing back and I realize I''m not." She paused, looking at him with an intense need. "How did you deal with losing your parents?"


    The question took him aback. "Well," he stammered, not knowing what to say. "Don''t remember too much. I was young. Most of that runs together. Maybe it''s because I was a kid." Rubbing his neck, he paused, wondering if he dared say more. "Or maybe, you get over it in time. Maybe you won''t. I don''t know."


    To his surprise, Opal''s smile widened until a short fit of giggles took over. "You have a way with words," she laughed, making Tristan blush. "But in a way, that''s all I needed to hear." She paused, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "There''s a kind of security in knowing that everyone else is clueless as you, right?"


    "Sure," he offered, not knowing what to say next. Opal had that effect on him.


    "You know," she said, breaking the awkward silence. "We have a thread tying us together."


    "What?" he exclaimed, looking around for a loose thread. Finding nothing, he gaped at her in utter confusion.Stolen novel; please report.


    "You can''t see it silly," she replied. "It''s invisible." His eyebrows raised in utter confusion. "Oh," she gasped, looking at the sun. "I''m late. Mother will be furious." She spun on her heel, grabbing the bucket of water. "See you later, Tristan. Tell Ur hi," she called, waving as she turned a corner and disappeared.


    He stayed where he was, hands digging into his pockets. His eyes strayed to realize that once again he was under the Tree of Prosperity. Prospero''s statue sat beneath its cool shade. It looked on the world with cold eyes, unaware of what happened in a village he was supposed to protect. He took a step toward it, and that was as far as he got. Someone slammed into him, hurling Tristan to the ground, with a small body landing on top of him. "Hey," a small voice groaned. A dark-haired boy with reddened skin hopped off him with ease while Tristan lumbered to his feet. The boy wore dirty breeches ripped off at the knee and a shirt with too many holes in it. He flashed an embarrassed smile as he took deep breaths. "Sorry about running into you."


    "It''s fine, Ur," Tristan replied with a sigh. "Is the story done already?"


    "Just ended. Ran back," Ur replied, between gasps.


    Tristan rolled his eyes. Why does the boy have to run everywhere he goes? With a warm grin, he ruffled his hair. Ur returned the grin. "Want to hear what happened next?"


    Though not interested, he widened the grin. "Tell me all about it."


    The little boy''s face lit up in excitement, nodding. "It was amazing. The King fought maybe a dozen monsters with his magic sword." He waved one balled fist about, displaying the slashing of an imaginary sword. No matter what Tristan felt about Herodotus''s tales, he could not help but smile at Ur''s passion. He loved stories of heroes and gods. To him, all of it was real, as if he himself could join the tale. Retelling the story, there was a spark in the child''s eyes that made Tristan long for years long gone.


    To his surprise, Ur paused, his smile curving into a frown. "But it was sad too," he admitted.


    "Really?" his older friend asked, with the same demeanor a man uses to deal with a child''s concern. "Well, don''t think about it too much. It was just a story." The little boy nodded, a smile creeping back on his face. "Opal says hi, by the way."


    "You saw Opal?" the child exclaimed in delight. "Did she say she could play sometime?"


    "No," he answered in blunt honesty. If there was one thing he could not bring himself to do to Ur, it was lie. The child''s shoulders sagged in disappointment. Good thing it took little to lift the boy''s spirits. "Hey, want to fight?" At once, the child perked up. Was that even a question?


    The pair armed themselves with wooden poles. In Ariel, there was no military and no need for anyone to learn any fighting techniques. Who could hurt them deep in the mountains? Still, that did not stop the children from spending their time swinging sticks at one another, pretending that they were legendary warriors. Tristan and Ur were no different.


    Both wielded a pole as tall as himself. "Don''t go easy on me," Ur challenged, holding his staff in a double-fisted grip like a long sword. His little arms were stronger than they looked. Everyone saw Ur as a wide-eyed child, loving to be everyone''s friend. They did not see what he was like when he played at fighting. His eyes narrowed, revealing a savagery hidden to all but Tristan.


    He knew what Ur''s warning meant. I won''t hold back on you. As always, Tristan would have to do his best to not leave covered in bruises. "Hey, if I lose to a child, I''ll lose what little pride I have left," he replied with a smirk, holding his staff out on both ends in a defensive stance. Without further ado, the battle began.


    Ur swung fast strikes at Tristan, aiming for his head. "Watch it," Tristan barked as he deflected each strike. He knew the child''s style well. All attack and no defense; rain blows at the head until he overwhelms his enemy, Tristan. Still, knowing his methods did not make it easy to maintain a strong, lasting defense. Ur could keep this up for hours, and he never slowed down. It was all Tristan could do to keep up.


    "Let me hit you and I''ll stop," Ur cried with a laugh, swinging his pole around wildly. It was all Tristan could do to avoid the child striking his fingers. Without warning, he changed his target, swinging at Tristan''s legs. A block was attempted, but it was too late. A resounding thwack cried out as the pole left a painful throbbing beneath his knee. Yelping, Tristan limped back, avoiding a matching bruise on the other leg. Ur did not let up, attacking him with a wildcat''s hunger.


    He did his best to keep the child at bay as much as possible while letting his leg recover. Ur focused his attacks toward his injured leg. Have to break his rhythm, he decided. Spinning on his heel, he rammed into the child, bringing his staff around to strike. Ur staggered, knocking the attack aside, bringing his pole against Tristan''s unprotected forehead. His vision blurred for a second as the pain rattled through his head. When it cleared, he found himself in a heap on the ground.


    Ur pounced on top of him, placing his pole against Tristan''s throat. "You lose," he cried in triumph. "Say it."


    With a pained sigh, Tristan recited, "Oh great Ur, I bow to your greatness. Please show mercy on this pitiful soul."


    "Very well," he answered, casting his weapon aside. Springing to his feet, Ur threw his hands in the air, clapping them together. "That was my best time yet."


    Dusting himself off, Tristan agreed. "You''re better than last time. Guess I''ll have to get better to beat you. I''ll get you next time."


    "You can''t," Ur replied with a strange severity.


    "And why is that?"


    He turned away. "Can''t tell you that. Figure it out yourself."


    With a laugh, Tristan said, "Why you little..." A bell rang, calling the workers back to the field. At once, he forgot their conversation. There were more important things in life than childish fights. For instance, working for one''s supper. Stretching his muscles, he headed towards the field. "Come on Ur. Let''s get back to work."

 Ch. 5- The City Has Eyes

    "Alright you pair of vagrants," a thick man hollered from his seat. He wore a loose wrap around his head, which shielded his face and neck from the sun''s burning gaze. However, it made it difficult to understand him. "We have a long way to go today, and this is perhaps the worst part of the journey. You got to have your fun in the last town, but we ain''t staying the night here. Better not catch you louts trying to hang back to get some jollies. If I leave you behind, you ain''t seeing a blue coin."


    Faris yawned, feeling the weariness of the last week catching up with him. All he wanted was to find a nice little tree to lie under and see the world through the back of his eyelids. Not too much chance of that. He had work to do, and the job would not be over until the schlub of a man joined his wagon with the caravan. Jacques was a merchant with wares from the far east, or as the merchant claimed, "The finest raiment the likes of which the heathens of the land could not fathom."


    "Remember," he ordered. "Plenty of scabs would love to get their hands on even one of my wares. Could get more coin than any of you will ever see at once." Faris felt his eyes roll as the merchant placed a hand on an unsheathed blade, which rested beside him for all to see. It was a six-foot single-edged blade, glimmering from lack of use. "If anyone gets any ideas, he can get a good look at what he had for breakfast." His usual threat lost all meaning a month ago. It was clear the man didn''t know the first thing about swordsmanship.


    Beside Faris, another man stood with his arms folded. He wore five knives out where all could see. One strapped low on each thigh. Two on the left side of his chest. Another on his right arm. A wisp of a smile hinted at more hidden beneath his woven ruana. His body was lean, no doubt having little to eat, but more than enough to keep his body strong. Man gave no name other than Azrael. On the road, wise men gave little information about themselves. They lived longer.


    "Yes sir," Azrael agreed again. "No shenanigans here. Wouldn''t dream of it. Your time is too valuable." Faris rolled his eyes at the pitiful flattery. His pride would choke him before he said anything like that.


    In the east, it was good luck to travel in parties of three. Faris grew tired of their company. Jacques''s constant hot air made Faris long for a bird to fly down and pry his tongue out from between his flapping gums. Meanwhile, Azrael hung on to the man''s every word, laughing at every jest, especially those that were not funny, and seeking wisdom the man did not possess. Faris knew his type. It was all an act. The truth was in his eyes. He had a purpose behind his manner. Hoping that pleasing his employer would fatten his pocket. It would not happen. In truth, doing so gave the fat man a chance to stiff his admirer of his wages.


    "Let''s head out," Jacques barked, snapping the reins. His horses pulled the wagon away from the inn. "Have to admit that I''ll miss it here," he said, casting a longing gaze back at last night''s lodging. "Old Rehab knows how to treat her guests."


    Faris felt no such connection with the inn. Wherever they stayed, the best bed he could have was some straw with the animals. Azrael did not mind the meager amenities. Every night, he would lay down with a grin and sigh of comfort. Often, Faris snuck off to find a more peaceful place to rest, but not as of late. Last night, he laid in the straw, hand resting on his silver sword, watching the stable entrance.


    It was a week since meeting the two spies in the hills. Though their bodies were long since eaten, he could not shake his growing apprehension. When was the last time someone was that close? It had to be back in Ceylon. He shuddered to think about that close call, but that was different. The spy was not a civilian. Now, they were hiring anyone. It unsettled him, and he could not shake off the feeling.


    "Hey Faris," Jacques yelled. "Clear these people out of the way. We gotta lot of ground to cover." Snapping his mind back to the present, he joined Azrael in front of the wagon, moving people aside so the wagon had a clear path. Curses were hurled at him, but he paid them no mind. All that mattered was getting out of this town as soon as possible. If not for his job, he would''ve avoided it.


    The crowd took the hint and began moving out of the wagon''s way without needing further instruction. "That''s more like it," Jacques crowed, urging the horses to hurry along. Faris sidestepped quick to avoid being run over. He sighed, wishing there was some other way to survive. That was his last thought as he froze in place.


    An invisible, threatening presence crawled along his skin. To those not familiar with the roads, they would spin around, seeking some creature on their body. They would find nothing because they looked in the wrong place. The presence is not a physical being irritating their flesh. It is the effect cast by the piercing eyes of another.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    He was in a packed street. Of course, someone was watching him somewhere. How could he not be noticed? A cloaked man couldn''t go anywhere without some eyes narrowing in his direction. However, it was not being looked at that he felt. Many eyes passed over him, paying little attention. What he felt was the probing eyes of a pursuer. That was a distinct feeling. One that only a fool ignored.


    Faris drew in a careful breath, glancing around while hiding that he sought out the onlooker. Too many people were around him, making it impossible to spot him at once, but they helped hide Faris''s gaze, giving him a barrier between himself and the watcher. If he let the mystery man know that he was suspected, he would avert his gaze, and Faris would not spot the man responsible. He was being watched for a reason. Finding the onlooker was the first step to understanding.


    At once, the invisible presence vanished, leaving no mark that it even existed. An overwhelming sense of urgency drove Faris from his careful observation. He spun around in frantic searching. No eyes turned in his direction nor did any move away in fear. His eyes darted to one face after another. He burned each one into his memory. If this presence followed him, he had to recognize the onlooker fast.


    Cautiously, he walked on, following Jacques''s wagon into the marketplace. A hand slid down to the hilt of his white blade. If needed, he had to make the first strike. That was the only way he could live another day. A wistful thought arose from the depths of his memory. A child walking without a care in the world. Back when it didn''t matter who anyone was or how he knew them. He let the eyes fall on him and stare as long as they wanted. Now, it was the difference between life and death.


    Out of the corner of his vision, a man passed by, catching the eyes of many a traveler. He was the kind of man that drew attention to himself. His head raised high above the shorter crowds. A bushy beard brushed out from his chin, thin braids shaking amongst the bush. He walked around bare-chested with sandy breeches, with his shoulders only protected from the scorching sun by his long locks.


    A fisherman, by the looks of him, Faris decided at once. The longer the man walked along through the crowd, Faris had a little stone sink in his stomach. He recognized this man. Those without a care believe that finding a former companion, traveler, passerby, or otherwise, was a good thing. They could not be more wrong. It was dangerous, especially when one was not sure where they had met.


    Faris averted his gaze, focusing on the road ahead. The worst thing he could do was draw more attention to himself. It didn''t help. Sometimes, others noticed where one wished them to or not. The man stepped closer to him and cocked his head to one side, giving Faris a long, hard look. His hairy hand reached up to his furry chin and scratched in thought. "Have I met you before?" he asked. His tone indicated that whatever answer Faris gave, this man had convinced himself that they met before. All he wanted to know was an answer; Faris would give it to him.


    "Last summer, I had an extensive stay by the Neptune Sea," he offered. He leaned his head back with his eyes half-closed. With each word, he constructed the lie in his head so well that if he didn''t know better, he would believe it too. "Worked for a family of fishermen that wanted a little protection. Had a little trouble with piracy at the time. Otherwise, it''s a beautiful place."


    He had no extensive stay by the Neptune Sea. The people there were untrusting of outsiders due to their problems with pirates stealing their wares. To live there, one needed a close friend to vouch for them. Faris had no connections when he passed through. He had to sleep outside the port city with his trusted sword close at hand. Still, this fisherman didn''t know that.


    The man''s eyes narrowed for a second before the hard stare softened. Sighing, he slapped his thigh. "That''s it," he announced with great satisfaction. "Had a little business of my own then." He shook his head. "Thought that my mind was playing tricks on me. It''s so rare that I should recognize someone in this part of the country; my mind is turning like my departed mother¡¯s. In time, I doubt I could remember my own name."


    With the mystery settled for the fisherman, he nodded his thanks, walking on without need of further conversation. Faris stopped walking. The wagon went on. People passed him by, but he stayed still. He could not continue working for Jacques. It did not matter how long he followed the blowhard around. He had to disappear.


    Spies a week ago, and now a random passerby recognized him. They would come looking for him, if they were not already closing in. Continuing this path led to only one place, and he could not go there. He had no choice. Turning on his heel, he slipped down another street. The small coin purse he was entitled to at the end of the job passed out of mind. This was not the first job he abandoned. It would not be the last.


    Survival was all that mattered. Starting from today, he had to walk the road alone again. Perhaps he would find a place to hide. He had to make them lose his scent. Those hounds could track their quarry for months, but they always underestimated their prey. Rats were great about hiding.

 Ch. 6- A Matter of Faith

    "I''m beat," Ur whined, hunching over. Though Tristan could not beat him in a fight, this was one thing that he excelled at: working. Being a child, Ur lacked the vigorous determination to push through a hard day''s work. Poor kid had to take frequent breaks to give his little arms and legs a break. Harvesting the wheat crop was not easy work. However, Tristan made sure to pick up the slack, ensuring that they finished their fair share. Ariel only had so long to get the crop ready with only a handful of able-bodied workers. They had to work their hardest if the village would survive the winter.


    Sore from their labor, the pair walked along, sharing half a loaf of bread after finishing their day''s labor. "Hey Tristan," Ur asked. "You know what would be great?" His older friend shrugged, nibbling on his piece of cheese. "Having a piece of smoked bacon." The very thought made both of their mouths water.


    "Yeah," Tristan muttered, wiping the drool from his mouth. Too bad that was a vain dream. Hadn''t been a pig in Ariel in years. There was only one cow left. When one died a few years back, it gave a plentiful supply of meat, but no one took any joy in it. Fewer cows meant less milk, and everyone knew a cow''s milk was far more valuable than its meat. "If only we could leave," Tristan mused to himself.


    "What was that?" Ur asked.


    He sighed. "Nothing. Wishful thinking." A silence fell on them as they walked along. It wasn''t often that they had nothing to say. Whenever it happened, Tristan never knew how to break the silence. All he could do was keep his mouth shut and try to think of something, a task he always failed. Ur did not need such time and always found a way to pick up the conversation again.


    "Tristan," Ur asked. "Do you know what it''s like outside of Ariel?"


    He sucked his teeth together, realizing that the child had heard him. Did he want to continue this conversation? "Course not. No one does."


    "Herodotus does."


    "You don''t believe that, do you?"


    "Why wouldn''t I?"


    He said it with such pure innocence that Tristan caught himself before he said something he would regret. No matter what, he could not say that. Not in front of him. "You''re right," he said as a shadow fell. "Why wouldn''t you?"


    "If we could leave, what would you do?" Ur asked without missing a beat.


    It was only now that Tristan realized they were standing underneath the gentle shade of the Tree of Prosperity. The ever-watchful eyes of Prospero bored into him. Tristan shot the child a look, hoping to drop the subject. Ur returned a hopeful smile, unaware how uncomfortable his friend was. If it will make him happy, a little voice said. At last, he gave in.


    "I''d join the caravan," he answered.


    "Really? Why?" Ur exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up in excitement.


    "They get everything the world has to offer. Never staying in one place too long. Travelling from country to country. Seeing the world. Don''t need to worry about food because just some wares and get whatever you want."


    He stopped short, feeling a sudden longing pulled at his heart. Was this the first time he ever put this childhood dream into words? It wouldn''t surprise him. In Ariel, home of the patron god Prospero, dreams were as empty as air. Still, in some strange way, saying it aloud gave the dream a form. Never in his life had it felt so real. No, don''t even think about it. That will never happen.


    Ur kept staring at him, waiting for more. Tristan said no more. The less he said about his dreams, the better. With a nervous cough, he asked, "What would you do?"


    "I''d fight in a tournament," he blurted, flexing his muscles in what he thought was a menacing pose. All he looked like was a little fellow hunching over from a stomach ache. "With my trusty sword, I beat anyone who challenged me. The entire world would know my name."


    Tristan smiled. It was fake. He could not bring himself to say what needed to be said. "Hey, look," the child exclaimed, pointing. From the opposite direction, a young couple approached the statue with their heads bowed. On the left was Elizabeth, a beautiful lady of nineteen. She marched in a dingy white robe. Her fair hair was in an elegant braid that ran down her back. She held a scroll in one of her porcelain hands and a small dish in the other. Steam rose from the dish. On the right was her husband, Zechariah, a man of thirty, with his balding head making him appear far older. He approached in darker clothing with a dark untrimmed beard trailing down the front of his shirt. He held a smoking urn, where sweet smelling perfume wafted about them, which Ur wrinkled his nose at. In his other hand, he grasped a small cup.


    Their march ended in front of Prospero''s statue. Kneeling together, they placed the cup and dish amongst the overgrown grass. Elizabeth opened the scroll, reading out the same words that she had the day before, which many women read before her. Tristan didn''t understand why she couldn''t recite the scroll at this point. He knew the words by heart and he didn''t have to read them.


    "Oh great Prospero," Elizabeth read. "Lord of Ariel. Keeper of the mountain pass. Silver-tongued bard. Giver of precious gifts. We come bringing gifts of porridge and water, as you instructed in days of old. May it be to your pleasure. We beseech you. Hear our prayer and let not your ears turn away from your loyal servants."


    Ur stared with the intrigue a child does when he sees a monument, ancient artifact, or family heirloom, though if nurtured he might grow up keeping that fascination. Tristan lacked such excitement. He sighed, with it turning into a groan. "Why do they continue idolizing a statue?" he spat, his voice low enough that he hoped Ur wouldn''t hear him. He would find out that the child''s ears were sharp.


    For as long as the town could remember, Zechariah''s family held up the traditions of old, the worship of gods and making offerings to the spirits. Each day they read the same rites, performing the same rituals that their ancestors performed centuries ago. They prayed that the weather would be pleasant, different trades in town would be prosperous, and that the children would grow up healthy. Elizabeth, his loving wife, married into that line. The child in her womb would continue the cycle and as far as Tristan knew, their prayers hadn''t helped once.


    When the last word slipped from the wife''s lips, the husband bowed, pressing his face to the ground, his wife joining him. He recited his prayer, one passed down by his father and his father before him. The words tumbled from his mouth in a rhythmic cadence, one he memorized by watching his father, and when Elizabeth blessed him with children, the little ones would follow his example.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    "Father of Blessings," Zechariah recited. "Bend down your head that you might hear our prayer and see the anguish on our faces. The days are hard. Our bellies hunger for your favor. Show your generous grace on us lowly mortals. May your well never dry that our mouths never thirst. Give us our bread. Let our houses be filled with joy. Comfort us in our times of sorrow. Strengthen the weak, for they are many. We are your people. Let our lives be a testimony to your greatness. We ask this in the names of our fathers and sons to be."


    With their ritual completed, they rose, bowing when they stood. Hand-in-hand, they turned away, marching down the road. Watching them go, Tristan''s lip curled in disgust. "Wow," Ur breathed, never growing tired of seeing the display. Approaching the statue with slow reverence, he folded his hands together. Standing before Prospero, he spoke a silent prayer. If Elizabeth and Zechariah saw him, they would''ve shed tears of joy. It made Tristan sick.


    Having seen enough, he called, "Come on Ur. We have better things to do." The child didn''t move, continuing his prayer. "It''ll be dark soon," he barked. Ur kept praying. Huffing, Tristan folded his arms, waiting. When the child raised his head, he turned, flashing a smile at his friend. "What was that about?" Tristan asked as the child rejoined him.


    "Don''t know," Ur answered with a shrug. "Felt like praying. Zechariah said it''s good for the soul."


    Tristan bit back what he wanted to say, replying, "I bet he did." There was a slight glint in Ur''s eye, begging Tristan to ask him what he prayed. Looking at the child''s wonder-filled face, it angered him. This was the result of stories. He refused to ask, turning to leave.


    A question made him pause. He would regret hearing it. "Why did the story have a sad ending?"


    "What?" he asked, glancing back.


    "Herodotus''s story," he explained. "It was sad. Why?"


    "I wasn''t there," he dismissed. "How would I know?"


    "But you''re older. You might understand."


    "They''re just stories. No need to think about them too much. It was sad because that''s how the story goes. It doesn''t have to have a reason," he answered. With each passing word, this conversation was sliding closer to a topic he didn''t wish to discuss, especially with the boy.


    "I wish you stayed for the rest of the story. Why do you always leave?"


    He grimaced. "We''ve talked about this. Because I have better things to do."


    "You never seem so busy to me."


    The words punched Tristan. His tongue broke the bridle he had firmly clasped on it for times like this. There was nothing he could do to stop what he said next. "Stop prying, you little brat," he shouted, temper flaring.


    Ur drew back, shocked by the outburst. Despite the vibrant flames of childish whimsy that radiated from him, it did not take much to quell the fire. At a loss for words, Ur turned on his heel and ran. Temper vanishing, Tristan gasped, horrified at what he said. "Wait," Tristan called, realizing his mistake, but it was too late. Ur was gone.


    "Moron," Tristan hissed, smacking his forehead. Why was he acting like this? Ur did nothing other than be himself. Not once had he changed since they met. He was curious. No point in trying to bite his head off. "What''s wrong with me?" he spat. It was then his eyes fell on the statue, a cold gaze watching everything with blank indifference.


    If Prospero wills it. People used it as some sort of mantra, something that would protect them from the bad in the world. It was as worthless as Herodotus''s stories. He gazed at the statue for a long time, pondering how such silly beliefs arose. "Is this your idea of blessing?" he asked, venom dripping from his voice. Prospero said nothing in return.


    "Yeah," he murmured. "You''d say that. If you did exist, that''s the best they''d get out of you." Looking around at the dying town, he said, "What god of love and good fortune would let his town fall into ruin like this? If you were real, would you even realize that this town is a wilting flower in the middle of a desert?" The statue watched on, chiseled grin unchanging in the face of this young man''s ire.


    "Why would you care anyway?" he exclaimed, pointing at the bowl and cup in the grass. "Daily offerings and prayers for no effort. That''s got to be a comfy life." Glancing at the porridge and water, it was enough to make him laugh. Food for a lump of rock. His belly growled. A drop of drool rolled out of the corner of his mouth. What a waste, he spat.


    A light breeze shook the leaves of the Tree of Prosperity. "Who even knows if this tree''s stood since the town''s foundation? For all I know, the tree died a long time ago and was replaced by another, only for that one to die and the cycle to continue." Approaching the statue, he continued his rant, "Nothing in this place can survive. Not even the houses can stand forever. We both know there''s only one thing that will see the end of this town."


    He stopped in front of the statue, where their eyes gazed into one another. "What fool came up with you? Why would anyone in this decaying town think that you have a hand in their slow demise?" His arms folded across his chest in a proud, boastful stance. Taking deep, hot breaths through his nose, he said, "Let''s face the truth. All you are is a dumb rock. You can''t hear anyone''s prayers and no amount of good thoughts will make life better." He sighed. "The sooner people get that, the better."


    Never touch the offering. That was one of the unspoken rules of the village that even the less devout followed. Noah, in his drunken state, kept his lips far away from the morsels. They feared divine curses. Tristan felt no such fear. Why should he go hungry while the food got cold? What was the point of this offering? He watched the food before and he knew what happened to it. The revelation appeared when he was ten and curious. Sleeping across from the offering, he waited to see a god appear. When he sat to eat, Tristan would confront him with his problems. He did not sleep all night and found it hard to sleep the next day, as his stomach churned from what he witnessed. No god appeared, but the food disappeared. Wild animals ate it.


    Staring into the cold, stone eyes, he wished he could smash it, destroying this symbol of unfulfilled hopes and broken promises, but he thought of the next best thing. He eyed the porridge. "Pity for it to go to waste," he mused, squatting down. In the dwindling twilight, he wolfed down the entire bowl, his own ravenous hunger surprising himself. He tasted nothing, consuming the porridge before his tongue noticed he ate anything at all.


    When he finished washing everything down with the water, he stood up and belched. He sucked his teeth, realizing that the meal did little to satisfy his hunger. In Ariel, no one had a full belly. Still, this was the weakest his hunger had been in years. Bowing in a mocking sense, he prayed to the statue, "Forgive me for eating your meal," he said, with sarcasm dripping from each syllable. Just as he turned to leave, something glistened off the statue. He turned back, seeing a dingy gold amulet.


    Had that always been there? He wasn''t sure, but it caught his eye in the most peculiar way. "You don''t need this," he exclaimed, snatching it from the god''s neck. It had no appearance of being anything special, but if one could put a shine on it, some merchants might fetch a high price for it. He felt no shame in putting the amulet around his neck, hiding it beneath his shirt. If I ever leave, I can sell this to the highest bidder. Make myself a little bundle and make sure I never see this dead town again.


    Looking at the statue again, he murmured, "Go ahead. Get mad. Strike me down. Show me that you''re real." Nothing happened. "Thought not," he said with a shake of his head. As the sun set, Tristan''s shadow stretched into the distance as he strode away from Prospero with a half-filled belly, thirst a little quenched, and with an amulet in his pocket. Tristan didn''t care if what he''d done was horrible or disrespectful, but the day was coming when he wished that he''d avoided the whole incident. When was that time? The following morning.

 Ch. 7- A Fitful Night

    Run, his mind screamed. His thoughts came in gasps. Don''t stop. Have to get away. Sweat poured down his forehead, smearing into his vision. He fled as fast as his aching legs could carry him. No weapon swayed at his hips. All he had were threadbare clothes. It was the only protection he had in a fast-shrinking world which sought his demise.


    A corner blinked into existence. His body slammed into the wall, decaying stones crumbling during the impact. Dark stems, veins of the shadow world, shot out from the wall, groping for him. Not wasting a second, he propelled himself away, leaving the grasping arms in his wake. They were growing faster. In time, they might snatch him in their tight grip. He dared not think on what they planned to do with him.


    He raced down a series of never-ending stone corridors. The echoing sound of his pounding footsteps always ahead. Noises rang out around him, muffled through the corridor walls. Agonized groans of dying men, bloodied screams of lamenting women, final cries of weeping babes. His eyes stayed ever forward, not paying attention to the countless doors that flew by in his peripheral vision. Deep in his guts, he feared what he would see.


    He did not look behind; he could not look on what followed him. It was ever at his back. No, not it. They. As to how many, he could not be certain. They padded along, footsteps following him, ever gaining no matter how fast he ran. Fear gnawed at his guts. In time it would consume him. Desperation pumped through his veins. I have to escape.


    His flight slammed to a halt. The corridor opened up into a chasm, one where he could not see the other side. He stood on the edge of a mountain, tangled with the cruel veins, choking all life that once thrived amongst the cliffs. Darkness loomed beneath him; darkness lurked above. High above his head, a faint light flickered. A way out. Reaching it was impossible. The paths up the mountain were broken by jagged stones. Vines pulsed, waiting for unsuspecting victims to fall into their grasp. Dead end, he realized. Taking a step back, he thought perhaps he could double back. This could not be the only path left, but the footsteps drew closer. Time was running out. "What should I do?"


    "Cast aside the fa?ade," a hissing noise sounded in his ear. His breath cut short in a strained gasp. Who spoke to him? He was alone. Glancing back, all he found was empty air. Turning back to the tangled, rocky jungle above him, he pondered on what the voice meant. Reaching up to scratch his throbbing forehead, tired of thinking, he found a strange answer.


    Beneath his fingers, his skin peeled. Horrified, he pulled his hand away, chunks of flesh clinging to the nails. His skin had an odd look. It was the sick skin of dead fruit. Wrinkled, putrid, and close to peeling right off. On a peculiar instinct, he gripped the sagging places on his face. In one clean motion, the flesh ripped off. He pulled it off as if it were a coat, letting his olive skin fall to his feet, clothes scattering into the abyss. Where his false skin was, a pelt of coarse black fur covered every inch of his body. "There," the scratching voice complimented. "Now, you can claw your way to paradise."


    New strength surged through his body. A smile formed on his narrow face. Dropping to his hands and knees, a position that felt natural, he threw himself against the rocky mountain. The veiny vines waited for him. His senses cried out that danger was all around him. They were not wrong. The arms made a grab for him, but he was too quick for them. Moving with deft precision and speed, he scurried among the arms, scaling the rocky terrain as a squirrel does branches.


    He never lost sight of the light, which became brighter by the second. The forest of arms grew thicker the higher he climbed. They kept striking out at him. He weaved through them as a fish does water. There was nothing they could do to stop him. The light changed, revealing an open door in the darkness. Hope rose in his furry chest. He scrambled higher, not breaking his pace, until the door stood in front of him.


    Hurling himself through the exit, he hoped to find a world that he could only dream of. Eyes begged to see a clear sky with the sun baking his coarse fur. Ears perked up for the joyous cries of freedom. His nostrils sought out what pleasure awaited him. Bitter tears swelled in his eyes as putrid odors swarmed into his nose. From his vantage point, perched on the same mountain, he gazed on a world that could only be birthed in a twisted man''s nightmares.


    Fires rose high in the air. Furious winds spread them turning forests to ash. Hideous birds, appearing as women in brief flashes, flew about, leaving slain creatures in their wake. Three great horsemen rode across the land, each with a different color steed. They brought war, plague, and pestilence. A star flew from the sky, poising what water remained. Above all else, there was blood. Oceans of dark, venomous blood.


    It was only then that he heard the high-pitched cries. Out in the valleys and hills, sleek, black creatures, with fur not unlike himself, scurrying through the destruction. Long tails whipped about behind them. Blood matted up in furry clumps on their bodies. Many swam in the bloody oceans, struggling to not drown under Death''s currents. Rats. Hideous creatures. Better dead than alive.


    "There must be a way out," he lamented. He could not have fought so hard to the surface for this to be his reward.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    At once, his heart dropped. None of it mattered. All he did was for naught. Out in the distance, long pillars, writhing as the vines, rose out of the blood oceans. They stretched high above the violence and death, meeting together, tangling into a strong knot. Shooting out from their sides, thick, thorny vines crisscrossed from one pillar to the next, creating a tight fence around the abysmal world. Nothing could come in. No one could go out. It was then that he realized the horrible truth.


    He was in a cage.


    Savage cries burst out from beneath him. Looking down the mountain, shadowy forms slouched toward him. His pursuers. They had found him. Each one was more horrifying than the next. Pincers snapped, ready to crush his bones to dust. Carnivorous teeth flashed, revealing fangs longing to rip into his flesh. One beast revealed cruel talons hidden in the crooks of its great wings. Monstrous tails lashed back and forth, anticipating when they would partake of his flesh. So many ravenous eyes. Soon they would be upon him.


    There was no escape. Gaping on the world, he saw the destruction that murdered peace in its sleep and the monsters that sought to devour what remained. He realized the ugly truth. Doesn''t matter what I do. My choice is always the same. Dropping to his belly, he bared his fangs at the monsters. If he must die, he would not go quiet as an old man on his deathbed. Could he destroy just one enemy, so that his death was not in vain? He prayed for this single victory against his fate.


    "Why do you resist?" a voice asked. It was slow and grating as steel on stone. "This is your life. One living nightmare. Riches out of reach. No honor to gain. Shame coats you. You sow sorrow; disgrace is all you reap. Death lies in your shadow. Why not let it take you and be done with this merciless existence?"


    The voice came soft, but not as if it were a whisper in the ear. It was louder than that, as if carried by a high wind. "I will not deliver myself into the maws of the enemy," he spat, refusing to give in to hopelessness. His bared teeth flashed at his foes as they drew closer.


    "Such pride. How interesting," the voice mused. It was as if the voice spoke into his ear. His head whipped around, finding no one beside him. Was the voice coming from inside his own head? His enemies loomed ahead of him. The battle was at hand. His body tensed, ready to lunge forward, but his fur jumped on end as his muscles froze. A stabbing sensation made his eyes turn skyward.


    Gazing into the sky once more, two piercing eyes gazed down at him. He found himself slipping into their vastness, being consumed by the shocking blue ocean. Fear overtook him. At once, he realized that it was not the shadowy monsters to fear, but the invisible being above. In the midst of those eyes, his foes seemed to vanish, though he dared not look away to know for sure.


    In those eyes, he saw the truth, one the voice did not need to say. It is outside the cage. In the presence of awesome might, a rising admiration kindled. He longed to possess the same strength. Faris bowed down to the eyes, giving reverence where deserved. "What must I do?" he asked. He made no vows or vain attempts at a pact. What could he offer?


    The being considered this in silence. In answer, the eyes blinked, disappearing. Bitter anguish overwhelmed Faris. "Wait," he cried out in desperation. "Do not leave me here." The eyes did not reappear. He was alone. His foes returned, surrounding him. They were ready to pick back up where they left off, knowing that nothing would interfere this time.


    Faris did not bare his fangs, readying for a final fight. Despair had him in its grasp at last. There was no point in battling these monsters. The result was the same. His only hope at breaking with fate abandoned him. In utter defeat, all he could do was accept his miserable end. If his foes were not so preoccupied with warring over his flesh, perhaps they would have thanked him for giving him an easy meal.


    The first bite wracked his entire body with intense agony. It had to be enough to kill him, but he remained conscious through the bloody affair. He watched his entrails ripped from his body. Limbs thrown every which way. Once the first fangs pierced his flesh, he felt no pain after that, feeling his demise as if an outsider, but the sight filled his eyes.


    It was only now that the voice returned, hissing in his ear. "Such is the fate of those caged," it spoke. Faris did not see the eyes, but he heard the voice over the ravenous feasting. "Only a freed rat can hope to be anything else but prey."


    "What must I do?" he asked again as jagged teeth filled his vision.


    He feared that the voice would leave him again, but this time, an answer came. "Only one may open the door. The master of the cage holds the keys."


    At last, the nightmare came to an abrupt end as the last bite was taken. He awoke with a start. A ragged breath burst from his lips while the dream clung to him, desperate to drag him back within its disgusting embrace. It was just a dream. He fought for calm. It tried to escape his grasp, but he wrestled it to the ground. He had to make it bend to his will. That was the only way he could survive.


    His hand gripped the hilt of his silver blade, ready to destroy any that were too close. In the shadow of night, by the cold embers of a dead fire, he was alone. The visions from his dream lingered in his mind, threatening to overwhelm him again. Covering his eyes, he whispered, "Begone from my sight," but to no avail. They held him in a tight fist, just as they had so many times before. He lost track of how many times that accursed dream haunted his sleep. Old men believed that there was some great significance in one''s dreams. He did not care. All he wanted was to be rid of them, but just like everything else in his waking nightmare, there was nothing he could do to break free.

 Ch. 8- Town Phantom

    "Come on out," Tristan shouted, whirling around. He was alone, staring at the same dilapidated shack he called home. A small, tattered coat laid in one corner of the room. The fireplace was ashen with the remains of dead fires. Two other chairs, dusty from lack of use, sat to the side. In a cluttered pile, the broken remains of a shattered chair rested, forever a reminder of what could have been. Two water jars sat by the door where three once were. That was all he had to call home. It was the same as any other day, but for some reason, something was off.


    A scratchy feeling tingled up and down his spine, circling around his neck, and rushing through his arms and legs. In a clenched fist, he held an old chair arm. His knuckles were pale. "I know you''re there," he barked. His bloodshot eyes darted around the room, sure he would catch a glimpse of it this time.


    He saw it three days ago at the Blessing of Prospero. It was late. He needed water for his jars. Since their argument, Ur avoided him, so Tristan worked alone. It did not bother him. He had to do most things by himself since his parents died. However, when he drew the water, he wondered if he would always be alone or if one day, he might share his life with another. Such thoughts made drawing water a dreary task. He pushed his thoughts back to the task at hand, making short work filling the first two jars. When he drew water for the third, that was when he saw it.


    In the water''s reflection, a form appeared behind him. It was the face of an unknown man. Crying out, he spun around, breaking the third jar in his surprise. What he found behind horrified him. Nothing. He was alone at the well. Fearful of what he would see, he turned back to the water''s reflection. His blurred face was alone. He stared in disbelief. "What was that?" he muttered. That was the beginning of his waking nightmare.


    He was being watched. The tingling sensation of piercing eyes burning into his flesh never left. Desperate to be free, he sought out this unseen observer with obsessive intensity. No other thought occupied his mind. It was difficult to eat. He forsook companionship. Sleep was a luxury he could not afford. He had to find the man that wished to torment his soul.


    Each day, he was sure that he caught a glimpse of him. A part of his robe here; the tip of his finger there. He was sure he saw the man''s dark hair when he lifted his head quick in the fields. Still, he could not reveal the man''s presence. Every time he thought he saw him, he gave pursuit only to find nothing. There was no point in mentioning these strange encounters to anyone. All he ever received was sideways glances. If he did not wish to be considered mad, he would have to keep these matters to himself, and reveal the truth once he caught the man by the ear. However, such a fear was impossible.


    It''s as if I''m chasing a wizard out of Herodotus''s stories, Tristan cursed when he saw the man''s back for the first time. The man wore a bright green robe. Dark black hair covered his head, bushing around his shoulders. It was a peculiar look for someone inside Ariel, but he gave no thought to that. As soon as Tristan saw him, he cried out in triumph. "You can''t get away," he shouted, running as fast as his legs could carry him. His teeth grinded in frustration as the man stayed just out of reach. He ran as if his feet had wings. Tristan chased him throughout the streets of Ariel, much to everyone''s confusion, but he never lost him. Ariel was his home. No one could escape him.


    That was until they reached the Tree of Prosperity. It was hard to believe what happened if it had not happened right before his very eyes. The man vanished as fast as the sun does behind a cloud. He was just within arm''s reach; in the blink of an eye, Tristan was running after the wind. Slamming his heels into the dirt, bringing himself to a skidding halt, he sought out his prey. He has to be somewhere.


    To his dismay, no matter where he looked, the answer was the same. The only ones under the tree were Tristan and Prospero. "Sorcery," he exclaimed in utter disbelief. "No," he spat at once. That was something he would not believe, could not believe. Everything in stories was just that. Stories. He turned to Prospero. The god''s eyes looked on the young man with cold indifference. Furious, Tristan spat. "Go ahead," he muttered. "Mock me. We''ll see who''s laughing."


    At last, in his own home, he would bring this game of lurking snake and cautious mouse to an end. He was alone. For the man to see him, he had to be inside the room. As soon as Tristan saw him, there would be no escape. The room was small. Two steps and he would have him in reach, whether he came through the door, slid down the chimney, or came through the wall. Whatever this wizard did, Tristan''s makeshift club would bring his game to an end. Once he would have thought a weapon was an extreme measure, but that was before he vanished into thin air. What sort of man could do that? In his frenzied state, he did not care. No man could disappear if a club knocked against his head.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Come on out," he challenged again, slapping a palm against the table. He raised his club above his head, ready to strike. "Let''s have this over and done with. Don''t you grow tired of slinking around like a worm? I know I''m tired of chasing you. Hurry up and show yourself. I have a friend that wants to meet you." The challenge was made. All he had to do was wait.


    He stayed still, not moving an inch from his spot. A growing burn coursed through his body for holding this statue-like posture for so long. His eyes blinked, his fatigue catching up to him for the first time in days. He ignored it all, refusing to give in when his victory was at hand. In the room, he lost track of time, forgetting how long he waited for the man to show himself. Through the cracks in the boarded window, he saw the sunlight fading. Darkness began to fall on Ariel. Tristan made no attempt at making a fire. He could not turn away from the task at hand. The moment he looked away was when his foe would show himself. He maintained his watchful vigil until the last rays of sunlight danced away from the world and the stars and moon waltzed across a black sky.


    It was then that Tristan lowered his club. His arm burned from holding the pose for so long. His legs ached from not resting. It was over. No matter what he did, he could not blind his eyes from the truth. He was no closer to discovering who the man was or why he haunted his footsteps. This was his new life, plagued by the piercing eyes of a vanishing man. "I might as well get used to it," he realized with a begrudged grin. "He won''t be tired of this game for a long time." Laying his club aside, he rested in his chair, the intense burning beginning to dull in his weary muscles. Tilting his head back, he hoped that sleep might accept him into its arms for a change. It might have, but a strange twist of fate robbed him once again.


    "Hello Tristan," a voice blurted behind him. With a yelp, Tristan leapt from the chair, fumbling for his club. He raised it for the decisive blow. A bearded face filled his vision. He had no time to rationalize the situation. Instinct took over. Without a word, he swung at the face, not caring if he caved the man''s skull in. Frantic fear had a tendency to do that. Despite Tristan''s skills in combat, courtesy of Ur, the blow would not kill any man. The most it would do was stun. His club was old and had little chance of holding against a strong impact, but such an impact never came.


    A scream burst from his lips as the club passed right through the bearded face, as if he swung at empty air. Following the force of his strike, Tristan stumbled forward, falling to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he readied for another attack, hoping to attack before the man retaliated when a thought occurred to him. He froze, blinking. When he fell, he passed through the man.


    "Yes," the bearded man said. "You can''t touch me; well, you could if I let you, but why would I when you keep swinging that pitiful stick around. Is that what passes for a weapon amongst mortals these days?"


    Tristan broke through his paralysis, backing away from the man. He wore the same bright green robe, wrapped around his body. His feet were bare of boot and hair. Thick hair swung down to his shoulders. Curious blue eyes flashed against the olive dark face. "Odd," he murmured, more to himself than Tristan.


    "What?" Tristan asked, his voice quaking in growing fear. Glancing down, he realized that the strange being floated mere inches above the ground.


    Scratching his thick black beard, the being floated closer to Tristan, glaring into his eyes. "How strange. I have looked into the eyes of those who can''t see me before. They look no different from your own, but you can see me." His lips curled into a smile that grew wider by the moment, to where it looked like it was about to swallow his face.


    "What?" Tristan stammered again, taking a few steps back. His head bumped against the wall. He had nowhere else to go. It was then that he realized that he could see through the floating man, seeing the stone behind him. Horrified, Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. I''m seeing visions, he told himself. It is all from lack of sleep. Open your eyes again, and he will disappear. His eyes popped open again, releasing another scream from his lips.


    The phantom rubbed his ears. "Thank you for that," he said. "Nothing like the screams of the new believer to remind you that your ears are fine. If you want to walk up the whole town, feel free, but I would prefer if you calm down now."


    "What are you?" Tristan blurted. "A phantom?"


    The strange being laughed a jolly chuckle. "That''s the best joke I''ve heard in years," he exclaimed. "I should think that is obvious, isn''t it?" He floated a bit higher and announced with a bow, "I am a god!" With that revelation, on that night, Tristan''s fate changed forever, whether he wanted it to or not.

 Ch. 9- A Devils Grin

    Sleep evaded him, no matter how hard he tried to entice its gentle embrace. It was fearful of the nightmare that lurked in the corners of his mind. He lay awake, staring at the vast abyss of sky overhead. There was no point in closing his eyes. Irritated anxiousness kept him from relaxing. Every rustle carried on a light breeze made him snap to his feet, sword in hand. Each time, he found no foe, but this constant never reassured him. He held his weary vigil until he grew tired of it and returned to his aimless march once again. Out in the middle of nowhere, far from the neighboring towns, the only time Faris felt secure was when he strode across the hilly country with his palm resting on his blade.


    He kept a safe distance away from Cur''s Pass, a road that through the rocky terrain. It was the only clear route for wagons; in turn, bandits found the surrounding hills perfect to scheme their ambushes. With these greedy wolves ready to gobble up any passerby, one needed to travel in large numbers to ensure their safety. Faris had no numbers. Distance was his best defensive measure. Even if he saw a group passing through, he could not afford for anyone to remember he was around. If he wanted to survive, he had to be as invisible as a gentle breeze.


    In those hills, he kept the road in sight. Looking down, he cursed the road and what followed him. No matter where he went, they were always a few steps behind. As the days wore on, he had a suspicion. "What if they know where I''m going?" he mused, fearful that he was right. With the roads of the world meeting up in the various cities, towns, and provinces, one did not need to be a skillful hunter to figure out where one was heading. All the seeker needed was a starting point; he knew they had that much, those watchful eyes in the city flashing through his mind.


    They knew he was running. Always forward, never backtracking. Turning back put him at greater risk. Too much chance of someone recognizing him. However, there was a terrible truth that they no doubt knew. Faris realized it some time back. What would he do when he ran out of towns to run to? It may take a long time, but their chase could last a lifetime. In time, he would only come to one final solution. Looking away from the road, he gazed out on a world of possibilities, away from the roads and people.


    He longed to disappear. It would be so easy. Who could find him if he wandered off to one of the shadowy parts of the map? His teeth ground in frustration. What he wanted could never happen. Disappearing...that was what he wanted. No matter what happened, he could not let him win. Was there any point to his running if he gave in so easily? With a shake of his head, he turned back to the road, resolving the path in his mind.


    Diverting his thoughts, his stomach roared. His hand rubbed his empty guts. Since parting with his former employer, food was scarce. While Jacques was a difficult man, he kept his guards fed. Faris made sure to not eat more than he was used to. Hunger was difficult to endure when one grew accustomed to hot meals and full bellies. However, he was not a fool that passed taking advantage of a host''s hospitality. Picking a pack with what little coin he had, he filled it with whatever food could keep.


    Everything he set aside depleted days ago, leaving him to feed off the land. In these hills, he had few options. He tried catching a rabbit, but his trap failed. There was a patch of detestable berries he gathered. Each one made him gag, but they helped abate his hunger. Still, he could not run away from the truth. His body was growing weary. Lack of sleep and little to eat did not keep a body healthy. With sleep evading him, he had to seek whatever nourishment the land could offer him.


    Out on the horizon, he noticed the faint hint of light turning the blackness in the distance to a dark blue. It was then that he noticed the wagon sitting by itself in the dim light of a fire. "Odd," he thought. No wagon would be this far along Cur''s Pass without a small caravan. His eyes narrowed, trying to spot any figures moving about. With dawn so close at hand, they would be eager to get on the road. Before they head out, they will wish to eat something, preparing themselves for the long day ahead. Faris''s stomach screamed for food.


    When he snapped out of his daze, he found himself halfway down the hill. His legs carried him toward the potential food without waiting for his decision. Was that the severity of his hunger? He forced himself to stop walking. Going down there was risky. Meeting a traveler in the middle of nowhere was not something anyone could forget in a hurry. Those that sought his life would have another lead toward him.


    Yet he could not pull his eyes away. They lingered on the wagon as the sky grew to a fainter blue in the distance. No one stirred around the wagon. I can swipe what I need before they wake, he thought. If he made it quick, he could be on his way, with a pack of food, before the sun broke the horizon, but if he lingered, his chance would vanish for sure. Who knew when he would have this chance again?


    His stomach wailed again. He gave in, rushing down the hills as fast as his legs could carry him. Not a thought was given to anything else. He never considered that this was a ploy of his pursuers, hoping to lure him out. All that mattered was the food he could plunder. If anyone got in his way, he had a sword. He hoped to avoid bloodshed. That would only complicate matters. Dead men in the middle of the road often raised suspicion.


    He stopped on the other side of the road, looking around to see if anyone was nearby. To his relief, he was alone with the wagon. He drew closer to the covered wagon. Days of mud and dirt lay caked on the wheels. Whoever slept inside traveled a long way. The fire was on the other side of the wagon, no doubt where the night watchmen were. Just because he could not see the man from the hills did not mean he was not there. He heard no shuffling, so the man had to be dead on his feet. A fortunate advantage.


    Faris moved as a shadow, making no noise. He slid up to the wagon, listening for the slightest movement. His hairs stood on end. No snoring filled his ears. No creaking from tossing sleepers. He could not detect a hint of breathing. At last, he heard it. The worst noise he could hear. One that broke the silence and drove all thoughts of food from his mind.


    A guttural groan broke out near the fire. He froze. That groan was all too familiar to him. The groan of death. Whether he wanted it or not, blood was shed and a dead body was on the road. Worse than that, the killer was afoot. Faris''s hand strayed to his silver blade as he slid along the wagon. He listened out for any footsteps, but this being was silent as the dead.


    On the road, killers had to face the sword. As long as they did not reveal their true nature, they could go their way in peace. Once blood spilled, those around them had no choice but to kill, unless they longed to be the next victim. When he reached the corner of the wagon, he saw a shadow. He drew his blade, not allowing it to hiss its unsheathing. His muscles tensed as he took a deep breath. It would be over in an instant. He had to land the decisive strike.


    When he leapt out, he faltered, witnessing the last thing he expected. He found Jacques on the ground, his hand laying limp on the hilt of his sword. His glazed eyes looked up at a dawning sky he could no longer see. Trickles of drying blood streaked across his face. They sprung from a knife buried in the man''s forehead. His mouth hung agape, surprised by his manner of death. Crouching beside him, rummaging through his purse, was a man in a woven ruana. The man called Azrael.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Faris kept blade drawn, not sure what would happen next. Men of the road could not be trusted when a dead man was amongst them. It became a fight over who would get the deceased''s possessions. Seeing as he killed one man, Azrael would not hesitate to kill another that might want his quarry, even if valuables were the last thing on Faris''s mind. The man looked up, noticing the swordsman for the first time. In the dim firelight, Faris noticed a glint of recognition in his eyes as a wide smile broke out on the killer''s face. Not a muscle in his body hinted at fighting. "Sorry," he greeted. "Grew tired of hearing the same story over and over."


    He turned back to his business, looking at the wares found on his former employer''s person. "Odd," he mused, revealing a beautiful locket. He opened it, whistling. "What woman would want him?" He paused, chuckling as a worse thought came into being. "Who would want to bear his children? Worse, who would want to be his children?" Stuffing the locket in his ruana, he kept rummaging through the dead man''s clothes.


    "That was your game," Faris said in a low voice, sheathing his blade at last. If the man wanted a fight, he''d waste no time talking. Though killers had to be dealt with, it was prudent to avoid a fight if another had no desire for one.


    "Course," the murderous thief answered. "Not enough money in protection. Especially for one like him. Did you know I''ve fleeced men who woulda paid me three times what he did for even less work?" His grin fell in disgust. He spat on the merchant''s face, most of the spittle pooling around Jacques''s lifeless eyes. "Shoulda known better than to brag about your wares. Sooner or later, someone woulda shoved a knife in his belly." His smile returned. "Or your forehead. One can''t be choosy about how he kills."


    Azrael pulled off the corpse''s boots, upending them. He found nothing hidden within them. His lips pulled back as he sucked his teeth. "Strange," he said. "Most merchants keep their best valuables in their shoes. Can''t get them unless they''re dead." He patted the corpse''s cheek. "You were a unique fellow. Either way, these will make a great replacement for mine." Tossing the boots, he slid over to the top of the corpse''s pants. "If you don''t have anything in your boots, then..."


    Slipping his hands beneath the fabric, a loud rip followed as he ripped out a small series of coin purses. "Ha," he laughed aloud, jumping to his feet. "Look at you, you clever tub of lard." With a swift kick to the corpse, the murderer dazzled himself with his spoils. "Used to have a pack of louts. They were good. Couldn''t leave a woman around them, but they had an artisan''s touch to cutting throats. Only problem is that the boss always has to share. Glad they got caught back on the north side of Nicaea. Not sure where they are now."


    Faris was tired of listening to his prattling. Though he was not kowtowing to Jacques anymore, Azrael was no less irritating than before. Perhaps he was worse, being so proud of his ruse, which was not so clever. This was not the first time Faris heard of such things. It was an easy scheme for those willing to take the risks. Pose as a guard. Stab the hirer in the back when he slept. Any fool could do that.


    "Hoped you would stay with us a little longer," he said, just as Faris was about to turn to go. With Jacques dead, he would pinch some food as he went; Azrael would never know. "Would muddy the suspects. Bound to be an investigation once they realize he''s missing. If he had a locket, there''s someone out there that''ll want the truth. Since I was the only one that rode out with him, guess I can''t go back that way." He shook his head toward the last town.


    Faris paid no attention. Who knew when this man''s posturing would end? "Hey, aren''t you forgetting something?" he called. Faris paused, hand straying to the hilt of his blade. It would seem that he was wrong. The killer had not quenched his bloodlust. "Can''t let you leave like that."


    As he first anticipated, it would be over quick. He spun on his heel, drawing his sword. A small object flew at his head. He caught it, knowing that dodging could put him in an ideal place for another dagger. When his fingers wrapped around the projectile, he paused, noticing no pain shooting through his hand. Azrael remained crouched next to the body, making no attempt at fighting. A jiggle rang out from Faris''s palm. Opening his hand, he found a small string of coins. "There you go," Azrael said with a half-bow. "Your pay with considerable interest. It''s the least you deserve after all you put up with."


    "Thanks," Faris replied, not understanding the man''s game.


    "Don''t mention it," he said, with a grin forming at the edge of his lips. Faris tensed, knowing that there was another plot at play. "You know, there''s a game that me and my louts liked to play." He pulled his bloody knife from Jacques''s head. Fresh blood poured from the wound. Azrael wiped the knife on the corpse''s clothes before holding the point between two well-trained fingers. "We liked to test our reflexes. Knife against sword. If the swordsman can deflect the knife thrower''s strike, he decided the next game. Often it was a sword fight to the death. Too bad the knife thrower would not have a weapon when the battle started. So whoever had the knife had to have perfect aim, avoiding a sad end."


    He drew back, ready to send the cruel dagger flying. Faris remained where he was, sword in hand. Their eyes held. In the distance, glowing eyes in the night watched, no doubt ready for another body to join the fresh corpse. There would be a feast whatever the outcome. Azrael''s lips twitched, a new smile crossing his face. There was a defeated sadness about it. "Think we both know how this game will play out." In one smooth motion, he slid his knife back into his ruana. "Games with obvious endings bore me."


    Faris slipped his sword back into its sheath. His hand stayed close. This man had an unpredictability that frightened him. A darkness covered his eyes, hiding the true intentions. Azrael rose to his feet, striding over to the wagon. Reaching inside, he revealed two packs close to bursting. Shouldering them both, he added, "The rest of the wagon is yours. I have all I need. Thanks to Jacques''s employment, I''ll have women hand-feeding me grapes for three years."


    Before going on his way, he nodded at the corpse. "It was a pleasure working for you." His voice dripped with sarcasm. Sighing with a snap of his neck, Azrael spun on his heel, raising his hand in farewell. "Happy trails. Look me up if you have a good game." Heading east, he walked into the growing eastern light, drying blood glinting off his boots. Bag filled with his stolen treasures, he cast a shadow that had the appearance of a thick-winged being. It sent a chill across Faris''s spine. At last, Azrael vanished into the hills, leaving Faris with their former employer.


    He wondered if their paths would cross again. Men of the road had a tendency to show up from time to time. In Azrael''s case, Faris felt that his life would be better if the murderer remained a distant memory. Turning his thoughts to other matters, he looked down at the body. To be victim of a murderous hire was a sorry fate for a merchant. "At least he was merciful," he mused, eyeing the deep cut which delivered a quick kill. He had little taste for dragging out a death. If a man must kill, make it short work. It''s a matter of respect.


    Reaching down, he gathered a handful of dirt, sprinkling it over the corpse. It was all the burial he could give. In most cities, it was customary for those burying a man to deliver a few parting words, known as The Testament. It was said that those words follow a soul into the afterlife, serving as an account of their life. Those words had a major impact on where the soul spent eternity. Without the words, the soul would hang in limbo, unable to receive their reward. Soothsayers provided excellent testaments for the right price. On the road, men had to pray that their temporary companions would oblige.


    Faris had no desire to leave such words for the two spies that sought out his life. Whatever awaited them was well deserved in his eyes, but Jacques was a different matter. This man was pompous and lacked kindness, but he had done no evil thing toward Faris. What he did to others, that he could not vouch for. Perhaps it was due to pity. It might have been his stomach longing for the food the dead man no longer needed. Whatever the reason, Faris imparted a few words.


    "He was a fair employer," Faris muttered, "paying a man what he earned in his own eyes. Trusted a man''s word to a fault. Made his trade and died too early." He fell silent, not having anything else to add. To say more would go into the realm of falsehood. That would heap heavy punishment on the one receiving the words but also hurt the speaker. He stood, dusting the dirt from his pants. "And to the animals, have a nice meal." With a purse of coins and gathering whatever food his pack could carry, Faris walked off the main road, keeping west, opposite of Azrael.

 Ch. 10 The Ones You Love

    "Is there anything you need?" Opal called as she opened the door. She carried an armload of dirty bandages. They needed washing. When she finished cleaning them, they would dry for the evening before reuse. One of the first lessons she learned as a healer was that every resource had to be used and abused. A healer had to learn how to make due. Lives depended on their resourcefulness as much as any medicine.


    "No," the raspy voice of Lydia answered. The healer of Ariel laid on her mat. An open window cast the rising sun''s light on her frail body. A tattered blue blanket covered most of her body, hiding her condition from the world. Half her shrunken face was hidden beneath fresh bandages. Her dark hair was in a tight braid, laying on top of her heaving chest. She took shallow breaths, struggling to cling to life.


    "I won''t be gone long, Mother," she called as she began to shut the door.


    Lydia coughed. "Wait Opal, I thought of something."


    "Yes," she called.


    "When you finish with those bandages, don''t come home."


    "What?" Opal exclaimed, shocked by her mother''s odd request. "Why would I do that?"


    Though her mother''s eyes remained closed, Opal could feel her commanding gaze. She wondered if all mothers had the uncanny ability to see their child without looking. "You stay cooped up in our little home too much," she explained. "Over the last year, you never complain. Whatever I ask, you do without question. Your obedience and dedication are admirable, but you never take a break."


    Leaning against the doorway, Opal answered, "There''s too much to do, Mother. You know that. How many times have you told me that I have a long way to go?"


    "You don''t have to tell me what I said, girl," her mother hacked. "I know it well, but we both know that you have the rest of your life to work. If our family history holds true, you will work your fingers to the bone until you lay in this same sickbed."


    Opal said nothing to this. The same sickness her mother had would attack her one day. There was no changing it. Many of her ancestors had tried. No one succeeded. Death always won. In her family, one had only one choice. Make peace with one''s own demise. Opal shuddered at the thought. "What are you getting at?" she said at last.


    "You need to enjoy what little youth you have left," her mother instructed. "Wander around the village. Talk with the old women. Sing for the men. Stare at the sky. Get lost in some boy''s eyes."


    "Marriage again?" she blurted. "Will you leave it alone?"


    "You are at the age," Lydia replied. "Men have taken notice of you. From time to time, whenever you are out cleaning bandages, someone stops by to ask for your hand."


    Opal felt her cheeks flush. A question played on the edge of her tongue, but she muzzled herself. She did not want to know the answer. "They shouldn''t bother you," she spat instead. "You need your rest."


    "As do you," her mother retorted.


    "And you want me to rest in the arms of a man, is that it?" she asked, feeling a sharpness in her tone. Opal winced at it, not saying anything more. Despite her quiet nature, there were times when she could not hold back. She hated that about herself.


    "Maybe not tonight, but one day," her mother admitted with a faint smile.


    "Fine," Opal agreed, growing weary of the conversation. More than that, she feared what she might say next. Better to end the topic before things escalated. "I''ll go waste my day."


    "Wonderful," Lydia called as the door closed.


    Opal stood outside the door for a second, holding the red and black bandages. Taking a deep breath, she choked back a sob that threatened to burst from deep inside her chest. With each passing day, it was harder to see her mother''s condition. It was not so long ago that she ran circles around women half her age. Over the last few months, she fell apart fast. Instead of worrying for herself, she chose to fret over marriage affairs. Healers were annoying.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "What am I supposed to do?" she wondered aloud. Over the last year, there was not much she did separate from her mother. She tried imagining what she could do for the evening, but nothing came to mind. Even after hanging the washed bandages out to dry, she was no closer to finding an answer. However, as is so often in life, the answers one seeks show up on their own accord.


    She found him sitting at a corner with his face buried in his arms. He kept saying something, but it was so muffled she could not make it out. "Tristan?" she called. His body tensed. He raised his head, revealing a haggard expression. Not once in his life had he looked so disgruntled. "Tristan," she repeated, unable to believe it was him. "What happened to you?"


    A horrified grin stretched out across his face. "I''ve gone insane," he stammered. With a gasp, he slammed his face into his folded arms again. "No," he muttered to thin air. "Not again. I can''t see you. Go away."


    She felt a ball of fear clench her heart. He needs help. At once, her instincts took over. She rushed over to his side. Not waiting for his cooperation, she felt his forehead. No fever, though there was too much sweat. That was as far as the examination went. As soon as her fingers touched him, he recoiled. "What are you doing?" he demanded, cheeks flushing.


    "Trying to see what''s wrong with you," she answered. "You look sick."


    Groaning, he placed his head against the wall. "I feel sick," he replied.


    "Then let me take a look at you," Opal demanded. Nothing annoyed her more than a difficult patient.


    "You can''t fix it," he roared, pushing himself to his feet. His knees quivered. It was all he could do to stand.


    "I can''t if you don''t let me," she argued. "Tell me what''s wrong. We''re friends, right? Trust me."


    He froze at that. His eyes met hers. It was now that she realized how cold they were. She was not sure if he even saw her. "You want to know?" he asked, his voice hollow. "Do you want to know what''s plaguing me every time I open my eyes?" He reached out, gripping her arm. His fingers dug into her. "Will you run away if you knew the truth? Huh?"


    "Let go Tristan," she barked, struggling to get away from him. His grip did not weaken.


    "Can you see him?" he cried, his voice squeaking. "Do you know what it''s like?"


    "What are you talking about?" she cried in a panic. She struck at him, but nothing could deter him.


    "No one knows," he raved. "They can''t see him and I can''t look away. Do you know how much that hurts? Do you understand?"


    What is he talking about? "Let go," she screamed.


    "You heard Opal," a little voice yelled. Someone appeared from behind him. The small figure wielded a long stick. It struck Tristan across the head with a resounding whack.


    "Ow," Tristan shouted, reeling forward. His fingers slipped from her arm. He fell to the ground, caressing his head.


    Standing between the pair, makeshift weapon in hand, was Ur. The child gripped the stick as if he held a double-edged blade. He leveled it at Tristan, while holding a protective hand in front of Opal. "Are you okay?" the child asked. She nodded, not able to say anything. What was wrong with Tristan?


    "What do you think you''re doing?" Ur demanded, turning his attention to his friend. The child''s voice grew larger than his little body.


    "I-I don''t know," he stammered, voice muffled by the dirt. The dead eyes looked at Ur. "I''m so sorry," he murmured, wiping his mouth. "I didn''t mean any harm." He crawled toward them on his hands and knees, head bowed. "Forgive me." When he raised his head again, he gasped.


    "No. Not you," he screamed. Springing to his feet, he turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could. "Wait," Opal yelled after him.


    "Let him go," Ur ordered as Tristan disappeared behind a corner. Opal shot him a shocked look. Where had this sudden authority come from? "Whatever is wrong with him, it''s been happening for a few days."


    "What is he doing?"


    The boy shrugged. "Jumping at shadows. Avoiding others. Talking to himself." He paused. "It''s like a madman in one of Herodotus''s stories."


    "There has to be a way to help him," she insisted.


    At this, the child grew quiet. "How?" he asked at last. Big tears welled up in his eyes. "What are we supposed to do?"


    Opal hid a gasp. She was not the only one hurt and confused. At once, she knew what she needed to do. A healing smile rose on Opal''s face. Dropping to her knees, she pried the wooden blade from the boy''s hand. Tossing it aside, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her shoulder. He accepted her embrace, his wails muffled by her body. "It''s going to be okay," she reassured him, patting him on the head. Still, in her heart, she wasn''t sure if she believed anything she said.

 Ch. 11- Unbelief

    Tristan ran into the wheat fields as the dark overtook the sky. This was the only place he could hide. He could not go back into town, not after what he did. It was unbelievable it happened. In his madness, he almost hurt Opal. He dared not think about what would have happened if Ur had not stepped in. The child was a better friend than he deserved. Shame washed over him. How could he let everything go so out of control? What had overtaken him?


    Yelling in frustration, he threw himself to the ground, shutting his eyes. He dreaded the thought of opening them again. Tristan longed to sleep. Out in the distance, he heard the usual noises of Ariel sleeping. A dog barking at the wind. Children crying for their mothers. Men and women having their last conversations before bed. If he only went by what he heard now, Ariel had not changed. A tight grimace stretched across his mouth, knowing that everything was different. All he had to do was open his eyes to see that truth. Clenching his eyelids shut, he hoped he could retreat into his dreams and avoid reality. Life was not that kind.


    "Are you done running?" a gentle voice called, showing the slight tensions of irritation. "Get up. I have humored you long enough." Tristan knew there was no escape. No matter what happened, he was waiting for him. This phantom would not leave him alone. He invaded Tristan''s hearing and sight. No matter how much he wished to, the lad could not make himself go deaf and blind.


    With a begrudged sigh, he sat up, opening his eyes. The wild-haired man awaited him, floating a foot off the ground with his legs crossed. His arms laid folded across his robed chest, fingers drumming on his biceps. "It would seem that my priest wishes to be the sluggard of the village. Shirking your duties," he observed with a hint of dissatisfaction, yet not unkind. "No matter. As your patron deity, it is my duty to ensure that you live up to your full potential. Do not fear. My lessons will be strict, but fair."


    "Why are you still going on with that nonsense?" Tristan demanded, tired of his rambling on about priests and patron deities. "I''m not your priest."


    "Well not right now," the ghost-being agreed. "But don''t get it confused. When a god gives you a title, it''s not something you can shrug off like a coat. Our words have a way of sticking."


    Tristan disliked this strange creature. He hated how he spoke with this air of self-importance. No doubt, it came from his disillusion of being a god. Tristan refused to call him any such thing. It was true that the phantom had many abilities far beyond the people of Ariel, but that did not make him a god. Perhaps the lad''s belief that there were no spirits in the world was wrong. However, being wrong about that did not mean that gods existed. For all he knew, this was some ghost or demon trying to torment him. If half of Herodotus''s stories were true, there were plenty of beings in the spiritual world. Still, he could tolerate a fa?ade. What ghost would not want the living to believe himself a god? What he could not forgive was this being''s chosen name.


    "We need to discuss one thing first, Prospero," Tristan interrupted, unable to keep the slight venom from his voice. This phantom expected him to believe he was Prospero, patron god of Ariel. That was impossible. If Prospero did exist, he was deep in endless sleep, as the legend proclaimed. To make matters worse, he looked nothing like the statue. This being had thick hair while the statue was clean shaven. He lacked the muscled form. There was no sign of armor. It was a terrible lie. Besides, did he believe that claiming that name would gain Tristan''s obedience? If gods were real, Prospero was the last one he wanted to meet.


    "Yes, young Tristan," he replied. "I will answer anything you should ask."


    There were so many questions running through Tristan''s mind. Too many for him to keep track of. However, there was one that could not be ignored. "Prospero," he asked, rising to his feet. He cursed himself for going along with the lie. "Why can I see you?"


    The supposed god smiled, a warm, heartfelt grin, if fake gods had hearts. "You have no idea how wonderful it is to hear one call your name." Tristan said nothing in reply, waiting for his answer. As to his question, Prospero, the self-proclaimed patron god of Ariel, let his smile fall. Stroking his beard, his face changed into a stern gaze of emptiness. The silence weighed on Tristan, making him question if he wanted the answer or not. "I do not know," the false god admitted at last.


    Those words punched Tristan''s voice from his throat. His lips twitched, seeking anything to say. He found nothing. "Do not get so excited," the lying god said with a soothing tone to his voice. "Believe it or not, this is not an everyday thing, for me in particular. Forgive me if I am as clueless on this situation as you." He paused, eyebrows scrunched up. "Hmm, have you ever experienced this before?"


    "No," he answered at last. His mouth cracked, all spittle seeming to vanish, leaving a desert inside his lips. "Do you think I would react this way if it happened before?" How could he see a phantom god and that very being not know how a mortal could see him? It was unbelievable.


    "If you need to faint," the phantom suggested. "Take time for your mind to rest. Mortals have a level for how much they can withstand."


    "No," Tristan blurted. Rest would not help him anymore. He needed an answer, but where could he find it? "Is it because I ate that offering?" he demanded.


    "What offering?" the false god asked. He paused. "Oh yes, my offering. That was rude of you."


    Tristan balked. "How did you do that?"This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Prospero raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"


    "You didn''t know a second ago," Tristan replied. "Now you know that I ate the real Prospero''s food."


    The phantom almost answered, but he froze. His voice turned hollow. "What do you mean the real Prospero?"


    "Don''t change the subject. I asked the first question."


    "And I''m a god. I decide what order the questions are asked." Tristan opened his mouth to retort, but a stern look from the self-proclaimed Prospero made him fall silent.


    "I ask you again. What do you mean by the real Prospero?"


    "You''re not him," Tristan stammered.


    "Of course I am. Why would I say so if I wasn''t?"


    "I can see phantoms now," Tristan answered. "Nothing has to make sense anymore."


    "To masquerade as a god is a severe offense. Few would risk such a crime." Prospero wore a frustrated grin. "Why would I go through the trouble?"


    "I don''t know. Maybe you think it''s the only god I would follow. Let me tell you a little secret. I have no interest in following Prospero. Patron god of Ariel...what has he done for Ariel? Have you looked around? This village is dying. Did you think that I''d want to follow a god who chose to forsake us?"


    Prospero met this with silence. "Tristan, you asked me a question earlier. You wanted to know how I knew about the offering. There''s an easy answer. We gods know you mortals far better than you think. Being a patron god, I know almost everything about you and everyone else in Ariel. It takes me a second to remember, but believe it or not, I know everything about you. No other god can do that."


    "That''s impossible," Tristan spat.


    "You hate Herodotus''s stories. They seem like a pointless distraction that only fools believe in."


    Tristan smirked. "Anyone could know that."


    "Leaving this village is your chief desire. You want to live on the caravan."


    He balked at this. Perhaps this phantom knew more than it appeared. "Anyone who talks to me long enough can figure that out," he insisted. "Good try, but not convincing."


    "At the age of five, you hurt your left leg playing on the roof. It was not bad, but you liked the attention. You were found out when you were caught limping on the wrong leg." Tristan blinked in surprise. No one talked about that. Only one person knew. "Yes, I know about it, and no, Opal did not tell anyone."


    Before he could reply, Prospero continued with a smile. "Speaking of Opal, you love her. Fear of rejection keeps you from admitting how you feel." Tristan flushed. He was at a loss for words. This being''s claim seemed more valid by the second. It terrified him of what he might say next.


    "Everyone believes your parents died trying to get food for the village," Prospero said with a stern voice. Tristan froze. "But we both know better."


    "Stop," he spat. Sweat ran down his armpits. His panicked heart pounded in his chest. He could not believe what was in front of him, yet here he was. The god looked at him with a pained look in his eyes, as if he dreaded this part of the conversation. That would make two of them. "You have made your point," he admitted, turning away.


    "I''m sorry," Prospero apologized. "You forced my hand." He looked to the night sky. The stars glistened, unaware how Tristan''s world was changing. "Under normal circumstances, I might have been a little gentler, but I fear that there are too many things that need my attention."


    Tristan looked at the god, the moment sinking in. "You''re supposed to be the sleeping god," he breathed. To stand in the presence of a real god, and Prospero of all beings, it was more than he could comprehend.


    "So did I," Prospero answered, scratching his head. "But it looks like I''m awake."


    "Did you wake up to curse me?" Tristan asked, feeling his legs wobble.


    Prospero''s eyebrow raised. "For stealing food? I admit that even if you are my priest, I must punish you for that. But you think seeing the gods is a curse? That blessing would never be passed to thieves."


    "Then why?"


    "I told you I don''t know," the god admitted. "There''s a lot of things I don''t know right now."


    The pair grew quiet. What was a mortal supposed to say to a god? Tristan had so many questions, but one was more important than anything else. "Did you forsake us?" Tristan asked in a whisper.


    "Is that what you believe?" Prospero asked in return.


    "I believed it from the day my parents left."


    The god nodded with a forced grin. "Good to see mortals still expect so much from the gods. Some things never change." He paused. "No good god chooses to forsake his people. However, the world is full of conflicting spirits, each forcing their will on others. Often, a decision is made against one''s own will."


    Tristan nodded, though he was not sure he understood. The god cocked his head to one side, eyebrows raising. "Where did you get that?" he asked, pointing at the amulet.


    Tristan looked down, noticing the bronze necklace for the first time today. He balked. How could he forget about it? "I took it off your statue," he admitted with sheepish embarrassment. "Figured I could sell it if I ever left."


    "Odd," Prospero mused, eyeing it with growing interest. "I was there the day my statue was made. This was not there."


    The pair stared at the amulet for a long time. Was the answer right in front of them the entire time? "Do you know where it came from?" Tristan asked, not sure if he wanted the answer.


    "Perhaps."


    "Do you think it''s linked with my eyes?"


    "Perhaps." Tristan opened his mouth, but Prospero cut him off. "We could continue with this line of questions forever. Let me help you cut to the chase." He leaned forward, a god inches away from a mortal. "If it''s answers you want, you won''t find them in Ariel." He did not know it at the time, but this would be Tristan''s last night in his hometown.

 Ch. 12- Smoke and Mirrors

    As the sun set, falling behind the distant mountain range, the people of Ehud gathered. They trickled, a few at a time, into a pool. Throughout the busy day, all kept one eye turned to the edge of town, but no one abandoned their daily course. Curiosity did not put bread on the table. Still, the alluring sight at the edge of town captured the imagination. Each had their own idea regarding what was awaiting them. Now, the time came for them to satisfy their fascination.


    The pool collected into a crescent, broken apart only by a wooden platform, the source of their intrigue. Over the last three days, they witnessed its construction, or rather, the sudden overnight changes. The platform remained the same from sunrise to sunset. No one worked on it. One would think it was abandoned. However, when the sun rose the next day, it was different. On the first day, it was no more than a large box, fifty feet on each side. It served no purpose other than taking up space. As the sun rose on the second day, they saw a large room at the back of it, with two horses hitched to it. During that day, no one tended to the horses, but they had a trough of water. With the light of the third day, with the exception of the platform jutting from it and the horses behind, they could not see anything through the light blue tent billowing over whatever was built.


    All stood with their lips pursed and arms folded. They had ignored this for three days, waiting for the constructor to reveal himself. With no one forthcoming, they gathered in front of the platform, watching the tent ripple. Each exchanged a look. A common thought coursed through them. "What is this?" Another question followed it immediately. "What should we do about this?" Looking amongst themselves, no answer presented itself at first. The children in the crowd might have slipped under the tent if they were not under the ever-watchful eyes of their elders, who were cautious of what they did not know.


    The people of Ehud were cautious, more than some, but they did not leap at their own shadows. They understood that the unfamiliar was something to remain wary of, but not to fear. Standing in front of the tent, their inaction came from one source: wonder. Should they leave it alone, or should they pull it back, revealing whatever lay underneath to the fading light of day?


    Leon, the aging butcher and one who did not care for mysteries, prodded at the fabric with his walking stick, careful to not move around too much with his shaky legs being the only thing holding him up. "Who''s in there?" he called. A mutter of approval rippled through the others. "This has gone on long enough. Whoever you are, come out where we can see you."


    "Yes," Peter agreed. The cobbler was more than willing to follow Leon, a man he regarded better than his own father. One by one, the pool surged with cries of agreement, calling for what hid in the tent to reveal itself.


    As if in answer, the place where Leon prodded flapped back, revealing a man dressed in a dark robe. Through a thick beard and slicked brown hair, his pale skin reflected the fading light, giving himself a reddish glow. Stepping through the opening, he took his place on the wooden stage. His dirty, bare feet stood a few feet away from the noses of the crowd, but they could not smell anything amiss. He raised his arms in the air, gesturing for silence from the masses. The sleeves of his robe fell, revealing translucent, hairless arms. Looking upon his strange appearance, they obeyed.


    "Dear people," he called to them, voice gentle and reassuring. "I apologize for stirring up strife." Saying this, he turned to Leon and gave a deep bow, bending so far that the aging man felt embarrassed. "Though it may not seem like much, this wooden platform, and fabric that protects it, is my temporary temple, where I continue my studies in the privacy of my own company, hidden from the eyes of the world."


    This man''s speech left the crowd in a stunned silence. Not in the last half century had anyone seen a man like him before. The children looked at his pale face with astonished wonder while the women looked at his ungroomed hair and overall disgruntled appearance with disgust. Meanwhile, the men focused on one thing, and it brought each one some level of distress. They gazed upon his black robes, which rustled in the light breeze. "And what are you studying that needs such secrecy?" Giles demanded. The ruddy tiller had a way of getting to the point. With folded arms, the crowd waited for this newcomer''s answer.


    A smile broke out on the man''s face. He chuckled as if he heard a new joke, one that would leave him laughing at inopportune times for the next few days. Cries asking what was so funny broke out. Raising a hand to his lips, he stifled his giggling. "Forgive me," he begged. "But if you stood where I was, you would understand why I laughed." Gesturing to the tent behind him, he declared, "You don''t want to know what lies beneath this tent."


    As if taking that statement as a challenge, Leon stamped his walking stick, demanding, "Show us."


    "No," the man replied, his tone flat and stern. "What is hidden under this fabric is not meant for the eyes of the benighted."


    "Show us!" wizen Deborah called from the back, resting against her grandson. As an elder of the village, all respected her opinion, even Leon, who would not challenge her under any circumstance. "Don''t be all day about it."


    The man looked at the crowd, seeing their growing frustration, then back at the tent, his eyes widened. "Please," he implored. "I know that this might seem suspicious, but I promise you, if you leave now, I will be gone by the morning."


    "He''s hiding something," Giles cried.


    "I say we pull back the fabric and see for ourselves," someone cried. It sounded like a woman, but no one knew for sure.


    "This is our village," another voice agreed, maybe a man. "No one can do as they please without our say so." Some might say that they were growing rash. Perhaps they were. Going against the caution valued, but by this point, their actions all were in the name of caution. Whoever this man was, and whatever he had, could not remain so close to their village unopposed. They stood, ready to claim the truth with their own hands.


    "Yes," Mary said, bursting from the crowd. Of the townspeople, she was the troublemaker. No mischievous boy or town drunk could compare to the trouble that she caused. She was not a thief, nor a harlot, nor killed her guests in their sleep. This small woman was something far worse when it came to the community. She loved strife. It followed wherever she went.


    Every action she took, for good or ill, had a terrible effect on those around her, bringing out the worst in them. It manifested in different ways, but today, she was the spearhead of the attack. The sea of people burst over the wooden shore, crashing toward the man. Their waving hands grasped at the fabric. A terrified scream burst from the man''s lips as they surged forward. He spun around, revealing a long ponytail running down his neck, and raised his arms high above his head.


    At once, the crowd stopped running. A long silence held everyone''s breath hostage, but released it within a moment, or an eternity. It felt the same for the people of Ehud. That was when their screaming began. Men, women, and children groped for one another, cries of horror erupting from their very souls as they saw the most terrifying sight of their lives. Just as they wished, the pulled back fabric revealed what lay beneath the tent; yet they could not look upon it. Their eyes stared at the fabric, which was not pulled back by human hands. It moved on its own.


    Starting from the top, it raised in the air at an angle, the base of it lifted off the ground, and it floated through the air, disappearing behind the large wooden room, sitting at the back of the large platform. "What?" Leon cried. All stood in horrified wonder at this sudden occurrence. No breeze blew nor could any remember having a wind strong enough to lift such a large piece of fabric into the air. In answer, the man turned, facing them. Giles stood with his mouth agape, being one of the few who noticed the true horror of this impossible feat. The rise and fall of the tent was in perfect synchronization with this stranger''s hand movements.


    "That''s impossible," he muttered, taking a tentative step back.


    "Look what you made me do," the man cried, his voice thick with anger and grief. On every single plank of wood, someone had drawn intricate symbols and written strange woods across them. On one side stood a table, with strange objects strewn across it, some glistening in the fading light. Across from it rested a group of numerous sharp spikes. Strange, tall unlit torches formed a circle encompassing the both table and spikes. In the center of it all, resting on a pedestal, laid an open book. The binding was old and worn, almost to the point of falling apart. In the presence of this spectacle, a gasp rose from those that managed to overcome their initial shock. Most stood in stunned silence.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The man raced across the platform and threw himself over the book, as if protecting it from the vanishing sun. "None of this is meant to see the light of day," he cried. As the sun slipped further beneath the horizon, his face grew whiter. Those who rushed the man raced off the platform, trembling on the earth below. Terror swelled in their hearts as this man yelled, his teeth gnashing. "Oh, how this insolence hurts my very soul." His voice rose to a shrill shriek.


    He cut his voice short, hanging his head low. "Why?" he asked, whispering. "Why could you not leave well enough alone?" The few that fought through their petrifying fear saw that everything would take a turn for the worst as slow, creeping darkness fell on the world. "You have no idea what you have done." The man''s face tensed. His hand laid heavy on his heart. "Please," he begged, drops of sweat rolling down his forehead. "You have to run. Now."


    At once, he froze. His eyes went blank, mouth hanging slack. In a low, haunting wail, he lamented, "I''m sorry. It''s too late for that."


    "How dare you disturb my servant within the hallowedness of my temple," a booming voice shouted. It came from the depths, where all terrors are born. The horses screamed. Children cried. Women fainted, reaching for a hand that could not take theirs. Men cowered on the ground, praying to be spared. The few that could still stand in the face of this new terror said nothing. "Curs," the invisible voice spat. "As mangy dogs, I will teach you a harsh lesson. My servant, arise."


    At the voice''s bidding, the man stood up straight and abandoned the book as darkness covered it. He strode over to the table and grabbed a small round ball. With a quick clenching of his fist, he revealed a pile of dust in his hand. Tossing it above his head, he cried, "I am the servant of mistress Hecate and the great god Veles. I, Grigori, serve as their mouthpiece and protector of their tome of deep magic." He snapped his fingers. The torches lit.


    "I was once as you," he declared, pointing at the unwilling audience. They longed to flee from him, but found their feet rooted in place. "There was a time when I laughed at the spirits, unwilling to mind the sacredness of their holy hills. Once, I urinated on a god''s shrine and threw a disease-ridden dog''s corpse into a goddess'' temple; but oh how we change once we meet the face of the divine."


    "Allow me to show you the true wonder of my masters," he said. Walking over to the table, he grabbed a piece of wood, no bigger than walnut. He tossed it at the ground. An explosion erupted. A cry arose from those watching. "Oh," Grigori said. "Perhaps, we should not allow so many of you to miss what is coming next." He reached back to the table and scooped up entire handfuls of the nut-shaped wood. Running around his stage, he threw them about. They exploded on the platform, on the grass, and in the crowd. The noise was so loud that those that passed out awoke to the display before them. "Nice of you to rejoin us," he welcomed, a cruel smile on his face.


    "Please turn your attention to the other side of the stage," he continued, while everyone watched in silence. He approached the wooden spikes, each ending at jagged point. Without a second''s hesitation, he stepped onto them. Elizabeth shrieked, covering her eyes. "Do not scream so loud," Grigori chastised. "If you break my concentration, they''ll skewer and break off in my feet. It will take days to make more."


    Everyone stood in awe and horror as he stood on the spikes. Not a trickle of blood ran down them. Laughing, he sprung off of the fine points, landing on the stage again. His giggling cut short as he raised a foot from the floor. As the sole of his foot lifted from the boards, a sharp sword followed it, being a mere inch from piercing him. He laughed again. "It would seem a demon wishes to skewer me, but he cannot break through the charms that protect me."


    His foot lowered to the floor, the sword descending along with it. The steel did not touch him. As he walked across the stage, swords kept rising and falling with his footsteps. Grigori shook his head and walked into the center of the stage, placing his hand on the book. "Begone," he roared and the torches flared up. When he began walking again, the swords did not pursue him.


    "Enough of these parlor tricks," he declared, dropping to the floor. He placed his hands together, holding them against the boards, against a specific, ragged symbol. "Life," he cried. At his bidding, a black crow poked its head out from betwixt his fingers. Raising up, he held it for all to see. The black bird sprung from his outstretched fingers, taking to the sky. No one noticed that the symbol on the floor had disappeared. The crow cawed down on the crowd. Its mournful screeches sent chills down the spines of those presence. "Behold, the divine messenger of the gods. Through it, the spirits speak to me," Grigori said. The bird swooped down, landing on his shoulder.


    He nodded. "Yes," he whispered, then spoke in a louder voice, "the gods demand a tribute." He walked over to one of the torches and placed his hands on both sides of the flame. To the surprise of no one, he did not scream in pain. Instead, he held the flame in his hand. "You are hard-working, righteous people. They do not wish to destroy you. They wish to teach you. Fear the spirits and honor those that go in their name." He stared them down at them. "They seem merciful today. How will you repay them?"


    At first, everyone stood with their mouths gaping open, unable to say a single word. "Have my necklace," Deborah cried, bursting from the crowd. Fear made her feeble frame move faster than anyone half her age. She ripped a glistening necklace from her neck, vesting it on the stage. Following her lead, everyone presented whatever they had. They formed a frenzied line, hurling their immediate belongings into a pile at Grigori''s feet. Rings, bracelets, earrings, coin purses, fruit, the shirt off their backs, and a glass eye.


    He inspected the pile, looking at the crow from time to time. At last, he nodded. "It is good," he declared. Everyone exhaled a sigh of relief, the only one they had since this began. One of his hands left the flame, placing it on his lips. Opening his palm, he whistled a light breeze and a puff of smoke arose from the ground. It snaked around him, circling the pile at his feet. Grigori blew again and it vanished, the pile of treasures along with it. Nodding in satisfaction, he declared, "The gods thank..."


    "What is this?" the voice from before bellowed. "These paltry trinkets are not enough to balance the scales of their sins."


    "My lord," Grigori argued in clear distress. Sweat poured down his face, reflecting the fire against his pale face.


    "No," the voice boomed, silencing him. "If they wish to stay my hand, which clenches the sword of judgement, they need to bring more. If they wish their lives to be spared."


    Needing no more reason, the crowd dispersed, running in different directions, back to their abodes. They searched the town in a frenzy. In a matter of minutes, they came running back with garments, gold coins, jewelry far better than what they gave before, jars of ale, incense. Once the last child laid their favorite doll on the far larger pile, the voice crooned, "Yes. That is good."


    A much larger puff of smoke exploded, one that made Grigori himself shrink back, the flame still burning in his hands. Everything disappeared in the explosion, but the voice remained. "You are a disappointment, my servant."


    "No," Grigori cried in horror. "Do not be angry with me, lord."


    "We granted you great power and you cannot even do as we wish. For your insolence, you must be disciplined." As the last word echoed, the torches flared up again, and the poles beneath them fell. Where they fell, the boards caught on fire, and it spread quick. Cries burst from the crowd. Grigori spun around; his face twisted into the realized despair of doom. He released the flame in his hands, which dissipated at once. Dropping to his knees, he held his hands out to control the flames, hoping to save his temple.


    At first, they obeyed, staying away from him, but they were controlled by the god. A mortal cannot overwhelm the divine. The flames broke from his grip, consuming the stage, burning everything to a black crisp. The horses rose on their back hooves, pulling on their harnesses, desperate to flee. Grigori''s temple was lost, but he could not leave. He looked behind him, at the book sitting on the pedestal. It could not save itself. With a cry of anguish, he stopped trying to save himself and jumped up, snatching the book in his hands.


    "You would burn up your own tome?" Grigori cried out to his god as the flames enclosed around him. In answer, the voice laughed. It was cruel and enjoyed watching its servant struggling against the flames. Grigori looked for an escape, but found none as the flames bore down on him. The hungry jaws of the fire leapt up to swallow him. They succeeded. He disappeared beneath them, screaming.


    It was chaos. The horses broke from the stage, pulling a shoddy coach behind them. The crowd of hostages broke from their trance. They ran in all directions. Some hid in their homes while others dived into the fields. Women clasped their children and men their women. The elders begged the gods to spare them. Children cried for their parents to protect them. All the while, the god''s laughter and Grigori''s cries echoed in the night.


    The pyre burned until daybreak, leaving the ashes to smolder for days. Almost a month later, the people of Ehud would regain their courage and approach the pile of ash, if for no other reason than to bury all of it, so that they might forget that night of horror. They could not bear seeing it another day. To their surprise, they could not find any bones, not even a finger. It was as if no one burned at all.

 Ch. 13- Unburdening the Soul

    "Come in," a voice called from within. "The door is open."


    Even now Tristan hesitated. Of all the doors in Ariel, he never believed he would darken this one. Sweat coated his palms. His breathing was steady, but shaky. A ball of nerves twisted in his stomach. He stood outside for a while, trying to build up his nerve to enter. The sun was beginning to rise. It was too early to pay a visit, but he knew this could not wait. Besides, the invitation was made. He had to accept.


    Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open. Through the morning light, he found a wooden room, differing from the stone of Ariel. A rake had smoothed the dirt floor in the last few days. While the bed mat looked older than Tristan''s, it was cleaner. A jar with flowers rested in the middle of a table. A loaf of bread was not far away with an apple. On one wall hung a parchment with writing he could not read.


    "You should not fear a man''s door," the voice''s owner said, sitting on the cot. "How can you stand before your host when you meet?" He placed a feeble hand on his back, rubbing. "Bed isn''t much good anymore. At my age, laying down means you might not get back up."


    "Herodotus," he muttered in greeting as the great storyteller rose to his feet.


    "Yes," he replied, grabbing his staff for support. "That is my name." He limped across the floor, white hair swaying.


    Before the Seanchai reached Tristan, Prospero floated toward him, looking the elder over. "Herodotus," he murmured, eyes half-closed. A smile overtook his lips. "You tell your stories well. If only you were mine." He shook his head. "Regardless, I am glad you chose Ariel for your home. You have made it all the brighter."


    "Please, have a seat," Herodotus said to Tristan, gesturing to one of the two chairs by the table. "You look tired. Relieve your burdens for a time."


    Tristan balked, surprised at how his elder treated the situation. They had little interaction yet Herodotus spoke as if they were friends. Tristan took up his offer and joined Herodotus at the table. "Tell me. What brings you to my home? The stories don''t begin until noon. You know that, young Tristan."


    The lad paused, trying to find the right wording. "What are you waiting for?" Prospero chimed in, floating over the table. "There''s no need to be coy with him. If anyone will believe your tale, it will be him."


    "Go away," Tristan muttered.


    "I can''t go away," Herodotus pointed out. "This is my home."


    "Not you," Tristan blurted.


    "Sorry, but as a patron god," Prospero replied. "It is my duty to guide my priest." Tristan ran his fingers through his hair. Now that he had a god with him, it was going to be much harder to carry a conversation.


    "Here," the storyteller said. Tristan looked up to see the old man pushing the bread closer to him. He stared at it, stomach grumbling at the sight. "Eat. It will help you calm your nerves. Did wonders for me in my youth."


    Not remembering the last time he ate, Tristan accepted without question. Nothing but the sound of his own crunching filled his ears. There was little pleasure in eating. The bread was not fresh, making it stale and crusty, but he crammed it into his mouth with the savageness of one starving. With each bite, he felt the tightness in his belly loosening. As the bread satisfied his appetite, a steady calm settled on him. Once he finished, Herodotus smiled. "Better?" Tristan nodded. "Good." Before a silence could fall between them, he added, "I expected you to show up, but not so fast."


    Tristan blinked. "That''s impossible," he exclaimed. "Why would you expect me, of all people?"


    "The town is buzzing with your strange behavior, or rather, stranger behavior according to Esther. Stark raving mad, they say," he answered. Tristan''s shocked silence brought a chuckle from the storyteller. "Just because I am an old man living alone in a shack does not mean that I do not hear the rumblings of the daily lives in Ariel."


    They believe I''m mad? he thought. Tristan looked down, unable to meet his eyes. It was hard to believe he was here, speaking with someone he mocked in front of everyone. "Do not fear," the elder assured him. "Being considered mad is not as bad as it seems." Shame hung on Tristan''s shoulders. For years, he thought Herodotus insane and everyone who listened fools. For the first time in his life, he was understanding the old man. A thought dawned on him, one which hid under the mind''s horizon. No one believed Herodotus''s tales. To them, the stories were that and nothing more. How could he live his whole life not realizing? It was as Prospero said. This man was the one person who could believe him.


    "Do not hold back," the old man coaxed. "Take a deep breath and say what is on your mind."


    With slight hesitation, he began his tale, and it was rain bursting from cloudy skies. The words poured out with ease. Over the course of the next hour, he told everything that happened over the last few days, not leaving anything out. Not that Prospero would let him leave anything out. He chimed in to help, but it only confused Tristan, making parts of the story run together. Herodotus said nothing. Listening throughout the clear and muddled bits of the tale. He did not even raise an eyebrow when Tristan spoke to the god. With his diming eyes, his intense stare remained on the young orator, not turning away once. He listened with the silent eagerness his audience gave him for years.


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    When he reached the end of his story, Tristan slouched in his chair, all the energy within his body spent. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he took a deep breath, waiting for Herodotus'' answer. The Seanchai rubbed his hands on his knees, contemplating his words. "So you see the spiritual world," he murmured in reverent belief. "To receive a gift so many covet. It must be daunting for you, and to see Prospero of all gods must leave you awestruck." He paused, raising an eyebrow, "Have you seen his sigil?"


    "His what?" Tristan asked, surprised by the sudden question.


    Herodotus waved aside the question. "Why are you telling me this?"


    "I wanted advice," Tristan admitted. He hesitated on whether he should say more or not. This might be the last time we speak, he considered. "And to apologize. Whatever comes next, I don''t want to regret how I treated you."


    The old man smiled. "You were a tough one to please. No matter the story, you mocked it. You sure know how to hurt an old man''s heart."


    Tristan flushed with embarrassment. "I''m sorry."


    "Accepted," the Seanchai answered with a nod. "With the apology out of the way, what advice do you seek?"


    The reply was as simple. "What am I supposed to do?"


    The Seanchai''s head cocked to the side. "In what regard?"


    "This," Tristan exclaimed, flailing his arms around him. "What am I supposed to do with this blessing, curse, or whatever it is?"


    "Ah, what to do when adventure is calling," the old man mused, rubbing his chin. "That is an interesting question; I have no answer."


    "What?" Tristan blurted, jolting upright in his chair.


    He raised his hands, asking for calm. "No two men choose the same path. What I would do is not what you should do. The answer is yours and yours alone."


    Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He had the answer? That was impossible. "Tristan," Prospero chimed in. He did not look at the god. If there was someone he did not want to hear from at the moment, it was him. "You might not want my advice, but I must tell you. We have to leave Ariel. This amulet. Your vision. My awakening. They are not a coincidence. Something is going on out there and you won''t find the answer here."


    "What makes you think I want the answer?" he declared, turning on the god. "Maybe I don''t want to go anywhere. What if I want to live whatever pitiful life is here for me?"


    Prospero''s lips curled into a smile through his beard. "That''s a pitiful lie," he admitted. "Don''t even pretend you believe it. We both know what you want to do and it isn''t living and dying in Ariel."


    He bit back a curse. As long as this god was around, there was no hiding the truth. No one knew more about Tristan than Prospero, whether that was a good thing or not was undecided. Tristan wanted to kick the invisible chains of Ariel off and find that caravan. He could spend the rest of his life seeing the world. He would no longer dwell in the squalor of Ariel. Still, he hesitated, not wanting to admit his desire to himself. What held him back?


    "Heroes often fear the unknown," Herodotus offered, saying nothing about the youth''s one-sided conversation with thin air. "But we all know what you must do. Don''t we, Prospero?"


    "The storyteller is preceptive." The god chuckled. "Guess we made my presence too obvious. We need to work on that in the future." He waved the thought aside. "Still, he''s right. You know what we must do."


    Tristan said nothing. They were right. Fear held him back. With his eyes seeing the divine, who knew what he would witness? In dying Ariel, he knew how to face each day no matter how hard it was. Here everything was familiar. If he left, he would be alone, facing a new world, with only an unfamiliar god to guide him. Did he have the courage to endure?


    All at once, a strange look came over Herodotus''s face. He stood up, body swaying. His foot began to carry him around the room in some dance that was somewhat familiar to him. "And when the sleeping god awakes," he recited, the story coming to him word by word. "The boy who saw past the veil set out on his journey, his desire burning in his heart."


    His words made Tristan''s blood run cold. "What?" he cried, jumping to his feet. "What story are you telling?"


    He paused mid-step, blinking back into the moment. Turning to Tristan, he answered in a soft voice, thick with fear, "Yours."


    "No," Tristan shouted in horror, covering his ears. It was too much. His entire mind felt crushed. All that he believed was laid in a pile before him and burned to ashes. Was that not enough? No. Now, Herodotus told him his own story. When did the madness end? "I don''t want to hear it. That''s not my story. I don''t want any of this. Let me live in peace." As soon as those words tumbled from his lips, he knew what he wanted, more than anything else. Despite how much he wanted to leave Ariel, right now, he would give anything to have his life return to what it was. He wished to be blind to the spirits.


    "I''ll go," he said aloud. The moment he spoke he knew there was no going back.


    "Really?" Prospero exclaimed. "I''m pleased. Though I admit I do not prefer your reasoning."


    "Leave me alone," he spat.


    The god sighed with a shake of his head. "Listen, I don''t know what the Seanchai is going to say next, but I can guarantee you, this is the right choice. If you want to stop seeing the divine, you won''t find that gift in Ariel. The answers you seek are beyond what you know."


    Herodotus said nothing for a long time. He slouched with his hands braced on the table. He gasped, clear horror on his face. "It''s not possible," he muttered.


    "What is?" Prospero and Tristan asked at once.


    "Your story. It is not yet written, yet I speak as if it has already happened." He drew a shaky breath. "Lad, I have lost the thread. I cannot tell more, but if I could, I would silence my tongue." The Seanchai added in a whisper, "Be wary. I feel there is more at play than we believe."


    "I feel the same," Prospero added.


    Tristan gave no thought to that. There was so much he had to accept already. He had no room in his mind to consider what elements were at play. Looking at the medallion, he turned to their only lead. It was simple. The answers he sought laid tied to the origin of this lump of bronze. Where they would go from there was a mystery. Tristan was grateful that his story was still untold. If he knew anymore, it would never have begun.

 Ch. 14- Goodbyes

    ¡°Are you sure we shouldn¡¯t check on him?¡± Opal asked as she wrapped another bandage around her mother¡¯s arm. Her open sore oozed on the dark fabric. She wished she had new dressings to care for her mother. No matter how many times she cleaned the reused bandages, the faint remnants of past bloodstains would not wash out nor could she rid them of the stench of death.


    Her mother¡¯s condition was worse today. She awoke to eat whatever breakfast she could keep down. The rest of the day was spent dozing as sweat soaked into her cot. Opal was unsure if her mother dreamed, but she prayed that they were happy ones. Anything to relieve her from the dreary misery of her life. If she was stronger tomorrow, the senior healer would curse herself for wasting a day when she could instruct her daughter further on their craft. Opal remembered a year ago when Lydia explained what would happen. An eerie chill touched her at the mere memory. A matter-of-fact mother explaining her illness, and how much worse it would become. Some nights, she dreamed of that day. She always woke up with a miserable headache and dry throat.


    ¡°No,¡± Ur answered, holding out the remaining bandages. As Opal bandaged her mother, he held his head high, averting his eyes from the healer¡¯s ugly condition. The child requested to help and could not be deterred. He withstood the sight and smell better than grown men.


    Since Tristan fled from them, Ur kept close at hand. He claimed it was to watch out for her. ¡°Women need protecting,¡± he said with his chest puffing out on more than one occasion. She smiled at his bravado, but Opal knew better. Whether he liked it or not, Ur was still a child. He was lonely and scared with no one else he could turn to. His best friend, the only brother he had, was losing his mind.


    No, he¡¯s not, a little voice cried in her mind. Since Tristan almost attacked her, he had not shown his face. Opal was not sure if that was a good thing. At times, she doubted his grip on sanity, wondering if the accursed Lytta stole his soul, leaving a madman in his place. Ariel had its cases of madness in the past. After the death of her husband, an old woman named Gwyneth killed two men, claiming that if she took five more lives, her husband would return from the dead. Once, a man tried burning the wheat fields, believing that the fire would bring Prospero¡¯s blessings on the village. Both individuals, and any other deviants of the like, were banished. Sent into the forest, their punishment would be delivered by the gods. Madness was not uncommon to the people of Ariel. However, it never happened to someone as young as Tristan. No, she reassured herself again. Tristan is not mad. She nodded to herself, refusing to give in to despair. Whatever problem he had would sort itself out in a few days. There was no reason to worry. At least, that was what she hoped.


    For now she let her thoughts focus only on Ur and her mother. They needed her. She could not help Tristan if his hand did not reach toward her outstretched palm. Despite Ur¡¯s boasting, he never left the room, even when she stepped outside the home. He gave no reason for this strange inconsistency in his vow of protection. When she stepped out to fetch water or clean bandages, someone could hurt her. Yet, he stayed inside.


    He¡¯s scared to see Tristan. The boy did not have to say it. His eyes whispered his fear, a terror that he had not realized himself. He believed Tristan had to work everything out himself, but he dwelled on the fact that he couldn¡¯t do anything for his friend. More than that, he didn¡¯t want to face the possibility that his friend might only slip further into madness.


    A knock resounded outside. Opal¡¯s teeth grinded. No doubt someone else needed her care. Though her mother still lived, her daughter was the official healer of Ariel now, in function rather than name. Every day someone came with some ailment for her to treat. None of it was too serious. A few injuries from the fields. Esther came once a week complaining of her aching knuckles. The most common issue was with the bowels, a common problem with the elderly and malnourished. She had some difficulty herself from time to time, despite her age. It would seem that sleeping Prospero gave no thought toward the inner discomfort of his people. The bowels were one of Lydia¡¯s first lessons. There were three remedies that helped: Asher Drop, Plopping Willow, and Quick Jasmine. She gave them a small dose of one. A few days after draining the effects started to wear off, they would come for more. ¡°The key is to never give the same one twice in a row,¡± her mother had explained. ¡°If they grow used to the same remedy for too long, it loses its potency. That¡¯ll leave you with a far worse problem.¡±


    Approaching the door, Opal took a deep breath. Take the pained outstretched hand, she reminded herself, steeling her resolve. Her responsibility as healer weighed heavy, no matter how many times she helped with these simple tasks. She hoped that her confidence would arrive sooner rather than later. Guide them to being well. You are the healer of Ariel. Heal. She reached for the door, pulling it inward. A gasp burst from her lips. Standing in the door was a disgruntled youth. Dark lines under his eyes, he looked as if have hadn¡¯t slept in days. ¡°Tristan,¡± she breathed, unable to believe what she saw. He looked worse than the day before. It was as if he aged ten years. His face bore a haggard weariness. He always slept in his clothes, but they looked like someone dragged him through the dirt. His breathing was heavy as if just standing was difficult.


    They stood in silence until Opal struggled out, ¡°Uh, are you here to see Mother?¡± She bit her tongue from the nonsense that spewed from her lips. What can Mother do for him? If he sought help, she was his only healer. This fact made her quiver in fear.


    In broken bursts, he stammered, cheeks flushing, ¡°No. I-I want to talk to you.¡±


    She blinked at this, freezing in place. Sucking in a low breath, she prayed that she was ready for whatever would happen next. With a slow nod, she stepped outside, letting the door close. Gripping the handle, she hoped to keep Ur from seeing Tristan in this state. She waited in silence, ready for Tristan¡¯s request, but he said nothing. They continued to stare at one another. Their silent standoff drug out for a long time. Feeling self-conscious, she folded her arms across her bosom. That was a mistake. Tristan¡¯s flushed face turned a deeper red as his eyes darted away.


    Her heart fluttered as he gulped. She cursed her weakness. Now was not the time to be distracted by childish infatuation. Her face turned away from him, hiding her own flustered face. When did she realize that she held some love for this disheveled young man? Some nights she looked deep inside for the answer. It never revealed itself. All she knew was there was so much she wanted to say to him. Words she could not coax from her fragile heart.


    ¡°I¡¯m leaving,¡± he blurted at last.


    His words slammed into her chest, driving a gasp from her lungs. All thoughts of love flew from her mind. The last thought to remain was what she just heard. Her face twisted in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re leaving? Why?¡± Those three words turned back and struck her, making her pain worse.


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    Tristan looked as miserable as she felt. ¡°Something has come up,¡± he struggled to explain. ¡°It¡¯s important.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t leave Ariel,¡± she replied, struggling to remain calm. What he said was madness. Was his mind lost? ¡°It¡¯s death.¡±


    Everyone knew this. Since the mountain pass vanished in the forest, anyone who tried to leave never returned. Some wanted to believe they escaped, but all admitted the truth. That¡¯s why Ariel banished dissidents into the forest rather than execute them. They were dead. ¡°I know,¡± he answered with a shaky shrug. ¡°But I have to go.¡±


    She gaped at him. He was not making any sense, not that he was trying to explain himself. Did he expect to tell her this and that would be the end of the conversation? ¡°Why?¡±


    He raised his hands in defeat, having no further argument. ¡°I just have to.¡±


    A flash of anger ignited her heart. ¡°That didn¡¯t answer my question,¡± she demanded, her eyes narrowing.


    Tristan took a step back, surprised by her sudden ferocity. Regret washed her with shame. He had not seen this side of her. She tried so hard to avoid it. All she wanted was his affection. For so long, she tried to avoid doing anything that might push him away, but what was the point of maintaining a fa?ade if he planned to leave her? Whatever it took, she had to convince him to stay.


    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± he hissed under his breath, but not to her. He glanced to the side, speaking to the wind. The horror she feared revealed itself at last. His mind was gone.


    ¡°Tristan,¡± she stammered. He looked back at her, a wild glint in his eye. Swallowing, she continued, ¡°Why don¡¯t you come inside? Rest for a little bit.¡± He shook his head. ¡°You are a sick man. I¡¯ll help you. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s wrong with you, but maybe if we stick together, we can fight this.¡± Her cheeks were on fire. What was she saying? Did she plan to confess her childish love as well?


    She reached out to him, taking one of his hands, though he never extended it to her. His palm was cold as the dead. ¡°Please,¡± she begged, rubbing his hand. ¡°If you leave, I¡¯ll be lonely. Stay here. Stay with me. Please.¡±


    Her plea hung in the air, the words echoing in her ears. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he answered, pulling his hand away. It felt as if he stabbed her. She blinked back a tear. ¡°Listen. I can¡¯t explain everything now. All I wanted to say was that I had to leave; but I¡¯ll return as fast as I can. When I get back, I can tell you everything.¡±


    It felt as if Opal¡¯s heart crumbled inside her chest. She had poured her heart out to him. There was little left unsaid, except for three short words. Perhaps if he gave her a few moments before his retort, she might have said them. After his rejection, they were the last words she¡¯d ever say. As far back as she could remember, Lydia warned her daughter of her raging temper. ¡°It¡¯s an old family flaw,¡± she cautioned so many times. ¡°Not your fault, but if you can¡¯t control it, your life will be miserable.¡±


    Standing rejected by the man she dared to love, Opal found her jaw locked tight to avoid launching into a bitter tirade against Tristan, a wild man that didn¡¯t need her chastising. Looking in his eyes, she knew there was nothing she could do. Still, she couldn¡¯t help letting a sliver of her anger spill through. ¡°Fine. Do whatever you want. Makes no difference to me, but I¡¯m not the one you should apologize to.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± he exclaimed.


    Pushing the door behind her, she unveiled Ur. He had heard everything. How could he not? His blank eyes stared in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re leaving?¡± a child asked in a voice so fragile it could break at any moment.


    Pain flashed across Tristan¡¯s face, worse than any he displayed yet. For one chilling second, he said nothing. ¡°Yes,¡± he croaked. This was not something he was prepared for. This was where Opal would see how far this insanity could go. Surely, he had to return to some level of sanity for his only friend. To her shock, he said, ¡°Something has come up and I don¡¯t know when you¡¯ll see me again.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Ur cried, clear despair on his face. Recoiling from an invisible fist, he drew back.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll come back as soon as I can. That¡¯s a promise.¡±


    The child met this with total silence. He stood with his mouth gaping open. ¡°Is this because we had a fight?¡± he whimpered. Before Tristan could say anything, the child ran to him, wrapping his arms around his waist. ¡°Don¡¯t leave Tristan. If I annoyed you, I didn¡¯t mean to. Please, don¡¯t leave.¡±


    Tristan¡¯s hands trembled, contemplating if he could return the child¡¯s embrace. Opal watched with bated breath, hoping this would break this deranged resolve. ¡°Wait a minute,¡± Tristan said, placing his hands on the child¡¯s shaking shoulders. ¡°What gave you that idea?¡± As soon as he said it, a faint glimmer of Tristan¡¯s sanity flashed. In a calming tone, he explained, ¡°I¡¯m not mad at you. That fight wasn¡¯t your fault. It was mine. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re not mad at him, then why are you leaving?¡± Opal interrupted, unable to watch any longer. Nothing Tristan did made any sense.


    Tristan gnawed the inside of his cheek. ¡°The truth is, I¡¯m sick and I need to get better.¡± When those words left his lips, his eyes narrowed. They darted at the air beside him.


    She gawked at him, unable to believe her ears. We were so close. He knew he had a problem. His actions were that of a madman. In his heart, he understood it. He regretted his recent actions. If he was sorry for terrible, unhinged behavior, why did he need to leave? If he recognized there was a problem, he could stay with them and fix it, right? They could help him. What was driving him into the forest?


    ¡°Don¡¯t leave,¡± Ur begged, echoing her thoughts. ¡°If you¡¯re sick, Opal can help.¡±


    ¡°No. She can¡¯t help. Not with what I have,¡± Tristan concluded. His voice was level and determined.


    At this, Opal¡¯s eyes widened. Her hand reached up to her heart. This was it. This was her final moment with Tristan. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± he reassured, eyes welling up. ¡°I¡¯m not going to die.¡± She wondered if he believed his own words. Patting Ur on the head, he pried himself away from child¡¯s grip. A pitiful cry escaped the boy¡¯s lips. It hurt her heart.


    Ur was a tough child, but this was more than he could bear. Little tears rolled down the boy¡¯s cheeks. ¡°But if you¡¯re gone, who will I be friends with?¡±


    A forced grin greeted him. Throat choked, his friend answered, ¡°Just because I¡¯m far away does not mean that we aren¡¯t friends, right? Besides, when I get back, there will be a lot that we can talk about. Anyway, I¡¯m sure Opal will want to be friends with you.¡± His eyes met hers, pleading with her to agree.


    She wanted to berate him, but this wasn¡¯t the time. There was nothing she could do for Tristan. Madness was an illness she couldn¡¯t fix. All that mattered was helping Ur, ensuring that he never ran into the forest after Tristan. ¡°That¡¯s not even a question,¡± she replied, placing a hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°See,¡± Tristan said. ¡°Everything will be fine. No need to cry.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not crying,¡± the boy spat, wiping away his tears. Pulling away from her, Ur turned back to the door. ¡°Go on. If you want to leave, go.¡±


    Even madness couldn¡¯t mask the agony on Tristan¡¯s face. Three bitter tears ran down his face. ¡°Okay. Guess I¡¯ll be going. Don¡¯t grow up too much while I¡¯m gone.¡± He exchanged one last look with Opal.


    She wanted to leave him with some final words of wisdom. Maybe they might bring him back to them one day. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on, but don¡¯t get yourself killed.¡± That was the best she could do.


    ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± was his answer. She watched as he walked away. It was up to the gods if they would see one another again, but there was one thing she remembered and contemplated the meaning for a long time. When he walked away, he said, ¡°Let¡¯s go before I change my mind. I have to bring this curse to an end.¡± As he vanished from her sight, she closed the door, uncertain what she would see when she opened it again.

 Ch. 15- The First Step

    As the sun kissed the horizon, Tristan faced down the towering forest. Behind him was all he ever knew. He didn¡¯t look back, doubting his heavy heart could bear it. At the corner of his mind, Opal and Ur lingered, but he ignored them. Can¡¯t lose my nerve. In front was the rest of the world, unknown and awaiting him. Only fools dared to face the tangled woods of Ariel, fools that no one saw again. They were a source of comfort and fear for those living within its boundary. On the one hand, the people of Ariel knew that as long as the woods stood tall, no foe would destroy them. On the other hand, there was a reason some called the forest Ariel¡¯s Cage.


    Now, Tristan stood as one of the fools, but he had one thing the others did not. Prospero floated ahead, examining the trees. Moving around as if he were carried by the wind, Prospero whipped around, with his hand on his chin. He grunted, with a sagging of his shoulders.


    ¡°What are you looking for?¡± Tristan asked.


    ¡°The trail,¡± Prospero replied. ¡°It should be here somewhere.¡± He did not need to explain further. Tristan knew. The Caravan¡¯s Path. A long time ago, the wagons filled with merchants used the trail to cross the mountain range. It was Ariel¡¯s connection to the rest of the world, but it vanished long before Tristan was born. Studying the forest, the god pulled his legs into a seated position. He leaned forward, laying his chin on his thumbs, forefingers pressed against his lips. ¡°This is strange,¡± he wondered aloud. ¡°It should be right here.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s been gone for some time,¡± Tristan answered.


    ¡°Impossible,¡± Prospero dismissed. ¡°This path was supposed to remain until the end of time.¡± He shook his head, speaking to himself more than Tristan, ¡°I made those terms clear in our pact.¡±


    ¡°Pact?¡± Tristan asked.


    The god¡¯s eyebrows furrowed, pondering if this was necessary for his mortal companion. ¡°Every patron god knows that if their city is to survive, they have to rely on more than their own sheer strength to protect it,¡± he said at last. He gestured to the thick foliage weaving amongst the trees, creating a vicious barrier no man wished to cross. ¡°An old friendship provided this protection from those that sought Ariel¡¯s destruction.¡±


    We live in the middle of a mountain range, Tristan thought. Wouldn¡¯t that be protection enough?


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    ¡°Learn this now, young one,¡± the god continued. ¡°In the realm of the Divine, it is best to remain cautious.¡± He floated closer to Tristan, as if he held a great secret for him. ¡°Now that you can see into our world, you must become aware of our ways. That¡¯s the only way you may survive.¡± Turning away, he floated back to the trees. ¡°Still, this frightful snare of a forest wasn¡¯t my intention. My people were not meant to be locked away from the world. There was a way through.¡±


    As the god searched for the forgotten path, Tristan remarked, ¡°For someone to do that, they must¡¯ve been a great friend.¡±


    The god paused. ¡°She was. One of the best,¡± he answered, a heaviness creeping into his voice. Staring at the forest, he began to talk to himself again, ¡°So you grew tired of the arrangement. Why would you do such a thing?¡± He paused and whispered, ¡°Medeina.¡±


    When he spoke that name, it passed the god¡¯s lips with more reverence than Zachariah could muster during his rituals. Tristan balked, feeling a strange swirl of emotions stirring within him. It overwhelmed him, making his chest ache as if a knife sawed a hole in his flesh. A sadness swelled up from deep that newly forming chasm. Out of the depths, panic arose. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Tristan cried out, reaching for his heart. It did not alleviate the pain. Dropping to his knees, his breathing quickened. Drops of sweat broke across his brow.


    Prospero said nothing for a long time, or perhaps it was only a single, painful second. Did he care about the horrible agony wracking Tristan¡¯s body? Without warning, the shadow fell from the god¡¯s face. All at once, the pain subsided. Gasping, Tristan coughed. ¡°Forgive me,¡± he apologized at last. His voice was distant, as if they stood on opposite sides of a street. When he turned, his voice was closer, but there was a distance between them. ¡°I forgot the influence I have over your kind.¡± Shaking his head, he mused, ¡°Why do gods long for the affection of such brittle, fragile creatures?¡±


    Regaining his composure, Tristan wondered if traveling with a god was in his best interest or not. He hoped that these bouts of intense pain, courtesy of the deity¡¯s range of emotions wouldn¡¯t happen too often. ¡°How do you forget that you can do that to me?¡±


    The god didn¡¯t answer his question. Instead, he said, ¡°It would seem that my once unbreakable pact is now void.¡±


    Climbing back to his feet, Tristan¡¯s teeth ground in irritation. His frustration abated when he noticed the concerned face on the god. For a moment, Tristan feared that another fit of agony would overtake him. To his surprised delight, nothing happened. The god continued staring at the forest with the same concern on his face. That was all he needed to know. Their situation wasn¡¯t good. As if this day could get any worse. ¡°So, we¡¯re on our own.¡±


    The god nodded. Tristan feared what being on their own meant, but he was certain that he wouldn¡¯t like it.

 Ch. 16- Flower of the Desert

    Parched, Faris looked at his waterskin. Upending it, not even a drop of water fell. In a fit of rage, he raised his arm to hurl the sack as far as he could, but wisdom stayed his hand. As soon as he found water, he would need to carry as much of it as he could. Beneath the cruel sun, water was the only thing that could help him survive. At this moment, there was growing doubt concerning his survival.


    ¡°Never should¡¯ve left the road,¡± he muttered as he shuffled along, tying his waterskin over his shoulder. After his encounter with Azrael, he left the main roads long behind, choosing to forge his own path. His empty waterskin and lack of food was proof of his trek. Leaving the scene of Jacques¡¯s murder, Faris had plenty of supplies. During his never-ending journey, he knew how to converse food and drink as little as possible. He could travel for days on a cup of water and loaf of bread.


    What he had not anticipated was the harshness of the southern wastelands. Going into Psamathe¡¯s Sea was a mistake. It was the largest desert in this part of the empire. Sand as far as the eye could see. The ground was littered with sharp stones. His boots saved him from countless gashes to his toes and heels. The sun was unforgiving, only hiding behind a cloud once every third day for less than an hour. It baked his flesh with his sweat giving him his sole relief. Even the nights were cursed by the sun¡¯s gaze. Most deserts turned cold when night fell. Psamathe¡¯s Sea remained a furnace long into the night. The sand retained the sun¡¯s heat, pulsing as glowing coals. Still, Faris did his best to rest. Curling into a ball, he wrapped himself in his cloak and sought respite from his day. Laying in the dark desert, he baked like bread, finding no peace; but a few hours before dawn, the sand cooled enough where he found sleep¡¯s soothing embrace.


    His most loyal companions were the wheeling vultures. They stayed close at hand, watching him with their beady eyes. Their prodding pecks woke him each morning. Such warming wakeups deserved a kind gesture in return. He swatted them aside with the flat of his sword. They were fast, avoiding a deathblow, or perhaps, Faris was growing slower. On occasion one would caw at him, as if saying, ¡°We¡¯re hungry. Hurry up and die.¡± As the days wore on, Faris felt his weariness from malnourishment and lack of sleep beginning to take their toll. Regardless, he refused to acquiesce to the vultures¡¯ request. Buzzards were not the only creatures that would delight in his death, though they would take the most pleasure in accompanying him in his final moments.


    Shuffling along, he searched the horizon. Water, prey, a village, anything that could ensure his survival. He grew tired of searching the horizon. No matter how long he looked, he found nothing except a hollow emptiness. Looking ahead made him long for things he could not have. He wished for a cool bath and a bed. This longing took his mind down a winding path to yesteryears he believed best left forgotten.


    Yet the memories met him on the path. The safe havens of childhood. A library with texts he could no longer read. The hidden door under the staircase, where he could watch the comings and goings on the stone steps. A balcony, no different from any other, but the court of kings in a child¡¯s imagination. Old faces wore smiles that would one day turn to scornful frowns. Sweet words that became hateful jeers. Worst of all, a maiden.


    Yes, it always came back to her. Slender arms bearing fingers that once ran through his hair. Skin fair as the sun which he longed to touch. Her sweeping gowns brushed against her elegant form, stirring his young heart. One side of her face was the perfect mirror of the other. How blessed is the man who basked in her radiance? No, he remembered, halting on his memory¡¯s path. She was not such a vision. The woman who appeared in his mind was older. He had to pass her to see what he witnessed as a child.


    Years before, she was plain, hair tied in a bun, wearing gowns that swallowed her whole. Woven mittens and tight thick sleeves protected her fragile skin. She stood amongst a pack of friends during those childish years. There were several of them. More than a few girls, but she was set apart as if a light from above illuminated her presence. She was no more than a year his senior, but no one could tell. The lass followed the lad¡¯s every whim. Whatever idea popped from his mouth was met with an excited grin, even if the idea was a fool¡¯s folly, following the tendency of children¡¯s ignorance. It made no sense to him. What were you smiling about? he wondered.


    He would never see that smile again. Add it to his exhaustive list of what he would never see again. He hated these memories. They stirred something inside him. A longing that cut out the heart of solitary contentment. The pangs of the road, an illness that had one surefire medicine. Only a woman¡¯s beauty could alleviate his stress. How easy would it be to pass the miserable nights with a delicate flower blooming in the desert? He thought back on a beautiful vixen back in Corinth. Sniffing an anemone, she sat with her golden hair draping over her bare shoulders. Even from a distance, Faris detected the faintest hint of oranges, a pleasant odor to surround a woman. A bright smile flashed his way. Kicking back her skirt, she raised her leg high enough for him to catch a glimpse of her slender, hairless legs.


    Despite her alluring, silent invitation, his face regarded her with a hard stare, knocking the grin from her mouth. He turned away without so much as a final glance. Now, out in the middle of nowhere, he wished he had taken her up on the offer; though in his heart, he knew his choice was right. He knew the price that came with a woman. It was far too common.


    Throughout his years on the road, he met many men. No two were the same. One was a thief and another a juggler. Minstrels playing every instrument beneath the sun walked the dirt paths. Merchants that lost all they had and men that never had anything at all travelled together. The roads were the great equalizer of man. No one was greater than his temporary travelling companion. Despite their differences, they all could fall for a woman¡¯s allure.


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    Some wandered the roads having lost their love, no matter how short and frivolous it was. They were as shipwrecked sailors fearful of setting foot near the sea again. Promising by the gods of love, they vowed to never yearn for a woman¡¯s gentle arms again. It was not long before they found another fleeting love in some distant village. A place where their pained lives were far behind. These men forgot their vows and leapt into the sea of love with renewed vigor, leaving their haunting pasts on the shore. They had no stomach for the road anymore.


    Other men spent time with women of ill-repute. They hoped these strange ladies would bury their desire for a lifelong companion, keeping the man¡¯s spirit free to roam. It didn¡¯t matter how they found their temporary companions. There were plenty of brothels and dark alleys where the mortal succubi dwelt. These men remained loyal to their lives on the road longer than their heartsick companions, but it was never for forever. It was only a matter of time before he met a woman that made the sun a little brighter in his eyes. She was a lady he couldn¡¯t bear to abandon. In the end, he would remain near his heart¡¯s desire, hoping that he could turn her from the life that held her by the throat, an invisible chain that few men could break. Perhaps in their attempt to not lose their hearts, these men became the saddest of them all.


    Faris would not become as them. He knew that the moment he opened himself to a woman, it would be the end of his journey. His sword belt would be a burden too heavy to carry another step. The deep hatred within, his drive to keep going, would be squelched by the cool waters of love. Senses dulled. Urgency lost. He would wall himself into a delusion of safety. If that happened, it was only a matter of time until they found him. Death would arrive at his doorstep. Continually, he made his heart like steel and pushed onward, refusing to deviate from his never-ending path.


    Reviving his senses, he focused on the task at hand. He needed all his heart¡¯s strength to survive this desert. The sun kept baking his flesh in his clothes. Sweat soaked every corner of his body, leaving him in a layer of warm, icky cloth skin. He wanted to rip his garments off, casting them aside. His body longed to breathe free of its prison garments, but he dared not forsake his only protection of the sun¡¯s burning gaze. Back in the place he once called home, he remembered a story passed around about a knight who found himself lost in the desert. His horse died halfway. He walked the rest of the way, shedding his armor and clothes as he went. When he reached the other side, his flesh appeared charred from a fire. He would spend the rest of his days layered in bandages and ointments. Faris could not become like him.


    He marched on, flashing a cheeky grin at the buzzards. ¡°Keep following me,¡± he challenged, throat cracking. ¡°Let¡¯s see who dies of thirst first.¡± The buzzards kept after him, hoping to be the victors. Time passed. If it were not for the setting sun and the cold night that followed, no one could know the time. As the days stretched on, the longer Faris walked, the wearier the vultures grew. Struggling to push on, the swordsman drew his silver blade, using the weapon as a crutch to continue. He was delighted when he saw the first bird give up. Tired of circling, the buzzards took off one by one. Leaving Faris in triumph, they flew right of the sun¡¯s daily crawl.


    Faris¡¯s eyebrows rose in interest. ¡°Only one reason a buzzard gives up on easy prey,¡± he muttered, dry spittle flying from his mouth. Changing course, he staggered after the buzzards, turning the tables on their game. The sun continued its walk, and the buzzards kept flying with no clear destination in sight. The weary wanderer mustered up as much of his crumbling will as he could. His desert¡¯s journey was nearing its end. Giving up now was not a choice.


    At last, when his legs were close to collapsing, his silver scabbard being his only support, he saw it. A small town. There could not be more than ten buildings, each made of palm branches and leaves. Still, that was not what caught his eye. What rested at the center of town was a welcome sight for his aching eyes. He had heard about them, read about them in books, but this was the first time he needed one. A desert oasis, the salvation from a man¡¯s dying thirst, or perhaps a cruel mirage. After days of little sleep and less water, it wouldn¡¯t surprise Faris if he imagined this wonderful sight.


    Above the pool, the buzzards circled, diving down to drink all they could. A man rushed out, sword waving every which way. His furious attack scared them away. Faris grinned. ¡°Not a mirage,¡± he grunted, quickening his pace. Destination in sight, new strength pushed him toward his only hope of living another day.


    He paid no attention to the town nor the man with the sword. The fool attempted to stop him, assaulting him with a host of questions for which Faris¡¯s temper had no time. Shooting him a look of daggers, the man stepped aside, removing the only obstacle between Faris and the life-giving water. He shuffled to the edge, dropping to the ground. His knees kissed the water. Cool relief shot through his legs. With trembling lips, he dropped his head straight under the surface. He inhaled large gulps. The sweet nectar rushed down his throat, washing away the heated throb. Pulling his head out, he splashed water over his body, soaking his skin and garments. The sensation was so sweet he wondered if he was dreaming. No, my dreams are never this wonderful, he realized.


    ¡°Wow,¡± a kind voice called after he drank his last gulp. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen anyone so thirsty.¡± Rubbing the water from his blurry eyes, Faris found a vision: a young red-haired woman standing nearby with a coconut. ¡°Here,¡± she said, approaching him. A warm grin flashed to reveal crooked but beautiful teeth. ¡°It¡¯s good.¡± Her skin was tough from a harsh life; still, there was a gentleness that few could offer. Only those who endured hardship knew how to offer comfort.


    The simple offer was the kindest gesture Faris could recall. ¡°Thank you,¡± he coughed, accepting the gesture. Before he tore into the fuzzy fruit, he paused, once again taking in the beauty that greeted his weary eyes. This is a rare beauty, he realized. A flower of the sands. Deep inside his heart, he noticed a sudden stirring, a feeling he believed long dead. It was enough to make him laugh. Even with a desert between him and his pursuers, trouble preceded him.

 Ch. 17- Facade Pt. 1

    The carriage didn¡¯t stop its mad flight. Sitting atop the seat, a hooded figure snapped the reins hard, driving the horses on. In one hand, a coiled whip waited for its chance to strike, if the reins weren¡¯t enough encouragement for the horses to not slow their escape. Beneath the moonlight, the horses raced across an expanse of rolling plain with no road in sight. Most refused to push their horses when the stars came out. They feared broken legs. A broken horse had no use. No might as well chop them up for meat. Despite this, the shrouded driver gave little concern for the possible dips and rises among the grass. With a snap of the reins, the horses raced on all the way until daybreak.


    At last, the sun rose, bringing the nighttime flight to an end. The hooded figure pulled back on the reins with a shout of ¡°Woah.¡± Weary and breathing hard, the horses came to a stop by a small stream. The horses drank the water with furious thirst. Jumping up on the seat, the hooded figure looked out in every direction. Not even the sharpest eyes could spot anything out of the usual. Simple, rolling plains. Not an enemy in sight. Sighing, the figure dropped the hood of the cloak, revealing a woman¡¯s shrewd face. She brushed out her long raven hair, which she kept in two long braids. ¡°Hey boys, looks like we pulled it off again.¡±


    Her call invoked no response. Her eyebrows furrowed, creasing a long scar across her forehead, she climbed down and walked up to the carriage¡¯s door. Throwing it open, she found two men. One of which was a short statured man, smaller than her, with reddish hair. He sat in the midst of a pile of garments, food, rings, coin purses, and various other gifts. The pile was so large it almost spilled onto the ground when the driver opened the door. With a pear in his mouth, he grinned. ¡°Alexandra,¡± he chuckled, running a hand through the ill-gotten fruits of their labor. ¡°This is by far one of the best hauls we have had yet. We could stop performing for the next year if we wanted.¡±


    ¡°But will we, Jacob?¡± she asked, stepping up into the carriage. Kissing the man on his brow, she sat in the seat across from him. She paid no attention to the other man in the carriage. At the moment, he was none of her concern. All that mattered was Jacob.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Jacob replied, his grin growing up to his ears. ¡°This is far too profitable. If we keep this show on the road, we¡¯ll end up living like kings before old lord Ekron joins his fathers in whatever eternity those leeching lords deserve.¡± He picked up a gold coin and bit it, tasting its authenticity. ¡°At this rate, the slime of the streets will start calling on us as lords and ladies. Nobody will leave us alone. Help us great ones. We¡¯ll do anything.¡±


    Alexandria picked up one of the lady¡¯s garments, placing it against her chest, smiling to herself. It was made of pure silk. No doubt, it was an heirloom used for special rituals. Looking at the dress, she knew they would never be royalty. However, being clothed in such apparel would make them look the part. ¡°Not sure how I feel about being in the public eye, but I could get used to some bowing.¡±


    ¡°We owe it all to you, Mister Magic Man,¡± Jacob said to the third companion. The other man said nothing, face staring at the wall. Since fleeing Ehud, he had sat in silence, not even glancing over to gaze at their treasures. Shaking his head, Jacob threw an apple into the man¡¯s lap. ¡°Hey Edward, eat up. You need your strength for the next performance.¡±


    ¡°Do not call me by that name,¡± he moaned, breaking his silence. His slick brown hair shook as he spoke. There was a thin veil of calm, masking a darker emotion underneath. ¡°I left that name long ago.¡±


    For a time, nobody said anything. Alexandria and Jacob exchanged a look. ¡°Has he been like this all night?¡± she whispered loud enough for Edward to hear. Jacob nodded. Sighing, she turned to Edward. ¡°We went over this before. We refuse to call you by your stage name when it is only the three of us. There has to be a dividing line between what we do out there and what happens in here.¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± Jacob concluded. ¡°Grigori died on that stage until we resurrect him for the next show. Anything else is going against our plan.¡±


    ¡°Am I the first one to break from the plan?¡± Edward asked. His tone was a barbed accusation. That did little to faze Jacob.


    ¡°If you are referring to your god asking for more from those fools, I would like to think of that as an improvised improvement,¡± Jacob retorted, rubbing three gold pieces together. ¡°The results speak for themselves. I do not see the problem here.¡±


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    ¡°There should be a limit to how much we take,¡± Edward replied, his voice tense.


    ¡°And there was. You don¡¯t understand this work like I do. If you just take what they hand you at first, they are hiding the best stuff behind their backs. This is part of running a successful con.¡±


    At this Edward finally turned around, the shaking of his thick beard accented against his pale face. In his arms, he held a book. ¡°Magic is not a con!¡± he roared. Dark circles surrounded his eyes. His wild hair stretched out as slender arms grasping at the air.


    ¡°But what you do is,¡± his companion replied, refusing to be cowed down. ¡°And you are wasting your breath if you think you can convince me otherwise.¡± Before Edward could argue further, he spat, ¡°You do realize that that book does not make you special.¡± Edward shook with rage. ¡°It¡¯s irreplaceable with our endeavors, but other than that, it¡¯s worthless.¡±


    ¡°Worthless! How dare you?¡±


    ¡°Is that any way to speak to your god?¡± Jacob boomed, mimicking the voice from the night before.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± Alexandria interrupted, slamming her hand against the seat. The sudden high thud brought the argument to an end. ¡°Edward, there¡¯s water outside. Go wash off. I can¡¯t take you seriously when you look like that.¡± The bearded man held her gaze for a long time. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll talk to him.¡± She winked to reassure him. Edward remained in place for a moment longer, accenting how little he believed her. Without saying another word, he left the carriage.


    Once outside, he wasn¡¯t surprised to find a lack of chastisement going on inside. As far back as Edward could remember, Alexandria kept herself planted between the two men whenever a conflict arose, yet her final position was always clear. This disagreement will end like all the others, he recognized. Before obeying his orders, he perused his book and felt a great fire in his heart. Ever since they met, Jacob refused to believe, saying that it was nothing but a collection of cheap tricks. Charlatans used it to trick fools into cowering in belief. Alexandria did not say what she believed one way or another, maintaining her position of feigned neutrality. Nonetheless, what they believed did not change anything. What was belief in the face of truth?


    What he held so tight was a book of magic. He knew it. Just holding it in his hands, he understood that great power was within the words and illustrations. What thrilled him even more were the possible greater hands that held this book in the past. The graying cover of the tome was worn to the point of falling apart. It was impossible to ascertain who created the book, but he knew that the original owner held an expansive knowledge of spells. Thirsting for understanding, Edward studied it inside and out throughout the years. He knew the names of each spell and what purpose they served. Within its pages, one had the potential to command mountains to turn to dust, regrow limbs on humans, cure disease, send plagues to wipe out entire villages, and even make spirits bend to their will. It captured the heart of man¡¯s inner desire to control all of life¡¯s unknowns. From the moment he set eyes on the text, he hadn¡¯t been three steps from its engrossing pages.


    He recalled the day he found it as if it were yesterday. In reality, it occurred when he was but a child. It laid hidden in the decaying library of a wealthy man, one long dead. When he found the tome, he was inclined to think like Jacob, believing it to be fake. Back in those youthful days, he kept the text as a lark, but in time, he grew to learn his folly and the genuine nature of the spell book.


    Stepping over to the stream¡¯s edge, he took off his robe, revealing tattered sackcloth. These were the only clothes a devout man should wear. With great care, he laid his robe on the grass, not allowing it to touch the muddy bank. When he was satisfied with its location, he laid the tome upon the black fabric with even greater care. Completing the task, he glanced at the stream, seeing the muted version of his reflection. Despite this, he saw a face that swelled up his chest with pride. Grigori, the great magician, the terror of mankind, looked back at him. The reflection showed everything Edward wanted: strength of will, influence, and most of all, magic. For a long time, he only looked at the man in the water, wishing that this time could last forever.


    Sun crawling overhead, he sighed and went about his task. With both hands, he splashed and rubbed the stream¡¯s water across his face. The dark rings around his eyes washed away. White paste peeled from his skin, revealing a darker skin. Still paler than most but a far cry from the ghost paint that covered his face the previous night. His hands reached to his beard, pulling hard. He grunted as a burning sensation ran across his jawbone. Blinking the droplets out of his eyes, he saw a thick wad of hair in one hand. With his free hand, he rubbed his stubbled chin, patchy courtesy of the fake beard.


    His free hand reached up to his head and pulled the brown wig from his head. Looking back at the water, he no longer saw the bearded mage Grigori. Instead, he found the naked face of Edward, a conniving drifter. With great pain in his heart, he had to face his reality. The book he valued with such high adoration was no more than meaningless symbols and pictures to him. No matter how much he studied the test, he could not complete a single incantation. Not once in his life had he felt the deep energies of magic stir his soul. He was as powerless as a cur in a windstorm. Just as Jacob implied, Edward was a fraud.