Do not despair when you see the fire, for fire is but the spark. All ending sparks the seeds of beginning, death the seed and its flowering life. Therefore, little ones, take heart. Rejoice!.
- Eswuhardy
The Dauman Marches
He is almost stark white, but on the top of the hill he is all in black and on a black horse, just like any predator would be. And like most villains, he is committed to finding his prey. But it is not personal, and there is the difference. This is devotion. If you could see his left wrist, under his black cloak and his sleeve, then you would see the Black Star.
He has a flat, unbeautiful face, and his eyes are vacant. He is not really scanning the horizon for a sight of her. He is sniffing for a scent. Over there. Yes, to the east, between those hills. Find her.
He doesn’t know her name. Names confuse things and they are more or less irrelevant. He knows her face. When he sees her again, he will know her. He will know all of her, and she will be shaken. She will be disturbed by the unwavering look in his eyes, and then he will kill her.
Nodding, he gathers the reins of the horse, and having gained his bearing, and a knowledge of where she is, he rides, certainly, in her direction.
THEONE DREADED THE NIGHTS, and she hated the wind. Could she go back? No. Having already escaped, why would you go back? Having gotten away, even too late, it was better than never getting away at all. Having gotten away unprepared, she would have to do her best.
In the days before her captivity, she had heard of people making their treks through the desert. Bones that were found from the ones who had never prepared, or prepared badly to cross the wastes. Crossing these plains was just like this. Theone had run, and the days were cold. But the howling nights were much colder. She ran on foot. With a horse it would have been quicker, but she would have been conspicuous. She would have been found right away, and the only thing worse than where she had come from, was where she was preparing to go, so she was in no hurry.
In the distance there was a town. Three days away from Cananna she stopped knowing the names of towns. It did not matter. Each one was a place she didn’t dare stay. A place in the forest, or maybe even a house in the forest was best.
The sky was growing dark now, the clouds turning grey, the air getting colder, coming through the thick felt of her cloak. In the distance, the lights of the town were beginning to burn.
“Not another night,” Theone said. “Not if I can help it.”
She was so tired. She wished she was a witch and could work some sort of spell to take away the blisters, but the only magic she knew was that powerful and necessary indifference that made it possible to go great distances and do the impossible long after she’d lost the energy for both.
Because of that, she walked the road another hour, well past darkness, always straining her ears for the sound of horse hooves though there had been none, nor were there fellow travelers on this road for the better part of the day. Thoughts of how long the road ahead was invaded her brain, and she exorcised them. The more impossible, the more undesirable her future was, the more Theone pushed it away. Only this moment. Only this movement of one foot in front of the other. The listening for horse hooves, for anyone in the distance.
And then she saw the farmhouse across the high fields. Going through the crops was prickly, painful, and perhaps dangerous. At this moment she didn’t care. It could take a long time, but she had nothing but time. So she came off the road and went slowly, steadily, as mindlessly as possible through the corn, and she passed the house heading for the barn. If anyone was following her, then they might look at the house too. She wouldn’t ask to borrow the barn. If she didn’t ask then they couldn’t say no. In fact, they couldn’t know, and then they would never be in trouble having helped her.
She was coming through the last of the corn, and she felt blood on her face. The harsh cellulose of the stalks must have cut her. There was just a little bit of food in her sack. She could make a go of it for one more night. All you ever had to do was survive one more night.
He came to the inn that night after he had ridden all through town. He thought his strange power of sniffing would help him find her, but either it failed him or she was smart enough to stay near cities. Was she staying on the road? If so she was on foot, right? Well then he could easily find her by morning. He could sit on the back of that horse a long while in the middle of the road, waiting for some sign of her, some distant scent of her, some feeling.
“Give me a room.”
The man at the desk raised an eyebrow, unafraid of the man in black and said, “Please.”
The man looked at him.
“The proper address is please,” he shook his head. “People have no manners anymore.”
“A spare room,” the man repeated. “And while you’re about it, tell me if you have seen a girl with dusky skin, black hair. About this height.”
“A tall one.”
“Have you seen such a woman?”
“There are a lot of girls like that in these parts.”
“Then your answer is no.”
“That’s my answer, and we’ll see about getting you that room, I suppose. Come now.”
He didn’t feel much, but what he felt right now was irritation. He followed the man up a narrow flight of stairs, past the common room where there was drinking and singing and the innkeeper said, “There’s good food down there tonight.”
“I’m doubt I’ll be coming down.”
“Well, that’s up to you I’m sure. Is this a good room?”
“Do you have one not so close to the steps?”
“You don’t like people, eh?”
“No, I don’t,” the man in black said. “And I don’t like their noises. Another room?”
The innkeeper, whose key had been about to unlock the door, withdrew it and said, “Down the hall. Yes.”
They went down the hall and around the corner, and he said, “At the very end. There is a room. Yes. Yes.”
He said yes every few seconds until he reached the end of the hall and said, “There ought to be a window here. I’m afraid you’ve only got one little window in this room.”
“Windows are overrated.”
The little man opened the door and said, “Here you go. It’s a bit musty. Maybe mousy.”
“It’s fine.”
“And if you don’t feel much like eating, there’s always socializing.”
The man stopped and looked at the new arrival. “Though I don’t suppose you’d be much into that.”
“I’d be alright without it,” he said.
“All right. Well then, good.” The innkeeper took a deep, brave breath. “And how will you be signing for this?”
At that he received a cold gaze, and the cloaked man pressed his wrist against the wooden door. The innkeeper smelled a burning and then saw the door on fire and tried to back away, but the man gripped his shoulders.
“No. Look at that. Look well!” he said, for the first time lively. He held the innkeeper’s face to the heart of the small fire.
But then it was gone, and in its wake there remained, black and smoking, a six pointed star.
Though sullenness was the closest thing he usually had to emotion, he also realized that there was no point in it right now. Any emotion that interfered with a job should be put away. And there was a job to be performed.
So he put away the black cloak and though, what it left was a man still wearing lots of black, he seemed long and narrow and handsome. He could look less than poisonous if he wanted to. He could look something like someone who could be talked to.
He studied himself in the mirror, his tilted, almond eyes narrow, the sweep of black hair, dusky skin. He looked arrogant. Arrogance attracted other arrogant people. He was no actor. He could never have looked sweet or kind because there was neither sweetness nor kindness in him. This was him. Arrogant people who liked to hear themselves talk might come and disturb the peace he would pretend to be trying to have. They were always the best. They told everything.
He closed his hand around the dagger at his side. He wondered if tonight he would have to make up a name. Once there had been a real name, but that was a long time ago. The little boy who had come to the Black Star, passing through the Veil had had the name. Who he is was nameless.
Down he went to the common room. It was a long silent walk down that empty hall that would have unnerved anyone who was fond of human companionship, and then down he went through the shorter hall and down the stairs to the main room where the man at the desk lowered his eyes, and then he entered the darkness and ordered himself a bottle of rye.
“A glass?”
“None of that. Just the bottle. And smoke if you have it. I am out.”
This man had some sense. No chattiness, and his face full of lines though he still must have been virtually a boy. A moment later he came to the small booth where he sat and handed him a jug, a pouch of tobacco and rolling papers. He took out a roller and made himself a cigarette and began to sit back, smoking and drinking.
It wasn’t long before a man came up. Always a man or a whore, and he had no use for whores.
“You drinking alone, brother?” the man said and he was, yes, a little arrogant looking.
He took a very long drag from the cigarette and for answer, exhaled from his nose, his eyes going narrow.
“Can I have a smoke?”
He pushed his roller and the pouch and papers toward the man.
“What can you tell me about this town?” he said, his hand stretched out across the table, palm down to hide the Black Star.
“Oh, shit,” the man laughed as he squeezed out a cigarette that was almost too thick, “I can tell you everything.”
