Still gently, Black says, “You surprise me, child. There are few who see me. Even fewer see me clearly.”
His manner encourages boldness. “Ma can’t see what I see,” she proclaims. “She thinks I make it up. But it is all true.
“Your holes hurt you. If they get bigger, you will die.”
Black frowns, considering her words. After a moment, he admits, “That is certainly true.”
The girl extends her hand. She means to touch him. “I can make them go away.” Then she becomes less sure of herself. “They are too big. I can make one of them go away. When I am older, I can do more.”
Before her hand reaches him, Black rises to his feet. Now he faces the mother, who is beginning to pull on her daughter’s arm. “You are wise, madam,” he tells her with less of gentleness, more of warning. “You have a gifted child. A precious child. You do well to protect her. She will have time enough for her gifts when she is a woman.”
He knows now that this child can heal him. But he also knows that doing so will blight her childhood. She is a seer, one who sees. True seers are more rare than shapers. They do not cause imbalance. Rather they draw strength from within themselves. The girl is indeed precious. But she is too young to suffer the cost of what she can see and do.
The mother feels sudden tears in her eyes. She has been troubled for her daughter, disturbed by a child who pretends to see things which do not exist. But the stranger believes that such sight is not a pretense. This both comforts and frightens the woman. She casts one more glance at the man to confirm that he is serious. Then she hurries her daughter away.
Black is serious. However, he does not consider the child’s presence dangerous, except to herself. Certainly he craves her healing. He aches for it when she is gone. Yet her gift has no bearing on his purpose. Her scent is as clean as her person. He does not regret sparing her.
Touching his hat to all who pass by, he continues toward the tavern.
Like the town itself, the tavern is much as he expects it to be. It has a wooden floor strewn with sawdust, a long bar with ale-taps along its inner edge and shelves of bottles and flasks behind it, a number of round tables with chairs for four or six, and an increasing count of patrons, some of whom have settled themselves for a night of drink. All this is indistinguishable from other taverns around the kingdom. The only differences here are the general affluence of the patrons, the consequent comeliness of the barmaids, and the room’s air of unresolved distress. These men and their few women take comfort in drink rather than in each other. Comradeship, jests, roistering, and songs do not numb their fears.
Many of them look at Black as he enters, and of those many stare. But he touches his hat to them and leaves them alone. He already knows that the cause of the town’s alarm is not present. If it were, he would smell it.
Its absence, also, he does not regret. He is patient. And he has been taught by blood and pain that no good comes of confronting his foes before he has prepared himself.
To begin his preparations, he seats himself at the bar one stool away from a man who is already dedicated to drowning his concerns in ale. Black does not remove his cloak, though his arms are covered by the heavy sleeves of his calfskin shirt. His hat he wears to cover the scars on his scalp. From the barkeep, a large man too well fed and lubricated by his own wares to contain his sweat, Black requests ale. He asks a bowl of stew, and bread with it. And when his desires are met, he concentrates on eating and drinking like a man who has no other purpose, though in truth he does not relish the stew, and the pungent ale does not ease his mind.
The barkeep’s name is Bailey. His nature is friendly, but the town’s alarm makes him wary. Also he is both interested in and suspicious of the stranger. He hovers nearby while Black eats and drinks.
After a time, Black asks with an air of indifference, “You are not troubled by brigands?” He knows this by the lack of walls and gates, and by the inexperience of the guards. “I am surprised. The forest can hide any number of evil men, and your crossroads surely offers many opportunities for plunder.” He appears to address the barkeep, but in truth he is speaking to the drinker near him. “How does it happen that you are spared?”
“Trouble we had, sir,” Bailey answers in his most pleasant tone. “In my Da’s time, that was. Lives and goods were lost, fearsome quantities. My Da kept an axe here, under the bar, to defend himself. But the old wars have been good for us. Caravans now come with squadrons of men-at-arms, and even lone wagons are guarded by archers and pikes. No brigands trouble us now. They attack only in the deep forest, where they can be sure of escape.”
Black is doubtful, but he puts the matter aside for a later time. “You are fortunate, then,” he observes. “Other regions of the kingdom are not so blessed.”
“We are, sir,” Bailey replies. “We are.” He means to say, We were, but caution stops him. He knows, as all the town now knows, that strangers must be distrusted. Striving for still greater pleasantness, he asks, “You know the kingdom, then, sir? You are much traveled?”
Black has not met the barkeep’s gaze. He does not now. “Much traveled,” he assents, “yes.” Then he deflects Bailey’s prying. “Enough to observe that in favorable times the Temple of Bright Eternal attracts many good folk. It is Dark Enduring that responds to woe and hardship. Is his Temple well attended?”
He believes it is. The Temple of Dark Enduring is as large and well-maintained as its neighbor.
Bailey thinks to offer some dismissive response, but politely, pleasantly. Before he can choose his words, however, the man seated one stool away mutters with his mouth in his flagon, “Lately.”
Anxious now, Bailey tries to say, Not so lately, sir. Dark Enduring has always been much respected in Settle’s Crossways. But Black rubs at his left forearm, and words flounder in Bailey’s mind. He does not intervene as Black asks without turning to regard the speaker, “Lately?” Black’s manner suggests no particular interest.
The speaker is lean as a stick. His bare arms have the rope-like muscles and deep brown of a farmhand. He carries no weight on his frame, and his features droop like a hound’s as he drinks. To Black he smells of sweat and grievance. His name is Trait, and if he is asked, he will say that he is bitter because the town’s prosperity has passed him by. But that is not Black’s question. Trait takes a long pull at his flagon, then says, “Since the murder.”
Now Bailey intends to intervene in earnest. Several of his patrons have heard Trait, and a stillness comes over the room. Soon everyone will be listening. But Black continues to rub his forearm, and Bailey scowls because he cannot remember what he wants to say.
Black does not ask about the murder. He will learn what he needs to know soon enough. Instead he asks, “And that encourages attendance at the Temple of Dark Enduring? How so?”
Bailey contrives to blurt, “You are a religious man, sir?” But Black and Trait ignore him.
“That priest,” Trait says. He frowns. “What is his name?” Then he remembers. “Father Tenderson. He says what we want to hear.”
Black lifts his hand to Bailey, points at Trait’s flagon. Bailey understands. He refills the flagon at an ale-tap and replaces it in front of Trait.
Still revealing no great interest, Black asks, “What do you want to hear?”
Trait gulps at his drink for a moment. Then he says with satisfaction, “Revenge. Retribution.
“That other priest. Father Whorry. He promises glory. He preaches that poor Jon Marker’s boy is with Bright Eternal, all light and happiness. He says if we have faith what we lose will not grieve us. Who takes comfort in slop like that? Father Tenderson speaks truth.”
From somewhere behind Black, a man calls out, “Enough, Trait. He is a stranger. He has his own concerns. Jon Marker’s loss means nothing to him.”
Trait grins sourly. He enjoys the reprimand. It makes him more substantial in his own eye
s. “Father Tenderson,” he tells Black more distinctly, “demands punishment. He prays every day for the King’s Justice. He wants the man who butchered that boy burned alive.” He knocks his flagon on the bar. “We all do. We pray for the same thing.” Again he claps the bar with his flagon. “Revenge will comfort us.”
Then he snorts more quietly, “Glory will not.”
Black does not say, The King’s Justice is not what that priest thinks it is. Instead he remarks, “Father Whorry sounds judicious. He values peace.” Then he asks, “Can a stranger meet with him? I, too, value peace.” His tone is noncommittal. “Does he frequent a tavern of an evening?”
The man behind Black responds loudly, “The good Father will be at his prayers. Settle’s Crossways is his concern. Wait for the morrow, stranger. Your desire to accost him at such a time is unseemly.”
Black does not apologize. While he considers his reply, Trait mutters into his flagon, “At his prayers, aye—if they belong in a common house. If not, he labors for peace by other means.”
“Enough, Trait,” commands the man behind Black again. He approaches the bar. “Is this a fit occasion for your spite?” He slaps a heavy hand on Trait’s shoulder. “Show respect, man, for Jon Marker if you have none for the priest.”
Trait smirks into his flagon, but does not retort.
The man rounds on Black. “Do you mean to mock us, sir?” he demands. He is large, granite-browed, and muscular. His apparel suggests wealth by its fineness, and indeed he owns a well-stocked general store. Others consider him a bully, but he believes himself a man often justly offended—and able to act against insult. “Our concerns are none of yours.”
Knowing the man, Bailey hastens to placate him. “Be easy, Ing Hardiston,” he says in his most soothing voice. “This is a trying time at its best. A stranger might well give offense without the intent to do so.”
Black ignores the barkeep. He faces Hardiston’s anger. Still disinterested in his manner, he says, “Father Tenderson, then. Is he a drinking man?”
Trait stifles a guffaw with ale.
Ing Hardiston bristles. He has blows in mind. Like many another man, he fears for his sons, and his fear incenses him. He desires to deny that he is afraid. But Black’s lightless gaze weakens him. Though he clenches his fist, he does not swing.
Casting a glare at Bailey, the storekeeper then returns to Black. “Ask him yourself, sir,” he says with knotted jaws, “when you see him on the morrow. You will not trouble the folk of this town at night.”
Black does not acquiesce. Nor does he refuse. He has taken Ing Hardiston’s measure and is not threatened. Rather than prolong the man’s ire, he turns to Trait.
“Will you guide me to an inn, friend? I am unquestionably a stranger. Without aid, I may find myself in a flea-ridden bed when I prefer comfort.”
For a moment, Trait hesitates. He enjoys his ability to vex Hardiston and is inclined to do as Black asks. Like the storekeeper, however—and Bailey as well—he finds the stranger’s aspect discomfiting. Conflicting impulses keep him silent until he recalls that the stranger has bought him ale.
In a long draught, Trait empties his flagon. Then he nods to Black. “I will.” Shouldering Hardiston discourteously aside, he stands from his stool.
Rasping an oath, Ing Hardiston returns to his table and his companions.
When Black also stands, Bailey rallies himself to request payment. He goes so far as to meet Black’s gaze. However, what he sees there closes his mouth. Flapping one hand, he dismisses the question of coin. At the last, he manages only to wish Black a pleasant night.
Black nods gravely. “Perhaps it will be pleasant,” he replies. Then he accompanies Trait from the tavern.
But he has no interest in a bed. His purpose requires him to trace the smell of evil to its source, and he has come no nearer since entering the town. His interactions in the tavern have not awakened his glyphs and sigils, his scarifications. A few steps along the porch, he halts his companion.
Full night has come to Settle’s Crossways. The town’s many lamps dim the stars, but those lights are too earthbound to obscure the now-cloudless sweep of the heavens. Briefly Black studies the dulled jewels of darkness past the eaves of the roof, though he has no need of their counsel. To Trait, he says, “Take me to Jon Marker’s house.”
Trait stares. He finds Black difficult to discern in the shadows. He will say, You asked for an inn. He will refuse Black’s command. He will pretend obedience to the storekeeper’s wishes. Though he has neither wife nor son himself, he has still some kindness in him, and he is disturbed by Jon Marker’s loss. He will not comply with Black.
He does comply. He wants more ale. His mouth hangs open as he points to an alley across the street.
Together, Black and his guide cross the street. The alley takes them to a lesser street, a crooked way aimless to those who do not know the town. Here the odor Black seeks teases his nose, but it remains indistinct, not to be trusted. He does not release Trait.
Another alley admits them to a still-smaller street. Away from the main roads, there is no gravel to give purchase. Black’s boots squish and slip in the mud. Trait moves unsteadily, wishing himself back at the tavern, but the inconvenience of poor footing does not compel Black’s attention. He follows his nose and his companion to a house that stands pressed close to its neighbors.
The place is little more than a hut large enough for perhaps three rooms. Its size and humility suggest that its occupants are poor. Yet there are no sprung boards in its walls, no gaps around its windows. Its porch and roofs are solid. All have been painted in a recent season. The chairs on the porch, where a husband and wife might sit of a quiet evening, are comfortable. To Black, it has the air of a dwelling cared for because its people consider it a home.
But its neighbors have lanterns on their porches and lights in their windows. The house to which Black has come is dark. It looks empty. In another season or two, it will look abandoned.
“Here,” Trait says. Then he finds the kindness to add, “Let poor Jon be. He is a good man. Good men are few.”
Black dismisses his guide. He forgets Trait. He is on the trail. The smell is stronger here. It is not strong enough to be the source he seeks. Still it confirms that he is on the right path.
The scent is not that of human violence, of ordinary passion or greed too extreme to be controlled. For such a crime, Settle’s Crossways would not need the King’s Justice. The smell is that of shapers and wicked rituals.
Silent as shadows, Black ascends the porch to the door.
For a moment, he considers his purpose. Then he knocks. He is sure that the house is not empty.
After a second knock, he hears boots on bare boards. They shuffle closer. At another time, perhaps, he will feel sorrow for the man inside. At present, his purpose rules him.
When the door opens, he sees a small man much blurred by what has befallen him. His eyes are reddened in the gloom, and his gaze is vague, like that of a man deep in his cups, though he does not smell of ale or hard spirits. His sturdy, workman’s frame has collapsed in on itself, making him appear smaller than he is.
He blinks at Black, uncertain of his ability to distinguish the stranger in the gloom. When he speaks, his voice is raw with expended sobs. He says only, “What?”
Black stands motionless. “Are you a temple-going man, Jon Marker?” he asks. “Do you find ease in sermons and worship?”
Perhaps that is why or how his son was chosen.
Jon Marker repeats, “What?” He does not understand the question. Then he does. “Go. Leave me alone. I do not deal with hypocrites. Let others pretend to worship gods who do not answer prayers. I am not such a fool.”
Perhaps that is why his son was chosen.
Jon Marker tries to close the door. Even in grief, he is too polite to slam it. But Black stops him. Gently Black says, ?
??Then I must look elsewhere.” He smells no atrocity on the man, or in the house. The odor he seeks is here by inference, indirectly. It lingers with its victims when its source has moved on. “I need your guidance. Tell me of your son.”
Now the door is shut, though Jon Marker does not close it. He and Black stand in the common room of the house, on uncovered floorboards, in darkness. Jon Marker blinks more rapidly, but his sight does not clear.
The stranger wants him to speak of his son. The command angers him. It was not a request, despite its gentleness. “I will not,” he answers. His pain is too raw.
“You will,” Black replies, still gently. “I require your aid.”
Jon Marker gathers himself to shout. He gathers himself to lay hands on the stranger. But under his cloak, Black rubs a glyph near the small of his back with one hand. With the other, he reaches out to cup his inlaid palm to Jon Marker’s cheek.
Jon Marker tries to flinch away, yet he does not.
Black’s touch enters the father’s ruin. It does not give comfort. It is deeper than consolation. It brings a wail from the depths of Jon Marker’s heart.
“My son!”
Soft as the night’s air, Black says, “Tell me.”
For a moment, the father cannot. His wail holds him, though he does not repeat it. It echoes in the empty frame that his home and his family have become. But then he answers in broken chunks like pieces of his flesh torn from him.
“When my wife, my sweet wife. My Annwin. When she died. When the plague claimed her. She took it all. All of me. I thought she took it all. The plague—” His voice catches. “I could not endure my life.
“But I could. She left my boy. Our son, our Tamlin. As sweet to me as she was. As kind. As pleasant. As willing. And lost.” His voice fills the dark room with ghosts. “As lost as I was. We were lost together. Without her, lost. Until he found himself for me. Or I found myself for him. Or we found each other. Together, we found—