Garlthik laughed and brought his hand up to his mouth I and smothered it. When he'd gained control of himself he said, "And what will we do, young J'role? Go up to them and beg for alms? Those travelers are escorted by obsidimen. Not the type of folk who are usually too generous. I doubt we'd get within fifty feet of them, even with peaceful intentions, before those brutes slammed into our meager bodies with their stone hands.
Wouldn't even see them coming if they're worth their pay."
J'role wanted to know what obsidimen were, but knew that getting out the question would be too much work; he didn't even know how to begin. Instead he kept his mind fixed on the issue of food. He gestured back over the rock again, and then he mimed walking along silently, his knees bent, creeping along.
Garlthik smiled. "Steal it?"
J'role nodded vigorously.
"Lad, maybe another time. Certainly, I've stolen from more difficult marks-but I always had help."
Indignantly J'role pounded his chest with his fist.
"Yes, yes. You're here to help. But you're not especially well trained."
J'role pointed to himself again, then mimed sneaking through a door, opening a barrel, pulling out apples. Garlthik cocked his head to one side. J'role gestured back over the boulder; several times in a row, trying to build the impression of distance.
"Oh. You've stolen … You stole when you lived in your village?" Garlthik first looked astonished, then smiled again. "Well, that is a surprise. Wouldn't have … All right. Do you know the talents?”
J'role furrowed his brow, at first not understanding what Garlthik meant. Then he realized that he meant magical talents. He had never thought that there would be magical talents for thieves, just as there were magical talents for Ishar, the village metalsmith, but it made sense. He remembered the green glow that poured out of the knots that had been holding Garlthik. That was probably one of them. He shook his head.
"That's it then. We'll be building our appetites tonight." He rolled over to go back to sleep.
J'role knelt down beside Garlthik grabbed the ork's arm and shook it.
"No, no. I can't do it alone, and boy, you're just not ready."
An idea came to J'role. He pointed first to Garlthik and then to himself, over and over again. Then he took the ork's heavy hand in his and clasped it.
"What do you want, boy?”
He continued to point to Garlthik, and then himself.
"You want to-be me …? To learn from me? You want me to teach you the talents?”
J'role nodded.
The ork laughed quietly. "We won't be done in time to get that caravan …" Garlthik shook his head and waved his hand, a sober look coming s over his face. "You probably don't know this, but when you pick a discipline, it shapes how you see the world. Everything feeds into this sight. That's why the magic works. Once a thief, you'll always be a thief.
You'll always think like a thief."
J'role patted his belly. The ork laughed, then looked somberly at J'role, as if weighing something out. "All right then. In the morning." He started the fire again, and rolled over once more.
For a long time J'role stared up at the stars. The tiny points of light seemed to form countless patterns, just like the picture language common to the name-giver races.
Though J'role could not read, he'd seen words carved in stone, words formed from a picture of a dragon's head combined with a few dots and circles. Next to that would be a cat, and next to that an image of a jaguar, each altered slightly to produce different syllables.
As J'role looked at the sky he wondered if the stars too formed patterns-words written across the night.
He could not sleep, and after an hour or so he took out the ring. The silver cold against the flesh of his palm and reminded him of the wonderful, overwhelming desire he'd felt earlier. He craved to feel that longing once more, but the thought also made him afraid. It took complete possession of his thoughts. Two days ago, putting on the ring had made him forget even about his father dying on the floor of the kaer.
The memory of his father sent a shiver through J'role. What a horrible son he was! How often had he wished the man dead! How could he have wanted that for a man who had tried so hard? So, so hard. An empty ache took hold of J'role's heart; he felt incomplete, as if he still needed something from his father that would now never be provided.
Without even thinking about it, he slipped the ring onto his finger to escape the sadness.
He felt his tongue come alive without his will, and the tingling spread across his jaw. He rolled away so as to not disturb Garlthik, then stood up and walked over to a rock and stared out over the barren, windblown landscape, listening to himself speak.
He said, "Fine stones, each as pure white as sun-bleached bones, led to the city from all quarters of Barsaive." An astounding sight greeted him as he stared out over the barren, dark landscape. Several miles away a thin line glowed as pure as the stars above, reaching off in either direction as far as he could see.
A road.
7
The memory of the nightmare is slight. Not as horrible as what is to come, but all connected somehow, a thread in the web of despair. A little matter, really. Probably not worthy of being relegated to the realm of nightmares. But there it is. He is four. The thing in the corner has not yet arrived His mother is alive. His father happy.
His mother speaks to him one day when his father is gone. He is her pride, yes. She can show him off to the neighbors, yes. He is facile with language. "Just like his father,”
everyone says, smiling. So happy.
"Be careful," his mother warns. Her face is serious. "Don't be like your father. People will expect too much. Don it speak so much. Don't show them how clever you are. "
Yet she continues to show him off, and he is expected to perform. When speaking to others, if he says the wrong thing — and he never knows what that might be-she looks down. Frowns. He is always disappointing her. He doesn't know why. Everyone else thinks him so clever.
When they are alone, she looks at him and sighs. He turns away. He wants to do the right thing, but does not know what that is.
One day she stares at him for a long time. "You're just like your father," she says quietly, hopeless.
He stared at the remarkable sight before him, not listening to a single word he was babbling. The road had not been there before. He would have seen it. It glowed. Tears formed in his eyes, and he did not know why. Was it the magic of the ring? The longing was strong within him now, stronger than it had been at any time since he'd worn the ring. The road was of course tied to the city, and the city was the source of the longing.
But no. The tears were for something else. For his father. Here, right before him, something so strange and marvelous. He wished his father could be beside him to see it.
Though Bevarden had spoken of many miraculous things, he'd spoke of them only through the memories of others. But he too had known a longing-to actually see the magic of the world- the extraordinary. Everything had gone- wrong, though, back at the kaer. First with his mother, and now …
J'role wished his father could see it.
A road of starlight. It was the kind of thing Bevarden always suggested they would find together.
He turned toward Garlthik, wanting to wake the ork up and show him.
Then he turned back toward the road. Could he show the ork the road? He fought down the ring's power to make him keep longing for the city, and pulled the ring off The road vanished. The barren lowlands again became mundane and stark.
J'role nearly cried out with excitement. But years of training had taught him not to speak out spontaneously, and the creature's warmth in his thoughts always kept the need for silence immediate.