I held up a hand to stop him. “Can we skip to the end of this puppet show, where you end up sobbing into your beer for a span of days?”
Simmon scowled at me. Wilem laughed.
“She has enough men fawning over her,” I said. “They come and go like . . .” I strained to think of an analogy and failed. “I’d rather be her friend.”
“You would rather be close to her heart,” Wilem said without any particular inflection. “You would rather be joyfully held in the circle of her arms. But you fear she will reject you. You fear she would laugh and you would look the fool.” Wilem shrugged easily. “You are hardly the first to feel this way. There is no shame in it.”
That struck uncomfortably close to the mark, and for a long moment I couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. “I hope,” I admitted quietly. “But I don’t want to assume. I’ve seen what happens to the men that assume too much and cling to her.”
Wilem nodded solemnly.
“She bought you that lute case,” Sim said helpfully. “That has to mean something.”
“But what does it mean?” I said. “It seems like she’s interested, but what if it’s just wishful thinking on my part? All those other men must think she’s interested too. But they’re obviously wrong. What if I’m wrong too?”
“You’ll never know unless you try,” Sim said, with a bitter edge to his voice. “That’s what I’d normally say. But, you know what? It doesn’t work worth a damn. I chase them and they kick at me like I’m a dog at the dinner table. I’m tired of trying so hard.” He gave a weary sigh, still flat on his back. “All I want is someone who likes me.”
“All I want is a clear sign,” I said.
“I want a magical horse that fits in my pocket,” Wil said. “And a ring of red amber that gives me power over demons. And an endless supply of cake.”
There was another moment of comfortable quiet. The wind brushed gently through the trees.
“They say the Ruh know all the stories in the world,” Simmon said after a while.
“Probably true,” I admitted.
“Tell one,” he said.
I eyed him narrowly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he protested. “I’m in the mood for a story, that’s all.”
“We are somewhat lacking for entertainment,” Wilem said.
“Fine, fine. Let me think.” I closed my eyes and a story with Amyr in it bubbled to the surface. Hardly surprising. They had been on my mind constantly since Nina had found me.
I sat up straight. “All right,” I took a breath, then paused. “If either of you have to go piss, do it now. I don’t like having to stop halfway through.”
Silence.
“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “There is a place not many folk have seen. A strange place called Faeriniel. If you believe the stories, there are two things that make Faeriniel unique. First, it is where all the roads in the world meet. Second, it is not a place any man has ever found by searching. It is not a place you travel to, it is the place you pass through while on your way to somewhere else.
“They say that anyone who travels long enough will come there. This is a story of that place, and of an old man on a long road, and of a long and lonely night without a moon. . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A Piece of Fire
Faeriniel was a great crossroads, but there was no inn where the roads met. Instead there were clearings in the trees where travelers would set their camps and pass the night.
Once, years ago and miles away, five groups of travelers came to Faeriniel. They chose their clearings and lit their fires as the sun began to set, pausing on their way from here to there.
Later, after the sun had set and night was settled firmly in the sky, an old beggar in a tattered robe came walking down the road. He moved with slow care, leaning on a walking stick.
The old man was going from nowhere to nowhere. He had no hat for his head and no pack for his back. He had not a penny or a purse to put it in. He barely even owned his own name, and even that had been worn thin and threadbare through the years.
If you’d asked him who he was, he would have said, “Nobody.” But he would have been wrong.
The old man made his way into Faeriniel. He was hungry as a dry fire and weary to his bones. All that kept him moving was the hope that someone might give him a bit of dinner and a piece of their fire.
So when the old man saw firelight flickering, he left the road and made his weary way toward it. Soon he saw four tall horses through the trees. Silver was worked into their harness and silver was mixed with the iron of their shoes. Nearby the beggar saw a dozen mules laden with goods: woolen cloth, cunning jewelry, and fine steel blades.
But what caught the beggar’s attention was the side of meat above the fire, steaming and dripping fat onto the coals. He almost fainted at the sweet smell of it, for he had been walking all day with nothing to eat but a handful of acorns and a bruised apple he’d found by the side of the road.
Stepping into the clearing, the old beggar called out to the three dark-bearded men who sat around the fire. “Halloo,” he said. “Can you spare a bit of meat and a piece of your fire?”
They turned, their gold chains glittering in the firelight. “Certainly,” their leader said. “What do you have with you? Bits or pennies? Rings or strehlaum? Or do you have the true-ringing Cealdish coin we prize above all others?”
“I have none of these,” the old beggar said, opening his hands to show they were empty.
“Then you will find no comfort here,” they said, and as he watched they began to carve thick pieces from the haunch that hung by the fire.
“No offense, Wilem. It’s just how the story goes.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked like you were going to.”
“I may. But it will wait until after.”
The old man walked on, following the light of another fire through the trees.
“Halloo!” the old beggar called out as he stepped into the second clearing. He tried to sound cheerful, though he was weary and sore. “Can you spare a bit of meat and a piece of your fire?”
There were four travelers there, two men and two women. At the sound of his voice they rose to their feet, but none of them spoke. The old man waited politely, trying to appear pleasant and harmless. But the quiet stretched on, long as long, and still no word was spoken.
Understandably, the old man grew irritated. He was used to being shunned or shrugged aside, but these folk merely stood. They were quiet and restless, moving from foot to foot while their hands twitched nervously.
Just as he was about to sulk away, the fire flared and the beggar saw the four wore the blood-red clothes that marked them as Adem mercenaries. Then the old man understood. The Adem are called the silent folk, and they speak only rarely.
The old man knew many stories of the Adem. He’d heard that they possessed a secret craft called the Lethani. This let them wear their quiet like an armor that would turn a blade or stop an arrow in the air. This is why they seldom spoke. They saved their words, keeping them inside like coals in the belly of a furnace.
Those hoarded words filled them with so much restless energy that they could never be completely still, which is why they were always twitching and fidgeting about. Then when they fought, they used their secret craft to burn those words like fuel inside themselves. This made them strong as bears and fast as snakes.
When the beggar first heard these rumors, he thought them silly campfire stories. But years ago in Modeg, he had seen an Adem woman fight the city guard. The soldiers were armed and armored, thick of arm and chest. They had demanded to see the woman’s sword in the king’s name, and though hesitant, she presented it to them. As soon as they held it in their hands, they had leered and pawed at her, making lewd suggestions about what she could do to get it back.