Siegyrd woke on the shores of a great gray lake. A single mountain towered above him with a cave entrance the size of a mansion carved into its side. Etchings in faintly grey-glowing script surrounded the cave’s void-toothed maw. The sky was a black velvet curtain without a single star. A sickled moon shone its carving ray weakly through the hungering night.

Siegyrd stood, a taste of ash on his tongue. The lake was empty and serene. Not a single ripple broke its surface. He looked around him at shadow trees and shadow grass, shifting darknesses of various muted hues. The air smelled of stale bread and mold. It was cold, and that was his one comfort.

He looked up at the towering cave entrance with its glyphs and stepped toward it. He had already wept himself dry on the shores of nowhere once, but choked back the hollow gasps of fresh attempts at sorrow. He replayed the fight in his head over and over. What could I have done? If only I had. He walked without thought to his walking, mind compressed into the tiny space of a past event as if by honing all his will upon it he might return and change it. He wracked his mind and permutated option after option. He imagined versions where he died instead. Those comforted him. Others, they both died. Those too seemed right. Yet those words rang through his head, Live well, little brother. Live well. How does one live well who wishes only to die?

He stood in a broad gallery of many fine treasures suppressed beneath the malicious shadows. In the center was a dragon’s hoard made into a bed. He stepped up the hill of faintly jingling coins, barely ghosts of themselves. He slipped to his knees, then all fours as he dragged himself to the top of the heap, rolled himself up and collapsed into the comforting arms of sleep.

#

Mareth and Silas made it to the edge of a snow covered Ruthaivan and walked slowly through the dirty white streets. People parted to give them room. The lion, Alexei, prowled slowly between the two and eyed the people and stalls.

The strange band walked straight through the center of town, the boy taller by the day, his bright blue eyes taking in the sight of such a large town. A girl, about his own age, in a simple woolen dress and baking frock peaked at him from around her mother’s skirts and waved shyly with a thick-mitted hand. He waved back with a toothy grin, and she hid behind her mother again.

They reached the Mayor’s house around midday. Through the high sun, the air was still cool and crisp. The snow glistened. Mareth knocked on the mayor’s door at the top of the cliff with three solid raps. The door opened slowly revealing the young servant boy who spoke softly, “master is ill. Wizard may.” He looked past the wizard and the boy and saw the lion. His eyes went wide with fear as the lion looked at him and yawned. He sprinted away from the door, leaving it cracked, shouting, “Lion! Master, it’s a lion!”

Alexei growled and lunged toward the cracked door, impelled by the chase instinct, but Mareth shouted a command in an alien tongue and the Lion jerked and contorted himself into a rapid halt.

Mareth stepped by Alexei and let himself in and the boy, and then turned and gave Alexei another command. The lion nodded, then sat facing the door. Mareth flattened his hand and made a motion to lower, and the lion laid down upon the threshold, shook himself and then began to lick his side, cleaning his coat.

#

“You’ve returned!” Mathin’s voice was tired, but jovial. He wore nightclothes.

“Preparing an afternoon nap? Have you become so soft since my departure, Mayor?”

Mathin yawned and replied, “Even asleep I am a match for you wizard.”

Mareth simply laughed.

Mathin stepped forward and embraced the wizard. “It is good to see you, and who have we here?”

Mareth smiled and then pushed the boy forward, “Introduce yourself.”

Silas stood up straight and nodded then walked forward to the mayor, “Good day, Mayor. I am Silas of the Troupe Triumphant, at your service.” The boy extended his hand as he held the mayor’s eyes. Mathin smiled and stepped forward, taking the boy’s small hand.

There was a slight look of surprise on Mathin’s face at the boy’s grip, and then he said, “A pleasure, young Silas. I am Mayor Mathin Morrow. Welcome to my home.” He looked up then at Mareth who averted his gaze, “It isn’t finished, is it?”

Mareth half-turned toward the door and replied, “I don’t know, but I have to go back. His parents may have survived and made it here or Tivaer. Will you care for him? Make inquiries? Just until I return. Until spring, summer at most.”

“We are not so good of friends that I can simply take up your strays. Where are the brothers?” He smiled down at Silas whose face fell in sadness.

Mareth turned and spoke, “Mathin.” Saying his name was a kind of pleading.

“So, it isn’t finished.” Mathin replied.

“It may only be the start.”