the good of all, though Gods and men might bar my way.”
“Sir,” the beggar said, “I’m just hoping for a piece of fire and some charity on a long road.”
The Amyr gestured the old man forward. He was armored in a suit of bright steel rings, and his sword was tall as a man. His tabard was of shining white, but from the elbows the color darkened into crimson, as if dipped in blood. In the center of his chest, he wore the symbol of the Amyr: the black tower wrapped in a crimson flame.
The old man sat near the fire and gave a sigh as the heat soaked into his bones.
After a moment, the Amyr spoke, “I’m afraid I can offer you nothing to eat. My horse eats better than I do tonight, but that does not mean that he eats well.”
“Anything would be a lovely help,” the old man said. “Scraps are more than what I have. I am not proud.”
The Amyr sighed. “Tomorrow I must ride fifty miles to stop a trial. If I fail or falter, an innocent woman will die. This is all I have.” The Amyr gestured to a piece of cloth with a crust of bread and a sliver of cheese. Both of them together would hardly be enough to dent the old man’s hunger. It made a poor dinner for a man as large as the Amyr.
“Tomorrow I must ride and fight,” the armored man said. “I need my strength. So I must weigh your night of hunger against this woman’s life.” As he spoke, the Amyr raised his hands and held them palms up, like the plates of a balancing scale.
When he made this motion, the old beggar saw the backs of the Amyr’s hands, and for a second he thought the Amyr had cut himself, and that blood was running between his fingers and down his arms. Then the fire shifted and the beggar saw it was only a tattoo, though he still shivered at the bloody markings on the Amyr’s hands and arms.
He would have done more than shiver had he known all that those markings meant. They showed the Amyr was trusted so completely by the Order that his actions would never be questioned. And as the Order stood behind him, no church, no court, no king could move against him. For he was one of the Ciridae, highest of the Amyr.
If he killed an unarmed man, it was not murder in the Order’s eyes. If he strangled a pregnant woman in the middle of the street, none would speak against him. Should he burn a church or break an old stone bridge, the empire held him blameless, trusting all he did was in the service of the greater good.
But the beggar knew none of this, and so he tried again. “If you don’t have any food to spare, could I have a penny or two?” He thought of the Cealdish camp, and how he might buy a slice of meat or bread.
The Amyr shook his head. “If I did, I would gladly give it. But three days ago I gave the last of my money to a new widower with a hungry child. I have been penniless as you are ever since.” He shook his head, his expression weary and full of regret. “I wish circumstances were different. But I now must sleep, so you must go.”
The old man was hardly happy about this, but there was something in the Amyr’s voice that made him wary. So he creaked back onto his feet and left the fire behind.
Before the warmth of the Amyr’s fire could leave him, the old man tightened his belt and made up his mind to simply walk through ’til morning. Hoping the end of his road might bring him better luck, or at least a meeting with some kinder folk.
So he walked through the center of Faeriniel, and as he did, he saw a circle of great grey stones. Inside that circle was the faint glow of firelight hidden in a well-dug pit. The old man noticed he couldn’t smell a wisp of smoke either, and realized these folk were burning rennel wood, which burns hot and hard, but doesn’t smoke or stink.
Then the old man saw that two of the great shapes were not stones at all. They were wagons. A handful of people huddled round a cookpot in the dim light of the fire.
But the old man didn’t have a shred of hope left, so he kept walking. He was almost past the stones when a voice called out: “Ho there! Who are you, and why do you pass by so quietly at night?”
“I’m nobody,” the old man said. “Just an old beggar, following my road until its end.”
“Why are you out walking instead of settling down to sleep? These roads are not all safe at night,” the voice replied.
“I have no bed,” the old man said. “And tonight I cannot beg or borrow one for all the world.”
“There is one here for you, if you would like it. And a bit of dinner if you’ve a mind to share. No one should walk all day and night besides.” A handsome, bearded man stepped from the concealment of the tall grey stones. He took the old man’s elbow and led him toward the fire, calling ahead, “We have a guest tonight!”
There was a small stir of motion ahead of them, but the night was moonless and their fire was deep in a concealing pit, so the beggar couldn’t see much of what was being done. Curious, he asked, “Why do you hide your fire?”
His host sighed. “Not all folk are filled with love for us. We’re safest by being out of harm’s way. Besides, our fire is small tonight.”
“Why is that?” the beggar asked. “With so many trees, wood should be easy to come by.”
“We went gathering earlier,” the bearded man explained. “But folk called us thieves and shot arrows at us.” He shrugged. “So we make do, and tomorrow will take care of itself.” He shook his head. “But I am talking too much. May I offer you a drink, father?”
“A bit of water, if you can spare it.”
“Nonsense, you will have wine.”
It had been a long time since the beggar had tasted wine, and the thought of it was enough to set his mouth all a-watering. But he knew wine was not the best thing for an empty stomach that had walked all day, so he said, “You are kind, bless you. But water is good enough for me.”
The man at his elbow smiled. “Then have water and wine, each to your desire.” And saying so he brought the beggar to their water barrel.
The old beggar bent and drew up a ladle of water. When it touched his lips it was cool and sweet, but as he drew up the ladle, he couldn’t help but notice the barrel was very nearly empty.
In spite of this, his host urged him, “Take another and wash the dust from your hands and face. I can tell you’ve been on the road for a long and weary while.” So the old beggar took a second dipper of water, and once his hands and face were clean, he felt much refreshed.
Then his host took his elbow again and led him to the fire. “What is your name, father?”
Again the beggar was surprised. It had been years since anyone had cared enough to ask his name. It had been so long he had to stop and think about it for a moment. “Sceop,” he said at last. “I am called Sceop, and you?”
“My name is Terris,” his host said as he made the old man comfortable close to the fire. “This is Silla, my wife, and Wint, our son. This is Shari and Benthum and Lil and Peter and Fent.”
Then Terris brought Sceop wine. Silla gave him a heavy ladle of potato soup, a slice of warm bread, and half a golden summer squash with sweet butter in the bowl of it. It was plain, and there was not a lot, but to Sceop it seemed a feast. And as he ate, Wint kept his cup full of wine, and smiled at him, and sat by his knee and called him grandfather.
The last was too much for the old beggar, and he began to cry softly. Perhaps it was that he was old, and his day had been a long one. Perhaps it was that he was not used to kindness. Perhaps it was the wine. Whatever the reason, tears began to trickle down his face and lose themselves in his deep white beard.
Terris saw this and was quick to ask, “Father, whatever is the matter?”
“I am a silly old man,” Sceop said, more to himself than to the rest of them. “You have been kinder to me than anyone in years, and I am sorry I cannot repay you.”
Terris smiled and laid a hand on the old man’s back. “Would you really like to pay?”
“I cannot. I have nothing to give you.”
Terris’s smile widened. “Sceop. We are the Edema Ruh. The thing we value most is something everyone possesses.” One by one, Sceop saw the faces around the fire look up at him expectantly. Terris said, “You could tell us your story.”
Not knowing what else to do, Sceop began to speak. He told how he had come to Faeriniel. How he had walked from one fire to the next, hoping for charity. At first his voice faltered and his story stumbled, for he had been alone a long time and was not used to talking. But soon his voice became stronger, his words bolder, and as the fire flickered and reflected in his bright blue eyes, his hands danced along with his old dried voice. Even the
