Ulam grunted.
Amantius sighed. “Just give it a little more time. I’m sure within a few weeks the crowds will fade away and we will get our lives back. But in the meantime, why not enjoy our good fortune?”
You mean your good fortune.
Days turned into weeks, and before Ulam realized it, a whole month had transpired without any signs of change. Amantius’ prediction about the show had not come true, if anything the opposite had happened. A Dragon’s Peace was still the main event within Thornsgrave’s theater scene, but with each passing day new companies took up residency throughout the city, erecting makeshift stages to perform original plays of their own. The more groups that arrived, the more paranoid Remo became of falling from the mountain top. He increasingly became more erratic, placing an even greater emphasis on perfection than before. His behavior, and the increase of expectations, eventually pushed Ulam to his limits.
“I am leaving, Brother,” he said one morning as he packed his things, “I cannot stand this life any longer. I must go, if not for anything other than my sanity.”
“Leaving?” Amantius replied with an arched eyebrow. “You can’t leave! Where can you possibly go?”
Ulam shrugged. “Anywhere. North. South. East. West. I do not care, anywhere but here.”
“So you’re just going to leave me? After what happened in Silverwater, you’re going to separate us again?”
Amantius’ words were like a dagger through Ulam’s heart. In truth, that was the only reason he had not left the Crimson Owls already. Anytime he thought about setting out into the world again, a wave of shame would wash over him. And every time that happened, he would choose to stay behind and spend another evening on the stage as Fervalor the Fearless. He did it all for Amantius, sacrificing his dreams so his foster-brother could live the kind of life he desired. But as time wore on he could no longer sustain the self-deprivation; he had to escape, even if it meant leaving Amantius behind.
“I am not leaving you,” Ulam grumbled. “I want you to come with me.”
“Why would I come?” Amantius replied, almost offended. “I have fame, money, women, food…”
“Because there is more to life than feasting and whoring, Little Brother,” Ulam interrupted. He hardly ever called Amantius “Little Brother,” and he never used the term endearingly. He was annoyed; in many ways, his foster-brother had matured since they left Accaria, but in many others, he was the same miscreant he had always been. Ulam dreamed of the day Amantius would grow tired of his bacchanalian ways, although he worried such a day would never come.
“So you’re going to judge me now? Is that it?” Amantius snatched up his improved Durkan the Flamefang costume. He had commissioned a clothier to craft a new suit, one made from a lighter fabric that allowed his skin to remain cool. “You know what, Ulam? Just go. I’m finished trying to help you enjoy your life. If you choose misery over comfort then so be it, but don’t bring me down with your ship.”
Amantius stormed out of the tent, leaving Ulam inside alone. Instinctively he took a step forward to follow his foster-brother but decided against chasing after him. He knew if he caught up to Amantius he would lose his willpower, and another week or so would pass before he could gather the courage to try leaving again. No, this ends today.
Ulam opened the flap and looked at the sky; the sun hovered around midday. He knew the sooner he left the camp the better because as soon as the sun began to dip towards the horizon he would be expected near the stage. He assumed that when he did not show Nilawen would come looking for him, and he wanted to be far away from Thornsgrave when that time came.
I should write a letter, Ulam thought as he slung his pack over his shoulder, so she and Amantius know I was not kidnapped. Of course, I am probably too big to kidnap. Does not matter, I suppose, I still need to let them know.
Ulam rummaged around inside the trunk he and Amantius had once shared, back before fame and money polluted their relationship, and found a small bottle of ink and a quill. He took one of the books he had not packed and ripped out the title page, using the blank backside to write a note. At the bottom, he also drew a small map for Amantius, just in case his foster-brother came searching for him. Although, because Ulam’s cartography skills were quite poor, he was not confident Amantius would understand the symbols he used.
Ulam did not look behind him as he exited the tent, believing that chapter of his life had come to a close. He headed westward towards the Crescent Mountains, named so because of the shape of the mountain range. He had read in one of the many books dedicated to the location of Orc Sanctuaries that one was nestled at the base of the mountains, a two-day journey by foot from Thornsgrave. He did not know whether or not a Sanctuary would be there, though; he had discovered that often the information in his books was either outdated or completely inaccurate. Regardless, the edge of the Crescent Mountains was his destination, whether the Orc Sanctuary that allegedly rested there existed or not.
No one in the camp dared ask Ulam where he was going; they saw the determination in his eyes as he marched past them into the surrounding countryside. If anyone had any questions, or for a moment thought about stopping him, they were quickly deterred by the grip
