"That was amazing!"
Esteban spun around, his sword already rising before he had time to think.
The voice came from a rock that jutted out of the darkness like the back of a black whale. On its crest, a thin shadow crouched, knees pulled to its chest and arms wrapped around them. It looked like someone watching a play on a cold night, terrified of missing an act.
"And don't think I enjoy spying!" the shadow added quickly. "It's a job, like any other."
"Who are you?"
"Don't worry, don't worry!" The shadow threw its hands in the air. "I'm not armed. Or I carry one small knife, but it's only for bread, I swear."
"I asked who you are."
"Me?" The shadow leapt off the rock with the lightness of a cat and landed almost without a sound. Then it approached with slow, wide steps, the way you'd approach a strange dog to show you meant no harm. "Rico. My name is Rico. And I am, as you can see, the eyewitness to the greatest fight of my life."
In the light of the distant fire, he was a thin young man, no more than eighteen. He had a freckled face and messy black hair. His clothes were patched together from scraps that had nothing in common: a blue sleeve, brown trousers, and a faded green jacket that must have belonged to a man twice his size. Even in the dark, his eyes glittered with endless curiosity.
"How long were you there?" Esteban asked, his sword still raised.
"Since it started. And a little before, to be honest." Rico grinned. "I've been following those black coats for two days. Before that, I followed a caravan. Before that, some soldiers. It's a habit of mine, following people who don't know they're being followed." He scratched his head. "I wanted to steal their map, but you beat me to it."
Esteban's hand moved toward his pocket on instinct, then stopped.
"Relax, I won't take it from you." Rico raised his hands again. "I've never in my life seen one man fight seven with a stick and then bandage one of them. If I stole from you, I'd be cursed for the rest of my days."
"What do you want?"
"I don't know." Rico shrugged. "I saw something you don't see every day, and I want to understand it."
Esteban lowered his sword, slowly.
They sat beside a small fire that Rico lit in seconds, using a stone, a knife, and a scrap of rag. He moved with the skill of someone who never eats a hot meal without making the fire himself. From his bag, he pulled out a skinned rabbit, tied by the legs. He set it on a flat stone near the flames, then skewered it on a branch and began to roast it.
"Where did you get that?" Esteban asked.
"Snared it yesterday. I was planning to eat it alone." He shrugged. "But you look like a man who hasn't had a hot meal in a week."
"I've been eating bread."
"Bread isn't food. Bread is a promise of food."
Esteban found himself smiling again. The rabbit browned slowly, and fat dripped onto the embers with a hiss. The smell filled the clearing with a warmth he hadn't felt in three days. For a moment, he forgot everything that had happened. He felt only that another living person was sitting by his fire.
He had tried to hide the wound in his shoulder under his coat. But blood had soaked his shirt down to the elbow, and his left thigh throbbed with each heartbeat. He sat on a flat stone, trying not to look as exhausted as he felt. Rico watched him with eyes that missed nothing.
"How do you know so much about wounds?" Esteban asked before he could stop himself.
"Your shirt."
"What?"
"Take it off. That wound needs cleaning."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding like a slaughtered pig, and you say you're fine." Rico sighed. "Listen. I'm no doctor. But I've spent years in markets and back alleys, and I've seen how men die from small wounds. A small wound isn't dangerous because of its size. It's dangerous because of the dirt that gets into it."
Esteban didn't move.
"Take it off."
At last, Esteban sighed. He opened his coat, then peeled off his torn shirt. He didn't look at Rico, but he felt the young man staring at the blue stone pulsing on his chest in the firelight.
Rico said nothing about it. He didn't ask. He took a small bottle of distilled water and a clean rag from a worn cloth bag, folded with a care that didn't match his clothes. Then he began to clean the wound.
"There was a woman in one of the markets who sold herbs and rags," Rico said, eyes still on the wound. "She taught me in exchange for three months of carrying her baskets. She died not long after, of an illness her herbs couldn't cure." He picked up a fresh strip of cloth. "She used to say every wound tells you how it wants to be treated. You just have to listen."
"Does this hurt?"
"A little."
"Liar." Rico smiled. "It's fine. We all lie about these things."
His fingers were light, quick, and steady, as if they knew exactly where to press and where to avoid. He talked the whole time, in the nervous chatter some people use to hide their fear.
"Here's what I saw. You stood in front of seven men with a sword you'd never used before. Then you changed it. A sword, then a spear, then a shield, then a staff. All of it with one touch! If a conjurer in a market had seen that, he'd have sold his soul to learn how."
"I don't know how."
"You don't know?" He raised his eyebrows. "Really?"
"Really."
"That's the loveliest thing I've heard all week." Rico laughed briefly. "A man with a power that could change the world, and he can't even explain it. You're more honest than anyone I've ever met."
Esteban couldn't tell whether that was a compliment or a joke.
Rico tied off the bandage with a tight knot and crouched by the fire, stirring the embers with a thin stick.
"Why didn't you kill them?"
Esteban looked up.
"Those men back there. You could have. I saw you charge into the middle of them like someone who knew nobody would dare follow." He paused. "Then I saw you bandage that old man's arm." This chapter is updated first at NovelPing.
"He wanted to see his son."
"And that matters to you?"
"I don't know."
"There's something else I noticed." Rico drew a small star in the ashes with his stick. "They all have a tattoo, right here." He tapped the back of his left hand. "A little black star. Three of them tried to hide it under their gloves, but nothing gets past me."
"What does it mean?"
"I don't know yet. But it means something." He rubbed out the star with his thumb. "In this world, every mark means something."
"They'll be back." For the first time, Rico's voice lost its cheer. "Four of them are wounded and the rest ran off. They'll report to whoever's above them, and someone stronger will come."
"I know."
"And it would have been easier if you had..."
"Killed them?"
Rico didn't answer.
"You may be right," Esteban said quietly. "But I don't want to be the one who does it."
"Why?"
He didn't answer right away. He stared into the fire, at the small red tongues dancing between the branches.
"Because every one of those men had someone waiting for him," he said finally. "And if I start, I don't know where I'll stop."
Rico lowered his head and said nothing for a long minute. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"I've known men who started and never stopped. And men who never started at all." He looked up. "I still haven't figured out which kind you are."
"Neither have I."
"That's comforting."
Rico reached toward Esteban's bag, then pulled his hand back quickly when he saw the look on Esteban's face.
"Sorry! Old habit."
"What were you after?"
"Just the bread." He waved a hand. "And a bit of plain curiosity. I saw something shiny in your side pocket when you bent over."
Esteban frowned. Then he pulled out the small brass padlock Fernando had given him and opened his palm.
Rico whistled softly.
"That's no ordinary lock. That's clean work. Whoever made it loves what he does." He picked it up carefully and turned it over in his fingers. Then he pulled a thin, twisted wire from his pocket and slid it into the keyhole.
Not three seconds passed before a faint click sounded.
The lock opened.
"That..." Esteban's mouth fell open.
"Don't worry. Nobody makes a lock nobody can open." Rico set it back in Esteban's palm with a bright smile. "But it's a good one. Very good. Who made it?"
"A bald man in my village."
"Keep it. You'll need something to lock."
"That's what he said."
"Then he's clever."
Esteban put the lock back in his pocket, trying not to smile. He felt something strange in his chest. It wasn't the stone this time. It was something lighter and warmer, something he hadn't felt in a very long time and didn't know how to name.
"Where are you headed?" Rico asked a little later, after he had put out the fire with a handful of dirt.
"None of your business."
"To the Stone Bridge."
Esteban went still.
"Don't look at me like that. I heard one of them say it before you attacked. And what you did afterward isn't what a man does when he only wants to steal a map." Rico raised a hand. "You're hunting the Seventh."
"That has nothing to do with you."
"I know the Seventh."
Esteban grabbed the young man's shoulder. "What did you say?"
"No, no." Rico gently pushed his hand away. "I don't know him personally. I just know what people say. That he takes boys. That he never gets angry. That he's..."
"Yes." Rico shook his head slowly. "That's the worst thing about him."
A short silence followed. Dawn had begun to draw a thin gray line along the hills.
"Listen." Rico sat down in front of him, with a seriousness Esteban had never seen in him before. "I don't know what you're doing, or why. I don't want to know until you tell me yourself. But I've lived in this empty world for ten years, surviving as best I can. Stealing, lying, running. And I'm good at all of it."
"Then you don't need me."
"Surviving alone is terribly boring." He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "I don't just want to survive. I want to be part of something worth it."
Esteban didn't answer.
"You're the first man I've seen do something without being afraid of it."
"I am afraid."
"I know." Rico nodded. "That's the difference."
Esteban looked at him for a long time. Behind that freckled face, he saw the boys of Marina. He saw Matteo trying hard not to look frightened. And somewhere farther away, he saw a little girl with hands stained green. He found that he couldn't say no.
"I'm going somewhere dangerous."
"Have you ever seen a place that isn't?"
"I'm going to the Stone Bridge. To meet the Seventh Star."
Rico stopped smiling.
"Are you mad?"
"Maybe."
"He kills anyone who asks about him."
"I know."
"And you're walking toward him on two legs, with a sword?"
"And a piece of wood."
Rico laughed. Then he laughed harder, clutching his stomach until tears ran down his face.
"You're the loveliest madman I've ever met."
He wiped his eyes and folded his blanket. "What's your name? You never told me."
"Esteban."
"Long name." He frowned. "But I'll get used to it. Do you have a nickname? Something like the Foolish Woodcutter, or the Man Who Turns Wood?"
"Esteban is enough."
"Boring, but good."
Esteban stood, slung his bag over his good shoulder, and started east, where the road sloped downward.
"Come along, then," he said without turning. "But if you fall behind, I won't wait for you."
"I won't fall behind!" Rico scrambled after him, gathering his things. "I'm faster than any horse!"
On the way, they passed the clearing where the fight had happened. The four wounded men lay near the rocks, asleep or unconscious. Beside each one hung a heavy leather belt, with a purse dangling from it.
Esteban saw Rico slow down. He saw his fingers twitch as if they had a life of their own. He saw Rico's eyes drift toward the nearest purse, with the longing of a man seeing an old lover.
"Rico."
"I didn't do anything!"
"And you won't."
"But they're your enemies, and you have every right..."
"These men are asleep, wounded, alone in the open. I left them water and cloth." He didn't look back. "You won't take anything from them."
Rico stayed silent for a moment, his fingers still hanging in the air. Then he lowered his hand slowly and shook his head with exaggerated regret.
"Harsh, Master. Very harsh. You know it's an honorable trade among those who understand it."
"Not to me."
"I'll have to learn the manners of good men." He sighed. "What a tiring profession."
But when Esteban glanced back after a few steps, Rico was walking behind him, smiling, his hand in his pocket. There was nothing in that pocket. And in his smile was something new: the relief of someone who has finally met a man who keeps him within limits he never knew he needed.
For the first time in many months, Esteban felt a small smile form on his own face. He hadn't meant to smile, and he couldn't stop it.
Dawn was opening behind the hills. The two of them walked on in the first light. One was a man in his mid-thirties, carrying two wounds and a stone whose secret he didn't yet know. The other was an eighteen-year-old boy with a constant chatter and fingers that never stayed still. They had no kinship and no oath between them. Yet without saying a word, each of them walked a little lighter than he had an hour before.
And a few days ahead, past the gorge, the bridge, and the guards, a very kind man was waiting for them.