6 January 2013

Here is the rest of chapter one, in case anyone has been reading it.

​Now Celphaïs still lay a great distance off, and the wanderer fell behind the group: then his thoughts turned to petty things. He had heard in the previous village that the king had just minimally raised a tax on imported fur from the trading colony of Gior. Rumor stated that the people of Gior had been secretly giving aid to Orbia, so the king had decided to discourage trade with the colony as punishment. Exaggeration likely shrouded the truth of the whole matter. Another rumor stated that the king had shunned a hero of the war, dismissing him from the Citadel. Such a rumor went against much else that the wanderer heard of the king, so he chose to dismiss it as unlikely. When the wanderer had fully sorted through the rumors, discerning useful, useless, and false facts, he turned his mind once again to more important matters. His recent dream had left him in a state of hesitant confusion, and more than ever now he wondered when the end of his wanderings would come. The code of his path stated that death was the only end, but still he speculated. What would happen if he settled in one place? What would happen if he found a new path? The idea enticed him, yet repulsed him. Heavy, calculated footfalls from behind drew his attention, interrupting his mental exercise. A certain surety lay in those steps, an unbridled sense of safety that only one intensely focused or wrapped around a single idea could produce. The wanderer had heard the like of those footsteps only once before, amidst the creaking of a sea port. The owner of those steps had been a dark man who carried with him always a leather book in which he was wont to write. He had only granted the wanderer a few words, but those words could not depart from his memory. They were words that had revealed the man’s secret: an immovable devotion and fixation that had made him smile even in the face of death. It was a focus such as this that the wanderer presently sensed behind him. He steadied his pace, and the approaching one strode into step beside him. With a slight tilt of his head, the wanderer examined the stranger. Yes, this one had the same look in his eyes as that admirable writer, a look that seemed to be directed both at the path ahead and at some private, mystical destination. His determined posture also perfectly matched that of the writer. The wanderer marveled at his discovery: it was as if his former acquaintance had been reborn in new guise and with new fixation. Worried that the man would notice his awed gaze, the wanderer turned once more to the cobbled path, again slowing his pace and returning to solitude. Unwelcome thoughts assailed his mind, accompanied by an all too familiar presence. Suddenly the thought came to him that men such as the writer were much more fortunate than himself: the thought tasted bitter in his mind. Yes, he convinced himself, it is true. That, though, was no reason to fall into pity of oneself; self-pity did, after all, thrive as a form of pride. The wanderer sighed silently, deciding not to fall further into one of his philosophical discourses with himself. He was beginning to feel fatigued from the long day’s journey, both in mind and body. The sun hung low amidst the trees, and he had the strong desire to reach Celphaïs before nightfall. He did not quicken his pace, however, for he had traveled on this road many times before, and he knew he would reach the town in a quarter hour. The others ahead must have known as well, for they began chattering idly: they told each other which inns they preferred, made plans for the next day, and exchanged rumors about the townspeople. The wanderer duly noted that the writer-reminiscent one did not participate in the talk. This made the wanderer both excited and apprehensive, for it gave him the distinct sensation that he would see the man again after they parted ways. As the sun touched the edge of the horizon, the wooden gates of Celphaïs, open and welcoming, came into view. A burly citizen guard stood on either side of them. As the travelers passed by, the guards welcomed them with a degree of casualness uncharacteristic of typical men of such rank. As if to offset this, they nodded formally as the wanderer passed. For a moment, the wanderer wondered if they recognized him for who he was. But no, that was not possible. As soon as the group of wayfarers passed through the gates, they dispersed in all directions like rogues intent on raiding all in sight. The wanderer strolled nonchalantly in a familiar direction. He passed through the marketplace, where the shopkeepers and merchants tried to make use of the final shreds of daylight, through a well-lighted alley, past a number of silent residences, and onto a wide, nearly empty path which led to the south gate. As he continued, he perceived the faint sound of a psaltery just ahead. As it became clearer, the wanderer discerned a plodding, poignant melody. Repressing the disturbed sensation stirred up by that sound and crossing into an adjacent road, he heard the music fade. His destination lay before him now. Of the seven inns of Celphaïs, this one appealed to his liking the most: it lay neatly between two one-story residences near the south gate, in the least populated area of the town. Few chose it due to its untidy and poor state, a fact which naturally drew the wanderer to it. Sliding open the rusty, wooden door of the inn, he smiled, for, as usual, the place echoed silence. The only sound came from a hooded, aged man with a wide-brimmed hat sitting in a corner, conceivably the inn’s only guest. The wanderer could not see his face, but the very sight of the man sent a chill down his spine: this inn was, after all, a perfect place for people with secrets. Just as he thought this, the innkeeper, a plain man with neatly-combed hair and a lopsided leather hat, appeared coming down the stairs. “Hello. Will you be wanting a room?” he asked matter-of-factly. As always, the innkeeper did not recognize the wanderer from his last visit, likely because the wanderer’s plain clothing and unobtrusive demeanor were not worth remembering. The wanderer nodded slightly in answer to the innkeeper’s question. “Very well,” said the innkeeper, looking curiously at him. “Ten silver.” Money exchanged hands, and the innkeeper began back up the stairs and motioned the stranger to follow. “Here's your room,” he said, pointing to a door with a rough “3” jotted on it with ink. The wanderer grimaced, and the innkeeper looked at him, puzzled. Why, thought the wanderer, do I feel a sudden, terrible aversion to this room? Yes, I have never occupied this particular one, but that is hardly a worthwhile reason. He struggled to avoid the obvious answer, even though he knew it to be the correct one. It was the number! He had often felt a vague disgust for the number three, yet he could not understand why. All that he knew was that some horrible event would be precipitated by this number. No use thinking of it now. When the time comes, it will all be clear. Even as he thought this, he knew the reassurance was hollow: somehow he knew that, when the unknown event occurred, he would not know it. Aware that he had been unmoving for well over a minute, the wanderer gave the innkeeper an apologetic look and, with minimal resistance from his mind, entered the ill-numbered room. The innkeeper looked wearily at the closed door. Ah, not another strange guest, he thought. He had been dealing with the man downstairs for three weeks. He never asked for a room; he just walked in every morning, sat down, and left at dusk. At least the new guest paid. The innkeeper shook his head, fingering the coins in his hand. Useless metal discs! He descended the stairs and began polishing drinking glasses gloomily. If only fate had made him a soldier: then, at least, he would be of some use. He imagined himself charging into battle, his shimmering sword ready in his hand. He almost laughed: shimmering sword? The only sword he had was a rusty, cracked thing he had bought off a rather pitiful fellow who probably had forged it himself without the guidance of a proper blacksmith. No doubt the blade would shatter in an instant if he ever tried to use it. Angrily the innkeeper set down a glass, and hurriedly began cleaning the next one. This one he slammed down on the table, causing it to shatter. The innkeeper cursed idly before staring up at the old man in the corner. He had been waiting to get a reaction out of him: a smirk, a scowl, a glare, anything. Still the guest remained placid as ever, undisturbed by even the sound of breaking glass. As the innkeeper returned to his task, the inn’s door opened again with a loud creak. No, not again, not another guest! the innkeeper thought. Maybe this one'll kill me...maybe it's just a normal guest. No, don't hope! Oh…what is the matter with me? I don’t want guests? What kind of an innkeeper doesn’t want guests? It’s unseemly! I should enjoy the prospect of making money…but I don’t. How odd. I’m a fool. Maybe it would be a blessing if this guest slew me. At least then I wouldn’t have to live knowing that I…oh, stop being so overly dramatic! Just look up, you fool, and see who it is! He looked up to find a clean, well-dressed man standing in the doorway. He wore a long, crimson cloak and a wry smile. His left hand rested on the doorframe; his right, on the sheath of a slender sword. His eyes displayed a certain joyfulness which matched his smile. The innkeeper licked the roof of his mouth and exclaimed the memorable man’s name, “Beren!” The innkeeper instinctively looked to the corner to see if the strange guest would react to the exclamation. Noting no change in the stoic one, he turned back to his old friend Beren, who raised an eyebrow in confusion. Instead of explaining, the innkeeper mimicked Beren’s expression. “So,” he said, “how has it happened that your boundless ambition

DanforthDanforth (continued) • Opuss № I