In the Shadow of the Rook

2. Hearing of a Hermit

How long had he been running? Since Erik could remember, his father and he had wandered Vestoria, living among their fellow copper-skinned Sudenians to hide away from the scornful looks of their light-haired countrymen and their accusations of 'infidel' and 'savage.' But they never stayed long. There always came a day when his father would wake him, their bags packed, and lead him out of the door to never return.

They had run all the way to Erden Isle in the far corner of Vestoria, where they were forced together with people for nothing more than the color of their skin, into the slum of Tar Court in his hometown of Zauhn. Even they of Tar Court only accepted him grudgingly, for having a father as an alchemical formulaist came with its own set of biases and fears, and for good reason.

But his father caused plenty of good and little harm, and slowly Erik settled in. For the first time since he was seven, they stopped running, and little by little, friendships and infatuations tied him down to Zauhn. He did not strive to learn so much formulaism as before, content to do only as much as his father asked him. He grew closer to a local girl. The old wanderlust did rouse when he thought of growing old and dying in that backwater place, but only enough that he made distant plans to one day depart.

But as Sanct Eckard had written, plans were ashes awaiting the first spark.

It should have been the end, that day in the tower. But when Erik had escaped, he knew it was finally time to run, if only because he had to. He had to run as long as his legs would carry him. As long as his lungs kept breathing. Heart kept beating. Mind kept spinning.

As long as he could fool himself into thinking he was still human.

* * *

Erik was in control. He was steady. He was back to looking at the world, and playing whatever fek-hand it had dealt him.

Starting with this town.

It was the next evening, the sky turning pig pink, when Erik arrived in front of Lienze's gate, or what barely qualified as one when it hung on by one rusted hinge. Its fence was nearly as decrepit, a few feet of tied trees limbs, apparently sufficient for the protection of the western side of town.

They either had very fierce farmers, or something else kept the nautded away. But then, he already knew that. It's why he was here.

Could be worse, he thought with a sardonic twist of a smile. Could be I didn't know what I was getting myself into.

In Lienze—named after their main crop, the lentil—it wasn't hard to find his destination. Brunnen's Brews & Beds the sign read, painted in a sickly brown substance he hoped wasn't what it looked like. As he looked at the wooden shack with the thatched roof, he wished to lose himself in a pint. A spinning, beer-logged head would match the mad spin he was in.

Before he thought better of it, he walked up to the double-braced doors and stepped in.

The half-lit room was nearly empty of customers. Five men were scattered across it, all at separate tables but for one pair. There was also a woman behind a counter, rag in hand, who watched Erik as he approached.

"Evenin'," she said, pulling a mug from the counter and resting it on a belly swollen as if she were with child, though she looked too old for it. She wiped the mug for a long moment, then asked, "Get you somethin'?"

Before Erik could answer, a voice said from behind him, "Now there's a sight you don't see often 'round these parts." He spoke too loudly for the quiet murmur of the alehouse.

"What's that?" Erik said, keeping his voice even.

"A man's face that don't look like an ass's ass." The man burst out laughing, his drink sloshing across the table.