Jesse awakes, staggers to the bushes, and vomits. He groans as it comes out, the liquor tasting much worse on the way out then it did on the way in.

“Oh, fuck.” He says. Streaming onto his swollen head and aching back thin orange dawnlight through the trees, casting long shadows from the pines as it crests like a half slivered egg yolk westerly.

“Oh, that was no good.” He says as he wretches again. Turning with a hand over his stomach he sees their carried belongings there strewn across the ground, their bags ripped open by knife and the whores having scampered off in the night. There sitting disconsolate, running a hand through his blonde hair, Sunny Miller.

“They robbed us. Those sluts robbed us.” He says venomously, kicking off at the dirt in frustration.

“Well. Most of our stuff was on the horses anyway.” Jesse says. Stirring from his sleep the hulk form of Duncan Briar clutching at a phantom teddy bear and there with arms wrapped brotherly around each other Giles and Morgan awaking as well.

“Yer. I suppose.” Sunny says, sighing. Jesse rubs at his brow, looks to see his guns still there hanging from his belt.

“They didn’t take our guns at least.” Jesse says.

“Swords neither.” Duncan says, falling in at their side.

“It ain't so bad.” Morgan groans from where he lays on the nettle floor. He tries to sit up and lays promptly back down.

“Oh God it is so bad.” Giles stumbles up and gives Morgan a hand.

“Get up ye big baby.”

“I won't.”

“Ye have to.” Morgan moans disconsolately.

“I guess I have to.” He says, rising painfully.

The five stumble into town rheumy eyed and squinting in the sunlight, finding quickly that this cruel world moves with or without them. Already street vendors calling their wares, children playing and running through the streets and wagons trundling through the mud, noone at all paying them much mind despite their guns and hanging blades. They walk through the mud and up to The Devil's Cherry, moving cautiously so as to not attract attention from those inside after the drunken miscreantism of last night. They pause there as they see the scene at the front of the saloon.

There lying in the mud are all five of their horses, throats slit and limp as they are spread out in the mud. Standing at their side what is presumably the town's sheriff, dressed in brown hat and toting a sword from his belt. The horse blood is spread out into the mud, folk walking around the crimson puddles and streams of it and casting little more than a glance and a head shake at the deathly scene.

“Bastards. Goddamn bastards.” Sunny says, walking wild with anger as he approaches the horses, kneeling to the side of his dead beast. Swarming there around the unfortunate creatures flies and writhing in their throat wounds already maggots white and wriggling. Sunny picks at these pests as he kneels in the mud, the rest of the knights standing there with disbelieved hands on heads as they look.

“Poor things.” Morgan says. The Sheriff turns to them and inspects them pitifully.

“These yer horses?”

“That they are.” Giles says. Duncan is at the side of his beast and whimpering, tears streaming cold down his black face.

“Snowie. Man, Snowie.” He says. The pale horse's fur is dyed crimson in an ugly and uneven stain down its neck, a bloodstricken phantom now deceased and already deflating in the heat.

“Unlucky old beasts.” The Sheriff says.

“Who killed em?” Jesse asks. The Sheriff shrugs.

“I'll be damned if I got any idea. You got any?” Jesse grimaces.

“I do.”

“Suspects?”

“Yer, suspects.”

“They in town?”

“No.” Jesse lies. The Sheriff sighs.

“Well, I'm afraid there's not much I can do then. You knights?”

“That we are.”

“Which way you headed?”

“Westerly. From Dullwater.”

“Where to?”

“Outer territories. Town named Fortune.”

“What for?”

“Peacekeeping. Ranching dispute.”

“Well. Best of luck with that. I’ve called the knacker so you won't have to worry bout their bodies.” The Sheriff tips his hat and begins to walk off.

“Wait.” Jesse calls. The Sheriff turns around with a hint of agitation on his tanned face.

“What you need?”

“Do you know where we can hitch a ride out of this town?” The Sheriff smiles cheesily.

“Well. Ye could buy a new set of horses.”

“No funds for horses.” Jesse says, knowing perfectly well the limitations of their per diem.

“Well. You could hitch a ride on a wagon train headed West, or out with the.” The Sheriff grimaces.

“With the river folk.”

“They of poor stock?” The Sheriff sighs.

“I ain’t supposed to say so as sheriff, but. If you catch my meaning-”

“I catch yer meaning.” Jesse says. The Sheriff shuffles awkwardly on his feet a moment before fetching them a wave and walking off, leaving them there with their dead beasts as the knacker approaches atop his cart.

Duncan has to be pried off his horse, not an easy task given his bulk, so the gold toothed Knacker can raise the horses into the cart, flopping them ungraciously onto the wood with the help of his apprentice and the young knights.

“I'll miss that horse.” Sunny says. Duncan is putting his head onto Morgan's shoulder and wailing uncontrollably, held back by Giles as he looks longingly off to The Knackers cart as it rolls out of town. The only consolation is that the mules Otis and Tweed are alive and well, although seemingly grieving alongside the knights at the loss of their more noble comrades.

The Knackers cart rolls off and over a ridge, bumping the horses up and along with it a cloud of flies, and it is gone.

That afternoon spent back at their bootleg camp set behind the pine line just out of view of town, over a fire where Duncan brews coffee and the other four knights sit all in a row on a fallen log, in Giles’s hands his maps spread out there and being examined with squinted eye and great interest. Jesse traces the line of The Road westerly out of Dullwater, following it through country and forest to the town of Greenhorn marked there in ink.

“Greenhorn.”

“Yup.” Giles says, looking further out to the Western edge of the map. There marked in ink on the edge of the map “Outer Territories” and beyond that sweeping illustrations of golden chimeras and mermaids of teal, written in small and fine print “Here be Lions”. Jesse traces there the thin blue line of the river, finding it actually makes a shortcut up to a prairie town named Rumrun when compared to the thin tracing of the main highway. From there it veers northwards while The Road carries them on to their final destination across orange drawn desert studded with ink cacti.

“We ought to go by river.” Jesse says. Giles rubs at his brow.

“I suppose. What’s the vote, road or river?”

“Road.” Sunny says.

“Don't know how to swim.” He adds.

“River.” Jesse says.

“River.” Duncan chimes in from the fire.

“River.” Morgan says, looking at his brother.

“Well. I reckon road but I seem to be outvoted.”

“River it is then.” Sunny says.

That night away from his fellows and on his lonesome Jesse walks through town, basking in the warmth of golden dusk as it paints the buildings in its light and gives them strange and creeping shadows, an aspect much like a dollhouse with the folk making the dolls in poses of riverport life, heckling and haggling all around in stalls and storefronts as Jesse walks down the main street. By The Devil's Cherry he makes eye contact with The Barkeep and The Barkeep only shakes his head solemnly. Walking further down the road past children who stare at him with suspicious eye and past a woman merchant who asks him in Spanish if he wants a stick of fried fish.

“Pescado frito?” She asks.

“Nah ma’am.” Jesse says.

There a funeral procession walks by and Jesse leans against a barrel stinking of drying anchovies, looking out upon the weeping and mournsome faces. Two black coffins hoisted by pallid faced pallbearers, bobbing up and down as they walk through the mud. Photographic effigies of The Spooky-Eyed Kid smiling and young here and his fellow, his eyes seeming to accuse Jesse as he is hoisted by, the whole scene seeming like some strange vaudeville hoisted by strings as they walk by in blackclad twos and threes and fours. Jesse lights from his pocket a cigarette and walks on, tipping his hat lower over his eyes.

There to the docks where port workers and riverfolk alike are cast in work, the dock workers in overalls and thin shirts rolled at the sleeves revealing their lean muscles there covered in beads of sweat in the hot evening. They glance at Jesse as he passes with cigarette burning and hat low but pay him no mind. There the boats bob as large flatbedded things of aerolight pine, on their flat fronts stacked rows of cargo, on their hulls painted ornate patterns of florality and garish colors of purple, blue, red, green, behind it all on the back of the ships their living quarters small and triangularly roofed cabins of wood. The Riverfolk themselves brightly decorated people, dressed in long trousers and skirts of intricate pattern, their vests and shirts colored and appealing to the eye with their patterns of dancing animals, roses, far away lands and geometries comparable to the journeys of these roaming folk. They look upon Jesse with interesting and varied faces, black and white and less common shades and features reflective of their wide travels, common among them a well groomed sort of prettiness.

He walks to the end of the harbor and finds there a Riverfolk man sitting on a stack of empty crates and smoking on a mahogany pipe, his face good natured and one hand clasped to his suspenders. His skin is tanned and worn, his face wrinkled and covered with white mustache and swept back hair of shade to match. He meets Jesse’s eyes ocean blue to pale gray and Jesse gives him a nod.

“Howdy.” Jesse says.

“Hiya.” The Riverman says, his tongue much like Giles LeClerc’s although its mix much fresher and finer.

“You a riverman?” Jesse asks.

“That I am, if ye couldn't guess.” He says with a warm smile of white teeth.

“You headed up to Rumrun?”

“Yer.”

“Do you take passengers?” The Riverman looks Jesse up and down with no emotion apparent, shakes his head slowly.

“Not usually. Though I could make an exception if you were willing to pay.”

“We could arrange that.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Just you?”

“No, me and four others plus two mules.” The Riverman whistles, tilts his head.

“Well, it depends. What's yer occupation?”

“We’re.” Jesse hesitates.

“We’re knights.”

“Well, in that case I’d be a fool to not accept.” The Riverman nods up the river.

“Harrier up thataway.”

“Rebels?”

“Maybe so, though I wouldn't know.”

“Nothing we can't handle.”

“Maybe so.”

“How much would we have to pay ye for travel to Rumrun?”

“Oh, well. I don't know for certain.” The Riverman pauses as if making some complex mental calculations.

“Hm. What do you have?”

“Not much at all.”

“Well, I could take a trade.”

“We have our mules.”

“That’d do, I suppose. I could sell em off for a good penny.”

“I suppose you could. When ye departing?”

“Well. As soon as I get these goods offloaded.” The Riverman nods towards his ship, a fine looking thing much like the others with dark bow and a cabin with the lanterns on. On its hull great and sweeping patterns of lilies and roses intertwined among thorns, the base paint a shade of paler blue than the water which itself is greenish with new bloom algae. The goods stacked high there, seeming almost precarious in their towers of boxes and crates of different makes.

“I reckon we could help ye with that.”

“I reckon you could.”

“Could consider it part of our payment.”

“I reckon I could.”

“We’ll be to work at first light.” The Riverman nods, sticks out his hand in the universal gesture of business done.

“My name's Monty Merce, if it pleases ye to meet me.”

“That it does. My name’s Jesse Black.” The hands clasp and shake firmly.

“Jesse Black.” The Riverman says, seeming to feel the words on his tongue. He nods approvingly.

“Fine name.”He says. Jesse smiles.

That night thin and dreamless sleep despite their exhaustion, looking up to the clear sky where the stars shine so bright. Tracing their forms and finding there The Dippers, Orion's Belt and following that down to Orion's Sword. Leo, and the crab, Cancer. Finding himself in a trance following the constellations with his fingers, remembering long nights staring out the window of their castle dormitory during days long past, watching the stars against black sky and electric city lights. Jesse sighs, closes his eyes, and feigns sleep.

Out to the docks the next morning, light rising a cool gold steadily with the sun a faint sliver still on the horizon. The docks cast in a sleepy scene of morning, all about milling laborers and riverfolk cast in scenes of barter and offshipment of crates containing multitude wares of tobacco, alcohol stacked all in neat rows, beads, even more luxurious and exotic goods such as foreign bird feathers and shipments of luxuries from far off plantations. The Knights walk among it curious eyed and their mules tagging along behind them, noses sniffing at all the foreign smells and spices. There they find Monty Merce perched on the bow of his ship, fetching them a wave and a smile as they approach with a twinkle in his kindly eyes.

“Howdy.” Jesse says.

“Hiya.” Monty says, eyeing up the knights with something approaching an ordinator's satisfaction.

“What’s these fellas' names?” He says, hopping off of the bow and onto the stone docks and reaching out a hand which all four shake in turn.

“Morgan Black, Duncan Briar, Giles LeClerc, and I’m Sunny Miller.”

“Pleased to meet ye.”

“Pleased to meet ye too. All these crates here?”

“Most of em. Marked the ones need offshipping with red paint. Put 'em right over there.” Monty points to an open patch on the docks.

“Who’ll be selling them?” Jesse asks.

“Oh, all varieties of shopmen. That’s the delivery man's job now.”

The Knights set about their job, hopping onto the deck of the ship and beginning to carry the crates up and off of the ramp, straining with the labor in the rising heat. Soon the labor becomes hypnotizing in its arduousness, the stacks of crates lowering and lowering as the day begins to grow on.

“When do ye get paid?” Sunny asks.

“When I come back down this way.”

“And when’s that?”

“Oh, I don't know. About three, four months maybe. Never know for sure. This business has a way of sidetracking ye.”

“A patient man ye are.”

“You have to be to be anything in life. Take my wisdom for it.” Jesse looks about as he wipes sweat off his brow in the middle of carrying off a tall crate of ivory knuckles, sees peering from the cabin sets of young eyes, perhaps five in total, all a stark ocean blue. He nods over in that direction.

“You got children?” He asks Monty, who is resting after helping Duncan with an especially troublesome crate. Monty looks at him strangely and nods.

“That I do.”

“How many?” Monty lights up his pipe and does not answer, and Jesse shuffles back to his work. He sees Sunny on the bow of the ship peering off into the distance, squinting against the sunlight and shading his eyes.

“Sunny?” Jesse asks. Sunny doesnt respond and Jesse walks to his side, following his gaze. There he sees the four young whores who had robbed them just two nights prior, dressed not in gaudy dresses and makeup but rather in simple and modest sunday clothes, on their necks new and glittering pearls.

“That's them.” Sunny says.

“That is them.” The rest of the knights now at their side. Duncan spits when he sees the girls.

“Well. What is there to do about it?” Morgan says. Sunny's left hand creeps down to his belt where his gun swings, and Jesse reaches his right out to stay it.

“Sunny.”

“We ought to kill em.” Sunny says. The girls are closer now, seeming not to notice the knights as they walk along the dock and chatter amongst themselves.

“Those pearls.”

“Ye, I know. Take yer hand off that gun now.”

“Why?”

“We can't kill em Sunny. That’d be plain murder.” Morgan says.

“It’d be taking back what's ours.” Sunny says.

“We can't do that.” Jesse says. Sunny grumbles and on his face a twitching of wrath.

“Noone would miss em.” Sunny says.

“Sunny.” Monty is now walking up to the boys, running a hand through his silvery hair.

“What's the matter?” He asks. The knights turn back to him, Sunny bringing his hand off his gun. There behind them the girls walk, giving The Knights nervous glances and hiding their faces as they notice them.

“Nothin.” Sunny says. Monty casts a glance to the girls then looks back to The Knights.

“Ah.” He says, across his face slipping a wry smile.

“I see.” Monty says, masking a chuckle as he turns back to his work. That awful look slipping off Sunny’s face and replaced by a broad grin.

“See what?” Sunny asks humoredly.

“I see why you boys couldn't pay for passage in gold.”

“Well. You’d be correct in that assumption.” Jesse says as he returns to his work.

“No judgment here. I was quite a wild young man myself, back in my prime. Before I settled down.”

“Do riverfolk ever really settle down?”

“Not really, I suppose. But this is a home as any.”

“You married?”

“Not anymore.” Jesse notices on The Rivermans finger a glittering wedding band of silver, on which is engraved roses.

“Sorry for yer loss.” Jesse says. The Riverman runs a hand over his face and only nods.

The crates are exchanged offport for export by around three o clock marked by the tolling of the towns crooked clock tower, and the mules are tied to the bow with lengths of ropes, standing there sniffing at the river air alien to their landbearen noses. The Knights untie the anchor rope while Monty stands at the wheel and engine levers positioned up near the bow, on his sides the two mules like some strange shipmates consoling their captain. He steers the ship. easing it out of the tight confines of the harbor along the float of the water, then pulls the accelerator lever and there is a whirring as the ship's steam engine kicks into gear and its rear paddle begins to churn water. Soon they are out onto the water and headed Westwards, kicking up water behind them with the rhythmic chopping of the paddle casting wake. Duncan proves slightly seasick and begins to throw up over the bow, but his fellows look out upon the waters and the quickly passing shoreline with huge grins on their faces.

“I ain't never been on a ship before.” Jesse says to Monty, coming up to his side so he can look over the bow. Monty smiles, nods to Duncan.

“Some seem to be enjoying it more than others.” Duncan moans as if on cue.

“He's a big baby is all.” Sunny says. Giles sits looking out at the shoreline perched atop a crate of tobacco, marking small sketches as the scenes of late afternoon pass by and quickly fade out to early evening. The forest of pine passes away to open and sweeping countryside, the sandy banks giving way to rows of pumpkins, squashes, beets upon which work farmers and their hands. Following the boat for perhaps a mile runs a horse of perfect chestnut hair, looking onto the strange craft with wide and intelligent eyes as it strides there. Far away a knackers factory with smoke billowing off into the air, the faint smell of ashes rising on it.

As the evening turns to sunset of moody purple and crimson the sights of nighttime begin to arrive. Two snapping turtles treading among the water, skiffs passing on which black folk tread with huge oars and give them good natured nods, a family of six ducks kicking out along the water all in a line. The lights of shacks and farmhouses along the riverbanks, children playing in the water and swimming with great motions of arms and legs. Opossums hanging with glowing eyes from the willow groves, orchards where owls and robins roost in the leaves and rosefinches swoop and dive like fluttering petals of a cherry tree. Jesse closes his eyes and feels the serenity of the riverbreeze upon his face, listens to the rhythmic chirping of the crickets and the jiving hoots of families of barn owls far off in their dilapidated nests. He takes off one boot and dips a toe into the water, feeling the rushing of the river there like a cool touch.

“We’ll stop just up the river here to offload some liquor to an old friend of mine.” Monty calls at them. Jesse turns and nods, standing and putting on his boot. Giles and Morgan are consoling the sick but recovering Duncan on one of the crates, arms wrapped around his bulk and bucket of vomit under his dripping mouth. Jesse slaps him gently on the head and he curses him.

He looks out to the cabin and sees again there those striking blue eyes all nested at the window, casts them a small wave to which they all disappear. One set of eyes lingers a moment longer, faintly visible there behind the dusty porthole a feminine face, before it too disappears.

They roll soon to a tin roofed shack of nailed up planks on the riverside and nestled amongst a grove of willows, on its dock two black kids with a cigarette between them who eye the knights with big brown eyes as they dock.

“Not too much to offload. I'll handle it myself.” Monty says as he lassos the anchor rope around the pier, moving to grab a crate of murky looking whiskey which stands nearby.

“You sure?” Jesse asks.

“Yeah, I'm sure.” Monty says. He points a long finger to the shack, where inside candlelight shines and at its dangling front lantern pale moths flutter.

“In there’s a cantina. Know the lady who owns it, fine woman. She’ll serve ye if yer interested.”

“Thank ye.” Sunny says, tipping his straw hat as the knights file out and onto the rickety dock. Inside the cantina a faint hollering and shuffling of cards, they come to its patched together door and Jesse pauses with his hand on the pull.

“No drinking.” He says.

“No drinking.” Sunny agrees, and the others nod. They open it and are hit by a nose watering waft of pepper and onion stink, tears rising in Jesse’s eyes as he enters the space still ungodly hot from the day, sweat immediately pricking on his brow. He sees at the far end of the tiny cantina an enormous and obese black woman stirring a pot of thick looking stew, possibly a gumbo, with sweat beaded on her face and her apron stained. Right by the entrance a gambling table of worn felt upon which sit four men-three gnarly looking blacks and one drifter, his patchwork coat wrapped tight and beads of sweat on his dark brow. He looks up to the knights with his emerald eyes sparkling and grins.

“Fancy seeing you again.” He says. The Knights fan out around the table and the black gamblers take one look at each other before rising and moving for the door, averting gaze and leaving their meager chips there on the table. It seems the men were playing poker and losing badly to The Drifter, their chips long depleted and The Drifters stacked in high towers of yellow, red, and blue.

“Sit.” The Drifter says.

“Good evening, Elijah.” Jesse says, staying where he stands. The Proprietor looks among the men, takes a taste of her gumbo, shakes her head and continues back to business.

“Sit now, so we can talk.”

“What is there to talk about?”

“Quite a lot. We have time.”

“We’ll be down the river soon.”

“But not too soon. Sit.” Elijah says, pointing to the five spare chairs there around the table. Sunny is the first to sit and the rest follow, leaning over the worn felt. Jesse checks the hand of one of the vacated gamblers and finds there a two of hearts, three of spades, four of diamonds, five of hearts, and six of hearts.

“Straight flush.” He says. Elijah grins his ghoulish and pretty grin.

“I wouldn't be so certain.” He says. Jesse looks back down to the cards. A three of hearts, two of spades, seven of diamonds, jack of hearts, and king of hearts. Jesse furrows his brow, leans back in his chair with heart racing.

“What do you come to talk to us of?” Morgan says. The Drifter reaches over the table and scoops in the chips, arranging them into neat towers and then shuffling the cards while he speaks.

“You came to me, did you not?”

“You invited us to sit.”

“And you obeyed.”

“Obeyed aint the word.” Sunny growls.

“Isn't it?” Elijah says, and grins.

“I come here for an innocent game. A telling of fortunes, for whichever of you is bravest enough to accept.” The Proprietor is now out through the door wielding her pot, grasping it with huge oven mitts and sloshing a bit of stew out onto the floor as she does. The room falls deadly silent save for the far off croaking of frogs and buzzing of moths.

“I don't believe in fortune telling.” Giles says.

“And why not?”

“It's pagan, that's why.”

“Much is. Your trade is pagan.”

“And what trade is that?”

“Killing. What less Godly thing is there to worship?”

“The Devil.” Duncan says.

“Ah, but you're wrong.” The Drifter pulls from some unknown pocket of his coat a tall deck of cards, on their backs ornate and ancient looking detailing of indigo and gold in which is depicted a dancing of the sun and the moon, on the edges imprints of lions and roses. He begins to shuffle them onto the empty felt where the chips and playing cards have been swept off.

“What was Lucifer but a fallen angel? And if he was a fallen angel, then he too was made by God. So, in worshiping him would you not be worshiping God himself?”

“You speak in riddles.” Giles says.

“Aye, but if you pay enough attention you’ll find I also speak the truth. Now, look here.” The Drifter says, tapping at the deck of cards. The Knights now, almost involuntarily, have their gazes fixed on the cards. Outside an eerie blowing of wind chimes like the poltergeist clinking of white diamonds, a sound tinny and strange in the still room.

“This here is the Tarot of Marseilles, an ancient deck of cards from an ancient land and rendered in an extinct language. Extinct save for me, its last proprietor, and the last that can read this deck. That can read its meaning, that is.” The Drifter puts one hand on the deck of cards, looking into the eyes of the knights gravely.

“These tarots, drawn five in a hand, are said to tell one's future. Few have I read them to, but among those few they have told with flawless accuracy.”

“And why would we believe you?”

“What reason would you have not to? Are there not stranger things in this world than a deck of truth telling cards? All around you the detritus of ancient civilizations where once men kissed the sky and traveled over land by horseless carriages, where humanity lived in cities of perfect glass and wielded great weapons which could harness a power like a sun. In this present age kings fight against rebels, already repeating the errors of their forefathers in their urge to slaughter. In the laboratories of these kings and rebels already are brewing new and strange weapons, portable viruses which can wipe out entire nations and guns which can fire ten bullets every second. So, tell me, what about a deck of cards is so strange?” The Knights remain silent.

“And, which among you would like to draw?” Elijah says, his black hair falling next to his green eyes in which glints a catlike mischief.

“None of us.” Sunny says. Jesse grimaces.

“I would.” He says, on The Drifters face illuminating a flare of delight. In this dim and flickering candlelight his shape is distorted and dancing upon the wall like a spooky and devilish afterimage, rising and falling and wavering in midnight form.

“Jesse.” Morgan urges, putting a hand on his brother.

“I’ll draw. I want to see.” Jesse says. Morgan looks into his eyes painfully then draws back his hand.

“Then we will begin. But, before that, one condition.”

“And what's that?”

“I draw with the young knight alone.” A protest from around the table, Duncan stands and raises a fist to which Elijah only grins.

“No shot in hell.” Sunny says.

“He's trying to trick us.” Giles outrages.

“These fortunes can only tell true in privacy, young knights. I do not determine their mechanisms, so do not call to me your protests.” Elijah says.

“Then who do we protest to?” Sunny sneers.

“God, perhaps. Though he tends not to listen.” Elijah says. Jesse meets The Drifter's eyes and sees them almost shimmering in the candlelight, flickering in them something ominous and enthralling.

“Listen to him.” Jesse says.

“Jesse. We won't leave you here.” Morgan whispers into his ear.

“I don't trust him either, but I'm curious. I'm curious is all.” Jesse says. The Knights shake their heads.

“Go now. My request.” Jesse says firmly. The Knights shake their heads but move slowly to the doors.

“If he tries anything holler and we’ll kill em before ye can blink.” Duncan says, the last out the door. When it is closed there falls over the room a veil of deathly silence, only The Knight and The Drifter there locking eyes with each other.

“You make a good choice, Jesse Black. You seem the wisest of this grim quintet.”

“I'm no such thing. All I am is brave.”

“Or so you think. Look here now, and let us see what lays out there behind the veil of the future.” Elijah says, and puts the first five cards of the deck onto the felt. Jesse looks outside and realizes it has grown so dark that he cannot see past his own flickering reflection in the window, the porch lamp seemingly extinguished.

“We read here five cards of the major arcana, the cards which tell one's true destiny. And, here, the first.” The Drifter flips over the leftmost card. There is an illustration which shows a priest on altar with fingers of one hand extended towards its steps, where there kneel two twin adventurers with head bowed, both with red hair. The inscription reads “Le Hierophante”.

“Your first destiny is that of The Hierophant, the tell of both the twins and the seeking of guidance.”

The Drifter flips over the second card. There the illustration shows a great chariot carrying a foreign pharaoh of some forgotten region and pagan religion, pulled across the sand by two great and mythological beasts with the bodies of lions and the heads of man. Its inscription reads “Le Char”.

“Your second destiny is that of The Chariot, the tell of advancement, of a great journey yet to be undertaken.”

“But we’ve already begun our journey.” Jesse says. Elijah grins.

“Have you?” He asks. Jesse looks at him a long moment and motions for him to continue. Elijah flips over the third card, there an illustration of a grinning devil of red skin and horn, holding the leashes of five dogs of black fur and with his hands raised in baphomet salute. Written in gold script it says “The Devil”.

“The Devil, the tell of temptation. Beware, lest you succumb to it.”

“Are you the tempter?”

“Perhaps I am, but I'm no devil.”

“Then what are you?”

“Another day, knight.”

“We’ll meet again, won't we?”

“Of course we will. Our fates now are intertwined, as my fate has intertwined with those of many before you. And, the next card.” There the candlelight seems to flare, light signature leaping along the walls. He pauses as he flips the card, seeming to hesitate.

“These two need not worry you, knight. For they are far, far in your future.”

“Show them to me. I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, but you seem to be.” The Drifter says. On Jesse’s brow dripping sweat, in the muscles of his neck his heartbeat visible in its racing.

“I ain't afraid I said now show me the cards.”

“Have your way.” Elijah flips over the card, and there is a depiction of a tower of pure black ebonstone, reaching out through the clouds and up into the heavens. Along its face many windows like peering and square eyes, all unlit save for the one at the top. From that window streams red light the color of roses.

“The Dark Tower. The tell of obsession, of doomed quest.”

“What lays at the top of the tower?”

“Well, that's the question, isn't it? The most painful of questions you’ll ever ask, and the answer not even I know. Maybe nothing lies there, and maybe that tower isn't even real.”

“But if it is?”

“Then you’ll spend your entire life searching for it.”

“And after that?” Elijah flips over the last card, there rendered in ink of grim ebony the visage of the reaper with scythe raised high, on his skeletal face a smile.

“Death. The omen eponymous.” A drop of sweat drips from Jesse’s brow and onto the felt, and he meets The Drifter's eyes.

“I'll never die.” He says.

“Oh, but everyone dies. Everyone except me, that is.”