“It is folly for a man to pray to the gods for that which he has the power to obtain by himself.”
― Epicurus
Chapter 5: The Horned God (Part 2)
At this point, I was everyone’s friend. No surprise, really: The Graven Star was one fight away from becoming first amongst equals, and it was enough to attract a host of hanger-ons and brown-nosers, all seeking to curry favor.
Their thinking was, not inaccurately, that I was basically guaranteed to win. After all, I’d bested the strongest warrior of the Altai through brawn alone, and defeated the greatest shaman of the Twilight Veil in a duel of sorcery. Unless my final opponent could somehow match them in both, he was shit out of luck.
In a way, I felt kind of bad for my final opponent. Rarga Kul was of the Jarrow, the Clan of Kings, and he had the weight of legacy riding his ass the entire time.
You see, the Jarrow (also known as the Storm Walkers, the Firstborne, the Burning Crown) were said to be the tribe closest to Tulgar, the true inheritors of his will. Through relentless effort, prenatural strategy and accumulated momentum, they had made themselves pre-eminent amongst the Twenty-Six Tribes. They were the wealthiest tribe, boasting the greatest lands and herds of the clans, and it showed.
You saw it in the strength of their limbs, in the coal-black steeds they rode. Their wargear, too, showed a level of craftsmanship unmatched by the other clans. The Jarrow favored polished bronze and gold, where pitch-coated brass and iron was usually the norm, their armor and harness swarming with runes and set with carved gems.
More, most of them were god-blessed in some way. It lent a dangerous edge to their already-fearsome prowess: Pound for pound, one of the Jarrow generally held the upper hand against a warrior from another tribe, and they knew it. Relied on it, in fact.
Only the sheer weight of numbers had kept them from absolutely dominating the Summertime War. They were such a shoe-in for victory, alliances were made against them, for even they couldn’t be everywhere at once. Anyone hoping to take a swipe at their herds had to have a distraction, or several, on hand. Otherwise, the raid would come to a sticky and embarrassing end, when the Jarrow replied in kind.
Rarga Kul had distinguished himself in the fighting. He was from one of the ruling family’s subsidiaries, which made him effectively nobility. You could see it too, when you looked at him. He had a profile that could have decorated an ancient coin, with an aquiline nose, strong brow and square chin. The kind of profile I wish I had, though even the Gods probably couldn’t have helped me with that one.
There was no doubt that he was born to both bow and saddle. At seventeen summers of age, Rarga had nine (five metaphorical, four actual) scalps under his belt, and had the distinction of taking down a teigar with a single well-aimed arrow. Even in light of his family’s advantages, it was a pretty impressive feat.
All things considered, it was only natural that he ended up as his tribe’s representative. He was the very embodiment of how the Twenty-Six Tribes had risen to rule the steppes, a romantic embodiment of their warrior past. Through Rarga, one could see the unbroken lineage that led all the way back to Tulgar the Invincible himself.
Surprisingly, he never let it go to his head. Rarga was a modest lad, one who always seemed faintly embarrassed by his outsized reputation. He was a rising star, but his feet were firmly planted on the ground: He had no thought of his own glory, only the greater good of the clan.
In other words, he was leadership material, chieftain material even, the kind of canny, level-headed soul you wanted in charge.
The problem was, he’d met his match in me.
Now, I don’t want to play down Rarga’s abilities. Up against anyone else, I’d have given him even odds of winning…But the Jarrow had seen the writing on the wall, and they didn’t like their chances. They didn’t know what I was, not really, but they knew enough to see that I was some kind of unholy terror, with a giant’s strength and a shaman’s magical firepower.
Maybe Rarga could’ve taken me. A well-placed arrow through the eye, for example, might have done the job. But it would mean he was actually, genuinely trying to kill me, and I would have responded in kind.
You see, the Clan of Kings really didn’t want to lose Rarga. He was the future of their tribe, and no-one wanted to see that future’s brains smashed right out of his skull.
At the same time, he couldn’t back down. The Jarrow, surrendering? Without a fight? That would’ve been a death knell for their street cred. It takes centuries to build a reputation, but you can lose it in five minutes if you don’t have the stomach for a fight.
But the Jarrow, the Riders of the Storm, had one last card to play.
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The final trial was the Trial of the Fire.
The concept is simple. You take long irons, the kind you’d use to brand cattle. Heat them in a brazier, until the tips are red. Have the combatants, stripped to the waist and absolutely sweating testosterone, face off-
And then they take turns burning the shit out of each other.
This goes on until one side surrenders, or collapses from third-degree burns.
It’s machismo in its purest form. You see, either combatant can stop at any time…But that means you’re leaving a slight unanswered. That your willpower wasn’t strong enough to see things through.
That makes you the winner’s bitch, unable to match his steely-eyed, masculine tenacity. In some ways, it’s the purest test of willpower I’ve ever seen. A willingness to inflict harm and be harmed in turn, all in the name of coming out on top.
This wasn’t as insane as it sounds, mind you. The Jarrow were absolutely certain that, when you got down to it, Rarga was simply better than I was. That he had a higher tolerance for pain, that pride and love for his clan would keep him on his feet while I folded like a house of cards.
More, this wasn’t a public affair. It wouldn’t take place in front of thousands of tribesmen, roaring as one stood and one fell. No, it would take place in the mountain fane of the Bull God Himself, who would surely favor His people.
Unfortunately for them, the Bull God smiled upon results.
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I remember the sweltering heat, as we stood sweating on the floor of the temple.
All around us, the chamber rose in majesty, the walls hewn from the living rock. It was too regular to be a natural cave, too makeshift and imperfect to have been planned in one piece. Light-orbs of burning oil and bands of emerald minerals shed their eerie glow over the proceedings, as we braced ourselves for what was to come.
As ritual dictated, there were just over a hundred witnesses. Four men from each tribe, picked at random, so that each clan would be represented. They made for a motley lot, but the eyes of every one gleamed with anticipation.
Anticipation, and maybe a little relief that they weren’t about to get branded. Or was that envy? Honestly, it was hard to tell.
Rarga Kul was tall for his age, just a hand’s-breadth short of lanky. There wasn’t a piece of spare flesh on him, his frame lean and whipcord-tough from the perils of life on the steppe. I was taller, significantly heavier with vat-grown muscle, my flesh swarming with the ink-black vistas that my tetza called home.
An athlete versus a bodybuilder.
In the awful red light of the brazier, he looked young. Young, determined and more than a little afraid. I didn’t blame him: It’s one thing to wade into a fight, knowing that you might be hurt. It’s another to know that there’s no possibility of escape.
To see it coming, and to look into the eye of the inevitable.
It was High Priest Praya himself who officiated the proceedings. He was a big man, heavy-set, built like - if you’ll forgive the obvious comparison - a bull. There was white in his hair, but his frame bulged with muscle, standing straight-backed despite more than a century of life. Praya was living proof of Tauruskhan’s power, a walking miracle in his own right, and his presence was a testament to the supreme holiness of the rite.
Once he started talking, you could see why the Iron Hoof had preserved him. It was his voice, stern but somehow motivating. A pillar of patriarchal strength, in every sense of the word.
“A warrior must have strength, but strength alone is never sufficient. It is will that forged the twenty-six tribes, will that made Tulgar unconquerable. All men feel fear: To conquer that fear is to be made holy.”
He waited for the reverent murmur to fade, before he went on.
“By right of blood, these men have chosen the trial of fire. One shall rise, and one shall be humbled. That is the way of things, and may it ever be so.”
Praya fixed us with his unblinking, dark-eyed gaze, like we were sacrificial cattle and he was considering where to put the knife.
“Know that His eyes are upon you. Hear His roar, in these ancient halls. Feel His own might course through your veins…And through Him, become indomitable.”
He grasped the first of the brands, and pulled it from the waiting flames. Even the dark end he held made his hand stiffen, the red-hot ember of the point glowing like a shooting star.
“To the younger goes the first,” Praya said, and placed the brand in Rarga’s hand.
Son of a bitch, I thought. It was then, right then, that I realized that I’d been set up. This was the kind of game where getting the first shot in was everything, and of course the fix was in. More, the only thing I could do was grin and bear it.
This was going to suck.
The weight of the iron settled in the boy’s fist, and he seemed to hesitate, as if made aware by the gravity of what he was about to do-
Then he laid the brand against my chest, and pressed it into my flesh.
Fuck-
I heard the sizzle, the wretched smell of burning hair and roasting pork rising into the heated air. Every muscle in my body went rigid, as the breath rushed from my lungs like I’d been kicked. I could feel sweat pouring down my skin, feel my jaw lock at that unspeakable sensation, as the searing heat coursed through me in an almost liquid ripple-
Years passed, in a thermite blaze.
Rarga ground the iron against me until the heat faded, until the last wisps of smoke rose from the brand. When it drew back, I could see the brown welt it’d raised on my skin, the pale fluid that leaked from the wound, as I took in a deep breath, steadying myself.
I may be tough, but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel pain. And let me tell you, that hurt like a bastard. Worse than getting swarmed by venomous demons, worse than Ryan’s glaive. Those had been in the heat of combat, with my blood pumping hot and adrenaline running high, and I’d barely felt them until later.
This was something else entirely. Every second felt like a subjective eternity, the relief just as bad, because you knew the next one would be soon in coming.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
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Two things, and two things alone, saved me.
The first was surety. I knew I could and would heal from this, given time. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it was only for now. Without that, I don’t think it would have been endurable.
The second was: I’d suffered worse. This didn’t hold a candle to the lasting agony of the human-enhancement process, where I’d writhed and screamed and foamed at the mouth. It had been so bad, I’d begged the flesh-workers of Unity to put me into an induced coma, to make it stop-
They’d refused. Drugs would have interfered with the activation process, and I’d already agreed to endure. All I could do was ride it out, until my reforming body stabilized enough for them to put some military-grade opiates into my spine.
Compared to that, this was nothing. A very significant ‘nothing’, but nothing all the same.
Through the roaring in my ears, I heard the faint clang of the iron being returned to the brazier, heard the susurration of voices from the audience. They were impressed, in spite of themselves.
I’d stood my ground, with no flinching or shirking.
Taken it like a man, and all the other cliches.
And now - Now, it was my turn.
I didn’t make the mistake of grabbing for the iron. Instead, I merely held my hand out, made myself wait as Praya placed it in my palm. The high priest’s hard-bitten features were set in a careful frown, one that gave away nothing…But was that a moment’s hesitation I detected?
Maybe. After all, every second wasted spared Rarga a fraction of the brand’s wrath.
As my fingers wrapped around the handle, I felt an electric shiver of anticipation crackle through the air. There was a hunger in it, a lust to see someone tormented, to bask in someone else’s suffering. It barely mattered who.
Praya hadn’t been lying, when he said that the trial was all about will. It could only end when one man refused to touch the other. Branding your opponent meant that you’d get branded in turn, and it made you the architect of your own torture. Men could stay standing for an extraordinarily long time, as burns heaped on top of burns - Ultimately, it was the spirit that would decide the winner, not the flesh.
I held Rarga’s gaze, as I raised the glowing iron. His entire body tensed, lips moving in a silent prayer for strength, for fortitude. You never know what you can take, not really, until it’s your turn.
The terror of something is usually so much worse than actually doing it.
There was a hiss. Skin cracked, the stench of charring flesh and quenching flame filling the temple once again, steam rolling upward in threads of white vapor-
And through a crimson haze, I heard the first gasps, the oaths of disbelief and surprise. Blood ran over my lip, but I made myself smile at Rarga through red-flecked teeth. Even as the grizzled warriors of the twenty-six tribes looked on, craning their necks like rubbernecking matrons, I ground the brand against my own chest, arching my back so they could all see.
Rarga’s eyes had gone wide. He’d stepped back, involuntarily, as I fought down the scream boiling in my throat. I could feel the tremor shooting through my gripping hand, and clamped the other over it to keep it steady - Until the iron cooled to dark orange, smeared down one side with smoking black ash.
With a gasp, with a brain-bursting surge of will, I tossed it back clattering into the coals. The breath bubbled in my lungs, my bladder clenching as I prayed I wouldn’t piss myself. It took everything I had to stay on my feet, my field of vision darkening at the edges as the room jerked and swayed…
But it’d been worth it. I saw the look on Rarga’s face, as I nodded to the waiting brands.
“Your turn,” I said, even as beads of sweat glistened on his brow. I kept my biggest, most shit-eating grin on my face, willing myself to believe it.
Mind over matter.
You don’t mind, it don’t matter.
His eyes flicked to Praya, as if looking for aid or succor. To the waiting audience, ferociously present in that eternal moment. Rarga had known how it was supposed to go, but what I’d done - It’d thrown him for a loop.
He reached for the next iron, but his hand was already shaking. Too fast: The high priest swatted his hand away, and Ragra flinched back, chagrined. A ripple of nervous laughter circled the room, and it must have felt like a whip.
His mouth opened, his breath coming harshly as he dragged a fresh iron free from the flames-
He burned me again, of course.
But this time, he was the one who shook.
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I had to burn myself three more times for it to count. Can you believe that?
Sure, once may have been a fluke, but three should’ve been enough to convince anyone that I was willing to go the distance. Four was just spiteful.
Let me tell you: Rarga Kul may have been the very best of the Jarrow, but he was also a vicious, small-minded, spiteful piece of teigar shit. All excellent traits to have in a warrior, mind you, and don't let anyone tell you different.
As it happened, I had historical precedent on my side. According to Oloin, even the great Tulgar had stood only eight to become King-of-Tribes, four hundred years before. The absolute greatest number was nine irons, and the winner had died a long, agonizing death afterward. So had his opponent, incidentally, because that’s what happens when you play chicken with red-hot irons.
A bad omen, that. Especially since the next few decades had been particularly rough ones for the clans, and it was widely believed that they’d lost Tauruskhan’s favor.
You have to see things from Rarga’s perspective. To him, I was either crazy or possessed of an iron will, and no matter how many times he scorched me, I kept on ticking. More, he wasn’t stupid enough to start burning himself in retaliation, though that would’ve made things way more interesting. He was acutely aware of his limits, you see, and he knew better than to tempt fate.
By the time we got to six, the Storm Walker scion was looking decidedly green about the gills. I didn’t look like I was about to keel over and die, and by that point, it barely mattered. If he seared me again, I’d burn myself the next time I got an iron in my hands…And then word would spread about the outlander who’d endured the torments of Tulgar at the hands of his unburnt foe.
Very embarrassing. Poor form, even.
He didn’t make it easy for me, of course. The presence of the priests kept Rarga from dealing low blows, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t make them count. When he held the blazing iron against my nipple, I nearly threw up. I felt the vomit clawing against the back of my throat, breath wheezing and shuddering deep in my chest as I fought the urge to take his head off with a single punch-
But the best revenge is a life well-lived, as they say.
By that point, I felt like a steak that had been too long on the fire. I was just glad they were using the smaller coin-sized brands, rather than the big ones used for cattle. While I was doing my best to put up a strong front, my eyes were watering, my chest a mass of burns - Still, one thing kept me going, through it all.
The warriors of the Twenty-Six Tribes were cheering. Cheering for me.
Now, don’t be mistaken. Rarga was still very much the favorite to win. But the sheer balls of what I was doing had definitely struck a chord, enough that it was worthy of acknowledgement.
I don’t know who started it - Stamping his feet, slapping his thigh in imitation of victory drums. Sure, maybe the Graven Star might’ve kicked things off, but this was a sacred rite. Given how the audience was supposed to be impartial, cheering for your own team was potentially grounds for censure.
What I’m saying is, it took an inordinate amount of balls to even try. For a moment, it sounded oddly hollow, a single hand clapping amid all that vast space…But then others were joining him, and soon the sound boomed through the chamber in a roll of thunder.
I remember the sound it made, like waves breaking against the surf. It made the air reverberate, a rhythm that matched the hammer of my pulse. Where I would have faltered, it drove me forward with each resounding beat, as if I couldn’t possibly lose.
Not after coming this far.
It made every moment of the suffering feel noble, somehow. Like I was doing something truly significant. Enough that I felt light-headed, drunk on adulation, never mind that I was more than half-dead. Somehow, I remembered to let go of the iron, let it tumble back into the flames as I spread my arms wide.
When the red-tipped brand came out of the coals, part of me flinched, wanting to squirm away from the bright fiery pain that was coming. It wanted to flee into the dark pit of unconsciousness, the void that was sucking away at my strength.
I didn’t know how bad it was, not really, but the edges of my vision were less red and more black now, and that was never a good thing.
Instead, I stiffened my back. Beckoned, invitingly, as curves of unearned muscle rippled under the tattooed skin of my bare chest and shoulders. The slight motion sent waves of agony rippling through me, made it feel like my flesh was burning anew as my eyes came perilously close to watering-
Even breathing hurt, now.
“Bring it,” I said, even as the tiny voice in the back of my head screamed and begged ‘no more’. I told it to fuck off, and made myself smile so hard it hurt.
I heard the hiss of Ragra’s indrawn breath, and knew - just knew - in that moment, he saw me the way I always wanted to see myself, in my sweatiest, most macho fantasies.
Unstoppable. Invincible.
The hardest bastard to ever walk this or any world.
It's moments like those that make it all worthwhile.
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Did it matter to me that I was, technically, cheating? After all, it wasn’t just willpower that kept me on my feet. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about my capacity for punishment was remotely human. Without the enhancile surgery, I’d have folded like a house of cards at the first kiss of the iron.
I didn’t care. The very concept of ‘fairness’ is for suckers. It’s what winners tell themselves after the fact to feel better…Even though they know, in their heart of hearts, that nothing is fair.
Ever.
If you’ve got an edge, use it. I guarantee that the other side absolutely will, if given the chance.
Win first, because there are no second chances in life.
Just ask Rarga Kul.
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“-No more.”
The dull clang rang in my ears, and I opened my eyes. Rarga had thrown down the iron, his face twisted in weary defeat. Unmarked, unburnt, he looked oddly shrunken, his sweat-sheened chest heaving as his hands fell to his sides.
No more.
It was over. It took a moment for that to sink in, to penetrate the haze of exhaustion and wretched, bone-deep pain that fogged my mind. My burns throbbed like white-hot phosphorous, all the suffering I’d thought I’d left behind returning at once.
Beneath me, my legs turned to lead. I wanted nothing, nothing more, than to lie down and never get up again. I’d reached the absolute limit of my endurance, and my body simply refused to go another step further.
I felt like I was going to pass out. But I couldn’t, not yet: Not before I’d made my victory complete.
I don’t know what I said, as I extended a hand to Rarga. Well fought, maybe, or Good game, better luck next time. Something puerile but manly like that, I’m sure. For a moment, he stared at my outstretched hand like it was a scorpion, those keen eyes boring into me.
Willing me to keel over, maybe. Willing me to die.
Like he realized that taking my hand would collapse the waveform and make his defeat real, that there would be no going back. No eking out a win on a technicality.
It could only have been an instant, but it felt like an agonizing eternity before his hand clasped mine. He was a good sport about it, too - No knuckle-grip, no bone-crushing squeeze, just a surprisingly firm grip, before he raised my hand overhead, in a gesture older than civilization itself.
The funny part is, that nearly did it for me. I staggered, almost fell…But then Praya was there, reaching out to steady me. Draping a sacred auroch-fur robe around my shoulders, like I was a prizefighter who’d just gone the distance.
“Victory!” he called, beard bristling like a thundercloud.
“Victory to the Graven Star! Witness, sons of Tulgar! Witness, and rejoice! Behold God’s champion!”
A roar went up. They were on their feet, now. Howling, yelling, in a tremendous release of tension. The cheers, the shouts…In the firelight, the faces of more than a hundred men blurred together, until they seemed a single many-limbed, many-headed beast, baying in triumph.
I’d done it. Somehow, I’d done it.
There were hands on me now, sheathed in intricate gauntlets of brown leather. The masked acolytes had come from everywhere and nowhere at once, as silent and inevitable as the fall of night. Fearsomely anonymous in their ceremonial robes and regalia, their touch was surprisingly gentle.
Working as one, they steered me out of the burning light, guiding me into the waiting twilight. I remember capering figures, shaking bone-wands and sistrum, leaping with a vigor that seemed more than merely mortal…
The cheers followed me for a long time, until the cool darkness swallowed me whole.
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When I woke, a fire was burning.
The first, fleeting impressions came to me, then. Thoughts gathering, coalescing, like the awakening that came after a coma or a decades-long sleep.
Like I had been dreaming for a long, long time.
Quiet. The smell of stone and earth. Stillness.
Copal resin, smoking into the air.
As I stirred, my eyes opened to the warm and muffled blackness of a deep cave. I could hear the patient drip-drip-drip of water on rock, wearing away at the stone with the glacial patience of deep time.
There was a thick, furred pelt beneath me, smelling faintly of damp. Bison hide, maybe. I could feel the crude but confident stitches beneath my fingertips, laced together with thongs of sinew.
Other smells, carried in the air, made themselves known. Roasting meat, liquor, the musk of some large animal…
The glow of the fire seeped into my field of vision, as I eased myself up. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I took in my surroundings.
The cave was small, but had been enlarged over years of patient toil. First with stone axes, then with tools of bronze and iron, carving and dressing bleak grey stone. Imposing order, with each and every stroke.
Smudged lines of ochre and charcoal adorned the walls, worn smooth by falling water and time. Abstract as they were, I could make out the vague shape of them. Men, or things that were almost men, bows and spears in hand. Hunting boar, antelope and auroch, each animal rendered side-on, mid-leap.
In the sanguine fireglow that filled the cave, the prey-beasts seemed to move, to writhe. As if they sensed their fate, and were trying to break free from the stone.
Behind me, the wind moaned, stirring the hide-curtain draped over the mouth of the cave. Through parted strips of cured leather, I glimpsed a strange, surreal netherworld - A mosaic of low-lying grasses, tough shrubs and scattered boulders, all shrouded in a spectral haze. The mist rolled across the landscape like a living entity, the dense, swirling fog obscuring all things.
It was the steppe, I realized. Not as it was now, but as it had once been. Dark and filled with primordial terror, a time when the distant ancestors of the Twenty-Six Tribes had cowered in their caves. For there were things out there, I knew.
Hungry things.
A low, guttural growl here, the ominous snap of a branch there…
They were waiting, for they had all the time in the world. Waiting for the fire to gutter out, for the darkness and mist to rush in. That thought made ice-water run through my veins, as I cast around, looking for my gauntlets, for a knife, for a sharp rock.
If I could just-
And then, right then, I knew I wasn’t alone.
There was something - someone - on the other side of the fire. I couldn’t see it, couldn’t see Him, not directly. No matter how I turned my head, the blaze in its ring of stones contrived to remain between us, as eternal as the space between stars. All I made out was a great, dark shape, too large to be truly human, with the hunched bulk of a hibernating bear.
But I could see His shadow, crowned with sweeping horns, cast up the cave wall by the crackling flames.
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“-It’s you.”
My voice sounded so small, so frail, that I barely recognized it as my own. The two words, just above a whisper, scraped my already-dry throat raw. I winced, expecting the pain of my burns to flare up - But when I looked down, my flesh was whole, unmarred except for the ink that swirled against my skin.
The figure stirred, like some elemental giant roused from slumber. It growled something in a language I didn’t understand, so deep it made my diaphragm vibrate.
Yet the meaning unfurled itself within my mind, all the same.
Welcome, world-walker, Tauruskhan said. You are far from home, indeed.
Ask.
I exhaled. Slowly, carefully, releasing a breath that I didn’t remember taking. I felt an instinctive fear, all the way to the very core of my being - the clean, simple terror that an animal feels, in the presence of something far stronger, far greater.
It’s not every day that you meet God.
A hundred questions swirled in my mind, but I ignored their phantom babble until I settled on the only one that mattered.
“Can you cure me?”
The answer came in a growl of animal directness, straightforward and uncomplicated.
Yes.
Relief, cold and sharp, slid through me. Something unclenched in my gut, like a coiled spring being unwound.
I was going to live.
I could have wept, but I made myself smile instead. A wan smile, but a smile all the same.
“Well,” I said. “Well, then.”
“-Shall we make a deal?”
TO BE CONTINUED