Arn awoke from a restless sleep. Nevo was calling him. The guard waited outside his shack while Arn washed up and pulled on his clothes. Gamden was already up—he’d left an hour earlier, passing Arn’s groggy senses, to help with some wall repairs to the rear of Quenden’s compound.
When Arn stuck his head out, Nevo waved him to follow. “What?” Arn asked, not moving beyond his threshold.
Nevo sighed. “Quenden wants to see you.”
“Then he should…” Arn trailed off. He knew he couldn’t wrest authority away from Quenden as he had with Nevo. For now, Quenden was like Stone Spear and Arn a head of the hunting band at best. “Fine.” He grabbed his sparring sword from beside the door—it was better than nothing— and trotted after the sergeant.
For the first time, Nevo led Arn to the front door of Quenden’s house and brought him inside. They passed two slave women: one washing the floor with a rag while the other sat on a stool and rubbed clothes against a worn washboard. After leaving the entry hall, Arn found the house grew more comfortable. A grass-like cloth was laid across the floor while various ornamentation decorated the table and shelves. A bowl full of fruit sat out on the table, as though there to feed the bugs.
“In here,” Nevo said impatiently. He opened a wooden wall panel—it was like the front gate of the property, swinging inward on metal brackets.
Arn walked into the new room. This was a tighter space than the living area beyond; a low-hanging brazier danced light over a square wooden table. Books—which Arn had had explained to him by another of the slaves—sat in one stack, while loose sheets of papyrus rose in another mountain. Beneath it all was a huge cloth covered in intricate artwork. Arn had never seen anything like it, full of lines and dots and shaded areas. He had no idea what it might be depicting—it was like nothing he had seen.
Quenden sat at the desk, feet carelessly propped up on the corner of the artwork on his table. His hands were interlaced behind his head, mixed with his wavy, white hair. “Ah, Arn,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Arn sighed and sank into the chair across the table.
At a wave, Quenden excused Nevo to wait outside. Then he lowered his legs back beneath the table and looked at Arn with raised eyebrows. “Are you ready for your first task?” he asked.
“I am,” Arn said. Despite Massema’s urging to resist the life he had lived up until now, it was the only life Arn had ever known. He was tired of sitting around and thinking so much. “Just tell me who and where.”
Quenden smiled faintly. “One step at a time, Arn.”
Arn waited patiently.
“This evening, a kitanad—a-a warrior is coming here,” Quenden said, searching for simpler words for Arn’s comprehension. “He works for another person. After I speak with the warrior, I want you to follow—uh, to go after—him. Find where he goes… to whom he speaks.”
Arn looked at Quenden blankly. “And then?”
“Tell me,” Quenden said simply.
Arn lifted his shoulders. “Me? You told me to kill for you. This is… easy. Simple. Have Gamden do this.”
Quenden’s mouth quirked up. “I don’t want Gamden to do this,” he said.
“He cuts wood every day and hits nails,” Arn said dryly. “Is that… coin for you? Why? Get him to do this.”
“No. Gamden can’t do this for me,” Quenden said. “I’m asking you.”
“Why?” Arn insisted. He was tired of sitting on his hands. Following people around was not much better, and it was squandering Quenden’s investment in them. It was time Gamden did something to help out, instead of protesting by being useless.
“Arn, I am done hearing about Gamden,” Quenden snarled. He leaned forward. “I don’t care what Gamden does. How about you sort it out?” He sighed and sank back into his chair.
Arn furrowed his brows. That doesn’t make any sense, he thought. He was quiet for a moment, and so was Quenden. He didn’t know enough about his master’s plans to tell Gamden what to do. He took a deep breath. “I want to understand. What should I have Gamden do?” he asked.
“I. Don’t. Care!” Quenden barked, rising to his feet. He spread his hand in the air in exasperation, and then shoved it down as a fist against the strange artwork on the tabletop. “He’s not tua, Arn! Get that through your head and stop wasting my time and scaring my guards with your tikio arguing all the time.”
Arn leaned back from his furious master, scrunching up his face in confusion. “What’s tua?” he questioned. “What’s tikio? People keep saying th—”
Quenden raised his voice to a bellow. “There is no Gamden!” He sank down into his chair, his features mixing rage with sudden pity. “Tikio—your mind… it’s-it’s broken.”
First, bewilderment struck Arn. He frowned. Quenden wasn’t making any sense. Next came denial—this was some deceit. Gamden had helped Arn survive on the island. Gamden had endured Emrez’s cruelty with Arn. Quenden was trying to drive them even further apart.
“What?” Arn hissed.
But then came horrific revelation. Emrez and the sailors had chuckled on the beach that first time, when Arn had spoken to Gamden. The strange looks on the ship. But how had Gamden killed some of the guards at the branding? I didn’t see him get branded, Arn realized. There was only one man with a rod—only one fire pit burning. He collapsed back into his chair. Quenden had only bid on one slave. Gamden had seemingly just tagged along, with Arn assuming that Emrez had somehow communicated it was a two-for-one deal.
“I’m sorry, Arn,” Quenden said. “But you’re no good to me until you can follow orders without falling into madness.” Tikio, the last word, made all the sense in the world now—as much sense as could be comprehended by Arn’s addled mind. It rang like a screecher’s howl in Arn’s whining ears.
The next half-hour passed in a blur of stark moments and the aftermaths of each. He stood up, knocking the chair back against the wall behind it. He rambled, “I-I need to… I’ll go think—I…”
Quenden gave him a permissive wave and mumbled he’d have someone else handle today’s job.
Arn passed a chuckling Nevo in a daze. He nearly collapsed against the doorframe and the slave girl who was cleaning clothes stood up to help, knocking over her dirty water onto the rag-girl’s cleaned floor. The water lapped against Arn’s sandaled feet and he was standing on the isle again—alone, excruciatingly alone for months. The servant girl’s hands on his shoulder chilled away the vision; he shoved her aside and stumbled out into the burning sunlight. He was back on Razaad—was he Stone Spear or the village madman? Was that real?
Massema’s voice pulled him back to Quenden’s compound. “Are you well?” she was asking. “You look dizzy…”
Arn’s glazed eyes passed her writing table, cutting through the shadows of the house to the property wall. Gamden stood there, hammering binding boards into place to support the new palisade. His slave brand shone with sweat.
“Arn?” Massema was asking.
“Are you real?” Arn asked, quietly. He panted like a man dying of fever. He glanced at one of the guards walking by. “Is she real?” he demanded. The guard might not have been, Arn realized. He clutched his chest—his heart was fighting back the entire tide of the Deep—and he tripped across the grass toward his shack.
Massema called after him, but he ignored her. Her last shout as he pulled the leather flap—and shadow—around him was echoed by Little Rat’s leering laughter. He fell to his knees on the dirt, then twisted and fell into his bed. He felt a snake coiling around one leg and watched as the dreamworld’s bearded man pressed his face through the wooden wall beside the cot, as though it was a layer of linen. Arn shrieked soundlessly into his pillow until he passed out.
That evening, Gamden came back from work, washed up in their small water basin, and went to bed. Arn pressed his palms against his temples and pretended he was still alone.