The next morning, the two men fell into a routine. The ranger spoke through gestures and nods. The painter obeyed, and would, on occasion, ask a question that would go unanswered. He hoped the ranger might slip up and speak, but it wasn’t to be. They climbed into the wagon and were off.

For the next several hours, the painter tried just once to engage his companion in discussion, but to no avail, so he sat quietly, trying not to think of his aching backside. His mind tried to chart their course while his body shifted from side to side, but neither endeavour was successful.

At some point in the late morning, the ranger once again pulled the wagon off the road. He reached deep into his robe and produced a small lord purse, then pushed it into the painter’s chest. He then motioned with a nod toward a tree some twenty yards off the road.

Even if he doesn’t talk, he sure gets his point across.

He took the purse and hopped down off the wagon, much to the relief of his backside. Heading toward the tree, he tried to imagine what he was about to procure.

Maybe ten minutes later, he heard the sounds of a rider approaching. The painter squinted to get a better look, and as they approached, the painter’s fears abated. The rider was forty-ish, wearing spectacles, and was dressed well enough not to be a labourer, but certainly wasn’t highborn either. She was rather nondescript, but entirely familiar. To the painter, she looked as unremarkable as one could be, and more importantly, not a threat.

The rider pulled her horse to a stop, dismounted, and led the stallion by the reins towards the painter.

She’s a bookbinder, the painter realised.

The short woman extended an arm up to pat her horse on the neck as she walked.

“Sorry for insisting we meet out here. My instructions were pretty clear,’’ she said to the painter as she brushed herself off and reached up to unlash a saddlebag. “If anyone in town had seen this book...” She didn’t finish the thought. It seemed she thought the painter could assume the rest.

“What kind of book is it?” the painter asked.

“The kind you don’t show to anyone, hence why we needed to meet out here,” she continued hurriedly. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to get back.” The painter offered her the lord purse and the bookbinder handed the painter a large tome, wrapped and bound.

Of course it’s wrapped.

Its weight surprised the painter, and his inattention nearly caused him to drop it.

“Listen, stop by my brother’s shop in Kidkam,” the bookbinder said. “It’s about a two-hour ride from here. Three in a wagon. You’ll know you’ve come to it when you see the large, purple-leafed tree at the fork. You can’t miss it. Just keep this book hidden from prying eyes.”

He thought back and remembered the large, violet juniper from when he was a boy travelling across the realm of Zhuasschazh with his father. It grew sideways and had stretched out almost fifty-feet then. Forty years later, he could only imagine how impressive it must be. Kidkam was the second northernmost town in the realm neighbouring Umlom to the southeast. The painter was stunned, realising he hadn’t left Umlom in almost four decades. He thought longingly of his previous life in Kinney with Kahriah and Thesdon. There was little need to leave, and it was only after his son had disappeared that he had actually tried to. His thoughts were cut short by the bookbinder.

“Finally, Illuminator,” the woman started with a final instruction.

Illuminator? That’s a new one, the painter thought, but offered no reaction to the strange moniker.

“You can visit any bookbinder across the realms and they’ll resupply you, no questions. They’re expecting you. We’re not a formidable bunch, but we do pledge to the idea of recorded knowledge. You’ll not find us in every town, but where you do, you’ll be well taken care of. Now I really must be on my way. I’ve a very long journey of my own. Good luck.” She leapt onto her horse, turned, and broke into a gallop down the road in the direction the wagon had just come from.

It seems she knows more than me. Why didn’t I ask her more questions?

The painter scolded himself and put the heavy parcel under his arm, turning back toward the wagon.

“Can I open it?” the painter asked. Knowing he wasn’t going to get an audible response, he looked to find the ranger giving him a definitive “no” with the subtle sway of his head. Unsurprised, the painter stowed the book in the back with his other belongings and among the assortment of crates.

Unmarked crates, the bow of a realm-class archer, and now a tome of complete mystery. What other secrets does this man have in the bed of his wagon?

He was inclined to ask, but he knew the response already.

They’ll tell me what is going on when they’re ready, I suppose.

The ranger and the painter rode in complete silence for the remainder of the day until the ranger pulled the horses to the side of the road and began to unhitch them. The painter did some arithmetic based on what the bookbinder had said.

Three hours to Kidkam on a wagon... We must be less than an hour now, but we’re stopping here... This is very near the end of my tether...

“Making camp for the night?” the painter asked, but he already knew the answer. In an effort to be helpful, the painter gathered some sticks from nearby and arranged them to make a fire. In complete silence, the two men set up a rudimentary camp and ate, this time packed provisions instead of wild game.

I don’t think I’ve even seen this man’s eyes yet...

Possible explanations for this strange adventure played out in his mind, but none seemed entirely plausible. He drifted to sleep in spite of his racing mind.