The monk scraped the last bits of grain out of his lacquered bowl and replaced the dish inside his shirt. He sighed, leaning against a mossy boulder, looking up through the crisscrossed leaves to the autumn sky above. “Can’t believe it’ll be winter soon.”

Sarros nodded, poking their small fire with a stick. “Not for another few months, thank the stars.”

“Seems I was running from the spring floods just last week,” said the monk. He rummaged in his open-fronted shirt and pulled out a small ceramic flask. “How about a little something to commemorate all the time we’ve been traveling?”

Raising an eyebrow, Sarros took the flask, uncorked the top, and sniffed it. “Elderberry brande? I didn’t think you monks were allowed to drink.”

“Well, elderberry’s sacred. I reckon that evens things out a bit.”

“If you say so.” Sarros took a swig of the heady liquid and passed it back to the aged man who had accompanied him through the wilderness for the last month. “It really has been nice traveling with you. It’s a shame our paths don’t carry us in the same direction any longer.”

“As the potbellied god wills,” sighed the monk. He scratched himself in a rather undignified manner. “I thank him that I have had the opportunity to travel on the same path as you for even this short time.” He grinned. “Even if you are a heathen.”

Sarros returned the smile. “Which is worse, a heathen Actor, or a monk of the potbellied god who drinks and whores and scratches himself in public?”

The monk gestured around. “Public, my friend? Who is there to witness my depravity but the birds and the trees?” He glared in mock severity. “And a soulless mercenary?”

“True,” said Sarros, but there was no humor in his voice. He glanced at the traveling pack he had set against a nearby tree.

“Please forgive me,” said the monk in a normal tone. “I did not mean to offend you, my friend. I couldn’t ask for a more pleasant traveling companion. If you choose to wear that thing, I am no man to judge.”

“It's no great deal.” Sarros looked away from the pack. “I mean no offense either. Would that all monks of the blue temple were as liberal as yourself. It'd make my life more tolerable, for certain.”

“Bah.” The monk waved as though fending off a putrid smell. “Were that the case we’d never get a thing done. The orphans would go unclothed, and the souls of you heathens would go unwashed, and the potbellied god would starve until his name was a falsehood.” He tilted his head, mouth twisted into a wry grin. “You wouldn't want to make a liar out of my god, would you?”

Sarros stood, stretching. “If your god calls me a soulless monster, would that he were lying.” The young Actor took up his traveling staff and his pack, and gave one last smile to his companion. “May the stars bless you, holy man. Whatever that means coming from one such as I.”

“May it be so,” said the monk gravely. “If you ever catch the bastard who killed your sister, come and settle down at the blue temple. I'll personally make as poor a monk of you as I myself am. We can go from town to town drinking and whoring until the day we die.”

“Heh.” Sarros sighed, looking up through the tree branches. The crisp, acid smell of falling leaves filled his lungs, mixing in his mouth with the aftertaste of the rich elderberry brande. The tastes and scents of dead, fermented beauty. “Not a bad life. Maybe I'll take you up on it, after all this.”

He didn't look back, but continued down the remnant of the path that would carry him toward the edge of the wilderness.

He followed the trail of the man with the hollow eyes.

An hour before dark Sarros’ path was blocked by a half dozen men with wickedly heavy blades.