PART 11

This blade had been his companion throughout the entirety of his exile, his friend on an endless journey. But that journey now had a perceivable end, an end that Lazarus predicted. Damn Lazarus, he thought as he continued sharpening. The contaminant of this prediction felt heavy in his body. The idea of knowing of your own end, or at least a glimpse of that end, gave Dresden a sense of finite reality. He had spent so long focusing on the eternity of exile that he hadn’t considered an end. He would never take his own life, and would never succumb to another’s blade without a fight. Thus far, no one could best him. He had tried to duel himself to death at one point, with no success, conquering some of the most skilled warriors in the world. His unmatched swordsmanship would have been world renowned, had he not made sure to duel in obscure places with no witnesses, so that he would not be marked in the history books. He was also careful to never allow anyone to paint his likeness.
His anonymity was important to him because this ensured that he could travel freely for hundreds of years without detection of his age or origins. He did not go about proclaiming his Dragon heritage, because he had been disowned by his own race. His civil disobedience of the hierarchy had sealed a fate he never anticipated. Look at me now, he thought to himself. Feigning humanity. Claiming something that he could never be. This pretend game was a survival mechanism only, since the world was turning in this direction anyway. Lazarus was correct to say that humans were inheriting the earth. What catalyzing role might he play that would ensure that victory? The overthrow of Sariahfina, of course? Was there more to it than that? These were concepts that were too large to consider. He let the sound of the singing blade deafen the chatter between his ears, so he could focus again on his task without distractions.
The tunic and breeches fit well, a bit loose around the waist since he had lost some weight with his travelers diet. That was simple enough to remedy with a few stitches and a week's worth of hot meals. He kept all manner of gear with him, tucked away in a modest traveler’s pack. Some would even consider its contents impressive, as well as his acumen in learning the skills needed for self sufficiency. He always carried some kind of threading and a sharp bone needle he’d picked up or made along the way. He kept a metal bowl he’d crafted himself, several hundred years ago after the thrill of chasing and eating people had lost its appeal. A wooden spoon, carved of ironwood by his own hand, some leather strapping that he found came in handy on all manner of occasions. Knives, not one but many, because sharp objects were extremely useful when he needed to hunt, to manicure himself, or to kill someone stealthily when he didn’t want to rely on his heavy blade. Powdered herbs. He fashioned wooden containers with simple stoppers to hold a collection of powdered plants that he'd become familiar with over the course of his wanderings. Some for flavor, others for fuel and even some to stave off physical hardship. He rarely fell ill, so medicinal plants weren’t necessary to carry around, but his favorites, he always kept safely tucked away and rationed them frugally. Salt, a rare commodity that many human beings had to do without, because of high cost or due to dangers in harvesting it, also became a staple in his satchel. He hardly used it, but there were times it changed a dead rat into a feast, which he welcomed in some of the darker places he’d ventured.
He paid the innkeeper extra to take special precautions with his room, where he planned to stay for an extended period of time. Most people would rent the room for a week at the most, but Dresden planned to be there for two moon cycles at least, and he made that clear to the gentleman who owned the inn and bar. This was met with some skepticism until Dresden paid in full at the time he reserved the room. This turned skepticism into eagerness. Dresden wanted the innkeeper to be eager to serve his needs since he couldn’t take Kijzin Kol with him everywhere and had very serious doubts about the security of this location. If his sword ever got stolen from him, he could recover it easily. Kijzin Kol could send impressions to Dresden when it needed to communicate important aspects of an enemy, or in the event of theft, it could even offer him the location where it was being kept. That was not his concern. The only stumbling block was the risk that he would make a scene with the death of a thief. Anyone who tried to rob him of his companion could never be allowed to live. It would disrupt everything he hoped to accomplish. He would be told to leave, and possibly never to return, if he murdered a man. So he kept Kijzin Kol safely tucked under his mattress, where he laid the sword now, in its sheath, freshly sharpened. He made up the bed, tidied his room and began his day.
The marketplace on the western edge of the kingdom, where the castle ominously towered over life, is where he had decided to make his base. The inn was located close to the wall, and within walking distance of the castle, and the rocky waterfront where the sunsets were stunning, he was told. He hadn’t gotten to explore that yet since he had been busily mapping the area by walking the streets, repeating the same path every morning for a week now. He took note of the routines of the locals, the morning feeding of chickens and pigs, and the farmhands taking their carts out the western gates to work in the northwestern fields that belonged to the Queen. The merchants were beginning to know him by face and greeted him as he walked by. Their friendliness grew on him and he often returned their greeting with a smile, nod or a wave, but he did not engage them in conversation.
He spent two weeks running this course when, one morning as he left the inn, a small boy around six years of age ran past him barefoot, bumping into him from behind, before continuing the run and disappearing from sight in the direction Dresden was headed. The barefoot child seemed more in a hurry than anything else, not running from something as there were no pursuers and he didn’t appear to be in distress. Dresden had become familiar with the local attire, so seeing the boy in a torn tunic with no shoes on his feet and disheveled hair seemed completely normal.
He resumed his rounds without giving the boy a second thought. When he first arrived in this kingdom, it had struck him as odd that the poorer people lived so close to the castle, while the formal gowns and dress of nobility had been more commonly seen in the farther reaches, away from the castle. He understood the monarchy better now, having experienced it for himself since he’d moved into this impoverished area. Every day without fail, the castle doors would open and cartloads of fresh vegetables, baked breads and milk would come tottering out to the townspeople. A modest crowd would gather to receive the blessings from their Queen. They were respectful too. No one shoved and no one appeared to be starving, even though they clearly lived lesser lives than their betters. Dresden would take the time to watch the nuns hand out all the items, check on people’s health, and listen to the stories of the people’s lives, all while they smiled and carried on in a friendly way. One of the nuns took an interest in Dresden’s presence and made her way over to him this morning with a small loaf of bread in her hands.
“Sir, are you here for Her Majesty's blessing? Please take this loaf even though you don’t look as though you need it. You may cross the path of another who does.”
Her pious insistence made it impossible for Dresden to refuse. He nodded, thanked the woman and went on his way. The nun followed him with her gaze until he dropped out of sight around a corner. He carried the bread casually tucked under his arm. The streets were quiet at this hour, which had become one of his favorite times of day. These morning rounds were refreshing. He was getting to know the area by observation alone. The habits of the people told him everything he needed to know about them. These were not beggars and they were not thieves. They loved their Queen and their kingdom and would give everything for it, even their lives. He was certain the wealthy would not feel the same way. These folks were in the favor of their Queen’s good graces and for very good reason. Most of these families had lost their men to her war. They were destitute because of her choices, so she cared for them, not out of pity, but responsibility to their service to her and the kingdom. The pieces were forming a greater picture. He was beginning to understand the politics of this place, and that, he knew, was the key not only to surviving a place, but thriving within it.