In which Fain meets a faceless stranger
Fain lay amid leaves and broken branches on the forest floor, screaming as much as his shattered ribs would allow. A cloaked figure was knelt by him, tipping a small colourless bottle to Fain’s lips. ‘Absentia draft,’ the hooded stranger whispered. ‘A posit tincture, based upon the notion of there being either no creator, or one which is competent and efficient. Either way, the result is much less pain, and extremely rapid healing.’
Soon Fain was riding beside the cloaked man on the wooden seat of a horse-drawn cart. He felt better than he ever had, and for some reason felt no curiosity about the hooded figure. ‘We approach the city of Camovine,’ said the man. ‘Beware the local autarch. He keeps a mirror by which you may travel far, and he would use it to evacuate the town if he could, but a gewgaw lives within, which eats down those who enter and spits them out like apple cores.’
‘I’m hungry,’ said Fain.
‘If I’m hungry I pull up one of the earth’s veins, slit it open and drink from it. What else do you do?’
‘Kill a warthog.’
‘Which of itself has drunk from the veins of the earth.’
‘I should have said “try” to kill a warthog. They’re hard to find, and even harder to catch. To kill, perhaps impossible. It’s the same with bears.’
‘I know it is.’
‘So this earth vein business might not be such a crazy idea.’
‘Not crazy at all. Just boring. Lacking adventure, and thus creating no stories. And because it creates no stories, it is a wisdom repeatedly lost and only by chance rediscovered. True wisdom is like that. Not spectacular. This is Camovine. I leave you here.’
‘Thanks for the ride,’ Fain called after the covered cart as it passed into the city. Some sort of celebration seemed to be underway. A hectically happy gatekeeper told Fain he had the good fortune to arrive in the city on the day of Saint ExStrainia’s Festival.