Sartore knew this place, before he had even opened his eyes to see it. But when he did, he was lost. There was a small lake in front and a short hill in back, and he was standing in the middle on a thin strip of sand. The sky was slowly being fed to a great furnace at the horizon. Some commotion emerged from behind—some screaming, some horses neighing. He turned towards it, and only saw a black wooden house on top of the hill, with small windows facing the water. Sartore stepped back from the noise, dipping one of his boots into an emerging wave; but he wanted to see nonetheless.

Sartore now stood at the top of the hill, beside the house. He stood at the outskirts of a village, one he recognized—but couldn’t remember. The village had been destroyed; most of the houses had been levelled, the rubble spilling onto the village floor. Bodies lay still in the wreckage. Presiding over it were a collection of men on horseback—each riding identical black horses, each wearing identical sets of silver armor and carrying the same long and bloodied sword.

And when they all turned to Sartore, he saw that they all had the face of the soldiers’ captain.

The nearest of them turned to Sartore. Hands shot up from the earth like weeds in the path between them—from the dead bodies that lay there. The horseman moved slowly, and the horse crushed each forearm and wrist with the accompanying crack of a twig.

A woman leapt in front of Sartore from the rubble, knees bent and hands outstretched. She tilted her head back to Sartore, enough for him to see her, and she whispered: “Run, Sartore, please,” before facing the horseman.

The face reminded Sartore of something, he thought. The horsemen laughed, and Sartore didn’t move, couldn’t. The woman looked back, eyes wide and pleading; but inevitably, she stopped. Her hands drifted to her side, and she rose from her stance, let her shoulders roll forward and her head bend down, hair like a curtain to hide her face The horseman moved closer, and drove his sword into her chest. He lifted her from the ground, and tossed her to the side and back into the rubble.

Finally, the horseman stood above Sartore. The horseman’s ride neighed and raised its hooves, then rode over him. Sartore could feel his bones crushed, the metal imprint of the horseshoes in his flesh, his body collapsing into the dirt—and as he died, he woke up.

And when he did, Sartore thought he was in bed at home, with his parents waiting for him in the kitchen, and that in a minute he would jump out of bed and run to his parents and tell them about his dream, and they could comfort him and laugh with him. For a minute, Sartore could only see the night’s aftertaste.

And the feeling disappeared when he realized he didn’t know what home, or kitchen, or parents his mind seemed to refer to. He was on a boat at sea; the morning light was falling into his face from the cabin window.

Sartore got out of bed, slipped on his boots, and walked to the deck. The sun was bright and hot in the clear sky. To temper the heat came a cool breeze that carried the seductive and repulsive smell of the ocean deep, while the gentle skipping of the boat against the tide sent up a cold spray of sea water, which was almost soothing, if it would just stop flying into his face.

Other passengers had come to celebrate the good fortunes as well, and ogle at the damage left behind from the previous day: the arrow punctures in the hull, the hooks in the rim of the ship, a shorter crew. Sometimes a passenger would stare at one of the sailors, and the sailor would look back until the passenger turned away.

Sartore noticed after a few minutes that all of the sailors were watching him. He looked around, and saw the sailor who’d spoken to him a few nights ago walking towards him. The sailor was bald, and the gray bristle on his face was growing into a fur.

“How long’ve you been awake, boy?” the sailor asked.

“Only a minute,” Sartore replied.

“Get the old man and bring him here. I need to talk to you two.”

Sartore nodded, and the sailor followed suit, before walking back down the deck. Sartore ran to Maisero’s cabin. The old man was asleep, rolled into a ball with the sheets tucked under his chin. Sartore walked to the side of the bed and pushed Maisero back and forth: no response. Sartore crawled up the bedframe and fell on top of the old man, and Maisero awoke immediately. Sartore hopped off the bed and laughed. Maisero opened his eyes slowly, lifted his head, then dropped it back into his pillow.

“Oh, child, have we landed yet?”

“No,” Sartore said, still laughing. Maisero groaned.

“Child, why did you wake me? This journey has been trouble enough.” Sartore stopped laughing.

“One of the sailors wants to talk to you. And me.”

“Tell the kind sailor that we can speak once we’ve landed on shore, I’m in no shape to speak on any important business.” Maisero placed a hand over his mouth, shut his eyes, and wiggled back beneath the covers.

Sartore ran back to the sailor to report the news. The sailor did not find the news very amusing, and walked down to and stood in Maisero’s door frame.

“You fucking slug,” the sailor said. Maisero awoke again, eyes wide and afraid for a moment, bu he quickly closed them again and shifted to the opposite side of the bed.

“Hello, sailor, welcome—”

“Get up. Now.”

“I don’t think I’m in any shape to follow your order, sailor.”

The sailor walked up to the side of Maisero’s bed and cast Maisero’s blankets aside.

“No, don’t, it’s cold.”

“It’s going to be a lot colder in a minute when I throw you overboard. Now get up.”

Maisero didn’t reply. The sailor waited another second before leaning forward and grabbing Maisero’s wrists. The old man’s head shot up, face like a terrified raccoon’s, but he still refused to move, and tried wrestling his wrists from the sailor’s grip. After another moment of Maisero’s struggle passed, the sailor pulled him out of the bed and let the old man drop to the floor, first his head and hands, and then inevitably the rest of him tumbling down. Maisero moaned, then balled up on the floor and stopped, moving only when the ship forced him to.

“Get on your feet,” the sailor said. Again, no reply.

“Listen, old man,” the sailor continued, crouching down a few inches from Maisero’s head. “If you aren’t up and moving in a minute, I’ll be dragging you the rest of the way. I’m sure everybody else on deck will think it’s pretty funny, the rest of the crew, all the passengers out there enjoying the weather, and then you, an old, petulant cripple getting handled like a bag of dead meat in broad daylight. I don’t like you much, but it looks to me like you’re the kid’s escort, so I’m going to be taking you out either way.”

Maisero lifted his head, looked past the sailor and to Sartore, standing by the doorframe, with the same, animal’s eyes. Sartore hid momentarily in the hallway until he heard Maisero starting to rise. Maisero had his hands at either side of the floor, one leg up, and now the other one—now he was really crouched like an animal—and then finally made the slow progression to straightening his wobbling legs. He managed it, eventually, one hand against the bed frame, another against the wall to keep him steady: bit the victory was short lived, as the long-festering vomit finally slid out of his mouth. The green bile collected in a corner of the cabin like leftover stew. The smell started searing Sartore’s nose, so he plugged it with his hand. The sailor didn’t react at all. He handed Maisero a towel from his back pocket, which Maisero desperately needed, now snot-nosed and green-lipped.

“I’ll have someone clean up for you by the time I let you back. Let’s go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Maisero muttered, and shuffled slowly behind him. The sailor motioned for Sartore, who emerged and lead their little gang across the deck, the sailor tenderly nudging him in the right direction. As they crossed over the deck, Maisero kept his hands firmly around his face, to keep everything other than the sailor’s heels out of sight. Sometimes Maisero would stumble, but the sailor would always catch him before he fell, and righted him.

The sailor led them to a door in the bow of the ship, which he opened, ushering Sartore and Maisero in. The three of them had arrived at a better furnished cabin, with a table in the center and five chairs orbiting it, and large wooden chests against the walls.

“The seats are for you,” the sailor said. Sartore hopped onto the closest one, his feet still a few inches over the floor. Maisero shuffled around the boy and sat with a chair between them, dropping his elbows to his knees and hanging his head in the empty space. The sailor sat down behind the other side of the table.

“What’s your name, kid?” the sailor asked.

“Sartore.”

“Sartore. The old man’s?”

“Maisero.” Sartore turned to see the old man’s reaction, but he hadn’t moved.

“Alright, listen kid. Those people you saw yesterday were a troop of the Sacredate’s army. You ever heard the name Sacredate before?”

Sartore was shaking his head slightly, while Maisero was lifting his head as though he had just woken up.

“The Sacredate’s men were here?”

“They stopped by for a quick visit.” Maisero’s face became alarmed, and the sailor laughed, but with little humor. “They attacked us during the storm.” Maisero’s alarm grew larger, but a glare from the sailor frightened him and he dropped his head back between his legs.

“Well, kid?”

“No,” Sartore said. “Maybe. It sounds familiar.”

“Not surprised. It isn’t a new word. It used to be the title of a particular line of kings, although they’re long gone now. The new royalty is just trying to live up to the old Sacredate’s ruins.” Sartore nodded vaguely. He didn’t understand most of what the sailor was saying, but he liked the sound of the sailor’s voice, something about the way he seemed to growl when he spoke.

“This Sacredate’s different. He’s been calling himself that since the first time he ever got anybody’s attention. He says he’s been chosen by the Gods to liberate the people from the current rulership. He says the Gods talk to him and guide him, and they give him visions of the future. He uses that to justify massacring entire villages and towns, raiding and burning cities to the ground. Sometimes he chooses to have a public speech somewhere first, then destroy it. Those who listen, or those who don’t escape, join him. I’ve never heard of him or any of his army losing a battle—last night must’ve been some sort of miracle.

“You don’t want him after you, kid. But you do.”

“The Sacredate’s men are looking for him?” Maisero said. He stared slack-jawed at the sailor.

“When the captain of that troop saw Sartore, he told the rest of his crew to kill him.”

“Why?”

“You think I have any fucking idea?” Maisero looked at Sartore, and Sartore thought that edges of Maisero’s face had hardened into stone. Maisero held the gaze until Sartore was unable to, turning back to the sailor. Maisero kept watching.

“You said you recognized the captain’s face?”

“What?” Maisero nearly shouted. “Child, you know them?”

“No,” Sartore began, “I didn’t mean—”

“You vile—”

“Quiet, old man,” the sailor said, and without hesitation Maisero did as requested, although his face became stonier still. Sartore’s eyes had become very round, and he required some strong suggestion to refocus on the sailor.

“Look,” the sailor continued. “Doesn’t matter to me how you know him. But as a general principle, what the Sacredate wants, I don’t. And I don’t want him to get you. With me so far?” Sartore nodded.

“Now, the Sacredate’s probably already sending another troop for you. Already you’re less safe than you should be. Hiding won’t do you any good, he’ll still find you; everybody eventually talks. You need some actual defense.

“Fortunately, where we’re headed, there are some like-minded folks that I’m sure don’t want you running into the Sacredate either. It would be safer for you if you stayed with them until . . . later.”

Now Sartore was looking up at the sailor with some dismay. Playing in the back of his head was the warm feeling of the sunset on his face and his arms.

“But—I didn’t come here to stay with them.”

“I know, kid. I don’t know what your plans were, but I can tell you that you wouldn’t get a day out of the port before you were swallowed up by the Sacredate’s men. When things calm down—later—you can do whatever you want. Now—where are your parents?”

“He says he doesn’t remember them,” Maisero said, still staring Sartore. The sailor held his breath for a moment.

“In that case, old man, I need you to follow him.”

“Follow him? He’s dangerous! He’s—he’s going to carry me to my death, you understand that? How can you trust him? I’m getting out of here the moment I get back on shore.”

“No, you’re not. In a few days’ time, when he’s settled down there and there are other people looking after him, you can do whatever you want, be my fucking guest. But until then, he needs a caretaker, and it looked to me like you were already doing that anyway.”

“Well, not anymore, sorry captain.”

The sailor rose and walked up to Maisero, leaving a few inches of space between them. “No, old man, you don’t seem to understand. You’re going to follow the boy, look after him, or I’ll be after you next. If the Sacredate’s men don’t catch you first. You think they’re not coming after you either?”

Maisero flapped his mouth open and shut like a fish, and made no noise. Sartore had begun to weep, lightly, and the sailor crossed back to Sartore and tapped his shoulder. Sartore’s face looked like a smushed tomato.

“I know you don’t like it, kid, but—that’s the way it is. Let me cheer you up. Want me to show you around the ship?”

Sartore nodded through his tears, and the sailor smiled. Together, they rose and walked to the doorway. Maisero watched them, still gaping.

“We’ll be landing tomorrow while the sun’s still up,” the sailor told Maisero. “Enjoy it while you can. If you want a moment in here, go ahead and take it.” And the two left.

Maisero sat still for a few minutes. He stared fixedly at the floor, playing the last few minutes over and over in his head, dwelling longer and longer on the angry stares of the sailor and the clueless, innocent face of the child. When the time had passed, he stood up, and without even the hint of a wobble walked out of the room.