“Do you know how to talk?” I asked the boy. He looked at me dead in the face, mute and apathetic with a coldness in his eyes. Green. Dull. He sat on a bed with his legs out, the girl to his side rested her head on his shoulder. She snored, a small stream of saliva rolling down her chin and down the boys clothes. They wore oversized sandals, almost as if their feet had been taped. A small candle by the side of the door frame made shadows of the tavern beyond, of mistresses undoing their buttresses. Of the disk platters of beer wandering to an fro. 
Sylas leaned against the door frame. His arms were crossed and he looked to the children. The boy had started to kick at a small chest underneath the bed, tucked beneath cotton covers that spilled over the lip of the bed edge. 
  “You ain’t going to get a word out of ‘im.” Sylas said.
  “You don’t know that.”
  “I do.” He said. “Look at ‘im.”
  I did. Studied the bruises on his wrists and on his neck. The wince of his face whenever he looked me in the eyes for too long.
  “Kids’ broken. Girl might make it though.” Sylas said. 
  “We have to give him a home.” I said.
  “Then make him a Crow. He’s got the look for it. He’ll fit right in with the other degenerates.” 
  “A Crow? Are you joking?”
  “Partly. Point is, you want to dump him somewhere. So why not dump him with us? I don’t think Vicentius would mind another body.” 
  I sighed and stood. I pinched the candle light and looked back, the boy stared at me from that dark. The cross of a window frame forming a shadow against his face, dividing him into four. The low beams slowly creeping up with the movement of outside lights. Of the moon and stars. A moon-dial set and cast against the fair skinned child.
  I closed the door. The smoke blew out from the little gap, the burnt smell of rope. 
  “Don’t you know where he came from?”
  “Do I?” Sylas asked.
  “Don’t you want to know what I was up to?”
  “It wasn’t anything good.”
  “You really don’t have a high opinion of me, do you?”
  “I do, youngblood. But I know people.” He said. “I know where they come from and where they end up.”
  “Where am I going to end up?” I asked.
  “Alone. Swallowed into the abyss with Vicentius.” He said. “That man is trouble, I’ve done told you this already. Keep your distance. Don’t do any favors, get some coin and leave-”
  “Leave what? My family?”
  “Take ‘em with you. Why not?” Sylas asked. “Get as many people away as you can.”
  I nodded my head and walked rapid down the steps, weaving myself between the waitresses. I dropped a small bronze coin onto the deck of the bar and plucked a fresh loaf of bread. Sylas followed, I ate. Quick. A whole thing in three bites. 
  “Are you listening?” Sylas asked.
  “Always.” I said. 
  “But never doing what I tell you.”
  “I’ve always done what you’ve told me.” I said. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
We stepped out into the cold. The bite so strong my throat itched immediately, I tightened the wolf pelt around me and watched the smoke linger and release from me, following the trail as it rode up the sky. Desert nights, horribly cold. An old woman sat by a little lantern fire raised from a beam to her rear. It wobbled and she sat underneath, her knitting sitting on her lap. Behind her was a large complex, a multi-leveled maze. Buildings bulging in and out, dripping with sand as doors opened and closed from within. 
  “You killed Venryr, right?” He asked. I hadn’t even noticed he was following, even after all this time. But there he was, as I turned around, standing by the side of the wall with his foot kicked up. A shadow to me.
  Or perhaps me a shadow to him.
  “How’d you know?”
  “Tailed you for a bit. Kind of figured.”
  “Were you keeping tabs on me?” I asked.
  He walked. I followed. We strayed from the main road, creeping underneath clothes line hanging with the wet red rags. As if carcasses or torn ribs and giblet pieces, dripping over me, wetting my face as I parted them. Sylas appearing and disappearing in the hustle of clothes. Incense came out from beneath me, I checked and saw colored glass through a small basement window. A woman stripped from with in, undressing her top and loosening her waist piece.
  Sylas skipped. I brought my eyes back up and followed. 
  “I’ll ask again. Were you spying on us?” I asked.
  “I was just making sure you didn’t die.” He said.
  “Is that what you do?” I asked. “You keep tabs? Never willing to be the captain you were tasked to be?”
  “I’m not good at leadership.” He said. 
  “You aren’t good at people either, that’s for damn sure.” I said.
  “Nah. Not good at all, that’s more Vicentius’ style. Isn’t it? The kissing up and the buttering.” Sylas said. 
  “He is our commander. We have followed him for years now. We will follow him for years to come.” I said. “His dream is our dream.”
  “Is it?”
  Monuments stood erect around us, marbled statues cast from large boulders. A man with a cycle slitting an oxens through, the blood forming a crack through the giant boulder. The monument itself sitting in a flat bed of garden. Dry grass. A few olive trees. Somewhere here in the upper caste. A woman wandered out to her rooftop, watering her garden late into the night. The sound of our silence so much so that we heard the trickle down the side of the walls, down to the floor where it disappeared into a large pool.
  “Vicentius Volarus will be king again. And he will deliver us all to glory.” I said. “The Volarus banner will rise again at the heart of Xyra and-”
  “Don’t give me your play, thespian. Give me your answer. What is your dream? At least when you were a dunce chasing after a boat you had some soul left in you.”
  “That was a very long time ago, and things have changed far too much.” I said. “Childhood dreams of a faraway land are unsuitable now. You know that. You yourself were the one who taught me that.”
  “The point isn’t-” Sylas threw his arms down. Scarred, white haired, bronze arms. Mettled arms, patches of skin discolored. Spotted. The skin wrinkled and flabby against his muscles. Veins enlarged at his hands. “I’m glad you ended up being more than another stone on the road. I really am.”
  “But there’s a but, isn’t there? Always is with you.”
  “There’s a little village…perhaps…a temple more so, back in my homeland. I’d like it if you went there. To train. Really train, not in a way the Flock could show you.”
  “Train what?” I asked.
  “Train you to windwalk. Train you to be better than me, than anyone. To make something of yourself.” He said. “Youngblood, I don’t want you to be in Vicentius’ shadow. It’s all consuming. You should go off and get stronger. And more importantly, figure out what you want to fight for.”
  “I know what to fight for.” I said. “I know his dreams. I know what it’ll take.”
  “But you don’t.” Sylas said. “You don’t know how far Vicentius is really willing to go. I’ve known that child since the first year he started, I’ve known it all this time what that silver devil is willing to do.”
  “I know too. He’s going to all manners of hell and I will be there, by his side.”
  Sylas shook his head, from underneath his little green coat he popped his flask out and drank. Lips trembling.
  “I fought for the worst people possible. I don’t want you making the same mistake.” He said. 
  “Are you going to stop me?” I asked. “If Vicentius wants me to trek the desert and kill his foes, will you stop me?”
  “No. No, I won’t.”
  “Good.”
  I brushed him, butting my own shoulder with his. He stood behind me, shaking his head and drinking. Drinking and pretending he knew a damn thing about how I felt.