Scorchmarks: Sins of a Sootmaker

By Dallas Woodward

**NOTE: 100% of this work's profits will go to charity!**

 

There is no future on Olbercuse.  Time swings back and forth on its eternal course, while men and nations die only to be born again.  A thousand gods stake their claims to humanity's highly transient souls, and deities too mad to be loved are hidden away to plot revenge in damp prisons.  Kethlin has been trapped in this cycle for centuries, only vaguely aware of her previous lives, when a wrong word spoken in the wrong ear at the moment of death lands her the worst gift of all: a memory.  To know your previous self is to invite paradox, and paradoxes will not be tolerated.  

Enter Derrin, a Student of Soot.  He promises an escape from Kethlin's curse, though in reality he aims to use her to seek out an audience with the god who has snubbed him his whole life.  Following Derrin are his former friends, now his hunters, seeking vengeance for past wrongs and death for the walking paradox in his care.  At the same time, a holy war has erupted in the underbelly of Wellborn, squalid capital of distant Dunyana… and Kethlin's fated destination.  Along the way, she wrestles constantly with the power of her gift, leaving a trail of destruction that draws the attention of enemies and allies alike.  Almost as deadly are the motivations of the madmen and suicidal immortals she must enlist to survive the hostile nations and scheming gods aligned against her: a reminder that desperate times call for even more desperate friends.

And in the deepest jungles, word stirs among the trees.  Finish what was started.  Let us be kindling for the true end of the world… 

 

***

Complete at 265,000 words, Scorchmarks is an epic fantasy adventure in the vein of Sanderson and Jordan.  It is set on a world where time has broken free of its axis and doomed humans and gods alike to life without past or future.  On this strange pendulum, there are no heroes.  Its actors are devoid of selflessness, their alliances built of convenience and mutual desire and held together by truths they don't dare share.  Yet for a young woman with the threat of an axe looming over her neck, these imperfect humans are the only hope she has of thwarting a destiny she never wanted.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dallas Woodward
• Release date: Aug 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393750758

Book preview

Scorchmarks: Sins of the Sootmaker

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Maps

Prologue - A Boy and His Corpse

Part 1 - Smoke Signals

Chapter 1 - The Cinder-Shrine

Chapter 2 - A Student of Soot

Chapter 3 - Burning Passions

Chapter 4 - The Stone, the Torch

Chapter 5 - Forest Girl

Chapter 6 - The Rain and the Road

Chapter 7 - The Language of the Trees

Chapter 8 - Sights of Soot

Interlude - The Council of Always

Part 2 - A Call for Arms and Ashes

Chapter 9 - Plus One

Chapter 10 - The Immortal-by-Chance

Chapter 11 -  Lessons in Time

Chapter 12 - Out of the Jungle

Chapter 13 - The Long Hand

Chapter 14 - The Buyer’s Goods

Chapter 15 - Once the Student

Chapter 16 - Scents of Smoke

Interlude - Clay-Shaper

Part 3 - Through Fire They Fled

Chapter 17 - The Empire That Was

Chapter 18 - Driven

Chapter 19 - The Grand Adventure

Chapter 20 - A Woman of the Law

Chapter 21 - A Girl and Her Corpse

Chapter 22 - Fire in the Foothills

Chapter 23 - The Appointed Task

Chapter 24 - The Lake Country

Chapter 25 - Smoke Over Wellborn

Chapter 26 - Forever Yours

Interlude - The Inheritors of Light

Part 4 - Soldiers of Salt and Soot

Chapter 27 - The Good-Will Mission

Chapter 28 - After the Moon

Chapter 29 - A Hunting Party

Chapter 30 - The Paradox Within

Chapter 31 - Your End of the Deal

Chapter 32 - The City of Birds

Chapter 33 - To Save the World

Chapter 34 - The Armies of the Sane

Chapter 35 - Who You Admire Most

Chapter 36 - Lock and Key

Chapter 37 - Odd Alliances

Interlude - The Old Lord’s Storm

Part Five - Cities onto Cinders

Chapter 38 - A Change in Curriculum

Chapter 39 - New in Town

Chapter 40 - The Tourists

Chapter 41 - Battle Practice

Chapter 42 - In the Thick of Things

Chapter 43 - In Ash They Assembled

Chapter 44 - The Way Forward

Chapter 45 - Sootmaker

Epilogue - The Winding Path

Reader’s Companion - A Guide to People and Places, Terms and Tongues

1. Glossary

2. Languages

3. The Divine

Maps

Prologue - A Boy and His Corpse

It was morning before anyone found the message.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

Five words, scorched straight into the brown soil amid a field of charred grass and still-smoking bodies.  You could see where the skogs had been at the corpses, where the raw red flesh showed through the crispy black skin.  Skogs would eat most anything, but nothing drew them quite like cooked meat. The faces.  Strange, but they always went for the faces first.  Maybe they thought it would make them more expressive, having all those subtle muscles inside of them.

Maybe they just didn’t like the expressions on some of the dead.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

Nester had been sent in to ‘deal’ with the bodies: a vague directive that involved a whole lot of digging and hacking off fingers.  No one had given him the numbers, only that all of them would have to be buried before night fell again.  The scent of human barbeque would attract scavengers from leagues around, and skogs were hardly the worst thing on their trail.

Noisy as all hell though, observed Qi.

"You’re one to talk."

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

Nester didn’t mind his work.  Burial-detail was one of the grimmer duties, and most sane men tended to steer clear.  Better a night on guard duty than a morning spent sawing off fingers (though at this level of crisp they were apt to break off without much of a fight).  Just another reason he found people so hard to explain.  Once you got used to the smell of burnt meat, it wasn’t all that hard to see why the skogs enjoyed it so much.  Human was a hard dish to swallow, but at least they preferred it cooked.  People ate worse in most of the metropoli.

This one was lazy.  Not a lot of muscle, but it’s tender.

Leave that poor wretch alone.  He’s been through enough.

How about this one?  She was a girl, once.  Flat as a washboard, though; you can see how she tricked the physicians into thinking she was a man.

Idiot.

She was very brave, Qi defended.

And now she’s very dead.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

He picked his first body carefully.  Whatever his thoughts on the smell, burial-detail could get awfully depressing sometimes, so he and Qi had a sort of game going.  If Nester could identify a corpse with only three hints, he earned a point.  If he couldn’t, it was Qi’s point.  They only played with the first body, and Nester always got to choose.  It was his handicap.

As of today, he had nine points.  Qi had sixteen.  He was beginning to think he needed a better advantage.

Tell me about this one, he said.

Happy fellow.  Mixed in a little extra pepper with his evening meal.  He died first.

The second platoon sergeant.  Yarnol.

Ooh, tough luck.  This one was a corporal.  That’s seventeen for me, then.

Nester confined his discontent to a low grumble.  It wasn’t worth arguing with Qi, especially not over a corpse.  That was a fight he couldn’t win.

He snapped off the corporal’s ring finger with just a bit more force than necessary to break the bone.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

There’s words over there.  On the ground.  Read them to me.

Read them yourself.

Don’t think I’m not trying.  One of the corpses peeled back an eyelid, black and crispy as goat rinds.  White fluid drizzled down its ruin of a face: the melted remains of what had once been a man’s eyeball.  This one had bad knees.  He complained to his shield-brothers every day, but never said a word to the physicians.  Didn’t trust those Olbermancers one bit.  He thought they would use it as an excuse to get rid of him.

He thought right.  Now leave him alone.

Oh calm down.  He was an ass.  All these bodies thought so.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

He spent the next few minutes harvesting fingers.  He seldom tried identifying any bodies after the first; there was no game there, so why bother?  Qi probably knew their names, though good luck prying a single syllable out of a hecter who didn’t want to share.  Better just to break the joints and leave it to the Olbermancers.  The Kooks, the soldiers called them.  It was less work for him, and Nester was nothing if not lazy.

Awful lot of them today, Qi said.  What are you thinking, two per grave, or three?

You know it’s forbidden for bodies to mingle in the ground.  If their decay runs together, they won’t be able to rise in triumph in the After.

There was a sound like wheezing.  No, wheezing was too human.  Whatever that high-pitched squeal escaping from Qi’s flash-fired lungs, it belonged solely to the dead.

You shouldn’t laugh so much.  It’s bad luck to mock the fallen.

"The fallen?  I’m laughing at you!"

Well.  That was supposedly alright, then.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?   

So one big pit, then, as per the usual?

Of course, ‘less you plan to help me dig.  He surveyed the field, gauging the ground for roots, rocks, or relics.  There’s a good spot.

In the middle of the clearing?  Qi tried to raise his head, only succeeded in breaking his host’s neck.  The snap was barely audible over the solid chunk of Nester’s shovel meeting dirt.  I dunno.  Are you sure you should be touching that?  Those words might be hexed.

What isn’t anymore?

"You’ve got a point.  This poor sap was hexed.  Ate from a tree ordained by some minor god or another, and dealt with the shits every other day for six years.  Not today, though.  Yesterday.  Tomorrow.  You know, if he wasn’t..."

Crispy?

Well that’s just dark. The corpse pried open an eye, only to have it run down his face again.  Shroud me.  They don’t make these things like they used to.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

Nester spent the better part of his Dullsday on the hole.  Mass burials were conspicuously faster than individual graves, but when you were one man burying thirty, the time had a way of getting away from you.  He found a few more bodies as he dug, the flesh fallen away from their bones until it bled into the soil, became one with it.  There had been other battles here, long ago.  At one point he happened upon a time-eaten sword, gave it a few practice swings before tossing it out of the pit.  A holy relic, no doubt, once-bright soulsteel entombed with its wielder.  Those sold well, provided the divine inside was still up for whatever bargain it had struck with the thing’s creator.

The day fled.  By the time he planted his shovel in the upturned dirt and started chucking in corpses, the sun had all but vanished over the nullern horizon.  Nearby, one of the bodies made a sound akin to yawning.  He doubted Qi actually needed sleep, though the hecter was awfully fond of feigning boredom.

You done yet?  I’m attracting flies over here.

Would you like to be the first one in the hole?

I’m fine here, thanks.  Attend to your business.

One by one the corpses fell into the pit, forming a small hill in its center.  Some were crisped to the point where they split on impact, spilling red insides onto the dirt.  The words were gone, but they still rang in his head.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

So who do you think left the message? asked Qi.

Beats me.  Someone who fancied they were important, I bet.

So... a god.

Probably.  Might have been a human, though.  We can be just as full of ourselves when the mood strikes us.

"No argument here.  This one thought he was Kormorion Reborn.  I can see wanting to be divine, but why the bull?  No tact at all."

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

Nester threw the penultimate corpse into the grave, before turning his attention on the body Qi was currently possessing.  He took the man by both arms and commenced dragging.  Distracted by his contemplation of the gods, it took the hecter a moment to realize he was moving.

What are you doing?

I’m burying you.

A dead sigh from dead lips.  Please don’t.

Sorry.  Have to bury every last one.  Those are the orders.  Can’t do anything about orders.

... this is because I got another point, isn’t it.

How shallow do you think I am?

About as shallow as that grave...

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

Qi’s arms tore as Nester threw him.  He switched to another corpse even as his old one rained down on the contents of the pit, managed to wave at his entomber.

Come oooon.  I’ll give you four guesses next time.  Five.

Nester said nothing.  Instead, he started distributing dirt.  The first shovel-full came down on the hecter’s head, leaving him spitting for air.

"You’re being very childish about this."

Sorry, he said.  No idea what you’re going on about.  I’m just a man with a shovel.

Six guesses!  I’ll even give you the first letter of his name!

Nester said nothing.  He’d never been much for small-talk, to be perfectly honest.  The sun finally slipped out of view, and crisp night ruled in its absence.  By the time the astral orb struggled back into the sky, there would be little to remark in the burned field but a wide swath of freshly turned dirt.  The charred grass would linger for a few months, but the new growth would eventually push through.  The grave would be no different.  In time, all would vanish.

But Nester wouldn’t be around for all that.  His work done, he was already headed back to camp.  It had been a good morning.  No skogs had tried to take a bite out of him, and he’d even popped off a few rings along with his pocketful of fingers.  Not a bad haul for a Dullsday.  The sword only added to the plunder.

You’ll remember me, won’t you?

It was morning before anyone found the message.  As it was, the only man to read it wasn’t terribly interested in what it had to say.

Part 1 - Smoke Signals

Chapter 1 - The Cinder-Shrine

The Traitor’s Bargain.  My grandfather called it that, when I was young.  My mother scolded him, bid me to pay the old fool no attention.  He’d been a great man once, but that had all been long ago.  His stories were all he had left.

But I remembered, and my curiosity was stronger than my sense.  So when night fell, and my mother slept, I crept into the cool dark of my grandfather’s room with a single candle, and there I asked him for the truth of things.

I would do the same for you.

In the beginning, there was darkness.  The divine dwelt in this darkness, and built their domains with eyes that did not see.  One of these gods was Orijini.  The First-Mother.  The Clay-Shaper.  She sought to make life in the dark: the first to try, my grandfather said.  But her creations were blind, their minds raving and without reason.  They scratched and shrieked, and gnawed at their own hides like beasts given to madness in the field.  Orijini was distraught.  They say her frustrated tears made the oceans, but that is a legend for the Wayfarers.

Desteri was another divine.  Not so strong as Orijini, but he had a secret: something he had kept hidden from his fellow deities since time was a concept scarcely understood.  The Illuminating Flame, my grandfather called it.  Light.  Life.  Desteri saw Orijini in grief, and in his compassion for her, he showed her the flame.

You desire a world like no other, he said. Use this, and it can be yours.

And what will you take in exchange? she asked, for the divine were the first to realize that things seldom came freely.

The flame is beauty.  Let your people praise it, and I will be satisfied.

So was the agreement made, its tenets set down by the gods and observed by the mad residents of that first world.  No man living or dead could possibly claim knowledge of their long conference, only that when it ended, a newborn sun shone down from a vivacious blue sky for the first time in history.

The Traitor’s Bargain had been struck.

Some thousands of years passed.  The sentient races matured and multiplied across the surface of the world, only sometimes inconvenienced by wars or the attentions of the dark creatures that had come to dwell upon the land before them.  It was then that Hacemos was born: that great general of men who in ten years cleansed Melber of the Scourage and established a home for humanity among the waves.  It was then that Amara lived, and spun the Great Web whose strands bind all heroes.  Many great things were built in those days.  Many beautiful things.  That was the First Age.  An Age lit by Desteri’s sun.  An Age worthy of the name.

It was also during that time that the first great migration of divine flocked to the world, drawn by the people and their endless prayers.  For while gods have power, they desire prayers like an addict craves the bark of the world-expanding iriswood.  Many forms of devotion were observed, each suited to the niche of a particular divine.  The Rain Worshippers.  The Wayward Church.  The Cults of the Sand-Bearers and the Barber-Surgeons.  But while Orijini and Desteri had been the first gods to grace the world, the Sun-Father’s followers were never many.  His Flame had given the world light and life, but it was not a thing easily loved.  For while fire was warmth, it was also pain, and violence.  How could one love fire, when it heated the home one day and consumed it in orange flames the next?  Fire, they thought, was a passionate, destructive thing, full of fickle wants and hatreds, its worship best left to lustful lunatics and savages.  Better to save their prayers for more appealing deities.

Desteri saw this, and was angry.  He had given up the Flame to Orijini, the greatest of his treasures, and all he asked was that it be loved.  But the people did not praise his fire.  Rather, they feared it, and prayed to other gods to keep it contained.  Puala, Maiden of the Hearth.  T’a, who brings rain to the croplands and saves farmers from disaster.  Slowly, these upstarts grew strong on the power of prayers, while always Desteri grew weaker.

It was with a heavy heart, then, that the Sun-Father realized what he must do.

The people disdain the Flame I gave them.  So I shall take it back, and let them try their hand at the dark once more.

So Desteri ascended the Thousandfold Stairs to the Serene Vault, where the sun dwelt with all the frosty white stars in the sky.  But word of his vengeful mission preceded him, and it was there that he found himself opposed by a legion of divine.  Puala was there, and Coh Whose Shadow Masks Mountains, and many other gods and their faithful angels.  Their ranks bristled with spears, and the fiery swords that were favored by the gods in those primitive days.

Do not interfere, Desteri told them, his voice lined by anger and the irritation that the old feel for the presumptuous youth.  This deal was struck by Orijini and I many years ago.  She has neglected her duties to me, and now I must wrest back what is mine.

You’ll go through us first, then, Puala told him, brandishing the poker that is her emblem.  The Clay-Shaper knows your designs; she bid us to wait here, should you come seeking to undo what we have built.

Is this treachery, then?

Call it mercy, said Jol, who is god of torches and the way forward.  A quick end for an old fool who doesn’t realize his light has burned out.

There was a battle, then, in that lofty vault of lights.  Scribes seldom write of it; many do not know of it.  But my grandfather knew, and he spoke of the terrible thing that is a skirmish among the divine.  The Flame came alive, he said.  It flared in its hearths, and in the lamps of the miners, and the bellies of the drakons.  Many were consumed, and there was chaos across all the great lands of the world.  But only for a time.  Desteri had been strong, once, but his opponents carried the prayers of the world, and he was overwhelmed.  Some say Orijini cried when she stripped the power of Flame from him.  Others claim she laughed: a deep, powerful sound that left storms crashing on pristine shores that had never known any but the gentlest waves.  My grandfather did not know, and could not say.

The Traitor’s Bargain.  A Ballad for Dawn, my mother called it: when Orijini wrested the Flame from whatever unspeakable forces dwell in chaos and brought light to the world.  Such a pretty story.  But it is a lie.  A forgery of the Usurpers, who took Light for themselves and rewrote history to suit their own ends.  They are clever that way.

And should we tolerate their lies? asked my grandfather, his decrepit frame supported by pillows stuffed with musty straw.  Should we allow them to preach their treachery, when there is a greater divine, who knew power when the Usurpers were still scrounging for prayers?

But he’s gone, I yawned, my eyes already feeling the demands of sleep.  You said so yourself.

"Not gone.  Fool of a boy, to think you could kill a god as easily as you might scalp a skog!  No, Desteri lives; you see his power every day.  Have you not glimpsed the ashes in the firepit?  The cinders that glow with conviction even after the meal is cooked and the fire is dead?  That is his power.  His old eyes glowed with a sudden intention.  I couldn’t recall ever seeing him so roused, so ready for action.  Here.  Go to the kitchen and fill a jar with soot from the hearth.  Bring it to me."

I did so.  When I returned, my grandfather sat on the edge of the bed, his greasy nightgown lending no illusions of strength to the body beneath.  He acknowledged my return with a nod.

There’s a good lad.  Now dump it in a pile here, by your grandfather’s feet.

Mother wouldn’t like that, I protested, the journey to the hearth having restored some fraction of my tired wits.  She doesn’t...

Bah! he spat.  In a few years I’ll be dead, and you can listen to that ungrateful daughter of mine until your ears fall off.  Just pour the ash, boy.  I’ll take the fall for it, if that’s what’s got you in such a bloody twist.

I flushed at his words, offended in the way of young boys who think their elders have wronged them with their dismissive words.  Regardless, I poured the jar with a steady hand, careful not to scatter the ash too far lest my mother’s fury grow with the scope of the mess.  It didn’t resemble much: just a mound of greyish-white against the cool dark of the dirt floor, strung through with bits of char.  In the end I only upended half of it before stepping back, half-expecting another scolding.  But my grandfather didn’t seem to notice.  He bent over double, lanky hair enshrouding his face like rotting cords of grey rope.  He took a pinch of soot and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

It’s a poor offering.  Wood of the popple-pine.  Some charred bits from last night’s stew.  But it’ll do.  He looked to me, and the gleam in his eyes was harsh and real.  The bottom drawer.  There’s a knife.  Bring it here.

Wh-why? I asked, and my voice shook.  The prospect of my mother’s anger had frightened me, yes, but now it was true terror that grew in me.  When had the room grown so small, so stifling?  What were these shadows that danced upon the walls, cavorting where they should lie still and silent?  What are you...?

But his eyes killed the words in my throat just as surely as they did my will to resist.  I hurried to the drawer, fumbling a moment with the jar in my haste to obey before depositing it with a hard thump on the floor.  The bottom drawer was packed with clothes, though not the sort I’d ever known my grandfather to wear about the farm.  These clothes had been beautiful once, finer and more colorful than even my mother’s best dress.  Now they stank of squalor and disuse, their splendid fibers crusted with grime.  I rifled through them quickly, my curiosity suppressed by the fervor of the task.  The knife.  Where was the knife?

Hurry, boy!  I can feel him now; he knows what we’re about.

I found the knife.  It was an old, vicious thing, nearly as long as my forearm, its grey-silver steel laced with dark stains.  The tip was all but black.  I might have taken a moment to study it further, but by then my grandfather had already extended his hand, his features impatient.  The blade seemed dull, but I bore it to him gingerly all the same, not about to test its lethality.

My grandfather gripped the hilt with surprising strength.  I made to escape, but he took my hand too, and held me fast with fingers like iron.  He spoke, and there was death on his breath as it bathed my face.

"This knife is old, lad.  Very old.  Left to me when I was just a young man by my uncle, the last true Lord of Kevlen.  Did you know that, lad?"

N-no, grandfather, I said.  I tried to imagine this old, fetid creature as a boy, lost myself amid the creases on his face.

He’s dead now.  Burned alive in his own dining hall by a merchant he cheated in a business deal.  Worthless prick, didn’t leave me a scab.  All they found of him were heat-cracked bones swathed in ashes, this knife still in his grip.  They tried to clean it up a touch, but look here.  You see these stains?  Those are the gullion’s fingerprints, seared clear into the steel.  His hand tightened on mine, pressing my fingers against the metal.  It was strangely warm.  This blade has seen death and fire, and emerged on the other side.  It is consecrated by our Lord.  It is holy.  Do you understand?

I was too terrified to speak.  I nodded instead.  Anything to escape.

It is holy, lad.  Blessed.  He released my hand, but kept the blade close.  We must renew its power.

He slipped from the bed, his gown scrunching about the knees as he crouched on the floor.  My mind screamed for escape, but I was frozen, fascinated by the sight before me.  He held the relic parallel to the dirt, one hand cupping the hilt, the other supporting the blade as if it was a babe’s head.

He spoke, and it was not to me that he directed his words.

Desteri keeps no temples.  What few were built during the First Age were dismantled in the Second, their ruins long forgotten by the Third.  But we remember.  The Children of Cinder remember our Lord of Soot, and keep his shrines holy.

He spun the knife around so that he gripped its hilt with both hands, the blade directed downwards.  The breath seized in my throat.  It seemed as if he would plunge it into his emaciated belly, and end his eighty years of life then and there.

Still I did not run.  I stared instead.

A sword, he continued, plunged point-first into a bed of ash chosen by the faithful.  The weapon itself is unimportant; a spear will do, this dagger will suffice.  Only the soot is important.  The soot is his domain.  The sword, the means of his return.

He struck downwards, burying the knife halfway to its hilt into the ash and the foot-packed dirt beneath.  Perhaps it was a trick of my eyes and the shifting light of the lone candle, but I could have sworn he changed then.  His old, sickly form grew full again; his long hair receded and grew black, revealing a face lined not with age, but power.  He spoke again, and there was new strength in his words.

We do not tolerate the liars, or the cheats, and above all we do not tolerate the Usurpers of Light, who laid our Lord low with their treachery.  We entreat our Lord for his strength, so that we may punish those who wrong us.  We entreat our Lord for his strength, and in return, we give our lives to the cause of his return.

There was a light.  A glow.  Not from the candle; no, the candle was long dead, its tiny wick smoking and filling the room with its bitter scent.  It was the ash.  The soot, dormant in the hearth just minutes ago, glowed with new life now, hinting at some deeper heat.  It bathed my grandfather’s new form in red light, highlighting muscles that had gone to rot decades ago.  It was a new man who knelt before the cinders now, young and strong.  A man I had never known.

He said: I have served faithfully, Lord.  A life given to your service, and not a moment of it lived in regret.  But I am old now, and my body refuses us both.  I daresay it will be yours in ash soon enough.

All this time his gaze had been fixed on the knife.  He looked up then, seized me with his eyes.  What light they had!  And what a fool I was, not to have run when I had the chance!

I cannot serve you anymore, Lord.  But the boy is young, and he knows the truth of things.  Make him your ward, and let him escape this squalor.

My hands itched suddenly, shocking me to my senses.  There was ash smeared across my palms and the pads of my fingers, slick as grease and dark as blood in the queer light of the cinder-shrine.  Fresh terror inflamed my mind, and in my panic I sought to scour my skin clean on the rough fabric of my shirt.  The soot left thick streaks across my front, but to my horror, it still clung to my hands, black and defiant.

G-grandfather! I cried. Grandfather, help me!

I looked to him for aid, but he had changed again.  Gone was the youthful creature of just moments ago; it was a corpse who knelt before the dagger now, his flesh black and crackling like a log that had rested too long on the fire.  He laughed, and his insides were red and raw.

He sees it, Lord.  The lad can see!

The Traitor’s Bargain.  My grandfather called it that, when I was young.

Chapter 2 - A Student of Soot

Honestly.  What a strange thing to remember at a time like this.  I supposed it was one of the divines’ grand jokes.  They were horribly fond of significance.

The pit was crowded.  I lay face-up among the bones and the bog of the mud, considering the sky through a steel grate many lengths above.  Judging from the light through the canopy, it was a cloudy day.  I had known my fair share.  I tried to rise, but my strength would not respond to my summons.  My arm was broken.  In my opposite hand I still gripped the hilt of my falchion, steel shattered in the final confrontation.

I had hoped to use it to defeat the guards.  Now it was scarcely loot worth taking.

Heeeey!  Derrin!  You hear me?!

I closed my eyes.  That would be the Courier of Barbs, then, come to magic my soul out of my current form and into a more ‘spiritual’ garb.  I had not intended to die this way.  In this pit, my insides ruptured and my bones splintered, lost amid the corpses of some former era.  I’d always thought I would go down in the field, skewered on some enemy sword.  That failing, a soft bed and some silk pillows might have sufficed.  Fanciful thoughts.

A skittering sound, close at hand.  A ferrat maybe, or some breed of enormous jungle centipede, come to investigate the intruder’s presence.  Somehow, I didn’t think I would convince it to read me any last rites.  My despair over dying had all but passed, my mundane fears given over to plights of the transient soul.  Who would build my pyre now?  Who would see me safely into the ash?  I would have cried, if I wasn’t also dying of thirst.

Stars, would you look at all that?  Where’d they get so many pits?

Villagers must have dug them.  Mass graves.  Plague was through here only twenty years ago, remember?

Talk about spooked.  You try that cluster.  I got this one.

That was two voices.  Not the Courier, then; he always travelled alone, or in the company of demons who could not speak.  I slipped an eye open, took in my surroundings.  Still in the hole.  Still curiously alive.  The mud was cool against my back, inviting, but I resisted the urge to sleep.  I suspected I would never wake up.

Over here.  It was a weak call, but all I could manage.  Help me...

Find anything?

Got someone over here.  Dead, though.  You don’t think we’re too late...?  A head appeared between me and the sky.  It made to withdraw, jerked as if startled.  Whoa!  Got him!  Chian, I got him!

Is he alive?!

Slowly, mustering the last of my strength, I raised my sword arm, pointed the broken blade at the ceiling of steel bars.  My graverobber laughed.

Yeah!  Still got some fight in him, too!

~~~

A battlefield.  That was all that remained of Old Mother Maim’s camp.  The tents among the trees were broken and bloodstained, some already given over to the love of torches.  Their inhabitants lay scattered about the communal fires where only a day ago the raiders had conspired the deaths of hundreds along the nullern Zukari border, patchwork armor shattered and bloody, weapons discarded among the jungle undergrowth.  I had heard the fighting, had taken it for something I’d dreamed in my feverish state.  A totem pole dressed with animal skulls ground the scene firmly in the territory of dreams.

Stars, Derrin, we figured you were meat in the pot by now.  Lom was the one to lift me out of the pit.  He wasn’t especially ‘gentle’ about it, but I was too exhausted to begrudge him his rough handling.  There were streaks of offal on his armor.  What happened to you?  Have you seen Kaleen?  Yal'wei?  Were you the one who...?

Would you stop asking him so many damn questions?  Chian knelt next to me, laid a hand across my forehead.  She swore an oath to the Clay-Shaper beneath her breath.  She’d promised to stop doing that.  You’re burning up.  Your kit.  Do you still have it?

No... lost it.  I winced.  The words were sharp as knives in my dry throat.  Mother Maim.  Took it somewhere.  Broke my sword.

Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll find it, Lom promised.  Get you back up and slinging in no time.

Don’t... need it.  Soot.  I raised a trembling finger, tried to indicate one of the nearby cookfires.  It was all but extinguished now.  Take me.  There.

What?  You’re hungry?

Chian made a sound of discovery.  I could always count on our Accumancer to read my thoughts.  Of course!  Lom, quick, help me move him.  Grab his arm.  I hissed in sudden pain.  "Not that arm, you fungus-eater.  Gently now.  Gently..."

They hoisted me between them like a fresh corpse, carried me to the edge of the fire.  There were other bodies there already.  I motioned they should prop me up, wound up in Lom’s lap.  Not my first choice.  I ignored my disappointment, took up the broken falchion.

Desteri keeps no temples.  It had been years since my grandfather first taught me the words of the consecration spell.  My vision was growing dim; I forwent the official sermon for the short version.  What few were built were dismantled, their ruins forgotten.  But the Children of Cinder remember.

I slid the shattered blade into the ashbed.  It wasn’t nearly straight, like it was meant to be, but I supposed the Lord of Soot wouldn’t mind.  Immediately the coals began changing color, growing to a warm applebara-red.  The heat felt marvelous after the cool of the pit.

With this sword, let this shrine be made holy.  With this prayer, let this covenant be made sacred.  I entreat my Lord for his strength, so I might punish those who wrong me.  I entreat my Lord for his strength, and in return, give my life to his cause.

The cinders glowed a dull orange.  Better than I expected, given the poor offering.  I unhanded the sword, dug my working hand through the soot until it was coated with the stuff.  Chian rolled up my other sleeve, exposing the break to the afternoon air.  Ah, that was bone, wasn’t it.  Lom made a face.

Ooh.  Bad one there, Derrin.  You think this’ll fix it?

Ye of little faith, I chastised.  I drew a breath to steel my nerves, slapped my soot-laden hand on top of the wound.  It was not painless.  No, it hurt quite a damn bit, same as always.  I fought the urge to vomit up what little sustenance I had, smeared the mix of wood pulp and charred meat into my flesh until I felt it grow warm.  The rest I applied to my ribs, and the crack on my head where I had struck the wall of the pit during my descent.  The wounds wouldn’t heal immediately, but the pain was already fading into memory, leaving a pleasant burn that would last for several days as the magic did its work.  By then there’d be nothing left but scar tissue.

"You know, we could get you a real healer, Chian noticed.  There’s bound to be a Tempormancer left in town."

We’ve talked about this.  I don’t need some Drip shuttling me back a few months.  It’ll heal up fine on its own, and we won’t be out two stings and a leg.  I took up another palmful of ash, looked to the others.  Anyone else?

Chian smiled, politely turned me down.  Lom noted he might be bleeding.  We peeled the mercenary out of his chainmail, found the spot where the arrowhead had broken off in his right pectoral.  I rubbed it down, said some unnecessary holy words.  Ever observant, Chian noted his left gauntlet was down three fingers, which was two more than last time.  Lom managed a weak laugh.

Must have been that big guy.  The one with the warpick.  Explains why I was getting so light-headed there at the end.

You’re impossible.  I would have helped, if you’d said something.

You had your hands full with those little gullions.  Don’t need those two anyway.

Warpick.  I stuffed another fistful of warm ash into my pocket, paused.  Hold up.  You mean Mother Maim?  Did you kill her?

Hope so.  Sheared her right down the middle.  Lom made a chopping motion with his right hand.  It’ll take more than an Olbermancer and some fancy science to stitch her up this time, that’s for sure.

We should burn her, I said.  Make extra sure.

Once we’ve rested up, Chian returned.  "First you tell us what happened to the others.  And how you wound up in that pit."

That, I conceded, was only fair.  We had been seven when our ship departed Harabi five months ago, bound aleph to the port of Zetzeli, where it was rumored a certain sinking island would soon put in an unexpected appearance.  To call our little gang a ‘marriage of convenience’ would have been an understatement.  We were still exchanging names as we left the Well.  We’d arrived in a fervor, thinking we might seize the isle’s innumerable treasures before the pirates or the Celians got to it first, only to be disappointed when we discovered it had already surfaced and, after eating its fill of the locals, submerged again.  We were only five when we returned, but we had bonded on the journey home, and swore we would never leave each others’ sides, no matter the trials.

Five.  Now three.  We hadn’t even made it to the border.

D-dead?  Both of them?

It was a grim nod.  Maim was wise to our ambush.  You remember the farmhouse?  She hemmed us in, hit us with bodies until my satchel ran dry and Kaleen was whittling arrows from the furniture.  Yal'wei made a run for it, thought he could get back to town, but he couldn’t break the encirclement.  Killed half of them when his soulsteel spear exploded.  Maim got me and Kaleen, brought us back here for questioning.  Kaleen she killed quick.  Said she needed the organs.  I guess there wasn’t any part of me she liked, so I got pitched in the hole to rot.

Shroud...

Lom showed his grief a bit differently.  The farmhouse?  You were supposed to move out of there once... stars save you, man, how long were you down there?

Uh...  I rounded my attention on the sun, scarcely visible through the clouds and the dense green of the treetops.  It was falling nullwards now.  "Three days?  Four?  I blacked out for a bit, couldn’t tell which way time was moving.

On a semi-related note... you got anything to eat?

They did.  A loaf of hard bread, and a pigeon Lom had taken down with his sling the day before and worn on his hip for luck during the battle.  Chian scrounged some cheese and lard from a raider’s tent, some mushrooms from the lip of one of the pits.  I got the fire back up and roaring, threw most of the lot down on a dead man’s breastplate and shoved it deep into the coals.

While it cooked: So what happened to those reinforcements you went for?  Marquess wouldn’t give them to you?

Wasn’t a marquess when we got there, Lom explained.  Onis Suede went and threw a hissy while we were away; it was her father in charge, and he was all worked up over this war with Idun out counterways.  Wouldn’t give us so much as a lancer.

Guess we’re not getting that fat purse she promised either, I noticed.

... yeah.  Guess not.  He poked at the bird with a stick, turned it over.  The one side was already brown.  Village chief gave us a few men.  Lost half on the approach through the jungle, and the rest ran off once the arrows started flying, buncha frog-lickers.  You can help us collect the dead ones’ fingers before we move out.  Least we can do is tell their families they died brave.

Looking forward to it.  I glanced at Chian, back to Lom.  I cleared my throat.  So... where do we go from here?  Maim’s dead, but without the reward...

We’re stuck, Lom finished.  He crossed his arms, glowered at the would-be meal.  "No way through but back the way we came, and no prospects there, neither."

Chian nodded, hugged her knees a little tighter.  The Prod hadn’t said a word in many minutes, her attention lost on the specter of something beyond the fire.  Our resident pugnateer observed as much.

Well.  Guess we should put it to a vote then.  Who’s in charge?

"Scorch, man, not now."

What?  He seemed offended.  That was the plan.  Kill Maim, then pick a new leader.  I mean, I was gonna vote for Kaleen again, but... well, it’s something we have to do, right?  It was in the charter.  The one we all signed.

Chian nodded numbly.  He’s right.  We agreed we’d decide.

But what’s the point? I asked.  There’s only the three of us.

... okay.  Derrin’s out.  You and me, Chian.  How you wanna do it?

Huh?  Hold up, I didn’t say I was...

Derrin’s out, the Accumancer agreed.  She lowered her knees, took on that prim, untouchable look she often wore.  To Lom: "I won’t lie to you.  I’m very against you choosing our next job."

Yeah?  Why’s that?

"Do I have to say it?  That fiasco at the Wayfarer’s Church null of Zoy?  You said we should stay and help."

And we single-handedly saved all those monks, he defended.

And what did those holy rollers pay us for it?  Nothing but a place to spend the night and a promise they might work us into the Great Web.

"If I recall correctly, you enjoyed that bed."

"We spent the whole day killing rogue hecters.  I had juices on me. I would’ve fallen asleep in a pit of barbed wire and caltraps if there was a pillow in it."

And just think of those poor priests who had to wash your stink out of the sheets the next morning...

They argued a bit more.  I imagined it was simply what healthy adults did, when their friends were dead and their prospects were up in smoke.  I took up mastery of the fire in their absence, amused myself by stirring up the coals.  The pigeon was coming along nicely.  I wondered how much of a char I could get on the meat without anyone noticing...

Hold up.  Derrin’s ruining the food again.

... I was not.

Sure you were, Chian accused.  "You were going to burn it again.  You always burn it."

It tastes better burnt.

And I’m sure you think so.  That was putting it lightly.  She was a Prod after all, and all Prods could read minds as a matter of principle; it was one of the first things they learned at the Mnenotarium in Moot Kasun.  That she had promised to leave mine alone brought little comfort.  "For the rest of us, though, we like being able to chew our food."

I’ll give it to her on this one, Derrin, Lom agreed.  You were reborn into this world with a mission.  Cooking was... not part of it.

Well that’s all a matter of...

There was an explosion of movement and sound from the fire.  The pigeon thrashed, screamed, nearly upsetting the breastplate as it sought escape from the heat.  Lom called a warning, dove towards the food, but too late.  As suddenly as it had come alive, it vanished, leaving only a few charred feathers bobbing on the updrafts of smoke.  Even in death, the thing had retained a sliver of its capacity for time travel.

... well would you look at that, I said.  Wasn’t overdone at all.

Lom looked to Chian.  She raised a hand.  All those in favor of keeping Derrin away from the food, say aye.

Aye.

I kept my silence.

Majority rules.  That’s one vote down.  Next we do party leader.  I’ll nominate myself.

Same here, said Lom.  Which means... stars, which means Derrin decides.  Same as last time.

Abstain.

You can’t.  You’re the tie-breaker.

I nominate myself, then.  The bird voted for me too, so I guess I win.  I gave the remaining food a cursory stir, pulled it out of the fire.  "As my first act, I say we eat.  Before anything else comes alive."

It seemed a popular policy.

~~~

I’ll kill you.  I’ll kill you and rip your insides out.  I’ll make a new body out of you, make you...

Yeah, right.  Get a set of arms first, then we’ll talk.

After eating came the looting.  Not my favorite activity, but a necessary one.  We claimed fingers from the dead villagers, stowed them away in a pouch we claimed from one of the tents.  From the raiders we took everything worth having: the spoils of our victory.  Swords, helmets, mail, trinkets.  The better weapons and armor would fetch a few ticks apiece, provided we were willing to lug it back through the many leagues of jungle between us and town.  Lom seemed terribly upset that he couldn’t carry back every last battleaxe, every blood-stained gauntlet and paulder.  I focused on gathering up the smaller treasures: rings and amulets, anything set with a precious stone (or better yet, a shred of zelliphrium).  I kept a special eye open for anything marked with the symbol of a divine, no matter how minor.

Not all were intended for resale.

What are you doing with that?

I’m burning it, I explained, which I felt I did not need to explain, as I was currently crouched by the fire.  I dangled the beaded necklace over the flames.  It bears the mark of Jol Without Fear, patron god of torches and secret saint of arsonists.  A traitor and a Usurper of Light.

Chian shook her head.  It’s also worth two meals and a night in a soft bed.  Can’t you offer your god something else?

"If it was any cheaper, it wouldn’t be worth sacrificing," I protested.

Nearby, Lom was busy tying up a bundle of mismatched swords with a bit of found rope.  He paused in his work, sighed.  Chian, leave him alone.  You know how these religious types are.  If he wasn’t burning one thing, he’d be cutting out tongues and nailing them to trees.

"Saying he isn’t as crazy as he could be is no reason to..."

Derrin, you’re not sacrificing any First-Mother relics, are you?  You promised Kaleen you wouldn’t.

I scowled.  Those Shaper trinkets are a scab a dozen.  Barely worth selling.

Then old Cinder-Drake won’t want them either, right?  He grunted, shouldered his pack of prizes.  Play nice, you two.  And Derrin, don’t burn anything we could get a sting for.  I’m all for ‘freedom of practice’, but a reasonable man has to draw a line.

Another voice: You ignore me at your peril.  I will rise again.  You will all be fuel for my vengeance.  Vessels for my power.

... on a related note.  Chian?  Can’t you... shut that thing up?

The Prod ground her teeth.  You say that like I haven’t tried.

Mother Maim was still alive when it came time to loot her body.  ‘Alive’ being somewhat... ‘subjective’ in scope.  Technically, only her head had any life in it, the necrotic flesh animated by a perverse blend of Olbermancy and godly intervention.  Chian had placed it in a sack for transport, but still the raider insisted on taunting us through her burlap prison.

It was all a bit demoralizing, to be honest. 

We should burn it, I repeated.

"Sure we could.  We could just lose out on all the reward money.  She slapped the sack, earned a grunt from its current resident.  Ten stings from the village chief for the head of the raiders’ warchief.  Fifteen if we bring her back alive to face judgement.  I don’t know where this falls on the spectrum, but I’m hoping for twelve.  We’ll split it easiest that way."

Would have been a hundred if we got it to the marquess before the onisince turned against us.  I grimaced, tossed the necklace onto the fire.  Could have made some quality ash with coin like that.

Later: "Hey!  Get an eye of this beauty!"

It was a chest.  An impressive construct of black iron and striped tiger maple, its sleek veneer sanctified with the markings of Meeson and the Thing What Binds, twin gods of treasure and chains.  I explained the significance of these markings to Lom, told him any effort to open it without the intended key would be an insult to both.  He nodded, stroked his chin with his two-fingered hand.

Right.  Grave insult.

Meaning we might wind up hexed, I added, a bit hastily.

And what if we were hexed already?  Can’t you only have the one?  Size of the soul or something?

"You can get hexed once and live through it.  Any more and you’ll need a divine to intervene on your behalf, convince whoever you pissed off to leave you alone.  I’d offer you mine, but I don’t think you and the Lord of Cinders would really... mesh."

Would I have to eat burnt turpen?

That would be... the least of your problems.

"Jhere wool ve joh vehre to vun."

I told you a sock wouldn’t shut her up.  Chian knelt by the chest, examined the mechanism.  An Olbermancer could open it.  But Derrin’s right; better if we had the key.

You think ol’ skull-in-a-sack would tell us what it is?

More muffled screaming from the bag.  The Accumancer smiled.  Not willingly.

The sun had already set beyond the trees before Chian pried the key’s identity out of Maim’s remaining brain cells.  To hear her describe it, it was something akin to sorting through archives made of oatmeal for the one bit of mashed potato.  I didn’t think that made sense, but then, I wasn’t a College-certified Accumancer, as she kindly reminded me.  As expected, it wasn’t a physical key.  These divine chests seldom had any.  Rather, Meeson was an infamous fan of riddles, apt to imbuing any lock under her protection so it could only be opened by a blend of ingredients as mystical as they were nonsensical.  This one called for a poultice of forest leaves, human skin, and red vinegar, applied to the thing’s lock from null to aleph with the flat side of a knife forged from purest bronze.

No, it might have been downright unbreachable.  The unfortunate consequence of such a lock was that the owners tended to keep all the requisite ingredients close by, in case they needed to... well, open it.  We found the knife on what remained of Maim’s body, the vinegar in the wreckage of her tent (along with a sizable collection of earlobes, which we left alone).  As the spiritual one in the group, I was allotted the honor of assembling the ingredients while the others coaxed some strength back into the fire.

Done.  As fine a slurry as I’ve ever made.

What happens if you did it wrong?

"I didn’t do it wrong."

You got the consistency right?  It’s supposed to be chunky.  Like Dunyanese pea soup.

Soup?  Before you said Celian clam chowder.  Which is it?

I’m... not sure.  I don’t think she’s ever tasted either.  Give it a shot, I guess.

I grumbled about chowder and pea soup under my breath, applied the mixture to the lock as instructed.  I wasn’t entirely sure what would happen if it didn’t work, only that I’d have a hard time explaining to the two deities guarding this chest who my god was and why they shouldn’t swear horrible vengeance against me.

The chest clicked open.

... oh.  There, just like I said.

Which was precisely when it exploded.

The blast picked me up, threw me backwards across the camp.  I might have gone five lengths.  Might have.  I felt the breath explode from my body as I struck the tree, knew the now-familiar crunch of ribs.  I dropped into a patch of ferns, lay still.  There was a taste in the back of my throat like burnt hair.

Somewhere, a cough.  M-Mother save us.  Derrin?  Oh Shroud, Derrin!

Chian was there a few moments later.  She went to turn me onto my back, stopped to clear her lungs.  She smelled like smoke.  Or maybe that was me.  Derrin?  Derrin, where does it hurt?

Ughhhh.

Oh... right.  Heh.  L-Lom!  Lom, Derrin’s alive, but we have to get him to a fire!

Yeah.  One... one sec.  Just gotta... just gotta get me feet under me, is all.

The mercenary stumbled into my line of sight, one hand clasped to his forehead.  A sliver of still-smoldering maple protruded from his scalp, permitting a torrent of blood down one side of his face.  He grabbed me by the ankle at Chian’s instruction, hauled me unceremoniously to the nearest firepit.  She told him to push me deeper.  He planted a foot on my side, rolled me into the ashes.  I bumped to a stop on my stomach, puffed out a breath to avoid drowning.

Thanks...

That was... that was a close one, Chian admitted.  Miracle nobody was hurt. 

Yeah.  Think I might be deaf.  Say something, would you?

"What was that?  A trap?"

Arbala, goddess of tricks and a dabbler in punishments. I groaned, turned my head sideways.  The heat from the coals was soaking through me.  Likes to hide her runes inside chests and on the hinges of doors.  You know.  Where you wouldn’t find them.  Maim must have known.  Thought she could blow us away and build a new body from our spare parts.

Chian still had the sack.  It laughed dryly, its voice muffled by the gag.  Once again, I expressed my desire to burn it.

No way.  We’ll need the money to get you patched up.

I told you, I don’t need a...  My eyes drifted to Lom, saw him shuffling back to the chest.  What was left of it.  ... oh.  Right.  What did we get?  Anything good?

Blown to bits, most of it.  He kicked through a heap of what might have been dispatches between Maim and her lieutenants.  Singed confetti now, beyond even my talents.  Got a knife here, some runes on the blade.  Real shiny.  Must be her soul weapon.  We’ll wanna bundle that with her head.  Aside from that, I’m not...

He cut off.  The pain had faded to a distant ache; in my hubris, I felt the urge to raise my head, wisely turned it down.  What is it?  What did you find?

I... I don’t...

Chian moved to investigate.  I heard a gasp, another mumbled oath to the traitor whose name did not bear repeating.  Curious, I called my question again, got no answer.  I suddenly faced the danger of growing seriously annoyed.  No, by all means, don’t mind me.  I’m not going anywhere.

They were laughing.  It was a desperate sound, full of anguish, but genuine despite its faults.  I did try to rise then, managed to get one arm under me before I collapsed again.  Chian came to check on me, still breathless with laughter.

Derrin!  Derrin, it’s amazing!

"What is?"

It’s... oh, Lom, come show him!  Come show him what you found!

The mercenary had staggered after her.  He grabbed my shoulder, turned me over as gingerly as he could with one hand.  The pain was only mildly excruciating.  He ignored my moans, shoved his bloodied fist towards my face.  My eyes lost focus; when I regained control, I perceived Lom held a butterfly, captured mid-flight in a disk of amber a little smaller than my palm.  It sparkled nicely in the flash of the fire.  I could not make out the color of its wings, though I observed it wore spots: light against dark.

Chian: "It’s a wing, Derrin.  A wing!  We’re rich!  Shroud take the jungle; we can charter a ship to wherever we want!  We could buy the ship!"

I could go home, Lom said.  Better, I could build myself a new place, fill it with trophies.  Maybe open a winery on the side...

So we could.  The world, so forbidding a moment ago, had suddenly opened its doors to us.  Blown them open, really, and me standing in just the wrong place to catch the leading edge. Thoughts of rich meals and soft beds filled my mind, but I had simpler tastes than the others, befitting a man of the tarnished cloth.  I was going to buy the talismans and charms off every yokel within a month’s walk... and build the biggest bonfire the Lord of Cinders had ever seen.

The idea filled me with a warmth to put the fire to shame.

Chapter 3 - Burning Passions

The voice stirred somewhere within the dream.

Let me begin with a few questions.  What is this place, and why is it on fire?

He was warm.  Very warm.  He had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace again, lulled by the flames and the reassuring weight of the fermented breadfruit in his belly.  He often did, when his wife was away to visit her family in town.  What time was it?  He would need to wake soon.  Feed the turpens.

He woke.  He was not in front of the fireplace.  He was in his bed.

His room was on fire.

Told you.  No, you don’t have to apologize.  Time is short, and those flames look impatient.  Better you don’t speak at all.  Conserve your breath.

Panicked, he flung off his covers, scrambled from bed.  The whole nullern wall was nearly consumed.  The fire had baked the wood black, was even now pooling across the floor and ceiling.  The heavy drapes across the room’s one window had become a sheet of fire, blocking any trespass from the outside.  His wife had loved those drapes.  He hadn’t minded them.

Such a fascinating trail of thought.  It seems I judged you rightly.

I already know your name, so it seems right that I introduce myself.  My name is Yos.  What, not exciting enough for you?  Right, I suppose you’re the type of person who makes a habit of getting themselves into