The atmosphere within their small group had changed. The tension that had hung in the air previously dissipated, giving way to a strange feeling.
Joy and happiness warmed inside Thomas. The memories of that moment, of Anastas's arms and his words, warmed the youth better than any cloak. He tried not to betray his state. But a light, barely noticeable smile touched his lips time and again, and a glow appeared in his amber eyes, which only recently had been full of anxiety and fatigue. Thomas hid this joy inside himself like a jewel, afraid of destroying the fragile thing that was burgeoning between them.
Anastas, riding to his right, had also changed. He stopped tormenting himself with endless doubts, stopped building walls and fighting his own heart. Anastas began to accept the truth, no matter how difficult it was, and this acceptance brought him long-awaited relief.
Eist, on the contrary, kept silent the entire way. The mercenary, who usually filled the boredom of the road with his commentary, tall tales, or jokes, retreated into himself this time and became thoughtful. He rode with his hat pulled low over his forehead and his chin tucked deep into the collar of his jacket. No one knew what he was thinking.
On this foggy morning, each of the three had his own mood, known only to himself.
By noon, the wild, desolate wastelands gradually began to recede. Neat stone fences, pastures, and low, squat houses with time-darkened roofs, from the chimneys of which curled blue smoke, began to appear on the horizon.
They increasingly encountered travelers coming the other way: peasants driving small flocks of sheep, sullen merchants on heavily laden carts, lone riders wrapping themselves in thick woolen plaids.
The road widened so that all three now rode in a single line.
As they approached a large settlement, the road became increasingly crowded. Along the road were carts and merchants scurrying back and forth. The hum of voices, the creak of wheels, and the barking of dogs merged into a noise that was unusual after the long silence. They dismounted and stopped by the side of the road, letting a bulky hay wagon pass. And here, in the shade of a sprawling old tree, sat a woman.
She wore shapeless rags, faded by the sun, and gray, tangled hair hid half her face. Before her, on a piece of coarse burlap, lay some dried herbs, small bones, and smooth river stones.
Thomas, passing by, accidentally brushed her laid-out herbs with the edge of his cloak. The youth immediately stopped.
"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, bending down to fix everything.
The woman slowly raised her head. Her eyes dug into Thomas's face. A dry, knotty hand suddenly shot forward and grabbed the youth's wrist.
Thomas flinched in surprise but did not pull his hand away.
"Let him go," she told Thomas.
"I'm sorry, what?" he clarified.
Anastas was instantly by his side. The woman shifted her gaze to him. A strange smile appeared on her lips.
"The dead king has lost his way," her creaky voice cut through the noise of the market street, making him freeze in his tracks. Anastas turned pale.
"Don't listen to her, noble sirs!" came a loud, dismissive voice from the side.
A heavy-set man in a blacksmith's leather apron, passing by with an armful of iron staples, stopped and waved his hand dismissively at the old woman.
"She's a fraud. Sits here all day, talks nonsense, scares honest people. Throw her a copper and go on your way, she'll leave you alone."
The blacksmith moved on, blending into the crowd. But none of the three even looked after him.
Eist, who had been hanging back slightly until this moment, stepped closer.
"Speak," Anastas ordered curtly, keeping a close gaze on the woman.
The old woman kept her eyes on Thomas, paying no attention to Anastas's words.
"You will not be happy, boy," she said. "Such is your fate. There is no place for you in a heart."
Thomas shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. He tried to smile, though the smile came out weak and strained.
"I prefer to hope for the best, madam," Thomas said.
"It is not yours. You cannot go against fate. No matter how many times you try, no matter how lives and circumstances change, the outcome is predetermined. Your hope is merely a reprieve before the inevitable."
The smile completely faded from Thomas's face. His shoulders slumped, and sadness flashed in his amber eyes. The old woman's words struck his most painful spot—his fragile belief that after all the nightmares, something bright awaited them ahead.
"Enough of this nonsense," Anastas threw out. "Let's go, Thomas. We have nothing to listen to here."
He turned around, but didn't manage to take even two steps.
"He is not here," the old woman threw at his back.
Anastas froze mid-step. His back tensed. The man slowly turned around.
"What did you say?" Anastas asked, and his voice, despite all his efforts, trembled. "What do you mean?"
The old woman raised her head.
"You search in vain, dead king," she answered evenly. "The one you so desperately crave to find, the one you cling to in your dreams, cannot be found. Because HE is not here."
All those hopes he had allowed himself to nurture there, by the campfire, all that sudden belief that Athit's soul was hiding in Thomas, collapsed in a single moment.
He is not here.
This meant that Thomas was just Thomas. Or, even more terrifyingly, that Athit's soul had perished forever in the flow of time, and Anastas was doomed to eternal, fruitless loneliness among people.
Eist had been standing slightly to the side all this time, holding his horse's reins. He silently watched what was happening, and his face remained impenetrable.
Suddenly, the old woman slowly turned her head. She stared at him.
Eist met her gaze.
They remained silent.
Around them, the road buzzed, carts creaked, merchants swore, but in the shade of the oak tree, time stopped.
Eist was the first to break this silent duel. Not a single muscle twitched on his lips.
"Let's go," the mercenary said.
He stepped forward, took Thomas's horse by the bridle, and with his free hand resolutely pulled the shocked Anastas by the sleeve, snapping them out of their stupor. Eist confidently led them through the crowd, leading them away and leaving the unspoken mystery behind.
They had ridden quite a distance, but a heavy silence continued to hang over them, like an invisible shroud. Reason dictated that it was absurd—to blindly believe the incoherent mumblings of an old street woman. It was foolish to let a chance encounter destroy this fragile, newly found peace that they had found in each other.
But the atmosphere had irrevocably changed.
"Don't mind her words, Tom," Anastas said. "The blacksmith was right. She's just a local madwoman who's lost her mind. Throws around loud phrases to scare gullible travelers and swindle coins. Our fate belongs only to us."
Thomas slowly turned his head. A faint, grateful half-smile appeared on his pale face.
"Thank you, Stas," the youth replied quietly. "I know. It's just..."
He turned back to the road, and Anastas did not press, knowing that any further persuasion would sound false.
False, because deep down, he was lying.
He was convincing Thomas that the supernatural did not exist, while he himself was living proof to the contrary. Anastas knew that such things very much did exist. He knew that the laws of the universe were much broader and more terrifying than the human mind was ready to admit. He himself had already died twice. And if the transmigration of souls was a reality, then why couldn't the words of this old witch also be real?
He is not here.
That phrase, thrown at his back, was now pounding in his temples. It poisoned his blood, sending toxic roots into the darkest corners of his mind.
Anastas had almost arrived at the long-awaited answer. He had been almost certain that Athit's soul, having been reborn, had found refuge in the body of his best friend. Thomas felt their connection, he was near, he was becoming the meaning of this new life. But the old woman's words sowed the seed of doubt so deeply that the entire picture of the world he had built began to crack.
If Thomas is not Athit, then who is he? Why had fate thrown them together? And if Athit is not here... does that mean Anastas is doomed?
The man tightened his grip on the reins. No matter how hard he tried to keep his composure, no matter how he tried to pretend that nothing had happened, the treacherous thoughts had settled too tenaciously in his mind. Anxiety swallowed him whole, blinding and deafening him.