“Well-well… well!” Nestor let out a giggle. “Wasn’t it offensively easy?!”
He clambered over the step-tapered merlons with less than perfect grace. Given the circumstance of a belly-dropping height? Pardonable. Keeping his eyes upward through the sheer terror of falling was feat enough — and if anyone thought otherwise, Nestor held his own opinions in rather higher regard. As high, in fact, as this damned wall.
His next objective awaited past the turret arch. Nestor flicked his wrist, and a spark of fire bloomed on his fingertip. He looked around: the masonry was stout, but strikingly forsaken, choked here and there with green growth spilling from the cracks — all wild weeds and creeping vines. Cautious, even somewhat sneaky, Nestor approached the opposite side of the structure to cast a quick look over the crenellations.
“Sap bloom…” he cursed, squinting into the dark.
The small light he conjured was nowhere near enough to reveal whatever awaited him down below. A heavy sigh slipped from his mouth, and a whisper trailed it. Nestor waved his hand. At his murmur, courses of ashlar stone began pushing out from the wall’s outer face, taking shape — slowly — into crude first steps, made to lead him toward the longed-for ground.
A task of filigree precision: any stone moved too much, and who knew how it might affect the masonry? Nestor gave it a couple of appreciative nods. Absolutely tooting his own horn, he would say it required immense attention and skill to operate so silently and exactly. Twice in one night, he must note, and just as efficient!
One little mistake, and the battlement’s entire blasted section would be destroyed right before the guards’ faces. If that happened — well, it might have been funny at first, but mostly just regrettable later, given how much effort Nestor had put into climbing up without being noticed. And regrettable for the guards as well, he would assume. All the reconstruction — and without magic? Roots and shoots, it might take them weeks!
Pathetic.
Indulging his fantasies, Nestor wondered whether he should, in fact, be careless, intentionally destroying the wall — so that he could fix it later to gain some favor, of course. A curious challenge to his tongue and wit: to seed the very notion of diplomatic talks into provincial brains!
He could already hear himself: “Good Pan, I implore you! Stay your judgment! What stands before you is nothing more than an ill-fated misunderstanding: I am here in earnest goodwill to assist and ease your trouble — not cause it!” — delivered with confidence and benevolence… as if he had no relation whatsoever to the rubble that remained of this poor little battlement.
Nestor snorted at the image.
Would the border patrol be so thankful for his assistance — and stunned, by the way, watching destroyed stones growing back into the battlement — that he might be invited to share some tea and sausages for breakfast with the local populace? His empty stomach supported the idea eagerly with a rumble. Annoyed, Nestor regretted his lack of knowledge of spells that would reduce hunger — naturally, there was never a need for any.
Of course, all this nonsense in his head was but a jest of a creative mind to humour a tired body. Nestor’s competence, obviously, wouldn’t be the reason for any failure — it was the people around here and their beliefs. The locals were said to accept magic the way marble had warmth, and Nestor wasn’t about to find out if it was true through recklessness. Diplomacy or not, what could he possibly do about principled idiocy, really?
Nestor paused the cascade of thoughts, lips tight and puckered.
If he were to get caught, surely, a measure of decency would compel the patrol to feed him before the deportation? Not that he couldn’t escape if he wished, but if it came to it, Nestor would rather stay, feign docility, eat his fill, and break free afterward at his leisure. Nothing would be better than sausages — and soon: a sleepless night and all that magic had negatively impacted his stomach, he must admit.
As had the ludicrous heights.
“Marvelous. I can work with this. Certainly,” Nestor muttered very uncertainly, actually. He blew out the small flame on his fingertip that had lit his way and let the darkness of the night take him. His eyes lingered on the base of the magic-made staircase behind the crenellations — extending from the wall without any support, held by his power alone.
How come descents were always so much more frightening than ascents?
It was all the same distance!
Huffing and puffing, Nestor hooked his right leg over the blunt merlon. Then — left. The steadying grip of his fingers on the stone was so forceful it turned his knuckles white. Upon the battlement’s edge, he found himself staring down a terrifying plunge. Pine tops swayed far below, like an endless army of giant, hairy beasts marching towards the horizon. As if to match them in their rhythm, Nestor’s red curls trembled from the summer gusts in front of his eyes, veiling the revealed view.
How lucky, a warm and quiet night. Just perfect for a little outdoorsy leisure: silky robes, a glass of chilled wine, heady aroma of roses in bloom. Equally perfect, as it turned out, for a touch of outdoorsy illegality.
Nestor looked down at the dizzyingly abyssal drop again.
After a long, hesitant pause, he wiggled his index finger with another quiet whisper. A harsh, grating sound cut through the ringing silence. Nestor clenched his teeth with a scowl, wincing at the noise. Hopefully, the squeaky rasp wasn’t loud or strange enough to draw any unwanted attention. With narrowed eyes, Nestor peered into the blackness below, trying to discern the shape of the root that should have reached him by now. Had he misjudged the distance from the foot of the Wall?
“Oh, these Great fucking Walls with their oh so great fucking heights…”
Hissing curses under his breath, Nestor repeated the incantation, swirling the index finger around and around again, until two thin tree branches reached him — in an unnatural vertical manner, as if the world had turned sideways. Should the worst happen, these sorry, good-for-nothing sticks really wouldn’t have saved him from anything. Regardless, they served their purpose: to buy him some time in case of an unfortunate… misstep. And to maintain his precious, pretty peace of mind, of course.
Gripping the roots with both of his hands, Nestor steeled himself before the descent, feeling for the rough protrusions in the wall. He tried to be as careful as possible when placing his feet, anxious that even a fleeting distraction might cost him his balance. Nothing against pancakes, but he would loathe becoming one if he slipped. No matter how appetising someone of his visage might be, cannibalism was hardly to his taste: pancakes are best when they are non-human, preferably done the right way — served with butter and caviar.
Sweat beaded across his skin. The ashlar stones flowed back into their original shape the moment his heels left them. Nestor wondered if there was any other witch who would have managed as spectacularly as he did. Of course, he could have unleashed his full potential and wrought something far more grandiose than a meager staircase, highly inconvenient and unsafe in its extreme angle — but discretion, not spectacle, was the purpose of this little adventure.
Step, another step, more steps to follow. Time stretched impossibly; trying to measure it without a clock was a fool’s errand. The ascent took Nestor a couple of hours at most, judging by the moon’s position. The descent? Quite certainly longer. By the time Nestor finally felt the safe sturdiness of the ground beneath him, his breath had become uneven, gaze hooded, knees weak. The fatigue was purely physical, in all honesty: the spells Nestor had been whipping up were as ambitious as they were well within his control. Even after all the magic poured into his escape, he had barely felt the drain.
And as for crossing this infamous, ‘impenetrable’ Great Wall? Well, it turned out to be not quite as impenetrable as the tales had claimed! Just a touch of utter destruction, and the anti-magical barrier all but invited him, opening like a willing lover. A pleasant surprise, if faintly disappointing. Where was the drama of tearing the barrier open with excruciating effort? Nestor even checked whether he was truly drawing from his own reservoir of power. For all he knew, he might have failed to place the mental ward correctly, tapping the common link of pools the whole time and recklessly giving away his location like an idiot.
Thankfully, whenever he did inspect it, his mind encountered a protective bubble, much anticipated to remain in place and provide the sought-after privacy. That was confirmation enough: all of this was truly him right now. His own power pulsing: an enormous heart in the host body, driving the flow of magic as tempests churn the sea. His own “talent”.
Nestor scoffed, sardonic.
How odd! Was his performance ever this good? Perhaps, it was a result of excitement, pumping the veins? Or a sense of danger? An actual curiosity to push his own boundaries? Well, if so, then such success — and no audience? No approval from his mentor, no words of praise from his family? No rewards? Oh, how would they survive this missed opportunity to entice him!
Smiling silly, Nestor wiped the dampness on his forehead with the back of his hand. He channeled the tree roots back into the earth with a swift dismissive movement of his arm. After rolling his shoulders back with a small groan, Nestor almost lost his balance, his legs leaden. An awkward sidestep saved him from tripping. A proper rejuvenating spell was long overdue: the petty ones, keeping him limber and quick, quite obviously weren’t doing their job anymore.
But Nestor had not even been given the chance to begin: the glow of distant fires caught his eye, and his body dropped on pure instinct. Face down in the grass, he lay flat, palms spreading over the dirt. A rapid hiss of incantations slipped from his mouth; thick, freshly grown roots coiled around him, knotting together across his back, brimming with moss and lichen.
Once done, Nestor let out a small sigh, full of annoyance.
“...soon, an’ we see ‘em met with comfort.” Someone’s mumble bled in from afar, husky and low. Their footsteps thudded through Nestor’s whole body. “Ye eva’ seen’un?”
“Hadn’t the honor.”
“Aye.” A tired sigh. “Fair ‘nough. Their kind rarely leaves the Towa’...”
The strangers’ unhurried steps slowed even more, then stopped — unsurprisingly, right beside Nestor’s sprawled body. He kept his breath small and shallow, not letting a single muscle flex. The conversation above him unfolded, voices muffled by the surface of the wood.
“Wha’ this queer log doin’ ‘ere?”
“Ain’t sure. Bears, mayhap?”
“Hm-m, so close an’ at night?”
“Ain’t sure…”
“Wha’ are ye sure of?” An irritated reply. “Weren’t ye here ‘n hour ago?”
“I was — n’ there was no log.”
The voice felt a bit less direct, as if the speaker was turning their head around rapidly.
“Must’ve happened not lon’ ago. If ’tis the bear, it can’t be far. Must be a great brute to haul such’a solid bit down ‘ere so quick…”
The solid bit of bole they referenced was Nestor himself, of course. The guards loomed over him from behind.
“Hm-m… Don’t sit right w’ me, it don’t.” A grumpy mutter. “‘Aight then, leave it be fer the bear to rip at. If that log’s still sittin’ come dawn, ye haul it nearer the woods, aye? Can’t have it blockin’ the way an’ bringin’ the beast to the Order folk...”
“Aye!”
“Outta ‘ere now. Bad luck facin’ bears a’ night!”
“Aye…”
Nestor grinned.
Ah, blessed ignorance! Stupid little Kyliyans. Of course, they were too unaware of Tyrian espionage tactics to suspect any threat. It was a little too easy — Nestor almost felt bad!
Almost.
With much effort, he forced a chuckle down his throat. How come everything was so hilarious tonight? Was he getting delirious on magic? Was that even a known thing? Or was he, at last, simply having some fun in this wretched life of his?
The fading footsteps seized his attention, making his breath hitch. When the peace of the night had eventually fallen back to its leisure, undisturbed by the border patrol’s presence, Nestor slowly unwove the branches, raising his body smoothly off the ground. The roots slithered over the grass like wooden snakes and sank into the dirt, disappearing as though they had never existed.
After minutes of careful scrutiny of his surroundings, Nestor finally allowed himself to rise to his full height. Absent-mindedly, he took note of his current… reimagined appearance. The rich indigo of his cloak was ruined with dirt and leaf-stain, its ornamented pale-pink inner lining especially quick to smear. The jade-green shirt’s exquisite ruffles had torn at the cuffs, likely snagged by the branches in the haste of their movement.
His silver trousers hadn’t fared any better, darkened here and there — especially on the knees. They almost matched the grape-tinted leather of his high boots, whose golden buttons were dulled with grime, thick heels sinking into muck and grass.
Sweet weeds!
Good thing it wasn’t even the best of his outfits!
One could only guess how his face or hair looked at the moment…
Despite that, the corners of Nestor’s mouth stretched into a mischievous smile — a charge of anticipation moved through him as it never had before.
So, maybe he miscalculated.
Or perhaps he hadn’t calculated at all to begin with. This venture was unplanned, unpredictable, unaccounted for — un-everything it was supposed to be, given the scale and the audacity! Yet here Nestor was, still alive and arguably well. At least he wasn’t starving or dying from thirst: he grew his favorite strawberries rapidly with magic and harnessed underground water, sucking it out of the soil into his palm.
With magic, again.
His shelter was — how shocking — conjured as well. It was a protective bundle of braided branches: a shed-sized version of the gappy willow balls that cats at court played with, entertaining adoring owners with their energetic clumsiness. Nestor was, in truth, rather proud of such architectural talent he hadn’t known he possessed — the improvised woody den was firm enough not to let any wandering predator in during his sleep, and the spaces between the branches were big enough to keep the fresh forest air flowing. Even the small fire he made inside with yet another spell fit just right, warming him at night.
One thing he couldn’t work out was how to get rid of the insects. Nasty, disgusting creatures! Short of incinerating them with a point of his finger whenever they were spotted crawling over his body, there was no other solution. Unfortunately, foolish creatures didn’t possess any intellect to understand the danger of venturing into his temporary habitat — hence, public executions weren’t impactful enough to solidify as a solution to such a territorial problem. Those academic manuals on politics certainly had not covered the part where your citizens are so primal they do not understand the message. Nestor might even bring some revolutionary counter-ideas back to scholars, if they would have him.
And if he planned to return, of course.
Which he hadn’t.
Living in these woods wasn’t quite how he had imagined it to be, if he ever did. Ancient cautionary tales always depicted them as hostile, sinister, and unwelcoming. But Nestor found them… serene. Or was he so overconfident in his powers that overlooking common dangers had become a habit? That was one way of enduring reality. After all, whatever happened now was of his own making. He brought all of this upon himself. He was the one responsible. No mentors, relatives, or duties to blame. Nestor was at peace with it.
Perhaps, because this was exactly what he wished for.
Regrettably, even the joy of exploration soon curdled, however well it had started. Despite all his magical cleverness, Nestor was getting tired of being unwashed and unfed — warm, fatty, delicious food!... As well as being tired of being responsible for every little convenience he wished for. The cost of keeping well away from others was plain: most settlements were cleverly placed near rivers or lakes — something a body craved after days of barbaric survival.
It was true that Nestor could contemplate a bit of spell-fusing to conjure a natural bath of sorts. The drawback was that not only would it tire him and deplete his reserve, but also feel rather unsatisfactory: a small hole filled with dirty water certainly wouldn’t replace a healthy ecosystem of streams, pooling into one deep lake. Even if he came up with a substitute, would it really be worth all the trouble?
No, Nestor needed a rest — mental and physical — where he could restore his stamina and sanity, enjoying a soft bed in a safe residence with civilized surroundings. Was it so wrong to want the world ready-made for his exploits, sparing him the bother of conjuring?
He would certainly not shy away from an offer of a solid, hearty dinner either: it was a tad unfortunate, but Nestor had not the faintest notion how to hunt or cook. Killing an animal was probably not that impossible with his impressive arsenal of sorcery skills, but skinning and knifing the prey into a pretty-looking tenderloin was something he wasn’t quite internally prepared for. Shoots, he wasn’t even sure what part of a boar or a deer was the tenderloin part to begin with!
On top of that, boredom and loneliness always dulled his pleasures. The prospect of meeting new people — even of an autarkic, shuttered kingdom — of socializing and learning their culture, kept him giddy. Nestor absolutely loved a challenge. He wondered about the locals around here: were they truly what the whole world thought they were? What was their side of the story? Did they really never lie? How did they live their everyday lives without magic? How did they find their calling without society deciding their duties? And most peculiar to him: had they really no concept of sarcasm and double meanings in words?
Surviving a day without being witty?
Outlandish!...
Nestor was dying to try.
In any case, no matter how new and thrilling it was, a significant break from this adventurous experience was due. Later, perhaps, Nestor would resume his feral games if an edge of boredom visited him again. As matters stood, he needed a taste of something more... urbane and humane. Days of beast-like survival must come to an end! Nestor straightened up his crumpled shirt and swept the leaves off his cloak. As he squeezed his tired feet back into the tight boots, the plan to leave his beloved cat toy shelter behind in search of a new home took shape in his mind.
“I’ll miss you, my ingenious work of art.” He waved sadly at the woodwoven hut. In response to the intricate motions of his fingers, it started to disassemble itself: scrunching up, falling apart, submerging under the mossy ground. “Rest in peace, beautiful.”
As far as Nestor knew, locating rivers or lakes through magic wasn’t all that impossible. With enough focus, he could attune himself to the quiet pulse of water running under the soil. Or so said the ancient tomes. And experts in the field, like Pelagiya, for that matter. It wasn’t that he couldn’t try; rather, he had chosen not to, avoiding any risk of being detected by the locals in the first place. Well, it seemed the time had come to risk it all and, should an encounter occur, play it by ear.
A comforting thought, at least: as stereotypes about Kyliyans went — and Nestor knew he probably shouldn’t lean on those in a life-or-death situation, yet here he was — the local folk were said to be kind, simple, and welcoming to lost souls. Now, that was something to be put to good use. Nestor was quite the lost soul indeed, his wrecked finery as much of a tell as his dirty visage. Though the outfit also hardly made him look like a commoner or a traveler down on his luck.
A problem.
If the good Kyliyans ever caught a hint of what he truly was, their supposed warmth would cool fast enough. But, with due caution, Nestor could still twist things to his favor.
Ah, caution.
His good old, ever-present, irritating, exhausting frenemy. Would he ever get to cut ties with it and leave it behind, free to roam around as he pleased?
Nestor chewed on his lower lip with more bite than needed.
Nothing ever came that easily. Not to him, at least.
So, what to do?
Only to settle for what’s on the plate and walk one step at a time.
If anything, Nestor knew how to be patient. Oh, how he knew! For one thing, he could play pretend. Ah, that he could do flawlessly! If that was how things had to be, then he would make the most of it until his independence was fully secured. One final, dramatic act upon the stage before the curtain fell and granted him his long-sought freedom!
Nestor brightened up, an encouraging smile slowly growing on his face.
Yes. Yes! If he must bathe and risk being discovered, then his clothes were best hidden in the bushes, and his nakedness left on full display. Surely he could play the pitiable victim of circumstance, innocently caught bare-bottomed in the chilly water to earn a little sympathy? Nothing overly complicated about such a role.
All of it suddenly came together into a loosely assembled plan — as much of a plan as Nestor ever managed to plan, given his lifelong dislike for any… which may or may not have been influenced by allegations of poor strategic thinking. True, Nestor preferred to win battles rather than wars — and what about it? The triumph of the present was far sweeter than any vague promise of a future conquest that might never come in his lifetime — or be ruined by some unpredictable twist of fate!
Of course, if Damyr were here, he would have offered plenty of counterarguments, but who cared about the dullard’s opinions anyway? Life wasn’t a convenient chessboard with known rules you could rely on. What was the point of calculating every possible outcome when a small, itty-bitty surprise could render all of it useless? Damyr could keep pleasuring himself to those endless theoretical pontifications for all Nestor cared. To each their own preferred ways of stimulation… and for some — the only kind!
With a self-satisfied snort, Nestor shook his head. Entertaining himself with his own jokes was dangerously close to pathetic. He much preferred an audience to appreciate his spectacular wits. And looks. The unfamiliar weight of grimy, oily strands clinging to his face made him squirm — once fire-copper and silky, his hair now appeared to be a dull, reddish brown mop. Ugh! Bath. Bath. Bath. River. Lake. Pond, if he must!...
It was time. He had to enter the trance, much as he loathed the thought of it: a practice he’d often been tested on back home, even if it wasn’t exactly his favorite pastime. Justinia had always paid great attention to his progress in all sorts of skills; no doubt she had — with all that ambition of hers. In fairness, she was hardly alone in her hunger to control everything within reach. It was their queendom’s specialty, after all: power hunger.
The corner of Nestor’s mouth quivered towards a smirk, but soon dropped back into a straight line. Time to finally do the impossible: get serious. Nestor widened his stance, feeling the solid ground below him. An elaborate spell filled his lungs, putting the trance incantation in motion. Nestor clasped his hands together, palms forming a loose cup over his eyes as if to make a blindfold. He sighed. The last spellword flew out of his mouth like a trapped sparrow, straining for freedom.
A rush of heat bathed his body.
His eyes rolled back, breath slowed as if he were drifting into sleep, a faint ringing in his ears dulling the world around. An uncanny feeling tingled his senses: the flow of everything present in front of his eyes, passing by and not minding him. But soon — sticking onto him like heavy raindrops, attracted to the immense pool of power. Nestor exhaled heavily yet again, and the clingy motes went right through him as if he were transparent. Non-existent in whatever existence this was. Not worthy of their attention.
Focused, Nestor began his search.
Water.
Fresh, liquid, flowing, clean, brilliant, glistening life. He could feel it in his throat, quenching thirst. Or on his body, sweetly cooling it off, washing away the grime and filth. Inside his body as well, in his blood.
Red, metallic.
Flowing, spurting, trickling, pooling, gathering to drops, flooding his throat, his insides, salty on his tongue, lips, teeth, gum.
Nestor’s whole body shuddered. He scrunched his nose, eyebrows knitted together. The particles of everything instantly turned towards his existence, questing. Lured by disgust, fear, helplessness. Power. In the blink of an eye, they were already clinging to his essence, crawling, finding a way inside. Nestor gritted his teeth, jaw hurting. He made another persistent effort to release himself of any emotions, calmly breathing in and out.
Outward.
Outward.
Water outside of him.
He finally got a hint of the track to the largest body of water, which seemed the closest to his location. As he steadily opened his eyes, grounded back in reality, the relentless heat of the sun burned the crown of his head. His legs were weak and stiff from cramps. How long had it been? Surely no more than a couple of minutes? The sun’s position told him otherwise — it must have been hours. Curing the fatigue with a quick healing spell, lighting up on the tips of his fingers, Nestor noticed a familiar tremor in his hands.
Sap bloom! All the practice sessions at home never felt so out of the ordinary as this one. Had something gone wrong?...
Whatever it was, Nestor got the message; there was no need to deliver it twice. An eerie urgency to get on with it pushed him to begin walking regardless of how lost he felt — so, he did, in the direction of what seemed, felt, whispered like a lake. Trances were odd, uncomfortable, sensual. In all honesty, Nestor had little love for them and rarely indulged unless he was tasked to. How Pelagiya spent her leisure there willingly would be an infinite mystery to him. No wonder she was a bit not right in the head, the silly goose!
Pelagiya.
Oh, she would be devastated to learn about his escape! Devastated and jealous. Also, most certainly sulky that he hadn’t taken her with him for some brainless amusement. Complaining to Damyr every chance she got, irritating the uptight prig relentlessly. Hah, Nestor would love to see that! Their confrontations always entertained him more than any theatrical play presented on the royal grounds.
The memories made Nestor smile; one thought of recent days undid it, bringing back the gloom he had tried to avoid. Why had he spent so long in the trance? Justinia’s usual assignments took him a couple of minutes at most! Did her presence truly make that much of a difference? Or was it his own dislike of trances, his reluctance, that slowed the ritual?
Nestor always perceived them as something unnatural, even if, in theory, trances were meant to bring the witch closer to the origins of their magic. Whatever the truth, Nestor disliked the hazy feeling of losing himself in the ever-present mystical mist that kept trying to envelop him like a lazy predator hunting its prey. There was plenty of inevitable fate in the real world to taste the ‘joy’ of it in a magical chasm as well, much obliged!
To get the taste of the trance out of his system, Nestor occupied himself with more cover story plotting, finding it far more bracing. It was time to decide on more details regarding who he was and why he would be naked and alone in the lake, no clothes supposedly nearby. No doubt that would raise questions from his future saviors. That being so, what would be the best response? Bandits?
A sound idea. Just blame every misfortune on greedy, unscrupulous strangers who use their power to seize your belongings. Nestor supposed that surviving as a commoner was not so very different from surviving as a noble — no matter where you went, to the outskirts of a provincial town or to the sprawling capital. If anything, the difference lay in scale: in the means to defend yourself or to strike back.
Surely the borders between kingdoms had not miraculously erased the age-old dangers everyone faced? Even if the Kyliyans never lied and were as good-natured as stereotypes claimed, surely there would be a few rotten apples in the barrel, wouldn't there?
There simply had to be!
Playing around with a few fake names in his mind, Nestor spotted a brilliant blue sparkling in the view before him, hidden between the thick greenery. The much-anticipated lake! Was it really this close all this time? Before venturing forth, Nestor carefully hid behind the trees, peeking from time to time to scout the area. A palisade of pretty birch trees embellished the shoreline with patches of mighty oak trees protecting the rear. Cane reeds spied on the surface of the lake, swaying pliantly to the gusts of the wind with their fuzzy heads.
What a sight!
Nestor could do with this, oh, he certainly could!
Noticing the lack of living souls nearby, he almost leaped for joy. It would have been perfect, if not for one snowy white figure, sprawled right next to the tranquil mirror of the water. Cursing under his breath, Nestor squinted, trying to understand what the figure was doing and how close it was to leaving. The stranger was lying face down in the sand. That couldn’t possibly be that comfortable for a relaxing little sunbathing time, could it? Why would they even be fully clothed if that was the case?
And their limbs… something about the way they were folded screamed wrong.
A chilly thought entered Nestor’s head.
Creeping behind the bushes, he edged towards the figure, keeping to the shade of the lush foliage. There could be no mistake: the stranger’s chest lay still — or so it seemed, from where he stood. There wasn’t any smell of blood in the air either — a kind of scent Nestor would recognize anywhere.
But you don’t always need to spill blood to die: Nestor knew that well.
Just as well as he knew a corpse when he saw one.
Splendid. Even here, the dead found him. Way to spoil his fun!...
Exhaling through his nose, Nestor stepped into the sunlight, lips drawn tight once he exposed himself with careless boldness. His ears pricked, his gaze combed the surroundings for the slightest hint of movement. The lakeshore welcomed him with nothing but sinister silence. Or was it sinister only because the fact of death suffocated the air?
Nestor crouched next to the poor fellow in a long robe and extended his hand towards the body. It rolled at the tug of his fingers, limp and compliant, revealing a pleasant-looking young man — wide-eyed, sand clinging to his round cheeks, snub nose, and narrow forehead, straight blond hair framing a small face. A face that displayed a horrifyingly ecstatic expression.
Startled, Nestor instinctively drew his hand away.
The stranger’s grimace appeared outrageously exultant. As if dying were the most joyful moment in his whole life! It made the sight all the more disturbing to look at. What could have even caused it? Ingestion of some sort of funny mushrooms or berries? Herbs? None in Nestor’s knowledge would result in such a grotesque jest of death: muscles fixed in a smile even after passing — and Nestor was quite an expert in sweet weeds.
Was it something native only to the kingdom of Kyliya then? But so close to the borders and not growing through them? Plants respecting politics? Hysterical!
The stranger conceivably thought so too, beaming into the blue infinity of the sky.
“Well then,” Nestor uttered quietly, unsure of what was next. “As long as you are happy…”
A moment of doubt seized him: investigate this cheery corpse, or leave it for others to find and get out before being branded a murderer? The second was the wiser choice, of course, but when had wisdom ever been fun? Too tempted by the mystery, Nestor stayed. He would be fine. If anything, whatever came his way ought to beware — deprived of comfort and good food, he was just a touch murderous himself.
Nestor moved around the deceased, studying it as a collector would a peculiar find, when he nearly tripped over something. It appeared to be a large traveling sack, sitting forlornly on the sandy beach. Nestor spared it a passing glance, then looked back at the peaceful corpse, his face twisting in repulsion at the sight of that queer grin. Well, it made sense for the unfortunate stranger to have carried some belongings. Was this merely some unlucky commoner, caught in a pitiful, sudden death?
Nestor’s eyebrows drew together as another thought struck him: what if the man wasn’t a commoner at all? That robe — blindingly white, with skillful, intricate blue embroidery — looked far too fine for a peasant. Almost ceremonial. But… did Kyliya even have peasants or a noble hierarchy to begin with? What did Kyliya have? Nothing of value about this kingdom came to his mind, and it certainly wasn’t because Nestor failed history lessons: the country had remained successfully isolated from foreign politics for centuries!
Escaping here, of all places, hadn’t felt nearly as clever now as Nestor had imagined before… How would he blend in? Aside from the commonality of the language, where would he even begin to learn the way of things around here? He could poke around and ask timely questions, but how would he do so safely? The heavy sag of the sack attracted his attention once again; a golden eight-pointed star, neatly sewn into it, reflected the sunlight on its shiny threads. Another one, just as golden, but much smaller, mirrored the shine with its metal, attached as a brooch at the corpse’s heart.
Ah.
If there was any place to learn something — at least about this inhabitant of Kyliya — it would be in there. But the body… it couldn’t just lie here, exposed and rotting under the sun.
It had to be disposed of — along with the evidence.
Nestor tipped his head back, squinting up at the clouds with a judging glare, hands resting on his hips.
Corpse desecration and burial weren’t exactly on his list of thrilling things to do once liberated. But then again, wasn’t life just so full of surprises?