"Come in," a voice called from within. "The door is open."

  Even now Tristan hesitated. Of all the doors in Ariel, he never believed he would darken this one. Sweat coated his palms. His breathing was steady, but shaky. A ball of nerves twisted in his stomach. He stood outside for a while, trying to build up his nerve to enter. The sun was beginning to rise. It was too early to pay a visit, but he knew this could not wait. Besides, the invitation was made. He had to accept.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open. Through the morning light, he found a wooden room, differing from the stone of Ariel. A rake had smoothed the dirt floor in the last few days. While the bed mat looked older than Tristan's, it was cleaner. A jar with flowers rested in the middle of a table. A loaf of bread was not far away with an apple. On one wall hung a parchment with writing he could not read.

  "You should not fear a man's door," the voice's owner said, sitting on the cot. "How can you stand before your host when you meet?" He placed a feeble hand on his back, rubbing. "Bed isn't much good anymore. At my age, laying down means you might not get back up."

  "Herodotus," he muttered in greeting as the great storyteller rose to his feet.

  "Yes," he replied, grabbing his staff for support. "That is my name." He limped across the floor, white hair swaying.

  Before the Seanchai reached Tristan, Prospero floated toward him, looking the elder over. "Herodotus," he murmured, eyes half-closed. A smile overtook his lips. "You tell your stories well. If only you were mine." He shook his head. "Regardless, I am glad you chose Ariel for your home. You have made it all the brighter."

  "Please, have a seat," Herodotus said to Tristan, gesturing to one of the two chairs by the table. "You look tired. Relieve your burdens for a time."

  Tristan balked, surprised at how his elder treated the situation. They had little interaction yet Herodotus spoke as if they were friends. Tristan took up his offer and joined Herodotus at the table. "Tell me. What brings you to my home? The stories don't begin until noon. You know that, young Tristan."

  The lad paused, trying to find the right wording. "What are you waiting for?" Prospero chimed in, floating over the table. "There's no need to be coy with him. If anyone will believe your tale, it will be him."

  "Go away," Tristan muttered.

  "I can't go away," Herodotus pointed out. "This is my home."

  "Not you," Tristan blurted.

  "Sorry, but as a patron god," Prospero replied. "It is my duty to guide my priest." Tristan ran his fingers through his hair. Now that he had a god with him, it was going to be much harder to carry a conversation.

  "Here," the storyteller said. Tristan looked up to see the old man pushing the bread closer to him. He stared at it, stomach grumbling at the sight. "Eat. It will help you calm your nerves. Did wonders for me in my youth."

  Not remembering the last time he ate, Tristan accepted without question. Nothing but the sound of his own crunching filled his ears. There was little pleasure in eating. The bread was not fresh, making it stale and crusty, but he crammed it into his mouth with the savageness of one starving. With each bite, he felt the tightness in his belly loosening. As the bread satisfied his appetite, a steady calm settled on him. Once he finished, Herodotus smiled. "Better?" Tristan nodded. "Good." Before a silence could fall between them, he added, "I expected you to show up, but not so fast."

  Tristan blinked. "That's impossible," he exclaimed. "Why would you expect me, of all people?"

  "The town is buzzing with your strange behavior, or rather, stranger behavior according to Esther. Stark raving mad, they say," he answered. Tristan's shocked silence brought a chuckle from the storyteller. "Just because I am an old man living alone in a shack does not mean that I do not hear the rumblings of the daily lives in Ariel."

  They believe I'm mad? he thought. Tristan looked down, unable to meet his eyes. It was hard to believe he was here, speaking with someone he mocked in front of everyone. "Do not fear," the elder assured him. "Being considered mad is not as bad as it seems." Shame hung on Tristan's shoulders. For years, he thought Herodotus insane and everyone who listened fools. For the first time in his life, he was understanding the old man. A thought dawned on him, one which hid under the mind's horizon. No one believed Herodotus's tales. To them, the stories were that and nothing more. How could he live his whole life not realizing? It was as Prospero said. This man was the one person who could believe him.

  "Do not hold back," the old man coaxed. "Take a deep breath and say what is on your mind."

  With slight hesitation, he began his tale, and it was rain bursting from cloudy skies. The words poured out with ease. Over the course of the next hour, he told everything that happened over the last few days, not leaving anything out. Not that Prospero would let him leave anything out. He chimed in to help, but it only confused Tristan, making parts of the story run together. Herodotus said nothing. Listening throughout the clear and muddled bits of the tale. He did not even raise an eyebrow when Tristan spoke to the god. With his diming eyes, his intense stare remained on the young orator, not turning away once. He listened with the silent eagerness his audience gave him for years.

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  When he reached the end of his story, Tristan slouched in his chair, all the energy within his body spent. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he took a deep breath, waiting for Herodotus' answer. The Seanchai rubbed his hands on his knees, contemplating his words. "So you see the spiritual world," he murmured in reverent belief. "To receive a gift so many covet. It must be daunting for you, and to see Prospero of all gods must leave you awestruck." He paused, raising an eyebrow, "Have you seen his sigil?"

  "His what?" Tristan asked, surprised by the sudden question.

  Herodotus waved aside the question. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "I wanted advice," Tristan admitted. He hesitated on whether he should say more or not. This might be the last time we speak, he considered. "And to apologize. Whatever comes next, I don't want to regret how I treated you."

  The old man smiled. "You were a tough one to please. No matter the story, you mocked it. You sure know how to hurt an old man's heart."

  Tristan flushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

  "Accepted," the Seanchai answered with a nod. "With the apology out of the way, what advice do you seek?"

  The reply was as simple. "What am I supposed to do?"

  The Seanchai's head cocked to the side. "In what regard?"

  "This," Tristan exclaimed, flailing his arms around him. "What am I supposed to do with this blessing, curse, or whatever it is?"

  "Ah, what to do when adventure is calling," the old man mused, rubbing his chin. "That is an interesting question; I have no answer."

  "What?" Tristan blurted, jolting upright in his chair.

  He raised his hands, asking for calm. "No two men choose the same path. What I would do is not what you should do. The answer is yours and yours alone."

  Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He had the answer? That was impossible. "Tristan," Prospero chimed in. He did not look at the god. If there was someone he did not want to hear from at the moment, it was him. "You might not want my advice, but I must tell you. We have to leave Ariel. This amulet. Your vision. My awakening. They are not a coincidence. Something is going on out there and you won't find the answer here."

  "What makes you think I want the answer?" he declared, turning on the god. "Maybe I don't want to go anywhere. What if I want to live whatever pitiful life is here for me?"

  Prospero's lips curled into a smile through his beard. "That's a pitiful lie," he admitted. "Don't even pretend you believe it. We both know what you want to do and it isn't living and dying in Ariel."

  He bit back a curse. As long as this god was around, there was no hiding the truth. No one knew more about Tristan than Prospero, whether that was a good thing or not was undecided. Tristan wanted to kick the invisible chains of Ariel off and find that caravan. He could spend the rest of his life seeing the world. He would no longer dwell in the squalor of Ariel. Still, he hesitated, not wanting to admit his desire to himself. What held him back?

  "Heroes often fear the unknown," Herodotus offered, saying nothing about the youth's one-sided conversation with thin air. "But we all know what you must do. Don't we, Prospero?"

  "The storyteller is preceptive." The god chuckled. "Guess we made my presence too obvious. We need to work on that in the future." He waved the thought aside. "Still, he's right. You know what we must do."

  Tristan said nothing. They were right. Fear held him back. With his eyes seeing the divine, who knew what he would witness? In dying Ariel, he knew how to face each day no matter how hard it was. Here everything was familiar. If he left, he would be alone, facing a new world, with only an unfamiliar god to guide him. Did he have the courage to endure?

  All at once, a strange look came over Herodotus's face. He stood up, body swaying. His foot began to carry him around the room in some dance that was somewhat familiar to him. "And when the sleeping god awakes," he recited, the story coming to him word by word. "The boy who saw past the veil set out on his journey, his desire burning in his heart."

  His words made Tristan's blood run cold. "What?" he cried, jumping to his feet. "What story are you telling?"

  He paused mid-step, blinking back into the moment. Turning to Tristan, he answered in a soft voice, thick with fear, "Yours."

  "No," Tristan shouted in horror, covering his ears. It was too much. His entire mind felt crushed. All that he believed was laid in a pile before him and burned to ashes. Was that not enough? No. Now, Herodotus told him his own story. When did the madness end? "I don't want to hear it. That's not my story. I don't want any of this. Let me live in peace." As soon as those words tumbled from his lips, he knew what he wanted, more than anything else. Despite how much he wanted to leave Ariel, right now, he would give anything to have his life return to what it was. He wished to be blind to the spirits.

  "I'll go," he said aloud. The moment he spoke he knew there was no going back.

  "Really?" Prospero exclaimed. "I'm pleased. Though I admit I do not prefer your reasoning."

  "Leave me alone," he spat.

  The god sighed with a shake of his head. "Listen, I don't know what the Seanchai is going to say next, but I can guarantee you, this is the right choice. If you want to stop seeing the divine, you won't find that gift in Ariel. The answers you seek are beyond what you know."

  Herodotus said nothing for a long time. He slouched with his hands braced on the table. He gasped, clear horror on his face. "It's not possible," he muttered.

  "What is?" Prospero and Tristan asked at once.

  "Your story. It is not yet written, yet I speak as if it has already happened." He drew a shaky breath. "Lad, I have lost the thread. I cannot tell more, but if I could, I would silence my tongue." The Seanchai added in a whisper, "Be wary. I feel there is more at play than we believe."

  "I feel the same," Prospero added.

  Tristan gave no thought to that. There was so much he had to accept already. He had no room in his mind to consider what elements were at play. Looking at the medallion, he turned to their only lead. It was simple. The answers he sought laid tied to the origin of this lump of bronze. Where they would go from there was a mystery. Tristan was grateful that his story was still untold. If he knew anymore, it would never have begun.