Sifting Through My Ashes

[Laszlo]

Winter 3rd, 511 Somewhere past the 14th bell. Some will die in hot pursuit While sifting through my ashes Some will fall in love with life And drink it from a fountain That is pouring like an avalanche Coming down the mountain. It was raining up. The Trickster, ever with a sense of humor, decided that today the earth would rain, and the sky would get wet. The clouds had rolled in, but they didn't really roll in. The city had gradually become a mottled gray, as amorphous splotches of un-color drifted in to sap away the sandy hues of Alvadas architecture and the deep, earthy shades of the deceptive streets. The sky itself was cloudless, blue, and cheerful. Syna's likeness was shining gaily, even as she was doused by heavy up-pours of rainfall. Laszlo almost thought he could hear the rain singe upon the sun's hot shell. There was no shelter from upward rain, no parasol that could protect his clothing, no canopy that would keep him dry. Laszlo continued on for several bells into the afternoon, feeling the rain roll up his face as his hair was kept relatively dry. His trousers were soaked through, making them stick to his legs in the most uncomfortable fashion. Today's weather left him understandably irksome, even though he was safe from his Symenestra hormone surges in the day time. He had plenty of legitimate reasons to feel irritable; his finger was recently broken by Victor Lark, for one—just to cause him pain. Having the bones reset at the local infirmary yesterday had not been pleasant. The physician on duty had been far too personable and left him feeling uneasy. Still, the splint was in place and in a few weeks, it would be good as new. His Ethaefal talent would help, able to age his injuries and make healing more expedient. Thought it was more of an inconvenience, it told something of Victor's character that made Laszlo feel sick to his stomach. Up until then, he'd regarded the human with a reluctant sort of trust, despite knowledge of their murdering Abalia's Kelvic. This was a savage world, after all. Laszlo wasn't sure it was his place to judge. Far outweighing the questions about Victor and Seven, Laszlo had been forced to kill one of another of his few friends just days before in self defense. How many people had to go through that? There was less remorse in her death, Laszlo realized, than bitter resentment. He'd been nothing to her but a toy. She'd left her mark on him: a gash that smiled across his side. Bitch. Laszlo should never have wasted his time on her. She was insane. He should have seen it sooner. She was Ethaefal. Ethaefal didn't have to be insane. Perhaps they had reason to be but… one would think the servants of Syna and Leth were better than that. Laszlo stumbled to a stop, realizing he'd just passed the Cubacious Inn. Worried the building would skitter off to some other far corner of Alvadas, he quickly whirled around to find it. Bits of rain were tossed off his clothing and out of his stubble of his unshaven chin. A white puff of relief was breathed out into the rain. Good, it was still there.

[Laszlo]

"Can I help you?" A pleasant, feminine voice sang from the counter as Laszlo lingered in the doorway, shaking the rain out of his clothing and tousling his damp brown hair. He ran a hand over his horn, smoothing the water off its glossy surface. The Ethaefal shook his head once he was finished grooming himself. A white haired woman late in her years watched Laszlo with warmth glimmering in her intelligent eyes. The Inn's owner, he remembered, and he realized that she recognized him too. It really wasn't so long ago that Laszlo had lived in this building. Now that he'd acquired his own home, he found himself missing the simplicity of a drifter's life. Had it really been so bad? "Just visiting," he muttered in reply, attempting a smile afterward but then giving up on it once he realized it had been too belated to be graceful. Laszlo grimaced, then moved his tall form through the lobby and headed for the stairs. The woman watched him until he was out of sight, but even after he passed into the shadow of the staircase, he could still feel her eyes on him. Before arriving at the top, he slipped one hand into his pocket and withdrew a small brass key. At the end opposite the teeth, the metal had been flattened like a coin, and then etched with a number. He ran his thumb over the miniscule grooves on the otherwise smooth surface. The upstairs corridor had only one window at the top of the stairs, and then the hall stretched onward, unrealistically far for a building of such a modest size, into a gradual shadow, almost completely dark at the far end. The Cubacious Inn probably had infinite rooms to hold as many guests as possible. Laszlo wondered if Ionu had made the building this way, or if someone had found it (like he'd found the Sun and Stars) and decided to turn it into an inn. It was a very convenient illusion. Wasn't the owner a bearer of Ionu's gnosis? Perhaps that was it. Laszlo passed his old room, and Victor and Seven's, without much ceremony. They didn't belong to him anymore, or anyone he knew. They were just numbered doors. The key he held belonged to a room many paces away from these ones.