Kelo doesn’t remember the last time someone looked at him with anything less than disgust. He moves through the city on bare, flat-footed feet, matted cloak dragging in the dust behind him. He watches as people shudder at his form, slipping into bars and shops to escape his appearance. Kelo’s eyes are a black void nesting in the center of his sclera. The whites are bloodshot and yellow. His nose, hardly a nose anymore, exists only as a scarred hole where his nostrils should be, skin is papery white, most of which he prefers to hide under his cloak. His head, guarded by a ratty hood, is spotted with thin patches of black hair.

  If it were up to him, he’d be back in the Feists, living in his quaint forest home, bothering nothing but the squirrels nesting in the trees. But there were downfalls to a leisurely life. For instance, you could walk out your front door one morning with the intention of having a peaceful hike, when suddenly you find yourself in the midst of more than a dozen soldiers with their swords slicing at your throat…or what’s left of it.

  He’d been through every province of Larynth a dozen times. The nobles of Inonin were the worst of the bunch. They sent word to their vassals every time one got a glimpse of the dead boy. He’d been running away from knights for months.

  Silon, heir to the throne of Denand, had plucked him up off the forest floor and gave him an ultimatum. Knowing that her threat of deportation was worse than death, he took the offer and moved toward the desert. She had requested the capture of an individual with a mark on their eye. Of course, she expressed no recollection of what that mark may be, but voiced a great deal of confidence in his “skills”. It was what she told all of the volunteers.

  “There are tasks in which I cannot complete without your help. You possess a great deal of importance when it comes to this responsibility,” her voice drawls, low and dusty, like the desert.

  “’A great deal of importance…’,” Kelo murmurs under his breath.

  The woman sent him on a wild goose chase. She had heard a rumor from a winded scout that a caramel-skinned woman existed in the plains. There were numerous options when it came to “caramel-skinned” women. In these parts, most people sported a tan. It was not difficult to procure a darker shade of skin under the desert sun. Besides himself, of course.

  There were more than just a few challenges presented to him. As a "dead one", he found it nigh impossible to hold a conversation with those of the living. For some reason, it didn’t sit well with them, and whether it be the nose or the eyes, it was a real calamity. Kelo enjoyed conversation. He had once managed to get a few words out of what looked like a member of authority, though the older man was rather nervous. It didn’t last long.

  Regardless, he had yet to investigate the castle. Perhaps he’d have better luck there.

  He follows the sandy southward trail out toward the castle. He can see a hazy form looming in the distance. He makes out the silhouette of four towers. It feels like hours before he reaches the outskirts. A patch of mesquite trees resides in the western yard where a moat should have been. The northwest tower is two hundred yards away. Above, he notices an archer perched in the tower, crossbow loaded. A good space lies between the outer wall and the guard. Kelo waits until the man meanders around the terrace before he makes his move.

  He clumsily climbs the tallest mesquite tree in the bunch and whips his tattered hood from his head. Squinting into the heat, he maps what looks like a stable to his right and a storehouse hidden behind the south wall. Boys of all ages mill in and out of the stables, carrying tools and hay. He hears the clang of metal. A dark-haired man with a ponytail exits the gatehouse, heading his way.

  He tenderly climbs down and jumps from a lower branch, rolling about in the dirt at the bottom. Rising, he brushes the dust from his cloak and quickly makes his way around the western wall, meeting up with a lonely storehouse at the back of the castle. He hears the thunder of a heavy door as he begins to climb the walls with bony fingers. Peeking over the edge, a scullery maid enters the storehouse. He waits. The rear tower is shorter and has what looks like a bedroom within it. There is an older man wearing chainmail standing outside an interior door.

  The maid exits the storehouse a few minutes later with a platter of salt pork. He watches as she re-enters what he only assumes is the kitchen, then scrambles over the edge. He skids to the base of the tower and slips in the door behind the maid, letting the door ease shut behind him.

  Inside is a musty cellar, chock full of bottled wines and ale barrels. He takes a step forward and feels a soft lump under his toes. A loud squeak erupts from the thing. Kelo jerks his foot up, whimpering.

  “I’m so sorry, my friend,” he says, watching the mouse patter away. It skitters behind a stack of barrels that appear as if they were stored long before his time. Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust adorn their wood exteriors.

  To his left, he hears a small push on the interior door, along with an exasperated sigh. Kelo dashes to the stack of ale piled in the corner, dragging his face through a nest of spiderwebs in the process. The mouse escapes again, nearly tripping the young woman coming through the doorway.

  “These damned mice!” she curses, kicking it out of the way. She misses, huffs, and saunters over to a shelf on the far end of the room to seize a bottle of red wine from the bottom. She treads out the kitchen door again.

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  Kelo frantically brushes the spider webs from his face, spitting them out of his thin lips. He pops up from behind the barrels and quickly makes his way to the door. A tiny knotted hole near the bottom provides a lookout point.

  He sees three women. The girl from the storehouse is scrubbing dishes. The other woman from the cellar is chopping onions, wiping tears from her eyes, while an older lady stands over an open fire, humming to herself. The eldest pours a generous glug of red wine into a large iron pot suspended over the fire. She stirs deliberately, rich steam wafting into her face. Kelo only regrets that his sense of smell is not what it used to be.

  A well-dressed boy enters from the left. He pokes his head around the door, brown hair combed to the side, and shouts over the roar of the fire in the older woman’s direction.

  “The prince has finished with his appointment, ma’am. He says he is ready for dinner.”

  The woman wipes her forehead, shouting back.

  “It’ll be done before long. Give us a minute ‘er two.”

  The boy retreats as the woman slams a lid on the pot. She pulls biscuits from the oven and orders the scullery maid to fill a flagon full of wine. The third girl hastily dumps her chopped onions into the pot and hurries to grab a wooden bowl of sliced apples. She drizzles honey over the top of the fruit, then rushes to stir the pot.

  A few minutes later, the women set the fruits of their labor out on the large high table in the center of the kitchen. The pot steams. There are biscuits paired with honey butter, flagons of wine, and pitchers of cold cream. The apples are set next to a fatty hunk of salt pork, sliced thick and covered in brown gravy. Kelo watches as three boys, including the one from earlier, arrive to carry away the dishes one by one.

  The women spend some time cleaning up utensils and depositing pots and pans into a barrel of water in the corner. The scullery maid picks up a wicker basket into which they each toss any dirty rags found before exiting out the other door.

  Kelo waits a moment before moving and slips through the door. The kitchen is stuffy, droplets of water hanging on the walls. He dodges multiple stacks of plates and sacks of potatoes. At the entry door, he cracks it open, looking right to a long hallway that expands to the other side of the castle. Various doors line the hall, including a set of double doors. To the left is another great hall with a single door. One of the serving boys disappears through it.

  Kelo skitters to the right, nearly tripping over his cloak. He darts down the hallway, stopping at the corner, the tower stairs are to his right. He can hear faint murmuring coming from the next hallway. He dashes to the foot of the stairs and begins climbing, voices floating above him on the second floor. He tiptoes on bare feet, peeking down the hall. Someone is coming up the far tower. He waits.

  The dark-haired man with the ponytail Kelo had seen in the yard tramps up the steps and enters the second door he comes to. He is tan of skin, but there is no mark above his eye.

  Not long after comes another person. This time it is a woman. She is coffee-skinned, dark haired, and wears a pair of olive trousers. The handle of a dagger sticks out from her leather boot. She is wearing an eye patch over her right eye. She enters the third door.

  There are footsteps from the ground floor. The voice of a serving boy, the sound coming from the staircase below Kelo’s feet. He takes a chance to rush to the first door on his right and presses a gnarled ear to the wood. He hears nothing. The serving boy’s footsteps echo up the tower as he begins to climb. Kelo is ten feet from the steps. He cracks the door, looks for signs of any movement, and bolts through the doorway. On the other side, he waits, pressing his back against the door, as the footsteps of the boy resound down the hallway. A knock on a distant door brings relief.

  Kelo moves quickly, careful not to trip over his own feet. The room is empty. There is a smaller four-poster bed seated underneath an iron-barred east-facing window. The sheets are disheveled. An armor rack to the right of the bed is empty save for a single light sword, dingy and chipped. An oaken chest of drawers lies against the northern wall, one drawer hanging wide open. A white garment spills from its mouth.

  Kelo makes a break for the window. He hops upon the bed, nearly smacking his face into the headboard. He climbs on the sill and reaches an arm and a shoulder through the bars attached to the window. The air outside is hot and dry. He breathes in dust from the sands. There is just enough room for his slim body to exit through the openings in the bars. As he maneuvers, his cloak catches on a snag in the rock wall of the castle, and he lets out a small squeak as he feels his body begin to tumble out the window. Reaching a skeletal hand for the bars, he grasps one and steadies himself, hoping that no one heard his cry. He tenderly makes his way down the wall, feeling out shelves in the rock for his hands and feet to grip. The stone is hot to the touch, but he can’t feel the pain of its burn. By the time he makes it to the second window, Kelo is panting.

  He gazes above, his hands dangling from the wall, and reaches feebly for the window ledge. After several tries, he clutches a jutting rock and pulls himself up with a shaking arm. As his eyes reach the edge of the windowsill, he sees the dark-skinned woman with her back to him. She is reaching into her clothing to remove her weapons, a Damascus dagger and a shimmering katar. She sets them gingerly on a desk to the left of the window. She reaches for a mug of liquid and downs several large gulps before clunking it back down. She begins to unbutton her jerkin and Kelo sinks his eyes below the edge. Grimacing, he forces himself back up. His feet are shaking in their holds.

  The woman shimmies her top over her shoulders and tosses the leather jerkin to the bed. Her skin is scarred. Small slash marks crisscross her lower back, shoulder blades, and the back of her arms. Kelo shudders. He watches as she begins to untie the fatigues around her waist. His eyes water in the heat.

  Having untied her fatigues, she reaches up behind her head to grasp the leather thong tied about her right eye. She hesitates a moment before untying the straps and setting the patch upon the desk in front of her. Kelo eyes her back as she walks to lock the door to the room. She turns around moments later.

  The woman’s face is dark. Her lips are full and smooth. Her eyes are a deep brown so inky, they appear black. He squints. There, above her right eye, is a mark. It is darker than her skin and burrows itself within the bottom of her brow. He can make out a set of five solid circles reaching across her brow bone, each one decreasing in size as they reach her outer eye.

  He stares for a moment, and then he lets go of his hold on the wall, crashing two stories down and hearing both ankles snap. Regaining his composure and jerking both bones back into place, the dead boy slips unnoticed out of the castle grounds.