He was wizened with age, painfully thin and clothed in a filthy black robe. What remained of his gray hair clung in wisps to his skull, and his cheeks were pinched by malnutrition. The skin around his eyes was scarred, and his lids hung loose over empty sockets.
She pushed herself to her feet, saying the sacred greeting. “Sorry to startle you.”
The old man didn’t return the customary gesture.
“You’re not the one who brings me food.” He swung his stick out in front of him. “Longer and longer they’re leaving it these days.”
Where had he come from? She couldn’t see any dwellings nearby.
“I’m a stranger to these parts. I have no food, but I can give you water.”
“Ahh.” The old man stopped, resting his hand on the rock to steady himself. “I would be glad of refreshment.”
Danae drew one of the skins from her bag, took out the stopper and placed it in the man’s hand. He drank deeply, the folds of his neck quivering as he gulped. Up close he smelled like stale urine.
“This is from the stream.” He wiped his mouth. “Sweetest water in the world.”
“Do you live here?”
The old man nodded and tapped the rock like it was a prize heifer. Danae walked around and saw there was a much larger opening to the side. As she moved closer, she could see there were carvings etched into the stones. They looked like they had once formed a doorway. This was no rockslide, it was a ruin. She traced the grooves with her fingers, then stopped. Her pulse quickened.
There, chiseled on what would have been the keystone, was the apple tree.
She turned to look at the old man as he shuffled round the rocks. “Do you know what this place used to be?”
The stranger moved to the entrance with surprising dexterity, feeling the way with his staff.
“I’ve spent decades alone in this ruin. And I’ve found many things.” He ran his hands over the doorway, then leaned back against the stone. “This was a place of worship. But what I have not been able to discover is who the people that built it were worshipping. There are no sigils of any of the Twelve.”
“This stone here, may I?” She touched the old man’s hand. He inclined his head. Gently, she placed his hand on the engraving of the tree. “Do you know what this symbol is?”
“The tree of knowledge.”
She’d only ever heard one other person call it that.
Fighting to keep her voice calm, she asked, “Have you come across it somewhere before?”
The old man tilted his head. “Have you?”
“A few times.” She chose her next words carefully. “I think it might be important. It might indicate a safe place for certain people that find it.”
Despite his lack of eyes, she had the distinct feeling he was staring at her.
“It might...and those that draw it might want to encourage those that recognize it to trust that they share the same belief.”
Something was happening at the back of her mind. A thought trickling like honey, slowly at first, then gaining momentum as it gathered weight.
“There is an ancient one some believe to be misunderstood. One who had a hand in our creation. I believe this to be true. Do you?”
The old man smiled, his remaining teeth stark against his receding gums. “I do. I believe we are all hischildren.” He lingered on the last word.
Excitement surged through her. This had to be fate. Somehow, in all the vast reaches of land and sea, she had stumbled across a member of the Children of Prometheus.
35
An Eye for an Eye
“Quickly.” The old man gestured her into the ruins. “It is not safe to talk out here.”
