“Tell us the story of Exeter the Poor.”

The voice called him back from the darkness into more darkness relieved by the haze of twirling smoke. The scent of pine crept in the air.

“You know where you are. You are at the place of your birth.”

The answer illuminated nothing, but a wizened old face began to take form through the dancing smoke tendrils.

“Get on with it, then,” called a rough and substance soaked voice from deeper in the shadows. “We haven’t got a thousand years!” Laughter erupted from the unseen crowd as smoke crossed the face of the old man.

“How can I tell the story of a man’s life? So much is lost to memory.”

“Memory will return where it may serve. Speak child.”

The old man made a movement and looked slightly down. He was sliding a caldron across the table, a grotesquely forged vessel of some lower metal. From its grayed and stained rim sloshed a liquid of a deep purplish red, lightly foamed and potent to the nose.

The liquid burned his tongue slightly, in a pleasant way despite the putrid taste. It was cool in the mouth and throat. The contrasting sensations shook the branches of his mind, bearing as fruit distant emotions and images.

“Exeter the Poor was named thus at the age of twelve as all Wanderers hope to be,” the boy found himself saying. “In a humble temple, his master gave him that name along with a staff and robes of brown.”

The murmurs of the crowd hushed and the boy felt the weight of the room’s attention settle firmly onto him. The unseen eyes gave him strength.

“Exeter the Poor wandered the paths of the mountains to the south, as his master had instructed, taking food and shelter from the generosity of the people both free and enslaved.

“The knowledge he learned from the temple masters served him well, and he was quick of wit to find friends or avoid conflict, however the need may arise. His skill with the soil was a boon to whomever gave him shelter and his body grew strong over the seasons of work.

“Those first years were hard but simple, Exeter staying wary of remaining in one place as his master had taught. Though his welcome was not worn out in that region, and many begged him to stay longer, hinting at betrothals that could never come to pass, Exeter knew he must move on. Though he had come to love the people of those towns (where lived a comely girl or two), always his Master’s voice rang in his head.

A wanderer must wander to learn what he must learn. If immortality he seeks, he must remain in search of the Three Lessons and the Three Deaths.”

When he spoke those words of his Master’s voice, the boy felt as though someone else had taken hold of his tongue, as if he were bound by those words by some ancient spell. The whispers from the crowd drove him on, the story falling out of him like a holy incantation.

“The voice in the mind of Exeter the Poor grew louder and louder in his second winter in the mountains, and though he did not want to go, he knew he must in time. Many nights he wept; not for the friends he would be leaving behind, but fearing the return of the Wanderer’s Loneliness.

“An old woman came upon Exeter during one of these fits of sorrow, and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

“‘The Master’s voice will not grow softer,’ she said to him, and in her eyes he recognized the despondency of a temple hag.

“In his childhood, he had always feared these miserable women, who bitterly kept the temple in order at the whims of the Masters. He did not know they lived beyond the Secret Walls, having bound their lives with magic to the those walls and the men within.

“‘Ease my passing, sweet child, and perhaps in another life I will come to you again.’

“So Exeter the Poor, comforted by the promise of reunion, went out before dawn and gathered the pine from the branches and herbs from the town stores before returning to the old woman’s bedside at noon. The clouds covered the sun and gentle snow began to fall. As the boy made the tea his heart heavied itself with knowing.

“The old woman thanked him as she drank it, though her eyes were on the falling snow. As the hours passed and the snow banks rose, the woman’s gaze stayed fixed beyond the window. Exeter stayed with her as she laughed and cried and spoke desperately in unknown words.

“Finally, as darkness fell and Exeter lit the candles with the flames of the fire, the woman turned to him, smiled and passed on, leaving her grey eyes void of joy and sorrow and all other things.

“Perhaps, thought the young wizard, this was the First Death of which the Masters spoke, the first of his Three Lessons. A wanderer must move on, for stillness is only illusion.

“So he wrapped his brown robe about himself and filled his satchel with provisions, then set off to wander along the streams, descending from the mountains into the unknown valleys below.”

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