She had gambled. She had lost. I had left her slave. “You do not know what it is to be a paga slave!” she had cried. I had left her in the collar of Sarpedon, only another wench, slave in a paga tavern in Lydius.
She had begged for me to buy her. She had begged as a slave.
I laughed.
She was a slave. She would stay a slave.
I do not know why I had cried her name. As a free man I had no interest in slave girls, save for the brief use of their bodies.
On the arm of the captain’s chair, my fist clenched.
In the distance I could see light in the sky, the illumination from the beacon which I had ordered set on a remote, deserted beach, high above Lydius on the coast of Thassa.
I myself did not know why it burned. Perhaps it served simply to mark a place on the beach, which, for a time, the flames might remember.
I had, for an Ahn, at that place, recollected my honor. Let that be commemorated by the flames.
Let the fire, if not men, remember what had once there occurred.
“Thurnock!” I cried. “I am cold! Bring crewmen! Carry me to my cabin!” “Yes, Captain,” called Thurnock.
In the morning there would be only ashes, and they would be swept away in the rain, and the wind. The tracks of sea birds might, too, like the thief’s brand, be found in the sand. Too, in time, they would wash away.
“Thurnock!” I cried.
As the chair was lifted, I looked once more to the northeast. The sky still glowed. I was not dissatisfied that I had set the beacon. It did not matter to me that few would see it. It did not matter to me that none would understand it. I myself did not know, truly, why it burned but it had seemed important to me to set it.
“Carry me to my cabin,” I said.
“Yes, Captain,” said Thurnock.
“It is a fair wind,” said one of the crewmen, as the door to my cabin shut. “That it is,” said Thurnock. “That it is.”