"It would be best to let me do what I can," said Tessali. "Healing wounds is tiring work, and Silverwind will have plenty to do before any of us are ready to run again. Whatever I can do to spare him may make the difference between going to where he found the thread or waiting here until the monster finds us."
Tessali's warning did not go unheeded. The Amnesian Hero was already surprised at how long it was taking the monster to find them; part of him feared the beast was in the adjacent passage at that moment, standing camouflaged amidst the swirling ash, watching and waiting until the Thrasson nodded off. Only the steady roar of the ashen gale reassured him this was not the case; a creature that large could not come down the corridor without causing a sudden change of pitch in the howling wind.
Reluctantly, the Amnesian Hero nodded. "Do what you can for me. But if this is one of your tricks-"
"Truly, you have no reason to worry. I will even keep watch while you sleep."
"Sleep?"
"Of course. We are all in need of rest, and, after your long run, you more than any of us." Tessali picked up the wineskin and shook it. There was little fluid left to slosh in the bottom of the bag. "Besides, given your fever and how much of this you have had, it is a wonder you have not passed out already."
"If it's going to make me sleep, you can put that holly back in your pocket. I am no fool. As soon as I close my eyes, you'll throw my amphora over the wall."
"And follow it over when you wake? You must think I'm barmy."
"I am no murderer," the Amnesian Hero bristled. "No matter how angry-"
Tessali waved the Thrasson silent. "I'm sorry. I know you would never do such a thing – any more than I would throw away what belongs to you – but I don't know why you're so distrustful of me." The elf paused a moment, then said, "Let us agree on this: if the amphora isn't here when you awake, I'll accept any punishment you mete out."
The Amnesian Hero asked, "Why are you so concerned with my health?"
"Pure self-preservation. You're as much my way out of the mazes as you are Silverwind's. If we run into that monster again – and I don't doubt we will – you're the only one who seems capable of slaying it."
"Have you forgotten the last time?" The Thrasson gestured at the elf's wounds. "I didn't do very well."
"We're alive, aren't we? And you felled that giant nicely," Tessali pointed out. "When the monster comes the next time, perhaps Jayk and I can be ready with some magic. We all stand a better chance of getting out of here if we work together."
"That is the truest thing I have ever heard you say." The Amnesian Hero paused, glancing at the sword and sandals lying by his side. "Now that you are in a more truthful mood, tell me why you want me to put the sandals on."
"I don't want you to; I think you must," the elf answered. "To me, it makes no difference whether you put the sandals on or throw them over the wall. But you won't be happy until you try them on, and it would be better for all of us if that wasn't distracting you right now."
The explanation seemed both practical enough and adequately lacking in principle to convince the Amnesian Hero that Tessali was being honest. "What you say is true enough, but you forget they may not be mine."
"Bar that!" said Tessali. "You are the one who felled Periphetes, not the Lady. That makes them yours by right of combat."
"Perhaps, but the issue is not clear." As much as the Amnesian Hero wanted to accept the elf's reasoning, he feared even more the possibility that doing so would be a breach of honor. "If my neighbor's bull breaks free and wanders onto my lands, I may certainly kill it to spare my cows. But then do I have the right to slaughter it and eat it?"
"Better that than to leave it rotting because he is away," countered Tessali. "And if you can give him some extra meat later because of what you ate from his bull, then he will be better off than had you dragged the beast back to rot on his land. Certainly, it would have been better for all had the bull stayed at home, but it did not and now it is your duty to do as well by your neighbor as you can."
The Amnesian Hero knitted his brow, trying in vain to clearly see the analogy through the haze in his head. "I fail to see what this bull has to do with my sandals."
"If you don't put the sandals on, you'll remain distracted and we'll all be killed," Tessali explained. "The Lady's bull will rot in the field."
"That's true." The Amnesian Hero began to unlace his own sandal. "I am doing good for her, am I not?"
What a pointless thing is the mortal mind; with its snaking walls and untold conjunctions and endless looping passages, it is a maze that builds itself – a maze where every path always leads wherever the captive wishes. Where is the challenge in that? Was there ever any doubt that the Thrasson would step into the sandal? I said he would, and even now his bare foot is settling upon the insole.
You recall what comes next: the ashen arms rising to lace the thews, the voice on the wind offering advice, the mention of King Aegeus, one of his two fathers. So you will not be surprised to see the joyful tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, or to hear him bellowing, "I am the son of Aegeus! I am the grandson of Pittheus! I am the son of…"
Here, it will occur to the Amnesian Hero that he does not know the name of his mother. He will look down and realize that he cannot remove the sandal from his brick foot, and a cry of despair will rise from his throat. Tessali will place the new sandal on the ground and suggest it still might work its magic. The Thrasson's legs will start to tremble so hard that he can hardly stand. He will support himself by grasping the Bleaker's shoulder-a poignant touch, that-and begin to lower his foot.
All that could have happened by now, had the Amnesian Hero not spent so long fretting over what is right and what is wrong. But he pondered and brooded and wasted a precious hour seeking to justify what he already knew he would do. And so he has not yet heard the voice on the wind or learned his father's name or realized that he still does not know his mother's; only now are the ashen arms rising to lace the sandal thews about his leg. We must wait for the woman to speak, and for the Thrasson to bellow his joy and realize what he does not know, and all the while there is a figure in the adjacent passage skulking through the gray, howling haze.
To be certain, matters would be different had the Amnesian Hero no fear of dishonor (I called him a coward, and every coward fears something), had he not squandered priceless time in pointless debate, had he acted without awaiting the permission of an eel-tongued elf. But it is the Thrasson's nature to act when he should ponder and ponder when he should act, and to deny him his quandary would have been violence to his character. Better to let him grapple with his honor, to let him reluctantly forsake his morals and slide unwittingly into the abyss of iniquity; better to leave him to his palter, no matter the consequence, than to let him come off a high-talking fraud:
And now the Thrasson has caught his story: his brick foot is quaking upon the crocodile sole, his hand is clamping the elf's shoulder, his eyes are waiting for the arms to rise from the ash. I hope you will not be disappointed by what follows next:
Nothing.
On trembling legs, the Amnesian Hero stood waiting for the second sandal to work its sorcery. In his mind, he could almost hear his mother's voice, whispering both her name and his in words too wind-garbled to comprehend. But no magic sizzled into his foot, no arms rose from the ash to lace the thews about his leg, no words of motherly advice came to him on the roaring wind. His brick foot remained stone-numb in its brick sandal. His stomach seemed heavy and cold, and his knees felt ready to buckle. The Thrasson twisted his foot against the insole, as though grinding the sandal into the dross might summon forth the ashen arms. Nothing happened, except that he grew even more despairing and frustrated.