All Those Who Wander

Benjamin performed the sign of the cross, knocked twice, and opened the door. The room was small and dark, save for a lone window on the far wall. In its fading sunlight, Benjamin saw a white-bearded man slouched in a chair, staring at the window with distant eyes.

“Come in, come in,” the old man said. “My servants told me I had a visitor coming.” He waved the newcomer in with a grand sweep of his hand. The old man was portly and fit well into the chair. His hair and his beard were full, but his expression remained empty.

Benjamin lowered his head and spoke quietly. “I have been here before, you know.”

The old man pivoted from the window, eyes widening under bushy brows. “Is that how you address your king?” He rubbed fiercely at his nose. “Come, speak to me. I do not even know your name.”

“I am Benjamin,” said the younger man, taking a seat in a nearby chair.

“Ah, Benjamin.” The old man poured himself some wine. He took a sip and nodded approvingly, at either the wine or his guest. “Benjamin, the hero of the Battle for Scorched Canyon.”

“Oh, no,” said Benjamin, “not at all.”

The old man broke into a full smile. “Ah, yes, your captain said you were a humble one. Come, share a drink with me.” He poured Benjamin a glass of wine and clapped him on the shoulder. “If you need any more, just call out and a servant or my wife will get some for you.”

Benjamin paused before responding, not returning the old man’s grin. “Oh no, this is plenty.”

The old man looked Benjamin up and down before continuing, as if to a large crowd. “It is fortuitous that you should arrive tonight. My boy, tonight you will keep me company in my vigil.”

Benjamin sipped from his glass and looked at the old man. “Your vigil?”

The old man frowned and swirled his wine. “Yes, my vigil. Tonight I await the return of my son. He rode off some time ago, out far into the sunset. I do not know when he will return. I do not even know where he is.” He dragged a careless finger across a paper sitting near the two of them. It was a map, ornate, and full of symbols, images, and landmarks that Benjamin had never learned.

“This map,” Benjamin said. “What is it?”

The old man paused and played with his beard. “Oh, this? This, my boy, is the entirety of the known world. A gift to me from the scholars of the Granite Tower.” His expression changed and he looked at Benjamin with a glint in his eye. “It is good to know people.”

Benjamin allowed himself a smile as he agreed, “It's good to know people.”

The old man stood and walked in a circle to the window. “My son is a good man,” he said. “He is better than most. But I worry for him often.” He set down his glass and looked Benjamin in the eye. “You know, I often stay up at night worrying for my son. I had thought he would come back tonight. I worry for him.”

Benjamin shifted in his chair, breaking the eye contact. “Why do you worry?”

The old man looked back to the window and smiled, but the smile was not as full as it had been before. The sun was orange and low over the trees. “He is a good man. My only memories of him are fond ones, you know. Chasing through the fields together, playing with his mother, watching him sneak his food to the dogs when he thought I was not looking. His friends would come play and laugh at our table. He grew into a fine scholar and a handsome young man. But”—

The old man stopped and reached a wrinkled hand to touch the window. “But he did not want to play at being king.” He let out his breath slowly, dragging his fingertip along the window pane.

Benjamin sipped at his wine, then cleared his throat to speak. He was interrupted.

“But come!” the old man said. “You are not here to listen to ramblings about my son. Benjamin, the hero of the Scorched Canyon, needn’t worry himself with such things. Come, tell me the stories of the battle. There is much that I want to hear.”

Benjamin hesitated and played with his chin. “I really don’t have much to say about battles,” he said, “but it might interest you to know that I was just home with my family. It is Ruth’s first birthday. My daughter.”

The old man clapped Benjamin on the shoulder again. “How fortunate that the Goddess of War preserved you, so you could see her.” He looked out the window. “Hold your girl close. Once you let her go”—his voice trailed off, though his mouth remained parted. He stepped closer to the window and peered intently. From where Benjamin sat, he could not be sure if the old man was looking out the window or at some imperfection on the glass. They remained this way for a time, each observing the silence of the room.

The old man jerked himself from the window, “Come now, look at the gift I have laid out for you.” He made a grand gesture to a table beside Benjamin.

Benjamin looked to the table and saw a thin blade. He turned forward again. “But I don’t understand. What is it?”

The old man smiled, life returning to his cheeks. “This is the sword of the Dragon King Exelon, forged in the Deeping Mines and used at the Battle of the Belltower, where Exelon struck down the tyrant Aricept”—he paused suddenly, and grabbed a leather book from a nearby desk. As he thumbed through the book, Benjamin could see a messy inked script scrawled across hundreds of pages. The old man’s finger dragged across the words, line by line, for quite some time.

Finally, he coughed once and closed the book. “My mistake,” he said. “It was the tyrant Razadyne. Aricept was his son.”

Benjamin made a small smile. “An understandable mistake.”

The old man disregarded the comment and repeated his gesture to the blade. “Come, boy, pick up your sword. It is well earned. I had been”—he paused to examine his drink—”I had been saving it for my son, but you are the one who has earned it.”

Benjamin gathered his eyebrows and tilted his head back and forth. “I don’t need to take it. At least not tonight. You could save it.”

“No.” The king walked over to the blade. “The sword is earned. It is for those who accept their role and their king.” He picked up the blade with a reverent twirl. The metal caught the sun and flashed across the room. The last rays of evening flew from the old man’s face to Benjamin, still sitting, and then to the strange map.

The old man’s mouth was parted and his hand shook slightly. “Take it,” he said.

Benjamin rose quickly from his seat and grabbed the blade from the old man’s hand. It was light, well-balanced, and the handle fit snugly into one hand. Benjamin held it comfortably, but his face displayed his concern. He took care not to let the metal catch the sunlight.

“You should go now,” said the old man. His hand still shook, and new wrinkles had formed around his eyes and on his brow. “A king has many items to attend.” He sunk into his seat. One last time, he performed his sweeping gesture, though it was much smaller than before.

“And I await my son.”

Benjamin winced, blade in one hand and cup in the other. He stood still for many moments. The old man’s hands continued to tremble in his lap, slowly at first, but then quicker and more violently. A tear dripped into his beard.

Benjamin swallowed and looked at the ground. “As you wish, my king.” He turned and walked slowly to the door. He paused at the entryway and looked back one more time. The old man was sniffling heavily, but he was looking out the window again. The sun was behind the trees now. A shaking hand reached up and moved closer to the window. One finger reached out beyond the others and made to touch the glass.

Benjamin walked swiftly down the hallway. He wiped at his nose and steadied his breathing. As he approached the receptionist, he cleared his throat. He set the cup and the butter knife on the desk.

“I accidentally walked out with these. Can you get them back to my father in room 341?”

He stepped into the darkness of the parking lot, and he promised to hold Ruth more closely that night.