"Distant water cannot quench a nearby fire." — Arnold Allis, The Saga of the Western Kings

  Under the shadow of clouds, the sea turned a deep green, viscous as meat jelly. Gilbert chose his moment and plunged his hand into the water. "Oh, you've caught yourself a big one," said Old Fisher, hands on hips, his gaze approving. Near seventy and bearded with gray, the old fisherman remained powerfully built. "A gray sea eel... hmm. A brute." He took the eel from Gilbert's hands; the creature gaped, meeting human eyes with a vicious stare. "These bastards normally keep to the bottom. You managed to catch one bare-handed, and..." He measured it. "Taller than a man."

  "I saw it rise and thought I'd try my luck." Gilbert flicked the seawater from his hands. "Life is unpredictable. Sometimes you succeed on the first attempt." Compared to Old Fisher, Gilbert seemed younger, though the apprentice was nearly forty, his untrimmed beard growing wild. Even so, there was something composed and refined about him—a scholarly air that kept others at a distance.

  "Everything's worth trying, boy." Old Fisher tossed the eel into a battered cask. "Long ago, I took a chance too—carried my fish and shrimp over Kulen Mountain to the Cynthian capital. Not a soul in Bellita Village believed in me; they all thought I'd perish in the mountain passes. Hah. Life is full of surprises."

  "Was it on that journey you met the caravan?"

  "Aye—the same folk who traveled with us last time. You remember Bob's enormous belly, don't you... hmm." The old man chuckled; his whiskers quivered with it. "I'd lost my way and consumed the last of my provisions. They found me while I was figuring out how to handle some tuna."

  "There's something I've never understood, Fisher," Gilbert said, shooing a gull off a wooden crate before sitting down. "If the caravan knew the proper route, how did they happen upon you in the wrong place?"

  "There was a child—a girl—traveling with her mother, headed for Cynthia with the caravan. The lass said she needed to relieve herself. She slipped away right under her mother's nose. I was merely the unexpected treasure they discovered while searching for her."

  "And the girl—she was found?"

  "Mhm. They found her outside Rainbow Forest. Said she wanted flower petals to craft a necklace for her mother. Hmph. A child wandering Kulen Mountain without losing an arm or half her head—that's nothing short of miraculous."

  "Before that, did no caravans ever come here from Cynthia?"

  "They did—royal caravans," Old Fisher said with disdain. "Once yearly, and meager in goods. I go every three months now, bringing back proper novelties for the village."

  "Then I was fortunate to catch the last trading run."

  "You had the devil's own luck, boy. That was the last journey to Cynthia for some time. Not until the war ends will we have another chance to take this fine eel to Cynthia—and the royal caravans won't be coming either."

  "No villager dares make the journey alone? Without caravan company?"

  Proudly, Old Fisher shook his head. "In this entire village, I'm the only one capable of reaching Cynthia by myself."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Impressive," Gilbert said, genuinely admiring.

  "Now then—what about you?" The old man settled with his back against a pier post. "You've been in Bellita nearly half a year. Never considered returning?"

  "Returning where?" Gilbert blurted almost instantly.

  "Home, of course." The old man's expression grew suspicious. "Isn't your home in Duviliel?"

  "Yes. Yes, my home is in Duviliel," the middle-aged man hastily confirmed. "I just haven't decided whether I ought to go back."

  "Even a blind man could see the right choice there." The old man spat into the sea. "There's no future in this dead-end village. I'd wager your family doesn't want you rotting here—no more than mine did." He grinned, and a muscle beneath his left eye twitched, resembling a wink.

  Gilbert heaved a convincing sigh. "My father's expectations of me are... demanding."

  "I don't believe you've mentioned your father before..." The old fisherman groped for a bottle by his foot and accidentally knocked it into the sea. "Damn it all. Truth be told, you've barely shared anything about yourself."

  "My father... how to explain." He hesitated. "He's an alchemist."

  "Alchemy?" The fisherman frowned. "What sort of stuff is that? Some kind of magic?"

  "Similar, yet not identical." He struggled for the right words. "Think of it as study. Research."

  "That's something." Old Fisher extended his fingers and counted. "Even our wretched village has produced a few magic-wielders, from what I've heard. Doing well at the Cynthian Court... three of them, I believe?"

  "I hadn't heard that," Gilbert said, looking uncomfortable—(and relieved they weren't here). The thought startled him. "We don't typically discuss them. Back to you, Gilbert. You mentioned your father's high expectations—what exactly does he want?"

  "Ah... he wants me to bring him a Philosopher's Stone."

  "A Philosopher's Stone?"

  "Yes." The apprentice shaped it with his fingers. "About this size. It transforms anything it touches into gold."

  The old fisherman laughed heartily. "I can't believe such a thing exists, boy. If it did, none of us would fish again—we'd all dwell in palaces."

  "You'd still need to fish. By then, gold would be as common as cow pies." Old Fisher's laughter subsided. "Put that way, it does make a kind of sense. How did I not consider that?"

  "In any case, it's not of this world."

  "Which means you haven't found it," he surmised. The other man shook his head.

  "So that's why you came to this forsaken place where even gulls don't bother to shit—to hunt your Philosopher's Stone?"

  Another shake of the head. "I came because I grew weary of the search."

  "Then I'd say you've found the perfect spot." The old man revealed his teeth. "This village is full of dreamers—dreamers of the sea. Though none of us has ever discovered that perfect moment we dream about out there."

  "And what do you dream of finding? The sea-god Kidolian's trident?"

  "No. That's beyond my ambition. I'm searching for a creature that dwells on the ocean floor... presumably." He scratched his cheek. "They say it has a human face but a fish's body."

  "You mean the Merfolk?"

  "Oh, no. Merfolk you and I have both witnessed. On fair days they surface to bask on the rocks. What I seek is hideous. The myths describe it with webbed feet, gills, a human face—something of that nature."

  "Perhaps the chronicler mistook a Harpy for it," the apprentice suggested skeptically.

  Old Fisher spread his hands. "Possibly... but I've heard numerous accounts claiming these creatures truly exist." His left cheek twitched. "Do you believe in them, Gilbert?"

  "Better to believe in it than not. That has always been my philosophy."

  "Then pray I encounter those ugly little creatures soon." The fisherman rose and headed toward the shack. "Come along, boy. Time to prepare supper."

  "Don't tell me it's—"

  "Fish stew, boy. A medley—fish, shrimp, bits of everything."

  "Don't make it sound so appetizing, Fisher. We've had fish stew every day this month." The old man laughed.