"Here we are," he whispers, drawing his hand on the book's soft cover. "Only a special person like you deserves this."
The girl takes the tome with trembling hands, fear lighting up inside her red eye. Where the second one should have been rests an eye-patch marked with the symbol of Yyril, the goddess of loners, warning Peddler that if he prods too much, he will wake up with a knife at his throat.
Yiril is not a merciful goddess, and her children doubly so.
"Why me?" She asks, curling her upper lip.
Those who spend too much time alone wandering the deserted streets of the city soon find themselves picking up the strangest of habits, remnants of those who had walked before them and had discarded their souls in the process. No one was truly alone when they roamed the streets near The Capitol – too many youngsters these days seem to be unaware of that fact, but the distrust in her eyes tells Peddle otherwise.
He touches her forehead with his thumb and presses gently, smiling at the red dot left behind. "There is hunger in you; a hunger which, if not satiated, will consume us all. The book may help for a while. After that, I am afraid I cannot help you."
The girl stares at the yellowed pages reverently, leaning in to smell them. Her nose wrinkles when the scent of decay reaches her nostrils, but she doesn't draw back or make any move to give back the gift. Unlike the others, she seems to sense this book is special, and that Peddler isn't spouting nonsense like most merchants do.
He rubs the scar under his eye absently, remembering how The Orphans had thrown rocks after him. An unsavory lot, bred only to feast on the weak. One stone had hit its mark, but thankfully, the gods had been with Peddler that day and he had not lost any of his eyes.
"Still, that doesn't answer my question. You could sell this anywhere – it would fetch a pretty penny." Her gaze drifts to his torn sandals, then back up to his skeletal figure and she hesitates. For a moment, he is afraid she has reconsidered and will push the book back into his hands. Once a gift is returned, it can never be taken back. A curse would befall them both. But then she clutches it at her chest, and he allows himself to sigh. "Tell me why."
"I do not wish for money."
"That's rubbish. Everyone wants money."
Peddler smiles sadly, feeling his skin chafe against his bones, like a mask too tight.
"When you're young, maybe so. At my age, you turn your attention elsewhere."
Suspicion draws her eyebrows into a frown. "You don't look that old. Your hair has not yet become white and I see no spots on your skin."
"Just because someone doesn't look old, it doesn't mean they aren't. My hair may be as brown as the bark on a tree, but my eyes have seen too much."
He reaches out and taps her eye-patch; she stiffens under his touch and she bares her yellow teeth at him like a wild cat caught stealing.
"Don't touch me."
"I apologize. That was rather rude," he grins and turns his back on her, fighting not to laugh.
It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to play games with a soul in need.
"Hey," she shouts and catches up with his cart, picking up an apple. "I didn't know peddlers sold fruits." She takes a bite out of the apple, then throws it in the air, smiling at its flight. "This is a good apple."
She has caught on to his game – Peddler hides his admiration behind his cart, forcing himself to dawdle so he would not tire. The spell would be broken if he did, and she needed the spell.
"My wares know no limits. If someone wants to buy, then I provide. You shouldn't touch stuff that doesn't belong to you." He catches the fruit mid-air and takes a bite out of it. No sense returning a bitten apple to the cart; no one would want to buy it. "Do you happen to have a name or should I call you Spawn of Yiril?"
"Sheera."
She's lying; Peddler can see it in her scowl, the way her shoulders tense for a split second and how her fingers clutch the book, her broken fingernails scraping its leather. But he has no use for a real name – he just needs something to call her.
"Do you have a name?" She asks when she thinks she got away with the lie.
"Peddler."
One of her eyebrows lifts, wrinkling up her forehead. "Your name is Peddler?"
He nods, smiling at her frustration.
"What kind of name is that?"
"I have known no need for another. This is who I was, who I am, and who I will be." He presses his index and middle finger to his forehead, muttering, "Yon."
It has been said, and it cannot be unsaid.
"So, let me get this straight. You are a peddler named Peddler who has the habit of giving up valuable things for free, out of the goodness of your own heart?"
"Yes."
She stares at him, dumbfounded.
"Why is that so hard to believe? The world is not as dark as Yiril teaches. There are many light-bringers if you wish to see them."
"You really are crazy."
"Crazy is the one who thinks where there is black there can never be white." He taps his right temple. "That is one truly screwed-up mind."
She eyes him warily but says nothing more, the weight of his words giving her pause. She is young – much too young to have been taught such a dark lesson. Peddler just hopes it is not too late, and he has arrived at an opportune moment to show her there is another path.
When she glances at the book, he knows he has won the argument. By now, it should be whispering to her, telling her to open it, but her own fear would be saying otherwise.
"Yiril teaches only what profits her. Even deities have agendas."
"What is yours?" She hides the book in her coat and picks another apple, sneaking something in his pocket. Probably a coin, he guesses. "For your troubles," she smirks when he smiles at her.
"I guess you will never find out. This is where we must part ways." Peddler stops, turning his cart around. "Go to Beshnut's temple and tell the monk who meditates in the middle of the garden that Peddler sent you," he shouts, quickly making himself scarce before Sheera has a chance to realize he has abandoned her.
His career as a teacher had ended a long time ago; it was better this way – both for him and the students. Thinking of Sheera's eyepatch makes his hands itch and one of them reaches into the pocket of his coat, searching for the coins she dropped there. Instead, his fingers find a scrap of paper.
Peddler puts down his cart and takes out the note, squinting to read it. His eyesight is not as good as it had once been, but he can discern one word, scribbled in haste.
Help.