By afternoon, Roger and his companions reached a fork in the road near Santa Teresa di Riva. A mountain path veered off westward, winding into unknown terrain.
There, they stumbled upon a familiar face.
The Saracen merchant was crouched by the roadside, his veiled female companion standing silently behind him. His cart had overturned, one of the horses injured and lying beside it. The coachman and the other horse were nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, brothers!" the merchant cried out, springing to his feet as he saw them. "Help a man down on his luck, won't you? Have mercy on a fellow traveler in need!"
Roger's group came to a halt. Baron Rollo rode forward while the forester circled behind the merchant.
"Where's your coachman?" the baron asked plainly, not bothering to ask what happened—he could tell from the scene.
"That cursed bastard!" the merchant spat. "All his fault, and now he's run off!"
The woman offered an explanation, "He said he was going to town for help."
"Silence! He ran, that's what happened. Who takes that long to fetch help?"
The forester circled back to whisper something into the baron's ear.
The baron gave a few orders. The coachman and blacksmith were sent to help right the cart. He and the forester remained mounted. The priest stood beside Roger, hand resting lightly on the head of his flanged mace.
"Knew that bleeding heart would poke his nose in," the coachman grumbled. Still, he joined the silent blacksmith and the merchant in lifting the cart upright. The injured horse could still walk, but couldn't haul the wagon.
"Good sirs," the merchant pleaded, "please, just a bit more help. Once we make it to the next town, I can sort everything out."
Roger noticed the veiled woman's eyes pleading silently as well.
The baron relented and ordered the forester to unhitch his horse and attach it to the cart. With their pace slowed, they eventually made it to town.
Santa Teresa di Riva was small but had a fishing port where ships could dock.
The merchant begged them to tow the cart to the pier. He said he planned to rent a boat to continue his journey.
He cursed his vanished coachman bitterly, but profusely thanked Roger's group for their help.
There were a few private houses near the port that offered lodging. The merchant stopped in front of a sturdy-looking wooden house standing alone. After a brief conversation with the owner inside, he came out and said, "Here's fine. I'll rent a boat tomorrow."
Then he turned to them with exaggerated courtesy: "Noble friends, I beg you, let me at least offer you food and shelter tonight. To receive such kindness and offer no thanks would shame me before all men—I'd never be able to do business on this road again."
He pledged, again and again, that he would cover all expenses.
Roger glanced at the sky. There was no way they'd make it to Taormina by nightfall. Their only other option would be to try their luck at the Castle of Sant'Alessio Siculo.
The baron clearly understood this too. He had the forester scout the place. After hearing it was safe, he accepted the merchant's offer.
To Roger, the dinner didn't feel like a proper banquet. There were no courses, no starters or mains.
The host simply served what he had—seaweed, seagrass, and a variety of fish. None of it was particularly rare or prized, but it was all very fresh, likely caught that day.
The host was a shriveled old man, but quick and deft with a knife. He cleaned the fish right at the door.
The "kitchen" was just a stone ringed hearth in the main room, with an iron rack above it for boiling or roasting. A big wooden table sat nearby, surrounded by mismatched stools and chairs—but at least there were enough seats.
There were no other guests. The veiled woman took the cleaned fish and began cooking—boiling and grilling it over the flames. She stayed beside the hearth the entire time, serving dishes as they were done, but never sitting to eat.
The merchant enthusiastically encouraged everyone to eat, but Roger's group had seen far finer meals. The plain, unseasoned seafood didn't stir their appetites. Typically, the merchant would eat something first and declare it delicious before the others would even try a bite. If he didn't eat it, they certainly wouldn't.
So the atmosphere remained awkward, lukewarm at best.
Embarrassed, the merchant finally shouted toward the host, "Bring out some wine!"
The old man froze, unsure, and turned to look at the veiled woman. She stared back at the merchant in surprise.
The merchant pulled out a few coins and tossed them toward the host. "I'm the master of this house tonight! Go fetch it!"
The old man took the coins, opened the door, and left—closing it behind him.
He returned shortly with a jug of wine, again closing the door behind him.
The merchant poured drinks for the group—but conspicuously skipped Roger.
Raising his own cup, he made a toast. "By Allah's name, we Arabs are forbidden from drinking. Please, allow me to offer this cup of water in honor of your kindness."
"Wait, what about my drink?" Roger protested.
"Ah, young man," the merchant smiled kindly, "it's best not to drink when you're still a child."
"No way! I am drinking. They don't call me Roger the Boozer for nothing!"
The merchant laughed heartily, clearly amused. He glanced at the woman and the host, then said to the old man, "Get him something harmless—fruit juice or the like."
The host left again, quietly closing the door behind him.
The merchant raised his cup again. "Let's drink!"
But Roger kept grumbling, and the rest of the group didn't raise their cups either. Awkwardly, the merchant lowered his own.
Fortunately, the old man soon returned and poured fruit juice for Roger.
At that moment, the baron spoke: "The host has worked hard. Let him have a drink with us."
He poured a cup and offered it, raising his own.
But the old man shook his head, bowing repeatedly. "No, no—I'm just a servant, I don't deserve such honor." He refused to take the cup.
So everyone lowered their cups again.
The merchant turned red with embarrassment. "When I tell you to drink, drink! Stop fussing!" he snapped.
Reluctantly, the old man accepted the cup.
As the merchant toasted again, everyone raised their cups.
"Cheers!" they shouted.
The merchant drained his cup of water in one go.
The host hesitated, then gritted his teeth and drank.
Roger was about to follow suit—but the baron held him back.
"Wait," he said quietly, leaning close. "We're travelers. Caution first. If nothing happens, we'll drink."
Roger noticed that even the others—the forester included—only raised their cups to their lips, all eyes on the old man.
The merchant grew visibly uncomfortable. "So you all look down on me now, is that it?" he muttered.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a pouch, scattering it across the table.
Gold coins clinked and glittered.
"If you're really my friends," he said, "drink this toast! And take whatever you like from the table!"
The baron's eyes gleamed. The coachman, blacksmith, and forester were suddenly breathing hard. They all looked at the baron, waiting for his decision.
The baron scratched his head again.
Roger thought: Don't tell me you're going to say "We'll discuss it later" again.
Just as the baron was about to speak, Roger watched, curious to see how the merchant would react.
But the host beat them to it. He suddenly spat out a mouthful of blood and collapsed to the floor.
The baron leapt up, sword drawn. Everyone else sprang to their feet, chairs clattering over.
The merchant let out a sigh and picked up the wine jug. "My lord Hussain forbade me from drinking… but I always wanted to know what wine tasted like."
He tilted back his head and drank deeply, finishing the whole jug.
Then he turned to the woman. "I was wrong. And for that, I deserve to die."
The woman sat curled beside the hearth, unmoving. Even as the merchant collapsed, she remained motionless, as though stunned.
The others rushed forward. The baron planted his sword into the ground and asked, "Are you one of the Hashashin too?"
"No." Her answer was clear and calm, though her voice was muffled.
Roger's mind felt sluggish. He guessed she must be crying—her voice sounded thick, like she was holding back sobs.
"Have you ever killed anyone?" the baron asked again.
"Never." She lifted her head. Her eyes were clear, tearless. "I've never taken a life."
"I believe her," the priest said. "Her eyes told me so."
"Me too."
"She's telling the truth."
"I agree."
One by one, the others chimed in.
Roger was puzzled. Eyes can talk?
"You can go," the baron said, swaying slightly and motioning her away.
But the woman didn't move. She remained curled up.
"If she's not leaving, then we are," the baron declared. "No staying here tonight."
"Yeah, let's go."
"Air's thick in here—I need some fresh air."
"Roger, stop dawdling. Let's move!"
Roger watched them scatter, like a theater crowd at the end of a show.
Was I dazing off? What was I even thinking about?
Then—
"No one leaves."
Her voice still had that muffled tone, like distant thunder.
The baron burst into laughter. "Oh? And why's that? What gives you the right?"
Everyone else laughed with him, like she'd told the world's funniest joke.
Roger laughed too.
He laughed and gasped for breath.
The room was spinning—he'd never noticed before how it could spin.
He tried to focus, to steady his gaze, but couldn't.
He saw fire—and within the fire, green light.
Green flames. How funny.
Somehow, he found himself lying at the woman's feet.
He looked up and saw that beneath her veil… there was no mouth.
That made him laugh even harder. No mouth! Haha!
There was something bulging under the veil, like a stuffed mask.
Masks. Everyone should wear one. Hahaha.
The woman extinguished the fire.
The world went black.