Aron tossed and turned on his cot. While wrapped in his blanket, in the tent that kept chill and river insects out, fragments of his past stay in the area flashed in his mind. It all came back, as though it had been only yesterday: the eerie whispers at twilight, as though someone lurked behind your shoulder, the echoes of distant singing amidst the reeds and the soldiers who vanished never to return. And, worst of all, the two long, translucent forms floating in the breeze, white and luminous, over the lifeless body of his captain.

He threw the covers aside, drenched in sweat despite the chilly spring night. His fingers searched the ground by his cot for the flask Tongo had given him. Aron sat up and drank, half-choking himself. The fresh water eased his mind a bit, and he pushed his sweaty hair away from his face. What an old fool I’ve become.

A gust of wind blew through the tent’s gauge door and Aron closed his eye, enjoying its cool brush against his burning face. A whisper at his right made him open it back - a whisper, then a giggle; soft sounds, silk against the tent’s sackcloth, against ropes. His throat dry, his heart racing, Aron watched wide-eyed a long white ribbon pass before his tent.

They are here!

Mumbling prayers to the river god, Aron pulled the covers over his head and did not come out until he heard a rooster cock at dawn.

Tongo’s sage brew and some goat cheese cleared Aron’s mind, pushing his fears back. He found the Master Mason in his tent, bent over the same chart, rubbing his chin. He barely looked up when Aron stepped in.

“Good day, Master Devlin.”

Devlin just nodded and waved at Aron to approach. He pointed at the sketch of the bridge before him. “We should have finished the second arch by now, Master Aron. When will you have the scaffoldings up?”

Aron scratched his head. “If the river bed can support them, and you give me a dozen lads to work for me, I’ll have them up by tonight.”

“The river shouldn’t give you any trouble.” Devlin raised his gaze from the chart and eyed Aron, his brow furrowed. “Did you sleep well, Master Aron?”

Aron cast his gaze downwards, pretending to study the chart. “Quite well, sir,” he lied.

“Ah.” Devlin didn’t sound convinced. “If I may be so bold, Master Aron, how did you lose your eye?”

Aron’s head jerked upwards. This question he had not expect – not so soon, at least. “During a thunderstorm, sir. Aboard the king’s flag ship Sovereign. Lightning hit the main mast and sent a splinter through my eye. The ship’s healer said I was lucky it didn’t reach my brain.”

“Touched by thunder, then.” The hint of a smile curled the corners his mouth. “Give me my scaffoldings by tonight, Master Aron, and I’ll see you get accordingly compensated.

The sun had almost set behind the Dragonbone Mountains at the west when Aron stood at the riverbank and inspected his day’s work, ankle-deep in mud, soiled, tired – happy. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed working with his hands. His shoulders and back would be stiff in the morning, his arms and the bald patch on his head ached after the long hours in the sun, he had splinters in his palms and fingers but, by the gods, he felt good. He inhaled deeply the scent of the river: the reeds, the moss, the faint whiff of honeysuckle.

The Master Mason came and stood beside Aron, his hands at his hips. He studied the construction for a long moment.

“Good work, Master Aron.”

Aron said nothing, only nodded. He savored the feel of Devlin’s compliment and watched the slow, lazy waters of Didonai flow southward. Somewhere at their left, a group of frogs gossiped about the day’s events.

“We will start building here tomorrow. You can start the scaffoldings at the other side,” Devlin said beside him and pointed at the opposite bank. “I cannot dispatch to you as many workers as today, however. A boat will wait to carry you across on the morning. And don’t forget to see Tongo for supplies before you leave.”

“Of course, sir.”

Devlin placed his palm on Aron’s shoulder. “Get some rest now. You look as though you need a good night’s sleep.”

Aron nodded. Night – he pushed the thought at the back of his mind.

Still tired, still aching but definitely cleaner, Aron sat inside Tongo’s tent, finishing his second helping of fish soup. Most of the younger workers had already finished their supper and left, probably on their way to the town’s pubs. Aron ate slowly, enjoying the easy silence in the tent. Tongo puffed his pipe, comfortably seated on a pile of grain sacks, occasionally sipping from his cup.

“You don’t like the wine?”

Aron looked up from his bowl, forgetting to swallow. “On the contrary, Master Tongo,” he said, half-choking on his forgotten mouthful and grinned. “I’m just saving the good for last.”

“Ah.” The cook rubbed his belly, a satisfied look on his face. He watched the rings of smoke float upwards, through the top opening and into the night. “You made Master Devlin a happy man today, my friend.”

“I did?”

“Uh-um. The progress pleased the king’s inspectors.”

Aron sat up and put his bowl down. “The king’s inspectors were here? Is Master Devlin in trouble?”

Tongo puffed his pipe. “Far be it from me to spread rumors, but word among the workers has it that the new king is greatly displeased with the delays. Short-tempered as he is, he might order our Master Mason’s death if he fails to meet the deadline. But there is still enough time.”

Aron’s said nothing. His shoulders slumped, his body suddenly aware of the day’s toil. He emptied his cup of wine, its rich flavor warm in his throat. He bid the cook goodnight and retired to his tent.

That night he slept undisturbed.