It can weary a man, to live for two hundred years, but this city, just entering it gave Kveldulf a flickering, smouldering moment of life and hope.
It was almost a year to the day before he would set foot in the Veld, and the night of the wolf was just a black memory.
The city had grown and shed many names over the years, but was currently going by Pyreathium. Crammed with humanity from every corner of the world. Dusty. Hot. Rich with splendour. The monuments to countless, unnamable Pyrentine emperors lay here and there like children's toys. There were spices from Bara-Hagadh. Slaves from Cashel. Merchants from Caithroth. And even a few Northingmen, like himself. Not many, but enough that no one stared too long at the wild and bearded hunter.
He went dreaming through the markets beneath the gazes of dead emperors and forgotten priestesses. He looked at the vases and perfumes, the wines, cloth and jewellery. He spoke to people. Kaikos wasn't a language he knew, but his Lethrine was passable and a few people spoke Fraenk too.
"Do you know where to find Auxentios?" he said.
"Auxentios, that is a common name," they would reply. "And this is a vast city."
"Auxentios the sage. The healer. The miracle-worker."
"Ah, that Auxentios. No. You don't look for Auxentios, he looks for you."
Again and again. The same question, the same answer. And then Kveldulf came to a stall with red canvas and pillows and a blind man who was telling fortunes. But as Kveldulf thought about asking the old blind silver-palm about Auxentios, the man began screaming. He pointed an arthritic finger at Kveldulf and yelled, "Nosophoros! Nosophoros!" People were starting to stare. Kveldulf stepped away and vanished himself into the crowd. He found out later that the word meant literally plague-carrier. But sometimes also, witch. Or demon. Or monster.