The river flowed surely and swiftly to the mountains, its current countering all natural laws and common sense. It had not always been this way. In the beginning, the river had poured forth its waters out of the mountains, soaking the banks of the land and feeding the ocean with its sweet, cool touch. But times had changed, and those who came to its banks now spoke of a curse that lingered upon the water, and that was why it gathered the oceans and streams into itself. Some spoke of a day when every drop upon the earth would be siphoned away and hidden beneath the mountains.

In the river, some distance from shore, a strange man cast his net into the waters. His boat was small upon the wide expanse of the river, but it was large for a single person. Despite this, he manned it effortlessly, as if aided by the eddies and powers of the current beneath him.

In his net he caught the remnants of negligence and destruction and ravaged lands. Each scrap he removed separately and studied for a moment, as if he understood the journey by which it had come to his hands. He couldn’t know, of course, how this bit of broken candle had been the keepsake of a small child, who had pushed it into her pocket one day and rubbed it between her thumb and finger whenever she grew nervous; or how that torn rag, black with dried blood, had pressed against the mortal wound of a soldier in a foreign land. How could he know what house, now a burnt shell, that shingle had fallen from or whose hand, now wrinkled, that coin had received in its poverty? Of course, he could not know these things, although his expression hinted that he might.

The man glanced at the shore, where a figure, tall and regal, stood staring at him from beneath dark brows. The man in the boat showed no surprise, but neither did he show any interest. He emptied his net and threw it out again.

“This is my land,” the figure on shore declared. His voice carried over the water; surely the man in the boat heard him, but if he did, he gave no notice.

“We have an agreement,” the figure on the shore said, his tone sharp.

The man in the boat drew in his net naturally, neither hastening to appease the figure nor slowing his motion to irritate him. Only once he had finished this action did he raise his head. “I will not talk at this distance,” the fisher of lost things said. “Be patient, and I will come to you.”

And, indeed, the man in the boat made his way to shore, without row or sail, the water carrying him as by his command.

The figure on shore waited impatiently, his expression grew grim and terrible. For all the handsome build and royal bearing, his face looked bestial, but this he controlled, recovering again his self-possession.

“This is mine,” the noble one insisted, speaking before the other had come halfway. “Everything below the mountains is mine. Everything. This river is mine as well, no matter that it drags all this filth into the heart of your precious mountains. Or do you mean at last to take these lands by force?”

“This land is yours because you occupy it. It is not time to change that state of affairs. Still, I think I might visit if I wish?”

Rage engulfed the nobleman’s face, and he raised a hand as if to strike the fisher, but at a glare of warning in the fisher’s eyes, the noble restrained himself. “What is this?” he demanded instead, motioning viciously to the littered floor of the craft, covered as it was in the refuge of the river.

“Nothing you’d care about. Mostly trinkets from wars and famines and fires and floods. Elezandr, you claim all this land is yours, but you scramble for more. You seek endlessly for souls to ruin and bind to yourself. A Thousand Faces, indeed. A thousand sputtering candles snuffed out. What you fail to understand is that even nails and splinters accumulate the echo of those who build and dream and suffer. Of course, you never did want to take pleasure in them.”

“You may have it all,” the King of a Thousand Faces said, for that was one of his many names. “Take it and treasure it, you old fool.”

“Do you know what I have found?” the other said, opening the net. “I was looking especially for it.” From it he lifted carefully a small creature, which he cradled in his arms.

“It’s a child,” the King said disdainfully. “Dozens die every hour.”

“True,” the other said. “This child was nearly six when he became lost in high passes. His family never found the body. He had never been right in the head, as they say, and he was one of seven. In many ways, it is easier for the family now that he is gone. That is logic you understand, is it not?”

“Throw him back in the water and let the river be his grave.”

“The dead will all be swept up, eventually,” the man said solemnly. “But I want to show you something.”

He laid the child upon the ground at the King’s feet. Then he touched the child’s forehead, and color returned to his cheeks. The flesh of his torso flushed with sudden heat and his limbs twitched. The child’s eyes fluttered open before settling closed, his chest rising and falling with the ease of contented sleep.

The King watched with an expression of pain, his face twisting as the color returned to the child’s body. He swore a vile oath when the eyes opened, and he shook with uncontrollable emotion when it had finished.

“It is unnatural,” he spat.

The other answered sharply: “Life is not unnatural. Tell what lies you want. You have no such power to grant life, and you are jealous, mad with jealousy, and you wish to tie my hands. I could overthrow you with a word, Elezandr. I let you continue for my sake, not yours. I showed you this as a reminder of who I am, and as a warning. You will not lay a hand on this child. He is mine.” Then the man smiled. “I have a fondness for lost and broken things. I think this child will, too. I give this river to him. It will remind you that I collect such broken things and give them life.”

“He shall be your little carrion bird, then?” the King snarled.

“He shall,” the man said. “I will name him such, and he shall rise above it if he chooses. Now, you have troubled me enough. Leave me be.”

And though the King had been the one to confront the man, it was the King who turned away, eager to be gone. He burned to destroy the man and his mind turned again to achieving that end. He hated the child called Carion and considered also how he might afflict him.

“Come, child,” the man said to the sleeping boy as the King left. “I have a ship ready for you.”