Chapter 4

A year passed.

Archer and Anka traveled throughout the region in search of the remaining members of the Shod.

In all, they managed to find eight survivors: five women and three children.

Another fifteen people joined their tribe as well—people who were either impressed by Archer’s magic or frightened and fascinated by the unnatural state of Anka’s body.

Passing themselves off as gods had produced mixed results.

On the one hand, it attracted certain people—those who wanted to draw closer to the divine and devote themselves to serving the gods.

On the other hand, it frightened away many of the more superstitious people, who preferred to keep their distance from Archer and Anka.

At least neither group dared raise a hand against the gods.

Their reputation kept them safe.

The Shod took Grokan’s old camp for themselves.

It turned out to be an excellent place to establish a permanent settlement.

First, it was well hidden from outsiders, which meant unwanted visitors were rare.

Second, there was a spring close to the camp, providing a reliable source of clean drinking water.

Third, a lake teeming with fish lay about a day’s journey away. The tribe could establish a fishing camp there and take advantage of the abundant supply. The women knew how to dry fish, and dried fish was always useful as currency when trading with other tribes.

Unfortunately, there were no good hunting grounds near the settlement. The hunters had to travel relatively far to find worthwhile game.

Aside from that, the renewed tribe of the Shod was quite satisfied with its new home.

Over the course of the year, Archer had become an excellent archer and taught everyone in the tribe how to use a bow.

He and Anka believed that bows and arrows gave them a tremendous advantage over neighboring tribes and were equally valuable for hunting.

Not everyone agreed with their decision. Some believed that women and children had no business learning archery.

But Archer and Anka insisted.

In the end, everyone in the settlement learned how to shoot a bow.

During that same year, Archer also became reasonably proficient in the language of the Shod.

He had decided that being unable to understand the conversations taking place around him was far too risky.

Even so, Anka continued to act as his interpreter in all official matters and whenever they dealt with outsiders.

They believed this gave greater credibility to his divine persona.

After all, gods needed intermediaries.

Gods were supposed to remain beyond the reach of ordinary people.

And so Anka continued to serve as Archer’s voice.

Using his magic brush, the Painter created two notebooks—one for himself and one for Anka.

In his own, he recorded every new word he learned.

He also taught Anka to read and write, as well as his own literacy allowed, so that she could keep records of the tribe’s affairs.

She was deeply impressed by this new technology and took great pride in her newfound ability to write things down—and read them again.

“How do you know all these things?”

Anka wrote the question in her notebook with great difficulty and concentration, then showed it to Archer.

He laughed and wrote back:

“I don’t know how I know all these things either.”

She sounded out his answer one syllable at a time, reading it aloud.

For a while, they continued communicating in writing. Archer believed the practice would help Anka learn faster.

Next on Archer’s list of priorities was supplying the tribe with all kinds of tools—from needles and thread for sewing to hammers and saws for carpentry.

Using the brush, he created a house for himself much like the one he had made in the endless white dimension.

Then he began inviting into his home the men who were learning carpentry under his guidance. He showed them what houses could be like and what kind of living conditions civilized people should have.

Archer himself learned carpentry from a book he had created with the magic brush.

Interestingly, he hadn’t needed to imagine the entire contents of the book in order to create it. He had simply formed the idea of a carpentry manual in his mind and begun painting a book with the brush.

What materialized was a complete textbook filled with illustrations, diagrams, and lessons.

Partly with the help of the brush and partly through their newly acquired carpentry skills, the men of the settlement built a large workshop where craftsmen of various kinds could work.

There, without any further help from magic, Archer and the others used the book to learn the finer points of woodworking, building tables, chairs, beds, chests, and other necessities of everyday life.

“What is that going to be?” one of the apprentices asked Archer curiously.

“A chair,” Archer replied as he attached the legs to the seat.

“What’s a chair?”

“Something you sit on,” Archer explained.

“Why not sit on the floor?” the apprentice asked.

“Because the floor is dirty,” Archer said. “Because chairs are comfortable. Because advanced people sit on chairs, and you and I—we’re advanced people now.”

He finished attaching the leg.

“There!”

Archer attached the final leg to the crude chair, set it on the floor, and sat down.

The legs immediately buckled beneath him, sending Archer tumbling to the floor.

Everyone fell silent.

Sitting there on the floor, Archer burst out laughing.

Then everyone else started laughing too.

Next, using the same method he had used to create the textbooks, the Painter created various kinds of maps.

Topographic maps.

Population maps.

Resource maps.

Hydrogeological maps.

With their help, he always knew where to dig a well, where to excavate a mine, and where to find people who might be recruited into the Shod.

Anka had changed over the course of the year.

Her dead body seemed to be healing, slowly knitting itself back together. The smell of decay had become far less unpleasant than it had been when the Painter first resurrected her.

And in an effort to mask what remained of the odor, Anka had begun weaving all kinds of flowers into her clothing and wearing flowers in her hair.

In the evening light, a stranger could easily mistake her for an ordinary person.

But in broad daylight, it was obvious that something about her wasn’t right.

Being undead had its advantages.

Anka no longer needed food.

Or rest.

Or sleep.

She could run without tiring.

She could fight indefinitely.

No wound could slow her down, and she felt no pain.

And because the Painter had no need for sleep either, the two of them spent their nights talking, planning further improvements and the continued development of their tribe.

They shared the same passion: to build a great tribe.

A great settlement.

A great nation.

Perhaps that was why they had become inseparable.

Anka admired the Painter.

To her, he truly was a god—a visitor from another world, a more advanced world.

Archer wanted to get as much use out of his brush as possible.

And that meant he needed experience.

The experience of interacting with people.

The experience of solving problems.

The experience of making a successful shot during a hunt.

The experience of battle.

Any kind of experience charged the brush, allowing the Painter to materialize yet another object that could benefit the tribe.

And so he hunted alongside the other hunters. He practiced different crafts. He interacted closely with his fellow tribespeople, even if Anka still acted as his interpreter. And whenever problems arose, he made a point of dealing with them personally.

Through experimentation, Archer discovered that the more advanced the era an object belonged to, the more of the brush’s charge was required to create it.

He also discovered that certain extraordinary objects required a full charge. Creating one would drain the brush completely, leaving it entirely black and white and requiring considerable effort to recharge.

But such objects could be worth the cost.

Anka’s immortality brooch, for example.

At the same time, the Painter had no intention of being reckless.

He didn’t want to waste the brush’s charge on anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

But how could he know in advance which creations would prove genuinely useful—which ones would justify the cost and which ones wouldn’t?

That was when he had the idea of creating an advisor with the brush.

An advisor unlike anything in this world.

One capable of thinking outside the box.

One who could help Archer see the whole picture—to look at things from the broadest possible perspective and, when necessary, examine the smallest details as though through a microscope.

So the Painter took out his brush and painted a magical silver amulet bearing the likeness of a human face.

The amulet materialized and dropped into his hand.

The Painter put it around his neck.

And spoke to it.

“Wake up,” he commanded the amulet.

The amulet’s eyes opened.

But it said nothing.

“What should I call you?” Archer asked.

“Sol,” the amulet replied. “Call me Sol.”

“Sol,” Archer said. “Tell me something.”

The amulet remained silent for a while, its expression serene and motionless.

“People call you Archer,” Sol finally began, “but that is not your name. You don’t know your real name. In fact, you know absolutely nothing about yourself. You have no memories from before the white dimension.

“And that doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“You are focused on the present and the future. You have found goals for yourself. You have found a purpose. You are building a new identity—a new life.

“You want to accomplish great things, and you want to accomplish them as quickly as possible.

“That is why you created me.

“To be the voice of wisdom. Your advisor. An intelligence beyond this world.

“I am ready to fulfill that purpose.

“Where would you like to begin?”

“Let’s start with our current settlement,” the Painter said.

The amulet fell silent again, as though considering every aspect of the question.

After a short while, Sol spoke.

“Your ambitions are advancing faster than your population can keep up with them. You want everything at once, and the brush allows you to achieve many of your goals far more quickly than would otherwise be possible.

“But the brush cannot give you enough people to carry out your plans.

“Human resources are what you lack most.”

“Yes, exactly,” the Painter agreed. “How do we solve that problem? Where do we get more people?”

“The age in which you live is indeed sparsely populated,” Sol replied. “You have two options.

“The first is to persuade people from other tribes and peoples to join you.

“The second is to accelerate the passage of time and wait for your population to grow naturally.”

“Tell me about the second option,” Archer said.

“Create an artifact that will allow you to enter a state of deep meditation. A state in which your perception of time is under your control.

“You will be able to accelerate the passage of time for yourself. Days will pass like seconds. A century will pass like an hour.

“Your population will multiply while you are gone, and they will await your return.

“Anka can take care of everything in your absence.”

Archer considered this, then asked the question that troubled him.

“Wouldn’t I be missing countless opportunities that way? Wouldn’t I be wasting the potential to use the brush more often?”

“Yes,” Sol replied firmly. “Opportunities will be lost. Potential will be wasted.

“To your people, you will become a statue. A myth. A legend.

“Entire generations will be born and die without ever knowing your guidance.

“But the price of those losses is not as great as you think.

“The question is whether you want to struggle and devote the greatest possible effort to your goals—or take the path of least resistance.”

“Which path would you recommend?” Archer asked the amulet.

“Both,” the advisor replied. “There will be a time for action and perseverance, and there will be a time for growth and patience.

“Right now, you need more people, and the simplest way to achieve that is to wait.

“Yes, you will miss thousands of days of interacting with people. You will miss thousands of experiences and moments that might have charged the brush.

“But don’t let that stop you. There are far more days and far more experiences waiting for you in the future than you will lose by waiting.”

“What about aging?” Archer asked. “Won’t I become an old man while I wait?”

“I cannot answer that question because we still know too little about you. My advice is to wait ten years and then look in a mirror.

“You will see the answer in your reflection,” Sol said.

“And what about Anka? We’ve been practically inseparable for the past year,” Archer said.

“Anka will have to find her own way to deal with the loneliness and seek out companionship. But I can offer one solution: leave me with her. Then she will have someone to talk to and keep her company throughout the years of your absence.

“Alternatively, create another artifact for her—one capable of altering her perception of time as well.”

“All right,” Archer said. “That’s enough for now.”

Sol closed his silver eyes and went dormant.

Archer and Anka spent that night together, as they had grown accustomed to doing.

But this time, the Painter told her about his plan to create the time artifact and spend a hundred years in a meditative trance.

Anka understood Archer’s intentions and his reasons. She agreed that their settlement deserved to be home to far more people.

But she didn’t think they should enter the trance together.

It would be better, she said, if she remained behind to manage the settlement and guide its people.

Archer agreed.

Anka also believed that the place where Archer spent his century-long trance mattered. She wanted him to rest somewhere special—a place that would hold sacred significance for their people.

Archer understood what she had in mind.

Something like a temple.

A sanctuary.

He promised to create such a place with the brush.

Finally, Anka asked him to leave her some kind of guide to transforming their tribe into a nation.

Archer immediately took out the brush, formed the idea in his mind, and painted a thick book with an impressive binding.

Its title was:

How to Build a Civilization.

Several weeks passed before Archer was able to create the artifact that would put him into the meditative trance. The brush needed time to accumulate enough charge.

Meanwhile, the Painter created a stone archway in the rock not far from the center of the settlement.

When the arch came to life, it opened a passage into the sanctuary exactly as he had imagined it.

At the center of the sanctuary stood a transparent sarcophagus on a rectangular pedestal. Its walls were made of thick glass, while its lid was made of lightweight transparent plastic—light enough that whoever lay inside could push it open without assistance.

At the same time, Anka was rapidly working her way through the guide to building a civilization.

She began compiling a list of everything she would need from Archer before he left them.

At the top of that list were seeds for various crops.

There could be no agriculture without seeds.

Then, after another successful hunt in which Archer performed particularly well, the brush finally reached a full charge.

And Archer created his artifact:

The Crown of Time.

He tested the crown in his home.

Altered states of consciousness were an entirely new experience for him. It took another week of experimentation before he understood the various states the crown could induce and found the particular trance Sol had described.

Once he entered it, Archer was able to glide far ahead along the timeline, allowing entire days to pass in the space of a few minutes.

The Crown of Time worked.

Everything was ready.

Anka insisted that Archer address the entire settlement before his departure.

He had to tell them that their divine leader was going away to rest for many years—that most of them would probably never see him again in their lifetimes, and that only the children of their great-grandchildren would be granted that honor.

Archer was no great public speaker, so he read his address to the settlement from a sheet of paper.

The speech was dry and unremarkable.

Some of the people didn’t even understand what he was talking about.

One way or another, Archer fulfilled that request and every other request Anka made before his departure.

Then he entered the sanctuary, lay down inside the sarcophagus, closed the lid over himself, placed the crown on his head, and slipped into the trance.

Anka was left alone.

But she had the magic amulet containing Sol.

The magic brush remained with the Painter. He held it in both hands against his chest.

Time raced forward.

Years passed.

The seasons changed. Day and night followed one another so quickly that they became impossible to distinguish.

The settlement grew.

Houses, storehouses, workshops, forges, and countless other structures rose throughout the canyon. The carpenters had mastered their craft.

The canyon itself was transformed. Tiered terraces appeared along its slopes, where the people cultivated many different crops.

Of course, farming would have been easier on the open plains than on the slopes of their canyon. But out there, their little kingdom would have been exposed for all the world to see.

By growing everything within the shelter of their native canyon, this new civilization remained hidden from the outside world and could develop without unnecessary danger.

The population surpassed a hundred, and Anka carefully assigned roles and responsibilities.

Hunters.

Gatherers.

Farmers.

Fishermen.

Carpenters.

Blacksmiths.

Tailors.

Cooks.

Warriors.

Scouts.

Traders.

Miners.

Stonemasons.

Beekeepers.

Anka introduced a code of laws and established citizenship, complete with its own rights and responsibilities. She created a monetary currency and a state bank. She organized a city watch and a fire brigade.

The settlement was transforming from a village into a town.

A city-state.

The secret passage into the canyon was fortified with a wooden palisade and gates, and every resident of the flourishing town was required to learn archery, just as Archer had commanded many years earlier, when their tribe had still been tiny.

The streets were paved with stone.

Bathhouses and an amphitheater were built.

Construction began on a stone palace.

New professions appeared: musicians, actors, painters, healers, midwives, millers, bakers, and brewers.

The canyon produced a wide variety of fruits, vegetables, grains, herbs, and spices.

The townspeople mastered the art of cooking.

Birth rates rose.

Death rates fell.

Life expectancy increased.

Anka was pleased.

The people regarded Anka as the chosen one of the gods.

Her word was law, and her praise was valued more highly than any reward.

By now, the people had grown accustomed to the fact that she was undead.

One evening, during some of her free time, Anka once again went to the community center to read the children one of the fairy tales she had written herself.

Anka had grown very fond of writing—not so much because of the stories themselves, but because she loved the act of putting words on paper.

She enjoyed carefully forming each letter, joining letters into words, and filling the page with beautiful, neat handwriting.

But paper was a precious resource, and Anka didn’t want to waste it merely practicing her penmanship. So she decided to write stories for children instead.

And in the evenings, she would read her latest creations to the children of the settlement.

“The brave hunter,” Anka read aloud, “tired and battered, finally drove the beast into his cleverly constructed trap. Now the beast had nowhere left to run.

“The beast roared, ‘Rrrrrr!’

“And the hunter’s hands began to tremble with fear, so terrible was the sound of its roar.”

Anka acted out the hunter’s trembling hands as she read.

The children hung on her every word.

One little boy’s mouth had fallen wide open.

“But the hunter knew that he had a family to feed,” Anka continued dramatically. “He knew that if he did not kill the beast, the people he loved would starve.

“So he took out an arrow, raised his bow, pulled back the string, and fired!

“The arrow whistled through the air and struck the beast directly in the heart!

“The beast fell to the ground, dead, and the hunter breathed a sigh of relief.

“That evening, everyone in their settlement enjoyed a great feast of roasted meat, and they loved the hunter even more because they knew they could depend on him in times of trouble.

“The hunter’s family had plenty to eat.

“And they all lived happily ever after.

“The end,” Anka finished with a smile.

The children burst into applause.

Many of them were smiling, delighted by the happy ending.

Even several of the adults in the community center applauded. They had become just as absorbed in the story as their children.

As the children left the community center, they lined up to give Anka a high five, each little hand cheerfully smacking against her raised palm—a gesture Archer had taught her.

One little girl gave Anka a high five but lingered behind.

“Auntie, why do you smell so strange?” she asked.

Anka looked slightly embarrassed, but with the same warm smile, she explained:

“Because I died, and my body started to decay. When the bodies of people and animals decay, they give off a bad smell. Here, look.”

Anka pulled up the sleeve of her dress, exposing her forearm, and showed the girl a section of white bone partially visible beneath the flesh.

“See? That’s my bone,” the undead woman explained. “And around it is my dead flesh. That’s where the smell comes from. That’s why I wear so many flowers in my clothes—to make myself smell a little nicer.”

Anka pulled her sleeve back down.

“All right. Off you go. Time to go home,” she told the girl.

The girl suddenly threw her arms around Anka.

“Auntie, just don’t die for real. Stay with us,” she said.

“Of course.” Anka hugged her back. “I won’t die. I’ll stay and read you stories.”

Anka’s eyes filled slightly with tears.

The girl released her and left the community center.

One by one, the remaining children gave Anka a high five and headed home.

Anka watched them go with a sad smile.

She thought about how she wouldn’t trade the life she had now for anything in the world.

The outside world was cold and harsh compared with life in Anka’s city.

Few people even considered leaving in search of a better life.

Years became decades.

Many of the townspeople spent their entire lives within the hidden canyon. For the most part, only fishermen and hunters left the city because their work required it.

There were also scouts and traders.

It was through their stories that the people learned about the outside world—about how empty and wild it was.

The scouts traveled farthest of all.

They brought back news of other settlements, isolated tribes, and small groups of people searching for a place to call home.

Such stories made the people of the city feel privileged.

In their eyes, they lived under the protection of the gods.

They were the pinnacle of civilization.

Nothing better than their city existed anywhere in the world.

Since Archer had entered his meditative trance because their population was too small, Anka took it upon herself to solve the problem.

Large families were rewarded with additional food rations, desirable jobs, and priority access to midwives and healers.

Anka also created a kind of propaganda encouraging people to have children and raise families.

The citizens encountered the message everywhere: in theatrical performances, in the songs of street musicians, in the verses of poets, in murals painted by artists, and in the discussions of philosophers.

There was no higher calling than parenthood.

Every effort was made to reduce infant mortality.

An orphanage was established.

Children were granted legal rights, and the responsibilities of parents were written into law.

Anka attended many births.

And every funeral.

Her presence was considered a blessing.

At one funeral, a grieving widower fell to his knees before Anka, seized her hand, and begged her through his tears:

“Please. Bring my wife back to me. I don’t care if she becomes like you. Just bring her back into this world.”

Instinctively, Anka placed her free hand against her chest, where her immortality brooch lay hidden beneath her dress.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I can’t.”

The man released her hand and collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

And Anka found herself confronting an uncomfortable truth.

She wasn’t willing to give up her immortality.

Not even if doing so meant another person could be brought back to life.

And so, through births and funerals, through decades of lives and effort, the average eventually reached five children per family.

In just four generations, the settlement grew from thirty people to a thousand.

It was exactly the population Archer had dreamed of.

On the day Anka received word of two more successful births—and learned that those two children had brought the population to one thousand—she went to awaken Archer from his long sleep.

She entered the sanctuary, removed the lid of the sarcophagus, and carefully lifted the Crown of Time from Archer’s head.

But he didn’t wake.

His eyes remained closed, and his breathing was so slow it was almost imperceptible.

Then Anka noticed something strange.

The magic brush, still clasped between Archer’s hands, seemed to glow in the darkness of the sanctuary.

It was completely saturated with color, and light appeared to shimmer across its surface in different hues.

Anka had never seen the brush look so alive.

She decided not to rush things.

Stepping away from the sarcophagus, she sat down on the sanctuary floor and waited.

Nearly an hour passed before Archer finally opened his eyes.

“Anka?”

It was the first word he spoke.

“I’m here, Archer,” she replied.

She rose from the floor and approached the glass sarcophagus.

Archer lifted himself into a sitting position. Looking down, he noticed the brush. He opened his hands and saw what Anka had already seen.

It was glowing.

“Look,” he said, holding it out to her.

“Yes. I noticed it too,” she replied.

She carefully took the brush from him and handed him the crown in return.

Archer took it.

“Did it work?” he asked. “How long was I in the trance?”

“Seventy-two years,” Anka said.

“Wow.”

He stared at her.

“So how did it go?”

“Quite well,” she replied. “The population reached one thousand today. The settlement has been transformed. You won’t recognize it.

“We really can call ourselves a civilization now.”

“I want to see it.”

Archer began climbing out of the glass sarcophagus.

Anka took his hand to help him, expecting his movements to be stiff and awkward after so many years spent completely motionless.

But he moved as though nothing had happened.

As though he had been asleep for only a few minutes rather than decades.

When Archer stepped down from the pedestal onto the floor, Anka wrapped her arms tightly around him.

The embrace caught him by surprise.

It took him a moment to understand.

For him, it had all lasted barely an hour.

For Anka, most of a century had passed.

“What was it like?” he asked her.

“What?”

“Seventy-two years without me.”

Anka released him.

“I barely remember anymore. I suppose the first few months without you were sad. It felt like my best friend had died.

“But I kept myself busy. I studied the book you left me. I talked to Sol.

“Speaking of which...”

Anka pulled the silver amulet from her pocket and placed it around Archer’s neck.

“He makes excellent company,” she said.

“Sol, can you hear me?” Archer asked.

The amulet opened its eyes.

“I hear you, Archer.”

“Looks like it worked,” the Painter reported.

“Confirmed,” Sol replied.

“Good. Let’s see what you’ve built.”

Archer and Anka headed toward the exit.

The brilliant sunlight blinded Archer as he stepped outside, forcing him to squint.

Then his eyes adjusted.

And he saw the streets of a thriving city.

People going about their daily lives.

Children playing.

Buildings everywhere he looked.

“I decided not to organize any celebrations,” Anka said, returning the magic brush to the Painter’s hand. “I thought you might want to walk around the city without attracting too much attention.”

“You were right,” Archer said. “Will you give me a tour?”

“With pleasure.”

Anka smiled.

“Follow me.”

They walked through the city while Anka explained what everything was, what purpose it served, how many people it employed, and much more.

People did notice Archer, but only because he was walking beside Anka—the most important person in the city.

They had no idea who he was.

Of course, everyone had heard the stories about Archer, the legendary man who lay deep within the sanctuary, waiting for the day of his return.

But generation after generation had grown accustomed to the fact that Archer simply did not walk their streets.

To them, he was more myth than reality.

So when people saw the strangely dressed man accompanying Anka, they merely glanced at him and went back to whatever they were doing.

“Anka! Anka!” a small crowd of children shouted from a nearby street.

Anka smiled and waved.

Almost all of the children waved back.

Then they began chanting her name.

“An-ka! An-ka! An-ka!”

They shouted as though celebrating the very sight of her.

“Looks like you’re quite the local celebrity,” Archer said with a smile.

Anka laughed, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Come on,” she told him.

The tour lasted a little over an hour.

They went from the city’s central square, built on the very spot where Grokan’s great campfire had once burned so many years ago, all the way to the agricultural terraces carved into the slopes of the canyon.

In the city, they stopped at the main bakery, where Anka introduced Archer to the bakers.

The bakers refused to believe that the man standing before them was really Archer, the founder of their city.

They thought Anka was playing a joke on them.

Even so, they treated their honored guests to some freshly baked bread.

Archer broke a loaf in half and handed one piece to Anka.

He took a bite from the other half, chewed, and nodded approvingly.

“This is where it all began.” Anka held up her piece of bread. “You gave the Shod bread. Do you remember?”

“Yes. That’s right,” Archer said, remembering their first meeting.

Continuing their tour, they arrived at the city market, where some fifty merchants offered their wares to Archer—everything from berries and nuts to shoes made from animal hides and hunting bows.

The Painter picked up a pair of boots and noticed that needles and thread had been used to make them.

“You’re putting the craftsmen’s tools to good use,” Archer said, nodding approvingly. “It’s very good to see.”

Suddenly, an old man appeared in front of Archer and Anka and grabbed Archer by the hand.

“Archer!” the old man exclaimed excitedly. “Is it really you?”

The Painter didn’t recognize him.

“You haven’t aged a day,” the old man continued. “Don’t you remember me? I was one of the children Grokan captured. We were set free when that monster died. You became our liberator.

“I was only a little boy back then, but I remember you. And look at you—you’re exactly the same as you were then.

“How long has it been?”

“I’m glad to see you lived to such an old age,” Archer finally said.

The old man began to cry.

“You really are a god,” he said. “You haven’t aged a single day.”

Archer smiled, feeling slightly awkward.

“Marek is one of our longest-lived citizens,” Anka joined in. “He really was one of the children saved by your intervention all those decades ago.”

“Anka,” Marek said. “Yes, Anka was there too. She was Grokan’s prisoner with the rest of us.

“Neither of you has aged a day.

“You are both gods walking among us mortals.”

“Marek spent his entire life fishing at the lake near the city,” Anka explained. “These days, he simply sells the fish the other fishermen leave with him. He’s the oldest merchant in the entire market.”

“The most senior merchant,” the old man corrected her jokingly as he wiped away his tears.

“Yes,” Anka said. “Retirement hasn’t even crossed his mind.”

“No,” Marek said. “Retirement isn’t for me. There’s still too much I need to accomplish in this life.”

“Marek, forgive us,” Anka said, “but we’re a little busy right now. Archer has only just returned from a very long journey, and I need to bring him up to date on the affairs of the city.”

“But he’s come back to us?” the old man asked. “He’s going to stay with us now?”

“Yes, Marek,” Anka replied. “He’s with us.”

“Glory to Archer!” Marek cried. “And glory to Anka! Glory to Archer and glory to Anka!”

The old man continued chanting long after his gods had moved on.

Anka gave Archer a separate tour of the ruler’s palace, which had been built from wood and stone along one side of the central square.

She admitted that many of the palace’s architectural details had been borrowed from the book. The builders had done their best to reproduce what they saw in its illustrations.

The palace was large enough to accommodate thirty servants and guards, as well as a dozen guests.

In its great hall stood a stone throne.

The moment Archer saw it, he laughed.

“This feels strange,” he said. “I never imagined myself as a monarch.”

He approached the throne and walked around it, admiring the beautifully carved stonework.

“You already have a crown,” Anka pointed out.

“That’s true.”

Archer placed the crown on his head, sat down on the throne, and put on a solemn expression.

But almost immediately, he burst out laughing again.

The idea of himself as a monarch was simply too amusing.

“A country needs a symbol of authority,” Anka said. “Someone important for the people to look to.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

Archer rose from the stone throne.

He walked over to Anka, removed the crown from his head, and placed it on the head of his regent.

“Then you should be the ruler,” he said, completely seriously.

Anka could barely suppress a laugh.

“So what does that mean?” she asked with a smile. “Neither one of us wants to hold the reins of power?”

“You don’t want to either?” Archer asked.

Anka took a deep breath.

“Not particularly,” she said. “Although, on the other hand, it might be rather fun.

“But no. I don’t want it.

“I don’t want to be tied to something so demanding. Something with so much responsibility.

“But the country needs a ruler.

“That’s what the book you left me says.”

Anka removed the crown from her head.

“We could appoint anyone to the position,” Archer said. “We’ll find someone worthy. Someone talented.

“Or to hell with what the book says. We can do whatever we want.

“From everything I’ve seen and heard today, we’re probably the only country in the entire world. We’re thousands of years ahead of every other people out there.

“We don’t need to play at being monarchs. It would be an empty gesture. It would be... a performance for an audience that doesn’t exist.”

“Yes. I suppose you’re right,” Anka said.

She sat down on the stone throne and rested her hands on the armrests.

Then she looked at Archer.

“So what do we do now?”

“We keep building civilization,” Archer replied.

“Yes.” Anka smiled faintly. “I think that could be interesting.

“And I’m glad to see you haven’t changed at all. All these years, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know what your return would be like. What you would be like.

“Seventy-two years is a long time. A lot happened while you were gone.”

“Did you miss me?” Archer asked.

“Of course I missed you,” she replied. “But the years passed, and I got used to living without you.

“Part of me didn’t even want you to wake up.

“I was fine on my own. I became accustomed to being on my own.

“I was perfectly content with my life without you.”

Archer said nothing.

He simply looked into her eyes.

Anka fell silent as well.

Then she unbuttoned her shirt and revealed the brooch.

The immortality brooch.

It was fastened directly to her skin.

“But I’m grateful for this,” Anka said. “I know I’m alive only because you chose to let me live.

“And because of that, I’m willing to continue serving you.”

“To hell with serving me,” Archer replied. “We’re friends.”

“Are we?” she asked. “I thought we were friends. But all those years apart made me think differently.

“They made me wonder whether I’m simply useful to you.

“As an interpreter.

“As your deputy.

“As your subordinate.”

Archer opened his mouth to answer, then stopped.

He thought for a while.

“You are useful to me,” he finally said. “But I also consider you my friend.

“I don’t see why one has to exclude the other.”

“Because it feels like I belong to you,” Anka replied, pain entering her voice. “Like I can’t have a life that’s completely my own.

“Even this brooch—the thing that gives me life—isn’t mine.

“You could take it away whenever you wanted.

“And then what would happen to me?”

“All right,” the Painter said. “I understand.

“Then let’s do this.

“I give you the brooch. It belongs to you now.

“And I release you from any obligation to serve me.

“You can do whatever you want.

“You’re free.

“You can go wherever you want. You can live however you want.

“Just know that there will always be a place for you beside me.

“As my friend.

“And as my partner.”

“I’m free?” Anka asked.

“You’re free,” Archer said.

“And the brooch is mine now?” she asked uncertainly.

“The brooch is yours.”

Anka thought about this for a while.

Neither of them spoke.

Then she stood.

“Then I’m going to leave,” she said. “I need to be alone for a while.

“I need to know what it feels like to belong to myself.”

“Go in peace,” the Painter said.

Anka approached Archer, handed him the Crown of Time, and left the throne room.