The Eyes of God by John Marco

cold radiance. The man towered over her, a great brute with a bald head and broken teeth that hung over his slack jaw in an overbite. Aral had never seen anything like him, or his miniature friend. Neither, apparently, had the barman. The sight of them made the proprietor drop a glass, sending broken shards skimming across the bar. The little woman took notice of his shock and smiled.
    “Oops! Careful now,” she chirped.
    She had a dazzling smile, unnaturally bright. The many colors of her coat seemed to move around her. Aral shook his head, sure that the drink had gotten to him. He suddenly felt nauseous. He pushed aside his drink, watching as the tiny woman and her beastly companion entered the inn. The giant stayed a pace behind the woman, his wide shoulders hunched, his broad back slightly curved. The little woman walked lightly toward the back of the inn, near the fire. Of all the empty tables, she chose the one next to Aral. She and her companion each pulled out chairs and sat down. The barman stared at them.
    “I . . . uh. . . . Can I get you something?”
    The woman looked over at Aral’s table and gave him the most disquieting grin. “We’ll have what he’s having.”
    Aral’s head continued to swim, yet he could not bring himself to look away from the strangers. The woman was remarkably small, with long white hair and a peculiar face set with elfin features. Two bewitching eyes looked back at him, deep and uncannily black. As the barkeep brought them their drinks, Aral finally managed to pull his gaze free of the pair. He stared down at his drink, hoping the woman wasn’t watching, but when he lifted his head again he discovered those mocking eyes, studying him.
    “What?” he asked defensively.
    The woman didn’t answer. Her monstrous companion hardly stirred.
    “Please,” Aral said. “Stop staring.”
    But the woman didn’t stop. Instead she casually opened her patchwork coat, revealing a curious amulet around her neck. Hanging from a chain of braided gold, the amulet blinked like an monstrous eye, its ruby gemstone twinkling in the firelight. Aral stared at it, mesmerized. His nausea left him immediately, replaced by a sudden warmth. It was the drink, he told himself. Good, soothing ale.
    “Yes,” said the woman. “It’s the drink.”
    Aral puzzled over her statement. Had he spoken? He hadn’t thought so.
    “Aral Vale,” the woman whispered. “That’s your name?”
    Aral nodded. Somehow, she knew him.
    “Oh, I know a great deal about you, Aral Vale,” said the little woman. Aral could barely hear her. Her words were soft, like a breeze, sounding only in his head. He wondered if the barkeep was listening. Remarkably, the woman answered his query.
    “He can’t hear us,” she said. “I’m talking only to you.”
    She was talking, yet she wasn’t talking. Her lips moved as if by illusion. Aral watched the amulet around her neck. It was pricelessly beautiful. It seemed to pulsate as she spoke, echoing her words. He suddenly felt giddy, completely unafraid. They were an odd looking pair, but he didn’t feel threatened by them—not the way he had when he’d first seen them. The woman had a gentle look about her and the man, if that’s what he could be called, never said a word.
    “Trog doesn’t speak,” the woman explained. She continued to scrutinize him, her eyes narrowing. “You have been here a long time, Aral Vale. You were difficult to find. But then, men who are hiding are often difficult to find.”
    Aral stiffened. “I’m not hiding.”
    “You have a wife at home who worries over you.”
    “That’s none of your business. I just want to be alone. To think.”
    The little woman’s black eyes flared. “Yes. You have much to think about, don’t you?”
    Aral’s puzzlement grew. He lifted his gaze from the amulet, back toward the stranger’s face. Her mute companion brooded over him, his jaw slack, his breathing raspy. Aral noticed the barkeep across the room absently