by JA Andrews
Will held out his hand, showing her. “A friend gave this to me a long time ago.”
The Shield, the leader of the Keepers, had gifted it to him over ten years ago, the first time he’d left the Stronghold on his own. Most rings are a single entity, he’d told Will. I’ve always thought it was interesting that part of this is free to move and spin, affected by the world, while the core of it remains true to the wearer. The Shield had considered Will for a long moment before nodding approvingly and grinning. It fits you. And it’s extremely satisfying to spin while you think.
Borto let out a loud laugh and shouted at some approaching wayfarers.
“It’s nice to meet you, Rass.” Will stood. “I think I’ll join the story contest tonight.”
Rass’s eyebrows shot up. “You tell stories?”
Will leaned toward her and whispered. “Maybe better than Borto.”
She clapped her hands and grinned.
Will gave her a slight bow and walked around the edge of the closest wagon.
The influence spell shouldn’t have worn off yet, regardless of Rass’s attention. And it was awkward trying to have a conversation with someone while the spell tried to distract them. He drew a little energy from the grass at his feet and sent the vitalle out through his other hand cutting through the influence spell, letting it dissolve around him. He almost never ended the spell before it wore off, and unlike the ease of putting it on, the unfamiliar act of banishing it burned the ends of his fingers.
Now that it was done, he itched to put it back on. Even back here, away from the crowds of the festival, he felt exposed. The haggling and hawking from the festival seemed louder than before and the smell of smoked fish and roasting sorren seeds was distractingly strong. This might not have been a good idea.
Will started along the wagons toward the place Borto had gone, forcing himself to walk calmly. He caught sight of the man's red sleeve as he sat on a low stool, leaning on his elbows and tinkering with a small box. Will’s heart pounded so loudly it was astonishing the wayfarer couldn’t hear it.
Borto caught sight of him and rose. His fingers were loaded down with rings that glinted with gems, and at least three larger stones hung around his neck on leather thongs. “Looking for something?”
“You,” Will answered, trying to keep his voice pleasant. The resemblance to Vahe made his heart shove up into his throat. He pressed his fist to his chest and bowed, giving himself a moment to calm down. “Do you have room in your contest this evening for one more storyteller?”
Borto took in Will’s dirty, drab clothes and worn boots, looking unimpressed.
“I may not best a wayfarer in storytelling,” Will said, “but in my own small corner of the world, I once spun a tale so sad it brought a troll to tears.”
Borto fixed Will with a probing look. “And what small corner of the world is that? Your accent says southwestern Queensland. Near Marshwell, perhaps?”
Will hid his discomfort at the extremely accurate guess with a smile. “Marshwell is not far at all from where I was raised.” Which was true. “But I’m from just over the border in Gulfind.” Which was not true. Much smaller than Queensland, Gulfind was surrounded by mountains full of gold mines, making the small population excessively wealthy. It was on excellent terms with Queensland however, and the people along the border from both countries were almost impossible to tell apart. Also, merchants from Gulfind traveled widely and were known for being a bit eccentric. A traveling storyteller from there was unusual, but not unheard of. The lie had served him for the last year on the Sweep.
“I think we can fit in one more storyman.” Borto ushered Will back into the stage area. “But I’ll warn you, this isn’t your homeland. There’s no gold for the winner.”
“I’m just thrilled to be a part of it.” Will wished his pulse would slow. The more he looked at the man, the more differences he saw from his memory of Vahe. “I’m fascinated by wayfarers, and I’ve never seen so many in one place. There’s no better way to learn about people than to hear them tell stories.”
“But we won’t be telling wayfarer stories. Here on the Sweep, the stories we’ll tell are mostly Roven tales.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Will answered, trying to keep the man talking. Borto’s voice was different from Vahe’s too.
“It doesn’t?” Borto looked at Will appraisingly. “If a man tells you of his home and his family, you’ll learn something about him. But if he tells you foreign tales, you only learn about foreign places.”
“You learn that too,” Will agreed. The voice was definitely not Vahe’s. “But if everyone knew the same story, we’d still tell it differently from each other.” He shrugged. “I think the way a man tells a story reveals more about the man than it does about the story.”
Borto studied him. Then a grin spread across the wayfarer’s face. “A storyman and a philosopher!” Borto clapped Will on the shoulder and gestured at the old woman standing by the stage. “Welcome to the contest. Give Estinn your name. I want to hear a tale that’d make a troll cry.”
Will gave the man another bow and turned toward Estinn. His heart raced like he’d just sprinted across the Sweep, and he took a couple deep breaths trying to calm it. Now he needed to find a place to spend the night and choose a tale. Apparently a sad one. And something that would impress the greatest storyteller on the Sweep.
He could tell The Black Horn. Technically it was from Queensland, and included a Keeper, and it didn’t positively end as a tragedy. But it was obscure enough that no one would know if he switched the country. The Keeper would be easy to change to a wise woman and the emotional parts amplified until it would feel like a tragedy. And the only magic in the story was firmly anchored in the horn, leaving it the sort of magic that the stonesteeps on the Sweep used. It never mentioned Keeper magic, drawn from living things.
Will nodded pleasantly at the wayfarers who greeted him as he walked through their area. Leaving off the influence spell felt surprisingly free. It felt like a chain had fallen off, or a window had opened.
Borto knew Vahe. All Will needed to do was befriend him. Here, finally, after twenty years, he had a lead to finding the man who’d taken Ilsa. And following it only depended on telling a good story. There weren’t many things Will did well, but storytelling—that was easy.
Will introduced himself to old Estinn and she noted his name.
After getting directions to an inn that served foreigners where he could stable Shadow and stow his bag for the evening, he turned, looking for Rass with a half-formed idea of getting the little girl a real dinner. Instead of Rass, a Roven woman dressed in hunting leathers leaned against the wagon next to his horse. Her hair draped over one shoulder in a long, thick copper braid.
She stood with her arms crossed, watching Will.
Her eyes were narrow, gauging, and her mouth pressed into a thin, flinty line. A hint of unease rolled across the back of Will’s neck, but he forced himself to smile at her.
She did not smile back.
Chapter Three
When he reached the woman, he paused and bowed his head slightly in her direction.
“Lovely evening, m’lady.” His smile felt wooden.
She said nothing.
The “m’lady” had been too much. Judging from her leather vest, plain boots, and brown cotton pants, all of which were more functional than fashionable, she was a ranger who spent her life hunting on the Sweep. This wasn’t a woman who wanted m’ladying.
Above them a seabird squawked indignantly and Will could still hear the noises from the festival, but an awkward silence filled the small void of space around them.
“I guess it’s not a lovely evening if you don’t like festivals.”
Her foot rested on the bench, pinning down the reins of his horse.
“In which case we could hope for something that will end the festivities, like…” He paused. “A pestilence. Or a plague.”
She stayed straight-faced, studying him co
ldly.
He opened up out toward her to read her emotions and felt…nothing.
Her emptiness seeped into him. She had no anger, no suspicion, no dislike. Just nothing. He’d met people with all different intensities of emotions, but never one with none.
A chill wormed its way through his newfound freedom and he backed up a step before stopping himself.
This woman was dreadful.
“One hour until the epic battle of storytellers commences!” Estinn called out to the crowd.
“That’s me.” Will took a step closer to Lady Dreadful. He put his hand on the reins, and slowly she moved her boot. He gave her a stiff nod, and led Shadow toward the nearest tents.
It took an age to get to them, feeling awkward the entire time, like his legs had forgotten the rhythm of a smooth gait. Her eyes were probably staring into his back, watching empty and cold. When he’d passed two tents, he glanced back, but saw no sign of her. Climbing into the saddle, he shook off her strangeness and turned Shadow toward the city gate.
Away from the woman, the thrum of excitement at finding Borto resurfaced. What was the best way to befriend the man? Telling a story better than anyone else in the competition tonight was obviously the first step.
He ran over the story of the Black Horn in his mind, as he passed through the gate and into the city. He barely noticed the sharp eyes of the city guards or the way Roven purposefully did not move when he approached, but let him move around them. His gaze ran past the lumpy cob buildings, barely seeing them.
His inn slouched against the shop next to it. Around the door, a stonesteep recarved fading protective runes into the cob, muttering to himself while a faint orange glow hovered around his tools. Will cast out toward the man and felt barely a wisp of vitalle. Just enough to make his tools glow. No actual magic was being pressed into the runes. It wasn’t surprising. Most of the Roven stonesteeps he’d seen put only enough magic into their work to make it look real. In fact steep was such an exaggeration Will had often thought they should be called stonedribbles. But Roven were so used to relying on protective runes and burning stones, they paid the stonesteeps without question. These particular runes were so rough and blocky as to be almost illegible. Protection against weather most likely, a simple spell meant to keep the house safe over the summer while the Roven were in the grasses to the north grazing their herds.
The topmost one could be rain. Or sea, maybe. Definitely something watery.
For the thousandth time, Will wished he’d brought Alaric with him to the Sweep. Alaric was the sort of Keeper who would know immediately what the runes said, what they were intended to do, and why they looked different from the ones the Keepers used. He’d also know how to press magic into them, strong enough to last the summer. Any Keeper besides Will would, for that matter.
He left the stonesteep to his ineffective work and settled his horse in a dingy stable, leaving him with a pile of the cleanest hay he could find. The inn’s common room smelled stale, a mixture of old food and neglect, and it took more money than it should have to rent a room. But the innkeeper took his coin without any disparaging comment or look, which was worth something.
The room was as filthy and irregular as the outside of the inn promised. It bent in an elongated triangle shape, one side following the curving outer wall. A low bed smelling of moldy, dried grass filled one side, and the other curved around into a point of empty gloom. A thin rug, still clinging to the memory of bright colors, covered the floor. When Will got back to civilized lands, he was going to stay in the nicest inn he could find. He’d pay ridiculously high prices just to be somewhere clean and bright and friendly.
He spread his bedroll over the windowsill to air. Dropping his bag down on the bed and ignoring the puff of dust that ballooned out of the mattress, he pulled out a bundle and unwrapped two small books. He sat and thumbed through the pages, the soft corners familiar under his fingers, checking for dampness or paper mites. His own handwriting covered the pages from edge to edge, with small drawings and diagrams crammed wherever they fit.
There was a flutter at the window and Talen landed on the bedroll, the usual mouse dangling from his beak.
Will grinned at the little hawk and dug into his bag, pulling out an old bit of dried meat. He set it next to the candle on the little table. Talen dropped the mouse and hopped down, snatching up the meat and giving Will an emotionless stare.
“You’re welcome.” Will went back to checking his book. Talen moved to the bed with a little hop and fixed his eyes on the flipping pages.
“Shall I teach you to read?” Will flipped back to the beginning. “That would make you a more interesting bird. These are my notes from the past year.” He tilted the book toward the hawk, and Talen backed up slightly. “Originally I went to see the elves. Which was the most exciting thing I’ve ever been asked to do. I only ever found one, though.”
A sketch of Ayda filled the next page. “This doesn’t do her justice. She's…” She was vibrant and fanciful and her golden hair had almost sparkled. “Mesmerizing. I don’t know why she spent so much time with me, but it was weeks. And she never introduced me to any other elves.
“She did show me Mallon the Rivor’s body, though. Here on the Sweep you’d know him as Mallon the Undying. Which is a bit dramatic, even if it might be true. He attacked Queensland eight years ago, and was on the verge of conquering us. Until the elves stopped him. We thought they’d killed him, but it turns out they’d just trapped him inside his own mind.” He glanced at Talen. “I’d imagine it’s like he’s a man stuck in a small, drab, little room only talking to himself. And a bird.
“I was headed back to tell Alaric, one of the other Keepers, that Mallon wasn’t actually dead, when I heard of an old man named Wizendor who was supposedly coming to the Sweep to raise an army for Mallon. That was troubling enough that a Keeper needed to come to this wretched land.” He smoothed the page flat. “At least I assume the other Keepers would have agreed that someone needed to come here. I didn’t ask. I wasn’t doing anything useful in Queensland. I’d been traveling the country looking for children with the ability to be Keepers for years and hadn’t found any. At least Wizendor was someone I might actually find.”
With the pages lying still, Talen twitched and looked around the room.
“Maybe I should have stayed, but if there’s any Keeper not cut out for fighting an enemy with inexplicably strong powers, it’s me.
Talen cocked his head at Will, looking at him out of one eye.
“Don't look at me like that. I left a note. Alaric is the Keeper who needed to know, anyway, and he was off in the south running errands for the Queen. I left that note at the palace for him nearly a year ago. By now he’s probably been back there for ages, doing important Court Keeper sorts of things like straightening out the world and killing Mallon.” He paused. “I wish I could have talked to him before coming here, though. I have no idea what was taking him so long to get back."
“Anyway, all this”—he flipped again and Talen snapped his focus back to the pages—“records me not finding Wizendor. Which is dull.” He stopped at a page where the writing oozed disappointment. “When I did finally hear him speak to a crowd of Roven, it was still dull. Because the man was not worth the chase I’d just been on. If that old fool succeeded in raising a Roven army, then I’m the best Keeper that ever lived.”
Past that, the entries in the book grew shorter and less related.
“By then I was deep in the Sweep, so I decided to learn what I could of the Roven on my way back out. Because, honestly, it feels a little embarrassing to have come all the way here and learned essentially nothing.” He flipped past maps of the Sweep, notes on Roven culture, and overheard Roven stories. Records of searches that had begun as fascinating questions, but ended fruitlessly.
Like his attempt to find Kachig the Bloodless, a stonesteep so powerful that he was only mentioned in hushed voices. People were so frightened of the man, it had taken a whole month to
discover he’d been dead for ten years.
It was unreasonably irritating that he couldn’t even find out the reason for the “Bloodless.” A title like that had a story behind it, but whatever it was, no one on the Sweep would talk about it.
The final entries all documented rumors of wayfarers on the Sweep, and any hints at where Ilsa might be.
Talen hopped forward to shove his beak into Will’s bag.
“There’s no more food in there.” Will flipped through the last few pages of failure after failure, but closed the book without his usual sense of crushing despair. Because tonight, none of that mattered. Even though his hope of finding Ilsa hung by the slightest thread—he finally had a thread.
The scent of paper and ink wafted past. It smelled like comfort and home and rooms full of books. He held it close to his face for another breath.
What he wouldn’t give to be in a library. Besides these two books, in the entire last year on the Sweep he had only seen five others. Two had been genealogies of the Sunn Clan kept in the wealthy district of Tun, and the other three had been carried by a severe looking stonesteep in a parade at Bermea. Almost no one on the Sweep read or cared to learn how. Limited documents were held in each clan recording births and deaths of the wealthy, business men kept minimal ledgers, and very occasionally a contract was drawn up. Will had earned a small amount, including one miniature hawk, by offering to record genealogies for families on the Sweep. The spelling of names was more of an art than a set of rules, but seeing as none of his customers could read, it didn’t really matter.
Will shook out the scarf and Talen hopped back away from it. With a tweeting sort of whistle that sounded annoyed, he took off out the window.
Will wrapped his books back up. There was nothing alive in his room to draw energy from, so Will set his hand on the books and pulled a tiny bit of energy out of himself.
It took so little effort. His palm barely tingled against the books as the energy went into them, wrapping an influence spell around the bundle. It said something that the only magic he was good at involved hiding things. Or himself. He tucked the books in the darkest corner under the bed. Between the shadows and the spell, even if someone came into his room, they wouldn’t notice them.
