by JA Andrews
He pulled a red wool shirt from his bag. It wasn’t exactly like the traditional scarlet tunics storymen from Gulfind wore, but it was close enough that it would fool anyone but an actual storyman from Gulfind. Hopefully Borto would be convinced. He changed into it and straightened his shoulders. The role of storyteller settled over him like a cloud, and he let himself settle into the safety of it. It would be nicer to get to put on the full role of a Keeper. To keep the storytelling but add in the freedom to do magic and keep records and sit in the library and read books for days at a time. To have the camaraderie of the Keepers, to visit court.
He sighed and tucked a small coin purse inside his shirt and left his bag on the bed. The things left in it weren’t worth anything.
The story contest wouldn’t begin for a while, but this room was depressing and at the festival he could work on a way to talk to Borto again. He had nothing to draw energy from for an influence spell. Bracing himself against the hostility he was about to encounter from the Roven, he left the inn and hurried back toward the festival.
When the wayfarers came into view he paused to look for Lady Dreadful. Seeing no sign of her or Rass, he sat down on a bench, watching for Borto. As the sky darkened, the area swelled with people. Parents spread out brightly colored rugs on the ground while their children scampered and squealed around them. A sweetbread vendor walked by with a sugary smell of cinnamon. The benches along the back were filling and Will sat along the very edge, avoiding contact with them as much as he could.
A quarter of an hour passed before Will caught a glimpse of Borto passing behind the arc of wagons. With a surge of emotions too tangled to name, Will slipped around behind the nearest wagon to follow him.
There was little commotion back here and Will opened himself up. When he caught sight of Borto, a writhing mass of the man’s eagerness and anxiety rushed into Will’s chest. He drew back against a red wagon wall and glanced around. There was nothing here to cause so much anxiety.
Borto leaned back against his wagon, his arms crossed, one finger tapping quickly against his arm. A young man with a heavy limp came from the other side, and Borto’s emotions flared. Will pressed himself against the red wall until he could just see the two of them.
“Lukas!” The wayfarer greeted him with a wide smile that belied his anxiety.
Lukas answered with a curt nod. He wasn’t Roven. Even though his hair and beard were styled like one, they were light brown instead of red. His clothes were the undyed grey of a slave, but they were fitted and clean. He wore half a dozen rings and three necklaces. Even in the sunlight several of the burning stones held enough energy to be visibly bright. Over his slave’s tunic he wore a grey leather vest stamped with lines and swirls of runes. One of his legs twisted at an odd angle, and he shifted his weight away from it.
He stood farther from Will, so his emotions were faint, but Will caught a hint of greed, and the twists of fear that always wrapped around it. And behind it all sat a deep, ugly hatred.
The emotions of the two men jumbled together and Will closed himself off to them.
If Lukas was a slave, he was better dressed and he wore more burning stones than any Will had seen. He stood next to Borto like a young lord addressing a servant.
Borto held out a bundle wrapped in a worn, brown cloth. Lukas kept his face impassive as he took it, but his movements were too quick to hide his eagerness. He unwrapped the cloth and Will’s breath caught.
A book.
Will took a half step forward before he caught himself.
Not just any book. This was thick, covered with a blue leather binding dark as the night sky with a silver medallion on the front. Even from here, Will could see it promised stories and knowledge. And secrets.
A hungry smile twisted across Lukas's face, and he tossed the wayfarer a bulging bag of coins.
“No trouble getting it?” The words were more of a threatening statement than a question.
“Nothing this doesn’t make up for.” Borto dropped the bag inside his wagon. It let out a substantial thunk.
What book was worth that much money?
Lukas rubbed his hand across the cover.
“Always glad to help out our favorite clan.” Borto leaned back. “And visit our favorite festival. Is the Torch coming to the contest tonight?”
The Torch? If Lukas served the clan chief of the Morrow, that would explain the way he was dressed.
“When he has this to read?” Lukas gave a derisive snort and flipped open the book and thumbed through a few pages. “And he says you’re to leave at dawn.”
Will stifled a laugh. The Roven Torch was trying to control a band of wayfarers?
“Before the festival is over?” Borto asked sharply. “You’ll cost my people thousands of talens.”
“Not all of you.” Lukas's face turned malicious. “Just you. Says the information he sent you is…” His voice cut through the air as sharp as a shard of glass. “Promising, and you shouldn’t dally on the Sweep.” Carefully wrapping the book back up in the cloth and without looking at Borto for a response, Lukas turned and limped away.
Borto glared in Lukas's direction for a long moment before turning and ducking back between the wagons, slamming his fist into the side of one.
Chapter Four
Will took a few steps toward the empty space they’d left.
That had been intriguing on so many levels.
The Torch of a Roven clan just ordered a wayfarer to go do…something. And it certainly looked like Borto planned to obey, despite his obvious frustration.
Will stepped along the wagons until he could see Lukas's grey form limping quickly toward the city gate. His leg twisting painfully with each step.
Will took a step after him, his longing to see the book outweighing the obvious fact that he wasn’t going to be able to get near it. There was no way a Roven Clan chief would let a foreigner into his house, never mind let him read the expensive book he’d just bought in a secret deal from the wayfarers.
Still…
How could he not follow a book like that?
He took another step forward.
“Take your seats!” Estinn’s voice called as a jangle of music started. “Come hear stories that will boil your blood, mesmerize your mind, and seize your soul!”
Will lingered for another moment until Lukas disappeared into the crowd near the gate, before retracing his steps back to the wayfarers’ theater.
As fascinating as the book was, if Borto planned to leave the Sweep in the morning, Will had only tonight to impress him. Maybe a good enough tale would convince Borto to let Will travel with them for a few days. If not, he’d follow him anyway.
The sun hung low behind the city, casting the festival into shadows. Smells of roasted barley crackers and smoked fish trickled behind the stage to where Will stood with the other performers, a mix of colorfully dressed wayfarers and leather clad Roven. The wayfarers greeted him cheerfully, questioning him about himself and his story. The Roven stood to the side, coldly.
Estinn settled down the crowd and Will shifted until he could see most of the stage and a slice of the audience between the hanging fabric.
“Our first tale of the night is Yervant, come to share the story of when he followed Mallon to Queensland,” Estinn called out, “and killed the Keeper!”
The crowd erupted into cheers and Will’s gaze snapped over to the people beside him.
Mallon? No Keepers had been killed when Mallon had invaded. He’d passed through Queensland like some kind of plague, gaining control over people’s minds in town after town, holding sway over them even after he’d left. And when he’d controlled enough, he’d brought his armies of Roven to destroy the rest.
One of the Roven, a thick, disheveled man carrying a mug of ale and smelling unwashed, pushed past Will and stepped up onto the stage. Voices called out to him from the crowd, taunting but friendly, and he held up his hand for silence. With a few final jeers, the audience stilled.
/> “When Mallon the Undying”—Yervant raised his mug reverently at the name—“led our great people ‘cross the Scales to crush the farmers o’ Queensland, I traveled with him. Our company had men o’ the Morrow Clan—” Cheers rang from the crowd. “—and from the Panos Clan.” He looked around slowly and the audience quieted.
Will glanced at the faces in the crowd that he could see. Mallon had attacked Queensland only eight years ago. How many of these men were there?
“And we had a giant, with feet so large he crushed three houses with each step!”
The people were nodding along, muttering approvingly and Will held in a snort. Maybe none of these people had fought. Giants’ feet were barely large enough to crush a bush, never mind three houses.
Yervant told how the troops had slunk through the woods, approaching a small town right on the northern edge of the Scales. How the giant had gone out first, destroying building after building, then the Roven warriors had swept in. Until Queensland’s soldiers had appeared.
“And behind ‘em, black like a shadow, a Keeper snuck through the mornin’.” Yervant’s voice was low and angry. “He had no amulets, no stones, no books. All his magic he sucked from the world around him.” The crowd rumbled. “And he didn’t help Queensland’s soldiers. Not a single soldier had an amulet or a charmed sword. The enemy fell before our blades like grass, and the Keeper didn’t even look at the bodies.”
Will clenched his jaw in an effort to keep his face impassive. The only Keeper who’d been along the northern Scales was Mikal. And he had done everything he could to protect those men. He’d knocked aside arrows, softened the enemy’s steel, thrown illusions onto the field to confuse the Roven.
“Just when we thought we had ‘em beat,” Yervant said, bitterness creeping into his voice, “the black Keeper stepped up to a burning house and took the fire in his hands.” A ripple of revulsion swept across the crowd.
Mikal had never spoken of how the battle ended, and Will had never pressed him. He’d been tempted to look into the Wellstone where Mikal had recorded his memories of it, but it had felt invasive. And so he’d only known there’d been a fire. Mikal had always been good at moving flames. He used to light his candles by walking near the hearth. He’d just pull out a bit of flame, dancing on nothing but air, and bring it to his wick.
“The Keeper took the fire in his hands,” Yervant continued, “and threw it at us, sending streams o’ fire across our men. Burnin’ Roven where they stood, poor Andro and Adaom among ‘em.”
A swell of anger grumbled through the crowd.
Mikal had wept for those men as well. Even all these years later, the Keeper carried those deaths with him like a shadow.
“The black demon burned our men alive!” Yervant shouted. “He drove off the giant with his dark arts. But at the last moment, I drew my bow, and with Andro and Adaom’s bodies at my feet, I shot arrow after arrow at the monster.”
“And you killed him!” Someone cried out from the crowd.
Yervant nodded. “My last arrow struck home, sinking into his black heart. I saw him fall t’ the ground. Dead.”
A wildly inappropriate smile threatened to spread across Will’s face. Mikal hadn’t been shot in the chest. He’d been shot in the shoulder. The arrow had knocked him down, and when he’d gotten to his feet, the Roven were fleeing. Will had changed the bandages on that wound, and it had healed cleanly. The arrow had been nothing. It was the rest of the battle that had left scars.
Yervant finished his tale and bowed to cheers, sloshing his ale across the front of the stage before climbing down and disappearing into the audience.
Estinn stepped back up on the stage. “Thank you, Yervant. Even though you only have one tale to tell”—she paused for some jeers from the crowd—“it’s one we don’t mind hearing. Year after year after year.”
She raised her hand for silence. “Our next storyman is sure to tell something we haven’t heard before. A foreigner has offered to entertain us with tales from distant lands.” She turned and held a hand out toward Will. “Good people of the Morrow Clan, I present storyman Will of Gulfind!”
A spattering of applause came from the crowd, mixed with murmurs. Will stepped onto the torchlit stage and found himself alone. The sun had set while Yervant talked. The light from the stage torches made the faces of the crowd indistinct, and he imagined they were an audience from back home. Maybe a gathering from a large village. It felt better than a crowd of Roven, but neither really mattered. Tonight the only audience that mattered was Borto.
Will brought a stool from near the back of the stage forward, and settled on to it. He glanced around to make sure the wayfarer was watching, and catching a quick glimpse of the man standing off to the side, he began.
“Good evening. Tonight I bring you the tale of the Black Horn. A tale of old magic worn thin and new magic just born. Of love and sacrifice. Of a vast army and a single soul.”
Will opened himself up to the crowd finding skepticism mixed with curiosity. He breathed in the earthy smell of the torch oil spiced with sorren seeds, and looked down at the stage for a long moment, waiting until the crowd settled into silence, their emotions swinging toward curiosity.
"The bag with the Black Horn bounced against Eliese's back like the prodding of a little sprite, cheering her on to adventure and victory…”
As he told of Eliese’s early adventures, it began to happen. The two children directly in front of him were drawn in, and their amusement seeped out, mixing with that of their family, with the Roven warrior behind them.
By the time he reached the heart of the story, the emotions of the crowd had risen, each individual’s anticipation merging with their neighbors’ until it filled the small theater. Instead of feeling it in his chest, it became something more—almost a visible cloud, almost a living thing.
“…on the mantle,” Will continued, “the ram's horn sat like a curl of blackness, darker than the shadows. Eliese reached up, her hand hesitating only a moment before picking it up.”
Will gauged the audience. Only at the very edges did the mist begin to tatter with distracted people out on the fringes. A dead spot farther along the side circled around someone keeping themselves isolated from the story. But around Borto, the crowd hung together, utterly focused.
The Black Horn moved along simple and well-made, needing little help on his part. An obscure story he’d found tucked away in the queen’s library, he’d stitched it together with a similar account at the Stronghold. They’d been easy to merge and the story had become one of his favorites.
Even exchanging the Keeper for a wise woman and leaving out any mentions of Queensland took minimal thought. He just needed to pick up the spool of the story and follow the thread. The words lined up, one after the other. They stretched ahead of him as easy to follow as a wide path through the grass.
Keeping tabs on the emotions of the audience, he slowed down or sped up the tale. And like all audiences, they let themselves be pulled into it, delighting in the feel of the story.
A bright spot of fascination off to his left in the mist of emotions caught his attention. He glanced over to see Rass perched on a wagon wheel in her little grey slave’s shift, beaming at him.
At the darkest moment he paused, letting the tragedy seep through the air. The audience sat silent, somber while the darkness of the tragedy felt complete. Speaking just loud enough to carry over the quiet crowd, he drew them back toward the light, with the slightest hope of finding what was lost.
When the final words had been spoken and allowed to fade away, the crowd erupted into cheers and Borto applauded enthusiastically. The emotions of the crowd splintered into individual people feeling individual things, and Will pressed his fist to his chest and bowed his head to the crowd.
He moved to a seat just off the stage to watch the next storyteller. A Roven woman sang next, a long ballad that warbled on the high notes. She finished and the audience talked and laughed and argued with each other w
hile waiting for the next performer. Will sat half-listening to the conversations around him, half-watching Borto. Two men were arguing about whether or not the ubiquitous rumors of frost goblins on the Sweep were true.
The Sweep was obsessed with the idea of frost goblins this spring.
A story about frost goblins would be fascinating to hear. Until recently, he’d always heard the little creatures mentioned as only a nuisance. But this year, the stories sounded more threatening.
“Another report came today,” the first man said. “Eight rangers dead.”
The second man shook his head. “Just more rumors.”
“Magar says they’re not,” the first insisted.
“Your cousin will say anything to scare you…”
Will opened up toward them, feeling an acidic fear blossom in his chest, even from the protestor.
Will stretched out farther through the crowd, catching more uncertainty than usual. Every town he’d passed through for the last several weeks had an undercurrent of uneasiness. Will had attributed it to the clans readying themselves for the long migration north to their summer valleys, but maybe it was more.
Past everyone, Will felt that dead spot again. A place where emotions were being held tight. He shifted to see past the torches.
Lady Dreadful leaned against a wagon, partially shadowed from the torchlight studying him. His own uneasiness filled his chest.
At least a dozen Roven sat between him and her, but he closed himself off to all but the frost goblin men, then stretched out past people one by one. A young woman with loose, fiery hair spoke to the man beside her, her emotions swirling bright, just under the surface, edged with jealousy. A man whose beard had streaks of grey chatted with the woman beside him, comfort and contentedness running deep. An older man sat alone, humming with a worn, hollow fear. When he reached Lady Dreadful, he found nothing but emptiness.
