We turned to climb the long stairway. The shallow steps wound through the cliff, surrounded by walls of rock. In some places waxy ferns lined the stairs before giving way to stone. Near the top, the path split in two. We followed the path to the Colonnade.
The Sargon’s Colonnade was a mighty structure with high columns of white marble, wrapped about with strands of ivy. Words of forgotten origin glittered on the columns and in swirls on the marbled floor. The columns formed a great circle which housed half-rings of simple wooden benches set on shallow steps. The sun sank to the horizon as we entered the empty, open chamber.
“We’re alone?” I asked. “That can’t be. Our two kingdoms are among the farthest from Chariis. All the others must have arrived already.”
Jayan answered, “Perhaps they are waiting in their halls until everyone arrives?”
I considered. “You might be right. I’d expect the Steward of the Colonnade to be here at least, though, to welcome new arrivals.”
The Spireman King shrugged. “You always understood these ways better than I could. If you say it’s strange, it is. I wouldn’t know.”
“We should wait until we receive a formal greeting from the Steward, if nothing else.”
“Again, as you say.”
I let my eyes wander the pillars. So many stories began here. Stories of dwarves offering precious stones to help build the city. Stories of the last councils of men before they rode off to battle Garethen. Stories of elves gathering to learn new magics.
My attention meandered to the benches. I gestured to the hereditary seat of the King of the North. “We sit so far apart.” I looked over to Jayan, a smile teasing the corners of my mouth.
He made a face at me. “It was to keep our peoples separate while in council, or we’d overpower even the dwarves with the sound of our laughter. There are too many old jokes between you and me, Adal.” He strode to his seat and spun to face me, his furs flaring behind him. “Do you remember when we tried it?”
I attempted to hide a smile and failed. “We were both sitting at council in the rows back there when you threw a note at me. You missed and hit an elf in the back of the head!”
His eyes widened. “I missed? You didn’t catch it!”
I cut off my retort as the torches around the Colonnade lit themselves. I turned and dropped to a knee. The torches hailed their master; I showed similar respect as a figure entered the chamber. “Sargon Tor.” Jayan followed suit.
“Rise, Men of the North. Donara kis.”
Jayan and I spoke the response, “Saynam votara,” and obeyed Sargon Tor’s bidding.
Before us stood a tall figure dressed in ivory robes. His pale ears tapered to points. His silver hair fell to the small of his back in a long cascade. His voice sounded as a bell, each word striking and hanging in the air as the next tolled. “Are you embarrassed?” The lord of Chariis looked into our eyes as we stood. “Do not be. Laughter is a rare thing between kings. Laughter that is true is even rarer. What you do together carries no shame.”
A smile graced his lips. “Jayan, King of the Spires, why have you come?”
Jayan creased his brow. “You summoned us. A council, the messenger said!”
“Yes, a council. A council for Naeharum Adal, King of the North. I did not summon you.”
Jayan flustered. “I didn’t get your messenger, Sargon. I thought you had sent him to Bodaren Spire. My men and Adal’s were training together against the early spring goblin attacks. When your messenger found him there, we both assumed a general council.”
“Ah. You assumed.” The smile didn’t move from the Sargon’s face. “Even so, it was good of you to come.” Tor shifted his attention to the distant sun as it fell below the horizon. “It is late, but the reason for your summons, Adal, cannot wait.” He clapped his hands once, the sound echoing off the pillars.
The Steward of the Colonnade entered, bowing to the Sargon.
“Summon Abani and Cerulean.”
The Steward bowed again and left.
Tor returned his gaze to the west, over our heads. His eyes narrowed, as if trying to spy some evil. Then he shifted his gaze to us. “I summoned you here to speak words that will determine the fate of all the Earth. I thank you for riding hard.”
“Sargon, please, if this is so important, why didn’t you summon all the nations? You, of all people, know the stories. You know the way it should be.” I searched my memory. Every tale that determined the fate of the world began in this Colonnade, but with every nation and race represented.
“There is not time, Adal. And you are the one who is most necessary. You are the Keeper of Tales. Or you will be. Soon.” The Sargon’s eyes searched me.
Before I could inquire about the strange title, the Sargon continued. “And the stories will give you what is necessary, as they always have. I keep every story in the Library below our feet. I know what they need, and what you will need. Trust the tales, Adal.”
Jayan shifted his weight.
I glanced at him. “Why me and not him? Jayan is still a warrior. Our beards are both white, but his arms are stronger than mine yet.”
“Because you will be the Keeper of Tales. He will not.”
Jayan’s eyes met mine.
I asked, “So he has no purpose here?”
“He has a purpose, but he will not like it. His part in the story is minor, while yours…” Tor pressed his lips together. “Yours is something else entirely. The tales in the Library have spoken highly of you for many years, Adal. Just as you admire them, they admire you. And they have chosen you for an important task.” He paused and turned to the entrance of the Colonnade.
A woman stood there. She wore the sand-colored silks of a Parvian sword dancer. A shora and egal hid her hair, but her face was visible. She had the dark skin and almond-shaped face typical of her people. I saw smile lines at the corners of her eyes, but the smiles that had caused them had long dried up like spilled water in the sun. She carried some great sorrow within her now.
She bowed to the Sargon.
The Sargon returned the bow. “Donara kis, Sword Dancer Abani. You are welcome here.”
“Saynam votara, Sargon Tor.” She straightened and looked at us. “I have waited too long for your arrival. The Sargon bid me stay until you came. We must leave with the dawn.”
Before either Jayan or I could respond, Tor extended a finger. “Abani, I believe introductions are in order. Also, we must await the other member of your company. She should be arriving now.”
An elf glided into the Colonnade. She stood a full head taller than me but was half my bulk. Long, unbound black hair shimmered in the torchlight. Her bronze skin showed not a single wrinkle. Bare feet poked out from a robe the color of golden sunlight. She gave a deep bow to the Sargon, who returned it without a word.
He held a hand toward the newcomer. “This is Cerulean, late of Hadrisar. She has joined us in Chariis, and I believe it would be wise for her to accompany you on your mission.” He then gestured to the other woman. “This is Abani, a Sword Dancer from Parvia. She has news that will impact the entire world. Thus, your summons, Adal.” Now he indicated me. “This is King Naeharum Adal of the North. I have summoned him here at the bidding of those who reside in the Library below us. Accompanying him is King Jayan of the Spires.” He paused. “Each of you has a part to play, as the tales direct it. But we must begin at the beginning. Abani, tell your tale.”
The woman nodded. “I don’t tell stories. There’s seldom need in the Parvian wastes. But I will tell you what I saw and heard. I was making an attack on Sar Idain.”
Jayan shook his head. “You? By yourself? I’ve heard the stories of the Sword Dancers, but you are either a liar or insane. Garethen’s training ground? Madness!”
Abani glared at him. “I know my limits. I know what I can do.” Her voice was flat and quiet, but her eyes held Jayan in an iron grip. “I crept into the area, climbing through the crevices of Raumioch Beti.” She paused and finally relea
sed Jayan to address the rest of us. “But what I saw there is beyond my ability to describe. Garethen is marshaling his forces. All of them, by my honor. He means not to send out his usual parties to wear away our defenses as they do year after year. He means war.”
Jayan’s disbelief had subsided under the intensity of her speech. “War? Then we must marshal our own armies!”
The Sargon nodded. “Of course. Which is why you have come, Spireman King. Your purpose is revealed. You must return to your people and gather them. Bring them here. Protect the ancient city that Garethen covets. I will send messengers to the other kings as well.”
Jayan nodded. “My armies will come! Adal and I, we’ll bring enough men that we could defend Chariis without anyone else!” He relished every word as visions of adventure danced before his eyes.
The Sargon shook his head. “Another path lies before Adal. He will not return with you; you will need to summon his armies for him.”
Abani wrinkled her nose but said nothing.
Cerulean remained silent and watchful.
“What do you intend?” I asked.
He walked away a few steps. “Garethen has gathered his armies before, and every time the Storied Lands were in jeopardy. Every time this has happened, a small group held the key to defeating the Fallen Lord. You know the tales. You know what is required.”
I nodded. “A member of every race and of every nation. Elves, dwarves, men. A prince. An unlikely hero.”
Tor turned and faced me.
“No, not me. What do I have to offer? I have fought little but goblins for many years, and Garethen has far greater terrors in his arsenal! I’m old. My story is done. My family line has died out. My wife waits to quarrel with me back home. No, someone else. Sargon Tor, send another.”
“The stories have chosen you, Naeharum Adal. And it is on you that this tale shall turn.” Tor’s voice rang out, hanging in the air.
Cerulean tilted her head as she inspected me. Her eyes narrowed. Her mouth did not open.
Jayan ventured, “Adal is right in saying he has little to offer. At least allow me to go with him. Send another messenger to the North and to the Spires. Our armies will come at your summons, Sargon Tor. You do not need me to carry your call.”
Tor nodded. “Of course I do not need you to carry the call. I do need you to lead your peoples, though. And Adal has much to offer. Few know the tales as well as he does. They will guide him and his companions through their mission.”
Abani broke in, annoyed. “And what is our mission?”
The stories always said it. Every tale united in one voice for this. I licked my lips before answering. “The same mission a group like ours always pursues. We find what made Garethen move this time. What new stratagem or weapon he has developed. And we find a way to neutralize it, so that our armies have the chance to defeat him.”
“Our group?” Abani questioned me. “So you are coming?”
“I trust Sargon Tor.” I turned from her to the lord of Chariis. “I trust the stories. I don’t want to go. I still don’t think I’m of any value. Surely Cerulean, as an elf, knows the stories better than I, and she appears far more capable of handling herself. But I will go. If the Sargon commands it.”
“I bid you go.”
I closed my eyes. With that, it was done.
I breathed deeply before venturing on. “We need more people, though. If we don’t please the tales with the makeup of our group, we won’t stand a chance.”
“Of course. I have sent out other messengers. Emissaries from other kingdoms will meet you in Scarletholme. Jayan, my messenger telling the Spiremen to do so, didn’t find you at your home, so you will have to bear that message yourself. It means cheating the stories here a little, but I believe I can make peace with them.” The Sargon tucked a smile into the corner of his mouth. “And if I cannot, I trust you can, Adal.”
Abani huffed, “Very well. I’ll take him along, at your insistence, Sargon. And I trust you would tell me if a traitor is among us?”
Tor shook his head. “I sense nothing of Garethen among those gathered here.”
Jayan growled, “Did you just accuse me of being a not-man?”
Abani leveled her gaze at him. “In Parvia, we do not have the luxury of assuming anyone has been untainted. Every person must be suspect. It is only because you stand here in the Sargon’s Colonnade that I trusted you with what I know, and will continue to trust you to stand against the Fallen Lord. I trust the Sargon’s judgment, not yours.”
I closed my eyes. I wasn’t looking forward to traveling with a Parvian. Nor a silent elf.
Before Jayan could respond, the Sargon announced, “You leave at dawn. Go to the halls of your nations. Sleep well tonight. Let the peace of Chariis give you rest. Tomorrow you depart for a mission that will determine the fate of the world. May the stories tell your path true.”
Chapter Two
“We’ll have one last adventure together, hey, Adal?” Jayan laughed and put a hand to his chin as he considered. “Of course, our armies will still gather, but...” He shook his head. “But our generals can accomplish that for us. They are capable men. Think of it!” Jayan brightened as he spoke. “The two of us, together, fighting against Garethen himself! We could face all manner of fell beasts! Hagri, jezebels, behemoths—oh, to face one of the generals!—goblins, of course, mustn’t forget the fodder.” He continued on, naming as many foul creatures as his imagination could fathom.
I walked next to him, silent. I didn’t have the heart to remind him of what Tor had said. Not yet, at least.
We walked past dark halls, and my mind flew to the halls in the North. At this time of night, many of the women would be returning to their homes after their shared evening meal. Most of the men were away fending off goblin attacks. I hoped Gayala would forgive me for not coming home to her.
We passed countless monuments. I couldn’t name the heroes immortalized in many of them. Few lived who could. We didn’t make monuments in the North; not like these statues, at least. At home, the children gathered around the fires in the halls, and I told them about Northane’s travels or Denask’s flute or Petrine’s magic tongue. Our heroes needed no monuments. The stories kept their memory alive for generation after generations. Their eyes always told me that I would not be the last to love the stories.
Darkness swathed the street between sputtering torches as we walked.
We entered a square. Across from us stood a great hall and above it presided a painted white stag on a field of blue. A dry fountain lay in the center of the square. In the fountain stood a bronze statue of a boy leaning on a harpoon. Several white stone benches sat around it. Roots from a nearby oak cracked the fountain’s wall. Its branches spread wide, and during the day it covered much of the square in shade.
I looked to Jayan, “Are you going to tell, or should I?”
“Ha! My hall, my tale.” He cleared his throat before calling out, “Welcome now, to the Hall of Bodaren. Welcome, to the hall of he who would be first of the Spires. The tale must be told before we enter, so we may honor the man who built it, as well as those who came from his line.”
Another deep breath, and then he boomed out in his broad voice, “Hear now the tale of Bodaren. Hear the tale of him who built this hall in days of old before journeying north to slay the frost giants and claim their Spires for his own.”
Jayan bolted to the fountain, vaulting the low wall with ease. He turned, drawing the harpoon that had been strapped to his back under the heavy furs. “The world had been cleansed, washed clean by the waters sent from above and below. Garethen had yet to rise from the receding waves. Tor had gathered all the races to him here, elves and men, dwarves and white goblins. They all had been brought here for safety. Now it was time to decide where to go.”
Jayan paced around the statue at the center of the fountain. “The founders of the nations gathered. The elves elected to travel to the far south and there, study higher ways. The dwarves went below
to watch for dangers long thought dead. The white goblins went east to be as separate from their dire cousins as they could be. Then remained the West and the North for men.
“The five rulers of men convened and spoke words of wisdom. They looked upon each other. Bodaren was strong of muscle and covered with hair. They pointed and spoke, ‘This one of all among us is best suited for the northern climes. Let him settle there.’ And Bodaren addressed the gathered kings.”
Jayan’s voice deepened, “‘Yes, I shall climb the Spires and battle whatever fell things may have survived the water’s embrace. But I shall take a brother with me, to call upon if ever I should need. Maeravus Katal shall come north with me and establish his kingdom near mine. We shall help one another, and our peoples shall not be strangers!’
“Parvain, Cassius, and Garren, the kings of the West, nodded their assent, and they journeyed to fields that would be golden in times to come. Katal and Bodaren remained in the Colonnade, and they spoke further words of wisdom to one another. ‘Brother Katal, you honor me with your presence.’
“‘Brother Bodaren, you honor me with yours.’ The two embraced there. Bodaren spoke again. ‘Let us build two halls here, each near the other, that our peoples may return to them. Let them be alike in every way. Let them be high and vast to be filled with much mirth and much revelry.’
“Katal agreed, and they set their backs to the work. Many days and many nights they labored. After forty-one days, they rested and viewed their work.
“Two halls, alike in every way. Two halls, of the same grandeur. To set them apart, Katal painted a red flame upon his entrance and Bodaren an elk upon his. Before them each set a fountain beneath a young tree. Bordaren set a statue of Katal as a youth holding his favored weapon.” Jayan set a hand upon the brow of the stone boy in the midst of the fountain. “Bodaren said, ‘In honor of your mighty deeds in battle before the waters stole our homes, my sons shall be taught to bear the harpoon as you have.’
The Keeper of Tales Page 2
