The Keeper of Tales

by Jonathon Mast

  “Brave Katal set a statue of Bodaren as a young man bearing his favored weapon, a blade. He spoke, ‘In honor of your many great deeds in battle, my sons shall be taught the blade, shining in the night. We shall never forget the friendship you made with us, and we shall always answer when you call.’

  “And so, the halls were built and remained behind as the men journeyed north. Still their halls stand here in shining Chariis, a testament to the brotherhood of our two nations. Let all be welcome here, whether they be of the North or of the Spires. Let them be friends and drink together in unity. Come now, brothers near and brothers far. Let us celebrate our long-remembered friendship. The Hall of Bodaren is open for all here. The hall is open!”

  I answered. “Long may we be welcome here. Long may the sons of Katal and the sons of Bodaren clasp hands in friendship!” Ah, the words. I wished my generals were here; it had been too long since they had heard this tale. The stories were good for rekindling deep ties as old as our nations.

  Jayan savored the words he spoke. “Long may we welcome you! Long may the sons of Bodaren and the sons of Katal clasp hands in friendship!” He smiled. “Enter now, kinsman and friend. Enter!”

  I felt the story revel in its own telling, not as an exuberant dog greets its owner, but rather as a loyal hound sitting by a fireplace sets its head upon his master’s knee.

  At his last word, the doors swung open in welcome. The hall held open its hands in warmth to old, dear friends. Torches lit themselves. A table set with food and drink awaited. The scent of fresh baked bread and roast rabbit wafted toward us.

  I nodded as the story recognized its telling and rewarded the teller. “It’s always a joy to hear a tale told by another. Your telling is much shorter than ours. You almost skip the time it took to build entirely!”

  Jayan smiled. He still reveled in the power of the words. “Of course our telling is shorter. Words freeze faster in the cold of the Spires, dear Adal. If I went on as long as you do, my men would die of frost burn!” He slapped me on the back. “And tonight, you shall sleep in our hall. Let me show you the hospitality of the Spires one last time before we go out!”

  Jayan stepped toward the warm light, but I didn’t move. “Jayan, this journey isn’t for you.”

  He stopped. He turned toward me. The only sound was his boots on the pavement.

  “It wouldn’t even be for me, if it weren’t for Tor. I’m too old for some adventure. I tell tales; I don’t live them.”

  Jayan didn’t answer. The torches behind him silhouetted his face; I couldn’t read his expression.

  I opened my mouth. I shut it.

  No. It had to be asked.

  “Jayan, how old is Naaman now?”

  The Spireman did not miss the import of my question. “He is but twenty turnings of the harvest. Too young for any but the simplest of skirmishes.”

  “But you could send him?”

  Jayan breathed a loud breath through his nostrils. “I could.”

  I spoke quietly. “Perhaps he should come with me in your stead.”

  He turned away from me. He sighed. “I was waiting for this. You go on an adventure, and I stay at home.”

  “Jayan, Tor told me I must go. If I am gone, the northern races of men will need a strong king. It is true that Bagien will rule wisely in my stead, but we will need someone who knows not only how to rule, but also how to fight.” I reached toward him. “Jayan, my friend, I need you to look after my people. And my wife.”

  Jayan shook his head, still facing away from me. “You need an experienced Spireman at your side, not some youth who doesn’t know which end of a harpoon to throw. No, Naaman will not come with you. If not me, I will name another. Someone with experience.”

  Something prickled in the back of my mind. Naaman would be needed, and no other would do. “Jayan, in the tales there is always at least one prince in adventures like these. I know the state of the other kings’ families. I know of no prince of age if you do not allow Naaman to come along. And if we do not please the tales, we do not know how we will be hindered.”

  “Damn the tales, Adal!” he shouted. The stone walls around us rang the echo. The monument in the fountain seemed to frown in disapproval. Jayan breathed sharply out his nose.

  Then, in a much quieter voice, he continued. “He is my son. I will not sacrifice him. I know how the stories go too. It’s always the prince who dies to save the lands.” He turned. His eyes shone in the torchlight. “You know the risk. Do not ask me to send my son. I do not have the strength to survive that sorrow.” He swallowed. “I am not like you.”

  My eyes couldn’t meet his. I’d focused on the beginning of the tales. I had not seen through to the end like Jayan had. He was right: The prince always died. How could I have missed that?

  I couldn’t ask my friend so much. I wouldn’t ask him to endure my pain. The stories, perhaps, would provide another way. I nodded. “Very well, Jayan. It will be as you say. Name another, and it will be so.”

  His breath wasn’t steady. Jayan searched for my eyes, but I would not give them to him.

  “Adal, give me your word that you won’t demand my son.”

  “I give you my word as a Northerner, as the king of a people known for truth. I will not demand your son accompany us.”

  Jayan nodded. “Very well.” He nodded again. “Come, Adal. We will eat and drink together before you leave. One more time, know the hospitality of a Spireman.”

  Chapter Three

  I led Vendarion to the gates of Chariis. Morning mist rose from the forests of the valley. Chariis shone in the pre-dawn light. Abani and Cerulean awaited me, their mounts stamping the ground.

  Abani gave a shallow bow. “You may be old, but at least you don’t keep us waiting.” Her horse shifted beneath her.

  “You’re not used to riding, are you?” I asked her.

  Abani pressed her lips together before answering, “In Parvia, such animals are difficult to keep. Our deserts don’t welcome them. I will manage. This one has a dance within him, and I will join him.”

  I nodded. “No pack animals?”

  Abani answered, “A falcon carries nothing with it, yet it is fed.”

  Cerulean watched the exchange but cloaked herself in silence.

  They waited as I mounted. As we turned away from the city, Abani said, “Your companion. I’m surprised he’s not following you.”

  I did not answer for a moment. Finally, I said, “We bade each other farewell at his hall. We will meet again.”

  We didn’t speak again as we left the city. We crossed the stream, and the Sentinel bade us farewell. I looked behind me, but Chariis was hidden by trees. I longed to drink its beauty again. A sense of parting washed over me.

  We rode silently for two hours toward the kingdoms of the West. A path branched to the north, but we didn’t take that road. That was the way Jayan would go in an hour, perhaps two. I watched as it passed.

  Though we pressed west, my thoughts flew north. How would Bagien take the news that I would not return to lead our army? He was a good man and a trusted advisor, but he was no king. My nephew Katal might be ready for the office in a few years. And Gayala. She had already begun to worry, I was sure. She always did when I was gone. She worried as much as she argued.

  For another two hours we passed through the bright green of the forests that surrounded Chariis. The horses stepped through pleasant brooks. Birds sang in the branches above us. Cerulean remained wrapped in her silence. Abani kept a wary eye for enemies.

  And me? I wasn’t concerned with enemies. If an enemy was strong enough to approach this close to Chariis, there was little chance we’d be able to fight it off. And if indeed we were in a tale, there should be no real danger this early in the story.

  Instead of looking for enemies, I prepared. A tale lived on this path. I’d never been this way, but I’d studied the tale anyway in case I ever had the opportunity to travel west. And what sane man would ever not look forward to telling a n
ew tale? Ah, but I had rarely been accused of being normal.

  The path broadened out from the forest to a plain. The sudden sun warmed my skin. Scattered among the deep golden grain, pale blue flowers bloomed as a marker.

  Our little line paused, and I took the lead. It was absolutely amazing that such a powerful tale still existed near such a busy path, but here it was. I looked forward to telling this tale, but I knew I would have to tell it correctly and well. This was a jealous fable, and if improperly told, it would delay us, possibly for weeks.

  I dismounted and edged to the border of the field, humming quietly. Though this tale need not be sung, it always started with verse.

  “Dairune a della bessa rin

  Kahn esar bidda ristahn

  Begen Dairune yolari set

  Ohsan…”

  The words were unfamiliar in my mouth, like Parvian spices. I had practiced the chant but still did not know precisely what the words meant. I could tell the story without worry, but words like these, words that I did not grow into manhood knowing, were another matter entirely. I continued in the familiar sounds of my own tongue. I would know before long if the fable had rejected my recitation.

  “Here is the site of Dairune’s triumph, may he be forever remembered!” I raised my hands in an ancient hail, savoring the words. “Here his journey ended, and here he wed fair Daeu.” Lowering my hands, I turned to the companions. “Come. I will tell the tale as we cross the plain so I may better show you where and how it all happened.”

  I remounted, and the other two readied their steeds for the trot across the field. I didn’t worry about them. Cerulean, as an elf, knew the importance of tales. Abani, though such fables were far rarer in Parvia, would have passed this way to get to Chariis. She ought to know what to do.

  “My friends, do you see that hill?” I pointed to a rise some distance away, topped with a single tree. I prodded Vendarion forward, letting him pick the way. My mount would know how to read the paths better than I would, and this way I could concentrate on the telling. “It was on that hill that Dairune and Daeu were to be wed, lovers at long last united under a shining star. Dairune had returned victorious from wars far to the west, in Cassun and Parvia, battling beasts now long lost, crushed by his mighty hand. He returned bearing gifts that even the father of Daeu was forced to accept as wedding tribute. Finally, he gave his daughter for the marriage rites.”

  I searched for another landmark. Soon I would need to point to it. Behind, a horse whinnied.

  “But Dairune was not the only one who had noticed fair Daeu. Garethen himself had spied her from afar. He mounted Ash, his steed, a beast with the head of an eagle and hooves that could climb smoke. He rode to Daeu’s father.” We passed a thicket of trees, and there, on another hill, I finally spotted the landmark. “There, by the well at which Daeu had been found as a child. Can you see it, my friends? It is still black, charred by the flames that consumed Daeu’s father when he refused Garethen’s offer.”

  I licked my lips, wetting them. Suddenly I felt parched. “This is why, to this day, a father, once he has pledged his daughter, will speak to no eligible man until after the wedding night. He does not want to repeat the tragedy of the father of Daeu.”

  I heard someone shift in their saddle. A cold breeze picked up. Gray clouds obscured the sun. I prayed the story would not attempt to turn the weather against us. I was telling it well enough, wasn’t I? Of course I was. The tale had no reason to complain.

  “Then Garethen entered the tent of Daeu, scorning all propriety. He would view a woman the day before she would be wed, though she should be alone to contemplate this union to which she would soon pledge herself. He cast his eyes upon her form, clad in a simple white shift. He spoke words to her, eloquent in simplicity. He cast nets about her, attempting to catch her in deception and clever words. But this would be the wife of Dairune, and she was no simple girl.

  “She told him she would gladly wed him, if only he would bring her the thing she most desired. She would not tell him what it was, saying that if he truly loved her as he professed, he would know and bring it.

  “Garethen, full of might and power and lust, promised to do just this. He spoke words not known to mortal man and conjured before her the thing she most desired. And so Dairune was brought before Garethen, fully armed and armored. Dairune recognized the horrible visage of the Fallen Lord and so did combat there in the tent of his beloved.”

  The breeze grew in strength, and the clouds churned overhead. Was it some effect of the tale? Was that possible? The horses grew nervous. They could tell, as I did, that something was not right. To my knowledge, I hadn’t betrayed anything in the story with my words, and if the verse had been wrong at the onset, we would have been waylaid before now. No, the fable appeared furious and for a reason I couldn’t ascertain. All I could do was continue.

  “The combat was fierce. Dairune had trained for many years, fighting the Fallen Lord’s forces under the shadows of the western mountains Raumioch Beti. He had slain Kaelimor, Garethen’s high lieutenant himself, and still bore the blade he had won from that combat. The black metal glistened with blood. He was able to push his assailant back beyond the tent so his love could continue her meditations. She failed to meditate. Instead, she watched the spectacle before her. A storm came upon the valley, and lightning flashed.”

  A blaze lit the sky. The ground shook from the sound. I felt an evil presence, a malign intent in the blast, hiding in the story I recited. I had been told that on occasion the fable liked to dramatize itself, but I had never heard of it being this strong.

  We topped a hill. There, to the south, I spied a familiar stand of dead trees. White branches stretched to the sky. And perched in one of those trees, a large form. A hairy beast, crouched in the branches.

  I couldn’t stop the story, though. The tale wouldn’t allow it. “The battle continued for days on end, beyond the day that Dairune was to wed Daeu. No one dared even come to the wedding site. They hid in their tents.”

  I had to shout over the wind. My cloak blew to the side, forcing me to lean even more into the gusts. I lost sight of the dead trees through my watering eyes. Again, the lightning flashed above us, and another tremor shook the earth.

  Behind I heard a voice shout, “Ride!” I did not hesitate to obey. I continued shouting the story over the sound of hooves and wind. It was not for my benefit or that of my companions, but that the story might be satisfied upon its completion. The stand of dead trees fell out of sight.

  “Finally, they fought to a standstill. Dairune had spent his strength, and the Fallen Lord was so far from the seat of his power, he could no longer lift his sword. They knelt upon the ground, each facing the other, panting for breath. Above, a churning circle appeared in the clouds, as an eye looking down upon them.”

  As I spoke, it appeared above us, following the flight of our horses. The grain moved in waves and surges around us. The horses frothed in their urgency to escape. Ahead, the edge of a forest loomed, a place of refuge from this fable. I ached to reach it. I never thought I’d run from a story!

  “And then Daeu drew her blade, long and slender, and approached the Fallen Lord openly. ‘You viewed me on the day before my wedding, promising me my heart’s desire. You see him before you. You see the man I will be with forever. Now you will go, or I will slay you where you kneel.’ Garethen stood and turned to go, and as he did Daeu fell into the embrace of her beloved. But Garethen turned to see her one last time, and seeing the two lovers together so enraged him he drew his blade again for battle. But Dairune was watching!”

  The horses raced ever closer to the forest line, but the winds whipped my words away almost faster than I could speak them. I could feel some sort of suction, a hungering for the words I was saying. They came faster now than I could form them in my mind.

  “He flung his bride aside and dodged below the foul blade, striking upward and smiting the very heart of the King of All Dark! He crumbled into a pile of ash,
arms and armor and flesh, and blew away in the wind. Dairune triumphed! Dairune triumphed! Dairune—” We crossed the threshold into the forest. The wind died. The malevolent force vanished. I spoke the last word into silence: “—triumphed.”

  Chapter Four

  We panted on our mounts. The storm raged over the plain. The eye in the clouds looked over the landscape, searching for something to devour. Here in the forest, beyond the fable’s boundaries, we were safe. For now, at least. I turned to Cerulean. “Thank you for the warning to ride.”

  The elf nodded in answer to my thanks.

  My bones ached. I wasn’t used to hard riding anymore. We should have waited another day or two in Chariis before leaving.

  Abani looked wretched. Her wet silks clung to her and her egal hung from her head. “That cannot be the customary reaction of that story.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve never heard of any tale having that strong a reaction. And I’m fairly certain I was telling it true.” I gazed back at the storm. “I hope something isn’t wrong with the story. A story can’t get sick or be hurt, can it?”

  Cerulean considered my question with a cocked head while Abani rolled her eyes.

  Could whatever had been in that thicket of dead trees have done something? Had it poisoned my retelling of the story? My eyes searched the plain, but I could find no indication of dead trees. I chose not to share the possibilities with the others.

  For now.

  We moved on, not speaking more about the story. It was behind us now, and we had other things to consider.

  That evening we set a simple camp in a small clearing. A fire let us cook the rabbits that I snared. Abani did not know how to hunt in this kind of habitat, and Cerulean eschewed killing animals. The meat was strengthening, if bland, and much better than the field servings we carried with us.

  After a meal shared in relative silence, we bedded down. Cerulean indicated that she would watch through the darkness, allowing both Abani and me to rest fully.