The Keeper of Tales

by Jonathon Mast

  “What are you waiting for?” she screamed. “I’m sick of being wet!” She angled up at the sky again. “Stupid story!”

  “But won’t you die without your story?”

  “Clodpate! Can a story exist outside a book? Why couldn’t I live without my story?”

  Still not fully understanding, I crossed the threshold to my waiting companions. It was like stepping into a home; blessedly dry, warm, and welcoming. I hesitantly looked down into my hands. There the tiny potato woman heaved deep breaths, looking up at me. “See? I’m fine. I’ll just have to carve myself some new legs. Any of you bring a potato I can use?”

  We made camp not far from the raging storm. We were all exhausted from our hours in the tempest, and we had to take time to recover. We felt confident that however much farther we might travel, it would not be far enough to escape Karen’s warriors wrapped in blue flames if they should attempt to track us.

  Karen Cordolis continued to alternate between screaming at the storm, yelling at those around her now, and openly crying out for her deceased home. Lazul volunteered to hold her as soon as we decided to stop. He cradled the small woman. It was an odd picture, to see a dwarf doing anything so gingerly. His dark face seemed to soften from marble to basalt as he gazed down at the potato woman.

  I pulled Cerulean aside to where the others would not hear. “Can you do anything to help her legs?”

  She gazed at the potato woman for a few breaths before shaking her head.

  I turned back to the camp, surveying the scene. Korah had found kindling and some fallen wood. Galatea took Korah’s offering and started a cheery fire. Lazul sat nearby, warming Karen Cordolis in his arms.

  “You’re cold, Karen,” he rumbled.

  “Whatever attacked us sucked the warmth out of the air!” Karen held out her hands to the fire. “It’ll feel good to warm up. I get so brittle in the cold!”

  The others gathered around the fire. Daragen and Abani remained on guard. Cerulean and I kept to ourselves as we conversed.

  My companion pointed at her. “There is something wrong with her.”

  “I think I noticed. That’s why I asked if you could help her legs.”

  She shook her head again and spoke up. “Karen Cordolis, where is your story?”

  Karen froze. She looked at the elf. “What do you know of it?” She swallowed a few times before continuing. “It’s gone, isn’t it?” She nodded a few times to herself. “I could feel the story being ripped from me. Not that story out there that’s become my friend, but my very self. The story of my heart. Whatever they were, they attacked Peor as well. He could feel it and began running and jumping, eventually throwing me out and leading the attackers on. That’s the only reason I survived.” She paused and gulped some air. I could hear, just barely, a few words spoken under her breath, “Poor Peor.” She took a deep breath and returned to a louder volume. “This thing doesn’t just attack people’s stories. When it—they—were done with Peor, I could see them turn and attack the fable itself. That raging? It’s not just the tale’s grief. It’s fighting for its very life.”

  A crack of thunder burst over the stony fingers. I glanced out over the Hills and saw nothing but the storm.

  “There are things that attack stories—the fables themselves?” Was it possible? Could something hunt tales? Not just annoy them by ignoring them, not just tell them wrong, but actually destroy a story?

  Karen Cordolis’s face was wreathed in fear. “Yes.”

  How? What could hate a story? What could hate something so beloved by all races, even by Garethen himself? Stories bound our lands. They kept us together. Why would anything attack a story? “Why?”

  Her tiny eyes met mine. “They hunger.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I wasn’t the only one who slept fitfully that night. The idea of a band of creatures that attacked tales disturbed us all. What bothered me even more was that I had never heard of such a thing. It was not the creature that I had encountered in the dead grove, so intent on anonymity. That beast hated stories, but it was also determined to escape being caught in one. No, it wouldn’t risk attacking stories. This was surely something different. But what?

  We set out the next morning accompanied by Karen Cordolis. Lazul carried her, refusing to let any other bear this burden. She giggled when the dwarf would not give her up to Daragen.

  We moved into the forest bordering the Maddarin Hills. The woods were awash in tales, many small ones that wove together in unpredictable ways. My eyes scanned the trees, looking for signs as to which to tell first. My studies had told me that the tales often moved within the boundaries of this wooded area, changing their location seemingly at the turn of the winds. I warned my companions.

  Karen Cordolis took me in an even gaze. “Do you know the way through?”

  I nodded. “Though I’ve never been this way before, I’ve read much of it.”

  She did not like that answer. “I traveled these paths on occasion, years ago. Some of the tales are dangerous, and they’ll likely have heard the wailing of my story last night. They’ll know its fate, even though we don’t. They will be frightened; stories are not attacked. They usually die natural deaths, forgotten by their tellers. Beware that.”

  I nodded. “I don’t even know how to mourn a story. You can’t speak blessings over a grave like you do for a dwarf. I still know your stories. Can I tell them again? What does this even mean?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I don’t know, Adal. I wish I did.”

  We rode on. The others did not jest as they had through the pillars of stone. No grin of mirth lit Lazul’s dark face. Korah and Galatea rode near each other, but they did not speak. Daragen kept to himself.

  We encountered one small story where a long-abandoned swing hung from the branch of a tree. I stopped the column and spoke, indicating the wooden seat swaying in the slight breeze. “This was the home of Dienar. He was a child of but eight harvests when he decided that his home did not hold the adventures he sought, and so he fled to the forest that bordered his small village. He escaped the calls of his mother on fast feet. As he ran, he shouted, ‘Mother of mine you shall not be! I will be in the forest ever free! I escape your eye forever!’

  “He raced into the forest and found this tree.” I placed my hand on the stout trunk. “It spread its branches high and seemed to him to be an ideal home. And so he lived here for a time, sheltered by its branches and making this swing. He lived off mushrooms and wild berries.

  “Then one day the breezes, whom he played with, brought him a message. ‘Your mother is ailing,’ they told him. ‘She wishes to see you again before her breath ceases to move.’

  “Dienar decided such a thing would fit him well, and so he returned to the village of his youth. When he emerged from the trees, a young girl saw him. She screamed in fear. The men of the village dashed to gather their weapons. ‘Go back to where you came from, beast of the woods!’ they shouted at Dienar.

  “You see, Dienar had spent years away from his family and had lived under trees and made breezes his friends. His time in the forest had changed him. He had grown out of manmade clothing and wore that which his beloved tree provided. He had grown tall as a weed and as swift and silent as his playmates. He no longer looked as any might remember him. He had become a creature of the woods.

  “He turned away from the village, tears filling his eyes. He had gone out to escape his mother’s eye and seek adventure. He had found exactly what he had wished.” I looked up the trunk of the tree. “So, be careful your desires do not find you, for you may find your desires are not what you truly want.” Finally, I removed my hand from the trunk of the tree, careful to avoid stepping within the bright green circle of grass that grew around the swing.

  The story didn’t talk about the grief of Dienar’s mother. It didn’t mention the heavy heart of a parent who lost a child. It didn’t even speak of Deinar’s father.

  Fathers grieve lost children, too.


  I whispered to my companions so that I might not disturb any story now listening. “Be careful to avoid circles of greener grass from now on. They are where Dienar’s tears fell, and I would avoid telling the story of any who fall into those circles.”

  The others nodded, and their eyes searched the ground for such marks.

  We moved deeper into the forest. I mulled in the silence. I had seen another tempest similar to the one that Karen Cordolis’s story had unleashed at Peor’s passing. Did something similar happen to the story of Dairune and Daeu, so soon after we’d left Chariis?

  And if Karen’s attackers had also been present on that field, and if they had also attacked the other groups before they had reached Scarletholme…

  I urged Vendarion to approach Cerulean. “Do you think that whatever attacked Karen Cordolis could have attacked the story of Dairune and Daeu?”

  The elf nodded. It appeared she’d already come to the same conclusion.

  “Does that mean they might be following us?”

  Again, she nodded.

  “Perhaps it’s time to change the direction of our journey, then. We could turn south for a day, exit the forest, and continue until we reach Habrin. From there we can reclaim our original direction. It’ll get us out of the way of these riders if they’re merely going the same direction we are. If we encounter them again, we’ll know they’re intentionally following us.”

  Once more Cerulean nodded. I called a halt and explained the plan to the others. They concurred with my thinking.

  Daragen was excited by this new plan. “I know a certain tavern in Habrin, The Grinning Maiden. We shall spend a night there!” His brown eyes lit when he said the name of the place.

  Galatea was too far away to punch him. “Must you visit every bar we pass? And how do you know about a bar in Habrin, anyway?”

  Daragen grinned at her. “I like bars.”

  Abani scowled at the comment, but Korah was most interested in this proposition. “And what makes this tavern so great that you want to spend the night there?”

  Galatea punched him. Korah, confused, rubbed his arm.

  Daragen smiled. “The name should tell you all you need to know.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  We turned south. The forest remained thick overhead, allowing green light to filter down to us. The others seemed more at ease in these surroundings, and even Karen Cordolis relaxed a bit. Galatea came forward and asked whether it was safe to strip some bark from trees as we passed. Confused, I gave her permission. No story I knew of here would take offense. A few hours later she presented a crude bark basket to Lazul to carry the potato woman.

  Karen Cordolis was delighted. “See? A good woman can do two things at once!” She climbed into the basket. “Why, it’s just like the basket Janica made for me the day she took me to market to meet the parson. I could tell you—” Her voice faltered, her eyes searching around. “No. I have forgotten. I just remember the basket.” Her lips tightened, but she sat. “Lazul, perhaps as thanks I should ask this skillful woman to carry me for a bit.”

  Lazul looked as if she had struck him but surrendered the basket. Galatea only carried it for a short time before returning the potato woman to the dwarf.

  I looked to Cerulean. She, too, had noticed Karen Cordolis’s memory lapse.

  How could you forget your own story?

  But if these warriors attacked stories, if they had stripped her of her own story—what would happen if they did that to a person?

  I could not imagine my life if I didn’t have my stories. They had formed me. They had changed me. Without the stories, I would be just a whitebeard with a blackbeard’s attitudes. It is through stories we most often learn, after all.

  If I lost my stories, I would no longer be me.

  I pondered as we moved through the forest.

  Two more short stories rounded out the day: The Child of the Tree, and The Failed Hunt of Glorious Sagridel. We spotted several of the greener circles as we rode and gave them wide berth. Some of the circles featured the skeletal remains of animals at their edges.

  At sunset we broke into a clearing and discovered a long-abandoned village. There were seven or eight wooden buildings. No paint remained on the rotting wood. Weeds covered the path leading through the village. There was no sign that anyone had lived here for many years.

  I was wary. “We should set up camp away from the village. I am afraid that there is a story here I do not know, and I would not risk its wrath.”

  We rode beyond, staying out of the clearing. Even after my own warning, I yearned to see what was in this village. What stories were there? Who had lived here? What had brought them laughter? What had caused sorrow? Why was the village abandoned? I could imagine what tales might be discovered.

  But doing so safely would delay our journey a few days at least. This wasn’t a fablehunt to discover new tales but to find out the dark heart of Garethen’s plans. There was no reason to stop. At least no reason that should stop us now.

  We made camp perhaps two hundred paces beyond where we lost sight of the village. After dark, it would be dangerous to pass through a forest this riddled with tales. I needed to be able to see the markers that tales leave when they wish to be told; without sight we could give offense. Or worse.

  We sat around the firepit, eating the rabbits Abani and Korah had hunted for us in the failing light. Abani had learned from my example, and I was glad she did. My bones ached.

  Daragen looked up at me across the blaze. “Do we have any defense against the story-hunters?”

  I had no answer for him. I knew no counter-story that might stave them off, especially since they seemed to hunt tales. I shook my head.

  Karen piped up. “Well, they like cold. And they hurt stories. I’d think being warm and just letting go of whatever stories they want from you would be best!”

  I blinked. After a moment I glanced at Cerulean. She seemed to have the same reaction I did: In a land that demanded knowledge of the tales, forgetting them, letting them go, would be a kind of suicide. I drew back from the very possibility. Yet, if they demanded that… I answered, “That seems like a guess.”

  Karen snorted. “An educated guess from a woman is better than anything a man knows!” She chuckled to soften her jab. I noticed that she didn’t mind the company of men as much as her blunt words might indicate.

  I took first watch that night but saw nothing of note. Karen Cordolis kept me company as I watched. I asked, “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  She harrumphed. “Since when do potatoes need to sleep?”

  I nodded. “Ah.”

  She looked up at me. “What do you plan to do with me, once we reach inhabited lands?”

  I hadn’t considered it. My mind had dwelled all day on stories. Telling the tales we encountered in the forest, contemplating the possibility of losing my stories, or longing to discover new ones in that abandoned village. Her question made sense, though. It would likely be wise not to let others know of her existence. Either some zealous guard would brand her a thing of Garethen, or she would be put on public display. Neither option sat well in my mind. “I don’t know.”

  “Will you get me some new legs?”

  “I don’t know how to find legs. It’s not something I’ve had to do before.” I smiled.

  Karen returned my expression with a warm grin of her own. “Just get me a potato and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  I smiled. “Yes, Karen Cordolis, we’ll find some new legs for you.”

  “Thank you. Beyond that, if you are willing, let me be carried in kindly Lazul’s pack. I do enjoy his company, but I’m not ready to rejoin the world yet. It seems for a short time, at least, I must travel with you.”

  There was a pause in our conversation as we peered into the darkness. Karen Cordolis spoke again. “Thank you for finding me. Had you not, those things would have found me again, and I had no defense.”

  I reached out my hand and picked her up, holding her to
my chest. “Karen Cordolis, from the moment I first read of you, you were a favorite tale. I would never let anyone harm you.”

  She brought her arms up in an embrace. We sat that way for a moment, and then I set her down. We did not speak again that night, except as she bid me good night when Cerulean relieved me. As I drifted off to sleep, I overheard Karen ask her, “How did the men ever break you so that you smile so little? Even a silent elf like yourself is allowed to smile!”

  The next day we stepped quickly through the wood. A night under high branches had revived us, and we were ready to move. Karen Cordolis continued riding in her new basket, and she once again complimented Galatea on its workmanship. Lazul scowled at this, but Karen did not force him to give up the basket again.

  At midmorning we came across a doe, her eyes wide with fright. She didn’t run, but her ears twitched as we approached. We entered the small glade where she stood and were able to circle her. Cerulean pointed to the ground. The doe stood in a circle of grass that was brighter than the surrounding greenery.

  I approached her. She wanted to run, but her hooves seemed rooted to the ground. I looked to my companions. They did not seem to understand what we had come across, but I knew. My eyes met Cerulean’s, my eyebrows raised in silent question. She nodded, encouraging me to commence the tale.

  “Throughout his life in the forest, Dienar would at times remember his mother and the pain he had caused her. Every time he recalled her distress, a tear would fall from his cheek and onto the ground. There the forest would grow greener, fed by his sorrow.

  “In time, after Dienar’s passing, the woods wished to honor his memory. They declared that all who passed through the places where Dienar’s tears fell would feel the same woe. Each creature would be forced to weep. Only then would it be released.”