At dawn we made a brief stop at a stream, allowing the horses time to rest. None of us were ready to make camp, though. We mounted again and continued west, traveling all that day, though we slowed from our breakneck gallop to a steadier canter.
All this time we were mostly silent, only speaking when we had to adjust speed. Even Karen Cordolis chose to keep her active mouth still.
Lazul did not vent his anger, but I could see a rage behind his eyes. He mumbled to himself in dwarvish, his voice sounding like stone and grinding metal. The entire ride he trembled, and not with fear.
Galatea kept herself separate from the group. Her eyes were wet every time I looked toward her. She kept the white cloak wrapped around herself.
As for me, I had even more reason to mourn him. I had never wanted Jayan to feel the pain I had barely survived years earlier. I kept wrestling with myself. I had served the stories willingly for so long. I had told so many of them. Couldn’t they have allowed us to escape without sacrificing Korah?
At sundown we made camp under the cover of the trees. We sat around the fire, Cerulean taking watch while the rest of us meditated on the flames.
The stories wanted us to honor the sacrifice? Fine, then. I would make sure that Korah would be honored.
I broke the silence. “I speak of Korah, a brave warrior who died in battle against a mighty foe. I speak of the Spireman, Naaman, son of Jayan, who became known as Korah, great prince of a cold land. Hear his story, and bow your head in respect.”
Yolian heeded my call, bowing his head and closing his eyes. The others soon followed suit. Abani closed her eyes but raised her face to the sky, the Parvian stance for meditation. Lazul simply shut his eyes, his entire body still shaking. Karen Cordolis had been carving herself new legs from the potato, but now she paused and bowed her head as well.
Galatea alone kept her eyes open, staring into the flames, her fingers stroking the white fur cloak.
I continued. “Naaman was young by all standards, but yet a man. He had stood upon the Spires in the North, looking over the summit of the world without blinking. He had faced the terrors of cold and ice and wind, and yet had never flinched. He longed for an opportunity to serve, to fight against Garethen. So when the time came, he seized his opportunity. He disguised himself as a common soldier of uncommon courage and took the name Korah. He escaped his father’s gaze and replaced the one the Spireman King had deigned to send.”
And I told Korah’s tale. I dwelled on how, though he did not know the stories of old, he knew the honor that they should teach. Though he had not learned the fables of his fathers, he acted wisely. Then I reached his final battle.
Though she continued watching for signs of pursuit, Cerulean began to chant a low, slow dirge. When Korah fought the blue warriors, his harpoon and his blade reflecting their terrible light, Yolian joined the other elf’s chant and quickened its pace. When at last Korah fell, the two voices became one, a shriek followed by a low tone that brought with it the ache of the heart of a father who has lost his son.
I reached the finale of the tale. “We shall not forget his sacrifice. No longer shall he be Naaman, son of Jayan. He shall be Korah, the Bear of the North. We shall remember the story and repeat it to others so they may know him. Let us recall always what Korah fought for, and let his sacrifice not be in vain.”
And then I could feel it. A wind picked up. It whipped my words about us in a circle around the fire. Though I had not spoken them as a spell, I saw every word I’d spoken. Golden orbs flowed in the breeze. They joined over the flames, and the fire sparked and rose. Standing before us, formed from the blaze itself, was Korah, his bearskin cloak back on his shoulders, his great harpoon on his back. He looked at us confidently and sank back into the fire.
A new story would now reside in this land.
Yes. This was how I could use my role. If I was to be Keeper of Tales, I would keep them. They would not keep me. They would not simply take from me, would not demand such sacrifices while I sat idly by.
I would be the Keeper of Tales, but I would keep them my way.
End Book One
Book Two
Stories Rend
The End.
At the end, I remembered the first of us to fall.
Korah.
After he fell, I’d told his story. I’d sealed it. It was my first act as Keeper of Tales. From then on, others would need to speak about him.
I saw to it that he would not be forgotten, for his tale would be told for ages to come. And stories lived on and on.
I was foolish.
Of course, I didn’t know that then.
Now I walked the edge of the cliffs, looking down at the turbulent waves, then up to the horizon. There was only water as far as I could see. Cleansing water.
Now I was the last one who could tell any story. And when I died, every story would die with me.
Korah’s memory would die with me.
Of course, it hadn’t started with me, or even with Korah.
It had started with a dark figure walking along the rivers of Garrenda.
***
No one went to the island anymore. Trade routes had shifted. The port went unused. Some wooden piers still jutted into the water; some warehouses still yawned empty, but no one laughed in the derelict taverns. No one bartered in the penniless market. Not anymore. Profits had moved, and people had moved with them.
No boat had cast lines. No sails were furled. But that day, a dark form stood on the edge of the pier, mist licking his boots.
He smiled. “Brelish captained the Daring Dowager. She loved her freedom. The wind through her long hair. Her loyal crew. And she loved taking the cargo from others. She always tipped her hat to the other captain. ‘No need to pay in blood today, sir. Just in gold.’ And she’d take what she wanted, steal a kiss from the prettiest man, and be off. She and her crew grew very, very rich.”
The dark form began striding down the pier. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the water and into the warm, humid air.
“Well, the King of Garrenda couldn’t put up with piracy. Not in his waters. So, the king sent out his six fastest ships, and they raced through the rivers. Six captains dreamed of their reward. Six captains hungered for revenge. Each had lost cargo to Brelish. Each had been kissed.” The form chuckled. “Each wanted another kiss, too.”
The dark figure stopped before a rotting building. A sign, long bleached blank, hung before it. “They stopped here, at the Greedy Innkeeper, to plan their search routes. A woman put ale in front of each of them. She winked at each. The captains, though, had eyes only for the map as they argued over who would search where.”
Something in the derelict building hungered. It crawled forward toward the dark form, licking at his words, lurching forward in syllables and sentences.
“The next morning, the six captains set out. The first sailed down the Grayflow. His eyes were keen as he stood in the bow and peered through the fog. And then the crow’s nest cried out: a ship approaching aft! And then it was too late. Brelish swung over on a line, her saber already drawn. She laughed as she pointed its razor edge at the captain’s neck. ‘Ah, captain, good to see you again. I’ll relieve you of your heavy cargo so you can cut through the waters so much more quickly to chase after me. And if you behave, I’ll give you another kiss.’ And she winked at him.”
Oh. Oh, it was so good to be told again. To be remembered.
The dark form held out his hand to the story that struggled from its hiding place.
He continued. “And so it was. Brelish found each of the six captains in only three days, sailing from behind, as if she knew exactly where to find them. The six captains returned to the Greedy Innkeeper. Again, they ordered their ale. Again, the same woman served them. Again, she winked at them.” The dark form smiled. “It really is too bad they didn’t look closer at the serving-woman. Maybe they would have asked her for a kiss.”
The tale purred.
“You really a
re my favorite kind of story. Did you know?” the dark form asked.
The story reveled.
“Come with me. It’s not good that you’ve been forgotten. I can give you the chance to face those who wanted to see you gone. And just like Brelish, you’ll have the chance to wink at them, and then do what you want with them.”
And the story agreed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The forest greeted us with the scent of fresh pine. The dawn was bright and welcoming. It was time to continue our tale.
Karen Cordolis asked Lazul to hand me her basket, and the dwarf did not object. He seemed rested this morning, though his eyes still bore the weariness of grieving. I accepted her conveyance and set it in front of me.
She remained quiet for a time. Quiet from the potato woman wasn’t something I was used to. As the sun continued to rise, she looked up at me. “You know what you did last night.”
“I do.”
“You realize that though it was honorable and admirable that you’d remember Korah in such a way, it will only lead the Blue Riders to us that much more quickly. And maybe give them something to eat along the way.” She spoke matter-of-factly.
I considered this. She was right that I had told Korah’s story to honor him. But in doing so, I had created another story about a heroic prince sacrificing himself. Another tale of a son lost. No, it wasn’t smart. But as a memorial for Korah...
“Perhaps it’s true. What is right and what is smart are seldom the same thing in the world.” I did not meet Karen Cordolis’s gaze but kept my eyes on the path through the forest. Our horses trotted ever westward.
The potato maiden did not immediately answer. “Ah, Adal. What you did was right. Of this I will not argue. But now we know the Blue Riders are following us. We need to be prepared when they find us again. We do not know how fast they can travel, nor do we know if such an obvious distraction will work a second time.”
My voice was quiet. “I know.”
I pressed my lips together. If these things ate stories, and these are the stories that demanded Korah’s sacrifice, what would happen if these things ate all the stories that demanded a prince’s sacrifice? Would it free us from those stories forever?
Would it be so bad if some stories were destroyed?
I thought about all the stories that taught hate. The western nations of men—they learned from stories to never trust each other. Parvians were taught to be suspicious of Cussuni and Garrendai. Nor would any one nation come to the aid of the others. What if these Blue Riders ate those stories? Would the western nations finally get along?
As good as the tales were, in many ways they imprisoned us, didn’t they? They made us retell them with our lives. Suspicious women and conniving men. Death and disloyalty and war and so much more.
If it were possible to eliminate just some stories, just a few, would it be wrong?
I shook my head.
If.
If was a young man’s game, and I was no young man. I had reigned long enough to step away from “if” when talking about reality. Reality didn’t care about “if”. It only cared about what was.
No, these Blue Riders were after us. They wanted me. And they weren’t afraid to slay Korah. They didn’t hesitate to kill the other men, elves, and dwarves who wanted to join us, either. It was clear that whatever these things were, they had to be stopped.
But maybe they’d taught me something, I mused. Maybe the stories weren’t as good as I’d always thought.
After a while, Yolian and Cerulean pulled their horses to mine, flanking me. Yolian asked, “Adal, how did you make a new story?”
I answered, “I don’t know. I simply spoke the words.”
Cerulean said, “Adal, I have never seen the weaving of a new tale in such a way. I have witnessed the growing of a tale, from first telling to final binding to the land, but never in one simple speaking of it. Your words held a power that Yolian’s and mine do not have.” She paused, letting what she said sink in.
I looked ahead. “I do not know. I don’t know how I did it. As I said, the words came, and I spoke them. Nothing more, nothing less. I did what felt right.”
Yolian agreed, “We aren’t arguing, but I pray that this power feels right to you again when such a thing may aid us.”
I looked down at Karen a moment before turning back to him. “Maybe you’ll tell me what Cerulean hasn’t. I can see your words when you tell a story. They look like drops of water. What am I seeing?”
Yolian’s eyebrows shot up. “You can see them? I wish I could.” He gathered his words. “You’re seeing the magic of the tales. The magic we’re taught isn’t that different from what you already know, taleteller.” He paused. “Magic is simply telling a tale to something that has forgotten it, or perhaps telling a tale faster or slower than a creature or thing usually tells it to itself.” Yolian saw my puzzled face. “For instance, let’s imagine that you’ve been wounded. I wish to heal the wound. I would speak to the flesh surrounding the wound, telling it its own tale and reminding it how it should look. I speak it forcefully, and the story reknits the wound to appear as the flesh should.”
“So… every spell you cast is just a tale, just as I speak them?”
“Not just the same, Adal, but they are similar. Why does this surprise you?”
A different concern came to mind. “Can you change someone’s story?”
“No. Remember, all we do is tell the tales that something may have forgotten. No sorcery is powerful enough to turn you from paths you have chosen truly.”
I let out a breath, but then caught myself. “Not even the Sargon?”
“The Sargon is a master storyteller. None can tell what his abilities truly are.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”
“Tor set me on this path, else I would not be here. I’m too old for quests and adventures. But he said it had to be me. He called me something. He gave me a title that I don’t know. And the Blue Riders… they called me the same thing.”
Yolian nodded. “Keeper of Tales.”
“Yes.”
“I have been waiting to ask you about that. What does it mean?”
I looked over at the elf. “You don’t know?”
“Should I?”
“No one’s explained it to me. But now, I’m being hunted because of this title. It makes me wonder. If these things are Garethen’s new stratagem, have I been placed as the Sargon’s?”
Yolian fell silent. He made eye contact with Cerulean. They communicated in that unspoken language of the elves before he looked back at me. “I do not know. I am sorry, Adal. I’ve never heard of such a title. Perhaps, though, as we continue on, it will reveal its own story to us.”
Again, a silence came upon our group. They did not jest, and Lazul hunched over his saddle. I returned Karen Cordolis to him, and he accepted the basket with a grunt. I could hear her scolding him about something, but I did not try to listen. Occasionally, Daragen would try to needle Galatea with a jibe, but she did not respond. I missed her punching him in the shoulder.
For four more days, we traveled quietly. During the days I spoke the stories that were needed, which were few along the way. At night I told tales of other heroes that now numbered Korah among them. The hills were deep with grass, and the forests became more and more sparse. Rocks began to poke out of the hills, forming stony crowns.
One night we stopped to camp on the brow of such a hill. The top was flat stone that rose at the edges, forming a kind of natural bowl. In the center of the flat expanse was a pit that dropped sharply. The opening was about three paces across. Looking down into it from the edge I saw water perhaps six or seven paces below. The walls of the pit were slick with mud. If one of us fell into the hole, it would be impossible to escape unaided. We camped around this natural well.
Abani took first watch. Sleep refused to find me, so I stood to join her as she looked out over the hills around us.
Her voice came quietly and smoothly. “You cared for h
im a great deal.”
A breeze cut across us as I swallowed. “I did.”
“Yet I feel you did not know him well.”
“I didn’t. He was the son of a good friend, though I took little time to know his many children.”
“You Men of the North are hard to understand from a Westerner’s eyes.” Abani paused, carefully choosing words. “You and your neighbors are staunch allies. You fight your battles together, leaning on one another. Your alliance is legendary. We mock it as foolhardy in the West, saying that no nation can trust another without leaving itself open to attack. Yet, you never battle one another.” She shook her head. “It is so different for us. We cannot trust our brothers; they would carve away our lands and our people as it would please them if we did not fight back. We divide our resources between holding back Garethen and staving off each other.”
“We and the Spiremen are brothers. We would not stab each other in the back. From the beginning, your nations have been trying to outdo each other. The weight of so many stories is hard to ignore when they all say you cannot trust your neighbor.”
Stories that would be so good to eliminate. What could men do if we could simply work together?
Abani was silent for a moment. What she said next was but a whisper. “I wish I could have a friend like that, whom I have not met, yet can trust.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. She did not flinch. “Abani, you have companions here. Now.” I remembered what I had seen of her. How I knew her story. Well, if I was the Keeper of Tales, perhaps I should use what I knew of her story to help her now. I sighed. “Do not dwell on what has been. I cannot give you forgiveness, but I can redirect you from your past to your future.”
She spun, flinging my hand away from her. “How do you know? Who told you?” Sharp yet quiet words ripped from her mouth. She looked ready to draw her blade.
I took a step back. “No one told me, Abani. I know, as I knew what to tell in Korah’s story. I know us all.” This wasn’t what I intended. Leave it to a meddling old man to muddle something up. How could I heal this sudden wound? What did I know of Parvians? What did I know of Abani’s story? “I know what to say if you should fall.”
The Keeper of Tales Page 13
