The Keeper of Tales

by Jonathon Mast

  The cat opened its mouth to strike at the elf’s face.

  It froze.

  Saliva dripped from its mouth down onto the elf’s face. It didn’t move. Birds fluttered among the branches of the tree. The cat did not stir. The youth trembled. Still, the cat did not move.

  Finally, it jumped away. It fled through the branches of trees, vanishing as if it had never been there.

  “I don’t understand. That wasn’t you,” I said.

  “It was.”

  “You were male?”

  Cerulean offered a wan smile. “No. That was my lover. His name was Danulis. We wove our stories together so tightly that whatever happened to him, I saw, as surely as it was a chapter in my own story. And he saw what happened with me. Even though I was far, far away, I saw when the panther attacked him. And I knew he could not stand against it. He did not have the strength. My Danulis was many things, but a warrior was not one of them.”

  “But you weren’t here. And Danulis was left unharmed. So how did this cause you to become... who you were?”

  “I was there, Adal. Look again.”

  And I turned to the tree, and saw again the cat crouching and facing Danulis. But then I saw the words of a story, bright and golden, swirl around the cat.

  The cat, the panther, it sprung at Danulis. And as it lunged to strike, the words took on a new shape.

  Cerulean.

  And she entered the panther. She held it back from within. She changed the panther’s story. Something within the panther shifted. It didn’t want to attack the elf anymore. It feared him.

  “I thought stories couldn’t change who you are.”

  “Stories can if they are told forcefully enough.” Cerulean looked away. “I broke the Never-Changing Law. Stories must never, ever change a person. We must never, ever use our stories to manipulate. We can only use stories to reveal what is true. And here... Though I was far away, I flung my story. I flung... this very part of me you see now. And I used it to change the panther.”

  “You were saving Danulis’s life.”

  “And for that, I was thanked. For that, my life was not taken from me. For that, I was sent away to Chariis. Our stories were unbound from each other. I never returned to Hadrisar. Not for centuries.” This glowing youth dimmed.

  “What happened to Danulis?”

  She shook her head. “He married another. There are so few elves, we cannot remain unmarried for long. We join together to have and raise children.”

  “Did you ever marry?”

  “I had children with Danulis before. And once in Chariis, once I left Hadrisar, once it was known that I would be willing to change a story… well. There are some sins which can never be forgiven.”

  “Did you ever see your children again?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Oh, Cerulean. I’m so, so sorry.” I reached out a hand to place on her shoulder.

  She accepted the gesture.

  “Adal, you are in great danger,” she said. “You asked me to share this, but I only shared it with you to warn you. Garethen wants you to change the stories. He wants you to do something new. And you want to do something new. I see it. You want to create a world where the stories never bring sorrow. But you cannot, Adal.”

  “Why? You did the right thing here. You saved a life.”

  “By altering the story of another in a way that should not happen. If you try to eliminate sorrow, what then? What will we do when someone disagrees with us? Will we alter their story? What about when life seems unfair when we bring hurt on ourselves? How far will we go, Adal?” She shook her head. “Not even elves with all their years have that kind of wisdom. Not even Tor has that kind of wisdom. Do you think you do?”

  “No. I am not wiser than Tor. But I know that it isn’t right that the stories demand that a prince must die.”

  “Oh, Adal,” Cerulean breathed. “Why do you mourn so much for him? Why don’t you mourn for me?”

  I opened my mouth. I closed it.

  “I live in your heart. I see the wound his death caused you. And I see that while you hurt for me, you are not wounded for me. Not like you are for him. Why do you want to stop the death of princes? Why not other sacrifices?”

  “Of course all,” I answered, perhaps too quickly.

  “You don’t want to make the world better by changing stories, Adal. You just want to fight back your guilt. But that will not make for a better story for the world. Trust me.” She shook her head. “Garethen will be back for you tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t want to face him. I want to bury him.”

  “There is a price, Adal.”

  I knew Cerulean spoke truth. Unlike facing Garethen, I had nothing to fear from her, no reason to question the motives of a friend. But what price would the tales demand? I would not ask others to sacrifice anything further. I couldn’t allow it. “I will pay it.”

  “Yes. You will.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Dawn.

  Below, rolling green hills spotted with copses of trees showed we had passed the Jazen mountains in the night. I couldn’t spot any of the destruction of the previous day, though. If the goblin armies had passed through, they had apparently cleaned after themselves an amazing amount.

  Badron leaned against me, snoring. The other griffins soared around us.

  I reached into my pack and took out some dried meat and a bit of bread. I didn’t have much more food, but soon it wouldn’t matter. We’d be to Chariis, and then everything would be fine.

  It would be. Of course it would be. I wasn’t changing a single person’s story. I didn’t have to be warned the way Cerulean warned me. I wasn’t trying to alter a person.

  I was trying to change the world.

  Wasn’t that what every hero wanted? Isn’t that why we rose to stand against Garethen? Not to maintain the way things have always been. To change them.

  I scoffed at myself. I sounded like some boy when he first discovered he might have some hair on his face. Someone who had thought up something new, something no one else ever had the wisdom to put together. As if no one else had ever dreamed of such things before.

  Generations had ached for what I was about to achieve. What would Bodaren have done if he could have capped the source of evil back then? What of Northane? Dairune and Daeu? All the heroes of all the stories that had ever existed had fought against Garethen. And they had always won.

  But never like this.

  Only Ydarion had gotten close. Only the one who had been so corrupted it took the Deluge to wipe the world clean of his evil.

  But I was not Ydarion, was I? I wasn’t out to conquer the world. I was out to save it.

  Just like he was at the beginning.

  But I was going to leave Garethen in the Library. I was going to bury his ash where none would ever find it. It couldn’t corrupt me. I wouldn’t allow it. And I had friends that wouldn’t allow it. And even if it did corrupt me, what could I do, an old man?

  What could the Keeper of Tales do?

  My hands hurt. I looked down. I was gripping the canteen so tightly in my fingers, the case creaked under the pressure.

  I willed myself to release it. My fingers peeled off, one at a time. They shook in the cold of the wind. The canteen fell to my side, suspended by a leather strap. I flexed my fingers.

  Only one more night. Only one more night of this, and then I could lay it down. I could set down the evil that had tortured the world for so long.

  What if Garethen was right, though? What if the stories demanded a Fallen Lord? If Garethen was gone, someone else would rise. Someone like Thesairh, perhaps.

  Or those Blue Riders.

  No. We would find a way to stop the riders. Without Garethen directing them, they should be relatively easy to destroy, right?

  And so the day went. I was lost in my thoughts as we winged our way east, back toward Chariis. I wrestled with myself.

  I longed to have Yolian there to discuss things with.

&
nbsp; I missed Jayan. I could always tell him anything.

  No. I could wait to see Jayan. How would I tell him about Korah? How could I tell him that I had allowed his son to accompany us, even knowing the stories would demand his sacrifice?

  Maybe I was already becoming a Fallen Lord and didn’t even know it.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The day passed slowly. Badron requested stories, but it wasn’t in me to share them. The truth was, I was exhausted, and my mind kept turning around and around. Kree’Ah had never talked much, and I couldn’t communicate with my companions.

  And then dusk. And then the stars.

  Oh, the stars again. I could tell the stories to myself. I could pretend that all was right in the world, and it was just me and the stars. Just us. But my heart was too heavy even for that.

  Tomorrow, we would reach Chariis. And tonight. Tonight, I would face Garethen again.

  I was still governed by the stories. And that meant tonight, the third night, would be the ultimate test. He would tempt me. He would try to twist me. Try to corrupt me.

  After so many days of flight, my energy had waned. I was tired. Exhausted. Truly, in pain from sitting so long on this steed. And the anger that had sustained me the first night was simply gone. What would I do tonight when he appeared in my dreams?

  I fought sleep. “Badron, keep me awake,” I asked.

  “Master needs his rest if he is to be his best.”

  “I don’t want to sleep tonight.”

  The goblin shook its head. “There is naught that I can do. You chose the task you rue. Sleep now while you can, before we arrive at story’s end.”

  I still fought with sleep. I looked up at the stars and tried to recall the stories that had hurt me so much. I pinched myself. I ate what little rations I had left.

  Finally, though, I could fight no longer.

  ***

  Northane. The city that had been named for our ancient hero, the capitol where I reigned. I was home.

  A slight chill invigorated me. I’d always loved the turn of the seasons, before the dangerous cold struck but when you could just taste the frost in the air.

  I stood in the wheat fields that surrounded my city. It was close to harvest. It looked to be a good crop this year, too. I ran my hand over the heads of wheat nearest me, feeling them brush against the callouses of my palm.

  Just over there lay my city. The city I’d been born in. The city my father and his father before him had been born in. A wooden wall surrounded much of the city, though there were always those who lived outside, who thought they didn’t need the protection of the walls. At the brow of the hill I saw my home, looming large. My quarters took up little of the building. The rest of the hall was dedicated to matters of state.

  The sky was painted in those beautiful shades of dawn. Above the growing light, I saw the stars. I smiled. Look. Drall the Wolf. The Seven Braids of Garsom. All the stories that lived out there.

  The wind wafted against my face. It carried the scent of fresh-baked bread from the many hearths of the city. Nothing smelled of home as much as fresh-baked bread.

  Well, if I was home, I should probably stop and see Gayala. She was worried about me, I was sure. That’s the way it always worked. Our reunions were the best parts of our relationship. I set out down the packed dirt road to the city gate. It should be opening soon. The only sound was the rustle of the grain in the breeze and the crunch of my boots on the road.

  Why was I out in the grain fields anyway? If I was camping with the military, we should be in the western plains, hunting goblin raiding parties. Maybe training. This late in the season, though, I was usually here, preparing to help with the harvest. I should be inside the walls of my own home, not outside the walls of the city.

  Well. I’m sure Gayala would complain at me after giving me a warm kiss.

  The sun peeked over the rolling hills, bathing me in orange light. Ah. The sun warmed these old bones so well. I paused, stretching out my arms, letting my face and hands absorb as much of the gentle heat as I could.

  I smiled. It was so peaceful here. This is what an old man’s life should be like: savoring the goodness of whatever slice of creation he’d grown up in. To see the grain, to greet the dawn, to grin at grandchildren.

  Grandchildren? Did I have grandchildren?

  Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I? That’s how the stories went, didn’t they? Kings overcame hardship, had children, and they had children. Surely that had been my life. Hadn’t it?

  Oh. Why was it hard to remember?

  Was I growing old and senile already? What was I doing before I came out to the fields? Flying on a griffin?

  I laughed, the sound of my mirth breaking the quiet of the fields and echoing off the hills. Jayan would have been proud of such an outburst. Flying on a griffin? That was something for a hero to do. I was no hero. A king, surely, and hopefully a good one. But no hero!

  I restarted my walk back to the city. Odd I couldn’t spot any of the guards on the wall, but maybe my eyes were dazzled by the sun yet. Stranger things were known to happen.

  Oh, my back was so sore. I must have slept on the ground last night. There was no way around it; I was old. Gayala said I was too old to go out with the troops every year, but that’s what a good king did. He stayed with his men. He supported them, if nothing else than with his presence. It’s what my father did. It’s what my son would do. Or my daughter.

  Hm. There’s a thought. Braden, was a good soldier but lacked the necessary skills to govern well. Lana, though, she had the requisite compassion and the wisdom to know how to use it well.

  I wondered why I had never considered it before. There were enough queens in the history of the North that it should be accepted without too much fuss.

  I slowed in my walk again. Why hadn’t I considered it before? It’s almost as if I had never even thought of passing on the reign to one of my children, but I knew I was old. Long ago I’m sure I had pondered the implications of my death.

  It was almost as if I’d been placed at the beginning of a story and was using this walk to introduce the characters to the audience. An old and wise king. A good wife. Children. A stable kingdom. All things that you would use at the beginning of a tale.

  But I wasn’t at the beginning of a story, was I? Of course not. I was at the end of my story. My face was wrinkled, my beard white.

  “You all right, Adal?”

  The voice startled me. I turned. A man dressed in black trousers and a dark hood stepped out of the grain. He smiled at me.

  “Just fine, Garethen. Just thinking.”

  “A dangerous pastime, so I’m told.”

  I laughed. “The most dangerous. It’s when I’m thinking that Gayala is the angriest!” And Garethen and I laughed together. “Where have you been hunting?”

  “Oh, here and there,” my brother answered. “Not much about right now, I’m afraid. Thought I’d come home for harvest and see my niece and nephew.”

  “They’ll enjoy seeing you. It’s been too long.” I motioned, and we started walking toward the city.

  Garethen shook his head. “Ah, well, that’s what happens when you wander. I thought I’d go farther north. Up to the Spires. Maybe even beyond. See what lies out beyond the edges of the map.”

  “Really? Did you get that far?”

  “I did. And it was like nothing you’ve ever seen.” A smile played across his features. “I found a sea up there. And the land and the ocean danced together. The air is so cold, but you could find ways to survive. The Spiremen know about the frost bears, of course, but there’s these strange birds up there. I don’t know how to describe them other than tasty.”

  “But you didn’t bring any back.”

  “Well, I had to eat on the way back.” His grin widened.

  “It will be good to have you home again.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Will you stay with us?”

  “For the winter, I think, little brother.”

  “I
t will be a winter filled with laughter!”

  “As the world should be.”

  And we walked together toward the walls of the city, the young sun shining on us, casting our long, long shadows onto the ripened grain.

  And then another form stepped out of the field. The young woman stood taller than I was. She wore golden robes and nothing on her feet. She had long flowing black hair, and long tapered ears poked out on either side. An elf? Here?

  “I am searching for the King of the North,” she said. “I was told he was wandering the fields.” She grinned, as if it was a great joke.

  I glanced at my brother. He’d noticed it to. An elf this far north, and smiling? I stepped forward. “You’ve found him, lady elf. I am Naeharum Adal. What brings you so far from your lands?”

  “I search for stories,” she answered. “And I sensed there was one here. I was told you were the only one who could tell it.”

  I laughed. “Stories? There are so many in my kingdom who tell better stories than I do. Many who could have aided you while you were sitting around a hearth so your feet wouldn’t get cold! You need not have come out here to the fields for a tale.”

  “Please, could you come look? I’ve found something, and I think it is yours.” She disappeared into the grain again with a rustle.

  “Adal, that is one strange elf,” Garethen said.

  “Yes. The elves I’ve met in Chariis were always so quiet. They acted high and mighty. This one, though. She’s not like any I’ve seen.”

  “Don’t go. Something feels off.”

  I glanced at him. “That your hunter instincts?”

  “You know they’re rarely wrong. They’ve saved you a number of times before.”

  “I know.” A scar on my shoulder ached as I remembered the last time I hadn’t trusted my older brother, back when he was still the heir to the throne, before he’d decided to just leave the responsibility behind.

  A wave of wind rustled through the grain again. The air was warming just a bit. On the walls of the city, I saw the guards making their rounds. The gate was open now. Inviting.