The Keeper of Tales

by Jonathon Mast

  I sighed. “And that was the first story I told him. I promised him. I promised him I’d always watch over him. And I failed.

  “I failed like I always do.”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  I slept.

  For the first time since my sleep on Kree’Ah’s back, since Garethen’s temptations, I slept. The void took me.

  I remembered no dreams.

  And it felt lonely. Like there was no one to talk to me in my sleep. Garethen and Cerulean were both gone now. Before, I was worth temptation, worth fighting over. Now, though, I felt ignored. Insignificant. And after all that, I felt hollow.

  I awoke to dawn. The sun rose to my right. My body was soaked with cold dew. My shoulder was quite swollen. I cried out as I tried to straighten my arm.

  It was laughable, wasn’t it? I’d survived years on horseback, fighting every season against the goblin incursions. I’d traveled to Chariis more than once. I’d outlived my younger brother and my younger sister both. I’d gone on a grand adventure. I’d seen more lands than most people ever do.

  And what killed me in the end? Not being able to hold on to my mount. Slipping off its back.

  Surely this was the death befitting a hero of my caliber. Alone, un-mourned, forgotten. Left behind. Not in some great last stand. I’d had my chance for the last-stand death. Instead, I’d run.

  The Kaerun had told me how to defeat them, though. That was worth something, wasn’t it?

  Yes. The waters of the Deluge could destroy them. Wonderful. All I had to do was break open the earth or cause such evil that the Floodgates burst. Should be a simple matter, surely. Did I know how to get to the Floodgates? Did I even know where they were?

  Well, yes. They were down. At least, according to the stories. Dwarves always dug down to the Floodgates, and then they could go no farther. So, all I had to do was get dwarves to dig. While ignoring all that happened above the ground while we dug. And then, of course, somehow break the Floodgates open. And then, perhaps, somehow dry up the resulting flood. There was no story about how that happened, so it was probably something as simple as waiting for a sunny day.

  I might have been getting a little delirious. Sarcasm probably wasn’t the best choice right now.

  My shoulder was hot to the touch. That probably wasn’t a good sign either. Maybe I really was getting delirious.

  I tried to sit up. No, that was a bad idea. Pain spread its burning roots from my neck all the way down to my fingers.

  “No,” I told myself. “I will stand. I will not lie here and wait for death to find me. I will get on my feet. Maybe I’ve forfeited a heroic last stand, but I am still the King of the North. I will not die lying in some random field.”

  Pain shook me. My teeth ground together. I roared. Finally, I was sitting.

  This was who I was now: such a mighty warrior, a great leader of men.

  I couldn’t move the fingers on my right hand. I tried to form a fist or point at something. Any kind of movement. No. Nothing.

  I still had my left arm. I leaned on it and forced my legs under me. I stood.

  My right arm hung useless. The ache from that side of my body sent tendrils out, deeper and deeper into my flesh. Perhaps some of the wetness I felt was from sweat, not just from the dew.

  I panted. I was exhausted. But I stood.

  And then I heard it: armor. Marching feet. An army was coming this way.

  Should I run? I took a single step and nearly fell. No. No running, then. My only option was to stand and fight.

  It’s nearly impossible to draw a blade with your off-arm. Swords and sheathes are not designed for such actions. I fumbled with Northwind’s hilt. I nearly dropped it. Finally, I held it in a single hand. The tip of the blade shook. Soon my entire arm vibrated.

  I tried to listen over the sound of my ragged breaths. I couldn’t identify any goblin chittering. The footfalls were too light to be behemoths. What else moved as an army?

  “Be ready, Adal,” I told myself. “Take at least some of them with you. Show how a man of the North dies.”

  The sounds of the army drew closer. Closer. If it didn’t arrive soon, I wouldn’t be able to swing my blade at all. Sweat dripped down my forehead and stung my eyes.

  Shadowed forms under the trees became clearer. Clearer.

  And then Yolian stood in the clearing before me. “Adal, you look terrible.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  I fell on my face.

  My legs gave out. My right arm was useless. I twisted my left arm so at least I didn’t fall on my sword. The ground rushed up very quickly.

  The impact jarred my shoulder, and I cried out. Yolian was at my side, though. He turned me over. “Kae’A told us you were in the forest, but he couldn’t find the clearing. I’m sorry we didn’t come to you earlier. No, no. Hold still.” He whispered a story to my flesh.

  My flesh refused it.

  “Adal. Tell me what you’ve been doing here by yourself.”

  “Waiting to die,” I answered.

  He sat back on his heels and looked at me. He opened his mouth once, twice, and the third time he was finally able to speak. “Then darkness has won.”

  “Of course it has.” I tried rolling away from him. Not a great idea.

  “You’re the one who told us that we had hope as long as babies cried. That we fought for our children and generations yet to come.”

  “I don’t have any children,” I answered.

  “Then fight for mine. This war isn’t done. Chariis has fallen, but nations still stand against the darkness. But we need someone to rally us. We need you, Adal.”

  I sighed and looked at him. “Chariis has fallen. And whose fault? Mine.” I looked away. “I wanted it to fall. I’m sick of the stories controlling our lives. If the Kaerun hadn’t done it… I want to be free. I want a life where my son isn’t stolen from me.”

  Yolian was quiet. Quiet like the stars.

  Well. Fine then.

  “His name was Braden. He loved stories. He loved tales of heroes outwitting Garethen. He loved stories about adventures. He adored fables that had some message. And he’d always ask if the world really worked that way. And I told him it did. All the time.

  “Do you know in the North we have stories about a boy called Faul? Braden loved those tales. So, I told them all the time. Faul always disobeyed his parents. And at the end of every story, he winds up dead.” I grimaced. “It was funny at the time. Braden would laugh and laugh. But then...”

  I swallowed. “It was spring. Cold rains washed the land. Planting had already happened, but it was too early to go out riding against the goblins. The gates of the city were shut. There was no reason for anyone to be out. Gayala, my wife, and I sat before a fire, warming our hands. Braden was about, oh, five harvests old.”

  I shook my head. “No. Not about. He was five harvests old. I know exactly how old he was.” I sighed.

  “But Braden, he wanted to go play outside in the rain. He thought it would be good training, I think. I can’t remember now. Something about hardening himself so he could face goblins when he was old enough. Gayala didn’t want him to go out. She was afraid he’d get sick. I didn’t really care, but I repeated what my wife had said. We tried to agree as much as possible in front of the boy. So, we told him to stay inside.

  “But if you tell a five-year-old boy to stay inside when he’d rather be out exploring, well, that boy is going to go exploring even if you chain him up. And that’s what he did. He went off to another room. We thought he was going to play. That’s not what he did, though. Oh, no. He climbed out a window and went splashing down the streets of the city.

  “Guards still walked the walls, but they watched for those on the outside. They didn’t notice a boy jumping in puddles and roaring at darkness. He snatched up a stick and swung it around. At least, that’s what I imagine he did.

  “I really don’t know what happened for sure. I just know that perhaps ten minutes after he asked to go o
utside, I thought I’d go and offer to play a game of derringes with him. He wasn’t good yet, of course, but I thought I should pay attention to him as long as I wasn’t actually pursuing some royal task. And when I went to his room, he wasn’t there, and the window was open. Rain dripped inside.

  “I called up the guard. We searched the city. We didn’t find him.

  “The stories say that boys who disobey their parents wind up dead. They were his favorite stories.”

  I tried to look away. It’s hard to look at much of anything when you’re lying on your back. All you can see is sky and the branches of trees as the sun keeps rising.

  Yolian’s eyes were moist. “Adal, every culture has stories like that. If every disobedient child felt the tales’ wrath, there would be none of us that live.”

  “Perhaps not.” My voice was raw. “I didn’t blame the stories then. I blamed myself. I should have played with him. I should have gone out with him into the rain so he could run. A father and his son jumping in puddles? What could be better? But it wasn’t for me. A king couldn’t jump in puddles. I was too tired. I was too busy.” I pressed my lips together. “I wasn’t the father I should have been.”

  I looked around, breathing deeply. “We found him in a stream outside the city. We buried him that night. And I threw myself away from my guilt. I busied myself so much. If I wasn’t reigning, I was riding with the soldiers. And if I wasn’t with them, I was learning every story I could. Stories where everything turns out right. Where every villain is defeated.”

  Yolian waited, still like the stars.

  “I believed in the stories. I thought they were good. They could cause trouble, yes, but they protected us. But I was wrong. They don’t protect us. Not all of us. Not always. Sometimes they’re weapons used against us. They tell us to beware other nations, and wars start. They tell us princes die to protect their homelands, and Korah sacrifices himself. They tell us that—” I stopped myself before I sobbed. “They tell us that disobedient children will be punished, and my Braden dies.”

  Yolian listened.

  “Garethen showed me, Yolian. He showed me what my life could be like without those kinds of stories. And do you know what I saw? I saw a life that was so much better than this one. I had children. More than Braden. And he was still alive. But now I can’t remember. I can’t remember what he looked like as a grown man.”

  I wanted to walk. I wanted to move. My shoulder, though. The pain was still too much.

  “And so, for a time, I wanted to destroy the stories. Remake them. So that the world he showed me could come true. I was no better than the Kaerun. No different. If you had talked to me a few days ago, I would have burned the tales as surely as they did. Oh, I wanted that better world.” I paused, collecting my thoughts. “But the stories, they chose to defend me anyway. They strengthened and helped me and saved me anyway. And now they’re gone. And our lands will fall. Without tales, our world cannot hold.”

  I finally found the strength to look Yolian in the eye.

  “I am robbed of both worlds.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Yolian searched my face. I let him.

  Finally, words unfolded. “Adal. My friend. One of the few people who loved stories more than I do. Adal, I told you: Garethen’s most dangerous lies are true. Stories are dangerous. They are just like a blade. They can be used for good or ill. And just like some people might want to banish swords for good reasons, others will banish them for evil.” He looked deeply into my eyes. “We failed. Chariis has fallen. I don’t know what it means that the Library is burning. I don’t know what it will do to stories. But I know this: You are the Keeper of Tales.”

  And he smiled. “Do you know the story of the father who failed?”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  “Then allow me to tell it to you anyway. A little while ago you asked me to tell a tale you already knew: The tale of the Deluge. Now allow me to tell you this one.”

  I didn’t want to listen. I knew what he was doing. I knew why he was doing it.

  I didn’t deserve it. I shouldn’t have this story told to me. I wasn’t good enough. I had done too much over my life. I had failed too much.

  Yolian told the story anyway.

  “Once, a son loved his father. Everything the father did, the son wanted to do, too. The father plowed the fields; the son wanted to plow. The father milked the goats; the son wanted to milk the goats. The father mended fences; the son was there at his side. And the father drank too much. And the son wanted to do the same.

  “The father saw what he did to his son. The father knew what harm he was doing. But he didn’t know how to stop drinking too much. He didn’t know how to stop being cruel to the boy’s mother. He didn’t know how to do any of that. So, he left. He walked away from the family that loved him and the home that welcomed him, and he wandered.

  “And without his son, without his wife, the man found himself in taverns every night. City after city exiled him for his cruelty. And eventually he found himself in Parvia, fighting goblins for enough money to get a drink.

  “And he came to himself. He thought, ‘I have a grand home. I don’t deserve to be anyone’s father. I don’t deserve to be anyone’s husband. But perhaps I can go home and work on that farm. All I want is a place to sleep that is safe.’ And so he set out for home.

  “And while he was a long way off, his son saw him coming. And the son came running. The father looked down at himself. He was covered in goblin blood and tattered clothing. He looked like a terrible warrior come to conquer. He hadn’t realized what he looked like. And he saw that his boy had grown in the years he’d been away. He was no boy anymore. He was strong.

  “While the boy was still a long way off, the father cried out, ‘I don’t deserve to be your father!’

  “And then the boy was there, embracing his father. ‘Father, I’ve missed you!’ he cried. ‘Come home! Come home quick! We’ll throw a feast to celebrate! You’re home!’

  “‘But I don’t deserve it!’

  “‘Father, love is never deserved. Come home. Don’t leave again. Please leave your cruelty behind. But you, father, are welcome.’”

  Yolian let the story linger in the air.

  Love was never deserved. Forgiveness was never deserved. It never went to people who were good enough.

  It shouldn’t go to me.

  Yolian looked down on me. “Do you have things to feel sorry for? Yes. Can you correct them? Adal, you can’t rebuild the Library, and you know that. Should you have been a better father? Perhaps. But I can tell you this: I see your faults, and I still choose to be your companion. And the others? They stand with you as well. You’ve failed. We all have. You are still welcome with us. You, Adal. Perhaps you’re an old man who’s failed more times than many in our company. That’s only because you’re older than us. Trust me. The rest of us will catch up to your failures eventually. And we know it!

  “Now. Let’s get moving. We need to figure out what it means that the Library is gone. And we need to defeat the Kaerun.

  “Adal, you’re not a child of darkness. You are the Keeper of Tales. And together, let’s return to the battle.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  “Now,” Yolian said, “I want to heal your shoulder. Will you let me?

  I looked up at him. “I wasn’t stopping you before.”

  “You were. Because you believed you were so injured you could not be healed. You were telling yourself the story that you were worthless because of your failure. Adal, your worth has never been in what you do.” The elf smiled. “I accept you. All of you. Failures. Infirmities. All of you.”

  And with that, he gently laid a hand on my shoulder. He began to speak that ancient language I couldn’t understand. The words flowed from his lips like an amber fluid. It wrapped around my shoulder, my arm, glowing in its brilliance.

  The pain unknotted a touch here, a touch there.

  Yolian frowned. “The spell still isn’t doin
g as well as it should.”

  “Was it based on a story housed in the Library?” I asked.

  Yolian sighed.

  I didn’t tell him that despite his story, despite his assurances, I knew the truth. I was still an old man who was a failure. A short story can’t change reality. I didn’t want him to know my heart, though, so I said, “Soon every spellcaster may lose their abilities.” The pain blossomed back in my shoulder. I grunted. “Without the stories being housed there, every story may lose its potency.”

  “Even the Kaerun?” he asked.

  “Somehow I doubt it.” I shook my head. “They’re already dead. Not-stories warped by Garethen.” I pressed my lips together. “Help me sit up, and then let’s see if we can figure out a sling for my arm. It’s clear it won’t get any better. Not now, at least.”

  The elf nodded. As he did, I heard footsteps come into the clearing. Then there was a shout. “Yolian! You found him!” The footsteps came quickly, then stopped. “No! Is he slain?”

  “Not quite,” I answered, though my voice was hoarse. “I’d rather be slain.”

  Daragen’s face came into view. His smile showed relief. “Oh, thank the rivers. Look at you. It’s like Kae’A said, isn’t it? That shoulder looks bad.”

  I nodded.

  He looked at Yolian.

  “I tried healing it. But the spell wouldn’t take.”

  “Well. We’ve found him. We can bring him back to camp. We can probably strap him onto a griffin. Between this one and Lazul, though, our band is starting to get a little thin.” He looked down at me. “If we strap the dwarf to you, do you think you can walk around, and he can swing his axe? Between the two of you, you might do as much good as one of us.”

  He meant it in jest. I told myself it was a jest. He wasn’t serious. He was using levity to try and make me feel better.