The Keeper of Tales

by Jonathon Mast

  “Men marched on the plains of Chereken, their quivers full of arrows, their horses pawing the ground in anticipation. Their oldest weapons had been taken, weapons borne by kings in battles of ages past. They came to seek those who had wronged them: the elves who lived far off and wanted objects of power, objects carried by legends.

  “And so, three armies, three races, met on the plains of Chereken.”

  One of the dwarves ran into the valley. A group of elves chased him. They were faster than he was. One jumped at the dwarf feet first, kicking his back. The dwarf fell and skidded to a stop on the forest floor, mired by leaves and mud.

  The elves silently circled him. They all looked at each other, communicating as only elves can, and began to speak as one: a spell of some kind.

  “Elves! Have you come to seek revenge?” I called out.

  They turned to me.

  “Come! Hear the story of how this day has come to pass! Let me tell the tale.”

  What story could resist its own telling? The elves plodded toward me. Their eyes were full of words.

  “The plains trembled under the feet of so many noble warriors. They glared at each other. The dwarves roared for their monuments. The elves petitioned for their scrolls. Men threatened to get their royal weapons back. But no one wanted to go to war. They’d heard stories of the time before the Deluge, how many wars had soaked the land in blood. No one wanted to be the first to strike.”

  Another dwarf raced into the little valley, this one chased by scores of Northerners and Spiremen.

  “My countrymen! Come and see! Come and hear! I speak of your victory today! Let me tell you the story!”

  The men all turned and came to me, the words brightening their eyes. So many of their weapons dripped blood. The blood of allies.

  What had this story done to us?

  And all I could do was tell it to its end.

  “But then fate itself seemed to laugh. The king of men stepped forward to thrust a finger at the elven leader. He was a man of great courage, great wisdom, and great girth. He had not ridden for many years. He had not fought for even longer. The long journey had taken its toll. And there, as he shouted his accusations, his heart burst. He fell on his knees. He vomited. He died. No one had touched him. No one had struck him. It didn’t matter. The king was dead.

  “His men saw what happened. One proclaimed, ‘The King is dead! The elves cast a spell on him and killed him!’ It is from such misunderstandings so many wars begin. Men were already angry at the elves; they only needed an excuse to attack. And the elves only needed the excuse of someone else beginning the fight. And the dwarves? Well, they were ready to separate heads from bodies. And like that, the battle was joined.”

  Finally, the third dwarf processed into the valley. Behind him, his troops were lined up for war.

  “Ah, good! The dwarves!” I called out. “Come, hear of the great battle! I want to tell you the story!”

  The words blazed in their eyes. So many words watched me. The words of the very story I told.

  “Dwarves charged the lines. Valiant dwarves swung their axes, laughing at the chance to finally strike back at those who had wronged them. Elves flung spells left and right, lighting men on fire or freezing dwarves to the ground. Men stabbed any they could reach, grim and certain and keeping count so they could brag when they returned home. The sun set that day over the plains of Chereken, but the fighting did not stop. It couldn’t. No one had won yet. And so, into the darkness they fought.”

  Where was Lazul? Who was he trying to get? The camp couldn’t have been much bigger than this, could it?

  Wait. Where was Yolian? Where were the others? I didn’t see Jayan or Galatea or Daragen or... or any of my friends. What kept them away?

  Oh. Oh, no. How could I not have known? But the story had to be told now. “Listen carefully, now, for though each army fought with honor, they were all deceived. All of them.”

  And as I said, “Listen carefully,” the elves folded their legs under them. The dwarves knelt. The men sat cross-legged on the ground. Three armies brought together, listening to my words like children.

  Like Braden had.

  “But some of the elves hatched a plan of great wisdom: If the dwarves had taken their scrolls, well, the scrolls would not be here above the ground. They would be in their kingdoms below. So one of the elves snuck below to retrieve what had been lost. A band of men spied the elf and followed. And of course, a single dwarf, more than enough to face such foes, saw them going. He thought they were going to attack their vulnerable lands. So, he followed as well.”

  And that’s what my friends had become in the telling of the story, hadn’t they? All of these were reliving the battle while the story told itself through my companions.

  And how did this story end?

  Could I twist the story? Could I change it? Garethen twisted dwarves into hagri. He twisted elves into paranai. He twisted men into not-men and jezebels and worse. He twisted stories into Kaerun. If I twisted this story, would it continue my path to becoming the Fallen Lord?

  No. It would not make me the Fallen Lord. It would make me someone who loved his friends. It would make me someone who hated this story. This story had chosen to become my enemy, not the other way around.

  I couldn’t let this story continue as it was. I couldn’t let it run wild. I would try to turn it. I was still the Keeper, right? Time to keep a tale, tame it. I could still do that, right?

  Time to see.

  And if I failed, if the story used them to tell itself the way it wanted to, my friends were all dead.

  Chapter Eighty

  “The elf journeyed deeper into the earth than any elf had gone before. He passed the empty pedestals that had held ancient monuments. And he stopped and mourned. He knew that stories had been lost here. And the dwarf, who hovered nearby and unseen, saw his respect. And when the men passed by, they wondered what stories had been here. Who would have desecrated such a site? No wonder the dwarves were so angry. And the dwarf saw and wondered: Perhaps his enemies weren’t here.”

  And soon I would reach the time when they would all be slaughtered. All but the dwarf, who would return to tell the tale of the heroic elf and men who had died to protect dwarven kingdoms.

  But I couldn’t see my friends. If I changed the telling here, if I turned it somehow, would it even affect them wherever they were?

  “The elf went farther below. He entered the city of the dwarves. No one raced to stop him. No one stood sentinel to protect their city. Stone walls echoed around him.

  “And then he heard the footfall. The elf turned to see a massive form step from behind a stone pillar. Its claws dragged on the ground. Flesh bloated out around dwarven armor. Hair spread from its beard down its arms and legs. The hagri laughed. ‘More meat,’ he snarled.

  “The elf raised his hands, ready to cast his spells. ‘Where are the dwarves?’ he demanded.

  “‘In storage, so I may eat them as I wish,’ the hagri drooled. ‘Where you will join them.’

  “‘Release them!’ demanded the elf.”

  And then the hagri ate the elf.

  That’s how the story went.

  Where was Yolian? I couldn’t tell the story to its end. Not this end. Not if it meant my friends were in danger. Where were they?

  “The hagri struck! It reached out with dangerous claws, sharpened against the hardest stones of the dwarven city. But the elf—” I coughed. I choked.

  The story knew. The story knew what I was doing. It didn’t want to be turned. It fought against me. The armies gathered before me started to grow restless. Suddenly dwarves noticed they were sitting next to elves. The Spiremen muttered amongst themselves. I was losing them.

  I needed another way around the ending. Some trick the story wouldn’t catch so easily. Yes, a trick. Karen Cordolis had tried a trick once. Perhaps I should learn from her.

  “But the elf tried to fight back. He failed. The hagri struck him, and the elf crumbled
under the onslaught. He was flung aside. And that was when the men entered the city and saw the beast snarling at the elf.”

  I skipped a line. Just one line. It was the line that confirmed the elf was dead. He was defeated in my telling. You might assume he was dead. But perhaps, perhaps I could speak around the death. Let the story assume I was keeping it. I wouldn’t change it. I would simply leave some details out.

  Or add some in…

  If the stories were wild now, if stories had this much power—Could I use that to…

  Time to try a miracle.

  Careful, Adal. You are the Keeper. But remember how you failed? Remember how your storytelling couldn’t save Chariis?

  Damn my uncertainty.

  “The men saw the hagri and what it had done to the elf. They cried out and charged the beast. The men fought valiantly. And as they fought, the dwarf wondered, ‘How could men who hate darkness so much steal as they had been accused? No, there is something more here.’”

  Time to be clever. Cleverer than all my favorite heroes, if I hoped for this to work. It was time to introduce a new element into the story. Just a small one for now.

  “And one by one, the hagri defeated the men, flinging them aside. It roared at them, showing all its wrath. And that’s when the dwarf stepped forward, holding his axe. The elf had done well against the beast. The men had worn it down. But now it would face a dwarven warrior, a chief. A great dwarf named Lazul.”

  A few looks of confusion flit about through the faces of my audience. The words in their eyes blinked. It was a change to the story, but a harmless one. In the tellings I knew, no name was ever uttered. But now it was time for me to turn it, gently, ever so gently.

  “And Lazul smiled at the beast. ‘You face a dwarf in his home territory, beast. But how did you get down here?’

  “And the beast smiled back. ‘This is my home, dwarf. I lived here before I gave myself to darkness, before Garethen twisted me and made me his own. I can go where I wish. And with all your armies gone to fight above, I was able to come and do what I wanted in your great city.’ Its voice dripped derision.

  “‘You would betray your own people?’

  “‘For my lord Garethen? Anything.’

  “But Lazul knew that the beast could not have acted so cleverly. Dwarves have much cunning in finding treasure and sculpting beauty, but not in manipulating whole nations to go to war. ‘You knew that if you took our monuments, we would go get them back.’

  “‘Oh, yes,’ the twisted dwarf that had become a hagri answered.

  “‘How did you know what to do to involve the other races?’”

  Time for another new element. But the audience was sitting back. They listened carefully. Had I caught the story in my telling as well? I hoped so.

  “‘I had aid. I captured a woman who has traveled all the lands. She was raised among men and went to war in a brave knight’s pocket. She has baked for the elf-wives of the Fahalla. And when I captured her, she chattered on and on about how brave and foolish all the races were, especially the men. I used what she told me to trick everyone into war.’

  “‘Who is this woman?’ asked Lazul.

  “The beast snarled. It reached into a pocket in its tattered rags and brought forth a woman the size of a doll. A cloth was wrapped tightly around her face. ‘She calls herself Karen Cordolis, the Potato Woman.’”

  The story kicked back against me. I fell into a fit of coughing, the words choking in my throat. Too far. I’d twisted too far. The story knew what I was doing.

  But my audience did not.

  An elf called out, “Finish the tale, storyteller! What of the armies on the plains of Chereken?”

  And it released my throat. It knew. It had to be told. And if someone requested the telling, well, it would have to obey.

  I could still keep the story.

  “Lazul flew into a great rage and ran toward the hagri. His axe flew faster than the beast could lift its claws. In the scuffle, the beast dropped Karen Cordolis. She leaped to her feet, finally free, and flung the cloth off her face. ‘About time you released me! Come to your senses, have you?’ she asked, and then she saw what was happening. ‘A dwarf? A dwarf has come to rescue me? Well, at least a dwarf is good for something!’

  “Lazul’s sweat flowed. The hagri’s blood flowed. And soon the men and the elf regained consciousness from where they had fallen.”

  Another change. They didn’t die. But now the story knew I had it. I had it by the tale.

  Yes. Even old men can enjoy terrible jokes.

  No choking. No coughing. I was free to tell it now. I could say whatever I wanted as long as I retained the narrative. The story needed me to finish the telling.

  “The men and the elf joined in the battle, and soon the hagri fell. Lazul himself chopped off its head. They all cheered together.

  “They agreed to go back to the plains of Chereken together. The hagri had stolen all their things. They would find them all, together. They would be tricked no more.”

  I looked over my audience. Men, elves, and dwarves sitting together. United by a story that had sought to kill them. I smiled.

  “The battle on the plains of Chereken had continued. Men and dwarves and elves had battled each other, much as you were doing not long ago. They were misinformed, as you were. But then those that had gone below returned as friends, bearing the body of the hagri to prove their words.”

  And as I spoke, my companions appeared over a rise. All of them returned! Between them they carried the body of a hagri. Korah, oh, Korah, my friend, he brought up the rear, striding between Galatea and Jayan. And Lazul himself hobbled on his crutch, grinning ear to ear through his thick beard, bearing the beast’s head.

  “Look! The heroes return!” I shouted.

  The audience turned and saw them. A cheer went up.

  “And so, the races of men, dwarves, and elves learned that Garethen would sow seeds of discord between them, but he would not succeed again. And they gained an ally, an old friend released from the bonds of darkness: Karen Cordolis, the Potato Woman!”

  And as I said it, I saw a small form perched on Lazul’s shoulder already talking his ear off.

  The Library had fallen. But my friends, oh, my friends, we were together again.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  My shoulder exploded in the flames of pain. I remember falling, and then I remember only darkness.

  Once again, no dreams. Had I been awake, I would have wept at the relief of it. When I woke, though, I felt only pain. My shoulder was so, so much worse. My entire arm was swollen. I had no control over it at all anymore.

  So. Back to this. Back to suffering.

  I had rescued my friends from a wild story. I had brought back Karen Cordolis. After losing the Library, after failing Chariis, after wanting to destroy all the tales, I had finally done something right. Something useful.

  But all those things that weren’t useful? All those failures, those defeats and losses? They were all my fault. It was all my doing. If I had been the hero, if I had truly been worthy of my calling, none of them would have happened. Chariis would not have fallen. Karen Cordolis would not have died. We wouldn’t have even thought we lost Korah.

  The pain reached from my shoulder and my arm and embraced my heart. I felt hollow.

  Even the only way to win against the Kaerun was impossible. The waters of creation? Create another Deluge? How would a person even do that?

  No. The rest of my life, whatever remained to this old man, would be skirmishes like this, until the Kaerun found me or whatever happened to my shoulder finally killed me.

  It was over. It was all over. My victory over the wild story was simply a short reprieve.

  Slowly I became aware of things outside my pain. I lay on a sleeping roll on the ground. Branches, heavy-laden with leaves, crossed the sky over me. So, we were still in the forests north of Chariis. All the easier for the fell armies to end us.

  Beside me sat Yolian, cros
s-legged on the ground. He muttered, his hands over my injured shoulder. His eyes rose to mine. “Adal, you are worth healing. As long as you believe the lie that you are not worth healing, my story will never take root in your body. You will die.”

  I didn’t answer. Any answer I gave would make me sound so much younger than I was. Thoughts like I’m not worth it or I should be dead passed through my mind. I didn’t allow them to pass my lips. An old man’s truth would sound like no more than a young man’s exaggeration.

  A gravely, emotional voice sounded near the elf. “Adal, I’m not angry with you. You didn’t demand my son go with you. He left of his own accord. And the Blue Riders bear the guilt for anything they did to him. I hold nothing against you. I forgive you. You are worth healing. We need you.” Jayan sat beside Yolian. “You are my friend. I don’t regret a moment of the time we’ve spent together. We might be old, but at least we’re old together.” He placed a hand beside Yolian’s, hovering over my shoulder.

  “When I met you, I loathed you. You weren’t even a mirage promising water. You offered nothing but stories. But your stories kept us together. They forged us. And I saw how you fought. You, old man, are worthy of respect and more. I would fight beside you at Ban Maraseth again.” Abani crouched nearby. She placed her hand beside Jayan’s.

  No. They should be moving. They should be marching. Not huddling over me. Not trying to comfort me. There were more important things to do. Why were they wasting their time here?

  But I couldn’t answer. I gritted my teeth against the pain that spread through my entire body.

  Lazul rumbled, “I know many dwarves far less worthy than you. I understand you turned your back on the stories. Adal, I turned my back on stone for a time. That didn’t make me unworthy of stone. And the stone welcomed me back when I returned. For whatever you’ve done, you’re forgiven.” He paused. “Now if you don’t get up, I’ll have to take all that back.” A grin cracked his face as he put his hand out.