At the end of the eighth day I checked my pack. No food remained. There was no game to hunt at this height. Soon, we would starve.
Then I sighted a shadow in the sky. The shadow grew from a thumbnail, to a finger, to a griffin. His wings unfurled as he landed. Kae’A bowed. “Hail the Keeper of Tales.”
“Kae’A, no. Please.” My joy at seeing him was snuffed. I shook my head. I had failed. Because of my foolhardy mission, there were no more tales to keep and no reason to keep them. There was no one else to hear them. Because I had thought so much of myself, I was alone.
Kae’A whispered through my protest. “Your plan worked.”
I couldn’t answer. Was this a joke? Was I dreaming? I looked down to Badron, but it glanced from the griffin to me. I opened my mouth and closed it. Twice. Words refused to leave my mind and meet with breath in my throat.
Kae’A gushed the rest of his report. “As you told one story, Yolian spoke another. The waters came, yes, but Yolian’s tale kept the waters away from the places you had chosen. The other companions were able to keep the goblins at bay long enough for him to complete the tale, even as the waters rose. The world has been washed clean, but the people remain. They will be waiting to help you rebuild it.”
Chapter Ninety-Two
The flight back to Chariis was a blur.
Four days and three nights later we arrived in the Colonnade. My companions were there, gathered around a bonfire. Kae’A landed between the columns. I rushed to my friends. Korah embraced me, and Lazul added to the crush. I could not breathe comfortably afterward, but it didn’t matter. They were alive. Karen Cordolis also added her presence to the crush, laughing and lecturing in equal measures.
Yolian took my hands in delight but then led me to Abani. She lay near the fire, her eyes fluttering. She had survived the wound, but it was infected.
“I tried to heal her, but my stories hold no power any longer. I do not know if she will survive.” Yolian’s voice was bitter. “She danced for so long, but now she dies here.”
I crouched next to her, taking one of her hands. I hushed my voice. “Abani, do you want to dance here or with your husband?”
She peered at me through hazy eyes. “Badani will not have me if I give up. He did not love me because my song was weak.”
“Then your story is not done. I will need you to help me.” I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Tor had told me to trust the tales, back when all this started. Trust the tales. “Your wound healed from this moment forward.” I looked to Abani. “You lived until you were old, and after that you danced with your husband forever. But your dance here is not yet done.”
As I spoke, I saw my words. Not so golden and shining like the tales had been, but more translucent like sunlight reflected on water: shimmering and fluid.
She gasped. Her hands flew to her wound. Her eyes slammed tight and then opened. She stood.
“So, the first story of this age is yours, Abani. Don’t prove it false.” I rose from my crouch. “Tales are fragile when they’re young.”
She laughed. It was a good sound, a right sound. A sound appropriate for a new age. Abani never danced a dirge again.
Yolian took me to see Daragen. He had died the first night of the Deluge. He might have been saved if he hadn’t exerted himself. He might have lived if he hadn’t torn the wound ever wider. But no, he had chosen to save Yolian, no matter the price. He had sacrificed himself for the world.
I memorialized his life with a story. I bound it to the Colonnade. Daragen would not be forgotten. The companions listened to it and agreed that this was the proper place and time.
A prince had died after all. Some stories are too big, I guessed. Or perhaps, the stories didn’t control that reality. Perhaps men of courage sacrificed themselves to serve something greater, and only the best of princes were so noble.
The next day we went into the ruins of Chariis. There was nothing here any longer. The waters had wiped clean all the dead bodies and all the tales. I visited my people’s home, the Hall of Katal, but it was empty. No story lived there now. Even the statue in the fountain was gone.
Within a week, people began appearing from other realms. All the Habrini came, as well as the Spiremen and every single Northerner. A few Parvians struggled into the city. Garrendai and Cassuni. Elves from Fahalla. Dwarves of Jaed and Delodwenar. White goblins. Even griffins.
Gayala took my hand after she arrived. She put her hand to my cheek. We stood a long time together.
The first night after we had all gathered, eighteen days after the waters had receded, we held a great ceremony. We held a candle and spoke names we would remember. I stood in the Colonnade, now partially cleared and rebuilt, with the remaining kings and companions. Below the cliffs spread thousands of men and dwarves and elves and white goblins. Griffins circled overhead. The breeze stilled in silent respect.
Yolian brought a crown, and I knelt. My knees and the marble still didn’t enjoy each other’s company.
Every nation and race watched as I was crowned Lord of Chariis, Sargon, Keeper of Tales.
Badron gave me a scroll. Unrolling it, I saw the stories I had told it atop Raumioch Beti. My vision blurred as I looked from it to the scroll and back again.
“You have the pledge of goblins white; we shall serve you day and night. We are yours; we serve you now. You have heard it, this our vow.” Badron bowed, and every nation and race watched.
I stood. “You have heard it. This is a new age. The white goblins stand with us. They fought with us, died with us. And now they will live with us!”
The nations did not object. The races nodded in agreement.
I continued. “We have passed from one age to another. We are at the beginning of a new tale, and we cannot know where this one will end. But we can decide how it will begin. Now is a time to rebuild. We must rebuild cities. And nations. And stories.
“Tales are what tie us together, even in this new age. But now, all the old stories are gone. Therefore, let us speak the best of the tales to each other, to rebuild what was lost. We need the ties of kinship such stories bring. We need all of these to hold us together. We will use the tales as a blade, to protect, to encourage, and never to harm.
“In the last age, we each fought the darkness alone. Yet in this age, if we can learn to trust one another, we can stand together and stand strong. And the darkness will not break us.
“Let us remember the last age. Let us learn from it. Let us move boldly into the next. Together.”
The nations looked up at me. The races waited for my words.
I was the Keeper of Tales. It was my duty to tell the tales, to share the tales with them.
So, I set aside my speeches. I set aside my bravado. I set aside my wisdom. I went back to who I was, what I had always been: a storyteller.
I told them their story.
End Book Four
The Stories Begin…
About the Author
Jonathon Mast watched ThunderCats for the amazing stories. He wanted to know the stories behind all the toys he had growing up. A video game wasn’t worth playing if there wasn’t a story involved. He started telling stories on the bus to the other kids on the way to school. As he got older, he wrote those stories down. He doesn’t just like stories, but stories about stories. He and his wife often argue about stories: what makes stories good? What makes them fail? They’ll often over-analyze much of the media they consume.
Jon’s stories have appeared in various anthologies, including A Celebration of Storytelling and the upcoming Something Wicked This Way Rides from Dark Owl Publishing, and in magazines and on websites. Jon currently lives in Kentucky with his wife and an insanity of children. (A group of children is called an insanity. Trust me.)
You can find him at https://jonathonmastauthor.com.
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