by JA Andrews
Borto must be gone by now, trundling east. At least wayfarer wagons were slow. He’d be four days on the Sea Road before any other large roads branched off. If Will pushed hard tomorrow, he could catch up.
Frustration at being here bubbled at the surface, but underneath, there was a layer of guilt. He had a chance to find Ilsa, and that chance was dwindling. He should have…his mind spun through ways he could have escaped this morning, but none of them would have worked. He probably would have had trouble fighting past Sora, never mind armed guards at the gate. Whatever chance he’d had to leave had disappeared during the night.
The fact that Killien’s house was fascinating fed the guilt. How could a stack of books have distracted him from his sister?
Had it? Had he given up a chance to leave just to read some books? Will scrubbed his hands across his face. No. Will had never had a choice. Killien had brought him for entertainment. From the moment Sora had appeared this morning, Will’s fate had been sealed.
Will heaved himself up off the bed and walked over to the window. He splashed some water over his face from a small red bowl. The sun had risen and the wide avenue was filling with people. The smell of roasting saltfish filled the street mixing with the ever-present smells of the grass and the ocean. To his left, over the low clay buildings of Porreen, the Southern Sea spread out like a blue carpet speckled with fishing boats.
He pushed aside the guilt. The delay was inevitable and moping about it would make it harder to redeem the day into something valuable. Will picked up the yellow book and sank back into the bed.
In all of Queensland, the Keepers had only found a handful of Flibbet’s books, outside the ones in the Keeper’s library. The curious little peddler, who used to show up every few years, brought the Keepers new books. He had first appeared one hundred fifty years ago at the top of the tall cliffs above the Keeper’s Stronghold. Before that, the Keepers didn’t know anyone had ever looked down on their valley from the inhospitable desert above. And yet he had appeared, over and over again, disappearing for two years or five years, then dropping bundles of books filled with strange stories, foreign tales, lost histories down from high above. At least he had until about fifty years ago.
Despite the exotic nature of his books, for some reason Will had never imagined that Flibbet went anywhere outside of Queensland. Yet here was a book the Keepers had been looking for. The Shield would be ecstatic to learn what it said. The leader of the Keepers had a fascination with Flibbet that went beyond normal curiosity.
Will opened the cover slowly. The faint smell of paper and old ink wafted past. He flipped to the first page with a mixture of excitement and hesitation. It had been a long time since he’d committed an entire book to memory. When he’d first arrived at the Stronghold and read all the works Keeper Gerone had assigned him, he’d been faster than he was now. Gerone hadn’t expected him to memorize them, but how could he not? He’d read them, and once a book was read, if it was well-written, the words laid out a path in his mind. He could recall them whenever he wanted. The only hard part was remembering the beginning. Once it started, you just had to travel down the path.
Here, at last, was a job he was good at. Probably better than any other Keeper. Alaric wouldn’t be able to memorize Flibbet in a morning.
His eyes felt gritty from the long night, but he focused on the beginning and picked up the thread of the swirly blue writing. Flibbet began this book with theories on where the people of the Sweep, Queensland, and the southern countries had come from, positing that they were descended from a common ancestor who had once lived far west over the endless desert.
True to form, Flibbet’s words wandered off on tangents and nonsensical tales, peppered by complex diagrams, unexplained symbols, and things that looked like pointless doodles. But somehow the thread ran true through the entire book. There was a special sort of …joy in reading Flibbet. A sort of whimsy and lightness, all anchored to truths that felt as deeply rooted as the mountains.
The original thread of the story thickened into roots, then the thick truck of a tree, then split off into branches both individual yet similar. The small scattered warlords of Coastal Baylon, the strong central throne of Queensland, the disparate, isolated clans of the Roven. All branches, all related, all somehow the same at their core.
The book was short and the world was still muffled in the quiet of early morning by the time Will finished.
He let the book close, his mind drifting around the ideas, toying with concepts of brotherhood and ancestry and the interrelatedness of everything. The different accents of their shared language feeling suddenly closer than they ever had before.
A spattering of rough Roven voices called to each other outside his window, and Will pushed aside the drapes to watch a half dozen people organizing baskets of books into a wide, wooden wagon.
Two children squealed and raced in circles, keeping just out of reach of an older man who kept grabbing for their baskets, while a young woman laughed and herded them forward. It was the right kind of laughter, effortless and free, and he had the sudden urge to join them. He leaned against the windowsill, setting his hands on the cool cob that was familiar, if not comfortable. A little girl ran close to the house and glanced up. Her laughter stuttered and she pointed up at him.
“Dirty fett,” the man muttered, loud enough to reach the window. He pulled her away and the game ended.
Will dropped down on the bed.
Flibbet’s words were just words.
If Queensland and the Sweep had ever shared a common ancestor, they’d grown too distant by now for it to matter.
Chapter Nine
Smells of fish and bread wafted through the window.
He took Flibbet, went back down to the main room, and set Neighbors Should be Friends back on the shelf. A clatter of activity came from the back of the house.
He walked down a short hall and out into a wide, walled yard scattered with Roven sitting on colorful rugs, eating in a hurried sort of way. A long ledge ran along the back of the house surrounded by people piling plates with prairie hen eggs, red fish wrapped in salted barley flatbread, or butter-yellow avak fruit. Will filled a plate. At the end of the table was a covered clay jar. He opened the lid and smelled saso, Roven coffee. This wasn’t the watered-down saso he’d been drinking at out-of-the-way inns. This was rich, full coffee that smelled of roasted nuts and caramel so thick he could almost feel it. He poured himself a cup and breathed in the warm steam.
Will glanced around for a rug on the fringes where he could sit out of the way.
“Come sit, storyman,” the enormous Hal called, waving Will over to a large blue blanket. “It’s like this every year.” Hal looked annoyed as a woman pushed past Will. “Chaotic and rushed. We go to the rifts every year, but no one ever seems ready.”
Killien’s voice barked something from inside the house.
Hal shook his head. “Every year.”
The Torch strode out of the house and toward a blanket with two men and a woman sitting on it nearby. They each straightened and gave the Torch their attention.
“We leave as soon as the horses are prepared, Torch,” one man said.
“Take a distress raven with you.”
The man’s eyes snapped up to the Torch’s face. The rest of the group exchanged glances. Even Hal glanced up in surprise.
“We have three messenger ravens already,” the woman said.
“Take a distress raven also. And as soon as you reach the rifts, send back a report.” The Torch looked around the group, his eyes guarded. “Watch each other.”
The back door opened and a burst of vitalle rushed into the yard so strong that Will clenched a piece of fish in his hand. Heart pounding, he began to gather vitalle, drawing it out of the grass beneath him, his mind racing to think of a protective spell. He hadn’t felt that much power since…since he’d been in the Keeper’s Stronghold. Not a single stonesteep he’d met on the Sweep had been remotely this powerful.
Killien crossed over to him. “Is that the first set?”
The Torch reached into the bag, pulling out a palm-sized yellow crystal swirling with energy. Nodding approvingly, he dropped it back into the bag with a clink, and Will caught a glimpse of more yellow gems.
Will blinked and let the energy he’d gathered drain out of him. All that vitalle was from the gems, not the man. These weren’t the usual worthless magical talisman found on the Sweep. Whatever those stones held, it was powerful.
“Forty here, and a hundred more promised by tonight.” Lukas smirked at the Torch. “He tried to convince me eighty would be enough.”
Killien let out a derisive snort. “Lazy dog. A hundred and forty is already less than half of what he claimed he could make.”
The yellow light of the stones lit Lukas’s face like he stood over a fire. “After this we shouldn’t need him.”
Killien nodded and clapped Lukas on the shoulder. “Well done. Divide them into three bags. Make one light enough for Sini, and give Rett the other.”
Lukas gave the Torch a quick bow and left, taking the vitalle with him. The energy of the stones faded away.
Will turned back to his food, letting his heart slow. The amount of power held in that bag was astonishing.
“What were those?” he asked Hal quietly.
“Heatstones,” Hal answered. “For our trip north. I didn’t think the stonesteep would deliver.”
“I’ve never met a stonesteep.” Will paused, wondering how much Hal would talk about. “I’ve heard some stories, though. I know a bit about Mallon since he invaded Queensland. He’s called Mallon the Rivor there, instead of Mallon the Undying.”
“He didn’t earn the Undying until after the war.”
Will turned in surprise. “But the war ended because of his death.”
“No one knows if he’s dead. They never found his body.”
Hal was unconcerned, but a chill passed through Will at the sentiment. Mallon wasn’t dead. At least he hadn’t been dead a year ago when the elf Ayda, had showed him Mallon, still alive, but trapped inside his own body, held prisoner by the elves.
Of course it’d been ages since he left the message for Alaric at the palace. The Keepers must have found a way to kill him by now.
“The other stonesteep that comes up often,” Will continued, “is Kachig the Bloodless.”
Hal raised an eyebrow.
“He’s a stonesteep right? I can’t get anyone to actually tell me about him.”
Hal let out a short laugh. “He’s the one who trained Mallon. No one knows which was more powerful, but Kachig was more vicious. He’s been dead for ten years, and we still don’t speak his name if we can help it.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not stupid.”
“Hal,” Killien interrupted, heading into the house, his voice sharp. “Get to work.”
Hal finished his saso in one long drink. “Every year.” He pushed himself up and left.
Will watched him go, torn between curiosity and irritation. Why would people not talk about a dead man?
He finished his fish quickly and headed back inside to Killien’s bookshelf.
Children ran in the front door, jostling past Will, grabbing baskets of books and lugging them out to the wagon.
“I’ve got Sightings of Dragons,” one called out.
Another peered into his basket and grimaced. “All I’ve got is barley recipes.”
Will stared after them as Killien walked up.
“The children can read?” Will watched them haul the baskets outside. “I’ve barely met any adults on the Sweep who can.”
“Most of the Morrow can read. I like my people to be free. But we’re the smallest clan on the Sweep, so we’re always in danger. The more we learn, the more we understand the past, the easier it is to decipher the present. And the easier it is to remain free.”
Will took these words and let them sink in. “I couldn’t agree more.”
The Torch raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize the people of Gulfind valued reading so highly.”
Will paused, thinking of the massive amounts of ignorance among the people of Gulfind. The hills of Gulfind were full of gold, all of life was spent on entertainment and paying for guards to protect their wealth.
“I wish the people of Gulfind would value things like history,” Will answered. “But it’s not entertaining enough for most of them.”
Killien straightened the books on the shelf. “How long have you been away from home?”
Will dropped into his usual story. “Almost a year. I spent last summer traveling among the some of the northern cities. Last winter I came south to Bermea, Tun and any other cities I could find. Then all the Roven headed north, and I was on my way home. I had reached Porreen yesterday and since you were still here, I stayed the night.”
“And why did a storyman from Gulfind come to the Sweep in the first place?”
“I like to travel.” Will shrugged. “I didn’t intend to get as far as I did, honestly. I started traveling, ended up on the edge of the Sweep, and just kept going.”
Killien gave him a slight smile. “That’s what the grasses do, they call to you, pulling you on over the next rise, through the next valley.”
It hadn’t been the grasses pulling him, but Will nodded anyway.
“Have you learned many Roven stories while you’ve been here?”
“A good number.”
“Which is your favorite?”
None. The Roven stories all felt…foreign. Like they had the wrong pacing. Or the wrong ending. There were endless tales of battles between clans, most of which were only told in the victors’ clans. He hadn’t heard a single one that named the Morrow Clan as the winner. In fact, the Morrow Clan was so small and insignificant, it barely made it into any tales at all.
“Roven tales have a strong sense of…location.” Will tried to think of a diplomatic answer. “For instance I heard a tale in Bermea about besting the Tun in a battle. Then I heard the same story in Tun, except with the Tun winning.” Will paused. “So I guess I don’t know about a favorite story. Every time I find one I like, I discover that it’s told differently in the next town.”
Killien grinned. “That’s the rule of the grassland. The truth changes between hilltops.”
“It does seem to.” Will paused and glanced around the room. “Lately I’ve heard a lot of stories about frost goblins.”
Killien’s smile faded.
“I wasn’t sure they were real,” Will said, “or that if they were, that they ever came out of the northern mountains, but the Roven I’ve met in the past weeks seem to believe that the frost goblins could be responsible for raids in the north.”
“They haven’t come out of the northern ice since my father was a child. That year they came in the fall, killed entire hunting parties and decimated herds. They’re more like a hive than like individual creatures. They’re not big, no taller than your waist, but they swarm over whatever they’re attacking. Often they don’t have weapons. They overrun with teeth and claws.”
The Torch’s voice had a dreadfulness to it that chilled Will, despite the bright morning around him. “That’s…unsettling.”
“It is,” Killien agreed. “They burrow in the ground. They can dig tunnels into deep snow or under the grass almost as fast as you can walk. If they’ve come onto the prairies this spring…” He glanced around at the people in the room. “So far it’s just rumors from clans farther to the west. But the rumors have the ring of truth to them.”
“How long will it take the clan to reach the rifts?”
“A fortnight. Maybe a couple days faster, if there’s perfect weather. If we encounter any rain storms or, stars help us, a heavy spring snow, it’ll slow us down.”
&nb
sp; Killien caught sight of Flibbet’s book on the shelf and turned to Will with an impressed look. “Finished with the book already?”
Will nodded slowly. “Flibbet always manages to both ramble and be concise at the same time.”
“I’ve always thought the same.” Killien stepped up next to Will and ran his fingers along the spine of Flibbet’s book. “I can’t decide if he’s brilliant, or a little touched in the head.”
“Or just old.” Will laughed. “Old enough to know that most things are a waste of time. And that wasting time can be a beautiful thing.”
Killien raised an eyebrow.
“He wrote that about himself.” Will could still picture the small library in Marshwell where he’d found the skinny volume. “In a book titled Flibbet’s Rules for Life.”
“That is something I would like to read.”
“I can write it out for you.” The book had been thin, but the pages had been crammed with numbered rules written in a chaos of colors, the words sideways or upside down or spiraling into tiny print.
Killien’s other eyebrow rose. “You memorized it?”
Will paused. “I don’t memorize it exactly.” He was oddly reluctant to explain. “Once I read a book, if I can remember the beginning, the rest of the book just sort of…follows.”
Killien studied him. “A useful skill for a storyman.”
Will bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.
“No wonder you’re good at your job. Could you tell me everything you read this morning?”
Will glanced back at Flibbet. “Flibbet’s always been easy for me. The better written a book is, the easier it is for me to remember. The peddler, even though his books seem disjointed and capricious, somehow has this…thread that winds through his words. They lead to each other. And that makes them easy to remember.”
Killien looked at Will for a long, searching moment. “I would very much like a copy of Flibbet’s Rules.”
Something in Killien’s eyes made Will feel exposed. He pulled the edges of his mouth up into what hopefully looked like a smile. “If you have some paper, I’ll work on it this morning.”
