The Storyteller

by Traci Chee

  The legends said King Fieldspar had locked his soldiers inside the Trove after they’d finished unloading his treasure. Were these his soldiers, somehow turned to stone?

  She shuddered.

  At the entrance, the crews of the Current and the Crux were making plans to excavate the Trove. Dimarion’s treasure hunters were checking their equipment. Like Sefia and Archer, they would be exploring the tunnels, seeking out the rarest prizes for their captain.

  “A week is all you need?” Reed asked, coming to stand beside her while she stood alone at the edge of the darkness.

  She nodded. The Book had told her it would take seven days to retrieve the Resurrection Amulet, so they’d packed only seven days’ worth of food and water.

  “By the time you get back, we’ll have loaded the ships and we’ll be ready to go.”

  The timing had to be right so that Captain Reed would be the only one at the entrance when she and Archer showed up with the Amulet. She’d hand it over. He’d leave them there, rowing out of the cave on his own.

  And the Current would sail off with Frey, Aljan, and all the crew.

  “I’m sorry it has to be like this, kid,” the captain said.

  “Me too.”

  He tipped his hat at her. “Maybe we’ll meet again when the war’s over?”

  Sefia hiked her pack higher on her shoulders and nodded. “I’d like that, Cap.”

  One by one, she embraced the crew of the Current, wishing she could say good-bye to the chief mate and the others who had remained on the ship. It could be years before she saw them again, if ever.

  She hugged Frey, who laughed. “Find me something pretty, will you? And something sharp.”

  Sefia blinked back tears before she released her. “Of course.”

  “Ready?” Archer asked, shouldering the pack with the collapsible boat strapped to it.

  To betray you? she thought. No. But she was ready to save him.

  Leaving the others among the stalagmites, they wandered into the Trove.

  She’d memorized the beginning of their road to the Amulet. Their path was easy at first, as they wound through cavern after cavern of treasures: rooms of chalices and polished plates, grottoes of painted porcelain urns, halls piled with gemstones that glittered like waves under the light of the moonstone, menageries of statuary so lifelike Sefia could have sworn the fantastical creatures moved when she wasn’t looking.

  The first galleries were well organized, with paths twisting through the towers of crowns, stacked pyramids of scepters, crates of rotting silk and velvet, toy chests of exquisitely detailed automatons that, when their keys were turned, performed sweet songs and eerie, stuttering walks.

  Everywhere was treasure. You could have fed and clothed the entire kingdom of Liccaro for a year on the wealth of just one of the vaulted halls.

  It wasn’t long before Dimarion’s treasure hunters caught up to them, and they all stopped to ooh and aah at sapphires carved into the shapes of sea creatures and collections of pearls larger than human skulls. They ran their hands along tapestries of golden thread and tortoise shells that seemed to have grown crystals from their carapaces, laughing incredulously as they stuffed their hands into barrels brimming with millions of beads of chrysoprase and topaz, lapis and corundum that trickled through their fingers like grains of sand.

  Later, after they and the pirates wished one another luck and took diverging paths on their quests for greater and greater treasure, Sefia and Archer plowed deeper into the labyrinth with the moonstone to light their way.

  They spent the first night—or what they assumed was the first night; they couldn’t be sure—camped beside an enormous bronze elk, at least twice the size of a real animal, its antlers festooned with garlands of rubies. They lay in a clamshell big enough to fit them both and covered the moonstone, dousing them in darkness.

  “I know you still want to leave,” Archer said, his voice seeming small in the dripping cave. “I’m sorry.”

  A faint wisp of gold seemed to glimmer in the black.

  Light?

  Sefia rubbed her face. No, not light. In the pitch-darkness, her eyes were playing tricks on her.

  She curled up against him. “Do you know what scares me most?” she whispered. When he didn’t answer, she continued, “I’d do anything to keep you alive.”

  He kissed her hair. “I know. I would too.”

  “No. I mean anything.” She let out a breath, feeling it, warm, on the back of her hand. “Captain Reed wants the Amulet so badly he’ll sacrifice you to get it.”

  “He’s not—”

  “And I’d do the same to him, if it meant saving you. I’d let him, and anyone on the Current or the Brother, die, if it meant saving you. If we stay, and it comes down to choosing you or them, I’m going to choose you. And I don’t want to have to make that choice.”

  In the dark, Archer squeezed her tighter. “It won’t come down to that.”

  She buried her face in his clothing, feeling the tears on her cheeks. She’d already chosen, after all. She was leaving the people she loved, all the people she loved in the world, except for him. To keep him alive.

  * * *

  • • •

  As they continued deeper into the Trove, the way became more treacherous. They climbed up slippery rock faces beside waterfalls that left their coats and cheeks starry with spray. They knotted ropes to stone columns and descended into echoing black pits.

  In every new cavern, at each new intersection, Sefia consulted the Book on which fork to take or which narrow passage to excavate. And as she’d expected, the Book did what she asked, revealing to her, paragraph by paragraph, the path of King Fieldspar himself as he hid the Resurrection Amulet from the world so many decades ago.

  Archer kept finding gifts for their friends—an ornamented rifle for Scarza, a jewel-encrusted fiddle case for Theo, a diamond bangle and a pair of switchblades for Frey—setting the treasures along the path so he could pick them up on their way back to the entrance. As she passed, Sefia brushed her fingers over the presents their friends would never receive and hoped that Archer would forgive her.

  The Book led them to the edge of an underground lake. Among a gallery of giant slanting crystals, milky white and wide as catwalks, the pool was still and clear, revealing an underwater chasm spiked with submerged crystals.

  Lifting the moonstone, Archer let out a low whistle. The lake was both deep and wide, so wide they couldn’t see the far shore. But the Amulet lay somewhere in the dark tunnels beyond, and to get it, they had to cross.

  They unpacked their collapsible boat and fastened the sailcloth over the frame. Placing the paddles inside, Archer tested its buoyancy. Sefia bit her lip, remembering Reed’s warning about the cold and the wet. But the boat held. Ripples spread from the hull, washing lightly against the pale crystals that pierced the surface.

  They set out across the water, their shadows sliding eerily over the enormous sunken gems below.

  When they could no longer see the shore behind them, Archer tapped her on the shoulder, whispering, “Sefia, look up.”

  The ceiling was a chandelier—no, an entire sky—of crystals. Hundreds of thousands of them winking in the light of the moonstone. It was as if she and Archer were caught in the center of a sparkling globe—the glassy surface of the lake mirroring the glittering facets above—and sitting there, with the water lapping against their boat, it was like their world was shrinking.

  There was no shore behind them. No outlaws waiting at the entrance. No past. No war. No destiny.

  There was only the boat, the water, the sphere of crystal.

  And Archer.

  Sefia didn’t know how long they sat there, silent and still, but when they set off across the lake again, something had changed. They moved slowly, almost languidly, as if the urgency to reach the Amulet had been leache
d from them like a toxin.

  As they disembarked on the far shore, Sefia found herself focused less on the dismantling of their boat than on Archer—his scarred, well-muscled arms; his feet and calves and thighs; his temples; his hair, waving ever so slightly in the breeze.

  A breeze? Sefia straightened, searching the crystal cavern. On the surface of the water, ripples appeared and disappeared like scribbles of magical ink.

  “Do you feel that wind?” she asked.

  Archer licked a finger. As if in response, the wind picked up, whirling around them, teasing their arms and legs. Goose bumps rose on the backs of Sefia’s arms.

  “Fresh air,” Archer said. “There must be an exit around here somewhere. Should we try to find it?”

  “Nah.” She began removing supplies from her pack. “It could be little more than a crack, for all we know. We might not be able to fit through, even if we found it. Let’s make camp and continue on when we’ve rested.”

  Beneath two towering crystals that had grown together at the apex, forming a sort of tent, they made a nest of bedrolls and blankets and ate and talked and watched the light of the moonstone play across the ceiling like real moonlight on a field of ice.

  “Tell me something,” Archer said at one point. “Something new.”

  Sefia curled up against him and laid her head on his shoulder. “New?”

  “We’ve only known each other six months. That’s a fraction of our lives.” His fingers slid through her hair. “There’s still so much I don’t know about you. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll never have enough time to know it all.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything,” he answered immediately. “Everything.”

  She closed her eyes. There were parts of her life she’d locked away for years because they were too painful to remember—memories of Lon and Mareah and Nin. But sitting here with Archer, she wondered if it would be safe to crack open those memories again. Maybe it would be okay to remember the past, because once they left the Trove, she’d have a future to look forward to.

  “My parents used to sing me songs and tell me stories every night before I went to sleep. My father hated repeating himself, but my mother would sing the same song at least once a week . . .” Sefia described the warmth of the blankets, the soft cloth of her toy crocodile against her cheek, the shadows in the corners of her basement bedroom, the pressure of Mareah’s body on the edge of the bed, dimpling the mattress, and the way she’d brush back Sefia’s hair and kiss her on the forehead before she began.

  “Will you sing it for me?” Archer asked.

  She hesitated. She hadn’t heard it in so long, she wondered if she could remember all the words. But even as she questioned her memory, the words came back to her. In a small, faltering voice, she began:

  Little hawk, little hawk, don’t fly away.

  For you’re a mighty huntress with claws to catch your prey.

  Little lark, little lark, don’t waste your voice.

  The songs that come from your beak will always be your choice.

  Little owl, little owl, don’t be afraid.

  Your right wing is a cudgel; your left wing is a blade.

  Little bat, little bat, don’t close your eyes.

  I know the world is frightening, but I am by your side.

  Larks, lift your right wings.

  Hawks, raise your chins.

  Bats, lift your left wings.

  Owls, dig your talons in.

  Sefia, Sefia, listen to my song.

  Follow every movement and you cannot go wrong.

  As her voice died away, it was like she and Archer were both being dropped, one after the other like marbles, out of the cloudy world of her memory and back into the cave, with the crystal columns and the darkness beyond.

  “What does the last line mean?” he asked.

  To demonstrate, Sefia hooked her fingers. “On the word claws, we’d do this. Or on eyes, we’d point, like this. It was part of the game. Sometimes she’d sing it three or four times a week, if my father wasn’t there.” She sat up, frowning. “She only ever sang it when he wasn’t there.”

  “Why?”

  “She must have wanted to tell me something . . . and only me.” Her mother had been the one to teach her the alphabet, spelling out words with wooden blocks while Lon was out of the house. What else had Mareah been trying to teach her? Something about Illumination?

  Sefia settled back against Archer’s shoulder. She’d never know now—you don’t get messages from the dead.

  * * *

  • • •

  On their third day, near the halfway point of their week in the Trove, the Book led them to a small cave. Its walls were veined with metal so bright, it looked as if they’d been clawed by some enormous creature.

  Atop a pedestal in the center of the room stood a man carved from marble. He’d lifted a hand as if to shield himself from some assailant seen only with his unblinking eyes.

  The statue was so lifelike, it was as if he’d once been alive and had somehow been trapped in stone, his face forever frozen in an expression of horror, like he had seen a thing too terrible to ever unsee.

  From a chain around his neck dangled a ring of dull metal embedded with red stones the likes of which Sefia had never seen before.

  She leaned closer. The disc was engraved with symbols arrayed in concentric circles, though she couldn’t decipher them.

  “What does it say?” Archer whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  So this was the Resurrection Amulet. Along the inner rim there were evenly spaced notches, as if a wheel or cog should fit inside. That must have been the missing piece, its location tattooed on Reed’s chest by Sefia’s parents.

  “Can we touch it?” Archer asked, interrupting her thoughts. He extended a finger toward the Amulet.

  “No!” She didn’t know how it worked. She didn’t know if you had to find the last piece first. But she knew she had to keep Archer away from it. Using one of Horse’s bandannas to protect her hand, she took hold of the dull disc, lifting it carefully from the marble man’s head.

  The chain clinked softly in the silence of the cave. Did the statue’s features soften, or was that her imagination?

  Sefia wrapped the Amulet and placed it in her pocket, where it lay heavy and cold against her thigh. “Well, we got what Reed wanted. Let’s go back.”

  Archer grinned at her. “And sail to Haven.”

  Guilt gripped her throat, and she had to swallow a few times before she could smile back. “Yeah,” she said. “Haven.”

  Back in the crystal gallery, they packed their belongings into the collapsible boat, and as Sefia was climbing in, taking up her paddle, there was a splash.

  She didn’t see the Amulet fall from her pocket, only heard the hollow sound of it striking the water, and as she whirled around, she saw the bandanna unfurling like a sail as the Amulet began to sink.

  She hadn’t meant to drop it. It was an accident. Or was it fate? Maybe destiny didn’t want Archer—or anyone—to have the Amulet after all.

  But Archer was pulling off his boots. Archer was going to go after it, into the frigid water.

  Risking himself for Reed. For his friend. Just like she’d known he would.

  But she had to keep the Amulet out of his hands. Before he could finish stripping off his outer layers, she grabbed the moonstone from the center of the boat and dove into the lake.

  The water was so cold it sucked the breath from her lungs and the strength from her limbs. She almost dropped the moonstone, paralyzed by the cold.

  For a moment, she flailed in the water as Reed’s words floated past her: You get wet and you’ll die of cold. Ain’t no way to warm up in there.

  Below, the Amulet was sinking to the bottom of the lake, drifting inexorably toward the sun
ken crystals.

  Gripping the moonstone as hard as she could, Sefia kicked, lunged, fought, pushing at the water, trying not to gasp as the cold hit her again and again.

  At last, her fingers closed over the Amulet. It fit perfectly in her palm, almost as if it belonged there.

  She turned, lungs burning, for the surface.

  Above her, Archer waited, his figure distorted by the play of light from the water, scarred and chipped and cracked and perfect, with the dark cavern echoing behind him. But the closer she got, the more the shadows seemed to close about him, creeping over his shoulders, up his neck, over his jaw, until they had eclipsed everything but his golden eyes.

  She was three feet from the surface when even his eyes disappeared, and there was nothing left of him at all.

  And then . . . light. A million glorious golden motes washing over the world, gliding over every crystal in the cave, illuminating black crevices at the bottom of the lake, glimmers of lost treasure.

  She sobbed, choking.

  Her system must have finally healed. Her magic had returned.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Thwarted Adventure of Haldon Lac

  The more Haldon Lac got to know his new friend Ed, the more he liked him. First, though not most important, the boy was the kind of beautiful you only saw in paintings, totally unattainable, with thick curls and a clear gaze that Lac felt as if he could drop into like an endless well, falling so long it would feel like flying.

  Second, Ed had a way about him that could elevate even the most lowly of circumstances. With a tilt of his head or a wave of his hand, he could make beckoning you to join him for your daily cup of grog seem like he was asking you to recline beside him on a chaise while you drank rice wine and ate sweet cakes from a silver tray.

  Perhaps it was his elegance that also made Ed a wonder to watch. He had such an otherworldly grace that despite being given tedious, ungainly jobs like emptying the bilge or swabbing the deck—and having to be instructed, moreover, on how to use a mop, as if he’d never had to clean a floor in his life—he seemed to be floating over the surfaces of things, barely touching them with his toes or fingertips.