When he was very old, the whole village came to his bedside. His final words, we are told, were these: “To see another is the birth of Compassion. Compassion is a seed of Love. Love comes hand in hand with Joy. So, little children, love one another, that your joy may be complete.”
So, too, this story brings three boons: one for the storyteller, one for the hearer, and one for the heart which understands.
AN EXCERPT FROM “THE GALLANT LIFE AND GLORIOUS DEATH OF SIR SAMUEL GRYPHONHEART”
* * *
An Elenil Poem
O’er silent tower no banner flies,
Shouted laments from soldiers rise.
Upon the battlefield he lies—
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart!
The dragon slain, the battle won.
Alone he stood, the rest had run.
Strong armed he fought, the deed was done,
And now he must depart.
Behold! Now gentle hands take hold
The corpse of our defender bold.
To save our lives, his own he sold—
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart!
’Twas he who fought the minotaur,
’Twas he who slayed the Bolgomor,
’Twas he who saved Vald’s sycamores.
Now dead upon yon cart!
His broken blade, his bloodied shirt,
Our lord is dead and we unhurt.
We cannot e’er proclaim his worth—
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart.
O minstrels, sing a glorious ode
To the chief knight who ever strode
This earth. He made the sun shine gold—
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart.
’Tis true he’s left these shadowed lands,
All toil and trouble and demands.
Walks he now on gold-flecked sands,
To range sans map or chart.
And now upon that rival shore
All woes be gone, and sob no more.
No death, no tears, no pain, no war
For Samuel Gryphonheart!
Now draws near the Majestic One
To celebrate a life well done.
Homecoming his adopted son—
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart!
His bowl is spilt, his thread unspun.
His life is past and just begun.
He treads now in a clime of sun
In the land of the Majestic One.
Majestic One, all wounds he heals,
All righteous traits in hearts anneals.
Samuel’s life like a bell it peals
To greet the Majestic One.
Watch them walking arm in arm
In golden fields beyond all harm.
Their laughter rings with friendship warm—
The joy of the Majestic One!
The knight at last his sword lays down,
His grimace gone, no more a frown,
His helm replaced with glorious crown,
A gift from the Majestic One!
The squire has let his horse run free.
The Sunlit Lands now mourn and weep.
Our friend is gone, no more we’ll see
Till we see the Majestic One.
He stands before a riotous throng,
Those who’ve left all woe and wrong,
They greet him with a welcome song,
“You’ll nevermore depart!”
With cries of joy they welcome him.
The night is past, the day begins.
He smiles, then laughs—they dance, they spin!
Deep joy has filled his heart.
Our greatest knight, our dearest friend,
Our defender bold has met his end.
With him our love and thanks we send,
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart!
THE DESERTED CITY
* * *
A Kakri Lament (to be sung to the tune of “The Water Bearer’s Daughter,” on the night of the third and fourth spheres’ meeting, with a divided choir)
MOONSIDE CHOIR: Where is the fountain which brought joy to the city, clean and clear at its heart?
STARSIDE CHOIR: It has been carried away, the water spilled to the sand, the water given to the sun.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: Where is the young man who played his bitarr beneath the lady’s window when the hot wind blew from the east?
STARSIDE CHOIR: His eyes are open, unseeing, his bitarr shattered in his hands, his lady . . . But we do not know where his lady has gone!
MOONSIDE CHOIR: Has she not gone to the west, to the city of the shortsighted?
STARSIDE CHOIR: She weeps into the fountain. She lingers at her window and sobs to hear the silent streets.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: Look at the walls, so bright and fair, each stone placed by a master builder.
STARSIDE CHOIR: They are drunken stones . . . They cannot stand, they cannot support one another.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: What has become of the wide avenues, the shaded alleys beneath the golden trees?
STARSIDE CHOIR: Weeds grow upon the streets, dead thorns and fruitless stunted trees line them.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: What of the birds? The wrens and sparrows? The magpies and swallows?
STARSIDE CHOIR: There are only empty nests. Even the birds, yes the birds, have fallen.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: We must rebuild these walls.
STARSIDE CHOIR: No, Sisters, set your face toward the wasteland.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: We must repair these towers.
STARSIDE CHOIR: No, Brothers, entrust yourself to the sands.
There is no one path through the desert,
the way is made by walking.
Let us turn our faces from this place,
let us seek solace in the desert.
The sheep pens are empty,
the gates broken, the king dead.
What use the sheep pen in the desert?
What need for gates in the waste?
He who sleeps upon the roof dies upon the roof,
she who sleeps in the house receives no burial.
The desert claims the land, and so we,
we must claim the desert.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: But one day the King of Stories will return—
TOGETHER:
The Story King will tell a new tale,
the vineyards shall bear grapes.
The orchards heavy with fruit,
the high plain will bear the mašgurum tree.
Another turning shall come,
the city rebuilt, the gates rehung.
The people will again be many.
O Keeper of Stories!
O your house!
O your city!
O your people!
A FRAGMENT OF “THE TRIUMPH OF THE PEASANT KING”
* * *
A Scim Legend
. . . saw the Peasant King going against the tide of those who would evacuate the city. The Shadow had fallen, and destruction followed behind. The walls were breached, and the enemy swarmed down the tree-lined avenues.
One of the Peasant King’s followers, a knight in his service, said to him, “My lord, where are you going?”
The Peasant King replied, “Why, to meet Death. Would you go with me, Sir Knight?” But the knight had promised to protect a caravan headed south, so he begged his leave. The king said, “Go in peace.”
Another of his followers, a wealthy merchant, saw the Peasant King walking toward the city. Leaning down from his horse, he said, “Where are you going, my lord?”
The Peasant King replied, “Why, to meet Death. Would you go with me, sir?” But the merchant had a household to protect, and he begged his leave. The king said, “Go in peace.”
Finally, in the rubble of the walls outside the city, the king’s gardener saw him. She was an old woman, and her whole life she had been cared for by the Peasant King. The king’s gardener spoke the secret language of all growing things. She knew the songs of the morning flowers and spoke the poems of the weeds. She spent long afternoons in conversation with the trees.
“Where are you going, my lord?” she asked.
“To meet Death,” he replied, and she fell at his feet, weeping.
“Not so, my lord!” she cried. “But let me go in your place, for I am a simple gardener and you a majestic king. Let me go to my rest, and you go in peace.”
The king raised her to her feet. “The knight offered me no sword, the merchant no steed. You have offered your life for mine.” He kissed her upon both cheeks and again upon her forehead. He said, “Winter and summer, sunshine and darkness, planting and harvest. So long as these fill the Sunlit Lands, you will live. The story of what you have done will be told wherever my name is honored, and you shall ever walk among the people. To those who are pure of heart you may grant three boons with the magic I bestow you.”
“But my lord, if you refuse the offer, ’tis but a small thing,” she protested.
“It is the small things of the world which are most important,” the Peasant King said. He continued on his way, but the gardener would not leave his side. She stayed with him through the Enemy’s lines, past the looters, past the rioters, past the soldiers. They came at last to the great Enemy, who stood taller than a hill. He had no flesh but was only darkness in the shape of a giant. He wore a pale crown set with seven shining stars and carried an iron sword which wept blood. The Peasant King told the gardener she must now say farewell, for he must battle his foe.
“You have no sword,” she said.
“Our great Enemy will give me a sword, and I shall give him my heart for a sheath.”
“You have no steed,” she said.
“I will ride Death’s chariot ere morning,” the king said.
“Your people have all deserted you,” she said. “Throw down your holly crown. Toss away your oaken rod. If you are not king, you need not fight this evil.”
The Peasant King laughed, and it was a clear bell in the clamor of war and darkness. “They have deserted me, but I have not deserted them.”
She took his hands in hers and, weeping, bid him farewell. The Peasant King blessed her again and turned to face the great darkness. The sun shone upon his face as he stepped forward . . . [Here the fragment ends.]
THE PARTING
* * *
A Traditional Zhanin Song of Farewell for Honored Visitors
Your arrival—how like the sunrise!
When the cool eastern light shimmers
upon the morning waves.
In the midday the birds sang,
fish jumped, their scales aflame,
water sparkled in our cupped hands!
We have paddled alongside you,
but here our journeys part.
We are an island, you an ocean stream.
When the sun departs,
she is most beautiful.
O western waters, shine!
Peace to you, come again,
our blessed guest, beloved friend,
charming one, farewell.
Until once more
the cool eastern light shimmers
upon the morning waves.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
Many thanks to the following people, all of whom helped make the Sunlit Lands a better place: Leilani Paiaina Andrus, Adam Lausche, Jermayne Chapman, Kat McAllister, Mark Charles, Sydney Wu, Leah Cypress, Mark Lane, Julie Chen, Gabrielle Chen, Koko Toyama, and Kiel Russell. Special thanks to my friends on the Codex writers’ forum (quite possibly the kindest corner of the Internet).
Kristi Gravemann, thank you for your commitment to getting the word out about this book (and the books to come!). I am thankful for your creativity and hard work.
Wes Yoder, you are the source of magic in every project we pitch. Thank you for your unwavering belief in my books, for your advice, and for your friendship.
Thanks to Linda Howard, without whom this book could not exist. I asked, “What kind of book would you like?” and she said a book like this one. Here it is, Linda. Thank you!
Jesse Doogan lets me pitch thirty new projects a month and claims we will make them all. Jesse is a True Fan, and she can defeat all comers in Sunlit Lands–related trivia battles. Hufflechefs unite!
Matt Griffin (www.mattgriffin.online) provided the amazing art, and Dean Renninger turned it into the beautiful cover we all know and love. AND! Matt also drew the map, and Dean did the interior design. Thanks, Dean and Matt!
Sarah Rubio, you brought the music to the text, and asked the questions that deepened the relationships between the characters. Your influence is on every page, and I am grateful.
JR. Forasteros has been a source of encouragement, insight, and wisdom. Thank you (as always). And, of course, all of the StoryMen (Clay Morgan, Aaron Kretzmann, and Elliott Dodge), as well as Amanda and Jen!
Shasta Kramer, it’s so strange not to hear your thoughts on this book. I’m thankful for all the times you checked in on me along the way while I was writing, and for celebrating with me when I finished. I look forward to talking about the book with you one day.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for introducing me to Middle-earth and Narnia and for all your support and encouragement. And thank you, Janet and Terry, for being great in-laws!
To my dear wife, Krista, thank you for making room in our lives for me to go exploring fantasy worlds and for exploring fantastic places in the real world too.
Myca, you make me happy. I love reading with you and spending time with you.
Allie and Zoey, you were the first fans of the Sunlit Lands, and it was so fun sending you the chapters as they were written and talking through the story with you. I am thankful for your questions and your help in writing The Crescent Stone.
There are many more people at Tyndale House Publishers who have contributed to this book in big ways and small. I am thankful for your passion for this book and for the kindness you show to me in letting me be part of the Tyndale family.
Lastly, I am thankful for you, dear reader. Thank you for joining me, Jason, and Madeline on this adventure. I hope you’ll join us for the next one.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
MATT MIKALATOS entered Middle-earth in third grade and quickly went from there to Narnia, kindling a lifelong love of fantasy novels that are rich in adventure and explore deep questions about life and the world we live in. He believes in the hopeful vision of those two fantasy worlds in particular: the Stone Table will always be broken; the King will always return; love and friendship empower us and change the world.
For the last two decades Matt has worked in a nonprofit organization committed to creating a safer, more loving world by teaching people how to love one another, accept love themselves, and live good lives. He has lived in East Asia and served all over the world.
Matt’s science fiction and fantasy short stories have been published in a variety of places, including Nature Futures, Daily Science Fiction, and the Unidentified Funny Objects anthologies. His nonfiction work has appeared on Time.com, on the Today show website, and in Relevant magazine, among others. He also cohosts the StoryMen podcast at Storymen.us.
Matt lives in the Portland, Oregon, area with his wife and three daughters. You can connect with him on Twitter (@MattMikalatos), Facebook (facebook.com/mikalatosbooks), or via his website (www.thesunlitlands.com).
1
HUNTERS
Where fear is planted, hate will grow.
AN ALUVOREAN SAYING
Jason Wu had wedged himself into what he suspected might be a closet. It had never occurred to him that people who lived in a fantasy world would need a place to store their clothes, but of course they did. This particular closet was narrow and located in a dilapidated three-story house that had once been a mansion. There were holes in the roof, mold on the walls, missing stairs on the long winding stairways. He had managed to find this closet, though, with its door still intact, so he could slip inside and pull it quietly shut, certain his pursuers would not find him here, not given the size of this house.
Delightful Glitter Lady, Jason’s kitten-sized rhinoceros, scrabbled impatiently on the floor beside him. Jason scooped her up and held her against his chest, trying to keep her quiet. He could hear the thundering footsteps of his pursuers outside. Dee let out a low whine, and the footsteps paused. “Dee,” Jason whispered, doing his best to make it clear she needed to be silent.
“I heard him,” a voice called. By now he recognized the distinctive sound of a Scim. He could tell by the guttural voice that the Scim had put on his war skin, a defensive magic all Scim had that allowed them to have thicker skin, heavier muscles, and a terrifying appearance.
Dee whined again. Jason pulled her tighter against him.
Outside the closet, all sound ceased.
Jason held his breath.
“In here?” another voice asked.
“I think so. I heard the unicorn.” The people of the Sunlit Lands thought Dee was a unicorn. They were a little sketchy on zoological categories. Unfortunately for Jason, their tracking skills were fully developed.
A third voice asked, “Have you checked the closet?”
“Hold,” said another voice, one Jason knew well. It was deeper, more resonant, than the others. Jason could practically feel it vibrating the house. It was the voice of Break Bones, the Scim warrior who had sworn to murder Jason more than once. “I must be allowed to kill him. But each of you may say first what you wish to do with him when the door is opened.”
“I will stab him in the liver,” said the first voice, and cackles of laughter came from the others.
“I will break his arms,” said another.
Jason shivered.
The Crescent Stone Page 44
