The Keeper Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by JA Andrews

  “It’s not wise to keep a Torch waiting,” she said.

  “That’s true,” agreed the innkeeper.

  Sora stepped out into the alley and he followed her, his mind racing. He saddled Shadow while she stood in the stable door, blocking his exit. When they reached the end of the alley, the city gate would be within view. He led Shadow out of the stable, his mind scrambling to find a way away from this woman.

  But when they reached the street, four guards stood in front of the barred gate.

  “You don’t want to try that.” Sora walked the other way.

  Because she’d stop him? Or because the gate was closed for him? Will tightened his hold on Shadow’s reins. It was barely dawn, the gate was probably just not open yet. The knot in his stomach didn’t go away with the thought, and he followed Sora numbly.

  A spattering of Roven moved in the streets, casting unfriendly looks at Will’s black hair and beard. Sora turned down one street, then another. Each curved and doubled back intersecting others at odd angles. He felt like he’d shrunk and been trapped in the winding tunnels bookgrubs bored through books. He felt a sudden envy for the grubs. It’d be easier to get out of Porreen if he could burrow himself a new path.

  I’m a storyteller from Gulfind, he told himself, attempting to reignite some small hope. It’s worked for months. Everyone has believed me. It’ll work a little longer.

  Sora turned onto yet another road.

  Everyone had believed him but Sora. The little flick of hope disappeared.

  “What’s wrong?” A hint of amusement crept into her voice. “Afraid?”

  “Yes.” He shot her a glare he hoped she could feel. “The Boan Torch is rumored to occasionally arrest any non-Roven he finds in Bermea and sell them on the slave block. I personally saw the Sunn Torch marching a chain of blond-haired slaves to be fed to their dragon. No one but Roven live on the Sweep, the only outsiders I’ve met were passing through. Quickly.” He didn’t bother to add that the Roven were so uneducated and barbaric that no one wanted to come to the Sweep. “Every foreigner with any sense is afraid to meet a Roven Torch.”

  Which was why no Keeper had ever met one. The thought caught his attention. Was he about to be the first?

  “Ours has nothing against storymen from Gulfind. He’s thrilled to meet you.”

  She didn’t sound sarcastic. Maybe this wasn’t as dire as it felt. He wasn’t under arrest. The Torch had sent a single woman to bring him. And being the first Keeper to meet a Torch did feel significant. Granted the Morrow Clan was the smallest clan on the Sweep, so this was the least significant Torch. But if he had to meet a vicious warlord, it seemed best to meet the smallest one. And offered the opportunity to meet a clan chief, he could hardly run away scared.

  Will breathed in a deep breath of the cool morning air. He would meet the Torch and get a sense of the man.

  Then he’d run away.

  If he could find his way out of this mess of a city.

  Borto was getting farther east by the moment, but he pushed the thought away. An hour’s head start shouldn’t be a problem. Shadow could catch up to the slow wagon.

  “You didn’t answer my question before,” he said. “Why are we going to the Torch?”

  She ignored him and he opened up to her again, trying to eek any information out of her that he could. Why couldn’t he feel any emotions in her? It was irritating and fascinating. But mostly irritating. He’d never met anyone who could control their feelings this well. Maybe she needed some prodding.

  “You do realize I’m a storyteller? If you don’t answer me, I’ll make something up.”

  That earned him a response that could almost be called an eye roll, but no emotion.

  “The obvious reason,” he said loudly enough for the few other people in the street to hear, “is that you’ve fallen in love with me and we’re headed to the Torch to be wed.”

  She shot him a glare so venomous that he shifted away. But at the same time a jab of indignation shot into the side of his chest from her.

  It was thoroughly satisfying.

  “Not love then.” Maybe more prodding would draw out more emotions. “You must be after money. Has the Torch offered a reward for finding the greatest storyteller in the world?”

  She tamped down her emotions again. “If there was a reward, this would be less irritating.”

  Will stopped. “You’re dragging me through town with you at the break of dawn because your Torch wants to hear a story? What are you? His Master of Entertainment?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Hurry.”

  He started moving again. The sun crept above the mountains, and in the morning light something about Sora’s leathers nagged at him. It took a moment to realize they were plain. Not a single rune marked the dark leather around the armholes or the neck or anywhere. None were sewn into her grey-blue sleeves. The only thing she wore that could be called decorative was a brown cloth wrapped around her upper arm. Leather strips wound around it, fastening on a vicious white claw.

  When he didn’t look away, she shot him a glare from eyes that were bright green. Green. Roven eyes were always blue. Weren’t they? This woman was an enigma. She should be in a story.

  The streets widened and the buildings ordered themselves into less primitive shapes. Soon the ends of actual beams of wood, a rich brown against the dull mud, protruded out of the walls holding second floors above them.

  Sora made one final turn onto a broad street. It ran past two sprawling houses on each side before ending at one that could only be described as massive.

  The entire first level was stone. He hadn’t seen a building with this much stone in months. The rock rose out of the ground, unyielding and severe next to all the clay buildings. Wide stone steps spilled into the street like a stack of petrified puddles. Sora motioned to a blond-haired slave who took Shadow. Will spun his ring as he followed Sora past a line of empty wagons and up the steps. He was fiercely envious of her calmness.

  An intricate carving of a snake surrounded by stars flowed across the thick wood door. The tiny scales of the Serpent Queen were coated in something faintly green that caught the morning light and shimmered, one lidless eye flashed red from an inset gem. Light rippled along the snake, making it appear to slither across the door. Knife-thin fangs tipped in a shimmer of red stretched wide around the star-shaped doorknob.

  Sora reached for the knob, putting her hand in between the fangs, and Will straightened his shoulders. He needed to keep this quick. Get in, meet the warlord, get out. Easy.

  For such an easy thing, it took an inordinate amount of effort to step through the door and follow Sora into the large room. A slave worked along shelves, packing things into reed baskets. The warmth of the room smothered him after the chill outside. A fire burned along the side and torches flickered with the opening of the door, sending a flurry of shadows darting over walls and Roven faces.

  The room quieted a little as Sora strode in, and more as Will stepped in behind her. He heard murmurs of “fetter bait” and “storyman” trickle through the room. Sora crossed to a small table where two men sat. One of them was enormous, with a bright red beard and hair so wild and wiry it lay like a lion’s mane around his face. Two braids as thick as Will’s thumb hung from the bottom of the beard, the ends cinched with thick silver bands. His leather vest was decorated with plenty of runes, tooled in and dyed a deep red. Will paused in the center of the room, feeling awkward.

  “Killien, Torch of the Morrow Clan,” Sora introduced flatly, “meet Will, storyman from Gulfind.”

  Will pressed his fist to his chest and bowed low, knowing that when he straightened the enormous man would be towering over him.

  But it was the other man who rose with a wide smile.

  “Thank the black queen!” He extended his hand. “Someone who can spin me a tale!”

  Will reached out grasped the Torch’s wrist, the man’s hand locking around his own like a shackle. Killien wore three wide silver
rings encircled with runes and inset with small gems on that hand, two more on his other.

  The Torch was an average-sized man, dressed in warrior leathers that were not purely functional like Sora’s. Intricate protective markings ringed the shoulders and neck, some inset with a coppery dye that caught the firelight. His auburn hair was cut short. His beard was trimmed to a shape only slightly too wild to be called neat, and decorated with thin, subtle braids, bound off with silver beads. He couldn’t be much older than Will. At least a handful of years from forty.

  “A storyman…from Gulfind.” The Torch looked pointedly at Will’s fingers spinning his ring. “And with gold to prove it. I’ve always thought it takes a certain kind of bravery for your people to wear gold out into the world.”

  “Or stupidity,” Sora said.

  “Probably a bit of both.” Will held up his hand so Killien could see the ring. “I wear this more because it was a gift and because it spins than because it’s gold.” He turned the band so Killien could see it spin. “That and because I can’t get it off anymore. But I don’t carry any other gold with me. I’d rather pay for my lodging and meals with stories. Not many brigands want to steal them, and if they do, they have to keep me alive to do it.”

  The Torch grinned. “Stories work as payment here, too. It’s been ages since a storyman came to the Morrow.” His accent cut cleanly against the words, refining the Roven harshness a bit.

  Will let out some of the tension that had been building in him. Sora had been serious about the Torch. He really did want a story. Maybe this wouldn’t be as terrifying of a meeting as he’d expected. A half-dozen short but entertaining stories popped into Will’s mind. “I heard a wayfarer, Borto, tell an excellent story last night.”

  “Yes, Borto’s entertaining,” Killien agreed, “but I’ve heard him a hundred times. No one new ever comes to the Morrow. The good ones never manage to get this far away from Bermea and Tun.”

  “I didn’t say he was good,” Sora objected.

  “Ignore Sora,” Killien said. “She told me you had the festival enthralled. That she hadn’t seen a storyteller beguile a crowd like that since her childhood.”

  “Really?” Will turned toward Sora. “I hadn’t realized you’d enjoyed it that much.”

  Sora’s gaze turned flinty. “I said, ‘manipulate’ not ‘beguile’.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t enjoy it at all.” Killien waved away her words. “But if we based our decisions on what Sora liked, we’d never do anything fun. We’d just hunt. Alone.” Unperturbed by Sora’s expression, the Torch turned back to Will.

  “Tell me about yourself, Will.” His voice stayed light, but his eyes turned stony. “What brings you all the way to the Morrow?”

  “I’ve been to Bermea and Tun already, and they were…” Will paused, thinking of how to describe the two largest Roven cities without being insulting.

  “Festering slums whose resources are squandered by Torches too stupid to know how to lead?” Killien offered.

  Grunts of agreement echoed in the room.

  “Well”—Will spun his ring slowly—“I was going to say crowded…but ‘festering slums’ works too. Everything in Bermea was gray with smoke from that army camp outside the city. And Tun smelled like fish.” The smell had lingered on his clothing for days. “They need to move that fish market. I got tired of trying to tell stories while gagging through every breath.”

  Killien grinned. “I hate those cities.” He considered Will for a moment. “But I like you.”

  Sora made an exasperated sound.

  “The Morrow Clan heads north to the summer rifts tomorrow,” Killien continued. “You can entertain us tonight in the square and stay here as my personal guest. There’s a room upstairs that’s been vacant since a piggish stonesteep from Tun was here, charging me too much to renew the wards on our herds.”

  Will’s hand stilled on his ring. Stay here? For the whole day?

  “He’s leaving the Sweep today,” Sora informed the Torch. “I caught him on his way out.”

  Will could have hugged her. “I am.”

  But Killien’s expression tightened. “A day’s delay is nothing.”

  A day’s delay would put him far behind Borto. He might catch up to the wayfarer again, but there was too big of a risk of losing him. Will opened his mouth, desperately searching for a way out.

  The enormous man with the wild beard stood up from the table and stepped up next to Killien amused. “Surely an invitation from a Roven Torch is enough of a reason to stay.”

  No. The only reason he’d had to stay in barbaric, uneducated Porreen was at this moment riding away in a wayfarer’s wagon. Will searched for the words to tell a Roven Torch that he wasn’t interested in being his guest. He glanced around the room. He was completely surrounded by Roven. His gaze caught on the wall by the door and he stopped, stunned.

  Shelves filled the entire end of the room. They were mostly empty, but one shelf held at least fifty—

  “Books.” His words came out barely above a whisper. “You have books.”

  Chapter Seven

  He took a step toward them, trying to make out titles. Along the floor in front of the shelves, packed neatly into large baskets, were more books.

  Hundreds of them.

  “I have a lot of books.” Killien led the way over to the shelves. “Most have been packed for the trip north, but you’re welcome to read the ones that are left.”

  Will walked along the shelf reading the titles.

  The Clans and the Clashes of the Sweep, History of War in Coastal Baylon, The Gods of Gulfind.

  His opinion of the Torch was quickly reforming. Not only were there books, there were a decent number of books about people other than the Roven.

  “Do all storymen get this excited about books?” Sora asked. “Or just ones from Gulfind?”

  Will’s finger froze on the shelf and he glanced up. Sora eyed him with a raised eyebrow, but Killien looked thoroughly pleased to see his books getting so much attention.

  Will turned back to the books and tried to keep his voice light. “I don’t think you have to be from anywhere in particular to love books.”

  He slid out a thin book covered in yellow leather and tilted it toward the fire to read the silvery title. Neighbors Should Be Friends, by Flibbet the Peddler. Will’s eyes tripped over the words and he read it again to be sure. He looked up at Killien. “You have a book by Flibbet?”

  “I have three.” Killien grinned. “The other two are packed.”

  A book by Flibbet the Peddler.

  Here on the Sweep.

  Had anyone found books from the crazy old peddler this far from Queensland? He flipped it open. Flibbet’s quirky, multicolored scrawl spread across the page. This book was mentioned twice in other works by Flibbet. The Shield had wanted a copy in the Keeper’s library for…for longer than Will had been alive.

  “I’ve never met anyone who knew who he was.” Killien crossed his arms and considered Will. “My father met Flibbet just before I was born. The peddler sold him the books and a sword.”

  Will stared at the Torch speechless for a moment. “Met Flibbet?”

  Killien nodded. “Said he was the oddest old man he’d ever met. Which, after reading his books, I believe.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Killien raised an eyebrow and Sora let out a snort.

  “I assure you it happened,” the Torch said mildly.

  Will bit back his protest. “I just meant that I can’t believe the man was still alive. No one’s seen him in ages.”

  “Who hasn’t seen him?” Killien looked at him narrowly.

  The Keepers. None of the Keepers had seen Flibbet for at least eighty years.

  “He’s famous in Queensland and in parts of Coastal Baylon. But everyone thinks he’s dead. At least everyone I’ve ever met. The earliest stories of him are a hundred and fifty years old.”

  “My father said he was old, but one hundred and fifty
seems a bit much. Maybe he was an imposter.”

  Will nodded, then a thought snagged in his mind. “He sold your father a sword?”

  “Gave it to him actually.” Killien motioned to a short sword hanging on pegs on the wall. It had a wooden grip, a roughly smithed guard, and weathered leather sheath. “Or gave it to me, I suppose. It’s a seax, a short sword. Flibbet told my father its name was Svard Naj and it was a gift for his new son ‘to help mend the torn’. Seeing as I wasn’t even born yet so no one knew if I was a boy, my father assumed the old man was a bit cracked.”

  Will had never heard of Flibbet giving anyone a weapon. So much of his writing centered around ideas of peace, it felt out of character. But it was more than that.

  “He just gave it to your father? I’ve never heard of Flibbet giving away anything. I’ve heard him make stupid trades, like offering a silver goblet in trade for a handful of chicken feathers, but never just a gift. Is it a good sword?”

  “It seems to be. I only use it for ceremonial sorts of things. It’s shorter than the one I learned to fight with. And it has a feel to it. Like it’s somehow…too serious for a mere fight.” Killien laughed and ran one of his hands through his hair. “That sounds a bit ridiculous now that I’ve said it out loud.”

  “Not if Flibbet the Peddler really gave it to you.”

  “Especially if he was already dead,” Sora added.

  Killien grinned at her.

  “I’m glad Sora found you, Will.” Killien pointed to the book in Will’s hand. “It goes without saying that guests in my house are free to read my books.”

  Will wanted to read this book. Very much. Whether or not it had really been given to the Morrow by Flibbet, it looked genuine. If he could just read it through once, maybe twice, he’d be able to remember it. Memorizing books was almost as easy as storytelling. He could rewrite it for the Shield later.

  But Borto was getting farther away by the moment.

  Sora tilted her head and studied Will. “I don’t believe he ever agreed to stay.”

  Killien looked at Will appraisingly. “He doesn’t look stupid enough to decline an offer of hospitality.”