by JA Andrews
“I can’t leave.”
Sora turned a disbelieving look on him. “Why not?”
There was a loud laugh nearby and she glanced behind them and swore. A flare of anger, harsh and new blazed up. Killien’s voice came from nearby and Sora raised hers at Will. “You deserve to be burned if you were stupid enough to pick up a glowing heatstone.”
The Torch stepped around the end of the wagon, his eyes sharp. Two thin lines of blood slashed across a bandage near his shoulder. With a glance he took them in, his gaze coming to rest on Will’s hands. Will fought the urge to hide them.
“What happened?” Killien demanded.
I saved your entire clan. Will thought. He could feel the tightly controlled fury of the Torch, and beside it, Sora’s towering fury, which had risen a hundredfold as Killien approached. But she kept her glare burning into Will.
“I found some heatstones,” he began. He stretched up to see over the edge of the wagon at the pile of heatstones still shining painfully bright. “I heard people calling for more heat. And the goblins were coming this way. And”—he lifted his hand to show Killien the ring, still firmly on his finger—“I couldn’t get the ring off.” He looked back at the heatstones. “So I heated up one stone, then threw the rest on top of it.”
This was a stupid story. It explained nothing.
“And your hands?” Killien never took his eyes off Will’s face.
“One of the heatstones rolled toward the wagon.” The lie was so stupid he didn’t need to feign embarrassment. “All the books were here…”
“So he picked it up,” Sora finished for him.
“I thought it was going to reach the wagon.” It felt good to snap at someone. “And I don’t like the idea of blazing hot things near a pile of books.”
“Enough,” Killien said quietly. The fury Will could feel from him was unabated, but none of it showed up in his face.
“If the heatstones are ruined, I’ll pay you for them.” Will lifted his hand again. “Would this ring cover the cost? It’s currently burned onto my finger, but once it heals…”
Killien let out a little huff of amusement, and Will felt the fury subside the smallest amount. “No more resting. It’s time for a celebration. And for that we need stories.”
Will worked a smile past his exhaustion. “Everything’s better with stories.”
Sora made an irritated noise, but Killien kept his attention fixed on Will. “It’s a good night, Will. We’re almost to the rifts. No more watching out for monsters…no more wondering what is hiding right next to us.”
Will ignored the implication and heaved himself up, climbing out of the wagon and following Killien. The Torch was splattered with dark goblin blood, the sword at his hip grimy with it. Across his back, the sword from Flibbet still hung looking unused.
“Tell me, Will, are there monsters where you live? Creatures that hide close by, lulling you into the false sense that you are safe? When all along they’re just waiting for the opportunity to destroy you?”
The sharp suspicion he felt from Killien cut through him and he shoved the Torch’s emotions out of his chest. “No. Just people trying to live at peace with each other.”
Will couldn’t shake the fuzziness of exhaustion from his mind, but the conversation continued, Killien asking probing questions in his light, unconcerned voice, Will dancing along the edge of the truth in his answers. They reached a large fire surrounded by rangers. A handful of healers wrapped wounds, and children scuttled through carrying food and wineskins.
Lukas pushed his way through the crowd holding a thick roll of bandages. The slave’s grey shirt was splattered with blood, but none of it looked to be his own. The blood on Killien’s arm had spread and the Torch offered Lukas his arm.
“Have the healer see to your burns, storyman.” Killien winced as Lukas pulled a bloody dressing off his arm.
Lukas gave the Torch a quiet apology, examining the two long, ragged gashes that ran down his arm.
Killien kept his eyes on Will. “Stay at my disposal tonight.”
A slave bandaged a ranger’s leg nearby, and Will sat down to wait his turn. A knot of dread sat in his stomach. He watched Sora take a seat behind the other Roven around the fire. There was no sign of Lilit or Ilsa, but he heard enough conversations to know that there’d been no injuries away from the front line of fighting.
The healer spread a thick poultice across his palms and wrapped his hands, leaving his palms pleasantly numb and Will turned his mind to which story to tell. There were several stories from Coastal Baylon that painted Queensland in a bad light, and he was tempted to use one of them, but felt reluctant even to bring his homeland up. Instead he sorted through the stories he knew that mentioned neither Queensland, nor magic, nor anyone in disguise, and most definitely not any stories where traitors were put to death.
Which left him with a surprisingly limited repertoire, and ruled out most of his favorites.
He settled on one about a shrewd merchant trapped in the garden of the indulgent Gulfind god Keelu. The fast talking merchant was funny, and hopefully no one would draw too many parallels between a trapped merchant and a trapped storyteller.
The lump of foreboding growing the longer he sat there, and when Killien finally stood to address the Roven around the fire, Will’s gut was in knots.
“Our storyman,” Killien announced, standing near the fire and motioning Will to join him, “is here to entertain us.”
There was a general murmur of approval from around the fire, and Will stepped up next to the Torch, clasping his hands together behind his back in case they started to shake. The fire lit the closest of the faces, but the back of the group, where Sora sat, was lost in darkness.
“Our enemy in Queensland have their own magic men.” Killien’s voice rolled over the crowd. “They call them Keepers.”
Will’s blood turned icy, his entire body felt too long, and too awkward.
“The Keepers do not put their magic safely into rocks, though. They pull what they use from the world around them, then twist it to do their will.”
Muttered disapproval rose around the fire.
“So they do not share their magic with the people. Here on the Sweep, our stonesteeps infuse stones with power that are available to all. They ward our houses against disaster, guard our children against illness. Give us heatstones for protection. The magic on the Sweep is used for the good of all the Roven.
“But in Queensland, the Keepers hoard all the magic to themselves. They hide away in a hidden tower, leaving only to consult with their ineffective queen.”
The mutters of the group turned angry.
“You’ve been to Queensland, Will. Tell us a story about their Keepers.” Killien’s eyes were flat in the fire light. “Tell us whether they’re as terrible as we’ve heard.”
Will gave the Torch a bow, the motion stiff. A story about Keepers? That narrowed it down to hundreds of tales. None of which he was stupid enough to tell here. “In Queensland they don’t have the same view of Keepers as you. The Keepers are…” He paused again. This was awkward. “The Keepers are honored there, revered even. The people there think that the Keepers protect their land and their history.”
Killien’s eyes glinted in the candlelight. “And what do you think of them, Will?” His voice was pitched low, but the crowd was listening so quietly that Will knew every one of them had heard.
“I think Keepers are known for preserving as many stories as they can. And in my mind, anyone who has that much respect for stories”—he nodded to Killien—“can’t be all bad.”
The Torch didn’t move.
Will’s heart was pounding alarmingly fast. He couldn’t tell any of the stories he knew. They all treated Keepers like heroes, or great leaders, or brilliant strategists. They were all spoken of irritatingly well, actually. He rubbed his fingers over the bandages on his hand. Tonight, faced with the fact that the only impressive thing he’d ever done as a Keeper was about to get him
killed, and would never be told to anyone, he found himself wishing for more stories about Keepers that didn’t glow with adoration. Like that story from Coastal Baylon blaming one for a drought.
He bit back a grin. It was perfect.
“Queensland cannot be trusted to say anything but good about their Keepers,” he began. “Whether they do so out of fear or respect, I do not know. But no group of men can be as pure, as noble, and as faultless as Keepers are supposed to be.” He felt the truth of it growing in him, the need to say all these things building and gaining momentum. “They are just men. And men are not so uncontaminated.
“A person can rarely see his own people clearly. His mind is so entrenched in his own way of thinking, he can’t even see where he’s blind. To truly see the Keepers, let’s step away from Queensland, with their prejudices and myths, and go to their neighbors, where men are not blinded by loyalty.”
He told of the terrible drought that had plagued Coastal Baylon for two years after a skirmish involving a Keeper. He told of the rumors of a curse. The slow, starving deaths, the dusty, barren fields. He told of the superstitious farmers and the desperate lords needing someone to blame. How their prayers for rain were shoved away and their cries for vengeance grew. He told of the hatred that burned toward the Keeper, the oaths taken by those who vowed to bring him to Baylon and spill his blood on the ground he’d laid to waste.
“And so they went, leaving the bodies of the ones they loved behind. They climbed through barren hills into Queensland, moving toward the town where the Keeper had been.
“Their eyes had seen nothing but drought and death for so long, they didn’t notice the shadows they crept through were cast by bare branches, and their footsteps were cushioned by dust and despair.
“When they found the Keeper, he lay in the corner of a cottage. His black robe, tattered and greyed with dust, was wrapped around a child. Their starved bodies clinging to each other in death.”
The whisper of the fire was the only sound among the Roven.
“The vengeance and hatred they’d brought into that place breathed its last, and crumbled to dust. The Baylonese went home empty, drawing out again their brittle, neglected prayers for rain and holding them gently on their parched tongues.”
The Roven before him were still. Will let the silence hang in the air, refusing to offer any more closure to the tale. He pressed his fist to his chest and bowed to the listeners, then to Killien. The Torch stared at Will with unreadable eyes. Not bothering to open up toward him, Will sat down.
Killien sat in the silence and looked at Will for a long moment. “Well,” he said, “the storyman knows how to spin a tale.”
It took a moment before the sounds of approval began. Exhaustion rolled over Will again as Killien called for more wine and the group around the fire dissolved into smaller conversations. Sora walked by, fixing Will with a look dripping with displeasure.
Hal moved over next to Will. “That was the most depressing story I’ve ever heard.” He handed Will a basket of bread and cheese.
Killien came over, passing small wineskins to Will and Hal. “That was quite a tale.”
Will shrugged. “You’re the one who asked for something about Keepers. I had something much more upbeat planned.”
“Next time let the storyman pick,” Hal said, taking a huge bite of bread. “I’m so depressed I can barely eat.”
“Agreed,” Killien said. “Next time he can pick. For now, let’s celebrate. We’re still alive.” He held up his wineskin toward Will. “And you put on quite a performance.”
“A performance depressing enough to lower even the spirits of the victors,” Hal agreed raising his wineskin.
“To the victors,” Killien said with a thin smile.
Will raised his as well, and took a drink. The wine slid down his throat bitter and rough while he watched the Torch walk away.
“What’d you do to piss off Killien?” Hal asked around a mouthful of cheese.
Will took another sip of his wine to give himself a moment to come up with an answer. “Maybe he didn’t like the story.”
Hal grunted. “No one liked that story.” He lifted his skin toward Will for a salute. “Tell something better next time. Something about dwarves.”
Will laughed. Starting the story of the dwarven princess who was so ugly she’d frightened a troll, he set about passing the time until the first watch changed and he and Sora could leave.
But before he’d reached the part where the trolls showed up, his eyes grew heavy.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Hal protested, shoving Will’s shoulder.
The big man slid out of focus.
“Will?” Hal’s voice came from a long distance away.
Huge hands shook his shoulders, but everything spun off in strange directions and his shoulders didn’t feel particularly well attached to the rest of him. The edges of the world began to turn black and Hal’s words grew more insistent.
The last thing Will heard was Killien coming closer.
“Hal,” the Torch said, his voice distant and cold. “Stop shaking the Keeper.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The walls, the floor, the very air was drenched with orange, like he lay inside a flame. Will’s tongue filled his mouth, thick and dry. When he pushed himself upright, a groan scraped out of his throat.
He sat on a clay bed stuck to the clay wall, which curved up around him like a beehive. A cup and a bowl full of water sat below him on the floor. He grabbed for it and the tepid water felt like life rushing down his throat. He filled the cup three times before letting it fall from his fingers. A small window punctured the wall, showing still more orange clay. The tiny room was perfectly empty besides the cup, bowl, and bed.
He heaved himself to his feet. The world leaned to the left for a moment before pulling itself upright. Ducking through a low archway, he found another room with a wicker table and two chairs. Through the open doorway, bright sunlight raked down a cliff wall.
Will stumbled to the door.
Outside was nothing but stone and more clay. Across a thin path, no farther from the door than Will could reach, the ground dropped off sharply into a gully. Up the other side, barren cliffs rose at least three times his height. Behind him, another cliff jutted up toward a weak blue sky.
He was in a rift.
He stood at one end of it, on a path that wound past three more huts on its way to the far end where it zigzagged its way up the cliff to a pair of guards. Will cast out through the rift, but didn’t find a single hint of vitalle. There weren’t any living things closer than the guards.
He turned back, looking for the water and events of the goblin attack came back to him. He stretched his fingers and his palms ached, but not as terribly as before. They had begun to heal. A thin trickle of fear dribbled down his back. How long had he been here?
When he reached his room, a small lump at the foot of his bed caught his eye—a dead mouse. Talen knew where he was, for whatever that was worth. He sank onto the floor next to the water.
Killien knew he was a Keeper.
The thought thudded dully in his mind.
He let his head sink back against the bed. This felt…expected. As though it was the only way this could have ended.
His eyes slid shut.
A scraping noise jolted him awake. Sharp pains ran down the muscles in his back as he jerked awake.
“Hello, Will.”
Will flinched at the calmness of the voice. Killien leaned against the wall relaxed, his face blank. Will opened up toward him and felt a surge of dark anger boil into his chest, dark and somehow cold.
“How do you like your accommodations?” Killien glanced around the room. “We call it the Grave.”
When Will didn’t answer, Killien ducked into the other room and sat at the table next to a plate of bread.
Will heaved himself up, suddenly ravenous. Three Roven guards stood at the outer door. Will sank down in the other chair, and a guard
stepped behind him. None of them looked familiar. Or friendly.
“Why feed me if you’re just going to kill me?”
Killien pushed the plate closer to Will. “I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of dragging you here if I was going to kill you.”
Will picked up the bread, his fingers clumsy around the bandages. It crumbled a bit with staleness, but no bread in the history of the world had tasted this good.
Killien settled back in his chair. “A Keeper. Right here in my clan.”
Will paused with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth.
“Sneaking and lying, right at my own table, right alongside me. For days.”
“What exactly would you have had me do?” Will dropped the bread onto the plate. “Introduce myself as a Keeper? That might have dampened our friendship.”
Killien’s face darkened. “We never had a friendship.”
The words struck deeper than Will expected, immediately followed by irritation that they had. “Would you have talked with me about books? History?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge the man’s words. “Would you have told me about your father?”
“I would have killed you,” Killien hissed, leaning forward. “And left your body to rot.”
“Then you can hardly blame me for lying.” Will picked up the piece of bread again. “If you’re so keen on killing me, why am I here?”
Killien sat back, drawing in a breath, visibly trying to calm himself. “I’ve been reading your books.”
Will stiffened.
“You’ve been spying on the Roven for a year now. And you learned a lot from us…” Killien nodded to a guard who brought over a book. “Now I want to learn from you.”
The Gleaning of Souls glittered in silver across the blue leather.
Killien flipped open the book. Runes filled the page, similar to the ones Sini had given him. “Translate this.”
Will shook his head. “I can’t.”
Killien grew still, his eyes dangerous.
“I’m not saying that I won’t,” Will clarified. “I’m saying I can’t.”
“Queensland and the Sweep use the same written language, and the same runes.”