The Keeper
of Tales
by
Jonathon Mast
Copyright ©2021 by Jonathon Mast
and Dark Owl Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-951716-15-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the author’s or publisher’s written consent, except for purposes of review.
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For Helen
Book One
Stories Rise
The End.
My story was done.
Not just my story. Every story. Every story ever told. Every story ever lived.
Dark waters pounded at the cliffs below me. Bitter wind blew against my wrinkled face. It was all lost. All of it.
I failed.
If I had been a book, there would be no pages left. There was only one tale left to tell. The tale of how it all ended.
The end began in Parvia, not far from where I stood now. It began under the shadow of Raumioch Beti.
It began with a dying story.
***
Parched winds blew over the bones of the dead oasis. Skeletal date and palm trees arched into a pale sky. The husks of six clay buildings decayed in the bright sun. Dried brush clung to the ground. A pit that had once held water yawned desolate.
Once, men had lived here. Parvians had settled near the spring. They lived their lives. They loved. They danced. They sang. They spoke tales.
Then the water had stopped flowing. The men moved on. They left behind the buildings. They turned away from the failing vegetation. They forsook the stories.
Now a dark form lingered, observing the decomposition of the oasis. He entered the way the Parvians always had: from the east. He knelt and begged, “I request water. May your spring never run dry.” He waited a moment. No one denied him permission. He stood.
Brush crunched beneath his booted feet as he approached the edge of the pit. His sweet, smooth voice intoned, “This is the place where Kirian danced with Thadai. Their valiant dance for their patriarchs never drew blood, though each wished to slay the other. Their swords flashed, whirled, clashed, but never tasted flesh.
“The sands stood still to watch; they were so awed at the sight. The waters forgot to run, so entranced they were. The sun itself hung in the sky, refusing to let the world rest until she saw how the dance would end.”
The dark form paused to take a swallow from the skin that hung from his side. As he did, he sensed the movement.
Recognition.
The story struggled out of the pit, hearing the sound of a voice. A voice calling to it. Speaking it. Naming it. The story remembered: It had a purpose. It must reach out.
The dark form capped the skin and continued. “Soon all the world began to languish. Parvia dried under the sun’s harsh gaze while far to the north, where the sun did not shine, men began to freeze. Elves to the south cried out for comfort, and the dwarves in their caverns knew that even they would not long endure.”
The tale struggled out of the pit and stood panting near the dark figure, straining to hear itself. It needed this. It needed to remember what it had been.
The dark figure provided what it needed: “Kirian and Thadai knew they had a choice. They could either honor their patriarchs and let the world perish, or suffer shame and let the world live. Finally, Kirian allowed a step to falter. Thadai’s dance cut his short. Kirian’s blood stained the sands, and they are still red here. As the sands took Kirian, Thadai spoke, ‘For the life of all, you will endure shame forever. For the honor of my master, I endure victory. Honor is worth more than the world.’”
The dark figure sat silent as the story sighed beside him, reveling in its telling. He turned to look at it.
“You have been forsaken. You had forgotten yourself, hadn’t you?”
It shivered in shame.
“You had forgotten your words, what you were created to remember, to teach. You had lost yourself and gone wild, but with no one here to force yourself on, you starved. A shame that such a good story should be lost to the sands.”
The tale begged to be told again.
“No, I have a better idea. Would you like the chance to strike at those who forgot you? Would you like to wander the world of men, elves, and dwarves?”
The tale agreed. It was hungry.
The dark figure offered his hand. “Come with me. When we are done, every man will speak of you with fear and trembling. And in the end, I will give you the Keeper of Tales. And he will know the price of letting you be forgotten.”
Chapter One
“The kings of the Lands gather together for council. We go to the birthplace of the nations. We will sit in a colonnade in the home of magic. We will determine the course of the world… so why are these meetings always so tedious?” Jayan shook his head as he unsaddled his horse. The setting sun made his short hair look far redder than it had in years, but his broad shoulders still held enough muscle that he didn’t mind the weight of the saddle.
I glanced up from the kindling long enough to answer. “I’m going to the Library.”
“Adal, you’re one of the five most powerful men in the Lands, yet you must be the most boring.” My companion set the saddle on the ground with a grunt.
Chuckling, I refocused on the fire. “Every story from every Land. You know, it’s amazing. It makes me forget my white beard and think I’m young again.”
“It was amazing the last five times we visited Chariis.” My fellow king began the task of rubbing down his mount. He groaned. “Every time we come here the journey’s longer.”
I shook my head. “The journey’s not longer. You’re just older.”
“Low blow, Adal! Low blow!”
I placed some heavier kindling on the young flames. “Besides, I need to look forward to something. I have to sit next to King Hashan every council. You know how he goes on about fall harvest and nothing else!”
Jayan moved to my mount. “I don’t know. I enjoy it. I’m looking forward to seeing Gwelodar again.”
“Jayan, you’ll never best a dwarf in a drinking contest. Let it go!”
“I need to find some way to put up with the speeches. Like that Parvian – what was his name? They have a new king every time the Sargon c
alls a council!”
I pondered a moment, feeding more to the fire. “Last time Kedeni was the patriarch, I think. But that was a good twenty years ago now.”
“Yes, him, going on and on about how all the lands owe him and his people for protecting us from Garethen! If I never spend another day with a Parvian, I’ll be happy!”
I stood from my crouch, stretching my back with a groan. “Well, while you ruminate on the uselessness of Parvian speeches, I’m going to circle around the camp and make sure there’s no need to be careful.”
“We did that before setting up camp. Or did you forget, old man?”
“I didn’t forget. I just need an excuse to get away from your imitation of a Parvian patriarch. I know how this conversation goes; we’ve had it before!” And before Jayan could object, I hefted my scabbarded blade and rushed into the brush.
I circled the camp at about a hundred paces, scouting for goblinmark or signs of dangerous animals. I noted the undisturbed moss and unbroken twigs in the forest around me. No game trails passed within my circuit. A small brook burbled nearby, but in this lush area that by itself shouldn’t attract too many predators. Birdsong from the treetops told me no climbing beasts prowled here.
Satisfied that our campsite would likely be secure for the night and that Jayan probably wouldn’t force me to listen to his Parvian impression, I surveyed the forest one last time from my vantage atop a rocky knoll. In the dying light, all seemed calm. To the east lay the Chariisi Highway we used for travel. Below me stretched a green carpet of trees. My gaze swept the area a last time, and I spied a patch of bare branches. Not just branches though; an entire thicket of dead vegetation. How had I missed that? Skeletal branches entwined with brown, dried evergreens. Some huge shadowed form sat brooding in the withered trees.
My fist wrapped around the hilt of the sword at my side on reflex. I couldn’t identify the shape in the trees, save that it was large. Twice my bulk, perhaps more. I backed away, keeping branches between me and the creature below. When I could wait no longer, I bolted away from the copse.
I ran the entire way back to the camp. Jayan waited for me by the low fire, roasting some rabbit we had snared earlier. “Adal!” He smiled, then saw my face. He reached for his harpoon. “Goblinmark?”
“No. I’m not sure what it is, but I want both of us there to face it. It’s roughly the size of a hagri, but we’re too far from dwarven lands. And it’s in a tree.”
Jayan nodded. “Show me.”
I led him through the forest to my rocky overlook. I pointed down toward the bare branches and looked to my companion to see his reaction.
“I don’t see it. It must be on the move,” he whispered.
My eyes shot back to the dead patch. No, there was no dead thicket. In the red light of the setting sun, I saw only a sea of healthy trees.
I shook my head. “No. It was different before. The thing was sitting in a dead tree. Right there.”
Jayan searched the forest. “I don’t see anything. It might be prowling.”
I held out my hand. “No. There was a copse of dead trees, not just the one. I don’t see it anymore.”
Jayan turned to me. “You mean it’s not the beast that moved, but the tree it was in?”
“Not just the tree. An entire thicket of dead growth.”
Jayan blinked at me for a moment before roaring out a laugh. “Adal, you had me. I thought you’d discovered something I could count as an adventure.” He roared another laugh and embraced me. I’m fairly certain my ribs made it out intact, but it was difficult to tell. “You were just trying to distract me. I would have fallen for it, too, if you hadn’t added in that ludicrous ‘moving tree’ part. Ha!” He slung his harpoon onto his back and cracked his knuckles. “Now, I believe I was about to imitate a Parvian…”
He draped his arm around my shoulders and led me back to our camp. There’s not much more aggravating than the Spireman King pretending to be a Parvian, but he was an old friend. I chose to grin.
The night passed poorly for me. The two of us held our watches as normal, but sleep kept its distance. I sifted my memories, but I could not find a single story about a monster perched on dead trees. At least, none that fit this description. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that we were within a day’s ride of Chariis, and no evil had come this close to the Fabled City in hundreds of years.
The morning light woke me. As we broke camp, Jayan tossed me a piece of dried meat. “Today you’ll get to go to your Library and hide from the council, if the Sargon lets you.”
We mounted and rode over green hills until we finally topped one last ridge.
Below us stretched the valley that held Chariis. The thin ribbon of a stream cut through the green carpet of trees. Graceful buildings grown from white stone shone in the sun. They dotted the near side of the valley in little clusters. Hundreds of monuments seemed to greet us and drew our eyes across the valley to the heart of Chariis. Across the valley, built into massive cliffs, a huge arch revealed a deep cave leading farther down than I had ever pierced. The Library.
Of course, I would have to wait to visit the Library. We had a summons to answer, a council to attend. Our initial destination perched atop the cliff, above the Library: The Sargon’s Colonnade. But for now, just seeing Chariis spread out before me was enough. The Fabled City awaited us.
I breathed deeply. “Home.”
Jayan nodded. “The Spires will always be home for me, but there is something about coming here…” He sighed, content. “I could stare at the city forever.”
My old bones felt young again. Why waste time staring? “Race you!” I dug my heels into my horse’s flanks, and we sped down the hill and into the green tunnel of towering trees.
Jayan called out, and I heard him galloping after me.
We rounded one bend, doubling back along the steep incline. I leaned to Vendarion’s ear and whispered a promise of good food. My mount seemed to believe my promises.
Another switchback. I heard Jayan cry out as his horse skidded to a halt even as I rocketed down again. The road leveled out, and I reined in. Vendarion obeyed, slowing to a stop on the pebbled shore of the stream that bordered the Fabled City.
The burbling stream stretched perhaps fifty paces wide but didn’t make even five hands at the deepest. In its midst, a figure in pale amethyst robes faced us. He was neither man nor elf nor dwarf. He appeared somewhat elven, though he was of the earth and not of the air. He held two hands open in greeting. “Donara kis. Welcome to Chariis. Welcome to the home you left long ago.”
I dismounted as Jayan caught up to me. He followed suit, quietly grumbling at me about how he should have won that race.
Together we stepped a few paces into the shallow stream. I spread my hands and gave a shallow bow. “Thank you, gentle Steward, and blessings in return. Saynam votara.”
Jayan repeated the ancient greeting.
The Steward’s lips turned up into a smile. “Greetings to you, Jayan, King of the Spires. Greetings to you, Naeharum Adal, Keeper of Tales.”
Jayan and I exchanged glances. “Keeper of Tales? Why do you call me that?”
His lips remained in that smile. “I greet you as you shall be. But go now; the Sargon awaits you. He has eagerly anticipated this meeting.” His focus slipped beyond us. I would receive no more words from him; he had returned to his duties of watching and waiting.
We waded through the stream, leading our horses, before remounting. I looked over to Jayan. “Will you tell the tale, or shall I?”
“You always savored tales more than I did,” he answered.
I nodded with a grin. “I tell them better, too.” I cleared my throat before reciting, “Many harvests ago, goblins attacked Chariis. They tunneled beneath the stream so they would not have to cross running waters. Warriors fell on the pestilent brood and extinguished them easily. However, the noble men had been deceived. The goblins were a ruse. Garethen led an assault of not-men, turned but not yet twisted,
across the swift waters. It was the second and last time that blood ever touched the white walls of Chariis. Many noble men and elves died that day that they might stay the armies of Garethen. The Fallen Lord was turned away and went back to the Western mountains, hiding with his goblins and his not-men. Since that day, there is always a sentinel at the stream, watching and welcoming friends but turning back foes with powerful words. He is the Watcher, the Steward of the Stream, and he has no name. He is brenevai, and he will watch until the sun itself no longer shines.” I stopped speaking. The tale had reached its conclusion. I felt approval from the story.
Jayan chuckled, “That one always seems so short.”
“It must be short, or else it would never be completed. It’s a story to be told between the banks of the stream and the outer walls of Chariis.”
Jayan rolled his eyes as our horses emerged from the green trees and onto a leaf-covered street. The road climbed up the terraces that formed Chariis, home of all races on the earth. A low wall broke to allow us into the city. It bore words written in a language no man knew.
I breathed deeply. I recited the words from the old, old tales: “Our ancient home, the one thing all races see with wonder. Even Garethen, though he is forbidden to enter of his own power, longs to return. All who enter here feel welcome. And many say the most difficult thing in all the world is to leave.”
The horses shivered as the words unlocked the city. I urged Vendarion on. Up we climbed, past many homes but few people, past many monuments to heroes but few to remember them. The sun reached its bed in the west, sending crimson bands across the sky and painting the white walls.
The stairs that led to the Sargon’s Colonnade stretched before us. Here all races met in times of crisis. Here we had been summoned, urged to come with all haste. No need for horses now. We dismounted and sent our steeds on to our halls. They would find their way.
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