Daragen cried out. “She talks! I thought she was mute! She talks!”
Galatea punched him in the shoulder.
“What?”
I nodded toward Cerulean. “You’re right. I don’t know why I forgot. Stories love the number three. Deeds done thrice succeed. It is still the morning of the third day; we could leave today if we hurried.”
Abani raised an eyebrow. “We ride?”
“We ride.”
Chapter Seven
Padokat had taken good care of our mounts while we enjoyed his hospitality. Vendarion’s coat shone. As I approached his stall in the stable, he snorted at me. “Well, it’s not as if you haven’t been eating!” I laughed at him. I offered some oats and reached up to scratch behind one of his ears. He had carried me for a mere few years, but he was as loyal a horse as I had met. A fine steed.
Cerulean approached silently and waited as Vendarion finished his oats.
I looked at the elf. “I’m still not entirely comfortable with this. We don’t have a dwarf. Or a prince. Or an archer. I think you’re right; leaving on the third day may placate the tales somewhat, but I’m still not happy with it.”
Cerulean shook her head sadly.
I patted Vendarion’s neck. “I know. There isn’t much we can do about it. I pray that the nations who heeded Chariis’s call aren’t made to suffer for the irresponsibility of the others.” We shared a quiet moment. “If we’re departing, we’d better get going. Are the others coming?”
The elf looked back toward the stable entrance and waited.
The sky outside had turned gray, and humidity hung in the air. No one else entered the stable.
I saddled Vendarion and packed my bags. My hands found my blade as I loaded my horse. We wouldn’t be protected by strong tales as we had been near Chariis. I hung the scabbard at my side and drew the bright steel. It held no patterns or fine etching. I never saw the need to show off such skill. Swords were made to be used, not showcased. I had named this blade Northwind long ago, and it had remained my companion for many years. I gripped it with two hands.
At one point I could have wielded it with one, but old age takes its toll. I checked it over for corrosion. No, my last oiling was still sufficient. I swung the blade once, twice, and struck a defensive stance. The sword remained balanced, as I had expected.
Cerulean watched.
I sheathed my blade as Abani entered, her silks clinging to her in odd places. She scowled at me. “Water was never meant to hang in the air like this!”
I chuckled. “We’re not used to humidity like this in the North, either. We’ll soon be away from the Garrenda lake system, though, and hopefully things will become a little more livable.”
Daragen and Galatea entered the stable together. “Are we about ready?” Daragen headed toward a large black horse that towered over him.
Galatea giggled. She leaned in toward Abani and whispered something. The Parvian woman looked shocked, and Daragen scowled. “Women!”
We loaded our animals and mounted up. I glanced around. “And now that we’ve gathered, our story begins.”
Thunder pealed, and rain began trickling outside.
The room darkened. Something shifted in my vision. I no longer saw the stable. I couldn’t hear my companions.
I saw Chariis. I saw the Sargon. He stood in the Colonnade. He read the inscriptions on the pillars. He spoke the words, but I could not understand them. The Sargon caressed the golden marks as he read them. His eyes shone. He looked directly at me. “Adal, my time has passed. You are the Keeper of Tales. I am sorry.” He looked down at the floor of the Colonnade. No, he looked beyond it, to the Library below. “Goodbye, my friends. I pray we meet again.” He heaved a long sigh and turned away from his Colonnade. He descended the stairs, one hand trailing along the cliffs that lined the path.
He marched past the countless monuments to heroes remembered and men forgotten. He paused at some, putting his hand against marble faces or spreading his fingers over words written in languages forgotten to all save himself. Others he passed without a glance. He strode by the halls of men and dwarves and silently whispered beyond the glades of elves. He spoke to no living creature in the city save a single stag. The animal seemed to nod in assent, and Tor continued on his journey.
Tor passed out of the city and to the stream where the Sentinel turned his back on the outside world. He set aside his duty and faced Chariis’s shore. Tor walked to the center of the stream and embraced his fellow brenevai. The Steward held the Sargon close, and his cheeks were wet, but not from the mist of the stream. Tor stepped back, gathered his robes in his arms, and crouched to let his hand touch the water. He stood and strode past the Sentinel. He disappeared into the foliage.
The Lord of Chariis was gone.
I blinked, and I felt Vendarion beneath me. Abani shook me. “Adal. King Adal.”
I turned to her. “I’m fine. I’m here. I think,” I shook my head, trying to clear it. “I think Sargon Tor just called to me. I didn’t know he could do that. I saw him. In Chariis.”
She tightened her grip on my shoulder. “If you are seeing visions, you should not accompany us. If a vision strikes you amid battle, we may not be able to defend you.”
“The Sargon chose me.” I recognized my king voice. My wife always mocked me when I used that tone, but it always made the young ones pay attention. “I lead this company. You know that the Sargon stands as the greatest force against Garethen, and if he chooses someone for such a group, it is for a reason.”
Abani looked to the others.
Daragen and Galatea kept neutral expressions. Cerulean, though, I could not read. Was that pity?
Abani snorted. “Fine. But if you lead us to death, you threaten all our nations.”
“I know. I know that more than you understand.” My voice had lost its regal tone, and now I was simply sad. This was no game. The stories told as much over and over again.
I sighed. “Let’s go. We can make the Maddarin Hills by nightfall.”
We trotted out of the stable and up the road out of the city. No one came to bid us farewell as we traveled past their homes. Padokat had given us a parting blessing that morning. Now we were just more visitors in Scarletholme on our way out.
A few vendors sat in the dismal weather, but they didn’t shout their wares as we passed. They looked miserable in the rain.
Abani wasn’t that pleased in the damp herself.
I wrapped myself in my heavy cloak. The others settled on their mounts, attempting to find comfortable positions. It would not be an enjoyable journey today.
We reached the outskirts of town and began our ascent up the hill. As we reached the top, I saw a horse thundering toward us from the direction of Chariis. In the rain and at this distance, I could identify little but the white cloak the rider wore.
I pointed to the rider as I reined Vendarion in. We would wait for him to arrive. I raised my hand in hail as the horse galloped closer. He drew up near us, halting ten paces away.
Now I could see him. A harpoon hung over his shoulder in a sling. A thick blonde beard covered his square face. Though he was young, he held a regal authority. “Why do you stop me? I need to go to the home of Padokat, King of Garrenda!”
I answered through the rain, “Spireman, you come seeking King Adal of the North, do you not?”
“How do you know me?” He tensed.
“Such a fine white fur could only have come from the Spires. You were sent by King Jayan, a warrior sent in his absence. I am Adal, his friend and fellow king. We are just now departing on our journey. As you have been sent to join us, come. Tell us who you are!”
He waited a few moments in the trickling rain before responding, “I am Korah.” He opened his mouth, seemed to rethink what he was about to say, and then continued. “King Jayan sent me as soon as he returned to the Spires, and I’ve been riding hard trying to catch you.”
I nodded. “You made excellent time, Korah.”
> Again, a brief silence. “It looks like you could use a warrior. An old man, three women, and a midget hardly seem a good way to face down Garethen.”
Daragen and Abani objected in unison.
I held up a hand, glancing at my companions. “You may find that there are warriors here who could match you in battle. Though we have no warriors that match your strength, it’s true. We could most definitely use you. Shall we?”
Korah answered, “As my King has commanded me.”
“Very well. We’ll get each other’s measures as we go, I’m sure.”
Korah joined our group, and we continued our trot north. I closed my eyes and let the rain wash away the tears that had begun to gather. I feared for what would befall our group in the days ahead. Oh, Jayan, I thought. How could you send this one? Not this one, my friend. Not this one.
Chapter Eight
The rain stopped, but clouds still obscured the sky. We set camp that night at the base of the Maddarin Hills. Broken stone pillars like rocky fingers jutted out of the rolling landscape. Before the Deluge it had been a great city. Now this was all that remained. Any tales about it were long forgotten.
Yet I knew that somewhere in these hills lurked a wandering story that was separate from the ruin that surrounded us. I knew what it was and how to tell it, but its placement changed often within this vast tract of land. Though I was excited to be able to tell this story, I knew it could prove tricksome. I warned the others that night. “If I speak a story, be silent so you can hear it. I doubt we’ll encounter the tale, but if we do, I need to tell it at once.”
Abani and Cerulean heeded my words; they didn’t want to repeat the danger they’d encountered on the field of Dairune and Daeu. Daragen and Galatea bickered as they set the fire, mostly ignoring me. At least that was the pretense they gave.
Korah, though, laughed at me. When the others didn’t join in his mirth, he said, “You can’t be serious.”
“Stories are the web which holds the nations together. They create loyalty to family and people. They give us legacies and hope and lessons. In return, they only ask that we tell them true.” I shrugged. “You came at a Chariisi summons. A summons to fulfill a role in this party, as the stories demand we should. So you recognize how highly tales are regarded there.”
The young man looked away. “In Chariis all tales are true. Things are different there.”
Daragen turned his back to Galatea and spoke up. “I’d be careful, Spireman. Stories are powerful beasts. I’ve seen one that was badly told, and it got so angry it kept our ship from harbor for two whole days.”
Korah wrinkled his nose. “That’s a nice excuse for lazy men.”
Daragen leaped to his feet, but before he could let loose a cunning retort, I held out a hand. “The rest of you must forgive Korah. So far north, strong stories are rare. Some are told, of course, but many of the young men think it’s because us whitebeards respect tradition too much. He is young. He doesn’t know yet. He will, though. He’ll see the strength of the stories yet.”
Korah attempted to wither me with a look.
Galatea sparked the fire at last. “See? I just needed the oaf out of the way so I could get it going.” She smiled toward Korah. “I suppose up by the Spires you need to know how to handle fire just to stay alive.”
The Spireman shrugged. “We have our furs.”
“I’ve never seen an animal as white as what you wear.” She pointed to his cloak.
“It’s a frost bear.” Korah’s face broke into a broad grin as he unclasped the cloak to present it to Galatea. “I set out on the coldest day of the year. The sixteenth anniversary of the day of my birth. I went alone, with a blade and two harpoons. I returned with this.”
“Your king must think very highly of you to have sent you. I can see why he would,” I offered.
Korah didn’t look at me as he answered, “I’m sure he does.”
The fire began to crackle merrily. Galatea continued to admire Korah’s cloak and smile up at him. I looked to Daragen who had again fallen to arguing with Abani. He seemed oblivious to Galatea’s actions with Korah. I hoped he wasn’t the jealous type. Cerulean sat a bit apart from camp, facing away from the fire.
I chewed on the same thoughts that had occupied me for days now. Where were the others? I wasn’t surprised that at least some nations of men had ignored Chariis. We men, as a race, were quick to forget the past. We didn’t like stories; they reminded us that we weren’t the first ones to come up with any given idea. But the elves? Cerulean was here, but she represented only one of the two elven nations. Where was Fahalla? And the dwarves! They usually leaped at the opportunity to get into a story. My few contacts with the dwarven nations bordering the North always told me the stereotypes from the stories were true. What had kept the others away?
The campfire went out.
No, I wasn’t at our camp anymore. I was surrounded by trees. Thick, waxy foliage hid the moon above me. These were the jungles of Fahalla. Though I was not there, I could see it. I could feel it.
I shook in the frigid air. A cold firepit lay below me. Several unmoving forms sat around the dead campfire. In dim light, I made out the faces of five elves. They were all dead. One of them held a blackened paper. I recognized the Chariisi summons.
Then the trees were gone. I saw a field. Strands of golden grain waved all around me. I must be in Cassun now, one of the nations of men. There, another camp. The fire had gone out. Six men lay on the ground. Two had archery equipment in their hands. Another had a sword covered in frost. Again, the cold chilled me. Even in the muted light of the moon, I could see that the men’s fingers and lips had turned the blue of frost burn. One man near the extinguished coals clutched another Chariisi summons.
The field vanished. I saw the summit of a hill. Around, broken pillars dotted the landscape.
It was Maddarin.
A fire roared in a pit. Three black forms laughed together. They had their ale out and drank heartily as they boasted at one another. The dwarves! They weren’t far from us, then!
One stood and pointed. The other two rose, grabbing after weapons. Their bright white eyes reflected shimmering blue light.
Their campsite vanished in blue flames. Before me crackled our own cheery fire.
I gasped. “Cerulean! Run to the summit. Search. Are there any campfires near us? The dwarves are in the Hills. Somewhere near here. They’re being attacked!”
The elf did not ask how I knew; she sprinted to a nearby hill, climbing a pillar there and looking over the landscape.
I stood. “Put out the fire. We need to move.”
No one moved.
Abani asked, “Was it another vision?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and packed quickly, reloading the horses. Daragen and Galatea followed suit. Korah objected. “What? You’re seeing things?”
“Your king pledged your service to me. Obey me now or go home.”
He grumbled, but obeyed.
Above, Cerulean leaped from her perch and ran back to us, pointing. “Several leagues away. We must go quickly.”
Korah’s eyes widened. “She talks? I thought she was mute!”
Daragen slapped him on the back. “Me, too. Don’t say it too loud, though. Galatea might deck you, and her punches hurt.”
The redheaded woman hit her mate.
We mounted up in scant minutes and ventured out. We had to be careful; the landscape was treacherous. Cerulean led the way, her keen eyes discerning any dangers.
Abani asked, “What did you see?”
“Campsites of the others that should have joined us. The Fahalla elves, dead. Envoys from the nations of men, dead. The dwarves alive, here in the hills, but being attacked.”
“What could you surmise of our enemy?”
“Blue flame and cold.”
“Their numbers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Their race?”
“I don’t know.”
; “What did you see?”
“Blue flame and cold.”
Abani snorted. “Your visions are useless.”
“Thank you so much. I never had visions before today. I’m new at this; old men don’t learn new things well.”
We drove on through the night for several hours. I was about to ask Cerulean if she had really seen another camp so far distant when we crested a hill. From there we saw the neighboring summit.
We were too late. A dark campsite held three unmoving forms gathered around a dead fire.
Chapter Nine
Cerulean and Abani dismounted and sprinted, crossing the little valley more quickly on foot than we could on horseback. The cloudy night kept the moonlight away, making the place murky.
We drew our weapons. Korah was ready with his harpoon. I clutched Northwind. Galatea held some sort of small wineskin. Daragen had drawn a single dagger. We all gazed into the surrounding darkness, searching for unseen attackers.
All I heard was the muted sound of our mounts trampling the sparse grass and the clink of reins. And the beating of my heart. I hated night battles. I wanted to see my foe coming at me. I squinted, but my eyes had only grown worse with age.
I did see my breath as we climbed the hill. Galatea rubbed her arms for warmth.
By the time we reached the summit, Abani was able to report. “I see nothing threatening nearby. We’re safe for now.”
I sighed, lowering my blade. After a moment I sheathed it, flexing my hand and stretching my shoulder.
Abani pointed. “These two are dead. That one, I think, is still alive.”
Cerulean bent over the form and began chanting strange syllables in a low voice.
Galatea set to work on the fire, taking some oil from a skin on her belt and lighting it quickly. Daragen did not argue about fire-lighting tactics now. Within seconds, the fire roared more brightly than ours had. Once the fire burned hot, Galatea ordered, “Bring him here. Let the fire warm him.”
The Keeper of Tales Page 5