The Keeper of Tales

by Jonathon Mast

  After a stunned moment I continued, “Once more she thanked her…” I glanced above. “… friend.”

  Once more, a clatter from above. “Oh! And that’s better, just leaving the word out so everyone thinks it. So much better!” The muttering continued.

  I set my teeth and hurried on. “‘Karen Cordolis, I swear, you are the sweetest dear I have ever set my eyes upon. Thank you kindly for a wonderful supper. If only you could talk with me, what discussions we would have!’ And the potato maiden leaped to her stubby feet and gave a curtsy. ‘Why ma’am, I would be happy to talk with you!’ she proclaimed.”

  Suddenly the small woman walked out from a minute crevice at the base of the stone finger, which I hadn’t noticed before. She bore a tiny tray with bowls of soup that were scarcely larger than thimbles. She wore what appeared to be rough doll’s clothing. Her hair was gray, but her minuscule eyes glinted with mirth. “And I would be happy to talk with you, even if you think I’m odd. So seldom do travelers pass this way, within sight of my home! I have been yearning for a chance to entertain for ages.” She glanced this way and that at the faces of those around her. “Come, come! No one complained of my soup back when I lived among you big people, and you shan’t complain of it now! Eat!” She set the tray on a rock before her.

  None of us knew how to take this small woman. After a moment of stunned silence, I spoke, “My lady, would you care to have me continue your story while we dine?”

  She waved her hands. “Tut! You boys eat. I know how hungry you big people get. When you finish this, I have another pot on the fire. You can finish your story later. I don’t really need to hear it! I hear every traveler from afar when they tell my tale. And let me tell you, there have been some fine additions to my story over the years! I never really was carried into war, you know, but it’s pleasant thinking I was some man’s good luck charm. I never would’ve polished his armor while he slept, though. Women do enough things for men, I always say!” She gestured to Galatea. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Galatea grinned.

  Daragen wrinkled his nose at her.

  She punched him in the shoulder.

  “Ah, good! Punch him a few more times, my dear. I’m sure he deserves it. Look at that! He doesn’t even shave for you. Tsk!” And Karen Cordolis talked at us. After hearing the woman talk, I scarcely believed she would intentionally hurt us. This appeared to truly be Karen Cordolis, though I had never known the true subject of any tale to appear at its telling!

  Lazul took the first minuscule bowl of soup. He tipped it back to his mouth and ate. The dwarf lowered the bowl, his face astonished. “Your bowls are misleading, little woman. I drank my fill in one swallow. Never before have I had soup that tasted so good!” He smiled. “And look! The bowl is not yet empty!”

  Our host’s smile grew larger. “Of course not! I know how much it takes to satisfy your enormous appetites! Now, you are a dwarf, are you not?” she asked rather pointedly.

  Lazul seemed a bit astonished. “Yes, my lady.”

  She turned to Daragen. “And you are Garrendish?”

  The short man gave a confused look. “Yes, but my people are called Garrendai.”

  “And you’re traveling together?” The woman looked ecstatic.

  The two glanced at each other. Daragen spoke. “Yes.”

  “Oh, wonderful! Then the wars between your people must have been settled. Tell me, who won? Oh, never mind. It must have been the dwarves; your people have a dwarvish ending to your name now. How many years has it been? I’m glad to hear the whole terrible business is done!”

  Once more the two looked at each other, confusion on both faces. They didn’t know. I knew a mention of the wars, but didn’t speak. They were little more than historical footnotes now. No stories of the war survived that I knew of. To break the silence, I reached for a bowl of my own.

  “Come, we shouldn’t waste this good woman’s efforts.” I drank and was surprised at the flood that came from that thimble. There was so much there, it nearly overwhelmed my mouth! The contents were rich and satisfying. “Madam, may I say, your cooking skills are underspoken in the tales I know. This by far defeats the efforts of my own wife!”

  The woman blushed. “Oh, stop! You don’t need to compliment me. I know I’m the best cook on all the earth! My story proves it, you know.” It was true; one of the adventures in her story set her cooking talents against the elf-wives of Fahalla, and she handily defeated them, fulfilling the desires of the belly of King Endor.

  The others began drinking their soup as well, and without fail, each was surprised at the sheer volume that filled their mouths, and each complimented Karen Cordolis on her cooking skills. Every time she answered, first humbly, and then added that she already knew she was a good cook anyway.

  Finally, I had to have my curiosity sated. “My lady, I mean no offense, but I have never met the subject of a tale I have told before.”

  “Oh, that’s because all the things you people talk about in your tales eventually grow old and die. But who ever heard of a potato dying of old age?” She gave a feisty smile. “No! We potatoes might rot, but we certainly don’t grow old. And I’ve been careful of the rot. Every once in a while, I must trim the sprouts coming from unsightly places, but I’m still as spry as ever I was!”

  “So there is no need to tell the story here?”

  “Oh! No need, indeed!” She threw up her hands and rolled her eyes. “There is need to tell the tale! Neither the story nor I would be pleased with you if you neglected to speak it! And I can certainly help the story along. If someone forgets to tell it when they should, I usually pull a few tricks on them. You just keep that in mind when you think about skipping my tale.” She laughed and jabbed a finger toward me.

  “But… you told me to stop.”

  “Well, one does get tired of hearing her own biography, no matter how exciting the teller makes it. And I don’t get too many visitors this far from the beaten path anymore. Even though my house has the feet of a goat, it can only travel so far, and most people who see it coming run the other way. Imagine, being afraid of Peor!” She looked up at her home with loving eyes. The house seemed to croon back at her, though I might have imagined it. “Besides, the story and I have an understanding. It knows it’s about me, so I have every right to change it or stop it or what have you if I wish!”

  I drank heartily during Karen Cordolis’s long chats, trying to understand everything she was saying. It made sense, I suppose, that the object of a story would be stronger than the tale about it and could order it about, but I’d never heard of it. Of course, most heroes were dust by the time a story was strong enough to force itself to be told, so it made sense that I had never encountered this strange thing before.

  I could tell that the men in particular were still quite unnerved by this diminutive woman. They sipped at their soup, refusing to trust it. I hoped we had shown enough courtesy, but finally I had to break into Karen’s talk. It was time to journey on.

  “We thank you for your hospitality, Karen Cordolis, but we must be going. We are on a long journey, and we have far to go before we rest.” I made my words as courteous as I could; if upsetting a story was ill fortune, I could scarcely imagine what dismaying the actual, physical legend would mean!

  “Oh, you men and your rushing. You do realize the world will go on, whether or not you bring in the harvest or climb the mountain or whatever great feats of derring-do you have planned? Oh, what am I even bothering for? If a man has it in his head, he’s as stubborn as a woman and less inclined to reason. Well, go, then. I’ll wait on the other side of Maddarin’s Hills with another pot of soup. Here, wait just a moment.” She wiped her hands on her apron and slid into the crevice again, returning a scant moment later bearing a large pot.

  Before I could protest that we could ride faster than her house could, she kept talking.

  “Put the dirty bowls on the tray there, if you please. Here, this is the remainder of the stew. Don’t leav
e it here! Who ever heard of a potato woman that ate stew? Honestly! I made it for you, all of you! Can’t have your women battling against dark forces and making your supper every night. I can help them a bit, anyway!” She handed me the pot, which was about the size of a ripe apple. She whispered just to me. “Whenever you serve, make sure to give the dwarf double portions! They’re always so hungry. Never offend him by not filling him up; so many wars have been started by hungry dwarves!”

  She raised her voice again. “So, I will see you off. If you ever have need of me in the Hills, simply call for my help three times, and Peor will bear me to you. Well, go on. I thought you had to leave! I’m done talking! Go!”

  Chapter Twelve

  We bid Karen Cordolis farewell, and I led the way through the stony fingers. After a span of silence, Korah asked, “Are all tales interrupted this way in the West?”

  Abani was quick to answer. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

  Daragen agreed, and there were a few more moments of quiet, with nothing more than the sound of our horses stamping the ground and the clank of metal.

  Again, Korah broke the silence. “Goat feet?”

  The rest of us, except Cerulean, broke into laughter. I explained, “According to the tales, Karen Cordolis obtains a witch’s house that walks about on nimble goat hooves. She tricked the hag into the oven. That’s why she’ll never offer baked goods; she’s afraid the witch will escape!”

  I wasn’t surprised Korah didn’t know it. The story, at least the basics, was well known in the West, but I would never have heard of it in the North but for my studies. “We would have gotten to that part eventually. She’s the star of many a tale, all of them told in this area. It takes nearly four full days to reach the other side of the Hills, and her stories take up every evening meal, and quite a few others besides. No one’s forced to tell her tale unless they witness her house, but I know many tell it anyway, just in case. Apparently, they were wiser for it.” I chuckled. “I wonder why she came out to greet us, but never anyone else.”

  “She reminds me of my wife.” Lazul spoke low with a fondness in his voice. Nonetheless, a low voice on a dwarf is loud enough for most others to hear.

  There was a bark of laughter behind the dwarven chief. “Dwarves don’t have wives.”

  Lazul turned to see who had spoken, his eyebrows high. His eyes focused on Galatea punching Daragen in the shoulder. “Oh, and I suppose a man would know that?”

  “The men of Garrenda stole all the dwarf-maids away to bake bread when their wives revolted; don’t you know the story?” He moved to ride next to the dwarf. His eyes twinkled. Daragen wasn’t much taller than Lazul, not even a half and hand, but his steed towered over Korah’s.

  “Aye, I know the story,” the dwarf replied. “Your women stopped baking bread because the dwarves had seduced them all. I should know.” He leaned over and spoke in a loud whisper: “My first wife was Garrendai.”

  Everyone else was listening in, but in a good-natured way. For some reason, I didn’t fear either insulting the other to the point of blows. It felt more as if two friends were jesting in a tavern. As long as not too much ale was quaffed, no blows would be exchanged. Remembering Daragen’s black eye from the day I met him, I was thankful we wouldn’t cross any taverns for quite some time.

  Cerulean rode beside me. I asked, “Did you know that the house was actually Karen Cordolis’s and not the making of the story itself?”

  Cerulean shook her head.

  Behind us, Korah added to the conversation, saying something I missed, which caused Daragen’s ears to redden. Galatea broke into laughter again, slapping Korah on the back. Her hand lingered on the white cloak a moment longer than necessary.

  I struggled for a moment. What had made Karen Cordolis greet us? Tor had given me that new title. Did being Keeper of Tales cause some special relationship with the stories? Should I share with the elf? She might know more about the title. “I might have been the cause of her willingness to talk.”

  Cerulean raised her eyebrows.

  I elected to take it as an invitation to continue speaking. I am told that the old speak whenever people would rather have them quiet anyway. What is the use of old age if one doesn’t take advantage of it? “Tor gave me a title before we left Chariis. He said I was to be the Keeper of Tales.”

  Behind us a blade was drawn. Both the elf and I spun, my hand reaching for Northwind.

  Abani had drawn a long, curved blade. She had the blade of the weapon against Korah’s throat and spoke in even, measured tones. Her voice was no different than it had ever been. “You will never speak of my father again. Should you choose to do so, my blade will not stop short of your skin. What you jest about in the North and in other lands,” her eyes darted to the others, “is your business, and I shall not interfere. But in Parvia, we treat those who sired us with respect second only to the one who shaped us in the womb. You would do well to remember that, Spireman.” She spat the last word as a curse, and the blade disappeared into her silks.

  The men around had also drawn weapons. It appeared as if they might attack the Parvian at any moment, but Korah raised a hand.

  Korah spoke to the woman who had threatened him. “Parvian, perhaps you should learn to speak in other tongues. I meant no offense.”

  I spoke up. “We’re here as one. We’re companions in a mission that may determine how our lands will fare for ages to come. A single comment shouldn’t undo that.”

  Abani’s hands held her blade again. Her eyes blazed, but her voice remained unchanged. “I fight for Parvia. How falls the rest of the world is not my concern.”

  Cerulean opened her mouth. “We all fight as one and travel the same path together. It is good when companions are quick to forgive, as it has always been on journeys such as this. So the tales speak.” Her voice rang, each syllable hanging in the air. As she spoke, each word left a trace of itself, glimmering as if a suspended drop of rain. When the last syllable rang out, they shot forth into Abani and Korah. None of the other men seemed to see the strange sparkles that danced before me.

  Abani relaxed, glancing at Cerulean. “The elf is right. Let us be companions, then. I will fight beside you, and you need not fear my blade. Just remember that the one who sired me is to receive respect.” Her blade vanished into folds of silk again.

  Korah also relaxed. “I shall remember.” He also glanced at Cerulean. “Thank you for your words, elf.”

  Cerulean nodded and gestured that the group should continue walking.

  As I urged Vendarion onward, the others continued their discussion. Now they turned to comparing their various weapons. I heard more sounds of blades being drawn, but with no urgency.

  As soon as conversations resumed, I spoke quietly with my companion again. “You spoke a spell on them, didn’t you?”

  Cerulean nodded.

  “You just changed their hearts with a handful of words. How can you wield such power?”

  She looked away, shaking her head.

  “Cerulean?”

  She slackened her pace, falling back among the others. I led the way alone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We encamped within a circle of pillars. Hardy brush and white stones spotted the ground. We started a low fire for warmth and cooking. Abani volunteered first watch, nimbly mounting one of the tall fingers and perching atop it in a crouch. Daragen suggested at least two per watch and with some difficulty scaled a stone pillar on the other side of camp. Abani snorted toward him.

  When Korah suggested himself for second watch, Galatea volunteered to stand with him. Daragen seemed oblivious to his mate’s actions. I wondered what game they were playing.

  The rest of us bedded down. Sleep fell on me quickly, but dreams imprisoned me there. I awoke in a sweat, still running from a nightmare of blue flame. I sat up quickly. I saw nothing but darkness. No blue flames. I put my hands to my face, wiping away sweat and dreams both.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” Th
e voice startled me. It was deep, rumbling, young. A moment later, I realized it was Korah’s voice.

  “I go where I want.” The returning voice was soft and direct: Galatea’s.

  I laid back down slowly. They hadn’t noticed me, it seemed.

  “Your husband will be angry.”

  “My husband? You mean Daragen? He’s my mate, not my husband. My husband died a year ago. My grieving is long done.”

  A moment of silence.

  “So, what is he to you?”

  “Where there is one drop of water, a second is close by. In Garrenda, everyone has a mate. It’s for safety; if your mate knows where you are, there’s no chance the ship can leave you behind. He’s here to watch out for me and I for him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Why would we?”

  More silence.

  “We need to watch. That’s why we’re awake.”

  “I’m awake because I wanted to be with you. And do you think Karen Cordolis would let anything happen to us? We’re safe here. We might not be safe again for a long time.”

  “We shouldn’t do this.”

  “Why not? Do you have someone waiting for you back at the Spires?”

  “…No.”

  “Do you dishonor your king or your people by sitting with me? By putting your cloak around me and keeping me warm tonight?”

  “…No.”

  “Korah, tell me who you are. Everything about you.”

  “What happened to your husband?”

  “He died.” A short silence. “My captain was targeted for assassination by a paranai. Tieren found it while it was eating the captain. They fought. I heard the struggle, came to the captain’s chamber. Together we killed the drybones, but not before it struck a fatal blow. My husband was dropped into the water as a hero. And I was alone. Eventually I found my way into the service of the king and matched with Daragen.”

  “So, he has no claim on you?”