Badron looked up at the sky as it hunched before me.
“I’ve been so busy. I haven’t looked up at the sky. And the stars are so clear here. Right now, we’re just flying. I don’t have to be doing something at this moment. I’m just waiting for us to get back to Chariis. And I looked up, and there was the sky, and the stars, and...” I swallowed.
“Master, why do you stutter? What are you afraid to utter?”
I huffed a little laugh. “I haven’t allowed myself to stop and look at the sky since. Well,” I sighed, “I only got to be a father to a boy like that once.”
“The scar upon your heart is deep. I can hear it in its beat.”
“Yes, Badron. The scar runs very deep.”
It’s strange how much a person can weep after so many years.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“I haven’t been dead this long in quite a while.”
I looked around me for the source of the voice. Kree’Ah was gone. Badron had vanished. I thought I stood in the Parvian wastes. Broken land lay around me, slabs of cold stone and stretches of sand and pebbles. The air was cool against my skin, and the night sky was still brilliant.
Finally, I saw him, lounging against a rocky finger jutting from the ground.
Garethen.
I squared my shoulders to him but found no blade at my side. I wore no armor, either. Just simple breeches and tunic. Well, then. “I’m dreaming?” I asked.
“I would guess so. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to rest. You know, being dead is one of the few places stories can’t really get to you. Most stories are smart enough to stay out of this realm.”
“I’m confused. You’re saying I’m dead?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. You’re probably dreaming. Did you fall asleep?”
“I don’t remember falling asleep, but it’s possible.”
Garethen shrugged. “I’m probably supposed to use this time to tempt you. That’s what the stories would say, anyway. I’m always the evil one.” He tossed a grin at me. “But, well, the stories can’t make me do anything here.”
“I’m not releasing your ash,” I growled.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He stretched and stood upright, looking around at the landscape. “Parvia, huh? I remember when this was more of a bog. There were all these little flowers that grew through here. Quite pretty.”
“That’s how you’re tempting me?”
“Didn’t you hear me? The stories imprison me. They make me do things that I’d rather not do, honestly. Why do you think I’m constantly sending goblin raiding parties? Because I have to. It’s not like I enjoy sacrificing so many of my followers. You people always beat them back. But all the stories say, ‘Every spring the goblins attack.’ It’s not a highly effective way of ruling, is it, to send so many of your followers to die?” He shook his head.
“That’s not my concern.”
“Of course it is. Stories are the business of the whole world. You’re as much a prisoner of the stories as I am. Except here, I’m free to finally not be evil. And you, Naeharum Adal, are free here, too. We could actually be friends, you know. At least when I’m dead. I haven’t had a friend for a long, long time.”
“I’ve lost too many of my people to your goblins.”
He paced past me. “I think there used to be a stream over here, long ago. When the bog started drying up, of course. Parvians used to picnic. Can you picture it? They wouldn’t do that now.” He looked up at me. “Oh, of course you’ve lost a lot of people. But as many as the goblins I’ve lost?” He shook his head. “But you’ll learn soon enough, Warden of Stories. You’re supposed to keep them in line, but really, they’re the ones that keep you. There’s a reason Tor didn’t tell you anything about your new office. He didn’t want you running the other way.”
“If this is my dream, can I just tell you to shut your mouth?”
“Oh, you could. But since I’m dead, I don’t have to listen to you. Actually, come to think of it, I probably wouldn’t listen anyway. But I’m even less likely to now.” He shrugged. “Even when I’m not busy being evil I can be something of a cretin.”
I turned away from him. Could I just walk away? It was my dream, after all.
“Didn’t you wonder? Why Tor didn’t tell you anything about being Keeper of Tales?”
I began hiking along the broken ground.
“Because you’re meant to take my job,” Garethen called after me.
I stopped.
“I was the Keeper of Tales once. Long ago. And then the tales said there must be an evil lord. The one before was... removed.”
I turned to him. “Liar.”
“Sure.” He grinned. “Of course I’m lying. Or perhaps not. Remember how I told you the tales can’t touch me here? This is the one place where I don’t have to lie. I don’t have to be evil.” He made a strange sound. “I don’t have to be evil,” he repeated.
He turned away. His shoulders shook.
No. Garethen wasn’t allowed to cry. He wasn’t allowed to feel remorse. He had slaughtered how many people? It was his fault Korah was dead.
I wished I had a sword. A blade of some kind. Or a harpoon. Anything. “What happens if I kill you here?” I asked.
Garethen kept his back to me. “I don’t know. It’s never happened before. It’s not often two Keepers of Tales can face each other, is it?” He was silent a moment. “Maybe I would be free.”
He turned to me. “I really haven’t been dead this long for a long, long time. Maybe never. What would happen, do you think, Keeper of Tales? Could you tell the story where I was finally released from being the bad guy? Would you do that for me?”
I backed away. If Garethen wanted me to kill him, it must be some trick. It would give him power. Maybe it would release him to be reborn in Ban Maraseth. I didn’t know; it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be tricked.
Garethen leaped over the cracks in the ground until he reached me. He put a hand on my shoulder.
I shoved it away.
He was saying something then. His face looked so earnest. I refused to listen. Enough of this. I looked away. Whatever he said was wrong. He said he didn’t have to lie here, but how could I trust that?
Yolian said he would speak the truth. That the truth he spoke was the most dangerous thing about him.
What if what he said was true? What if I was fated to be the next Fallen Lord?
No. I wouldn’t do that to the nations I loved. I would not turn against them.
Even if the stories forced it? Even if the tales said I must occupy that position?
No. I had loved the stories for so long. I had seen how much power they could have. But they were not that powerful. What was it the elves had said? They could not bend you beyond what you were.
I was no Fallen Lord.
Garethen’s hand was on my shoulder again. I spun toward him, backhanding him. He fell to the ground, a hand to his cheek. He laughed.
He laughed at me.
But what was I? A weak old man. A nothing.
An unlikely hero.
He was talking again, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of my anger, my frustration. Why had Tor left me like this, not knowing what I was, not knowing my role in the story? In a place where I faced the Fallen Lord himself?
I turned and ran across the wasteland.
I ran until morning.
Chapter Fifty
Dawn revealed a cracked and broken land.
I felt just as cracked and broken as I awoke on Kree’Ah’s back. Men were not designed to ride that long, much less old men. Ow. My back was unhappy, as were other parts of me.
Kree’Ah’s wings still flapped, his muscles working beneath me. My bindings had held me secure through the night. Through my dreams. Badron huddled before me.
“Master, throw it down. I do not want to drown.”
I shook my head. The dream had been so clear. So very clear. Was this how the madness had started for Ydarion?
I didn’t have to hold on for long. Not for long at all.
“Kree’Ah!” I called. “How long until we reach Chariis?”
“Three days, as the griffin flies,” he answered.
“Three more days?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. Three more days? Two more nights? Of course. Three nights total. Stories loved being told in threes. Why would it be any other way? Three nights of testing.
The unlikely hero could not fail.
And once Garethen was taken care of, once the canteen that held him was locked away, far, far from the light, then I could deal with the tales. Then I could use them to heal the nations.
I would never be a Fallen Lord. Never. I would not fail.
One of the griffins cried out, loud and shrill. Kree’Ah answered in their tongue. Soon they were all shouting to one another. Badron shrieked, too, covering its ears.
“What’s going on?” I asked. I couldn’t see anything in the sky around us. “Are we being attacked?”
“No,” Kree’Ah answered. “Look.” He pointed with claw.
Below, the rising sun unveiled destruction. Miles of refuse, filth, and smoking bonfires. Armies had passed through here recently, not caring what they ruined on their way to Chariis.
I heard Abani’s cries even over the wind. She leaped off her griffin.
The griffin shot after her, catching her, but only briefly. Abani leaped again. And then again. Farther down, closer to the ground, plummeting toward the ruins of Parvia.
“We need to go after her,” I said.
Kree’Ah breathed, “Agreed,” and dove.
I needed to remember that my stomach took a moment to also agree with me.
Badron pressed against me. I clung to Kree’Ah’s neck, his feathers ruffling in the wind. I pressed my knees as tightly as I could. I was glad I was still roped onto him. There was no way I could stay on otherwise. My eyes teared up; I couldn’t see where we were going or when we’d get there.
Abani and her griffin were hidden from my view by my tears, but I heard them.
The Parvian cried out, “Let me go down there!”
“It’s too dangerous!” Ka’Keneh, her griffin, grunted as he clung to Abani with his claws, having given up trying to keep her on his back.
“I will slay you if you come between me and the ground again,” she snarled.
Kree’Ah snapped his wings out, and we slowed. My stomach slipped back into place no less comfortably than it had abandoned it. “You dishonor us,” he shouted to the Parvian.
Abani glared. “My honor lies there, on the desert floor. Look!” She pointed at a place darker than the surrounding sands. “I need to look. I need to find if there are any survivors!”
I leaned forward, “The armies appear to have moved on. We could land. For a brief time.”
“Griffins are not made for the land.”
“Can you drop us off? For a brief period?”
Kree’Ah rumbled, and then answered by diving the relatively short distance to the ground. Badron and I dismounted, and our griffin was gone again in a moment. To tell the truth, I mostly fell off. Badron supported me as my legs started working again.
Ka’Keneh glided by, releasing Abani from his claws as he passed. I looked up to the sky and saw that the other griffins circled far, far above.
“Abani, we can’t spend much time here,” I said, taking in the devastation around me.
When my men camped together, they dug pits to leave their filth in, burying it when they were done. Apparently, goblins had no such concerns with cleanliness. The landscape reeked of it. Firepits were surrounded by broken equipment and rotting food. A few dead pack animals lay in the sun.
Abani cried out. I turned to face her.
“This was the Oasis of Edramani. Look!” She pointed with a blade.
I followed the gesture. There was a palm tree, toppled and trampled flat. It lay on the edge of a massive depression, filled with churned up mud.
No. This was no depression. It had been a pool. A pool dried up by many, many mouths drinking from it.
My eyes grazed the edge of the depression, of the former pool. Now that I knew to look, I saw bushes flattened. More palm trees.
A place of life destroyed.
Abani dashed across the depression. I followed her as quickly as I could.
She fell to her knees when she reached the slight rise on the other side of the former pool. She raged.
I was not prepared for what awaited my eyes on the other side. Tents. Tents dyed red and black, faded by sun and sand. Cooking pots. Broken swords. Adobe buildings shattered, nothing more now than broken walls flat in the sun.
A pile of those who had used them, left out in the sun. A small hand stuck out of the pile. A small, sun-browned hand. Its tiny fingernails were red.
Abani looked up at me. “There was always someone at this oasis. Always. It could support at least fifty, even in the worst seasons. It was a favorite for those with young children. They had no chance against an army this large.”
I clenched my fists. “We’re going to find this army. And we’re going to destroy them.”
She stood. “Do you see now, Man of the North? Do you see what we Parvians have faced for so long to keep all of you safe? And now that it will boil even beyond us, now that it threatens all of you, now you grieve?”
“Abani,” I said, but I could say no more.
What did I think we could do? Even without Garethen, his armies were too much for us. I knew how many men the North would send and had a good idea of how many Spiremen would come. Even if every nation sent every man that could fight, would we be enough to stand?
And how many piles like this one would there be before we could gather? How many little hands like that one?
The canteen grew cold against my side.
Our griffins came to us soon after. We mounted and flew on.
Chapter Fifty-One
At sundown we reached the Jazen Mountains, under which resided the Graz. The conquered dwarves. If any remained. Perhaps that jezebel Delia had taken her throne again. The throne we had freed from her.
The stars again shone at me, but I refused to look up at them. I couldn’t bear their weight.
I was in a tree. Sunlight filtered down through leaves as countless as the heads of grain in endless fields. The air was heavy. Hot. Humid. Below, I heard the trickle of water. Glancing over the edge of the large branch I sat on, I spied streams pouring over the roots of a forest in tiny waterfalls. The trunks of the trees were thicker than anything I had ever imagined before.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
The voice startled me. I almost fell off my branch. It was rich, feminine, young, amused. I looked toward its source.
A young female elf was perched a branch over from me. She grinned. “I loved it here. So much. I could run from one end of Hadrisar to the other without ever touching the waters below. The branches wove together like words from a story.”
“Cerulean?”
She tilted her head. “What’s left of her, yes. Cerulean is gone. I am her story.”
“But you’re so young.”
“I feel so light,” she laughed. “I wasn’t always what you knew. But grief changes a person. You know that, too, don’t you?”
I looked away. “Yes.”
“Grief changes everyone’s story. Everyone’s. Abani’s. Yours. Galatea’s. Lazul’s. And yes, mine, too.” Cerulean jumped from her branch to mine, nimbler than I ever could have imagined.
“Why am I here? Why not in Parvia with Garethen?” I asked.
“Would you prefer that?”
“No!”
“So tonight, you’re here with me. Garethen resides in a canteen at your side. I’m here in your heart, Keeper. So tonight, you keep me, not him. I’m sure he’ll have another chance soon enough. That is how this kind of thing works.”
“Great.” I looked down into the water again. “Is it safe for me to stand
?”
“Stand? Yes. Fall? No.”
“Thanks.” I attempted to stand. The branch was broad, at least a full stride across, but I still didn’t trust myself. I leaned against the massive trunk. “This is where you grew up?”
“Yes,” Cerulean answered.
“You look so young.” I shook my head. I was repeating myself like the old man that I was.
Cerulean, though, didn’t seem to mind. “I am, as you see me now,” she replied. “I thought you might enjoy seeing me this way. Would you prefer me sullen and terse? I’m sure I could appear as that older version of myself if you’d like.”
Suddenly, an image appeared in my mind. Cerulean and several other elves whom I did not know. All apparently deep in conversation. I caught only bits and pieces of it, snatches of color, the warmth of the sun, a deep sense of connection.
The image faded, and I saw Cerulean before me again, a twinkle in her eye. “If you prefer,” she said simply.
“Oh,” I shook my head. “No, no thank you. Speaking with you, just as we are now, might be best.” I smiled. “What happened that you became... how I knew you? I look at you here, and hear how you talk, and I see joy. I sensed very little of that in the Cerulean I knew.”
Her grin faded. Joy left her eyes. “Grief,” she answered. She turned from me to a tree not far distant.
A young elf played a wooden flute there. A young male, by the looks of things. The music danced through the air, and he joined in. He jumped along the branch, rolled, spun, all with supreme confidence. The tune laughed and giggled. Nature around him seemed to giggle just as much.
And then a cat dropped from the branches above. A large, black cat, with long, long claws and bright eyes. It growled.
The young elf lowered the flute from his lips and raised a hand, palm toward the cat. “Gentle,” he said. “Be still. I didn’t know this was your tree.”
The cat struck. Its heavy front paws landed against the young elf’s shoulders and shoved him back. He crashed into the branch flat on his back. He cried out in pain. Blood flowed from his shoulders.
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