by JA Andrews
At her attention he sank back down onto the bench, pushing the deluge of her emotions out of his chest. What he was left with felt almost as foreign. Seeing Vahe’s face, after wondering and searching for twenty years, loosed something inside him. Anger and relief strained against each other, but above it all rose a hope, so wild and fierce that it felt almost like terror.
It prodded him to jump up and follow the man. But throttling Vahe and demanding to know where Ilsa was, while he stood among a crowd of his own wayfarers, probably wasn’t going to get positive results.
“Are you alright?” The little girl asked, still watching him.
“I…” Why was she watching him? He glanced around to see if his influence spell had worn off, but no one else paid him any attention. “I don’t know.”
She was maybe eight years old, her blond hair as out of place on the Sweep as his black. He took a calming breath, trying to get control of his emotions. Influence spells were always less effective on children. They spent too much time fascinated by new things to be convinced to overlook a stranger.
The little girl inched around the edge of the wagon. Everything about her was dusty in a permanent way, as though she had never been clean. The bones of her shoulder pressed up against her shift like jagged stones and skeletal fingers pushed her hair back. Sitting here among the lurid colors of the wayfarers, her slave’s tunic was almost too drab to be called grey.
The Roven bought their slaves from Coastal Baylon and Napon in the east. Criminals in those countries could find themselves as easily on the slave block as in a prison. Debtors were treated the same. A debt large enough would enslave their entire family. But the Roven felt that young slaves were more trouble than they were worth. Until an age where they could be useful, they were kept in a shabby little commune, only fed when they could prove they’d found work. The smallest slaves scurried through the cities with menial jobs, gaunt faces, and tattered clothes.
Will grabbed his last avak.
“Would you like some fruit?” He held it out.
She looked at it suspiciously.
He set the avak as close to the end of the bench as he could. Slowly, she reached forward, then snatched the fruit off the bench. It looked heavy in her hand, like the weight of it might snap her thin wrist.
“It’s avak,” Will said. “They’re my favorite.” He glanced around the theater, but Vahe was still out of sight.
She took a nibble of the fruit and cocked her head to the side. “If it’s your favorite, why’d you give it to me?”
Will paused. “Would you believe it’s my way of countering great evil?”
One of her little eyebrows rose skeptically.
“And,” he added, “because you look like me. And I haven’t talked to many people lately that do.”
She glanced at his black beard and scrunched her nose.
“Well, not exactly like me.” He motioned to the Scales. “But where I come from, across those mountains, there are a lot of people who look like you and me. Not everyone has red hair.”
She studied the Scales with narrowed eyes. “I don’t like those mountains. They don’t have any grass at all.”
The stony range rose up in a dull brown, jagged and unwelcoming. “True. The mountains are barren, but on the other side the world turns green again and there’s grass. Not like here. Over there it’s greener and shorter and out of it grows bushes and trees taller than a house.” Motion of several people between two of the wagons caught his eye.
She took another bite of the fruit. “There’s nothing more wonderful than grass.”
Despite everything, the declaration was so unexpected that Will let out a laugh.
She fixed him with a severe look. “Don’t you like it?”
“I’m not sure.” Will studied the faces between the gaps of the wagons, trying to catch a glimpse of Vahe. “It’s a little…empty.”
She let out a huff of indignation. “Empty? You could walk for days and not find a bare spot. And all the roots tangle together so the whole world is an endless living thing.”
Will dragged his attention back to the strange little girl. He had to press his mouth shut to keep from smiling at the intensity of her enthusiasm. “I’ve never thought of the grass as being a thing in itself.”
“It’s the biggest, most powerful thing in the world! It’s where everything comes from, and where everything goes when it’s too old to move. And”—she glared at him, setting her tiny fists on her hips—“it’s beautiful!”
Will sat back. “I stand corrected. I’ve obviously not been giving the Sweep the respect it deserves.” He set his fist on his chest and bowed his head. “I promise not to make the same mistake again.”
She pursed her lips in consideration. “And you’ll see how beautiful it is?”
Beautiful? Grass too tall to feel like grass, but too grassy to feel like anything else, spread out over the land like the worn, sparse pelt of some massive creature? She waited expectantly.
“I’ll try.”
“It’ll be easy.” She leaned forward, her face fairly bursting with excitement. “Summer is coming.”
He found himself smiling at her with a smile that felt rusty from disuse. She settled on the bench and took another bite of the avak. Vahe still hadn’t returned. Will was just about to follow him when the man stepped into view and stood on the stage, calling instructions to a handful of wayfarers, and the surge of hatred that Will felt toward the man almost overwhelmed him.
But Vahe clearly wasn’t going anywhere soon. Will settled back and took a deep breath. He couldn’t ruin this by rushing into it.
He settled back on the bench. The slave girl still watched him curiously.
“I’m Will.”
She considered him seriously for a moment. “I’m…” She let her eyes wander over to the Sweep. “Rass.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “Rass sounds a lot like grass.”
She grinned at him. “That’s why I picked it.”
“You’re the most interesting girl I’ve met in a long time.” Will paused. He glanced at Vahe. Did Rass know anything about him? He searched for a way to word his next question. Who owns you? felt insensitive. He glanced to where she’d been hiding. “Do you live with the wayfarers?”
She let out a giggle. “No.”
“You live in Porreen?”
“In the stinky city?” She shuddered. “I live on the grass.”
The grass?
“I just came because the colored wagons tell good stories. I love stories.”
“So do I,” Will said. “I like stories more than maybe anything else in the world.”
She cocked her head to the side. “You look like someone out of a story. Sitting here and hiding in plain sight.” Her face turned wistful. “I wish I could do that.”
Will felt a squeeze of fear in his chest. She could sense his influence spell? Children were unsettling, sometimes. Like they weren’t exactly human yet. They were something wilder, brighter. Of course, now that he thought about it that way, maybe it was the adults who’d stopped being human.
Will grasped for a different topic. “I’ve never seen so many wayfarers together.”
Rass sat down on the far edge of the bench. “They come every spring.”
“Did…” Will hesitated, but couldn’t come up with a better way to ask it. “Did the wayfarers bring you here?”
Rass looked up at him in surprise, then let out a long, rippling laugh. “No one brought me.” She licked the last of the avak juice off the pit and held it out to Will. “Thank you.”
Will hesitated before holding out his hand and letting her drop the wet pit in his palm. He tucked it quickly into his pocket with the other pit, and wiped his hand on his pants.
“I just come to hear the stories.” She pointed at Vahe. “My favorite is Borto.”
“Borto?” The name was wrong. Will studied the wayfarer’s face. That wasn’t exactly right either. The man had too much chin. Or not enough f
orehead.
“He’s the best storyteller on the Sweep.”
“The best?” Vahe had told stories, but even as a child Will wouldn’t have ranked him any better than the men who told stories in his own village. “Does he do tricks with fire?”
Rass shook her head. “You’re looking for Borto’s brother, Vahe of the Flames.”
Will flinched at the name.
“He comes sometimes, but not as often as Borto.”
“Is he here now?” The words came out strained.
“I haven’t seen him.”
Will’s fingers went mindlessly to the gold ring on his finger. The ring had a wide central band that spun with a satisfying smoothness between two thin edges. Will watched Borto closely, a hundred thoughts warring with each other in his head.
“How does your ring spin like that?” Rass asked.
Will held out his hand, showing her. “A friend gave this to me a long time ago.”
The Shield, the leader of the Keepers, had gifted it to him over ten years ago, the first time he’d left the Stronghold on his own. Most rings are a single entity, he’d told Will. I’ve always thought it was interesting that part of this is free to move and spin, affected by the world, while the core of it remains true to the wearer. The Shield had considered Will for a long moment before nodding approvingly and grinning. It fits you. And it’s extremely satisfying to spin while you think.
Borto let out a loud laugh and shouted at some approaching wayfarers.
“It’s nice to meet you, Rass.” Will stood. “I think I’ll join the story contest tonight.”
Rass’s eyebrows shot up. “You tell stories?”
Will leaned toward her and whispered. “Maybe better than Borto.”
She clapped her hands and grinned.
Will gave her a slight bow and walked around the edge of the closest wagon.
The influence spell shouldn’t have worn off yet, regardless of Rass’s attention. And it was awkward trying to have a conversation with someone while the spell tried to distract them. He drew a little energy from the grass at his feet and sent the vitalle out through his other hand cutting through the influence spell, letting it dissolve around him. He almost never ended the spell before it wore off, and unlike the ease of putting it on, the unfamiliar act of banishing it burned the ends of his fingers.
Now that it was done, he itched to put it back on. Even back here, away from the crowds of the festival, he felt exposed. The haggling and hawking from the festival seemed louder than before and the smell of smoked fish and roasting sorren seeds was distractingly strong. This might not have been a good idea.
Will started along the wagons toward the place Borto had gone, forcing himself to walk calmly. He caught sight of the man's red sleeve as he sat on a low stool, leaning on his elbows and tinkering with a small box. Will’s heart pounded so loudly it was astonishing the wayfarer couldn’t hear it.
Borto caught sight of him and rose. His fingers were loaded down with rings that glinted with gems, and at least three larger stones hung around his neck on leather thongs. “Looking for something?”
“You,” Will answered, trying to keep his voice pleasant. The resemblance to Vahe made his heart shove up into this throat. He pressed his fist to his chest and bowed, giving himself a moment to calm down. “Do you have room in your contest this evening for one more storyteller?”
Borto took in Will’s dirty, drab clothes and worn boots, looking unimpressed.
“I may not best a wayfarer in storytelling,” Will said, “but in my own small corner of the world, I once spun a tale so sad it brought a troll to tears.”
Borto fixed Will with a probing look. “And what small corner of the world is that? Your accent says southwestern Queensland. Near Marshwell, perhaps?”
Will hid his discomfort at the extremely accurate guess with a smile. “Marshwell is not far at all from where I was raised.” Which was true. “But I’m from just over the border in Gulfind.” Which was not true. Much smaller than Queensland, Gulfind was surrounded by mountains full of gold mines, making the small population excessively wealthy. It was on excellent terms with Queensland however, and the people along the border from both countries were almost impossible to tell apart. Also, merchants from Gulfind traveled widely and were known for being a bit eccentric. A traveling storyteller from there was unusual, but not unheard of. The lie had served him for the last year on the Sweep.
“I think we can fit in one more storyman.” Borto ushered Will back into the stage area. “But I’ll warn you, this isn’t your homeland. There’s no gold for the winner.”
“I’m just thrilled to be a part of it.” Will wished his pulse would slow. The more he looked at the man, the more differences he saw from his memory of Vahe. “I’m fascinated by wayfarers, and I’ve never seen so many in one place. There’s no better way to learn about people than to hear them tell stories.”
“But we won’t be telling wayfarer stories. Here on the Sweep, the stories we’ll tell are mostly Roven tales.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Will answered, trying to keep the man talking. Borto’s voice was different from Vahe’s too.
“It doesn’t?” Borto looked at Will appraisingly. “If a man tells you of his home and his family, you’ll learn something about him. But if he tells you foreign tales, you only learn about foreign places.”
“You learn that too,” Will agreed. The voice was definitely not Vahe’s. “But if everyone knew the same story, we’d still tell it differently from each other.” He shrugged. “I think the way a man tells a story reveals more about the man than it does about the story.”
Borto studied him. Then a grin spread across the wayfarer’s face. “A storyman and a philosopher!” Borto clapped Will on the shoulder and gestured at the old woman standing by the stage. “Welcome to the contest. Give Estinn your name. I want to hear a tale that’d make a troll cry.”
Will gave the man another bow and turned toward Estinn. His heart raced like he’d just sprinted across the Sweep, and he took a couple deep breaths trying to calm it. Now he needed to find a place to spend the night and chose a tale. Apparently a sad one. And something that would impress the greatest storyteller on the Sweep.
He could tell The Black Horn. Technically it was from Queensland, and included a Keeper, and it didn’t positively end as a tragedy. But it was obscure enough that no one would know if he switched the country. The Keeper would be easy to change to a wise woman and the emotional parts amplified until it would feel like a tragedy. And the only magic in the story was firmly anchored in the horn, leaving it the sort of magic that the stonesteeps on the Sweep used. It never mentioned Keeper magic, drawn from living things.
Will nodded pleasantly at the wayfarers who greeted him as he walked through their area. Leaving off the influence spell felt surprisingly free. It felt like a chain had fallen off, or a window had opened.
Borto knew Vahe. All Will needed to do was befriend him. Here, finally, after twenty years, he had a lead to finding the man who’d taken Ilsa. And following it only depended on telling a good story. There weren’t many things Will did well, but storytelling—that was easy.
Will introduced himself to old Estinn and she noted his name.
After getting directions to an inn that served foreigners where he could stable Shadow and stow his bag for the evening, he turned, looking for Rass with a half-formed idea of getting the little girl a real dinner. Instead of Rass, a Roven woman dressed in hunting leathers leaned against the wagon next to his horse. Her hair draped over one shoulder in a long, thick copper braid.
She stood with her arms crossed, watching Will.
Her eyes were narrow, gauging, and her mouth pressed into a thin, flinty line. A hint of unease rolled across the back of Will’s neck, but he forced himself to smile at her.
She did not smile back.
Chapter Three
When he reached the woman, he paused and bowed his head slightly in her direction.
She said nothing.
The “m’lady” had been too much. Judging from her leather vest, plain boots, and brown cotton pants, all of which were more functional than fashionable, she was a ranger who spent her life hunting on the Sweep. This wasn’t a woman who wanted m’ladying.
Above them a seabird squawked indignantly and Will could still hear the noises from the festival, but an awkward silence filled the small void of space around them.
“I guess it’s not a lovely evening if you don’t like festivals.”
Her foot rested on the bench, pinning down the reins of his horse.
“In which case we could hope for something that will end the festivities, like…” He paused. “A pestilence. Or a plague.”
She stayed straight-faced, studying him coldly.
He opened up out toward her to read her emotions and felt…nothing.
Her emptiness seeped into him. She had no anger, no suspicion, no dislike. Just nothing. He’d met people with all different intensities of emotions, but never one with none.
A chill wormed its way through his new found freedom and he backed up a step before stopping himself.
This woman was dreadful.
“One hour until the epic battle of storytellers commences!” Estinn called out to the crowd.
“That’s me.” Will took a step closer to Lady Dreadful. He put his hand on the reins, and slowly she moved her boot. He gave her a stiff nod, and led Shadow toward the nearest tents.
It took an age to get to them, feeling awkward the entire time, like his legs had forgotten the rhythm of a smooth gait. Her eyes were probably staring into his back, watching empty and cold. When he’d passed two tents, he glanced back, but saw no sign of her. Climbing into the saddle, he shook off her strangeness and turned Shadow toward the city gate.