by Dennis Foon
“Maybe they found a new—what was it they called you?” Roan asks.
“A Gyoxip,” Lumpy snorts. “It’s hard to prove yourself as an intermediary when even your one friend, at least someone you thought was your friend…”
But Roan’s stopped listening. In an instant, hook-sword in hand, he’s leapt to his feet and is taking a fighting stance. He nods toward a figure skulking over the hill.
“What have we here?” it booms. “Why it’s the mythical savior of civilization, and his erstwhile friend and budding theatrical genius!”
Roan relaxes the grip on his hook-sword at the sound of the familiar, mocking voice.
“Kamyar!” Lumpy cries, his humor instantly lifted by the Storyteller’s presence.
“Good to see you, young Lump,” says the Storyteller. “I came as quick as I could. Any more of that scrumptious-smelling banquet left in the pot? Is it bugs?”
“What are you…what brings you…how did you—?” Roan hesitates, unable to frame a question that doesn’t seem rude and disrespectful. Why should he be suspicious of a proven friend like Kamyar? Because he knows loyalties can change, and he’s learned the hard way that people are often not exactly who they say they are.
“I sent for him,” Lumpy says, a little sheepishly. “You said you couldn’t wait to see Kamyar’s face when you told him about the library. I sort of took that literally.”
Embarrassed, Roan turns back toward the Storyteller. “Sorry, there’s just so much going on.”
“No offense taken, Roan of Longlight. I’m gratified to see that you’ve adopted the free advice I gave in Oasis: ask many questions, accept nothing at face value…Not a bad turn of phrase. Now, what’s this about a library?”
Kamyar listens intently as Roan relates Asp’s tale of the two doctors. Finding himself a comfortable spot by the fire, he unfurls his bedroll with a flourish. “They have quite a reputation at Oasis, those two. A bit dotty, as I recall. Brilliant, though, in their own peculiar way. I have to say I’m envious, if they’ve got it right. I’ve done quite a bit of snooping myself and never come up with any satisfactory answers. The Dirt Eaters are rather secretive about their…secret locations. I don’t suppose you could delay a day or two? I’m meeting up with Talia and Dobbs...”
“Wish we could. But we have to get to the Brothers’ camp by new moon and we’ve no idea how far we’ll be taken out of our way.”
“And what business, pray tell, do you have up on the Brothers’ mountain?”
“We’re hoping to meet with a smuggler. And then Ende’s coming with some Apsara. And a Governor will be there,” Lumpy says rather proudly. “Maybe. I’ve never even seen a Governor, never mind met one.”
“Hah!” Kamyar crows jubilantly. “Sounds like a war council to me. Am I invited?”
“Yes,” Roan blurts. “I mean. We’d like you to attend.” Being caught between his friendship with Kamyar and his need of him as a political ally is making Roan feel more awkward than he would like. “Darius has a lot of enemies, but right now they aren’t talking to each other. It’s not much but I thought getting some of them together might be a start.”
Kamyar, however, seems unconcerned with Roan’s ineptitude. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he announces. “And don’t underestimate the power of communication, Roan. The City’s controlled the Farlands by dividing its people and fomenting distrust, but I think the time is ripe to turn the tide.” Then, procuring, with an almost magical sleight of hand, a generously proportioned bowl, he leans into the fire. “Don’t mind if I do, thank you,” he says as he fills it with Lumpy’s fragrant stew. “I confess I am a little surprised to see you’ve left the Caldera just when your sister’s about to arrive.”
“Willum found Stowe! Is she alright?”
“How well she is, I don’t know. But I’ve had word she’s alive.”
Roan throws his arms around Kamyar and hugs him, lifting him right off the ground. “Thank you. You don’t know how much hearing that means to me.”
With his full-to-the-brim bowl of steaming stew balanced precariously in one hand, Kamyar winces. “Actually, I think I do.”
“Sorry,” says Roan, carefully releasing the Storyteller. “I’ve been so worried. In the mountains, I couldn’t sense her.”
“Well, if anyone can help her, Willum can.” Raising his bowl to his nose, Kamyar takes a theatrical sniff. “Umm. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Settling himself against his voluminous pack, Kamyar attacks his meal with gusto.
Clearing his throat, Roan shifts uncomfortably. “So…does your being here mean we can count on the help of the Storytellers?”
Kamyar abruptly raises his head. “Now, there’s the question. Well.” Squinting at Roan, he continues, “There are twenty-four Storytellers. Only three are from Oasis; the others found their way there as waifs from the Farlands. A few, like myself, maintain close ties smuggling in Dirt for the Eaters, but for most it’s not much more than a rest stop. Its main attraction, as you know, is Orin’s library. Ah. We come to that again. You’re going to Othard and Imin’s for the map?”
Roan can’t help but grin at the Storyteller’s persistence. “That’s right.”
“Suppose you left us some sign…”
Lumpy jumps in excitedly, “We could mark the trees, the way you etched the stone when we were caught in the labyrinth into Oasis.”
“Inspired suggestion, Master Lump. What say you, Roan of Longlight?”
“Can’t see why not. It’d have to be inconspicuous, though. And we’ll be moving quickly.”
“Quick I’m expert at and I’ll let you in on a trade secret. Vertical line for north, horizontal for south. East is a diagonal, starting from the top, right to left, and west is its opposite. If you’re traveling northeast you combine the appropriate symbols. Keeps the markings to a minimum, only be sure to indicate when you change directions—otherwise all is lost.”
“Do they know these symbols in Oasis?” Roan asks carefully.
“I work for them, Roan. My secrets, I keep to myself and those I trust. History, legend, myth—it’s true I’ve sweetened their medicine and made sure it was well distributed. But even in that I have veered dangerously from the proscribed path, almost from the very beginning.”
“Why?” Roan asks.
“Ask many questions.” Kamyar chuckles. “I ought to be more careful to exempt myself from my own sage advice. All right then. A story. Mine. I met a fellow, a good twenty years ago, who changed my life. I had just finished plying my newly acquired trade before a deeply appreciative audience when this slight, ageless-looking man came up to me. ‘The only stories worth telling,’ he said somewhat disapprovingly, ‘are ones that can change the world.’ Well, he burst my self-satisfied bubble, but, luckily for me, I was overcome with a feeling of momentousness. I knew somehow I should listen to him, and listen well. Turned out he was the greatest teller of tales I’d ever met. The Carrier of the Wazya bloodline. It’s been three years or more since I last cast eyes on Khutumi, but his voice echoes in my mind as if we’d spoken yesterday.”
Lumpy says the word slowly. “Wazya. I’ve heard about them, some kind of magical creatures.”
“Not magical, at least not the way you mean it. Just hard to find. But tiny miracles do follow where they tread. The Wazya are one of the oldest of all the cultures of humankind. Solitary travelers, they seed and tend our ravaged earth. White crickets are said to appear in their wake. And from the beginning, they’ve traveled the Dreamfield without Dirt. There is one in each generation that carries the accumulation of all their stories. Khutumi is the carrier for this one.”
With a flash of insight, Roan knows. “Rat. Khutumi is Rat. I saw it in the Dreamfield. One face melding into another. One and many. Khutumi and his ancestors are all contained in Rat.”
“This meal is really sensational, Lumpy,” says Kamyar, helping himself to another bowlful.
“Where does one find Khutumi outside the Dreamfield?” Roan wonders alo
ud.
Kamyar licks his spoon. “He was always an elusive fellow. Then, last year he suffered an injury, one grave enough to prevent him from traveling. Only his daughter knows where he can be found. My conduit to him is through her. She’s fed me many a tale, many a myth, even a few about you.”
“His daughter?” asks Lumpy.
Roan leans over to touch his friend’s arm. “It’s Mabatan. Rat told me but by the time I got down to see you, Wolf and Stinger were already there and…”
But Lumpy waves away Roan’s apology, shaking his head in amazement. “That’s how she travels without Dirt, and why she’s connected to the crickets, and…and…she knows so much. She’s Wazya.”
Wazya. The word touches something buried deep within Roan’s memory. A story his mother told him long ago. He was so young then, it’s difficult to recollect it. Except for that word: Wazya. And…his mother, guiding his hand over rock and wood and leaf, asking, “Can you feel it?” She must have known about them. The Wazya and Longlight were connected somehow, he could feel it.
“Did Mabatan find Willum—is she with him?” Roan feels an urgent need to know.
“Last I heard she was in that village where Saint used to sometimes lay his head. The one with all those very…strong Apsara.” Kamyar smiles broadly. “They can be friendly, if they like the story. So when I’m there, I’m always at my best. Anyway…apparently she has something to do in that village. Whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll join up with you again…when it’s done.”
Roan snorts, half out of frustration, half out of amusement. “If any of those myths of Khutumi’s give some straight answers,” says Roan, “I’d like to hear them.”
“Truth be told, Roan of Longlight, the problem is often not in the answer but in how we hear it.” Kamyar wipes off his face, and pats his well-fed belly.
“Now I’m wondering if I should have left the Caldera at all.” Roan sighs. “This searching for a library that was probably destroyed…”
“You know,” Kamyar says, leaning into the firelight, “one of the most useful things Khutumi told me was that we discover possibility for ourselves and for others in the stories that we are told. But possibility is useless unless you chase after it. Roan, you have to pursue the opportunities laid out before you. If you do, you can gain the power to reinvent not only yourself but the world. Trust the path and the way will open before you.” And with a wide yawn, Kamyar diligently begins to make himself comfortable for a good long sleep.
But Roan’s not ready to let the Storyteller drift off. Not yet. “Yes, well, you sort of told me that before. Create the future as you go. But there are already so many stories about me. It’s like my life is one of your scripts, and there’s nothing really left for me to do except act it out.”
Kamyar props himself up on his elbow and eyes Roan sympathetically, if a little sternly. “Well, we all feel that way at times, my boy, if we bother to think about it. Truth be told, though, all those prophecies are pretty vague about how things will happen. It’s a script, yes, but with a lot of room for improvisation. Which, make no mistake, is never easy, but I’m sure you’re up to the challenge.” Kamyar’s head drops on his blanket and as if in afterthought, he adds blearily, “Oh, yes. About your request earlier. Being a bit of a leader-type myself, I think I can safely speak for we Storytellers as a group. You can rely on us to assist in whatever way we can. I may even have a few ideas, if you care to…” And with a snore, Kamyar calls a halt to the evening’s discussion.
Roan leans back to take in the waxing moon as Lumpy tucks in for the night. Their crickets sing, wings glowing in the firelight. “A story to change the world,” Lumpy murmurs drowsily. “What a story that will be.”
When Roan wakes, there’s a thread of silver moonlight in the west, and a firelike glow announcing dawn in the east. Kamyar’s already gone, no doubt hoping to be quick enough to head them off at Othard and Imin’s.
At the crest of the hill silhouetted against dawn’s corona are two figures. Moving closer, Roan can see that it’s Lumpy in an animated conversation with the Blood Drinker, Mhyzah—that should make him happy. Roan joins them, bowing courteously to the young Hhroxhi. She bares her fangs and hisses. Though Roan can tell from her intonation it’s only a greeting, he keeps his distance. The scar on his chest burns a little. Despite his attempt to make peace with Mhyzah and her people, Roan feels the blood of Mhyzah’s father will always stand between them.
“Any chance of the Hhroxhi joining our cause?” Roan asks.
With a glance at his red-eyed friend, Lumpy shakes his head. “Her people are split. Some believe they should act in support of the prophecies about you and the Novakin and the downfall of the City but others are against it, violently against it. It’s very close to erupting into civil war. Mhyzah still hopes some of them will be able to help. They’re trying to establish a secret network.” Lumpy’s distress is obvious, his pocked brow creased with worry. “It’s dangerous, Roan, what she’s doing. I told her we’d be grateful but not at the expense of the lives of her own people.”
Roan shares his friend’s uneasiness. He certainly doesn’t want more Hhroxhi blood on his hands.
Mhyzah touches Lumpy’s arm and as she speaks, Lumpy translates. “She says Xxisos is working to persuade their people that this struggle belongs to both Hhroxhi and human. That we share a common enemy. She’s sure she will have secured passage through enough of the tunnels by the time we need them. You are defender of the Novakin and she will not dishonor her people with failure.”
Roan’s eyes meet Mhyzah’s in acknowledgment. He can detect nothing but friendship, trust, hope. She believes in him. He watches as Lumpy extends his thanks to her. When Mhyzah places her hands on his chest, Lumpy does not hesitate to cup his over hers affectionately. It’s such an easy gesture, but so far from possible for Roan that it makes his heart ache. Roan’s always admired Lumpy’s ability to get close to people. He makes people feel comfortable—at least those who know enough to look beyond the Mor-Tick scars.
As quietly as Mhyzah appeared, she’s gone.
“She seems to like you.”
“It’s the oozing Mor-Tick pits. She knows looking hideous and potentially fatal separates me from the rest of humanity. Sort of the way fangs and blood drinking set her apart.” Lumpy grins. “Don’t look so glum. Mhyzah knows how to take care of herself. What we’re trying to do, it’s just as important to her. She wants to help.”
“Even though I killed her father?”
“Because you came forward and admitted to killing her father,” Lumpy says emphatically. “If you hadn’t, they would never have known who to fight with in the struggle ahead. That scar you were given, it’s a bond. A bond between Mhyzah and you, a bond between you and the Hhroxhi.”
Clear skies have made the morning’s ride easy, but the landscape has cast a pall over Roan and Lumpy. Charred stumps spread before them like a sea of ancient tombstones. This is all that remains of a forest that grew here long ago, a bleak reminder of Darius’s destructive capabilities. Still, Roan wonders why no one has settled in this part of the Farlands. Some of the land around Longlight had once looked like this, but seeds had been planted and it had been made fruitful again. He cannot feel the Wazya’s presence in this place at all. How do they choose to reclaim one spot over another?
Interrupting Roan’s thoughts, Lumpy says, “Don’t like the look of that.”
A massive bank of storm clouds is rapidly moving in from the northwest. “Will we get there before it hits us?” Roan asks gloomily.
With a disgruntled snort, Lumpy pulls out a makeshift map and examines it closely. “They live somewhere in those woods,” he says, pointing to a wavering band of green on the horizon. “We should be there by mid-afternoon. But those clouds will be on top of us in an hour.”
As lightning streaks across the barren landscape, Roan looks longingly at the forest ahead. The Apsara provided them with winter cloaks, but Roan knows they will be soaked through by th
e oncoming storm. As if simultaneously having the same thought, both he and Lumpy raise their hoods and urge their horses forward at greater speed.
By the time they reach the woodland, the rain has turned to sleet and the sky is so dark it’s difficult to see. Signaling Lumpy, Roan slips under the cover of the tall conifers and dismounts. “Maybe we should walk the horses. Don’t want to scare anyone off.”
Shaking the ice from their cloaks, the friends set off through the trees with quiet precision. But after only a few moments in the lush forest, Lumpy stops, awestruck. “They’ve been here. The Wazya. You can feel it.”
Roan’s been so preoccupied with thoughts of Darius and his apparent omnipotence that he hadn’t noticed the forest around him. Under the canopy of dense foliage, there’s a rich verdant smell that makes him want to join Lumpy and breathe deeply. The only ones who seemed to be having any real success against Darius are the Wazya, growing forests like these, ensuring life still thrives under the Keeper’s thumb. The contrast with the morning’s landscape is startling.
Roan suddenly realizes that Darius never stopped waging his war. He had scattered the rebels and devastated the countryside but that hadn’t been enough. He’d wanted the Farlands under his control. So he demoralized the people by stealing their children and taking the fruits of their labor. Or he tried to exterminate them—like the Apsara…like Longlight. A slow burning rage warms the pit of Roan’s stomach. Even if it kills him, he’s going to put an end to the war Darius began long ago.
Lumpy’s cricket is perched on his shoulder and Roan looks down to see his own leaping onto his hand. Soon their song is answered by dozens of unseen others. The friends stand mesmerized listening to this secret language until it quiets abruptly.
“That sounded a lot like talking.”
“Well, at least it seemed friendly.”