A Choir of Lies

by Alexandra Rowland

  She seethed. “Do you do this a lot? Go around pressuring people into being good by sheer force of those huge puppy eyes? You just bombard them with how hard you believe in them and they fold to your will?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “If it works, then it works.”

  She shook her head and finished off whatever was in the flask. “I’m ruined now,” she said with an obviously false jolly note. “But at least I have the comfort of my morality. I’m sure that’ll keep me fed and clothed.”

  “What you have now is something more precious than gold.”

  “I have a city that hates me. I have nothing. Not even this warehouse—I sold that too this afternoon, to pay the last few debts. I’m only here to say goodbye. And to drink.”

  “The city resents you for now,” I agreed. “But do you know how many people were confused when I paid them their money back? They all said, ‘What’s the catch? What’s the catch? Why is Sterre de Waeyer folding so easily? Why is she doing this?’ And every time I said, ‘Because she’s a good person, and you matter to her more than money does.’ And every single one of them went away surprised, or confused, or deeply thoughtful. And none of them were angry anymore—or if they were angry, it was just an outward expression of that confusion. They had their money, or most of their money. The thing you did was huge, and unexpected, and illogical by most standards.”

  “No fucking shit.”

  “But it’s not illogical at all if you accept the premise I gave them: that there are things in the world more important than money. You whine and complain and accuse me of leading you into ruin by force of will, but if you really believed something else, you would have brushed me off.” I looked at her. I looked at her. I used to have that knack for seeing the truth of someone, for finding a tiny grain of goodness in the heart of even the vilest person. There was so much more than a grain in Sterre—there was genuine care and love for the people around her, and a willingness to help make their lives better with small things, things that were no trouble or burden for her at all, but which made a world of difference to the person receiving them. “You went along with it because you knew I was right. Because you agreed with me. There are things you care about more than money.”

  She stood slowly. “I haven’t the foggiest idea whether you’re right or not,” she said.

  “I am,” I said. “It’s hard for you to see right now, but it’s true. And now you have an opportunity. You can find out what that most important thing is, and maybe you follow that this time as you rebuild your life.”

  “I’m old, Ylfing. I’m tired. I don’t want new. I want familiar.”

  “Then do that. There’s no shortage of people in the city who trust you now. Everyone knows you would do everything in your power to make amends, and that’s . . . that’s something special.” I patted her arm. “I have a gift for you. In the spirit of . . . freely giving gifts to take care of the people around you.”

  “Kind of you,” she muttered.

  “Earlier in the year, right at the beginning of when I started working for you, I bought a star-in-the-marsh bulb. I planted it in a pot and kept it in the attic of the Sun’s Rest, the inn where I’ve been staying. And I, uh . . . I was lazy, so I always got water from the rain barrel, rather than going down to the canal or to the district cistern.” She was giving me a strange look. “It’s alive. It was isolated. It’s healthy, and it hasn’t shown a hint of the sickness. I want you to have it.”

  “I doubt that anyone’s in the mood to buy stars-in-the-marsh now,” she said slowly. “Everyone’s had their fingers pretty severely singed.”

  “True. It won’t sell for much, but . . . you can probably get a little. There’s someone in this city who wants to buy a healthy star-in-the-marsh, and then you’d have some coin. And you’re Sterre de Waeyer—you could turn a few coins into hundreds, I’d bet.”

  “Too old to start from the beginning,” she grumbled.

  “But you’re not starting from the beginning. In the beginning, you didn’t have all the things you have now—friends, connections . . . A reputation, even though it’s bruised. But now everyone in the city knows your name, and, more important, they know the sort of person you are. I swear it’ll be easier this time.”

  “How the fuck would you know?”

  I shrugged. “In terms of the mechanics of merchantry? I don’t. But I know stories, and the story you carry with you is ironbound. People have built countries on less than that. People have torn countries down to their foundations with less than that.” I gave her a bracing smile. “Sterre de Waeyer never dwells in a bad situation for long, right? You’ll turn this around.”

  SIXTY-NINE

  Well. I suppose I could call the story ended there. It’s all over now. That’s everything. I gave the star-in-the-marsh to Sterre, and she’s taken it off to see how much she can leverage it to change her situation. And now I’m back where I started, approximately. I’m alone, and the world is open before me, and I . . . I get to choose now. Just like Sterre, I get to figure out what’s most important to me. And then I get to start something new.

  Here’s what I know:

  I know that when I was thirteen or fourteen and my master-Chant walked into my village, there was something about what he was that was right. There was something about what he offered that I wanted, that caught my heart on fishhooks.

  I know that even in the deepest part of my grief, I still thought I could fix myself by writing it all down, by telling a story until I understood myself.

  I know that I can’t give myself up. I may have unnamed myself once, but being Ylfing is important. Chants are liars, but Ylfing tries to be good. I want to keep trying.

  I know that my master-Chant was human, and fallible, and made mistakes, and screwed me up. I know that the Chant he was apprenticed to was all those things as well. For all that the Chants believe in remembering everything and passing the important things down . . . Humans forget things.

  Sister-Chant, I know you’re angry. You’re angry that we ended up so different—perhaps you were thinking about your own teacher and wondering what things they forgot or fouled up—but when you have lines of teachers and apprentices, for four thousand years, and you don’t write anything down, then of course things are going to get muddled. It’s a miracle that we’re even both still called Chants and that the basics of it have endured even if our practices have diverged.

  I still don’t think the practices matter very much—I think there’s a core of something that’s important. And . . . I think I’d like to find out what it is. Maybe then I’ll be Chant instead of Ylfing. Or maybe I can just be both.

  Hello, I’m Ylfing, but you can call me—no, that’s not it.

  Hello, I’m Chant. Call me—no, not quite.

  My name is Ylfing. I’m a Chant. Possibly?

  I’m a Chant. You can call me Ylfing. Also possible.381

  I suppose I’ll just have to open my mouth and see what comes out.

  I took a break and went for a walk. I thought about the other things I know.

  I know I’m afraid of taking an apprentice. Part of me wants to wait until I’ve figured everything out, so there’s no chance of hurting them like I’ve been hurt. Part of me, the braver part, thinks that maybe teaching someone else would be a good way to find my path to the center of things. And I have to admit . . . The road is lonely. It would be nice to have a friend with me.

  I won’t go looking for one. I’m really not ready for that yet, and there’s no rush. But if circumstances lead me to someone, then I’ll . . . No, I’ll think about it when the time comes. Hah, do you see this, Sister-Chant? I’m getting so practiced at making choices that now I’m trying to choose a path before I’ve even reached that crossroads.

  Whatever happens, if I do meet someone, I’ll tell them the truth. And maybe I’ll teach them differently than I was taught. We’ll see. We’ll just see.

  * * *

  381. Hmph. I suppose you earned the right to call
yourself whatever you like. And Shuggwa clearly doesn’t care—in a way, I suppose it makes sense. The ancient Chants attracted his attention with taboo behavior that flouted their social rules. Being a Chant and taking your name back is . . . taboo. And therefore . . . Well. It’s not for me. But evidently it’s working for you, so have at it.

  SEVENTY

  I’ve been thinking about it a little more. All Chants are liars; I stand by that. But . . . not all lies are bad things. Not all lies are destructive. And, you know, it depends on how you define a lie.382

  By one definition, most stories are lies. There was never a real time that Ylf and Tofa lived, for example. That means they’re not true, and anything that isn’t true is a lie, right?

  But maybe I’m changing. Maybe I’m growing, like I told my lover I wanted to. Because now I think you have to consider the definition of truth too. I used to think of truth and lies being two ends of a spectrum, and stories being somewhere in the middle of that spectrum, depending—some are more true than others, after all. Some are more factually correct. There are stories about people who had real lives, who were born of a mother in a year that we can number, instead of simply a very long time ago and half the world away.

  There’s truth. There’s lies. But above those, transcending those, are stories. They exist in a space entirely outside the spectrum, outside those frail, faded mortal concepts.

  Sister-Chant, that night you told me to armor my heart with the story I deserved—with the lie that I needed.383 That night when I told you what my former master would have said: “It doesn’t matter if it happened that way in real life, as long as the story is good, as long as it’s truer than truth.”

  Do you remember? Because I have one more story.

  * * *

  382. Okay, make your argument. I’m listening.

  383. Aha. I suppose I am forced to concede the point.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  A Good Story384

  My lover left on a bright, sunny morning. There was a whole dizzying whirl of activity and noise and confusion, all completely alien to me, as his family packed up and vacated the inn. I have so few things, and departures have always been a more subdued affair, even when I was apprenticed. At the very most, whoever we were with, our new friends or old ones, used to see us to the door and kiss our cheeks and wave as we ambled down the street with only a single small bag slung over my back. (This, at least, is true. Every lie burns brighter with a core of truth.)

  My lover’s family ran all over the inn from early in the morning until the porters arrived to haul all their things—so many things!—to the docks. I didn’t let go of my lover’s hand except when absolutely necessary. “I’ll come down with you,” I said, and he gave me a smile both grateful and sad.

  The whole caravan made it down to the harbor in fairly short order, and then there was the whole headache of getting so many people and things on the boat. My lover385 stood with me off to the side as long as he could. We clutched each other’s hands and hugged, and at last, in a broken voice, he said, “I feel like we’re saying goodbye forever, and I can’t stand it.”

  “Not forever,” I said. “May I call on you, if I find myself in Pezia?”

  He kissed me sweetly, cradling my face in his hands. “Yes. Please do. My door is always open to you, and I’ll tell my family too—even if I’m not there when you arrive, I’ll make sure you’ll have a roof over your head and a bed for the claiming.”386

  “I’ll never forget you,” I said.

  “You could write to me,” he said, a little desperate. “If you felt like writing. I’d be so happy to receive a letter from you. But you shouldn’t feel like you have to.”

  I recited the address of his family’s house—in the Jasmine District in Lermo, a large port city of Pezia. He hugged me. He was trying not to cry again, and when he pulled back I gave him a bracing smile. “It’s all right. I won’t forget the address. Chants remember.”

  “Will you go on Chanting, then?”

  “Now, now,” I said, trying to tease and failing utterly. “You’re trying to get me to spoil the rest of the story for you. Don’t you want to wait for your letter to find out what I ended up doing?”

  Simoneto called his name then, waving from the boat. We both flinched and looked at each other helplessly.

  “I have to go,” he said, shattered. “You’re—I really loved you,” he said. “And I love you still. And part of me always will.”

  “You saved me,” I said. “You brought me out of the dark. I’m going to remember that too, for always. I’m going to hold it in my heart, and I’m going to keep it. That memory—that story—is mine, and I won’t let it go, not for anyone.”387

  He took my face in his hands and kissed me, and then looked at me. “Ylfing,” he said quietly. “Ylfing, Ylfing, Ylfing, Ylfing.” Just like he’d done in the beginning when I’d first told him my name. He whispered it over and over until I was laughing, and he was crying, and then—then he let go of me. And he backed away a couple steps. “Be safe. Please, please be safe,” he said, moving towards the boat.

  “You too,” I whispered.

  “Write to me. When you can.” And—then it hit me that he was going, and I was staying, and . . . maybe I’d never see him again, maybe I’d never hold his hand or kiss him, maybe this was the end of everything. And something cracked in my chest. I turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears coming up in my eyes and spilling over. I didn’t want to make it any harder for him than it already was.

  I only looked back when the little rowboat was safely a dozen feet from the dock, and I watched my lover watch me all the way across the harbor until they reached the ship, and then I watched him stand on the deck while the sailors weighed anchor and loosed the sails, and I watched until the ship passed through the locks and out of sight behind the wall of the dike.

  I made it home to the inn mostly by muscle memory, since I was sobbing nearly too hard to see. It’s been years since I cried at all.388

  I couldn’t sleep in my lover’s room anymore. My feet, treacherous things, took me up there first, but it had already been cleaned and tidied, and there was no trace of my lover left there.

  My only consolation is that the whole time on the docks and on my way back to the inn and on my pallet of blankets in the attic this afternoon . . . I never felt like I’d made a horrible mistake. I never thought of changing my mind.

  I don’t have any tales of partings like this to use as examples or models—in all the stories, when a love ends it’s because one or both of them died, or they had a falling-out, or something equally catastrophic. There aren’t any stories about love ending because it was the natural time for it to end. There’s none about people in love separating as still-beloved friends.389 And in all the stories, the loves ended because they were bad or wrong or flawed, or the fact that they ended was the flaw, or the end ruined everything that came before.

  My lover came into my life and he was full of joy and light. He took me dancing. He kissed me; he whispered my name into my skin until I felt like myself again. He anchored me into the world. He brought me back. He was good and kind, and patient and understanding, and he never asked me for anything but what I was willing to give him. Just because it didn’t last our entire lives doesn’t mean it wasn’t important or precious.390

  That’s the story I’ve decided on. That’s me armoring my heart.

  * * *

  384. Yes, I expect it will be.

  385. A more elegant solution than blacking out the name, by the way. I thought before that it was merely an epithet, but no—you’ve unnamed him. Because of course you, of all people, would consider that the most terrible curse you could inflict upon him.

  386. I smiled at this, just now—very Chantly of you, this line. The promise could have been anything, but it’s just about a place to stay when you’re in town, in perpetuity? Very Chantly of you, Brother.

  387. And that’s the thesis, isn’t it? Pointed and deliberate—angr
y too, just a little bit, if I squint and tilt my head. Yes, it is yours. You got something good while you were together. You grew, and him turning out to be an asshole doesn’t invalidate that. I’m glad you found a way to keep the good thing, that you decided not to let that boy take it from you.

  Same goes for your master-Chant, but I expect you’ve already realized that. “Don’t let boys spoil things for you” is a great code to live by, not that my approval matters in the slightest.

  388. Wow, talk about all Chants being liars. That’s a big juicy ten-foot-tall lie lit by fireworks and sparklers.

  389. Ah, child. You are still so young. If we had been able to meet as friends, I might have told you some stories about these kinds of endings. You’ll never read what I’ve written here, but I’ll write it anyway: There’s no way to feel but how you feel. When you one day have a love like this, a real love and not just armor on your heart, when you one day part with someone like this, remember that you haven’t lost them—they’ve only gone away a little distance. Your paths will cross again if they are meant to. Fear not, Brother-Chant. And yes, in the meantime, write to them, one day when you have someone worth writing to. There’s not much you can do to get letters back, except hope for a miracle, and tell everyone where you’re going next, and then stay in one place long enough for the mail to catch up. Or, if you find yourself returning to one place again and again like it’s the center of the spider’s web that your path takes, just ask them to hold your letters for you. You go back once every year or two and there’s a wonderful box of them waiting for you, from all the people you love best in the world, and they’re all commenting on mundane little things that you’d told them about and set aside, and you can remember and be warmed.