He stared at the fire while listening to a young woman play her fiddle. She danced effortlessly around the camp. It reminded him of the times he’d listened to his father’s violin as a child. The pleasant memory also came with grief, for he had another tribe waiting for him. He wondered how Taisia was doing. How was she coping? He hoped better than he was. Pierce longed for his parents, especially as the haunting sound of the fiddle filled his soul with moments in time that now only existed in memory. He wished Grandmother Fey could contact him as she’d done before and tell him how things were back home. She was unable to, though, thanks to Freya.
He glanced over to where Clover and Kolt sat on the ground near the fire, chatting. They were both dressed in layers of old clothing. The way they were engrossed in each other’s company caused the corner of his mouth to rise.
Diana Gabor approached him.
He raised his head and scratched at his chin under the itchy, fake beard. “’Ello, Miss Gabor.”
“Hello, Pierce.”
She spoke with a British accent. She must have spent most, if not all, of her life here.
“Cheers for coming for me,” Pierce said. “I understand it’s a great risk for your people.”
“A woman named Orenda told me about you in dreams.”
“Aye. I reckoned it was her.”
“I believe I had met her in my past life,” mused the girl. “My memory of it is vague, but I remember a realm full of colorful flowers. It was always spring there.”
“It sounds lovely.”
She frowned and looked away. “My life was taken in that place. I remembered how my blood matched the red flower petals as I lay dying.”
His jaw dropped in surprise and horror. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry to hear that, lass.”
She returned her attention to him. “You had sex with my mother.”
Her statement got him to sit up straight. “Pardon?”
“Narcisa,” Diana elaborated. “The two of you shared a brief love affair when you both were a little older than I am now.”
Pierce honestly thought he was about to fall over. “Ho . . . wha . . . er, kindly repeat that.”
“I don’t remember who killed me in my last life,” the girl went on. “My instincts tell me it has something to do with you, though. You being with my mother established a link between us, Pierce. That and my death. It has aided Orenda in finding me in order to give you the help you need.”
Pierce didn’t know what to say. “Erm, where is Narcisa? I haven’t seen her around.”
“She died years ago. I am her only legacy.”
“Oh,” he said mournfully. Pierce swallowed thickly and touched his chest. “If I’m the cause of your murder, lass, I am truly sorry. I—”
“You are the cause,” she cut in. “But you’re not the murderer. The one who actually did the killing did so to protect her plan.”
Freya, Pierce thought grimly.
“And do you have any idea what this plan is?”
“No,” she answered unsurprisingly.
“Figures,” he grumbled, setting his chin back down on his hands over the cane.
“But I know someone who does,” she added.
He again lifted his head. “Come again?”
Diana waved Pierce over to her as she walked away. “Follow me.”
“Where?”
“Let me show you.”
Sometimes, he wondered why he even bothered asking. Pierce followed her out of the campsite and into the cold field beyond.
“Can you see where you’re going?” he asked, using the cane to feel the ground for any pits or holes in front of him.
“Keep walking forward. We’re nearly there.”
As the firelight behind him fell away, several more appeared in the distance.
Pierce halted. “Who’s out there?”
“It’s all right. He is expecting you.”
“Who? Tell me or I’m not going any farther.”
“The Storyteller.”
Her footsteps continued, crushing the frost covering the grass. Pierce stood in place, wondering what he should do.
“Bugger,” he cursed, pushing on.
The flames, no larger than turnips, weren’t burning on the ground. They crackled and moved about as fire does, yet each flame sat suspended in the air. They surrounded a man sitting cross-legged on a dry stone wall.
He wore a black coat that was hanging behind him over the wall. A stovetop hat decorated with quills, a bone stylus, and modern fountain pens sticking up from both sides of it, sat low on his head. A piece of long parchment with text written on it was wrapped around the hat like a band and reached several inches past his shoulder. On the top of the hat was an ancient Roman oil lamp, a small flame burning from its nozzle. His black hair stuck out like a haystack from underneath the brim. Typewriter keys were placed sporadically all over the hat. They were also used as buttons and coat cufflinks. He wore a mask of metal, and he held a very long and twisted walking stick adorned with more quills and ink jars.
As they drew closer, the man lifted himself up with the aid of the walking stick. The eyelids of the mask were closed, but the mouth was open.
“You are Pierce Landcross, are you not?” he asked in a deep voice.
Pierce arched an eyebrow. What the hell was he?
“Aye. And you are?”
“I am the Teller of Forgotten Tales,” he answered. “I spin yarns that are meant to be forgotten.”
“If they’re forgotten, then how can you tell them?”
“Because I am the Storyteller. My tarpaulin holds the stories in and once my listeners leave, the memories of the tales stay behind and are forgotten by those who have heard them.”
Pierce searched around, and although he could only see what the floating firelight reached, he saw no tarpaulin.
“What tarpaulin?”
“I did not bring it this time. I’ve decided to tell this story so you would remember it.” The Storyteller’s masked face turned to Diana. “Thank you for bringing him here, child. Please leave us.”
She bowed her head and darted off toward the camp.
“She is not to hear this,” the Teller of Forgotten Tales explained. “I am only going to tell you because it seems that one forgotten story has not been completely lost to memory.”
“I don’t follow,” said Pierce.
The Teller of Forgotten Tales tilted his chin up toward the sky, prompting Pierce to do the same.
“This tale is the most dangerous of all tales. It is ‘The Story of the Priest.’”
The turnip-sized flames dimmed to tiny beads. Glowing images formed above. They moved as the Storyteller spoke. A galaxy appeared overhead. It appeared to be made of brightly colored glass.
“No one knows how they obtained their powers,” the Teller of Forgotten Tales began. “Some speculate they came from another outer plane, perhaps one that no longer exists. One in which they may have destroyed themselves. They were highly destructive and searching for a new home. They found it here, where they established themselves as gods.”
Pierce opened his mouth to ask a question when the Teller of Forgotten Tales held up his hand to stop him. “Say nothing until I’ve finished.”
His deep voice rumbled inside Pierce’s chest. He reckoned it was best to keep his trap shut.
The image above changed into different glass figures, none of which looked happy. The images changed as the story went on.
“That did not sit well with the deities and spirits already being worshiped by the ancient people of this world. One of these foreigners got into a dispute with the Egyptian deity, Bes, when it threatened one of his worshiper’s household. Bes was destroyed. When this happened, the god and goddesses realized just how dangerously powerfully these foreigners were. The gods, goddesses, and spirits turned to a humble priest for help. The Priest, who used to be a deity himself, knew a way to stop them.”
Stop who? Pierce wondered.
Above, Pierce saw
a moving image of man in a grey robe, carving something from a large bone.
“The Priest crafted oil lamps from the bones of the murdered god, Bes. He slathered the lamps in the god’s blood and decorated them with his skin. Afterward, the Priest summoned all these foreigners to a banquet at his temple on top of Mount Dai, now known as Mount Tai. He told them they were welcomed and that everyone should recognize them as the new lords of this galaxy. The Priest offered them the lamps as a gift.”
“What was so special about these lamps?” Pierce asked before he could stop himself.
The mask could express no emotion, but when the Storyteller looked at him, an icy chill ran up Pierce’s spine.
“Sorry.”
“There are rules,” the Teller of Forgotten Tales continued. “And one of the rules of murdered deities is that if the body is disrespected, the perpetrator can be imprisoned by the dead god himself. Respect means a lot to supernatural beings, as it does for anyone else. These foreigners knew nothing about this. They drank wine from these lamps as if the lamps were goblets and scoffed at the deceased god, laughing with the one who had killed him as it bragged about how easy it had been to take Bes down.”
The imagery changed to a table with strange looking beings of bluish light laughing and drinking from the lamps.
“At this banquet, they lost their free will,” said the Teller of Forgotten Tales. “The dead god took his revenge and bound each of them within the lamps.”
Pierce studied the teapot-shaped oil lamp atop the Teller of Forgotten Tales’ hat. There was something familiar about what he was telling him.
“Once the beings were contained, they became the servants of anyone who owned their lamps, which made them all the more dangerous. The Priest saw this when the gods and goddesses took a lamp for themselves, leaving the Priest with one as a reward. With such a weapon at their disposal, the wise Priest feared what a god or goddess could do with it. He decided to act.”
The moving glass images revealed the Priest, pointing to the strange glowing being whose head was bowed to him. “The Priest ordered his mighty servant to destroy all of its kind and then, afterward, itself.”
The images burst into bits that faded to nothing. All became dark.
“And the servant did just that,” said the Teller of Forgotten Tales. “When they were destroyed, the energies of these powerful creatures was scattered throughout the world. Parts of them found their way into certain life forms, distilling their abilities within them.” The sparkle of lights returned and formed the shapes of everything the Teller of Forgotten Tales had described. “A demon, elves, nymphs. Even humans who became enchanters afterwards. Malicious entities, granting them the power to give nightmares. Even some gods and goddesses. And with the combination of the powers they already possessed, this added gift bestowed onto them the ability to bend certain laws.”
Bloody Tricksters. Pierce thought.
The lights above faded and the fires surrounding the Teller of Forgotten Tales grew and brightened. “Each was blessed with parts of these creatures’ powers. You, Landcross, carry the bloodline of at least four of them.”
The Teller of Forgotten Tales fell silent.
When he said nothing more, Pierce felt it safe to start asking questions. “What exactly are we talking about here? What were these creatures?”
His blood pounded in his ears. He feared there’d be some distraction that would crop up, stealing the Storyteller and his answer away.
The Teller of Forgotten Tales sighed and reached for the buckle of his mask. He unstrapped it and slowly removed the metal from his face.
Pierce tried not to show his utter shock, but the sight of the Teller made him take a step back. “Fuckin’ hell,” he whispered.
The Teller of Forgotten Tales centered his pale eyes on him. His skin was paler than his eyes. He had no evidence of a mouth, not even a line below his nose.
In that same deep voice, he concluded with, “These foreigners, these all-powerful and yet arrogant life forms, were none other than the djinn.”
Continue the adventure with the final installment:
Legacy
The Payment
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michelle E. Lowe is the author of The Warning, Atlantic Pyramid ,Cherished Thief, and the Legacy series, as well as the children’s books, Poe’s Haunted House Tour and The Hex Hunt. Her works in progress includes her next series, The Age of the Machine. Currently, she lives in Lake Forest, California, with her husband, Ben, and their two daughters.
Website: www.michellelowe.net
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