The Ale Boy's Feast (43 page)

The other secret was waiting in one of the wall’s fourteen towers, in a chamber below its belfry. He watched its window, then looked down. Jordam slumped wearily against the ground-level gate, faithfully guarding it while he picked at a bowl of seeds and berries.

Jes-hawk walked slowly past Jordam. The archer, his left arm still bound up in its thick sling, his right hand propping his arrowcaster against his shoulder, paused and looked up toward the dark window.

Ryllion can’t remain a secret forever. I promised him help. But I’ve made him a prisoner. Perhaps I was rash to make such a promise. My people have lost so much; their mercy will have its limits
.

Jes-hawk walked on, clearly muttering to himself.

Hasn’t Jordam killed more innocents than Ryllion? And there he stands guard. But he saved House Abascar from a slaughter. Abascar owes him some gratitude
.

Cal-raven pounded his fist on the windowsill. “That must be the heart of my appeal to Partayn and Cyndere. Ryllion is no different than a beastman. He can be cured. Jordam might join me in pleading for his pardon.”

Scharr ben Fray appeared, walking the same circuit as Jes-hawk. The mage paused too, regarding the beastman as if he were just another curious creature inhabiting this wilderness. Then his gaze drifted up the tower to the high window. Cal-raven caught sight of a gloved hand at the curtain.

The mage then walked on down the avenue, and Cal-raven saw that he was approaching the yard where Milora, Luci, and Margi were hard at work on their project. Mousey, the red-headed crook, had joined them. She was not a stonemaster, but she was merrily wheeling a cart back and forth from the scatter of crumbled statue. The stone block now supported a large and handsome pair of feet.

At once Cal-raven reached for his cloak, suddenly inspired to meet the day’s challenge.

Approaching, he asked, “Whose feet are these?”

“New Abascar needs a statue of its king,” declared Luci. “To think I almost killed you once,” laughed Mousey, a sharp whistle escaping through the gap in her teeth. “Now I’m helping to make you immortal.” Cal-raven held out his hands. “Please, wait!”

The sculptors paused and met his gaze, except for Milora, who bowed her head as if expecting a reprimand.

“I … I am grateful. You honor me. But we’ve more urgent tasks for stonemasters.”

“Like what?” Mousey wore a flirtatious smirk.

“We must begin another way,” he said, “and I have an idea that should please you. I will not tolerate any statue of myself—not during these early days when I have yet to earn such an honor. But I would raise a monument at the center of this city—not one, but two statues.”

When he had spelled out his instructions, Luci and Margi went right to
work. But Milora had fallen into a familiar solemn silence, as if she were waiting for something.

Scharr ben Fray stepped up to Cal-raven. “Master,” he said quietly, “I want to show you something.”

The mage took Cal-raven up to one of the belfries where he had swept out a bell with a broom, casting nests and webbing to the wind.

The bell was enormous, but intact, its sheen a merging of copper, rust, and silver.

Scharr ben Fray raised a large rod from the floor where it was bound by a chain to a ring in the corner. “See the emblem on this hammer?”

With a slight nod, Cal-raven acknowledged the familiar shape of the Keeper. “Go ahead,” said the mage.

The king waved him off. “I doubt these bells were ever meant for celebration. When they rang out across the valleys and streams, I suspect they rang for alarm. Let’s wait for … for an occasion.”

Scharr ben Fray’s smile seemed forced, and he cast the hammer into the sludge of bird waste.

He’s dreamed of this for hundreds of years. And now that he is here, I am in his way
.

“I taught you to respect stories of the Keeper. They gave you hope. They inspired your leadership. And now, here, we can see that the people of Inius Throan dreamed of the Keeper as well. So forgive me, King of Abascar, but I must ask for an explanation. Since I found you in the canyon, any mention of the Keeper has made you scowl. When you do, you look like your father.”

Cal-raven fought to control his expression. “I found courage in those stories—it is true. I searched for the Keeper my whole life. When I found it on Barnashum’s doorstep, I was overjoyed. And then … then I learned something more.”

“You saw them,” the mage whispered.

“Thirteen,” Cal-raven growled. “Thirteen Keepers in cages. Captured. Tortured. Helpless. And one empty cage remained, for one either hunted or already dead.” He took the bell-hammer from the ground and raised up its emblem. “Any
one of them might have been the one I saw in dreams. I don’t know which one left the tracks I sought as a child. But none of them, not one, is immune to Cent Regus claws or the Seers’ conspiracies. I had believed I was tracking the answer, the sovereign, the invincible authority. Something I could trust. But now,” he said bitterly, “I am at the end of my belief.”

“In Jenta we call them the Imityri.”

“What?” Cal-raven asked, incredulous. “They have a name? And you knew it?”

“The Aerial have studied signs of their passage for generations, Cal-raven. Sometimes we thought there were many, sometimes one. It was a mystery to me why people everywhere would dream of the Keeper yet their dreams would differ so greatly.”

“You told me the stories were true!” Cal-raven’s voice echoed in the tower. “The story of the Keeper is true. But it is a simple first step toward real understanding.”

“Don’t speak riddles with me, Teacher. You told me the stories as if they were history. I believed they were leading me.”

“And why regret that when such belief inspired courage and vision? You were never wrong to believe in the Keeper, Cal-raven. There comes a time when all myths and superstitions crumble. But they inspire us to investigate mysteries. They strengthen us in ways that help us survive. They give us hope. These little illusions that kindle our questions go away when we arrive at the answers to which they were leading us all along.”

“But I don’t want this answer!” Cal-raven exploded. He turned and struck the bell.

The sound hit them both like lightning and threw them against the walls. It surged across the ruins and stopped the people in their tasks. Dust rose over Inius Throan as the wave shook every stone.

His ears ringing, Cal-raven climbed to his feet and looked out into the haze. He looked right at the tower where Jordam stood guard. The beastman was on his feet, staring in their direction. A hooded figure watched from the tower’s high window.

“I want to know there is a greater, sovereign intelligence in this blasted, crumbling world,” he said, uncertain if the mage could hear him. “Just as I want to find the destination that Auralia’s colors promised.”

“We all want those things,” said the mage, coming close to Cal-raven. “That desire drives us toward becoming the sovereignty we hoped to find in the world. It leads us to solve every mystery until we live in the perfect house and have nothing left to fear.”

“To strive. And strive. Are we any closer than our ancestors? I’m not convinced. That’s why I followed the Keeper. We are broken. And when we seek to save ourselves, we fail. But if I could follow those tracks to their maker and show the Keeper my devotion, then it would lead me to where broken things are repaired, where what is torn can be mended, a place without fear or suffering. That was the promise in my dream. That is what I tasted when Auralia revealed all the world’s missing colors. A better, uncursed world. The end of all fears. That’s the story you told me. I let my dreams get the better of me. And I was wrong.”

Scharr ben Fray raised his hands, closing them as if lifting silent puppets, just as he had when he had taught a much younger Cal-raven. “Hush. I told you the story of the Keeper because it is the most powerful story I’ve ever known. Look at where this story has led us.” He moved to the sill and gestured to the city spread out beneath them. “Now we can amend that story and shape the future.”

Cal-raven was thunderstruck.

“King of Inius Throan, King of New Abascar, hold on to your story. It is the ladder you have climbed to this height. Be grateful. Enjoy the view.” He turned and put his hand on the bell as if to quiet it. “In a world such as ours, you can despair over its emptiness, like my brother, and let death’s certainty rob you of all joy. Or you can make life what you wish, building on a story that pleases you. For the sake of your people, sustain the myth, as I sustained it for you. It will unite and inspire them and make your name great.”

Cal-raven looked down at the bell-hammer.

“If they see your faith falter now, Cal-raven, you’ll lose them. They’ll stray. And the world will fragment into contending stories and dreams, as it did here long ago.
Tammos Raak set the children free, but he failed to captivate them with a vision. So they came up with four flawed visions of their own. Abascar, Bel Amica, Cent Regus, Jenta. I saw in you, from the very beginning, an imagination that could grasp whole worlds of vision. That is what makes a king, Cal-raven. You are already greater than your father. You surpassed him years ago.”

Cal-raven slumped to the ground and put the bell-hammer across his knee. “You’re asking me to rule upon a lie. To build upon denial.”

“Lies? Denial? Those are my brother’s words. Vision. Imagination. The road to understanding is a path of increasing pain, Cal-raven. Everything fails. We need a big, beautiful dream to help us forget so we burn right through to the end. Don’t go quietly. Let what you’ve seen inspire you. You’ll become like Auralia, giving the world something to remember you by. Look at what she achieved in her sublime delusions.”

Cal-raven propped his elbows on his knees so he could rest his brow against his palms. “Give me an hour alone,” he said.

“Of course, master.” And yet the mage hesitated. Cal-raven could hear his teacher’s unspoken question. But Scharr ben Fray surrendered and disappeared down the stairs.

“No,” said Cal-raven quietly. “I’ll keep my secrets awhile longer. I cannot bear what will come if I reveal them now.”

He rose and staggered to the sill. The world below seemed illusory, unsteady, as if the tower were leaning.

Steam seeped from vents in the cobbled avenue, carrying rumors of activity in the underground kitchens.

The dreamers will go on dreaming
.

When Cal-raven finally came out of the tower, Batey passed him, pushing a cart loaded with apples from the overgrown orchard. The Bel Amican stopped, giddy, and scooped up an array. “King of Abascar, look at the bounty we’ve discovered.”

Reluctant, Cal-raven stared blankly at the apples’ extravagant colors.

“There must be twelve varieties,” said Batey. “Some I’ve never seen before. Not even from the islands.”

“Master?”

Hearing Emeriene’s voice, Cal-raven could not move. She limped forward into his view. She was draped in the same stormcloak she had worn on the road, but she had washed her hair so that it gleamed like raven feathers, and her gaze was bright with hope.

“King of Abascar,” she said carefully, “your chamber is cleaner now than when Tammos Raak himself slept there. You shall find it is finally fit for a king.”

“I’m sure,” he said softly. “I’m sure I will.”

She bowed awkwardly and waited. The silence became uncomfortable.

Her boys ignored them, inventing a game with fragments of colored tile among lines they’d chalked on the paved ground. “These,” said one, “are the beastmen pieces. And these are us. And this is where they fight.”

“Take an apple,” said Batey, holding out three for Cal-raven to choose from. “I’ll help you. Otherwise you might spend all day deciding.”

Without looking, the king took one and nodded, unsmiling. “This will do.”

“The pieces are falling into place for you, aren’t they, Master of Abascar?” said Batey with a grin, his eye on Emeriene.

Cal-raven turned to leave, paused, and said, “Thank you, Sisterly. For your patience. Bear with me. I have … too much in my head today.”

And then he walked away, feeling like an older man than the one who had climbed into the belfry. “If I am to amend the story,” he said, “then I’ll make a madness they’ll never forget.”

It was the cloud rising from the kitchen that gave Cal-raven the idea.

In it he caught a scent of wild cherries. He walked back to his tower, but instead of returning to his bedchamber—Emeriene’s announcement had made him somewhat wary of seeing her work—he stepped into the room below it.

This room with a tall, carved fireplace reminded him of the hearth he’d loved best in childhood. He was twice the size he had been when he last played with sculpted figurines between his father’s fireplace and his father’s stockings. But this
fireplace was twice the size of that one, so he felt strangely comforted by the familiar proportion.

Sometimes when the world was crumbling around him, all he needed was an idea.

What if?
he thought.
What if?

His idea continued to unfold.

“Master,” said Scharr ben Fray, startling him. The mage was standing at the window with Hagah napping in the sunlight at his feet.

“I would set my chair here,” Cal-raven said absently, holding his hands out as if to grasp the back of an invisible throne.

“In memory of your father,” said the mage.

“And here, a great round table.” He gestured to the center of the room.

“For proclamations?”

“Perhaps.” He did not look toward the mage. “Only if they are more thoughtful proclamations than any my father ever made.”

“Or your mother.” Cal-raven turned his back.

“What would be your first proclamation?” the mage asked quietly.

Cal-raven stared into the imaginary fire, hesitating. His eyes narrowed. Was that the white scar returning? He had not seen it in days. He could hear footsteps on the stair behind him. And then Jes-hawk’s voice at the door. “Master?”

He did not turn.

“It is with a heavy heart that I trouble you, master.”

“It cannot be heavier than mine.”