The Keeper's Shadow (9 page)

A STORY WORTH TELLING

THE SON AND THE DAUGHTER OF LONGLIGHT WILL RISE AGAINST THOSE WHO HOARD THE DIRT. STAND WITH THEM AND YOU WILL REAP ALL THE BENEFIT OF THEIR VICTORY. TURN YOUR BACK AND YOU WILL LIVE FOREVER IN SHAME.

—THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

S
TOWE IS CLOSE.
R
OAN CAN SENSE IT.
He can't reach her, though, because there's a wall around her, like the Dirt Eaters used when they were trying to hide him from the Turned. But unlike their engulfing sands, or obliterating threads, this barrier is fluid: it leads him straight to Stowe and then shifts her presence elsewhere. Could it be Willum? Protecting her? Maybe he'd been too hasty in his decision to go in search of Ferrell's library, maybe he should be more actively searching for Stowe. But despite his yearning to see his sister, he knows he's made the right decision. Something's drawing him to Ferrell's library, something other than the map he seeks.

The effort to stay warm and the strenuous ride down the mountain have made Roan ravenous and the aroma of Lumpy's cooking soon commandeers his attention. “Smells ready,” he declares, greedily eyeing the stew.

Lumpy smiles broadly. “Dig in.”

Roan plunders the pot that hangs over a small fire. Lumpy's improvised a meal with greens and grains cultivated in the Caldera and the heat of the bowl and the steam rising from it cause Roan to sigh with pleasure. In short order the stew has made its brief journey into Roan's stomach, and he proclaims his satisfaction with a loud, uncensored burp.

“Like the stew?” says Lumpy.

“Delicious,” Roan replies. But detecting a glint of mischievousness in Lumpy's eye, he asks, “What kind of protein is this?”

“One guess!” Lumpy grins.

“Where did you find bugs?” Roan burps again, only this time it's not so complimentary.

Ignoring the comment, Lumpy is more than happy to disclose his source. “The Apsara. They make this great jerky from them—for traveling and as an emergency food supply in case of a siege or something. There was a ton of it. They sure do know their bugs!” After a deep breath, Lumpy sighs. “Isn't it great, being out here again?”

“Nothing better,” says Roan. The Apsara's volcano may be secure, but its rising mist obscures the night sky and Roan had missed seeing the stars.

Lumpy pulls out the leather cord that hangs from his neck, puts the silver whistle strung on it to his lips and blows so hard his whole face contorts. No sound comes out, at least not any the two friends can hear. Their white crickets become agitated, though, so they're sure the whistle's working. Tucking it back beneath his shirt, Lumpy listens, looks, then frowns in frustration. “How many times have I tried now?”

“Five thousand,” smiles Roan, but Lumpy's too frustrated to do anything but glare back.

“When Mhyzah gave me this thing, I was told if I blew, the Hhroxhi would come. So…where are they?”

“You'd be happy if any old Hhroxhi showed up, right?…Or is it Mhyzah you're hoping for?” Roan grins, hoping to tease Lumpy out of his disappointment. But though Lumpy turns an interesting shade of red, he remains steadfastly sullen.

“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 aloud.

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.”