12

THE STORYTELLER

O Keeper of Stories!

FROM “THE DESERTED CITY,” A KAKRI LAMENT

Madeline and Shula found Hanali standing outside a bakery talking to a squat grey-skinned person in a dun-brown robe. The smell of fresh bread and pastries hung in the air.

“Strange,” Shula said. “I’ve never seen Hanali talking to a Maegrom before.”

Hanali’s eyes rose lazily toward them, and with a charming smile, he spoke again to the Maegrom, and it scurried off into the crowd. By the time Madeline and Shula reached him, Hanali had something that looked a great deal like an apple turnover neatly balanced on his gloved fingers.

“Someone tried to kill Madeline,” Shula said.

Hanali raised an eyebrow at Shula. “You?”

Rondelo bowed. “Your Excellency. It was, in fact, an Aluvorean. She gave the child a stone flower.”

Hanali sniffed. “Are those poisonous to humans?” He grinned at Madeline. “I jest. Stone flowers are quite deadly to everyone.”

Trumpets blared deep in the city center. Rondelo leapt onto his stag’s back and begged to be pardoned, and Evernu bounded away through the crowd.

“That was a security alarm,” Shula said. “But it’s full sun. The Scim couldn’t possibly have broken through the walls.”

Dusting the sugar from his gloved fingers, Hanali said, “Yes, and knowing it was a drill, it was rather rude of Rondelo to leap off like that.”

“I should go check in with the guards too,” Shula said.

“Nonsense,” Hanali said. “And miss the storyteller? My dear human child, don’t prattle on so.”

Madeline crossed her arms. With some time to think as they walked, she had come to realize the seriousness of being offered a deadly flower. “Seems to me there should be a little more concern about the attempted murder.”

“Bah. You’re safe with Shula,” Hanali said. “Did you die? No. Now come along.”

“But —”

“Did you die?”

“No.”

“Then come along.”

When Madeline didn’t move, Hanali let out a great theatrical sigh. “Do you have the flower?” he asked.

Shula handed it to him. It had wilted nearly completely and lost most of its crimson color.

Hanali hemmed and hawed, then asked to see Madeline’s arm. She showed him where it had stung her, and he studied it carefully. “Do you see this tiny dot?” he asked.

She hadn’t noticed it until he pointed it out, but there was a black spot, oblong and half the size of a grain of rice. She licked her lips. “I see it.”

“That, my dear, is a seed. Stone flowers can inject poison in their youth or, before they die, a seed.” He straightened and threw the flower to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot. “Typically they inject it into a rotting log, but I suppose this one became confused.”

Madeline rubbed at the spot where the seed was. “What will happen to me?”

Hanali grimaced. “Are you a rotting log?”

“No,” she said, annoyed.

“Then, I suppose, nothing. Do let me know if a flower bursts from your skin. Now. May we get to the business at hand?”

Madeline frowned at him. He didn’t seem to be taking the whole thing seriously. Then again, maybe that was a good sign. “Fine,” she said.

The Elenil practically danced up a clay stairway that climbed the side of a two-story house. There were no railings or handholds, just simple stairs. At the top, he bent low and entered a dark room.

The woman was hard to see in the dim light. She sat against the wall, which was covered in ivy. The ivy had snaked across the woman, too, so only her face could be seen. The lines on her face branched and split like climbing vines, and her hair was tangled in the leaves. She looked almost like one of the Aluvoreans, what with all the ivy, but her skin wasn’t green. Madeline couldn’t tell if she was human or something else.

“I brought your fee,” Hanali said and placed a small pewter spoon in front of the woman. A vine curled around it and lifted it to the woman’s eyes. She nodded, and the spoon disappeared into the ivy.

“What . . . what happened to you?” Madeline asked.

The woman’s dark eyes rested on her for a moment. “I’ll not tell you that without a spoon, or a pair of bone dice, or a rusted knife from a knight’s traveling chest.”

The recitation of junk reminded Madeline of the Garden Lady. Bending closer, she tried to see the woman’s eyes. The ivy shifted, and the leaves shuddered. The woman looked away. Madeline tried to put her hand into the ivy to see if the wall behind it was solid, but the ivy curled from her touch, revealing the wall.

Standing against the doorjamb, Hanali said, “Tell them of the Sunlit Lands.”

The leaves spun and waved, as if in a gentle breeze. “Which story would you have, Lord Hanali?”

“Why, the story of its founding, and the seven peoples. The story of the beginning.”

“As the Elenil have told it?”

“Of course!”

The storyteller nodded curtly. She glanced at Madeline and said, almost under her breath, “Listen well. The Elenil share this story, without cost, so that you may know how the world is meant to be.”

Then she began the story. It was a story about a great magician whom the Elenil called the Majestic One, who saw the rebellious nature of all the people of the land and decided he would “repair the world.” But most of the people refused to listen to him and continued on in their various violent ways.

The first people to agree to help the magician were named Ele and Nala, who would become the mother and father of the Elenil race. The Majestic One set out to tame the whole world, with Ele and Nala and their children at his side, and in time all the people were brought under his rule.

Much of the story was actually a long poem that Madeline had a hard time following, with all the unfamiliar names. It was about the rewards and blessings that the magician gave to the different people after the war had ended. He made the Elenil the guardians of the world, and according to the story he himself founded the Court of Far Seeing and put the Elenil in charge of the entire Sunlit Lands.

The wizard sent all the other people to different lands, giving them their places in the world. The Aluvoreans made their home among the trees in the southlands. Madeline shuddered. She wouldn’t be taking any unfamiliar flowers in the future. She rubbed the small dark mark on her arm, but she couldn’t see it as clearly now. Had it already faded? Maybe it would come out on its own, like a splinter. There was a parade of unfamiliar names and people: the Kakri, who lived in the desert; the Maegrom, who lived in the caves beneath the world; the Zhanin (“Shark people,” Shula whispered. “We rarely see them this far from the sea.”); and the Scim, who were the last people to surrender, and so were cursed to eternal darkness. The Majestic One even cursed their appearance, making them frightening monsters. The Elenil, of course, were rewarded for their loyalty and were made the guardians and caretakers of the Sunlit Lands.

There was even a stanza about human beings, a detail Madeline found surprising. She listened closely to it, interested in how the Elenil saw humans.

According to the leaf woman, the Majestic One said this to the humans:

Humans! Ye shall live upon another earth,

a people of science and dust.

Bereft of magic, short lived and passionate.

There shall still be beauty and wonder among you.

In great need may ye return to the Sunlit Lands,

for ye are our cousins and neighbors.

Madeline listened, fascinated. In the Elenil legends of that long-ago time, humans were considered just another magical race of beings, but magic (and apparently long life) had been taken from them, and they were sent to Earth. Interesting. They could only come to the Sunlit Lands in “great need.” The story wrapped up with a poem about the rightful place for each type of person to live. Humans on Earth, Zhanin in the sea, Kakri in the desert, and so on.

The woman shuddered when the story was done, and the leaves around her trembled. Her eyes closed for a long moment, and when she opened them she said, “Now my story is done, the truth unspooled. Listen well or be a fool.”

“You didn’t tell her about the Kharobem,” Shula said.

“They were not people made at that time. Not then.”

“Or the Southern Court,” Hanali said. “What of them?”

“Monsters and animals,” the storyteller said. “Nor did I mention the Pastisians, for they are human. Who is the teller of tales here? Do I tell you how to fight a war, Shula Bishara? Do I tell Hanali, son of Vivi, how to choose fine clothing?”

The woman in the ivy shuddered again, and long tendrils of plant life cascaded over her face. It cleared again in a moment. Wet streaks ran down her face.

Without thinking, Madeline stepped closer. The ivy recoiled, making a path for her. Madeline bent down and kissed the storyteller’s cheek. “Thank you for the story.”

The look in the storyteller’s eyes was one of wonder and dismay. She stared at Madeline for the longest time. “It’s you,” she said. “After all these years.”

Madeline didn’t know what to say. She whispered, “You’re not . . . trapped, are you? In the ivy?”

“Not in the way you think,” the storyteller said. “No more than you.”

Hanali pulled Madeline back and knelt in front of the storyteller, studying her carefully. “What did you see, old woman?”

“I’m younger than you, Elenil.”

Hanali’s mouth snapped shut. The muscles in his face flexed. “Show some respect, storyteller. What did you see?”

A long sigh came from the woman, like air escaping a balloon. “Her blade shall bring justice at long last to the Scim.”

Hanali did not move for a long time. He only stared at the woman, unblinking. He mumbled, almost to himself, “I know there’s more to it than that. The Aluvoreans have taken an interest in her as well. Why would your people show interest in her?”

The woman said nothing at first, but when Hanali continued to glare at her she finally said, reluctantly, “There is trouble in Aluvorea. She may be a seed of hope. But I fear it is still a long way off, Hanali. Another time, another tale.”

He studied Madeline. Then to Shula he said, “At dusk, take Madeline to the battlements to see the Scim and watch the battle.”

“It’s only her first full day, and she’s not ready to —”

Hanali’s eyes narrowed, and Shula stopped speaking. “She need not fight, but she will watch.”

Shula bent her head. “Of course, Excellency.”

Madeline found herself surprised by Hanali. He was kind and hospitable one moment and dismissive the next. He seemed foppish and ridiculous most of the time. But he had these moments of decisive command, and no one dared cross him then —not Shula, and not the storyteller. He was a strange person.

Hanali guided them outside, bowed deeply, and begged their leave. He wandered off into the crowd. Shula watched him go, a concerned look on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Madeline touched Shula’s arm.

Shula looked up, startled. “Hanali is not usually so polite to humans. Asking permission to leave us. And bowing to us? It’s very strange. He must think there’s something to these prophecies.”

They strolled along the street, arm in arm. There were so many wonderful things to see here. “Why did it seem like Hanali didn’t know the story the ivy woman was telling? And why were the details different than what you both expected?”

Shula shrugged. “Storytellers tell their stories differently depending on the time of day, the audience, and their whim. That’s why she asked if he wanted the story as the Elenil tell it —she likely knows the same story from different peoples, different tribes, different times. I’ve heard that story five or six times, and each time with different nuances.”

That was interesting. Madeline wondered about that while they walked. So the woman in the ivy may very well have been tailoring that story just for her. She wanted to think about that more. She glanced at her arm. She couldn’t see the seed at all now.

She didn’t want to think about that anymore. She was alive. She could breathe. She had been stung by a deadly flower, and it hadn’t bothered her a bit. She wanted to do something fun, to celebrate, to run and dance. She asked Shula if they could walk past the singing fountains she had seen from the coach, and Shula, delighted, agreed.

“Don’t worry about those prophecies,” Shula said. “The Elenil love prophecies. They use them constantly. Hanali uses them to learn what people will wear to parties so he can make sure his outfit is unique.”

“You’re kidding.” They laughed.

“They have a low tolerance for not knowing or understanding things. They —” Shula hesitated. “They go to extremes to learn about the future. They’re plotters and planners. They hold prophecies over each other’s heads to get people to behave the way they want. They’ll lie about a prophecy if they think it gives them an advantage.”

“So the thing about me bringing justice to the Scim with my sword?”

Shula patted her hand. “Could have been invented by Hanali to advance his social standing among the other Elenil.”

Madeline felt a mix of relief and disappointment wash over her. So much had changed in the last twenty-four hours. She was still getting used to the fact that she could breathe. She didn’t want to be some Elenil hero. At the same time, there was something exciting about being someone special, someone with a fate that would change the world. “Why would the storyteller say the same thing, then?”

Shula didn’t respond, a troubled look crossing her face.

At the fountain, they listened to the music as the water leapt from bowl to bowl. Shula explained how the bowls represented the Sunlit Lands cosmology: a series of crystal spheres that turned like clockwork over the world. Madeline had a vague memory of learning something like it in an advanced English class when they were reading Shakespeare. It was another reminder that they were not on Earth. The people, the clothing, the architecture, even the astronomy, all looked different.

On the way home Shula bought her a snack using a few wooden coins she fished from her pocket. The fruit had a hard, purplish exterior, which the merchant (a surly Maegrom) cut deftly in two with a curved knife. She and Shula each took half, and the merchant gave them each their own wooden spoon, more like a tiny paddle. The soft, white interior of the fruit was both sweet and tangy and left her tongue tingling with pleasure. When they finished, Shula took the “bowl” of the fruit and threw it straight into the air. A large green bird sailed out of nowhere, snatched the peel from the sky, and disappeared, fighting off two smaller birds. Madeline threw hers into the air, and another bird snatched it.

By the time they were nearly home, most of the shops along the street were closing, with merchants pulling in their wares and folding up their canopies. “The market is closing for a time of rest before nightfall. We should rest also,” Shula said. “Tonight you’ll watch from the city wall . . . You won’t get much sleep before tomorrow.”

Madeline’s heart began to pound. The thought of being in a battle, of being in a fight at all, made her nervous. Her palms began to sweat. Shula squeezed Madeline’s shoulder. “Do not fear. You made an agreement to serve the Elenil, but there is no guarantee they will assign you to fight. They may put you on guard duty, or have you serve food in the archon’s palace. You agreed to serve them, not necessarily to fight.”

“But the prophecy Hanali keeps mentioning —it sure sounds like fighting.”

Shula sighed. “Six months ago, Hanali was invited to a party for someone in the Elenil elite. It was a big deal. He went to sixteen prophets, four soothsayers, and three party planners. He chose his outfit and bought new gloves and obsessed about this party for more than two months. One of the prophets told him I would ruin the party. I was supposed to go as his ‘bodyguard’ . . . The Elenil like ridiculous shows of luxury, and that was one of his. But he was so terrified that he switched me out for someone else. The party came, and he attended, and he even spoke to some of the most influential Elenil, the magistrates. The whole city was talking about it the next day, and Hanali’s name came up more than once in the gossip chains.”

“So you didn’t ruin it?”

“No,” Shula said. “But the next time I saw him, he cornered me and said, ‘You ruined the party. I spent the entire night worried about how you were going to ruin it, so I didn’t enjoy it for a moment.’”

Madeline laughed.

It was definitely getting darker now, but there was still plenty of light to see. They had walked past Mrs. Raymond’s house and were now at the base of the city wall. “So just because my sword will bring justice, that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m fighting a war?”

Shula shook her head. In the dim light, the scar on her face stood out more clearly. “Maybe you drop a sword on someone’s toe, and they get so angry they destroy the Scim once and for all. Or maybe you work in the kitchens and make a sword cake that gives all the Scim a stomachache at the signing of a peace treaty. Or —” Shula up held a finger. “ —and this is the most likely one of all —Hanali is trying to get some attention and has made up a prophecy. The whole city would be looking for you if the prophets pronounced you as some sort of chosen one.”

Madeline thanked Shula, then gave her a hug. Madeline’s muscles unknotted, and her fists unclenched. She took a deep breath, something she would never, never get tired of doing. “I’ve been worried,” she said, “that I would come all the way here to get away from —from the thing that was killing me back home —and that I would get killed by the Scim instead.” She felt weird not telling Shula about her deal with Hanali, but Mrs. Raymond had seemed to feel so strongly about it. Maybe she would wait a few days until she better understood how everything worked. But she already knew she could trust Shula. She felt it to the core of her being.

“The Scim can’t kill you if you kill them first,” Shula said. “Climb to the top of this stairway and tell them your name. I have to get ready to fight. But it’s time for you to see the Scim.”