Page 107 of The Queens and the Kings
“I’m sorry? You will not what?”
“Answer your question.”
“Oh.”
“But I will tell you a story. You desire the story of the old ones, do you not?”
“Are Wyvern Kings the old ones?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes. Thank you.”
“I am a sculptor. My hands live in the clay, the earth. The ground. All that is in the land is in me, and I celebrate it. Daily, I breathe in the earth. All is one here, Britt of The Isles, sister to the Arcanist Pedr. All is together, and I am part of it, and it is part of me, and the dust speaks and breathes. I hear the stories. Even the stories of old. But an exchange is required foryouto hear the stories of old.”
Tentatively, she asked, “What do you require to tell me the stories of Wyvern Kings?”
“A secret.”
She echoed his request with surprise. He hummed, the tips of his fingers forming the bottom edge of a still-unrecognizable clay mass. He dunked his hands into a water bucket and brought it to the clay, wetting it. The top glistened.
Mesmerized by the skill of his motions, she asked, “What kind of secret?”
“Your deepest secret.”
Frowning, she said, “Idon’t even know my deepest secret.”
He laughed, a sound like rustling bird wings. “Ah, Britt of The Isles, you are true and good, as the dust says. Still, you must give. For I am the Teller, and there is no story worth telling like the hidden ones no one wants to reveal.”
She eyed the surroundings, and wondered if there wasn’t symbology in all that he said.
The idea of telling him her darkest secret was laughably simple. How would he know if she was being honest? Through the same sense of whatever drove him to deeper understanding,probably. The arcane? He was an old man, an artist. He lived alone, in the outskirts of the mainland, near the haunting sound of the sea.
Henrik might say the exchange wasn’t worth it. For those with a life on the sea, secrets were power. By giving away a secret, he might believe she gave away a key to power over her, later to be used, manipulated. Did she believe this old man was capable?
Did it matter?
She had to know.
“I agree,” she finally said. “I’ll tell you what I think is my deepest secret.”
“Then let me tell you about the Queens and the Kings.”
“There is much arcane power in our world. Much arcane. It stretches through the earth, winds into the sea, fills the sky, stoppers souls. At first, only privileged holders harnessed and wielded these many powers. These holders were known as the Siren Queens.”
The Teller used the clay to tell his story, and his cadence produced a song. A requiem with a haunting lilt that reminded her of a children’s poem Malcolm used to chant after their parents died. She hushed her building question.
Siren Queens?
What about the Wyvern Kings?
“At first, the Siren Queens held the power of the sea and the sky.” The Teller grasped his clay, molding it between his hands. “They took arcane from the waves and turned it to theirown purposes. As power does, it corrupted their hearts. They wanted more, so they stole it from the sky, plucking the arcane from the weather and the wind. They wanted everything—even the souls of all those alive. But the land stood in their way, you understand. The land protected the Keeper of Souls.”
His voice wavered, and so did the spinning clay stand. She held her breath, but the wobbling corrected. Beneath his hands, a sculpture became more apparent. The bottom half of a woman. Sloping lines flowed into a skirt that stood alone, patiently waiting for detail. His fingers explored higher, using the edge of his thumb to swipe and create and press and angle.
Was that . . . color?
The clay had taken an unexpected tinge, like a trailing rainbow beneath his touch. A flare of hue illuminated, flushed as the lights over the northern sea.
