Page 42 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

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 their own 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.

They faded.

“With time, the Queens believed they should be the only ones to have arcane. They combed the land for answers on how to control all of the arcane, to find the Keeper of Souls. In doing so, they incurred the wrath of the Wyvern Kings. The most powerful beings on land, who had already tamed the land arcane to their bidding.”

Britt jerked back.

“That’s how they fit into this story?”

The Teller continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“The Wyvern Kings took exception to the prowling Queens, particularly when the Queens crossed into their beloved westlands. The Wyvern Kings banished them from the land, before they found the Keeper of Souls, earning the Siren Queens’ eternal wrath.

And it’s good they didn’t, for all, even the land, would have been lost.”

His hands slowed. The top of a woman’s torso had formed, surprisingly lifelike. In the lull of silence, Britt cast her eyes onto nearby sculptures.

Did all of these represent a story?

“As happens,” the Teller said, concluding a foregone tale, “the Queens and Kings went to war. The Siren Queens, who had hoarded and gathered all the arcane, gained the upper hand. The Keeper of Souls did not emerge from hiding to help either side. Thus, though the Wyvern Kings battled, they lost the war. Their beloved land exploded in the aftermath of the mighty war, spraying soil and arcane into the sea. The Siren Queens banished the Wyvern Kings to a separate land, the Land the Queens Didn’t Care For, for one thousand years. ”

The Teller’s eyes opened, latched on Britt. “Thus,” he whispered, “was the birth of The Isles, the Arcanists, and the distorted arcane.”

Wyvern Kings.

Siren Queens.

Distorted arcane.

The birth of The Isles.

These were tales—surely. They couldn’t be real. Stories told to children to pass on legacy and culture and history, but . . .

Quick as a fox, his eyes slammed shut. His commanding story continued, the clay spinning faster and faster. Only the arcane could create such a sculpture under the whirling top. His fingers hovered above it, forming the details and nuance. They no longer trembled.

That’s when she knew.

The Teller was Jordaire, Arcanist of Land. He had to be.

“The Queens did not care that they drained the land with their arcane search.

That life leaked from the sky. They did not care for the Keeper of Souls.

They left their sea, overtook what was left of the Wyvern Kings' beloved Westlands, and built a fortress. A mighty fortress, unbroachable. Unbearable.”

Her heart sped up.

“Without the Wyvern Kings, the arcane lost itself,” he continued, shrill.

“It became wild, unpredictable. In the absence of the Kings, it spread to the people. Time says that the Keeper of Souls, mourning, retreated to death. All was lost, and thus, the Arcanists were born. Forced to harness the arcane of the sea, sky, land, and souls.”

He sighed.

“But the day will come when the Wyvern Kings will end their exile. They shall return and fight the Siren Queens for the Westlands and their arcane again.”

Britt shook her head. The story loosely aligned with the tales Malcolm told her as a child.

Exploding lands. Scattering islands. Tumultuous power.

The Teller—presumed Jordaire—even explained wyverns, but that didn’t make this true.

The best of Tellers wove truth and fabrication into every tale.

She couldn’t just . . . believe him and this horrid tale.

Unless he truly was the Arcanist of Land.

Then, she had no choice.

The sculpture came to life in his hands. Hues infused it readily. Sloping shoulders, a graceful neck, quiet ears formed out of the misshapen clay with the quick touch of his experienced hands. Rough-shod, but lyrically so. He coaxed out a masterpiece.

He concluded with a soft coo. “The Wyvern Kings have resided on the mainland, gathering power in order to fight. The end of their one thousand years of banishment has arrived. At the right moment, the exact second of their release, the Kings will return to their lush Westland hills. They will breathe the air of their homeland, restore their arcane, and stand against the Queens.”

As he spoke, the face finally emerged. A beautiful woman with a sleek neck, elegant profile, and tapered eyes. The sheen of the clay and the colors swirling in it gave her an otherworldly glow. Power emanated from her.

Her eyes opened.

Stared at Britt.

Britt gasped, rearing back. As quickly as the sculpture came to life, it collapsed. Withering into itself, it spiraled into a simmering blob. The Teller shoved both hands into the clay. It splattered all directions with a final thud .

In its place lay a braided leather cord. The Teller opened his eyes, lifted the knotted braid, and held it to Britt. Tawny threads twisted together, like gathered willow branches and leather. An otherworldly sheen emanated. Arcane.

“A wise woman will wear this if she is asking questions about the Siren Queens of old.”

Britt hesitated, staring at it.

“This is all . . . real?”

“Believing in a thing does not make it real,” he murmured, “but if it is real, it will continue to be so with or without you believing it.”

Britt wrapped her unsteady fingers around it. “Thank you.” The braid felt cool and sleek in her hands. It would fit her wrist, and would be long enough to hide under her clothes. His expectant stare felt like a punch in the chest.

“And yours?” he inquired.

She knew exactly what to say. “My greatest secret is really my greatest fear.”

A hungry look filled his eyes. “What is it?” he hissed with a greedy smile.

“That my parents died, and my aunt despises me, and Pedr left to be on the ocean, and Malcolm resented having to care for me, because I’m not worthy of their love.”

The Teller’s eyes widened. His expression collapsed into surprise. The braid glowed in her hand. He glanced at it, then her, with a quizzical expression.

“The arcane says you are not lying, You may go in peace, Britt of The Isles. May you fare better against the Siren Queens than those of old, and your brother.”