Morrighan (The Remnant Chronicles 0.50) - Page 10

I clung to her stories, even if they were of a world I didn’t know, a world of sparkling light and towers that reached to the sky, of kings and demigods who flew among the stars—and princesses. Her stories made me richer than a ruler in a great kingdom. Stories were the one thing she gave me that couldn’t be stolen, not even by a scavenger.

Once upon a time child,

Long, long ago,

Seven stars were flung from the sky.

One to shake the mountains,

One to churn the seas,

One to choke the air,

And four to test the hearts of men.

A thousand knives of light,

Grew to an explosive rolling cloud,

Like a hungry monster.

Only a little princess found grace,

A princess just like you.…

Ama said the storm lasted for three years. When it was over, few were left to tell of it. Fewer still cared to speak of it. Survival was all that mattered. She was only a small child herself when the storms began, her memory shaky, but she filled in the details with what she had learned along the way, more parts filled in by the need of the moment, and the message was always the same. A blessed Remnant survived—would always survive—no matter the hardship.

Other things survived too. Things we had to watch for. Things that sometimes made my faith in the Remnant waver, like when Papa was struck down, trampled by a horse; when Venda was stolen; when Rhiann lost a baby goat and her life with the single slash of a knife.

These became stories too, and Ama charged us to tell them, saying, We have already lost too much. We must never forget from where we came, lest we repeat history. Our stories must be passed to our sons and daughters, for with but one generation, history and truth are lost forever.

And so I told the stories to Jafir as we explored the very small canyon that was our world.

“I have never heard of glass towers,” he said when I told him about where Ama once lived.

“But you’ve seen the ruins, haven’t you? The skeletons that once held the walls of glass?”

“I have seen skeletons. That is all. There are no stories to go with them.” I could hear the shame in his tone, the defensive boy I had met so long ago.

I circled my hands around his waist, taking in the warmth of his back against my cheek. “Stories must begin somewhere, Jafir,” I said gently. “Maybe they can begin with you?”

I felt the stiffening of his shoulders. A shrug. He broke loose from my grip, turning suddenly. “Let’s go for a ride. I want to show you something.”

“Where?” I asked suspiciously. There was not a corner of this small closed-in canyon we hadn’t explored.

“Not far,” he said, taking my hand. “I promise. It’s a lake that—”

I frowned and pulled my hand away. We’d had this conversation before. The boundaries of the small box canyon seemed to grow smaller each day. Jafir chafed against its limits. He was used to riding freely in the open plains and fields, a risk I couldn’t take. “Jafir, if someone sees me—”

He drew me close, his lips grazing mine, stalling my words that waited there. “Morrighan,” he whispered against them, “I would cut out my own heart before I would let any harm come to you.” He reached up, stroking my head. “I would not risk a single hair, or a lost eyelash.” He kissed me tenderly, and heat flooded through me.

Suddenly he jumped back, lifting his arms to the side to show his muscles. “And look!” he said, a grin teasing at the corner of his mouth. “I am strong! I am fierce!”

“You are a fool!” I laughed.

He put on a startled face, feigning fear and looking heavenward. “Beware the gods!”

Perhaps I had told him too many stories.

Tags: Mary E. Pearson The Remnant Chronicles Fantasy
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