Page 106 of The Queens and the Kings
The Teller turned, smiling as if he heard the thought. Impossible, even for a man reputed for his great stories.
She hoped.
Wet clay coated his pants, his shirt, his hands. She’d interrupted him in the middle of something.
“You may talk with me out here, Britt.”
He beckoned her to follow.
He led her to a portico, attached to the humble cottage, which must have been four times bigger than the simple home. Around the portico, seven sections of different walls formed a heptagon filled with shelves. Breaks between each wall, as wide as two people standing apart, allowed her to see within. Sculptures packed each shelf.
The Teller advanced between two walls and into the middle of the structure, where a pile of wet clay lay under a soaked, white cloth. Buckets of water ringed it, some empty, others sloshing full. Drying stones indicated that he kept the clay wet by dumping water on it, which might explain his tattered and saturated pants.
He settled on a rickety, backless chair at a spinning table, as if she hadn’t come at all. The clay splattering his hands, wrists, and clothes made sense as he began to pump his leg, making the table whirl. A lopsided lump of clay toppled, prey to the twirling power. A quiet hush of sound followed.
“May I look at your sculptures?” she asked.
He grabbed the clay lump with his hands and closed his eyes.
“You may wander.”
Britt meandered to the right, near the closest wall. The sculptures in this section resembled panoramas. Thick blocks of clay, worn perfectly smooth. While wet, he had carved a vista into the setting. Klipporno, as seen from the sea. The exquisite lines and details drew her fingertips. She touched the small caves, the crackles in the stone, the rushing sea top.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
Sliding to the left, she perused a collection of busts. People with their eyes closed, expression serene. The wrinkles around their eyes, the detail of lashes. She held her breath, expecting them to awake. Others were more grotesque, screaming as if actively torched.
“You are very talented,” she said quietly.
“I am a sculptor.”
“Pedr called you the Teller.”
He paused, fumbling. Then said, “Sculptures tell stories.”
When she glanced back, he remained unchanged, eyes closed, hands on the clay. Perhaps she’d imagined his stumble. Her attention skipped around the heptagon. Every furtive check confirmed that he kept his eyes closed. His hands moved deftly, quickly. Something began to form under his studious work, but she couldn’t decipher it yet.
“Your works are based on real life, it seems.”
“Like most stories.”
“Do you sculpt everyday?”
Her question went unanswered. “You came for a story.”
“Yes, and I have a question. Pedr sent me,” she added, watching him more closely this time. His nose twitched. “He seems to think you can answer my question with a story.”
“What is your question?”
“It’s about Wyvern Kings. And . . . and maybe something else that I don’t know.”
Another twitch. “I offer a story. I am the Teller.”
“I will gratefully take whatever you offer.”
She lowered into a chair. It had been such a journey to get here that she didn’t want to waste it on a random story, but she wouldn’t insult him with demands, either.
“I will not,” the Teller stated.
