Buried deep in the maze of narrow alleys was a low doorway painted with intricate blue patterns. I knocked, and it creaked open, just enough to emit a tendril of white smoke that smelled like burnt sugar.
This place felt like an exhale; it felt sacred. In a sense, maybe it was. This was where Otega had first taken me to learn our history, many seasons ago, on the first day of the Sojourn Festival.
A tall, pale man opened the door, his hair shaved so close his scalp shone. He lifted his hands and smiled.
“Ah, Little Noavek,” he said. “I didn’t think I would see you again. And who have you brought me?”
“This is Akos,” I said. “Akos, this is the Storyteller. At least, that’s what he prefers to be called.”
“Hello,” Akos said. I could tell he was nervous by the way his posture changed, the soldier in him disappearing. The Storyteller’s smile spread, and he beckoned us in.
We stepped down into the Storyteller’s living room. Akos hunched to fit under the curved ceiling, which arched to a globe of bright fenzu at its apex. There was a rusted stove with an exhaust pipe stretching to the room’s only window, to let out smoke. I knew the floors were made of hard-packed dirt because I had peeked under the bland, woven rugs as a child to see what was beneath them. The hard fibers had made my legs itch.
The Storyteller directed us to a pile of cushions, where we settled, a little awkwardly, our hands gripped between us. I let go of Akos to wipe my palm on my dress, and as the currentshadows flushed back into my body, the Storyteller smiled again.
“There they are,” he said. “I almost didn’t recognize you without them, Little Noavek.”
He set a metal pot on the table before us—really two footstools bolted together, one metal and one wood—and a pair of mismatched, glazed mugs. I poured the tea for us. It was pale purple, almost pink, and accounted for the sweet smell in the air.
The Storyteller sat across from us. The white paint on the wall above his head was flaking, revealing yellow paint beneath it, from another time. Yet even here was the ever-present news screen, fixed crookedly on the wall next to the stove. This place was full to bursting with scavenged objects, the dark metal teapot clearly Tepessar, the stove grate made of Pithar flooring, and the Storyteller’s clothing itself silky as any of Othyr’s wealthy. In the corner there was a chair, its origin unfamiliar to me, that the Storyteller was in the middle of repairing.
“Your companion—Akos, was it?—smells of hushflower,” the Storyteller said, for the first time furrowing his brow.
“He is Thuvhesit,” I said. “He means no disrespect.”
“Disrespect?” Akos said.
“Yes, I do not permit people who have recently ingested hushflower, or any other current-altering substance, into my home,” the Storyteller said. “Though they are welcome to return once it has passed through their system. I am not in the habit of rejecting visitors outright, after all.”
“The Storyteller is a Shotet religious leader,” I said to Akos. “We call them clerics.”
“He is a Thuvhesit, truly?” The Storyteller frowned, and closed his eyes. “Surely you are mistaken, sir. You speak our sacred language like a native.”
“I think I know my own home,” Akos replied testily. “My own identity.”
“I meant no offense,” the Storyteller said. “But your name is Akos, which is a Shotet name, so you can see why I am confused. Thuvhesit parents would not give their child a name with such a hard sound in it without purpose. What are your siblings’ names, for example?”
“Eijeh,” Akos said breathily. Obviously he hadn’t thought about this before. “And Cisi.”
His hand tightened around mine. I didn’t think he was aware of it.
“Well, no matter,” the Storyteller said. “Obviously you have come here with a purpose, and you don’t have much time before the storm for it to be accomplished, so we will move on. Little Noavek, to what do I owe this visit?”
“I thought you could tell Akos the story you told me as a child,” I said. “I’m not good at telling stories, myself.”
“Yes, I can see that being the case.” The Storyteller picked up his own mug from the floor by his feet, which were bare. The air had been crisp outside, but in here it was warm, almost stifling. “As to the story, it doesn’t really have a beginning. We didn’t realize our language was revelatory, carried in the blood, because we were always together, moving as one through the galaxy as wanderers. We had no home, no permanence. We followed the current around the galaxy, wherever it saw fit to lead us. This, we believed, was our obligation, our mission.”
The Storyteller sipped his tea, set it down, and wiggled his fingers in the air. When I had first seen him do it, I had giggled, thinking he was acting strange. But now I knew what to expect: faint, hazy shapes appeared in front of him. They were smoky, not lit up like the hologram of the galaxy we had seen earlier, but the image was the same: planets arranged around a sun, a line of white current wrapping around them.