The Truth-Teller's Tale (29 page)

“There's happiness enough for all of us to go around,” she said. “For you, too.”

I went to my armoire and tried to decide what to wear for the day. “We shall see.”

But of course, I saw almost as soon as I went downstairs. Mother was moving slowly around the kitchen, fighting back her own yawns and putting together a cold lunch. Father was seated at the table, sipping tea as if he hoped it might be the elixir of health and vigor or he had no hope of ever standing up again.

My mother nodded toward the door. “You might take your lunch outdoors,” she said. “It's a fine day. And there's someone waiting to share it with you under the chatterleaf tree.”

“Roelynn?” I said.

Mother gave me a quick disdainful look. “No, not Roelynn. You know who.”

I poured my own cup of tea and kissed my father on the cheek. “Did you hear? The tales from last night?” I asked.

Father nodded. “Melinda came by this morning. The whole town's talking. To think we've had a prince under our roof all this time.”

“A prince and his companion,” Mother said in a meaningful way. “Now go outside and talk to him.”

I put together a plate of bread and cheese and dried meat, balanced a mug of tea on the edge, and pushed my way out the back door. A few steps and I was under the spreading branches of the chatterleaf tree. Gregory was already sitting there, his own meal laid out on a gaily checked red gingham blanket. I dropped down next to him and arranged my food before me.

Then I gave him a very frosty look. “You lied to me,” I said.

“I know it appears that way,” he said. “And, in fact, I was prepared to lie to the whole world. It's something I've always found fairly easy to do. But I tried not to lie to you.”

I took a bite of bread. I was actually starving. Last night's nibbles at the grand folks' food seemed a very long time ago. “You said you were a poor man with no family connections.”

“I don't think I said I was poor, exactly, but I'm certainly not rich,” he replied. “I'm a third son of a third son—hardly any prospects there, though there's always been plenty of money to support me. And I did tell you that I had some family connections. I just didn't tell you how high up those connections went.”

“You said your name was Gregory.”

“It's my uncle's name. Everyone says I look like him. Sometimes my mother even slips and calls me by that name. It was a small lie.”

“You said you had left Wodenderry to escape a scandal.”

“Well, yes, that was a complete fiction, I suppose.”

“You said you were a
dancing master.
”

He smiled at me and took my hand. “I'm a very good dancing master,” he said. “Don't you think? Look how much you've learned from me.”

I jerked my hand away. “I can never trust you.”

“I don't know how you can possibly say that,” he replied. “I've never done anything to hurt you. I helped your best friend find the man she'll love forever. I helped my own best friend find a girl who would marry him for love. I've helped make the Leaf and Berry a very profitable enterprise this summer. I've worked with you in the kitchen, danced with you in the parlor, and dreamed of you in the second-floor bedroom. And I never lied to you about how I feel about you. You should know that. You're the first girl who's ever inspired me to want to tell the truth.”

I looked away, but he kept talking. “That was
my
dream,” he said. “You've never lived at court—you have no idea how artificial it is, how it's all this elaborate pretense. My father tells me that my very first words were a lie, which lets you know how I was bred up in deceit from the cradle.”

“What were your first words?” I said, but I still would not look at him.

He laughed. “ ‘It's mine!' I can't even remember what I was laying claim to, but apparently it was somebody else's possession.”

I couldn't help but smile a little at that. “And that was your dream?” I said. “To be forced to live a more honest existence?”

He took my hand again, and this time I didn't pull it away. “To be around honest people,” he amended. “To stop always speculating on motives and jousting for royal favor. To just be. To just be happy.” He squeezed my hand tighter. “I've been happier here. Happier than I've been anywhere. I want to hold on to that happiness as long as I can.”

Now I turned back to face him. “You're the one who told me happiness doesn't last,” I pointed out. “That dreams are disrupted and plans go awry.”

“Yes, but you stand a better
chance
of being happy in some situations than others,” he argued. “I want to be among people I like in a place that feels real. I want to stay here. I want to marry you.”

I regarded him for a long moment, inspecting his face and weighing the echoes of his words. There was no doubt that he was entirely sincere. It was hard for me to hold on to my impassivity, but I was not entirely won over yet. “Who are you?” I asked. “What is your true name?”

“Tobin Virres Grayson Alain,” he said promptly.

“Tobin,” I said. “I'm not sure I will ever get used to that. I think I will always think of you as Gregory.”

“Call me by any name you like,” he said amiably. “I will answer to any hail from your voice.”

I tried to frown him down, but his words made me smile. “And what is your station in life?”

“My father is brother to the king.”

“
You're
the wicked cousin who always accompanied the prince on all his scandalous outings!” I exclaimed. “We've heard of Tobin for ages. He's a dreadful rake.”

“Was,” Gregory-Tobin said, bringing my hand to his mouth and kissing it. “
Was
a dreadful rake.”

“How can you be sure you want to reform?” I demanded. “It's only been a few weeks. You may find country life and sheer respectability a little dull after another month or two.”

“I don't think so,” he said. “But set me a test, if you like. Make me prove that I can endure six months of a quiet existence in Merendon before you agree to marry me.”

“A year,” I said.

“Nine months,” he offered.

I could not help smiling. “We'll start with six months,” I said. “And go from there.”

He still had my hand, and now he drew me closer, scattering the plates and teacups as he pulled me onto his lap. I was quite comfortable there, with his arms around my waist and his head bending over my head as he kissed me on my cheek. “So that is my dream come true,” he whispered in my ear. “Life with a girl who loves me and will keep me on the straight and narrow way. I am so glad Melinda was here to grant me my wish. What is your dream, Truth-Teller? What have you always wanted above all else?”

I had to consider that for a moment, for I still did not have a good answer ready. It was very odd to think of oneself as the answer to someone else's prayers, and for a moment I wondered if that might be good enough, if to be a dream come true could be a dream of my own. But that could be only part of it, I decided. I had to have my own desires to work toward, my own goals to reach, though I had no objection to making them complementary with somebody else's goals.

“Happiness,” I said at last, falling back on that single, great, unreliable dream that I had never been able to articulate any better than that. “I want happiness. Maybe in the coming years it will take a more specific shape. And maybe there are days it will waver and fall apart. But that's what I want. I don't know how to say it any more clearly.”

“And does that happiness include me?” he asked.

I turned in his arms and kissed him on the mouth. He responded most enthusiastically. “Yes,” I said, “it very definitely does.”

And that was the truth of it. No need for lies or secrets between us, not now; for we had dreams, some that had been granted already and some that might take hold in the future. I was a Truth-Teller, and this was something I knew for certain: Happiness was a rare gift, and a precious one, and I would gather it close to me now and cherish it for all my days to come.

is a journalist who works for a trade magazine. She has won the William C. Crawford Award for Outstanding New Fantasy Writer, and was twice nominated for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. Her sequence of Samaria novels have been
Locus
best sellers, and her novel
Summers at Castle Auburn
was named an ALA Best Book for Young Adults.

A graduate of Northwestern University, Sharon Shinn has lived in the Midwest most of her life.

THIS IS THE STORY MY MOTHER TOLD ME:

She was traveling late in her pregnancy when she was overcome by labor pains. Fortunately, she was near a small town and had enough time to send a message to my father before she was gripped with spasms so great she could barely speak. A midwife arrived in time to help deliver the baby, a squalling, dark-haired boy. My mother, who had lost a great deal of blood, saw him for only a moment before she slipped into a sleep from which they thought she would not recover. When she woke, my father was there with a wet nurse; they would not let her near the baby till she had regained her own strength. By that time, they were back home, having chanced the two-day journey in the hopes that she would recover better in her own surroundings.

The baby was nearly two weeks old before my mother was strong enough to care for him herself. But the first time she unwrapped his soiled diapers, she began to scream. The baby was not a boy after all, but a girl. My mother could not be calmed from her hysteria. She could not be convinced that, in the birthing bed, she was in no condition to know whether she had delivered herself of a son or a daughter. Nothing my father or the wet nurse said could convince her that she had not borne a boy who had mysteriously metamorphosed into a girl.

I was that baby. I was that strangely altered child.

From that day on, my mother watched me with a famished attention, greedy for clues. I had changed once; might I change again? Into what else might I transform, what other character might I assume? As for myself, I cultivated a demeanor of sturdy stoicism. I was hard to ruffle, hard to incite to anger—at least that anyone could tell from watching me. It was as if I hoped my unvarying mildness would reassure my mother, convince her to trust me. It was as if she was some animal lured from wild lands and I was the seasoned trainer who habitually made no sudden moves.

She never did learn to trust me, though, or to accept me for who I was. It was my first lesson in failure, and it stayed with me the rest of my life.

 

 

Every important event of my life seemed to be set in motion during the summer. The year I turned nine, our small town of Thrush Hollow was visited by a Truth-Teller, a thin and haggard woman. Neither her soul nor her body accommodated the padding that sometimes makes life more comfortable. I can't remember who called her to Thrush Hollow or why, though it is always a dangerous gamble to ask Truth-Tellers for their services. They cannot speak lies and they do not indulge in pleasant deceptions. You may find that what they have to say to you is just as unpalatable as what you would have them say to your neighbor.

At any rate, this Truth-Teller had arrived and was staying at the local inn, and a few people had gone to lay their grievances at her feet. One night I overheard an argument between my mother and father, when they thought I was already sleeping, and the next day the three of us headed to the inn. My father, a dark and perpetually harassed man, looked dour and unwilling. My mother, who was short and fair and very determined, seemed nearly as grim. She had wrapped her fingers around my wrist with a grip so tight I kept twisting to get free, but she would not release me. I did not protest aloud, of course. I never said anything that might mark me as temperamental.

When we arrived at the inn, we were directed to a small parlor in the back. It was a warm day, so the windows were open, but the room was still stuffy and hot. The Truth-Teller sat in a straight-backed chair, her eyes closed, her head resting against the worn cushion. She opened her eyes when the three of us walked in, and she did not look happy to see us.

“What is it?” she snapped. “I'm tired. There are enough liars in Thrush Hollow to make even the strongest Truth-Teller weak, and I'm old and frail.”

“I won't take much of your time,” my mother said breathlessly.

“Introduce yourselves,” the old lady demanded.

“I'm Amelia Carmichael. That's my husband, Stephen. That's Kellen.” My mother had christened me after an uncle of hers, but it was a name some women bore as well. It was not a name that gave away secrets.

“And what do you want me to tell you, Amelia, except that your agitation is making me nervous?”

“I would just like to ask you a few questions about my son,” my mother said, pushing me forward. I was dressed that day, as I was dressed every day, in shapeless clothing that would suit a boy and yet not be wholly out of place on a girl—loose black trousers, loose white shirt, leather shoes. My unstyled black hair hung to my shoulders, its only positive attribute that it was clean. I could have been any anonymous child called in from afternoon play.

The Truth-Teller sat up and stared at me, her dark eyes bright with irritation. I stared back at her, my expression impassive. “Son!” the old woman exclaimed. “This child isn't a boy. It's a girl. Why do you call her ‘son'?”

“See, yes, she's a girl
now
, but she wasn't always,” my mother said eagerly. “That's what I want you to tell me—that's what I want you to tell my husband. When she was
born
, she was a boy. I saw him. You tell them the truth.”