‘As long as they are intelligent ones,’ Aunt Isra said, not very helpfully.
The woman nodded. ‘We’ve all lived in the wake of our patrons, Aunt Isra, and followed their paths. We therefore have some understanding of what it is to be caught in the “story” of another of our kind - at least, that was the phrasing my superior used. How much … um, bigger is the effect when facing one of the great—’ She was clearly looking for some diplomatic way to say how much worse, and Irene herself dearly wanted to know the answer to this one.
Aunt Isra sniffed. The harsh light now coming in through the windows cast her features into strict lines of contrast and shadow. ‘Certainly you can flee, young woman, and retreat back to whatever sphere you came from. No doubt there will be humans there who will feed you sufficient adoration to keep you alive. But it will be no more than living. Once you have tasted the full wine of following in the steps of the great ones, nothing less will content you. Once I - I myself! - was but a humble maiden who bore her sword in the service of the great Caliph al-Rashid. All things seemed possible to me then. I will admit that I had lovers - nay, even friends - among the humans. I could live within that petty sphere because I did not realize how much was to be had outside it.’
Beyond the window was desert, punctuated by cacti, tumbleweeds and thin stony paths. The sun burned down on it from a cloudless sky.
Aunt Isra’s voice had shifted into the rising and falling patterns of a story. ‘But then I told a tale that set a Djinn free, and I travelled thrice across the shifting sands with friends to answer its questions. I walked the paths that lead from Paradise to Hell, and I made five choices at their doors. I gave a hero the reins to a horse that galloped faster than the wind. I knelt at the feet of an emperor who ruled five worlds, and I told him a story that brought doom on one of them, but saved another. I lay in the arms of the ocean and bore her a child. And once I had done all these things, my children, I saw how little it was worth to be - to be merely a person who had the name that I once had. What are humans, compared to the wine of life, which is found by living as we do? I am what I am, and now I have no desire to be less.
Is ‘less’ really the word? Irene wondered, then thought It is for her.
‘Cast aside your uncertainties,’ Aunt Isra went on. ‘Be who you are. It is the way forward, my children, the way to power, the way to life. And the greater the virtue of the place where you walk, the easier this will be. I see from your clothing and your habits that you are all well established in your own spheres, which is good. But the great among us can walk in any sphere and will appear in the dress and style appropriate to their nature. They can speak, and they will be understood in any language. They are unchanging, because they have utterly become themselves, and will never be otherwise.’
Irene tentatively raised her hand.
‘Yes?’ Aunt Isra said. She seemed a little less brittle now, more lyrical storyteller than sharp teacher. ‘What have you to say, Clarice?’
‘Aunt Isra,’ Irene said carefully, her stomach clenching at the risk of drawing more attention to herself, ‘when I entered the train, I noticed the driver. But he was difficult to see clearly. I saw many different faces and styles of clothing, but each one was appropriate in its own way. He is one of the great ones, isn’t he?’ Nervousness prickled down her back like an echo of her Library brand, as other people in the carriage looked in her direction.
The train came to a smooth stop. Stagecoaches were waiting outside. From the corner of her eye, Irene could see men in white suits and top hats, and women with parasols and ornate gowns, being helped down from the stagecoaches. They were approaching coaches further down the train. Aunt Isra nodded. ‘He is the Rider. He and his Horse share a story. Do all here know it?’
Before Irene had to either admit she didn’t or pretend she did, the man in overalls who was sitting on the floor raised his hand. ‘Of course, Aunt Isra. I’m surprised that Clarice here isn’t more fully aware of it.’
Snippy, snippy, Irene thought. Just because I was here on time. But she also felt a pang of apprehension, in case she’d exposed her ignorance.
‘Then you may tell the story, young man,’ Aunt Isra said, graciously bestowing the task on him as if it was a prize.
Looking smugly content, the young man began, ‘Once, in a long-distant state, there was a horse that galloped across land and sea …’
It was a typical sort of fairytale, even if the hero who eventually captured the horse was a heroic servant of the people rather than the more usual prince or hunter. Irene took care to memorize the details: silver collar wrought from the moon and stars, whip made from the wind, the rider holding on to its mane while it galloped over thrice nine proletarian states. All the usual stuff. And she nodded at the right moments as she repeated it inside her head.
‘… and then the steed bowed its head and submitted,’ the young man concluded, ‘and from that day to this, the hero commanded its power and it galloped at his will, swifter than a thousand rainbows. From land to land he rides, from the gates of story to the shores of dream, until the world is changed.’
Aunt Isra sat there for a while, lost in thought, and the carriage was silent except for the thrumming of the train. There were skyscrapers beyond the windows now, their heights lost in smog. Irene was vaguely aware that there were other people in the carriage, crowding in to fill it - other students, possibly? - but she didn’t dare look away from Aunt Isra.
‘Tolerably well performed,’ Aunt Isra said. ‘An acceptable version of the story. I approve. You may attend me later, if you wish, for further teaching.’
‘Thank you, Aunt Isra,’ the young man said, and bowed at the waist.
‘Now what conclusion may we all draw from this?’ Aunt Isra abruptly demanded, her gaze sweeping over the group.
Irene mentally scrambled to guess what the proper answer might be. Something about how being in archetypal stories made you a powerful Fae, or vice versa? Something about how the same stories persisted across different worlds? Or about how both the horse and the rider were important participants in the story?
‘Clearly that both the rider and the horse are necessary to each other,’ the woman in the business suit said, her voice clipped. ‘This may be interpreted as encouragement to be involved with each other, to our mutual benefit.’
Even if I’d rather be the rider than the horse, Irene thought.
‘You are correct, young woman, though you put it very blandly,’ Aunt Isra said. ‘I would not expect you to understand the sheer glory that comes from sharing another’s path, except by experience.’ Her voice dripped with condescension. ‘Certainly one can refuse such things. One can limit one’s self. But those who choose to do so - well, if they are here, then they are in the wrong place. We are now among the great company who have travelled upon the Horse. Our story has therefore become that much richer, and we are greater because of it. Also, we can see that lesser things within the story have their own strength. The Horse is a mere servant to the Rider, but it is necessary to the tale. No story is ever about the protagonist alone! Other things are remembered - opponents, friends, servants and obstacles.’
There was something that was nagging at Irene, and she tried to articulate it as a question. ‘Aunt Isra …’ she began.
‘Yes, Clarice?’
‘You said that the Horse was one of the great ones, as was the Rider,’ Irene went on carefully, hoping that she’d got the terminology right. Her brand was itching again as they moved deeper into chaos with every stop the train - or Train - made. ‘We are currently within the Horse, as it were. Does this mean that we are currently in a sphere of “high virtue”, where the great story forms can flourish?’
‘Of course,’ Aunt Isra said. It wasn’t quite a tone of Only an idiot would need to ask such a question, but it was close. ‘That was why you have all found it so easy to reach this seminar. Your paths brought you here.’
Irene nodded. ‘Thank you, Aunt Isra,’ she murmured, lowering her eyes as she thought. So the interior of this Train was by its nature high-chaos, and being in a high-chaos environment took her to where she ‘needed’ to be for the ‘story’ that she was in. She didn’t need to be paranoid about this all being a giant trap - at least, not yet. But she did need to be paranoid about the possibility of her ‘path’ taking her to a meeting with Lord or Lady Guantes. This would lead to the drama so appealing to the story, but she might be forced to play the victim, not the heroine. Another trap to avoid - if she even could.