The Masked City

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.

‘It’s hard for us to make a role for ourselves, when the great ones already hold the most notable paths,’ said an American-accented female voice from somewhere behind her.

‘Even the great can die,’ Aunt Isra said calmly. ‘The path is eternal, but we who walk it are rarely so. Do not be in haste to limit yourself, child. Go forth and act in accordance with your nature. Only the weak will limit themselves to thinking in human terms. Pity them, use them, but do not become them. We are what we make ourselves.’