The Story Hunter

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  A child of about five appeared around Cameria’s skirt. He cradled an arm that appeared to be missing its hand. The stump had been wrapped tightly, a tourniquet applied at the wrist.

  I gasped. “Cethor’s tears. What did they do to him?”

  Cameria’s eyes brimmed. “It was chaos. They just . . . ran through the halls, hacking away.” She looked at Father. “At children, my lord. Women and children.”

  “Whoever is behind this is not honorable enough to observe the rules of engagement.” Father’s voice was ice.

  “Arystia.” Cameria gestured to someone. “The boy.”

  A young woman with honey-blonde hair appeared a breath later, gently pushing around the silent group huddled behind Cameria.

  I recognized the fire-haired boy on her hip immediately. “Dafyth!” I cried out as my tears welled. “Zel, he’s here!”

  The young woman’s eyes widened. “Zelyth? Ifmere’s husband is here?”

  Zel was in the passageway in a heartbeat. He let out a strangled sob. “Dafyth!” He scooped the little boy into his arms. “He’s alive.” He pressed the baby to his chest.

  The baby looked slightly startled, then he babbled softly. “Ba. Ba-ba.”

  Zel soaked up one long moment, then his attention darted to the gathered women. “Where’s Ifmere?”

  No one responded.

  My mind froze. My gaze stuck on the little boy with the maimed hand. He looked up at me with shocked, hollow eyes, and for some reason, he reminded me of Diggy.

  Finally, Cameria spoke. “Zelyth, I’m so sorry.”

  I moved to take Dafyth, afraid Zel would drop him, but he didn’t. He held the baby tighter. “No—no, that can’t be. The baby is safe.”

  Cameria put her hand on Zel’s arm. “Arystia is Dafyth’s nurse. She and Ifmere fled the infirmary with Dafyth when it was attacked by peasants.”

  “Cameria saved us,” Arystia added. “She had your sword, my lord, and she scared them off. Brought us here. But it was—” Her voice faltered.

  “Perhaps it is kinder if you do not know,” Cameria said to Zel.

  “No, please.” His voice was ragged. “Tell me what happened.”

  She studied his face, then continued, “I brought them here, but soldiers fought their way in.” She turned to Father. “They do have some soldiers, my lord. Former guardsmen. Those who defected and led riots when Gareth fell, I suppose. Or perhaps just Braith’s guardsmen who were willing.”

  The green-uniformed goons.

  “We had just about gotten everyone into the passageway, but we couldn’t get the door closed fast enough from the inside. It was the only place I knew to take everyone where we might be safe and hidden until someone came for us or we could escape.” She turned back to Zel. “And she knew that. Ifmere knew that if they broke into the room while the passageway was open, it could no longer be used as a hiding place. They would know of its existence, and everyone would be in danger, our only chance to remain hidden lost for good.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my mind. How did I end up in the tunnel and she did not? How was she the one who thought to stay behind to close it from the outside? Why didn’t I have her go before me?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “It happened so fast.”

  Arystia placed a hand on Cameria’s back. “Ifmere closed and locked the passageway just as they broke through. Before she closed it, she told me to look after Dafyth. I think . . .” The nursemaid’s voice shook. “I think it was fast.”

  The blood in the front room. The stench of death. It was Ifmere.

  “How did I end up in here and she out there?” Cameria repeated, looking at Father as though he might be able to answer the question that would probably never stop tormenting her.

  “It’s only nature,” Diggy said, her voice soft.

  “She fought,” I said to Zel, half smiling through tears. “She fought back the only way she could. She fought to protect your boy. Her boy.”

  Zel was holding his son close to his face. “Where—” He cleared his throat. “That is . . . did they take her away?”

  “They left her body,” Cameria said quietly. “I couldn’t let her stay out there like that. I—” She closed her eyes. “The day after the coup, I waited a bit. Then I went out there to move her. I wrapped her in a sheet and put her on the couch in your room, my lord.” She gazed at Father. “I just . . . I didn’t know where else to lay her. But I couldn’t leave her like that.”

  Diggy stepped up beside Zel and held out her arms. Surprisingly, Dafyth’s chubby little arms stretched out to her. “You can go to her,” she said to Zel.

  Dafyth was halfway in Diggy’s arms. I nodded at Zel—I would make sure Diggy didn’t do anything odd or dangerous with his son. He relinquished his hold and allowed Mor to take him into the other room.

  A fresh wave of tears hit me when I heard Zel cry out a few moments later.

  “Ifmere . . .” His voice was strangled by harsh weeping.

  I could barely stand it. A knot of cold rage tightened in my stomach. I pushed past Diggy, who was bouncing a giggling Dafyth on her hip, and burst into my family’s front room.

  Mor was there, standing by Father’s bedroom door and listening to his best friend’s heart breaking.

  “Mor, I feel like I’m going to explode.” No sooner had I said it than my hands lit up white.

  “Tannie—”

  “No. I don’t want to hear it. I will have no fellowship with this . . . evil.”

  “I know, Tannie, but just—”

  “No!” Beams of white light shot from my palms, slammed into the stone floor, and ricocheted around the room.

  Mor ducked, and a strand blasted against the wall behind him half a second later. He rose and shot me a look. “Are you finished?”

  “I will never be finished. There aren’t enough strands of white-hot anger in the world for me to ever be finished.”

  He crossed the room to me, and I buried my face in his shoulder. He rubbed my back as sobs shook me.

  When the tears subsided, I pulled back. My face was set, my voice hard as flint. “Mor, I will never, ever forgive Brac.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TANWEN

  Warmil guarded the door, standing watch by the newly repaired deadbolt. He held Father’s sword, a vacant, hardened expression on his face.

  The others were talking, but my mind wandered. I wondered what Warmil was thinking about. Was he worried about Aeron and Karlith hiding in the Corsyth? Of course he was. Did that occupy his mind while he stood there, protecting the door? Or did he have a special soldierly space in his mind—like an empty chest he went into when it was time to fight or defend or guard—where there was no worry for his loved ones, no thought for anything except his mission?

  I wished I had one of those empty chests. Instead, I had a whole castle full of thoughts, and every chamber spilled over with anger and dismay.

  “How many are you?” Father asked Cameria.

  Only some of the survivors had ventured into our front room, blinking in the afternoon light slanting through the windows.

  “One hundred sixty-two souls,” Cameria answered.

  Mor sputtered into the cup of water he was drinking. “One hundred sixty-two? But . . .” He looked around at the dozen or so who had come into our apartment to wash their faces, use a proper chamber pot, or remember what sunlight looked like. “How?”

  “The tunnels run throughout the entire palace,” Father said. “In places, they open up into proper rooms, almost. Caverns the size of a room, anyway.”

  “You’d never know it,” Mor said.

  “No. They were crafted for a paranoid king centuries past, legend has it.”

  “By stoneshapers,” I said suddenly, and I realized it had to be true. “They would have had the skill to craft such tunnels and caverns.”

  “And the genius to keep it secret,” Dylun added.

  “Still . . .” Mor shook his hea
d. “One hundred and sixty-two. How are you feeding them all?”

  “I’ve been stealing food from the kitchen in the middle of the night, and I’m not ashamed to say so.” Cameria lifted her chin. “But supplies are running low. I have some of the kitchen servants in here with me, and they say the steward and whoever he’s working with have no idea how to run the palace properly. It’s no small feat. The pantries were nearly bare on my last trip.”

  “You can’t stay here.” Father’s eyes were grave. “The food will run out, and even if it doesn’t, you’re not safe.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but if you are asking me to abandon them”—she nodded to a couple children who had wandered into my room and discovered a crystallized fluff-hopper I’d made—“I’ll have to refuse.” Her black eyebrows arched. “And you would not be half the man I thought you were.”

  Father looked startled. “Peace, Cameria. Of course I don’t mean you should leave them. I meant everyone. We have to get the survivors somewhere safe.”

  “Nowhere is safe.” Zel’s voice rang hollow. Dead and empty. “Ifmere and Dafyth were supposed to be protected here. What could be safer than the palace nursery under the care of the queen’s physicians and nurses? But look what’s happened. Nowhere is safe.”

  Father didn’t speak for a moment, perhaps allowing Zel’s grief a space to breathe without contradicting it. “You’re right, lad. They should have been safe here.”

  “What should have been a fortress has become a tomb,” Dylun observed.

  I sighed. “Yes. They should have been safe. But they weren’t, and that’s because some evil greater than even Gareth has entered this place. So where? Where can we go now?” I watched the children giggle over the sparkling fluff-hopper. “We have to do something.”

  “We could stay here,” Cameria said slowly, “if we had the supplies. But with so many to care for, I’m not sure it’s possible.”

  “The Corsyth?” Mor suggested.

  “No,” Dylun said. “Their numbers are too great, and our allies in Bowyd could not supply them with sufficient food, no matter how much gold we promised. One hundred and sixty-two would be too great a strain.”

  Cameria shook her head. “It seems impossible, no matter where we go.”

  “Pembrone,” I said suddenly.

  Everyone turned to face me. Heat crept into my cheeks. But there was no time for that.

  “They can go to Pembrone,” I said again. “Some could stay in our cottage, Father. There’s no shortage of barns, and maybe some would even open their homes.”

  Father’s expression grew thoughtful, and I could practically hear his mind turning it over. “But the Steward of Tir is Pembrone’s own son. Would those fleeing the palace be received?”

  “Well, we don’t have to send a crier to announce that they’re from the palace, or anything,” I said. “They can say they’re refugees displaced by the riots. That’s true enough, anyway.” I went to Cameria, who looked uncertain. “I’ve said a lot of unkind things about Pembrone before—how it’s poky and ordinary and dusty. Those things are true, I guess, but the people there are good, solid folk. Loyal. Decent. Kind, even, most of them. They wouldn’t turn away hungry women and children.” I looked at my father. “Would they, Father?”

  “I don’t believe they would.”

  “There’s room for a hundred sixty-two souls in Pembrone,” I told Cameria.

  “But how would we get there?” she asked. “That is quite the traveling party, and the Eastern Peninsula is no short distance away. How would we make it there with no protection?”

  Mor popped up from his seat at our dining table. “Commander Jule. If we can get to the meeting point and connect with Sailor Bo-Cydrid, he can get us to Jule and the crew. Perhaps they would be willing to serve as a guard for the refugees.”

  “For us but not you?” Cameria turned to Father. “Would you not be coming with us?”

  “We must find Braith,” he said simply.

  Of all that had been revealed, of all we had discussed, nothing had such an effect on Cameria as this.

  She clutched her hand to her chest and gasped. “Braith? The queen is . . .”

  “Alive,” Father affirmed. “At least we believe it’s possible. She was alive when they took her from the city, or so they say. They went toward the river.”

  “The river?” Cameria paled. “Then she could be anywhere.”

  “We’re told a nobleman was taken with Braith.”

  “Kharn Bo-Candryd.” Cameria blanched whiter. “They were to be engaged.”

  Father put his hand on Cameria’s shoulder. “I have an idea about how we might find them, but I can only proceed if I know you and the survivors are protected and on your way somewhere safe.”

  Cameria searched his face. “My lord, I would do anything you asked if it enabled you to find Braith and Kharn. But . . . there is something you are not telling me. I see it in your eyes.”

  “Aye. Some pieces have been coming together in my mind.”

  “Pieces, my lord?”

  “And I don’t like where they are fitting.”

  I shared a glance with Mor. Then my gaze wandered to Diggy, who was huddled in the corner, completely still and silent. “What pieces, Father?”

  His eyes were far away. “What if . . . what if there is one person behind all the coups?”

  “One person?” I tried to understand. “One person who overthrew Caradoc, Gareth, and Braith?”

  Father chuckled. “Tannie girl, you were the ones who overthrew Gareth.”

  Oh. Right.

  “But what if,” he went on, “the one who plotted to depose Caradoc also worked to rid Tir of Braith?”

  “This person would have an aversion to good rulers, it would seem,” Dylun said.

  Father nodded. “Indeed. This person would have selfish motives, yet undetermined. They would have been close to Gareth and to Bo-Bradwir or those who control him.”

  “And you think you know who this is?” Mor asked, brow furrowed.

  “Not yet.” Father’s face was grim. “But I think I know who might be able to help us find out.”

  Cameria seemed to turn to stone, her uneasiness so thick I could almost taste it. “And you do not like it,” she said.

  “No, I do not. But I’m afraid we have no choice. I must speak to him.”

  I looked between the two of them, both their expressions intense and filled with dread.

  Then I asked the question hanging in the air. “Who?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  TANWEN

  We watched from behind a corner as Warmil strode like he meant business toward the two guards at the entrance to the dungeon. “Step aside, soldier.”

  One of the green-suited goons narrowed his eyes. “And you are?”

  “Captain Arathew Bo-Orweth. Here on official business from the steward. Need to perform a few cell inspections.”

  The false name and the lie rolled easily off Warmil’s tongue. I sometimes forgot how long the Corsyth weavers had lived in hiding.

  The guard didn’t look convinced. “Where’s your uniform?”

  “Sakes, man, we staged the coup not a week ago. You expect the steward to be able to suit and arm and feed his men in the blink of an eye, do you? You have any idea who you’re speaking to?”

  The guard frowned. He turned to his fellow, who was staring silently at Warmil. “Bo-Thyd, you stand watch. I’m going to go confirm his story.” He turned back to Warmil, eyes narrow. “You wait here until I get back.”

  Warmil looked to be stifling a yawn. “Enjoy. See how that goes for you.”

  The guard looked troubled a moment, but then he scurried off to consult his superiors.

  Now what? How would we get past the other one? I knew Father and the others didn’t want to resort to violence, but how else would we get into the dungeon?

  But as soon as the first guard was out of earshot, the second turned to Warmil. “I recognize you, Captain.”

  Tho
ughts of capture and torture and death flashed through my mind. But he hadn’t sold us out to his fellow guard. So maybe . . .

  “You served in the guard, didn’t you?” Warmil asked, studying the green-suited soldier’s face.

  “Aye.” He looked down at his new uniform. “Things have taken quite the turn.”

  Warmil lowered his voice. “Are you still loyal to the queen?”

  Bo-Thyd paused, and who could fault him? It was a dangerous question. “Aye. If Queen Braith is alive, I am loyal to her still.”

  “Then please help us.” Warmil nodded our direction, and we slipped from our hiding spot.

  Bo-Thyd’s eyes widened. “Yestin Bo-Arthio.”

  I didn’t know that I would ever get used to that—all these soldiers who knew my father.

  “And Braith’s weavers!” he added as he caught sight of me, Mor, and the others.

  Well, that was even stranger.

  “Soldier,” Father began, “we need to speak to one of your prisoners.”

  Bo-Thyd looked uneasy, but he nodded. “It will take Bo-Hunfed some time to confirm your story, I’d imagine. But you’ll have to hurry.” He pivoted to unlock the door, then handed Father another key. “This unlocks all the interior doors, though not the cells. I can’t help you there. The steward doesn’t have the manpower to keep every interior door guarded the way it was under Gareth and Queen Braith. You should not be bothered until Bo-Hunfed returns.”

  “Thank you, Bo-Thyd,” Father said. “If he returns while we’re still down there, tell him we overpowered you. Chase us like you mean to capture us. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  No sense in this man losing his life for trying to help the rightful queen.

  I took Diggy’s hand—as much for her peace of mind as mine. It was dark as deathberries down here, and the torches flickering in brackets on the wall didn’t do much to make it homey.