The Story Hunter

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  The strands of light turned solid in her grip, and she spun them until they obeyed her commands. They wrapped around the Wildlander, a cocoon of sunset-colored strips.

  A muffled shout sounded from within the cocoon.

  Mor cursed under his breath and pushed his way toward the captive storyteller, but the crowd had knotted up, everyone peering closer to see what the crazy little lass was on about.

  It might have been less noticeable if the floor had opened up and swallowed us whole.

  After a long moment of watching the Wildlander struggle, Diggy rotated her hands the other direction and collected the stolen strands between her fingers. The storyteller stumbled as he tried to regain his legs beneath him.

  Diggy raised the strands above her head, then threw them to the ground. The strands crashed to the floorboards with an impressive splat. The floor turned every shade of sunset, and I wondered if Diggy had somehow turned them into colormastery strands. But as I looked closer, I could see the color wasn’t caused by paint-like colormastery. It was as if the wood had absorbed the pigment of the strands and they’d become one with the boards. There was no scrubbing that off.

  And I had no clue how she’d done it.

  “There.” She glared at the storyteller. “Sell that, braggart.”

  His mouth dangled open. Every mouth in the pub dangled open, except my father’s. His eyes said everything.

  We need to leave. Now.

  “How’d she do it?” an onlooker asked.

  “Never seen anything like it in me life!”

  “Who is that?”

  “What’s your name, lass?”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Can I buy you a cage?” That was the storyteller, finally having recovered his wits. He glared a million daggers at Diggy, and I almost wished I could warn him about her real ones.

  Almost.

  “My brother could tell stories in circles around you.” She nodded toward me. “So could Tannie.”

  “Tanwen En-Yestin?” The voice came from the crowd, though I didn’t recognize it.

  A hand gripped my arm, and I turned to find Father there beside me, his gray eyes filled with urgency. “Go now. Quickly.”

  I slipped toward the door, keeping my head low and praying he would get Mor and Diggy out of this somehow.

  Just as I reached the door, Mor appeared at my right elbow, and seconds later, Diggy turned up at my left.

  “Go, go, go,” Mor whispered.

  Over the ruckus of the crowd, I could hear the storyteller shouting something. Then came a booming voice I assumed belonged to the barkeep. “You’ll need to be payin’ me for this mess, now.”

  “But I—”

  “Your show, you pay.”

  “But she was the one who—”

  Mor shut the door on the rest of the storyteller’s protest and led us back to the inn. “Diggy, I swear, it’s like you’re trying to get us killed.” He stopped before the door of the inn and looked out at the teeming streets behind us. “Both of you stay here for the rest of the night. General’s orders. We don’t need to attract any more attention.”

  He slipped inside and beckoned us to follow.

  Diggy turned to me and shrugged. “Well, he deserved it.”

  The next morning, I pulled the hood of my cloak lower over my face and huddled close to Mor. Carefully, our group made its way through town toward the meeting point just outside Ir-Golyth where all Hunt teams were supposed to register with the huntmaster.

  “I can’t see,” Diggy said from Mor’s other side.

  “Should have thought of that before you made a spectacle of yourself in front of everyone in Ir-Golyth.”

  “Really?” Diggy pushed her hood back an inch and looked up at Mor. “I should have thought about the annoyance of hoods before I did that?”

  “And to be fair,” I added, “it wasn’t all Ir-Golyth. Just those gathered in that pub.”

  Mor rolled his eyes. “You’ll be the death of me. Both of you.”

  Diggy gave her typical shrug, and I grinned.

  But truthfully, the results of Diggy’s display weren’t particularly funny. Rumors and gossip had swirled throughout the town all night, according to Warmil, Karlith, and Zel. Father had sent them out to keep an ear open for the chatter. They were the least conspicuous of our party.

  Dray had insisted he be allowed to explore Ir-Golyth, and Father begrudgingly allowed him to do so, only because it seemed chaining him to a bed in the inn was the only other option. But he set Warmil to watch Dray, and somehow, they both managed to make it back alive. Which rather surprised me, honestly.

  Now we crept along the outskirts of Ir-Golyth, cautious in the early-morning darkness. Aeron leaned against Warmil, and he helped her negotiate the bumpy terrain. Karlith walked near them, ready to help.

  “It hurts her,” Diggy said. She’d apparently seen me watching the three of them up ahead.

  “What?”

  “The soldier lass. Aeron. Her wooden leg hurts her, even when it’s not dark out and the path isn’t bumpy. She just tries to hide it.”

  I bit my lip. I supposed she must be right, and a pinprick of guilt pierced my heart. I hadn’t thought about it or paid attention near as much as I should have.

  “I guess we often try to hide the things that hurt us,” Mor remarked.

  Before anyone could answer that, we reached the registration tent.

  Father looked at me, Mor, and Aeron. “You three with me. Stay close,” he said in a low murmur. “The rest of you, wait here. We are less conspicuous if we split up.”

  He nodded to Warmil—it would be his duty to guard the others in Father’s absence.

  Father held back the flap that served as a door, and Mor, Aeron, and I followed him inside.

  My mouth dropped open.

  I had expected the huntmaster to be a bookish fellow—like a Tirian Dylun, perhaps, with stacks of parchment and rules and checklists, tracking all the details and making sure everyone was behaving properly.

  Instead, the huntmaster looked like one of the mountains of the Mynyth Range come to life.

  He stood as tall as Zel, but he was twice as wide. The braids in his thick red beard stretched all the way to his chest. Though he wore a mountainbeast-fur waistcoat, his arms were bare, as though defying the wind to prove itself stronger than he.

  My eyes stayed wide and my mouth agape until Mor nudged me. “He’s a Highlander, Tannie. Don’t stare.”

  My mouth snapped shut, and I tried to wipe the wide-eyed look from my face.

  The huntmaster leaned against a wooden table, his arms crossed as though he’d stand there like that all day, just waiting for Hunt teams to enter the tent and gawk at him.

  Father stepped forward, unruffled as always. “Greetings. We’re here to register.”

  “I figured.” He pushed off from the table and stepped aside, gesturing toward a smattering of papers and a couple pens. “Rules are here. I’ll read ’em to you. You’ll listen.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Mor. “Well, all right.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted.

  “Rules are as follows,” the huntmaster said as we gathered around. “You’re hunting for strands. These things is precious, apparently, so you will treat them with care. If you don’t, you’ll answer to me. You can dig, blast, chip away to heart’s content, but don’t even think about holding me responsible for cave-ins. Don’t blast if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “On that score, me and the boss isn’t responsible for death or dismemberment.” He glanced at Aeron as if he could see her wooden limb through her trousers. “You enter the Hunt at your own risk.”

  “And the reward?” Father asked. “What is the offered reward should we accept this great risk and succeed? Hardly seems worth the thousand gold advertised.”

  The huntmaster let a slow grin spread across his face. “The boss has wealth to spare, that’s all I’ll say.�
��

  “And exactly how badly does your boss want these strands?”

  “Quite.” He squinted and leaned back as if sizing up Father. “If the boss is happy, you will be too. Trust me on that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” Father motioned vaguely to the rest of us. “It takes quite a lot to make some of my companions here happy.”

  I knew he was trying to wiggle information from the huntmaster, but I almost snorted. His statement was true enough about Dray, in any case, though he was standing outside.

  “A thousand gold might be enough to satisfy some teams. But if we find these prized strands, perhaps your boss is willing to negotiate. So, how much are we talking here? How high will the boss go, in your estimation?”

  “Well . . .” He glanced over our heads as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I ain’t saying this to most. Wouldn’t want this getting around. You understand my meaning?”

  “Aye,” Father assured him. “We’ll keep it to ourselves.”

  “At one point, the boss mentioned a thousand crowns per strand.”

  Mor choked on the sum. “A thousand gold pieces for each?”

  “For each.”

  “And how many are out there?” Father asked. “The advert said at least three were required to win the Hunt.”

  “Boss thinks eleven.”

  Stars. Eleven. Chances one of the other teams would find a strand were pretty good. And if they did? And if we were right about these strands being the same ancient, insanely powerful ones we had used to build the cure?

  And the Master got hold of them?

  I tried to push it from my mind, but all I could imagine was the total destruction of Tir—of the world as we knew it.

  Father folded his arms across his chest. “If we find all eleven, your boss will pay us eleven thousand gold crowns. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I think you could squeeze that much.” The huntmaster grinned. “But since I told you this, I expect a little kickback for my trouble.”

  Father returned the grin. “If the boss is happy, we’ll be happy. And if we’re happy, you’ll be happy.”

  “That’s how the world turns over.”

  Father and the huntmaster shook on it, and I couldn’t help but wonder how he would feel about breaking that promise later.

  But all Father said was, “The rest of the rules?”

  “Right.” The huntmaster returned to his parchment. “You interact with me at all times. The boss wishes to remain anonymous. You bring the strands to me. I deal with the boss. Got that?”

  “Aye.”

  “First one to the finish with three strands gets the reward. You want to search for eleven? Go ahead. But don’t be surprised if someone else beats you to three while you’re eyebrow-deep in the caves.”

  “Understood.”

  “You’re supposed to have a storyteller among you. For pulling up the strands. Got one?”

  “We’ve got three.”

  Plus one Diggy—whatever she was.

  “Three?” The huntmaster looked genuinely surprised. “Well, that’s a first.”

  “Did the others only bring one?” Father sounded casual as could be.

  “Aye, that seemed to be the way of it.”

  Father shrugged. “Pity for them.”

  “Maybe you will get all eleven.” The huntmaster shook his head and laughed. “And your name? For my records.”

  I held my breath. But Father didn’t hesitate. He picked up the pen from the table and scrawled the name Esgusod Bo-Dyn on the parchment. I tried not to notice that at least ten teams had already entered the Hunt.

  Because stars knew there were at least a dozen more sleeping in Ir-Golyth and fixing to register today.

  “Right, then,” the huntmaster said. “You’re set. Entrance to the caverns is a hundred paces due west.” He pointed. “Bring the strands to me, if you find ’em, and we’ll work out our special arrangement after the boss pays you.”

  Father nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Nice doin’ business with you, Bo-Dyn.”

  Father offered a tight-lipped smile, then turned and exited the tent. The rest of us followed in silence, rejoining our group outside and beginning our journey to the cave entrance. In hushed tones, Aeron and Mor began to relay what the huntmaster had told us.

  When we had taken about twenty of the hundred paces toward the entrance, I caught up to Father. “Esgusod Bo-Dyn?”

  “One of my aliases.”

  Better not to pull at that thread . . .

  “So, what did we learn?” Warmil trudged at Father’s other side.

  “Well, I can be absolutely sure of a few things.” Father ticked them off on his fingers as we continued westward. “One, the huntmaster has made an arrangement for kickbacks with every single team that has entered the Hunt.”

  My brows rose. “But he said—”

  Father’s glance cut me off. “Tannie girl, a man of such mercenary sensibilities doesn’t put all his hedge-nibblers in one barrel.”

  Aye, he was probably right about that.

  “Which means,” Father continued, “it’s likely at least some of the teams know there are eleven strands out there. And that the boss, who we know to be the Master, is supposedly willing to pay up to a thousand gold for each.”

  “Can’t imagine such wealth as all that.” Karlith shook her head. “How would a body ever spend it all?”

  “Oh, that’s the second thing.” Father stopped walking and looked at us. “The Master has no intention of paying out such a ridiculous sum of money, though the huntmaster seems unaware of this. He seems to truly believe he’ll get his big windfall when his boss pays out the winning team.”

  “And the third thing of which you’re so sure, General Bo-Arthio?” Dray inquired, a lazy smirk on his face.

  “Third,” Father went on, “the Master has put this Hunt coordinator between the Hunt teams and her”—here he glanced at Dray, acknowledging that bit of information he had revealed to us—“and it is therefore unlikely that following these Hunt rules will help us achieve our second goal, finding and rescuing Queen Braith.”

  “And that’s where I come in.” If a smile could be cold as the weather, Dray had mastered it. “You hunt your strands, do your thing.” He waved his hand as though our mission was a buzzing blood-sucker to be shooed away. “But don’t return anything to that avaricious oaf in the tent. I will lead you close to the Master’s lair so we might achieve our common goal—saving Braith.”

  “You know where the Master is in here?” Zel motioned with his chin toward the vast range before us.

  I could only imagine the network of tunnels and caves buried within.

  “It’s been a fair few years since I visited,” Dray admitted. “This is something of a retreat for her. Not her usual dwelling. But I remember the landmarks well enough.”

  The Corsyth weavers shared glances, mistrust scribbled all over their faces. Mine surely looked just as skeptical.

  Dray sighed. “Why would I have come all this way with you if I didn’t think I could actually find Braith?”

  “To escape prison,” Dylun said.

  “To avoid execution,” Mor added grimly.

  Dray shrugged. “All right, yes, I could have had ulterior motives. I admit it.” He approached Father, who had been silent for several moments.

  Dray knew Yestin Bo-Arthio was the one he had to convince.

  “Braith believed in me,” Dray said. “She believed that people could change. My sentencing grieved her. She didn’t want to see me executed.”

  “That’s because she’s kind and decent,” I cut in. “It doesn’t mean she believed in you.”

  “True, but she did. She told me so herself. She believed my heart had changed—that I was learning to become a better man.” Just for a moment, the arrogance and self-assuredness dimmed. Something vulnerable and small flickered in his eyes. “I want to prove to her that she was right to put her trust in me.”

  I watched
his face. Watched my father’s face. Observed their silent standoff. And wondered at Dray’s words.

  Could people change like that? Was it possible?

  My gaze drifted to Diggy. Dray had chosen to act in his brokenness, to give himself over to dark, selfish deeds. But Diggy had been broken by others. She hadn’t had a choice. And still she struggled to find her way out of it—to be a person who reached for the light.

  If I condemned Dray in my mind, was I also condemning Diggy?

  “Fine.” Father’s voice startled me from my thoughts. I looked up and saw him shaking hands with Dray. “We have an accord. We will follow your lead and trust you mean what you say. But I swear to you, Dray Bo-Anffir, if you betray us or harm any one of these people—”

  “Yes, yes. Big, scary fighter will do big, scary things to me.”

  I could practically see every one of Father’s muscles tighten, and I wondered if Dray had any idea the mountainbeast he was poking.

  “It will save us time and effort if we dispense with the posturing,” Dylun said. He turned to Dray. “I am speaking mostly to you, to be clear.”

  Dray smirked. “Then shall we get to your precious strands? We will need them if you hope to strike a bargain with the Master.”

  “And will she not kill us on sight?” Aeron leaned against Warmil. “If we have the strands, it seems the easiest thing for her to do would be to kill us and take her prize.”

  “Perhaps,” Dray said. “We must be cunning so that she will not have the opportunity. Bargaining—that’s how you might rescue Braith while sparing your own lives. The Master only destroys those who are of no use to her.”

  His gaze turned toward Diggy, and his smirk blossomed into a grin that sent frost through my veins. “Make yourselves useful, and you will not be destroyed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  DIGWYN

  Some people are built to take.

  I have become convinced of this fact over and over again until I can no longer reasonably deny it.

  Everyone wishes to take. That is human nature. But some. . . some are built to seek out, to take, to use.

  To prey.

  Like wolves, they stalk and pursue, chasing what they might gain from you. What they might take. What they might use.