The Story Hunter

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  Until they have devoured your very flesh.

  Then they find it brings but momentary satisfaction, and they must seek another. And another, and another.

  They hunt. They prey. And they will never be satisfied. They will never stop.

  They will never repent.

  Some people are built to take.

  “That’s why the Master will be awfully keen on you, you know.”

  That blasted man is speaking to me again—looking at me like he’s removing my clothing—and my fingers twitch. I long to draw my knives and end the speaking and the looking.

  Instead, I turn to him.

  “Because she can use you,” he finished, as if I didn’t know his meaning all along.

  “No one can use me.” I glare. “Not anymore.”

  He shrugs, but the smile doesn’t drop. Condescending mud-snuffler.

  The general leads us forward again, and I try to edge closer to Tannie and my brother—away from Dray. But he seems to shadow me, to haunt my steps.

  We all pause before what looks to be an entrance designed for a small child. The gap in the rock meets me mid-thigh and sits lower on everyone else.

  “This can’t be it,” Tannie says, her eyebrows raised high as she looks at the tiny cave mouth.

  Karlith chuckles. “Not sure I’ll fit through there, General.”

  “Ah, child-birthing hips.” Dray gestures. “The downfall of many a woman.”

  “Shut up,” I say, and I elbow past him. “I can fit.” I turn to the general. “Shall I squeeze through and let you know what it’s like? Maybe it opens up inside.”

  Mor steps forward as if he might object. My eyes warn him off. He keeps tighter watch on me now that I’m eighteen than he did when I was eight.

  Yestin glances at my brother but then turns to me. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you sure you want to find those strands?” I shoot back. “Then someone has to.”

  To avoid further discussion—because Cethor’s tears, do these people like to discuss everything into oblivion—I shrug out of my cloak, hand it to Tannie, drop to the ground, and begin to crawl through the opening.

  As predicted, the small cave mouth belies a larger chamber just inside, like the foyer of a house. I check the height of the ceiling—tolerable—and stand. I don’t have to stoop, though Zel the farmer will. But when you’re tall as a tree and poking around caves, what do you expect?

  “It’s all right,” I call back. “The inside is bigger.”

  I hear the sounds of argument and plunk down onto a rock to wait in the near blackness. This could take a while, if I know this crew.

  A few moments later, a golden head appears, then blocks out the little light from the entrance. There’s a bit of struggle, then Tannie is in the entryway with me.

  “Well!” she says, and I can see her vague outline turn this way and that, sizing up matters. “This is not what I expected.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “Yes, quite. I hope Father brought a lantern, or something.”

  “I doubt he would have forgotten.”

  “No, only that maybe he couldn’t—” She cuts herself off, and I’m confused.

  Then I realize she was about to say maybe he couldn’t gather the supplies he had hoped to because my little display in the pub made it impossible for him to move about the town last night.

  I didn’t mean to ruin things. I never mean to ruin things, exactly. It’s just that I often seem to.

  Whatever Karlith’s concern about fitting was, it proves to be unfounded when she crawls through without much trouble and helps Aeron in after her. Aeron has it worst because she can’t bend in the way the rest of us can.

  Then the men follow, and I say, “You’ll want to watch your—”

  Zel stands and crashes his head into the ceiling. “Oof!”

  “Heads.”

  Mor finds us and stoops in front of where Tannie sits on the rock. “You all right, Tannie? Everything good?” He searches her face and glances over her shoulders and arms like the act of crawling for five seconds might have bruised or injured her.

  As if he could make out any injuries in this light, anyway.

  Tannie meets his gaze, and her eyes are glowy and filled with warmth. “I’m fine, Mor. Stars, you do fuss.”

  He stares back at her, all melty, like he wants to wrap her up, pull her close, and stay there forever. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at these two. Laughing or vomiting, one or the other.

  They should just get married already. Maybe they will if we find our way out of here alive.

  “Hey,” I say, rising to my feet, “maybe we can just use the heat between the two of you to light our way. That should work.”

  I see Mor’s eyes go wide, but I don’t linger to enjoy their embarrassment.

  “I have several lanterns.” The general, slightly annoyed, and I realize he’s heard my jest.

  “But limited fuel, I’d guess,” Tannie says, recovering herself and approaching her father. “What if we try something else first?”

  A ribbon of light unfurls from her palm, and we all blink against it.

  “Dimmer, Tannie,” the general says quietly. “We won’t want to announce ourselves to the others.”

  The strand dims, and Tannie produces another from her other hand, identical to the first. “How’s that?”

  “Good.” In the light, I see Yestin frown. “But can you keep it up?”

  “I’m not sure. If I can fill a ship’s sails with wind for an hour at a time, I can do this for a while, at least.”

  I step toward her. “And if we need to stop, we could do this.”

  And I take one of Tannie’s light ribbons in my hand and toss it at the cave wall. The strand crashes, shatters, and scatters into tiny bits of light sprinkled all over the wall. That section of rock now glows softly, pulsating with gentle light bright enough to illuminate the surrounding area but not so bright as to attract much attention. At least not more than a lantern might.

  “Wow.” It’s Aeron. “It’s amazing what you do, Diggy.”

  But Mor is frowning. Displeased, as always. I wonder why. Does he hate my gift? Is it jealousy? Disgust?

  Not sure. Won’t ask.

  “There is only one way forward,” the general tells us, “though I’m sure that won’t remain true for long. We will have to choose our course carefully. And be ready for surprises.”

  “Then they won’t be surprises anymore,” I say, immediately realizing I’m probably not helping.

  Yestin ventures into the tunnel, Tannie and her light strands close behind him. Mor wraps my cloak back around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze.

  “Stay close, Diggy.”

  And I do, but not close enough to deter Dray Bo-Anffir from finding me.

  “That lass is right,” he says. “What you do is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “A popular sentiment.” My voice is clipped. Irritated. I wonder why this man won’t leave me alone.

  “Possessing you would make the Master more powerful than ever—more powerful than she could hope to be without you.”

  I stop walking. “I thought she wanted ancient strands. And Tannie. And Mor.”

  He smiles in the waning light. “Oh, she’ll want it all. I assure you of that. She will want it all.” Then he rounds the corner after the others.

  I stand still, alone, until I am in darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  TANWEN

  “Everyone, stop.” Father held up his hand. “Listen.”

  We all stilled, though I made sure to slip my arm through Diggy’s. Last time I got distracted, I had to backtrack and collect her. I’d found her standing like a statue by herself in the dark. She wouldn’t tell me what she was thinking, and I had learned long ago it was best not to pry.

  “What do you hear?” Father asked us.

  Warmil frowned. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Exactly. If you’re not used
to it, the thickness of true silence can drive you mad. You think you have silence during a quiet moment in the garden, perhaps, or when you read alone in your study. But no. That’s not silence. Always there is the hum of humanity, the thrum of nature.”

  I thought about falling asleep alone in my cottage in Pembrone, listening to the sound of the Menfor’s waves kissing the cliffs below. I would have thought those nights the stillest, loneliest, quietest in the world. But Father was right. They were not silent. Not like the silence of the caves.

  “Spend much time cave-dwelling, General?” Dray quirked his eyebrow.

  Oh. Dray still had no idea how my father had hidden from Gareth for thirteen years, only to appear suddenly when his bow and sword and presence mattered most.

  Dray didn’t know about the passageways in the palace, and it was best kept that way.

  “I know a fair bit about a lot of things, Dray.” Father turned away from him. That was clearly all he would say on the matter. He addressed the rest of us instead. “The caves will play tricks with light too. Bo-Ino. What do you see up there?” He pointed at the ceiling.

  Dylun looked up. “Nothing. Just stone.”

  Father put his hand underneath mine and lifted, angling the light in a slightly different direction. The strand came closer to the ceiling, and all of us gasped. The beam of light revealed an intricate carving in the spot that had, most assuredly, looked blank a moment before.

  “How is that possible?” Mor strained to get a better look.

  “Light and sound don’t behave as we expect them to in here.” Father released my hand and turned to Mor, smiling. “Like underwater.”

  And somehow this made sense to Mor, though I still stood there with my mouth open.

  Dray indicated the marking. “This is one of the Master’s inscriptions. We’ll need to watch for these.”

  “Excellent.” Diggy’s gaze flared at him. “Now that we know what to look for, can we dispose of you?”

  “Only I know what the inscriptions say, love.” Dray tweaked Diggy’s chin.

  In a flash, she gripped his wrist, spun around so her back was to him, and yanked his arm down over her shoulder. Dray cried out and reached for his elbow.

  “Diggy!” Mor forced his way between them and broke Diggy’s hold. He pulled her into his arms. “Stop. You’re all right. You’re safe.” He glared at Dray over Diggy’s head. “Back away from my sister.”

  Diggy allowed Mor to hold her a moment. Then she pushed away and whipped toward Dray. “Don’t touch me!” she shouted, and the sound echoed off the cave walls. “Don’t ever touch me!” Furious tears poured down her face.

  But she allowed Mor to pull her back into his arms. “I have you,” he said softly.

  I could see Diggy’s thin shoulders shaking beneath her cloak. Her voice came between ragged gasps. “Don’t—don’t let him. Don’t let him touch me.”

  Mor embraced her more tightly. “I have you.”

  Dray was rubbing his elbow, looking equal parts furious and bewildered. “She’s insane! You think I’m the loose cannon.” He jabbed a finger at Diggy. “That one is your problem.”

  Father closed in on Dray. “I warned you not to bring harm to anyone in this group.”

  “I didn’t harm her!” Dray protested. “I merely—”

  “Stop.” Father held up his palm. “Keep your hands to yourself, or I will remove them for you. Understand?” He flashed a mirthless smile. “Big, scary soldier making big, scary threats. But I promise you, I mean them.”

  Dray sulked, still rubbing his elbow. “Fine.”

  Warmil cleared his throat. “Perhaps we ought to leave our cloaks here. The air in the caves is warmer than I expected, and this carving on the ceiling would at least give us a shot at finding them again.”

  “Agreed,” Father said as he took his off and folded it up.

  The rest of us followed his lead. I hadn’t really noticed, but Warmil was right. The caves were downright temperate compared to the icebox outside. We didn’t need mountainbeast fur in here.

  After that, we were able to move a bit more freely. Until my hand started to go numb and I decided it was time for someone else to take over lighting the way.

  “Mor?” I gestured to my strand. “Could you for a bit?”

  He was still keeping Diggy close by his side, and my heart wrenched when I noticed tears trickling down her cheeks.

  He nodded and moved to the front of the pack. I sidled up next to Diggy at the back of the group.

  “Are you all right?” I asked her, knowing the answer already.

  She sniffled.

  We picked through the semidarkness carefully for a while, following the paths Dray indicated and discovering two more carvings on the ceiling when Mor held the light just right.

  “He won’t leave me alone,” Diggy said.

  My heart sank. “He’s your brother, Diggy. He just wants to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Not him. The other—Dray.”

  Oh. “Aye, well . . .” My voice took on a savage tone I hardly recognized. “He’s pond sludge.”

  “But the queen doesn’t think so?”

  I paused. “I don’t know what the queen thinks,” I said finally. “We only know what Dray says she thinks. But I do know Braith a bit. And I know she wants to believe the best about people. She wants to believe in goodness.”

  “Do you?”

  “Believe in goodness? Of course. I just don’t know if I believe in goodness from him.” I pointed at Dray’s back up ahead.

  We walked a few moments.

  “I don’t know why he cares so much about my gift.”

  “Well, he’s not wrong about it. Your gift is definitely . . . unique. Everyone seems pretty interested in it.”

  “Yes, but he . . .” She faltered. “I just steal things. I steal things and twist them. That’s all. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. I used to be like Mor. I used to be able to make strands when I was younger.”

  My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Did you? Mor never said.”

  “I hadn’t told him yet. I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I was so old for it to be happening. It was just starting to show up right about the time—” She broke off.

  I had heard of that before. Most weavers showed their talents as young children. Others saw their gifts show up in earnest during their teen years.

  “But then it changed after,” Diggy said. “Like my gift broke, or something. If anything, I should be ashamed. I’m a. . . strand thief.”

  “No,” I said right away, because I knew it had to be wrong. Untrue. It didn’t feel like a fair description of what Diggy did.

  I mean, technically it was true, I supposed. But her gift was so much more than theft.

  “Diggy, you don’t steal strands. You take something someone else made, and you make it better.”

  She seemed to consider this. “Still sounds like stealing.”

  “Fixing, maybe.”

  “But they’re not broken to begin with.”

  True. “Improving, then.”

  She didn’t respond, but the furrow between her brows deepened.

  “Stop.” An unexpected voice—Karlith’s. She held out both her hands and stared hard at the ground.

  She closed her eyes and stood as still as death.

  After several moments, Warmil went over and placed his hand on her arm. “Karlith? What is it?”

  She opened her eyes, turned to him, and smiled wide. “Do you not feel that?”

  Without waiting for his reply, she moved toward a narrow passageway we had already passed. “Through here.”

  Warmil turned to Dray. “Have you been leading us astray?”

  He looked miffed. “I don’t know what the lady’s on about, but the Master’s hideaway is this direction.” He pointed the way we had been traveling.

  “Not the Master.” Karlith moved toward the narrow offshoot and felt along the stone wall. “A strand.” She smiled again, and then
it blossomed into a laugh. “Do you not feel that?” She put a hand to her heart. “Like . . . hope.”

  Dray raised an eyebrow. “Is she serious?”

  Father didn’t respond. He followed Karlith. “You’re sure it’s through this passageway?”

  “Aye. I’m sure.”

  “Very well.” Father looked at me. “Do you think you could make a light strand to go ahead of us?”

  I nodded and lifted my hand to let the light unfurl into the tunnel. Then an idea struck. “Diggy? Would you mind?”

  Her uncertainty showed plain, but she stepped forward and grabbed my strand. Then she threw it against the wall, and it scattered into glowing bits on the rock.

  “Lighting our way,” Karlith said with a smile.

  “Improving,” I added, nudging Diggy.

  She didn’t respond to either of us, but I hoped she’d heard. And believed.

  We filed through the narrow passageway—squeezed, more like. There was hardly room to breathe, but after what seemed like half a league, we all popped out, one after another, into a large chamber—the largest we had yet seen in the caves.

  I created another strand of light, and Diggy cast it onto the walls. Still, the light from the glowing rocks was completely lost before it reached the ceiling. The cavern was so large it seemed only a small portion was illuminated by Diggy’s work.

  Somewhere nearby, water trickled.

  “Tannie girl, we’re going to need another strand.” Father looked up at the endless darkness. “A bigger strand, if you please.”

  “Right.” I created a beam of light, then looked at Mor.

  He removed his leather glove and extended his hand. I took it, and our gifts linked. My beam expanded to thrice its size, then rainbow bands appeared on either side. My face went hot. Couldn’t look at a rainbow without remembering that kiss in the Corsyth.

  But the next second, all thoughts of the Corsyth, kisses, and even Mor fled from my mind. Because our strands lit up the entire vast cavern around us so that every corner was visible.

  And from one of those corners, a creature uncurled itself as if waking from a long, deep sleep. It rose on hind legs, up and up until its head scraped the ceiling where it stood—nine feet tall, at least. Its chest swelled with one great inhale, then a roar to shake the mountains issued from its wolfish mouth.