The Story Hunter

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “Sorry.” I looked around. “Where’s Zel?”

  Mor climbed to his feet and pulled me up after him. “I don’t—oh. There.”

  Zel had fought his way through Frenhin’s line of guards. And now he was striding with purpose toward the woman behind it all.

  The one who was responsible for Ifmere’s death.

  My heart turned to ice. “Mor.”

  “Aye.” He grabbed my hand, and we took off after Zel.

  He was going to get himself killed if he tried to take on Frenhin alone.

  “Zel, wait!” My voice was swallowed by the clash of blades and the shouts of men fighting.

  Mor released my hand and drew his sword as we met three guards intent on protecting their Master.

  “Zel!”

  He either didn’t hear, or he ignored us. His hands lit up with an orange glow.

  “Zelyth!” Mor ran a guard through, then shoved him away with a kick. “Zel!”

  Zel thrust his right hand forward, and a wave of wild orange hair poured from it. The strands sailed toward Frenhin, who was still focused on the ceiling and the stolen jar.

  Some of the orange strands wrapped around Frenhin’s hand and yanked it down toward the ground just as she tried to send fire into the darkness in search of Diggy. The fire strand fizzled harmlessly against the stone floor.

  Frenhin whipped around to face Zel, her eyes filled with rage. She flexed her arm muscles, and her whole hand smoldered. The heat traveled from her fingertips, across her palm, and to her wrist. She shook with the exertion, but Zel’s strand made of hair like his wife’s began to sizzle, then fell off and pooled in a useless puddle at Frenhin’s feet.

  “Have you come to challenge me?” Frenhin sneered. “All alone? This will not end well for you, storyteller.”

  Zel didn’t respond. He just fired off two more strands.

  I had to look away because two threats were closing in on Mor and me. He was right. I had to stop standing there trying to make sure everyone else was alive if I expected to make it out of the cave, myself.

  Which I sort of didn’t.

  But I’d be fried if some nameless minion of Frenhin’s would be the one to do the deed.

  I grabbed Mor’s left hand, and the sword in his right fist crackled with lightning. He paused a moment, eyebrows raised, then moved. This was a new trick, but we would take it.

  He fought the two guards nearby, catching the first unaware and sinking his sword into the guard’s gut. I looked away. Still wasn’t used to it and didn’t want to be.

  Mor crossed blades with the next, and at that contact, the guard jolted. Shook, then froze, his wild eyes staring straight ahead. He had been struck by lightning—through Mor’s sword. The guard fell to the ground and lay still.

  Mor turned to me. “Well, that’s . . .”

  “Terrifying.”

  He nodded in agreement, but we didn’t have the time to consider it. We spun back toward the front of the cave where Frenhin and Zel were trading strand for strand, Zel’s grief for Frenhin’s rage. Ifmere’s memory for Frenhin’s insanity.

  Hair and fire swirled everywhere, and I recalled that moment in the battle when Gareth fell. When Zel’s strands exploded and knocked people senseless. Even knocked some people dead.

  Would he do it again? And would he accidentally kill Diggy and himself in the process?

  Just when I didn’t think the situation could get any pricklier, someone new ran into the fray.

  Brac.

  His sword was drawn, and he charged straight for Naith Bo-Offriad. The priest was gripping a dagger in one hand and creeping toward Zel.

  Zel hesitated. It was just a second. One moment. A short breath as he considered this new threat edging toward him.

  It didn’t matter. Frenhin saw her chance and took it.

  A molten-metal strand poured from her hand. In a blink, it solidified. Almost like it had crystallized, except she had turned it into a blade.

  She ran it through Zelyth.

  “No!”

  We were there now, and Mor was shouting. A rope shot from one of my hands, aimed for Naith’s legs as Brac engaged with him. But he dodged my strand.

  I hurled another strand, this one like a ribbon of ice, toward Frenhin. It hit her in the arm, and she hissed. She pulled back, yanking her blade out of Zel. He collapsed into Mor’s arms. Zel’s strands fell from the air, pooled on the ground, and disappeared.

  Creator, protect Brac in his battle with Naith. I couldn’t help him just now. Frenhin turned toward Mor and Zel, murderous intent flashing in her eyes as she targeted the two lads on the floor.

  I shot two more strands of ice at the traitor queen. One sailed just over her shoulder, and I bit back a curse. But the other found its mark and smacked her right in the face.

  She cried out and stumbled back. But for how long?

  I wished I could create the halo-head story I’d managed in Gareth’s throne room. That creature had taken vengeance for me, taken the violence out of my hands.

  But I hadn’t created it on purpose. It had just happened. The concentration I would need to recreate it would be great, and I didn’t have the time or the space. Frenhin was already recovering her wits.

  And Mor was cradling his best friend while Zel’s lifeblood spilled out onto the ground.

  My efforts were too feeble. I would never be able to defeat Frenhin—only defend against her attacks—but it was all I could do at the moment.

  I cast a beam of turquoise light at her.

  Maybe if I used the reprieve to create something bigger, stronger, more aggressive, I could give the others a chance.

  But as the strand of light sailed through the air, a figure emerged from the shadows—as though she’d been crouched against the wall, waiting. Timing it perfectly.

  And she had.

  Diggy sprang toward us, reaching up and touching my strand of turquoise light as she crossed under it. In a blink, it was solid, like a spear of flashing aqua, suspended in the air. She completed her dive, tucking into a somersault, and popped up to her feet. She grabbed the spear and whirled around, her movements so fluid it was like she was dancing.

  Frenhin’s shock seemed to hold her frozen in place. The whole sequence had taken ten ticks, and now there was a new opponent with a formidable weapon spinning into her space.

  She recovered herself just in time to dodge—but not quite enough. She took the spear in her side. Swift as a fluff-hopper, Diggy pulled the spear back and darted out of Frenhin’s reach.

  “Master!” Naith cried.

  She shoved him away. “Get off, you fool! Fight back for once instead of cowering in my shadow!”

  Naith recoiled.

  I glanced to my left and saw Brac and Mor carrying Zel toward the wall, away from the melee. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

  “So”—Frenhin stared down Diggy, one hand over the wound in her side, the other crawling with flames, ready to strike—“this is your choice?”

  Diggy didn’t speak. Just held her spear in a blocking position, waiting.

  Frenhin pulled her hand away and examined her blood-darkened fingers. Then she smiled and tasted the blood. She breathed deep, like the wound fed her blackened soul.

  “You’ve hurt so many people,” I said, my voice somehow carrying above the din of battle.

  Frenhin regarded me in silence, smelling the blood on her fingertips.

  “You betrayed your own daughter—your king, your husband, your people. How could you?”

  She flashed a cold smile. “What they took from me could not be returned, but I had my revenge.”

  I didn’t know what they had done to her or why she needed revenge. Or even who they were. It didn’t matter. Could anything justify what Frenhin had done? She had chosen the way of darkness.

  “Revenge didn’t fix it, though.” Diggy didn’t say this like a question, and I knew why. She knew how revenge sat on a person’s soul. “You got back at them all, and now what?
What do you have, Master?” Her voice was as sharp as her daggers. “How is this better?”

  “They had to pay.”

  “You can stop this,” I said to Frenhin, gesturing to the battle raging behind us. “You don’t have to keep making this choice. You can turn away and find some peace. True peace, at last.”

  I realized as I said it aloud that I believed it completely. Even someone like Frenhin or Dray, who had spent lifetimes living for themselves and doing evil, could turn away, like Karlith had said. Brac had changed course. Diggy had stepped away from darkness. Maybe Karlith was right, too, that we needed help from the Creator, someone greater and better than ourselves, to do this. But it was possible.

  “Frenhin.” I held my hands up, no strands tingling in my fingers. A sign of peace. “You can live for something better than vengeance.”

  She considered me. Her eyes narrowed. Then she leaned forward, thirty years of pain, rage, and bitterness etched on her face. “I have the power now. They had to pay, and all of them did.” Then her lips formed a cruel smirk. “Except one.”

  My stomach felt like it had crystallized. Turned to stone. Filled with ice.

  I drew back.

  “I have not yet had my revenge on Yestin Bo-Arthio,” she said. “But that’s about to change.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  BRAITH

  Braith heard the pounding in the room next door. But she couldn’t move.

  She stood a little way from Dray’s body. She had covered his bare chest, closed his eyelids, and thought about removing the shard of glass, but she couldn’t bear it.

  The knocking next door stopped. There was a muffled sound, then the pounding began again on the door to her mother’s bedchamber. Were the guards after her again?

  Even this new fear couldn’t overcome the numbness that drenched every fiber of her being. She couldn’t move.

  And then, like a ray of sunlight, his voice broke through the fog in her mind.

  “Braith?” Kharn, banging at the door. “Braith, are you in there?”

  She broke into a sob. “Kharn?”

  He uttered something between an oath and an exclamation of relief. “Braith, can you open the door?”

  She couldn’t speak.

  “Braith, are you hurt?”

  She looked down at her sliced hands. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Braith?”

  The pounding became more insistent and intense, and Braith realized Kharn was kicking the wood. The hinges began to pull from the doorframe. Remembering how weak Kharn was from lack of food, Braith worried his strength couldn’t hold out. She had to get to the door.

  She used the wall for support, made her way to the door, and lifted the heavy latch. She grimaced as the wood and metal bit into her cuts.

  Kharn nearly crashed into her as he pushed into the room, his eyes wild. “Braith!”

  “I’m here,” she choked.

  He held her shoulders, looking her over carefully. His eyes widened as he saw Dray on the floor. He looked back at her.

  She extended her hands.

  Kharn took her into his arms. “Braith,” he whispered. He embraced her a moment, then gently pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Braith, did he hurt you?”

  Braith’s mind felt like it was working through water. “I killed him.”

  “Yes, I know, my love.”

  “He . . .” She began to shake. “He attacked me.”

  Kharn pulled her to himself, and she wept into his chest. She could hear the fury of his heartbeat.

  But his voice was surprisingly calm. “You’re safe now, Braith. It’s over. He’s gone.”

  She clung to him. “I took his life.” Her sobbing intensified. “Oh, Creator, forgive me. I took a life. I killed him, Kharn. What have I done?”

  Kharn took her face in his hands. Braith could see him blinking back tears. “This is not your fault. You defended yourself. Do you hear me? This is not your fault.” He held her close again.

  Eventually her sobs quieted as she rested her head on his shoulder. Then awareness of the last few weeks tumbled back to her all at once.

  She stopped. “Kharn, how are you here? Where is everyone? My mother—is she . . . ?”

  “No. I mean . . . I don’t know. The others are still in there, I think. They got me out so I could come find you before . . .”

  Braith could tell he was trying carefully to speak around his rage.

  “So I could get to you before Dray stole away with you.”

  “We have to help them,” Braith said. What help they could offer, she had no idea. But if they had anything to lend, they must do so.

  And quickly.

  “Braith . . .” Kharn’s tone was awkward, but his face showed compassion. “We need to find something else for you to wear.”

  She looked down. Her dress—the simple gray shift provided to her by Frenhin’s servants on her first day here—was covered in blood and torn at the top where Dray had clawed at it.

  “I’m so sorry he hurt you.”

  Braith closed her eyes. “It . . . could have been worse. Oh, Kharn. I thought he could change and truly be a better person.”

  “I know you did.”

  “He could have been. But . . .” She covered her face. “He just couldn’t stop trying to take.” The tears came again.

  Kharn hugged her and stroked her hair until she moved to wipe her face. She took a breath and held up her head. “Come. Let us see what my mother has in her wardrobe. Then we will go help our friends, if they live still.”

  A few minutes later, in a fresh dress, the blood washed from her hands, and her wounds wrapped in strips of clean linen, Braith emerged behind Kharn into the hallway of the Craigyl.

  It was empty. No guards lined the passage as they had when Dray dragged her through it—an hour ago? More? Braith had lost all concept of time.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked Kharn.

  “In that room. Whatever it is. Frenhin’s court? Her dungeon? Battlefield? I guess it’s sort of a multi-purpose meeting space, isn’t it?”

  Braith allowed a tiny smile. It was the first bit of humor from Kharn since he had found her in that dreaded room. It felt warm and familiar.

  Kharn peered up ahead. “I’m not sure what we should—”

  “Your Majesty?”

  Kharn whirled around and pushed Braith behind him. “Who goes there?”

  A thin, pale man stepped into the torchlight, his hands held up. “Apologies, my lord. I am unarmed.”

  Braith gasped. This thin man supported an older man tottering behind him. “Master Insegno!” she cried. She had wondered if the Meridioni scholar was still alive.

  Insegno smiled, but he looked spent. “Hello, Your Majesty. I confess I am pleased, though surprised, to find you alive.”

  “Likewise.” Braith resisted the urge to embrace him—it was not the Meridioni custom. Instead, she stepped out from behind Kharn and kissed both Insegno’s cheeks, then turned to the pale man. “And who is your rescuer?”

  “Hysgrifenyddion Bo-Fergel. Er . . .” He flushed and looked down at the floor. “Scribe and advisor to the steward, I’m afraid.”

  Kharn put a protective arm around Braith’s waist. “You had best state your business quickly. Before we have reason to conclude you are our enemy.”

  “Yes. Forgive me.”

  “Your given name is Old Tirian,” Braith said. “That is an interesting choice, but I am not surprised. I knew Fergel.” The memory sharpened into focus. “He tended the palace libraries, did he not? I can recall his help—when my tutor would send me to the library with a list, Fergel made sure I found every book so I would not have my knuckles rapped.”

  Bo-Fergel gave a slight smile. “Yes, that is my father.”

  “Is he well?”

  “He is retired, Your Majesty. He retired and left Urian shortly after your father’s reign began.”

  Braith understood the unspoken implication. The family of Fergel had not
been loyal supporters of Gareth. But how had this son of Fergel become involved with the Steward of Tir and the Master’s machinations?

  Bo-Fergel shifted his weight. “I do not wish to make excuses, Your Majesty. I worked in Gareth’s treasury, then yours. After they stormed the palace, they rounded up those still living and gave us the choice to help or die. I could have refused. But Brac—that is, the steward—he seemed so lost and alone. I thought I might help him.” He bowed low. “Forgive me.”

  “Rise, sir,” Braith said. When Bo-Fergel’s startled eyes met hers, she continued, “It is not wrong to try to help someone in need.”

  “I do not know if I made the right choice, Majesty. But had I made a different one, I would not have been able to help Brac carry out his plans. He is here, Majesty. Here to help rescue you and the weavers. He wants to undo what has been wrought.”

  Kharn let out a slow breath. “Tall order, that.”

  “He knows this, my lord. But it was as if a spell over him finally broke. Suddenly he could see the wrong that had been done, and he has thought of nothing except righting it since.”

  “Bo-Fergel,” Braith said kindly, “it is exactly like there was a spell over him. We have not the time for me to tell you all I have learned from my mother, but perhaps I will be able to ease Guardsman Bo-Bradwir’s conscience someday soon.”

  “I do not think he expects to survive this encounter, Your Majesty. But any kind word from you would certainly ease his conscience, I’m sure.”

  “Then perhaps we should go do what we can to help our friends and ensure such words will pass between us.”

  Bo-Fergel nodded and flashed another tight, worried smile. He seemed to feel about as comfortable with the idea of battle as Braith did.

  No matter. They would do what they could.

  Kharn frowned. “I wish I had a sword, at least.”

  “Do you know how to use one?” Braith asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I was properly educated as a nephew of the king, thank you very much.”

  “But all the intervening years on the farm?”

  “Yes. A rake might be a more comfortable weapon.”

  She smiled and took his arm. “Come. We will all do what we can.”