The Story Hunter
Page 31
The hum of many people chattering softly drifted from the throne room as those gathered waited for the main event to begin.
Father lowered his voice. “There are a lot of people in there.”
Still not quite comfortable living in society. He would never settle into palace life completely.
“They’re just about ready to start.” Father ushered us in. “I thought you would be late. Or perhaps had decided not to come.”
“We wouldn’t miss this, Father.”
Two guardsmen held the doors wider, and Diggy and Dafyth followed Father into the throne room, Mor and me on their heels.
But before we made it through the entrance, Mor stopped and pulled me back. He leaned forward, his hands on either side of my face, and kissed me gently.
I closed my eyes and thanked the stars we had learned how to tame the strands that flowed from our linked gifts. They were still there—I could feel them wrapping around us—but they were nearly invisible. Like bands of air.
We broke apart but stayed close enough that our noses were almost touching.
I smiled. “What was that for?”
He tucked a loose curl back behind my ear. “For being you.”
“Good answer, Captain.”
“Ah. May I keep my cake, then?”
“Doubtful.”
We hurried to catch up with the others. Father led us down an aisle, at least a hundred people in the finest clothing gathered on either side.
The guests stared as we passed, and I tried to ignore that odd feeling I always got when people whispered our names and our deeds when they saw us. It was rather like standing on a platform in front of all the world in my underclothes.
Not like in our storytelling show, where Mor, Diggy, and I would tell wild tales to delight children all over the world. Those stories were made-up—imagined and dreamed and crafted with care to surprise our listeners, maybe teach them something new, or maybe just make them laugh.
It was different when people looked at us because of the true story we had lived. I thought I understood a little how Father must feel in a crowd.
We followed him all the way to the far end of the room—the very front of the pack of guests.
“Your places are here.” He nodded toward the first row. “I’ll be near.” Then he slipped into a line of important folks facing the rest of the attendees—next to a stunning Meridioni woman wearing a crimson gown. I realized with a start it was Cameria. I almost hadn’t recognized her in such fine clothing, but when she smiled at me, there was no mistaking her.
In the center of this line of important folks was Kharn Bo-Candryd—beaming as if he were perfectly happy.
A group of musicians began to play, and everyone turned toward the back of the room.
There, looking like she had been dressed by ice fairies, stood Queen Braith, her pale-silver gown twinkling in the setting sunlight streaming through the windows.
I still marveled at her—how she could manage the heavy gowns, pinching corsets, and miles of blonde hair pinned atop her head and somehow still look so poised. So elegant. So. . . flawless.
She smiled as she walked down the aisle. Demure, of course, because she always was. But happy—truly glad.
This was her wedding day, at last. Braith’s grief—and the ten long moons of cleaning up the mess Frenhin Ma-Gareth had left behind—could be set aside today. And perhaps this would be the beginning of many days of joy and healing.
Renewal, my father had said when I’d asked some weeks ago what Braith needed to be well again.
My gaze slid to Diggy beside me. She bounced Dafyth gently on her hip as they made faces at each other.
Yes, renewal. It was possible. It was real. Braith would find it, and Kharn would help her.
Braith and Kharn clasped each other’s wrists, holding their engagement bands as they spoke their marriage vows. When they were finished, they would exchange the leather bands for rings of fine gold, befitting the Queen and King of Tir.
I laced my fingers through Mor’s. Our leather engagement bands touched.
A small seastone-blue strand appeared from our clasped hands—sparkling, but small enough not to pull attention from the ceremony. It wound itself around our bands and began to glow.
Suggesting a bright future—one full of hope, love, joy, adventure.
And many more stories to come.
The End
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would be remiss if I didn’t first acknowledge the readers who have fallen in love with Tannie and company—those who have rooted for these characters, enjoyed the adventures of my imagining, and occasionally yelled at me on social media for writing cliffhangers or torturing favorite story people (I’M SORRY!). You all make my job so fun, and it has been a delight to write this final installment of The Weaver Trilogy for you. I hope I did the story justice.
To my husband, Dave. I have never known anyone more supportive, more encouraging, or more willing to sacrifice for those he loves. Thank you for loving me so well and enabling me to pursue my dreams.
To my children, Shane, Jared, and Keira. I love you more than coffee.
To my parents, Doug and Gina, for raising me to know the value of art.
To the wonderful friends who have seen me through my years of writing The Weaver Trilogy, some of the best and hardest years of my life. Ashley Mays, who sat with me through the darkest of the dark. My world is so much brighter for you being part of it. Dana Black, who suffered through the roughest drafts of The Story Raider and The Story Hunter and saved at least one character from certain death. Jen Lindsay, who has put up with my chaotic self and helped keep me on track. I love you all.
To my Wonder Women, Avily Jerome, Catherine Jones Payne, and Sarah Grimm. I deeply cherish our friendship. Our friendship, and our tomatoes, and definitely our GIFs. Extra thanks to Avily for her critiques of all three Weaver books. If you like Mor and Tannie together, you can thank Avily and my agent, who both suggested this pairing to me. These two characters had obvious chemistry in an early draft of The Story Peddler, and I had somehow failed to notice.
To Chris Morris, my “big brother,” my Wylie. I’m glad you stayed.
To my beloved agent, Rachel Kent, for having my back always.
To Kirk DouPonce for this gorgeous cover. It’s my favorite of the series, and I’m so grateful for the vison and talent you brought to all three Weaver covers.
To my street team, my Corsyth Crew, for your enthusiasm and support, and for all the fun we have together. You guys brighten my workdays more than you could possibly know.
To the team who has worked for and with Enclave to help bring The Story Hunter into the world. Jordan, Trissina, Catherine, and Jamie—for support ranging from editorial to typesetting to marketing and social media promotion. I’m so lucky to work with people I truly enjoy and admire. You’re all amazing and talented.
And, of course, to Steve and Lisa Laube, my editors. This amazing team only kills kittens when I put too much tea in my stories, and they very rarely throw things across the room when reading my first drafts. Thank you both for giving me a chance and for believing in me and Tannie. I’m forever grateful for your wisdom and guidance.
All glory goes to God, the Creator and Source, the maker of all good things, and the one in whom I place my hope. Winter will not last forever—he carries springtime on his fingertips.
About the Author
Lindsay A. Franklin is a Carol Award–winning author, freelance editor, and homeschooling mom of three. She would wear pajama pants all the time if it were socially acceptable. Lindsay lives in her native San Diego with her scruffy-looking nerf-herder husband, their precious geeklings, three demanding thunder pillows (a.k.a. cats), and a stuffed marsupial named Wombatman.
Connect with Lindsay!
Website: lindsayafranklin.com
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Twitter: @linzyafranklin
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