He reached up and stroked my hair. “I get the feeling one of these days when you leave, you ain’t coming back.”
“I’ll always come back.” I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t encourage him, but it just came flying out—and part of me wanted so badly for it to be true.
Brac smiled sadly and traced his thumb down the side of my face to my chin. “Aye, you’ll always come back. Until you don’t.” He sighed and looked away. “Tannie, if only you’d set aside this storytelling business . . .”
Now I pulled away without a problem. I stared hard at him. “Don’t. Don’t ask me to give up my dreams.”
Brac’s expression somehow hardened and melted at once. “My fault for trying to put a painted-wing in a cage. Wasn’t any way you were going to be satisfied living there.”
“Stop it. That’s not fair.”
“No, it ain’t fair. You care more about being the Royal Storyteller and having riches than you do about the people you’re supposed to love.”
And then I slapped him across the face. Hard. He recoiled, eyes wide.
But I wasn’t sorry. If anyone knew how hard I’d worked to take care of myself so I wouldn’t be a burden to his parents or anyone else . . .
I took a step closer to him. “Farmhand, milkmaid, barkeep, scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots. I did all that just to put food in my mouth before Riwor came along and offered to take me on. Story peddling is my only chance to provide three sure meals a day for myself. Every day. And no planting tax or harvest tax or reaping tax. So don’t you tell me my dreams are all about having nice things. I just want to have something! Some life! And just because you’re not brave enough to think of a life beyond Pembrone, it doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be happy here!”
An ugly red mark blossomed on his face, and I could see a deeper welt blooming in his eyes—one from my sharp words. Regret oozed over me. I shouldn’t have hit him, no matter what he’d said.
I tried to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t exactly known for letting apologies fly on the regular. “Brac . . .”
“I’m sorry, Tannie. I shouldn’t have said that about being the Royal Storyteller.”
Blast. I hated that saying sorry was so much easier for him than me.
But he wasn’t finished. “You’re wrong, though. It ain’t that I’m not brave. Being in love . . . Well, that’s the biggest kind of brave there is.”
Tears came to my eyes again. “Why’s that, Brac?”
“Because you have to be strong enough to get your heart broken every day.”
A morning breeze blew in from the ocean and ruffled my hair. It didn’t do much to calm the heat in my face. “You’re going to find a lass. A lass who deserves you and makes you happy. I just know it.”
Brac leaned down and rested his forehead on mine. “Tannie, there ain’t nobody in all of Tir for me except you.”
I met his gaze. “If only I weren’t a story peddler?”
He stared back in silence a moment. “Aye, if only you’d set it aside.”
“Tanwen!” Riwor’s harsh cry carried over the grain fields and beyond the grazer pasture.
I pulled away from Brac. “I have to go. I’ll be back in a fortnight. Good-bye, Brac.” Then I turned and ran.
“Tannie!” his voice called after me.
But I didn’t stop running until I reached the main road and hopped into the cart.
Riwor set to grumbling right away. “Late as it is, fool girl. You want to get into Gwern before sundown or not?”
Brac had nearly caught up with the cart as Riwor slapped the donkey’s rump with the reins.
“Tannie.”
I wouldn’t look at him. Didn’t know how to sort through the dozen different feelings swirling inside me like story strands. Heat crawled up my cheeks. “Aye?”
The cart rattled to life.
Brac walked beside us. “Promise you’ll take care of yourself while you’re gone.”
Words wouldn’t form on my tongue for a moment. “Sorry I slapped you,” was all I could manage.
“Aye, I know. Do you promise to take care, Tannie?”
I think I nodded and maybe mumbled something. Brac stopped walking beside us. The donkey clip-clopped his way out of Pembrone, and I knew Brac grew smaller behind me with each step.
“I love you, Tannie!”
Riwor snorted, but I ignored her. I had to say something to Brac. Anything.
I turned around on the bench and finally made my voice work. “Brac!”
In the distance, I could see his head lift.
“You forgot your hat!”
Chapter 4
Tanwen
The child stared up at me like she’d glimpsed a dead woman. “Haven’t seen a story peddler around these parts since they hanged the last one.” Her eyes were so wide I could almost see my reflection in them.
I smiled and tugged one of her thick blonde braids. “That’s because that peddler was telling some stories he shouldn’t have. There are laws about saying things against the king, you know.”
The child gnawed on her thumbnail for a moment. Then she leaned over and whispered to me. “But what if them things are true?”
Riwor saved me from having to think up something to say.
She called the gathering crowd to attention. “Come round, come round,” she cried in her deep, rich peddling voice. It sounded nothing like the harsh growl she used when it was just me and her. “This young peddler has a tale to spin for you.”
I placed my stool on the cobblestoned ground.
We’d grabbed a prime spot that morning, smack in Gwern’s town square. We had gotten to town as the sun set the previous evening and found lodgings in the more respectable of Gwern’s two taverns. No giggling girls waiting upstairs for lonely farm boys.
It had set us up nice to get into the square first thing, while the villagers went about their morning business. A decent crowd gathered and waited for me to begin.
I cleared my throat and started with the story Riwor had ordered me to tell. “Once, there was nothing. No ground to walk on nor sky to look up at nor people to do any such thing.”
This was my first test. Riwor wanted to hear the crowned story about how the goddesses made the world through their divine beauty. I tried not to yawn.
But no matter how dull or unbelievable I found the story, I aimed to tell it right and fetch a handsome price. If I couldn’t . . . well, let’s just say I’d better be ready to dodge Riwor’s backhand.
“And from the goddess Cethor’s flowing azure locks, the wide Menfor Sea and all the oceans of the world were made.”
A sparkling blue strand swirled around the crowd. The little girls in front giggled.
“And from the goddess Direth’s strong brown arms, the towering mountains, sloping valleys, and sandy shores were made.”
A rough swathe of cloth that looked like the bags Farmer Bradwir used to haul his grain soared into the sky, then joined the dance with the blue ocean strand.
“And then from the green eyes of the goddess Lysia, all plant life sprang up and grew toward the radiant sun.”
A green strand like a beam of light shot from my hand and bounced around the cobblestones between the people. The children squealed and the townsfolk laughed.
“From the blood-red lips of the goddess Dynole, man was made: like the goddesses but mortal, here to do the goddesses’ bidding and please them always.”
A slow, satiny ribbon of deepest red poured from my fingers. It slithered around the gathered folks.
Suddenly, something pinched in my stomach.
Uh oh.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had to squish down that odd feeling when telling a crowned story. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to force the squeeze away. As the pinch eased, something like a tiny bubble popped in my head. No pain. Just a tiny release.
I put a hand to my forehead. What in blazes was that all about?
No matter. Back to work.
&nb
sp; But as I glanced at the crowd, then at Riwor, I couldn’t seem to grab hold of what I’d been saying. In fact . . . I gazed around the unfamiliar town square.
Where in Tir was I?
“Tanwen.” Riwor’s hiss drew my attention.
Urgency tightened my gut. I remembered I had to sell this story. My life or . . . something depended on it. But which blasted story was it?
Riwor mouthed it to me: Goddesses’ creation story.
I knew the story, of course. It was old as dirt. But where had I left off?
I hoped she’d read my desperate stare. The crowd began to murmur.
“The last bit.” Her growl wasn’t pleasant, but at least it did the trick.
I forced my smile back into place and made the proper words come out.
“And thus, from the beauty of these four goddesses, all in Tir as you see it today was made. And still we offer our loyalty and praise to the goddesses for this great deed.”
The four strands came together and spun so fast that all I could make out were the green and brown strands.
“And we always shall.”
At these words, the strands crystallized into a perfect little version of a peninsular evergreen—tiny, transparent green needles and all.
The story dropped into my hand, and a delighted cheer rose from the crowd.
“Prettiest one I ever saw!”
“Look how clear it is. Never saw a story with such fine crystal in my life!”
“Well done, Peddler! A bit dodgy there for a second, but you brought it round.”
I stole a glance at Riwor. Her face pulled in a strange direction. Like she wanted to smile—we’d sell this one for sure—despite my flub. But she also looked angry. Because I’d almost made a mess of it again?
Could be. Yet the only thing Riwor really minded about was getting paid.
So why did her brows crease like that? Was it all the praise I was getting from the crowd, maybe? Brac always guessed she was jealous and that’s why she smacked me about.
In any case, she erased the grumpiness from her face and called out to the villagers. “Who will pay five coppers for this story? Five coppers, anyone?”
I almost choked on her words. Five coppers as a starting bid! And just after the planting tax. No one would pay it. She’d finally gone mad, good and proper.
“I’ll pay five!” a farmer called out. He tipped his floppy hat to me.
“Six! I have six!” An old woman flashed a toothless grin.
The townspeople called out ridiculous bids as I sat there in dumb shock.
Riwor’s triumphant crow startled me. “Sold to the priest for one silver piece and six coppers!”
I handed the goddesses’ tree to the priest. I hadn’t even noticed him in the crowd—a wonder, since priests shaved their heads bald instead of growing their hair long like most Tirian men. They tended to stick out.
But there he was, swishing his plush purple robe to the side to reveal his coin purse. Heavy, by the look of it.
And no wonder. In most peninsular towns, the only coin purses heavier than those of the local barkeep were those of the local priest.
He spared a tiny bow in my direction as he handed me the silver piece and six coppers. “Well done, young peddler. You do justice to the tales of the goddesses.”
I pushed a smile onto my face. “Thank you, sir.” It wouldn’t do to look horrified that my story had sold at such a high price, or that I was exchanging small talk with a priest.
The priest made his way to the back of the crowd, holding out his free hand as he went. Eyes downcast, the townsfolk dropped coppers in his palm.
Temple tax. That one was always due.
I made my voice cheery and spoke to the crowd. “Would you like another story?”
The children seated on the stones clapped and hollered.
“Aye! Tell another, Peddler!”
“Tell a princess one!” The little girl with the blonde braids beamed up at me.
A cool voice with an unusual accent sliced through the clamor of the peninsular farmers. A lad, by the sound of it. “How about the story of Princess Braith? It’s a crowned story, so you’re unlikely to find your neck stretched on account of it.”
What was that odd lilt to his speech? And who dared say such a thing?
I looked up to search for the voice’s owner. He lurked at the edge of the crowd, hooded, with his face cast entirely in shadow. His cloak stretched all the way to the ground, but I could see the tips of his boots—definitely not like the ones the farmers wore in the fields. Thicker. And shiny.
I pulled my gaze away from the lurker and smiled at the children. “Shall I tell Braith’s story?”
“Aye!”
“Tell it, Peddler! Please tell it.”
I glanced at Riwor. She nodded once, so I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “Not long ago, there lived a king, Caradoc Bo-Dechrau the Blessed. He ruled well and peacefully over all Tir.”
A glowing purple ribbon of light began at my fingertips and wound down to the ground as I spoke. It pooled like water at my feet.
“But tragedy struck the good king and his peaceful realm.”
The purple light rose into the air before me and formed itself into two dozen flat, round shapes.
“A plague claimed the lives of many, the king and his beloved wife included.”
A story strand like molten black metal ran from my palm. It spun in a circle just above the ground, hovering, waiting for my next words.
“The kingdom feared the end of peace and prosperity had come, for who would now rule in place of good King Caradoc? He had died without a blood heir to the throne.”
The pinching returned to my gut. I worked to squash it down, like always.
But then something strange happened.
A tiny strand of white light escaped from the littlest finger of my right hand. I blinked, trying to clear it from my vision. The light was so bright it almost hurt to look at it, tiny though it was.
I looked at Riwor. Her face squeezed together in a frown. She didn’t seem to recognize the strand either.
But before I could ask her if I should go on, the white strand married with the purple light, lacing itself through the glowing violet shapes. The molten black metal rose into the air, spinning around and around, poised for the next part of the story.
Keep talking, Tanwen En-Yestin, if you want to sell this story too.
I cleared my throat. “But the good king had been wise indeed and thought of his people even as he lay dying. The king named an heir. He bequeathed the crown to his closest friend and advisor, Gareth Bo-Kelwyd the Handsome.”
Poison-green satin ribbon cascaded from my fingers. King Gareth’s story strand.
A murmur trickled through the crowd. Some people grumbled quietly. But the priest was still about, and who knew when the king’s guard might show up? Folks knew to keep their voices to whispers, if they said anything at all.
I watched the satin slip out of my hands. Looking at His Majesty’s story strand always made the pinch in my stomach worse.
But I forged on.
“Gareth the Handsome swore fealty to a blood heir, should one ever be found, and an oath to protect the realm.” The poison-green fabric twisted until it made a thick cord. It joined with the flat petals, now streaked purple and white.
In a blink, the strands formed themselves into a velvet-petal flower. The black metal strand still waited for me to continue before adding itself to the story.
“But no blood heir could be found. Gareth Bo-Kelwyd, according to King Caradoc’s final will and testament, became the new king, bound to the sacred duties of ruling Tir and all the outlying areas of the empire.”
The black metal ribbon clamped on to the purple flower like a choking vine. It wrapped around the green stem and wove itself through the delicate petals of purple and white light.
“With his splendid rule, King Gareth gave new life to the realm.”
The black metal chok
ed the fragile petals.
“This new life came in the form of Gareth’s own wisdom, might, and military prowess, but most especially from his fair daughter, the princess, Braith En-Gareth.”
A pale gray mist swirled from my hands. It floated up to the petals, then settled down over them. The mist’s fine, dewy shimmer added to the beauty of the flower.
“And that is the story of how our beloved Princess Braith came to be the new blood heir of Tir and the hope of our realm.”
The story crystallized, a transparent purple-and-white velvet-petal with a green stem and a metallic vine around it.
The lass with the blonde braids breathed a loud sigh. “So pretty.”
A hush settled over the villagers. No lively bidding war this time, but they all seemed captivated by the story in my hand. Even Riwor had fallen silent.
I held up the flower so everyone could see it. “Any bidders?” My voice was barely a murmur.
“I’ll buy it.” The hooded man stepped forward, just enough to pluck the flower from my hand. Then he tossed two silver bits into my lap.
One coin bounced off my skirt, so I leaned over to pick it up.
When I sat up, he had vanished.
Chapter 5
Braith
“Shall I wash your feet, Princess?”
Braith glanced up at the sound of Cameria’s voice. The Meridioni maid held a burnished bronze basin of water with a cloth draped over the side.
Time to prepare for afternoon council.
“Yes, Cameria. Thank you.”
Cameria lowered the basin to the ground, then removed Braith’s crystal-encrusted slippers. Braith placed one foot into the water.
Warm, but not hot—just what was wanted, like a quilt on a cool spring evening. How did Cameria manage the perfect temperature every time?
“How long does it take you to ready the water for my footbath?”
Cameria’s eyes flickered up to the princess. “I don’t know, my lady. I heat it over the fire, then let it cool to the touch.” She picked up Braith’s other foot and slid it into the water.
The scent of lavendellus wafted up to Braith’s nose, and she inhaled deeply. The princess leaned back in her chair and stared out of her bedchamber window. She could just see the tops of the trees in one of the palace gardens below.
The Story Peddler Page 4
