The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “But you do all those things before you ask me if I’d like my feet washed, do you not?”

  “Yes, my lady. So as not to keep you waiting should you desire a footbath.”

  “But what if I say no? Doesn’t it seem a waste of your time?”

  Cameria did not respond. She wiped Braith’s foot, removing any dirt, real or imagined.

  A bluebird landed on the windowsill and chirped. The princess smiled. “Do you know what kind of bird it is, Cameria?”

  Cameria watched the bird peck around for a moment. Her cheeks lifted as though she were about to smile. “No, my lady. We did not have them in Meridione, and I’ve scarcely seen them in Tir.”

  “You miss your homeland, don’t you?”

  The maid did not answer for a moment, and when she finally spoke, she did not look up. “I miss my family.”

  A loud caw startled the princess, and she looked back at the window to see a coal-black crow swoop down on the little bluebird. With a squeal, the bluebird took off, out of Braith’s view.

  She frowned at the ugly black bird. “That’s a shame.”

  Cameria dipped her cloth in the water and squeezed it out. Then she began to wash the princess’s leg. “We must ready you for council, my lady.”

  Braith pressed her lips together.

  Cameria glanced up. “My lady?”

  “Yes. Time to ready for council. If I must.”

  Cameria smiled wryly. “Yes, you must, I’m afraid.” She returned to her washing. “Her Majesty the queen does not plan to attend council this afternoon, as I understand. She was in a temper.”

  “In that case, it is better that she doesn’t attend.” Braith sighed. “Mother barely listens during council meetings anyway. I don’t know why she ever bothers to attend. Perhaps . . .” She paused. “Perhaps she grows tired of the endless stream of petitioners who suffer under the king’s policies. Perhaps she is frustrated at her own powerlessness to help them. Perhaps it is easier not to listen sometimes.”

  Cameria paused. “It . . . is a thought, my lady.”

  “You don’t think it so?”

  “I think my lady speaks for herself and not her royal mother.” Cameria met Braith’s gaze. “Her Majesty is not concerned enough with her peoples’ troubles to be so bothered by them.”

  “Yes.” Braith’s smile was sad. “I suppose you are right.” She turned her gaze toward the window and lapsed into melancholy silence.

  “Your Highness?”

  Braith’s gaze stayed fixed on the crow, now pecking where the bluebird had been. Had it found insects? Perhaps crumbs left there by Cameria after Braith’s luncheon?

  “Princess Braith?”

  Braith started. “Yes?”

  Cameria’s eyes trained on her mistress. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

  “No, I’m fine.” The princess’s tone told a different story.

  But Cameria did not press. “Very well. Which gown would you like me to prepare?”

  “Any is fine. Thank you, Cameria.”

  Cameria finished drying Braith’s feet. She glided off to the adjoining room, where the wardrobe was kept, to select a dress.

  Braith stared at the crow unseeingly. “I wonder if the king is in good spirits this afternoon.”

  Cameria reentered the room, a sky-blue gown embroidered with silver detail and thousands of sparkling beads in hand. “His servants did not say, my lady.”

  “Princess Braith!” The exclamation preceded the fluttering arrival of Trini, Braith’s personal beauty attendant, and her two assistants. “Princess, your hair is in a state!”

  Braith allowed Cameria to help her into the blue gown. “And that is precisely why I have you in my employ, Trini.”

  The laces of Braith’s gown were tied, and she was swept onto a padded stool in front of the looking glass. Trini and her assistants fussed and hemmed and hawed. They did not ask the princess’s opinion on her hair or cosmetics.

  Braith had no opinion on such matters, and they all knew it.

  Trini pointed to one of the assistants. “You begin the braiding, and I’ll search out those jeweled pins. I’m sure I set them about somewhere.” She rifled around in the boxes stacked on the vanity table.

  Braith watched them in the looking glass. One assistant began sectioning off Braith’s hip-length hair for braiding; the other mixed up the powders that were soon to be smudged onto Braith’s lips and cheeks.

  The princess eyed her reflection. “Wouldn’t it be nice if my hair were a true color?”

  Trini frowned at her work. “Your Highness, don’t be ridiculous. It is a color. And divinely beautiful at that.”

  “Yes, as every princess must be,” Braith said dryly. “Trini, you know as well as I do every royal or noble woman is said to be beautiful, no matter what she actually looks like.”

  “Oh, posh. You are the great beauty of the Empire.”

  Braith frowned at herself in the mirror. Hair so pale as to be white. Large eyes, gray as an overcast day. Skin so fair Braith feared to stroll uncovered in the palace gardens for the sunburn she would receive.

  She straightened on the padded stool. “I look quite like a miserable specter.”

  The princess’s beauticians did not venture a response. Instead, they braided, pinned, poked, powdered, lined, shaded, and painted her into a presentable state. When they had finished, Trini stepped back and beamed.

  “Almost too pretty for an afternoon council session, wouldn’t you say? Better suited to a ball, my lady is.”

  Trini’s assistants nodded and murmured their assent.

  Braith bowed her head, now heavy with long braids pinned up on it. “Thank you, Trini.”

  Cameria ushered the other servants out of the room. She offered a hand to help Braith stand. The princess groaned but proved equal to the task, even in the cumbersome brocade gown and squeezing corset underneath.

  “Are you ready, my lady?”

  Braith dredged up as convincing a smile as she could muster. “I am.”

  Braith frowned at Orellwin, governor of the Western Wildlands. He wrung his hat in his hands, crushing the fine leather.

  “So you can understand, Your Majesty,” Orellwin continued, “why my territory is finding the planting tax a bit difficult this year.” The governor shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  The king fiddled with a stray lock of hair—once sandy blond but now losing its color with age. He straightened in his throne and let out a sigh. “Orellwin, I’ve already given your people an extension. The other territories have had the same hardship, and they’ve managed to pay. I would say I’ve been more than gracious. What say you to that?”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord.” Orellwin dropped to his knees. “But they don’t call it the Wildlands for nothing. Our soil is already difficult to till, and with the droughts and many infestations, not to mention the fending off of the Wildland beasts at every turn—”

  “Enough!” The king’s yell boomed through the cavernous hall. “I have shown mercy once, and once is enough. You have until the end of the week to pay the tax in full, or I shall have to find a governor who can better manage his people.” He leaned forward, eyes flashing. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Majesty.” Orellwin stumbled over himself in his haste to exit the throne room.

  Braith frowned as she watched him go.

  “Braith.”

  The princess jumped at the sound of her name. The king was watching her. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “Are there many left?” He scratched his graying beard. “We shall not have time enough to meet with the council in private if there are many more petitioners who wish to address me.”

  Braith scanned the piece of parchment on her lap. “Next we have the steward of the Eastern Peninsula here to bring the last of his territory’s tax.”

  “Ah!” Pleased crinkles formed at the corners of the king’s eyes—gray, like Braith’s. “That I should be glad to receive.”

  Braith nodded t
o Dyrain, the steward. He stepped forward and made a grand bow. “A thousand of the warmest greetings, Your gracious, divine Majesty, Gareth Bo-Kelwyd the Handsome.”

  Braith swallowed a yawn.

  “I bring you the remainder of the tax owed to his most regal and honored person, our king, His Majesty.”

  The king waved his hand. “Yes, yes, Dyrain, just hand over the money.”

  Dyrain passed several large sacks to the king’s chief political advisor, Dray Bo-Anffir. Dray eyed the contents of the sacks, then turned back to the king. “All seems to be in order, Majesty. We’ll count every coin after council, of course.”

  The king smiled. “Thank you, Dray. You’re dismissed, Dyrain.”

  Dyrain the steward bowed so low his face nearly touched the stone floor. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for the privilege and honor of fulfilling my duty.”

  The king spared the steward a nod then turned to his daughter. “Is there anything else pressing, Braith darling?”

  Braith scanned her list and sighed. Many common folk with petitions, but nothing that would interest the king if his patience had already waned. The peasants would have to wait another day.

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “In that case, I shall excuse all present who are not members of my council and ask that—”

  “Wait!”

  All eyes turned toward the back of the throne room.

  The king’s personal bodyguard drew his sword from its sheath and crouched before the dais, ready to disembowel the intruder who had so disrespected the king.

  But Gareth lifted a hand to still the hulking knight. “Peace, Baedden. Who is it that dares to interrupt his king?”

  A small man, his clothes covered in bird droppings, and a king’s guard knight stepped forward from the entrance to the throne room.

  The small man bowed low. “Apologies, Your Majesty.” His words were punctuated by gasps for air, as though he’d sprinted up the considerable staircases leading from the palace foyer. “Only just received news, we did.”

  The king’s brows pulled down. He nodded to the knight. “What’s happened?”

  The guardsman bowed, then gestured to the small man. “Menod here tends the palace carrier birds. We’ve received a report from the Eastern Peninsula.”

  Braith fought the grimace that wanted to form on her face. Now that the man covered in bird droppings was closer, she could smell the stench of the aerie all over him.

  Menod straightened and sucked in a deep breath. “A message from Gwern arrived, Majesty. Alleged incident with a story peddler, there was.”

  The king’s posture stiffened. “Indeed?”

  “Yes, Majesty. One of the townsfolk reported to a local guardsman about a forbidden story strand.”

  Naith Bo-Offriad, councilmember and high priest of the Tirian Empire, heaved his bulk from his padded chair. The light of the throne room torches bounced off his bald head. “A forbidden strand, you say, but you do not say a forbidden story.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to suggest a forbidden strand appeared in a crowned story?”

  The bird man nodded. “The peasant said the peddler told the story of our illustrious king’s rise to power.” His gaze flicked to Braith. “Of how you became heiress of Tir, milady.”

  Braith’s spine straightened. “Oh? Well, whatever is the trouble, I wish to stay out of it.”

  The king shot a disapproving glance her direction, and she pressed her lips together.

  Sir Dray frowned. “How could a forbidden strand have appeared in that story?”

  Naith picked imaginary specks of dust from his moss-green velvet robe. “Perhaps—and it’s only a suggestion, shrewdest of advisors—if you had listened to my proposal last month, this would not have happened.”

  Dray’s smile dripped icicles. “Yes, I recall your suggestion was to outlaw all stories except the traditional tales of the goddesses. Correct?”

  Naith’s slightly pointed teeth showed in his feigned smile. “You remember well.”

  “I didn’t understand then, nor do I now, why you wish to outlaw all stories that draw attention to the great deeds of our renowned king.”

  Naith’s face reddened. “Of course that’s not what I—I didn’t—You—”

  The king waved a hand. “Enough, enough. Let us hear the rest of the report, and we can save the squabbles between high priest and chief advisor for private council.” He looked at them dryly. “As is our usual custom.”

  A titter of laughter ran through the courtiers gathered in the throne room.

  Braith cleared her throat. “Your Majesty, surely we would not fault a story peddler for some errant bit of story strand.” She nodded to Menod. “Sir, is the peddler registered?”

  “No, Highness,” the bird man said. “The report said she was a young lass, but she travels about with the registered peddler Riwor.”

  The king shifted in his seat. “Ah, I do think I know the name Riwor. She told us stories at court once. Frightful to look at but had a nice voice when she got down to it.”

  Another titter of laughter.

  Braith ignored his comment. “You see, Father? The peddler is so young she hasn’t even been registered yet. Do you think we might overlook this offense, if even there was one to overlook?”

  As soon as Braith spoke, the king’s face darkened. Apparently he did take offense to this errant strand, and he did not seem to appreciate her dismissal of its significance.

  “Princess,” the king said, “I’ll overlook your speaking out of turn, but a forbidden story strand ought not to be treated lightly.”

  Braith lowered her head slightly. “Forgive my ignorance, Majesty. But what exactly is the crime here? The peddler was telling an approved story. Surely this strand was an accident.”

  Dray’s dark eyes trained on the princess, Naith’s seemed determined to look anywhere but at her, and the king grumbled something under his breath before raising his voice.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “the princess ought to be taking a full report instead of questioning her father’s laws.”

  His tone hit Braith like a slap. “My apologies, Your Majesty. Of course.” She looked at Menod. “Sir, did the witness describe the story strand in question?”

  He wouldn’t meet the princess’s eyes, nor those of his king. “They say it glowed with white light. Just the type of strand His Majesty has warned the guard about.”

  Braith frowned. “Was anyone hurt by this strand?”

  “No, Princess Braith.” Menod shifted his weight. “Not according to the report.”

  “Your Majesty, I’m certain I must be missing something.” Braith turned to the king. “Why would a strand of light be forbidden if it is not dangerous?”

  “Hold your tongue,” the king snapped.

  Braith sucked in a tiny gasp. She glanced at the listening courtiers, then clamped her mouth shut and waited for the king to speak.

  King Gareth turned back to Menod. “Tell me, aerie-watcher. Did the witness say anything else about the nature of this strand, beyond the fact that it was white light?”

  Menod’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “He said it was thin, like thread.”

  The king grunted. “Anything else?”

  Menod glanced up at the knight beside him. The knight nodded and the bird man continued. “The witness did say it was something to look at—stark white and like staring at the sun. Never seen anything so beautiful, he said.”

  Braith sat up straighter and bit her lip. But she held her peace. The king stroked his beard. Then he glanced at Braith, stiff as a poker on her throne.

  When he finally spoke, the king’s tone was deliberately casual—measured. “Perhaps we shall not be overly concerned about this incident. Yet.” He inclined his head to Dray, and Dray scribbled something on a piece of parchment.

  That never boded well.

  The king continued. “Perhaps Dyrain, honored and notable steward of the Eastern Peninsula, shall take this matter to heart, since it occurred in
his territory. And perhaps he will keep his king abreast of any new developments as they arise.”

  In the crowd, Dyrain started at the mention of his name. He had been flirting with a young lady-in-waiting, apparently. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Something churned just beneath the feigned calm of the king’s expression. Braith stared at him, trying to read his thoughts.

  If this young story peddler on the Eastern Peninsula had indeed done something to offend King Gareth—something so grievous as to be called forbidden—there would be no mercy for her when she was found out.

  Chapter 6

  Tanwen

  “The goddess Cethor did not take lightly the offense done to her by her sister Noswitch.”

  A shimmering blue strand tangled with a velvety plum one, just as the goddess sisters had struggled with each other. The strands danced before me, almost singeing themselves by the large fireplace in the common room of the inn.

  “There lived a brave young man named Ean who took up Cethor’s cause, for he had fallen deeply in love with the sea goddess.”

  A flesh-colored ribbon poured out from one of my palms—rough, like Brac’s chin when he forgot to shave a couple days in a row. The flesh strand jumped into the fray between the blue and purple strands.

  Did Brac forget to shave today? Did he forget his hat, and is his nose burned to a crisp?

  After a moment, Riwor grumbled from the chair beside me. “Your strands are dying. Thinking about your own hero, are you?”

  I scowled at her. Hated when she could read me so plainly like that. And I hated that she made comments about Brac like he was my lad. But she wasn’t wrong—my strands were about to disappear.

  Focus.

  I did my best to ignore Riwor, slurping at her mug of ale like a thirsty hound.

  “Ean sought out the crafty night goddess, Noswitch, and entered into battle with her.”

  The blue strand hung back now while the flesh and purple strands swirled viciously.

  “Ean resisted the night goddess like no mortal man had ever done before. His swordsmanship did not fail him. He fought bravely, all the while thinking of Cethor’s love.”