The flesh strand swirled around and began to form the shape of a man’s head.
“Alas, the goddess of the night’s trickery has never been matched. She routed Ean and used his own sword to cut off his head.”
Red light floated from my fingers. Where it touched the fabric head, it left bloody stains.
“Cethor was heartbroken and driven to despair by her sister’s cruelty. She gave up her immortality and chose to die with her lover.”
The shimmery blue strand flooded into the fabric head. After a moment, it popped out of the eye sockets to form Ean’s crystal-blue eyes.
“Noswitch regretted her rash decision to kill the hero Ean, and she missed her sister Cethor. So she used her magic to bring Ean’s head back to life. Ean’s head, and Cethor within it, lived for eighty more years.”
The plum strand danced around the fabric head, washing away the bloody marks.
“Then they found their peace in the afterlife, together for always.”
The story crystallized—a handsome man’s face with striking blue eyes that glittered in the light.
It was a pretty story I’d made, the glass fine and clear, but still I wrinkled my nose. “That story will turn your stomach, no question.”
Riwor’s grumbling laugh cut through the quiet of the common room. “You just don’t like that story because legend has it all blue-eyed people descended from Cethor and Ean.”
My frown deepened, and I tried not to think about my seastone-blue eyes. But then I brightened. I turned my story this way and that. “Least it’s pretty, isn’t it?”
Riwor feigned a wide yawn. “Barely passable.”
“Well, the villagers liked my stories today. Sold five. My best day ever.” I placed the crystallized head on the low wooden table that stood in front of the fireplace. “What was your best day ever, Riwor?”
Riwor’s face turned red. She huffed and sputtered a moment before real words came out. “You wicked girl! How dare you ask me such a question?”
I sighed. “Didn’t mean offense. Just wondering is all.”
“Well, success isn’t always measured by the number of stories a person sells. There’s also price to consider. And don’t you forget I’ve been to the palace. Told stories to King Gareth himself.”
“Did you ever visit the palace when the other king ruled? King Caradoc?”
Riwor set her mug on the table and stared at me. “Aye.”
The sudden stillness in the room chilled my bones. It was just the two of us, plus the barkeep wiping down tables in the back. But the air got calm all at once, and it didn’t feel natural.
“Was it different when King Caradoc ruled?”
Riwor pursed her lips. “You trying to get me to speak treason, is that it? Now that you think you can make money without old Riwor, it’s time to be rid of her and take the extra cut for yourself, eh?” She tried to run a hand through her wiry gray hair, apparently forgetting it was pulled back into a bun.
“No, that’s not it. I was just curious.” I picked up the crystal head and studied it. “I was only four when the king died, so I don’t remember anything about him.”
Riwor settled back in her chair. “Aye, it was different.”
I waited for a few long minutes, but she didn’t say anything else. I replaced the crystal head on the table.
“Do you ever get bored, Riwor?”
“Bored of what?”
“Only telling crowned stories about the goddesses and the king. Don’t you ever want to tell stories about something else?” I thought of the fairy stories secreted away on my bookshelves back at the cottage in Pembrone.
I’d never tell Riwor, but I used to make up my own stories when I was practicing before she took me on. Never had that pinchy, squished-down feeling back in those days. Felt freer somehow.
Riwor’s gaze drilled into me. “Listen well, Tanwen. If you don’t want your head to end up like old Ean there, you stick to the crowned stories and never speak another word of this to anyone. Including me.” She shifted her weight in her chair, grabbed her ale mug, and took a big gulp. And that was that.
Fine, then.
“I hope I get to tell stories to King Gareth someday like you did.”
“Ha!” Riwor’s severe tone made the barkeep jump. “He’s not an easy man to please, Tanwen. Careful what you wish for, especially if you’re thinking of veering from crowned stories.”
I studied Riwor’s face. Four mugs of ale in. She might talk a little. “Is the king very cruel?”
Riwor shrugged. “He’s a fighting man—a warrior. Conquered Meridione, Haribi, and Minasimet all within a few years of his coronation. I suppose a man like that would be used to getting what he wants, when he wants it. And I suppose it’d be natural for him to demand the utmost loyalty from his subjects.” She cast a sideways glance at the barkeep.
Aye, I supposed. But I couldn’t help wondering what the king really thought of us, his people. Did he love us? I thought a king ought to love his people, but Brac said I was addled. Fanciful.
I turned to Riwor. “I wonder what Meridione is like. Maybe we could take a tour there after this one is done.”
Riwor spluttered into her ale. “Meridione is a thousand miles southwest, stupid girl! You think that old bag of donkey bones will pull us so far?” She snickered. “No, I thought we’d do Twen, Bach, and Drefden next.”
“Drefden!” Indignation leaped up inside me. “That’s where you live! They’ve heard your stories a thousand times. And Twen and Bach are on our side of the River Abereth. That’s hardly even a real tour. I thought at least we might go over the mountains. Past Lake Lyn or something.”
“Past the lake, eh? Why, because that’s the way to Urian?” Riwor scoffed. “Always about the palace for you, isn’t it, Tanwen?”
I didn’t answer. I studied the way Ean’s dead blue eyes caught the light of the failing fire.
Riwor was wrong. It wasn’t just about the palace. I wanted to see those far-off places and meet strange new people. To have adventure. Why did everyone act like that was a crime?
I slumped in my chair. “Someone once told me the Meridionis are lovely to look at. I don’t know a thing about Haribi or Minasimet, except the names and some fairy stories. Have you been to those places?”
Riwor snorted again, but this time a belch came out with it. “You’d have to cross the whole of Tir, through the Western Wildlands, to even look upon Haribi—and even then, it’d be a speck on the horizon, across the Cefin Sea. And Minasimet, well, it’s a big island way out in the Menfor Sea. Have you ever heard of a Tirian peasant venturing to either of those places?”
I felt my face fall. “No. But we’re not ordinary peasants. We’re story peddlers. We travel to all kinds of places most people will never see.” I bit my lip. “Don’t we?”
Riwor laughed. “Perhaps you ought to leave your imaginings to your practice stories. That’s the place they rightly belong.”
I sucked in my breath. So the old beast knew I used to make up my own stories. I wondered if she’d ever turn me in. Wouldn’t put it past her. Best not to push my luck.
I made my voice sound calm. “I was only practicing so I could get better. I don’t do it anymore. Not since you taught me the crowned ones.”
She cackled. “Ah, yes. I saw many of your practice stories. Always featuring some bachelor prince wanting to marry a poor peasant girl, seemed to me. Too bad there isn’t a real bachelor prince in Tir for you to use as the subject of your yarns. Bet you could tell some mighty fine stories about him, eh?”
She took another swig of ale and slapped her knee. “Maybe if you told that story enough, you could crystallize a life-sized bachelor prince for yourself. You could tote him around in a bean cart and introduce him as your husband, heir to the Tirian Empire.” She guffawed and a bit of ale dribbled down her chin.
I felt the ugliness of the scowl on my face, but I didn’t care. “Aye, very funny.”
“I never could tolerate th
e idea of marriage myself.” She rubbed her belly. “But if you’re considering it at all, I think you should marry that ridiculous puppy dog who follows you all around Pembrone. He’d make a fine match for you.”
My stomach flopped over. The memory of my fight with Brac shot to the front of my mind. He’d wanted to kiss me in that barn, and I knew it. But the idea made my stomach pinch tighter than it did when I told those crowned stories.
A few seconds passed before I could make the words come out. “Brac will make some girl a fine husband one day.”
“But not you?” She grinned, revealing the space where one of her top teeth had rotted out.
“I don’t know. But if you say one more word about Brac, I’ll box your ears for a change.”
The humor fell from her face. Blood rose in her cheeks. But I wasn’t going to back down this time. Not if she was going to bring Brac into it. My mind was scrambled enough about it as it was. Didn’t need her ribbing to further confuse matters. We glared at each other in silence.
Then she took a huge swig of ale and burst into laughter. “Sure you will, Tanwen.” She took another drink. “Sure you will.”
Really, I’d been lucky this was her fourth tankard for the night. Otherwise I would have gotten a stiff slap for my disrespect. But I meant every word, and if she kept talking about Brac, I might even make good on my threat.
What was he doing just then, I wondered. Playing with the little ones at home? Down at Blodwyn’s tavern, flirting with the girls upstairs? The idea made my insides twist. But . . . did that mean I loved him? Or did I just want him behaving like a proper gentleman for his own good?
Riwor’s growl broke into my thoughts. “Marry the puppy, Tanwen. Live on the farm; have a litter of pups. Best you’ll do.”
I glowered at her. “Oh yeah? That’s not where I’ve got my sights set.”
“Perhaps if you had a father to arrange something better, you could rise out of it. But you don’t. You’re all alone, and a cozy farmhouse with a loyal lapdog is more than many girls in your position could hope for.”
I leaned back in my chair and sighed. Her words tasted like a slap, but for once she wasn’t being cruel. She was just speaking truth. The great empty space in my heart threatened to swallow me whole.
The flames of the fire had dwindled to a glow. I watched a hunk of wood char to blackness, then drop away from its log.
Aye. Perhaps if I had a father.
Chapter 7
The One in the Dark
Second moon of autumn, the 36th year of Caradoc II
The ultimate of blessings has been bestowed upon our household this day.
The Creator has given us a great treasure.
A light cracked the utter darkness. Rats skittered as the young woman entered with a candle in one hand and a basket on her other arm.
She bent down. “I’ve brought food.”
Eyes blinked at her several times, watering at the candlelight. Then looked into the basket. Bread, cheese, two bottles—ale, water. Something else was at the bottom, but hunger gnawed and hands reached for bread first.
“How are you today?” She searched his face with earnest dark eyes. Surely she knew there would be no answer.
She watched as the bread was devoured. “Have you kept busy?” She gently brushed crumbs from the ragged shirt front. “Staying out of mischief, I hope.”
A grunt. A tired mind that sensed it owed her a proper answer. But it had been so long.
She took out the item at the bottom of the basket and placed it carefully into a calloused hand.
Better than food. More necessary. Fingers closed around the bottle—the lifeline.
“Use it well. I’ll return tomorrow.” She smiled. “My lord.”
Chapter 8
Tanwen
Traveling with hungover Riwor was akin to keeping company with a mountainbeast that’d slept on a prickle-vine. Still, we somehow both survived the day after our chat in the tavern, and we made it to Afon in time for a late supper.
I could smell Afon’s smallest inn—aptly named the Greasy Rag—
from two buildings away. I didn’t want to touch the door or the walls for fear the wood would fall away under my fingers. But the price was a bargain, so Riwor was tickled as a slap-happy hedge-nibbler.
Easy for her to be pleased. She didn’t have to sleep on the floor. Although, on balance, the floor was probably better than the flea-infested mattress.
Beyond all reasoning, I awoke in fine spirits the next morning. Another day of peddling. A new town, new people. Excitement bubbled up inside, and even the moldy tavern couldn’t dampen it down.
“Hurry up, Tanwen!” Riwor shouted at me from across the town square. She flailed her arms to get my attention. “This is the best spot.” She elbowed away a merchant farmer with a cart of withered-looking greens.
I trotted over to her and set down my stool, then nodded a quick apology to the miffed farmer. “Riwor, look at this fountain! You ever seen anything like it?” I peered over the edge of the odd contraption. “It’s like a big white bowl!”
Riwor rolled her eyes and yanked me away from the trickling water. “It’s called marble. If you ever do make it to Urian, you’ll see a lot of it.”
“I wonder why we don’t have one in Pembrone.” I stood on tiptoe and peeked around Riwor’s shoulder to get another look at the cascading water.
Riwor shoved me back onto my stool. “Because Pembrone is a burp of a town no one cares about. Afon is the second largest village on the Eastern Peninsula.”
I sighed. Much as I agreed with her about Pembrone, it stung to hear the words from someone else. It was the only home I’d known, after all.
But the sun was chasing away the morning fog, and birds came to line the edge of the fountain, twittering a song. And I was far enough from the musty tavern to smell the patches of spring flowers. Riwor’s foul mood couldn’t dent my spirits.
The children gathered first. They always did. They sat with crossed legs and gazed up at me, waiting for a bit of magic. I played with them until paying customers gathered and Riwor finally decided to announce me.
“Gather round to hear the pride of the Eastern Peninsula—Tanwen, the story-peddling prodigy!”
I almost snorted at her introduction. She certainly didn’t mind slapping around the “pride of the Eastern Peninsula” when she had a mind to.
But I just smiled at the crowd. “Any requests?”
“One with soldiers!”
“One with a princess!”
“Tell the story of Trasig and Ramant!”
Trasig and Ramant—a crowned story about two mortal men who fell in love with the same goddess and both ended up dead on her account. Cheery stuff.
Riwor nodded to me. The suggestion had come from an adult, one who might pay, so that’s the story I’d tell. A short time later, Riwor added several coins to her purse, and I handed the villager her story—a crystallized heart with a dagger through it.
Riwor always said the young women were suckers for the outlandish tragic romances. Between squelching, ale-scented belches, she reasoned it was because the young women hadn’t learned real life was tragedy enough on its own.
Having to smell those belches day after day, I rather agreed.
“What’s next?” I asked the crowd. “What would you like me to tell?”
“How about the story of King Gareth’s conquest of Meridione?”
A shiver prickled my spine. The requester’s voice—too familiar. I looked up to see a hooded man with a long cloak and shiny boots.
The very same boots I’d spied in Gwern.
But how . . . ? Why? Was he following us?
After several moments of silence, I caught Riwor’s frenzied gestures out of the corner of my eye. Everyone stared at me, waiting. Either Riwor had forgotten the hooded stranger from Gwern, or else she remembered all too well the heavy coins this mystery man had tossed to us last time. Of course she’d want a repeat performance.
Two strands of light—silver, like sparkling fog—curled from my hands. The strands danced around the crowd, and smiles lit up all about.
“Tir lived at peace with her neighbor to the south for many generations, with Tir looking after her lesser neighbor like a father looks after his child.”
The silver strands flew up toward the sky together, then dropped to the ground in a swoosh.
The children unleashed excited squeals when the strands whizzed past them.
“But over time, the darkness of pride consumed the people to the south. So much darkness that it swallowed them from the inside out. It blackened their hair, darkened their skin, and they became known as the Meridioni—‘Dark People’ in their native tongue.”
“You’re pronouncing it wrong.” The hooded stranger’s voice nearly sent me jumping from my skin.
My gaze shot back to him. “Huh?” The strands stopped swirling and began to lose their shape.
“You pronounce it like a Tirian peasant. It’s not ‘Muh-rid-e-own-ee.’ It’s ‘Mer-eed-e-own-ee.’”
“Oh.” I pushed out a laugh. “Right.”
Riwor faked a wide smile at the stranger and bowed. “Thank you, good sir.” Then she turned to me and hissed, “Keep going.”
Sure as the taxes, my strands had just about disappeared.
“Oh. Aye.” Where was I? Ah, yes. “They became known as Meridioni—‘Dark People’ in their native tongue.” I made the word roll off correctly—like the hooded stranger had said it—even though it felt weird.
The silver strands popped back to life. One rose above the villagers and circled around. The other strand slowly changed. The silvery tip darkened like it’d been dipped in blood. Red spread all the way through the strand until the whole thing was crimson, just like the Meridioni flag.
If I played this right, the red strand would form a scaly fish, and the silver strand would turn the acid-green color of our king. Then the green satin would become a silvery-green sword. The fish ended up with the sword down its throat, showing the dominance of Tir over Meridione. Doesn’t sound nice, but somehow ends up being sort of pretty if the story crystallizes well.
The Story Peddler Page 6
