The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “The Dark People to the south became bolder and more prideful by the year, until they had truly forgotten their kind father to the north.”

  The red strand balled up into a circle, and then wiggled into the shape of a fish with glistening red scales.

  I paused. Something seemed to stop up my mouth, like my own words didn’t want to continue coming out. Maybe it was the idea of King Gareth being a kind father that seemed strange.

  But now was not the time for mulling over such things. I had to keep telling the story. And the way I’d learned it too. It was what the villagers expected, and I aimed to give them what they wanted.

  And get paid for it.

  “For some time, this father nation had lacked a strong leader to enact discipline upon the disobedient, prideful child. But when its ruler succumbed to the plague . . .” I trailed off as the silver strand turned green, like it was supposed to.

  But that feeling. That pinching, painful feeling rose suddenly in my gut again.

  I fought hard against it. But the pain struck so hard this time I had to bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. My hand flew to my side, but I forced more story to come out.

  “King Gareth Bo-Kelwyd came . . . to power—”

  Then the rising feeling gave way, and it was like a coursing river of energy bolted through my body. There was no stopping it. A scream tore from my throat.

  Blinding white light set each of my fingertips ablaze. My mouth dropped open. A few of the children shrieked. My head whipped toward Riwor, but her face hung slack and there was no help, no direction, to be found in her eyes.

  The only thing I knew to do was keep going. Force the story—and my body—to behave.

  “… and with him the strength and resolve of the father nation was renewed. Oh!”

  My stomach seared like it was being ripped in two.

  The white light shot from my fingertips. The force of it propelled me backward, and I toppled from my stool. Light spilled everywhere—up in the air, around the villagers, weaving in between us and under us.

  And then a whisper sliced through the chaos. And I’ll be blasted if the whisper wasn’t coming right out of my own story strands.

  “Lies. All lies from the one who has sold himself to the Liar. It was not a plague that slew Caradoc.”

  I squinted against the light. The shouts of the villagers carried through the muddled din.

  “What did she say?”

  “Did she say it wasn’t a plague that killed King Caradoc?”

  Horror crashed down upon me like a wave from the sea. “No, it wasn’t me! I didn’t say it!”

  But even as I shouted my protest, I realized it was my voice coming out of those strands. Like how my voice sounded the time I took ill for two weeks and could barely swallow. Or when I’d hollered myself hoarse while helping a farmer herd his grazers.

  And then more words dripped from my story strands. “By Gareth’s own hand did Caradoc sleep.”

  “She’s speaking treason!”

  I clapped my hands over my mouth. But my voice wasn’t coming from there. The light blasted from my fingers. And within it, the whispers spoke. My voice. My voice accusing King Gareth of treachery.

  “Gareth is no king. He dispatched the rightful king. The truth will be known, and the empire of lies will fall.”

  And suddenly, the accusatory strands shot to the sky and bundled together. They collected into a single beam, then careened down toward the cobblestones. The green satin strand of the king remained swirling in a circle at my feet. The red Meridioni strand was nowhere to be seen.

  The light crashed upon King Gareth’s strand. They wrestled each other, the light enveloping the green, then the green ribbon rallying back and forcing itself into view. And before I knew what had happened, the light made a clear bottle, like my mother’s fine glass ones I had pawned long ago. The green satin funneled into the bottle and stilled. Emerald smoke wafted up from the open top.

  One child in front gasped. “It’s poison!”

  The moment she spoke, the story crystallized. And true enough, it did look to be a vial of grass-colored poison.

  Though I tried to clamp my mouth shut, though my tongue lay still and my lips didn’t move, that unwanted feeling rose inside me until the hoarse whisper spilled from my throat. “Gareth the Usurper is the poison.”

  The bottle exploded into a thousand pieces of light.

  The villagers gaped. Riwor’s mouth still dangled. The hooded figure had vanished.

  And I had a desperate feeling my life was lost.

  Chapter 9

  Tanwen

  I shot up in bed with a gasp.

  Where am I?

  Then the last two days settled over my mind like marine fog. A dismal, leaden fog that lingers all day and spoils picnics. After my story blew up, Riwor had abandoned me. I’d barely ducked the king’s guard in Afon, then I’d spent that first night in a barn. Next day, I’d begged rides in passing farm carts until I reached the river. I had enough change to pay the ferrying fee across, thank the moon. I’d spent last night in the cheapest room of this tavern in Twen.

  I swung my legs out of bed. The icy floor stabbed my feet with pins and needles. Early morning still. I had enough money to pay for my lodgings and some breakfast, but perhaps the innkeeper would let me exchange labor instead. I reckoned it’d be wise to hold on to every bit I could.

  A breakfast of watery gruel and a mountain of washed dishes later, I trudged down the king’s road.

  Only halfway home and no donkey in sight.

  Tears bubbled up from deep inside. Where was Riwor? Hiding out too? Or had she officially disowned me and my traitorous story threads?

  I already knew the answer. But I couldn’t account for how deep it cut me. Right to the bone. It’d been a fool idea to think of Riwor as a grandmother. I’d known that for six moons. And yet I couldn’t help wondering. . . . Would I ever find anybody who would take me as his own, stand by me through thick and thin the way family ought?

  Brac popped to mind. He stood by me. Always. But then his words rang in my memory: If only you’d set your storytelling aside.

  Did he really stand by me if he didn’t love all of me, if he wanted me to lock up my passions, dreams, and hopes—my gift—and be what he wanted me to be instead? My mind swirled worse than a hundred rogue story strands.

  If the guard caught up to me, none of it mattered. A girl didn’t much need a family when she whiled away her days in the king’s dungeon. Or worse, ended her days on his chopping block.

  A speck on the horizon snagged my attention. For a moment, my spirits rose. Maybe it was a farmer with a cart who could give me a ride to Pembrone. Then reality deflated me.

  He’s going in the opposite direction, Tanwen. You blockhead.

  Unless I wanted to head right back into Twen, this approaching stranger wouldn’t be of any help.

  But then my heart pinched like someone squished it in his fist.

  The approaching figure was a mounted king’s guard knight. I was sure, now that he was closer and I could just make out the seal on his chest. I scurried from the road into a ditch overgrown with tall grass and grasped the silver knot around my neck.

  Please, let him pass by me.

  I’d seen him, so surely he’d seen me. But maybe if I just pretended to be a simple peasant, gathering wildflowers or berries or some such harmless thing, maybe then he’d pass by me without a thought.

  I tiptoed down the ditch, hoping to find something I could reasonably be collecting. A few scrawny flowering weeds were my best and only option.

  The clip of hooves sent my breath into my throat. The sound slowed for a moment, then there was silence. My heart hammered in my chest, but I pretend to be busy about my weeds. Checked the scarf I’d tied around my blonde hair. Didn’t seem to be any escaped locks trying to shout out my identity.

  Was this soldier looking for me? Looking right at me?

  I couldn’t breathe.

&
nbsp; What did it feel like to be hanged?

  But then the clopping of hooves picked up again and eventually faded into the distance. All my breath fled from my body, and I collapsed into a heap on my back. Tears of relief dripped down my cheeks.

  Goddesses above, please let me get back to Pembrone safely.

  “Here is fine.” I glanced up at the man beside me.

  He tugged the horse’s reins. “You sure? Some distance yet to the next town.”

  I slid off the driver’s seat and flashed a smile, praying it was convincingly carefree. “I like to walk.”

  He shrugged. “Take care, then.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I let the dust from the cart full of wax beans dwindle before I made a show of following him. The farmer looked back once, so I kept shuffling along behind, pretending to enjoy my walk. Finally, the horse put enough distance between us that the cart showed as a dot on the road ahead.

  Then I spun around and took off at a run toward Pembrone.

  I had let the farmer pass my town, hoping it would appear as though I were traveling on to Drefden, or even Bach. I didn’t want Pembrone to stick in his head as the place where he’d dropped me off. The idea conjured up the image of the poor man being tortured for information about a wayward story peddler skulking about these parts.

  I tried to force my mind to sift out those thoughts like chaff. This would all blow over. I was making too big a deal of it.

  How many times had I told myself the same thing in the three days since I’d left the tavern in Twen? I’d lost count, and I still didn’t truly believe it. The farmer with the wax beans was the first ride I’d had, and I was more tired than a carrier pigeon on mail day.

  But not too tired to run full speed back to Pembrone. To Brac’s place.

  What if the king’s guard was there already? What if they’d traced me back to Pembrone, and Farmer Bradwir and his wife and the wee ones were—

  No, stop. Settle down, Tanwen. It’s going to be fine.

  I forced myself to walk. The afternoon sun slanted into my eyes. My hair—greasy after days without a proper wash—simmered under the heat. But I knew this road well. Only a bit farther and I could turn down Pembrone’s main thoroughfare. Brac wouldn’t be waiting for me this time, pitched against the building and rubbing his sunburned face. He wasn’t expecting me for some days yet.

  No matter. Today I’d go to him. I started sprinting again.

  The first smack of cobblestone under my feet set my bones to clattering. I tightened the strap of my bag, hiked up my skirt, and threw every last ounce of energy I had into my strides.

  “Tanwen?” Blodwyn looked up from sweeping the porch of her tavern. “Where’s the fire, lass?” She watched me fly past. “Tannie?”

  I dodged a group of children playing, then a farmer and a butcher haggling over the price of some grazer meat. I could only think of getting to safety—to the Bradwir stead.

  And then there was his voice. “Tannie?”

  I ground to a stop right in front of my stone cottage. Brac ambled down the pathway from his place, his eyebrows raised and a basket in one hand.

  I sucked in deep breaths of briny sea air to try to calm my ramming heart. Then I jumped up and threw my arms around his neck.

  He let out a short laugh. “Well, hello to you too, Tannie. But I thought you weren’t back for a few days.” He pulled away a little and squinted at me. I could see the wheels of his brain turning, figuring how many days I’d been gone and how many till I was supposed to come back.

  “Your family.” I gasped out my words. “They’re all right?”

  Brac frowned. “Were at lunchtime. What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

  The lie tasted sour on my tongue. I could trust Brac—in fact, he might be the only person in Tir I could trust. But I couldn’t spill it all out just then. Now that I was sure Farmer Bradwir and his kin, most of all Brac, weren’t in danger, all I wanted was to be home. Safe inside those familiar walls.

  Brac nodded to the basket. “Mam sent me to check on your place, and I thought I might have my supper by the cliffs. I’ll share it with you. Ain’t really enough for two, but goddesses know you’ve had your share of scant meals before. Least it’s something.”

  Tears burned my eyes. “Thanks.”

  “Tannie, what is it?” He put his hand on my arm. “You’re about to cry. Don’t tell me you ain’t.”

  A tear snaked down my cheek, then another. “I’ll tell you everything later, Brac. I promise. I just—I need to go home now.”

  He nodded. “All right.” Then he put the basket into my hands. “You take it. I can get something at home. You eat it and then come see me, all right?” He nudged my shoulder and pulled his face into a lopsided grin. “Good to have you home, whatever the trouble was. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

  I tried to hold in a panicked sob. “Thanks, Brac. Just glad you’re safe.”

  His expression dimmed. “Tannie, what in the name of the taxes happened?” Then his eyes lit up all fiery. “Did she hit you again? Did that mountainbeast of an old hag smack you? I tell you what, if she ever sets foot near me, I’ll—”

  “No, Brac.” I sighed. “Truly, I don’t think you’ll be seeing Riwor again.”

  Suddenly, his face lit up. “Won’t be seeing Riwor? Does that mean . . . Tannie, does it mean you’re leaving it behind, like I said? No more storytelling?”

  My chest ached. I tried to imagine what my life would be like with no story peddling, or worse, no storytelling at all. Was I even Tanwen En-Yestin anymore if I didn’t tell stories? Could I even tell stories after what happened in Afon? Was settling down and setting it aside my only choice now?

  I leaned against the wall and dropped my head in my hands. “I don’t know anything anymore, Brac.”

  I could almost hear his smile collapse into a frown. “Well, as soon as you’re settled, come up to the stead. We’ll sort it.”

  “Aye.” I pried myself off the wall and forced a thin smile. “I will.” I slid through the gate, latched it behind me, and then trudged through the front door into the cottage.

  I dropped my bag on the floor and went straight to Father’s study. Not sure why, but fear knotted my stomach as I paused before the study door. Can’t say what I feared I’d find—his chair bolted to the ceiling? The bookshelves overturned and all his books tossed out? His ghost sitting there, waiting for my return?

  But of course, nothing like that happened. Everything seemed to be exactly where I’d left it.

  The cottage was normal. I just needed to do normal things, and then it would be fine. Everything would be fine.

  “Father.” My whisper echoed through the empty cottage. “I’m home.”

  The tears started leaking down my cheeks again, because even I could see how pathetic it was to be talking to the emptiness like it was a real parent. “Something bad happened while I was away.”

  Silence answered me.

  “I was telling a story, and these terrible strands started flying all over the place. White and bright, like the sun.”

  Outside, a bird chirped.

  “The strands made me talk—or else they were talking themselves. I don’t even know. I’ve never heard of anything like it. The strands said treasonous things about King Gareth.”

  My gaze shifted to the books lining Father’s shelves. Bet there was a lot that wouldn’t be “crowned” between those covers. Father would have had some answers for me. If he were here.

  “Why did it happen? What does it mean?”

  The silence, the absence that so marred my life, was the only reply.

  And suddenly, I felt like screaming. I needed help—guidance, protection. Something. I needed my parents, now more than ever. The hole in my heart gaped wide.

  “Why are you gone?” I cried out into the calm. “Why did you leave me?” My voice shrank. “I’m afraid.”

  A breeze whispered through the garden outside the st
udy window. And then all lay still and silent again.

  Water dripped onto the floor as I squeezed the last of it from my hair. I combed my fingers through the tangled tresses before the fire.

  At least I was clean. That was more than I’d been able to say for days, and it felt better than decent to be fresh finally.

  I folded back the cloth on the basket Brac’s mother had packed for him. Slices of a roasted bird of some sort, a round loaf of crusty bread, a bottle of grazer milk, a piece of delightfully smelly cheese, and a small hathberry pie.

  Must be the first hathberries of the year. A bit early, but no one ever complained when the hathberries arrived before summer.

  I chuckled. Brac had said it wasn’t enough for two, but this could last me a couple days if it had to. Sometimes I wondered how his parents managed to keep that lad fed. I spread the meal on the table.

  Stay busy. Do normal things. Think about normal things. Act normal, and it’ll be normal.

  “Supper’s laid out,” I said to no one.

  I stoked the fire and added another log. A brisk wind seemed to search out every crack in the windows and under the doors. A shudder tiptoed down my back.

  Cool spring evenings are normal. Quiet, solitary suppers are normal. Everything’s fine.

  I took my seat on the bench at the table. The hathberry pie found its way to my mouth first. If I had no parents to guide me, at least I could take advantage of the good parts. Dessert before supper. Sounded good to me.

  “Riwor doesn’t want anything to do with me now. Don’t know if I can keep peddling anyway, with the guard stirred up against me. Brac thinks . . .” I let the thought die on my tongue.

  I grabbed a piece of bread and wished I had some butter. “Think I’d be able to handle peddling on my own?” I imagined Father giving me an encouraging nod. “What if I went across the mountains? Maybe follow along the river and peddle in the river towns. See some new villages.”

  Surely word of my disastrous white-light story hadn’t traveled that far. I could settle down there, or even farther if I had to.