The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  Then that nagging thought pierced my gut.

  Brac.

  “Maybe he’d come with me.” But that forced a startling question into my mind.

  If Brac did agree to travel with me, would I be more inclined to marry him? Would it change anything?

  I smashed the thought into the ground. No matter. Brac was about as likely to leave Pembrone as Riwor was to win a beauty contest. But peddling downriver on my own. That was an idea. It was just beginning to crystallize in my mind, like a well-told story, when there was a knock at the door.

  My stomach catapulted into my throat. The king’s guard. They’d found me. My eyes darted everywhere.

  Where to hide?

  But then my breath came out in a relieved huff. Of course it was only Brac. I’d told him I would come up later and he’d gotten impatient, so he came down himself. If the guard had found me, surely they wouldn’t knock first.

  “I’m coming, Brac.” I wiped the crumbs from my lap. Then I tightened my shawl around my shoulders and made for the door.

  The latch complained with a creak as I lifted it.

  “Got tired of waiting already? That’s not like you, Br—”

  Never did finish my sentence.

  The moment I had the door open, a hooded figure clamped a hand over my mouth and shoved me into my house. Two more hooded figures pushed inside, and one of them slammed the door and bolted it.

  Chapter 10

  Tanwen

  A familiar voice poured out from beneath the hood of the one with his hand over my mouth. “Listen carefully.”

  My eyes widened. I tried to say, “You!” but his hand muffled the sound. I clawed at him to no avail.

  “Tanwen, listen.”

  He remembered my name. I struggled harder.

  “The guard is after you. They’ve been following you since Twen. You need to come with us. Do you understand?”

  Another of the hooded figures, so tall his head nearly scraped the low ceiling of the cottage entry, pulled off his hood. Straw-colored hair, sunburnt skin, and calloused palms. Might as well have been Brac standing there, just two hands taller. “Mor, if you want an answer to that question, I reckon you’re going to have to take your hand off her mouth.”

  The hooded man holding me hesitated. “Can I let you go, Tanwen? Do you promise not to scream?”

  I struggled in response.

  The third hooded figure sighed. “Who could blame her, Mor?” A woman’s voice. “I wouldn’t trust a hooded hooligan lurking about like a phantom either.” She pulled back her hood to reveal light-gold hair, high cheekbones, and mournful green eyes. “We mean you no harm, Tanwen.”

  Finally, my captor released me. His hood came off, and I got a look at the face belonging to the voice I’d heard twice before. For a moment, my breath was about beaten out of my lungs.

  The young man called Mor didn’t look like anyone I’d ever seen. He had fair Tirian skin, but his hair was dark as the bitter-bean brew lots of folks drank in the mornings. It was cut short, unlike any farmer lad I knew, and a gold hoop was punched clear through one of his ears.

  The lass laughed and turned to Mor. “She doesn’t know what to make of you.”

  Mischief lit up his sky-blue eyes, and he took a bow. “Captain Mor Bo-Lidere, at your service.”

  “Captain?” Thoughts of the guard slammed to mind.

  “Of a ship.” He glanced down at his boots—the shiny ones I’d seen before. Sailors’ boots, I realized now. Real fisherman didn’t often come to our little bay.

  I frowned at the shorn hair and gold ring. He had scruff enough on his face for a full-grown lad, but his skin didn’t have the leathery, weather-beaten look of one who had spent years and years under the ocean sun like a regular captain.

  “You’re too young to be a fishing boat captain,” I declared. “Are you a pirate?”

  The tall, straw-haired farmer folded his arms across his chest and stared at his comrade. “Answer the lass’s question, Mor.”

  Mor grinned. “Aye.”

  I planted my feet and glared at the trio, even if a handsome pirate was one of their number. “What are you doing in my house? Do you work for the king? I haven’t done anything wrong, so you ought to go right back where you came from, thanks kindly.”

  The lass with the sad eyes shook her head. “Mor, I told you we should have approached her in Gwern. Now we have the guard breathing down our necks and no time to convince her.”

  Mor straightened his shoulders. “And I told you she wouldn’t have come then either. She was still with the old lady and had no more reason to believe us then than she does now.”

  The lass took a step forward. “Some people listen to reason, even if you don’t know how.” Her green eyes seemed to glow in her hot stare.

  The air in the room felt like when Farmer and Ma-Bradwir had a disagreement about something. Thick and charged with a special sort of lightning between the two.

  The other cleared his throat. “Ain’t got time for this at the moment. If you want to fight, save it for the Corsyth.”

  “Zelyth!” The lass’s glare shot to the farmer now. “Keep locations out of this until she’s agreed to go. I’ll not have her betraying us to the guard.” She turned back to me. “Tanwen, listen to me carefully. The guard knows about what happened in Afon. The captain of the peninsular guard has issued your arrest warrant. The soldiers are in Pembrone and will be here any minute. They’ll have no qualms about hurting the ones you love to get to you. Time is running short. Do you understand?”

  I don’t know why, but when she spoke in her calm, proper Tirian, I couldn’t help but believe her. At least a little.

  Just the suggestion of the guard hiking up the road to the Bradwir stead was enough to convince me I should leave with these people, whoever they were.

  “Just . . . let me pack my things.”

  “Hurry.” The lass brushed dust from her cloak. “And I am Gryfelle.” She curtsied. “Gryfelle En-Blaid.”

  “Tanwen. But it seems you already know.”

  A half-smile appeared. “Yes. Tanwen En-Yestin.”

  My full name—said right aloud like that—hung in the air. I never used it in public. Farmer Bradwir had told me it was better to stick to my first name for safety’s sake. Leave Father’s name out of my mouth. I’d always been more concerned with wondering what Father had been like, who he really was, so I’d never questioned Farmer Bradwir about why Father’s name should be kept silent. Never even wondered why.

  Until now.

  Chapter 11

  Tanwen

  Mor glanced out the front window before he pulled the shutters closed. “Night’s coming on, Elle. You all right?”

  Gryfelle’s back straightened. “I’m fine. I’ll rest when we’ve reached safety.”

  I waited for a moment, but no one offered me anything by way of explanation.

  Mor tried again. “We’ve been travelling for days. You sure you’re good?”

  Gryfelle shot an icy glare at Mor, then nodded to me. “Excuse me.” She stepped out the back door and into the garden.

  Mor’s breath came out in a big, huffing sigh. “Elle, wait.” He followed her out to the back garden.

  Awkward silence filled the cottage around me and the farmer. I collected some things—clean clothes mostly—while he helped.

  “I’m Zelyth Bo-Gwelt, by the by.” The accent screamed Eastern Peninsula.

  “You’re from around here, aren’t you?”

  “Hauplan. It’s—”

  “Between Gwern and Afon, and a bit north. I know it.” My face relaxed a little—almost smiled. “I’d know a peninsular farmer from a league off.”

  He smiled. “Aye.” But then his smile dimmed. “You’re doing the right thing, Tanwen. The guard . . . they’re not accustomed to showing mercy.”

  I knew that to be true enough. But I wondered. Maybe the king would show mercy if I could explain the whole story to him. Those white light strands weren’t my f
ault, after all.

  I shoved a clean skirt into my bag. “So who are you three, anyway? Are you all on the run from the guard?”

  “More or less.” He handed me a clean pewter cup to pack. “I’m doing the same thing you’re trying to do. Protect my family.”

  “Your parents? Brothers and sisters?”

  “No. My father would turn me over to the guard if he got the chance.” He stopped grabbing things off the shelves but didn’t turn around. “It’s my wife.”

  He looked no older than Brac. But Brac was, strictly speaking, of marrying age, so I guess this shouldn’t have surprised me. Still, it did a little. A picture popped to my mind—a pretty lass with sun-browned skin and yellow hair, churning cream into butter.

  It was nice to think Zelyth had a lass like that back home.

  After a second of silence, he started moving again. I glanced out the back window. Mor and Gryfelle seemed to be having a heated conversation in whispers, and Gryfelle looked about ready to claw the sea captain’s eyes from his head. “Them too?”

  Zelyth rolled his eyes. “Not exactly. We all have our reasons for hiding out, each a little different than the last.”

  Mor tried to reach for Gryfelle’s arm, but she yanked away and glared poison daggers at him. She spun away and took to staring out over the black water of the Menfor Sea. His shoulders sagged, then in the next second, his gaze lifted to me, staring at him through my back window.

  A kaleidoscope of painted-wings escaped in my belly. Leastways, it felt like it.

  I cleared my throat and turned away, only to find Zelyth eyeballing me.

  He nodded to Mor and Gryfelle. “Those two are hopeless. Especially that rakish captain.”

  I fastened the strap on my leather traveling bag. “Not so keen on Captain Mor, are you, Zelyth?”

  “Eh?” He looked up, eyes puzzled. “Mor’s my best mate.”

  I let out a short laugh. “Hard to tell, the way you talk of him.”

  “Well, him being my best mate doesn’t stop him from driving me crazier than a harried hedge-nibbler.” He rolled his eyes, but a hint of humor shone through. “And you can call me Zel.”

  We shared a brief smile. Then the pounding on the front door started.

  In a blink, Zel had snuffed out the only candle we had lit. He put a finger to his lips, then grabbed my hand.

  Thank the goddesses Mor had closed the front shutters.

  Zel moved quieter than a fluff-hopper toward the back. The pounding on the front door got louder.

  Then a shout from outside. “Story peddler! We know you’re in there. Open up, lass. We won’t hurt you.”

  My breath came in clipped puffs. Zel caught my gaze in the dark and steadied me somehow. He shook his head slowly and eased us both out the back door. The door made but a whisper as it settled back into its frame.

  The backyard was empty. Mor and Gryfelle had disappeared. But then I heard a low whistle that sounded so like a bird I’d have missed it if not for Zel’s nudging me. Mor’s dark hair appeared over the low stone wall on the north side of my yard.

  Zel and I ducked through the garden and out the side gate. We crouched beside Mor and Gryfelle. Just in time too. A crash boomed from the cottage, and moments later at least four guardsmen, one with a torch, poured into my home.

  My breath stole into my throat. I watched through the window as the guardsmen ripped through the kitchen, overturned the table with my supper still on it, and then split up—two into Father’s study, the other two toward my room.

  “Tanwen?” Mor’s whisper shook me from my horrified trance. “Which is the best way back to the road? We have horses waiting.” He touched my arm.

  I stared at his hand. He’d asked me a question, hadn’t he? Oh, right. The road.

  If we crawled around the wall to the east side, we could slip down the cliffs to the beach. But it’d be quite the trek to get back to the road unnoticed, and I didn’t know how well these three could climb. The rocks were treacherous, even in the full light of day. If we slipped all the way around to the front of the cottage, we’d end up right out on the road—and probably right into the guard’s lap.

  “Farmer Cerio’s orchard,” I said finally, nodding to the fruit trees just behind us. “If we follow them north a bit, we can meet up with the road away from the cottage. Sneak to the other side of town through the grain fields.”

  Then my breath left me again. Those were Farmer Bradwir’s grain fields.

  “Brac.” I grabbed Zel’s arm and whispered as quietly as my panic would let me. “I can’t leave Pembrone without telling Brac.”

  A strange sob escaped my lips, and Mor clapped a hand over my mouth.

  I could tell he was trying to fight it on account of the mortal danger and all, but a twisty smile darted onto his face anyhow. “That’s your lad’s name, eh?”

  Fire lit my cheeks. Couldn’t quite account for it, but it seemed the last thing in the world I wanted was Mor thinking Brac was my lad.

  I pulled his hand from my mouth and made a face at him. “No. He’s my best friend. His parents raised me after I turned up in Pembrone.”

  Gryfelle’s delicate hand found my shoulder. Her whisper was quieter than a breath of wind. “Tanwen, there’s no time. If the guard sees you, you’ll be putting your friend and his family in danger.”

  “We could leave a note.” Mor pulled Father’s journal from my travel bag and held it up.

  I snatched the journal and my bag back. I hadn’t seen the pirate rifling through it. “Can’t. I didn’t bring any ink. It’d be no good anyway. Brac can’t read.”

  Mor raised an eyebrow. “Can you?”

  I was grateful for the dark, lest my fire-hot cheeks be noticed. “Aye.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “Nanny, I guess?” I frowned. “Or maybe my father. I was six when I came here. Mother died and Father went missing when I was four. I’d lived with my nursemaid after that, but she took ill, and since my mother was Pembroni, Nanny brought me back here. Brac’s mam and mine are distant cousins of some sort, so Nanny was trying to find my kin. Knew she was dying. I suppose it was her who taught me.”

  Mor grinned. “Fancy the Pembroni peasant who knows how to read.”

  “Shh.” That was Zel. “Quiet down, you two.”

  I tried to push Mor’s teasing from my mind and stole a glance over the garden wall. Guardsmen were still sifting through my things. I cringed to see them handle what remained of my mother’s dishes.

  Gryfelle looked at me strangely. Knowingly. “You had a nursemaid and you knew how to read. That’s peculiar, don’t you think?”

  Yes, I guessed it was. I barely remembered the old woman who had brought me here, except that I called her Nanny. Everything before Pembrone was a blur. She always seemed like a character in a fairy story, and it had never occurred to me to ask why I’d been in the care of a stranger.

  Not a stranger. A servant.

  A crash from the cottage set me to jumping. I nearly hopped to my feet. “My house!” At every bump and bang, I imagined some trinket of Mother’s or relic of Father’s shattering to pieces.

  “It’s only things, Tanwen,” Zel offered.

  I knew he meant it kindly, but my eyes welled. “Those things are all I have left.” All the years holding onto Father’s books and pens while my stomach rumbled with hunger, only to have the ruddy king’s guard wreck it all in one night.

  It wasn’t fair. None of it.

  Mor paused one moment longer, giving me all the time he could allow. Then he said, “Come on.” He took my bag back and shouldered it himself. A pirate gentleman? “We need to move while they’re still tossing the house.”

  Zel squeezed my arm. “It’ll be all right.”

  Sure, it would. I was putting all my trust in the hands of three people I didn’t know, sneaking out of the only home I could remember to a place no one had even told me about.

  Excellent plan.

  But I nodded once and hoped my
face looked braver than I felt.

  And with that, I was leading these strangers—who may or may not be daft—through Farmer Cerio’s orchard. I decided not to think about it as I wove through the blossoming trees, focusing instead on keeping my steps and my breathing quiet.

  My feet stumbled over a root, but Mor’s strong grip on my hand steadied me as I squinted in the dark. The cloud cover blocked all moonlight, and it was harder to see than usual. Good for ducking the guard; bad for trying to find the road.

  “There.” I pointed just ahead and to the west. “The road winds in close to the trees there. We can slip across to Farmer Bradwir’s grain fields. Where are your horses?”

  Zelyth tiptoed a few paces ahead to spy the pathway. “They’re tethered by the king’s road just outside Pembrone. Didn’t want to draw attention by bringing them into town.”

  That sent a shiver through my bones.

  But I forced my voice to sound calm. “Then we’ll stay to the fields and steads on the west side of town. We’ll meet up with the main road that way.”

  Mor’s eyes seemed to glitter, even though there wasn’t much light to reflect. “Just remember, they’re likely to have guards posted all about. I’ll go first.”

  Before anyone could say anything, he’d darted across the path into Farmer Bradwir’s grain.

  Zel nudged me. “You next.” He checked for the guard one last time. “Go!”

  I put my head down and ran. It seemed a league and a half before the stalks of grain swallowed me up. A few breaths passed and Gryfelle appeared, followed by Zel.

  Zel nodded to me. “You lead.”

  So we picked through the grain like we’d picked through the fruit trees. My chest squeezed around my heart when the Bradwir stead came into sight beyond the fields.

  Couldn’t I just bolt away, find Brac, collapse into his familiar embrace, and forget any of this had happened?

  Just when I started thinking that was a fine plan, Mor yanked me into the dirt. He pressed a finger to my lips. Despite his touch, I was about to hop to my feet and give him a piece of my mind. What kind of gentleman pirate pulls a lass to her face in the dirt? But then I heard it—boot steps in the field.