The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “That one there. Between Warmil’s rock and Aeron’s. You’ll be well protected.”

  Gryfelle’s sigh sounded behind me. “Oh, Zel. Come on. Let’s get that arm patched up again. I told you to take it easy.”

  He shrugged. “The guard mustn’t have heard you.”

  She smiled a moment, but then her face fell. She put a hand to her temple and frowned. “What was that, Mother? I can’t seem to find the gold ones.”

  I felt the confusion settle onto my face, and I must have looked lost as a fluff-hopper in a mountainbeast stampede.

  “Gryfelle?” I reached for her.

  But Mor swooped in just then. “Come on, Elle. Let’s go sit.” He didn’t even seem to notice me, but he gave Zel a quick nod. “Karlith will patch you up, mate.”

  I didn’t have energy left to wonder at this. Not just then. I scrambled over to the rock Zel had pointed to, slipped under the cover of moss, and climbed into the makeshift bed. Truly, it was like a large fishing crate half sunk into the marsh. But all the open spaces between the slats had been plugged and patched so it was drier than wheat ready for storage.

  A collection of straw-stuffed pillows lined the bottom. I flopped onto them and felt the crate shift in the sloppy marsh mud.

  Whoops.

  Guessed I should move with more care, lest I invite a flood of muck and water into my new bed. I pulled up a blanket thicker than the ancient ones I had back home. It welcomed me into its cozy folds, and in a few moments, there was only the blessed blackness of exhausted sleep.

  The sound of the world being ripped in two jolted me awake.

  Least, that’s what I thought it was at first.

  The noise came again—a scream or a howl, I couldn’t really tell. Maybe both.

  I crawled out from under my moss covering and met a flurry of movement around the Corsyth.

  Mor’s voice cut through the night. “Elle, stay calm. Everyone get back!”

  The howl came again—animalistic, soul-chilling. It couldn’t . . . I mean, that growling, guttural sound couldn’t be coming from Gryfelle.

  Could it?

  “Tanwen!” Karlith’s heavy-lidded eyes found me in the blackness. “Back to your bed, my girl. Hurry now.”

  My heart galloped. “Karlith, is it the guard? Have they come for us?”

  “No, lass. Back to your crate with you.”

  I bit my lip, grasping for control over my panic. “Karlith, what’s happening?”

  Karlith opened her mouth, but Zel’s holler cut her off. “Karlith, we need you!”

  She met my gaze for a moment. “Stay here.” Then she took off full-speed toward the commotion.

  And of course I followed her. Though looking back, I wish I hadn’t.

  Gryfelle lay splayed in the middle of a small clear spot of ground. The other six weavers huddled around her. Warmil and Zelyth each pinned a leg to the earth. Aeron and Dylun gripped her arms. Mor held her head in his lap. Karlith seemed to be crushing some kind of herb and shoving it under Gryfelle’s nose.

  Gryfelle screamed like they were pulling off her limbs.

  Horror doused me like a bucketful of ocean water. “Stop it!” I stumbled toward them. “What are you doing? You’re hurting her!”

  “Tannie, don’t—”

  I silenced Mor with a stiff shove.

  Dylun felt the sting of my indignation next as I toppled him and freed Gryfelle’s arm. “Let her go!”

  “Tannie, look out!”

  Mor’s warning came too late—especially for my unthinking, grazer-brained self.

  Gryfelle let out another howl, then swung her free fist smack across my jaw. I fell back in shock.

  Mor didn’t let another heartbeat pass before he was back by Gryfelle’s head. “Easy, Elle. It’s us. You know us.”

  Gryfelle screamed out, but she hardly sounded herself. “No!” She yanked against her restrainers and shrieked that awful, animal cry.

  Dylun recaptured her free arm, but his cheek took a swipe from her fingernails in the process. Even in the dark, I could see the gashes oozing blood.

  How hard did she have to gouge to make such a wound with naught but her nails?

  “Karlith, the herbs.” Mor struggled to hold his grip on Gryfelle’s head as she wrestled about. “Please. It’s going to be a bad one.”

  Going to be? Gryfelle growled and yanked against Zel and Warmil at her legs. If this wasn’t the worst of what was to come, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see the rest.

  Karlith crushed the herbs in her palm. “Nothing in it, Mor. They don’t help her anymore, and you know it.”

  Desperation swallowed Mor’s face. Like a man caught in a war he knows he must fight but can’t possibly win. “We have to try. I can’t . . .” His voice caught. “I can’t lose another.”

  Gryfelle’s howls dwindled to moans.

  Warmil glanced up. “She’s crossing into it.” He seemed to be waiting for some sort of approval from Mor.

  Mor nodded to them all. “Now!”

  Everyone except Mor released Gryfelle.

  I scooted away from her as fast as I could scramble. My jaw still smarted where she had hit me. “Wait, what about—”

  Never finished my thought. Because in the next moment, I knew why they’d let her go.

  Gryfelle’s eyes blanked into empty windows, like they had on the river. Vacant. Hollow. And then it seemed every muscle in her body got shot through with lightning. Tensed. Contorted.

  She twisted onto her side. Mor followed her movements, her head protected gently in his hands.

  “Hold on, lass,” he murmured. The sound carried through the still nighttime forest. “Hold on, Elle.”

  Gryfelle’s only response was a gurgle deep in her throat. Then the thrashing began.

  It wasn’t like the other thrashing, where she’d strained and fought as if some spirit of violence had taken hold of the real Gryfelle for a spell. These were the thrashings of someone entirely cleaved from her own will—from her own mind. She flailed like she hadn’t a thought in her head or a speck of control over herself. Like lightning zapped her, except there wasn’t any coming from the sky.

  The lightning was inside her.

  It struck again and again. Then again. A full minute rolled by. I felt Zel’s arm loop around my shoulders as we, all of us, watched Gryfelle’s body beat itself against the ground.

  “What is it, Zel?” I whispered through my fingers, only then realizing I’d been covering my mouth in horror. Even so, my whispered words seemed loud against the silent spectacle before us.

  He shook his head and barely seemed able to make his voice work for a moment. Finally, he managed words. “The curse.”

  Gryfelle whipped to her other side so that her usually elegant face turned toward us. Dead eyes, twisted features, frothed spit around her lips. I hardly knew her.

  At the next strike of invisible lightning, Gryfelle’s mouth opened. A moan escaped—and so did a flurry of song strands. The melody of them spun softly toward us. A quiet song that felt like warmth and care and service.

  “What is it?” I choked from a throat that felt two sizes too small.

  As I spoke, the strands collected together. Vials, bandages, herbs, bowls of powders.

  I looked up. “Zel?”

  But it was Karlith who answered. “It’s the healing arts. All I’ve taught her.” She clasped her hands to her chest like it hurt to speak it—like her heart would crack in her ribs.

  Gryfelle jolted again, and her head slipped from Mor’s hands. He cried out but couldn’t move his hands fast enough. Gryfelle’s head slammed to the ground and more song strands escaped. Then again as she jolted. And again.

  “No!” Mor’s frustration could have felled a tree as he fought to recapture his moving target.

  And Gryfelle’s head hit the dirt again. All the while, her song strands grew more solid, glowing in the dark forest. Every blow to her head sent new strands out into the night air.

  Karlith ru
shed to Mor’s side. His hands slipped off Gryfelle on one side, but hers found purchase. Karlith’s lips moved silently as she cradled Gryfelle’s head.

  “Five minutes.” Aeron glanced at Zel, then Warmil. “Longest yet.”

  A lump rose in my throat. Tears spilled down my face. “Will it ever stop?”

  No one seemed to have an answer for me. In the light of Gryfelle’s song strands, I could see that Mor was crying too. The anguish etched in his features showed that every thrash of her body was felt in his soul.

  Our eyes locked across the clearing, and I don’t know as I ever saw a more helpless, hopeless lad in my life.

  My heart pinched in my chest.

  A wail from Karlith broke the connection between me and Mor. She looked up to the dark, tree-covered sky. “Mercy! Please, mercy!”

  Gryfelle thrashed.

  “Six minutes.” Aeron frowned at Warmil. “Captain, should we—?”

  But a loud sigh from Gryfelle cut short Aeron’s grim question, whatever it was. With every breath out, Gryfelle uttered long, loud sighs. Her body stilled but for her heaving chest. The song strands that Karlith said were the healing arts slowly disappeared into the night.

  “Gryfelle?” Karlith put Gryfelle’s head in her lap and stroked the sweaty golden hair. “Can you hear me, lass?”

  Gryfelle sighed.

  Mor placed a hand on her forehead. “Gryfelle En-Blaid, do you know me?” He chuckled, but it sounded more a weary sob. “Do you know Mor Bo-Lidere?”

  Gryfelle sighed again.

  Karlith’s colormastery strands poured from her fingers. “Do you remember being a wee lass in Urian with the great marble fountains and the palace as tall as the heavens?”

  Strands like paint splashed together in midair to form the bubbling fountains.

  A moan hummed from Gryfelle, and her eyes fluttered.

  Mor touched her face. “Remember the vast parties in fancy ballrooms?” As he spoke, strands of story formed pictures—fine gowns swirling through the air of the Corsyth. “Remember the dancing lessons?”

  Karlith pushed back Gryfelle’s sweat-soaked locks. “Remember your sisters and your wee brother?”

  Gryfelle’s eyes fluttered again, and this time they stayed open. Her voice was the saddest song. “No, Karlith. I do not.”

  Blue waves of light rolled from Karlith’s palms as tears coursed her cheeks. “Do you remember when Mor found you on the Isles of Gael?”

  Mor winced. “Karlith, if ever there was a memory to be stolen forever, it’s that one.”

  Karlith didn’t pause. Her soothing murmur kept up its rolling hum. “Do you remember your friends in the Corsyth? You don’t have to hide your gift here, lass. The Creator gave it to you. It were an act of love, dear one. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  Dylun touched my arm, and I nearly parted from my skin. His dark eyes burned in the low light of the story and color strands. “Gryfelle need not fear anymore. But we must.”

  “What do you mean?” I whispered.

  “More is at stake than just the freedom to create, Tanwen. Don’t you see? Gryfelle’s curse—it’s because of what Gareth has done. What Gryfelle had to endure as a child with the songspinning gift, living inches from the pretender king who would silence her as soon as look at her. The suppression, the denial, the secrecy. It’s what brought this sentence upon our friend. Suppress the art inside a weaver long enough, and the gift turns curse.”

  I stared at the huddled mass of bodies before me—Gryfelle, Karlith, and Mor. “And so she’s . . . ill?”

  “Not just ill, Tanwen.” Dylun’s face pinched and the others went silent as a winter midnight. “Gryfelle is losing herself, bit by bit, memory by memory. She’s being erased. The curse won’t relent until she’s gone. An empty canvas.”

  I could barely speak for lack of breath. “And then?”

  “Her body will die.” He gently turned my face back toward his. “It’s too late for Gryfelle. But you see our fight is a matter of life and death. For us, and for you, too.”

  I turned back to the bruised, crumpled, lovely, broken creature who lay shattered on the forest floor.

  And I saw my future.

  Chapter 20

  The One in the Dark

  She was there again with the basket. Hands reached out to take the offered cheese. The candlelight revealed blackened fingertips. Not a warm, living black, but black like the darkness that surrounded them. As if the darkness had seeped into the fingers.

  The young woman seemed to sense these thoughts. “I’ve brought more for you.” She slowly brought a bottle out of the basket.

  Of course. Ink.

  “Here.” The word is encouraging and kind.

  Hands take it. The acknowledging grunt of thanks.

  She closed the blackened fingers around the bottle. “For your journals, my lord.”

  Second moon of winter, the 1st year of Gareth the Usurper

  (40th year of Caradoc II)

  I escaped just in time. Gareth has been aware of my presence—and the fact that I escaped his “plague”—for several days, but today was the first attempt on my life. My dear wife heard them coming and practically shoved me into the passageway. She told them I’d been gone from the palace for several days and she feared I’d contracted the plague after all, since I’d not yet returned. I’m almost certain Gareth did not believe her, but it was enough to keep him away.

  For today.

  But how long before he comes again? How long before he comes for her? How long will he wait to create another accident, and will he come for the child, too?

  Not my dear, sweet girl.

  I know the palace better than anyone alive and could hide in these secret passages for ages if I had supplies enough. But I cannot leave my family, nor could I bear having them trapped in this dark, desolate place. The young one could never manage to stay hidden, in any case. How to free them from the palace before Gareth’s noose tightens?

  And what of the others? We’ve managed to spread the true story. But slowly, for we know not who can be trusted, and not much can be done while I am locked away in hiding.

  Glain says it is imperative I stay alive. She says the truth must be preserved in me, the only witness. But all I can think of is keeping those dearest to me safe.

  Fingers dug into familiar divots in the stone wall. Muscles strained and pulled up. Then again and again. One hundred times per day to keep the muscles strong. Limber. An old soldier’s habit.

  Ninety-nine. One hundred.

  The fingers released and feet dropped to the floor.

  A sound in the darkness.

  The young woman. She held out a basin of water. “My lord?”

  Wash day. He came slowly from the corner and sat in the light of the candle.

  The woman placed a pile of clean clothes by the basin. She dipped her cloth into the steaming water. “I warmed it.” She smiled. “Not so hot as last time.” She wrung the cloth and pressed it to the face, beard, and neck.

  “I’ll have more food for you tonight. Did you finish what I left?”

  No answer. She must not expect one.

  But she doesn’t ask questions to find answers. She wants his ears to remember voices. Words. Questions. People.

  She was taking care of a weary and wasted mind.

  “Let me see those hands, my lord.”

  They reached out to her. Fingertips black, stained.

  But she took them and rubbed them until the blackness faded—now transferred onto the cloth instead.

  She dipped a cup into the water and poured it over the head. A bar of soap came out and she made suds in the hair.

  “Hold still.” She met his eyes, and there was a smile in hers. “My lord.”

  She poured the water again, then wiped the face. A final rinse and squeeze of the rag, then she dropped it into waiting hands. “I’m going to wait by the passageway door. You finish washing, then I’ll come back for the basin. Do you understand, my l
ord?”

  She turned to step out. It was not proper for a lady to help a gentleman bathe.

  With the young woman in the darkness of the passage, the bath continued, then finished.

  Legs slid into clean trousers, and a tunic slipped overhead. The dirty clothes went on the floor.

  A grunt. The woman reappeared in the candlelight.

  “All done?”

  A nod. She collected her things. And then . . .

  “Meridioni,” his throat croaked.

  She froze. “Yes. I am Meridioni.”

  “Ben . . . na . . . ti.”

  She gasped. “Yes. My father was Bennati.”

  A slow nod.

  “It . . .” She approached and knelt beside him. “It has been so long since you’ve spoken,” she said, her own voice breaking. “Since you’ve remembered.”

  Another nod.

  She was quiet for a moment, looking at him with tear-filled eyes. She rose. “I must get back now.” She reached down and picked up the dirty clothes and water basin again.

  He began to retreat back toward the dark corner.

  But as the candlelight disappeared down the passageway, there was a rasp. “Wait.”

  The woman stopped and turned. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Name?”

  A smile shone in the flickering candlelight. “Cameria.”

  Chapter 21

  Tanwen

  If there’s a way you’re supposed to act the morning after you see the dark, desolate possibility of your future, I never learned it. If there’s something that’s to be said to one suffering as Gryfelle was suffering, I don’t know it.

  Everyone moved about the Corsyth like a veil of shadow covered the place—somber and serious, like we were at a burial ceremony. And in a way, the whole of life in the Corsyth was like a burial ceremony. Because with each passing day, Gryfelle En-Blaid died a little more.

  The veil of shadow lingered all through the morning meal. I tried to kick up some conversation while we sipped our tea and bitter-bean, but nobody was listening. We sipped in silence, keen not to mention the goings-on of the night before.