The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “Not much. Why?”

  My true designs almost came tumbling out, but then I stopped myself. If Brac had managed to slip away or convince the guard he didn’t know anything, it’d be foolish of me to out him like this.

  “Nothing. Just wondering if my friends are all right. You know how it goes with the guard sometimes.”

  “I don’t think there were any arrests, if that helps. I know there was some lashing, but nothing beyond that.”

  Lashing. I’d only seen it once before, and never in Pembrone. It was half a year past, when I first started peddling with Riwor. We were in her town, Drefden, and some drunk farmer had gotten into a brawl with a guardsman. He was sentenced to twenty lashes, and I thought I’d never seen anything so awful in my life. The farmer’s back looked like raw grazer meat by the time the guardsmen were done with it, and he could hardly stand. Even if he had been sober.

  “Do you know who was lashed?” I didn’t even want to imagine if it’d been one of the wee ones.

  “No. Sorry, lass.” He nodded up ahead where a huge pair of doors loomed before us. “Don’t take this wrong, but if I were you, I’d be worrying about my own skin. King Gareth’s thrown every available soldier into finding you and your mates. I don’t know what he has planned for you, but it can’t be a summer holiday by the sea. Understand me?”

  My gaze scanned the length of the giant doors. I swallowed. “Aye. I understand.”

  Bo-Ifun took my elbow. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d wager the king will want to see you directly.”

  And he would have won that bet. Soon as we made our way through the doors and into the cavern of an entryway inside the palace, commotion erupted everywhere. Guardsmen shouted to each other and darted here and there. Everyone in the king’s service seemed to be anxious to be first to get word to him that the treasonous story-peddling wench had arrived.

  Bo-Ifun tried to shield me from the crush of people, but it really was no use. Bo-Milwir grabbed me and thundered up the stairs at the far end of the entryway. We pushed through a series of hallways until I couldn’t have found my way back out if the king had paid me in gold to do it.

  “Halt.” A calm-faced knight in fine black clothes held up a hand to stop the overeager Bo-Milwir.

  My pockmarked captor wasn’t keen on this, judging by his scowl. “I have the prisoner. Sir,” he added, with a touch of annoyance in his voice. “The one the king’s been looking for.”

  “I know. Do you think a few lumbering guardsmen can pole their way downriver faster than our birds can fly? We received the message of your coming hours ago.”

  Bo-Milwir shifted his weight. “Two hundred gold pieces. That was the bounty on her head.”

  “I’m aware. Surely the king will reward you. But that’s not my concern.” He turned his searching eyes on me. “We must go through the proper channels. I’ll not have you crashing into His Majesty’s throne room and interrupting council because you’re anxious for a ransom.”

  “Yes, sir.” His grip on my arm tightened.

  A figure appeared down the hall. I could just barely make out that it was a man when he crossed beneath the torches. We must have been in the belly of the palace—no windows at all.

  The man came closer, and I couldn’t take my eyes from him. Handsome as anything, though he was probably older than Warmil. His jaw cut a sharp line through his close-cropped beard—dark, but sprinkled with gray. His eyes brimmed with cleverness and reminded me of Dylun’s, except where Dylun’s eyes were always on fire, this man’s eyes looked like they were carved from ice and stone.

  His clothes were cut from the finest leather I’d ever seen. I could tell, even without touching it, that it’d be soft as new-sprouted grass. But he didn’t wear any of the fancy frills that looked so funny to me. I immediately felt the need to smooth my frazzled hair and rumpled dress. But I couldn’t move with my hands bound.

  The man’s cold eyes scanned me, then turned to the soldier in black. “What have we here?”

  “The story peddler, Sir Dray. She’s here for His Majesty, whenever the king is available.”

  Sir Dray. I’d heard his name once or twice, spoken of as someone who was important at court. A councilmember. He smiled at me. And though I knew he’d likely send me to the chopping block as soon as speak to me, the charming smile sent a flutter through my stomach. I would have been thoroughly shamed to have Brac know that. Or Mor.

  “Yes, I think His Majesty will make himself available for this one.”

  And that did nothing to calm my stuttering heartbeat.

  What does it feel like to die?

  “En-Yestin.” Sir Dray looked me over again. “Yes, I see it, though there’s much more of your mother there. This way, my dear.”

  My dear? I wondered if the king would be angry to know one of his councilmen was being friendly with me. Except maybe it wasn’t really friendly. Maybe it was a threat.

  The knight in black turned to Bo-Milwir. “You’re dismissed, soldier.”

  Bo-Milwir didn’t look at all like he wanted to be dismissed. But he let go of my arm and slunk away toward the wall. The knight in black took my arm now and followed after Sir Dray.

  “Sir Dray,” he called. “I believe that guardsman is anxious for the bounty on the peddler.”

  Sir Dray’s tone was light. “Indeed. If anyone ever sees that two hundred gold, it’ll be his unit commander.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “But I have a feeling the king will make a very convincing argument that the ransom offer did not apply to guardsmen, as they’re already in his paid service.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be a very convincing argument, sir,” the knight replied.

  We entered a large, open area, then Sir Dray stopped before another set of doors. I felt like I’d been hauled through a maze.

  Sir Dray smiled unnervingly at me again. “Here we are. Do try to look your best. You’re about to stand before your king.” He signaled two guards, and they threw the double doors wide.

  Chapter 30

  Tanwen

  With a rough tug on my arm from the knight, I found myself stumbling into a room lined on one side with tall windows and packed with richly dressed people. Whispers broke out behind the fluttering fans of the ladies. The lords looked me up and down and nudged each other.

  At the end of the green carpet stretching the length of the room sat a long table surrounded by seated men, and up above on a dais, three big chairs. Took me a heartbeat to realize they weren’t just chairs but thrones.

  One for the queen, one for the princess, and one for King Gareth.

  The queen’s was empty, and Gareth’s was full to bursting. I’d never seen a man with a bulging stomach such as his. Not enough food in all Pembrone to make it so. But as I glanced around the court, I realized several of the lords’ bellies strained their brocade waistcoats. I guessed they had enough to eat here in the capital.

  On the last throne sat the lady who could only be Princess Braith En-Gareth. I’d told her story many times, and now I realized why that lovely pale, silvery mist shimmered down onto the flower petals when Braith became part of the story. Because that’s exactly what she looked like—a pale silver mist. Her skin looked as if it had never seen the sun. I glanced at my own browned hands and tried to pretend they weren’t covered in callouses on the undersides.

  Everyone knows when you speak of a royal or noble lady, you’re supposed to say she’s beautiful. So everyone talked of Braith like she was prettier than a rainstorm during a drought. But truly, she wasn’t half as beautiful in her features as Gryfelle. If she could scrub all that makeup off her face, unpin her hair, and change out of that heavy-looking gown, she’d probably look fresh and bright—just as pretty as all the farm girls back home when they’d had a bath and a good night’s rest.

  But now she looked like a miserable, powdered-up doll, and the sadness in her eyes ran deep.

  Sir Dray stepped in front of me and bowed at the waist. “Your Majesty, Tanwen En-Yes
tin, the story peddler.” Then he took an empty seat at the table.

  The knight beside me elbowed me in the ribs, and I tripped forward a step. I glanced at the princess. She shifted in her seat, then inclined at the waist. It was just a hair of a bend forward, but it was enough for me to catch her meaning.

  I curtsied, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to choke out the words Your Majesty, or some other such grovelly sounding thing. Felt like I’d be spitting on the weavers of the Corsyth to honor this man, and if Gareth aimed to kill me anyway, there wasn’t much point in pretending.

  “Tanwen En-Yestin.” Gareth spoke each word of my name like a punch to the gut. “At last we meet.”

  I glanced at the princess again. Was I supposed to say something? But she sat still as a statue, and I realized several of the men at the table were looking at her. She couldn’t really give me any cues without being seen.

  So I cleared my throat and took a chance. “Yes. I reckon you knew my father.”

  Around court the fans fluttered harder, the whispers grew louder, and the mumbling deepened to low thunder.

  Gareth’s eyes narrowed. “I did indeed. What do you remember of your father, child?”

  “Nothing. Sir,” I added, just so the knight didn’t run me through right there.

  A smile touched the corner of Gareth’s mouth. “I see. I suppose your parents wouldn’t have had much hand in raising you, would they?”

  “No, sir. They’ve been dead long as I can remember. I only just learned my father was someone you might’ve known.” I left out the fact that I still had no clue why the king might have known him.

  Gareth eyeballed me for a minute. “What do you remember of your mother?”

  The question felt like an arrow made of ice shot through my heart. “Nothing at all. Sir.”

  “Would you like to know what happened to your mother?”

  A little sob I couldn’t quite smother hopped up into my throat. Princess Braith stared at her father now, something stewing in her eyes.

  I swallowed down my feelings. “Yes, sir.”

  “Your mother was just a simple peasant girl, like you. But she caught the eye of an important man—your father. Do you know who he was?”

  “No.”

  “Yestin Bo-Arthio was First General to King Caradoc, may the goddesses preserve his royal soul.”

  The king looked genuinely pious as he said this, while Sir Dray practically smirked. But I was stuck on what the king had just said.

  “My father was First General?” I needed to sit down.

  “Yes, he was.” The king settled back onto his throne. “Your parents were fine servants of King Caradoc. Friends of his. They took it rather hard when the king passed. We all did, but it seemed some couldn’t accept it. Your parents were two such people.”

  The accusations I’d heard about Gareth swam through my head—those that had come from my friends at the Corsyth, but also the ones that poured out of my own story strands without my meaning to do it. Art has a way of revealing truth, Karlith said. My parents somehow had known the truth. And that made them dangerous to Gareth.

  If he understood I was catching on to the truth, I’d be dangerous too.

  The king studied me. “Your parents betrayed me because they couldn’t accept what had happened to King Caradoc. They tried to convince people I’d stolen the throne from the late king, but Caradoc was my friend as well as my king. You can imagine how deeply offensive your parents were to me.”

  I pressed my lips together and nodded.

  “They staged an uprising. Or tried to. You understand why I couldn’t let them live.”

  I tried to force the picture of my mother with her head on Gareth’s chopping block or a noose around her neck out of my mind. I swallowed it all down and lowered my head. “Yes.”

  “Did you know your mother was a storyteller too?”

  My gaze snapped back up to the king. “No!” Something stuck in my throat. “I didn’t know.”

  “Indeed. She told beautiful stories that amused King Caradoc and Queen Wynne greatly. But Glain’s stories turned sour when she did. She was the reason we passed the laws about crowned stories. Couldn’t have treasonous falsehood flying around Tir in wild strands, could we now? Best to keep a tight rein on such things, don’t you think?”

  I tried to understand his words. But all I could think about was what it would’ve been like to tell stories with my mother instead of Riwor.

  “I asked you a question, lass.”

  “Yes, sir.” I bit my lip.

  “And your father . . .” The king trailed off. Shifted in his seat. His patronizing smile slipped. “Well. Perhaps we won’t discuss that unpleasantness.”

  And it seemed the subject was closed.

  King Gareth leaned forward then. “Are you afraid, Tanwen?”

  I met his gaze and pushed down my tears. “Yes.”

  “Because you think I mean to kill you too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He laughed. “You know, I did mean to kill you, lass. Especially when we’d heard who you are and what the witnesses had seen. You can understand why I’d assume you sought to continue your parents’ legacy of treason.”

  “Aye.”

  “But I’ve had a change of heart.”

  Princess Braith’s eyes widened, and she looked at her father like he’d just fallen through the ceiling.

  “New information has come to light, and it’s changed my mind on the matter.” He sat up and smiled. It was supposed to be friendly, I’m sure, but it made my skin feel like it was covered in scuttlebugs. “I think what happened in Afon and Gwern was a result of bad blood, not malicious intent. Am I right, child?”

  Malicious was a word I hadn’t heard before, but I could guess its meaning. “Aye, I suppose that’s it.”

  “You’re young yet, and we’ll simply have to train those treasonous rumblings out of you. Understand?”

  “Aye.”

  “So, why don’t you tell me a story, Tanwen?”

  “A story? For you? Now?”

  “It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

  How does he know that?

  Unease blossomed in my stomach. I wondered what “new information” had changed his mind—and how he’d gotten it.

  But now it was time to tell the king a story. Apparently. I held my bound hands up to the knight, and he loosed the knot and set me free in a blink.

  Then I faced the king again. “Shall I tell the story of Cethor and Ean?”

  The king laughed. “I have enough bloody heads in my collection, thank you. How about the creation story?”

  One of the men at the table seemed pleased with this. Clean-shaven head and rich velvet robes—obviously a priest. It seemed beyond my comprehension when I realized he was probably the high priest. How had I ended up in this place with all these important people when just last moon I’d been trudging through the fields of Pembrone with Brac, carefully avoiding grazer dung?

  But the king wanted the creation story. Time to focus.

  I cleared my throat and began. “Once, there was nothing.

  “No ground to walk on, nor sky to look up at, nor people to do any such thing. And then from the goddess Cethor’s flowing azure locks, the wide Menfor Sea and all the oceans of the world were made.”

  The sparkling blue strand of Cethor’s hair rippled from my palm. It swirled around the courtiers, and many of the ladies giggled. I was reminded of the little girls in the peasant villages who oohed and aahed over each new bit of story.

  “And from the goddess Direth’s strong brown arms, the towering mountains, sloping valleys, and sandy shores were made.”

  The rough swathe of brown cloth soared up to the ceiling, then danced with the ocean strand.

  So far, so good.

  “And then from the green eyes of the goddess Lysia, all plant life sprang up and grew toward the radiant sun.”

  The green strand like a beam of light shot from my hand and wh
izzed toward the king. It pinged off the back of his throne, just beside his head, then zoomed around the room between the nobles. Everyone laughed, like always.

  “From the blood-red lips of the goddess Dynole, man was made: like the goddesses, but mortal, here to do the goddesses’ bidding and please them always.”

  The ribbon of man—slow, satiny, deepest-red—poured from my fingers. It slithered around the lords’ leather boots and ladies’ jeweled slippers.

  And then my stomach pinched. Same spot, just as it had the last time I told this story.

  Before I could stymie it, the image of Gryfelle that night in the Corsyth came to mind. Writhing. Jolting. Her mind and her very self disappearing like a puddle on a sweltering day.

  I had promised them—Gryfelle and Mor. I had promised I wouldn’t squish down that pinching feeling anymore, lest Gryfelle’s nightmare become mine. But now? In front of the king? Was it really the time to stop squishing?

  I forced the next words out while holding the pinch in my stomach at bay, just for a moment. “And thus, from the beauty of these four goddesses, all in Tir was made as you see it today.”

  The four strands came together and spun into a green-and-brown blur. I eased up on the pinching in my stomach, just the tiniest bit.

  But as I did so, two threads of white light uncoiled from my smallest fingers on each hand. They swam around the spinning green-and-brown blur, and from the strands themselves, my own voice spoke.

  “And He saw that it was good.”

  At these words, the strands crystallized into a perfect peninsular evergreen, like they were supposed to. But this time, a layer of wintry snow settled onto the tiny transparent needles. The tree dropped into my hand. I stared at it, and I wasn’t the only one. The whole room stared. After a full minute of silence, I dared a glance up at the king.

  His gaze fixed hard on the story. Princess Braith sat rigid, eyes wide. The high priest didn’t look pleased anymore. Sir Dray broke the silence by bringing his hands together in applause.

  “Well done, Miss En-Yestin. Well done, indeed.”

  Applause rose from every corner of the room now, and I wasn’t sure if I should curtsy or make a run for it. So I just stood there.