The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  Wasn’t quite sure what his words meant, but I didn’t need to be a palace-educated courtier to know he wasn’t happy with me. Guessed he was angry about the white light strand that escaped during the traditional creation story.

  Sir Dray scoffed. “The goddesses again? Let’s hear something of our beloved king’s military conquests. I do so tire of the goddesses.”

  The high priest lifted one barely there eyebrow. “Careful, Your Grace. You wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of those goddesses you find so tiresome.”

  “Oh yes. That would be a travesty.”

  Princess Braith’s pale skin colored green, and I wondered if Dray and the priest’s banter always made her ill.

  The two councilmen traded barbs like sword strokes. On and on they went, and I pondered how anything was ever accomplished at court. How could it be, with these two looking to insult and undercut at every turn?

  “Your Majesty?” I said, realizing a heartbeat too late that I’d interrupted the high priest of the Tirian Empire and some important Sir Whatsit of the council.

  Oh well.

  “Majesty, what would you like to hear?”

  Even under his heavy, graying beard, I could see the king smile. “Well thought, Tanwen. Sometimes my nobles forget they’re meant to be looking out for my interests and not their own.”

  Because I didn’t know what in the wide world of fluff-hoppers to say to that, I curtsied a third time. Sir Dray and the priest glared daggers at me.

  A familiar snicker in the crowd snagged my attention. I found Brac, guarding the edge of the clustered courtiers, just in time to watch him get his face in order and stop laughing. As he was on duty today, several additional pieces of plated armor covered different parts of him.

  Seeing him fully dressed like one of Gareth’s henchmen made me want to curl up in the middle of the throne room floor and give up entirely.

  Gareth scratched his beard. “Let’s see. How about the one that speaks of my benevolence to my people?”

  Sir Dray looked in triumph at the priest. A political story, not a religious one, had won out.

  Made no difference whatsoever to me.

  I cleared my throat while I dragged up the words of that tale from my memory. It was a short, easy one I’d learned in my early days with Riwor. “Once, Tir was without a shepherd.”

  A cream-colored strand of rope slipped from one of my hands. It swirled lazily, then looped itself into what looked like a hangman’s noose.

  “The people were lost without a strong hand to guide them.”

  The purple satin that always signified King Caradoc slithered from my other hand. Though his name wasn’t spoken, the idea sure got across. He was king, but he wasn’t a strong shepherd to guide Tir.

  Which was all right as rain, except I was fairly sure the exact opposite was true.

  The cream-colored rope and the purple satin danced through the air in slow circles.

  “Then the goddesses sent us a true leader, one who would expand our boundaries, extend our influence, and, in the furnace of the world, forge the great Tirian Empire.”

  Gareth’s poison-green satin wrapped around the purple strand until all the purple had been swallowed, like a great garden snake had swallowed its prey whole.

  And then my stomach pinched.

  No. Not again!

  The feeling rose. I could barely scrub from my mind the images of wild strands of story, song, and color careening around the Corsyth. The energy of something creative and real and true bubbled around inside me until I thought I’d burst.

  “The . . . shepherd . . .” I could barely force the words out for fear of what else might fly from my mouth if I opened it too long.

  The green strand paled to yellow, like it was supposed to, but the tone was off. Looked a sickly sort of color rather than the golden wheat it was supposed to be turning into. My body swayed, and I wondered if I might faint.

  The clank of armor drew my gaze. Brac had taken a step toward me. Concern was stamped all over his face, but he seemed stretched between two duties—one to me and one to the guardsman who kept signaling him to stay right where he was.

  Hoping to keep Brac out of trouble, I choked out the next words of the story. “The shepherd led his people well.”

  There, that’d helped. The story looked a little less nauseous now. But the rising feeling inside me didn’t go away.

  Everything around me started to blur. I couldn’t see Brac anymore. My legs fought to keep me upright. I darted a wild glance at the courtiers surrounding me on both sides.

  And Gryfelle came to mind.

  She could have been any one of these pretty ladies—rouged up and flirting with the knights and lords. How many times had she stood in this throne room as a child, smashing down the bubbling feeling inside? And look what it’d done to her.

  Suddenly, I knew what story was trying to spill out of me: the story of a graceful young noble whose life had been stolen from her—who lived a waking nightmare. A fairy story, but backward and inside-out, where the ending was horror forevermore instead of happily ever after.

  I prayed for forgiveness, because I was about to break my promise to Mor again. I hushed the story that wanted to come out. I hushed it with every ounce of will I had.

  “The shepherd tended his people like a kindly father.”

  The sheaf of wheat glowed golden, and the cream-colored rope wrapped around it and tied itself into a knot.

  “And they loved him for it.”

  The story crystallized. The perfect, transparent bundle of wheat dropped into my hand as though it hadn’t nearly killed me to get it out.

  Silence echoed through the throne room. Then a sudden eruption of applause.

  Braith rose from her throne as she clapped. “Well done, Tanwen! It’s the finest I’ve ever seen. The glass is clear as our best glass-blowers could make.”

  The other courtiers clapped and nodded, and council seemed pleased. Even the king and queen smiled.

  I smiled back—hoped I looked gracious and mannered enough.

  But inside, I wondered. How long could I smash down those churning stories of truth before I slipped into a nightmare myself?

  Chapter 37

  Braith

  The storytelling had ended, and Tanwen had been escorted from the throne room so that council might begin.

  Braith sighed.

  “Something the matter, darling?” The king leaned toward her.

  “No, Your Majesty.” Braith didn’t even bother forcing a smile. “Just thinking.”

  “Well,” the king said as he leaned back, “perhaps glad tidings would cheer you.”

  “Glad tidings, Your Majesty?”

  “Watch and see,” the king instructed. “It all begins to fall into place.” He nodded to Sir Dray, who nodded to a guardsman at the back of the hall.

  Some commotion erupted in the hallway, then there was a muffled cry, and a cluster of people appeared in the doorway.

  Braith might have known only something truly dreadful would have the king in such a fine mood.

  Four guardsmen marched down the green carpet. Two of them clutched a girl between them. She was doubled nearly in half—either beaten into submission or exhausted beyond her ability—and the guards dragged her more than she walked.

  The poor lass had the most vibrant sweet-root–colored hair Braith had ever seen. But it tumbled in front of her face in a knotted tangle. Braith could only guess what she had been through.

  One of the guards shoved the girl. “Stand before your king.”

  The girl swayed and nearly fell to the floor, but the guards beside her hoisted her back to her feet. She seemed to take a deep breath before straightening as best she could.

  Braith leaped from her chair. “Your Majesty!”

  A murmur shot through the crowd, but Braith’s gaze stayed fixed on the girl before her.

  “Majesty, this girl is clearly with child!”

  A full, rounded belly showed, even un
der the girl’s loose peasant clothing. A couple short weeks from delivery, at most. Perhaps days. She swelled to the point of bursting.

  The king didn’t show any hint of alarm. In fact, a smile bloomed on his face. “Indeed she is.” He turned to Braith. “One of the Corsyth weavers—the farmer. This is his wife. Don’t you see, darling? She’s the perfect lure. If anything will draw the farmer and the others from their cowardly hiding, it’s her.”

  Braith stared at her father for a long moment. Live bait to draw his enemies from hiding. Just as he was using Tanwen.

  Braith strode down the dais steps toward the girl. “What is your name, child?”

  The lass’s lip trembled. “Ifmere.”

  “Ifmere, you will not be harmed. Do you understand me? I’ll see to it that you will not be harmed.” Braith raised her voice to the rest of the room. “No one will harm this girl or I will pay you back for your wickedness tenfold! I swear it by my own blood. Stars preserve you if you test my words.”

  Thunder might have sounded from the king’s throne and Braith wouldn’t have been surprised. But only silence answered her oath. Finally, Braith turned to look at the king.

  He eyed her with no passion at all. Only cold amusement brewed in his expression.

  Braith supposed she should be pleased, but somehow it stoked the fire swimming in her veins.

  Sir Dray rose from his seat and came to stand beside Braith. He spoke quietly to her. “Of course, Your Highness. The lass will not be harmed. Only used to our advantage—to your king’s advantage.”

  Braith’s lip trembled, but not because she might cry. She could barely keep her voice steady through her anger. “Look at the girl. Curses of Noswitch, Dray! Look at her face!”

  Purple bruises blossomed on Ifmere’s pale skin. Red lacerations striped what bits of flesh Braith could see—her arms, her legs, her face.

  “Don’t tell me she’s not to be harmed,” Braith hissed to Dray. “She already has been.”

  The king inspected something under his fingernail. “A necessary inconvenience for the greater cause. Come, come, Braith. You must think of the larger good being served here. One girl in exchange for a band of outlaws who have evaded capture for a very long time. I count the cost and find it suits.”

  Sir Dray placed a hand on Braith’s arm. “Majesty, it is difficult for one so tender as Her Highness to properly weigh the cost in such matters. Do forgive her. Isn’t it why we love her so?”

  Dray reached up and stroked Braith’s cheek—right there in front of the council, the nobles of the court, and the guardsmen keeping watch. Such of gesture of familiarity in public—Dray might as well have sent the town criers about Tir with an engagement announcement.

  Before Braith could collect her wits, excited whispers and giggles raced throughout the room. The court was clearly pleased at the suggestion of romance between His Grace and Her Royal Highness.

  Braith felt sick.

  She shot a desperate look in her parents’ direction. The queen looked puzzled, but not displeased. She would probably prefer a prince of some stripe to a lowborn merchant’s son. But, despite his humble roots, Dray certainly had made something of himself. He was a powerful nobleman and technically a knight. He held sway over much of the kingdom’s business. The queen would easily be persuaded to accept the match.

  The king tented his fingers before his mouth as he eyed the prospective couple. And Braith could see a look of pleasure in his eyes.

  She stared at her father and wondered how he had become a stranger—someone she didn’t recognize.

  Or perhaps she had never known him at all.

  Chapter 38

  Tanwen

  If I didn’t watch myself, I was going to pace a blazing hole through my fine rug. Seemed all I did anymore was walk back and forth on that blasted thing.

  Trapped. The guard watching my every move.

  A black strand of frustration slithered from my finger. I blew it away, then walked into the space where it’d been.

  Maybe I could plot an escape while Brac was on duty. Maybe he could be assigned to guard my door.

  A strand of brown leather spun itself into a floppy farmer’s hat before I could even think it into existence.

  But, no, that wouldn’t work. I’d have to tell him everything and put his life in danger. Even if I did tell him and he did want to help me, there were never fewer than two guards nearby.

  I waved my hand and made the hat disappear.

  Maybe I could escape out of the window somehow.

  A strand burst from my palm and coiled into a rope in three seconds flat. But then what? I could only crystallize it and make it into glass. I didn’t yet know Mor’s trick of making other things, like rocks. If I didn’t crystallize it, I’d be working with an idea strand that could disappear from my fingers at any minute if my concentration wobbled.

  That was likely to end with my dead body in the courtyard below.

  I flicked the idea rope away with a sigh.

  I reached down for the familiar bump that always rested over my chest—the silver knot on my necklace. But I couldn’t feel it anymore. Not beneath my corset and the many layers of satin and brocade. All these fine clothes sure could stifle a girl.

  I pulled on the leather cord to retrieve the knot from the front of my dress. The silver trinket stared up at me from my palm.

  “What would you have done, Mother?”

  The silver didn’t venture a response. But it caught a ray of sunlight from the window and winked at me. I flopped onto the couch.

  “Not helpful.” I turned the charm over between my fingers.

  Even if Brac didn’t agree with me or understand why I needed to escape, he’d never sell me out. Was there some way to take advantage of his position in the guard without risking his neck?

  No. Just didn’t seem possible, no matter which direction I tried to look at it.

  I dropped my head into my hands.

  Useless. I’d been a blazing fool to think I might be able to bring down Gareth from the inside. How could I possibly, when he was my captor and I was powerless as a hamstrung hedge-nibbler?

  After a good solid minute of feeling sorry for myself, I peeked between my fingers. The hollow bookcase along the back wall caught my eye. The one where the stones showed through the back instead of being all finished with wood like the others.

  I climbed to my feet and crossed to the bookcase. A person wasn’t likely to just leave one bookcase different for no reason.

  I looked down at my right hand. I had begun fiddling with the charm again without realizing it.

  With my left hand, I felt the stones at the back of one shelf in the mystery bookcase. Nothing unusual. Just regular old stones, like you might expect.

  I ran my hand along the stones on the shelf just below. Nothing.

  Then I stretched to my tiptoes and reached for the shelf above. Normal, smooth stones. What had I possibly been expecting to—

  My breath froze in my chest, and my hand stilled on the wall. One of my fingers had caught a small rough spot. Wouldn’t have thought a thing of it, except the pattern was familiar to my touch.

  In fact . . . I stared down at the silver charm in my right hand. I was feeling the exact same shape in my left hand as my right.

  A moment of deathly stillness passed. Then it was like the room exploded into motion.

  I darted to the desk and grabbed the chair behind it. Took some doing, but I dragged that blasted heavy thing over to the shelf like a grazer hitched for plowing. Scrambling onto a chair in a corset and gown is not the easiest of tasks, but somehow I hoisted myself up so I could see what I was doing.

  And there it was—a small, round chink out of the stone, with grooves in all the right places. No one would notice such a thing, except the shape was the most comfortable in the world to me.

  I ducked out of my necklace and held it in my hand. One deep breath and a silent prayer later, I pressed the silver charm into the dent in the stone. />
  Click.

  Something gave. I could barely wrangle a breath.

  The stone with the hole in it loosened. I wrapped my fingers around the edges of the stone as best I could, then wiggled. A fresh shock ran through me when I pulled the stone out and found it wasn’t a stone at all. Not truly anyway. More like the face of a stone locked into place so it’d look like part of a wall. But a big, hollow space stood behind it.

  And in the space was a lever.

  I grabbed it and pushed forward, hard as I could. Then a pang of fear darted through me. Maybe I ought to have thought about that for half a second before I did it. What if it opened some kind of trap door that made me fall into Gareth’s garderobe or something?

  Too late now.

  But I didn’t drop through the floor, and no one fell from the ceiling onto me. Instead, the whole piece of the wall behind the hollow bookcase clicked like the false stone had done.

  And I felt the whole panel budge away from the wall.

  Puffs of dust billowed around the bookcase. Seemed safe to guess the door hadn’t been used in some time.

  I shoved the chair out of the way, then pulled on the panel with everything in me. Though these stones were just faces too, a whole panel full of them was heavier than a side of grazer. And the rusted hinges didn’t help me much.

  But finally the hidden door squealed its last protest and gave way.

  An empty hallway, black as pitch, gaped at me.

  I dashed forward, then stopped just short of the entrance. Could be dangerous, after all. Who could even guess where it would lead?

  But now that I was closer, I could see the hallway wasn’t empty. There were more bookcases all along the sides.

  And these weren’t bare like the ones in my room. Leather-bound books filled every shelf from top to bottom. The light from my room only shone into the passageway so far, but the books went far as I could see.

  I dared a few steps into the darkness, then reached out and pulled one dusty volume from the nearest shelf. I angled the cover toward the light so I might catch the words branded on the front.

  The book bobbled in my hands. It landed with a flat plunk on the floor.