The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “Will you marry me, Tanwen?”

  I smiled, even though I was sobbing and my nose was running. I picked up Brac’s hat and pulled it onto my own head, over my collapsed, deflated curls. Must have looked a sight with my fine dress, covered in blood and sweat. “Yes, I will.”

  He smiled—tried to reach up but couldn’t find the strength and let his hand fall back. “If anything could make me stick around, it’d be that yes.”

  A dart of guilt shot through me. For that yes would never have come in any situation except this one—his final moments of life.

  But I leaned forward and kissed his pale forehead. “Quiet now.”

  “What’s this?” Warmil’s booming voice nearly sent me leaping from my own skin.

  I hadn’t paid a bit of mind to whatever else had been going on around us in the throne room. But now I saw all the guardsmen, councilmen, and Gareth had been rounded up in one place. They stood under the careful guard of Aeron, Mor, and Zel. Dylun sat, propped up between Karlith and Gryfelle. It seemed his wounds had been attended to, at least for the moment.

  Warmil dropped to his knees beside me. “Where’s the trouble?” But before I could say anything, he answered his own question. Then he shot me a quick glare that I tried not to take personally. “’Sakes, Tanwen! Why are you sitting around here yapping while his life’s on the line? Bandages, Karlith! We need to bind this properly.”

  “But . . .” I barely had time to jump out of the way before Warmil and Karlith descended on Brac. “But he’s got a wound to the stomach,” I said. “He was half dead by the time I got here. I thought . . .” I couldn’t recall now where I’d heard that stomach wounds meant death, but I knew I’d heard it.

  “It ain’t in his stomach, Tannie.” Karlith spared me a quick smile. “His stomach is up here.” She touched a spot above Brac’s wound.

  “Yes, whoever took a bite out of him managed to miss everything important,” Warmil said. “Luck was on his side today.” He ripped a strip of cloth from the petticoat Karlith had handed to him. “But if you sit here shooting the breeze, he will bleed out. That I promise. What could possibly be so important?”

  My face heated up at the reminder of my dishonest acceptance of Brac’s proposal, but Brac only smiled. “Asked her to marry me.”

  Karlith kept her head down as she worked, but I didn’t miss her heartbeat-quick glances—one at me, one at Mor across the room.

  So. She’d noticed.

  But Warmil just rolled his eyes at Brac. “Well, if you’d like to be around to make good on that offer, I suggest we bind you properly. We’ll need to stitch this when we have the tools, but this will stave off the bleeding.” He looked Brac directly in the eyes for the first time, and there was a fierce sort of kindness radiating from his gaze. “Hold on, son.”

  “Not sure”—Brac coughed again—“I can.”

  “Well, then don’t. And my afternoon clears right up.” Warmil rolled his eyes again. “Just hold on, will you? I can’t make you stay alive, lad. Need to meet me halfway.” He didn’t look up, but raised his voice to a shout. “Karlith! We need gethweed. Now.”

  Karlith hustled toward us. “Already got it, Warmil.” I hadn’t realized it, but she’d disappeared for a moment. She handed him a wad of curly leaves—a plant I’d seen Ma-Bradwir yank from her garden hundreds of times.

  Karlith noticed my stare. “Tirians have forgotten the old uses of the gifts the Creator gave us. Gethweed—means bloodweed in Old Tirian. Stops bleeding, prods along the blood in clotting like it’s supposed to. A useful plant that everyone rips up and throws into the fire. We’re lucky to have found some in the palace gardens at all.”

  Warmil stripped the leaves from the delicate stems of the gethweed. Then he packed Brac’s wound with as many leaves as he could stuff in there. Brac winced but the result came swiftly. Blood stopped dripping to the stones beneath us. After Warmil wrapped the strips of bandage around Brac’s middle, color returned to Brac’s lips, then his cheeks. His breath deepened and became less labored.

  “Rest here now, lad,” Warmil said. “Sip some water if you can.” He stood and wiped the blood from Brac’s wound onto a rag—must have had some of Dylun’s blood on it already, for it was a proper mess. Then he nodded to Mor. “What of the prisoners?”

  My gaze followed Mor’s to the group of prisoners huddled near the wall. Gareth looked like a riled snake, ready to strike. If not for the blade at his throat, I think he’d have made a go at escape—or maybe combat. But Aeron held her sword so close the king could scarcely swallow without catching a nick.

  Mor nodded back at Warmil. “You tell me, Captain.” His eyes flitted to me for a moment, then back to Warmil.

  And me, with Brac’s floppy hat on my head.

  Warmil lifted his chin toward the door. “Dungeon. Until we can decide what to do with them.”

  Sir Dray growled in his throat. “You’ll never get away with this.”

  In a heartbeat, a dagger Zel must have swiped from a guardsman was at Dray’s neck. “I reckon your king will tell you to do whatever we say, or else he’ll get a sword through the belly, and so will you. And I reckon, seeing as we’ll be down in the dungeon anyway, that you’ll show me where my wife is.”

  And I guessed Zel reckoned right.

  A sorry procession of battered guardsmen, disgraced councilmembers, and one dethroned king trailed Mor from the throne room. Zel and Aeron kept the line orderly, even though Zel was still bleeding from the wound in his side. I wondered if I should spin my golden beast into existence again. Just in case they ran into any more guardsmen on the way to the dungeon. But the threat on Gareth’s and Dray’s lives seemed enough to keep my friends safe for now.

  Gryfelle set to getting Dylun on his feet. Karlith put a hand on Warmil’s shoulder. “This is your redemption, Warmil.”

  Warmil paused. But after a moment, he nodded once. “The capture of the pretender king. Yes, I suppose it’s the best I could ever hope for.”

  Karlith smiled. “No. That’s not what I meant. You saved two lives today—Dylun and Tanwen’s lad. Perhaps . . .” She nodded to his sheathed sword. “Perhaps it’s time to stop taking life and start giving it back. Put your book learning to good use.”

  I turned to the captain. “You mean you have useful book learning in that brain of yours, not just stuff about politics and military tactics?”

  A wry smile barely tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Aye, guess you could say that.”

  “He studied medicine,” Karlith put in. “The old folk ways and the newer bits, too. You’ll see all that when he stitches up your lad later.” Karlith moved toward Dylun and Gryfelle. “Think about it, War. Giving life instead of taking it.”

  Warmil seemed to mull this over, even as he set about directing courtiers and picking up useful items from the throne room that had been turned into a battlefield.

  “Tannie?” Brac’s voice pulled me away from the captain and Karlith.

  I crouched beside him. “Aye? What can I get you?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—oh!” He had tried to pull himself up on his elbows and didn’t make it halfway before he collapsed back again.

  “Here, you big dope.” I propped him up and scooted around him so his head could rest in my lap. “That better? You’re going to have to start using that sack of watta roots you call a brain if you don’t want to undo all the good Warmil’s done for you.”

  “Aye, that’s better. I just needed to tell you something.”

  “Aye?”

  Even upside down, I couldn’t escape the wideness of his grin. “I love you.”

  A battle broke out in my mind. Because I loved Brac deeper and realer than a brother. I truly did, and the thought of losing him made me despair down to my bones.

  But what had I done? Were Brac and I truly . . . engaged?

  Chapter 49

  Braith

  “I never expected it to end like this.” Braith sighed and leaned her head back against th
e cool stone wall.

  “Like what, my lady?” Cameria’s words seemed to ping and echo around the whole cell.

  The princess raised an eyebrow wryly. “I thought if I were ever to be executed, at least it would be for my own crimes.” She ran her hand over the rough stones of the dungeon. “But perhaps I am as guilty as the king. That is, my fa—” Braith cut herself off.

  She couldn’t quite choke out the word father. And she knew now he had never really been king. “Truly, Cameria, I don’t even know what to call him now. But whoever he is, I suppose I am complicit in his crimes.”

  “Complicit, my lady?” Cameria’s voice was puzzled.

  “Yes. Do you not think those who allow evil to continue and say nothing are as guilty as those who commit the evil acts in the first place?”

  “I know not, my lady. But of this I’m sure.” She looked straight at Braith and spoke each word distinctly. “You were not silent. You spoke out often. You tried to help those who needed it. You lived your conscience as best you were able. And you didn’t know the whole truth.” Her voice faltered. “But I—” Cameria broke off and looked away.

  Braith tried to capture her friend’s gaze. “You what? Please, Cameria. Let us speak plainly at last. At the end of all things when we have nothing to lose and no one left to protect.”

  Cameria looked at her again, eyes sorrowful. “I knew. Even as a child, I knew about the betrayal. That he murdered King Caradoc and those closest to him. I even helped with the failed uprising of Yestin Bo-Arthio. But when that fell apart, I retreated into silence. Accepted my reduced station. Accepted the enslavement of my people. If anyone is guilty of inaction—of allowing evil to continue and saying nothing—it is I.”

  Braith stared at Cameria as if a veil had been lifted off her friend. “You knew? But how . . . ?” All the times Cameria had been within touching distance of the king. All the times she had looked at his face, listened to him speak, swallowed his painful words.

  And all the while, she had known he was a usurper of the worst kind.

  Braith shook her head. “How could you stand it? Sitting at my father’s table, a stone’s throw away from the man who murdered your father and enslaved your people? Or sitting at the foot of my bed? Serving me. Waiting on me. Me, the daughter of the man who—” Braith couldn’t force out the rest. Tears choked her breath. “Oh, Cameria. How you must despise me.”

  Cameria reached for Braith’s hand. “No, my lady. I stayed close to protect you. You and . . .” She looked away again—distant, like she was adrift on some warm southern sea. “Others.”

  “Others?”

  “Yes.” Cameria gave a slight nod. “One other, anyway. He saved us from Dray in the throne room today. Do you remember the arrow?”

  “Cameria, who are you talking about? One of the outlaw weavers?”

  “No. Yestin Bo-Arthio. There’s no sense keeping it quiet now. He is alive and has been living in the palace all these years.”

  Cameria leaned back against the stones. “I’ve helped him. Brought him food, ink for his journals, tried to keep his mind sound, though I’m not sure I’ve had success there. He was my father’s closest friend in Tir. I needed to help him. I tried, at least.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose I’ll get to see him again, but no matter. He’ll find Tanwen. She’ll care for him now, and I believe they will find happiness together.”

  Words escaped Braith. Yestin Bo-Arthio—alive, just as her father had feared. And in the palace no less.

  A sharp clang startled both women. They rose together and peered through the bars of their cell. The black-haired female soldier stood sentry by the door at the end of the line of cells, as she had since all the cell doors were locked and the other rebels left in search of the farmer boy’s wife. But now there were more people in the hallway.

  Braith stumbled away from the bars. She couldn’t be seen. Not now. Not like this.

  But it was too late. Tanwen’s gaze locked directly onto the disgraced former princess. “Braith!”

  Chapter 50

  Tanwen

  I saw Braith try to duck back into the shadows, but she couldn’t hide from me. And stars’ sake, why would she want to?

  “Warmil!” I shot a look at him. “What are they doing in there?”

  Warmil frowned into the cell that housed Braith and Cameria. “Everyone was to be locked up until we decide what to do with them. Everyone includes everyone.”

  I rolled my eyes and moved toward the bars. Braith stepped back even farther. I froze and cast a mystified glance through the iron barrier. Was she . . . angry? Ashamed?

  I turned my irritation back to Warmil. “Blazing buttermints, War, they weren’t part of Gareth’s schemes. The princess always spoke up for us. And for Ifmere. You heard her yourself.”

  After a long moment of silence, Braith finally stepped out of the darkness, chin high but hands shaking. “I’m ready to accept whatever punishment is deemed appropriate.”

  “My lady.” Cameria’s voice was gentle but clear, her eyes insistent. “If that’s true, then accept Tanwen’s words—and what she offers.”

  Braith turned toward her friend. “And that is?”

  I wanted to shout the word, but Cameria beat me to it.

  “Mercy.” Cameria smiled sadly. “You hardly recognize it, and no surprise. You’re the only one around here who ever extends it.”

  Braith opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  I turned back to my friends and addressed the captain again. “War, she has been my friend since the day I was brought here. You have to believe me. She wouldn’t have been part of anything her father was doing. And Cameria . . .” My gaze shifted to the Meridioni woman. “If I’m not wrong, I think Cameria is a friend to my family. Or was once.” I turned back to Warmil and threw my hands up. “You can’t keep them in there like a couple of animals. It’s not right!”

  Mor put his hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, Tannie. War, you’ve seen enough of Braith to trust Tanwen’s testimony, haven’t you?” Then he turned to Braith. “If she tries anything, we’ll put her straight back in. I’m sure she understands that.”

  I glared at him.

  Braith maintained a dignified silence, though I could see a mix of shame and indignation churning on her face. As the daughter of Gareth Bo-Kelwyd, of course everyone would question her motives. Her very moral center, even. But it wasn’t right.

  Warmil nodded once. “Good enough.”

  Aeron put the key in the lock and opened the door. As Cameria and Braith passed by, she gave a nod of respect. “Ladies.”

  For a moment, we rebels, the former princess, and the maid stood in the hallway in awkward silence.

  Braith finally broke it. “Thank you for releasing us. I can assure you we won’t ‘try anything,’ as you say.” She raised an eyebrow at Mor.

  He bowed at the waist. “No disrespect meant, Lady Braith. You understand our position and our need for caution.”

  “Of course.” She cleared her throat. “Might I ask a favor? Is . . . is my father nearby? May I see him?”

  Aeron nodded. “He is, my lady.” She looked at us. “Shall I escort her? I’ll stay close.”

  “Very well,” Warmil said. “Be careful.”

  Before following Aeron down the hall, Braith turned to me. Took my hand in hers. “Thank you, Tanwen.”

  I wanted to say something—to tell her what her kindness and moral stand had meant to me. But my heart was stuck in my throat. Instead, strands ribboned from my fingers. Warm light, shimmering silver mist, and a deep-green satin. Not green like Gareth’s grass-­colored strand, but rich like an evergreen tree.

  The strands danced together. I thought her name—Braith—and the unexpressed gratitude crystallized. A flower with a deep-green stem, delicate white petals, and the silver sparkle that always signified Braith’s presence in a story.

  The flower dropped into my hand. I held it out to her. “Something for you, Braith. Something beautiful after so much
pain.”

  She took it, tears glistening in her eyes. “Something new.”

  I grinned. “Aye. Something new.”

  Chapter 51

  Braith

  Braith held the crystal flower between her fingers as she and Cameria followed the female soldier down a hallway lined with cells.

  She forced herself not to look at the many guardsmen, former councilmen, and dignitaries of her father’s court. The weavers had done quite a thorough job rounding them up, it seemed. There were some in there who oughtn’t be—Braith was sure of it. Those who were loyal to Caradoc II in the old days but had grudgingly accepted her father’s ascension. But if she could get the weavers to understand they could trust her, perhaps she could negotiate those nobles’ releases.

  “Here, Princess.” The female soldier stopped several paces from the end of the hallway and gestured to the last cell. “He’s in there. If you need me, I’ll be just through that door.”

  “Wait.” Braith put a hand on the soldier’s arm. “What is your name?”

  “Aeron, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you, Aeron. But why do you call me Highness? My father was never truly king. I’m not a princess.”

  Aeron paused. She glanced down at her boots, then turned her gray eyes back to Braith. “I like to call things as they are, my lady. Though you didn’t inherit the throne through bloodline or fair conquest, I call you Princess Braith because I’ve only ever seen you behave in a manner worthy of the title. It’s the same reason I never called Gareth king. If I’m to believe Tanwen’s assessment of you, it only further supports my own observation—one that began many years ago when I was a young lass in Urian.” She bowed. “I hope it doesn’t bother you.”

  Braith’s voice shook. “I only wish I had the same confidence in my virtue that you seem to. I didn’t realize you’d grown up here. Did we know each other?”

  “Not exactly. My father wasn’t quite as important as all that. But that’s a story for a different time.” She nodded. “I’ll be near, Highness, if you need me.”

  Cameria lingered for a moment. “I’ll give you privacy, my lady.” She gestured Braith toward the cell, then followed Aeron back down the hallway.