The Story Raider

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  But really, it’s all more of the same. It felt like my whole life had turned into one long argument, and I was sick to death of it.

  Maybe if I could have had peace with Father or Brac or Mor, it would have been bearable. But I had peace with no one. I was truly alone.

  And I hated it.

  But no matter how I felt about the turn my life had taken, when our heavily guarded wagon train rolled up to Physgot, something in my spirit lifted. It wasn’t Pembrone, mind. But it was so like it in many ways. And what I’d once considered a town a fair distance away—south and across a wide bay—now seemed downright local. My world had grown since last I set foot on this peninsula.

  I breathed deep of the coastal air, heard the Menfor Sea crash against the nearby shore, and watched the provincial bustle of Physgot’s main thoroughfare—not exactly like the feel of Pembrone’s farming village, but similar enough. Just geared toward merchants and small-time fishermen. My heart hummed with the sights, sounds, and smells of it.

  Home.

  “That’s pretty.” Aeron nudged my elbow from her place beside me in the wagon.

  I glanced over and saw what she saw—a strand I hadn’t meant to create. It was glittery gold and just barely visible in the full sunlight. “Huh.” I smiled at the dancing strand and sent it over the eave of a candle shop to swirl above the crowd of shoppers and sellers.

  A few children squealed in delight, and I grinned to recall the days when I’d entertained hundreds of peninsular children just like these. Seemed so many moons ago.

  I watched the shimmering gold ribbon twirl through the air. “I wonder what it means. I didn’t intend to create it.”

  “Looks like a little sliver of happiness, maybe.”

  My gaze tripped over Brac, riding beside the wagon on the horse he’d earned from his commander under Gareth—for turning in my weaver friends from the Corsyth. He was looking at me, too, like he could sense my joy at being so near home. The home he’d wanted me to make permanent with him and which I’d always resisted.

  Absolutely everything felt so upside down these days.

  The gold strand vanished. I sighed. “Aye. A very little sliver, I guess.”

  Aeron squeezed my arm. “It’ll—”

  “Be all right. I know.” My tone softened the words—I hoped. “Thanks.”

  “I know it doesn’t always feel like it will. But it will.”

  We both watched a few children chase after our wagon, then give up and go after the wagon just behind us, where Warmil rode with Karlith and Gryfelle. I didn’t let my mind linger too long on Gryfelle. Traveling hadn’t been kind to her. I could only guess how awful the bumpy ride felt on her tired bones. I hoped she might find some relief on the ship. But would it be any better? I’d never been on one myself—only little riverboats and tiny rowboats. I could’ve asked Mor what the ship would be like. If only he were speaking to me.

  “Hey, that’s the queen’s seal!” The shout of a passing peasant drew my attention. The man’s shoulders were loaded with strings of fresh fish. “They travel under Queen Braith’s banner!”

  I tensed. The guardsmen had made a fairly obvious showing of their presence as we traveled, though we had kept to the less populated paths as we were able. There had only been a few moments of unease so far. But something about the way this man shouted Braith’s name signaled he was no admirer of Tir’s new ruler.

  “Greetings, sir.” It was my father, astride a large horse like he’d been born there. He reined in next to the peasant.

  The man with the fish drew away a bit, his hesitation written on his face. Perhaps he was afraid Father would trample him. I’d never exactly seen a guardsman under Gareth do that, but they’d certainly threatened it before.

  The man spoke again. “You’re traveling under the queen’s banner.”

  “Aye, sir. We are.” Father’s gaze never left the man’s face. “Our good queen sends her well wishes to her people.”

  The fish man frowned. “She’s Gareth’s daughter.”

  “Aye. But she is not Gareth.”

  A long moment passed while the peasant seemed to consider this. Finally, he looked up at my father again. “Who are you?”

  “General Yestin Bo-Arthio.”

  The man’s fish flopped to the ground. “Nay. It’s . . . impossible. The general’s long dead. We heard rumors, o’ course. But . . . no. It can’t be.”

  “I am he.”

  The man squinted, then shook his head. “If you say so.”

  He truly didn’t seem able to believe Father was who he said he was. But in his confusion, it seemed he had forgotten his anger. He picked up his strings of fish, spared our party one last suspicious glance, then went on his way down the road.

  Father watched him go. We had drawn a crowd now, and disquiet surfaced in his eyes. He signaled the train to resume its rumble toward the docks.

  Aeron shook her head. “I sure am glad to have your father here.”

  Humph. Easy for her to say. Although I couldn’t deny his presence seemed to act as a salve on the smarting wounds of the peasants.

  In a moment, the procession was on its way again, passing the curious onlookers, and Father was riding alongside my wagon.

  “I thought you didn’t like that old title anymore,” I said.

  I wouldn’t have blamed him if there had been annoyance in his eyes when he looked at me. But, of course, there wasn’t. “My name and that old title are useful tools. As you saw.” He cleared his throat. Speaking so openly and so often was still uncomfortable for him, I knew. “I will never escape the title, however much I’d like to.” He smiled slightly. “Queen Braith won’t let me.”

  “Aye. That’s true. Can’t say I blame her. You’re a bit like a wizard, you know.”

  Now he looked annoyed. “Don’t be silly.”

  I grinned. “Warlock Bo-Arthio.”

  He rolled his eyes, then chuckled. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh. That I could remember, anyway. The sound filled my heart deeper than the coastal air filled my lungs.

  But the humor quickly faded into that perpetually solemn state I’d grown accustomed to. “My name is a tool, Tannie. Just as your story strands are tools to be used wisely. And carefully.”

  “Story strands aren’t just tools, Father. They’re art.”

  “Aye. And that art is more powerful than you realize.”

  I couldn’t see him do it, master rider that he was. But he must have signaled his horse to pick up the pace, because he rode off after he said that, leaving me to stew like a hunk of grazer meat. Or maybe a watta root.

  How could he say that I didn’t understand the power of art? If anyone knew the power of the weaver gifts, it was me. Wasn’t it? I’d seen Zelyth fill Gareth’s throne room with wild strands of sweet-root-colored hair like Ifmere’s. I’d seen those strands knock men dead. I’d created a halo-head made of story that ate half a dozen men. Quite by accident, but it’d happened, hadn’t it? I’d seen Dylun make colormaster’s fire and Mor spin objects out of thin air, all with their weaver gifts.

  Of course I understood the power of our gifts. Father couldn’t possibly be right.

  Could he?

  The crashing waves of the Menfor grew louder, and our wagon train slowed to a crawl. I barely waited until the wagon stopped to hop down, cast my traveling boots aside, and head for the beach.

  The sandy shore of Physgot slipped between my bare toes. I let all thoughts of Father and Brac and Mor, all worry over Gryfelle’s illness and my illness and Braith’s unstable empire slip from my mind as I padded through the sand toward the gentle waves licking the shore.

  Eastern Peninsular water was only warm this time of year, and I didn’t want to miss my chance. I hiked up my skirt and splashed in up to my knees. Salt and surf wrapped around my legs. I cheered. “It’s summertime!”

  A deep, unfamiliar laugh sounded from behind me. “Aye, it’s summertime, lass. You needed the Menfor to tell you, did you?”


  I turned and met the grin of a man who looked to be about Warmil’s age—younger than Father but older than me. A shock of sweet-root hair and his freckle-smattered face spoke to Tirian heritage. But he had that quirked accent that Mor carried—like he’d been raised everywhere and nowhere at once.

  I grinned back at him. “Aye. I’m a coastal lass, so I suppose I do need the Menfor to tell me when it’s summer.”

  “Where do you hail from, girl?”

  “Pembrone.” I hiked a few steps back in his direction so we wouldn’t have to yell to each other. “You’re a sailor, aren’t you?”

  “Commander Jule Bo-Kwyrm”—he bowed—“at your service.”

  “Oh!” My grin grew as the others finally made their way down the beach toward us, grim-faced Mor among them. “I think I found your naval commander, Captain Bo-Lidere.”

  Mor didn’t acknowledge me but turned to Jule. “Commander Bo-Kwyrm? I’m Mor Bo-Lidere.” They shook hands, and I fought the urge to harrumph at Mor. He could at least pretend we were on speaking terms in front of strangers.

  The commander bowed again. “Please, call me Jule. While we’re aboard your ship, I’m not commander.”

  Mor smiled, and I was pleased to see he was still able to manage it. “That’s generous of you. I think you have a few more years at sea than I do.”

  Jule laughed. “No doubt. But Her Majesty gave me fair warning you were a pup.” His eyes twinkled, and it was clear he meant no malice. “An experienced pup she trusted for this task.”

  “Just the same, I’m glad to have you on my crew. It’s been a fair few moons since I sailed. My father always said you couldn’t forget, especially when you grew up aboard the way I did. But I never tested his theories. Until now.”

  Something inside me twinged. Mor was apprehensive. The nerves rattled in his voice, showed in the creases around his mouth. Had he been able to share that fear, that unrest, with anyone? No, because he was too busy thinking about his mission, worrying over Gryfelle, fighting with me.

  I wished we could at least be friends. Maybe I could have shared his burden somehow.

  But Jule seemed equal to the task, now that Mor had voiced it. “Aye, your father was quite right, least in my experience. My sisters and I were raised on our father’s fishing boat, and the lasses didn’t serve in the navy like I did, but whenever they set foot on deck, no matter how long it’d been, they knew just how to pull their lines. As the saying goes.”

  Mor laughed. Actually, truly laughed. “Well, let’s hope I’m a sailor to equal your sisters.”

  Jule bowed again.

  It was good to hear joy in Mor’s voice. But as soon as he caught my gaze, his posture stiffened. “Right, then. Good to meet you, Jule. I’m sure we’ll have much to discuss after I help the others unload these wagons.”

  The whole group turned back to the wagons then, and Mor’s introduction of Jule to the others was lost in the crashing waves. I was left behind, which seemed fitting somehow.

  “Oh, don’t mind me!” I shouted after them. “I’ll be along to help in a minute.”

  No one turned.

  “I’m just going to soak my feet awhile. If you miss me, don’t worry! I’ll be back soon.”

  They kept walking.

  I sighed and let the sea swallow up my legs again. I turned toward it, the great blue expanse of adventure stretching before me like a challenge. “Wish I were going too. Wish I got to feel those waves through the deck of a ship.”

  “Who’re you talking to, Tannie?”

  I sighed and didn’t turn to face Brac. “The Menfor Sea.”

  He snorted. “Well, you let me know if that there ocean answers you back, will you?”

  “Very funny. Think I’m losing my onions, do you?”

  “Think you never had ’em in the first place.”

  I spun and made a face at him, but he was grinning. Something about Brac grinning with his feet planted firmly on the Eastern Peninsula beach made me less annoyed with him than I had been in weeks. I could almost forget the black guard uniform that looked an ugly blemish on the sparkling shore.

  “I like the Physgotian beach,” I said. “It’s sandy. Isn’t it nice? The Pembroni beach is so pebbly.”

  He glanced down. “Aye, I guess.”

  “You’d know what I meant if you’d take those heavy boots off.”

  Brac frowned. “Nah. Don’t want to get dirty.”

  “Dirty?” My brows shot up. “Since when did you give a fluff-hopper about getting dirty?”

  He paused. “Since when didn’t you?” Then a whisper of disdain crept across his face. “You’re ruining your dress, you know.”

  Indignation boiled up inside me. This, from the boy who shoved me into a hay mow when I was wearing a brand-new dress it had taken me six moons to save up for? This, from the boy who once tried to trip me into the mud pen where his father’s snort-snouts frolicked? Now he was going to scold me for letting a little ocean water onto my skirt?

  “You pompous . . .” Anger stole my words, and I dropped the rest of my skirt into the water, just to spite him.

  He folded his arms across his chest and smirked. “Careful. That big dress’ll get heavy. Pull you right out to sea. But I guess that’s what you want, ain’t it?”

  With that, he spun and began the march back to the wagons.

  But I didn’t hesitate. I threw all my anger into my hands and sent a deluge of water strands at Brac’s back. The force of the water smacked him hard, and he went down in the sand, face first. Heavy though my “ruined” dress was, I paraded past him before he had a chance to wipe the sand from his face and collect his wits.

  “Now who’s the one who’s all wet?” I called.

  I might have felt completely satisfied, at least for a moment. Except I caught a very stern glance from my father. A glance that told me he had seen the whole display.

  Shame flickered inside me. But I ignored it and grabbed some bags down from one of the wagons.

  Jule was addressing the whole lot, including the soldiers who had traveled with us and some men I didn’t recognize but who must be Jule’s sailors. They wore those curious shiny boots I’d noticed on Mor back when I’d first seen him in Gwern while on a tour with Riwor.

  “We’ll set sail tomorrow,” Jule said. “This will give you time to unpack and rest. It won’t be a pleasure cruise, that’s certain, and I expect Captain Bo-Lidere will make sailors of all of you by journey’s end.”

  Karlith chuckled, and Dylun looked a bit apprehensive. Didn’t suppose either of them were any more experienced on a ship than I was.

  “You’ll have time to eat, sleep, and pray, if you wish,” Jule continued. “The Physgotian temple is that way.” He pointed back the way we’d come and west a bit. “I’ll not join you there, mind, but feel free to ask the favor of your goddesses or stars or whatever you like. Priests still attend this temple, despite the unrest.”

  I was half tempted to ask what had been happening in the villages out here. We’d not heard much news from the countryside. Had the priests been under fire since Gareth fell?

  Strange. I’d always felt like I knew nothing about the big, wide world because Pembrone was so small and dinky and closed off from the “real world.” But really, it hadn’t been much different in Urian. Wherever you were, it seemed you could really only understand your own troubles and the trials of your little spot on the world.

  Sad thought, that.

  “The Cethorelle is ready for sea, Captain.” Jule nodded toward the dock. “It’s a fine ship the queen has given you from her fleet. The crew and I will sleep there, and anyone who wishes to join us and get settled may. Otherwise, we’ve taken rooms at this inn for you. Do as you will, and meet us at the dock, just after sunrise.”

  “And then we’ll make way,” Mor finished. “My thanks to you, Jule. You’re a better first mate than I deserve, I’m sure.”

  “At your service.” Jule bowed, then he and the men continued helping us unloa
d the wagons.

  A slightly sandy, still dripping, and very grumpy-looking Brac took the bags from my hands. “Here, let me. Your Highness.”

  I couldn’t decide whether to apologize or douse him again. That engagement band burned a stripe on my wrist.

  “Ho, Aeron.” I sidled up next to her. “Are we sharing a room at the inn?”

  She winced. “Oh, I’m sorry, Tannie. I’m staying on the ship with the crew tonight. Mor thought it best so we might get used to the sea a bit before sailing.”

  “Aye. Course.”

  “If we were staying in the inn, of course I’d—”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.” I tried to force a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe I can tell Mor I’d rather—”

  “No, don’t. If you mention me, he’ll just turn to stone, anyway.”

  She winced again. “Sorry, Tannie. I really am.”

  I did manage a real smile then, albeit a weak one. “You’re a good friend, Aeron. I’ll be wishing you well the whole time you’re away.”

  She smiled back. “Thanks. We’re going to need all the luck in the world.”

  We both eyed Gryfelle then, for the men were passing right by us, carrying the pale, limp girl on a litter. Gryfelle didn’t appear to be conscious.

  “Aye,” I said softly. “She’ll need it too.”

  And so will I.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TANWEN

  My supper of onion soup and fresh bread had tasted good at the time, but now it settled in my stomach like a stone. What time was it? Still hours before sunrise, judging by the black square that served as my window to the outside world. But I felt I’d been lying awake for days, unable to sleep.

  Brac’s snores weren’t helping matters. I could hear the lad through the inn’s thick walls. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure all Physgot could hear him. He would make the town crumble if he wasn’t careful.

  I sighed and swung my legs out of bed. The bare floor chilled the soles of my feet, summer though it was. Must truly be the middle of the night.