The Story Raider

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  I’d noticed an open courtyard near the inn, which wasn’t a proper inn the way I thought of inns. Just a smattering of rooms laced throughout the plaster-covered buildings that made up the city. Many of those rooms circled this courtyard, where there were benches and flowers and things I wanted to see. I had lacked the energy the night before.

  The morning light was still dusky, but I could see the flowers clear enough. Red, and much like those Dylun had painted on the barrels aboard ship. I smiled. They were shaped like bells and unlike any plant I’d ever seen in Tir. I touched the waxy petals, and as I watched, a furry, purplish beetle crawled out of the bell.

  “Coletto beetle.”

  I gave a small shriek, and a strand of purple glitter shot from my hand. The strand smashed into the flower bush. About forty coletto beetles scattered from the red bells with an angry buzz and flurry of wings.

  I spun around. “Mor!”

  He held up his hands and took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

  “You scared me!”

  “Aye, and you scared the colettoes, or so it would seem.” He cracked the smallest of smiles. “I really didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  My heart took a moment to return to its normal rhythm. I looked back at the flowers. “Blast.” Purple glitter covered the leaves and petals.

  “Need to get control of that.”

  “Aye, thanks.” I moved to pass him and return to my room. Didn’t need a lecture from him about my story strands or anything else.

  “Hey, Tannie.”

  I skidded to a stop beside him and stared. “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “What you’re doing. You don’t get to be Captain Ice Man aboard ship in front of everyone else, then get all squishy when we happen to meet up in the wee hours of the morning next to a bush full of beetles. Or the middle of the night on a fishing jetty. Or any other time. And anyway, what are you doing here? Were you watching me? Spying? Seems strange we keep meeting up like this.”

  Mor’s voice was quiet. “No, of course I wasn’t spying on you. I expect it’s because neither of us is sleeping well.”

  “Aye, I suppose there’s that. Excuse me.” I passed him and prepared to march away.

  “Wait. Please.”

  I stopped but didn’t face him. “What is it?”

  “I wanted to show you something. If you want to see.”

  I turned back around. “Where?”

  “The atenne. When I couldn’t sleep, I decided to go scout it out. When the others are up, we’ll go see Master Insegno there. But I found something else.” He could barely contain his grin, and seeing him smile made something inside me sting like a million trygoni barbs. “I have to show you.”

  In spite of myself, I followed him through the courtyard out onto a stone-paved lane that cut through a field filled with wild grass and lots of flowers.

  “Try not to murder the rest of the fauna, will you?” he called back to me.

  I fought the urge to punch him. “That was your fault, not mine.”

  “It was your strand.”

  “It was your scare.”

  He chuckled. “Look. That’s the atenne.”

  A large, white, stone-and-plaster building stood at the end of the pathway. There were the columns Gerrio mentioned as the mark of Meridioni architecture and a lovely arch over the wide doorway in front. It was pretty, sure enough. Quintessentially Meridioni, if Gerrio’s descriptions were right. But . . . why did Mor want me to see this?

  As if he could hear my unspoken question, Mor nodded up to the top of the building. “See them working up there?”

  I hadn’t noticed them before, but as we got closer, sure enough, I could see two men toward the top of the building working on the piece of roof that sat atop the columns.

  “Are they cleaning it?” I squinted, trying to make out what was happening. “You trying to tell me something? You want me to learn how to clean the tip-tops of the masts aboard ship?”

  “Look closer.”

  And now that we were just beneath the men as they worked, I could see they weren’t cleaning at all. They touched their fingertips over the stone—grazing, flicking, swiping. Shaping. And all twenty of their fingertips glowed hot orange.

  “They’re sculpting the rock,” I realized aloud.

  “Stoneshapers.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know this was a thing.”

  “Aye, but you barely knew colormasters or songspinners were a thing a few moons ago.”

  I stared as the men carved true-to-life images into stone. A scene unfolded beneath their luminous fingertips. A battle with men on horseback on one side of the panel, and ships rolling along the high seas on the other.

  “We don’t have stoneshapers in Tir,” Mor said. “Not that I’ve heard of, anyway. Meridione has a long history of stoneshapers and colormasters, though they seem to have a lot of weavers in general. Stoneshaping is called intagli de fascinzi in Meridioni—literally ‘the weaver’s glory,’ according to Dylun.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Se,” a thickly accented Meridioni voice agreed. An old man stood in the doorway of the atenne smiling at us. He wore what looked like a fine linen bedsheet draped over his body instead of trousers or a shirt. His hair was white as snow and cropped short. “It is beautiful. And no one stoneshapes better than the Meridioni.” His gaze wandered over to Mor. “I believe you are looking for me.” The accent was thick, but his Tirian was perfect.

  “Master Insegno?”

  “Yes, Captain Mor Bo-Lidere.” He shuffled down the steps to bow and clasp Mor’s hand. “And this is?”

  “Tanwen En-Yestin.”

  He took my hand and bowed to me also. “Two storytellers.”

  He didn’t explain himself further or clue us in as to how he could possibly know that, but he retreated back into the gaping doorway. “And where is my old pupil? He is not with you.”

  “He’s back at the inn,” Mor said. “I’ll fetch him.”

  “Se. You do that. I will show Tanwen En-Yestin things she has not seen before.”

  I blinked, startled.

  “Follow me, Tanwen En-Yestin.”

  Mor was already gone, and I supposed that meant he thought I could trust this strange little man. I followed Master Insegno into hallways made of the same material as the rest of the buildings around Bordino—stone and plaster. Lamps filled with golden oil dotted these halls and cast glimmering light on the walls.

  I don’t know what I expected, exactly. Perhaps a dank little study like the libraries in the palace at Urian. Dust and tomes and firelight. But instead, Insegno brought me through the hallways and into a wide-open room, circular with a domed ceiling ringed in carved sculptures. The top of the dome was cast in frosted glass, and morning sunlight poured through, all over a circular, polished-stone table beneath it.

  “Sit, Tanwen En-Yestin.”

  I obeyed, still unsure what I was doing here.

  “Tell me what troubles you.”

  “I . . . what?”

  “You are troubled, are you not? Tell me what is the matter and perhaps I will help.”

  I stared at him. “Are you some kind of wizard?”

  He chuckled and took a seat across the circle from me. “No.”

  “You knew Mor and I are storytellers. And now you know something is troubling me. Seems like magic to me.”

  “I was told you are a band of weavers. You are Tirian and so unlikely to be stoneshapers. Your fingers have not taken on the characteristic tinge of a colormaster. You could have been a songspinner except I saw your interaction with a swarm of colettoes as I returned from my prayer walk on the beach this morning. You did so with a purple strand of story. What appears to be magic is mere observation and logical deduction.”

  My eyebrows rose. “And how do you know something is troubling me?”

  “I overheard you and Mor Bo-Lidere fighting.”

  I laughed. “If you already know what’s wrong, why did
you ask?”

  “Because it is rude to eavesdrop.” He folded his hands on the table. “And because I believe something else troubles you.”

  “I’m ill.” Something about this gentle, wise man made me blurt out the truth.

  “Like the young lady you have come here to cure.”

  “Aye.”

  “And does your captain know?”

  “Yes. He knows now, anyway.”

  “Secrets eat at the soul, Tanwen En-Yestin.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  He paused. Considered me. “I will share all I know about this cure you seek. I hope it will help you and your dying friend.”

  I didn’t care for his phrasing, but I could tell he meant it kindly. Strange though he was. “Thank you.”

  “Master Insegno!” Dylun and the others appeared in the circular room just then.

  Insegno’s smile was warm, but he did not rise. “Navilto Giligato. Sit, my pupil.”

  Warmil followed Dylun into the room. “Navilto?”

  “My birth name,” Dylun said as he sat. “Or, my Meridioni birth name, anyway. Dylun is Tirian, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” Warmil eased into a seat around the table, brow furrowed. “It’s just I never thought about you having a Meridioni name. You were born in Tir.”

  “Yes, but I am Meridioni. Surely you didn’t fail to notice.” Dylun indicated his ink-black hair.

  “No, of course. But . . . Navilto? Shall I call you that now?”

  Dylun snorted. “Please don’t.”

  “But I shall,” Insegno cut in.

  Dylun smiled, which was a rare enough sight. “You always did.”

  Insegno nodded. “And are we all here?” He eyed the whole company.

  Mor, Aeron, Warmil, Jule, and Father took seats around the table. A moment later, Karlith bustled into the room.

  “I’m sorry.” She panted and took one of the remaining seats. “Had to get Zel settled looking after Gryfelle. She had a bad spell this morning.”

  Gloom fell over the room, sunny though it was, and Mor was most somber of all. This wasn’t an idle quest. This was life-or-death, not just some grand adventure, and it was best treated as such.

  Master Insegno folded his hands and placed them on the table. “You have come for my help.”

  “Yes,” Dylun said. “Our friend is ill, and I think there might be a cure, if the ancient texts are to be believed. But my knowledge only extends so far. I can’t tell what I’m reading anymore. Or if I’m translating correctly. It’s been too long.”

  “Too many years camped in your forest hideaway.”

  All the weavers from the Corsyth stared at him, for none of us had mentioned our Corsyth hideaway, tucked deep in the Codewig Forest back in Tir.

  Insegno smiled. “Do you think gossip does not reach us in Meridione? You are famous, my friends. The weavers who defied a tyrant and lived in secret for ten years.”

  Father turned to Warmil. “If the weavers of the Corsyth are known, perhaps this helps us make port elsewhere. If others know of your deeds, they may trust our message.”

  “It may help,” Insegno said. “But do not forget the long years of oppression under Gareth Bo-Kelwyd. The Tirian banner is an unwelcome sight the world over.”

  “Has news of the liberation been told in Meridione yet?” Dylun asked. “It didn’t seem so when we spoke to Commander Gerrio yesterday. Queen Braith’s emancipation is genuine. I know the queen myself and would not vouch for her if she were anything like her father.”

  Insegno leaned back and looked at his former pupil. “These are matters for our Senate to ponder. You always did love politics, Navilto, and I see time has not changed you in that regard. For me, I care little for such things. The matters of the past concern me more than the present.”

  “And this is why we have come to you, Master Insegno. Please, tell us. Is there hope for our ailing friend? Help me understand the texts I’ve found.”

  Dylun placed several old tomes I recognized from the Urian palace library onto the table, but Insegno made no move to open them.

  “I do not need your books, Navilto Giligato. What I have to tell you is stored here.” He pointed to his temple.

  Then he rose and began a measured stroll around the circular room, his fingers tented and his eyes straight ahead, as though he were alone, speaking to himself.

  “The whispers of a cure you have found are real enough. They hearken back to the time of the ancients—a time when the weaver gifts were much changed from what one witnesses in Tir or Meridione today. A mere thirteen years of suppression has altered the landscape of Tirian weaving in ways you could not possibly recognize, so young were most of you when Gareth Bo-Kelwyd rose to power. So how could you fathom the days of the ancients, when the gifts were truest and purest?”

  Mor opened his mouth as if to answer, but Father held up a hand.

  Insegno went on. “Weavers were held in great esteem in the ancient days. The gifts they practiced were prized. Revered. Respected. Master weavers from all around the world held council each year. They created together and used their gifts to solve many problems plaguing the world. Disease. Blight. Ailments of the heart, mind, and body. The master weavers were powerful, to be sure, but they used their gifts with respect to the Source of such treasures. Acknowledgment of the Source has been all but lost today, but then . . . yes, then they understood.

  “There was an ancient curse much like the one you describe in the young ladies.”

  I held my breath, then, for he had spoken in plural, and I wondered if anyone would notice.

  But no one seemed to. Or if they did, they didn’t interrupt him.

  “I do not know for certain if it is the same, but it sounds the same. Vashtith, the ancients called it. It has not been seen in the world for some time, but if anything could return ancient curses to the world, it is a king like Gareth Bo-Kelwyd the Usurper.”

  Insegno stopped walking a moment, but still he didn’t look at any of us. “Gareth Bo-Kelwyd is not the first to disrupt the natural order, of course. You understand? There is a reason the gifts do not exist as they once did, for power cannot keep company alongside man and not become corrupt. In the ancient days, some weavers became drunk on their own abilities. And other people sought to exploit the weavers. The council convened, and the masters voted to dim the glory of the weavers. And to obliterate the world’s cures.”

  Mor rose to his feet. “Then they’re gone?”

  Dylun pulled Mor down by his shirtsleeve and shot him a look. “Don’t interrupt. Trust me.”

  Master Insegno continued. “The master weavers knew better than to try to destroy the cures. The release of that power could be catastrophic. If such a thing could even be accomplished in the first place. No, instead they broke up the cures.”

  I bit down hard on my tongue. I wanted to ask the scholar what the cures were. It sure sounded like he was talking about a physical object of some kind—something tangible to be held or broken apart or put back together. But I heeded Dylun’s warning and held my peace.

  “The masters scattered the pieces of the cures to the corners of the world. They no longer practiced the arts as they once did. ‘Dimmed the glory’ was the way they phrased it, as they had decided was best for humankind. But though they did this, they retained the basics of their crafts and still passed on that knowledge to their apprentices.

  “Storytellers still sought to capture the narrative of life, to make connections between events of the past and the present and to speculate about the future. They sought to make sense of the world around them and of human experience and immortalize those truths in sparkling crystal.”

  Insegno resumed his stroll, but now his hands were not tented like a dignified scholar’s. He waved them as he spoke about the weaving gifts, and colored ribbons of story swirled from his fingers.

  “Songspinners still sought to express the deepest, truest, rawest emotions of the human heart. Though the ancient powers were d
iminished, the spinning of songs still brought light to the soul, comfort in times of sorrow, hope to those who despaired.”

  Insegno’s strands collected together in a swirling mass of dancing lights above the circular table. I didn’t even need to strain to hear whispers of music coming from the lights, unlike any music I’d ever heard in Tir. Was it Meridioni? Was it some ancient melody Insegno had pried from his crumbling scrolls? When I watched the flashes of purple, green, blue, gold, pink, and orange, my soul soared.

  “Colormasters still taught their young ones the triumph of self-expression—the importance of capturing a moment, whether as it looked or as it felt. Apprentice colormasters learned to see beauty where no one else could and to ensnare that beauty in paint and pigment—a single moment of truth and expression turned static. Permanent.”

  Insegno’s strands of story and music froze in midair. After a pause like a breath, the strands collapsed to the tabletop in a splash of glorious color.

  I gasped and leaned back in my chair, struck by the beauty. And half expecting to be doused with paint.

  But spanning the entire table was a Meridioni sunset like the one I’d seen the previous night. This time, I was viewing it from above. The setting sun was cast upon the tile-roofed houses clustered among the red-rock cliffs of Bordino. Purple and pink, orange and yellow bathed the white walls. Liquid-gold oil lamps glowed here and there, and blue shadows swallowed the farthest cliffs.

  It was breathtaking. Perfect. And he had made it from . . . a story and a song?

  I looked up to find Insegno smiling at me, the childlike delight of a weaver whose work is truly appreciated. I knew that delight.

  Jule let out a low, slow whistle. “These weaver gifts still look pretty powerful to me.”

  “Ah,” Master Insegno said, holding up a finger, “you only think so because you know nothing of the ancient gifts.” He gestured to his creation. “This is human expression—beautiful, yes. A gift, assuredly. But in the old days, there was power in the strands, direct from the Source. It was a reflection of the Source, true and perfect. And those strands looked like—”

  “Blinding white light,” I realized aloud.

  Insegno spun toward me and stared. “Yes,” he said at last, his eyes narrowed.