The Story Raider

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  I let my eyes drift closed and listened for . . . something. Something in my gut that told me where he might be.

  If I wanted to escape, where would I go? Perhaps down to the shore, except the crew was always there. He would be bombarded with updates about the state of the ship and questions from the men.

  No, not the beach.

  Somewhere away from the city. Removed. A place to be alone and not have to look at Gryfelle getting sicker. A place where he would have a break from glaring at me.

  I turned left through the field. Off the path. Toward that grove of trees further away from the crash of the ocean and the warm Meridioni sounds of Bordino.

  The trunks of the trees were like rope—corded, as if many strands of bark had clumped together, then twisted a quarter turn and frozen there. The leaves fluttered in a mild breeze, glittering silvery-green. Most of the trees bloomed with white flowers, and I wondered what another few weeks might bring. Fruit? Nuts? I’d forgotten to ask, and I realized we wouldn’t be around to see it. A twinge of regret tweaked my heart.

  I picked through the grove, treading over a blanket of fallen white petals, and came out into the field of solitude.

  Except not complete solitude, for there Mor stood, his back to me. I stumbled back a few steps, because I hadn’t at all expected the scene that met me.

  Mor’s hands were raised, and strands poured from them, flowing from his palms and ribboning from his fingertips. Seastone, violet, pearl, aqua, midnight. The strands didn’t dance the way mine did but waved before their creator, interlacing themselves like they were threads of wool yarn and Mor was at a loom, weaving them into cloth.

  But the cloth was alive. It moved in response to Mor’s silent commands. The colors found order, organized themselves to reflect their creator’s imaginings, and before long, the roiling sea stretched before us. Mor had created a moving picture, a tapestry of story strands.

  He thrust one hand upward, and an earth-colored strand burst from his palm. It wove itself into the center of the scene, and I realized it was not earth but wood. Mor had made a ship and set it in the sea.

  But this wasn’t a scene of tranquility on the deep-sea waves or even a grand sailing adventure on the high seas. The ship listed sideways and took on water. A wave crested above the mainsail then crashed on deck. Masts cracked, sails ripped, and the water turned black and swallowed the vessel whole. As the ship splintered and blackness engulfed it, whispers of faces appeared, some familiar and one not.

  Mor, Gryfelle, a young girl with dark hair and blue eyes. And me.

  And then the wispy story faces were gone, lost with the ship in a sea turned to ink. In another blink, the strands vanished entirely. Mor’s hands dropped. His head sagged. Before I could gather my wits, he turned around.

  His face was wet with tears.

  We stared at each other a moment, him with shock written plainly in his eyes, me with a strange defiance, almost like I was steeling myself against an accusation he hadn’t yet leveled.

  But he didn’t accuse me. He didn’t ask me if I’d followed him or yell at me for seeing him pour out the fear and heartbreak and self-hatred I’d just witnessed in that story.

  All he said was, “I can’t . . .”

  He never told me what he couldn’t do. He just walked to me and took my head in his hands. Next second, his chin was resting on top of my head, and I was almost sure he was crying again.

  I froze. Closed my eyes. Prayed to the Creator that something in this world could soothe Mor’s aching heart, because I was almost sure I could only bring him more pain. There was no solution, as I saw it. There was no good answer that could set everything right and bring healing to Mor and Gryfelle and me and Brac and everyone else all at once. If someone won, others lost. And right now, it felt an awful lot like we were all losing.

  We were on a fractured ship in the middle of a blackened sea.

  I opened my eyes to find glowing golden strands surrounding us like a cage—the fine-barred, intricately wrought cages the ladies in Urian used to house their pet birds. Mor and I were like the birds inside. I had no idea if he’d created the strands or I had, or if they had somehow created themselves when we touched.

  “Mor . . .”

  He pressed his lips to my forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  Then he broke our connection and disappeared into the grove of twisted trees. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or to sit down and give up.

  I did none of these things. I waited until all the golden cage strands had disappeared, then slowly returned to the city and our waiting party.

  I expected the cold mask to be back in place on Mor’s face by the time I returned to Bordino. But it wasn’t. He just looked tired—tired of trying to manage everything he was feeling while redeeming himself from past wrongs while also saving a couple of lives. That was a lot.

  We were all dealing with a lot, but perhaps I could find a softer spot in the back of my heart for the weary pirate.

  “Ready, Tannie?”

  I turned to find Wylie’s grin and a collection of maize cakes, still wrapped in their leaves from steaming. He was holding the offering out to me.

  “Why does everyone keep trying to feed me today?”

  “Because you look sad.”

  “And food helps?”

  “Aye.” He unwrapped a cake and popped it in his mouth. “It does when the food tastes like this.”

  I shook my head and took one of the bundles, in spite of myself.

  Master Insegno stood at the head of the group, though the old man would not be traveling with us. He raised his hands and allowed a solemn smile.

  “Questers, I bid you the blessings of the ancients.” He bowed to Karlith. “And the favor of the Creator.”

  Dylun approached and kissed his teacher on each cheek, as Meridionis did. “Thank you for your help, Master Insegno.”

  And then we were off, traveling to the stone altar of the ancients. It was mostly a lot of walking. We stopped for lunch, and Wylie and I made a game of tossing some small round fruits into our mouths.

  “Uvillini.” Dylun nodded at our handfuls of bluish-purple projectiles. “They are pressed and fermented to make wine.”

  I choked on one that had gone too far back into my throat.

  Dylun shook his head like we were hopeless, which was probably true, and took his leave.

  Truly, that was the most exciting thing that happened on the journey, except a couple scares where the path roughed out and Gryfelle’s cart nearly tipped over. We rushed to right it and calm the donkeys, and so it didn’t topple, thank the stars. She slept most of the day, but when she was awake, she tried to offer encouraging smiles. None of us liked that she had to ride along in that bouncy cart under the sun all day.

  At last, we reached the base of the Orlos mountains, and a wide field of flowers stretched before us, basking in the setting sun. I stopped and let the sight wash over me. Delicate petals of flame-orange lit beneath the final rays of the day, like the grass was on fire.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Father stood beside me.

  “We’re not camping on the flowers, are we? I’d hate to crush them.”

  “You always were sensitive about flowers.”

  I looked at him blankly. “What?”

  “It’s true. You used to pluck flowering weeds from between the cobblestones of the palace courtyards and bring them to your mother as gifts. You always cried when the petals wilted.”

  “I don’t remember that at all.” I looked back at the field. “I can’t even see Mother’s face in my mind.”

  “I see you both, clear as the field before us.”

  Before I had time to talk myself out of it, I looped my arm through his and leaned my head on his shoulder. “You won’t let me die alone, will you, Father?”

  I could imagine his startled gaze, aimed at the top of my head. “What do you mean?”

  “Promise me.”

  He paused. Waited. “Tannie, you will nev
er be alone.”

  I fought my tears until they retreated from my eyes.

  “Those are the monuments Master Insegno told us to watch for,” Dylun said to the group as he pointed up toward the mountains.

  And sure enough, I had been so captivated by the flowers, I’d failed to see what looked like ancient stone buildings, teetering on the edge of the mountain face, like a good strong rain might be the end of them.

  “The pil craig, so the Old Tirians called it, should be that direction.” Dylun pointed again. “At the base of that little waterfall next to that old temple. Shall we wait until morning?”

  “No,” at least ten of us, including me, said together.

  “We’ve come so far, and we still have some light,” I said with a quick glance at Gryfelle, whose eyes were closed. “Let’s see if we can get that strand out tonight. If Gryfelle is up to it.”

  “I don’t know that I’m ‘up to it,’ as you say.” Gryfelle’s voice was tired but firm. “But I’m not likely to be any stronger tomorrow morning.”

  And that settled it. We trekked the short distance to the base of the waterfall, and sure enough, there was a rock pile there.

  But it wasn’t a rock pile like stones that had been discarded on top of each other with no care or thought. Instead, a circle of large stones had been thrust deep into the earth. They leaned toward each other slightly, and on top was a slanted capstone—flat and smooth, like stonecutters had sanded and polished it down.

  Or . . . stoneshapers, I realized. Perhaps this smooth stone table had been shaped by hands, not tools.

  “If they wanted to hide the strand, why make it so spectacular?” Aeron was staring at the mossy stones with reverence. “This must have taken them some time to create with their limited tools. Why draw attention?”

  “These rock piles were common once,” Warmil answered. “Priests and kings and warriors would be buried in them. It would not have appeared to the ancients the curiosity it is to us. It’s simply that very few still stand.”

  “Do you think the strand holds it up somehow?” I peeked through the gaps in the circle of stones. “Is that why this one is still standing?”

  “Who knows?” Warmil completed his circle around the barrow. “And who knows if the strand is even still in here.”

  “So, what are we supposed to do?” I asked Dylun, who was poring over Master Insegno’s map and notes.

  “We need a colormaster, songspinner, and storyteller. Insegno says it will probably be best if the afflicted participate, so . . . Gryfelle, Tanwen, take your places.” He indicted where he wanted us, me on the far side and Gryfelle directly opposite so she might have the least distance to walk.

  Karlith and Zel supported Gryfelle on either side, and everyone else hung back.

  “I’ll act as colormaster,” Dylun went on. He stood on one of the other sides of the barrow.

  “Now what?” I looked up at the strange capstone. “Is something supposed to happen?”

  “We have to create something. Tanwen, tell a story.”

  “Does it matter which?” I peered around the corner at him. “Surely there’s some particular story I’m supposed to tell.”

  “It’s not a magic spell, Tanwen.” Dylun sounded irritated. We’d had a long day. “It’s more like a key.”

  “Or a knock at the front door,” I ventured, “letting the strands know we’re here and asking if they’ll come out to play.”

  “Er . . . precisely.”

  Warmil was holding Dylun’s notes now, and he frowned over them. “This won’t work.”

  Dylun swiveled on the spot. “Excuse me?”

  “The colormaster can’t be you.”

  “Oh, I suppose you want a go at the ancient ritual?”

  Warmil shot him a look. “No. Not unless I look like a woman to you.”

  “I don’t know how to answer that.” Dylun snatched his notes back. “Oh.”

  “Aye. That word for triangle there is in the feminine form. We ought to have noticed before, but we were so focused on the map.”

  “Right.” Dylun stepped away from the stones. “We need a female colormaster. Apparently this one works better with female weavers.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” I said. “Karlith will do it, then?”

  “No,” Warmil said suddenly. “Karlith should stay with Gryfelle.”

  “But she’s our female color—”

  “Aeron will do it.”

  And then I remembered that Aeron was a weaver, though she didn’t like to admit it for some reason. I had never seen her create anything. I suppose I had never asked, but she must be a colormaster, like Karlith, Dylun, and War.

  “Me?” the swordswoman squeaked.

  I almost laughed. She charged into battle without hesitation, but this was frightening?

  “You,” Warmil said. “It’s time you stopped hiding your gift.”

  “I use it. Sometimes.”

  “You use it when you’re fighting,” I realized aloud. “I saw a purple glow around your hands once when you crossed blades with a guardsman.”

  Aeron smiled wryly. “Took me years to be able to channel my colormastery that way and not leave paint all over my weapons.”

  “And that’s why you don’t have the curse. You use your gift enough that you’re not squashing it down, but it’s hidden. Secret.”

  “There’s no reason for it to be a secret anymore,” Warmil said. “Go ahead, Aeron.”

  Aeron moved into Dylun’s place, and the triangle was complete again. I could see her swallow hard, even from my distance. “What story, Tannie?”

  My mind jumped to the list of crowned stories I’d been allowed to tell under Gareth’s regime. Blast that man. I supposed it would take some time to undo the training that had been hammered into me.

  “Do you know the one about the forfynin?” It was one of my favorite fairy stories from my childhood—a very old tale about a sea creature called a forfynin, half human, half fish.

  “Aye, I know that one,” Aeron said.

  “Gryfelle?” I couldn’t really see her around the barrow.

  “Amazingly, that story is a memory that remains. My mother used to tell it to me when I was young.”

  Dylun nodded. “Very well. Tanwen, you start and the others will join with song and color, and we’ll see what happens.”

  I drew a deep breath and began.

  “Once upon a time, a young man lived by the sea.” A glittery aqua strand rose from my hand and swirled above the barrow. “One day while he was fishing with his brother, he saw a woman in the water. He rowed over to her, for he thought she was drowning.”

  A brown strand that might be the wooden boat or the young man’s hair, for all I knew, swirled out next.

  “When the boat reached the drowning woman, whose hair was rose-gold and shimmering like the water, the young man reached over the side to help her out.”

  A shimmering rose-gold ribbon undulated from my left hand and began a lazy circle around the other strands. Closing them in. Entrapping them.

  I opened my mouth to speak the next line, but then I heard a sweet sound—Gryfelle’s voice. When we first met, she often sang in Old Tirian, and I imagined if any story had some sort of ballad version, this one would. But she didn’t sing words now, only a melody. When Gryfelle sang, it was so beautiful that just the melody was enough.

  Wispy song strands joined my dancing story strands. They swirled together, and somehow, the colors of my strands were more vibrant when Gryfelle’s airy whispers of music played alongside them.

  “But just as the young man leaned over the edge of the boat to grab the woman’s hand, his brother pulled him back and said, ‘No! Do not touch her, for she is a forfynin. She will drown us both.’ The young man resisted his brother’s grip, for he had been entranced by the sea maiden’s seductive magic.”

  The rose-gold ribbon slithered through the aqua strand.

  “His brother begged him once more to resist the charm of the fo
rfynin, and lo, he heeded the warning. He pulled back his hand and moved away from the edge of the boat. The sea maiden’s cries for help died on her lips, and her face contorted in rage. ‘Fools!’ she cried.”

  As I said this line, a strand of painted fire from Aeron’s direction joined the story above the barrow—the forfynin’s rage.

  “‘I should have liked to eat you for breakfast,’ the forfynin said, ‘but now I shall go hungry. For this, you will pay. I will watch you always, stalk your shores, sink your boats, and drown your children in the sea.’ Without another word, she dove beneath the waves with a mighty flick of her golden fish tail.

  “The young man and his family lived with great fear for many years. He married and had children, but never did he allow them to play near the sea. They lived in poverty, for they could not fish as they once had.”

  A stream of fog from Aeron covered the rest of the strands like a dome—the lingering threat of the forfynin over the man’s life.

  “Then one day, the man went down to the seashore, praying some clams might have washed up on shore so that he could feed his children. Instead, he found the forfynin, golden tail and shimmering pink hair, beached and dying. Helpless.”

  The vibrancy of the rose-gold strand faded now, as the forfynin’s life slipped away.

  “‘You have won,’ the forfynin said. ‘I got too far ashore, hoping to snatch one of your children, and I did not mind the tide. And now here I am, helpless, and you may kill me as I have tried to do to you for so many years.’ But the man was kindhearted and gentle, and he did not want to kill the creature. Instead, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her down the beach. He walked into the water as far as his waist and released her into the sea.

  “The forfynin was whole after a single moment back in her beloved salt water. She looked at the man. ‘Why have you done this? Surely you know I will just kill you now.’ And the man said, ‘If this is what you wish to do, so be it. I am not responsible for your actions, only my own. And I could not let a living creature die before my eyes if I had the strength to save her. Now do what you will.’

  “The forfynin paused a moment longer, and her face softened. ‘I will guard these shores for you and your family as long as I live. I will make sure you have plenty of fish in your nets and food on your table the rest of my days. You shall always have a friend in these waters.’ And then she disappeared beneath the waves. The man never saw her again, but for many generations to come, his family stayed safe at sea and were the most prosperous fishermen in the region. And even were it not so, the man felt peace over his actions. For what is honorable does not change with the tides, and when one acts with honor, he need not fear the consequences.”