The Story Raider

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “It makes you wonder what things would have been like without Gareth in power. How our gifts might have flourished differently,” I mused. “Maybe Diggy was a weaver but it was suppressed out of her.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible, Tannie. Look what’s happened to you and Gryfelle.”

  “True. But Gryfelle and I both embraced our gifts from a young age and then tried to control them. Maybe it was different for Diggy if she didn’t discover her gift until later. If she never realized it was there to begin with, maybe everything was different for her.”

  “Maybe so.” He paused. “I’d give anything to find out. To see what she’s like now, at seventeen.”

  “Is like?” He had spoken in the present tense.

  He shook his head. “Would have been like, I mean.”

  I paused. “You miss your family terribly.”

  “Aye.”

  “I’m sorry for all the loss you’ve suffered, Mor. I truly am.”

  “Same to you, Tannie. We have both lost much. I . . . don’t want to lose you, too.”

  My heart tripped, but my voice was cautious. “Well, we’re sailing the world, raiding strands from ancient monuments so you won’t have to.”

  “That’s not really what I mean. I don’t want to lose”—he gestured between us—“this. Your friendship.”

  “Aye.” I swallowed hard. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe when we get back to the Wildlands, we can grab a drink in Daflin. Warmil took me to a great pub.”

  “Aye, we’ll go to the pub and grab some tea.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Warmil told you about my pub tea. Are you mocking me, Captain?”

  “Never.” He smirked. “I best be back to work now.”

  “Right. See you around.”

  His smile tightened. “Aye.” He nodded once, then strode away.

  I watched him go, praying my declaration that we would “figure it out” was true.

  Just as I began to feel the lift of a breath of hope, a bubble popped in my head. An utter void blackened my mind, then I came to myself. And I was disoriented, disjointed, and left wondering what I’d just lost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  TANWEN

  Strange how the roll of the ship put me to sleep now. It had made me ill once, but at this point, the creaking boards, the lap of the sea on the sides of the Cethorelle, and the constant rocking were the best sort of lullaby. The only thing that felt comfortable and normal.

  Except when I was startled awake in the middle of the night by the shouts of the watchmen.

  It hadn’t even been a full day since we’d left Haribi.

  I flew from my bunk and nearly crashed into Aeron, on her way to the cabin door. She strapped her sword belt around her hips. “Stay here, Tannie.”

  “But—”

  She cut me off with a look. “Thought you’d join in the fight?”

  I hadn’t realized it before, but now that she mentioned it, footsteps were pounding above deck. If I strained hard enough, I could hear the ring of swords being drawn and the clash of metal against metal.

  There was some kind of battle happening up there.

  For some reason, I still followed Aeron out of the cabin, down the hall, and toward the stairs.

  “Tannie, stay down!” Aeron didn’t bother turning around to shout her command.

  “I can help.” I thought feebly of the wonky sword I’d made to convince Father I wasn’t useless.

  Maybe I couldn’t help with that, but surely I could do something if we were under attack.

  I ran up the stairs after Aeron and met an explosion of chaos.

  The crewmen swarmed the deck amid a mob of total strangers—strangers in piecemeal sailing garb with glittering rings upon their fingers and more weapons on each of them than any one person had a right to carry.

  Pirates.

  Their ship rested alongside ours, and their grappling hooks were secured in our railing. We’d been boarded and attacked in the middle of the night.

  Stars above.

  Aeron crossed blades with a blond man about as wide as he was tall and carved from a solid block of muscle.

  The man grinned as Aeron blocked another of his strikes. “You’re good! Pleasure to spar with you.”

  Oddly, he looked as if he meant it.

  Wylie fought amidships, and he looked bleary and mussed, like he’d been woken from sleep. His opponent was a Meridioni woman who looked to be about Cameria’s age and was nearly as beautiful.

  Wylie’s strikes were hesitant, unsure, and the black-haired woman laughed. “This will be easy,” she said in accented Tirian. “Perhaps you will just hand over your spoils to me now?”

  “Sailor!” Father blocked the woman’s sword stroke just before it would have cleaved Wylie. He then launched a counterstrike. The pirate lass blocked it but winced and drew back her hand.

  Father spared Wylie a quick glance. “They’re playing for keeps, lad, and your chivalry won’t save your life.”

  The Meridioni smiled again. “Ah, a true soldier.”

  Father crouched a bit lower. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “But I will if you force me.”

  “Tell me where your captain keeps his spoils and I will not force you. Unless you want me to.” She winked.

  Was this woman flirting with my father? I resisted the urge to shoot a strand of fire her direction.

  Father’s instinctual glance toward the stern led my gaze that direction, and sure enough, there was Mor. He squared off with a sandy-haired pirate, and I thanked the stars he’d ended up with this opponent and not the block of muscle Aeron was fighting. Because both Mor and the pirate had been disarmed and were trading blows with their fists.

  Fire sparked in my gut as I watched Mor take a hook to the jaw. Before I could question if it was wise, a strand shot from my hand, so bright it lit up the deck like it was midday. The beam of light hit Mor’s assailant squarely in the legs, and he toppled to the deck.

  The Meridioni crossing blades with Father froze. “What is this magic?”

  “She’s just the creative one in the family,” Father replied as he exploited his opponent’s momentary confusion. He disarmed her swiftly, kicked her sword out of reach, and pinned her in a stranglehold.

  Another woman’s voice cut through the din. “Schiva! Croy!” Tirian, not accented.

  I found the voice’s owner—a blonde woman whose hair was a shocking shade of purple on the ends—and it seemed she had been about to go belowdecks. Maybe to look for treasure we weren’t carrying.

  Unless, of course, the pirates were after our ancient strands.

  The idea hit me like a block of ice. Could they be? Were they strand thieves, here to steal our cure?

  But no, I realized. The Meridioni had been shocked by my beam of light. These pirates didn’t know anything about weaver gifts, let alone ancient cures. They were simply after gold we didn’t have. What would they do when they learned that fact?

  Though Mor had been standing over his downed opponent with a dagger pointed toward the sandy-haired man’s throat, he suddenly abandoned his prize and approached the purple-and-blonde woman, disbelief written all over his face.

  Her sword was drawn now, and still he moved toward her, his dagger useless at his side.

  “Mor!” I shouted. What was he thinking?

  But the purple-and-blonde woman lowered her sword. “Mor?”

  He was now within striking distance of her. His face broke into a grin. “Venewth? Venewth En-Gorgyn?”

  “Mor Bo-Lidere.” She laughed. “In the name of the taxes, I never thought I’d see the likes of you again.” Then her smile fell. “And certainly not sailing under Tir’s banner! Cethor’s tears, Mor, what’s happened to you?”

  “Son.” Father was still holding the Meridioni woman—Schiva, I assumed—awkwardly around her throat. “Perhaps some explanation first?”

  Mor raised his hands and told the cre
w to stand down. “It’s all right. These are my friends.”

  “Friends?” Venewth raised an eyebrow as she placed a hand on her hip. “We’re his old crew.” She sheathed her sword. “Until he left us to chase after a lass.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Mor said, and I could swear I saw his ears turn red, even in the dark. “Hey,” he added, turning toward his downed opponent. “You’re new.”

  The sandy-haired man climbed to his feet. “Croy Bo-Wyryck. I’ve heard a lot about you from Captain Venewth.”

  “Captain?” Mor’s eyes went wide. “Well, look at you. What happened to Freith? Thought I left him in charge.”

  Venewth snorted. “Aye. Caught him stealing from the plunder less than three moons into his stretch as captain. You should’ve known better than to hand him the captaincy.”

  Mor sighed. “True enough. But I’d hoped for more. What did you do with him?”

  “Shoved him overboard.” Venewth shrugged at my scandalized expression. “We were close to land. He swam to shore. Most likely.”

  “Mor!” The blond block of muscle embraced Mor like they were brothers. “It’s been too long.”

  “Gyth!” Mor turned to the rest of us. “Gyth was my first mate.”

  “And now he’s my first mate,” Venewth cut in, “and this reunion has been swell, but it’s time we collect and be on our way. No need to shed blood or any more sweat.”

  Mor’s expression hardened a little. “Venewth, we aren’t carrying any gold.”

  “That’s a Tirian banner, isn’t it? Princess Braith’s by the look of it.”

  “Queen Braith.”

  Venewth cocked her head to the side. “So the rumors are true?”

  “Aye, they’re true. And we’re sailing under the queen, but I assure you, this is not a typical royal commission.”

  “Oh, come Mor. Surely there’s something aboard you might share.” Venewth held a dagger now, though I didn’t recall seeing her draw it. “For old time’s sake.”

  Mor sighed long and low through his nose. “We have bread from Haribi.”

  “That’ll do. Think of it as a tax on the queen.”

  Mor held Venewth’s gaze, then signaled the crewmen to begin collecting some bread.

  “What kind of royal mission is this, Mor?” Venewth asked. “Never took you for a queen’s man, so it must be important.”

  “It’s not really a royal mission. It’s a personal one.”

  “Should have guessed.” Venewth’s expression softened. “I really am glad you’re alive. You dropped off the map for a while there. We thought you dead.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Sorry to be pillaging your ship. Especially now that you’ve turned legitimate, and all.” Mischief danced in her eyes.

  “It’s just bread.”

  “And what is it you’re seeking on this mission? I doubt it’s bread.”

  “Strands,” he said simply. “Important strands necessary to save someone.”

  “Noble.” She glanced at her crew, the five she’d brought aboard the Cethorelle now laden with Haribian bread. “Well, we’ll be out of your way now. Sorry for the wake-up call.” She cast a sideways glance at me and winked. “Happy raiding, Mor Bo-Lidere.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BRAITH

  “Your Majesty, it has been half a moon since Dray Bo-Anffir was found guilty of his crimes,” Sir Fellyck said. “Can we expect his execution anytime soon?”

  Braith sat at the table with her council. She folded her hands and looked at Fellyck. “Do you have a personal vendetta against Dray, Sir Fellyck?”

  “Majesty, you know full well Dray made many enemies during his time at this table.”

  “Indeed.”

  “It is not bloodlust but the desire for justice that prompts my questions.”

  Braith drew a deep breath. “Yes.”

  For once, Fellyck’s voice took on a kind note. “Queen Braith, I am not an unfeeling man. I know this must be difficult for you.”

  Braith smiled sadly. “Thank you. I appreciate that acknowledgment, at least. I do not wish to forestall justice. It’s only . . .”

  “It’s the first time you have sentenced someone to death.”

  “I rather prefer mercy to justice.”

  “Yes.” Fellyck pressed his lips together. “However . . .”

  “I know.” Braith rose and ascended the steps of the dais. She lowered herself onto her throne and sat there a moment, thinking.

  Then she spoke. “Dray Bo-Anffir has been sentenced to die, and his sentence will be carried out on the—”

  But her words were cut off by a commotion at the back of the room. Muffled voices, a shout, then the throne room doors banging open. The room full of courtiers turned at the disturbance.

  Braith had remained seated. “Captain?” she said to the guardsman at the other end of the silver carpet. “What is this?”

  The guardsman assigned to her personal security already had his sword drawn. He barked at the intruder, “Who goes there? In the name of the queen, declare yourself!”

  A man slipped free of the knot of guards clustered around him. “Forgive me,” he said, his unarmed hands raised. He strode calmly down the carpet toward Braith. “I did not mean to cause a ruckus.”

  “Halt! Sir, I order you to halt!” Braith’s captain didn’t seem sure whether he should cleave the unarmed man in two or not. “Halt there, and speak your purpose!”

  The man stopped at last, nearly at the council table now. He smiled up at Braith pleasantly. He was young still—not much older than Braith herself.

  Braith watched him, puzzled. This intruder was at ease as he disrupted her court, defied her guardsman, and smiled brazenly at her. She scanned him head to toe. He was well dressed in fine leather, though with none of the frills and baubles the titled lords favored. In that way, he reminded Braith of Sir Dray.

  But in all other respects, he was the opposite. Young with blond hair and the close-cropped beard the palace guardsmen wore. But he was unarmed, without even a sword belt at his hips. His hair was pulled into a tail, as was the fashion for most Tirian men.

  The son of a wealthy merchant, perhaps? The son of a knight? But Braith did not recognize him.

  He bowed low at the waist. “My lady.”

  The captain now stood beside the man, and he looked ready to remove the intruder’s blond head. “You will address your queen properly, cur, or I’ll have you in irons before another smirk crosses your face.”

  The man’s gaze was still fixed on Braith. “Forgive me. It has been so many years . . .” He smiled again, but then he glanced at the fuming guardsman. “I will address my lady with the respect due her, for all I know of her character does command respect. But I cannot address my lady as queen.”

  The captain looked ready to spew fire, but Braith raised her hand to calm him. She held the intruder’s gaze. His eyes were a stormy blue-gray. There was something vaguely familiar . . .

  “Sir, I don’t believe we have met, but you seem to know me.”

  “It has been a great many years, Lady Braith.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

  “We were children last we saw each other face-to-face.” His gaze turned significant. “Thirteen years ago, to be exact.”

  Braith inhaled sharply. Thirteen years ago, when her father staged a “plague” and murdered King Caradoc II. This was a boy from Caradoc’s court? But who?

  “Sir,” she said at last, and her voice shook, “I must demand your name before my guardsman makes good on his threat.”

  The young man spared the captain half a glance, then spoke to Braith. “Kharn Bo-Candryd, my lady.” He bowed again. “At your service.”

  A roar erupted from the room.

  Some of the newer nobles seemed confused. “Who? Who is this?”

  Others clearly knew the name. “Impossible! He lies!”

  “Kharn, did he say?” Sir Fellyck asked. “I know no noble by th
at name.”

  But Braith knew.

  She held up her hands to quiet her people and addressed the intruder. “I thought all Sir Candryd’s sons died in the supposed plague.”

  “The appearance my family wished to put forth, my lady. I’m sure you can understand why.”

  Indeed, she could. It was no small wonder half the room had never heard the Candryd name. Braith’s father had done his best to extinguish the memory of many noble families that represented a threat to his unscrupulously gained rule.

  Braith realized she did know those eyes. And his voice and smile and even his walk. He had grown into a man these past thirteen years, just as she had grown into a woman. But she knew he spoke the truth.

  She lifted her voice that the whole room might hear. “This man is the youngest son of the late Sir Candryd, youngest brother of Caradoc II.” Braith looked slowly around at those gathered there. “He is Caradoc’s nephew, blood heir to the Tirian throne.”

  Cameria stared blankly at Braith. “I don’t understand what you mean, Majesty.”

  “Kharn Bo-Candryd interrupted council today. He was the youngest son of—”

  “Caradoc’s brother, Candryd. I remember who he is. But I don’t understand what you’re saying to me, my lady.”

  “He is alive, apparently.”

  “Are you certain?” Cameria was obviously concerned. “Should we order an inquiry? It could be an imposter.”

  “I recognize him.”

  “But thirteen years have passed. Surely he is much changed. How can you be certain?”

  “I just remember him. His eyes and his smile. Everything about him. It took his name to recall the memories, but once he said it, I knew. We played together as children, and one doesn’t forget one’s playmates so easily.”

  “I suppose, but—”

  “It is he, Cameria. I’m certain.”

  Cameria bit her lip. “He has been in hiding all this time?”

  “Apparently.”