The Story Raider

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “Doesn’t feel right?” Mor clomped down the deck toward me. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s the middle of the day.”

  “And it’s dead silent,” he realized aloud. He nodded toward Diggy. “Stay here with her, will you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Warmil, General, Jule. I need you,” he called. “Sword belts on.”

  The men and several crew members made their way down the dock, hands on hilts and ready for danger, should it rear its head.

  They disappeared among the shops and homes, and anxiety crept over me.

  But nothing happened. It was only a few long moments before Mor appeared again, his hands spread out. “No one is here.”

  “No one?” I headed down the ramp onto the dock. “How is that possible?”

  Mor folded his arms as I began to inspect locked and boarded shops and homes. “Well, I didn’t make it up, Tannie.”

  “I believe you. I just don’t understand. Did something happen?”

  I didn’t want to say it out loud. Could they have all been killed? That seemed a terrible and unlikely prospect. But how else does a whole town full of people disappear?

  “They’re not dead,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in beside me.

  I nearly screamed.

  “Sorry, lassie.” The old man was so tiny and shriveled, I hadn’t seen him in his rocking chair on one of the front porches. “Didn’t mean t’scare ya.” He smiled a toothless grin.

  “Sir.” Mor strode up to him. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “Aye. They’s gone.”

  “Yes, I can see that, but where? How?”

  “They marched.”

  “Marched?”

  “To Urian.”

  Mor and I turned to look at each other.

  “They marched to Urian?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Guess they marched on Urian, more’s the like.”

  My heart stuttered. “Marched on Urian—as in, to take it over?”

  The man nodded and chewed on the end of a pipe. “Aye. Got thar revolt goin’ good and proper, finally. You’s lucky they gone. You’d’ve been taken prisoners for sailin’ under tha queen’s banner thar.”

  Mor looked like his heart had skipped a few beats. “When did they leave?”

  “Least a week’s time. Maybe more.” He shoved his pipe back into his mouth, then leaned against the back of his chair and appeared to fall asleep.

  One awful moment of silence passed, and then we were both moving and shouting. Mor snapped out orders, and the men began to grab the supplies they had just unloaded.

  “Warmil!” Mor shouted. “We need to get to the river. Immediately.”

  I was sprinting back toward the boat. “Diggy! Karlith! Come quickly. We’re heading for the river.”

  “The river?” Karlith held an armload of forest-green yarn. “What’s happened?”

  I grabbed the yarn from her. “We have to get to Urian now. They’ve all gone to overthrow Braith.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  BRAITH

  Braith sat on the garden bench beside Kharn, but she was not comfortable. Tension filled the air all around them. Kharn was unhappy. It was plain on his face.

  “Braith . . .”

  “Don’t ask again.” She gripped the stem of her wine glass more tightly.

  “Then give me an answer. I only persist in asking because I’ve never received a proper answer in the first place. It’s been ten days’ time.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I truly am.”

  He took a long sip of wine. “Braith, I did not want to have to approach it from this angle. I wanted to sweep you off your feet, to convince you of my love and get you to believe in the possibility of loving me. Because I believe that is possible for us in every way.”

  Braith stared at the ground. “I know. I don’t doubt your intentions.”

  “Then please understand my intentions when I tell you this.”

  She looked up.

  “You have councilors and nobles who support you. But surely you understand that I have them also. I have those who have been pressing me from the moment I stepped foot in Urian to take what they see as my rightful place on the throne.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” Braith looked down into her wine. Imagined drowning in a big sea of it.

  “They are pressing me ever harder to make a move for the throne. And I don’t want to do that to you.”

  “Is that a threat, Kharn? Are you telling me that if I don’t marry you, you’ll take the throne from me?” But Braith couldn’t even muster convincing indignation because, of course, he wasn’t saying that at all.

  “You know that’s not true.”

  Braith sighed. “Yes,” she told him. “I do.”

  “Unlike my supporters, I believe you also belong on the Tirian throne. We could do this together. They will accept it. If only you’ll say yes.”

  Braith signaled a nearby servant to retrieve their empty goblets. Her gaze lingered on the guardsmen lining the perimeter of the garden. “It’s a pity this is what it takes these days.”

  “Pardon?”

  “An entire armed guard, just for an evening in the gardens. Do you remember when we used to play here as children?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You and that nobleman’s son—what was his name? Jay-something?”

  “Jaylith Bo-Joffrey.” Kharn smiled for the first time that evening. “He was fast.”

  “He was the worst. He caught the girls and shoved our faces in the mud.”

  “As I said, he was fast.”

  “He ruined more than one of my dresses in that mud.”

  “I wonder what became of him.”

  “No, don’t,” Braith said. “It’s best not to.”

  Kharn looked at her. “Best not to wonder? Why do you say that?”

  “So many from the old days—from Caradoc’s days—are dead. And it’s easier if you accept that fact without naming them.”

  “But wasn’t Sir Joffrey loyal to your father?”

  “Yes. But many nobles’ sons died in my father’s wars.” She still recoiled at the thought. “They were knights, a great many of them.”

  “Yes, of course.” Kharn paused a moment. “It must have been dreadful for you to lose so many friends, Braith.”

  “I wouldn’t call Jaylith Bo-Joffrey a friend.” She glanced at Kharn wryly. “But all the same, it is always hard to lose those with whom you have shared your life.”

  “Indeed.”

  A long silence passed between them. Braith stared at the velvet-petal bush across the path—deep indigo flowers in their final burst of beauty before their winter sleep.

  “Kharn?” Braith turned toward him and looked him in the eyes. “I need you to listen to me. I never want Tir to have another era like my father’s reign. If I can help it, Tir and her neighbors will live in peace and prosperity forever. I know that is just a dream. This is the real world, and it is ugly—a playground for man’s darkest desires. But I don’t care. I want to hope for something better. I want to spend the rest of my life doing what I can to bring something better to my people—a better way of living and thinking and believing.”

  “I don’t think it’s just a dream. I think we can live better.”

  Braith searched his eyes. “That’s what I want from my reign.” She had made her decision. “From our reign.”

  Kharn stared, eyes wide. Then a smile blossomed on his face. “Does that mean . . . ?”

  “If you share my vision for Tir. If you will support my goals, then I will agree. And I will endeavor to support your goals and be a good queen to my people and a good wife to you.”

  He touched her face with his hand. “Braith, our goals are the same.”

  “Then you will not try to dissuade me from my vision?”

  He laughed and gently pulled her closer. “You’re not listening.”

  “I confess, I’m nervous.” She smiled. “And suddenly quite aware
that there are at least a dozen men in this garden with us.”

  Kharn laughed again. “You needn’t be nervous. Ever again, for you will have me by your side always.”

  Their lips edged closer, and Braith was near enough to smell the shave oil on his beard when sounds of chaos erupted.

  They started. Kharn jumped to his feet, and they both watched in horror as a volley of arrows cascaded into the garden. A guardsman was struck in the face and fell to the ground.

  Braith screamed.

  “Braith!” Kharn pulled her to her feet and tried to shield her from the arrows.

  But they were everywhere. Wave after wave. More guardsmen were collapsing around them.

  “Get inside!” a remaining guard shouted. “Get the queen—” But his command was cut off by an arrow to his throat.

  Braith covered her mouth, muffling her cry.

  “Braith, come!” Kharn hid her in his shadow and pulled her toward the gate.

  But that gate led to a courtyard, and then through that courtyard was another garden. The palace seemed so far away. And where were the arrows coming from? Oh, why had they taken their wine so far from the safety of the palace halls?

  Kharn led her toward the gateway, and they passed the body of a young servant, the tray of wine goblets toppled next to him. Braith cried out. She knew this boy. His mother was a palace bread maker.

  Tears streamed down Braith’s cheeks. “Kharn.” She stopped him and reached for the servant boy. “Let me close his eyes, at least.” She moved her hand over the dead boy’s face.

  “Come, Braith,” Kharn said after a moment. “We must go.” He pulled her to her feet and past the fallen boy.

  In the courtyard beyond the garden, the arrows were fewer, and her hope was rekindled. Perhaps they could make it if they ran.

  But the hope died quicker than it had arisen. For now a rabble appeared on the path that led from the front of the palace. At least two dozen of them, armed and angry. They clearly recognized Braith and seemed to have expected her to be here. Of course, that must have been the plan. To flush them from the garden with arrows and slaughter them here. At close range, to be sure their deed was accomplished.

  Braith’s heart sank. These were not the soldiers of a foreign army. They were not distant conquerors, come to take Tir. They were peasants and merchants and farmers and fishermen. They were Tirians. Braith and Kharn’s own people. And they were here for their queen.

  Braith and Kharn stopped. Kharn pushed her behind him again. “Stay back.”

  “You’re unarmed.”

  “I have my fists. They’re not much, and I’m rather attached to them, but they’ll have to do.”

  Braith wanted to laugh and cry at once.

  Kharn called out to the peasants. “You will not harm her! You will not harm your queen! You’ll have to kill me first.”

  Shouts arose from the crowd of foot soldiers, and by the sound of them, they seemed perfectly willing to comply with this request.

  “Shall we run?” Braith whispered in Kharn’s ear.

  “We wouldn’t make it in time. But I’ll hold them off as long as I can, and you run.”

  “But you—”

  “Promise me.”

  “Kharn . . .”

  “Promise!”

  “I . . . I promise.”

  He kissed her. Not tender and sweet, as their kiss might have been just a few minutes before, but hurried and desperate and determined. “Go!”

  Braith picked up her heavy skirt and tried to obey. She sighted the next gateway and ran toward it. But she had only managed a dozen steps when a man seemed to come from nowhere and forced himself directly into her path.

  “Oh!” Braith crashed into him.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. But I can’t let you do that.” His voice was vaguely familiar. “You need to come with me.”

  And then his hands were on her. Rough, calloused, strong. Shoving her arms behind her back.

  “No!” She fought against him. “Kharn!” she screamed. “Kharn!” She looked up into the stranger’s eyes and found he was just a young man. One she knew.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. It ain’t like I wanted it this way.”

  “Guardsman Bo-Bradwir?” Braith stopped struggling. “What are you doing? Why are you here?”

  “Forgive me, Lady Braith. But it’s time to go.” He looped a rope around her wrists.

  “No!” Braith thrashed against his grip and the rope and the horror of what was happening. The yells of foot soldiers filled her ears. Shouts reverberated through her bones. “Kharn!”

  She twisted so she might look back the way she had come. So she might see Kharn one last time and cry out to him. But she looked just in time to see a man hit Kharn in the head with the hilt of a sword.

  Braith screamed.

  Kharn stumbled to his knees. The man delivered another blow to Kharn’s temple.

  “No!” Braith screamed again.

  Kharn Bo-Candryd collapsed to the cobblestones and lay still.

  Guardsman Bo-Bradwir pulled her away. “Come on, now. You have places to be.”

  “No!” Braith poured every ounce of her will into her struggle and screamed the whole way out of the courtyard. As she went, she saw peasants stream into the castle. In a moment of sheer desperation, she prayed to the Creator that those inside would be able to hide or run.

  Though how could they?

  The servants and the councilors and their families. All the women and children and the sick who lay in the infirmary. Even the condemned in the dungeon.

  Dray.

  And, Creator above, Cameria.

  Braith’s voice finally failed. She gave a strangled gasp and began to weep.

  “I’m very, very sorry, my lady,” Bo-Bradwir said, but his words were undercut by the bonds around her wrists. “They’ve said they won’t harm you. I hope—” But he didn’t finish his ambivalent thought as he pressed a rag filled with a strange, medicinal scent over her mouth and nose.

  All Braith knew was blackness.

  EPILOGUE

  BRAITH

  Braith’s head pounded.

  The medicinal scent lingered in her nose, and she sucked in air to clear it. She opened her eyes, but it made no difference. Blackness was everywhere.

  She tried to take stock of her surroundings—not what she could see, but what she could feel. The ground was hard beneath her. Stone. She was slumped against a wall. She tried to put a hand to her aching head and met with strong resistance and a metallic clang.

  She tried the other hand with the same result. She was chained to something. The wall? Yes. She was shackled to the wall. She tugged at the chains once more, but they snapped her wrists back.

  A stream of fire lit the darkness and sailed toward the side of the room. A torch flared in a bracket. Then another stream and another torch. And another and another.

  Braith blinked.

  A figure stood in the center of the room, shrouded head to toe in black fabric.

  The figure chuckled. “Here we are at last.”

  Braith squinted in the firelight, but the figure was obscured, the voice strange and distorted. “Who are you?”

  “The truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well.”

  The figure stepped forward and began to unwrap the black fabric. Yards and yards of the material pooled on the floor, and a human form took shape.

  Braith looked into the eyes of the person staring at her—so deeply familiar as never to be forgotten. She strained forward, for she must be mistaken. But then she sank back against the stone wall.

  She spoke with difficulty, disbelief rising in her throat.

  “Mother?”

  Continued in

  The Weaver Trilogy: Book 3

  The Story Hunter

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Drafting The Story Raider was one of the most difficult things I’ve done in my career. I wouldn’t have made it through in one piece
without the support of some excellent people.

  Always first, my husband, Dave. Without your encouragement to pursue my creative efforts, none of my stories would be told. Thank you for believing in me.

  To my children: Shane, Jared, and Keira. For making yourselves dinner sometimes while I was trying to make my deadline. I’m so proud of the people you’ve grown into. Never change. Except your socks. Please change those.

  To my agent, my shield-maiden, Rachel Kent. Thank you for always having my back.

  To my team at Enclave: my “marketing lovelies,” Jordan Smith and Katelyn Bolds, whose enthusiasm and support for The Story Peddler kept me going while I was trying to launch it and write The Story Raider at the same time; and to Steve Laube, my fantastic editor, who did not throw me out the window when I changed the title of this book midway through drafting. Sorry about all the tea, Steve. Hopefully no kittens will die.

  To Ashley Mays, for being a constant, even when my world is filled with chaos. You make life better, and I’m so lucky to call you friend.

  To Dana Black, who is the world’s best assistant, handler, and friend—the one who remembers to pack snacks, never lets me forget my purse, and was the first to shout, “More Mor!”

  To my Wonder Women: Avily Jerome, Catherine Jones Payne, and Sarah Grimm. Thank you for carrying my sword when I couldn’t.

  To Chris, whose GIF game is unrivaled.

  To my street team, the Corsyth Crew. While I was typing enough words each day to make my fingers fall off, I fled to our Facebook group to hang out with you guys more times than you know. You are the best and I’m so blessed to have you as my team. For my “Hay, Brac” girls . . . I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you somehow!

  To Kirk DouPonce, for this cover that made me gasp in delight the moment I saw it. You’re still the literal best.

  To my dad, Doug Powell, for lending his colormastery skills to my map and for always adding a little something fun in the process.

  To the readers who have discovered Tanwen’s story—to those who have written to me, internet-yelled at me for having to wait so long for this book, who have gushed on your blogs and your Instagram accounts and in your reviews. You have no idea what your support has meant to me. Thank you for imagining with me.