Acclaim for
THE STORY HUNTER
“A masterful conclusion to an entrancing trilogy. I couldn’t put the book down. Couldn’t stop thinking about it after I’d finished. This is the type of story readers everywhere crave.”
—Nadine Brandes, award-winning author of A Time to Die, Fawkes, and Romanov
“Written to perfection until the final page, The Story Hunter offers a stunning conclusion to a beloved trilogy only Lindsay A. Franklin could deliver. Fans will no doubt be both satisfied and devastated at once. Tanwen’s journey is one I wish would never end!”
—Sara Ella, award-winning author of The Unblemished Trilogy and Coral
“Lindsay A. Franklin’s The Story Hunter is the perfect conclusion to the epic Weaver Trilogy. As always, Franklin’s vibrant writing swept me away into the story with characters I already hold so dear, and her talented storytelling plunged me deeper into the rich world she created. The stakes are higher than ever, the raw emotion stronger, and the characters are just as real and brilliant as before. I highly recommend this tension-filled, beautifully written, captivating story with characters who will steal your heart.”
—S.D. Grimm, author of Scarlet Moon
The Weaver Trilogy
The Story Peddler
The Story Raider
The Story Hunter
THE WEAVER TRILOGY
BOOK 3
LINDSAY A. FRANKLIN
Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC
Phoenix, Arizona, USA
www.enclavepublishing.com
ISBN: 978-1-62184-122-7 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-62184-123-4 (eBook)
The Story Hunter
Copyright © 2020 by Lindsay A. Franklin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Edited by Steve & Lisa Laube
Cover design by Kirk DouPonce
Interior typesetting by Jamie Foley
To my fellow survivors.
This one is for you.
Table of Contents
Cover
Acclaim for The Story Hunter
Half-Title
Books by Lindsay A. Franklin
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Weaver Trilogy
CHAPTER ONE
TANWEN
I stood before the capital city of Urian, unable to breathe. Wispy strands of pearl-gray sorrow cascaded from my hands and pooled on the ground.
The city, the one I’d spent most of my young life dreaming about, hadn’t been all I’d hoped for—that was true. It hadn’t fulfilled me and my desires the way I’d once fantasized it would. But it had been my home for a while. It had been the place where I’d rediscovered my father, alive, after thirteen years apart. The place where we had triumphed over a tyrant, where Braith had rightly been crowned queen, and where I’d thought my future might lie.
And now, it was enveloped in chaos.
People poured through the cobblestoned streets and packed-dirt alleyways. Peasants, the merchant class, soldiers with uniforms in various states of disarray. Nobles, even. I watched as a lady in a fine dress stumbled over the rubbish strewn about the street. She cried out as she hit the ground. Half a moment later, three peasants were upon her, ripping at her fine clothing and jewelry.
Before she could scream again, my father stood over her, his sword drawn and his eyes ablaze. “You’ll not harm her.”
Surely the peasants didn’t recognize him on sight—the former First General of Tir was famous by name, not looks, among the peasant class. But his sword spoke clearly enough. That was a language we all understood. They released the fallen lady and took a few steps backward.
Father nodded to the rest of us, the knot of weavers from the Corsyth, standing frozen in shock or horror. I felt as though I’d sprouted roots into the street. I knew the lady needed assistance. The danger from the rioters pressed in on me like a black cloud of dark magic. And the heat from a nearby shop, awash in flame, warmed my back in the most unpleasant way.
Yet I couldn’t seem to move.
Mor did instead.
He hurried to Father’s side and bent beside the weeping, trembling woman. “Come on, now. Let me help you up.”
She hesitated, and I could hardly blame her. We had traveled from the port city of Physgot to Urian at top speed, stopping only to tuck our injured comrade Aeron safely away in our Corsyth hideaway with Karlith as her nurse. And we’d been moons at sea. Though our ship was commissioned by the queen and we were all legitimate sailors in the eyes of the law, Mor looked every bit the ruffian pirate at the moment.
After a pause, the lady glanced at Father’s blade, still poised protectively between her and the peasant attackers, then she accepted Mor’s hand. He led her safely behind Father, toward the rest of us.
Father turned his attention back to the would-be muggers. “Now, what in the name of the queen has happened here?”
“We have no queen,” one hissed. Her gaze wandered to the lady, who shrank closer to Mor’s side, and her eyes lit up with greed. “There ain’t no such thing as the nobility anymore. What’s hers is mine!”
Zelyth stepped forward, his height imposing despite his thin frame. “That ain’t how it works, last I checked. What’s happened to this place? What’s happened to Queen Braith?”
Another of the peasants, a lad no older than fifteen, sneered. “We don’t an
swer to you. Or him,” he said as he thrust his chin at Father. Though I didn’t fail to notice he took several steps away from Father’s blade before he decided to be so bold.
“Get out of here!” Warmil suddenly shouted, and the peasants scattered. To say the former guardsman captain was on edge was an understatement. Aeron was his lass, and he’d been none too pleased to leave her behind in the Corsyth, even though he knew she couldn’t travel with us. She was still recovering from losing a leg in the battle that had sunk our ship, the Cethorelle.
Dylun’s grip tightened on a wooden box in his hands. He shook his head. “I don’t like this at all.”
Father lowered his weapon, though he didn’t return it to its sheath. He turned to the rattled noblewoman. “My lady, can you tell us what’s happened?”
“Those beasts! Animals!” Her voice quivered as her pitch edged toward glass-splintering. I fought the urge to stick my fingers in my ears. “We were hiding in a shop for days. We were out of water, so I had to leave. I had to! The moment they saw me, they chased me!”
Father nodded. “Are you hurt?”
She ran her hands across the bodice of her dress and down her arms. “I . . . I don’t think so.” Her voice quieted as she checked her body for injuries. Then she began to cry again. “Have they no shame?” Back to glass-wrecking.
“Lady . . . ?” Father waited for her to answer his unasked question.
“Lady Gwan. Gwan Ma-Straychan.”
The name didn’t seem to spark any remembrance or recognition. “Lady Gwan,” Father continued, “can you tell us what happened to the queen?”
“They took her!” Lady Gwan covered her face and sobbed. “They took Queen Braith off to goddesses know where and have done stars-and-moons know what to her.” Her pale, thin shoulders heaved and rattled, and I wondered if this trauma would be the death of the poor thing.
Shrill though she was, I could only imagine how overwhelming this must be for her—for someone who had probably lived in relative peace and comfort her whole life.
“Why does she shake like that?” A young woman—my age but looking at least a few years younger—emerged from the shadow of an alleyway. Like a tiny female version of Mor—dark hair, piercing blue eyes, head cocked to one side curiously. “Why does she act like she’s dying?”
Mor frowned at his sister over the head of Lady Gwan, who continued to weep in earnest. “Diggy, leave her alone.”
Diggy shrugged, the curiosity dropping from her face. “Fine. Just wondered.” She slipped back into the shadows a few feet away, to watch from a safer distance.
Father met Lady Gwan’s watery gaze. “You said they took Queen Braith. Who are they?”
“The steward.” Lady Gwan drew a halting breath. “Well, now he’s the steward. Set himself up very well in the palace, I’m sure. Hosting fine banquets for his henchmen and fellow evildoers. Oh, why! Why has this happened?” She buried her face into Mor, apparently no longer concerned about his disheveled appearance.
Mor shot a wide-eyed glance between me and the tangle of blonde curls resting against his chest.
Under any other circumstance, I might have laughed.
But not now. Not with Urian ablaze and Braith kidnapped or dead and my mind running through a morbid list of names—those who had probably been in Urian when the peasants marched on it.
Cameria, Braith’s maid and Father’s lone ally during his long years in hiding. Ifmere, Zel’s wife, and their baby son, Dafyth. I tried to calculate how old he was now. Half a year? We’d been at sea at least four moons. I had turned eighteen years old and hadn’t even noticed on the day the Cethorelle sank. That was the day Wylie died, and I didn’t think I would celebrate it ever again.
Almost three weeks had passed since then. Time seemed to slip away from me like an ocean current these days.
The names of about a dozen servants and guardsmen with whom I’d become friendly during my weeks living in the palace rolled through my mind now. Were any of them safe? Had everyone but Braith been unharmed?
Braith.
Bile rose in my throat. She was the kindest, goodliest soul I’d ever known. True, I hadn’t known her long, but every time I turned around, she was fighting for what was right, trying to be a good leader to her people.
Why would they harm her? Why would they take her? She would be a good ruler. It was like a strand I couldn’t quite grab hold of. It didn’t make sense.
“Lady Gwan”—Father’s voice carried into my thoughts—“we’ll take you to safety. Then we must continue on to the palace.”
“Oh stars in the heavens, don’t!” she screeched. “They’ll kill you! Absolutely kill you! If you were in the queen’s service, they will treat you no better than me.”
Father’s eyes were kind, but his jaw hardened. “I’d like to know just who they are. And there’s only one way to find out.”
Lady Gwan’s chin trembled, but she took Father’s offered arm and allowed him to lead her away, back toward whatever shop she’d been hiding in, I supposed. I followed close behind, and after a moment, Father turned halfway around and lowered his voice. “Tannie, your strands. Get that under control.”
“Oh.” Those sorrowful, pearly strands were still spilling from my hands, and I had a proper cloud following me at this point. “Right.”
“No need to draw attention. We don’t know what we’re about to face.”
I looked at Mor. “At least the strands were gray. They kind of blend with the smoke. Sparkly purple would’ve been worse.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Yes, rather.” He cast a glance over his shoulder, and I knew he was checking the shadows to make sure Diggy was staying close.
Until we’d plucked her from it—quite accidentally and against her will, if I’m honest—Diggy had lived alone on a tiny island for some years. The crush of people in Urian on its best day would have been a lot for her. This was . . . something else entirely. I was glad she’d chosen to stay and hadn’t fled to the river or forest by now.
Lady Gwan nearly forgot about us once she crossed the threshold of the candle shop where the rest of her party hid. “Straychan!” She ran to a man propped against a barrel full of irregularly shaped candles. He had a wound in his side, and his shirt was stained with blood, but his color looked pretty good. It didn’t seem he would be bleeding out any time soon.
Strange that I had any knowledge at all of bleeding out or of flesh wounds compared to mortal strikes.
How my life had turned sideways.
With Karlith in the Corsyth, Warmil was our most skilled in the healing arts, by far. Even when Karlith was around, Warmil dealt with the nasty work of stitches. I looked at him. “Warmil? Can we help him?”
He frowned. “I could, but I need supplies.”
Father looked thoughtful. “Lady Gwan,” he said at last. “We need to get to the palace. We will send help if we can.”
“Yes.” She rose and faced us again. “Thank you for your help.” She patted at her hips as though searching for her coin purse. It wasn’t there. “Oh, if only they hadn’t taken it!”
A look of disgust settled over Warmil’s face, but Father still had that steady, patient calmness in his eyes. “That’s very kind of you, but we do not require a reward.”
“But who shall I say rescued me? Surely I can give you your proper due.” Lady Gwan looked scandalized at the idea that she might not be able to attach our names to her harrowing story.
Father hesitated. “You may tell people you were rescued by servants of the queen.”
“I know you,” Straychan said suddenly. “I know you from the queen’s council. I stood in the gallery once.”
That was our cue. Father turned and swept his arms out as he moved toward the door, herding me, Mor, Zel, Warmil, and Dylun out into the street. Diggy had never followed us into the shop in the first place.
“He’s Yestin Bo-Arthio!” Straychan fairly shouted. “The queen’s advisor. I’m sure it’s him!”
Father
spun back to the man. “Perhaps we might keep that a little quieter?” Then he bowed once and fled the shop with haste.
We were barely out into the street when someone grabbed my arm and yanked me sideways.
I screamed, then whirled around, ready to shoot strands of fire at my kidnapper.
Except I was face-to-face with a startled Diggy. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
The men thundered into the alleyway a second later. As soon as they saw it was just us, they lowered their blades.
My heart felt like a blacksmith might be shaping something on it. I willed the hammering to slow. “What is it, Diggy? Are you all right?”
“Aye. I just . . .” She glanced over my shoulder, through the rest of the group. “I think we’re being watched.”
Warmil spun, but there was no one there. In the street, people ran in all directions. A horse galloped by, eyes wild and body flecked with foam. With all the screaming and shouting, the chaos pressing in all around, I didn’t know how Diggy could possibly sense we were being watched.
And yet I believed her.
Father had stepped away and now leaned against the stones of one of the shops beside the alleyway. His eyes fluttered closed.
“Father?” I ran to him. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Tannie girl. Just thinking. It’s a peasant uprising. I would suspect Dray was behind it, but orchestrating such a thing from the dungeon is beyond even his capabilities. Could it be connected to Gareth’s murder?”
He wasn’t really talking to any of us, of course. Just thinking out loud.
He straightened. “Bo-Lidere, what were Commander Jule’s plans when we parted at the river?”
“He said he was going to the queen’s navy field office to see what he could find out.” Mor paled. “That was probably a bad idea. I should have had him come with us. But he said he would send a runner—Sailor Bo-Cydrid—to check on us later. We have a meeting point set.”
The Story Hunter Page 1