The Story Hunter

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “The most useful?” Braith regarded her mother with dread. “What do you mean?”

  “I do not plan to use them all. There are three I want, in particular. They have shown certain . . . promise. I would like to help them grow into that potential.”

  “How?” Braith whispered hoarsely. “How will you offer them ancient magic and fuel this wildfire?”

  Frenhin snapped her fingers to call one of her soldiers. “Bring me the prisoner.” She smiled at Braith and Kharn apologetically. “The other one, I mean.”

  A few moments passed, and the soldier reappeared, dragging a man beside him. The man was old, and Braith did not recognize him. He wore the draped garment of a Meridioni senator, or perhaps an atenne scholar. Shackles bound his wrists and ankles, and he stumbled as he walked.

  The soldier shoved him to the ground before Frenhin. She kicked him. “Don’t be rude. Introduce yourself.”

  The man lifted his head and smiled through the many bruises on his face. “It is an honor, Queen Braith.”

  Frenhin kicked him again, and he collapsed to the stone floor.

  “Stop it!” Braith cried. She bent down as best as she was able to look the old man in the eyes. “What is your name, sir?”

  “M-Master Insegno, Your Majesty.” He coughed, a trickle of blood on his lips. “At your service.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TANWEN

  I looked at the parchment in my hands, fully expecting to see what I had the last time someone brought such a piece from Bowyd: a wanted poster with my face, or perhaps the faces of some of the other weavers. Something else to put a big fat target on all our backs and make our quest to rescue Braith—or else our dream of a simple life hidden here in the Corsyth—all the harder.

  But it wasn’t that at all.

  I stared down at it. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s an advertisement,” Warmil said.

  Thanks for the help, War. “I can see that. But . . . an advertisement for a Story Hunt. What’s a Story Hunt?”

  I turned to Mor first, then to Father, then to Warmil. They all looked grave as they studied the flier, and I didn’t understand why this was such serious news.

  Or why it concerned us at all, except that we had some storytellers among us.

  “Tannie,” Father said, pushing the advertisement closer, “read it.”

  “‘Story Hunt,’” I read aloud. “‘Looking for an adventure? Join us! Wealthy benefactor seeking brave, talented crews to join the Hunt. The first team to recover at least three of the missing treasures will be handsomely rewarded. Details below.’”

  I scanned the parchment. “It’s strange, to be sure. But—” I stopped short as my eyes landed on one phrase.

  Buried strands.

  I backed up. Tried to understand what I was reading. Some “wealthy benefactor” was calling for teams of adventurers to retrieve three buried strands. And promising huge rewards in return.

  “A thousand gold pieces?” I spluttered. “Stars, who has that kind of coin in the first place?”

  “A wealthy benefactor, it would seem.” Father’s tone was somber. “Tannie, look at the team requirements.”

  I skipped ahead. “‘Each team should have those with combat experience. Mining experience a plus.’ Mining?” I raised an eyebrow at Mor, who was reading over my shoulder.

  He pointed. “Look.”

  “‘Each team must have at least one storyteller to call forth the buried strands.’”

  Memories flashed through my mind—our quest around the world to find and retrieve the cure strands, pulling them up from various rock monuments in Meridione, Haribi, Minasimet, and Kanac. How we had to use a variety of weaver gifts to beckon the strands from their ancient hiding places.

  I lowered the parchment. “They . . . they are searching for ancient strands.”

  Father nodded. “Aye.”

  “At least three of them. And only a storyteller can pull them out.”

  “Aye.”

  “If this person—this benefactor—knows how to pull out the strands they’re after, it means they already have at least one,” I said. “And that the others they want are identical. We were always guessing at how we would be calling up our next strand for the cure.”

  “Not guessing,” Mor reminded me. “Dylun knew how to get each of them.”

  Yes. My memory sharpened at the reminder. “Because he had researched the ancient texts. Of course. With Master Insegno.” Some of the memories I had lost to the curse and reclaimed through the cure were fuzzy around the edges.

  “So,” I asked slowly, “are we saying there’s someone out there who not only knows about these incredibly powerful ancient strand artifacts but who also knows where some of the strands to build one might be buried?”

  “It looks that way,” Father answered.

  “And they’re trying to build the artifact, just like we tried to build the cure.” I frowned. “But why ‘at least three’? If they want to build an artifact, they’ll need all the strands.”

  I thought of the cure strands curled in the box, awaiting their fellows, while we hunted each in turn. The strands wouldn’t form an artifact unless they were all brought together.

  “Maybe they don’t realize that?” Warmil suggested.

  An unwelcome voice cut in. “Not possible.”

  I whirled to find Dray standing behind me. When had he slithered around the boulder? I would have to remember that he was quiet as a fluff-hopper when he wanted to be.

  “What do you mean?” I asked sharply.

  I tried to gain control of my tone. Dray knew things we didn’t. If we wanted to make the best use of this uneasy alliance, I should at least try to be nicer to him.

  I fought for a smile and arrived somewhere south of a grimace. “How do you know it’s not possible?”

  “This is the Master.” He nodded to the parchment advertisement. “I’m sure of it.”

  Father took a step toward Dray, and it looked like a threat. “How are you sure? Tell us what you know.”

  Dray didn’t look ruffled—at least not on the surface. But he took a small step back. “Because the Master is a weaver.” His gaze shifted between us. “You . . . didn’t realize this already?”

  And then, of course, when he said it like that, all the pieces of the puzzle snapped together. The force behind the dark strands that had chased us all through the autumn—the one that created the strands of fire and smoke and night and death that had sunk our ship and murdered Wylie and maimed Aeron and killed Gryfelle. Of course it was a weaver. And Dray had erased the last question mark, confirmed it for sure: the person staging the coups and chasing us with clouds of strands across the world were one and the same.

  The Master.

  But something about this verification made my stomach roil. It seemed we were constantly battling attacks from four sides at once. The thought that one person was powerful enough to orchestrate it all was unsettling.

  Dray seemed to be biting down on a smile. “You mentioned being chased by some dark strands. I’ve been telling you there is a dark force behind all the troublesome happenings in Tir. I guess I thought you would have connected these things and recognized your own gifts in the Master’s tactics.” He cast a condescending glance at Father. “That you might, at least.”

  Father glared. “I always have my theories. But the confirmation is helpful. Thank you.”

  Dray bowed. “I live to serve.”

  Mor took the parchment and shoved it at Dray. “Tell us what this is.”

  He read it carefully, then handed it back. “It looks like the Master wants ancient strands for some reason.”

  “Helpful.” Warmil rolled his eyes. “What would that reason be?”

  Dray shrugged. “What are the uses of the ancient strands? You would know better than I.”

  I tried to recall everything I’d heard about them. “We know they are used to build artifacts. Cures and other objects with strong powers. We should
ask Dylun.” I hesitated. “Or send a message to Master Insegno? He would know best.”

  “Oh, so that’s what is in that box the Meridioni was burying a few moments ago.” Dray grinned. “I told you I didn’t care, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

  Would it be bad form to shoot fire strands at this man? He was technically our ally, but surely it wouldn’t have been the worst thing I’d ever done.

  “We know the strands are very powerful,” Father ventured carefully, avoiding Dray’s mention of the cure we had built.

  Dray leveled his gaze at us. “Then you should be very concerned that the Master wants them.”

  I thought back to Father’s epiphany on ship—that the force chasing us wanted to capture me and Mor and turn us into a weapon. The strands of this story were coming together with sickening clarity.

  “Dray . . . do you think the Master might want something more than the strands themselves?” I asked. “Do you think he could be after the storytellers pulling them up?”

  He took the parchment from Warmil once more. “It says three strands. That’s rather specific. But it appears to be a wide call out to anyone who might respond. The Master is more exacting than that when choosing pawns and allies. I have no direct knowledge of this plan, mind you, but my guess is the Master actually wants strands. And when the strands are delivered, the teams are likely to be disposed of.”

  “Killed?” My voice came out as a squeak. But truthfully, I preferred that to the casual way Dray spoke of Creator knew how many people being murdered.

  “I don’t see any benefit to softening this truth for you,” Dray said. “The Master will have no problem disposing of any person who poses threat, obstacle, or annoyance. As long as doing so doesn’t create a larger threat, obstacle, or annoyance. You should all begin to think of your lives in this way. If you don’t, you will never survive an encounter with the Master.”

  “I’m sure you survived many.” Father’s tone was terse.

  “And that makes me useful to you.” Dray pointed to the bottom of the advertisement. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you now. This is where I’ve been taking you.”

  I looked at the sentence and read it aloud for the others. “Teams will report to the huntmaster in Ir-Golyth.” My eyes widened. “In the Highlands?” I looked at Father. “That’s in the Highlands, isn’t it?”

  “Aye,” he answered wearily. “And we’ve scarcely a moon before winter begins.”

  “Sorry to inform you,” Dray said, not sounding sorry at all, “but I believe the Master will have taken Braith to a particular point near Ir-Golyth.”

  Another strand of the story crystallized.

  And the dream of a safe, quiet life tucked away in the Corsyth with tomorrows stretching before me and Mor and the others shattered.

  Because, of course, we would go to Ir-Golyth. Or the highest peak in the Highlands. Or to the stars, if we had to. Whatever this Master was playing at, it was bigger than our lives. Bigger than our personal happiness. To use that ancient magic we had just barely brushed against for anything resembling evil was . . .

  I couldn’t even imagine. It would spell disaster for Tir, disaster for everyone we had ever loved who was still alive.

  And disaster for Braith, if she endured still.

  We had to try. Even if it was a lost cause, we would always try.

  Father’s hand twitched near the hilt of his sword, and Dray held up his hands. “Now, now, General. None of that. You only know where to go in the vaguest sense of the word. If you have any hope of getting close enough to the Master to rescue Braith, you still need me.”

  Father’s jaw tensed, but his hand relaxed.

  Dray smiled and turned to me. “Unless you don’t care to rescue Braith. And if that’s the case, by all means, let that fool sit on the throne all you like.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BRAC

  I stared down at a bunch of papers—documents, Naith called them—and they might as well have been written in Minasimetese for all I could read them.

  “My son. Your thoughts?”

  What was I supposed to say, exactly? He knew I couldn’t read. “Your Holiness, it ain’t gonna make more sense to me the longer and harder I stare at it. I told you, I can’t read the words.”

  Two of my aides, seated on the other side of the table, looked at each other, and I could see what passed between them, plain as pickles.

  What a fool.

  Stupid farm boy from Pembrone.

  What kind of watta-root-for-brains have we appointed steward?

  But Bo-Fergel, the aide sitting next to me, leaned over and picked up the paper on top of the stack. “Shall we work through it together, then, my lord?”

  Naith sighed.

  I scowled at him, in spite of myself. “Apologies, Your Holiness. Did you have more important business tugging your tail?”

  His gaze turned sharp, but he didn’t dare rebuke me. Not in front of the others. He would wait for later, I knew. He would wait until we were alone, and then he would scold me and tell me he was only there to help and that he only had my best interests—and the best interests of the people—in mind.

  I’d heard it a hundred times before, and I was right sick of the refrain.

  But now, in front of the aides seated around the old council table with us, he plastered on a pleasant smile. “Forgive me, my lord. I confess my heart is not here at the table this afternoon.”

  I glanced at the aides. “Give us the room for a moment, will you?”

  Bo-Fergel rose. “We will order something from the kitchens, then return. Perhaps refreshment will help revive us all. Tea, my lord?” He inclined his head to Naith. “Your Holiness?”

  “Fine, fine.” Naith waved his hand.

  The aides went out, and Naith and I were alone.

  The pleasant smile dropped from his face. “You can’t behave that way in front of the others, Steward. It doesn’t present the correct image. Those around us must see your regime as seamless and unified. It must look altogether different from the messy politics the people remember under the royals.”

  “But it isn’t different, is it?” I looked down at the papers. “We have all the same problems.”

  “Well, you’re running a kingdom.”

  “Am I?” I slapped the stack of documents. “How, exactly? I only got into all this mess because I thought I could help people. But I haven’t even been able to make bread for them to eat lately.” I held my hands in front of my face and wiggled my fingers. “It’s like the power is gone, and I don’t know where it went.”

  “You have freed the people from Braith’s rule, and that was help enough.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, I could see Naith knew it had been the wrong thing to say to me.

  I rose from my chair. “You know I don’t hold nothin’ against the queen. Or former queen,” I said before he could correct me. “And I don’t know what you have against her neither.” I plunked back into my seat. “Nothing makes sense anymore. I just . . . wanted to help people.”

  “Son. May I remind you why you joined this cause? As I recall, you weren’t so concerned with helping people as you remember.”

  Shame ate at me like a root-snacker on a watta.

  Because he was right, of course. I hadn’t been interested in helping people. Not at first. He had to talk me into all that chosen one nonsense. Blazes, I didn’t even really believe in the goddesses.

  No, that wasn’t what had pulled me into this mess. It was because I was jealous—jealous of Tannie and her pirate. Jealous and brokenhearted and despairing. She had left me for him, no matter what she said.

  Her words pricked me like a thousand briars.

  She said she’d been sick. If she had been sick, she would have told me sooner. Wouldn’t she?

  I tried to shove memories to the corners of my mind—memories that had been bothering me since Tannie and her friends burst in here like a spate of blight three days past. />
  Ever since she’d said it, new remembrances had been creeping up. Like little hedge-nibblers, their heads popping up in the middle of the garden at the worst times. The memories poked out, and I tried to smash them down.

  But they wouldn’t stay down, those memories. Those moments when I thought maybe Tannie had been trying to tell me something. Maybe she did try to tell what was going on and I hadn’t been able to listen.

  Or willing. I hadn’t been willing to listen.

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. “Whatever the reason, we’re here now.” I opened my eyes and looked up at Naith. “And what good are we doing, exactly? This ain’t . . . well, this ain’t how I pictured it would be.”

  Naith lowered himself into his velvet-padded chair—extra cushioning for His Holiness’s backside. He seemed to like rich things an awful lot for someone who was supposed to live a life dedicated to the goddesses.

  “Brac,” he said more patiently, “we will help the people. We are helping the people. But I confess . . .” He turned and looked toward one of the high windows on the north wall. “I confess I grow weary of government work.”

  I tried to stop my jaw from falling. “Weary?” I looked at the mess of papers again. “I can’t afford for you to be weary. We only been here a week!”

  “I long to return to the Master.” He was still staring out the window with a faraway look.

  “You . . . you what?”

  He started and came back to himself. “My masters, the goddesses. I miss my work at the temple.”

  But his ears tinged pink, and then the flush spilled all over his face and his bald head.

  I eyed him. “Well,” I began slowly, “the way I see it, the city is worse than ever. I can’t seem to make bread anymore, and the people will begin to go hungry before long. Maybe we could just undo it all? Just take back what we’ve done?”