But somehow, though we traveled farther and farther north and the last moon of autumn waned, welcoming winter’s icy breath and snow-drenched days, my bones shivered less each night. Diggy, Karlith, and I still huddled together under all our cloaks every evening, as close to the fire as we could manage without igniting our hair. But each night seemed easier than the last.
At least for me.
“Make a strand of fire, Tannie.” Diggy rattled within her cloak as we walked.
Whatever second skin I was growing, the same wasn’t happening for Diggy. At least I was used to a little snow and the ice-cold breeze off the Menfor Sea back in Pembrone. She had turned islander to her core, and I wasn’t sure she would make it through to the end of our quest, to be honest.
“I can’t, Diggy. I think my story strands are frozen somewhere by my elbows. Besides, the fire only seems to come out when I’m angry.”
“Then get angry about something. Where’s Mor?”
I laughed, and my teeth chattered a little.
“Did I hear my name?”
I glanced to my right, and there he was. Maybe we could make fire strands if we kissed again . . .
My face suddenly wasn’t cold anymore. In fact, it felt like I had just stuck it into our nightly campfire.
What was wrong with me? I had spent the past two and a half weeks trying to scrub that kiss from my memory. The last thing I needed just then was a distraction so vast and wiggly.
And those blue eyes, the dark beard beginning to fill in after several weeks without shaving, and that smirky smile were definitely distracting.
“Tannie?” He was watching me with a question mark on his face.
I had been staring.
My cheeks flushed hotter.
“I . . . nothing. I don’t know. What?”
Diggy rescued me. “I thought you might be able to make Tannie mad so she could make a fire strand to keep us warm.”
Mor’s curious gaze lingered on me for an extra second. Then he turned to his sister. “No need. We’ll reach Ir-Golyth shortly.”
I glanced around at the thick evergreens surrounding us on every side. “Is the town in the forest?”
“Just on the edge. We’re almost there, if Dylun’s calculations are correct.”
“They usually are.”
And sure enough, within the hour, the trees broke up ahead of us, and I could see shingled roofs and buildings constructed of logs.
Diggy frowned. “Those houses are made of trees.”
“From the girl who used to sleep under a palm frond.” I nudged her. But I knew what she meant. It was a bit strange to see buildings made of felled logs like this.
Up ahead, my father stopped walking and paused, staring out at the town before us.
I hurried to catch up with him, as quickly as I could with the heavy cloak wrapped around my shoulders.
“Father?”
He turned toward me. “Yes, Tannie?”
“Is everything all right?”
He didn’t answer. He turned back toward the town, his lips pressed into a line.
I tried again. “What’s the plan? Do we just march in?”
“I don’t think we will be as recognized here as we were in the Midlands.” But he was obviously concerned.
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing.”
“We might be on the steward’s wanted list,” Warmil said. “And if we are, the news would certainly have traveled this far north.”
Father faced him, not looking entirely pleased.
But Warmil didn’t flinch. “All due respect, General, but she’s not a child. She is of age by all standards, and she’s seen enough life to warrant telling her the full truth.”
Well, after that vote of confidence, I couldn’t show a shred of the panic opening up like a gash inside me.
“All right,” I said. “We might be on the wanted list. What would that mean?”
“A bounty on our heads,” Father said grimly.
Yes, that would be bad. The famine hadn’t ended when Gareth fell, and heading into winter, there would be a lot of peasants desperate for food. And if you had enough gold, you could usually afford food.
“But they let us go,” I reminded them. “They let us leave Urian.” I looked at Father. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“It certainly seemed so at the time.”
“But now,” Warmil said, “standing here at the edge of Ir-Golyth, it seems a big risk to assume the steward doesn’t want to see us captured. Or killed.”
“Brac wouldn’t order that,” I responded. But then I wondered . . .
Would he? Did I even know Brac anymore? The boy I knew—the one who chased fluff-hoppers with me and shared his hathberry pie and was my family when I had none . . .
Did he even exist now?
My thoughts shifted to Zel’s face—to Cameria’s face as she broke the news about Ifmere. I tried to remember every death Brac had been involved with, directly or not.
“Well, maybe he would,” I said at last. “Or someone he’s working for might.”
As we stood there, looking pensive and worried, Aeron strode by, limping slightly. She went past the trees and into the open, then turned back to us.
She reached inside her cloak and adjusted her sword belt. “We knew the risks. If we want to find Queen Braith, we better get a move on.” She spread her hands wide, a glint of challenge in her twinkling eyes. “Well? Are you coming?”
Maybe something about those log buildings blocked the thrum of the town from reaching the outside world. Maybe the forest swallowed up the buzz of humanity before it reached us. Whatever it was, if I had thought Ir-Golyth looked to be asleep for the winter from the outside, I knew I was dead wrong the moment we entered it.
We rounded a corner and stepped onto a cobblestoned street. I was met bodily by a mountain of a man.
“Watch it!” he shouted, shoving me away with his forearm.
Father appeared beside me in an instant. He gripped the man’s wrist. “You’ll want to get your hands off my daughter.”
The man winced but managed to wrench himself away. He rubbed his wrist and glared as he backed up. “She ran into me, after all.”
“An accident.” Mor helped me regain my balance, throwing a sharp look at the burly, bearded stranger.
“She ran into me,” he said again before disappearing into a crush of people.
Diggy shrank into my side as she looked around at Ir-Golyth. “Tannie . . .”
Truly, the streets ran like streams—a continuous flow of human bodies moving with the current.
Aeron and Warmil sidled up beside Father. “All here for the Hunt?” Warmil asked quietly.
“Probably so,” Father replied, his eyes watchful.
A trill of laughter drew my gaze to a knot of people nearby—one woman and four men. They all wore clothes that somewhat resembled the uniforms of the queen’s navy, but it was like the garments had been patched, pieced together, and adorned with baubles and trinkets from the four corners of the world. They all wore their hair in rows of tight braids tracing along their scalps and then swinging free down their backs. Feathers, charms, and beads were interwoven through the braids.
The lady winked at Mor as she passed, though she had to be at least fifteen years his senior, flashing a smile that revealed more than one gold tooth and somehow still managed to be pretty. She turned back to her fellows and laughed again, then placed a tricorn hat over her braids before she and her comrades disappeared into the stream of people.
Pirates.
I turned to Mor. “Do you know them?”
“Because I know every pirate who sails the five seas of the world?” he asked, one brow raised.
I shrugged. “Thought maybe you had a guild, or something.” I glanced at Father. “Definitely here for the Hunt. They said adventurers, right?”
“Aye.” Father scanned the crowd, and I was sure he saw what I did.
An assortment of muscled
warriors, all with multiple weapons strapped to their bodies. Those in sailing garb, both of the navyman variety and the pirate persuasion. Men who had the same hardened, gaunt look as Warmil and those who were dressed almost entirely in leather—grizzled Wildlanders from western Tir.
I even saw one group comprised of what looked to be Meridioni sailors, and they appeared to be shivering half to death.
And there we stood—three legitimate soldiers, one former pirate, a scholar, a farmer, a healer, a story peddler, a crooked politician, and . . . Diggy.
“Would you mind terribly if we didn’t stand here all day?” Dray’s teeth chattered. “I’m a moment away from an icy death, I’m afraid.”
“Shall we find an inn?” I stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the heads of the crowd to read the shop signs.
And then I found I couldn’t read them at all.
“Father? The words look foreign.”
“Highlandish uses different characters.” He craned his neck and sighed. “And I’m not fluent. In the northern Wildlands, they speak a Highlandish-Tirian blend, using Tirian lettering. I’m competent in that, but this is pure Highlandish.”
“You only speak Highlandish-Tirian blend? Father, I’m shocked and disappointed.”
“Well, I’m fluent in a few other languages but none that would hel—” He stopped as he caught my grin. “You’re jesting.”
“That one over there is an inn,” Dylun said, pointing. “We might try there.”
I stifled a giggle. “Of course you actually do speak pure Highlandish, Dylun.”
Father and Warmil took the lead in trying to forge a path through the crowd toward the building Dylun had indicated.
“Not exactly.” He grunted as he took a stray elbow to the gut. “But if you are familiar with the logographic system that predates Old Tirian and from which Highlandish characters originate, it isn’t too difficult to—oof!” Someone stumbled into him, and he went sprawling into Zel’s back.
“Oh yes. If only you’re familiar with those.” I helped him regain his footing.
“Almost there!” Father called. In the next moment, I was tripping over a threshold, clutching Diggy by my side.
“Oi, can I help ya?” a woman with two long yellow braids asked in thickly accented Tirian.
I looked around. It was less an inn and more just one big room with a hard-packed dirt floor and two dozen cots lined up along the walls.
“Do you have any beds available for the night?” Father inquired.
“We ’ave one left, but there’s room on the floor. Full price, though.”
Dray nudged his way to the front of the group. He unleashed that too-white, sparkly smile of his. “Full price? Now, surely there’s something we can do about that. What’s your name, lass?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but her lips twitched just a little. “Oosta.”
“That’s beautiful.”
I snorted. Mor pinched my arm, and I tried to recover with a false cough.
But Dray acted like he could only hear and see the lady in front of him. “Oosta, surely you could give us a little break since we’ll be sleeping on the floor. It will pay off handsomely, I assure you. We are well connected all throughout the empi—that is, the kingdom. Your lovely establishment will become the place to stay in all of Ir-Golyth.”
She folded her arms. “Most places is full up. You ain’t got much choice but to sleep on my floor and pay what I ask, ya know.”
“There are always choices in life, Oosta.” Dray took her hand, flashed his smile again, and kissed her fingers.
She laughed and pulled her hand away. Then she grinned. “Oh, all righ’. Stay on the floor for free, but ya pay for the bed, mind. And ya tell everyone about my place, got it?”
“Of course.” Dray stepped back and ushered Dylun toward Oosta to take care of the rest of the arrangements.
As Dylun loosened the strings of the coin purse, Dray reached in and plucked out a silver bit. Before anyone could object, he slipped it inside a pocket in his waistcoat.
I must have been wearing my indignation plainly, because he smirked at me and shrugged. “I just saved us ten times as much.”
“But cost us double that savings on your fancy clothes,” I grumbled.
“No matter. I intend to find a stiff drink in a dirty pub somewhere.” The smile again, at me, then Diggy. “You lasses should join me.”
“Actually, we’ll all join you,” Father informed Dray. “We’re not splitting up. Not in this crowd with this chaos.”
Dray shrugged. “Suit yourself. As long as I have a decent drink in my hand shortly, I don’t care what you do.”
Mor had shed his heavy pack and held out his hands for ours. “Oosta says the place is secure. Her father and brothers are guarding the perimeter.” A shadow of unease crossed his face. “Our belongings will be safer here than on our backs, I’m afraid.”
“Aye.” Diggy shrugged out of her pack and handed it to him. “It’s all these blasted pirates running around.”
Mor and I shared the quickest glance. She was teasing him—like a sister might. I could practically see the achy place inside Mor’s heart warm.
“Dylun,” Father said, “make sure you keep the coin purse close. There are some supplies we’ll need to pick up for the Hunt. I want to find the huntmaster first thing in the morning.”
“I think I shall take the cot,” Dray drawled as we left the inn to find a pub he deemed acceptable. “It was I, after all, who secured the floor for free.”
Karlith looked scandalized. “Would you really do that? With an injured lass in our party?” She nodded to Aeron. “I thought a little better of even you, Dray Bo-Anffir.”
He shrugged. “Then perhaps I’ll share Oosta’s bed. Surely you wouldn’t object to that. I’m fairly certain she’s half mountainbeast, but a warm body is a warm body.”
Karlith looked like she had been slapped. “As a matter of fact, I—”
“Karlith,” I cut in gently. “He’s only saying it to upset you.” I glared at him. “Leave her alone, and sleep wherever you feel like. No one here cares.”
He chuckled and gave me a slow, appraising scan. “I doubt that’s true.”
I made a mental note to make sure Mor, Father, Warmil, and at least fourteen weapons within easy reach were between Dray and me that night.
“Here.” Father stopped in front of a shop. He peered in the front window. “Yes, this is a pub.” He gestured Dray inside. “Go on. Get your drink.”
I looped my arm through Mor’s as we followed the others into the pub. Diggy pressed up close to my other side.
We walked into what looked like a light show.
Strands like the sunset—pink, yellow, orange, red—sailed through the room to the gasps and cheers of the crowd. The strands formed wide splashes of color from one end of the room to the other.
A glowing orb in the center of the pub hovered for a moment, then dropped to the floor and made a sound like shattering glass.
“Never fear!” An ashy-haired young man dressed in Wildlander leather raised his arms, a smug grin on his face. “It’s all part of the show.”
He waved one hand with a flourish, and the story shards that had once represented the sun re-formed into an orb—one that was a bit wonky and didn’t glow quite as well as the original.
“Wait until you see it crystallized, folks,” the Wildlander bragged. “My stories are costly but worth every bit and more!”
Diggy rolled her eyes. “Yours are better, Tannie.”
“Hey, don’t say that too loudly”—Mor grinned—“even though it’s true. We don’t need to make more enemies, if we can help it.”
“Yours are better, too, Mor.” Diggy glared at the storyteller. “I don’t like this guy. He’s a braggart, and I hate braggarts.”
“Don’t bother over it.” I glanced at the Wildlander and those around him, some already reaching into their pockets to bid on the story once it crystallized.
A youn
g lad in patched woolen clothes looked up at the sunset story in delight. “It’s brilliant! Wish I could buy it.”
The Wildlander paused. “Do you have coin, lad?”
The boy shook his head. “Nah, not me. If I did, I’d hafta buy more bread and leave the story behind.”
“Then what are you doing here?” The Wildlander stared down his nose. “Go on. Get out of here. The show is for paying customers only.”
The boy’s smile fell.
My insides turned hot, then cold. Memories flooded through me—traveling around to peddle stories with Riwor. How the eager children had always gathered first. How I’d assessed the young men I was willing to speak with based on the state of their worn clothing and calloused hands. How Riwor had taught me to cater to the customers who looked like the highest bidders.
But also how I would, almost without fail, tell a story to one child after most of the others had left. How I would share a secret fairy story or whisper a thinly veiled yarn about my own ambitions in life or recite the tale of the pink fluff-hopper granting an ill-fated wish.
Because I was that child, too poor to buy a story or any other trinket. I was the little girl worrying too much about where my next meal would come from to indulge in something so frivolous as art.
Frivolous, yet the lifeblood that kept me going.
As I stared at the cocky Wildlander, my hands warmed. He was everything I hated about story peddling and everything I hated about myself.
But before I could force my hands to cool off—or foolishly let strands pour from them—Diggy brushed past me.
“Enough of this,” she said.
I watched her in mute shock.
The Wildlander storyteller regarded her with a superior air as she approached, then his eyes darted to the tattoos snaking down her fingers. His eyebrows rose. “Well, well.”
“Dig—” Mor started, but it was too late.
Diggy reached into the air and grasped one of the storyteller’s strands in each of her hands.
“What the—”
The Story Hunter Page 13