The Story Hunter

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  The high priest was worked into a froth about something.

  And then I heard my name.

  “Brac is not quite the easy mark we had hoped for. In some ways, yes. We’ve gotten him this far, after all. But in other ways, the boy gives me more trouble than you can imagine.”

  “Try me.”

  My heart stopped its galloping. That voice. I didn’t know it, exactly, but I almost felt like I’d heard it before. Once, maybe, a while back. It was a strange voice, not easily forgotten. Muddled, somehow, like I was hearing it through water or the whistling wind.

  Was someone else in there with him?

  “The boy keeps making ridiculous statements about undoing it all, taking it back, wanting to go home. He has lost his nerve, that’s certain. And . . .”

  “Continue, Naith.” The tone left no room for argument.

  Who was this person ordering around the High Priest of Tir?

  “He made a comment—in passing, mind you, probably nothing to worry about . . .”

  “Speak, Naith!”

  I flinched at the yell, and the strange voice wasn’t even talking to me. I could imagine Naith cowering.

  “Brac said something about wishing to restore Braith to the throne.”

  The voice laughed. “Is that all? Well, there’s no danger of that.”

  My heart stuttered. Did that mean . . . was the queen dead? After they’d promised me they wouldn’t harm her?

  But then the voice continued, “She’s here with me, after all.”

  With this mystery person? Here? In the palace? In Naith’s room?

  What in blazes was going on?

  My heart found its proper beat again. A seed of anger grew inside me. It sprouted a runner, and this seedling of fury replaced any fear in my body. I threw caution into the sea and edged closer to Naith’s bedchamber to see what was happening.

  I peered around the corner of the bedroom door. Naith’s back was to me—thank the stars—and he was on his knees before an open window, despite the chill air of the first winter moon. Strands like Tannie’s story strands—but almost invisible—curled all around him. I couldn’t see them, exactly, but I could see the way they played with the light and air in the room. Like heat waves rising on a blistering day.

  And the voice was coming straight from those strands.

  I goggled. I knew I was being reckless, standing there like a dolt. If Naith had turned at that moment, I wouldn’t have been able to move, no matter how much I wanted to.

  But he didn’t turn, and I kept trying to understand what I was seeing.

  “I will keep a close watch on Braith,” the voice said from the strands. “That is my concern and mine alone, no matter what the boy wishes he could do.”

  “But if his sentiment is such, couldn’t he raise support to—”

  “Enough.”

  Naith’s head dropped another inch. “Yes, Master.”

  “I have it well in hand. Braith will not escape. She is literally in chains in the next room. No matter how much support the boy is able to raise, Braith will not be free to reclaim her place on the throne.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Master. His slips a while back came to mind. He’d said that name to me before and tried to scramble out of it.

  So this person in the strands was his Master.

  But who? How?

  “And the others?” the Master asked.

  “Unless they have been waylaid, they should have reached the Mynyth by now.”

  “My spies in Ir-Golyth report possible sightings.”

  “I sent them straight into your hands,” Naith said quickly. “All you need to do is capture them.”

  “Yes, just that simple task.” The words dripped with sarcasm, even though they were spoken through strands—strands apparently coming from the Mynyth Range? That was way up north.

  Then it hit me like a side of grazer. These others Naith and his Master were talking about were Tannie and her friends. The rebel weavers.

  Naith had sent them straight into a trap.

  “No, of course, Master. It will not be simple. They have proved the most troublesome creatures I’ve ever encountered. But we are very close.”

  “Indeed. So close.”

  “And then . . .” Naith paused. “What of Braith? And Kharn Bo-Candryd?”

  “It will be time to dispose of them. They are still threats, though I have them in chains.”

  “Begging your pardon, Master . . .”

  A sigh. “Yes, Naith?”

  “Why not dispose of them now? If they pose a risk, if they are threats, dispatch them at once.”

  The clear strands twisted around Naith, swirling slowly. After a moment, the voice spoke again. “Conveniently, Braith serves as the perfect bit of bait for the moment. I’m using her to lure the others. But it goes beyond that. This is a personal matter. I want Braith to watch as I destroy everything that matters to her.”

  Naith leaned his forehead against the window ledge, as though bowing low before someone—begging, groveling. “Master, have I not earned your trust? Have I not earned some confidence? I have been your most trusted servant for decades. Your most faithful soldier since the beginning. Will you not tell me at last why this matters to you so? If you will put yourself and the operation at risk to fulfill this personal desire, I will support you. Only tell me why.”

  Another pause, and the strands whirled like they were thinking.

  “Yes, Naith. You have earned as much.”

  And then, something happened to the voice. The garbled, wobbly sound about it lifted. And when it spoke again, I could hear it, smooth as a solid-frozen pond in the dead of winter.

  “It is I, Naith,” she said, for there was no mistaking it now. The voice was clearly a woman’s. “I have personal business with Braith because I am the Master.”

  Naith clutched a hand to his heart. “Your . . . Your Majesty?”

  And then it all rushed in on me like a wave crashing against the empty shore it had left behind a minute earlier.

  I’d heard the voice in the throne room more than a handful of times while I stood guard at court: Frenhin Ma-Gareth, Queen of the Tirian Empire.

  “Yes, it is I. Your true queen.”

  Naith began to weep. “Oh, Master. How I’ve longed to know.”

  My stomach turned over like I might hork up my breakfast.

  But I’d heard enough. Enough to know exactly what I needed to do next.

  I backed out of Naith’s room as he whimpered and praised the traitor queen—Queen Braith’s own mother. I carefully closed the door to its proper spot.

  Then I took off at a full run back to my apartments. I burst into the front room, startling Eny.

  He looked at me cheerfully. “Oh, there you are. I had a thought about—” He stopped short as he took in my face. “What is it, Brac? Where is the ale?”

  I pulled the door closed behind me and leaned against it. “Eny . . .” I swallowed hard. “Can I trust you?”

  He set his papers on the desk and crossed the room to me. “With your life.”

  “I need you to draft some letters for me.” I paused to do some mental figuring. “Fourteen of them. We will need eleven of our swiftest carrier birds to take some to the Eastern Peninsula. Three runners to deliver the others in Urian.”

  Eny nodded. “Yes, my lord. Of course.”

  “And have the stable master saddle my horse.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DIGWYN

  Thoughts of vengeance come to me every night.

  Not sometimes. Not on the bad days. Not when things are hard.

  Every. Single. Night.

  What would I do to them if I had the chance? What wouldn’t I do to them if I had the chance?

  How do you pay a man back for a lifetime’s worth of pain?

  There is no amount of suffering I might inflict upon them that would take mine away. So, then what?

  Death.

  Death is the only true v
engeance—the only way to make right what has been wronged. The only way to fix what’s been broken.

  And if they could truly understand, they would see it’s a mercy. If I were to inflict equal pain, it would be worse. Death is swift, merciful, clean.

  And right.

  Because that’s what they did to me. They murdered me. They killed everything that mattered, everything that made me whole and hopeful, young and innocent.

  They murdered me without giving me the peace of permanent sleep.

  I will not be so cruel to them.

  Abdomen. Armpit. Inner thigh.

  Liver. Axillary artery. Femoral artery.

  Abdomen. Armpit. Inner thigh.

  The words race through my mind, over and over, as they have for two years past. Abdomen, armpit, inner thigh. Liver, axillary artery, femoral artery. Two movements of my body, three swift strikes, death in less than a minute.

  I had practiced in my mind, just in case the chance presented itself. I studied whatever books and bits of information Kawan could get for me from the ships docking at Kanac. Warmil was right. I had studied anatomy for exactly this purpose.

  In case I ever ran across one of them. So I would know what to do, where to strike. So I could end it quickly and bring what they had coming.

  Have my revenge.

  Redeem what was lost, even if only in some small measure.

  And now, the words rumble through my mind, echoing the thundering pulse of my heart.

  Abdomen. Armpit. Inner thigh.

  Panic chokes me, and my hands begin to shake. Blood, sticky between my fingers. My breath, ragged. The gasps, short.

  “Diggy!” I hear Tannie call.

  “Diggy!” Mor’s voice seems to reach out and find me in the dark.

  But they’re far away. I can tell, though the cave tries to deceive me.

  I duck into a cleft in the wall and freeze. Try to breathe. Try to think.

  I did it perfectly. Exactly as I had imagined. Exactly as I had practiced.

  He saw my face, remembered me at last, and then he was dead. Exactly as it was supposed to be.

  I wait, because surely it will come. Surely the vengeance will begin to soothe my soul. I need only let the rush dissipate, my heart calm, and then some of the ache will subside.

  At last.

  Four long years, and finally the ache will ease.

  But as I sit in the dark, the ache does not ease. The dark pit of my soul only grows.

  It takes another moment, huddling in the shadows, wedged in the cleft of the rock, but finally I understand the truth. It dawns like sunrise on the day you know you’re going to die.

  Revenge will not restore my soul. Vengeance will not soothe the ache. Ending Lasech’s life has not evened the score.

  And if revenge doesn’t help, what will?

  I hold my breath as someone passes.

  “Diggy?” It’s Tannie, and her voice is full of tears. Hopelessness. Despair. “Diggy?”

  I don’t speak. Don’t breathe. I let her light disappear down the passageway.

  Better for us both this way. She doesn’t need me, and I don’t need her.

  I sit for a long while. Waiting for the answer. Waiting for a plan.

  Revenge doesn’t help. If revenge won’t fix me, perhaps I’m beyond fixing. Perhaps there is no use trying.

  Perhaps this is all there is for me. If what has been broken cannot be put back together, it’s best to accept that. Lean into it. Claim the brokenness as my own. Take action and stop wishing for a different reality, a different life.

  I slip from the rock and set out to accept my destiny.

  I set out to find the Master.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  TANWEN

  When Mor found me, I was sitting against the cave wall, my knees pulled to my chest, my head buried in my arms, sobs wracking me.

  He eased down next to me and didn’t speak for a long time. He just let me cry, and I was thankful for it.

  My tears dried up after a while, but the sobs kept coming. I looked up at him. “I lost her, Mor. She’s nowhere. Just . . . disappeared. We’ll never find her in here.”

  In the glow of his light strand, I saw his throat bob. But he kept staring straight ahead. “Aye.”

  “Why did . . . what was—” I hiccupped. But there was no way to complete any of my broken thoughts.

  “I don’t know, Tannie.” He dropped his head into his hands. “I failed her. Again. I keep failing and failing, no matter what I do. No matter how hard I try to—”

  He didn’t finish, and he didn’t have to.

  I leaned my head on his shoulder, and we both cried for a while. Finally, I found his hand with mine and laced our fingers together. A glittery thread of blue encircled us.

  “Mor, I’m sorry. I tried.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Should we keep looking? Maybe we could find her still.” I tried to sound more hopeful than I felt.

  “No. She doesn’t want to be found.”

  He was right, of course. And if she didn’t want to be found in here, she never would be.

  A dozen worries tumbled through my mind.

  Would she find her way out? What if she got lost? What if she ran into other Hunt teams and they hurt her? What if she ran into other Hunt teams and she hurt them? What if she couldn’t find her way out and starved to death in here?

  “Tannie? Mor?” Father’s voice. The light from his lantern illuminated his face a moment later. “Thank the Creator. I thought we had lost you.” He paused. “You didn’t find her.”

  Mor still didn’t look up.

  Father closed his eyes, then drew a long breath. “We’ve smoothed things over with the other crew—the weaver and the digger. Dylun had to pay them off in the end, and we had to surrender the cavern, which means they have that strand. But they shouldn’t bother us now. They said they would see to the body of their comrade. Hopefully Digwyn will not run into them, because I don’t think they will forgive her so easily.”

  I tried to get a better look at Mor’s face. It was stony. But I noticed blood seeping from one of his stitched-up wounds.

  “Mor, you’re bleeding.”

  “Huh?” He glanced down at his shoulder. “Oh. That.”

  Father offered his hand and helped me up. Then he reached out to Mor. “Let’s get back to Karlith. She’ll have something to help that bleeding.”

  Mor ignored him. Father glanced at me, and I shook my head.

  Father crouched down to look Mor in the eyes. “Son, we won’t forget about her. We’ll keep searching as we carry on our mission.”

  “I . . . I know.” Mor shook his head. “She’s just so . . . broken. I don’t know that there will ever be something better for her. You saw it. We all watched her kill a man like it was nothing.”

  Compassion was etched in every line of Father’s face. “Digwyn has had deep injustices committed against her. Perhaps she just needs more time. Her mind is fragile, but her body is not. She is strong and able to care for herself while she takes the time she needs. She will survive, and we will find her.”

  Mor looked up.

  “I promise you.” Father continued to look him straight in the eyes. “And I never break my promises. Do you believe me?”

  Mor nodded.

  Father rose and offered his hand to Mor again. This time, Mor took it.

  “Good,” Father said. “Let’s go find the queen.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  TANWEN

  Karlith leaned against the wall and waved Warmil away. “All is well,” she insisted for the tenth time.

  “General.” Warmil turned to Father, concern creasing his brow. “Perhaps we should rest again. Karlith tires.”

  “Warmil Bo-Awirth.” Karlith shot an annoyed glance his direction. “I said I’m fine. And I’m not an old lady. Stop treating me like one.”

  He and Father shared a glance.

  “What is it, Karlith?” Father asked. “I’ve seen
you travel great distances on foot, carrying a heavy pack, and you’ve never needed to rest so much.”

  She sighed. “It’s the evil in this place. It . . . presses.” She put her hand over her chest. “Here. I feel it in my spirit all the time now, like it’s growing stronger.”

  Aeron frowned. “Do you think we’re getting closer to the Master? Or is it something else?”

  We all turned toward Dray. He was the one who was supposed to be keeping us on course to find this Master.

  Dray shrugged. “I told you I’d lead you to her. What did you expect?”

  Though he played it off, I could see something else in his expression—he was impressed.

  He considered Karlith. “Can you really feel it—the Master’s presence?”

  “I feel something.” Karlith shook her head. “Something bad. Couldn’t tell you what or who it is. I guess you’d know better than I.”

  He nodded, definitely impressed. “Interesting. Strange bit of magic, that.”

  “It’s not magic.” I glared at him. “Feeling things that aren’t part of the physical world is just . . . well, you have to have a soul to manage it.”

  “Ouch.” Dray put his hand on his abdomen, right where Diggy had stabbed Bo-Camdrine. “That hurts, Tanwen.”

  I glared twice as hard at his hand. He’d put it in that spot on purpose, of course. And it had been his words that had made Diggy run off three days past. All of my anger, hurt, weariness, and frustration needed a target, and he was the best one around. “Well, when you trade your soul away, you’re bound to miss it occasionally.”

  He smirked. “You’re vicious when you want to be.” He held up his hands. “No, no. Don’t apologize. I rather like it.”

  Just having a conversation with this man left me feeling like I needed a bath.

  Karlith straightened and took a deep breath. “Another strand is close.” She nodded up ahead. “That way, I think.”

  “Will you be all right?” Warmil took her elbow to help her step over some uneven ground.

  “Aye. I’m always all right.” She smiled—a little forced.