The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  “I had tea with Glain Ma-Yestin many times when I was a girl. She was very gracious and refined, as I recall.” Braith paused. “I know she was from Pembrone and her father was a farmer, but I believe your grandfather was quite the successful businessman. The peninsular farms thrived in those days. Do I remember correctly that he had orchards of some kind?”

  “Aye! We do have an orchard along the cottage land, but it belongs to Farmer Cerio now. I guess it must have been sold at some point.”

  Braith nodded. “Yes, I remember now. Queen Wynne had a taste for fruit preserves, and I think Glain’s father was the queen’s chief supplier of such things. That must be how Yestin came to meet Glain.”

  I tried to smile, but tears began to trickle down my cheeks. “What did she look like?”

  Braith looked at me, and the pity was heavy in her eyes. “Like you.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. Truly.” The princess rose and Cameria followed. “I regret we must leave now, Tanwen. But thank you for graciously hosting us this afternoon.”

  I jumped up from my chair. “Thank you for the food. And the company.”

  Braith glanced at the empty bookcases lining the walls. “Shall I have some books sent for you? I’m sure we can spare some from the palace library.”

  I hardly knew what to say. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Very well. I’ll see it done.” Braith gathered her basket and headed toward the door.

  I hurried to open it for her.

  “Do take care, Tanwen,” Braith said.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Come, Cameria.” They slipped into the hallway and I slowly closed the door.

  Whatever I’d stumbled into here, at least I had one friend in the palace. But how far could that friendship stretch under the strain of Gareth’s wrath?

  Chapter 33

  Braith

  Braith eyed her reflection in the mirror. “Cameria, do you think my hair would look prettier if I wore it down?”

  Cameria smiled. “You mean like Tanwen, my lady?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Braith smiled wryly. “Am I that transparent? The girl is so . . .” The princess searched for words. “She is full of spirit. And sometimes I feel hollow.”

  The reflection of her gray eyes looked empty. Tired.

  “I think Your Highness would look as well if you had fewer cares and could enjoy life in a small farm town.”

  “Indeed.” Braith sighed and abandoned her vanity table. “Shall we head to supper?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Braith stopped and studied Cameria’s face. “Cameria, may I ask you something personal?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “You were crying before—in Tanwen’s room.”

  Cameria had been readying Braith’s midnight-blue cloak. Now she paused but did not look up. “Forgive me, my lady.”

  “Cameria! I was not scolding you for having sentiments.” Braith crossed the room. “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

  “I wish I could tell you the whole of it. But . . .” She shook her head. “It distresses me to see Yestin’s daughter. I remember him very well.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “He and my father were great friends. I spent many hours with my mother in Glain Ma-Yestin’s sitting room. And the girl looks so like her mother, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, she does.” Braith searched her friend’s dark eyes. “Cameria, I don’t begrudge you your privacy. But you know you can trust me with whatever troubles you—especially if telling someone would help ease your burden.”

  Cameria’s gaze flashed up to Braith’s face. “I trust you with my very life, Braith,” she said quietly. “But I would not put you at risk by sharing all my secrets. Some things are better left in darkness.”

  “Very well. But you will tell me if there is anything I can do to help?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “Good. Then why don’t you go on ahead and prepare my place at the king’s table? I’ll be along shortly.”

  Cameria frowned. “Are you sure, my lady? Should we not walk together? What if you happen upon that wretched man again? It seems Sir Dray stalks you in the halls these days.”

  “Yes, it does seem that way. But he’s exactly who I would like to run into this evening.”

  “My lady?”

  Braith bit her lip. “I don’t wish to burden you with my secrets either.”

  “Oh, Braith.” Cameria’s distress swam in her eyes. “Please do not put yourself in danger.”

  Braith reached out and hugged her friend. “Thank you for seeing to me, Cameria.” She pulled back. “I hope you understand that I must continue to look into the matter of Tanwen En-Yestin. If I need to dance around Dray Bo-Anffir to get more information, so be it. But I promise to be very careful.”

  Cameria did not speak. But she nodded her acceptance, then took Braith’s cloak and slipped from the room.

  Braith drew a deep breath and followed Cameria into the hallway.

  Braith had taken the long way through the halls. Then she lapped the perimeter again in search of the weasely Sir Dray. Nothing. But when Braith was distracted, hoping to get back to her room quickly or carrying stolen bits of parchment up the sleeve of her gown, she couldn’t seem to help running into the man.

  The callers sounded the final alert for supper. Braith knew she must head to the dining hall if she were to make a prompt arrival and not provoke a flurry of questions.

  She circled back down a pathway she had already covered and made her way toward the dining hall. Just as she was about to round a corner, familiar voices brought her to a halt.

  It was Naith and Dray. Unmistakably.

  The high priest was mid-growl. “—an offense that shouldn’t be overlooked. You saw it yourself.”

  Dray’s boredom punctuated his words. “So what? So a thread of white light appeared during her story. The king didn’t seem bothered.”

  “Don’t be coy, Bo-Anffir. You know it’s a problem and so does the king. That strand did not belong in that story.”

  “Look, I’m terribly sorry Your Holiness has been offended by the suggestion that something in the universe exists beyond the lauded goddesses of your temples. But I haven’t the slightest idea why you think this matter concerns me.”

  Naith scoffed. “Ha! As if you believed in either the goddesses or whatever that blasphemous peddler was suggesting with her white light strands.”

  A brief pause from Dray, and then, “I’m not the only one who doesn’t really believe in the goddesses, am I, Naith?”

  Braith couldn’t have speculated how the high priest would take that suggestion—if he’d begin shouting or if his head would simply explode in indignation. But to her surprise, he responded calmly.

  “We’re to speak plainly, are we?” Naith asked, his voice low and smooth.

  “Oh, please, let’s. For once. It’ll be refreshing not to dance around your insinuation and posturing.”

  “Very well. No, I don’t put faith in the goddesses as real entities like the peasants do. Or even as the king does. But if you believe there is no power behind the institution I serve, you are sorely mistaken.”

  Braith’s breath caught. Whatever did Naith mean by that?

  But the high priest breezed past it without further explanation. “Whatever you choose to accept as truth about the goddesses or the power behind them, I think we can both agree that the church holds an important place in Tirian society. I do believe in that tradition.”

  “And you believe in money.”

  “Ha! Says the son of a lowly merchant who clawed his way into position in Urian.”

  A pause. Braith would have given much to see the look on Dray’s face. She knew well he did not appreciate mention of his humble beginnings.

  Finally, Dray spoke. “Ambition is not a sin, is it, Your Holiness?”

  “You said we would speak plainly, so I shall. We each have interests beyond wh
at others might consider appropriate for our positions. Perhaps it is—unusual—for a man of the faith to enjoy luxury as I do. I don’t deny it. But how much less appropriate is it for a king’s advisor to seek his master’s throne?”

  Dray didn’t skip a beat. “The throne? And why would I have designs on such a thing? My influence is unparalleled in Tir. No man beneath the king has the pull I have. What more could I possibly want?”

  Naith breathed an oily chuckle. “You stumbled upon it yourself, didn’t you? No man beneath the king. Since when is Dray Bo-Anffir content to be second-best to anyone?” His tone sharpened. “And it runs deeper than that, doesn’t it? Deeper and more personal. I think you truly do want the princess for yourself.”

  Braith’s heart ceased its hurried rhythm. For a moment, it stopped entirely.

  “Me?” Dray said, casual indifference lacing the word. “With ladies surrounding me and a mistress who lives in my chambers? Please, Your Eminence. You try my patience.”

  “Ah, but Braith is different. She may not be the beauty of the court, like that insufferable cream puff who dangles from your arm. But Braith is the brains. And the grace and the goodness. Something about her draws you, though you yourself probably couldn’t guess why.”

  Braith put a hand to her chest.

  “She’s unconquered,” Naith continued. “You’re not a soldier, but you are a military man. All who know about such things acknowledge you were the strategist behind His Majesty’s military campaigns. With you as the strategist and he as the soldier, Tir’s enemies hadn’t a prayer. And now that the lands are conquered, you’ve set your sights on a new outpost—only this time, it’s the princess.”

  Braith’s knees felt ready to collapse beneath her.

  An interminable silence stretched on. Dray’s always-ready words didn’t come, and with sinking realization, Braith understood that Naith must have struck close. Too close for Dray to play it off.

  “All right.” Dray’s voice had quieted, but danger edged his words. “What do you want, Naith?”

  “It behooves us both to make sure this peddler girl and weavers like her do not make a disadvantageous rise to power. Remember what it was like in the old days? There were the stories, yes. Harmless enough. But also prophecies. Interrogations done with the use of storytellers. Crime scenes recreated with the use of colormasters. What was the old saying, hmm?”

  “Art has a way of revealing truth.”

  “Indeed. And the last thing you or I need are specific truths to be revealed. Was it not part of your own plan to make sure the weavers could be controlled before our good king’s—er—rise to power?”

  “It was hatched jointly with the king. I’ll not take all the credit for that. The weavers needed to be controlled or silenced.”

  “Precisely. Controlled or silenced. Do not fail to remember that as we use this peddler to our advantage.”

  “Our advantage?” Braith could imagine Dray folding his arms across his chest. “How does she benefit you?”

  “She benefits the king, though I don’t pretend to know why. Anything that benefits the king who keeps me secure in my position benefits me.”

  “Wise answer. And true, no less. Do you care to know why Tanwen En-Yestin benefits the king? You know that if anyone is able to shed light on the matter for you, it’s me. And if we’re to be allies—albeit temporary ones—it serves us both for you to know.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “The king indeed received new information about the peddler from a source close to her—information that showed her to be less of a threat than originally feared. She’s not part of the Corsyth band of weavers, though how they managed to end up together, I’m not exactly sure. But I am certain that Tanwen’s original transgressions were accidental, like what we saw in the throne room today.”

  “And since when does our king show mercy because a transgression was unintentional?”

  “Since I pointed out to him that the daughter of Yestin is the likeliest thing in Tir to flush the old general out of hiding, if he hides still.”

  “Hiding?” Naith spluttered. “Yestin is dead!”

  “Shh! Do moderate your tone, Your Holiness. Do you want to draw a crowd?” Dray’s voice lowered too, so that Braith had to lean forward to catch his words. “That’s the official story, of course. But he was never found. If he made his way out of the city, it’d be a miracle. I had the king set up a tight perimeter, more heavily guarded than the princess’s bedroom. And Yestin was never caught, no body was ever found.

  “For years, King Gareth was sure the general had somehow managed to hide in the palace. That may be possible, but it’s likelier he had help to somehow move past our perimeter, though it would have taken an entire unit of guardsmen loyal enough to him to risk their heads. Not such a stretch to imagine. He was well loved under Caradoc and became a folk hero after the attempted uprising.

  “And if he escaped Urian, he could be anywhere. He had friends everywhere, thanks to his diplomatic policy. But the king knew him better than I, and he swears Yestin would not have left his family here, not even the little girl, if he knew there was a chance she was still alive. So Gareth believes if Tanwen has been in Tir this whole time, then Yestin has too.”

  “If he still lives, of course.”

  “Correct.”

  Naith breathed a slow whistle. “Astounding.”

  “Indeed.”

  There was a pause of several seconds. Braith’s head spun, but she couldn’t miss her chance. They might go on for an hour, divulging secrets with no opportunity for her to break in without suspicion she’d overheard something dangerous.

  She rounded the corner, then gave a start of feigned surprise. “Oh!”

  Both men startled.

  Braith curtsied to each of the men in turn. “Your Grace. Your Eminence. I thought surely I’d be last to the supper table tonight.”

  Dray recovered his wits quicker than the priest. “I’d be late to supper every night if I thought it might afford me the honor of escorting the princess to her father’s table.”

  Braith faked a pleasant nod. “How thoughtful.” She took Dray’s offered arm, then turned to Naith. “Your Eminence, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to act as a second escort for me. Perhaps my tardiness would be less offensive to the king and queen if I had the two most honored servants of my father at my arms.”

  Naith blushed nearly up to his bald pate.

  But he bowed politely. “The honor would be mine, Your Royal Highness.”

  So, with a snake on either side of her, Braith strode to the dining hall. Her mind buzzed with all she’d heard, but one thing sounded above the rest.

  Yestin Bo-Arthio couldn’t truly be alive. Could he?

  Chapter 34

  Tanwen

  You’d think a girl used to sleeping on a straw tick—or in a crate in the Corsyth—would find a feather bed to be pure bliss. But I tossed and turned all night like I lay on a mattress of thorns instead of soft down.

  I finally had everything I’d been after for so many years. I was in the palace, living in the luxury apartments of Tir’s former First General, no less. The princess’s own gowns hung in my fancy wardrobe. Not only that but she’d called me her friend, and if I judged her right, she truly meant it. The king had hired me as part of his staff, and I was going to do the thing I loved most in the world all day, with none of the tiresome bits of hard work in between.

  And yet everything was one big upside-down mess. I had no clue what had happened to my Corsyth friends or the Bradwirs in Pembrone. Seemed fairly certain someone had received lashes on my account—and that alone made me feel I’d lose my fancy breakfast all over my elegant couch. But what if Bo-Ifun had been wrong? What if arrests had been made? Would they be released now that the king and I had struck a deal?

  The folks from the Corsyth sure wouldn’t. They were wanted for their own crimes, not mine. If they’d been caught . . . Well, I couldn’t escape the feeling that their lives were
forfeit, and nothing would save their skins. Not even the kindness of the princess, if she had a notion they ought to be saved.

  Which I wasn’t sure she did.

  Something gnawed at my stomach. Every time I thought of my Corsyth friends, their faces cycled through my mind. And each time, the image of Mor’s mischievous stubbled face with its twinkly blue eyes stuck twice as long as the others. And the pit in my stomach grew.

  I rested my chin on the back of the couch and stared out the window. The view was downright pretty, no lie, overlooking a garden with huge, lush velvet-petals down below. I’d never seen velvet-­petals as red as blood before, as folks mostly grew white and purple ones in Pembrone. I’d always thought my cottage was pretty unique, having the only butter-yellow velvet-petals in town. But these red ones would have made all the Pembroni ladies’ heads spin.

  Still, as I looked at the lovely flowers far below me, and even as I watched the people about the palace scurry around in the gardens and on the pathways below, I knew I might as well be in the dungeon.

  Only difference was my room had a better view.

  With every beat of my heart, the lonely muscle pumped the truth.

  Prisoner. Prisoner. Prisoner.

  I sighed. Wished Karlith was here to sip some tea with me. Or Gryfelle to teach me how I ought to act around these fancy people. Or Zelyth to remind me of the lads back home. Or most especially Mor.

  Karlith’s words skipped through my mind—all her ideas about the Creator. I wondered if they were true. And I wondered if that was what the mysterious “He” was all about in my botched creation story.

  Karlith said He was listening always, no matter what. I guessed that meant He could hear me in this place, prisoner or not.

  I figured it couldn’t hurt.

  So I closed my eyes and thought some words toward Him. They always said prayers to the goddesses really loud in the temples, so as to be heard above the din of everyone else shouting their praises and requests. But I figured if the Creator truly existed, He ought to be able to hear my thoughts. Otherwise, he didn’t seem any different than the make-believe goddesses of the temples, and He didn’t deserve to hear my words anyhow.