The Story Peddler

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  Because those words branded across the cover shot strange fire through my heart: Yestin Bo-Arthio.

  Chapter 39

  Tanwen

  My gaze flew over the pages and pages of script. An entry for every day—decades worth, it seemed.

  The goings-on at court. Observations about King Caradoc. Reports of military campaigns. Notes about “dear Glain”—my own mother. Detailed lists of what plants had been set up in Father’s personal garden, and which of them had yielded the best harvest.

  The entries bounced from mundane details about life to items of “national importance,” as Father said. I stumbled over a few words. Father seemed to have swallowed a glossary of fancy speech at some point, for all the words he knew that I’d never even heard of. And his handwriting was so fine—he must have had very good schooling.

  I couldn’t even imagine that he was my father. Not truly. Didn’t seem possible.

  I replaced one book and pulled out another from the next shelf over.

  I opened the book to a page in the middle . . .

  Second moon of winter, the 40th year of Caradoc II

  Tragedy has struck our kingdom this night. All of Tir will mourn when they hear the news. Caradoc and Wynne, the good king and queen, perished in the same night. I fear there will be a struggle for the throne. Every lord with a speck of noble blood within him and every councilman with a trace of ambition will make a play for Tir if we do not act quickly to secure whichever heir Caradoc has specified in his will. Surely it will be his nephew Rhydian, but the lad is only a child. Or perhaps it is Kharn Bo-Candryd—more distant a claim, but at least that lad is old enough to grow whiskers.

  The sorrow is oppressive. I feel I must escape the palace. Alas, I cannot. Reports have trickled in all through the night via the servants. The plague, whatever it is, has struck at least half the council by my count. It is my duty to stay here. There will be work to do once the quarantine is over, and as King Caradoc’s First General, plenty of it will fall to me. And yet something inside me tells me to run. It’s unconscionable, but I cannot seem to quiet it.

  Perhaps Glain and I will take the child to Pembrone when the snow melts. The ocean cliffs are the place to be if one feels pressed down by grief. A place to heal. To stare at the great, wide Menfor Sea could only act as a salve on these horrible wounds.

  They are sleeping now. One last night of peaceful sleep, then they will awaken into this nightmare with the rising of the sun.

  I stopped reading and pressed the journal to my heart—just where my necklace usually hung.

  These were my own father’s thoughts about the terrible night that changed the course of all our lives—the night that changed the course of all Tir.

  I reopened the journal and skimmed through page after page. And then stopped.

  Second moon of winter, the 40th year of Caradoc II

  I may be the only man loyal to the king who knows this. My life is already forfeit. If I can preserve any shred of the truth by recording my overhearings, then may it be so.

  Creator help us all.

  I became restless this afternoon. I can’t count the number of times I’ve gone through all my books. I ignored the quarantine and ventured out. The halls echoed with every step I took, so empty were they. As I walked, I listed the remaining council members in my mind.

  Arian, the steward of trade. Goncro, my second-in-command. Both had been at odds with the king of late, but I was glad to hear they and their wives survived the plague.

  And then there was the other. Fire and sulfur could rain down from the heavens and it seemed he would persist. Like a great scuttlebug. But even as his name crawled through my mind, churning up unpleasantness, I heard his voice—not in my head, but echoing through the halls. His voice, and that of his lapdog.

  They made no effort to moderate their volume, as I’m sure they believed the castle halls deserted. The two of them were recounting the very same ruminations which had just been rolling through my mind.

  “Goncro attended the supper feast, but didn’t drink the wine. He lives and will move into his new role as Protector of the Realm immediately. Arian begged off the feast altogether, and he is already drafting proposals to increase royal revenue via trade tax.”

  There was a pause. “I haven’t seen the bodies of Yestin and Glain turn up yet.”

  The other laughed. “Rotting in their beds, most likely. Must have keeled over too late to be brought down before the quarantine. No matter. We’ll get them in the next day or two when I lift the confinement order from the palace.”

  Conspiracy.

  Murder.

  Poison in the wine at the king’s table. And he—the betrayer—the king’s closest advisor, Gareth Bo-Kelwyd.

  I flipped through a few more pages, then this: Glain says it is imperative I stay alive. The truth must be preserved in me, the only eyewitness.

  Suddenly weak, I leaned against the shelves for support. Thoughts and emotions began to clash inside me as the pieces clicked into place. If Father died, the truth died with him. His story would dwindle and fade like a dying fire until it was nothing more than whispered gossip. So my mother decided to sacrifice her own safety that he might live on, and the true story with him. Then he would stage an uprising and all Tir would know the truth. The throne would be reclaimed for the line of Caradoc II.

  And that’s how my father had become a folk hero to all the rebels.

  I thought of what my friends at the Corsyth had said. Everyone in Tir knew who Yestin Bo-Arthio was. The Corsyth weavers had said he was very good.

  But the uprising had failed. It had all been for nothing.

  A bolt of anger raced through me. I slammed the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf.

  Not anger at Father. It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t asked for any of it—who would?

  But just at the whole of it. So many lost years. Everyone in Tir knew my parents, but I’d never had a chance to.

  I stared at the spine of the journal I’d just been reading—one of what seemed a hundred, at least. How many years had he journaled every day? Were they mostly blank? How old was he when he disappeared? I tried to make a guess at it, but the figuring was too full of question marks.

  I grabbed another journal off the shelves and began reading.

  Chapter 40

  The One in the Dark

  Third Moon. Winter. Usurper’s Year.

  Glain is dead.

  The child is gone. Did Glain smuggle her from the palace? How will I ever know?

  The uprising has failed. All are dead.

  Unless Bennati remains somehow. He knew of these passages that are now my prison. But does he know I’m here, or shall I rot in these walls?

  Where is Tannie?

  Chapter 41

  Tanwen

  I squeezed the journal so tight I wondered if it might crumble in my fingers. It was like I was meeting my father for the first time through his writings.

  He’d once hidden in the palace walls. Secret passages no one knew about except his friend Bennati, who seemed to be a Meridioni noble or something. Bennati was dead. Father’s grief had poured out through one of the other entries.

  Without his friend, had Father starved in the walls? Had he remained undiscovered, or had Gareth’s goons sniffed him out?

  I picked up the next book.

  With a bracing breath, I forced myself to look at each word—to chew on it, remember what it meant, and move to the next one.

  Father’s sentences began to ramble in places. Some things didn’t make any kind of reasonable sense. Sometimes Father even sounded like Fethow, Pembrone’s most loyal tavern customer. I didn’t think Fethow had been sober two days together the whole time I’d been alive.

  But Father hadn’t been drunk when he’d written these entries.

  Reading his words reminded me of the time Ma-Bradwir had knitted a new pair of socks for Farmer Bradwir. She hadn’t quite finished them when one of the wee ones darted by and got
his trousers hooked on the yarn strand. Before anyone could stop him, the little lad had run clear to the other side of the house—and taken that whole strand of yarn with him. Ma-Bradwir’s work disappeared in five seconds flat, and she was madder than a tea kettle.

  Father’s mind was like that pair of socks. Unraveled.

  He had started referring to himself in a strange, removed way—like he was witnessing his own life from somewhere outside his body. Odd.

  I turned through several pages of rambling, then something new caught my eye.

  Someone had discovered him in the passages. She was dark and beautiful, it seemed. And she helped him. In some of his words, it seemed he knew her, perhaps from before his time in the wall. But in other places, he spoke of her as a mysterious stranger. One he wanted to trust but wasn’t sure he ought to.

  I took half a moment to find my candle on the desk. The sun had failed for the day, but I had to keep reading. I lit the candle and returned to my spot, just inside the very passageways that had become my father’s private dungeon.

  A loud thump muscled me from sleep.

  “Tanwen En-Yestin?” a muffled voice I vaguely recognized was coming from the other side of my door. “Open the door, in the name of the king!”

  I rubbed the sleep off my face. The burned-down stub of my candle sat in its holder next to me. Two journals were stacked just beside me, and a third lay open under my face—the page smudged by my drool.

  “Ah, just a minute!” My gaze bounced all around the room, from the journals to the open secret passageway. “I’m still dressing. Be there in a moment!” I prayed my visitor wouldn’t just barge in, as he easily might.

  I shoved the journals and my candle safely into the passageway then scrambled to get the door closed. With a mighty shove, everything clicked back into place. I thrust the false stone into its hole, then yanked my silver necklace away and pulled it back over my head.

  The muffled voice sounded again. “What was that noise?”

  “Oh, you know . . .” I dropped the leather cord and silver charm down the front of my dress. “Just . . . girl stuff.” I smoothed my hair, though it can’t have helped much, plastered on a smile, then pulled the door open.

  The high priest with his bald head and rich robes stood before me, a guardsman on either side of him. He frowned so deep he would’ve given Riwor a run for her money in a race for sourest face.

  “Oh,” I began. “Your . . .” But I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to call him. Not Your Majesty. Your Baldness? Your Sourness? Your Honored Fussiness?

  His frown deepened. “Your Eminence. Or Holiness. Whichever you prefer.”

  Rather preferred my own titles for him, if His Pompousness wanted to know the truth.

  But I curtsied. “Your Eminence.”

  He gestured to the guards. “Thank you. I will speak with Tanwen alone now.”

  The guards bowed and returned to their places beside my door. It was the only time I could remember wishing the guardsmen would stay closer. The thought of the high priest in my chambers with me, alone, made my stomach wrench.

  But His Holiness glided into my room and closed the door behind himself like he had more right to be there than I did.

  “So. Tanwen En-Yestin.”

  I stared at him. “Yes, Your Eminence?”

  “The king requests your presence in the throne room in one hour. Are you aware that you missed morning meal?”

  I prayed my laugh sounded natural. “Did I? Oh dear. I stayed up late last night. Practicing,” I added on sudden inspiration. “My stories. For the king. Obviously.”

  He eyed me for a long, awful moment. “Of course.”

  A heartbeat of thick silence passed between us. I didn’t really like to lie. Felt like it left a film on my tongue.

  I cleared my throat. “Will that be all, Your Eminence?”

  An oily smile slid across his mouth. “I must tell you something, and you have great need to hear it, Tanwen.”

  I stared. “All right.”

  “Remember who you are.”

  My blank stare must have gotten blanker.

  Remember who I was—what did he mean? My father’s daughter? My mother’s daughter? A weaver of the Corsyth? I’d never forget any of those things. But I didn’t suppose that was what he was driving at.

  “Your Holiness?”

  He took a long, slow breath, then began to pace my room. “You are a peasant, Tanwen.”

  In spite of myself, a little pang of hurt shot through me. Still couldn’t quite break away from that lass who wanted to be someone. But I hid it behind a smile. “Aye, Your Eminence. I am. Can’t hide that, even though I’d like to.”

  His smile got oilier, slicker, and more arrogant. “Indeed. You are also a story peddler, Tanwen. Do you know the purpose of a story peddler?”

  “To sell stories, sir?”

  He paused. “No. Such is merely the means to support the livelihood of a story peddler. But the purpose of the peddler is to glorify the goddesses.”

  For some reason, the shrewd face of Sir Dray came to mind. “And to glorify the king, Your Holiness?”

  “Of course.” He narrowed his eyes. “But to glory the goddesses is to glory the king, for it was they who appointed His Majesty. Isn’t that true?”

  I chewed on my answer for a moment. “That’s what the stories tell us.” That wasn’t a lie, at least.

  He looked at me. “You shall fit in well here at court.”

  Wasn’t sure that was much of a compliment.

  Naith inclined his head slightly. “I’ll leave you now.” He turned for the door, then stopped. “Oh, and Tanwen?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence?”

  “You ought to change out of that gown. Is it not the one you wore yesterday?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. In another breath, he was gone. I looked down at my heavy dress and secondhand jeweled slippers. Guessed he knew I had been lying about taking so long to answer the door because I was changing.

  But he was right. I ought to dress and report to my devil of a master before he decided to free my neck of the burden of my head.

  I heaved a sigh. Dream job, my jewel-encrusted foot.

  Chapter 42

  Tanwen

  I stood before the court in another of Braith’s hand-me-down dresses, a deep purple gown with shimmering gold embroidery. I’m sure I’d imagined gowns as fine, but I don’t think I’d ever thought I would truly own one.

  It didn’t sit well on me.

  The king gestured with a flourish. “Well, well. Here’s my little storyteller. We have need of entertainment today, I think.”

  “Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” I said.

  “We missed you at morning meal.”

  “My apologies. I stayed up too late last night.”

  “Yes.” The king chuckled. “Lasses will sometimes, I suppose.”

  Sir Dray rose from his seat and stood before the dais. Braith leaned away from him noticeably.

  “Majesty,” Dray said, standing near the princess but addressing the king. “Might I request a story?” He reached up and took Braith’s hand.

  The fine leather of his gloves was the only barrier between their hands, and even from my distance, I could see Braith trying to pull her hand back.

  She shot a worried glance at her father, but Gareth looked downright jovial. “Yes, Sir Dray. What story would you like to request?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your fancy, Braith dear?”

  Braith’s face ignited. “Sir Dray, I—”

  Gareth cut her off with a laugh. “Come now, Braith. Surely you can think of a story you would like to hear.”

  His gaze roved to the front of the crowd. There Cameria stood, dignified and stately. Gareth’s jolly demeanor slipped. “I see you brought your pet with you today.”

  “Father.” Braith’s tone was bordering on severe—at least for her. She stared hard at Gareth while attempting to pull her hand away from Dray. “Please d
o not dishonor my friend. She so rarely comes to court with me as it is, and I’d not see her treated poorly.”

  “Friend?” Gareth glared poison back at his daughter. After a long moment, he nodded to me. “Very well, storyteller. Tell the story that would honor our Meridioni guest. I think you know the one.”

  Dray gave Braith’s hand an obvious squeeze, then winked at her so openly I’m sure the whole court saw it. The crowd’s whispers rustled like wind through the throne room. Braith’s face couldn’t have been any redder if she’d stuck it into the fireplace.

  Dray finally released her hand and returned to his chair, thank the moon for Braith’s sake. As he sat, he gestured to Cameria. “Don’t be shy, woman. Go stand with your mistress.”

  Cameria’s gaze lingered on Gareth for a long moment, fire dancing in her eyes.

  She finally turned and moved gracefully toward the dais, chin high and eyes straight ahead. Braith shot her friend a glance—one that seemed to beg forgiveness for the indignity she was about to suffer. Then the princess turned toward me and frowned. My face felt clammy and must have been pale as mist. Last time I told this story, it turned my life upside down.

  But I cleared my throat and began the practiced piece. “Once, there was a people who lived to the south of the great state of Tir.”

  Two strands of silvery light cascaded from my hands. The strands swirled through the air. The crowd gasped, and some of the ladies clapped.

  “Tir lived at peace with her neighbor to the south for many generations, with Tir looking after her lesser neighbor like a father looks after his child.”

  The two strands soared together, then dove toward the ground.

  More gasps, more grins, more applause.

  “But over time, the darkness of pride consumed the people to the south. So much darkness that it swallowed them from the inside out. It blackened their hair, darkened their skin, and they became known as the Meridioni—‘Dark People’ in their native tongue.”

  One of the silvery strands shot above the crowd and circled the air near the ceiling of the throne room. The other slowly transformed. The silvery tip deepened. Blood-red color, spreading like ink, seeped through the strand until the whole thing was consumed. Red, just like the Meridioni flag.