The Story Raider

by Lindsay A. Franklin

  I pulled the strings around the top of my nightdress a bit tighter, then grabbed the shawl Karlith had knitted for me during her long hours beside Gryfelle’s bed. Karlith had knitted half the wool in Tir into sweaters and scarves in the past moon.

  My feet slipped into my soft leather shoes, and I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders. Didn’t bother grabbing a candle. We were right in the middle of the village, and the street was dotted with oil lamps. I’d be able to see enough to make it to the docks.

  The shops and storefronts felt familiar as I crept along, even though I’d seen them for the first time earlier that day. I supposed every peninsular village had some commonalities. The sign I tiptoed beneath read “Patty’s Pub,” but it might as well have said, “Blodwyn’s Tavern.”

  Wondered if I would ever get back to Pembrone to see Blodwyn. Would I ever taste her grazer stew again? And if I did, would I remember it?

  I shoved the thought aside. No use dwelling on that. Right now, I just needed to soothe my anxious heart so I could get some sleep.

  The rhythmic song of the waves reached my ears, and I knew I was close. Sounded so like the waves lapping at the cliff below my cottage in Pembrone. I’d fallen asleep to that sound most nights of my life. Maybe it was what I needed now, on the eve of saying good-bye to my father. Again.

  It hadn’t really struck me until I reached the docks, but I was angry with him for leaving me after we had just found each other again. Angry and terrified.

  It hadn’t been easy to adjust to our new life together, but . . . what if he didn’t return from this voyage? The sea was no man’s friend. It seemed sailors entered into a tacit agreement with her that might be revoked at a moment’s notice. Pembrone had boasted a proper dock once and nearly as much shipping trade as farming. But half those boats had been lost to storms, while half the merchandise to ship had been swallowed by famine. Pembronis respected the sea enough to fear her.

  And Father was gallivanting off on a mission for the queen before we’d even had a chance to get to know each other properly.

  Though I had been rather quick to do the same. Not a moon ago, it had been me planning for this adventure and he the one remaining in Urian. I closed my eyes against my own hypocrisy.

  I plunked down onto the planks of one of the smaller jetties. Didn’t really want to go sit on the pier next to the Cethorelle. It would be like sitting next to a pie you weren’t allowed to eat. No, this jetty would do just fine, thanks.

  I stared out at the water. Should I tell Father I couldn’t bear it if he left? Should I tell him I needed him to stay? Ask him to put me before the queen?

  No. I couldn’t do that to him. I didn’t think he’d know what to do if I shoved him between that boulder and anvil.

  There was no clear answer, except to let him go. Pray he made it back and I could learn how to be a daughter.

  I wrapped my shawl tighter.

  “Are you cold, Tannie?”

  I barely stopped myself from screaming. But it was only a moment before I recognized his voice and the way my name sounded on his lips.

  “Mor.” My heart felt lodged somewhere around my throat. “What in the name of mountainbeast milk are you trying to do? Make me keel over into the sea?”

  By the sound of it, Mor might have chuckled. I couldn’t be sure, so dark as it was out here on this little fishing jetty. He settled in beside me. Not too close. “Sorry. I thought you heard me.”

  “No. I was thinking.”

  “About?”

  I paused, and he cut in before I could respond. “No, don’t answer. I . . . haven’t earned that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned toward the water. “I’ve been pushing you away, haven’t I? Making sure there’s nothing shared between us. So why should you talk to me now, even if we’re just speaking as friends?”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t.” We let the silence settle, then I asked, “But do you think I could talk with you? Just as a friend?”

  Mor waited a moment—too long for my liking. “Five minutes. I can be your friend for five minutes.”

  “I hate you a little bit right now, you know.”

  “Hey, is that any way to talk to a friend?” Even in the nonexistent light, I could see his wry smile.

  I resisted the urge to laugh. “I don’t want my father to go.”

  “Because you just got him back.” He answered so quickly, clearly this had occurred to him long before it had to me.

  “Aye.”

  “The general is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. If anyone will survive this voyage, he will.”

  He had a point. Father had lived in the walls of the palace for thirteen years, making friends with rope-tails and writing journal entries in the dark. What was a little trek around the world compared to that? “Aye, I suppose. But . . .”

  “If something happened, you’d regret the way you left things between the two of you.”

  “Been prancing around in my mind again, Captain?”

  “I try to avoid prancing when I can. Plus, we only have five minutes. No time to waste cutting to the point.”

  “Indeed.”

  He looked down. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you in Urian. That’s not really how I wanted to leave things when I’m not sure I’ll return.”

  My breath caught. “You can’t tell me my father will make it back safe in one piece and then tell me you might not!”

  “I’m not your father. Have you seen the way he handles blades and bows? He’s like a walking weapon.”

  Tears rose. “I hate this. I hate that you’re both leaving me, just when I—” I broke off before I confessed my sickness. That was the last thing I wanted to say in this moment.

  Mor didn’t press for me to finish. “You’ll be all right, Tannie. You’ll have Brac.”

  “Stop.”

  “I’m not trying to yell at you again. Or make you feel guilty. I mean it honestly. Brac has been like a brother to you. You’ll have him by your side while we’re gone, and all will be well. You’re not alone, even though things have . . . changed between you.”

  “Changed?” My voice rose. “That’s an understatement, don’t you think? The lad thinks I’m going to be his wife!”

  “And now you’ll have plenty of uninterrupted time to tell him you don’t plan to marry him. Or you’ll have plenty of time to decide if you do want to marry him.”

  “Mor, it’s not even a—”

  But Mor cut me off by rising to his feet. “Five minutes are up. Good night, Tannie.”

  And before I could say another word, he vanished into the pre-dawn blackness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TANWEN

  The waves hadn’t had the effect on me I’d hoped. I lay awake all night until the light of dawn slanted through the window in my room at the inn. Though perhaps the waves had done their best and Mor had made a mess of whatever peace I might have been able to claim.

  I could only imagine the puffiness of my eyes and the drawn, haggard look on my face as I stood to the side of the dock and watched the sailors and the Corsyth weavers make the last of their preparations before setting sail. In a moment of defiance, I’d brought along the tricorn hat with the white feather and sparkling blue pin Mor had made for me when he had invited me to come with them. A sailor’s hat and an invitation for a time that felt much simpler. I clutched the blasted thing in my hands—a reminder to Captain Bo-Bumplelump of his broken promises.

  A hand brushed my shoulder, and I turned to find my father gazing at me with his steady gray eyes. “About ready to leave, Tannie girl.”

  “Yes, I gathered.” I looked down. “See you later, I guess.”

  He was quiet, and I didn’t look up. “Aye. I’ll see you when I return.”

  I could feel him moving . . . getting ready to make his way down the dock and onto that ship for goddesses knew how many moons.

  I closed my eyes and drew up the best part of myself, determined not to be an utt
er mountainbeast to my father. My eyes popped open in time to see him halfway down the dock already.

  “Daddy?”

  He halted. Turned slowly.

  I let the tears fall and ran to him. “Daddy, I’m sorry.”

  He wrapped me in a hug, just as he might have done when I was small. He stroked my head. “All is well, Tannie.”

  “I’m sorry I’m such a mountainbeast sometimes.”

  He tightened his hold on me.

  “I’m sorry I can be awful. I don’t want to be. Please stay safe. Come home so I can be a better daughter.”

  “Tannie . . .”

  “Please.”

  He squeezed me tighter. “I’ll return home to you, my girl.” Then he gently pried me from his chest and looked me in the face. “And will you be well while I’m away?”

  I swallowed hard. Should I tell him? Should I spill my fearful heart to him right there as he was getting ready to leave? No. It would only make him fret. “I’ll be well.”

  A frown creased his brow. He didn’t believe me. He knew something was wrong.

  I opened my mouth to venture some honesty because I had to tell someone. But just then, an arm wrapped around my shoulders, and Brac’s voice intruded. “I’ll keep her safe, sir.”

  Father glanced at Brac and then back at me. He let a long moment pass, then nodded. “Very well. Creator be with you both.” He kissed my forehead, then turned and walked down the dock.

  I stood, Brac’s arm wrapped around me like a tether. I watched the last of the crates, the last of my fellow weavers, make their way aboard. Mor had been out of sight all morning, and I wondered if that was by design. Somewhere belowdecks, Gryfelle rested in a bed.

  Please, let them find the cure.

  And I truly meant it for Gryfelle’s sake, not my own. But then I wondered . . .

  If they did find the cure and they were able to save Gryfelle, would it do me any good if I wasn’t with them? Would they be able to return home with the cure to help me too? What was the cure?

  I hadn’t thought any of this through. I’d been so clouded by frustration and heartache and the desire to go with them, I hadn’t given reason a space to breathe. Was I not only saying good-bye to my father and friends but to my only chance at healing? I realized I knew less than nothing about this cure they sought. Was it an object? A person? A potion? An incantation? Could it even be brought back to Urian for me?

  I glanced up at Brac. He looked pleased enough to see the Cethorelle’s ropes begin to be loosed.

  “Brac?”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. “They’re just about underway. Nice ship, eh? Queen Braith was generous with the pirate.”

  “Brac . . .”

  “Hope they can help the girl. She didn’t look well at breakfast. Her skin’s the color of turned milk.”

  “Brac!”

  He started. “Eh?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For wha—?”

  But before he could finish, I slipped the leather engagement bracelet from my wrist, pressed it into his hand, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I have to. Please forgive me.”

  I yanked the hat onto my head, hiked up my skirt, and then sprinted down the dock. Toward the ship pulling away into the Menfor Sea. Toward the deck growing farther out of reach by the second.

  My heart hammered, but I pushed harder. The gap between the dock and the ship widened—impossibly far. I’d never make it. I’d be daft to even attempt it.

  I jumped.

  Next moment, I clung to the side of a moving ship, the breath knocked from my chest by the unforgiving wood.

  But thank heavens for those decorative bits of railing, or whatever they were called. If not for them, I’d be sinking to the bottom of the bay by now.

  “Man overboard!” The unfamiliar face of a crewman came into view above me. “Well . . . sort of.” He appraised me. “Need a hand, lassie?”

  My eyebrow arched as I fought for breath. “Aye, if it’s not a bother.”

  He laughed and grabbed my wrists. Then his hands found my underarms, and he hoisted me onto the deck. I collapsed in a heap, and he shook his head over me. “I dunno what you were thinking, but the captain doesn’t look pleased.”

  “Tannie!” Mor thundered across the deck toward me. “Tannie, what in the name of the taxes are you doing?”

  He dropped to his knees beside me and twisted my face this way and that. Checked my arms and any bit of me that wasn’t covered by my dress, as if the answer to my moment of daftness might be written there. “Are you hurt?”

  “Bruised a little.” I worked to draw a full breath. “Your ship beat the air out of me.”

  “Well, you hit her, after all.” He was still frowning. “What in the world, Tanwen En-Yestin? What in the wide world of watta roots were you thinking?”

  A shadow from above fell across us both. “She’s ill.”

  Father.

  I looked up at him. Tears pricked my eyes. He didn’t look angry. Only concerned.

  “Am I right, Tannie?” he asked.

  I let Mor help me to my feet and stole a glance around at the curious crew and my weaver friends. Aeron, Warmil, Zelyth, and Dylun made no pretense of trying to hide their shock. Zel’s mouth actually dangled open.

  I lowered my voice so that only Mor and Father might hear. “Yes. I’m ill.”

  Mor took a step back. “I don’t understand.”

  But his eyes told me he did.

  “What you saw back in Urian. When I collapsed . . .”

  “Then it’s true.” Mor’s eyes pleaded with me to take it back. “I convinced myself I was being too anxious. Reading into things. You would have said sooner if it were true.”

  Now was the time for honesty at last. “It’s true, Mor. Whatever is killing Gryfelle, I have it too. I need you to save us both.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NAITH

  Naith stood in a deserted alleyway of Urian. He spent so much time in alleyways of late.

  Disgraceful.

  The sun had barely made its presence known, and the city had not yet woken. Except the rivermen on the docks. Naith had paid one of those wretches handsomely for his silence after he ferried Naith to the docks nearest the palace.

  Naith would not be able to travel anywhere in Urian without being recognized. What was the Master thinking, sending him back? What could they possibly stand to gain? All was deeply unstable, and it seemed this place where he might face the wrath of some emboldened peasants at any moment was the last place in Tir he should be. If the goal was to keep him alive, at least—and Naith wasn’t sure that was what the Master wanted at all.

  He frowned. The back entrance to the palace—the one favored by kitchen servants and deliverymen—was visible just down the lane.

  How undignified. Was this what the Master expected of him? To slink around the city like a four-legged critter? To duck into service entrances like a common slave?

  After the care he had taken to escape the capital in the first place . . .

  “Blast it all.”

  Not cursing me, are you, Naith?

  Naith stifled a scream. He had been so focused on the palace, he hadn’t noticed the smoky strands swirling nearby. And if he hadn’t been so familiar with those strands in the first place, he would have taken them for morning mist.

  “Master,” Naith whispered to the strands. “You startled me.”

  You should know I’m always with you.

  “Forgive me, Master. I was trying to strategize. But you have not shared your plan with me.” Naith prayed the Master would give him grace in this moment of danger.

  No, I did not share my plan with you. In fact, I never told you to return to the palace at all.

  Naith froze. He replayed the Master’s instructions over in his mind. Return to Urian. Naith had assumed that meant his former home, the palace.

  “Master, I thought—”

  You assumed. Nasty habit, that. And you nearly ruined e
verything with your assumptions and your haste.

  “Forgive me, Master. Where shall I go if not to the palace? To the temple?”

  Stay, Naith. Watch.

  Naith stood in the alleyway as the Master’s smoke strands curled lazily through the air around him. The sun peeked over the tops of the cityscape. The palace now glowed around its edges in the early-morning light.

  The city wakes.

  And indeed, it had. The sounds of doors closing. Of shutters being opened. Of vendors and merchants calling their morning wares—hotcakes and fishing supplies and fresh milk. Soon the fabric and dress shops would open for business. Milliners and haberdasheries. All seducing Urian’s middle class to try to pass for nobility with a new hat, a few fine buttons on last year’s dress.

  But Naith had heard these sounds thousands of times before. Why had the Master brought him all the way back to Urian to listen to the sounds of the citizenry? What did he care for them?

  Wait for it.

  Yes, there it was. A less pleasant sound. Less familiar to Naith’s ears and his years of experience in the capital city. Shouts of treason. Calls for the queen’s head. Demands to see Gareth’s body. Cries against the monarchy. The sounds of heavy pounding on a heavier door.

  Listen to the sounds of unrest, the cries of peasant rage.

  “Yes, I hear it, Master.” Naith hesitated. “But surely you know they would see me as one to overthrow. I sat at Gareth’s court. I had a seat on his council. They would well remember my fine robes, the temple taxes.”

  Indeed. So you must make them believe you are beyond such things. Remind the peasants of a time when the priestly class served the goddesses more humbly and were not so concerned with lining their pockets.

  Preposterous. Unravel two or three centuries of history . . . how? How could he possibly change the well-earned reputation of the Tirian priests? And why would he bother? “Master?”

  We need them now, Naith. Make them believe in you.

  “They’ll kill me. If I take one step out there, they’ll have my head.”