The Weaver Trilogy: The Complete Series: The Weaver Trilogy

THE WEAVER TRILOGY

BOOK 1

LINDSAY A. FRANKLIN

Acclaim for

THE STORY PEDDLER

"Lindsay A. Franklin is a fearless storyteller. She weaves a colorful fantasy of light, darkness, and the many adventures in between. The Story Peddler is a perfect blend of humor, heartache, and healing."

—Nadine Brandes, author of Fawkes and A Time to Die

The Story Peddler is like nothing I’ve ever read. Lindsay A. Franklin weaves a magical and one-of-a-kind tale packed with danger, treason, and forbidden stories. A girl who wants to escape her mundane life. A king who harbors dark secrets. A princess in search of truth. The Story Peddler has it all.

Filled to the brim with mystery and intrigue, this stunning debut will transport readers to a realm from whence they’ll ne’er desire to return. Save a spot on your TBR list for this beauty! The Story Peddler is a binge-worthy read sure to be treasured by peasants and kings alike.

—Sara Ella, award-winning author of the Unblemished trilogy

"Traitors, rebels, and the most original magic system I’ve seen since Patrick Carr’s A Cast of Stones make Lindsay A. Franklin’s The Story Peddler a unique and engrossing debut! I read through the book in two days. Did not want to put it down."

—Jill Williamson, Christy Award-winning author of By Darkness Hid and King’s Folly

For Dave.

Always.

CHAPTER ONE

TANWEN

Colored ribbons of light poured from my fingers. One strand broke free and soared above the crowd’s head, glowing golden in the afternoon sun.

A child in the crowd gasped. Look, Mam!

I swallowed my smile and pushed all my focus back to my words—practiced over and over until I could say each phrase in fancy, schooled Tirian. Couldn’t let any common village speak bleed into the stories all Tirians know so well. My storytelling mentor, Riwor, loomed near the edge of the crowd, eyes narrowed and watching my every breath. She’d make me pay for it if my practiced peddler words slipped into my usual lowborn drawl.

Again.

But when I opened my mouth, my best storytelling voice carried on the breeze through the village square, just like it was supposed to. The orphan princess, Cariad the Stone, now forced to rule Tir in the wake of her parents’ untimely deaths, vowed ever to be strong and noble for her people.

The swirling story strand hardened from glowing light into a swathe of matte gray fabric, then wove itself into a braid. It cinched tighter as I told the old tale.

Cariad, though she was so very young, held fast to her vow.

I circled my fingers, and the braided fabric followed my command. It coiled around itself like a snake in the garden, until it looked less like fabric and more like a tiny stone tower from a fairy-story castle.

Countless suitors from the best families of the realm courted her hand to no avail. She did not wish a husband’s ambitions to direct the course of her people, whom she had sworn to protect.

The tiny tower stacked higher.

But when the Stone Princess grew older, she fell deeply in love with her most trusted friend—her cupbearer, poor and unhandsome, but wise and loyal.

From one finger on my right hand, a grass-green story strand unraveled and wove through the stones of Cariad’s tower.

Cariad tried to convince herself that an alliance with her cupbearer would be disastrous, but as the years ticked by, her love for him only grew.

I glanced up. Every gaze was fixed on the story I was building. Perfect. With a flick of my fingers, the grassy vine that was meant to show Cariad’s cup-bearing lover burst into bloom. Tiny red velvet-petals sprang forth all over. The children squealed, and several women gasped.

Good. I’d likely sell this one. Riwor would be pleased as a pickle.

Cariad found herself unable to displace the loyal cupbearer from her heart, but she saw no reason to break her vow to the Tirian kingdom. So she bestowed the rule of her people and the title of king to her chief advisor, an honest and brave man whose line would rule Tir for two centuries.

I made a swirling bit of yellow light in one palm, then lifted my hand so it looked rather like the sun rising behind my stone tower—it was supposed to be the dawn of a new life for Cariad.

And so Cariad and her cupbearer left the palace and lived simply and happily in the country for the rest of their days.

This was it. The end of the story. Time to change those fluid strands of idea into something solid—something to sell.

The lesson of Cariad’s story is . . . I peeked sideways at Riwor.

She stared at me, face darkening by the heartbeat. It was always as if her disapproval chiseled out the creases around her mouth so they were deeper each day. She placed a gnarled old hand on one hip and glared her worst at me.

My voice wavered. The lesson is . . .

But I hated this ending. Giving up the palace? Trading fine gowns for peasant rags? That was addlebrained, if a body wanted my opinion.

Which no one did.

My story quivered before me, seemingly waiting for my next words.

But maybe I didn’t have to shovel out the old, tired ending I hated. Maybe I could tell an ending all my own.

Cariad and the cupbearer were happy—until they realized what she’d given up.

A smooth, black strand ribboned from my hand. It danced around the tower in a slow circle. A strand to represent Cariad’s ambitions—a strand I could actually relate to.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Riwor’s arms waving away.

Guess she doesn’t like my new ending.

A couple villagers around the edge of the crowd stared at her, flapping like an old blackbird caught in a snare. But most of the crowd stuck fast to me and the new strands oozing from my hands.

So Cariad unscrambled her brains long enough to raise an army. The rolling hum of my storyteller voice flitted away, and words that proved my peasanthood gushed out instead. A big army, with swords and bows and arrows and suchlike! I hopped off my wooden stool and shot a strand of glowing red light into the air.

Tanwen! Riwor’s hiss reached my ears, but my new ideas had carried my mind too far away to care.

It was an army full of peasants wanting to live in the palace, too!

Story strands volleyed everywhere. Different colors, materials, textures—they wheeled every which direction, all over the blooming place.

And they took the palace back so Cariad could be princess again—no, queen! No, empress!

Then the strands froze like time had stopped. The tower with the red velvet-petals and my rogue, made-up strands stayed fixed in midair, gaping at me, if such a thing were possible.

Then, like a dropped glass, it all shattered to pieces. Before the story shards could fly into the crowd of wee ones, I swept my hand over the bits and they dissolved into light. I blinked, and the entire mess vanished.

I was left staring at an empty space where this week’s supper money had been sitting.

Hovering around the back of the throng, the men of the village erupted into laughter.

Nice try there, lassie. One man tipped his floppy farmer’s hat in my direction. Had us going for a moment, you did.

Waste of time, this is, said another, grabbing a woman by the arm and leading her away.

Three older women brushed the dirt from their skirts as they stood.

One stared down at me and flashed a frosty smile. We’d best be off. Some of us have real work to do, eh?

They all chuckled and turned to leave. I made a face at their backs.

A young farmer grinned at me. It wasn’t all bad. I liked when you made the flowers come out, and I liked that the ending was different than I’ve heard before. He shuffled his feet in the dirt. Say, what’s your name?

I forced a smile so as to be friendly to the customers, even if I felt like sinking into the dust. Tanwen.

He smiled. Have a drink with me at the tavern, will you, Tanwen?

It took me a heartbeat to eye his shabby clothes and calloused hands. I don’t think so. But stop by next time we’re in town. I’ll sell you a story.

His smile collapsed. He nodded once, then trudged off.

I grabbed my stool and muttered to myself. Sorry, but if I had a drink with every smitten farm boy in every village’s scummy tavern, I’d never see the light of day again.

Still. He didn’t seem like a bad fellow. A bit of guilt pricked me. Didn’t help that the lad looked forcibly like Brac.

I sighed and turned to help Riwor load up the donkey cart. Figured I might as well face her wrath sooner than later. Except it found me first.

Sound and pressure exploded over my ear as she boxed me on the side of the head.

Foolish girl! Fire blazed in her eyes. You were right at the end! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you just stick to the stories, like I’ve taught you?

I rubbed my ear and stole a look around. The crowd was gone, except a few stragglers.

Good. I didn’t need the whole village of Lewir watching me get torn to bits by a toothless crone—master story peddler or not.

I’m sorry, Riwor. I just wanted to try something new.

Something new? She boxed my ear again. There’s something new for you to try, eh?

Except Riwor boxing my ears wasn’t anything new.

Aye. Thanks, I grumbled, mostly to myself.

She snatched the wooden stool from me and shoved it onto the wagon with force. The lazy donkey picked up his hooves and brayed a mournful note. And anyway, I told you to ask me before you tried to sell the Cariad story again. It wasn’t on the latest list of crowned stories, and the last thing we need is one of the king’s guardsmen taking offense.

My shoulders drooped. I forgot.

She tossed a tarp over the donkey cart. Fool thing to forget, Tanwen, unless you’re looking to land in the dungeon. Stick to the crown-approved stories, or that’s where you’ll end up. And I don’t mean to follow you there.

I sighed out my breath in a long huff that sounded like defeat. Suppose it’s just as well the blasted thing blew up. I don’t get that Cariad story anyway. It’s hard to tell it and sell it if I don’t get it.

Get it? Riwor looked at me like I’d sprouted another head.

I mean, I don’t understand it. Why would anybody give up being a princess in the castle? It don’t make sense.

"Doesn’t make sense. Riwor grunted. You ignorant child."

Ignorant? My speech was getting better all the time, and I was one of the few peasants I knew who could actually read. Just because I’d never had a tutor. . . . But I bit down hard on my annoyance and didn’t backtalk Riwor. Never helped anyway.

It doesn’t make sense, I corrected myself. Why would Cariad leave the palace?

Riwor pressed her palm to her forehead like I was too dumb to breathe. That’s the whole point of the story, Tanwen. The lesson is that no price is too high to pay for true love. She yanked on the donkey’s reins. Standard romance thread, fool girl. Think you can sell it?

She didn’t give me a chance to answer. Didn’t really want me to, of course. Always had to have the last word, the hairy old monster. She busied herself about the donkey, and I contented myself with feeling miserable while I waited.

I thought it was nice ’fore it blew up.

I turned to the sound of a small voice. A wee lass, no more than six years old, stood behind me. A gap showed where she was missing two teeth in front.

I knelt down and smiled at her. Thank you, lassie. Want me to tell you a story?

Her eyes lit up, and she plopped down cross-legged in the dirt.

I scooted next to her. Once, there was a little girl.

A strand of blue light curled from two of my fingers. It glittered as it swirled before us.

The child giggled. It’s same as your eyes.

Shh. I winked at her. This little girl was very poor. Her mother was dead and her father . . . I frowned, and my story strand almost disappeared while I tried to rope in the right words. Her father was gone too. I smiled at the lass again. So it was up to her to find a way to take care of herself.

Did she? The lass’s eyes brightened with the question.

She did. She took care of herself when she was just a wee lass, like you. But she kept her dearest dream safe inside, where no one could touch it.

A pale golden light unfurled from my palm and swallowed up the blue ribbon. She would have liked nothing so much as to live in the palace like Cariad once did.

I directed the light strands until they swirled into a circle and three points formed along the front of the ring. And that’s exactly what she aimed to do.

At my last words, the ring of light turned solid—into a golden crown, just the proper size for the lass. Sunlight glittered through the crown, delicate and clear, like crystallized stories were supposed to be. It dropped into my lap with a soft plink.

I picked it up and handed it to the lass. There. That’s for you.

Her smile dimmed. Oh. I ain’t got money.

Don’t worry about that. You can have—

Fenir! A man’s voice cut into my words. What are you doing with that story peddler?

Papa, I—

It’s all right, sir. I flashed a smile at the red-faced man. Smiles never hurt in trying to soothe men, at least in my experience. I was just telling her a story.

And trying to filch a few coins from her pocket, doubtless. He dragged the girl to her feet by her arm.

She cringed at his tug, and I leaned away from his breath. Smelled like he’d spent the last of their coins at the tavern. No, it was a gift. No charge.

He snorted. Oh, sure. A free gift. Ain’t no such thing in Tir, everybody knows. He wrenched his daughter’s arm again. You can’t trust these people, Fenir. Give me that. He snatched the crystallized story from her hands and chucked it to the ground. It splintered to bits against the hard-packed dirt road.

Hey! I jumped to my feet. That was for her!

His eyes lit up like the drunks’ eyes back home did when there was about to be a brawl. Aye? So’s this! He slapped the little girl full across her face. She cried out and crumpled to the ground.

I lunged for her out of instinct, but she held up her hand. It ain’t no trouble, miss. I’m all right.

Like blazes she was.

The man waved me away. Get out of here, you. I told my lass you people was dangerous. Take your storytelling rubbish and leave our village be. He took a few lurching steps away. Come on, Fenir.

Fenir scrambled to her feet. She watched her father go for a moment, then spoke quickly to me. He don’t mean it. Harvest was bad this year, so he can’t pay the king’s taxes. Mam says he’s turned to the ale because he don’t know what else to do.

We all have it hard under the taxes. I brushed my hand across her red-streaked cheek. It doesn’t mean he should hit you.

She nodded to Riwor. She hits you.

I paused. Clever little lass had a point. Still. He’s your daddy and it’s not right.

I gotta go. She smiled sadly. Thank you, Peddler.

Bye, Fenir. I watched the little lass disappear down the road after her father.

Maybe she was right. I scoffed to think of my early hopes when Riwor had first sought me out as her apprentice. I’d thought she could fill that empty, echoing space in my heart—that place the love of family was supposed to fill. I’d hoped maybe she would be like a granny to me. Fool idea that had lasted all of an hour, until the first time she struck me. A full six moons ago that was. Yet here I was, still standing beside her.

I tried to remind myself why I put up with Riwor. Was it because she taught me how to peddle and not just tell stories? Because she was the one to show me how to sharpen my gift and kept me using it in a way that wouldn’t land me in the king’s dungeon? Or maybe because she was my pathway into the unknown villages of the Eastern Peninsula?

Truly, it was because I had no other choice.

Tanwen! Riwor’s voice ripped me from my thoughts. Unless you’d like to relieve the donkey of his duties and pull the cart yourself, I suggest you get over here. Now!

I sighed. Coming.

CHAPTER TWO

TANWEN

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm and looked up at my mentor, seated on the wagon and holding the donkey’s reins. Riwor, you said it was to be two silver bits.

Riwor pressed a single silver piece into my palm and sneered at me. That was assuming you’d do something worthwhile.

I fought to keep my voice even. I sold one today.

And flubbed another in front of the whole village. We’ll need to wait weeks before we return to Lewir, and you’re lucky there wasn’t a guardsman about.

I adjusted the pack on my shoulder and stroked the donkey’s nose, stalling for a minute. Was the extra piece of silver worth the fight with Riwor?

Yes, I decided. It was. If I wanted to eat anyhow.

It won’t matter if we can’t go back to Lewir for a while. We’re headed across the river for two weeks anyway.

A scowl deepened the creases in her face. She seemed to be scouring her mind for some sort of argument. Finally, she grunted and flicked another piece of silver down to me. Here, take it, selfish brat. If I don’t have my supper tonight, it’s your fault.

My gaze wandered to her bulging coin purse, tied to a belt I could barely see beneath her overhanging gut.

Aye, sure, she’d be skipping a meal.

I plastered on a grateful smile. Thanks, Riwor. I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning, just after sunrise.

And don’t be late. She adjusted the reins in her hands, and the donkey picked up his feet and plodded down the king’s road. If you can manage it, she called back to me.

I watched her continue on the road to Drefden, where she kept a small cottage. I tried my hardest not to despise her. I was lucky she’d agreed to take me under her wing as a peddler, even though I hadn’t technically come of age yet. I’d be in big trouble without her help.

Leastways, that was what I kept telling myself. When she was out of sight, I spun around and faced the road to Pembrone. The road home—dusty, poky, ordinary, just like the town itself.

My leather-clad feet tramped down the dirt path. I tried not to despise Pembrone too. At least we had the ocean. Along the southern border of the town, below the rocky cliffs, the Menfor Sea tossed and rolled. And it was downright pretty if a girl ever got to break away from her work long enough to go look at it.

I passed Farmer Rhys’s plot on my left. Way out in the south field, his eldest daughter Celyn waved to me. Ho, Tanwen!

I waved back but couldn’t risk shouting hello to her. Riwor would slap me into the next moon if I lost my voice before our two-week tour. Getting on Riwor’s bad side before our tour had even begun was definitely not my goal. In fact, I was hoping to be let off the leash a little this time. Maybe even venture into a village or two by myself.

Dirt became cobblestone as I reached the main thoroughfare of Pembrone. I didn’t even glance up when I heard footsteps pounding the stones beside me. I didn’t need to. Already knew who it was.

Ho, Tannie.

I smiled. Evening, Brac. I shielded my eyes against the setting sun and looked up at him, a head taller than I and lanky as a scarecrow of late. What are you up to?

Waiting for you, of course. He pinched my arm and handed me a small jug of water. Same as always.

And he wasn’t kidding. Brac watched for me to come home every day Riwor and I ventured any farther than the central lane of Pembrone. He’d be leaning against the wall of one of the outlying buildings until Riwor’s donkey carried me near, though how his father could spare him from the farm while he waited for me, I didn’t know. And he always had cool water, knowing I was hot and tired from the dusty road.

I pinched him back. You forgot your hat today. Again. Your face is all burned.

He shrugged and brushed a straw-colored shock of hair from his eyes. It don’t hurt.

I could hear Riwor correcting his words in my mind, but I didn’t say anything. He didn’t much like my hoity-toity peddler talk, as he called it.

I nodded to the tavern up ahead. I have to stop for food.

I know. He strode to the tavern door and held it open for me.

The barmaid looked up from the counter she was scrubbing. She pushed her graying hair off her forehead. Ho, Tanwen. She narrowed her eyes at Brac. Brac Bo-Bradwir, you owe me a copper for that mug of ale yesterday.

He frowned at her, then at me. You know I don’t have it right now, Blodwyn. The blasted tax took every spare copper from my pockets.

Blodwyn’s gaze struck hard as flint. Then you shouldn’t be taking ale from my pockets, young sir.

I plunked down on one of the three-legged stools. Pockets are an odd place to store your ale, Blodwyn.

She glared at me and then rounded on Brac. And does it stop at ale, Bo-Bradwir? If I go upstairs and ask my girls, will they tell me you owe something else to my account?

Brac’s ears reddened. I don’t go in for that, Blodwyn. You know I don’t.

I stared at the bar top and silently hoped that was true. It’d make him about the only lad in town who didn’t.

Brac slid onto the stool next to me. I’ll have the copper for you by week’s end.

Blodwyn nodded once. Fine. Then she turned to me and smiled, as if that whole conversation hadn’t just happened in my hearing. What can I get you, love?

Supper for two, please. What do you have?

She turned to a giant pot dangling over the fire and used her rag to lift off the lid. Grazer stew with watta root.

The smell tickled my nose and made my stomach growl. My lunch of hard rolls and sweaty cheese was a distant memory. How much?

Four coppers buys enough for two. She scowled at Brac. Lucky you have Tanwen to look out for you, lad, but it should be the other way around, if you ask me. Then her gaze settled back on me. Just be careful who you’re binding yourself to, Tanwen. That’s all I’ll say.

The awkwardness stuck in my throat. If she only knew the battles we’d had about this . . .

Brac’s scowl could have started a thunderstorm. I wonder what it’d be like to have tavern-keepers who minded their own onions.

Blodwyn flipped her towel over her shoulder and seemed to be biting hard on a smile. I wonder what it’d be like to have farmers’ boys who paid for their ale.

I cleared my throat loudly before Brac could fire off another sharp remark. Here you are, Blodwyn. I pushed one of my silver bits across the counter.

She handed back some coppers and two hollowed-out rounds of dry bread filled with grazer stew. Mind, it’s hot.

Brac eyed my change as I slipped it into my pouch. Tannie, could I borrow—

Not a chance. I took one of the bowls and nodded to the other.

Brac took it and reached behind the counter to swipe one of Blodwyn’s spoons. I’ll bring it back later.

She sighed. Aye, you better.

He pushed the front door open for me with his backside. "You could’ve spared me one copper, don’t you think?"

I lifted my chin and glided past him. I don’t spend my life peddling stories to pay for your ale, Brac Bo-Bradwir.

Hey, now, that ain’t what I—

Never you mind, Brac. I’m not worried. We’re not bound, whatever Blodwyn and the rest of Pembrone thinks.

He coughed on a mouthful of stew, then grimaced. Aye, about that . . .

I stopped and sighed. Why had I brought that up? Think first, then speak, Tanwen. When would I learn?

Too late now.

But I faked a cheerful smile. About what?

He rolled his eyes. About what Blodwyn said. Binding ourselves together and all. He shoveled another spoonful of stew into his mouth and seemed to be waiting for me to say something.

But I wasn’t taking that bait.

He scanned the surrounding farmland, doing a terrible job pretending it was interesting. Just wondered if you’d given half a thought to what we talked about before.

His words made my feet feel like they were hewn of stone. Truly, we hadn’t done a lot of talking before. There’d been his confession of undying love, tears, some shouting, and more tears. Seemed to Brac no earthly reason why we shouldn’t be married by now.

It was getting harder and harder for me to find those earthly reasons.

I forced my voice to sound light. I don’t know when you got the hogswoggled idea in your sunbaked brain that I’d make a good wife for any lad, Brac. I’m too young.

Too young? Near eighteen, last I checked.

Half a year till that happens.

He pretended not to hear. And I a year older than you. He tucked Blodwyn’s spoon into his trouser pocket and took to devouring his bread bowl. Be straight with me, Tannie. Age has got nothing to do with it, does it? You don’t love me, do you?

A searing-hot brand pressed into my heart. Don’t say that. That’s not what I’m driving at.

I did love Brac, in a manner of speaking. Deeper and stronger than a brother. He was my truest friend.

But marriage . . .

The idea froze in my mind—homemaking, raising babies, tending the farm. That’s what Brac was asking. And story peddling wasn’t part of that picture. How could I give up my dream before I’d even begun?

Brac, I know seventeen isn’t too young for most people, but it’s different for me. You know it is. I just started peddling with Riwor. I need more time.

He polished off the last of his bread. But if we marry, you won’t need to sell stories and travel around anymore. I’ll take care of you, and we’ll live with my folks. Or we’ll live at your place. Just the two of us. He brushed a strand of hair off my face.

I pulled away from his touch. I didn’t really like to. Brac felt like family when no one else did. Brac was safety and affection and comfort. But surely I didn’t need to encourage him. "Brac, I don’t know how else to say it so you understand, but I want to sell stories and travel around."

And work your way up to Urian. His face darkened.

Urian. The capital city. It unnerved me how he put such a fine point on things I’d never quite come out and said.

But he was right. If I could work my way to Urian, get someone from the king’s court to notice me, then maybe . . .

Tannie, did you hear me?

I stopped walking. What?

Brac sighed and stopped beside me. A few villagers milled about, but no one seemed to pay us much mind. I said we could build a good life here. I know it’s only Pembrone, but this is where our family is. Haven’t Mam and Dad taken care of you all these years?

My temper ignited. Oh, and marrying their son is the price I have to pay, is it? Your parents take me in as an orphan for a while and now I have to give myself to their boy?

Brac put a hand over my mouth. Sakes, Tannie, calm down. I didn’t mean it like that. Just meant they’d help us get started. You’re getting loud. People will start staring. Suddenly, he grinned in that impish way he had. If you think I ain’t handsome enough to marry, just say so.

I shoved him as best I could with a bowl of hot soup in my hands. You’re not handsome enough.

A blatant lie on a fine spring evening. I tried not to notice his twinkling brown eyes, the straw-colored hair falling over his forehead, or the sharp cut of his jaw. If I did, I couldn’t say he was unhandsome with a straight face.

But caring for him, thinking he was a handsome lad, wasn’t the same as being in love with him. Was it? I stared at my food. Sometimes my feelings seemed more mixed up than a bowl of grazer stew.

Brac nudged me. Well, it ain’t the first time you said I was ugly.

Now who’s making up stories? I never said anything like it.

Aye, you did! When I was fourteen and I tried to kiss you while you were milking the grazers for Mam. He laughed. You told me I was the ugliest brute you ever had the misfortune of seeing. Ain’t that right, Tannie?

It did ring a bell. And I’d quite meant it at the time. Oh, come off it. See me to my cottage like a gentleman, will you?

We stepped off the cobblestones and onto a packed-earth lane to the right. It led to both our homesteads.

Speaking of grazer milk, Mam saved some for you. Come to our barn and we’ll get it.

I glanced up at Brac. The tips of his ears reddened—just like I suspected they might.

Brac Bo-Bradwir, don’t you lie to me.

Don’t know what you mean, Tannie. But he stared off in the other direction and wouldn’t meet my gaze.

The grazers haven’t been producing well lately, and we both know it. Farmer Bradwir and your mam are good to me. They would share if they had extra, but I know they don’t. That milk’s your share, isn’t it?

Well, I . . . It ain’t quite the way you framed it, I don’t reckon . . .

I stopped walking and waited until he would look me full in the face.

He sighed. Aye, Tannie. It was meant to be mine. But no need to go on about it. A lass needs milk, too, even if she’s all of seventeen. Mam says so. Besides, you share with me. He nodded to my bowl of stew. Family always shares.

A dagger of guilt pricked me. Brac looked out for me and always had. Always would. We looked out for each other. I probably should take him seriously as a suitor. My head must be emptier than the discarded shell of a huskbeetle.

The offer of a secure life on a good farm was everything most country lasses longed for. A kind husband who truly cared for them was more than many lasses got. Maybe I hadn’t a right to wish for more than my life in Pembrone. Maybe my hopes of Urian were as selfish and wrong-headed as Brac made them out to be.

So will you take it?

I jumped at Brac’s question. What?

Stars’ sakes, Tannie. You and your daydreams. I asked if you’d take the grazer milk. It’s only fair. You bought me stew.

I smiled. Aye, all right. Let me just set this down. I put my stew on the low stone wall surrounding my cottage. It’ll give this a chance to cool anyway. I don’t know how you swallowed yours down.

Brac shrugged. Needed to finish it in time for supper.

I didn’t bother addressing his insatiable appetite. All the farmers’ boys had a tough time finding enough food to keep going around tax time. It’s why I didn’t mind sparing the two coppers for his stew. That was different than ale.

We took off down the dirt path in the other direction toward the Bradwir stead. In the distance, waves crashed below the cliffs that butted up to the backside of my cottage. The lonely sound was my only company at night.

We passed a field of shriveled grain on the left. I frowned. Will your dad be able to pay the harvest tax this year? The crops look bad.

I braced for the fit of cussing that might follow my question.

Brac’s eyes clouded. Goddesses know. I can’t even keep all the blasted taxes straight, forget trying to pay them all. There’s the planting tax we paid early spring, the reaping tax we’ll be expected to pay early autumn, then the ‘Harvest of Gareth the Handsome’s Thirteenth Year Tax.’ Fried if I know the difference between a reaping tax and a harvest tax. Between them and the ‘taxes’ the rotten king’s guard demands and the offerings the temple demands, it’s a wonder anyone in Pembrone has a crumb to put in his mouth at supper.

He kicked a rock and sent it careening into his father’s fields. And that ain’t even considering when the trees get salt burn and the marshes flood ocean onto our grain. The king doesn’t give a blaze about low yield. Taxes due, just the same. He picked up another rock and threw it this time.

You shouldn’t get so angry.

He looked at me like I’d dropped out of the sky. Don’t it make you angry?

Of course it does. But you need to keep your head down, especially with the king’s guard about. If you’re looking to survive, it’s got to be done.

He stopped walking and rounded on me. Keep my head down while they steal food out of my mouth and that of my kin? Keep my head down while they march around here like they own the place, just because they got the king’s seal on their filthy armor?

I folded my arms across my chest and stared at him. Best to just let him get it all out.

It’s the blooming king’s guard that makes it so hard for a body to get anywhere around here. Them and the priests. Mam says we ought to make more offerings to the goddesses to help the harvest. Dad says we oughtn’t make so many. Blasted if I know what to do about it.

Then my breath caught. Behind Brac, a horse picked silently through the shriveled grain field. The mounted guardsman was well within earshot. My body stiffened, eyes widened, but Brac didn’t seem to notice.

And you know what else?

I shook my head a little, hoping he’d read the signs.

Shut up, Brac Bo-Bradwir!

But he kept right on rambling. Those soldiers that like to squeeze us under their thumbs answer to the king, so I don’t suppose he’s any better than the lot of them. Probably have his blessing to go on kicking us whenever they feel like it.

The intruding horseman dismounted from his sleek beast with a clank of armor and a cold smirk. Treason, if I ever heard it. Bo-Bradwir, isn’t it? The farmer’s son?

The color drained from Brac’s face as he turned to the sound of the guardsman’s voice. Brac looked like he might be trying to keep down that bowl of stew.

You’re Farmer Bradwir’s son, aren’t you? the soldier repeated.

Aye.

The guardsman snorted. ‘Yes, sir,’ you fool. Address your superiors properly.

Brac’s lips squeezed together until they turned white against his over-sunned skin. The knight would have to draw his sword to get Brac to say anything of the sort.

Complaining about the tax, are we? The soldier removed his helmet and smoothed his wheat-colored hair back into its tail. I could have you hanged for that.

"Aye, sir."

The knight’s cold blue eyes flicked over to me, then back to Brac. You ought to be thinking of ways to earn my forgiveness, both for your treasonous rumblings and your blatant sarcasm.

You want me to polish that piece of metal that covers your backside, Your Majesty?

The guardsman’s calm finally shattered. You insolent—

I stepped between the two of them and curtsied low. Sir, please, forgive Farmer Bradwir’s son. The harvest’s been poor, and he’s hungry. Growing lads with no food are often temperamental. I ignored the look of utter indignation darkening Brac’s already red face. We’re just simple country folk.

The guardsman’s lip curled. Your lass here is smarter than you are, Bo-Bradwir. Before I knew what was happening, his dagger was unsheathed in one hand and he had me around the waist with the other. The steel of his blade tingled cold against my skin. Maybe you’ll learn to show some respect if your lass’s life depends upon it.

Brac’s face froze. His work-hardened muscles flexed, but there wasn’t a thing he could do, and we all three knew it.

The soldier laughed. Not so tough as you were a moment ago, eh, Bo-Bradwir? He slipped a gloved finger across my neck and under the leather cord I always wore.

My hand instinctively flew to the necklace, and I nearly sliced my fingers on the man’s blade. Please, sir! It’s not worth anything.

The guardsman snorted. Yes, I see that. He studied the little knot of wrought silver that served as a charm. Then he turned back to Brac. Do you not have anything else sharp to say, now that my dagger’s at your lass’s pretty throat?

I’m not his lass, sir.

The soldier glanced down at me. Oh?

No, sir.

Not yet, maybe, Brac interjected. The frown he fired at me couldn’t have been any deeper or more annoyed.

The guardsman’s grip on me slackened, and I turned to face him. My eyes grazed over his face. Though he knew Brac’s name, I didn’t think I’d seen him around here before, so maybe he was from the capital. Only one way to find out. Are you from Urian, sir?

Urian? His face screwed up in apparent confusion. No. I’m from Afon.

I tried not to let my disappointment show. Afon was a town not far across the river. Not even off the Peninsula.

But have you been to Urian? I pressed.

Once. He sheathed his dagger. Apparently, the game was only fun if Brac and I were afraid, and I didn’t aim to be. When I was commissioned for the guard. But I had a tutor who lived in the palace for a time.

My mind sorted through his statement. If he had a tutor once, it meant he came from a wealthy family. I supposed his appointment to the guard was enough proof of that anyway. But if he’d only been to Urian once, it wasn’t likely—

Brac’s harsh voice interrupted my musings. Why don’t you leave us be now?

The guardsman laughed. I’m in fine humor today, so I’ll let your impudence slide. He swung a leg up over his horse and clanked back into place. He winked at me before replacing his helmet and directing his horse to nearly trample Brac as he left us. Mind yourself, Bo-Bradwir, lest you cross me on a less agreeable day.

When the hoofbeats became too distant to be heard, I slapped Brac on the arm. What’s gotten into you?

His mouth dropped open. "Me? What’s gotten into me?"

Are you trying to get yourself hanged? I shook my head and stomped toward Farmer Bradwir’s house.

And what about you? He grabbed my arm and forced me back around. He pulls his knife on you, then you act like you’re not bothered? You were almost flirting with him! Steam might start pouring from his ears any moment. You trying to land a king’s guard husband or something? Is that what’s wrong with me? I don’t wear enough metal for you?

I rolled my eyes. I was trying to get him to settle down—and it worked, didn’t it?

But inside, I knew he had a right to be irritated. I’d never let a country boy treat me the way that soldier had. And Brac had witnessed me suffer more than a few leers and advances from the guardsmen after they’d been at their ale.

But Brac didn’t understand. Getting close to a soldier—or a knight, better yet—might be the quickest way to the capital. The quickest way for me to gain an audience with King Gareth, and that’s what I needed. How would I ever manage that if I didn’t have connections in His Majesty’s court?

Tannie! Brac was nearly shouting. You listening? I thought you was a different kind of girl than that. I don’t think there’s much you wouldn’t let those louts do, if they’d only get you to Urian.

My temper flared again. Oh, ho! I’m not virtuous enough for you now? Says the boy who kissed Celyn En-Rhys when he thought I wasn’t looking. I brushed past him. And you’re wrong, you know. Just because I have plans and ideas about what I want to do and where I want to go, it doesn’t mean . . . Oh, forget it. You wouldn’t understand.

And he didn’t. Brac could live the rest of his life in Pembrone, farming and wiling away his extra hours at the tavern and be content.

But not me.

And that was why I couldn’t marry him. That was one part of Princess Cariad’s tale I could grab hold of. I didn’t want a husband dictating my course, either.

Tannie. I could hear Brac’s footsteps pounding the road as he ran to catch me at the end of the lane leading to his house. He caught up and planted himself in front of me. I’m sorry. He plucked a stalk of straw and twisted it between his fingers. All right? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about the guardsmen. He made like he might touch my hair again, but I ducked out of his way.

And this time, I felt no regret for it.

I donned my most arrogant smile and pretended I was a fine lady at King Gareth’s court. Very well, peasant. You’re forgiven. But I have a suggestion for you.

Brac cocked an eyebrow as he chewed his stalk of straw. Aye?

I think you should join the king’s guard. It could brighten your prospects. I patted his cheek, then stepped through the front door of his house to greet his mother.

Just before the door closed, his retort came flying in to me. I’d rather kiss a mountainbeast!

CHAPTER THREE

TANWEN

It wasn’t easy to open the front door of my cottage with a bread bowl of stew in my hands and a jug of milk under one arm. But I managed. Then I pushed the door closed behind me with a bump of my rear.

I set my stew on the scrubbed-wood table, put the jug of milk in the cold pantry, and dropped my leather sack by the river-stone hearth. I’m home.

The expected silence answered me.

The fire had dwindled to a couple of glowing embers while I’d been gone. At least it was into the second moon of spring now. The cottage was a perfect ice block in wintertime. Maybe that was why my parents didn’t seem to have made it their permanent home.

I stoked the fire until it hopped back into flame. The glow warmed my face and cast orange light through the room—clean but shabby these days.

The stew called to me from the table, but I hadn’t said hello to my mother and father yet. I made for Father’s study.

Books lined every wall of the small room. The desk lay bare except for an empty ink pot and some old pens—exactly as I’d found it when I’d moved back in years ago, except with a bit of added dust.

Evening, Father.

I traced my fingers along the spines of his books and wondered again who he’d been. A tutor, maybe, to have so many volumes in his personal library. I didn’t suppose there were half as many in the rest of all Pembrone put together. And if he had been a tutor, maybe he’d been stationed with a wealthy family for the bulk of my childhood and taught me stuff when I was a tiny lass. Which would explain why I’d shown up in Pembrone as a six-year-old who could read. Unless it was Nanny who had taught me . . .

I sighed. Most people’s lives were stories with mysterious endings. Mine was a story with a beginning I could never make sense of. It was like fifty different unrelated strands I couldn’t weave into a solid crystal.

My gaze wandered back to the books. Maybe Father was a scribe?

Farmer and Ma-Bradwir knew who my father was, but they wouldn’t talk about him, and they didn’t suffer questions about it. Always said it was better not to tread that path.

Once I thought Father might have been a monk or something, since the temples always seemed to have books on hand. Not a priest, as they weren’t allowed to marry. But when I skimmed through Father’s titles, skipping over the real long words, I didn’t see anything about the goddesses in there. I decided he’d have made a poor monk. There was some stuff about the Creator here and there, but I’d shoved those books to the darkest corners of the shelves. That stuff was like as not to get you hanged these days. The priests called it blasphemy. Seemed the Creator and the goddesses were mixed up in a war as old as time, and who had time to sort that mess? Not me.

Maybe Father was a merchant. Pembrone had been a proper port at one time, though now all the ships and boats had moved down the coast past Lewir to Physgot, which had better fishing. Maybe he’d run a business back in the days before Pembrone settled into its pokiness and became a village full of farmers.

I put my hands on the back of Father’s chair and pretended he was sitting there. The image of a man formed, even though I couldn’t remember what Father truly looked like. My image was tall with dark-gold hair like mine. Seastone-blue eyes like mine appeared at first, but then I remembered what Ma-Bradwir said once—my eyes were my mother’s.

I replaced my imaginary father’s eyes with brown ones, like Brac’s.

Join me for supper, Father?

Wished he could.

I sighed and left the study, then traipsed down the hall to my bedroom.

I’m home, Mother.

It was my room now, but it’d been Mother’s when she was a girl. Her curtains—the finest cloth I owned—still hung in the windows. But they were so thin now they hardly kept out the light.

I didn’t mind much. All the light streaming in as the sun set lit up my crystallized stories—the first ones I’d ever made. And it helped me see the books that lined my shelves.

Not like Father’s dry volumes full of text. Mine were storybooks that had come with me to Pembrone, full of painted pictures in all colors of the rainbow.

Reading those books aloud was what first made me realize I had the storytelling gift. Normal lasses don’t make ribbons of light when they read their bedtime stories.

My gaze scanned the crystallized stories. A castle, a star, a white velvet-petal flower.

I picked up my first crystallized story and smiled at it. A tiny pink fluff-hopper, transparent as glass. Fluff-hoppers were cottony-soft, grass-eating critters Farmer Bradwir called pests. But Brac and I liked to catch them for his little siblings to pet and snuggle. They were perfectly tame unless you riled them up. Then they’d bring out their dagger-sharp teeth and hiss at you. More than one Tirian child had lost a finger to an angry fluff-hopper.

A beloved Tirian fairytale told of the pink fluff-hopper who’d grant wishes if you caught him.

I held up my pink crystal fluff-hopper and whispered to it. I wish for a way out of here.

It hadn’t worked the other five hundred times I’d tried it, but you never know when your luck might turn. Maybe mine would tonight.

Tears stung at my eyes.

No. Couldn’t give in to that. Never helped.

I forced them away as I slipped out of my peddling clothes—a white muslin dress, brown apron, and brown vest. I pulled my housedress from the wardrobe.

The rough cloth grated against my skin. Might as well be wearing a watta-root sack. But peddling time was done, and I wasn’t about to spoil my nicest clothes by dropping grazer stew on them.

I dismantled my upswept hair, pulled my gold waves into a simple tail, then tied it with a length of twine.

Now I looked just like every other Pembroni peasant girl. Ordinary and poor as dirt.

I shuffled back down the hall and plunked at the table. My stew was cold. I spooned it into my mouth anyway and tried to guess what it’d be like if I could hear Mother’s and Father’s voices around the table as we ate.

I pretended to feel the warmth of Father’s arm around my shoulders, pretended to bask in the glow of some approving words from Mother.

The fantasy was awfully nice. But it was just foolish imagining. The truth was the empty table before me, the dead-silent cottage all around me.

Aye. I wished for a way out.

I popped up in bed with a gasp. Something wasn’t right. Had I heard a noise? Felt a touch? An image of the arrogant guardsman from the day before flashed into my head.

The first light of dawn slanted through my threadbare curtains, but the house lay still.

Light of dawn.

Riwor.

I’m late!

I threw back my blanket and flew from bed. I stumbled over my bag, already packed and ready for the journey.

Too bad I wasn’t.

Dress, hair—no time for braids or curls—shoes, necklace.

I grabbed the silver trinket I’d taken such care to rescue from the king’s guardsman the day before. It wasn’t worth much, but the silver charm—worked into a curled, flowery shape—had been my mother’s. I never left home without it.

I slipped it over my head and down the front of my dress.

Done?

I patted my dress to make sure everything was in place. To make sure I hadn’t accidentally tucked the back of my skirt into the ties of my apron. Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself like that.

Again.

I dashed into the hallway, then to the fire. It hadn’t completely died through the night, and that was lucky. I added some wood from the pile, then stoked the fire back into flame before I ladled water from a barrel into my cooking pot. No matter how late I was, I wouldn’t make it through the day without some manner of breakfast.

I tossed a cupful of grain into the pot, then hurried to Father’s study.

Straighten the old pens; make sure all the books are in place.

I paused at a particular leather-bound volume. Father’s name was branded on the cover: Yestin Bo-Arthio. It looked like a journal. But it was empty, every page blank. I’d flipped through them all a dozen times to make sure.

I frowned. Maybe he hadn’t been much of a writer.

A hissing noise reached me from the next room. My porridge was boiling over.

I ran back to the hearth and stirred the gruel with a wooden spoon.

But for some reason, I couldn’t shake the picture of Father’s journal from my mind.

Tanwen!

I started so badly, the spoon dropped into the pot. I fished it back out with a wince, then zipped through the entry toward the angry voice on the other side of the front door.

Tanwen, I swear I’ll leave you behind, you lazy, useless watta root of a girl!

I’m coming, Riwor! I flung the door wide.

Riwor barely waited until the door was completely open to push past me. We agreed on sunrise. What’s been keeping you?

I overslept.

Riwor made a noise that sounded like an irritated grazer’s huff. Her gaze swept over my cottage. Well, well. Quite nice for a girl who claims to be so poor.

I turned to scoop out the half-bowl of porridge I allowed myself for breakfast. It was my mother’s family home once.

Humph, Riwor grunted.

The sooner I got her out of there, the better. Didn’t want her to start pocketing my parents’ belongings.

I inhaled my porridge, though it burned my mouth. Ready. Snatched my bag off the floor. I just have to see someone before I leave.

Riwor’s jowls quivered. Make it quick, or I leave without you.

Brac? I peered into the dark barn, but I didn’t see him. You in here?

There was a poke in my side that made me jump. Ho, Tannie.

I spun around and punched Brac in the stomach. You scared me!

He just laughed at me. Aye, that was the idea.

I glanced back to the road. I could tell Riwor was glaring at me, even from a distance. I’m leaving. Be gone a fortnight across the river—Gwern, Afon, and Mynyd.

I know. You told me.

Aye, but . . . I fumbled with my vest hem. I just wanted to say good-bye.

He tickled me under the chin. Is that your way of saying you want to marry me after all?

I swatted his hand away. Wake up, Bo-Bradwir. You’re dreaming again.

His grin slipped.

Blast.

Sorry, Brac. I didn’t mean it. I was teasing.

He let out a long breath. Easier to tease than talk about it, I suppose.

Double blast.

I bit the inside of my cheek. There’s not much left to talk about, is there? You want a simple farm lass, and goddesses know you’d have a line of them from here to the sea if you weren’t so hung up on me.

My gut twisted at the thought of a line of lasses snapping for Brac’s attention. But I swallowed the sick feeling. I didn’t have any right to it. One of those lasses will suit you for a wife just fine. She’ll want what you want, and you’ll both be happy.

Brac stared at me a moment, his mouth a bit open. Finally, he managed words. Don’t you understand, Tannie, after all these years?

He stepped toward me, and I took an equal step back out of instinct. Closeness to his person never helped me think clearer.

But those blasted lanky arms of his reached across the distance, and he put his hands on my shoulders. "I don’t want some lass. I don’t want any girl who’ll make a fine wife. I want you. He pulled me closer. All of you. The parts that drive me up one side of a wall and down the other, even."

Tears dribbled down my face unbidden. Drat it.

I thought about pulling away. But instead I looked up into his eyes, full of hope over how I might respond. Brac, I—

Tanwen! Riwor’s voice cut into the moment like a scythe. Get a move on, girl!

I sighed. I’m sorry, Brac. I have to go now.

He reached up and stroked my hair. I get the feeling one of these days when you leave, you ain’t coming back.

I’ll always come back. I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t encourage him, but it just came flying out—and part of me wanted so badly for it to be true.

Brac smiled sadly and traced his thumb down the side of my face to my chin. Aye, you’ll always come back. Until you don’t. He sighed and looked away. Tannie, if only you’d set aside this storytelling business . . .

Now I pulled away without a problem. I stared hard at him. Don’t. Don’t ask me to give up my dreams.

Brac’s expression somehow hardened and melted at once. My fault for trying to put a painted-wing in a cage. Wasn’t any way you were going to be satisfied living there.

Stop it. That’s not fair.

No, it ain’t fair. You care more about being the Royal Storyteller and having riches than you do about the people you’re supposed to love.

And then I slapped him across the face. Hard. He recoiled, eyes wide.

But I wasn’t sorry. If anyone knew how hard I’d worked to take care of myself so I wouldn’t be a burden to his parents or anyone else . . .

I took a step closer to him. "Farmhand, milkmaid, barkeep, scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots. I did all that just to put food in my mouth before Riwor came along and offered to take me on. Story peddling is my only chance to provide three sure meals a day for myself. Every day. And no planting tax or harvest tax or reaping tax. So don’t you tell me my dreams are all about having nice things. I just want to have something! Some life! And just because you’re not brave enough to think of a life beyond Pembrone, it doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be happy here!"

An ugly red mark blossomed on his face, and I could see a deeper welt blooming in his eyes—one from my sharp words. Regret oozed over me. I shouldn’t have hit him, no matter what he’d said.

I tried to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t exactly known for letting apologies fly on the regular. Brac . . .

I’m sorry, Tannie. I shouldn’t have said that about being the Royal Storyteller.

Blast. I hated that saying sorry was so much easier for him than me.

But he wasn’t finished. You’re wrong, though. It ain’t that I’m not brave. Being in love . . . Well, that’s the biggest kind of brave there is.

Tears came to my eyes again. Why’s that, Brac?

Because you have to be strong enough to get your heart broken every day.

A morning breeze blew in from the ocean and ruffled my hair. It didn’t do much to calm the heat in my face. You’re going to find a lass. A lass who deserves you and makes you happy. I just know it.

Brac leaned down and rested his forehead on mine. Tannie, there ain’t nobody in all of Tir for me except you.

I met his gaze. If only I weren’t a story peddler?

He stared back