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 Romanov
“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
The Weaver Trilogy
The Story Peddler
The Story Raider
The Story Hunter
THE WEAVER TRILOGY
BOOK 2
LINDSAY A. FRANKLIN
Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC
Phoenix, Arizona, USA
www.enclavepublishing.com
ISBN: 978-1-62184-078-7 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-68370-204-7 (eBook)
EPUB Edition
The Story Raider
Copyright © 2019 by Lindsay A. Franklin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Edited by Steve Laube
Cover design by Kirk DouPonce
Interior typesetting by Jamie Foley
For my parents, Doug and Gina.
Thank you for loving your little wanderer,
even as she struggled to find her way.
Table of Contents
Cover
Acclaim for The Story Peddler
Half-Title
The Weaver Trilogy
Copyright Page
Dedication
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Coming soon
CHAPTER ONE
NAITH
Naith Bo-Offriad hurried down the main thoroughfare of Afon. Of all places.
How had it come to this? The High Priest of the Tirian Empire skulking down the cobblestoned streets of some peninsular town, praying to the stars not to be noticed by the provincials, should they still be milling about at this hour.
Cethor’s tears.
At the sound of voices, Naith slipped into a shadowed alleyway. Just in time, as two men rounded a nearby corner. One said, “Tide’s turnin’. I’m tellin’ you. Won’t be long afore Urian falls.”
Naith pressed himself against the building.
“A season ago I would’ve told you the monarchy couldn’t fall,” the other responded. “Two moons ago, I’d have sworn she and her ilk were too powerful. But Gareth fell, didn’t he? If the father can be toppled, so can the daughter.”
Naith held his breath as the men passed in front of his hiding spot.
The first man laughed. “Too right. Much too right. Usher in the new era, I say! Down with the nobility!”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m drunk on the potentials!”
“And the ale.”
Their laughter faded into the distance.
Naith’s whole body trembled. Fear, anger, dismay.
How could the Master have let this happen?
Naith slunk back onto the street and shuffled the last two blocks to another deserted alleyway. But this one backed up to the temple.
This is what it had come to—the high priest sneaking in through the back door. The Master had much to answer for, but even now, Naith dared not call the Master to account.
He felt along the wooden doorframe, and a splinter stabbed into his palm.
Blast.
He tried the doorframe again.
There it was. He slid the false piece of wood from its place and plucked the key from within the concealed compartment. He fumbled for the keyhole and then inserted the key.
The door squealed on hinges rusty from disuse.
Naith paused. Listened. But nothing stirred. He opened the door just enough to squeeze his bulk through.
The black of the room swallowed him, pulled him into its depths. He shut the door behind himself and said a silent prayer.
If there was anyone to hear it. The goddesses? Foolishness. The stars? Perhaps. Or perhaps even deeper foolishness. Naith only knew his heart longed to cry out to someone or something, now that he had seen the Master falter. The Master had always maintained perfect control. And now . . .
“Naith.”
The High Priest of the Tirian Empire gasped. “Who goes there?”
“Naith.”
And then the voice registered. He had heard it hundreds of times—cold, smooth, neither male nor female, all around him at once. “Master.”
“Come in, Naith. I have been waiting.”
Naith obeyed and moved deeper into the room. He squinted, for a moment unable to see a
nything. But there—in the corner, seated and shrouded in shadow thicker than midnight.
“Master.” Naith bowed low to the ground.
“Yes.” The Master paused. “You do not look well, Naith.”
“No.” He wondered how the Master could see in the darkness. “I have come at your beckoning, Master. Please tell me how I might serve.”
The plea tasted sour on Naith’s tongue. It might not have a moon ago. But now that all was falling apart, how could Naith be expected to grovel as in the days when the Master’s power seemed unmatched?
“Yes, you have come.” The Master paused. Naith could practically feel a dagger-sharp gaze upon him. “And I shall give you your new orders.”
Naith’s hopes quickened. “New orders? You have a plan, Master?”
“Always.”
“I live to serve you.” He bowed again.
“Gareth is dead.”
Naith’s body went cold. “Dead?”
“As of an hour ago.”
“It . . .” Naith fought to find his voice. “It must have been the rebels, or perhaps Braith’s operatives.”
“No. It was I.”
Naith blinked.
“Come, Naith. Are you truly surprised?”
“Master, why? Gareth was your most loyal servant, aside from the one who stands before you.”
A soft chuckle emanated through the room. “Gareth was only useful because he was king. As he was no longer that, he was no longer useful. And a Gareth who is no longer useful is a dangerous liability.”
Unease sprouted in Naith’s stomach.
“I see your hesitation, Naith,” the Master murmured. “You are still High Priest of the Tirian Empire, are you not?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Then I can still use you.”
Naith swallowed. “But without Gareth, how shall we proceed?”
“You must return to Urian.”
“Urian?” Naith wrung his hands. “But I’ve barely made it out alive. The rioters are calling for Braith’s head. When news of Gareth’s death spreads, it will only foment more unrest.”
“Yes. And you shall use that unrest to our advantage.”
“Master?”
“In due time, the plan will be revealed to you, Naith. For now, you will obey me and return to Urian.”
Naith paused for a long moment, then lowered himself in a bow. “Yes, Master.”
CHAPTER TWO
TANWEN
My body slammed to the stone floor hard enough to knock the wind from my chest. I struggled to draw air, but my ribs felt two sizes too small.
Squeezing. Pinching. Strangling.
I pressed my hands against the stone and forced myself to flip over—to see what was happening around me. Only blackness met me. Blackness thicker than velvety midnights in the grain fields of Pembrone. Blackness deeper than the moonlit waves of the Menfor Sea when Brac and I snuck down the rocky cliffs to press our feet into the pebbly sand and share childish whispers about our dreams.
Brac. Where was he?
“Brac! Are you there?” Hadn’t he been beside me a moment ago? Where in Tir was I?
“Hello?”
A memory pricked me.
I had seen this before, except from the outside. I had stood helplessly in the Corsyth forest hideout and watched as Gryfelle’s body jerked and writhed. I had listened as she screamed and growled and whimpered. I had watched the others try to protect her body and bring her mind back to us. Yes, I had seen all this before.
But now I was on the inside. Now it was happening to me.
“Mor!” I cried out, but the blackness swallowed it. “Father? Help me!”
No one answered. My mind scrambled, clawed its way back to them, even if my body wouldn’t obey. Were my memories leaking from my mind at this very moment, like they had with Gryfelle? Were they swirling off into the air like lost story strands, never to be reclaimed?
Stars above. The curse had found me after all.
Another jerk of my body and the air flooded into my chest, the light rushed back into my eyes, and familiar surroundings pushed their way into my sight. The couch under the windows overlooking the palace gardens. Father’s heavy writing desk. The small dining table. The many bookshelves, slowly filling up again after thirteen years spent empty.
I was in my family’s palace apartment. And someone was banging on the door.
I forced myself to set aside the horror of what had just happened and respond to the knocking. Set it aside; deal with it later.
“Just a—” My own cough cut me off. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton sprinkled in sawdust. I tried again. “Just a minute.”
I peeled myself off the floor. Another series of thumps sounded at the door.
“Coming.” I stumbled to the door, unlatched it, and threw it open.
Brac’s frown greeted me. “Sakes, Tannie. You look a fright. Everything all right?”
“Er . . .” I rubbed my temples, then stepped back to let him in. “Of course.”
“Aye?” He frowned at me again, a shock of straw-colored hair falling across his forehead in that way it always did. “You don’t look it. I just stepped out to get some tea, and now I come back and you’re lookin’ like you had a run-in with a mountainbeast.”
I scowled and plopped into a chair. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“You didn’t really look well afore I left.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then you ready to finish our talk?”
My stomach lurched. “Not especially.”
“Tannie, this conversation’s happening whether you want it to or not.” He rubbed his side where he had been wounded in battle just a moon ago. With the help of Queen Braith’s physicians, it was mostly healed up now, but it seemed to bother him most when he wanted me to agree to something.
“I don’t have the head for it today, Brac.”
“You never do.” He glanced at my wrist, and his face darkened. “Not wearing it again?”
I slipped my hand to my lap so my wrist wouldn’t be visible to him. “I hadn’t finished dressing when you showed up. Not all of us see fit to rise with the sun.” True, but that wasn’t the reason I’d failed to put on the leather wristband Brac had given me—the leather wristband that signified our engagement.
“Tanwen En-Yestin, will you stop dodging this?” His voice rose. “We’re having a discussion about this here adventure of yours. Or that pirate’s adventure, more like.”
My gaze darted through my open bedroom door to my nightstand where I’d placed the sailing hat Mor had created for me out of story strands. Black, tricorn, with a silky white band, fluffy plume, and sparkling blue pin. A hat fit for an adventure on a ship, which was exactly where Mor had invited me. “I wish you’d stop calling him a pirate. He’s a proper sea captain with his own ship now.”
Brac glared. “If the eye patch fits.”
“Fry it, Brac!”
A puff of shimmering blue mist burst from my right hand. Not on purpose, certainly. Not in front of Brac. Not when that blue was the exact color of Mor’s eyes. I squashed down my anger for fear of what else might be revealed through my blasted story strands.
Brac watched the blue mist dissipate. He pressed his lips together so hard they turned white. The rest of his face flushed red. “Sorry,” he finally spat.
It had plainly cost him to say it, and for some reason, that made me all the angrier.
“Excuse me.” I rose. “I’m feeling a little faint. I’m going to splash some water on my face.”
“Knew you wasn’t well. Let me help you.”
“Aye, that would be real great. My father returns from breakfast to find you in my private bedroom, alone with no chaperone.” I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment.”
Brac didn’t look pleased about
it, but I slipped through my bedroom door and closed it behind me. I crossed to my vanity table but didn’t bother with water. My reflection in the looking glass stared back. Was it my imagination, or did she look to be mocking me?
You’re sick, Tannie, she seemed to say. You’re sick, just like Gryfelle.
“Not just sick like Gryfelle,” I whispered back. “Dying like Gryfelle.”
CHAPTER THREE
BRAITH
“Would you care for more tea, Your Majesty?”
Queen Braith pulled her gaze away from the window. “No, thank you, Cameria.”
Braith’s trusted maid poured herself some instead. “Is your breakfast satisfactory, my lady?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Cameria.”
Cameria sipped her tea—slowly, like she was swallowing her thoughts down with it.
Braith raised an eyebrow. “Is something bothering you, my friend?”
“No, my lady.” Cameria replaced her teacup in its saucer. “I wondered if something was bothering you.”
“Oh?” A flicker of a smile played at the corner of Braith’s mouth. “And why would you suppose that?”
“It is your third morning in a row taking breakfast in your private chambers. I believe you would dine only with me for all your meals if I’d allow it.” Cameria hastily added, “Forgive me, Your Majesty. No impertinence intended.”
“You know I prefer it when you speak freely with me. You are perhaps the only one who will these days.”
“That is not true, Majesty. You have many friends—many supporters and excellent advisors.”
“You’re right. I’m sulking.”
Cameria’s dark eyes searched Braith. “Please, tell me what troubles you.”
Braith inhaled slowly, then released her breath in a long, deep sigh. “I have held this title scarcely a moon, and already I grow weary. Four short weeks of this, and I feel ready to shut myself in my room forever. I hoped being queen would be easier than being princess in some ways. As princess, I had always to tiptoe around my—” Braith’s words died on her lips. It was still too difficult to give voice to the awful truth.