The Spy Princess (14 page)

nine

T
hose first pages were about the garden, lessons, and pets. Sometimes she mentioned Lizana and “Father.” He was a very shadowy figure. I couldn't even tell why he brought my mother to Delfina Valley, except when she wrote “we came on Grandfather's orders.” By the time she turned eight, her father was dead.

She visited Delfina every summer. When she was about eleven, she started mentioning the names of friends, and how happy she was when Lizana taught her the flying spell.

Then I came to this:

 

It is prying, but I had to know who Lizana is. She always knows what to say and do, and never betrays herself. She is, in short, more polished in manner than any of the great court ladies, but she wears servant's gray. I must rethink everything I've been taught.

The bare facts are these: my grandfather exiled Lizana's family, and I cannot find out why. She has a sister and a brother. They were all rescued by a mage. The sister left Sarendan. The brother lives in secret. Lizana came here—to the home of her enemy—to teach me.

And then:

 

I am here for my twelfth Name Day. I have given up trying to get Ian to come. He gave excuses, for he's always so mindful of my sensibilities, but he confessed to Lizana that, although flying was fun when he was small, he prefers riding, and were he here, he would worry about his duty at home, and how much time he'd lose when he ought to be learning. He will never please Grandfather—never. I can see it. Kepreos sees it, all the way from the stable—

 

I wondered if Kepreos was Derek's father.

 

By reading in the archives, I found out why Grandfather exiled Lizana's mother. She was a mage! She sponsored Tsauderei's being sent to study, and Grandfather was furious. I'm sure Tsauderei arranged for Lizana to be hired for me.

 

Then there was a bit that made my neck prickle:

 

I am here, and I am thirteen. Thirteen! How strange it seems. Grandfather is already talking of betrothals, but Lizana and Ian insist it's another way of testing those at court. Kepreos gets angry if I mention it.

 

A year older than me, and I was betrothed to Innon already. Not that it felt quite real.

 

I am glad that I've been ill again, for I had to get away from Miraleste—it is so terrible, with Ian gone to the military school in Khanerenth for the next four years. I'm forbidden the stables, except to ride. Kepreos and I scarcely get a chance to talk. But it is a relief that Ian is at school. Now I can truly enjoy myself here and not feel guilt over leaving him to Grandfather's cruelty. He writes me such happy letters. How can he be so happy in a place where they study nothing but war? He says we are desperately behind, and that the only way to keep Norsunder at bay is . . .

 

I scanned rapidly down the page. Over the next years, the entries were all about Uncle Darian, and they were all worries. He'd returned for good, and their grandfather had put him to work reorganizing the training at the military academy at Obrin. Then came this:

 

The demonstration went well. It went too well. Ian hasn't seen it, but Grandfather has: the army is no longer loyal to Grandfather, or even to Sarendan—they are all following Ian.

 

A page or two later:

 

I feel sick. Not sick physically—though that will probably come, for winter is nigh, but I had to get away from Miraleste, because Lizana and Ian were arguing again. I came in at the end, and heard him say, “You know nothing about it. You are a servant, and your responsibility is Rana's well-being, her clothes, and her curtseys at court. Don't interfere with me again.” They pretended nothing happened, but I knew what the fight was about; I've heard people in the valley talk about how much better it would be for Sarendan if the army tax could be halved for just one year, to hire mages to go through the kingdom and fix weakening spells.

 

That one made me feel sick as well—and angry at my uncle, despite Lizana's words about his not being evil.

And then . . . pages and pages about Kepreos. Descrip-tions of what he looked like, everything he said and thought, their secret picnics and rides, their talk of their future. Then, even though I knew what was coming, it was still a shock:

 

I have agreed to marry Oscarbidal Selenna, though my heart is forever destroyed. Many can blithely love one and marry another, but I cannot—that is, I will do it, for otherwise I am afraid for Ian's life. Grandfather is seeking the slightest excuse to kill him. He wants a tractable heir, and maybe he thinks he'll get one now. Oscar is a decent enough person—a rarity in Miraleste. We share little outside of a love for music, which makes conversation dull, but he is kind and very loyal to Ian. All he talks about is Ian's greatness, how his army will protect us from Norsunder. . . .

 

I did not recognize this version of my father. I skipped the description of her wedding, about court and gowns and how sad she felt at Kepreos Diamagan's hurt.

Then her grandfather died—
Though Court mourned officially, not a person shed a tear
—and my uncle became king. She began worrying about the kingdom—bad growing seasons, poorhouses, taxes, the way people at court never thought about the rest of the country. So much for nobles never noticing! She longed to have her brother talk to Tsauderei, but when it finally happened, it was a disaster.

 

Tsauderei is as blunt as Ian, and in his own way as powerful. Though they agree that the fundamental purpose of a king is to protect the people, Ian sees that in military terms, and Tsauderei is more concerned with protecting the quality of life. When Ian said, “You tell us that the enchantment over Sartor could break in our lifetime. So what will you do if Norsunder comes to take away our ‘quality of life'—magically clean their clothes for them?” Tsauderei retorted, “You are very ignorant about the potential of magic, for a king. Norsunder doesn't make that mistake.” Ian got angry and ordered Tsauderei out of Sarendan, on pain of death if he ever crossed the border again.

And when I tried to apologize—I should have known better than to have them talk—Ian said, “No, I am grateful, Rana. Until now I never realized what mages in strategic locations around the kingdom might do. We're best rid of them all.”

The one good thing was my brother's birth.

She brought Peitar to the valley, and taught him to read early. He was eager to learn. She began to have hope again:

 

I really believe Peitar will be the answer to our ills. He is only four, but I find myself holding conversations with him as if he were older, his grasp of ideas is so quick, his thought so deep. And he is happy. I have begged Oscar to wait until he is seven to begin the everlasting war training, because I cannot bear to have my own boy made over as my brother was, into a young version of Grandfather. I can scarcely believe that the King Darian everyone has begun to fear was once my own dear brother Ian. Oscar has agreed to my request, mostly because Peitar is so small and frailly built. . . .

 

Peitar “the answer to our ills”? I'd never thought about it before, but now I understood that Uncle Darian regarded my brother as a possible heir. He could be the next king. All that tension when the two of them disagreed—the stakes were not just the future of the kingdom, but Peitar's own future.

 

Ian once said he would never marry, for he could not bear to have anyone close whom he did not love, but he could not take the risk of loving. I thought it was the careless talk of the young military cadet, but I know now that he meant what he said. He always means what he says.

 

There were two more entries.

The first was about me, and it made my heart ache, because she wrote about how happy she was to have a daughter, and how much she looked forward to showing me all her favorite things. How much fun we'd have together.

 

I could barely read the last entry, but I forced myself.

 

. . . I stayed until I knew Peitar would recover. This time. I don't think I can bear to live anymore in so painful a world, for I cannot change what hurts me the deepest—that my beloved is gone forever to the other side of the kingdom, and that my own brother has turned against me. For the first time, I dared to speak my true thoughts. I told Ian everything I had been feeling, and we argued—Ian and I! Who have never before argued! He said it was not Oscar's fault, but mine, for “babying” Peitar, and that the accident would never have happened had he started training at the right age. Between them, they're going to kill Peitar, just as surely as our own father was killed—and Ian can't see it, he can't—he's truly become our grandfather.

That means, so far as I can see, that Norsunder has won.

 

I gently closed the diary and wiped my eyes fiercely, full of grief and anger.

Now I had two vows to keep. First, if I ever fell in love, I was never going to let it destroy my life, even if it didn't work out. Some thought Kepreos's suicide romantic, but to me, it was
selfish
. Would Derek and Bernal have gotten into dangerous adventures if their father had put his sons first?

Second, the promise I made with the boys: I would
find
a way to help Peitar. I had been waiting for someone to tell me how, or at least give me my solution—and meanwhile he had had all the burdens and the worries.

If I couldn't find my answer around me, then it was time to do what my brother had done, and read. So I went back to the library, to learn about everybody who had a dream and made it happen.

• • •

D
URING THE DAYS
,
when the weather was fine, I swam and visited Tsauderei, Dawn, and Atan. In the evenings, I read the Esalan brothers'
Our Provident Careers
, while Bren sketched and Innon studied histories full of treaties and tax laws.

Sometimes I read an especially funny caper to the boys. Innon loved the one where the brothers joined a troupe of minstrels. At a big noble party, two of them sang so loud and so badly that people clapped their hands over their ears—and the third sneaked around to pickpocket them all. If this was slam justice, I was all for it.

The night I reached the last page, I closed the book with regret and went downstairs. It was time to think about dinner. Before I could talk with Lizana, the boys flew in through the open windows.

“What's the fastest meal?” Bren asked.

“Bread and cheese,” I replied.

“No.” Lizana appeared in the doorway. “You'll eat properly. Now, if you chop potatoes small, and onions and turnips, you can cook them fast on this flat pan, once you've oiled it.”

“Garlic, too.” Innon tossed me a whole head of the stuff.

Lizana added, “And a dash of wine for flavor! Then—” She broke off.

I heard the front door open, then close.

Then a familiar uneven, scraping walk.

“Peitar!” I cried, and ran to meet him.

ten

“F
heg! You're dripping wet! Where's your cane?”

“And I'm happy to see you too, little sister.” Peitar laughed, but his eyes were shadowed, his face more drawn than I'd ever seen it.

“Here, come into the kitchen so you can dry off.”

“And some steeped listerblossom would be welcome.” He leaned on my shoulder.

As soon as Lizana saw him, she handed him a towel. “You'll have that. And a good meal.” She took over as we set the table, moving about the kitchen in a quick, sharp way I'd never seen before. Under her orders, we got dinner cooking much faster than usual.

Peitar dropped into one of the chairs with a long sigh. “The king holds Miraleste again.” We all seemed to catch our breath at once. “One morning last week, we woke to find a detachment of the army lined up across the eastern horizon. The people who held the gate melted away, and no one opposed the king's force.”

“Did anyone try to resist?” Lizana asked.

“A few groups. Enough for Uncle Darian to permit reprisals. It's called ‘reestablishing order.'”

Bren gave him an anxious look. “Where's Derek?” Bren asked.

“He's as safe as can be expected. We argued once too often, so I came here. He knows where I am—and I'm sure Uncle Darian does, too, but as long as I'm not at the head of a rabble, I think he'll leave me be.”

“And he doesn't know the magic spell,” I said with relief.

“I hope Deveral fed you,” said Lizana.

Peitar's expression brightened. “Splendidly. But it rained on the way. Even with the flying spell, it was a windy, difficult journey, and I don't think I've ever been more glad to see your lights below me.”

“Derek Diamagan and the rest of the troubles can wait.” She set down a steaming cup. “You need to eat and get yourself warm and dry, and sleep.”

Peitar obeyed, too. Nothing more was said about Derek or Sarendan or Uncle Darian. Instead, he asked about our time in Delfina.

Innon gave an account of his new friends and their games on the lake. Then I prodded Bren to talk about drawing, and Peitar asked to see his sketches.

After cleanup, Bren went upstairs and got a sheaf of papers. He spread them out on the table, making one of those comical faces, part pride and part fear. There was the lake drawing, and others of the garden. They were very good, but his people were better
:
Seriah at her embroidery, her expression thoughtful; Innon flying with a delighted look on his face; a group of kids playing on the village green. And there were others: wary, angry people from the revolution; Deveral and Lizana, highlighting their resemblance; Derek in his storyteller mood.

“This,” Peitar said, laying the last one down, “is very good. You have an exceptional talent, Bren—it ought to be cultivated.”

“Derek thinks that art is only for nobles, and Bren should be a bricklayer,” I put in.

“That's not true,” Bren snapped, then said in a lower voice, “Well, not entirely.”

“More true than not.”

Peitar gave us a look, and we shut up. “You don't have to confine yourself to fine art, and even if you did, what's wrong with making art that anyone can have access to, rich or poor?”

First Tsauderei, now Peitar—I hoped it would be enough to make Bren change his mind.

• • •

T
HE NEXT MORNING
my brother was still asleep, so I visited Atan. She knew much more history than I, but she was as eager to listen as to talk. Like me, she wanted to know
why
a person did what they did.

We got so involved in discussing whether JaJa the Pirate Queen was a real person or a story (and if she was real, which of her adventures were true), that I forgot the time—forgot even that Peitar was in the valley—until I had to go back to Irad House.

That reminded me of something Tsauderei had said. After dinner, I caught Peitar alone. “Rested?” I asked.

“Much better, thank you.” Peitar raised his eyebrows. “Why? You have some nefarious scheme afoot?”

“Come with me tomorrow, to meet someone.”

“I visited Tsauderei today, if that's who you mean.” I shook my head. “I want to spend some time at the lake. A swim without having to watch for danger will be a rare treat.”

“Somebody new. Someone who reads a lot of the books you do, and talks about the same things.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You win. But afterward, the lake.”

Peitar wasn't a fast flyer, but it was clear that it was easier for his entire body; like Bren, he was more graceful aloft. As we gained height, he lifted his head and the summer wind tangled his hair, and his face relaxed so much that, for once, he really did look nineteen.

“Is Uncle Darian really after you?” I asked as soon as we were high above Irad House.

“Probably. Yes. I wish I knew why.”

“Ugh! What's to wonder about? He called us traitors!”

“That was said in anger. I don't believe he believes it. Remember when I talked to him the day of the revolution, when we were locked in the garrison? He was most angry that I was friends with Derek—and that I didn't tell him of Derek's plans. But he hadn't yet read my letter.”

“How did he get the letter? Bren said he threw it away!”

“He threw it in the garden, and one of the king's men found it and gave it to Uncle Darian after he was freed. He probably didn't like seeing my opinion of his failings, but he'd also have seen that I'm against violence—that I refused to have any part in the uprising. He knows I can't lead a pony cart, much less an army. In short, I am no threat to anyone. Yet once he retook Miraleste, he sent people to hunt me down. I think it's because our interview was interrupted. Sometimes I think I ought to let them get me, just so we can talk again. But what if he decides to silence me forever?”

I said in my calmest but firmest voice, “You have to promise you won't let him get you. Promise!” And when he hesitated, I said, “Oh, Peitar, it'll be scary enough when we go back, without my thinking that you—”

“Not
we
,” he said quickly. “You
can't
go back, Lilah. I couldn't do anything, knowing you were in danger.”

“You can't make me stay here.”

His voice was so soft I almost didn't hear it. “I can.”

“A threat?” I cried. “Peitar—”

Then there was no time for speech, as we came in for a landing near Hermit House. He straightened up with an effort and faced me. “I could ask Tsauderei to amend the magic so that you cannot leave the valley. Lilah,” he added quickly, almost desperately, “I believe in your courage and your good intentions. One of the best days of my life was when I caught sight of you sneaking past my window. It's a real gift that we can talk this freely. But Sarendan is in a state of war, and you don't have the training or the resources to survive it.”

“You don't, either.”

“I know,” he said ruefully, “and I almost didn't survive.”

“What? You didn't tell—”

“I see a house. Is someone inside? Let's go meet your friend, shall we? Ugly stories can wait.” I had to give up—for now.

Atan answered the door, which meant either that Gehlei had seen us coming or Tsauderei was there, for they never relaxed their vigilance.

“This is my brother, Peitar,” I said, and to him, as he looked at her with interest, “This is the person we call Atan. Her existence is a secret outside of the valley.”

“I will tell him everything later,” Tsauderei called from within. “Good thought, Lilah,” he added.

The house smelled of herbs and honey and wax, as they were making candles. Atan clearly noted the way Peitar walked, but she didn't recoil,or stare
—
she just turned her attention to
him
.

“How nice to meet you,” she exclaimed, and showed him to a chair. “Though truth to tell I've been apprehensive, for Lilah and Tsauderei describe you as a real scholar.”

Peitar smiled. “Not even remotely, I'm afraid.”

Tsauderei snorted.

“Steeped leaf? It's real Sartoran leaf,” she added. “One of the few benefits of the time-freeze is that we still have some that's a century old.”

He still looked confused—then his eyes widened, and he turned to Tsauderei, who nodded and chuckled softly. It was as if I could watch Peitar working it all out.

Atan put a few spoonfuls into a pot and poured in boiling water, sending a wonderful fresh scent through the room. She said, “We were just talking about the breakup of the empire. I hadn't known—had you?—that it wasn't just Sartor, but Colend and the Land of the Venn that broke up, or were broken, at about the same time, and we wondered if it was coincidence. . . .”

And there we were, launched right into history. The talk was way over my head, but I found it interesting to listen as they veered from theories to people—how the Dei family always seemed to be somewhere close by, if not involved in kingdom-changing events—and how personalities could alter the course of entire nations.

Not once did Peitar go distant. In fact, he'd never been so expressive for so long a time. At one point, he and Tsauderei had a long debate about why Norsunder had attacked only certain kingdoms.

“All we truly know about the Norsundrian command is that they exist outside of time, so they have the leisure to watch plans unfold over centuries. And from the old records, I believe they like the hunt, the game, the subtle twist of a dagger, and not the bludgeon.”

Atan poured out more steeped leaf. “No,” she said. “Sartor was bludgeoned.”

“But that was an underling's plan,” Tsauderei countered. And then, to Peitar, “Some of my colleagues in Bereth Ferian do not like my pursuit of our enemies through records, but I maintain we're going to have to understand them if we're to defeat them.”

“Naturally I agree, since it was you who taught me.” Atan laughed.

Peitar put down his cup. “I wish you could talk to Derek. Maybe he'd listen to you.”

“Why? I'm full of reading and not a trace of experience. Your friend would probably dismiss me as another hot wind gusting through the eaves.”

“No.” Peitar hesitated. “At the least, he might consider that slam justice is another form of tyranny.”

“Slam justice,” she repeated. “I admire the Esalan brothers tremendously, but I don't believe that there really is justice outside the law.” Tsauderei glanced from one to the other. Atan went on thoughtfully, “But what if the law doesn't promote justice? Another topic for debate! Are you tired of debate?” She laughed and rose to her feet. “Tsauderei and I sometimes spend half the day in debate when we should be practicing magic—or so he says, if I'm not sufficiently diligent. Meanwhile, I seem to have let the pot go dry. Shall I fix some more?”

Peitar stood. “No, thank you. I promised someone I'd go to the lake.”

“Do return, if you have the time. I already have a mental list of records with which to arm myself against our next attempt to solve the world's problems.”

Tsauderei said to me, “Hold him to that swim.” He pointed at Peitar. “Then you come visit me.”

We didn't talk at all on the flight back. When we landed outside Irad House, I saw the old lines and pain in Peitar's face again, and blurted out, “Isn't Atan wonderful? Don't you like her?”

“Very much,” he said. And that was all—though usually he had a lot more to say, and even a few quotes to throw in.