The Spy Princess (5 page)

eight

A
trip to Miraleste meant my hair had to be washed, perfumed, and wrapped in curling rags. I endured it without my usual whining, happy at the prospect of allies in the scary rectitude of the royal castle.

The next morning I made sure that my Larei clothes were secretly packed, along with my fashion book, before I sailed out in my heavy linen-silk traveling gown. As I approached the stairs, someone came from the other direction.

I stopped. Bren and I stared at one another.

He was respectably outfitted in a Selenna servant's gray-and-blue long tunic, knee breeches, and hose, though they hung on him—there had been no time for alterations. In contrast, the shoes must have been too small, because he winced at each step. His mop of brown hair had been skinned back and tied into a tiny puff at his nape.

He was usually all bony angles, but now he stood stiff and straight as wood slats, his expression uneasy. “You sure look different.”

“So do you,” I said.

He wrinkled his upper lip. “If I think of it as a disguise, it's not so bad. Except for these shoes.
And
there's pay, which will help at home. Anyway, since I'm now Lord Peitar's official page, I was sent to tell you the carriage is waiting.”

“Father?” I asked, in a whisper.

“In his own carriage,” Bren muttered with a hasty look around the open entry hall. “In case the medicine didn't work and you still have that cold.”

Relief! Now the journey would be enjoyable instead of boring.

Wearing a formal gown meant I had to reduce my normal walk to tiny court steps. I minced down the stairs to the front entry, Bren following in the correct place, stiff and self-conscious. When my father emerged from his wing, resplendent in his velvet traveling suit and his very best formal red wig, he didn't give Bren a second glance.

Soon we were off. Bren, as Peitar's page, rode with us. He ran his hands over the satin cushions. “This is nacky,” he exclaimed, launching back and forth between the windows so he could see the view from both sides.

“You'll get tired of the scenery soon enough,” I warned. “Especially since Father won't let us out, even at the posting houses when they change horses.”

“Why not?”

“He always says they don't cook well, but I think it's because we don't pay well.”

“But you—he—everyone knows the Selennas are rich!”

“It looks it, but we really aren't.” I looked at my brother. “Ugh, Peitar, you explain.”

“There are levels to being rich, Bren.” Peitar sat back. “It's true we have a fine house, but we inherited it. The furnishings . . . everything is old and carefully repaired. We have plenty to eat, but that's because it's from our home farms. The tax money really does all go to the Blue Guard—and most of them are training with the army. We pay for them, but they aren't here.”

“But all that velvet, the lace, and that wig!”

“It's true our father dresses well, but those suits are strictly for court. And he hasn't ordered a new one in years.”

I laughed. “As for the wig, that's left over from the queen, our great-great-grandmother, who was a Selenna. Her red hair was famous, and when she got old, she wore red wigs. So everyone at court wore red wigs. Uncle Darian hates wigs, and curls, so all the men his age, especially the army-mad ones, just tie their hair back. But Father sticks to his wig because it's a Selenna privilege.”

Peitar pulled his travel desk from the shelf below his seat. “I have to finish some letters,” he said.

I wished that I'd thought to carry my fashion book, but I didn't have anything new to report—getting my hair tormented into proper curls didn't count. The book and my Larei clothes were somewhere in the baggage coach. When we got to Miraleste, Lizana would make sure that none of my uncle's servants unpacked my things.

We rolled through the village. As usual, some kids shied rocks. This time I recognized the boys and girl who made the crook-leg sign, yelling insults. I had played games with them the day before, but if I stepped outside the carriage they would hate me.

Bren sent a worried glance at Peitar, who didn't seem to notice. Instead, he was looking at the chalk drawings on one of the village fences. This seemed to worry Bren even more. Peitar glanced at Bren, then back at the fence. He gazed so intently that he turned his head, studying the drawings until they were out of sight.

“There's an artist in Riveredge, I see,” he finally said.

When Bren's face turned tomato red, I exclaimed, “
You
did those drawings?”

Bren stared down at his hands. “Derek told you? I wish he hadn't.”

I was even more amazed when Peitar smiled. “It's all right, Bren. My mirror has already told me what I look like.”

“No, Lord Peitar,” Bren said to his lap. “It's mean. Like Lilah said.”

Peitar made a placating gesture. “I'll live. The most important thing is your talent. After we get things resolved, you ought to be sent to one of the art guilds for training. As for my title, you can drop that in private. I agree wholeheartedly with Derek that titles, used to divide people from one another, are pernicious.”

“Derek says art is for nobles,” Bren mumbled, and when Peitar went back to his letter, he stared out the window as if his life depended on watching the countryside.

As the morning wore on, the flat fields and meadows gave way gradually to hills, farms, and dark green stretches of woodland. We changed horses twice and kept going at a fast pace. There were a few old castles, most dating back to the days when Sarendan was a lot of tiny duchies and princedoms all squabbling with one another.

“Do you know who lives in that one?” Bren asked almost every time.

“That castle has an exciting history, but boring people live there now,” I'd say, or, “They're all a bunch of snobs, but their ancestors had great adventures.” Finally Bren turned on me. “Why is it you think everybody in history is interesting, but everyone now is boring?”

“That's because they are.”

“That's because we wear our masks yet,” Peitar murmured. “And only when time passes will the masks come off, in memoirs.”

Peitar did not mean real masks, of course. Lasva the Wanderer had talked about the masks of falsity, the way we hid what we were really thinking as we displayed our good manners. Well, we had to, didn't we? If we told our uncle what we really thought, there'd be trouble. I wasn't sure what kind, but I could feel the tension in the adults if he was in a bad mood, and I saw the way they watched him for reactions.

That was why the histories were interesting, because people
did
things. I'd just begun doing interesting things, but that was because of Derek. Now I'd be stuck at court.

I kept brooding until Peitar set his letter down and said, “Shall we eat? It's past midday.”

“I'm supposed to serve you.” Bren knelt on the floor of the coach and reached into the shelf below our seat.

“We can all help ourselves. And you eat, too,” Peitar said. “But if you're ever with Father, remember to stand in the background, ready for orders.”

Bren pulled out the hamper. The bread was still warm. I helped unpack fishcakes, four kinds of fruit tarts, cheese, bread and butter, and two jugs, one of water and one of Cook's fruit punch that was tart, not sweet. Bren attacked the food with such enthusiasm it was fun to watch. Peitar toyed with his, as usual.

Afterward, my brother said slowly, “Lilah. Bren, you too. In case the trouble that faces the kingdom gets too much to bear, you should know a secret. You may tell your cousin, Bren, but that's all.”

Bren looked up, surprised.

Peitar turned his attention to me. “Have you heard of the Valley of Delfina? Mother used to go there after she'd been ill. When I was small she took me.”

“It's in a bunch of our histories,” I said. But that was all I knew.

“It lies to the south, in the highest mountains. Only one way in, and that's by magic.”

“Magic!” Bren and I said it together.

“Mother taught me the spell before she died. She said to use it as a retreat if I needed it, once I got old enough to travel on my own, and I was to choose the time to tell you. I think . . . that time might be now. See this?” He made a different complicated gesture with each hand, at the same time.

“Yergh,” I said. “It looks like you're making your fingers into knots.”

“Practice. It's not meant to be easy.”

We practiced. Bren's clever fingers got it much sooner than my clumsy ones. Peitar made us practice more, until we could do it without thinking. Then he taught us the words to say while we were doing the signs. They sounded like Old Sartoran.

When he was sure we had it, he said, “This will only work if you reach a certain point in the mountains, though exactly where I don't remember.” He smiled. “Once you're high enough, you make the sign.” His smile flashed briefly into a grin. “You'll figure out what to do. I'm going to leave it as a surprise, partly because you'll enjoy it, and partly because it has to stay a secret. If ever you need to get away, that's where you can go to be safe.” He looked at us intently, and we both nodded.

“South?” I asked. “But—wait. Those mountains are behind Diannah Forest, and we all know it's infested with criminals.”

“You'll be all right,” Peitar said.

I glared at him. “How? I've heard Father talking about them, and even Uncle was complaining once that he sends warriors but the thieves always seem to know when they're coming, and vanish—but reappear as soon as there's a trade caravan. Or nobles. Like
us
.”

Bren said, “Even
I've
heard bad things about Diannah Forest.”

Peitar shook his head. “Just promise you'll do as I say, will you?”

“Yes. But I
hate
secrets that you won't share for some stupid reason.”

“And
I
hate the possession of secrets that are not mine to share.”

My mind filled with questions, but Peitar's brow was tense again, the faint pain-lines beside his mouth deeper. He returned to writing his letter—something he clearly was not enjoying—and said nothing more.

Bren glanced my way and made a face. I suspected he wanted to discuss this as much as I did—but later, when we could be alone. He was intimidated by Peitar, though I couldn't imagine why. Peitar was just Peitar, my gentle brother, and no threat to anyone.

• • •

A
S THE DAY
waned, the road took us through a close-growing pine wood, and then wound down toward the long, snaky lake called Tseos.

“That's beautiful,” Bren exclaimed.

We let the window down, and then he almost fell out of the carriage looking at Miraleste, built along the hills over the lake. I'd read in several histories how beautiful everyone thought the city, but to me, it had always meant boredom—or worse,
him
. My uncle.

“That side of the lake's all built up,” Bren said, pointing. “Why not the other?”

“It's crown land,” Peitar said. “All private preserve. There are a few summer residences, but they are all hidden away.”

“Supposedly everyone wants to stay at the lake palaces in the summer,” I added. “I don't know why, since my uncle hates parties and boat races.”

“The attraction of power overcomes a lot of social defects,” Peitar said, sitting back on his cushions. “They have the parties same as always, and Uncle Darian is the first one invited. Even if he never goes.” His sardonic expression brought our uncle to mind, and I shuddered.

Bren poked me. “What's wrong?”

“He looked just like Uncle when he said that.”

“That's probably the worst thing you've ever said to me, Lilah.”

“Well, it's true,” I began defensively, and then I realized Peitar was only teasing.

Bren gazed round-eyed from Peitar to me. “You really
don't
like the king, do you?”

“Is that so hard to believe? You don't, either!” I exclaimed.

“Well, that's different. I mean, he's your uncle, and you're nobles, and I guess I always believed all the nobles liked the king.”

Peitar observed, “I'm afraid of him, and sometimes I'm afraid
for
him.” Bren's eyebrows rose, but Peitar's gaze had gone distant, and so Bren turned to me.

I couldn't resist. “He almost had me
executed
when I was little!”

Bren's mouth dropped open.

I sneaked a peek at Peitar, whose thoughts weren't so distant anymore. He gave me a funny look, and I amended, “Well, Father thought so, anyway.”

“What happened?” Bren asked.

“I don't remember a lot of it,” I admitted. “It wasn't long after Mother died. They made me dress up fancier than ever, so I couldn't move. And Great-Aunt Tislah would tweak me and pinch me and mutter about how
good
and
sweet
my mother always was as a little girl, and how
she
never, ever mussed her gowns. Anyway, I guess Uncle missed Mother. . . .”

“I think Mother was the only real friend he ever had,” Peitar said. “The only person he loved.”

“I don't think he loves anyone,” I cut in. “That's why I hate him! See, Bren, the older relatives kept pushing me at him, telling me to smile, to be sweet.”

“They were hoping you'd become a court favorite,” Peitar said, again with the smile I hated so much.

“Well, I sure ended that! When Aunt Tislah put me on his lap, I shoved him away and said in as loud a voice as I could that he felt like a snail.”

Bren nearly collapsed. “A s-snail! The king! A snail!” He hiccupped, and then said, “Why, is he all clammy and moist?”

“No, not at all. But he's so . . . so, oh, so cold. It was all I could think of. I was really little,” I added.