She starts pulling me back toward the cottage. In the dark we slam into tree trunks and get our faces slashed by branches, but Nanny doesn’t seem to notice. Harper grabs my arm and follows along, constantly swinging his head right to left, left to right, like a sentry. But what good is a sentry when there’s no light to see by?
We reach the cottage and Nanny dashes in. Harper won’t let me follow.
“Stay hidden,” he whispers, huddling with me behind a tree.
Nanny reappears in seconds.
“They stole all my money!” she wails, the panic escalating in her voice. “They ransacked the entire place—they even took your books!”
This loss reaches me. It’s not that I was fond of Latin or geometry or A Royal Guide to Governance. But those books were my link to my true identity, my proof that I wasn’t just another barefoot peasant girl. I had kind of thought that I would carry them with me when I went to the capital, to show to Desmia. After all, she wouldn’t relinquish her throne to just anyone.
“I could sell my harp for you to have money for the carriage,” Harper says, calmly.
“There isn’t time!” Nanny says. “You don’t understand—Cecilia has to leave now. She has to get to safety as fast as she can, and I can’t walk that far. And I can’t send her alone—”
“I can take Cecilia wherever she needs to go,” Harper says, and it’s almost annoying how polite he’s being, how helpful.
Nanny stares at him. In the past few minutes the earliest light of dawn has started to creep through the woods, so I can see the emotions playing across her face: despair, hope, worry, fear, and then resignation.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “I suppose that’s our only chance.”
“And you go stay with Mrs. Sutton, so you’ll be safe too,” I urge.
We’re in a rush then, packing up more food, Nanny writing directions to get to Sir Stephen’s. Before I know it, Nanny is wrapping a cloak around my shoulders and hugging me good-bye.
“I can’t leave you like this,” I whisper into her hair.
“You have to,” she whispers back, and this time she pushes me away.
9
We’ve barely started up the village path—the path away from the village, the path that leads to the cow pasture and then to the world beyond—when I realize that we’re walking on fresh hoofprints. I can see the exact imprint of the horseshoes: strange horseshoes, with a crest at each end.
“This—this is the way the horsemen went,” I gasp, and clutch Harper’s arm in sudden panic. “Harper, we’re following them.”
“We’re not going to catch up with men on horses,” Harper says.
“What if they stop and lie in wait for us?”
“How would they know to do that?” he asks. “How would they know that we’re behind them?”
But he flicks the hood of my cloak up over my hair, and I notice that he slows a bit, carefully scanning the path ahead every time we come to a bend or a rise.
Once we’re past the cow pasture, the path splits. The horseshoe marks continue to the left. The path to the right, which is actually wider, looks innocent and safe. It’s bright enough now that I can make out the signs at the crossroads: WEDGEWEDE with an arrow pointing to the left; CORTONA with an arrow to the right.
Sir Stephen lives in the direction of Wedgewede. Regardless of the horseshoe prints, that’s the way Nanny told us to go.
Cortona is the capital, where Desmia lives in the fabled Palace of Mirrors.
I come to a halt right in the middle of the path’s split.
Harper’s so busy looking around—right to left, left to right, examining every bit of the horizon before us—that he doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve stopped. He veers to the right, kicking up a cloud of dust that glows in the dawn light.
“Harper!” I mutter through clenched teeth. “Where are you going?”
“Cortona—isn’t that the capital? Where the palace is? Where you wanted to go?”
I squint at him in confusion.
“That was before,” I say. “Nanny thinks you’re taking me to Sir Stephen. To safety.”
Harper’s gaze follows the line of hoofprints leading in the direction Nanny wanted us to go, toward Wedgewede and Sir Stephen’s.
“Do you really think you’ll be safe there?” he asks quietly.
I wince. I can feel my long, sleepless night weighing on me, immobilizing my brain as well as my feet. I want to curl up and sleep for about twelve hours—then maybe I’d be capable of making a decision. Each path leads to a different fate, and I can’t see more than about twenty steps into either choice. Harper’s question echoes in my ears. Is safety really what I want, anyhow? Safety—or action, power, control, and a chance to treat Desmia honorably? Even staring at that line of hoofprints I still have faith that Sir Stephen could protect me in Wedgewede. He’s a knight; he knows everything. Even now Cortona seems like the greater danger, the greater unknown.
And yet, slowly, agonizingly, I force myself to turn and follow Harper.
“When I get to the palace,” I tell him, “when I’ve taken up my rightful place, I’m going to send a message to Sir Stephen and Nanny, to let them know I’m safe there.”
My voice shakes, saying that. I’m sure Harper can tell that I’m bluffing, that I’m trying to convince myself that safety’s still possible. But Harper only nods curtly, his head bumping against the harp on his back. I should probably offer to carry it for him, since I’m the one who insisted on retrieving it from the bushes when we rushed away from Nanny’s. But each step forward already takes great effort. My feet drag so badly that I think this path is perhaps made of quicksand—how is it that Sir Stephen left out that little bit of information when I was studying the topography of the countryside?
“Cecilia—you’re asleep on your feet,” Harper says the next time he looks back at me. “Do you want to stop and rest?”
I shake my head stubbornly. If Harper can keep going, so can I.
We trudge onward, the woodlands along the path smoothing out into acres and acres of waving grasses.
My kingdom, I think, picturing the maps I used to pore over with Sir Stephen, the yellow stains of the grasslands contrasting with the green forests, the gray mountains. Unaccountably, this thought brings tears to my eyes. I’m not sure if it’s from exhaustion or patriotism.
When I am princess—no, more than that, when I am queen—I will rule wisely and well, I vow. I will treat my subjects honorably. I will make my kingdom proud of me.
I am already feeling proud of myself for so nobly walking toward the capital, walking toward certain danger rather than possible safety, risking my own life to be sure of saving Desmia’s.
“About your parents,” Harper says suddenly. “If you don’t mind talking about this . . . why did the murderers kill them?”
I pull my gaze back from the waving grasses.
“Our enemies are evil men,” I say. It’s an easy answer, because this is what Sir Stephen has told me so many, many times.
Harper doesn’t look convinced.
“But why?” he asks. “Why are they evil? What did they want so badly that it was worth killing for?”
I have to think about these questions a little harder.
“Power, I guess,” I say. “Control. It’s”—I swallow a lump in my throat—“it’s been common throughout Sualan history for evil, unprincipled men to challenge the monarchy. Kings have been assassinated three times. But good always triumphs in the end.”
A troubled look crosses Harper’s face.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but if there was ever some time where the royal family was wrong—maybe just because they made a mistake, maybe because they didn’t understand something, maybe because they didn’t care—shouldn’t there be a way for ordinary people to stand up and say so? Without killing anyone? Hasn’t there ever been a bad king who deserved to be . . . sent away?”
I gape at Harper.
“You think my
father—my father and mother—you think they deserved—” I’m suddenly so indignant I can barely speak.
“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” Harper interrupts quickly. “I don’t know much of anything about your parents. Except about the king and the war.”
“It’s always about the war with you, isn’t it?” I glower at Harper. “I’ll have you know, my father started a building campaign throughout the kingdom, setting up good roads between every major town. He simplified the legal system, so judges hear their cases more quickly. He hired scribes to keep good records of imports and exports. He, um . . .” I know there are lots of other accomplishments Sir Stephen taught me; I just can’t think of all of them right now.
“Okay,” Harper says mildly.
I stomp past him anyway. It is easier to walk now that I have fury fueling my pace. But I can’t help thinking about the spots in A Royal History of Suala where the authors seem to be trying entirely too hard to find something nice to say about a particular monarch. King Dentonian the Third, for example, was most notable for his absolute lack of ear wax. Queen Rexalia is credited with discovering excellent fertilizer for the castle daffodils, because she had a habit of spilling things when she strolled through the gardens. And then there were all those kings with their silly excuses for starting wars. . . .
Not funny, I think. Not funny at all.
My pace slows again, and Harper catches up with me.
“I think . . .,” I say slowly. “I think it was something about the war that led to my parents’ deaths. I don’t know what it was exactly, because Sir Stephen never would tell me. He was always . . . squeamish talking about the murders. I think maybe he was friends with my father. It was too painful for him to discuss.” Too painful for me, too, really. I certainly never pressed him for hard answers about my parents.
“Then why do you think the murders were connected to the war?” Harper asks.
“Sir Stephen always got this look on his face anytime anybody said anything about the war. It was like it hurt him just to think about it. And he’s a knight and all, but he never once told any war stories.”
“Maybe that’s just because you’re a girl,” Harper says, hesitantly, as if he’s not quite sure he wants to point out that fact.
“But I’ll be queen someday,” I remind him. “I’ll be ordering people into battle; I’ll be deciding whether or not to declare war, whether or not to stop it—shouldn’t I know what I’m talking about?”
If Harper gives me an answer, I don’t hear it. All I can think about suddenly is the information I don’t know. Who sent the horsemen to Nanny’s cottage? Were they intending to kill us or just scare us? Who else is working with the horsemen? Who else is working with Sir Stephen? Whom will I be able to trust in the castle? How should I reveal my true identity? What should I do once I’m in charge? What can I do about my enemies?
“Cecilia,” Harper says. “You’re swaying. Let’s stop for breakfast before you fall on your face.”
This time I don’t argue. We wade into the grasses on one side of the path, sit down, and are instantly hidden. We gnaw on the stale, crumbly bread that Harper filched from his mother.
“She’s really a better cook than this,” Harper says. “If we’d just been able to wait until dawn, when she always starts a new batch—”
“It’s fine,” I say, though I’m not really tasting the bread. I’m barely alert enough to chew.
Harper gives a harsh laugh.
“This isn’t exactly typical palace fare,” he says.
“I’m not exactly your typical princess,” I murmur, but my eyes are closing on me. I force them open just far enough to see that Harper is gazing at me with an odd expression—squinting his eyes and furrowing his eyebrows and studying my face as though he’s never seen me before in his life. He looks . . . what? Doubtful? Awed? Curious? Confused? Worried? My eyes slide shut again, and I slip off to sleep, still trying to understand.
10
When I wake up, the sun is beating down on us from high in the sky. I’m still wearing the heavy felt cloak that protected me from the dawn chill, so my whole body is prickly with sweat. And I’m a little puzzled about why I still have half-chewed bread in my mouth.
“Harper?” I whisper. I sit up dizzily and see that he’s asleep by my feet, his body precisely perpendicular to mine. “Now, why would you sleep there?” I mutter. “Do you like the smell of stinky feet?”
Harper’s eyelids flutter. I’ve never seen his eyelids flutter before; I’ve never seen him with his eyes shut.
“Soldier style,” he murmurs, still more than half asleep. “In case of attack . . .”
I think I see his point. If some enemy attacked us, and we had no time to prepare, Harper could strike back instantly in the area facing away from me, and I could strike back in the area facing away from him. Those few extra seconds could save our lives.
Thinking about things like that makes my stomach queasy.
“I slept too long,” I complain. “Shouldn’t we get back on the road?”
“All right,” Harper says, scrambling up. “If you think that’s best.”
I glance over at him suspiciously, but he doesn’t seem to be making fun of me. He offers me a hand to pull me up, and this is strange too. Only yesterday he would have gleefully pushed me into a mud puddle, and today he’s trying to help me up from perfectly dry ground? It doesn’t matter—I’m already on my feet.
“How many days do you think it will take to get to Cortona?” I ask as we head back to the path.
“Three or four,” Harper says. “I know because of the messengers who come out to say who’s died in the war. . . .”
I think about what a strange life Harper’s had—almost as strange as mine. All the new war widows in the village always go straight to Mrs. Sutton’s cottage, where the sobs and wails mix with the mournful harp music. I guess Harper must try to distract himself by talking about other things with the messengers.
“And what do the messengers say about . . . Desmia?” I ask.
Harper gives me a sidelong glance.
“They say every day at noon she comes out onto a balcony in the castle and waves to the crowd below,” Harper says. “But that’s the only time anyone ever sees her. And she always wears a veil, and the balcony’s so far away . . . nobody’s really sure what she looks like.”
Hmm, I think. That could help me. Maybe we could simply trade places—completely swap lives—and the people outside the castle would never have to know.
But do I really want to spend the rest of my life being called Desmia? When I’m ruling so wisely and well, do I want Desmia to get all the credit?
My head starts to ache thinking about the complications.
This will work, I tell myself fiercely.
But as we walk on, no brilliant plans or strategies present themselves to me. Harper is strangely quiet as we walk. He doesn’t once ask me to take my turn carrying his harp, and when I finally offer, he just shakes his head and mutters, “Nah, that’s okay. I’m used to it.”
The first time someone comes toward us on the path—a tinker with an empty cart—Harper and I both stiffen. “Stay behind me,” Harper murmurs. I slip into position, keeping my head down, following in Harper’s footsteps, so that he’s always between me and the tinker. And then the tinker’s past us.
“He didn’t even look our way,” Harper marvels. “Didn’t even say hello.”
No one else that we pass—a sheepherder, a farmer with a hay wagon, a tailor with a bag of samples—pays any attention to us either. Then we come to another village.
This one has a fence ringing its outskirts.
“Good grief and curdled codswallop—why would they have that?” I ask Harper.
“Protection,” he says briefly, and steps up to a guard station by the gate.
“We’re just passing through on our way north,” he says. “Request permission to enter?”
The guard, a burly man with a gruff face, gl
ares at us.
“Permission denied,” he growls. “Couple of pickpockets, I’d wager. You can walk around the outside, you can.”
The way he’s looking at us, I want so badly to say, If you knew who I am, you’d let us in! You’d roll out the red carpet! You’d bow! You’d treat us with respect! I clear my throat and open my mouth. Harper flashes me a worried look.
“What’s the name of your village, pray tell?” I ask in my haughtiest voice.
“Spurg,” the guard mutters. “Now go. Get out of here. We don’t want you in Spurg.”
Spurg, I think. I’ll remember that. When I take my throne—when I’m in charge—Spurg is going to be sorry this guard wasn’t nicer.
I follow Harper away from the path with great dignity, holding my spine perfectly straight. Surely that will make the guard see that we’re not a couple of pickpockets. But it’s hard to maintain a dignified, haughty posture while fighting through brambles and weeds, pressed close against the wooden fence. As soon as we’re out of the guard’s sight, I give up all pretense of dignity. I swing my arms viciously, shoving past thistles and thorns; I cry out, “Ow! Drat!” and “Harper, do you have to let those branches swing back right into my face?” and “Why do they need a fence when they have all these hawthorn trees right on top of each other?”
The sky is nearly dark when we finally come out on the other side of the village of Spurg.
“We need to find a place to stop for the night, but I want to get as far away from this village as we can,” Harper whispers to me as we step onto the blessedly bramble-free path again. “Can you make it another mile or two?”
“Sure,” I say, feeling the eyes of another surly guard on us.
We walk and walk, into darkness, into exhaustion.
This is worth it. I’m doing the right thing, I tell myself, just to keep going.
Finally we collapse beside the path, rolling into the grasses again. I would be content to fall asleep wherever I land—I’m that tired—but Harper has to carefully arrange us and our possessions. He positions the harp between us and the path, “so anyone coming toward us will run into it, giving us warning.” He tucks our food sack under his clothes, so no squirrels or moles can nose into it in the night. He insists on sleeping at my feet once again, “for safety.”