by Shannon Hale
“I want Lindy back.” Ani was hurt and angry, and she spoke louder than she ever had before. “You give him back.”
The queen slapped Ani’s mouth.
“That tone is unacceptable. This fantasy has gone unchecked for too long. If I had known that woman was teaching you those mad ideas she had when we were children, I would have sent her running from this city without her pack. It is time you learn your place, Crown Princess. You will be the next queen, and your people will not trust a queen who makes up stories and seems to talk to wild beasts.”
Ani did not answer. She was holding her stinging mouth and staring at the purple horizon.
The queen turned to go, then paused before the door. “I came to tell you. We received word today that your aunt passed away this winter. I am sorry if this hurts you.”
Ani watched her mother’s back walk away and felt her seven-year-old world tumble like a hatchling from a tree.
That evening her parents held a ball. The nurse-marys stood in the nursery doorway and smiled toward the music that came down the corridor like a sigh. The wet nurse held the new princess, Susena-Ofelienna, to her breast and spoke of skirts and slippers. A young, pretty nurse-mary held Napralina-Victery to her shoulder and whispered about men and secret things.
Every word they spoke seemed to empty Ani more, like buckets dipped into a shallow well. She pretended great interest in building a city of many towers with her pale wood bricks, and when the nurse-marys wandered into the corridor for a closer look, Ani slipped out the nursery porch to run away.
The light that came from behind pushed her shadow forward, a very thin giantess stretching across the lawn, her head pointing to the pond. She ran on the damp night grass and felt the breeze go right through her nightgown. It was early spring and still cold at night.
She reached the pond and looked back to where the pink marble ballroom gazed brilliantly out at the night, the glass and walls trapping the music in. The people inside looked beautiful, graceful, and completely at ease in their place. It helped her resolve to realize that she was nothing like them. But when she turned her back to the lights, she saw that the night was so dark, the stables did not exist. She could not see the stars. The world felt as high as the depthless night sky and deeper than she could know. She understood, suddenly and keenly, that she was too small to run away, and she sat on the damp ground and cried.
The water lipped the pond’s sandy side. The swans slept, blue and silver in the night. One swan roused at Ani’s sob and greeted her, then nested in the sand near her feet. I am tired, Ani told her, and lost from my herd. The swan words she spoke sounded to her human ears like the mournful wail of a child. Sleep here, was the bird’s simple reply. Ani lay down and, putting one arm over her face as though it were a wing, tried to shut out the world where she did not belong.
She awoke when two strong hands lifted her.
“Crown Princess, are you all right?”
She wondered why the world was so black, then realized her eyes were still closed. Her lids seemed too thick to open. She let her head fall against the man’s shoulder and smelled the strong goat milk soap of his clothing. He was carrying her away.
“Who are you?”
“Talone, Watcher of the East Gate. You were asleep with the swans and would not rouse.”
Ani creaked open one eyelid and saw that the sky above the mountains was eggshell pale. She looked at the man and was about to ask a question when she shuddered again, from her bones to her skin.
“Are you hurt, Crown Princess?”
“I’m cold.”
He pulled his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it around her, and the warmth lured her back into a fevered sleep.
It was three weeks before she was well enough that the lines on the physicians’ faces relaxed into wrinkles and the youngest nurse-mary did not exclaim whenever Ani opened her eyes. Long after the fever, her name was often replaced with "that delicate child.” She was kept indoors. She was never alone. She breakfasted in bed and supped on a couch and never laced her own boot. The incident with the swans was mentioned only in secret tones.
“We almost lost a future queen.”
“And not just to death, but to wildness.”
“What shall we do with her?” said the nursery-mistress.
The queen looked down at Ani, who lay sleepily awake, her eyes half-open, her ears pricked for the judgment that would fall from her mother’s powerful mouth onto her head. Somehow by getting sick, Ani felt she had badly betrayed this woman, and remorse pricked at her with the fever chills.
The queen was like some terribly beautiful bird whose language she did not yet understand, and she felt her thin body fill with the desire to understand, and to please.
The queen squinted, briefly creating spider leg—thin lines around her eyes. She laid a cool hand on Ani’s forehead. The gesture was almost motherly.
“Keep her resting,” said the queen, “and away from birds.”
Chapter 2
Ani set down the cold remains of her peppermint tea and hoped she was still smiling. The view from the window tugged at her attention, teasing her with indistinct movements in the direction of the stables, brown spots that might have been horses running. But she kept her eyes firmly on the brown freckle on the key-mistress’s upper right cheek.
“Let me express again, Crown Princess, how honored we are that you accepted our invitation this afternoon. I hope the meal was to your liking.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Ani.
“I have begged my daughter for some months to invite you to our apartments. You have grown as tall as your mother, save her, though not quite as pretty, and I wonder, since you seem to always be quite busy, if you have yet learned what duties are most important to your station?”
“Um, thank you, yes.” Ani winced. The key-mistress had been waiting months for this afternoon because Ani had taken great pains to escape it. This kind of thing was, apparently, supposed to be social and relaxing. But like every visit and tea and party Ani attended, she was aware that others expected the crown princess to act, speak, and think as queenly as her mother, a feat that for her, Ani was certain, was as likely as her blowing down the wind. “Yes,” she said again, and winced again, conscious of just how dim she sounded.
Silence hovered between them like a tired moth. Clearly she was expected to say something else, but panic at having to speak stole thoughts from her head. She glanced at Selia, but her lady-in-waiting’s serene demeanor gave no clues as to how to respond. Selia often reminded Ani of a cat, seemingly bored yet taking everything in with her lazy gaze. At age eighteen, Selia was two years Ani’s senior, four fingers shorter, and her long hair was one pale shade darker than Ani’s yellow. In appearance, they were almost as alike as sisters.
Her eyes lingered a moment on Selia, and she found herself thinking, She would be better at playing princess than I am. The thought stung. Ani wanted so badly to do it right, to be regal and clever and powerful. But too often her only truly happy moments were the bursts of freedom, stolen afternoons on her horse’s back, brief, breathtaking rides past the stables to where the gardens turned wild, her lungs stinging with the cold, her muscles trembling with the hard ride. It had been nearly ten years since she had last thought of running away, staring out at the too big night from the shores of the swan pond. She would never try again. She was the crown princess, and she was determined to one day make a decent queen.
The key-mistress cleared her throat, and Ani looked back, thankful her hostess had taken it upon herself to crack the silence. “I hope I don’t show presumption to say that you have been more than mistress to my Selia since the queen your mother chose her to be the first—and might I dare to say, most honored—member of your retinue, but you have also been her friend.”
“Yes.” Ani readjusted her hands in her lap and fought for something new to say. She only smiled again and said, “Thank you.”
“Crown Princess, you look as though you wish to
ask for something,” said Selia. Ani turned to her gratefully and nodded. Selia lifted the pot. “More tea?”
“Oh, yes, um, thank you.”
Selia filled her cup, and the key-mistress looked down at her own, mumbling, “Tea, yes.”
“Actually,” said Ani, and her heart pounded at having to speak out, “actually, if you do not mind, my father and I are to go riding today, and so, you see, I had best go soon.”
“Oh.” The key-mistress glanced at her daughter and gave one shake of her head.
Selia touched Ani’s hand. “Crown Princess, Mother has been looking forward to this visit for a fortnight.”
At once Ani felt Selia’s words burn her cheeks red, and she looked down. I’ve fouled up again, thought Ani. “I’m sorry.” She sipped her tea. It was too hot, and she felt her heart beat in her burned tongue.
“Riding,” said the key-mistress.
“Yes, Mother, I told you. She finds time to ride almost every day.”
“Yes, rides a stallion, I believe. Do you not think, Crown Princess, that it is inappropriate for a princess to ride a stallion? Should you not ride a nice, gentle mare or gelding? Are you not afraid that you will break your crown?” The key-mistress turned to her daughter. “That was a pun, dear. Break your crown.”
Selia laughed her high, lovely laugh.
Something about that exchange burned Ani’s pride like her tongue. She set down her cup and stammered an awkward reply.
“Yes, well, I do ride a stallion, and if my father, the king, thinks it is inappropriate, he will tell me so. At any rate, thank you for the tea and the dinner. I must go. I’m sorry. Thank you.”
She stood up. Selia looked up at her and blinked, unaccustomed, it seemed, to even that much of an outburst from her mistress. It took the key-mistress a few moments to refurbish herself with words.
“Yes, yes, off you go, Crown Princess. For the best. It is, you know, inappropriate to keep the king waiting.”
They exited the key-mistress’s apartments and walked briskly down the corridor. Selia’s heels made her nearly as tall as Ani, and they clicked on the tile floor like a cat’s claws grown unchecked.
“Are you all right?” said Selia.
Ani let out a breath and laughed a little. “I don’t know why I let myself panic like that.”
“I know. But I thought it would be good for you to practice.”
“You are right, Selia, I know you are. I hate the way I get so muddled and say everything wrong and take everything wrong.”
“And as you are to be queen one day, you have to learn now how to converse pleasantly with people you don’t care about.”
“Oh, it’s not that I don’t care about her, or anyone else.” Ani thought perhaps it was that she cared too much. She was constantly worried about what others thought of her, and how every word she spoke could condemn her further. Ani thought how to explain that to Selia and decided that she could not. Selia’s ease with strangers and friends alike made Ani sure she would not understand. Besides, Ani was eager to shrug off the unpleasant feelings of another failure.
She felt herself relax a little when they passed under an arch and outside. It was an afternoon in winter, the sun bright and the air like early morning, new and wet with coming snow. When they approached the stables, Selia curtsied and walked to the gardens as she often did when Ani went riding. The lady-in-waiting was allergic to horses. Or so she said. Once, from a distance, Ani had witnessed Selia willingly entering a stable holding hands with an unknown man. But Ani had refused to inquire. She, too, had her secrets.
Ani entered the first stable. The familiar smells of warm bodies and clean hay greeted her like a friendly touch. She made her way past bowing grooms to the stall she knew best.
Falada, said Ani.
A white horse raised his head and made no audible sound.
The first time Ani had spoken that name, she had been eleven. The prime minister of Bayern, the kingdom on the other side of the mountains, had been visiting at the time, and all wary-eyed parties were so busy entertaining road-weary dignitaries that Ani had been able to steal away to the stables a few times to bring to pass a childhood wish. So it was that Ani was by the stable-master’s side when an overdue mare foaled her white, long-legged colt. Ani had helped break open the birthing sac and cleared the fluids from his nostrils. She had steadied his middle as he first tried to stand, balancing his long body on stick legs and staring at the lighted world with oversize eyes. She had listened when he spoke his name, that word that had lain on his tongue while he still slept in the womb. And when she repeated it, he had heard her. After this initial connection, it was not long before she discovered they could speak to each other without other people hearing a sound.
And Ani was grateful for that. She remembered how it had taken all her father’s power just to convince the queen that Ani should be allowed to keep her horse. Certainly he would have been sent off to the provinces the moment the queen suspected Ani and Falada of having such a bond.
Falada, I am late. Tirean is gone from her stall. My father must already be riding.
The boy did not give me enough oats, said Falada.
His voice entered her mind as naturally as her own thoughts, but as distinct as the smell of citrus. Ani smiled, with sincerity now, and worked off the glumness of the lunch visit by attacking his white hide with quick brush strokes. I wonder sometimes how much is enough.
You give me enough.
Because I love you too much and I cannot say no. But I will for now because my father is waiting.
She saddled him, and he teased her by holding his breath when she tightened the girth. What, you want me and the saddle to fall off your back at the first fence? And she led him with a loose rein out of the stable and into the bright afternoon. A thin, stiff layer of snow crunched beneath their feet and reflected hard sunlight into their eyes. Ani squinted into the brilliant distance where her father rode his black mare, Tirean. He waved and rode up. He was a tall, slender man with hair so pale, Ani could not separate the natural from the graying hairs in his beard unless she was close enough to touch.
“You are late,” he said.
“I was being a crown princess,” said Ani.
He dismounted and gave Falada a friendly pat. “Off playing pins and balls with your siblings, no doubt. I heard them in the west hall.”
“Come now, Father, you know the queen would never permit such nonsense from me. ‘Anidori, a crown princess, like a queen, can succeed only by staying apart. Separation, elevation, delegation.’”
The king grimaced. He had long ago ceased to argue such points with his wife. “Tell me, then, what your business was this morning—separating, elevating, or delegating?” He clapped his hands twice as though it were a song.
“Oh, all three. I breakfasted alone while sketching a map of Kildenree from memory for my tutor, I was surrounded by my ‘lessers’ all morning as I received mendicants and courtiers, and then I solved all their problems by assigning them to other people. Oh, and a social visit with Selia’s mother to end it all with a flourish.” She nodded and curtsied.
“That is wonderful, Anidori,” he said with all the force of a proud father. “And how did you do?”
“Fine.” In truth it had been, from dawn until then, a horrible day full of trips, stutters, and stupidity. She felt her chin tremble a little and covered it with a hand. His assurance that she was wonderful was a stab in the soreness of her insecurity. He more than anyone knew how she tried to be what her mother was, and how often she failed. It was he who in earlier years had held her weeping at his chest and told her that she was good enough, that she was his best girl. She had not sought his comfort in years, trying as she was to grow up, to be independent and queenly enough not to hurt, but she longed for his succor now.
“Or, you know, well enough.” Her voice cracked a little, and she turned away to mount Falada. But he caught her shoulders and pulled her into his embrace. The little girl in her won out
, and she sobbed lightly against his chest.
“There, easy now,” he said as though calming an anxious horse.
“I was terrible, Father. I’m so worried that I will say all the wrong things and that they think I’m a dim, sickly, bird-speaking girl that I actually shake, and my mind goes blank, and I just want to run away.”
He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “But you don’t, Anidori, do you? You stay and you try. You are so much braver than I. And as you keep trying, the rest will come.”
She nodded and soaked in his comfort for a moment in silence.
Falada nosed her shoulder. I thought we were going running.
Ani smiled and smeared the tears across her cheeks. “I think my horse is anxious for a ride.”
“Yes, ride.” His face brightened as he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her brow. “And as much as I love you, my dear, I am afraid Tirean and I are going to have to teach the two of you a lesson in speed.”
“Oh, really?” She laughed, knowing that the king’s mare rarely outran Falada.
“Yes, yes, off we go.” The king mounted and immediately began a canter that streaked into a run. He was heading for a fence that separated the ends of the training grounds from the loosely wooded wilds, and he was, indeed, riding fast. His speed made her feel uneasy. She called out to him. He waved a hand in the air and continued his assault toward the fence.
“It’s too high,” she shouted, but he could not hear her now. She mounted Falada and asked him to follow. They had only halved his distance when the king reached the fence. Tirean leapt.
“Father!" she said.
There was a sound like bones rubbing together as the mare’s hoof just scraped the post. Tirean’s balance tilted. The king looked down as his mount fell. It looked wrong to Ani, that graceful, long-legged horse and that tall man, creatures that should stand and run, instead hitting the earth like discarded things. When Tirean regained her feet, the king remained on the ground.
Ani jumped off Falada’s back and ran to the fence. Other stable-hands were there before her. “Easy, easy,” she heard more than one voice say. When they tried to approach the prostrate king, the mare screeched, stepped over him, and straddled his body protectively. They stepped forward slowly, and Tirean glared with one round black eye and huffed warning through wide nostrils. The stable-hands stepped back, afraid the horse would trample the king.