The Lost Kingdom of Bamarre

by Gail Carson Levine

  Father tilted his head at the stool next to his chair. “We’re planning for tomorrow.”

  I sat. Willem took the stool next to Sir Noll’s chair, his seat the same height as mine, as his father’s chair was the same as my father’s, no rank evident here.

  A meal had been spread on a high table along one edge of the tent. My stomach rumbled, but neither father was eating, so I ignored my hunger, possible for one trained to be a Lakti.

  Under the table were two chests, several satchels, and a covered basket. Father’s drawn sword leaned against the arm of his chair.

  Open on a low table between the two men was a map of western New Lakti and the southeastern edge of the Kyngoll kingdom. Our village of Erlo, marked by crosshatches for houses, lay fifty miles to the south. Across the border, east and north of our camp, crosshatching signified a town twice the size of Erlo.

  “Where is their camp?” I asked.

  “In their town,” Father said.

  “Do they outnumber us?” Willem asked. The Lakti didn’t mind unfavorable odds.

  Father stretched out his legs. “We’re evenly matched, more or less.”

  “We intend to make them run,” Sir Noll said.

  “Will you go into Kyngoll?” I asked.

  Father grinned. “We’ll chase them. Noll”—he touched the map—“let’s mix arrows with spears tomorrow.”

  Both Willem and I had been taught military tactics. Spear soldiers usually fended off an attack, while archers took the offensive. Ordinarily, the two were kept apart.

  Sir Noll nodded. “Good. We haven’t done that in a while.”

  I said, “We’ll have more arrows.” Archers risked running out of ammunition, unless opposing archers were shooting back at them, which would be more likely if they were with the spears.

  “Exactly, Perry!” Father patted my shoulder.

  He was proud of me. He loved me.

  Willem said, “The archers will have the safety of the shield wall.” Spear soldiers moved together, shields touching.

  A hint of sharpness entered Father’s voice. “There’s no safety in battle.”

  I would have blushed in shame, but Willem, in his unchallenging way, challenged Father. “Still, I’d like to have a shield to duck behind. If not, I’d fight anyway.”

  “Good lad. You’re seventeen, right?”

  Willem nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Noll, let’s put him in. He can wield a spear.”

  Willem clapped his hands and grinned. I felt both frightened for him and jealous.

  His father frowned. “In the second or third row, Tove.”

  “Of course. We’ll put him behind Ivar.”

  Sir Noll’s face cleared.

  Father explained, “Ivar is a butcher with his spear. No one gets past him. He’s been in a hundred fights and never been scratched.”

  “Can I fight if he’s blocking me?”

  “You’ll be able to fight enough,” Sir Noll said. “Not much, I hope.”

  “The battle spell will fall over you.” Father waved a hand at Willem.

  We’d heard about the battle spell. Time slowed. Senses sharpened. Warriors felt stronger than ever before.

  Father stood. “If you’re going to fight tomorrow, you should dine well tonight. And Perry, if you’re going to help the surgeon, you should eat, too.”

  “I’m almost as tall as Willem.” I was nine inches above five feet. “Can’t you put me behind someone like Ivar?” Battle, I thought, will make me forget about being a Bamarre—or whatever I really am.

  Father bent down and kissed my forehead. “Your mother would assassinate me. When you’re Willem’s age, you’ll ride at my side.”

  While we ate our hard cheese, harder bread, and brined carrots, Father and Sir Noll talked more about tactics. I learned that the Kyngoll rarely attacked and never retreated, which accounted for the present stalemate. We charged, and they didn’t budge.

  “They’re a worthy opponent, Perry.” Father gestured at the map with a chunk of bread.

  I heard unlike the Bamarre hang in the air, unspoken.

  Sir Noll laughed grimly. “I’d rather have them unworthy, so we can win and be done with it.”

  If we succeeded, I supposed that we—the Lakti—would treat them as we did the Bamarre. If we lost, they’d do worse to us. I’d heard about their cruelty.

  Sir Noll stood. “Willem should sleep.”

  “I’ll keep my daughter a little longer.” Father followed them to the tent flap. With his back to me, he gestured for me to join him outside.

  My heart hopped. I’d never felt uneasy with Father before. What if he somehow sniffed out my Bamarre nature? What if I blurted out the truth?

  A soldier gave Sir Noll a torch. We watched the flame bob away.

  “Father”—I managed to keep a waver out of my voice—“would you still care about me if I was”—Don’t tell!—“going to be short?”

  “What?”

  “Would you still—”

  “Perry, sweet, I’d love you if you were three inches tall, although I’d be surprised. You’d still be the fastest Lakti ever.”

  Determined to go on, I asked, “What if I could hardly run at all? What if I was as slow as mud?”

  “I’d love you. As long as you were you, I’d love you.”

  If you knew I was born a Bamarre, would you think I was still me?

  He would. He loved me entirely, better than Lady Mother did.

  Or would he? The Bamarre disgusted him.

  I was afraid to speak.

  “Come.” Father led me behind the tent, where he put an arm around my shoulder. He chuckled. “There’s no danger that you’ll be short. Soon you’ll be gazing down at your mother while she frowns up at you.”

  I smiled. “Can we creep up on the Kyngoll at night?”

  “We’ve tried. They post sentries, just as we do.”

  As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I saw a black shape resolve itself into a cypress’s twisting branches.

  “Sometimes I send scouts to see if they can bring in a sentry or a straggler. We caught one a month ago.”

  “Is he dead?”

  The Lakti never traded prisoners. Captured soldiers were killed. First, if we could, we persuaded them (not gently) to tell us what they knew. The Kyngoll did the same, we believed. We joked that if they let a Lakti live, he or she would soon be ruling the kingdom.

  “She. Yes, she’s dead. Perry, you’ll fight soon enough. Have you studied why we go to war? I don’t mean this war. War itself.”

  I quoted the deepest belief of Lakti philosophy. “‘The purpose of war is to create eternal peace.’” Meaning that when we were finally one kingdom, killing would cease. “‘Whoever wins the final contest will deserve to rule.’”

  “That’s the deep truth, but I’m glad I won’t live in eternal peace. I can’t imagine anything more boring. Yes, I can—an entire day in the company of King Einar.”

  I forced a laugh.

  “Perry, fighting is fun. I don’t know if anyone ever told you that. When you see your foe trembling before you, you expand. You feel as if you could uproot trees.”

  I wondered if killing people was fun. It was fun to win a fencing match, and it might be even better if your opponent were vanquished forever.

  “But there’s one rule you must follow.” Father turned me and held both my shoulders. “Do not look into the eyes of your enemy. Watch his hands and feet, to know what he’s likely to do next. Never meet his eyes. Will you remember, darling?”

  I treasured the darling. “Why not look?”

  “Because it will be harder to kill him. And the joy will go out of it. Now, come.” He led me back into the tent, where he pulled the basket out from under the high table and raised the lid. “Don’t tell your mother.”

  I saw a package wrapped in canvas and tied with brown string. He lifted the bundle out carefully, sat in his chair, and undid the knots. “Occasionally on the ride here, my thoug
hts traveled to this, one of the pleasures of being away from home.” He peeled off the cloth.

  Nestled in the canvas were at least two dozen figs, handfuls of almonds and walnuts, four marchpane candies, and a stack of honey wafers. We had a treat like this only when King Einar and his sons came.

  He grinned wolfishly. “Save some for me.”

  Shortly before dawn I woke from a dream of running across country in my seven-league boots, dragging Lady Mother behind me.

  Banishing the dream, I raised my head. Willem’s blanket lay flat. Had he been called to battle already?

  When I sat up, I discovered that my rump was on my hair. This had to be Halina’s work. What was she doing?

  Tucking the mass under my cap, where I was sure it made odd bumps, I slung on my cloak and pulled up my hood.

  Outside, following a guess, I circled to the back of the tent and saw Willem a few yards away, facing cypress woods. I smelled the piny scent of the trees. Pink brightened the sky just above the branches. Last night’s clouds had been swept away by a sharp wind that still blew.

  A sentry, one of the patrol guarding the camp, marched by and paid no attention to us.

  How I envied Willem! To go to battle, to have an undivided nature—and to have hair that grew at the usual pace!

  “Power comes from the back leg,” I said.

  Mistress Clarra had told him this dozens of times. A weak spear thrust could cost him his life.

  He turned and grinned. “More advice.”

  I blushed. “Unasked for.”

  His smile sweetened. “But welcome. Thank you.” He gestured for me to join him. “The squirrels like the cypress cones.”

  Under the nearest tree, two gray squirrels were chewing busily, oblivious to us.

  He added, “Lakti squirrels. They’d enjoy our bread.”

  I chuckled. “Even the Lakti don’t enjoy the Lakti bread.” I realized I hadn’t said, Even we don’t enjoy our bread. “Are you excited?”

  “I could hardly sleep. If your father hadn’t questioned my courage, I’d just be running errands or chopping vegetables with everyone else.”

  Few died in battle unless there was a rout. Still, we’d lost three of our company since September. Willem could kill someone—or be killed himself.

  “Keep your shield up.” His shield arm tended to droop. “And stay behind Ivar.”

  He frowned. “Do you think I’ll be a terrible soldier?”

  “No. I think you forget that your power is in your back leg. You use your shoulders too much, and you let—”

  He was laughing. “You’re the most honest person I know.”

  I recognized that as a compliment and blushed again. Honest about everything except being a Bamarre. I continued the truth telling. “You’re the best person I know, aside from Father, and you’re my only friend.”

  “I doubt I’ll always be your only friend, but I’m your friend forever.”

  I wondered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A MESSENGER CAME for Willem, and the two left together. I found Annet at the mess, where trestle tables had been set up outside the cook tent. She was serving soldiers, struggling to carry a tray loaded with bowls and two tureens of pottage. A lady’s maid wasn’t used to heavy work, but I was, because of Mistress Clarra’s training.

  Without thinking, I took the tray. Annet let me, too surprised to do anything else.

  “Where does it go?”

  “Don’t!” She reached for it.

  “Where?”

  She led me to a table. I set the tray down between two men.

  One said, “Where’s your tassel?”

  The other shook his head at him.

  Annet started for the cook tent, and I followed. They’d probably all be Bamarre in there. Good. Safe.

  Good?

  Inside, she turned to me. “What’s the trouble, young mistress?”

  The tent was warm and bustling. I saw a lot of tassels, but Annet’s speech suggested the presence of a few Lakti.

  “Did you bring your shears?”

  She looked confused. “Yes?”

  I leaned down and whispered. “My hair won’t stop growing. It’s below my waist.”

  Loudly, she announced, “I’ll take care of you, Lady Perry.”

  Her small tent lay at the southern edge of the camp. It was blessedly empty, though there were four bedrolls. I knelt and whipped off my hood and cap. My hair tumbled down to the middle of my thighs.

  “Perry!” She lopped my hair off at the middle of my ears. When she finished, she came around to face me. “Don’t do my work for me. People will wonder. What happened to your hair?”

  You’re the most honest person I know.

  “Halina came again. I think she made my hair grow, but I don’t know why. She told me I’m a Bamarre and we’re sisters.”

  Annet sank down on her haunches.

  I hoped for an embrace that didn’t come.

  She said nothing for what seemed a week, so I said, “What are our parents’ names?”

  “Adeer and Shoni.”

  Not Lakti names, but pretty. Annet added, “What will you do?”

  I shook my head, which felt light without the weight of hair. “I’m not sure. Halina said I can pretend to be a Lakti forever and she won’t come again.”

  “Why don’t you do that?”

  Did she want me to? “I may.”

  “Lord Tove will disown you if you tell.” She pressed her hands together. “He might do worse.”

  A voice called from outside the tent. “Perry!” Mistress Clarra.

  Annet moved her bedroll over the mound of my hair cuttings. “Don’t admit you’re a Bamarre unless you’re ready to be a Bamarre.”

  I replaced my cap and covered it again with my hood. I should have taken the shears.

  Mistress Clarra berated me all the way back to our tent, where I removed my cloak and surcoat and pulled on my hauberk—the chain-mail shirt—and my chain-mail hood. Then I slipped the pendant necklace over my head.

  “No adornment!”

  “Lady Mother wants me to wear it.” I covered the mail with my cape, my cap, and my hood. The sheath at my waist held my thrusting dagger. I had killed dozens of straw soldiers with it.

  The others had gone ahead to the battlefield. Mistress Clarra had stayed for me. “Where’s Father?”

  “Lord Tove rode out at dawn.”

  At the edge of camp, horses waited, already saddled. I felt chilled to the bone. In summer, chain mail was unbearably hot. On a raw day, it drew in the cold.

  “Where is Father fighting?” I asked.

  “He’s everywhere, but he commands the western flank, and Sir Noll has the eastern.”

  Near our destination, we passed through a copse of cypress trees. I heard a dull roar. Beyond the trees, the battle line came into view, twitching with energy. I saw the backs of horses and their riders and the backs of pike soldiers on foot. The sounds clarified to shouts, pounding hoofs, stones flying from underfoot, and horses neighing and squealing. I smelled sweat and a sour odor I learned to recognize as fear. Even the Lakti could feel fear.

  A woman lay on her cloak outside the physician’s tent. When she saw me approach, she tried to sit up.

  Could I do something for her? Was I supposed to know what? I ran to her. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m just bruised.” She collapsed, coughing.

  I saw no blood to stanch. How useless I was.

  Not far from her, a fire smoldered. Suspended from a wooden frame over the logs, a cauldron hung.

  The surgeon, Master Hakon, emerged from the tent and sent me to collect fuel for the fire, which I was to tend. “Keep it hot.” He handed me an ax. “Hurry. Bring live wood, too, and don’t strip the needles off the branches.”

  After a backward glance at the woman, I took the wheelbarrow that waited by the fire and ran the quarter mile to the cypress copse. Battlefield medics needed a fire. A heated poker would be applied to wounds to caute
rize them. Boiling water would make herbal infusions and compresses. The smoke from cypress needles eased pain.

  When I reached the woods, I collected dead branches until the wheelbarrow was half full. Then I picked a small tree and attacked it awkwardly with the ax until it fell. I lopped off the branches, saved them, split the wood, and finished loading the wheelbarrow.

  In all, I was gone about an hour. When I got back, the woman seemed not to have moved. Master Hakon and his two apprentices bent over a figure who was blocked from my view.

  The surgeon said, “Bite down, Ivar.”

  Ivar? Let there be more than one Ivar! Let this not be the Ivar who never got a scratch, who was shielding Willem from harm, who was keeping him from being killed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I WORRIED WHILE I tended the fire, running twice more to the copse for wood. First the pox, then this battle—I wished Willem didn’t keep frightening me. I imagined him on the ground, bleeding, while the battle raged around him. Again and again, I banished the image, only to have it reappear.

  A few wounded came in, and Master Hakon said even more might arrive when the day’s fighting ended.

  Ivar lost his leg below the knee and wouldn’t fight again. No one died except the wounded woman, who had been hit in the chest by a horse’s hooves. I wished I knew something about her: if she had children, if she’d fought many battles, if anyone had avenged her injury when she was struck.

  Soldier—steadfast, stalwart—

  By death defeated.

  At dusk, Father, leading half a dozen wounded, approached the physicians’ tent. I ran to him, and he said Willem was fine.

  Exuberantly, I juggled twigs before tossing them in the flames.

  “Ivar,” Father said, “young Willem gored the soldier who slashed you.”

  “Did the villain die?” Ivar said.

  “Yes.”

  I felt jealous again. Willem had killed a Kyngoll.

  As evening darkened to night, Master Hakon, his apprentices, and I lifted the wounded into an oxcart and made them as warm and comfortable as we could for the journey back to camp. Master Hakon drove the cart, while the apprentices and I rode alongside on horseback. An apprentice held a torch to light our way. When we neared the cypress woods, another flame flickered at us, which turned out to be Willem waiting on his horse and holding his own torch, whose flame stretched and wavered in the wind.