The Spy Princess

by Sherwood Smith

  “Mother said we can visit now. I’ll do my share later, when the weather turns bad.”

  We flew to the very west end of the valley, where I’d never been. The ledge we landed on was green with old trees, mostly fir. The cottage called Hermit House was completely hidden. Only a thin column of pale smoke gave it away.

  I followed Dawn up a narrow stone pathway. A waterfall plashed, and the air smelled like moss and pine and water. We rounded a huge tree and came upon a house as small and plain as Tsauderei’s.

  “Remember, she’s called Atan,” Dawn said. “Norsunder can’t get into the valley, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have ways of spying.”

  The woman who opened the door was older than Lizana, tall and strong-looking, her hair silvery white. I liked her face at once. It was a strong, patient, thinking face.

  “Come! It’s a good time for a visit,” she said, her voice husky and pleasant.

  Like Tsauderei’s, it was a one-room house, and it was warm and cozy with candlelight and lamps, smelling of cinnamon. There was a sleeping loft and, at the far end, a pool like our bath.

  Next to it stood a tall, strongly built girl a few years older than I was. She was in the middle of combing out hair so long it hung in wet waves down to her ankles. When I looked at her face, I got a shock, for here was a real Landis—in the flesh, not painted or in a book.

  Every drawing I’d ever seen of a Landis was a variation of her face: long mouth, straight brows over wide, heavy-lidded eyes, hers so deep a blue they looked violet. She was dressed in an old cotton shirt and baggy flying trousers, and her feet, like mine, were bare.

  “Welcome,” the princess said. She had a high, clear, musical voice that reminded me of Deon’s. “Are you Lilah?” I nodded. “My mother’s heart-name for me was Atan. It means ‘sun’ in my language. Tsauderei tells me you too are interested in history.” Like the mage, she didn’t ask the usual polite questions that people put to you when you meet.

  I sat down on a hassock. “Well, I like adventure stories—the ones that really happened—and Lasva Dei the Wanderer.”

  “Do you feel the weight of their lives as well?” Atan asked.

  “Weight?”

  She looked up at the ceiling, but her gaze was so intense I had a feeling she didn’t see it. It was uncannily like my brother’s. Then she blinked and gave us a rueful smile. “Maybe it’s just me being foolish. Gehlei thinks so.” She indicated the older woman, who was taking something out of the oven.

  “Not foolish. Different ways of seeing things.” Gehlei set down a plate of cinnamon buns. “Look at this plate. What do you see? I see a weapon, if there was nothing else to hand.”

  “A thing to hold food,” I said.

  Dawn leaned forward. “I see the shape, and the color. And I try to guess when it was made.”

  Gehlei nodded at her, then turned to Atan. “So would your father have seen it, but he would have spared a thought to the hands that made it, and wondered if their owner was content with life.”

  “I’m like Dawn and my father. What would my mother have said?” Atan asked.

  Gehlei’s expression betrayed a quick sadness. “Ah, she would have agreed with me. She was always practical.”

  She looks sad because Atan is an orphan. That thought hurt. As I am, now.

  “So I guessed.” Atan smiled. “But only because she sounds so different from me.”

  Gehlei smiled back. “Remember, she chose to marry a man who would have been a poet if he could. You and your mother would not have seen the world the same way, but you would always have found one another interesting.”

  I was amazed by this princess who did not talk of fashions or court—and not just any princess, but the single living heir of the oldest royal family in the entire world.

  On the roof outside came the gentle tapping of rain; the light in the windows was blue, subdued. “Every record I read adds another voice to my memory, and their passions become my passions,” Atan said. “Sometimes they make me more afraid that I won’t be equal to the task ahead.”

  “Here is where we begin to argue, for I have no patience with imaginary foes. Those real ones?” Gehlei looked westward and grimaced. “They will be bad enough one day.”

  The rain had increased to a steady downpour, and shadows made everything a deep, mysterious green. Gehlei excused herself and returned to her work.

  Atan sat near the fire and spread her hair out to dry. She clasped her hands together—long, capable hands. “Gehlei hates to hear of our past, but even worse is my conviction that nothing will change until I act.”

  “Your past?” I repeated. “I don’t understand. I thought that Norsunder conquered your kingdom generations ago.”

  “It’s been a century here in Sarendan, and in the rest of the world. Both sides used magic enchantments that can alter time. Some of the spells have been broken, after years of magework. But there’s one last enchantment binding Sartor outside of time, and it will end when I cross the border.”

  “There are magic spells on you?” I asked.

  “There are spells on my family, and I’m the only survivor. Tsauderei and the Magic Council say that Norsunder doesn’t think any Landises are still alive, but if I go to Sartor, they’d know instantly. Yet I have to do it, don’t you agree?”

  “But you’re so—” I was going to say “young,” then remembered Lizana’s scorn.

  “Alone? Untrained?” Atan said, giving me a rueful smile that reminded me, again, of Peitar. “Yes, but who else will do it? Sartor is forgotten by the rest of the world, just as Norsunder wanted. Who else can do it? As for training, Tsauderei says I know as much as a full mage, because the only thing I can do here is study. All I lack is experience, and that will be solved if I return home. As for youth . . . well, the longer I wait, the longer Sartor just lies under Norsunder’s poison.”

  I thought of my own vow and shifted guiltily.

  “What happened to her family is terrible,” Dawn broke in. “Tsauderei told us the parts that Gehlei didn’t know—like the king’s last stand against the Norsundrian army.”

  Atan shook her head. “My father was a poet, not a war leader. It’s a story of desperate courage, but it was a slaughter.” She clasped her hands, looking down.

  “After they killed the king and queen,” Dawn continued, “they came after the children, who’d been hidden. But Gehlei, who was Atan’s nurse, knew how to use a knife, though she took a terrible wound in the process.”

  Gehlei rubbed her shoulder.

  “I was just a baby, so I don’t remember,” said Atan. “We made it to the Sarendan border before we were caught in the time spell that closed Sartor off from the rest of the world. The edges of the spell have receded very gradually. Fifteen years ago, Tsauderei found us, frozen in time and place. He brought us here.”

  I thought about the destruction in Miraleste. This talk of time being altered, and children hunted down and killed, made my problems seem small.

  Atan clearly sensed my mood, for she changed the subject, and we talked about Lasva the Wanderer until Dawn said, “The rain has let up. We should leave before the next band of clouds arrives.”

  “You’ll come again?” Atan asked. “I enjoy company, but my life is quiet, as you see.”

  “I would like to very much,” I said sincerely.

  The rain started again on the way back, so my clothes were wet through when Dawn and I parted outside Irad House. I was delighted to find that Lizana had lit a fire. I took a hot bath, changed, and wrote up my day. It was very cozy, sitting at my mother’s desk with the rain slanting down outside.

  It was time to think about my vow, and that meant . . .

  I drew a deep breath and took out the diary.

  nine

  Those first pages were about the garden, lessons, and p
ets. 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 thoug
hts. 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.

  • • •

  DURING 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.