by Shannon Hale
When the girls fled the classroom at the next break, Katar fetched a book from the shelf and sat in her chair with a loud thud.
“Don’t look so shocked, Miri,” said Katar without raising her eyes from the book. “You’re not the only one who can study during breaks. I guess you think academy princess is yours, no competition.”
“No,” said Miri, wishing for a good, biting response to pop into her head. All she could think of was, “But maybe you do.”
Katar smiled, apparently thinking that retort too weak to deserve a response. Miri agreed silently. She could force herself to stay in the classroom for only a couple of minutes before slinking away.
Over the next several days, Katar’s presence in the classroom during breaks kept Miri scurrying other places to test her quarry-speech—in a corner of the bedchamber, behind the outhouse, and once in the closet, though just stepping inside made her skin itch as if covered in spiders. More and more often, when she rapped the ground and sang a quarry song, a curious sensation followed. Everything before her seemed to vibrate like a flicked tree branch, and a sharp, warm feeling flared behind her eyes. The idea of the rat and the closet felt round and real, as though she were living the moment again. She felt her song throb inside her and imagined it going down into the stone, into the mountain, down and then up again to find someone who could hear.
But often, nothing happened at all. And she could not figure out why.
Quarry-speech is supposed to be for talking to other people, she thought. Maybe I need to try it with someone.
Miri did not dare approach any of the girls who worked in the quarry. Would they think she was foolish to try? Would they laugh? One morning while Britta read aloud in class, Miri watched her, thinking that Britta did not know enough about quarry matters to laugh at her and was not likely to tattle to the other girls. Miri was reluctant to try it with a lowlander, but her anticipation of discovery was making her impatient.
The next afternoon break, Miri joined the others outside. The sun’s glare off the snow made her eyes water, but it seemed the most beautiful day Miri could remember. The sky was achingly blue. The snow that crunched under her boot spread over stone and hillock like spilled cream. The cold made the world feel clean and new, a day for beginnings.
Miri walked straight past the group of older girls and greeted Britta. “Hello.”
Britta had been standing alone and seemed startled to be addressed.
“Want to go for a walk?” said Miri, hoping to get Britta alone.
“All right.”
As they walked away, Miri reached to take Britta’s hand. Britta flinched as if surprised at the touch.
“It’s normal to hold hands while walking, you know,” said Miri, guessing from Britta’s reaction that common hand-holding was a mountain custom.
“Oh, sorry,” said Britta. “So everyone holds hands? Boys and girls and everyone?”
Miri laughed. “Girls and boys hold hands when they’re little.” She could not remember when she and Peder had last held hands. As they grew up, the casual touch of wrestling and playing had just stopped. “If a girl and boy hold hands when they’re older, it means something.”
“I see.” Britta took Miri’s hand.
They trudged through untouched snow around the side of the building, and Miri glanced back to see if anyone else was near. Just a little farther.
“I wanted to tell you, I’m sorry Olana put you in the closet,” said Britta.
Miri nodded, her eyes wide. “So am I. There was a rat in there, and I don’t mean Olana. An actual rat tried to nest in my hair.” She shivered. “I found a whisker in my braid the next morning, and I think I might have squealed aloud.”
Britta smiled. “You did.”
“Well, I’m glad my horror was amusing to someone,” said Miri, making sure to add a good-natured grin so Britta would know that she was teasing.
“Olana shouldn’t put people in closets or strike us,” said Britta, negotiating the deeper swells of snow. “I think she’s too quick to punish.”
Miri pressed her lips together in a surprised frown. If Britta disapproved, then perhaps Olana’s attitude was not typical of lowlanders. Or perhaps Britta was not a typical lowlander herself.
“I didn’t think they’d be so mean,” said Britta. “Since one of us will be the princess.”
“Do you think one of us really will be?”
“I don’t think they would lie.” Britta puffed a visible breath. “But lately I feel as stupid as a tree stump, so I don’t dare believe my own thoughts.”
They sat on the linder steps that led to the academy’s back entrance, and Miri thought she could chance it now. She tapped a rhythm, thought of a quarry song, even hummed aloud. She was trying to quarry-speak the Take care warning she had often heard echoing out of the quarry. For just a moment, everything appeared to quake and she felt that resonance, but Britta did not flinch.
Miri nearly groaned aloud. She had been certain those sensations were a sign of quarry-speech, but if it had worked, Britta would have reacted in some way to the warning.
Unless . . . She looked Britta over. Unless lowlanders are deaf to it.
The more she let this idea soak in, the likelier it seemed. Quarry-speech was just for quarriers, just for the mountain. That made Miri smile to herself while she sang. Something mountain folk could do that lowlanders could not. Something even Miri could do. A talent. A secret.
“Should I . . . Do you want me to sing with you?” asked Britta.
Miri stopped. “Oh no. I was, you know, humming for fun.”
“You don’t have to stop,” said Britta. “It sounded nice. I just didn’t know what you expected, because I seem to be always doing the wrong thing. Lately. Sorry to interrupt. Keep going.”
“We should be heading back anyway.”
“All right.”
The girls turned to retrace their steps. Miri teetered when her foot hit a deep patch of snow and she let go of Britta’s hand, but Britta grabbed her arm and helped steady her.
“Thanks,” said Miri.
“Thank you. I mean . . .” Britta looked up, struggling for words. “Thanks for talking to me.” She pressed her lips together as though she were afraid to say any more.
“Sure,” Miri said casually, though inside she was reeling. The girl had thanked her just for talking.
As they came back around to the front of the building, Liana whispered something to Bena, and Bena smirked. Miri hung on to Britta’s arm even tighter, determined not to be cowed by their looks.
When Olana called them back in, Knut was standing at the head of the classroom cradling a rectangular package wrapped in a coarse brown cloth.
“Your progress has been sluggish of late,” said Olana. She smoothed her chisel-sharp hair behind her shoulder. “Perhaps it’s due to the winter and the separation from your families, or perhaps you’re simply not taking this endeavor seriously. I thought it was time for a reminder of why you’re here.”
Olana removed the cloth and held up a colorful painting much more detailed than the chapel’s carved doors. It illustrated a house with a carved wood door, six glass windows facing front, and a garden of tall trees and bushes bursting with red and yellow flowers.
“This house stands in Asland, the capital, not a long carriage ride from the palace.” Olana paused as if anticipating a dramatic reaction. “It will be given to the family of the girl chosen as princess.”
Several voices gasped, and Miri could not be certain if hers had been one. Perhaps all of this was real after all. There was proof. Pa and Marda could live in that beautiful house and never dress in cloth too threadbare to keep off the sun or half starve in the winter. She longed to give them something so precious and perfect. What would her pa think of her then?
But to get that
house for her family, Miri would have to be the princess. She closed her eyes. The idea of marrying a lowlander still confused and frightened her. And what of Peder? No. She crushed that thought, not daring to hope that he could ever see her as anything but little Miri, his childhood friend.
She looked again at the painting. Before the academy, her only wish had been to work in the quarry alongside her pa. Now other possibilities were beginning to nudge and prod her.
What of the lowlands?
What of being a princess?
That night, Miri was still awake hours into the dark when she heard the distant crash of rockfalls. The quarry workers said a rockfall was the mountain strengthening itself against the attacks of the previous day. Her pa said her ma had thought it was the mountain itself shouting a midnight hello.
All her life, Miri had been awakened by such a noise. It almost always came at night, as though the mountain knew the quarry was empty and the shifting rocks would not crush anyone in their fall. It comforted Miri to hear the crash and moan and remember that she was still on her mountain. She was not ready to give up on the mountain completely, not ready to give up on her pa.
Seeing the painting had let her believe that she could leave the mountain, that she might even desire to. The threat of departure made home feel very dear. She wanted to speak back to the mountain, send some greeting in a childish hope that it would hear her and accept her as one of its own.
She splayed her hand on a floorstone and tapped a rhythm with her fingertips. She wished she could shout it out; she wished the mountain really could understand. “She’s as lovely as a girl with flowers in her hair,” Miri sang in a whisper. “She’s as bright as a spring sun drying rain from the air.”
It was an ode to Mount Eskel sung at spring holiday, and singing it now wrapped her in memories of the good moments on her mountain. She sang inside, inventing her own song about the tender warmth of a spring breeze, night bonfires, miri chains dangling from her neck, brushing Peder’s fingers as she turned in the dance, the heat from the fires that made her feel snuggled against the mountain’s chest.
The gray-and-black shadows in the bedchamber shivered, and a sensation entered her as if she had hummed deep in her throat. Quarry-speech. Miri groaned to herself. Why doesn’t it work all the time? she thought. Another rockfall resounded in the distance, and Miri imagined the mountain was laughing at her. She smiled and nestled deeper into her pallet.
“I’ll figure you out,” she whispered. “You’ll see.”
n
Chapter Eight
My toes are colder than my feet
My feet are colder than my ribs
My ribs are colder than my breath
My breath is colder than my lips
And my lips are purple and blue, purple and blue
n
Miri woke shivering, and she hopped around as she did her chores, trying to warm her toes. In a mountain winter, the iciness often eased after snow fell, but for the past week the skies had been clear. And a glance out the window told the girls no relief from the cold would come today—clouds heavy with unshed snow slumped onto the mountain, burying everything in wet fog.
Everyone groaned and complained, and Miri knew she should be miserable, too, but instead she felt wrapped up and hidden, a bright secret in a magpie’s nest. She stared at the white nothingness outside the classroom window, cozy with her discovery of quarry-speech and anxious to understand it more. She pulled her thoughts back to hear Olana announce that their studies were about to change.
For nearly three months the focus had been on reading, but now Olana introduced other subjects: Danlander History, Commerce, Geography, and Kings and Queens, as well as princess-forming subjects such as Diplomacy, Conversation, and the one that made Miri want to roll her eyes—Poise. Well, she would do it if it meant she could stop Olana’s insults and prove that a mountain girl had as many brains as any lowlander.
Her eyes flicked to the painting, and her desires plunged and stumbled inside her. She wanted to give her family that house, yet she did not want to marry a lowlander. She longed to see some of the world they were learning about and find in it a place of her own, yet she was afraid to give up her mountain. No solution she could imagine would make everything just right.
During their lessons on Poise, the girls took off their boots and balanced them on their heads. They walked in circles. They learned how to walk quickly (on toes, toes kept behind the hem of the skirt, fluid, arms slightly bent) and slowly (toe to heel, toe to heel, hands resting on skirt). They learned a deep curtsy for a prince, and as Miri bent her leg and bowed her head, she first believed that she would actually meet a prince. They practiced a shallow curtsy for a peer and understood that they were never to curtsy to a servant.
“Though in truth,” said Olana, “as you are not from one of the kingdom’s provinces, you would be considered less than a servant in any Danlander city.”
To Miri, studying Conversation was as ridiculous as learning Poise. They had all been able to talk since they were toddlers; what more was there to learn? But at least when studying Conversation, the girls were allowed to speak to one another, following the correct principles, of course.
Olana paired the girls and designated their rank. Miri was pleased to be matched up with Britta, even though Olana assigned Miri to be her lesser.
“You must know your rank and that of your interlocutor,” said Olana. Miri frowned and looked around. No one dared to interrupt and ask what “interlocutor” meant. “The person of lower rank always defers to the other. This is just for practice, of course, as there are few in the kingdom who would be considered of lower rank than any of you.”
Olana’s insults were like biting flies stinging her nose, and Miri felt ready to swat her. Britta bumped her with her elbow and smiled, as if guessing her thoughts.
“However, one of you will be elevated in rank next year,” said Olana, “so you all must practice against the possibility. Lessers should be certain of the name and rank of their betters. In correct conversation, you will use this often. You may begin.”
“All right, Lady Britta,” said Miri under the whir of conversation that filled the classroom.
Britta frowned. “You don’t need to call me that.”
“You’re my better,” said Miri, “so let’s make you a lady, my lady Britta.”
“All right, then, Miss Miri.”
“Oh, Lady Britta?” said Miri with a nasal tone she imagined rich people must use.
“Yes, Miss Miri?” Britta mimicked the same affect.
“I do hope all your lords and ladies are fat and happy, Lady Britta.”
“All fat, none happy, Miss Miri.”
“Indeed, my lady Britta? How lovely for you to go to court with a palace full of plump, bawling lords and ladies rolling down the corridors.”
“It is lovely,” said Britta with a laugh.
“You’re very pretty when you smile, Lady Britta. You should do it more.”
Britta smiled softer and ducked her head.
Olana interrupted the practice to croon on about Conversation, the importance of repeating the name and title, asking questions, and always bringing the conversation around to the other person.
“Never offer any information about yourself,” said Olana. “Not only for courtesy, but also to protect your secrets, should you have any, which I doubt. For example, suppose you are at a ball and you’re feeling very warm. Can anyone tell me how to make this observation to the prince without talking about yourself?”
Katar’s hand shot up. Olana called on her.
“It seems to be quite stuffy in here. Are you feeling warm, Your Highness?”
“Nicely done,” said Olana.
Miri frowned at Katar and her smug little grin. Olana asked what one could say if the
prince asked you how you were feeling. Miri raised her hand as fast as she could.
“Um, I’ve been eager to meet you, Your Highness. How was your journey?”
Olana raised one brow. “That might be all right, if without the ‘um.’”
Katar smirked at Miri.
“Stupid Conversation,” Miri said to Britta when they returned to individual conversations. “Learning to read was good, but this stuff is silly. I’d rather be cleaning pots.”
Britta shrugged. “I guess it’s important, but I don’t really like talking about betters and lessers and all. This is just good manners. It seems to me that if you want to make a good impression, you should treat people as your betters, whether Olana thinks they are or not.”
“You’re not dull in the head after all,” said Miri. “Why do you pretend to be?”
Britta gaped, looking both affronted and embarrassed. “I don’t pretend anything, and I am . . . I mean, I’m just . . .”
“You could read all along, couldn’t you?” Miri whispered.
Britta seemed to consider denying it, then shrugged. “I didn’t want to be the only one who could read and let Olana put me up as an example against everyone else. I was having a hard enough time . . . with people up here.”
“Britta, I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .”
Britta nodded. “I know. I’ve heard how the traders talk. I see how Olana treats you. Of course you would think all lowlanders are the same. But Miri, I don’t think like them. I don’t.”
The next morning, Olana introduced the rules for diplomatic negotiations, starting with State the problem and ending with Invite mutual acceptance, then rushed through the long list of general principles of Diplomacy.
“Tell the truth as plainly as possible,” Olana read from a book. Her usually loose voice was forced, as if she were embarrassed to be teaching principles she herself did not follow. “Listen carefully to your allies and enemies to know their minds. The best solutions don’t come through force. Acknowledge your faults and declare your plan to amend them.”