The Mountain of Kept Memory

by Rachel Neumeier

  “Explain this to me, do,” the king said testily, and got to his feet. The throne creaked, and the silk hangings swirled. Oressa tucked her chin tight to her chest and held very still. Cramps had started in both her calves, but she didn’t make a sound.

  Her father said to Baramis, “We shall send to Prince Gajdosik. Find out whether he’s personally with that force in Paree or sitting out there in our harbor. Write a proposal along the lines you suggested. Something flowery, to flatter the man’s vanity.”

  Over the magister’s murmur of satisfied acquiescence, Gulien said, “But—”

  “Sentiment does not keep enemies at bay,” said the king, his tone flat and final, and walked out. Oressa could hear his unhurried steps and the heavier tread of Erren. There was plenty of movement suddenly, and she heard the door open, but she couldn’t tell whether everyone had gone or whether somebody might linger in the room even yet. She was almost sure she hadn’t heard the door close again. The cramps in her legs were worse, and there was an increasing ache in her back and shoulders and neck, and worse than the discomfort was the anger. She was outraged, and she couldn’t make a sound. The worst thing of all was that she already knew it would never occur to her father to ask her to sacrifice herself for him and for Carastind. He would have Baramis write out a flowery letter for that Tamaristan prince and probably not even bother to mention it to her at all.

  Then the door did close, a decisive little click, but she heard someone shift his weight, still in the room. Oressa tried not to make a sound. There was a pause.

  At last her brother said, his tone resigned, “All right, Oressa. Come out.”

  Oressa rolled over to her stomach and crawled stiffly out from under the silk draping the king’s chair. She’d been too cramped for too long to stand up, but she stretched her legs out gingerly, pounding her calves and thighs to unknot the muscles, concentrating on that so she wouldn’t have to look at her brother. She asked, “How did you know I was there?”

  “Heard you. You idiot.”

  “You distracted everyone on purpose?” Oressa hadn’t realized that, though now it was obvious. “Thank you, Gulien. You’re the best brother!”

  “You, on the other hand, are the most annoying sister! If he’d caught you—”

  “He never has. Nobody ever catches me but you.” Oressa didn’t admit out loud that this time somebody might have if not for Gulien. She stretched her neck out to one side and then the other. Her neck hurt. Her shoulders hurt. She was stiff all over. She glared at Gulien. “Would you have told me? Or let Father take me by surprise? ‘Oh, Oressa, guess what! You get to marry a Tamaristan prince!’ Gods dead and forgotten!”

  “Don’t swear, Oressa,” Gulien said automatically. “Of course I would have told you.” He came over to kneel behind her. “Here, let me—” He dug strong fingers into her shoulders.

  “Ouch! Oh, that’s better. Thanks. Gulien—”

  “It’s a stupid idea anyway. Marry you to Gajdosik? That’d be an act of war right there. He’d invade us again just to make us take you back.”

  Oressa smiled reluctantly. But she said, “Well, it is a stupid idea.” It wasn’t actually; she could even see the sense of it, and she knew Gulien had to as well. But she said stubbornly, “Anyway, I won’t do it. Marry a Tamaristan prince? Ha! I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” There really weren’t any obvious choices for whom she might marry. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t thought about this before, off and on for the past five years or so. But now a new and brilliant idea occurred to her. She sat up straight. “I know! I’ll marry Kelian, quick before Father can stop me.”

  Kelian was a young lieutenant in the palace guard. He’d come to Caras only this spring, shortly after the plague, but he’d joined the militia almost at once and the guard very soon after that, and he’d been promoted quickly because the plague had left the guard so short of men. Kelian was obviously well-born. He had his own sword and horse, not to mention a beautiful strong jaw and melting dark eyes and the most wonderful northern accent, all long vowels and soft consonants. All the palace girls had fallen in love with him, but so far he hadn’t shown special favor to any of them, though he never mentioned a sweetheart back home. He sent money back to his mother every week, but Oressa had never heard that he wrote to anyone else.

  Not that she was in love with him herself. Naturally not. She had too much sense to fall in love with anyone, but she was sure she’d seen his gaze lingering on her from time to time.

  But Gulien snorted. “You idiot. You will not.”

  “Why not? He’s gorgeous and brave and nice to me and oh yes, not a Tamaristan prince with a stupid name like Gajdosik! I’ll marry him and then it’ll be impossible for Father to marry me off to anybody else.” She glared at her brother. “What? It’d work.”

  “Father would hang Kelian,” her brother said succinctly, “and then he’d lock you up in the highest tower room until he could marry you off to someone appropriate, which he would do so fast the gossip wouldn’t have time to get outside Caras. If not to Prince Gajdosik, then to somebody else.” Gulien gripped her shoulders and shook her gently. “Idiot. Probably Father will just dangle promises in front of Gajdosik, pull him into an alliance while he sorts out whatever trouble there is between him and the Kieba. Then he can find some decent Carastindin lord for you. Paulin, maybe.”

  Oressa rolled her eyes. “Paulin! I don’t think so!” Lord Paulin’s family, the Tegeres, had its principal estates in Little Caras, but the family had for generations had ties to Markand and Illian; Lord Paulin’s father had bought a court title with the wealth he’d made in silk, dyes, alum, and finished cloth. On his death, both the title and the wealth had passed to his son, who was rich, influential, ambitious, and loyal to Oressa’s father. Also indolent, corpulent, and nearly fifty.

  Over the last year or so, Paulin, during his increasingly frequent visits to Caras, had begun courting Gulien. He invited him to his own town house to examine rare books or to attend special performances by Illiana dancers—not too often, but often enough. When he was at court, ostensibly to attend on the king, he made time to flatter Gulien’s interest in old books and his knowledge of history. When some political question was under debate, if he had a chance, Lord Paulin made a point of drawing out Gulien’s opinion and complimenting him on his understanding of politics.

  In short, he did all the things a clever man would do if his family did not enjoy any particular favor with the king and he wanted to be sure his family’s fortunes were poised to rise when Gulien took the throne. Lord Paulin had only one daughter, a long-married woman nearing thirty, or Oressa had no doubt he’d be dangling her in front of Gulien, too.

  But for all his cultivation of Gulien, Lord Paulin still treated Oressa with a kind of benign disinterest. Though she imagined the disinterest might change in a hurry if her father suggested he might marry her and add a handful of princes to the clutter of sons he’d had by his first wife.

  It wasn’t that she blamed him, not for courting her brother’s good opinion nor for ignoring hers—any practical man might do the same, and at least Paulin went about it intelligently. Besides, she was fairly certain he sincerely did like her brother. She believed she would be able to tell pure sycophancy from an honest like-mindedness, and she was sure Gulien could not have been fooled by any pretense of interest in history and rare books.

  But marry Paulin herself? Hardly.

  “He’s clever enough, Oressa, and I know that matters to you—”

  “Oh, he’s clever! Clever enough to flatter you whenever he gets the chance!” Gulien, his eyebrows rising, started to say something, but Oressa raised her voice and went right on. “He talks to me like I’m just a pretty little lapdog, when he notices me at all. And he’s old! I think Kelian is a much better idea.” But of course she knew Gulien was right about her father’s response. She eyed her brother. “You know what? If I can’t marry Kelian, I’ll run away to Markand. I’ll be a temple maiden and carry the fire in th
e procession and dance around the golden fountain every solstice—don’t laugh at me!”

  “I’m not laughing at you.”

  “You are. Your eyes are laughing,” Oressa said darkly. She glared at him harder. “I won’t marry Gajdosik. I’m not joking. Live in a cage? Not likely!” She knew she might have to. She understood she might have no choice, but she refused to admit that even to Gulien—she hardly admitted it to herself.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, If Father insists on someone marrying into the Garamanaji, why not have you offer for Alia Garamanaj? But she didn’t say that, either. It would be a stupid suggestion, unless Prince Gajdosik was particularly fond of his sister, which she’d never heard, and had brought her with him, which she doubted. And worse, it would be cruel, because three years ago her brother had been engaged to a girl from Illian, but the girl had sickened and died; and then last year he had been engaged to Lord Bennet’s daughter, but she had died in the spring plague. Gulien hadn’t even known the Illiana girl, but he had liked Bennet’s daughter well enough, and the whole thing had left him rather shy of getting engaged to anyone, as though he feared any formal offer from his father to a girl’s father might carry illness and bad luck with it.

  So Oressa only said, “You’d better tell me exactly what our father decides. Or maybe—” She cut that off. Maybe it would be better if she found a way to listen herself to her father’s next meeting with Meric and Baramis. . . .

  “If you try to sneak into Father’s private rooms, they’ll catch you for sure, and then he really will lock you up in the highest tower.”

  “Would I try such a thing?” Oressa laid a hand over her heart to show how shocked she was at this suggestion. She didn’t tell her brother that she’d managed this exact feat once before, when she was eleven, just to see if she could do it. She’d pretended to be a servant boy, and actually she’d come pretty near being caught and hadn’t even learned anything worth knowing. She’d sworn to herself she’d never try it again. But now she was afraid Gulien wouldn’t tell her what their father said or did or decided. Not if he thought it was better she didn’t know. Not if their father ordered him not to. She couldn’t dress up as a boy anymore, but she’d thought of two other ways she might get in if she tried. She said, “You don’t need to protect me, you know—”

  “You don’t try nearly hard enough to protect yourself! You’ve got to stop sneaking around, Oressa. If you’re caught once—just once—you have no idea how seriously Father might take this.”

  Oressa found herself beginning to get angry again, this time with her brother. How could he say that? Of course she knew how angry Father would be. How could she not know? She knew better than anybody, better than Gulien did himself. He hadn’t ever believed her about their mother, but she knew—

  Her brother put a hand under her chin, lifting her face to make her look at him. He said seriously, “The next time I catch you, I’ll call you out right then, in front of everybody.”

  “You—” Wouldn’t, Oressa meant to say. But her brother looked very serious, and she wasn’t absolutely sure.

  “I would. I will.” Gulien let her go, rose, and stood for a moment with his fists on his hips, staring down at her. “I’ll check that the hall is clear, Oressa. But this is the last time I’ll help you. You’re twenty years old! Far too old to act like a servant’s brat. You need to start behaving with a princess’s dignity.”

  Oressa didn’t protest that her brother was far too concerned about dignity, especially hers. It was true, but he wouldn’t agree. So she only got to her feet, ignoring the hand Gulien held down to her. Then she brushed the dust off her skirt, straightened her shoulders, ran her hands through her hair, lifted her chin, and put on a proper royal attitude like a cloak. “You may check the hallway, if you like,” she said as regally as she could. Once he had, she strolled away toward her own apartment as though she could imagine nowhere at all she’d rather go.

  The king’s chambers were on the lowest floor of the palace because the king was no longer young. His knees ached in the winter and ached worse when it rained, and he didn’t like to climb stairs, and so two years ago he’d moved the royal apartment from the highest level of the palace to the lowest. That might have made it easier for Oressa to sneak into his rooms, only in actual fact, it didn’t. The royal guardsmen hated the wide hallways that led right by the king’s apartment from the more public areas of the palace, and they hated having three different doors to guard instead of just one at the top of a flight of stairs, and they most especially hated the wide windows that opened into the garden. But the king did not want to climb stairs, so the guard captains tripled the number of men on duty for each watch and made them all stand guard with an ostentatious zeal that was supposed to serve as a rebuke to the king for imposing this inconvenience on them, though Oressa doubted her father noticed. Or, at least, cared.

  But the guards’ fervor made things difficult. Sneaking in unobserved would be practically impossible. Oressa had decided that long ago. The trick would be to make the guardsmen think they observed one thing when really they were looking at something else all the time.

  Dressing up as a boy was no longer very practical. Oressa had tried it, rather hopelessly, after she’d started getting a woman’s shape, when she was thirteen, but it had clearly been no use: She had taken too much after her mother, and her curves were very soon too obvious. At first this had seemed purely inconvenient. Then it had occurred to her that if she married, she would leave her father’s palace, and that had seemed worth the inconvenience. But then her father had delayed and delayed deciding whom she should marry, and now here was Baramis, with his brilliant idea that she should marry a Tamaristan prince.

  “It’s almost dusk,” her maid, Nasia, said briskly, behind her. “What would you like to wear for dinner? Your green silk? I added cuffs to hide the mended place, so that’s all right, and the color brings the gold highlights out in your hair.”

  The green silk did nothing of the kind, Oressa knew. There weren’t any gold highlights in her hair, which was the most ordinary brown imaginable. But her maid, an efficient older woman with five grown daughters of her own, insisted on saying thing like that. Nasia had married off all five of her daughters and these days exercised her strong romantic streak by matchmaking for the servant girls and advising them all about their clothing and manners and marriages. This should have kept her busy, but somehow she always seemed to have time to fuss about Oressa’s clothing and hair and jewelry too—more so every year that Oressa remained unmarried.

  Oressa said, “The green will be fine.”

  “And those gold twist earrings and that necklace of hammered gold disks—”

  “Yes, whatever you think.” Oressa wandered away toward the bathing room. Getting past her father’s guardsmen wasn’t actually the real challenge. She could always just present herself at the door and ask to see her father and they’d probably let her in. But getting everyone to forget about her so she could linger and overhear everything . . . that would be a trick.

  “You’re very silent tonight,” Nasia said, laying out the green silk dress and matching underthings and light slippers and the gold earrings and necklace. She took a towel from the warm stack and held it for Oressa. “You’re not sickening with anything? Your moon-time hasn’t arrived?”

  “I’m only thinking.”

  “Well, it’s certainly made you go very silent.” Nasia laid the back of her hand against Oressa’s forehead, just to make sure. “But you’re not over-warm,” she admitted. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Kelian,” Oressa said, to distract her.

  “Oh, he’s worth a thought or two,” Nasia agreed, taking this bait with enthusiasm. “He’s certainly not for you, of course, my dear, but no harm in thinking, is there? Would you like to go out to the officer’s training yard tomorrow morning? I think they’ll be practicing their footwork.”

  Practicing on foot with short sword and dagger, she meant
. All the palace girls liked that best, especially on warm summer mornings when the men took off their shirts. Oressa thought about Kelian with his shirt off and blushed. Then she thought of Gulien saying, Father would hang him. She knew her brother was right. But it didn’t stop her from blushing. She said in an austere tone, “I think we’ll have more important things to think about tomorrow than watching the guard officers train.” And, though she didn’t say so, she suspected the guard officers would have more important things to worry about than impressing girls. But she wasn’t supposed to know about that yet, of course. That was the hardest part about overhearing things: remembering what she wasn’t supposed to know.

  “Your father needs to stop all this fussing about and find you a husband,” Nasia said, amused and plainly entirely ignorant about the sudden urgency of the Tamaristan threat. She couldn’t know what echo Oressa heard behind her words when she added, “He should have done it long since. I know it’s difficult to match princesses, but no father should let his daughter reach twenty without inviting a firm offer or two from suitable young men.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Oressa said mildly, and picked up another towel to dry her hair.

  There was a polite rap on the door, the kind of firm tap that guardsmen used. Nasia rustled off to answer the door, leaving Oressa to dress herself, except for the buttons on the dress, which were innumerable and very small and mostly impossible to reach. She rubbed her hair with the towel, waiting for Nasia. She could hear the woman’s voice, an indistinct murmur, and the guardsman’s deeper voice.

  Nasia came back into the dressing room, took the towel firmly away from Oressa, handed her a comb, and began to do up the buttons more quickly than usual. “Your father’s sent a formal letter,” she said in clear delight. “He might have been listening to me, it seems! The man’s to deliver it directly to your hand, so it’s very formal. I’m sure you’re dying to find out what it is, child!”