The Lost Kingdom of Bamarre

by Gail Carson Levine

  And might more than the elves remain? Did dwarves and sorcerers still live there, too? How did they manage against the monsters?

  After the Ships, while we ate our evening meal, I announced, “Last night I used a magic boot to cross the Eskerns.”

  “Really?” Drualt bounced next to me on the bench. “Did you see monsters?”

  Annet’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Begging your pardon, if something happened to you, how would we explain your absence?”

  I said nothing, just broke a chunk off the sesame-seed bread I’d baked for us in the Ships’ oven.

  Drualt said, “I’d rescue you.”

  Mama put down the cheese she’d been eating. “Where did you go?”

  I told them about Old Lakti. Drualt’s eyes never left my face. No one else looked at me at all. They were motionless, not eating, staring at their bowls. When I mentioned the gold coins and the platters, Poppi shook his head repeatedly.

  After I finished, Mama buttered a slice of bread. “If we left the kingdom, what would the Lakti do without us?”

  That was her first question? Concern for the Lakti? “Would you leave?” I asked.

  Poppi corrected me. “Begging your pardon, would you leave?”

  Annet said, “The Lakti don’t eat us.”

  Drualt waved his bread. “We’d kill the monsters.” He groaned. “I’m a dying ogre.”

  The parents I wished I had would have admired my courage. My imaginary mama would have said, How lucky we are that you’re here.

  My perfect poppi would answer, The Bamarre must be free. You struggled to become more like us. We must follow your example.

  Poppi said, “While you’re under our roof, Aunt Nadira, I forbid you from going back there, begging your pardon.”

  I wondered if Halina was hearing this.

  Drualt grinned. Nothing discouraged him.

  In early April, Goodman Marko the peddler returned with the latest stale news. King Uriel had died in a tournament in February. Weak-minded Canute was king. He had no wife or children, so Lord Tove had become crown prince. Lady Mother would succeed if anything befell him, and, even in my absence, I was next in line after her—the Bamarre princess of the Lakti.

  I’d met the old king, who had been much admired for his wrestling, and I supposed I was sad, but it was an echo of grief. Nothing to do with me.

  At the start of the spring fighting, the new king had formally declared war against the Kyngoll, and the Lakti were now fighting along the length of the border. I suspected Lord Tove of using his influence to expand the conflict.

  Three weeks passed. On a wet morning, Annet and I sat together at the Ships’ kitchen table, skinning Lakti pea-beans, which were tiny. The task had already occupied us for an hour. I wondered if we’d do the entire job in silence.

  No.

  Annet begged my pardon.

  She was about to find fault with me again.

  “You never smile at any of us except Drualt.”

  A pea shot between my fingers and rolled across the floor. She wanted me to smile at her?

  But my parents and she didn’t smile at me, either. Annet herself had almost never smiled at me while I was growing up. No one had told me to smile when they were teaching me to be a Bamarre.

  I knelt to pick up the pea. “Would you like me to?”

  She shrugged.

  A trumpet blared from the direction of the road outside. A woman’s voice boomed, “Step outside, good people of Gavrel. Hear the words of King Canute.”

  My chest tightened. Mama opened the kitchen door. The vestibule was filled by His Master-ship, Her Mistress-ship, and their boys, whom we followed outside into a downpour. Annet held Mama’s hand.

  A herald and a dozen or more soldiers sat their horses in the road. The herald wore a livery collar—a brass chain from which hung King Canute’s insignia, a bow and arrow, in worked silver. The soldiers flanked her. One of them held the trumpet we’d heard.

  Along the road west of us, two oxen waited before a cart. A Bamarre drover perched on a bench behind the beasts, his face as fixed as a block of wood. The cart’s contents, covered by brown sacking, mounded lumpily.

  People hurried from their cottages. The Bamarre families grouped together, and the Lakti stood apart with the village’s soldiers, Kassia and Joram.

  Poppi and Drualt joined us, and Poppi took Annet’s other hand. Drualt clasped mine and Mama’s.

  All the Lakti had assembled, but a few of the Bamarre were trimming trees in the orchard south of the village, and several, including Annet’s Goodman Meerol, were weeding the vegetable gardens to the east. His Master-ship told the herald to wait, and soon, the missing laborers arrived at a run.

  The soldiers reared their horses and drew their swords.

  A show of might.

  The herald unrolled her scroll and addressed us with gentle words, at first.

  “I am crossing the kingdom, north to south, east to west, out of the love our king feels for his subjects, especially his Bamarre. Know you all that His Royal Highness’s mind has been toiling for them.”

  His Highness’s mind, as far as I had ever heard, had never toiled for anyone.

  “These are His Majesty’s words: ‘I am father to my Bamarre and my Lakti alike. The Lakti are parents to their local Bamarre, and parents must have broad power to raise their children well. Too long have my Bamarre been left to do as they like. This grievous laxity does not promote their well-being, so dear to my heart.’”

  Someone shifted from one foot to the other. The rest of us didn’t move. I felt Annet’s eyes on me.

  “‘Therefore, I have created new strictures, called Beneficences, which I expect to be carried out faithfully.’”

  The trumpeter blew a blast.

  The herald shook her head, spraying raindrops. “‘My Bamarre may no longer ply the trades of jeweler, furrier, or hunter, for these occupations depend on abilities possessed by the Lakti alone. Nor may my Bamarre own horses, for how can a noble beast be governed by a base being?’”

  I stiffened, sure I was hearing Lord Tove’s words in the proclamation. Drualt squeezed my hand.

  Thunder rumbled.

  “‘Horses owned by my Bamarre must be sold on the instant, and my Lakti must buy them at a fair rate. The purchase price will be held by the Bamarre’s Lakti master or lord until the Bamarre proves need of it.’”

  Even though none of us in Gavrel performed the prohibited trades or owned a horse, what liberties all the Bamarre had were being stripped away, and the Lakti’s purses would grow fat. But, I wondered, why hunters?

  Oh. Because hunters were skilled in archery.

  The Beneficences continued, a deluge, like the rain. We were not to travel without written permission from a Lakti, and the permission letter had to be kept with us. This one seemed directed at me. If I looked like my true self and were seeking asylum without a letter, I’d be caught.

  “‘All land owned by my Bamarre must be sold to my Lakti and then rented back at a rate that is not unkind. I do not wish my Bamarre impoverished.’”

  This affected every cottager. Of course we’d be impoverished or further impoverished. Someone sighed.

  Ogres, specters, gryphons, and dragons would be easier to fight than this.

  His Master-ship burst out with, “Hurrah for King Canute!”

  Goodman Walde, Goodwife Dyrin’s husband, called, “What about King Einar? Did he say yes to all this?” A brave man, to ask.

  The question was tolerated. “Einar did not object.”

  Maybe he was never asked.

  “‘Disputes over purchase prices will be settled by Lakti judges, for how can judgment be delivered by beings who lack discernment?’”

  Before, lawsuits had been settled by three judges, one of them a Bamarre.

  I noticed that these Beneficences never called us people. We were beings. If you killed an animal, especially if it belonged to you, no one had a right to object. If you killed a person ot
her than in battle, that was murder. What was it when you killed a being?

  Lightning flashed. A loud crack followed.

  “‘No longer will my Bamarre confuse themselves over poetry. My soldiers will collect the volumes of poetry from each Bamarre household.’”

  Thus prompted, the ox drover climbed down from his bench and pulled the sacking off his cart, revealing a mountain of books, which must have been taken on the way here, precious volumes now getting soaked.

  Goodwife Dyrin cried, “You’re stealing our essence!”

  Two brave Bamarre. She’d called them thieves.

  The herald merely waited.

  The soldiers dismounted. What was coming?

  “‘We are engaged in a great war against the criminal Kyngoll. If victory is to be ours, as it will be . . .’”

  My muscles tensed.

  One by one, the soldiers threaded their way into the knot of us, and we made room for them. One positioned himself behind me.

  Mama turned nervously. Annet tilted her head toward me, one eyebrow raised questioningly. Drualt looked up at me, too. The soldier shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His sword rattled against his thigh.

  “‘. . . my Lakti and my Bamarre must join the battle. Sacrifice must be shared. The Lakti already serve their lord. Youthful Bamarre beings will now serve as well.’”

  The soldier reached for Drualt.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I HEARD CRIES of woe. Drualt ducked, while still grasping my hand. Our soldier, probably not expecting evasion, failed to catch him immediately. Drualt pulled me toward the edge of the crowd.

  Escape was impossible.

  “Dru!” I held up my free hand, hoping that the soldier would see an old lady controlling a youngster. “Stop!” I tugged back with my real strength.

  He stopped. The soldier waited.

  I spoke loudly. “If Kyngoll wins, we’ll be enslaved. We have to help.”

  Drualt knew I meant none of this.

  “Hug your aunt and say good-bye.” I pulled him close and whispered into his ear, “Escape to the Kyngoll. They’ll help us.” I wasn’t sure of that, but I was certain they wouldn’t kill children. “Tell everyone.” I let him go.

  Drualt laughed, as if I’d whispered something comical.

  “What did you say to him?” the soldier demanded.

  What? “Er . . .” I bobbed a curtsy. What? “When I was young, I cooked for soldiers.” What else? “Beg pardon.” What? “I once saw a Kyngoll prisoner. I told my nephew he was as ugly as a toad.”

  “Covered with warts!” Drualt laughed again, looking cocky. “I won’t let the Kyngoll win. The Lakti can count on me.”

  Several soldiers laughed, too. Our soldier took my brother, who now went willingly.

  Don’t be reckless! I cried, “Be careful! The Lakti depend on you.”

  More soldier laughter.

  Mama wailed, “Dru!”

  The Bamarre lamentations were dampened by the weather, and no one in earshot—or anywhere else!—would help us. The Lakti stole fifteen of our youth, from eight to eighteen. Annet, at twenty-four, was too old to be taken.

  His Master-ship complained, “You’re depriving us of our most energetic workers.”

  “Everyone must help,” the herald said.

  Her Mistress-ship asked, “How will you use them, and how long will the king keep them?”

  “Five years. Others will join when they’re old enough.” She resumed proclaiming. “‘These blossoms of the Bamarre will be foot soldiers armed with staves.’”

  Armed with sticks! They’d merely slow the foe as they were mown down.

  A realization struck me like a hammer to my skull: Lord Tove would be looking for me among the youths trudging to battle, and if I weren’t in Nadira’s form, I’d be among them. This Beneficence was directed at me.

  Halina, can you be right that a Lakti-trained, awkward Bamarre has a chance to free us?

  The herald finished. “‘The Lakti are my sword and shield, the Bamarre my steed. Triumph to New Lakti!’”

  After herding their captives together, all but three soldiers mounted their horses and set off with our youth and the herald, riding eastward. What would happen to those who couldn’t keep up? And I feared that kindly Drualt would be punished for helping the weak ones.

  The remaining soldiers ordered us to go to our cottages so that our poetry books could be collected.

  His Master-ship protested. “That will delay our dinner!”

  Inside our cottage, Mama hugged me and recited,

  “Pawns from birth until we die.

  Rebellions fail. We cannot thrive.

  Obey, Bamarre, and stay alive.

  “None of this is your fault, Aunt Nadira.” She added, “We taught Drualt to be sensible.”

  I was glad she wasn’t angry at me, but this was the first poem I ever despised. I quoted,

  “Across the craggy Eskerns

  In Old Lakti, where we transform

  Our dreams into Bamarre reborn.”

  Poppi, moving as slowly as a grandfather, went to the chest and lifted out our two poetry books, the one they’d always had and my volume by Lilli. “We know many poems by heart.”

  Annet burst out in a furious whisper, “We’ve become slaves!”

  Stay angry, Annet.

  Someone pounded on the door. Poppi opened it, and the three soldiers faced him. Poppi extended our precious books.

  A soldier took them. “Are there more?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he entered, and the others followed. Baka growled from safety between Annet’s legs.

  Mama said, “Only these.”

  A soldier turned around slowly. I believed I could overcome them, even though they had swords. I widened my stance.

  To my surprise, Annet came to me and clasped my hand, which stopped me from attacking.

  The soldier must have concluded we had no more books, because he just said, “The king thanks you for your obedience,” and led his fellows out.

  As soon as the door closed, Mama collapsed on the fireplace bench, sobbing. Poppi patted her shoulder.

  Finally, she gasped out, “The Lakti keep taking my children.”

  Annet squeezed my hand, or I squeezed hers. I told my family the advice I’d given Drualt. They knew my experience with the Kyngoll.

  Poppi said stoutly, “He’ll succeed, smart and strong as he is.”

  A few minutes later we heard hooves and went outside in time to watch the soldiers trot away, the cart and our poetry jouncing behind them.

  Mama remained in the doorway. “We have to cook. Aunt Nadira, if you please, don’t make anything delicious.”

  Small mischief, the poltroon’s way to fight.

  Or not. The distant bell that had rung before finally chimed clearly. Ideas tumbled over one another: the Bamarre, the Kyngoll, Sir Lerrin, Lord Tove.

  “Begging your pardon, I’ll cook as always today, but not tomorrow. Can the village gather here tonight, Niece? Nephew?” I meant the village Bamarre, which my parents understood.

  “Of course,” Poppi said.

  Mama threw on her cloak against the rain.

  We had less time than usual to prepare dinner, but I made honey toast and arranged the nuts on top in the design of a bow and arrow, King Canute’s insignia. Let them think that our family were docile beings.

  And I was glad to cook well. Silly of me, but I’d miss the satisfaction.

  Meanwhile, Annet went from cottage to cottage, inviting everyone. We all probably would have met anyway, to complain and commiserate.

  Back at home, I prepared my cheese puffs, and people filed in as soon as night fell. The Lakti, expecting no resistance, because there hadn’t been resistance in more than a hundred years, didn’t hinder us.

  People greeted each other with the usual words: “Across the Eskerns.” They hugged. Many wept. Annet proposed that we each recite a favorite poem, which everyone was eager to do. I stood at the fire,
turning cheese puffs. The poems were all sad, and beautiful, and I felt proud to be a Bamarre and civilized.

  I asked to recite last and, when my turn came, struck a different note.

  “The sly Bamarre ant retaliates,

  Evades the boot above its back,

  Quiet valor. Oppression overcome.

  Bamarre bests the Lakti beast.”

  I cleared my throat nervously. I didn’t know how much convincing would be needed, and I’d never been skilled at talking. “Er, we have to act.” Oh. I was giving an order. “Begging your pardon.” Then I did it again. “We can’t let the Lakti kill our Bamarre children. I’m sorry.” How else could I put it?

  A chorus answered, “To apologize makes you good.”

  “To forgive makes you wise.” I swallowed. “I have something to say.”

  They waited.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  TELLING THEM WHAT to do wasn’t Bamarre.

  A goodman pronounced my cheese puffs excellent.

  What if I just announced what I planned to do? “Tomorrow I will burn the Lakti roast and pour salt into the soup and forget to put yeast in the bread, and I will be hours late with this terrible food.”

  No one spoke for a few minutes, until Poppi said, “Tomorrow I will rip out the seams of the widow’s kirtle and tailor it an inch too tight.”

  I blinked in astonishment.

  Mama said, “I will chop the rotted vegetables and give the good to the pigs. I will not sift the pebbles from the flour.”

  More silence until Goodwife Dyrin, whose son Vanz had been taken, said, “I will forget to empty the slop buckets. When I am reminded, I will spill their contents.” She grinned. “Oops!”

  People began to smile.

  Dyrin’s goodman announced, “I will pull His Master-ship’s peas and leave his weeds.”

  My jaw slackened. They were doing what I wanted!

  One by one, the villagers announced their own little rebellions.

  Would my strategy work twice? When everyone fell silent again, I added, “I will not serve delicious food until our children are brought home. Only at the point of a sword will I cook edible food and, even then, no better than edible.”