by Shannon Hale
They were returning, sails down. A group of people had amassed on the dock, and even from the ship’s deck, Miri could hear angry voices.
As soon as the gangplank hit the deck, Timon said, “Come on.” He grabbed Miri’s hand and pulled her along.
Merchants mobbed together, grumbling. An official in green clothes was affixing pieces of paper to large earthenware jugs. One paper blew free and stuck to Miri’s boot. She picked it up. It read: Claimed in tribute for the king.
“Now he’s taking cooking oil,” Timon said, shaking his head.
“The attempt on his life spooked the old boy, that’s what I think,” said a nearby merchant, nearly as short as Miri and with a fuzzy brown beard. “He keeps enlarging the royal guard—and claiming more tribute to afford them.”
“He can take whatever he wants?” said Miri.
“He’s the king,” the merchant said.
“Why, he’s nothing more than a bandit,” she said.
“They’re bandits and robbers, the lot of them,” the merchant agreed.
“The king already claims a portion of all grain and meat brought into Asland,” said Timon. “If he takes oil too, the oil merchants will raise the price of what’s left over. The rich can afford to pay more for oil, much as they’ll resent it. It’s the shoeless who can barely afford bread as it is. I doubt the king even cares that his greed causes starvation.”
“If anyone stole something on Mount Eskel—even the head of our village council—my pa and his friends would tell him to give it back or else.”
“The king has his own army,” said Timon.
“Well, it’s time someone told him to stop being a bandit.”
Timon’s eyes lightened. “You’re right, Miri. It’s time.”
He ripped the paper off the nearest jar and crumpled it into a ball.
Miri held her breath. She had not meant he should get himself arrested. What of Sisela’s husband? Instinctively, she tried to quarry-speak. Stop. A common warning, but there was no linder underfoot to carry her message, and anyway his lowlander ears would not hear it.
Timon ripped off another paper. “No,” he said.
Two soldiers stood with the official, their silver breastplates and tall stiff hats marking them as members of the royal guard. One had noticed Timon. Frowning, he approached. Miri covered her mouth with her hands.
Timon grabbed at all the tribute notices he could reach, saying “No! No!”
Both soldiers were nearly upon Timon. One was drawing his sword.
Then the short, bearded merchant said, “No.”
Another joined. Another. The soldier hesitated.
“No!” Timon said again, and with that, the general despondency flashed into anger. The merchants moved closer to Timon and began to chant “No, no,” as they ripped the notices. The soldiers took a step back.
To Miri, never had any word seemed so powerful. And dangerous too. What would happen if she joined in? Would the official recognize her from the palace?
“No,” Miri breathed, not moving her lips.
The chant was nearly a song, a “Shoeless March” kind of thrumming music that got inside her head, slid down into her muscles, and made her want to do something.
“No,” Miri whispered, thinking of two gold coins in a shawl and five goats that lifted their heads at the sound of her voice. “No,” she said, imagining how the tributes would impoverish her entire village. “No!” she said, because never had she felt so powerful. She was not one person; she was a crowd. She belonged to the mass of bodies and voices, strong in number, united in purpose. Two soldiers were insignificant compared to thirty merchants, and the scholars and sailors now lending their voices too. Who could stop such a force? And what outcome would not be worth joining in?
“No!” Miri shouted. “No!”
The official and his soldiers were backing away. The crowd closed in, tossing papers and shouting. The official ran as if afraid for his life, the soldiers on his heels.
The mob’s shouts turned joyous, and still they called out, pumping their fists and chanting that powerful word. Miri did not want the moment to end. She felt tall and strong, as if she and this mob could move together like a giant, striking down any obstacles, remaking the whole world.
As soon as the official disappeared around a corner, the chanting broke into cheers, and merchants and sailors and scholars alike thumped one another on backs and shook hands. Timon pulled Miri into his arms, spinning around. The world seemed so large, and yet Miri felt so much a part of it.
Trade resumed, with merchants buying the oil and loading it onto their carts to sell across the kingdom. Master Filippus could not rally the scholars into any semblance of a group and released them for the day.
Miri found herself walking on her toes as if the wind were tugging her up, up into the sky. Timon laughed with delight.
“It’s begun!” he said. “When one voice shouts, dozens will join. Thousands! Real change comes soon, Miri. So soon.”
He kissed her on each cheek, then took her hands and kissed them too, as if so full of fervor and happiness he could speak in nothing but kisses.
Lowlanders kiss hands an awful lot, Miri thought, feeling as if she, too, could kiss the whole world.
Timon continued on to Lady Sisela’s to give her the good news, and Miri went to Peder’s.
Her head was aswim with words like “no” and “change” and “soon.” The words felt heavy and good, like a hammer in the hand. She could not wait to tell Katar that they need not worry. The commoners had started the revolution, and surely a commoner government would not demand tribute from the shoeless of Mount Eskel. Miri would no longer have to spy. She would join them and help change Danland!
Miri walked to Gus’s and found Peder sharpening tools. He startled when he saw her, dropping a chisel. It bounced against the spinning whetstone and flew off in another direction.
“You forgot to cough!” he said.
“Sorry.” She coughed.
“Your sneakiness is dangerous. Next time that chisel will lodge itself in my head.”
“Now, Peder, there’s plenty of stone around here for carving. No need to practice on your own face.”
He stroked his chin. “You’re right, my jaw is already chiseled to perfection.”
She agreed, but she felt too silly to say so aloud.
“Some things happened at the dock today,” she said, her stance bouncy. “The king was going to claim jugs of cooking oil—just take them, like a common bandit—but people shouted and refused to give them up.”
“Really? I didn’t think anyone could say no to a king. At least he’s not taking stuff from Mount Eskel.”
“But he might. He robs all the other provinces.”
“Robs?” Peder wiped his brow with his sleeve and got back to sharpening.
She still had not told him about Gummonth and the tributes, but it was hard to talk about such important things to his back.
“I’ve been coming up with a new plan for when we go home,” Peder said as he worked. “If I get good enough, I could train others, and the lot of us could carve all through winter. Everyone could have a choice of occupation besides just the quarry. And with increased profit, Mount Eskel could prosper, you know? Not just get by. Someday we could be the very center of fine stone craft in the kingdom. Lowlanders would come to us to learn sculpting!”
He turned to smile at her.
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said.
“Why aren’t you more excited? This is exactly the kind of plan that usually makes you hop about.”
“Sorry, I’m just distracted. There’s so much going on in Danland, more problems than I ever dreamed of when we were home.”
“I guess that’s true. But we can’t worry about everyone. Even you can’t change the whole world.”
He said it lightly, as if to goad her into a smile, but she could only shrug. She was definitely not going to tell him about the threat of tributes now.
She tensed at the palace entrance, but the guards accepted her password without hesitation. Perhaps news of the riot at the docks had not spread that far. Perhaps no one knew she’d been involved at all. She felt relieved and yet a little disappointed too.
When Miri entered the girls’ chamber, they gathered for Miri’s Salon.
“Liana, we’re starting,” Esa said.
Liana stayed on her bed, her feet resting on the headboard. “I. Don’t. Care,” she said through gritted teeth.
Bena rolled her eyes. “She’s been in a mood all day. We had tea with some ancient courtier, and she made the mistake of saying Liana was almost as pretty as her granddaughters.”
“Must be hard for her, being in Asland with so many other girls,” Gerti whispered. “On Mount Eskel, she was always the prettiest.”
“I can hear you, you dolts,” said Liana.
“Go on, Miri,” said Esa.
“Today I … Today we …” Miri stopped. What if one of the girls mentioned Miri’s involvement to someone else? The academy girls were no longer isolated in their room, sewing and spinning. The wedding official had seemed displeased with their work and stopped bringing them tasks. And lately Inga spent much of her time sneaking around outside after a tall, gray-haired gardener, so the girls could do as they pleased.
Liana and Bena often visited courtiers in their palace apartments, eating dainty food and gossiping.
Frid had made friends with the workers in the palace forge. They called her “mountain sister” and let her pound red-hot steel on the anvil.
A palace musician had overheard Gerti singing to herself in the garden and invited her to sit in on symphony rehearsals. They were delighted with her ability to improvise songs—a common activity in the quarry—and asked her to sing to their music. A young man gave her a six-stringed lute, and Miri joked it had become her third arm.
Gerti clutched the lute now, gently plucking the strings as if unaware of her action.
“Some people believe noble titles cause harmful divisions—” Miri started cautiously.
Now Liana sat up. “I love being a noble. Anyone who doesn’t is stupid.”
You’re stupid, Miri wanted to say, but stopped herself. A rule of Rhetoric: Attack the argument, not the person.
But Liana’s comment filled Miri with more unease. What was safe to say?
“Um … This week Master Filippus introduced us to Rhetoric—the art of communicating. He said if you learn the rules, it’s easier to explain your thoughts and persuade others. The basics include listening, expressing your own opinion as succinctly as possible, offering stories instead of lectures, and allowing silence for consideration.”
Sometimes talking about communicating was easier than actually doing it.
Winter Week One
Dear Marda,
You must be thigh-high in snow. My mind knows it is winter, yet my eyes cannot believe it. Although I count some lowlanders as friends, I have to admit they are a flimsy lot. A breeze rises from the ocean, and all shiver as if ice rain were falling. Nobles go about in thick fur coats. And the shoeless … well, they put on shoes, if they have them.
Today was amazing. Something bad was going to happen, but then someone took a stand and dozens joined him. I want to be one of those people. The standing ones.
I have been afraid lately, too afraid to talk to anyone about it. Afraid that all the changes on Mount Eskel were useless. That things will soon go back to the way they were, the linder sales buying barely enough food for survival, nothing extra for warm clothing or better tools, every moment working, no time for the village school or making music or anything. Like that, or worse. I have been afraid. But today I was not.
It feels good, Marda, not to be alone, to be surrounded by people who want and think the same as I do.
I should be asleep but my thoughts blaze, and I do not want to douse them yet. I am so full of hope and ideas I might float right off my bed.
Ships are bigger than houses and yet they sail with the speed of the wind and the power of a hundred horses. I rode a ship with Timon today. He noticed my callused hands and thought they were beautiful.
This is from your very silly but always hopeful sister,
Miri
Chapter Nine
King Dan sat on his stallion fierce
Swords did slice and spears did pierce
But in a tree upon the field
Perched a small, keen-eyed blackbird
And the blackbird did not sing
No, the blackbird did not sing
Miri’s sleep was fragile that night. The rhythmic snores of the other girls mimicked a slower chant of “No, no …”
In the morning, Miri dressed and left without breakfast. She passed the corner where she usually met Timon, her feet too impatient to wait. She weaved between carts and carriages, wagons and horses, feeling as sleek as a ship on water. Change was coming, and she was part of it.
Surely all the scholars at the Queen’s Castle would be readying for the next action. Revolution. What an exhilarating word. She wanted to ring it like a bell; she wanted to pound it like a piano. She wanted revolution to be a song she could sing so loudly all the world would hear!
But at the Queen’s Castle, the scholars in blue were gathered in their room as usual. No changes in sight.
“An interesting experiment yesterday,” Master Filippus said when Timon entered late, his shoulders stooped. “The will of the people versus the king. History shows us several examples of the common people attempting to overthrow the crown. Each failed.”
“But it worked at the docks,” Miri said. “People said no, and the official ran off.”
“The royal guard visited merchants later yesterday afternoon and seized jars of oil,” Timon said, slumping into a chair. “No one protested.”
“It’s exciting in the moment, mmm?” Master Filippus said, his eyes half closed. “But you, my hasty young scholars, forget History. You must study the past to know what will work in the future.”
Miri rubbed her face. She’d felt so strong yesterday as part of that mob, but it had been a false strength after all. One day later, nothing had changed. There was still a king who could take whatever he wanted—jugs of oil, wagons of grain, two gold coins wrapped in a shawl. She glared at the girl in the painting. What was she about, gawking at the moon while pouring precious milk? If she did not pay attention, she would spill it. Stupid girl.
Master Filippus took the class down to the Queen’s Castle library, lecturing as they walked.
“Yet one must study carefully to uncover truth. For example, Dan the Hearted, beneficent first king of Danland? You know the stories of his wisdom and compassion.”
Miri nodded with the others. She had grown up singing “Dan and the Blackbird,” in which the king stopped a battle to save a blackbird’s fallen nest.
“Such stories are likely myths. The actual records we have from Dan’s time reveal nothing more than his skill in warfare. In fact”—Master Filippus hummed a little laugh—“one historian claims he was called Dan the Hearted because he wore his enemies’ hearts around his neck.”
Miri was about to say “ugh,” but they’d entered the library, and she could do nothing but stare in wonder.
Once she’d thought all the knowledge in the world was contained in the princess academy’s thirteen books. Now she faced thousands. She wondered if she should curtsy as if she were entering a chapel.
Filippus directed them to select a volume of history, read it, and write a paper questioning some part of the historian’s account.
“Choose a history of a province other than your own,” he said. “That will not be a problem for you, Miri, as Mount Eskel has never inspired a historian.”
He led them to the
History section, and Miri searched the shelves, eager to prove him wrong. Perhaps just a general volume of Danland history would have a section on Mount Eskel? But she found nothing.
All the others except Timon had selected their volumes and gone off to read.
“You’re upset,” said Timon. “Perhaps there’s no record in this library, but surely Mount Eskel keeps its own history.”
“Until the princess academy, we had no books. No one could read or write.”
“History can be found outside books,” he said, his smile hopeful. “In graveyards, for example, you can find names and dates.”
“We don’t bury our dead. We wrap people in their own blankets and lower them into the Great Crevasse. There are no grave markers. There’s no means to mark the passage of time at all, except empty quarries abandoned by previous generations. Our only history is holes.”
Timon had no response but to lay his hand on her shoulder before turning away.
She paged through various books but felt too discouraged to choose one. According to this library, there was no Mount Eskel.
Tragedy, she thought, a word she had learned only the week before.
She had seen a play with Britta, another story of two lovers kept apart, this time a brave soldier and a girl who was betrothed to another. Expecting this play to be like the first and end with marriage and laughter, Miri was stunned when the soldier was slain and the girl died of a broken heart.
“Oh,” Britta had said as the curtain closed, “I didn’t know it was going to be a tragedy.”
It’s just a story, Miri had reminded herself that night, curled up in bed and crying over the lovers.
She felt similarly struck now, her belly cramped, her head heavy. Tragedy. Because no one on Mount Eskel had learned to read or write, their history was lost forever.
She realized Master Filippus was at her shoulder.
“Having trouble selecting a volume?” he asked.
“There are so many,” she mumbled.
“Well I know it. I’ve read them all.”
“Really? How long did it take?”
