Palace of Stone

by Shannon Hale

  “That’s that boy you danced with at the ball,” said Peder.

  Miri did not know that Peder had seen.

  “Timon!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I … I was hoping to see you.” Timon noticed Peder and his expression stiffened into a frown.

  “What’s going on?” Miri asked.

  “You need to stay away from the princess,” said Timon. “For a few days at least, all right?”

  “Why?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Just listen to me and do it.”

  “No,” she said. “Tell me why.”

  “Miri—”

  “Tell me why, Timon.”

  Timon looked about. The few people in the street were not near enough to hear.

  “Some of us … Sisi … well …”

  “Just spit it out, Timon,” Peder said.

  Timon glared, but he turned back to Miri and took a deep breath.

  “Sisi heard that the rebels in Rilamark hired an assassin to ‘take care’ of their queen. She found him and wrote to him, asking him to do the same here. I … we … some of us—those of the group with money—we paid the fee.”

  “I don’t understand,” Miri said, though she was afraid that she actually did.

  “This was three months ago. We never heard back. I figured our letter went astray, or perhaps it was just a hoax. But yesterday Sisi received a letter from the assassin. He claimed he is in Asland now and helped agitate the mob at the chapel. And that was just a precursor. And … and …” Timon’s voice was so low now, Miri had to lean closer to hear. “He guaranteed the princess would be dead by midnight tonight, if not by a mob, then by his own hand.”

  “He’s going to kill Britta? No! Why would you do that? Stop the assassin. Stop it from happening!” She realized she was gripping his shirtfront and forced herself to let go.

  Timon rubbed his hair and face with both of his hands. “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know what he looks like or where he is staying. I don’t know anything, Miri. He said he would contact us for the second half of the payment after he finished the job. His target is the robber princess, but he promised he would take care of any other royals as well if circumstances permit. I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t think anyone can.”

  Peder went at Timon, shoving him hard in the chest. Timon stumbled backward.

  “You’re trying to get Britta killed?” Peder said. “You’re the reason someone shot at Miri. She could be dead!”

  Peder shoved again. Though Timon was taller, Peder was a mountain boy, who cut and hefted stone all day. Miri was afraid he might really hurt Timon. A small part of her wanted to let him try. But she put out a hand and stepped between them. Peder bounced on the balls of his feet as if ready to swing a punch at any moment.

  “It was bound to happen with or without me,” Timon said, his voice hot. He brushed off his jacket, glowering at Peder. “All over the continent, people are speaking out against royalty. Nobility will follow, and then freedom. But revolution doesn’t happen all at once. The strike must start somewhere.”

  “And so you all put your scholarly little heads together and decided Britta’s death would be the spark to ignite the bonfire.”

  “I know she was your friend,” Timon said. “I just wanted to warn you to stay away. Please. Stay away from her so you don’t get hurt.”

  I know she was your friend, he’d said. Dread made the day seem dark, and nothing mattered but getting to Britta’s side. Miri grabbed Peder’s arm and pulled him into a run.

  Miri was going over in her mind what she would say to get into the palace courtyard, but the guards at the outer gate did not ask for a password and let her through. Perhaps the king’s banishment order had not traveled that far. She was not certain she would be so lucky at the entrance to the palace itself.

  They ran through a walled garden toward the south wing.

  “If they refuse me,” Miri said, “they might still let you in. Go first to Britta’s chamber and—”

  Miri stopped. The entrance was entirely unguarded.

  “Should we be able to walk in like this?” Peder asked.

  “Definitely not,” said Miri.

  They creaked open the door. The foyer was empty. Miri felt cold.

  On the way to Britta’s apartment, they passed two royal guards in silver breastplates and tall hats.

  “No one was at the entrance,” Miri said to them. “Is the royal family all right?”

  “Of course,” said one. “The guard is protecting them. Excuse us, we’re called away.”

  Miri frowned but continued on.

  The palace was as quiet as the early-morning street, just servants moving through the corridors. Their pace was quick, their faces unhappy. Miri wondered if they had read the latest leaflets.

  She took a deep breath at Britta’s door and decided she could not tell her about the assassin. Britta would be too frightened. But somehow she had to get her out of the palace.

  “Keep watch,” Miri whispered to Peder. She knocked and went in.

  Britta was still in her white lace marriage gown, sitting on the floor with her legs tucked under her. The curls in her hair were droopy and loose. Morning light glinted on her wet cheeks.

  “Miri! I’m so sorry. I told the king that of course you had no part in what those people at the chapel did. After all, they shot at you! But he won’t listen to me. Sometimes I feel as if when I speak no sound comes out at all ….”

  Tears spilled down her face.

  “Britta, don’t cry for me. Please.”

  “I can’t stop. I’ve been crying all night like a baby, though it’s not just for you. I’m far more selfish than you give me credit for, Miri. It just feels as if everything is coming apart.”

  “Where’s Steffan?”

  “That’s the heart of it,” Britta said with a sad smile. “They have him in the king’s wing. Keeping us separate. I waited all night for someone to fetch me, but no one’s come. Not even a servant with supper. I knocked at the girls’ chamber a few times. I don’t think they slept there last night.”

  Miri did not think the assassin would target Mount Eskel girls, but her unease quickened.

  “Perhaps everyone’s forgotten me,” Britta said. “Or perhaps it’s been decided Steffan and I will not wed.”

  Miri poured Britta a glass of water from a pitcher.

  “Might it be for the best?” said Miri. “There are worse things that could happen.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  Miri thought of the shattered glass in the carriage window, the axes falling in Rilamark. She gave Britta the water and watched her drink it down, her toes curling and uncurling with impatience.

  “Things are getting dangerous out there. We should leave Asland for the time being.”

  Britta shook her head, confused. “Not without Steffan. Where would I go anyway?”

  Miri glanced at the door. “Home to Lonway?”

  Britta shuddered. She’d stopped crying, but her eyes were red and swollen.

  “I’ll never go back. The day my father put me on a wagon to Mount Eskel, I watched the house grow smaller and smaller, and I swore it would stay like that in my mind—tiny and harmless, sized for a mouse.”

  Miri thought of her own wagon ride away from home, her village swallowed by the mountain, her promise to return.

  “Was home so horrible?” she asked, gathering some of Britta’s clothing into a bundle.

  “Perhaps not. I’m probably just being dramatic.” She tried to smile, but the attempt was piteous. “I’m much younger than my siblings. They were all married before I was five. And my parents preferred to spend a great deal of time at court, attending plays and concerts. They said their house in Asland was too small to bring me along. It had ten bedrooms, but it was too small for a girl … like a mouse house, maybe.”

  Not a sunrise passed that Miri did not put her arms around herself and remember that her mother had refused to pu
t down her new baby even for a moment in the week before she died. It was a sadness that ran under everything, like the low notes of a horn in an orchestra’s song. But it made Miri feel stronger too. She had this secret, this fierce love from her mother, that was always hers.

  How much worse to have a mother who lived and simply did not care. Miri hugged the bundle of clothing to her chest.

  “When my parents were in Asland,” Britta was saying, “I stayed in Lonway with the servants. My father forbade me to play with commoners, so I played alone. Except when Steffan stayed at the Summer Castle. I didn’t understand why my father encouraged this one friendship. All I knew then was I had a friend! We invented games and stayed outside from breakfast till the crickets sang. He was the first person to shout out my name when he saw me coming, as if for pure happiness. The first who made me feel like more than a piece of furniture—like a girl.” She blushed. “He was my only friend, Miri, until you. I cannot imagine life without him. I can’t imagine.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miri said. And with those words, the weight of what she’d done collapsed over her. She felt her mistakes like an avalanche, and the grinding pain of regret broke into sobs.

  “Miri? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Britta ….” She felt Britta rub her back and shook her head. “I don’t deserve your comfort. I’ve wanted to be a part of the changes so badly—for Mount Eskel, but for me too … though I knew it might hurt you … I was so afraid the king’s tributes would crush our village, would make everything so hard again … harder even … but I wanted to help make things good everywhere … and … and I didn’t mean to lie at first, but I never told you … when I found out … that the words were mine. ‘The Mountain Girl’s Lament.’ I wrote it. Most of it anyway.”

  She could feel Britta’s hand on her back freeze.

  “That’s not true,” Britta whispered.

  “Timon suggested I write about the academy for a Rhetoric paper. I didn’t write that last part, of course! Timon added his own words and had it printed. When you asked me about it, I didn’t know. But I should have told you when I found out, I should have written a different leaflet explaining, I should have done something … but Sisela said to let it be and I believed her—she’s so smart—so I did nothing, I’m sorry …”

  Britta stood and went to the window. Her back was tense. Miri held her breath, unshed sobs straining in her throat, and waited for Britta to send her away as the king had done.

  “I wondered. You were gone so many evenings. Gummonth told us about all that happened in Rilamark and said there was dangerous talk in Aslandian Salons. But I never imagined that you—” She took a shuddering breath. “I can’t think about this right now, Miri.”

  “That’s all right.” Miri sniffed and wiped her nose on a handkerchief. “You don’t have to forgive me—or not forgive me—or anything. But you need to get out of here, Britta. The palace guards are gone from their stations.”

  Britta’s hands clutched together. “Gone?”

  “We need to go somewhere safe. Please.”

  “I don’t … I don’t know where to go,” Britta whispered.

  Miri felt a hopeless panic rising up on a sob in her chest. She shoved it back down. We learn and talk and think so that when it’s time to act, we know what to do.

  What to do? She thought of History, Ethics, and Diplomacy, as well as Peder and Esa’s ma, who said Truth is when your gut and your mind agree.

  Miri took Britta’s hand and said, “Stay with me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When thoughts aren’t sticking, are thicker than stew

  What is true? What to do?

  When strife is looming, naught brewing for you

  Ask anew, what to do?

  Peder was waiting outside Britta’s door.

  “Hello, Britta,” he said, taking the clothing bundle from Miri.

  “Good morning, Peder. You’re out early.”

  “Being friends with Miri has consequences.”

  He followed the girls to the king’s wing. It too stood unguarded.

  “Something is definitely wrong,” Miri said.

  Down the corridor, Steffan and his father were in their sleep clothes, speaking hurriedly. Britta called out to Steffan. He ran to her and they embraced. Britta’s shoulders heaved as she sobbed, her fingers gripping his shirt.

  “The bridal edifice in the Green was torn down,” Miri told Steffan. “I’m worried for Britta.”

  “There are some pretty threatening leaflets out this morning,” Peder said.

  The king pointed a hard finger at Miri. “How did you get in here?”

  “The guards are not at their posts, sire,” she said.

  “I noticed,” he said, gesturing to the emptiness beside his door. “At the palace entrance?”

  Miri shook her head.

  “This is unconscionable! The royal guard would not abandon me.”

  Miri wondered if somehow the assassin had maneuvered the guards away. If so, the battleground had moved from the streets of Asland into the palace itself.

  “We have reason to believe a mob might be forming today in Asland,” Miri said. “We need to keep you all safe, and right now this palace is not feeling safe.”

  The king glared. “I do not trust anything you say, you who consort with murderers.”

  “I do know some of those who seek change, but I swear to you, I never imagined any of my friends might consider violence—”

  “Get out!” said the king.

  “No, wait, please. There is a man who arranged the fate of Rilamark’s queen. This assassin is here in Asland, paid in gold to …”

  Miri could not bear to continue. She glanced at Steffan.

  “They want to kill the prince heir, do they?” said Steffan.

  “Not exactly,” Miri whispered.

  He seemed confused and then his eyes widened with real fear.

  “It’s me, isn’t it?” Britta asked, seeming a little tired. “The assassin is here for me.”

  “No,” said Steffan. “No.” He moved between Britta and the open corridor.

  “In Rilamark, he got a mob to do his work for him,” said Miri. “I imagine that’s his plan here.”

  “I will not be trapped in my own house,” said the king.

  “We can go to the Summer Castle,” Steffan said. “Surely the servants and soldiers there are loyal. Besides, it’s smaller.”

  He did not say “and easier to defend,” but Miri heard the idea in the silence. Rilamark’s queen had been dragged from her palace into the street. Miri wondered if there was a girl somewhere in Rilamark who would have saved an unpopular queen and let a painting burn.

  “Perhaps if we bring a priest with us,” said Steffan, “Britta and I could be married in Lonway?”

  “You cannot wed her now,” said his father.

  No, Miri wanted to protest. But she did not speak out, too afraid the king would send her away again. She wondered if Britta would weep, but she just clung to Steffan’s arm.

  The king sent a servant to prepare a carriage. Steffan and his father dressed, then fetched the queen and their personal servants, as well as, Miri was sorry to see, the chief official. Gummonth’s eyes darted about as if expecting danger from every shadow.

  The group made their way through the eerily quiet palace. When they passed an open window, Miri could hear shouting outside. She grabbed Peder’s hand. They would be safer if they left Britta and the royals behind. Miri knew this. Peder surely knew this as well. But he did not suggest it either.

  Every time they turned a corner, Miri’s pulse quickened. But the corridors were empty.

  The group hurried outside to the courtyard, where a few months before, Katar had presented the king with Mount Eskel’s carved mantelpiece. A faithful groom had a carriage with six horses ready. It stood not fifty paces ahead, but to Miri, it seemed an unreachable distance.

  A mob had gathered.

 
Held back by the high iron gates that separated the courtyard from the city street, the crowd pressed against the bars, yelling. Every arm bore a blue band. The noise was overwhelming, like the crash of a mountain rockfall. Out of the cacophony, the word “princess” seemed to lift on the wind. Some held muskets and pistols in the air, waving them about like flags. Some pointed them at the royal party. A few fired, too far away to strike anything but the cobbled ground, sending puffs of dust and rock chips into the air.

  The queen made a horrible sound in her throat, a choked cry like an animal in pain. Her eyes and mouth were wide open and wet.

  “Back inside,” Steffan ordered.

  So many people pressed against the gate, there was no way to escape. The hope of the castle in Lonway was dashed.

  The shouts and musket shots were spooking the carriage horses. They pranced and shook their manes. The groom let go of the lead horse’s bridle and fled for the palace. The horses tossed their heads, and the carriage rocked.

  Miri turned back to the palace with the others. She did not realize that Britta had not until Steffan shouted her name.

  Britta was running straight for the gate. Steffan started after her but his father grabbed him and held him back.

  “Don’t. They will kill you,” said the king.

  “Britta!” Steffan shouted in a blind panic, thrashing to get away. “Britta!”

  Miri did not shout. She did not go after Britta. She did not seem able to do anything except watch her friend run toward the muskets, holding the long white skirts of her marriage gown in both hands so she could get there even faster.

  Did Britta think that by sacrificing herself she could save the rest of them? This mob’s anger would not be sated by Britta’s blood alone. They would demand the king and queen and Steffan too, and would it stop there? Or would every feathered cap in Danland fall?

  The moment seemed slowed. Miri’s hands covered her face, her eyes peering through her fingers—too afraid to look, too afraid not to. A shot would fire and Britta would fall. Would a shocked silence follow, or howls of triumph? The moment was agonizingly long, all of them watching each stride that took Britta closer to the mob, closer to the muskets, dozens of them poking through the bars of the gate, all pointed now at the running princess.