“What about sending a message back to the palace?” Jessamyn asked. She was filing her nails now with a small rounded stone, but her casual air looked just a little too studied. “That messenger of yours can make a return trip, I gather?”
“Send a message back? When the king expressly said not to?” Alta snapped. There was no love lost between those two, Juniper could see. “Why should we want to do that?”
“Well,” Jessamyn said primly, “I’m sure I don’t know. But we are discussing some form of action, or so it seems to me. A message is a far more prudent way to begin than launching our whole bodily selves out into the fray.”
“We could write a letter in code!” Tippy chimed in, eyes sparkling. “Do it all sneaky-like.” Sneaky was a state that Tippy knew extremely well.
But Juniper shook her head. “Who should we write to in this code? My father is held captive, and we must assume the main palace contingent is taken along with him.”
“Held captive, you say?” Jessamyn cut in. “How much do you know of warfare, Princess Juniper?”
Juniper felt her blood turn to ice. “How much do you know of warfare, Jessamyn Ceward? My father is held captive because that is what happens to a king whose country is overthrown. The Monsians are cruel, despicable barbarians, it’s true. But I can’t believe they would commit outright and unprovoked regicide. They’re bound to take the long view, and a king in captivity is worth far more than one who’s been quickly disposed of.” This was true, Juniper told herself. It was true. She would not—could not—bear even for a moment to consider the alternative.
Maybe Jessamyn saw some of this in Juniper’s face, for she just muttered, “Still. Sending some form of message could be useful.”
Juniper needed to bring the discussion back under control. “It’s a good idea, but I can’t see how that would work. The messenger’s plainly no good without a recipient. We have got to find a way to help Torr. But if we exit the caves and set out toward home, we’re risking any number of dangers. We’ve got to think this through before deciding—see if there is a way to gather more information before we head out.”
“You should talk to Cyril,” said Root. “I’ve been thinking a lot since everything went down with him. Looking back, I think he knows more than he let on, even to me.”
“Yes,” said Alta. “Cyril didn’t just betray you, Juniper. He’s a traitor to his own country! He’s been working with the Monsians, helping them invade Torr—or his father has, which is one and the same.”
Erick nodded. “Those papers we found in Cyril’s camp showing the Monsian maps and their lists of troops and armaments? It’s clear that he and his father knew the attack was to happen. I think Cyril must have more information about Monsia and their attack on the palace. Maybe there’s something that could help us.”
“Do you think we can get him to talk?” Juniper asked Root.
Root frowned. “It would be a matter of catching him from the right angle, I’d imagine. Finding a way where it benefits him. Cyril’s slippery, to be sure, and he’s smart as anything. But deep down, he’s not a bad person.”
Juniper bristled. Not a bad person? Based on the years of bullying and mean-spirited tricks she’d had from Cyril in years past—not to mention his forced takeover of Queen’s Basin—she thought she might just disagree. Still. She’d beaten him once and she could do it again. Questioning that scalawag grew more appealing by the moment.
“Let’s finish up our porridge and then hop to that straightaway. Root, will you come with me? And Alta, too?” Juniper looked down at the pale mass of congealed oats quivering on her plate. “On second thought, why don’t we go now? I find I’m quite eager to drop in on our master usurper. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”
2
FROM THE DINING AREA, IT WAS ONLY A SHORT walk to the cliff base that led up to the apartment caves. Though her mind was full of the coming confrontation with Cyril, Juniper couldn’t help admiring the smooth, stony path they’d recently laid down. The ground here on the river’s South Bank was cracked and dusty, but walking on a proper road, even this skinny little one, made her feel ever so settled. She herself had laid many of these stones—and had the scuffed-up hands to show for it—but how marvelously that backbreaking effort had paid off! One rock at a time, she mused as she strode toward the cliff, with Root and Alta close behind her. It’s the only way to get anywhere.
That would be true of this confrontation with Cyril, too.
Up the bank they went, following the cliff-hugging trail. They filed past the tiny cave-houses where the settlers lived, each one bearing the unmistakable imprint of its owner: a cheerful mishmash of colored drapes and cloths and cushions in Sussi’s; the scent of dried orange peel and cloves wafting from Leena’s; a clever planter box hooked outside the window of Paul’s, all abloom with geranium and marigold and moss rose. Finally they reached the end of the row: Cyril and Root’s former cave.
At the woven-rush door, Juniper paused. It wasn’t long at all since Cyril had locked her, Erick, and Alta inside this very space, and the memory still jarred her. No real harm had come to them, of course. But that moment when Cyril had shoved her inside the cave-turned-prison, when he had slammed the door shut, when he had twisted the lock and snapped it tight and laughed in her face as he flaunted his win, his power, his complete domination—
That moment, she would never forget.
It changes you, going through something like that.
Balling her hands into fists, Juniper unbarred the door and marched inside. Root followed just behind, with Alta taking up the rear. Alta had her sword belt on, which Juniper knew was just for show. But it made her feel better all the same.
The door shut behind them.
Juniper let out her breath. The inside of the cave was completely different from the bare, cold prison she’d been stuffed in days ago. As soon as she’d foiled Cyril’s attempt to steal her throne, Juniper knew he would have to be contained, or he would just run off to join his father and the Monsian army. That was evidently why he’d come along on this trip to begin with—to try and gather information for the enemy. Still, Cyril was her cousin; Juniper had no wish to subject him (or his single devoted follower, Oona) to the rough treatment he’d given her. For all his treachery, she would not stoop to his low methods.
And so Roddy and Sussi had worked their magic on the two-room space, and what a job they’d done! The window bars were gone (it was too small and high to climb out of, and the bars did nothing but cast depressing shadows on the floor). They’d dragged in a pile of quilts and pillows, and installed a rustic table with two sitting stools in the front area. They’d brought in a game of jacks and piles of lacquered playing cards. Erick even contributed several of his well-loved volumes, one of which Oona was deeply engrossed in now.
As they entered, Oona set the book down and rose, smoothing her skirts and scanning their faces eagerly. “Is it mealtime?”
“Not yet,” said Alta, walking through to the back room, where Cyril lounged on his pile of quilts. A pile considerably higher and fluffier, Juniper noticed, than the one in Oona’s room.
“Well, well, well,” Cyril drawled, tucking his arms behind his head with a lazy yawn.
“I see this cooling-off period hasn’t sweetened your character any,” Juniper remarked.
Cyril stuck out his bottom lip. This made him look less like an older rival who had made a play for her throne—and nearly won—and more like a sulky toddler. Juniper hid the urge to giggle.
“Cheer up,” she said. “I’m here to talk business. You like business, don’t you? I’ve got some things to discuss, and I thought we might go outside for it. Walk around a spell, let you stretch your legs. The air is powerful sweet this morning—some new fragrance on the wind that I haven’t smelled before.”
“Lunch, too?” Oona asked hopefully.
“Won’t be
long,” Alta cut in. “But didn’t you just have breakfast?”
Oona shrugged and scuffed the floor.
Root dug in his pockets. “I think—I might have some . . .” There was a rustling, then he yanked out a small woven sack. Except he must have tugged it wrong, because the bag exploded in a torrent of tiny round falling bits. In seconds the stuff was skipping and bouncing all across the room like a swarm of bees let out of their hive.
“Hazelnuts,” said Root lamely. “Um.”
“Oh, just the thing!” exclaimed Oona. “No, don’t you worry,” she said to Root, who’d crouched down to scrabble at his mess. “Just hand me over the bag, and I’ll tend to it. It’s like a new game of jacks, I reckon. That shall keep me busy the rest of the morning. Not much else to do in here, don’t you know it.”
Root smiled in response, but didn’t stop picking up the nuts.
• • •
A few minutes later, Juniper and Cyril headed out, followed by Alta. Root stayed behind to see his cleanup job through. There weren’t many places to take a walk in Queen’s Basin. It was just a short climb down from the Cavern (as they’d named the enormous cave that connected the tunnel leading though the mountain to the Basin) to the animal pens, a near stroll from there to the dining area and kitchen, the same again to the Great Tree, and a little jaunt further to the Beauty Chamber and the bridge leading over to the North Bank. They hadn’t put down walkways on the North Bank yet: The land was just as muddy and wild as when they’d first arrived (only now with a garden patch pushing out tiny vegetable shoots and an orchard picked clean of fruit). Juniper was wearing her brushed indigo slippers today, so instead of risking the mud across the bridge, she decided to take their walk up the slope to the high lookout point.
“We’re headed where, exactly?” Cyril grumbled.
“Nowhere special; only there’s a spot up here I like,” said Juniper, “that is good for sitting and chatting. Plus, I figured you’d enjoy the exercise.” She knew she could have questioned him just as easily inside his quarters. But truth be told, that dank cave was depressing. A brisk whiff of the fresh outdoors would not only be more pleasant for her, but would also remind Cyril what he was missing out on due to his poor life choices.
“Well, there’s no point waiting for the sit-down,” Cyril said. “Let us chat away. What’s nipping at your ankles?”
Juniper would not let his pithy quips distract her. “Fine. Let’s get right down to it: What I want is for you to tell me more about Monsia. Anything you know about their army, in particular. You had all those maps and troop statistics, and those shall be delivered to my father by and by—” She was satisfied to see Cyril wince at this. “But I’m looking for more up-to-date information. What’s their overall plan in this attack on Torr? What do they really want and why? Most importantly, what can we do to stop them?”
At this, Cyril stopped and stared at her. “Seriously?” he said. “That’s what you brought me all the way out here to ask? I could have answered that back in the cave. Or, more accurately, I could have not answered that back in the cave.” He barked out a laugh. “Whatever possessed you to think that I would give you any of those answers?” He cast a scornful look toward his cave, making it clear that he had a pretty good idea who had given her that idea. Turning his back, Cyril began climbing again.
“Wait,” Juniper sputtered, scrambling to catch up. Alta was close on her heels. “I get it. Your father is working with the Monsians, and there’s got to be something in it for him—something big. But what about you? What do you truly think of this invasion? I know we haven’t always agreed on . . . well, on anything. But you can’t truly believe that horrible country should overrun our own—can you? Torr is your home, too. Surely you wouldn’t want to be part of a big bully picking apart something small and beautiful, maybe tearing it to pieces?”
Juniper was panting now, but they’d reached the crest of the hill. She stood next to Cyril, who gazed scornfully out over Queen’s Basin, arms akimbo.
“Wouldn’t I, though?” he drawled. But something in his tone belied the words ever so slightly.
“There’s no denying you’re made of faults, Cyril Lefarge,” Juniper said. “But I’ve always known you for your fierce country pride. And there’s also the matter of right and wrong. I really believe that deep inside you, there’s someone who knows the difference, someone who can still make up his own mind. And that’s why I think you’re going to help me out.”
A shadow crossed Cyril’s face. But then he blinked and said, “I guess it’s time you learned how wrong your thoughts can be.” He set off up a near embankment.
Juniper exchanged a glance with Alta.
“That lout!” Alta muttered. “How do you put up with him? I would have socked him a good one by now.”
“And then where would we be?” Juniper said. “Here’s what I know about Cyril: More than anything, he hates losing. Right now he’s been soundly beaten. He’s my captive, and each time he sees me is a pinch to his middle. What I’m offering him is the chance to get back a bit of the upper hand, to let him feel in charge again for a moment or two, even just by giving his information. You’ll see. He’s wavering now, I can tell. We just need one more nudge to push him over. Maybe it’s like Root said: We need to find a way that helping us benefits him. If we can make our needs line up with his wants, we’ll be in business.”
“No sweat, then,” said Alta sourly. “With his wants being so noble and all.”
Juniper perked up. “Nobles,” she said, beaming. When you hit a wall in the road, her father always said, find a way to meet it sideways. A change of subject might be just the thing to muddle the tension a bit.
Clambering the rest of the way up the slope, she plopped down near Cyril, who was reclining on a grassy bank. “How well do you know Jessamyn?” she asked.
Cyril turned toward her, puzzled. “Jessamyn?”
Alta, hovering over them in a vaguely guardlike position, looked equally surprised. Juniper had no idea whether this line of thought would lead anywhere relevant. But Jessamyn’s odd behavior that morning still nagged at her, and Cyril was awfully good at knowing things that others were hiding. So she just held his gaze with raised eyebrows, and waited.
“I don’t know Jessamyn well at all. She’s been at the Academy for a few years, but she’s two grades below me. I scarcely see her.”
“Go on,” Juniper persisted. “Her father’s some ambassador—that’s all I really know of her, so you must have more on this than I do. What can you tell me?”
Cyril had burst out laughing. “Ambassador? Is that the word that’s going around?”
“Well . . . yes. Isn’t he?”
“Jessamyn’s father is a traveling merchant.” Cyril’s voice dripped with scorn. “He’s made himself a small fortune, apparently, if you can put that name to raw coin. The man invented some gadget that half the continent apparently can’t do without.” Cyril’s eye-roll was practically audible. “Spends his days trekking from town to town, raking in the riches.”
Juniper processed this. Had Jessamyn actually said that her father was an ambassador? Certainly she had never corrected that assumption. But why? Was it just general misinformation, a way to make herself look more important?
Or was something else afoot?
Juniper had no idea. But one thing at least had worked: The subject of Jessamyn had cleared the air and, even better, had gotten Cyril into an easy, talkative mood. Meet it sideways, she thought with satisfaction. But what next?
Then the answer came to her.
“Cyril,” she said, leaning toward him, “I’ve been thinking.” As long as she’d known him, there had been one constant in Cyril’s life, one soft spot in his crusty shell: his vanity. Based on the admiring looks she’d seen him flinging at the looking glass outside the Beauty Chamber, that relationship was still going strong.
�
�Thinking, eh?” he scoffed. “Must be an odd sensation for you.”
Juniper brushed this aside. “I’ve been thinking about your complexion.”
Cyril’s hands flew to his face. Juniper forced herself to keep a neutral expression.
“What about my complexion?” he said suspiciously.
“It’s just,” said Juniper, “that cave of yours. So dank and musty, isn’t it? No proper sunlight or cleansing airflow. After my stay in there, I had to spend a great deal of time polishing my skin to get it back in shape, let me tell you.” She squinted at Cyril’s chin, then shook her head sorrowfully.
“What?” he yelped. “Do you see something? I thought I’d checked—”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe just the smallest bit of . . . you know, on your . . .” She let her words trail off.
Cyril’s fingers patted up and down his chin, trying to find the offending spot. Juniper saw Alta turn away, her shoulders moving silently up and down.
“Here’s the thing,” said Juniper, leaning in closer. “Sussi has come up with a marvelous facial cleanse mask using river clay. She might be persuaded to make a portion for your use. But if you stay locked in that fusty old cave for much longer, I don’t know if there will be much more to be done for it. You see what I mean, don’t you? So. I’m ready to make you an offer: We can move you back out into the air during the day, just as simply as you please. No more of that grim, clammy rock space.”
Cyril frowned, still rubbing self-consciously at his chin. “You’d let me go free? In exchange for what?”
“Well, you couldn’t be free exactly. You’re still a traitor.” She brushed away his derisive snort. “It’s true, and you know it. Queen’s Basin is rightfully mine to rule, and you came against that most treasonously. Took up weapons against us, even! And we can’t forget about the Monsian angle. Still. Here’s my plan—we’ll need to put it to the group, of course, and make sure that all agree—but I propose this: You’d be free to roam the camp, with a guard. Alta will stay with you at all times, or one of the others . . .” She paused. “Maybe I could get a bell for your ankle? That would help—”
Princess Juniper of the Anju Page 2
