Princess Juniper of the Hourglass

by Ammi-Joan Paquette

  “And that better ruler is you?” Juniper was still racing to keep up. Cyril’s direct attack had caught her completely off guard.

  Now he tilted his head in such fake modesty that Juniper would have laughed if she hadn’t been so horrified. “I don’t know if I should say better, but I am here. I am willing. I am qualified—” He raised a hand at a murmur from the group. “Yes, many of you are undoubtedly aware that my father, Rupert Lefarge, is King Regis’s chief adviser. But if you know your history, you might also recall that he is a direct cousin of the king’s. And if history had turned out differently, it has been said that my father might well be the one now sitting on the throne of Torr.”

  “That is a lie!” Juniper yelled. She was no longer tongue-tied; Cyril had gone too far. “Your father might be the king’s distant cousin, but he does not have a claim to the throne. You are nothing but a pompous numbskull!”

  Cyril shifted now, meeting her gaze head-on.

  “Am I?” he said slowly, thoughtfully. Then he waved a hand. “But enough of Torr. That is not relevant at the moment.” He paused, looked skyward, and stroked his infernal stubbled chin. “You know, in the old days, rivals to a throne might go to battle or call for a duel. I don’t suppose that would suit in this case, even if it were still done. No, I propose something very different. I suggest that we let our subjects decide who should rule this kingdom. Each one can make his or her choice, and let the majority’s decision rest.”

  “What?” Juniper had heard of countries employing this method of selecting a ruler—off-continent, of course, for all the civilized lands were staunchly monarchist—but the custom had always struck her as vaguely barbaric. How could one ever settle into one’s role as ruler while having to worry incessantly about public choice?

  “There is no decision to be made!” she protested, but when she reached for steel in her voice, all she felt was crumbling straw. Worse, a quick glance around showed a circle of intent faces—kids who had followed Cyril to his party, eaten his food, danced to his music. Their gazes were now locked on him, considering, nodding, weighing up the idea and, if their expressions were any indication, seeing it as a good one. Only a very few met her eyes when she looked in their direction.

  With a sinking heart, Juniper understood. If Cyril asked the group to choose its ruler right now, the decision would not go in her favor. She also understood that he had made her a challenge that she could not ignore.

  The moment was a runaway horse, and she had to bring it under control.

  But how?

  “One week,” Juniper burst out, raising her voice so all could hear. “I’ll recognize your challenge, Cyril, not because it has any merit or because I have any respect for you personally—I most certainly do not—but because a wise ruler listens to the people. And I can see that people need to make up their minds about this. So let’s settle the decision seven days from now.”

  Cyril opened his mouth, but Juniper barreled right over him, eyes fixed on her subjects, who now gave her their full attention. “We’ll gather at first light in seven days and hold a ballot. At that time, you will be asked to choose who will rule this kingdom: Cyril Lefarge or Juniper Torrence. This is an important decision, and I expect you’ll take time to consider all of the factors.” She kept her voice strong and steady. She would not plead, or cajole, or whimper. “Consider all of the factors, and make a wise and balanced choice. And now, I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your feast.”

  She swept a glance around the group, glad that Cyril didn’t add anything to her pronouncement. She turned and started out of the circle, then called back over her shoulder, “And I expect to see everyone tomorrow morning at the usual time for work. We still have a kingdom to build and a settlement to maintain. Until then!”

  Heart pounding, Juniper marched out of the firelight and headed down the slope. The sudden darkness made it difficult to see around her, and she had to move slowly to keep from stumbling. Footsteps crunched behind her, and she turned to see Erick, flickering torch in hand, hurrying to catch up.

  “Well, that was something,” Juniper said with a sigh.

  “He’s a blackguard of the worst sort,” Erick muttered. He raised his torch and moved in front of Juniper to light the way. “He’s got no right to challenge your rule. And everyone following along like that!”

  “I guess I should have expected it, based on how things have been going. I didn’t, though. I never thought he’d be that brazen.” She’d set herself up for it, in a way—that’s what she didn’t want to say out loud. Decreeing less fun and more work, without telling the others the reason why. But what else could she do? She couldn’t tell them the truth, not until she knew more about what was going on. It was for their own good.

  “I still don’t understand what he’s going for, though,” said Erick. “Why does he want Queen’s Basin so badly? I mean, no offense, but we’re nothing up here. We’re playacting is all.”

  Juniper fought the urge to contradict him. Of course, Erick was right.

  “He’s a just powermonger. He’s always been like that, always has to be the head of everything.” Deep down, though, Juniper wondered. Was that it? Cyril waving his fist at the sky, wanting to be king of anything at all? Or was there something else going on—something bigger, that went deeper than any of them could see?

  Either way, Juniper had a lot of thinking to do.

  It was going to be a long night.

  THE NIGHT WAS LONG, BUT THE FOLLOWING day was longer. Having grown up in the palace, Juniper was well used to feeling on display. Yet never before had she felt so soundly judged, as though everyone she passed was weighing her every word, step, and action for later analysis and discussion. Even worse was to know that they were actually doing that; it wasn’t all in her head. More than once, she rounded a corner to find two or three kids conferring together in earnest whispers, only to have them jerk apart upon seeing her and begin industriously working, lips shut tight, gazes skittering away.

  The meaning couldn’t be clearer.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she said that night, lying sprawled out in the tree house next to Alta and Tippy. They had dragged all the sitting-cushions that usually lined the edge of the floor and piled them into one giant cake in the center of the room, with Juniper’s coverlet topping the whole thing like fuzzy frosting. There was just enough room for the three of them to stretch out on the sumptuously pillowed heap, though Tippy kept rolling herself into a ball and launching down the slope and across the floor.

  “You’re doing fine,” Alta told Juniper consolingly.

  “It’s right buggy how everyone’s carrying on,” Tippy cut in. “It’s not like anything’s changed about you since yesterweek. Who could stand to have that coxcomb Cyril be king of us, anyway?”

  “I wish everyone else thought as you do,” Juniper muttered.

  “I could find out what they think,” said Tippy, bopping upright. “I’m very good at weaseling.”

  Juniper smiled. It was getting increasingly hard to keep the sprightly girl occupied. The days when Juniper had sat reclining in her chair while one maid secured her stockings and the other fastened emerald pins into her hair couldn’t have seemed further away.

  “Sure,” she said. “That sounds like an excellent use of your time. Wait—not right now!”

  But it was too late. Tippy was halfway down the tree ladder, yelling joyously, “Bye-o, then! I’ll be back around in a bit.”

  “The moon’s already out! What could that girl be thinking?”

  “Ah, she’ll be all right,” said Alta. “She’s got a head on her, that one. And Toby’s one of the guards out tonight, and he’s as alert as they come. Though there’s been absolutely nothing to spot since we started.”

  Juniper scowled. She hadn’t forgotten the odd-hoofed attackers, but Alta was right—there’d been not a sign of them sin
ce the destruction of the dining area. No evidence of mischief at all, actually, unless they counted the nonproducing animals, and certainly that wasn’t related. Juniper had started to wonder if those “attacks” might have been misconstrued: Maybe the horses had just gotten loose and run off into the mountains. Maybe a pack of ordinary, bean-loving animals had torn up the dining area. It was possible.

  “I wonder if we should abolish the guard,” she mused.

  “What?” Alta asked. “That is to say, no disrespect intended, Your Highness. I did say it’s been quiet—but that’s as likely to be because of the guard as anything. And it’s not so very long since we had all the problems to begin with.”

  “That’s true enough.” Juniper sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “But I can’t help feeling that this night duty is a growing wedge between me and my subjects. Do you really think it’s worth it?”

  “I do,” said Alta earnestly. “And, pardon my saying so, but isn’t that the job of a leader? To do the unpopular thing, to think first of the greater good, even when that’s the last thing anyone else wants?”

  “Oh, you’re right. But it’s not going to win me any popularity contests, that’s for sure. And let’s be honest . . . that’s what this is coming down to.”

  • • •

  At breakfast the next morning, Juniper twitched uncomfortably through the usual complaints from those who had been up the night before on guard duty. Oona and Filbert argued most strongly, and Toby seemed to be biting his lip to keep quiet. Even Sussi drooped unhappily in her seat. But Juniper had made the decision to stick with the guard, and she wasn’t backing down now. What she was doing was solidly regretting Cyril’s return to meals. Now that he was courting the role of ruler, he was back to being part of the settlement, while still making it clear that he and his cohorts could do anything they liked with their time. And with her queenship in question, there wasn’t a thing Juniper could do about it. Cyril was reveling in the discontent, she could see—drawing it out with seemingly innocent questions and leading comments.

  Juniper frowned. She needed to get things back on track.

  But she’d waited a moment too long.

  “Tonight, we can gather at my camp.” Cyril broke smoothly into the conversation. “My man Root here has trapped a chamois and will start up the roasting pit in midafternoon. By the time Juniper has finished grinding a hard day’s work out of you, I shall be ready to reward you with a fine feast.”

  Jessamyn clapped her hands and twirled around in her fresh, unwrinkled skirt, which was only to be expected. But the rest of the group seemed equally delighted, which was a far bigger concern.

  • • •

  And so the day went. The work carried on efficiently as usual, but through all long, hot hours, the talk was of nothing but fresh roasted meat.

  “Don’t they see that he’s bribing them?” Juniper cried in frustration to Erick later that night. “Why did he have to make his feast a statement? Root could have been providing us with meat this whole time, if he’s that fine a hunter. Instead, he keeps his skills all buttoned up, and now Cyril’s flashing them like a feather in his own cap.”

  There was plenty more where that came from. Cyril organized a rock-climbing expedition, squeezing it neatly in place of a path-paving session Juniper had planned for midweek. He pulled out a large bag of candied sweetnuts—which he’d obviously been hoarding this whole time—and handed out giant handfuls with an air of casual generosity. Juniper longingly recalled herself as she was back in the palace, dreaming of a carefree existence, of a place where she would have nothing more pressing to do than kick up her heels under the midnight moon.

  How had she thought that was what launching her own kingdom would bring her?

  But then she would catch herself on the verge of throwing a party or an activity of her own, and she’d bite her lip in frustration. She couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it. Not only because the thought of being Cyril’s copycat gave her the tummy chills. But also because it wasn’t right. They weren’t here to play—well, they were, but not every day. That wasn’t what ruling and running a country was all about; she’d seen that plenty from her father. They had things to do, important things. Any day now, they might get another message from the palace, with an update on the conditions in Torr. Surely by now things were improving! When that happened, she wanted to know Queen’s Basin was in order and ready for anything.

  At last, only one day remained until the ballot casting. Juniper had already set plans in motion for her own celebration, a modest week’s-end gathering to be held in the Great Tree. Of course, everyone was off at Cyril’s swimming hole today, and she hoped that they would be willing to help prepare everything for the feast tomorrow. This was the way to rest: work hard, then reward yourself with something really enjoyable. Not keep throwing aside responsibilities every day of the week. What kind of country would you end up with then?

  Juniper hadn’t bothered to go along to the swimming hole. She grudgingly attended the dinner parties Cyril threw—she wasn’t one to turn down good food, and Root had serious campfire skills—but the day trips were far too uncomfortable.

  Of course, she no sooner found herself alone in the camp than she wanted to be as far away from the empty settlement as possible.

  How had everything gotten so crooked all of a sudden?

  In frustration, she decided to clear her head with a vigorous climb. She went a different way than normal, trekking to the far end of the row of caves and attacking the steep incline above them, heading for a craggy peak that looked directly out over Torr. The climb was nearly vertical, but she kept challenging herself to scale one more rock face, then another, until the camp winked below her like a bluebeetle farm and the clouds were close enough to pet. Her arms ached and her legs wobbled like jelly, but she grabbed the last outcropping and hauled herself up—right to the top of the world.

  And, oh, it was that!

  The plateau was no wider around than twenty paces, knobby and steep like the crooked chimney stack on the top of a witch’s cottage. But what really took Juniper’s breath was the view. From here, she could see down the mountain, with its scattered trees and forbidding slopes. For a second, she thought she saw tiny moving shapes on a far peak, but when she looked again, there was just the thick, gloomy forest lining the whole near mountain.

  But there below was Torr, rolled out before her like an intricately woven carpet, the sight of it squeezing something tight in her throat, opening a core of longing she knew was there but kept well buried. She could see where the Lore River bubbled out of the rocky heart of the Hourglass and started its winding journey down through Torr. She could see the barren fields that edged the base of the mountains, and beyond them the more cultivated fields that denoted the start of civilization.

  Except . . . wait. Something wasn’t right.

  Where there should have been fields of heavy, golden stalks of wheat—where there had been, just weeks ago—Juniper now saw just a dark, ashy swath. Could it really be? Yes. Even now, a thin column of smoke rose from the nearest field. She was too far away to see any detail in the nearest village, but she could swear that it, too, looked smoky, and dark, and ruined.

  What had she thought all that smoke was coming from, after all? Still, seeing this solid proof of the devastation was something else altogether.

  Juniper’s legs wobbled, and she collapsed onto the hard stone, feeling the air swim around her. It was all true. Everything her father had feared. The palace had fallen. Impossible as it might seem, Monsia—that despicable, sniveling, weak-minded nation—had somehow amassed an army and come in to invade Torr. They had fulfilled the ultimate threat of the Monsian Highway, had blazed into Torr and gone storming south, bringing their deadly force all the way to the palace.

  And then what? She’d had no more word from her father; how was he holding up? Her breath caught in her throat. Wa
s he even still alive?

  She had to . . . she had to . . .

  She had to do nothing. Those were her father’s orders. Stay put. Watch and wait. While her country fell to the enemy.

  • • •

  “They’re all about you,” said Tippy later that night, up in the Great Tree.

  Juniper looked up. “What?” Her mind was leagues away, her worry about her father tying her up in knots, trying to figure out what she could do, what she could say, and who she could possibly say it to.

  “All the others,” said Tippy, clasping her hands behind her tousled head with a satisfied grin. “I did my roundabouts, to see what I could learn. They all like Cyril’s food and his activities. But they don’t like him much. You’re their leader, and they feel safe with you. Well, most of them do, anyway.”

  “Cyril should be our master of activities,” said Alta with a chuckle. “It’s like he’s made for that role.”

  Juniper couldn’t even bring herself to smile. She was glad to hear Tippy’s news, but her mind was too foggy right now to settle on it.

  “All right, then,” said Alta, obviously sensing Juniper’s mood. “Let’s get ourselves off to bed. A big day tomorrow, with a feast to prepare and a party to throw.”

  “And a ballot to WIN!” trumpeted Tippy.

  “Hush, you goose, or you’ll throw the evil boot on the whole affair,” Alta said, but there was a smile in her voice as she ducked down the ladder. “I for one am happy to retire to my good warm bed and let tomorrow bring its news by and by.”

  “Good night,” Juniper called distractedly. She had to think. She had to plan.

  What on earth was she going to do?

  • • •

  She spent hours that night pacing across the plank floor of the Great Tree, nearly torn in two by worry—fear for her father and Torr, and concern about the coming ballot. Finally she gave way to her restless frustration, grabbed hold of one of the branches over the main floor, and started to climb. The Great Tree was wider than it was tall, so there wasn’t terribly far to go, but the branches were wide and fat, and soon Juniper found herself at the tip-top of the old trunk. There the branches came together in a pointy sort of crown, and Juniper slung her feet down on either side of the fork. She laid her cheek against the bark, which at that height was smooth as silk.