A Posse of Princesses

by Sherwood Smith

  “You look—” She wanted to say taller, but that wasn’t quite right. Intimidating. But she didn’t want to say that, either.

  “Silly? It feels like walking around with your own personal mattress—except sleeping on linked metal is not comfy.”

  “You said things are messy at home. I take it they were mad, too,” she said tentatively.

  “Why did I think it was a great idea? One good thing: I’ll have to think really hard to come up with anything more stupid.”

  “Does Queen Briath know?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Is she—”

  “Angry? Yes.” Lios turned his face up to the dripping branches overhead. Then brought his chin down. “But not about that so much as what I did after. Don’t blame my mother—there are reasons—but she doesn’t really like me much. Still, she made me the heir. I worked hard for it. I really don’t want to lose it all if I can possibly prevent it.”

  “But you came to rescue Iardith anyway?”

  He sighed. “We came after you all. You saw Glaen, I know. Breggo is with the horses.”

  Rhis wondered for the first time if someone might have left behind a clue. At the sound of a familiar fluting voice, she suspected who might have left a note for her cousin.

  She frowned. “It seemed such a good idea at the time.”

  And was grateful when he didn’t gloat, or scold, or laugh. “How did you get away from that tower? That was a mighty stroke of genius, by the bye. I hope you’ll do that a lot in the future. I also wish Iardith had seen you walk into camp just as we were going over our desperate rescue plan for the last time. It might even have impressed her. Or maybe not.”

  He’d seemed tireless from the distance she’d been careful to maintain, but up close, the firelight revealed marks under his eyes. Her heart lurched in its accustomed tread. “I—” For just a moment she hugged to herself the thought of keeping that impression of genius.

  But she’d already had plenty to say about liars. “My sister,” she said, discovering her voice had gone hoarse. “Magic.” She pointed to her ring. “In case.”

  He frowned in perplexity and worry. “Where are my wits? Come over to the fire. The food might not be courtly, but there’s plenty. Actually, a couple of the boys make really good trail cornbread. And Andos was smart enough to grab a pot of honey in the scramble to leave Eskanda.”

  Talking in his low, pleasant voice, he described their journey, making it sound funny, like when he started out—the mighty prince at the head of his noble minions—his mighty destrier skidded in a slimy puddle and he did a perfect somersault and landed face-flat in the mud. From then on one of the noble minions on a hill horse did the leading. But, tired as she was, Rhis sensed that he was hiding the anxious effort it really must have taken, especially since the boys did not have a map with Taniva’s shortcuts.

  He drew her toward the fire, where boys and girls sat on rocks and in a row along a fallen log, everyone busy with bowls and spoons.

  Rhis was too tired to feel much of anything when the pretend Prince Lios appeared round the fire, twin flames reflected in his beautiful dark eyes as he smiled at her and handed her a bowl. “For you, the last of the honey,” he said. “I’ll never forget you were the only one to spare a fellow’s feet.”

  “Don’t. Remind us,” Lios said quickly. His face was far ruddier than could be explained away by firelight. Then he bowed grandly, indicating a mossy rock. “Your throne, Princess?”

  Rhis felt weak laughter. “Princess. We haven’t done a single princess thing for so long.” Except when the king of Damatras—

  Shera gave a loud sigh. “It was stupid to come running up here,” she admitted. “We don’t even have Iardith, after all the trouble we went to!”

  Rhis tasted the cornbread. It was delicious, the moreso with clover honey drizzled over it.

  Lios sighed, staring down the bowl in his hands, and the untouched food. Rhis looked at his tired profile. She was glad that they were friends again, that she’d gotten past feeling angry and awkward and horrible. But getting past the awkwardness between them hadn’t fixed everything. For the first time, she considered Lios’s masquerade from his perspective, and what she saw made her feel awkward and anxious all over again. A lot of people—his own mother—seemed angry with him. Would they even be here if he had not traded places with Andos? Probably not. Though it was hard to say whether Iardith would have arranged her own abduction if the real Prince Lios had turned her down instead of the false one.

  In fact it was hard to think at all past the singing chord in her mind. It seemed to have gotten louder. Being away from it had helped some, but now the singing was gaining in strength. The stone seemed to want to be moving, and its note was restless and anxious.

  The rise of voices broke her reverie: she recognized Glaen and Shera arguing. Was it mock or real? She tried to concentrate on the words, but all she could make out was the rise and fall of their voices on the other side of camp, where they sat a little apart on a mossy log. Maybe they didn’t know themselves if it was real or mock anger, she thought sleepily, as she slid off her rock, folded her arms over the stone, and just leaned her forehead on her hands. Just for a moment—

  oOo

  “Up! Up!”

  Breggan ran through the camp, his chain mail jingling at every step. “We have to ride out!”

  Heads popped up—many people had fallen asleep right where they’d been sitting—lamps were lit.

  “They’re up on the high road,” someone reported.

  “Who?” Yuzhyu appeared, hair wild, a lamp swinging in her hand.

  “The Damatrans,” Breggan said. “They’re after us.”

  Demo version limitation

  Demo version limitation

  Demo version limitation

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Rhis meant to be dignified and proper, like Elda had trained her to be, but the moment Lios walked in, his brown eyes anxiously scanning her face, she flew straight into his arms.

  They locked each other in a tight hug. All she could think about was the joy that made her feel lighter than the Singing Stone at its most powerful, as she listened to his hearbeat thundering next to her ear.

  “Tut-tut!” The queen cleared her throat.

  Lios and Rhis sprang apart. Lios tugged at his tunic, which was a fine thing made of heavy silk, embroidered with chains of laurel leaves, and belted with a gemmed sash. What drew her attention was how nice he looked in it. His brown hair was tied back simply, just like when he pretended to be a scribe.

  “You look so . . .” she began, hands swooping like butterflies.

  “Princely? Scribely?” Lios grinned ruefully. “Silly?”

  Rhis shook her head on each. “You look like you,” she said, and then blushed because who else would he look like?

  But he seemed to understand because his grin altered to a real smile. “And you look beautiful. But you always did.”

  Rhis clasped her hands. “I’m sorry about the stone, and all that.”

  Lios waved a hand. “Don’t let us waste our time with ‘sorry,’ especially when I have more to apologize for.” He laughed softly, then his smile faded. “The others are getting ready for the party in your honor tonight. I wish I could be there, but Mother wants me on the road to Eskanda.”

  “The horses are waiting,” the queen said, as she cracked a nut.

  Rhis kept her back to the queen. If she didn’t see her, she could pretend she wasn’t there. “I wish you could stay. I wish . . . “ She became aware that she was wasting what little time they had, bemoaning what wasn’t going to change. “I want you to know that I will think of you every single day.”

  “And I you.” Now he looked unhappy. “Oh, Rhis. Here’s what I feel worst about. We just began to talk, with me being me, because you were already you. Does that make sense?” He made a comical face. “Don’t answer that. It doesn’t even make sense in my own head.”

  “But I loved our conversati
ons.” She tried to smile, though her throat hurt. “Even when I was maddest, I couldn’t help thinking them over, trying to remember every word. And wishing every one of our talks had been longer.”

  “They will be,” he promised. “One day. Oh! Yuzhyu wants you to know that she is glad you recovered, and she invites you to visit Ndai some day. The others all said the same. Except Iardith. I’m afraid what she said isn’t the sort of thing I want to pass along.” There was a flash of the rueful grin. “Most of it was aimed at me, not at you.”

  “She’s probably saving my share for tonight. Well, I did get in her way. I hope she finds her crown prince,” Rhis said firmly. Though I’m not sure that’s such a nice wish for the prince.

  Lios took both Rhis’s hands. She gripped his fingers, so warm, rough with calluses from hard work. She squeezed her eyes shut so she could memorize the feel of his hands on hers, the sound of his breathing. Then she opened her eyes to memorize his dear face, but she discovered her vision blurred with tears.

  A step, a shift, and soft lips kissed her tears away. She flung one arm around his neck. Their noses bumped, her other elbow knocked into his arm, but then their lips met—

  “AHEM!” The queen coughed loudly.

  Once again they sprang apart.

  “Your entourage is waiting, my boy,” the queen said gruffly. “Say your good-byes.”

  Lios took Rhis’s hand and kissed it quickly, then whispered, “Fare you well.”

  “And you,” Rhis managed.

  Lios bowed to his mother, turned, and in a couple of quick steps was gone.

  Rhis curtseyed to the queen in Elda’s most approved style, though she couldn’t prevent her lips from trembling. Dignity and poise! She made it to the door. She made it outside the room. She made it to the hallway before the tears came.

  “Come, sweeting,” Sidal murmured. “Let’s go home.”

  Demo version limitation

  EPILOGUE

  “It is such a relief to be able to talk without spies,” Shera exclaimed as she climbed into Rhis’s carriage, plumped down onto the opposite cushioned bench, and disposed her skirts prettily. Then she started fussing with her hair and her little travel bag.

  Rhis gestured to the waiting escort-commander, and her cavalcade began to move. Rhis had thought that a troop of tough Mountain Riders as well as two carriages worth of servants, and another carrying baggage, were far more than a princess of little Nym needed to attend a friend’s wedding, but her father had said, “No, no, you’ll go as we see fit. You’re not just a princess of Nym any more.”

  And her mother had agreed.

  Rhis knew what was meant. And even though she was twenty-one years old, had traveled to the imperial court, had danced with three kings, had shared spiced ice with an emperor-elect, had talked with one of the Snow Folk in a language not native to either of them, she still blushed whenever anyone made reference to Lios. She’d begun to wonder during the last year if the blushes had just plain become a habit.

  “He might not like me,” she exclaimed, exasperated. “Or I him. I mean, we might like one another fine, but feel like brother and sister, or—or he’ll like me but he’s fallen in love with someone else.”

  “Have you fallen in love with someone else?” her mother had asked.

  Rhis had certainly been attracted to others. Especially to the emperor-elect, but she’d recognized early on that that was because he reminded her so much of Lios. Only he was a mage journeyman, not a scribe. But he’d had the same serious air that would change all of a sudden into a sense of fun. And he’d had the same regard for people, seeing them just as people, not as representatives of rank.

  “No,” she said finally. “But we all know that what one feels doesn’t guarantee what the other will feel.”

  “Nevertheless,” her father said. “Everyone in our corner of the world thinks of you as the next queen of Vesarja. Whether or not that is true, you may as well have the entourage of a queen, because you will be treated like one.”

  “That means the flatterers and falsity,” Elda put in, for this discussion was at the family dinner.

  “You must remember that you’ll be hearing what they think you want to hear. If you believe any of it, that’s at your own peril.” That was Princess Shera, now turned sixteen, speaking with such an air of importance that Rhis smothered a laugh.

  Elda nodded approvingly. “Well said, my dear. Well said.”

  Of course. Because that’s what you have said, Rhis thought, but kept her peace.

  Her reverie was interrupted when Shera flung herself back against the cushions with a loud sigh. “It’s so good to get out of Gensam again!”

  “I thought you got back together with Rastian again,” Rhis exclaimed.

  “Sort of.” Shera shrugged her pretty, rounded shoulders. The new style was for wide, rounded necklines, tight bodices, and tulip-shaped skirts which looked wonderful on her. “Four times, all told.” She grinned, dimples flashing in her cheeks. “But last night, when he said he wanted to sneak along as a guard just to keep an eye on me, we had a big fight. I told him he could go guard a tree or a rock, something that had the patience to listen.”

  Rhis said with sympathy, “I’m sorry he wasn’t invited.”

  “I’m not. He only wanted to come so he could glower at anyone I might flirt with. Will flirt with,” Shera corrected in a fair-minded tone. “I can’t help it. I love to flirt. I love romance. Papa took me aside last year and told me that I’m a lot like his side of the family—more in love with the idea of falling in love than with a person. And though Rastian and I are friends—mostly—I don’t want to marry him . . .” She fluttered her hands. “I still want romance. Rastian’s as romantic as an old pair of shoes.” She sighed. “Maybe when I’m older I’ll settle down. Like Papa did.” She looked out the window and said in a casual voice, “Do you happen to know if Glaen was invited?”

  “No.”

  “Well. Tell me about that robe. The embroidery is amazing, it’s like brocade, so it doesn’t look dull, but a robe? Or is that the fashion in Charas-al-Kherval?”

  “It is,” Rhis acknowledged.

  “And you’re wearing empire fashions here? Woo, even Iardith would be impressed—if she were coming. But I hear everyone wrote to Taniva saying they’d come only if she didn’t, and then Taniva told, oh who was it? Oh anyway, Jarvas wouldn’t have her, so that’s that.”

  “I’m wearing empire fashions because skinny people look awful in those wide-necked dresses with the tight waists and the skirts draped over hips I don’t have. I love these robes.”

  Shera scanned the soft layers of gauzy silk with a critical eye, then gave a nod. “You do look good. What do you want to wager you start a new fashion?”

  Rhis laughed. “We’ll see! What I really want, though, is to hear some of your music. Come on. Our last journey together we made music, and were just beginners. Now you’re leading musical fashions, and I want to be the first to hear your new songs.”

  Shera sat upright. “You can be the first to hear the song I made for their wedding gift! I think it’s my best yet—I’ve got a triple counterpoint in a 5/4 rhythm—”

  “5/4? That’s impossible!”

  “Oh, no it’s not! It’s a delightful rhythm, like galloping horses—they will love that.” She demonstrated on her lap. “And just ravishing chord changes. Oh, if I don’t have everyone singing it by the end of the week, may I turn into a croaking toad!”

  oOo

  Everyone assured one another that the wonderful thing about the weather so very high up was, you could wear your very best clothes and be certain you wouldn’t wilt from the lowland heat.

  Otherwise, the old fortress overlooking Lake Skyfall, which officially lay on the border between the Kingdom of High Plains and Damatras, was beautiful in a grand, austere way. An army of servants had done their best to make it more festive for the noble and royal visitors arriving from as far away as the Island of Wilfen. Brightly woven cushions
softened the stone benches, and colorful territorial banners hung everywhere, rippling in the brisk mountain winds.

  Jarvas and Taniva together received most of the guests, when they weren’t seeing to other matters. Rhis’s arrival caused no little stir, and the royal pair were both on hand when the six matched horses galloped round the last bend into a grand courtyard lined with stone statues of rearing horses.

  Shera, face to the window in order to thoroughly enjoy the commotion their arrival caused, gave a loud gasp. “I see Lios! There he is!” She jabbed her finger against the glass, almost breaking it. “Ow. He’s there—and with Hanssa! G-r-r-r, the rotter!”

  Rhis felt her heart constrict. She did not lunge at the window, but nothing in the world could have prevented her from sending a fast glance past Shera’s shoulder. How strange it is that one can travel for five years, and meet hundreds of people, but a flickering glimpse of no more than the shape of a shoulder, the way his brown hair waved back over his ears, and she knew him immediately. And once again the sun poured its light right out of the sky and through her bones.

  Leaning on his arm was a tiny lady, dainty and graceful as a butterfly, her gold-touched red hair pulled back on either side of her head as she laughed up at Lios. He was partly hidden by a press of spectators. For a heartbeat they were poised, then they were swallowed in the crowd.

  “. . . that rotter.” Shera sniffed. “He’s worse than Rastian! He—”

  “Wait,” Rhis said. “Wait. There has to be a reason for what we saw.”

  “Yes,” Shera said, fuming. “Unless what we saw was the reason.”

  Like screaming nightmare creatures, all the worst explanations ran through Rhis’s mind, but she’d learned not to latch onto what hurt worst, just because it was too easy for pain to impose its own logic.