by Shannon Hale
He’s a king, Rin thought. But this time she did not allow that thought to chase her away.
She climbed the steps slowly, her legs shaking as if from exhaustion. Then she stood behind him, watching quietly, and even from the simple slump of his shoulders, she understood so much about him it hurt. In some way he’d always known Selia was bad for him. But she’d been so brilliant, so tempting, a rare fresh fruit when all the world was winter. It did not matter that she had tricked him or overpowered him. Because even now that she was gone and he knew for certain just how wrong he’d been, he still missed her. He missed how she’d made him feel. His pain seemed a cousin to Rin’s own defiant confusion after Wilem—her feverish yearning to feel powerful again, and her shame for that desire. She rubbed her arms as if brushing off the trails of a spider’s web.
The king sat, resting his head against the battlement wall, and words swirled through Rin. So many possibilities. She knocked away most of them, ones that gave her advantage, that might woo him to admire her, even those that could trick him into thinking well of Bayern. She could see so much pain in him, her own skin stung. It became a challenge to find the words that might have been her balm those months ago.
Don’t, she warned herself. It’s dangerous. A misstep could hurt him, or worse—cause a war. But she knew—not just what could make it feel better now, but what was true. She was not skilled enough to manipulate him as Selia had—besides, that was the last thing he needed. But the words tinkled like chimes, ready and lovely.
“Your Majesty?” Rin sat beside him. “My name is Rin. I’m . . .” I don’t know what I am. I used to be of the Forest, but I’m not anymore. I’m here, that’s all.
“You are Rin. Of where? Nowhere? That is a curious name.”
She nodded agreement.
“How old are you?” he asked, squinting. His mastery of the western tongue was nearly perfect, his accent smooth.
“Fifteen. No, I had a birthday . . . sixteen.”
He nodded. “You have the look of my daughter. She hates me, of course.”
It was a strange thing for him to say, Rin guessed, and from that she knew that his pain was so hot that he ceased to be wary, lost the careful walls of diplomacy he must usually build. That made it easier to speak, as if they were peers comforting each other.
“My father disappeared when I was two,” she said, wanting to share something in return. “Sometimes I’ve thought I’d give about anything just to have a memory of him.”
The king nodded, wasting no words on feigned sympathy. Rin pulled her legs under her and decided she would tell a story—a true one. That is what Isi might do.
“When I was seven or eight, my ma decided that instead of spending all summer roaming the Forest and gathering food to last us through the winter, we’d start making things to sell and so buy more grain and other kinds of food we couldn’t scavenge. It seemed a fine idea at the time, a way to make everything just a little nicer. We carved wooden bowls and canes and mud shoes. In the fall, my ma went to marketday in the city, sold our goods and bought a wagonload of food stuff. Once home, she discovered half the bags were nothing but chalk dust. She’d been swindled. Well, there were about twenty people in our family at the time, and chalk dust wasn’t going to get us through winter. So she cried for a minute, ’cause sometimes that helps us get through the worst bits. Then she called us all in the yard and said, ‘This week we scavenge like the squirrels. I’ve got a prize for the body who brings us the most.’ And it was a game. We flowed all over that forest, hunting with slings, finding mushrooms and late berries, roots and sprouts. We had a good time—maybe even more fun than we’d had making bowls.”
The king was looking at her curiously. “Did you find enough?”
“Our bellies shrunk a bit and we chewed on pine bark till our teeth hurt, but nobody died that winter. The next spring my brother and I added water and grass to the chalk dust and patted it all over Ma’s house. It was pretty, sitting all white like that. Pretty as a bird.” The memory struck ache into her heart.
The king nodded.
“That swindler, he tricked my ma and got away with it too. But he didn’t even slow her down. It’s good to cry a bit, ’cause that helps us get through the rough parts. And the winter is tough, there’s no doubt. But we just hang on until spring when that ache will be all but swallowed up.”
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment Rin feared he would yell or throw her back in the dungeon for speaking presumptuously to a king. But then his eyes softened, and his sigh was full of ache.
“You are young. You cannot understand these things.”
She was certain she was using people-speaking even before she pushed those words out, but she spoke anyway, because it was true. “A heart’s a heart, in a child or a man. You are tougher than you feel right now. Your roots are deep, your canopy’s spread wide. You’re going to show everyone what it means to be a king.” He blinked a few times, and a tear sped down his cheek.
He wiped it away. “I will show them, will I, Rin from Nowhere?”
“Yes, sire.”
“You speak boldly for fifteen years.”
“I’m sixteen now.”
He smiled just a little. “For sixteen years, then.”
She shrugged. “I’m just trying to speak truly.”
“Then speak on.”
Now it was Rin’s turn to be startled to tears. She nodded too, wiping them away and leaning back against the wall beside the king. Rin did not think he had people-speaking, but those words still entered her like arrows, and she felt stunned and downed by their command. Speak on.
So she did. She told more stories about home, the culture of pranks among her brothers, the games of the children. How it felt to climb a tree so high you inched about the canopy’s shadow and turned your face like a leaf to the sun. How it felt to get lost inside one of Ma’s hugs. How the night Forest sounded, chewed to bits by crickets and thrumming with bats and breeze.
After a time, silence fell between them, but she stayed, Rin beside the king of Kel. She let his words sprout inside her while the sun dragged the evening down into the west and the world merged with night.
Chapter 29
Rin did not approach Scandlan again but she detected a change. His eyes were still sad, his shoulders slumped as if something was reaching up for him and pulling him down by his beard. But he did not weep openly anymore, and he met Geric’s and Isi’s eyes when they spoke.
Speak on, he’d said. But fear crouched inside Rin, tense. What if Selia had begun like that, speaking to comfort, hoping to help? How long did Rin have before she began to act as she had with Wilem? How long before she turned into Selia?
The next evening Rin did not speak a word through dinner, sneaking out of the castle after everyone drifted off to bed. She spent the night in the wood, nestled beneath the great oak, where she could see the three stone cairns keeping their hulking vigil.
Without fear, she let her thoughts melt into the tree’s core, felt that good tightness, and claimed what calm seeped into her chest. It was balm, but not healing. The timber could not take away the curse of people-speaking or even offer words of advice. She slept fitfully that night, a root arching behind her back, and dreamed that she was exhausted and could not sleep.
The next morning Rin ate a handful of hazelnuts and decided to live in Daire’s wood for the rest of her life—hunt in the winter, scavenge in the summer, build herself a hut of dead wood and never speak again. The decision was still new and daunting when she heard a voice calling her name.
“There you are!” Razo strutted through the trees, his hands in his pockets. Some time ago, he’d asked Isi’s thread-mistress to add pockets to all his tunics because he liked how casual he looked with his hands resting. Of course he had not told Rin that outright, but she guessed. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Rinty-minty-moo.”
Rin could not help smiling. “Rinty-minty-moo?”
“Not my best?” Razo squinted up
at the canopy, his lips mouthing the words Rinty-minty-moo. “Hmm. I’d been pleased with it in my head, but now I think it’s safe to say that was my worst one so far. Don’t worry, I’ll find the perfect nickname for you yet.”
He sat beside her and stared up into the gaudy patterns of the oak leaves, a quiet flinch the only sign he was remembering when those branches hid them from death.
“It occurs to me that you’ve been acting odd—that is, odder than normal. But being me, I didn’t figure out what it was until you didn’t show up for breakfast this morning—which, by the way, consisted of cherries and cheese and cold beef with jellied fat. Surprisingly tasty. Anyway, I figured it out.” His tone deepened, his frown serious. “Rin, I know you’re worried about hurting people. Because of, you know . . . how badly you smell.”
Rin could not contain an angry gasp.
Razo laughed. “That was a priceless expression! Let me just absorb that for a minute in memory so I never forget . . . all right, that’ll do. Anyway, I mean because of the people-speaking, of course. And you shouldn’t worry.” He picked up a thin stick and rubbed it between his fingers, making it spin. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone just to prove to you I’m telling the truth. There was a time when I didn’t like to be home, because I felt all squished in the family, like I was just one too many Agget-kin. Like I wasn’t really one of the brothers.
“Sometimes”—he winced, and the stick spun faster—“sometimes I didn’t even want to be around Ma. But then I went to the city as an animal worker, met Enna and Isi and Finn, became a scout and a spy for Bayern, met Dasha, and don’t know if I mentioned how I stopped a war in Tira? Did I ever tell you about that? Maybe once or twice? Anyway, I like being home now. And it wasn’t the homestead that changed. So I’m saying, it’s all right if you change some. Stay out in the world longer if you need it. You’ll figure it out. And then you’ll go home again and it’ll be just right. You’ll see. Besides, there’s nothing Jef could use so much as a people-speaker to convince him how loud he snores.”
Razo left, walking backward while he said, “We leave in the morning. Isi thinks Scandlan is suddenly better, and Enna’s determined to marry Finn now or we’ll all feel the pain. In the morning, Rinn-a-round. If you disappear, we’ll look for you till we find you, and just imagine Enna’s mood after that delay.”
He turned and jogged off.
Relief bloomed in Rin’s chest until it almost hurt. She did not deserve to be so relieved—she scolded herself for not feeling glum and coming up with a new plan to flee. This solved nothing. She still did not know how she was going to live with that disease, how to keep people safe from herself. But at least, for now, she would not be alone. Her brother would not allow it.
Back at the castle, Enna declared that if it were not for Finn’s mother, waiting for her only son’s wedding back in Bayern, she’d have Geric marry them right there in her traveling tunic and leggings, not so much as a flower in her hair.
“But how can I break a mother’s heart?” she said.
And so the party took leave of Scandlan. Formal farewells between the sovereigns lasted a good hour, and Rin waited in the wagon with Tusken, singing a song about colors. The Kelish king walked Isi and Geric to their horses, and after they mounted, he kept coming through the Bayern party and straight to the wagon. Straight to Rin.
He stared at her for several moments in silence—and so, Rin felt, did everyone else. She resisted pulling a blanket over her head.
“Rin of Nowhere,” said the king. “What was the prize?”
She blinked. “The prize, Your Majesty?”
He nodded. “Your mother said there would be a prize for whoever scavenged the most before winter. Who won? What was the prize?”
“Oh!” She almost laughed, she was so startled by the question. “I don’t think anyone remembered to ask about a prize. We just scavenged as if it was a game. Maybe the prize was that no one starved.”
The king nodded. He smiled a little bit, just with his eyes, before turning back to the castle.
Speak on, Rin, he’d told her.
The thought was intimidating, sitting in the midst of hundreds of soldiers. It made sense to her now why she felt so uncomfortable in crowds. People-speaking gave intense meaning to words and expressions, and trying to truly see every person in a large group made her head hurt. She thought of what she’d said to Selia and felt its truth—it would be more comfortable to sit up high and command than to stay low and watch.
The wagon lurched forward and Tusken tumbled onto her lap, his noise of surprise turning into a giggle.
“Did you fall, Tusk? What a brave boy to fall and laugh!”
He laughed some more, and Rin remembered how easy it was to talk to that little boy. It was a start at least.
With no hurry (except for Enna’s), Geric’s party took the main trade road, checking on the rebuilding of Hendric’s inn and the village of Geldis, stopping at castles in the major towns. Rin kept to herself, caring for Tusken when she was needed. Razo was often nearby.
Before Rin could come up with a plan for her future, Bayern’s capital edged into view, the city’s walls lining the horizon in sturdy gray. It was late morning, and Rin was riding a horse named Careful, or so Isi had called him. Tusken was sharing a horse with his father and doing something that made Geric laugh as if he too were a little boy. Enna and Dasha were trotting together, and Rin could tell they were jabbering about something silly the way their voices climbed up in pitch, though both set their jaws as if determined not to laugh.
Razo rode near Isi and Rin, trying to convince the queen that what her son really needed was to spend his summers in the Forest.
“He’s got no playmates, and that’s just wrong. Who’ll teach him to take a punch without crying with no older brothers? I’ll tell you who—Agget-kin. I’ve got twenty-two nieces and nephews, Isi. Twenty-two. You ever fallen face-down on an ant hill? That’s what it’s like to live there—but in a good way.”
Rin whispered, “Actually we’ve got twenty-three,” and Razo slapped his forehead.
“I went and forgot baby Linna again, didn’t I? Don’t you dare tell Jef or he’ll have me changing her dirty squatters as penance. How could I forget Linna? She screams like a kestrel.”
Isi smiled. “You have a Rinna and a Linna in the family?”
“Names like that are common in the Forest,” said Razo. “We’ve got a Rinna, Linna, Winna, Minna, a Tin, Kin . . . let’s see, who else?”
“Finn,” said Rin.
“Right, if we’re talking about Forest folk outside our family. I know a Shinn, Kinna, Vinna, Nin—I’m forgetting some—and then of course there’s Enna, Genna, Senna, Hen, Gren, Lenna, Brenna . . .”
I rhyme with half of the Forest, Rin thought. She wondered if Isi’s name held resonances of Kildenree, Dasha’s of Tira. If it was common everywhere to resonate with your birthplace. I belong in the Forest.
She was not so sure it was true, but the desire for its truth burned, red coals in her chest that she did not want to die out.
“I should visit your family,” said Isi. “Meet all those -innas and -ennas, and let Tusken climb a few challenging trees.”
“Now that’s some sense,” said Razo. “I have a feeling about that boy. Soon he’ll be leaping from branch to branch like a squirrel, mastering the sling and preferring moss to pillows.”
Tusken heard Razo’s voice and shrieked for him, so Razo trotted up to the boy and his father, shouting, “There’s a dangerous brigand! I’ll teach you yet!”
Isi watched him go, then bowed her head, her gaze on her hands. Isi had been so relieved to have Tusken safe, so happy that Razo was alive, only now was Rin seeing past those brighter emotions and noticing the sadness that roiled beneath the surface. Geric wore a reminder of Selia’s cruelty on his face, but Rin supposed he was not the only one left with scars.
“You’re unsettled,” Rin said quietly. “Selia’s changed you, shaken
your confidence.”
Isi did not look up. “Her words don’t go away easily.”
Unbidden, some of those words rose up inside Rin—You were afraid of yourself all your life. And now you are useless. Weak.
“Not everything Selia said was a lie,” said Isi. “She was right about my being a coward. I let her punishment stand, but I was too afraid to witness her execution. And since I hid and hesitated, she survived and went on to make war. How many people died due to my incompetence?”
“Selia said the Tiran were eager for war. It might have happened anyway.”
“Perhaps. But she was right—I flinch from duties. I go at being queen like a horse on a lead rope.”
Rin started with a new thought. “You don’t want to be a queen, do you?”
Isi shook her head, a little shyly. “My husband is king and I know my responsibility. I hack away at it, do my best, and hope no one notices the blunderer in the crown.”
“No.” Rin shuddered, the untruth in that so cold it chilled her. Fighting back, she gathered in warmth, let it roll around in her, ready to speak truth. “You aren’t playing at being queen, Isi. You are a queen. Everything you say and do and think and fear—all of it makes you a queen, and the greatest queen I could imagine.”
Isi shuddered too, as if a warm cloak were suddenly lifted off her, but she seemed lighter for it. “Thank you.” She looked at Rin curiously. “What did Selia say about you?”
“That I’m weak.”
“She was wrong.”
Rin shook her head. She was still unsure if any of her words were harmless or if people-speaking laced them all. With the queen especially, she wanted to be cautious.
“You should know,” Isi said after a time, “it can be overwhelming to know only one speaking gift. Ever since our conversation in the woods—was it just weeks ago? Feels like years—I’ve been contemplating what gift you might learn to balance trees. But then I realized . . . perhaps you already know one.”
