The Forgotten Sisters (27 page)

“Steffan, are you sure?” Astrid asked.

He nodded. “You will be exactly the ruler Danland needs. And I'll be here whenever you need me. We'll figure it out together. Besides, Pa is healthy as a horse. He'll live for years.”

The king coughed. “They're speculating about my death now?”

Astrid stood up. She took a deep breath. And she nodded.

Felissa stood too, as if in show of support, and Sus sprang to her feet. Miri could not help standing either, with nervous excitement and surprise and joy. Peder joined her, and Britta and the queen. And they all looked at one another, standing around the dining table and not really sure why except that it felt right.

The king stared from his seat.

“My older brother was supposed to be king,” he said. “I would that he hadn't died.”

“With all respect to your brother, Your Highness,” Miri said, “I've read the journal of your father, and I think
that you make a far better king than your brother would have. If I were a historian, I would name you King Bjorn Who Listened. There are far worse honorifics.”

The king set down his napkin. Slowly, he stood.

“I've made a lot of mistakes,” he said quietly. “But I am listening.”

Astrid lifted her glass, and Miri could see her hand was shaking. “To King Bjorn, may he listen, and live, for a very, very, very long time.”

Everyone raised their glasses. The king joined them.

“To Astrid,” he said. “And Felissa. And Susanna. May they forgive—”

He held his napkin to his eyes.

They all sat again, no one speaking, a lot of looking politely away and napkins employed to wipe eyes and blow noses.

Miri was the first to break the silence.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Peder fell face-first into a steaming pile of goat dung?”

The sky leaps with joyous blue

The sun stews a honeyed brew

The wind yelps with pleasure too

Above me it is spring

New leaves twirl up toward the sun

The frost melts, the snow undone

Rivers swell and grasses run

Below me it is spring

My lungs fill with warming air

My heart beats a silent prayer

My mind loosens all despair

Inside me it is spring

Spring snapped like a burst berry. One morning the timid warmth and leftover scent of winter—rusty, lonely, and chill—just popped. Every day the world was greener, the trees fuller, the flowers brighter. And on
Miri and Peder's journey, every step of the horses, every roll of the carriage wheels seemed to draw even more life out of the world till Miri felt so full of it she thought she might burst too.

Miri much preferred returning home to leaving. Two years before, heartache had throbbed hot and prickly in her chest. Now a cool lightness thrummed, as if every instrument in the king's grand orchestra were pressed together and playing inside her a song of expectation.

Like royalty, Miri and Peder rode in a carriage up the winding mountain road, through the pass, up and up, seemingly making for the clouds themselves. And then the path dropped and the entire village was in view. A few dozen stone houses beyond the chapel, its carved wooden doors so lovingly oiled they caught and twinkled the sunlight.

“There,” said Peder.

Miri sucked in a breath. Home looked exactly the same. And yet she felt so different. Perhaps she would not fit in it anymore.

Miri's legs were insisting they could run faster than the horses', trembling and aching for the chance. She leaped out of the carriage.

She had forgotten how to walk on the broken rocks and scree that lined Mount Eskel's path, but in just a few
strides, her feet remembered. And she had not known she could run so fast. Peder raced beside her, laughing.

One of Frid's big brothers saw them and turned to shout to the village. People began to pour out of the quarry and houses, dozens and dozens, the entire village from small child to grandmother coming together, waving, calling their names. Her whole, big extended family of friends and neighbors shouting the glad news that Miri and Peder were home.

In front of them all, Marda. Shy Marda who rarely spoke, who kept her gaze down when she walked. Marda was running, her pale hair streaking behind her, her arms out.

“Miri! Miri! You're home, you're here! Miri!”

Yes, Miri could definitely run faster than lowlander horses.

In moments she reached her. They collided together in a hard embrace that sent them both tumbling to the ground, laughing and hugging and crying all at once.

“I heard you,” said Marda. “You quarry-spoke and I heard, every day this spring.”

And then Pa was there. He picked them both off the ground and hugged them together, his huge arms wrapped around them, squeezing their family together so tightly Miri was certain they would never be apart again.

He put his large hands on Miri's face. “You didn't die,” he said, his voice as low and rumbly as a rock slide.

She shook her head.

“I thought you'd died,” he said. “My heart felt like you had.”

She shook her head again. She could not speak.

“Will you stay? For a good long time at least. Will you stay home?”

She nodded.

Pa hugged her. And then as if he could not contain his happiness, he picked Miri up under her arms and tossed her into the air, as he used to do when she was a small child.

“Pa!” she said. Just because she was short did not mean she should be treated like a child. But secretly she liked to fly from his safe arms up into the huge blue sky.

He did it again. Miri flew.

As soon as Miri gained her feet, she delivered the news.

“Mount Eskel is ours,” she said. “The king signed it over—all of it. The village, the quarry, all the land between the pass and the mountain's top. The academy graduates and our children will be the legal land owners. It means no one can take our home away from us, not even the king.”

With that news, a spontaneous holiday erupted on the springtime mountain. Gerti fetched her lute, and her
father, Os, his three-stringed yipper. Frid danced with her lowlander beau, Sweyn, and Esa danced with Almond, who grinned the whole time. People brought out food and lit a bonfire in the village center.

Miri sat between Pa and Marda, trying to deliver all the news of the past months. A small crowd gathered to hear her stories. She particularly enjoyed retelling the caiman hunt, Dogface's rescue, and Astrid wrestling the gigantic soldier.

Peder joined her with a whisper, “My pa said yes.”

No one's mood could stay sour in the village that day.

And so the next morning, Miri and Peder entered the village chapel. Miri was dressed in gifts. A blue silk dress Queen Sabet had sent with her, a jeweled dragonfly pin the sisters had had made, and gray leather slippers from Britta, so thin and soft they felt like bare feet.

The betrothal ceremony was much simpler than a wedding ceremony. Just a quick exchange of vows, promising each other they would be true during their betrothal year. A year from that date, they could wed.

Miri held Peder's hands in front of their families and friends. And she did not blush when he kissed her.

Peder's ma, Doter, wept. Miri's pa nodded again and again. The ceremony was over, and the villagers returned to the quarry. The hammering and pounding of stone filled the air, as noisy as twenty swamps.

Peder kissed Miri one more time and then went to inspect the cut linder blocks and select a good stone for carving. Miri arranged with his sister Esa to join her in the village school that afternoon to help teach. First she gathered both their families' goats and coaxed them up the hill to graze. She had a book in her apron pocket and a betrothal flower laced around her finger.

Near the quarry, Frid was wiping down the new anvil. Sweyn put a hand on her back and whispered something. Frid laughed. Beyond, the rugged angles of the quarry were busy with workers. Through the ground, the echoes of quarry-speech reached Miri, the villagers talking to one another as they worked.

Lighten the blow
.

Strike swiftly
.

Aim true
.

Peder was examining a stone. Miri caught his eye and waved. He pressed his hand to his heart as if the sight of her made it pound so hard that he had to push it back into his chest. She laughed.

Miri leaned back against the throne of the hill and opened her book. The goats bleated over the new green grass. Above her, the sun burned against the snowy top of Mount Eskel. The golden light blazed around Miri's head like a crown.

The academy was held in a country estate a day's ride outside Asland. The estate's lord had graciously volunteered to remain in his city house for the year and donate his country home for the need. That is, he'd volunteered after the queen, her daughters and son, and Britta, the newly appointed chief delegate, instructed him to do so.

The lush gold-papered drawing room had been emptied of couches and piano. The students sat at individual desks, clay tablets and styluses at the ready. Most kept glancing at the portrait of Princess Astrid hanging at the head of the room. In a year's time, there would be a ball in her honor. Princess Astrid would meet all the students of the academy. She would speak with them and dance with them. And eventually, she would make her choice. The knowledge seemed to hum in the air, exciting anticipation and not a little anxiety.

The door opened. A woman entered. If one word could be applied to her, it was “imposing.” She wore all
black, her short black hair cut flat on the end like a chisel. Her expression was fierce, her posture so straight she put fence posts to shame.

She looked over her new class—twenty boys, commoners and nobles, each selected by the priests of the creator god to attend the sacred academy.

“Good morning,” she said, almost meaning it. “I am Olana Mansdaughter. When I give you permission to speak, you will address me as Tutor Olana. Welcome to the prince academy.”

My travels with Miri began in 2003. Over a decade later, I feel quite nostalgic as I bring them to an end. These books would not exist in any form without the wisdom and inspiration from my editor, Victoria Wells Arms, and my husband, Dean Hale.

It takes a village to raise a book, so a hearty thanks to the village at Bloomsbury, including Hali Baumstein, Cindy Loh, Donna Mark, Lizzy Mason, Beth Eller, Linette Kim, Cristina Gilbert, Erica Barmash, Melissa Kavonic, and Patricia McHugh, as well as to Amy Lu Jameson, Barry Goldblatt, Tricia Ready, Jared Hess, and Max Hale. Kisses for Ann Cannon, Ally Condie, and Ann Dee Ellis for your support and snacks. As always, much love to my hometown bookstore, The King's English, and to booksellers and librarians everywhere who match up readers with just the right books.

For help creating Lesser Alva, I pulled on a visit to the Reed Islands of Lake Titicaca and
The Marsh Arabs
by Wilfred Thesiger.

I feel so grateful that I got to travel with Miri across three books. Profound thanks to my readers whose encouragement and patronage allowed that journey. I'm honored that Miri might accompany you on your own.

THE BOOKS OF BAYERN

The Goose Girl

Enna Burning

River Secrets

Forest Born

Princess Academy

Princess Academy: Palace of Stone