That night, Ani told the workers a story of a woman who loved a man, and when he married another, she turned into a bird and sang such sad songs to his window that his bride died of the heartbreaking sound. The hall was quiet at the tale, and when Ani left for her room, Razo just patted her shoulder and looked down.
The evening was caught in the early dark of near winter. The city was so empty and still, it seemed no creature had ever walked those stones. Ani stopped in the street outside her window. Silvery moonlight made her pane a mirror. She sought the lines and curves of her mother’s face—her mother, who was beautiful. Do others want to look at me? she wondered. Did he? She put a hand to her cheek. Her face was gray, unsure, shadowed. She did not know if she was beautiful.
“Work here long enough and you can convince Ideca to give you a table mirror.”
Ani straightened. Enna stood a few doors down, entering her own room.
“I didn’t know you were there,” said Ani. She hurried through her own door and sat on the bed beside Jok, feeling flustered and stupid. Jok made the sounds indicating he was ready to sleep, so she took off her hat and unwound her hair, scratched her head, and sighed. The weight of her hair on her back reminded her that she was not who she was. That she was a secret.
She turned at a movement. Her curtains were open, and Enna stood at the window, staring, her eyes wide like an owl’s.
“Oh,” said Enna.
Ani put a hand to her uncovered hair, stepped forward, and opened the door. “Please come in,” she said, and closed her curtains.
Enna sat beside her on the bed.
“I’m getting pretty careless, I guess,” said Ani. “I’ve become so used to being a goose girl, I forget to worry.”
“I just came to apologize. I didn’t mean to see.” Enna put out her hand and fingered an end of Ani’s long yellow hair. “That’s why you always wear a hat or a scarf. But your eye brows?”
“Dyed,” said Ani.
Enna ran a finger across Ani’s brow and looked at her clean fingertip. She gave a little laugh and shook her head.
“If I tell you about me, can you keep it secret?”
“Yes, of course,” said Enna.
So Ani whispered the story, because she knew of no other way to buy Enna’s trust. She told it backward, forgetting which parts might be most important, and realized that she was better at telling imaginary tales than her own true one. The story began with the fact that she was a goose girl because the king gave her the job, because she had come to the city from the Forest, where she had been lost. She got lost when her company had mutinied, and there had been a massacre—she stumbled over that part—and her horse had witnessed it and gone mad. The reason they had rebelled against her was that her friend, her lady-in-waiting, had designs to rob her name, her title, and then kill her. And her title was, her title had been, princess.
“From Kildenree,” said Ani, with true accent. “My mother was, is, the queen.” She felt awkward saying it, like bragging, like saying she was something that she was not, sitting there in her goose girl boots in her room built right on the hard street against the city wall.
“Princess,” Enna said quietly.
The candle had sputtered out midtale, and Enna’s face was a dark shape on darkness, a faint, silvery line of cheek and chin. Ani wished to see her expression, to see if her brow lifted in surprise or her eyes tightened in doubt, or if the darkness bedded beneath her eyes and in the lines between nose and mouth, a wrinkle of deep thought, of betrayal.
“So,” said Ani.
“Do you want,” said Enna, still whispering, “should I bow to you? Princess?”
Ani gasped. “No. Please, no. I’m just waiting to see if you believe me.”
“Believe you? Mercy, Isi.”
Then Enna had questions, and they flowed in a fast current, scarcely giving Ani time to respond. About the Forest, and the kingdom, and the thornroot that could darken hair, and her horse—she could speak with him?—and how evil were those guards and how black must be their desires to spur them to murder. Ani answered every question. She felt safe there, in the absolute dark, Jok asleep in her lap, Enna’s hand occasionally bridging the blackness to touch her knee, the warm conversation filling up the dark space like heat fills the air around a fire.
Enna ran out of questions, and they sat quiet again, each thinking, seeing in the dark the bright images of a white horse and red blood and green trees, and on top of it all, a high, turreted palace with blind eyes.
“It must be past midnight,” said Ani.
Enna agreed.
“You’ve been very kind to listen,” said Ani, slipping back into her Bayern accent, which she discovered felt natural to her now. “And, I’m sorry if I’ve ever been unkind when you sought my friendship. I’m wary of that now, I think.”
“I can see why. Selia.” Enna said the last word as though she might spit it. “We’ve got to get you your name back.”
Ani nodded. “I’ve thought a lot about it. After the first time I met the king, I realized I couldn’t go there alone and demand they take my word over Selia’s and all her guards’. And I thought, maybe if I was surrounded by people who believed me, I’d be safer and have a better chance of convincing the king.”
“Yes,” said Enna, “let’s get all the workers together and we’ll be your guard and make the king listen. They can’t kill all of us, right?”
Ani pressed her lips together. “Yes, that’s what I think sometimes, and then I remember Adon and Talone, and Dano the cook, and the others. There were a lot of them, too, and Ungolad’s friends killed them all.”
“Oh,” said Enna.
“For a time I thought that idea was my best hope, but the more time I spend in the workers’ hall, I know that I can’t risk your lives.”
“Not even Conrad’s?” Enna tilted her head as though it were an appealing idea.
Ani laughed quietly. “It’s my trouble. Even if some of the workers were willing to go to battle on this, I don’t think it’d be right to endanger their lives just to get back my name.”
“Maybe,” said Enna, smothering a yawn.
“We should sleep, I guess.”
“Yes, don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”
“Enna,” said Ani as the girl rose to leave, “those guards would kill me if they knew I was here.”
“I know,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone. You’ll see that I won’t. And Isi . . . can I still call you Isi? It fits you. I want to tell you how I believe you. I don’t know why. I wouldn’t believe Razo if he pricked his finger and told me he was bleeding, and your story’s almost as crazy as your bedtime tales, but I really do believe you. And when you get tired of worrying and mourning your horse and trying not to be afraid, tell me and I’ll do it for you a while so you can shut your eyes and sleep peaceful.”
Chapter 13
The next afternoon, Ani awaited Geric’s visit, her ears so attuned to the distant sounds of hooves on cobbled streets that she did not hear Jok calling after her until he stood by her side. She tore grass for him and plucked loose feathers from his tail, setting aside the quills for the bundle Tatto would collect later that week. Perhaps, she thought, the king or prince himself will use the quills I gather here, and again she wondered what the prince might be like, though she found it not half so interesting as thinking about what Geric was like.
She was planning to tell Geric. Enna had believed, and so might others. Geric could help her with Falada. And if he had the prince’s ear, perhaps he could convince him of her identity. She tripped on that thought. Is that what she wanted? To marry this prince and live the rest of her life with Geric standing as the silent guard at her husband’s side? No, no, there must be a better solution than that.
When he finally came, Ani waited by the tree and watched his approach. Geric was tall, and he rode his mare with a height and ease that made Ani feel proud. She often thought of him as a boy, the way he teased her and chased the geese and got excite
d over the desserts he brought with dinner. But just then he did not look silly at all—in fact, she thought, in fact, quite handsome. She smiled at him, but when he neared, she could see that his expression was troubled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Geric wiped his forehead as though trying to dismiss unpleasant thoughts. “Nothing that should disturb this autumn peace.” And he tried to smile.
They walked beside the stream. Geric did not want to talk about the events that shaped his mood, saying only that there was ill gossip at the palace. He looked back to where his horse stood grazing and cursed himself, realizing that he had forgotten to bring dinner from the kitchens.
“Don’t mind for me,” said Ani.
But he was angry with himself and talked little, and Ani’s inclination to confess secrets began to harden in the mood. Soon they sat by a hushed bit of stream, watching the yellow leaves of the autumn birches plate the surface of the water. Ani looked across the stream, contemplating fording its shallow cold to hunt out late walnuts. Conrad used to bring back pockets full, and the thought woke her stomach to mumble a complaint.
“I’m sorry,” said Geric. “I came here today to escape the gloom, and I’ve brought it with me.”
“Let’s distract ourselves somehow. I heard that when the princess arrived she rode a fine mount. Can you tell me about her horse?” My horse. Falada. The story Enna knew was in her throat, eager.
Geric sighed. “The white stallion. Not well. I think they’ll kill him.”
“What?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“But, kill him? No, surely not kill him.”
“Yes, I think so. I understand the princess thinks it’s best, has said from her arrival that he was a dangerous creature. And he’s her horse. It’s her choice.”
“Oh, Geric.” Ani was standing. He noticed her expression and stood beside her.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“Geric, can you save the horse?”
“Isi, the king’s issued the order. It may’ve already been done.”
Ani stared up at the baring branches, eyes wide to keep them dry. She felt powerless. Geric looked at her with sympathy, perhaps thinking she was just a sweet girl who hated to hear of the mistreatment of any animal. She shook her head, unable to explain.
“Please,” she said. “Can you just ask the prince if he’ll let him live? It’s very important to me. That horse doesn’t deserve to die.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “If you’d like, I’ll go right now and try.”
“Thank you. I wouldn’t ask something like this, but I feel like you’re a friend, a good friend.”
“Isi, I’m so glad I am. These afternoons have been, you know, so nice. More than nice. More than just getting to eat out here and know your geese and talk. It’s not like—the palace—it isn’t an easy place to be, especially not now, and I’m trying to say that you’ve been... no, you’re so, you’re—”
He stopped. Looking into his dark eyes was like gazing at a calm river, and in them she saw the reflection of the leaning trees behind her, of golden leaves, of herself crowned by autumn. She lifted her face to him and was aware of the fullness of the sun on her skin, breaking through the cold air. Geric touched her cheek, smooth as a teardrop, thrilling as a lightning storm. She felt real.
“You are,” he said. His hand found hers, and he held her fingers tightly, as though he did not dare to do any more than hold her one hand, and look at her, and breathe deeply. She held his hand in both of hers.
With that touch his countenance changed. He dropped his hand and looked away.
“I should go,” he said, already walking to his horse. She stayed by the stream. When he had mounted, he turned back and frowned.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Isi.” He rode up the hill, through the arch, and disappeared into the stones of the city.
After the dark affirmed it was the middle night, Ani left Jok dozing on her bed, wrapped her hair into Gilsa’s blue headscarf, and slipped outside. She had recently oiled the hinge of her door, and it closed silently behind her. It was a long walk to the palace and seemed longer after dark, with nothing to watch but stray cats and closed windows. With every step the cold of the cobblestones pushed up through her boot soles and into her bones. She was wearing Gilsa’s pullover. It was bright and patterned, and she felt as obvious as a goose in a murder of crows.
The night guards stopped her at the gate. Of course they would.
“I’ve been called to the stables,” she said. Her forehead itched with cold and sweat, but she did not raise her hand to it.
The lead guard looked her over and then motioned for her to pass. She was a girl, a Forest girl by the look of her head wrap, and not possibly important enough to lie or plot. Ani knew a trusting guard might let an innocuous girl enter alone, but leading a princely, maddened horse back through was another matter. But she had to try.
There were others on the stable grounds—guards, late workers, and sleepless stable-hands. She nodded to those she walked past, and they nodded back. The stable where she had last seen Falada lay at the end of the yard, a painfully long walk that stretched on and on, the distance seemingly unchanged with every step.
When at last she ducked through the fence posts and into the long building, Ani knew it was wrong. There was an odor of stale hay and muck piles without the sharp, warm smell of animal. She ran to the end. Every stall was empty. Ani wiped her forehead with a loose end of the scarf and took a bracing breath. She would have to check every stable. Like the cold, hopelessness pricked at her skin.
She crossed the arena and ducked through the railings. Something caught—an exposed nail, a tether hook—and held a corner of her head wrap. Her fingers were numb from the cold, and she tried to feel it out blindly. Cloth, wood, metal, all felt the same.
“Ho there,” said a stable-hand, “what’re you doing?”
“I’m caught,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
Ani tugged harder. He spoke too loudly. Others were looking that way, and she was caught like a hooked fish breathing in cruel, dry air. And then she saw him. Across the field. He had stopped and was looking at her, wondering at the commotion.
“You’d better leave,” said the stable-hand.
Two pale braids. That was all she could make out at that distance. Pale braids. Panic seized her, and she had no thought but—away. She pulled herself free, and the scarf fell, long, unraveled, on the hard ground. Her yellow hair shone like silver in the moon-lightened field. All she knew to do then was run.
Ani did not look back. She knew he was behind her. She knew he was stronger, and she was so cold. Her boots hit the ground, and the impact shook her body, but her feet could feel nothing. She was as numb as her fingers, as numb as fear had made her mind. She stumbled and ran. He would be close now. Right there, behind her. Close enough to reach out, to grab her by the neck, to bring her down like a fox on a hen, jaw tight on its throat.
There’s something I can do, Ani thought. There’s something. She could not think what. The wind from her running grabbed at her ears like a child anxious to tell secrets. She strained to understand, but it was just noise, like the chattering of the geese had been all those weeks ago.
Up ahead the guards at the side gate blocked the exit, and another hurried from his post toward the sounds of running.
“That man,” she said as soon as she was close enough to speak, “he’s trying to hurt me. Please.”
The guards turned their attention away from her, and she continued to run, at last outside the palace and into the dark of the sleeping city. She turned back to see Ungolad at the gate and heard him yell in outrage, his pursuit stopped by the warning of javelins pointed at his chest.
Ani did not stop running until the leaning streets eased, and she looked around at unfamiliar buildings and knew she was lost. She rested against a house, her head on her trembling arm, and conc
entrated on breathing the cold air that stabbed at her throat and lungs like icy fingers. Ungolad knew she was there. They would search now for a Kildenrean girl with long yellow hair. There was fear again. Falada was gone, and all was wrong.
There had been something, an idea, a sensation, something she could have done, something that was stronger than the knife in his hand. Something in the wind. She could not remember, though she tried as she stumbled west on the sleepy streets, hiding behind barrels and piles of refuse when she heard footsteps behind her own, but seeing no one. She finally gained the city wall when the moon had set and followed the wall in utter darkness to her own room. At last, her own safe place.
Ani locked her door, fell on her bed, and was asleep at once. She did not wake until Conrad rapped on her door after breakfast.
Geric did not come that day. Ani waited for him to bring the news of the horse’s death. She could imagine how he would look, what he would say, how his gait would be slower, despondent, each foot reluctant to take a step, his eyes slow to meet her face. But they would meet her face, and he would take her hand again, and all would be well.
He did not come.
After the sun had started its long slope into the hollow of the western sky, Tatto passed through the archway. “I’ve got new boots,” he said, explaining why he picked his way across the grass, carefully avoiding goose droppings. Ani watched with sleepy eyes and a resigned dread.
“I’ve been sent by my chamber-lord to deliver to you a message.” Tatto spoke officially, raising one hand, palm upright, in a stiff gesture of oration.
“Yes, go on,” said Ani. He was inclined toward dramatic pauses.
“Here,” he said. “A letter from someone in the palace.”
The parchment was sealed with a plain pool of wax. Ani broke it and read.
Isi,
Matters here are worse, and the prince needs me at present. At any rate, I think I had better not return to your pasture again. I do not know how to write this. You know, this is my fourth draft of this letter, and I am determined to finish this one even though I will sound like a right fool. So I will just say it. I cannot love you as a man loves a woman. I am so sorry if I have presumed what is not true or have taken liberties with your sentiments. I hope you can forgive me.