From the early
days I was glued to Tortallan books and news posts. I absorbed myself in
whatever current issue King Roald was addressing, or any recent disasters
that had plagued the country. Living in the custody of the Temple of the
Sun, I had plenty of time on my hands to pore over mail from the Tortallan
mainland. Shipments came every month, and I would wait at the docks to
meet them without fail. I'd hold the Sun Priestess's hand as I searched
the horizon with an eagle eye, and cry out when I spotted a vessel. When
the ship's unloaded cargo turned out to be red tuna from the Great Inland
Sea, or burlap sacks full of absorbent rice, I'd stamp my foot in anguish.
I was then rewarded with a disapproving look from the Sun Priestess, a
true Yamani with little tolerance for outbursts.
When the newspapers
did appear, I still had trouble controlling myself -- I was inclined to
scream with excitement, run over to the edge of the ships, and egg the
sailors on as they unloaded the rest of the cargo. Some of them learned
to like me [I knew one captain who came back every four months], but some
would cease their work and glare until I was terrified enough to step back
to the Sun Priestess's outstretched hand. She said nothing when this happened,
but I could almost hear "What is given is always due back" emanating from
her brain into mine.
At first, I fulfilled
my voracious appetite for books and Tortallan culture in the brilliant
courtyards of the emperor's palace, liking the sunlight on the pages as
I read. The children of the royalty, however, had no concern for my reading
pleasure. They would crowd around me as if I were an ambassador's child,
cackling "Xenophile! Dirty xenophile!" Even though their words eventually
stopped hurting, it was annoying enough to make me move inside, reading
in the sacristy of the Sun Temple while robed acolytes scurried in and
out. I was only a little bookish girl, after all, and they were busy important
men, so they pretended not to notice me or my unsavory reading material.
For me, reading
was both a fascination and an escape: fascination with an exotic country
and escape from my young life. I needed to avoid the obvious fact that
the only place I'd ever travel was a nunnery, or perhaps a second-class
workman's bed. I never pondered this consciously for fear of making it
too real, but deep down the knowledge was instilled in me. I just tried
to forget it along with the ugliness of mortality and the pain of rejection,
shoving the door closed on the meaner facts of life.
* * * *
I yanked my right
arm back, ready to shoot my third arrow. My left knuckles were white from
the effort of gripping the front of the bow, and I took careful aim, planning
the trajectory of the arrow in my head. Concentrating on flight and targets
rather than the vicious children around me, I let go and flipped my head
up to watch the wooden shaft fly. I ignored the sting of the cuts on my
fingers -- arrow feathers could be painful -- and the long-forgotten harm
in the cries of "Tortallan tortoise! Tortallan tortoise!" When I hit the
innermost ring of the circular target, just shy of the bulls-eye, I was
the only one to celebrate.
"Someone told
me you hit the inner ring," said a timid Yamani girl, slipping into the
Sun Temple's sacristy. She peered around in awe at the small room, admiring
the golden engraved chests, elaborate candleholders, and stained-glass
windows, all crafted with a more meticulous eye than I could imagine. Her
hesitation allowed me a moment to regard her, and I realized that at a
second glance she looked lithe and acrobatic. "I didn't know we were allowed
to be in here."
"I'm allowed,"
I informed her. The familiar hostile coldness in my voice did not invite
her to continue.
"Do you stay
in here all the time?"
"Maybe it's none
of your business where I stay."
"Maybe I'm just
trying to make friendly conversation," she retorted. This girl was suddenly
tough and proud; a tigress when challenged. I felt guilty and exposed --
she was mastering the harsh act that had been mine for years. She didn't
seem like a gullible duchess's daughter who would delight in my torture,
but I just couldn't believe that this wasn't some new trick. I refused
to be roped into it, even in spite of her honest black eyes and stubborn
chin, identical to my own. No, I wasn't going to fall prey to their manipulations.
"In case you
hadn't heard, I don't make friendly conversation," I told her.
"Did you hit
the inner ring in archery?" she wanted to know.
"Why does it
matter?"
"That's impressive."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really."
If she had been anybody else, she would have been aggravated by my sardonic
air by now, but she showed no trace of annoyance. I felt like I was unarmed
and alone while Scanran raiding parties were pouring into the temple.
I took the safest
way out. "I've done it before."
"So have I. In
fact, most of us do it every week or so. We just make a point of congratulating
ourselves when we do."
"No one's congratulated
me before."
"Someone has
now. What's your name?"
"Don't you know
my name already? I think I'm the Tortallan tortoise this week."
She giggled.
"What?" I snapped.
I never meant to be funny, and I detested it when people laughed.
"The nicknames
they invent for you are so silly. They're sick of kissing their parent's
feet, and they want to feel like someone's worshipping them as well."
Someone else
saw the humor in it. I'd hit the red ring of the archery target, and I
had a living, breathing acquaintance who didn't work on a ship or at a
temple, and wasn't paid to take care of me. Of course, I'd still have to
be careful not to let my guard down . . . .
* * * *
"Mother's angry
with me again," Gazali said, her unsteady tone making me look up from my
latest box of papers from Tortall. We were in the Sun Temple sacristy again
-- when Gazali wasn't training for the strict Yamani spy guild for which
she'd been chosen, she had to hide in there with me. The royal children,
as expert as they were at weaseling their parents into privileges, couldn't
violate the temple grounds without express permission from the priestess
herself.
"She says she's
looking through suitors with my father," continued Gazali.
"That's ridiculous.
You're only eleven!" Even as I scoffed, I knew it made perfect sense.
"These things
can take months. And you're nine, Andrea, you're not that far off yourself."
"But . . ." I
didn't have parents to arrange these things for me. What did she mean by
that? "Aren't Vanishers exempt from that?"
"I told Mother
that I was going to be a fighting woman and I had a choice, but I don't
think she takes it seriously. It's not like people are going to quiz me
to make sure I'm perfectly happy with her decision."
"So just say
something!"
"Andrea, you
-- I can't just do that. People will talk if I'm not married."
"Let them talk.
People think I'm a foreigner."
She just looked
at me. My attempts to discern her expression were cut short by the arrival
of the Sun Priestess, who crooked a finger at me in a gesture that I knew
from previous experience meant "You-come-here!" I glanced at Gazali and
left. For all her nonchalance, I knew she was frightened. I wasn't going
to let her mother dim the horror and convince my friend to sell herself.
"I have to ask
you to pay attention." The Sun Priestess's face was stern and unflinching,
and her elaborate temple robes only seemed to make her annoyance more deserving
of my utmost attention. I felt like a disobedient child.
"I know that
you are often flighty, Andrea" -- she pronounced my name "Ahn-dray-uh,"
giving it a mystic, distant appeal that I liked -- "and there are reasons
for my lenient discipline" -- lenient! -- "but sometimes I believe
I should be able to rely on you to control yourself. Please practice, Andrea."
I nodded yes.
"Will you
practice, Andrea?"
"Yes, Sun Priestess."
"You will not
be living in Yaman for much longer."
I gasped. She
glared. I swallowed.
"What the court
says about your ethnicity is true. Only half of you belongs here, and that
is not enough for the emperor and empress. Your mother was Yamani, and
she took you here before she died. It is now long enough after her death
that the law no longer requires you to stay here."
I remembered
thinking that I had no parents to arrange marriages for me.
"You have stayed
in the custody of the Sun Temple because your mother was a loyal follower
of the Sun until she died. Your father is King Roald." She didn't say anything
else, because she knew that I had read about him in every single newspaper
I received. King Roald, whose sweet wife had passed away long ago. King
Roald, who had relied on his commanding presence and ultimate power to
cover up the grief of losing his love. They never mentioned any children.
It was clear that the press had a fervent wish for him to carry on the
bloodline, but did not want to rush him into anything. After all, his parents
were dead and he had no trusted advisors -- preferring to struggle through
the role of chief authority all by himself -- who might nudge him in the
right direction. He listened to no one, and no one spoke up to him.
He was my father.
It was like finding out that I had starred in the most famous theatrical
performance of all time, and found out years after the fact as I dug through
a box in the attic and discovered I was in the headlines of yesteryear.
Why hadn't she told me before?
"You leave in
a month. Do not waste time packing, young Andrea. King Roald will not like
to wait."
