“Meantime, the Frossians stayed in the lowlands of Fajnard while the Gibbekot and most of the Ghoss fortified the highlands. A few of the Ghoss always pretend to be slaves on the lowlands in order to keep an eye on the Frossians. Peace was maintained, and after a number of years, the Gibbekot and Ghoss thought it would be safe for Prince Joziré to return to Fajnard.
“He was about twenty then. He married his childhood companion, and they were crowned as King Joziré the Just and Queen Wilvia the Wise…”
“Wilvia?” I faltered. “Queen Wilvia?”
“Why?” asked Glory. “Is there something wrong with that name?”
I shook my head. “No, child, it’s just a case of imagination meeting reality head-on. I used to play dress-up as a child. Most children do, I suppose. I often played I was a queen, and that was her name, Queen Wilvia. I can’t believe it.”
“The young queen became pregnant,” Falija said. “And then, suddenly, with almost no warning, a group of dissident Thongals invaded the highlands, and again tried to capture the king and queen. Well, the queen was taken into hiding at the first sign of trouble, and the king was smuggled off Fajnard in another direction.”
“Does this have something to do with the great task your parents said you were to perform?” asked Glory.
“I believe so,” said Falija, ears forward and eyes slitted. “I have a story in my head, about the man who talked to the fish. I remember a saying. ‘Who knows? The Keeper knows. Well then, ask the Keeper. Where do I find it? All alone, walk seven roads at once to find the Keeper.’ If my mother memorized all that and put it in my mother-mind, it had to be important, didn’t it? And all that about young King Joziré and Queen Wilvia. The threat against them hasn’t stopped! Some race or group is trying to kill them!”
I asked, “Do you have any other languages in your head?”
“P’shagluk khoseghu bahgh,” said Falija. “Ephais durronola.”
I gasped. “Quaatariis. Pr’thas!”
“What?” cried Gloriana.
“She speaks Quaatar,” I cried. “And Pthas! Oh my blessed soul. We only studied Quaatar because it was a precursor to an obscure Mercan tongue. It’s a foul language, full of nasty words, and only the Quaatar could consider it holy. As for Pthas, well, they were the ancient and revered ones, the only people, it is said, who knew the name of the Great Experimenter…don’t ask. That’s just what was said. We have much of their language preserved, but of course it’s not spoken anymore. Oh, I wish I’d known about this earlier.”
Glory’s face went red, all the way back to her ears. “If I’d told you, you’d have accused me of making it up!”
I stared at my shoes, ashamed. “You’re right. I would have. I humbly beg your pardon. You’ll have to forgive me without holding a grudge, Gloriana, because you and I must share this secret cooperatively, to keep Falija safe.”
I Am M’urgi/on B’yurngrad
I entered the oasthouse through the summer door, which would have been enough to make those inside dislike me even had I not brought sleet gusting in to make a brief fog above the hearthstones. Their thoughts were on their faces: icetime was hard enough on the men, offering few and seldom comforts, without having them sullied by some fool southlander woman who couldn’t tell a summer door from an icelock.
High-booted and wrapped in heavy furs, burdened with a high basket securely strapped to my shoulder, I stood for a moment in seeming ignorance of their hostility, though the lack of any greeting confirmed I had set myself wrong with them. B’Oag, the oastkeeper, made the matter clear, snarling, “Dja ne’er see an icelock where’er in devil’s keep yah come from?”
The chill voice that came from behind my thick scarf was well practiced to have all the power it needed. “The summer door was nearest, Oastkeeper, and I have come too far to consider niceties.” I unwound the scarf from my mouth, then from my neck and shoulders, and finally from around my head to display the golden diadem banding my forehead. At once the oasthall was murmurous with contrived conversation, all the men staring intently into one another’s faces, talking of the season, the temperature, the monotony of the winter diet, anything except me. Even B’Oag’s eyes darted toward his other guests, as though to anchor his intention elsewhere, before reminding himself that he was, after all, on home ground, his name on the oasthouse sign, and not, therefore, required to give way.
“I’ll be needing a room,” I said. “Supper, also. Wine if you have it, or cider, or tea, if that’s all there is.”
The oastkeeper’s eyes roved quickly over the company in the room. That meant his rooms were all filled. I saw his assistant, perhaps his son (they resembled one another), nod covertly from his chair in the corner, indicating he would take care of it, and B’Oag nodded shortly in return. “M’boy Ojlin’ll have a room made up, mistress.”
“Envoy, Oastkeeper. My title is envoy. One who wears the circlet has that name and no other outside the Siblinghood. I am come for a reason you already know. Let us not fence with one another. The night is too long and cold for that.”
He flushed and fumbled while I regarded him with level, amber eyes. He, like many others, was fascinated by my eyes. He considered them catlike. These people told stories of us. They said it was something we ate off there in the badlands that made our eyes glow. Or if not something we ate, some dreadful thing we did. They were only lenses of a particular kind, which anyone should have been able to figure out. Human worlds are always awash in superstition, only a stubborn elite proof against it.
“I’ll also need a lockroom,” I murmured, easing the straps over my shoulders and putting an end to his speculation.
At this he paled, his nostrils pinched shut,
