The Lost Kingdom of Bamarre Read online

  DEDICATION

  To my editor, Rosemary Brosnan,

  whom I cannot thank enough or often enough

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Gail Carson Levine

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Before the Lakti betrayal,

  And their swords clashing,

  And their flaming arrows flying,

  And their siege engines rolling,

  The Bamarre built the cities—

  Our towers upheld the sky,

  Flutes day and night playing,

  Wind’s whisper praising.

  The sun’s eye opened wide.

  MANY YEARS BEFORE I penned these lines, Lady Klausine leaned over my little bed. I was just a year old and asleep.

  “Her name is Peregrine?” Lady Klausine shifted the green tassel on my baby cap, which had hidden half my face. “A long appellation—”

  “It’s because she’s always moving”—my mother squeezed her hands together—“peregrinating. So, begging your pardon, we call her Peregrine—Perry.”

  “I wonder you didn’t name her Hair, she has so much.”

  Lady Klausine’s Lakti guard, her Lakti maid, my father, my mother, and even my sister laughed dutifully. My parents’ and my sister’s green tassels swayed, the tassels we had to wear to mark us as Bamarre.

  “Do you think her hair will stay that color?”

  My hair was and is a shade between auburn and black, although my parents had locks the dark brown of damp earth, and my sister’s hair is the tan of old parchment. The three of them had curls, but my hair has always been as straight as silk thread.

  My father squinted. “The red may fade.”

  “Have you more children?”

  “Only Annet.” My mother pointed her chin at my sister, who was nine years old, small for her age, and painfully thin.

  “How unfortunate no other relative was here to warn the goodman against foolhardiness.” Lady Klausine fell silent.

  Years later, I speculated about this quiet moment. Did she decide then, or earlier, as soon as my father stammered out his reason for stealing from her garden?

  Would she have wanted any child? Or did my small fingers wrap themselves around her longing? Perhaps my curling eyelashes fanned her desire.

  Or did my hair, as straight as hers, and the firm set of my mouth suggest a resemblance between us? Practical considerations always weighed heavily with her.

  She ended the silence. “Soon you and your goodwife will leave town. I’ll find a place for the two of you, but your daughters I will keep. The elder will—”

  “My baby!” my mother cried.

  My father pressed his body between Lady Klausine and my bed, but the guard tugged him away and held him.

  My mother wailed and called vainly for a fairy to come to our aid. My sister clung to her mama.

  I rolled over and burrowed deeper into my dreams. Finally, my mother ceased screaming and my father stopped struggling. They couldn’t have succeeded in keeping us. Power was all with the Lakti.

  Lady Klausine continued. “I suppose the sister is not given to peregrinating?”

  My father shook his head. Annet was as steady as a good donkey.

  “She will be her sister’s nursemaid. Hers will be a better life than you could have reasonably expected.”

  No one answered. Lady Klausine couldn’t guess what a Bamarre father wishes for his child.

  She lifted me out of my bed. “Good night, Goodman, Goodwife. Rejoice that it did not go worse for you. Come, Annet.”

  My sister balked.

  “Move, girl.” The guard took her elbow.

  She shook him off. Our mother whispered into her hair, “Please care for Perry as I would.”

  She didn’t say, Love Perry as I would. Perhaps she knew not to demand the impossible.

  Lady Klausine carried me through the iron gate, which my father had climbed to commit his crime, down the torch-lit cobbled garden path, through a long castle corridor, to the empty nursery. I didn’t waken. Despite the purloined fruit I’d been fed, I was a scrawny thing and mustn’t have been heavy—but had I weighed as much as a young ox, Lady Klausine would have managed. The Lakti, as I learned again and again, were strong and resolute.

  Annet followed with the guard and the maid. In the nursery, Lady Klausine lowered me into a gilded crib that had been kept ready for fifteen years. Its linen sheets were fine and clean, but the mattress was as thin as my old one had been and the blanket no warmer. Lakti children enjoyed the trappings of wealth but not the comforts.

  I didn’t whimper, merely continued my sleep.

  Lady Klausine smiled her serious smile. “Peregrine is a Lakti in nature if not birth.” She dismissed her guard and, in a low voice, gave instructions to her maid, who left also. When both were gone, she bade Annet attend her at the window alcove.

  “If she isn’t supplanted by children of my body”—Lady Klausine still harbored hope—“and if she proves herself worthy, your sister will be our heir. If you prove worthy, too, you will stay at her side after she no longer needs a nursemaid. You’ll be as safe and secure as a Bamarre may be.”

  Either the light was too low for Lady Klausine to make out Annet’s expression or my sister hadn’t yet perfected her sneer.

  “You must never tell Peregrine or anyone else she was born a Bamarre. Never, or you both will suffer. Be kind, but do not coddle her.”

  The maid returned with a bundle. Lady Klausine herself replaced my threadbare diaper with new cloth, slipped a linen baby gown on me, and exchanged my cap with its green tassel for a bonnet. She must have been gentle, because, half-awake, I accepted her hands without complaint.

  She straightened. “I’ve posted guards at the door and window. I expect my daughter to be well in the morning and you in attendance.” She swept out, followed by the maid.

  My sister stood over my crib. She must have hated me. Our father wouldn’t have stolen from the castle garden if not for me. An older child can go without, but a baby has to eat.

  Annet would soon find mothering and fathering among the castle servants, most of whom were Bamarre. That night, however, she had no comfort. I imagine she wept, and her tears woke me and start
ed me wailing. When she finally picked me up, I doubt I got much solace from her arms.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ANNET KEPT LADY Klausine’s secret. I remained ignorant of my origins.

  I had no recollection of being told I was adopted, but I always knew I had been. This is the earliest story told of me by Lady Mother, as she preferred to be called: “We’d had you only a month. You were a determined walker for one so young. . . .”

  She recounted the saga so often—to spur me on, to explain my successes, to induce guilt when I failed—that I came to feel I remembered it.

  I was fourteen months old. Lord Tove—(not Lord Father)—had been waiting on the king ever since the border war had stopped for winter. When he was free to travel, Father came home, and of course I had to meet him. Lady Mother—tall, stately, unbending—flanked me on my left. On my right, tassel swaying from her cap, trudged my nursemaid—sullen, with a frown line already forming. (My imagination supplied the details about Annet.) I trundled along, once almost slipping on the rushes scattered across the floorboards but catching myself, an important moment in Lady Mother’s recital. As I careened with my baby gait, she murmured, “Prodigious. She will be a credit to us.”

  The distance was a quarter mile. I accomplished it without falling. If I had fallen, I sometimes wondered, would she have found another child to adopt?

  The cold stone walls of the corridor were hung with linen, embroidered by Bamarre artisans, that depicted Lakti warriors in pitched battle. Slitted windows near the ceiling let in light enough. Lady Mother wouldn’t allow lamps to be lit during the day.

  Enthusiasm carried me across the threshold of the study, where Father looked up from his account book to watch. Now that I had a clear destination, this handsome, smiling man, I held out my arms and toddled on. But halfway to him, I came down on my bottom.

  He laughed at my astonished face.

  After a moment, Lady Mother laughed too.

  I struggled to stand, accomplished the feat, and completed my journey.

  Lord Tove set me on his lap facing him, where I believe I felt instantly at ease. I expect he spoke baby talk to me, because I later saw him hold lengthy nonsense conversations with other castle babies. He probably let me explore his short brown beard, pull his long nose, and touch his silver brooch, which was stamped with the face of a snarling wolf.

  The image didn’t trouble me, another happy sign to Lady Mother.

  Father, who had no idea I’d been born a Bamarre, didn’t test me at every turn. He was pleased with me and with almost whatever I did. If he had been present more often, my childhood would have been happier.

  He was a nephew of our king Uriel—a son, a daughter, and an older nephew removed from the throne. Father commanded the Lakti forces against our enemy, the Kyngoll. We wanted their silver mines, but we would take their entire kingdom if we could. The Lakti were always bent on conquest.

  Lady Mother’s version of my parentage presented me as the daughter of a knight, who, along with his wife, had died in an outbreak of the pox. Their relatives considered me unlucky and wouldn’t keep me. Lady Mother’s maid heard of my plight from a cousin, a laundress. Out of respect for the grieving family, Lady Mother told one and all, she kept the identity of my birth family to herself.

  According to this account, Annet had been a servant in my parents’ manor. Though I could hardly believe it, I was told I’d been very attached to her and had wailed when Lady Mother tried to separate us.

  Often, when I disappointed Lady Mother, I pictured my dead parents. Such kind faces they had, with deep smile lines, sympathetic eyes, soft features. When Lady Mother scolded or, worse, fell silent, I called them up in my mind and wished they had lived.

  Annet was an occasional comfort, though she didn’t mean to be. Lady Mother’s reasons for disapproving of me meant nothing to her, which gave me a fresh way to think about whatever I’d done.

  At night, Annet recited poetry, which I loved. If she’d known I was awake, she probably would have been silent. My memory, especially for poems, was excellent. One poem seemed to be a favorite. She’d sit in the window alcove and say it in a voice that surprised me with its sweetness.

  A pewter moon glints on statues

  Of tasseled laborers guarding

  A garden where only owls are free.

  When I was six, my education began in earnest—tutors for two hours, the rest of the day devoted to physical education. A Lakti child might be slow with figures, might blink and think before penning a paragraph, but she mustn’t falter at her games of war.

  Of course I excelled at footraces. Older runners, taller runners, more experienced runners—none could catch me. Lady Mother gloried in my every victory. She said little, merely favored me with a nod when I looked for her approval, which I always did. A nod from her equaled an embrace and a garland of laurels from anyone else.

  Lady Mother nods. At night

  I dream the nod and race again.

  Whenever he saw me race, Father waved his arms and shouted and laughed as I surged toward the finish line. My happiness at his pleasure surpassed even my joy at winning.

  I lost only once. It happened in my first year of training.

  Mistress Clarra, our instructor, a small, energetic woman, conducted monthly tournaments and matched each of us according to a system of her own. On this occasion my opponent was Varma, three years older than I but just two years stronger and one year taller. I was confident I could best her.

  According to Lakti rules, one contender chose the kind of contest and the other selected the place.

  A coin toss gave me first pick. “A race.”

  Varma smiled smugly. “We’ll run through town, from north gate to south, Beef Road to Barrel to Longwall and out.”

  I’d never been through town! Lady Mother didn’t let me go alone and Annet had never taken me. I’d have to stop for directions. I had lost before I began.

  Mistress Clarra drove home the lesson by saying, “A Lakti warrior anticipates.”

  I turned to Lady Mother, bracing myself for her rebuke.

  But she merely presented another lesson. “Varma knew you’d call a race,” she said. “A Lakti warrior should be unpredictable.”

  I would remember.

  With application, I did well in all the outdoor skills. In swordplay I loved to dance forward, glide back, feint, thrust—always in motion.

  Even skill with the rope snare came when I was hardly big enough to toss the noose over my opponent’s head. At archery, my aim was true—though I wished I could be the arrow, flying to the target.

  Mistress Clarra’s other charges were the children of knights under Father’s command. Once a tournament began, I cared about none of them, but when we trained I wanted their friendship, and after I defeated them, I wanted—ridiculously, unrealistically—their congratulations. If I’d known how to joke or even how to be friendly, they might not have minded me, but I was awkward and blundering.

  Those old enough to see ahead to when I might succeed Father were pleasant. The younger ones, however, blurted out their feelings. They hated me.

  When we weren’t competing or practicing, Mistress Clarra encouraged games to build our skills and foster the cooperation we’d need on the battlefield. One game, Lord’s Captive, gave the children their revenge.

  We were divided into a guard team and a rescuer team. The rescuer team picked their It, who would be imprisoned within a circle of guards. A freedom pennant—a blue rose on a green field—would be planted thirty yards from the jail. The rescuers’ objective was to free It, and the guards’ task was to contain It and take more prisoners by tagging them. The special objective of the It was to reach the pennant without being tagged.

  The first time a team picked me, I was chosen because I could outrun everyone. The rescuers expected to win the round.

  As soon as the circle of guards closed around me, my temples began to throb. My chest felt as if a giant hand were squeezing it. I couldn’t see t
hrough the haze across my eyes.

  Before a minute passed, I burst through the circle, tagging myself by touching guards and causing my team to lose.

  From then on, I was made to be It whenever someone was angry enough at me to sacrifice a round.

  Mistress Clarra never saved me. “This is weakness, Peregrine,” she said. “Conquer it.”

  I tried. I wanted to stop suffering, but my peregrinating nature couldn’t tolerate imprisonment.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ONE CHILD DID befriend me—my cousin Willem, Lady Mother’s nephew. He and his parents lived with us for much of the year, though they had their own home south of our castle, a manor house in the middle of New Lakti. His father, Sir Noll, was Lady Mother’s brother-in-law and Father’s lieutenant, his second in battle.

  I couldn’t remember a time without Willem. He dined with us, sitting halfway down the long feast table. Before I was old enough to participate, I watched him and the other children train. I noticed him in particular because he waved to me. Wherever he was, at whatever distance, if he saw me, he waved.

  He didn’t need my friendship. All the children liked him.

  I continued to watch him, even after I could join in. When I reached a race goal, he was the one I turned to see.

  He always finished in the middle, never right behind me. Full of goodwill, I studied his running. His light build should have given him an advantage, but his method had flaws, and I wanted to tell him about them. At least I knew better than to give him advice in front of everyone.

  A month passed before I found the chance to speak with him privately, when Mistress Clarra set up an archery target in a meadow beyond the outer castle curtain. A stiff wind was blowing, and everyone’s arrows flew wildly.

  Willem shot first, I fourth. With luck (and skill) my arrows fell, as his had, in a stand of pine trees. When Mistress Clarra sent us all to gather them, naturally I went with him. I was eight years old and he ten.

  He spoke first. “The wind has made neighbors of our arrows, Perry.” His black hair whipped about his face.

  Feeling shy, I nodded.

  He went on, “If this were a real battle, the wind would have to blow our enemies, too, so they’d be where our arrows could strike them.”