I HEARD CRIES of woe. Drualt ducked, while still grasping my hand. Our soldier, probably not expecting evasion, failed to catch him immediately. Drualt pulled me toward the edge of the crowd.
Escape was impossible.
“Dru!” I held up my free hand, hoping that the soldier would see an old lady controlling a youngster. “Stop!” I tugged back with my real strength.
He stopped. The soldier waited.
I spoke loudly. “If Kyngoll wins, we’ll be enslaved. We have to help.”
Drualt knew I meant none of this.
“Hug your aunt and say good-bye.” I pulled him close and whispered into his ear, “Escape to the Kyngoll. They’ll help us.” I wasn’t sure of that, but I was certain they wouldn’t kill children. “Tell everyone.” I let him go.
Drualt laughed, as if I’d whispered something comical.
“What did you say to him?” the soldier demanded.
What? “Er . . .” I bobbed a curtsy. What? “When I was young, I cooked for soldiers.” What else? “Beg pardon.” What? “I once saw a Kyngoll prisoner. I told my nephew he was as ugly as a toad.”
“Covered with warts!” Drualt laughed again, looking cocky. “I won’t let the Kyngoll win. The Lakti can count on me.”
Several soldiers laughed, too. Our soldier took my brother, who now went willingly.
Don’t be reckless! I cried, “Be careful! The Lakti depend on you.”
More soldier laughter.
Mama wailed, “Dru!”
The Bamarre lamentations were dampened by the weather, and no one in earshot—or anywhere else!—would help us. The Lakti stole fifteen of our youth, from eight to eighteen. Annet, at twenty-four, was too old to be taken.
His Master-ship complained, “You’re depriving us of our most energetic workers.”
“Everyone must help,” the herald said.
Her Mistress-ship asked, “How will you use them, and how long will the king keep them?”
“Five years. Others will join when they’re old enough.” She resumed proclaiming. “‘These blossoms of the Bamarre will be foot soldiers armed with staves.’”
Armed with sticks! They’d merely slow the foe as they were mown down.
A realization struck me like a hammer to my skull: Lord Tove would be looking for me among the youths trudging to battle, and if I weren’t in Nadira’s form, I’d be among them. This Beneficence was directed at me.
Halina, can you be right that a Lakti-trained, awkward Bamarre has a chance to free us?
The herald finished. “‘The Lakti are my sword and shield, the Bamarre my steed. Triumph to New Lakti!’”
After herding their captives together, all but three soldiers mounted their horses and set off with our youth and the herald, riding eastward. What would happen to those who couldn’t keep up? And I feared that kindly Drualt would be punished for helping the weak ones.
The remaining soldiers ordered us to go to our cottages so that our poetry books could be collected.
His Master-ship protested. “That will delay our dinner!”
Inside our cottage, Mama hugged me and recited,
“Pawns from birth until we die.
Rebellions fail. We cannot thrive.
Obey, Bamarre, and stay alive.
“None of this is your fault, Aunt Nadira.” She added, “We taught Drualt to be sensible.”
I was glad she wasn’t angry at me, but this was the first poem I ever despised. I quoted,
“Across the craggy Eskerns
In Old Lakti, where we transform
Our dreams into Bamarre reborn.”
Poppi, moving as slowly as a grandfather, went to the chest and lifted out our two poetry books, the one they’d always had and my volume by Lilli. “We know many poems by heart.”
Annet burst out in a furious whisper, “We’ve become slaves!”
Stay angry, Annet.
Someone pounded on the door. Poppi opened it, and the three soldiers faced him. Poppi extended our precious books.
A soldier took them. “Are there more?”
Without waiting for an answer, he entered, and the others followed. Baka growled from safety between Annet’s legs.
Mama said, “Only these.”
A soldier turned around slowly. I believed I could overcome them, even though they had swords. I widened my stance.
To my surprise, Annet came to me and clasped my hand, which stopped me from attacking.
The soldier must have concluded we had no more books, because he just said, “The king thanks you for your obedience,” and led his fellows out.
As soon as the door closed, Mama collapsed on the fireplace bench, sobbing. Poppi patted her shoulder.
Finally, she gasped out, “The Lakti keep taking my children.”
Annet squeezed my hand, or I squeezed hers. I told my family the advice I’d given Drualt. They knew my experience with the Kyngoll.
Poppi said stoutly, “He’ll succeed, smart and strong as he is.”
A few minutes later we heard hooves and went outside in time to watch the soldiers trot away, the cart and our poetry jouncing behind them.
Mama remained in the doorway. “We have to cook. Aunt Nadira, if you please, don’t make anything delicious.”
Small mischief, the poltroon’s way to fight.
Or not. The distant bell that had rung before finally chimed clearly. Ideas tumbled over one another: the Bamarre, the Kyngoll, Sir Lerrin, Lord Tove.
“Begging your pardon, I’ll cook as always today, but not tomorrow. Can the village gather here tonight, Niece? Nephew?” I meant the village Bamarre, which my parents understood.
“Of course,” Poppi said.
Mama threw on her cloak against the rain.
We had less time than usual to prepare dinner, but I made honey toast and arranged the nuts on top in the design of a bow and arrow, King Canute’s insignia. Let them think that our family were docile beings.
And I was glad to cook well. Silly of me, but I’d miss the satisfaction.
Meanwhile, Annet went from cottage to cottage, inviting everyone. We all probably would have met anyway, to complain and commiserate.
Back at home, I prepared my cheese puffs, and people filed in as soon as night fell. The Lakti, expecting no resistance, because there hadn’t been resistance in more than a hundred years, didn’t hinder us.
People greeted each other with the usual words: “Across the Eskerns.” They hugged. Many wept. Annet proposed that we each recite a favorite poem, which everyone was eager to do. I stood at the fire, turning cheese puffs. The poems were all sad, and beautiful, and I felt proud to be a Bamarre and civilized.
I asked to recite last and, when my turn came, struck a different note.
“The sly Bamarre ant retaliates,
Evades the boot above its back,
Quiet valor. Oppression overcome.
Bamarre bests the Lakti beast.”
I cleared my throat nervously. I didn’t know how much convincing would be needed, and I’d never been skilled at talking. “Er, we have to act.” Oh. I was giving an order. “Begging your pardon.” Then I did it again. “We can’t let the Lakti kill our Bamarre children. I’m sorry.” How else could I put it?
A chorus answered, “To apologize makes you good.”
“To forgive makes you wise.” I swallowed. “I have something to say.”
They waited.