PRINCESS LYDIA? SO SHE HADN’T BEEN LOST in the Rift after all?
The tiger said something more, but Duncan watched the slight figure of the girl as she moved rapidly down the hillside. She had tucked the center of her skirt into her waistband so that it looked as if she were wearing a pair of very baggy shorts. Her long brown legs leaped over rocks and across small, glinting streams.
Duncan looked around in wonder. The island was hollow, secret. No one looking at it from the sea could ever guess what was inside. There was a small lake or lagoon at the bottom that looked perfect for swimming, and beyond it, another waterfall, splashing down through lush green.
The island changed as he looked higher. Two-thirds of the way up the slope were blue-green pines that stood tall, like stiff arrows pointing to the sun. Still higher, the bones of the island showed through in jutting rock.
The princess had crossed the lowest part of the island, a narrow valley mostly filled with lagoon, and started up the far slope. She was smaller now, farther away, but Duncan could still follow her figure as she scrambled up a series of broad, flat ledges and hurried into a dark opening in the rock wall.
Brig’s low rumble broke into Duncan’s thoughts. “Here is where she painted the earl and his treacherous attack on the duke—”
Duncan turned. Brig patted the rock wall of the cave, pointing to the painted childish figures Duncan had seen before. Not all were like that, though. Whoever drew them was getting better. Now he could see that the bundle of sticks the princess had dropped were frayed and discolored at one end, as if she used them for paintbrushes.
“It’s the other way around,” Duncan said. “Everyone said the duke attacked the earl.”
Brig tapped the wall with a shaggy paw. “This is not the duke.”
Could Brig possibly be right? Duncan looked at the fighting figures with an irrational flutter of hope—and then the hope died. It was easy to tell which was which by their hats. A duke’s hat was tall, with a pointed brim—an earl’s was low and rounded. Brig’s paw was tapping at the man in the duke’s hat.
“You’ve got them mixed up,” said Duncan.
Brig’s rib cage huffed in and out. “Do you doubt the word of a tiger, sir?”
“I don’t want to argue about art, Brig. I’m starving.”
“Try the fish!” Fia lifted her chin from the fish Brig had dropped. The fish head bore marks of her sharp little teeth.
Duncan was not hungry enough to eat raw fish—yet. He narrowed his eyes as the princess came back out of the cave on the far side of the island. She looked as if someone had reminded her that she was royal. She was walking with dignity, her skirts free and her head high.
“I’m going down to meet her,” Duncan said abruptly. “Bring the fish, Brig. And let Fia ride on your back.”
They met the princess near the lagoon, where the path was bordered by sweet-smelling bushes. Bees droned in the scented air, making complicated circles around vivid red flowers. The hollow island rose about them like a leafy green funnel, but Duncan’s attention was all on the girl.
Now he could see that her odd clothing was actually made of bird skins, cleverly sewn together with feathers still attached. It looked light, yet warm. Strangely, there was knitted lace at the collar and sleeves and on her skirt. And the skirt wasn’t ragged after all; the holes in it were just complicated designs in the lace. He had seen old women making lace like that, sitting in the sun on the stone streets of the island of Dulle.
He gazed at the princess, mystified. How had she survived all this time? She didn’t look like she was starving, and she was even running around dressed in lace, which was just plain weird, considering she had been cast away on a deserted island for—he calculated—almost seven years now.
But first things first. He lowered his head in the courtly bow his mother had taught him. On Brig’s back, Fia bowed too.
“Greetings,” said the princess faintly. “Brig, come.”
The tiger obediently left Duncan’s side and stood by the princess. She took the fish from his mouth and put it in a knotted string bag that she slung over her shoulder. Then she curled her fingers in Brig’s neck fur, as if having him close gave her courage.
“You—” she began, her voice wavering like a ripple of water. She gripped Brig’s fur more tightly and tried again. “You, sir, will come with me. Brig, don’t let him escape.”
Duncan’s head snapped up. “Don’t let me escape?”
An embarrassed growl emerged from Brig’s chest. “Sorry, sir. Just tell her you’re a king’s man, and she’ll understand.”
“I’m a king’s man,” Duncan said at once. “Why are you treating me like a prisoner? I’m on your side.”
The princess seemed to be trembling. With a visible effort, she brought her gaze up to focus on Duncan’s head, just above his eyes. “You say you are a king’s man,” she said, “but your head betrays you. Brig, if he sets foot off the path, attack.” She turned on her heel and led the way up a narrow path through moss and ferns.
Shame rose in Duncan like a scarlet tide. His fingers moved to his forehead and felt the fringe of hair that had escaped from beneath his cap. The sea must have washed all the dye away.
No wonder the princess had treated him like a criminal. She knew whose son he was.
“Sir! I’m sorry, sir!” Brig’s growl held a pleading note. “I’d explain to her, but she can’t understand Cat!”
“Then don’t attack me if I put a toe off the path,” Duncan said irritably.
“Sorry, sir—orders.” Brig stiffened his whiskers to a military angle. “Come along, if you please.”
Duncan trudged up the path. After two days adrift with no food, his legs were weak. Climbing a steep slope wasn’t helping.
He tried to distract himself by looking around. His first impression of a funnel had been accurate enough. Was he in the heart of an old volcano that had grown cold, or was there some other reason for the way the land sank in the middle of the island, with high cliffs all around? Whatever had caused it, the slopes led upward in a series of green and mossy terraces. Circling the top were rocky crags, jutting sharp-edged into bright sky. If he climbed to the crags, he could look out to sea. Surely a boat would come by sometime, someday? Maybe they could make a signal with smoke or paddle out on a raft. There had to be a way to get off this island and back home.
The princess, up ahead on the path, strode along like someone who had had plenty of rest and food and sleep. Duncan forced his legs to keep moving. More than anything, he wanted to know how the princess had ended up here. Clearly the history books hadn’t told the whole story.
They passed a thin waterfall that splashed down a sheer rock face. Duncan was all at once ragingly thirsty again; after being without water so long, he couldn’t get enough. He stepped off the path to tip his head back under the falls. Brig growled.
“Oh, come on!” cried Duncan. “I’m just getting a drink!”
The princess jumped like a frightened cat and looked back over her shoulder.
Duncan scowled up at her. Why was she nervous? She had a full-grown tiger to defend her! “Listen, Princess,” he said, “I’ve been lost at sea, without food or water, for almost two days. I’m sorry you think I’m some kind of threat, but can’t you at least let me get a drink? And maybe something to eat?”
Princess Lydia swallowed hard. “All right. I’m going to let you stay here, as long as you don’t try to hurt Mattie or me—”
“Who’s Mattie?” Duncan asked, but Princess Lydia rushed on, unheeding.
“Because I wouldn’t throw even a snake back into the sea to drown. And you can help with the work—you’ll have to, if you want to eat. So you can get your drink, and after that, come up to the home cave, and we’ll feed you. But if you try anything—anything at all—Brig is going to eat you. You might think he’s just a tiger, but he’s very smart, and he understands everything I say. And he always obeys my commands.”
Her brown eyes held his, wide with fear and blazing with defiance. She lifted her chin, and even from several yards away, Duncan could see the effort she was making to hold it steady.
I’m not like my father! Duncan wanted to shout as she turned her back and walked away. But he didn’t want to make things worse. He put his head under the cool, delicious water, taking it in like a sponge. Then he took off his cap, washed the salt from his hair, and rinsed the blood from his knees where he had fallen.
Fia jumped off Brig’s back, entranced by the crystal drops. She batted the falling water with her paw, turned her head sideways, and stuck out her small pink tongue.
“There’s soap,” Brig offered. He flicked his tail toward a small pot on a ledge. “Mattie makes it from wood ash and duck fat.”
Duncan glared at him. “Oh, so now you’re being nice again. Are you sure you don’t want to eat me?”
Brig looked at him reproachfully. “I have my orders, sir.”
Fia lifted her head and sniffed the air. “Mouse!” She stalked off toward a stand of waving ferns and peered between the fronds.
“Go ahead and catch it,” Duncan said. “No one’s going to eat you if you leave the path.” He was hungry enough to eat a mouse himself—his stomach was cramping again. He shook the water out of his hair and headed up to the cave.
Mattie turned out to be a very old, half-blind servant, with her lap full of knitted lace and a spindle full of tiger’s-hair thread. She sat on a broad stone terrace at the mouth of the cave. Beside her was a hollowed stone laid over a fire; a savory smell of duck stew made Duncan swallow hard.
The princess came out of the cave, holding a wooden bowl and something that looked like flat bread. “This is the stranger,” she said to Mattie.
“Then you must welcome him,” said the old woman. “Do it properly, now, Your Highness. As I taught you.”
The princess flushed. She put down the bowl and bread on a wooden slab near the fire and stood with her shoulders back. “I am the Princess Lydia. This is my trusted companion, Mattie, and my faithful tiger and guard, Brigadier. I bid you welcome to Traitor Island.” She extended her hand with a graceful gesture.
Something moved within Duncan like a knife turning. Traitor Island. And the traitor had been his own father.…
But he must make the correct response. He knew what he should do; he had practiced it with his mother. He bent his knee and kissed the back of Princess Lydia’s hand. “Your Royal Highness.”
She snatched her hand back as if she had been burned.
“Well done, except for the last part,” Mattie murmured. “Come closer, lad. Let me see your face. What is your name, and how did you come here?”
The old woman put her soft, wrinkled hands on Duncan’s cheeks and pulled his head down. She peered closely at him with filmy eyes.
“My name is Duncan McK—” Duncan choked and didn’t finish.
Mattie’s gaze seemed to grow suddenly keener. She searched his face; she touched his hair; she straightened his collar. “These stitches are coming out,” she said, almost to herself, and pulled at a thread. “I’ll sew it up for you again—”
She stopped with a gasp. “Your Highness!” she breathed, turning the collar to show the initials that were monogrammed there. “Look at his face, his hair—does he remind you of anyone?”
The princess stood up, came closer, touched his collar. Her expression changed. “What is your name?” she whispered. “Your whole name?”
Duncan hesitated.
“Tell me,” Princess Lydia said, low and fierce.
Duncan winced; a royal command could not be ignored. “Duncan Charles McKinnon.” He hung his head. He had never said the name out loud before; he wished he didn’t have to do it now.
“Oh!” cried the princess. In the next moment, she was hugging him, hard, and then Mattie kissed his cheek, laughing and crying at the same time.
“Er…,” said Duncan.
Princess Lydia touched the cap in his hand. “I thought you were the earl’s man. You have his badge on your cap.”
Duncan had forgotten about the badge. “But wouldn’t you be happy to see an earl’s man? I mean, everybody said he was the one who tried to rescue you from … from my father, the traitor.…” His words faltered.
“No! No! That’s not the way it happened!” cried the princess, stamping her foot. “The earl was the one who left us here—he drugged your father so he couldn’t fight back, he tied him up and wounded him and left him for dead—”
Old Mattie looked at Duncan with her cloudy eyes, now brighter with moisture, and gripped his arms with her two gnarled hands. “The Earl of Merrick is an evil, treacherous villain,” she said, and gave Duncan a little shake. “Your father was a hero.”
“It’s true,” rumbled Brig. “And tigers never lie.”