Mearsies Heili Bounces Back (26 page)

“It all sounds crazy,” I retorted, then added hastily, “I mean
if you know Kwenz. Oh, I know it
sounds
so nice and caring.”

Rel said, “What sounds crazy is someone your age claiming
she’s got to defend a kingdom.”

I fumed. And resorted to sarcasm. “Why don’t you write a
letter to the four queens in Bermund, right in the north of you here.
If
you can write, and not just bully people around. And ask them if they know me,
and they’ll tell you they do, because I helped break the enchantment over them.
Well, that is, part of it, anyway—the awful part is still going on, and poor
Autumn is—” I dared a look at Rel’s impassive face and yelled, “You don’t
believe me!”

“It sounds like you made it all up,” he said, so unheated
that I heard it as utter conviction. “You know as well as I do that Raneseh is
not about to write any letters to the monarchy in another kingdom to ask
questions about the wild claims of a loud-mouth ten-year-old from the Mearsiean
colony.”

The idea that I would lie about my experiences was so
unfair, so cruelly horrible after everything I’d been through, I let out a
bellow of sheer rage and took off again, as fast as I could, straight for those
purple mountains.

The difference between six feet and not-quite-five resulted
in a hand crunching down on the scruff of my neck and hauling me mumchance
round, then marching me a little ways away, into a sheltered little spot beside
the stream that meandered through the floor of the meadow.

Rel dropped me with a thump. At once I scrambled away,
making it plain I had no intention of being
put
, like an old shoe. I flopped
on the grass next to a tree stump, my back squarely to The Enemy.

And jumped when a hiss and metal
snicked!
wood inches
from my elbow.

I jerked round, saw a dart in the tree stump, which had
circles carved into it. I jerked round the other way, vibrating with affront.

“You would move right in front of the target,” Rel said, and
threw another dart. “But I won’t hit you.”

It smacked the wood directly below the first one. That one
was even closer to my elbow.

I scooted back, then flushed with anger that I’d done so. I
could see at once that he had perfect aim—and I wished I’d pretended nothing
was happening. I turned my back again boiling with rage. Boys! Wasn’t that
typical of the slobs! And talk about showing off!

... I couldn’t find a word low enough.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Rel went right on with his practice,
until the sounds changed to the hum of wood, and the crunching of gravel.
Intensely curious, I leaned forward, absorbed in picking bits of grass and rock
from between my bare toes. Then I snuck a peek through the covering curtain of
my hair, to see Rel a little ways away, working with a big walking stick. No, I
realized, it was a homemade quarterstaff. I then realized that I was sitting in
a kind of one-person target practice area.

So that’s why we were here—he hadn’t wanted to offer me a
friendly escape from durance vile, even for a few hours. I was just an excuse
to get away from whatever duties he was supposed to be doing so he could flub
around with this fighting junk. Just like a typical obnoxious, more
brawn-than-brains teen-age
boy
.

The idea of it steamed me so much I couldn’t think at all,
except of wildly improbable ways to get revenge. But hard as I wished, a giant
bird would not fly by and attack him—or even bomb him—and the Chwahir would not
pop up like mushrooms here in this valley, pounce on him and muscle him off to
their deepest dungeon. Nor would some helpful local highwaymen or pirates or
lurking bad guys of whatever type happen along and kidnap Rel and put him to
work washing dishes for a few thousand years, Just So He’d Learn.

When I finally calmed down enough to start thinking instead
of dreaming, I realized Rel had gone silent. What was he doing now? The idea
that he was just sitting there glaring at me was so creepy I edged down to the
stream, got a welcome drink, then looked back—to see him lying full length on
the grass, absorbed in reading.

I tipped my head, caught a gleam from the golden lettering:
something about travels, but his hand holding the book obscured the rest.

Plan. He was reading (so Stupid Rockhead could read—unless
he was pretending in order to impress me, huh!) soooo ... I edged a bit farther
downstream. Stuck my legs out, splashing my feet gently in the water.
Dum-dee-dum, hoom-de-hoom, lookit me being a good little kiddie, just lolling
about in the sunshine. Or,
don’t
lookit me, because I’m just a boring
ten-year-old brat who doesn’t know anything, yessireebob ...

Felt a look from Rel. I just kept splashing, enjoying the
warmth of the mellow sunlight on my head. Sniffed the sweet fragrances of
wildflowers drifting on the breeze. Ho hum, nothing to do in the world ... I
scooted downstream a bit more. And again, and again, until the tree stump
blocked Rel from view.

Then I wriggled away in the grasses (not looking up or I’d
have seen the tops thrashing wildly about) and when I judged I’d gotten far
enough, I got to my feet and took off.

This time when the Fingers of Doom crunched down on the back
of my collar, I lost the last shreds of temper and started kicking, scratching,
biting, and yelling with every quivering vestige of my strength.

The red rage abated when I discovered I couldn’t scratch or
bite—Rel had untied his sash and wound it around me so my hands were down at my
sides. Even kicking was harder when I couldn’t quite keep my balance, or see,
because my hair hung in my eyes.

“Raneseh,” he said, “wanted me to try to make friends with
you, but I don’t think it worth the effort.”

“Neither do I,” I fired back grittily.

Rel grabbed up his satchel, threw the things in it, and
marched us back to the trail and ignominiously back down the road. I fumed,
hoping someone would see my plight and offer to come to the rescue, but the few
people who spared a glance past Raneseh’s scruffy ward to the short, even
scruffier brat tottering along at his side probably thought (judging from their
waves and absent smiles) we were playing some sort of game.

At the house, Rel left me just inside, where Pralineh almost
immediately found me. He went off to snitch to Raneseh.

Pralineh gaped at me in surprise as I wiggled my fingers,
blew at my hair, and said, “Would you untie this disgusting, cootie-ized sash?”

Pralineh’s cheeks flushed scarlet as I tried not to laugh,
but she bent to the task.

The sash fell to the carpet and I promptly stomped on it,
then brushed my hands thoroughly over my arms to remove its touch, scraped my
palms to eject from my skin any lingering Villain Cooties, then I stamped again
on those. When I began Pralineh gave in to a crow of laughter, and all during
the operation (which took a while, I was so mad) she rocked silently back and
forth.

“It’s not funny,” I said, though by then my own sense of
humor tweaked, now that I was disinfected. “That baggie has boy-cooties, and I
don’t want ’em on me!”

“Baggie? C-cooties?” Pralineh laughed again.

“Sure! Baggies are this Earth thing, it’s just that it
sounds so silly, it’s so perfect for villains. Who could be scared of a baggie?
As for cooties, they’re germs. Worse than germs.”

“I do not know what germs are.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, except that all enemies have them.”
I wiggled my fingers, like something with a lot of legs. “You wipe them off and
stomp them—villains just hate that!” I added, grinning in triumph.

“Wh-where did this idea come from?” she asked, wiping her
eyes at last.

“I dunno. Another world. We always wiped off boy cooties,
when I was little.” I scowled. “Rel’s are worse than anybody’s.”

“Why?” Pralineh asked, picking up the sash, folding it with
quick, automatic movements, and laying it aside. “My father thinks very highly
of him, you know.”

That’s supposed to be a recommendation?
I thought,
but managed not to spout it out. “What’s his story anyway? Is he a servant or
not?” I asked.

“No, not at all.” She put her head to one side. “It is time
for luncheon. Are you hungry?” She asked, and then at whatever she saw at my
expression she smiled, and, rang the bell. “We—that is, he and I, and the
others here, except for Raneseh—do not know anything about Rel’s family. There
was one single time, when one of my friends’ brothers challenged Rel, and there
was a scuffle. It resulted in some of the sort of talk little children do,
after which my father exclaimed that Rel’s family’s rank is as good as
anyone’s. Then he wouldn’t say any more than that.”

“A mystery!” I said And thought angrily,
Bet they don’t
want him because he’s a clod. Which isn’t a mystery at all
. But I didn’t
say it.

“Perhaps. I do think my father wishes that we when we grow
up we might marry, and Rel would be my helpmeet when I am Holder, but—” She
shrugged. “The big girls talk about how handsome he will be one day, and I
think I can see it, but I don’t know, he’s like my brother. And,” she added,
with rare irony, which made her look more like her father, “he regards me as a
sister. Even if I might one day want that, I don’t think he does. Being a
Holder-helpmeet, I mean, not marriage. He works very hard because he feels it
his duty to Raneseh, not because he loves the place. Not like Raneseh and I do.”

I looked skeptical. “He’s too poker-faced to have any feelings.”

“Poker? Do you mean a fire poker? What an odd image!”
Pralineh smiled as Maraneh brought in a late luncheon—at first enough for one,
but we split the food, and Maraneh was soon back with plenty more.

I dove in with ferocious appetite. Pralineh took a dainty
bite or two then said, “Well, it’s true he speaks very little. But when he goes
to visit, which is almost never any more, every time I look for him he’s in the
garden, if they have one, or staring out the windows.”

“I’m surprised he gets invited. He’s a poopdeck and a
splattoon.”

“He’s very popular,” Pralineh said.

“What?” I scoffed, waving my fork—almost launched a bite
into orbit, and hastily popped the bite into my mouth.

“Yes. He gets along with everyone. And when I say that, I do
not mean just my friends’ brothers and cousins, but their servants, the stable
hands, the traders who come through, even the tutors. He pays no attention to
rank.”

“Gets along with everyone? Hah!” I snorted, thinking,
What
am I, a hoptoad?

“It wasn’t always so,” Pralineh admitted, her brow puckering
faintly. “When I was very little, and of course he wasn’t much older, Hollan,
the new stable boy, was terribly cruel to him. I don’t know why—I just remember
the day Rel got into a fight with him. Everyone was yelling at them to stop but
they didn’t until there was this awful sound, and then Hollan was shrieking.
Oh, I will never forget! I ran and hid in the hayloft—the only time I ever
climbed up there—but the sound chased me there. It turned out Rel had shattered
his arm at the shoulder, the healer said.”

I thought narrowly,
That sounds just like a bully to me!

“Rel was more grieved than anyone. I don’t remember who said
what, because I was only five or six, I just remember that Rel insisted on
doing Hollan’s chores as well as his own, even though Raneseh said he would
hire another boy until Hollan was healed. And so he did, until Hollan could use
his arm again. Anyway, my point is, somewhere in there, they became good
friends, and stayed that way. So that even when there are Honors here
visiting—and heirs—Rel always helps Hollan, then goes straight out and joins
the boys in their games. But he won’t play if they get angry, or uncivil. Nor
does he get into fights. He just shrugs off unkindness or incivility. When
Fleseneh, Mirlah’s brother, returned from Colend and was ... discourteous. Rel
simply stopped going to the parties where Fleseneh might be.”

“So what’s all that about his being the shepherd’s son?”

“Well, it became a nickname. When we were little. My mother
was not long dead, you see, and Raneseh still had visitors, and Rel would be
minding us, and the boys never gave him any trouble. He was our shepherd,
someone said—he being so much bigger, and us little folk trotting along behind.
I don’t know how that became ‘shepherd’s son’—oh, I remember Raneseh one day
said that Rel’s father would have liked that very much, and so it stuck.”

“But he doesn’t tell him anything else about his father?”

“No. He says the information is not his to give. All will be
made plain one day, but until then, he is Raneseh’s ward. Rel and I talked
about it once, oh, a year or two back. We think that they were friends, Raneseh
and his father. Mirlah would have it he’s a king’s son, and for a while that
rumor went around—but Selah’s horrid sister pointed out that everyone knows all
the relations of the royal families, even the ones under enchantment from
Nightland, and none of them have any missing ‘shepherd’s sons’. She was so
unkind about it, as if we’d made up the rumor to make ourselves seem grand! But
it caused me to ask Raneseh, and he said that of course Rel is not a prince in
disguise, or he would have had a far different upbringing. And so I told the
others.” She sighed. “So people just accept him as he is. Even though he won’t
dress like a young man of rank, or take part in the social rounds except when
there are games and the like.”

“It helps to be a hulk,” I muttered.

Pralineh’s brow puckered again. “You seem to be determined
against him.”

“That’s because he called me a liar when I was telling you
the truth!”

“He
did
?” Her eyes rounded.

I thought back. “Not outright, but he as good as did.” I
fumed, remembering that crack about writing letters to monarchs. “When I told
him I know the queens in Bermund, and I said write a letter to check, he fired
back a stinker about how Raneseh wouldn’t do that, and I knew it. Everything I
said about being in other countries—anyone I happened to have met—just made him
stick his nose up in the air. Ugh!”