Lily the Silent Read online

  What the Great Book said was that the salvation of Megalopolis, if salvation there could be, lay at the bottom of the Great Ocean that lapped at the Empire on its three sides, those borders other than the impassable mountain ranges of Arcadia. It had happened that the salvation of Megalopolis, the Key, had been dropped by an Angel (whether or not it was this poor broken one, no one could tell, since an Angel can only be told from another Angel by those who have eyes to see) into the sea. And the only person who could retrieve it, at the risk of her own life, was Lily.

  “And if she fails, the sacrifice to the Great Ocean will be enough to stave off disaster for a little while. It will buy us time,” said the chieftain who had taken for himself the right to sit in judgment on the poor, there on the Real Moon. And who was there strong enough to gainsay him? His name was Alaistair, and he was an old man, puissant and terrible, and canny, too…almost as canny as he himself thought. Which was canny enough.

  He was canny enough to know that what the scientists of Megalopolis told him was not enough, it would not save him or his or the vast country he robbed for his power, no, their magic did not reach that far. What magic was needed now was the magic they said was dead, that they said had never been. They were wrong, he knew. That magic was on the Real Moon, and Alastair was canny enough to know this, and to know what had to be done. Lily must be sacrificed if Megalopolis was to continue as the grandest empire our world had ever known.

  This Livia knew. This was the reason she welcomed Lily, even though the family of Rowena Pomfret was a powerful one, enraged by the insult to their daughter. She welcomed Lily because to sacrifice her to the Ocean would bring her, Livia, more power still. For Livia loved Power. She knew nothing of Love. And this made her the highest of the high among the high of Megalopolis.

  Livia rejoiced to see the dead Angel, for Angels had ever been her bane. She had been taught they did not exist, and this had made it difficult for her to see her Enemy until it was almost too late.

  But now it was, she thought, too late for the Angel. And Livia grinned a hideous grin.

  Lily saw the dead Angel, and saw she was not dead. Since Lily knew Death, she knew this. No one else there, among the richest of the rich of Megalopolis, knew Death; they feared Her and ran from Her and were pledged to be Her Enemies. So they could not see what Lily saw. What Lily saw was this: The Angel had been waiting for her, in her poor tortured body, which she now fled to take up her place in Lily. Lily felt the Angel move into her heart. It was like the falling of a white feather into the place meant for it away from the wind. So she knew what had to be done. She accepted that she would sacrifice herself and walk into the sea to save Megalopolis. And two young girls of Megalopolis, Phoebe (she who was born on the Real Moon), and Kim (she who was later called Kim the Kind) would not let her go alone, but braved Death in the sea to comfort her with their company.

  They braved Death, but because Lily knew Death, Death welcomed them there and led them deeper into the Sea.

  While they did this, Rex the dog took a long, hard journey across the Calandals to his fate, as the Empire scorched the beautiful land of Arcadia. And what happened to him there, happened to the Grayling clan of the Calandal Mountains. But that is a dark tale, and a dangerous one for Arcadia, with dangers yet to come, and the full story yet to be told in its time and place.

  The Three went deeper and deeper into the Sea. And there were many adventures there, and they had many favors from those they found there. They met Manaan, who the scientists of Megalopolis say exists only in song. He led them to the Mermaids’ Table. It was beside it that the Tree stands, that Tree of Tales from which every experience grows, with its branches more numerous than the stars reflected in the Sea, and its stories also. Lily and Phoebe and Kim had favors from Manaan and the Mermaids, who swim, restless, until the day when the Sea is unafraid to meet the Land, and who give those they love many gifts denied by those who live by the Sea.

  It was there they found the Key.

  And Phoebe, born on the Real Moon, knew herself when they found the Key. She stayed with the Mermaids below from that day on, for she knew then who she really was. For Phoebe had known Lily in another time and in another world, when her name had been Melia, and her form much different then, and she saw that now, and knew that her work in this world was done.

  When Lily and Kim came out of the sea, and journeyed across the dead marshes of Megalopolis to return to the City, they were met by the Procession of the Dead, led by Death herself. In this procession were many that they had loved and lost, their families, and the dog, Rex. But they journeyed on.

  Next, on that Road, they were met by a brilliant festival, a wedding parade, a celebration of the marriage of Conor Barr and the snow white Rowena, made that day. Conor did not see Lily, so dazzled was he by his bride, and by the herb his mother, Livia, had put in his marriage drink, and so Lily, his true beloved, walked slowly behind the cheering crowd and was the last to enter the banquet hall. But it was at this feast that the Fortune Teller announced the child of Conor Barr would be the Wisest Ruler of them all. And the crowd murmured and hoped: surely, this would stop the earth from moving under their feet?

  But that night, the earth moved again and again. Only women and children heard what the earth said, and so began a long, slow walk to the mountains. Past the jeers of the crowd celebrating the wedding of Conor Barr and Rowena Pomfret, the women and children made their way, straining forward, not even stopping to pack much more than a wrap against winter and a bag of bread, toward the mountains, toward the Ceres, the most beautiful mountains of all, on the other side of which lay Arcadia, more beautiful still, even after the lootings of the Empire.

  And Conor had come from Rowena’s bed in secret to lie with Lily, and in his vain folly, promised her the highest secret position in the land as his private love. But this, Lily, though she loved him, could not accept, not just because she was proud, but because Death warned her of what she must do. And Lily ever listened to Death.

  Lily and Kim the Kind, who had braved the waves together, joined the refugees walking to the mountains. They climbed and climbed and reached high into the secret parts of the Ceres where winter came to meet them. The others thought of turning back, but, it is said, it was Lily who stopped them, and from an icy shelf high up in the sacred mountains, they looked down on Megalopolis to see an enormous wave lift from the sea and dash over the city, drowning all left there, all who had not had the money to flee to the Phony Moon that shone dimly above.

  It is said that it was the magic Lily carried that enabled them to see this. But no one would say what happened that night, except in whispers to their children, much later, in safety finally, on the other side of the mountains, when that long cold winter was past. It is said that it was the magic Lily carried that kept them alive. But in this, as in so much else, Lily was silent.

  The snow came early that winter, too early, for it was still harvest time. And the women and children were only halfway up the third tallest mountains in the world. It was not the tallest, for that is the Samanthans, and those no one had yet crossed. It was not the Donatees, for those could only be crossed by wily fighters, knowing every rock and crevice. It was the Ceres, but the Ceres could be terrible enough, as can all things beneficent and kind.

  Towards dawn of that terrible night, the night they saw Megalopolis drown, there was a scream. Lily rose quickly from her bed made under a tree, and, shaking off the snow from her hair, hurried toward the sound. For Lily was the child of Mae the magistrate, and she could never hear anyone in pain or in need without hurrying to give aid.

  A poor woman had mistaken her footing, stumbling in the dark into a ravine where she now lay dead. Her child, a girl, stood mute, looking at what had been her mother.

  Lily wrapped the child in her own coat and led her away, and this was the child who later became Clare the Rider, and it was well done of Lily to have saved her that way, for Clare saved Lily’s own child to come, many times. For Lily ca
rried a child out of Megalopolis, though she told no one. One other young woman, who was Devindra Vale, later to become the Queen’s closest counselor and friend, knew, for she was wise beyond her years, and recognized Lily for what she was. It was Clare the Rider and Devindra Vale who helped Lily keep the women and children who had fled Megalopolis safe, and it was they stood by her on the night of the birth of Sophia, in deep December, surrounded as they were by the warmth of mountain ponies, with a night owl on a branch above to announce the arrival of she who became Sophia the Wise. She was named that for her temperance, her prudence, her compassion, and her clear sight. Much of what she learned was at the time of the Lizard Princess, but about that I will tell another time.

  The snows did not stop, that winter, and it took all the bravery and knowledge of the women to survive. Some say it took the magic of the Key. Whatever saved them, survive they did, and when spring came, though it was almost too late, they had, some of them, lived. Led by Lily and Devindra Vale, they went down over into Arcadia, the first and last ever to find the pass that led through the most hidden part of the Ceres Mountains, the pass that has never been found again.

  There and then it was that all of Arcadia proclaimed Lily their queen. But she, silent, neither accepted nor rejected the crown when it was pressed upon her. Three times it was given her, and three times she was silent. “See, she takes the crown!” the crowd called out, but it was not so, Lily did not take the crown, it was given her, and from that day on she ruled with the idea that the crown should be given back.

  But she was silent about this idea, as about much else, and no one knew. And many lies were told about her by many enemies, and many who should have seen were blind, and many who should have loved, hated.

  For she had the Key, and through the Key, she knew what must be done, and it is ever so that people hate those who know what must be done. “Even though I wish it otherwise,” she thought, “it is as it should be.” Even she thought it was as it should be when, at the height of her reign, and the height of her sad beauty, a murderer entered the court where all were free to come to ask what they pleased, and he killed Lily the Silent in the seventh year of her reign.

  This was Will the Murderer, who Chief Counselor Devindra Vale would not allow to be executed, and he lives still, as I, Wilder the Bard, well know.

  As for the Key, Lily took it with her on the Road of the Dead, though poets say she dropped it there when she met her old friend, Death, and sailed away with her across the sea. And the poets further say that Death, because of her great love for Lily, gave her a great gift, a book of the type found on the Real Moon, but more beautiful and more cunningly wrought, that tells everything that will be.

  And that Lily, in the Land of the Dead, turns over the pages of this book and sees what is done in her beautiful land of Arcadia, sees her daughter become the Great Queen, the Wisest Ruler of Them All, Sophia the Wise.

  One

  My mother was a reluctant queen.

  That much is clear from the stories I’ve heard about her, stories I have collected and coaxed from friends, loved ones, even enemies (I’ve certainly learned through my life that the fullest truths always come to you, if you’re ready for them, from enemies). Early on in my own reign, once I had also become a reluctant queen, I began to get serious about my mother’s legacy, and began a serious search for who she had truly been. By then, it was clear to the most advanced of Arcadian scientists that stories about ourselves, stories about our shared past, were the key to changing those selves, for good or bad. I knew, of course, that my mother Lily’s short life as queen had been devoted to restoring to Arcadia the happiness and harmony it had known before the Great Megalopolitan Invasion. I knew she wanted that in a real, unsentimental way, and that she believed it could happen with all her heart.

  I started collecting these bits and pieces of my mother’s past when I was about twelve years old, five years after her death. When it was my turn to be queen, I began, with Wilder the Bard, to put together some kind of epic…well, maybe not an epic, but at least a tale, a foundation story for us Arcadians to tell ourselves and pass down to our children. I really think we have a need for that, we Arcadians. You can’t have a community without a shared story.

  Wilder and I have enjoyed ourselves. At least, I have, and the signs are that Wilder, no matter how much he moans, has a pretty good time, too. Discovering the different shapes and sizes and colors of stories about Lily, bringing my booty back to Wilder’s room in the Tower for us to exclaim over (even if his exclaiming is a bit in spite of himself, dear, melancholic Wilder), laying them out, piecing them together, pacing back and forth declaiming them, laughing together (me always laughing harder than Wilder), and crying, of course (there was lots to cry about, Goddess knows)—these have been my deepest pleasures.

  To every other ruler, of every kind, I give this free advice: find yourself a poet you can talk to about the story of your realm. Have lots of good talk, long into the winter night, by a real wood fire. Talk your way into your own people’s story. Weave it in good faith for your own good, not just theirs. It’s an unbelievably relaxing activity, particularly at the end of a day of listening to petitions and granting justice. Take my word for it.

  Mind you, the fairy tale we stitched together of Lily’s life and her death, that really is Wilder’s work and not mine. In that project, I was the enthusiastic sous chef, as it were. The one who shopped for the ingredients, being careful to only pick out the choicest of the facts (and I really believe that the most beautiful are the truest, and the truest are the choicest, in spite of Aspern Grayling’s arguments). I was the one who laid out all the bits and pieces for Wilder to work into a whole. I was there to comment and admire and exclaim…and sometimes suggest a little change here, a little addition there…a little more salt, Wilder, it does need just a bit, come on, don’t be mean, you want to make that flavor pop if you want them to pay attention. And we want them to pay attention, don’t we, Wilder? It’s not so easy to get them to follow us without that, Wilder, is it? We need good smells and tastes to coax them onto the right road, because it’s so awfully easy to get off that road, isn’t it, Wilder? Don’t groan and put your head in your hands, Wilder, I didn’t mean anything personal by that. But isn’t it true? It’s so easy to do evil, so hard to do good, to try to do good, to try to help others do the best good they can. It’s so hard to stick up for Truth and Beauty and Kindness. It’s so difficult, Wilder, I would say on those days where he would throw himself face down on the blue and red and green and gold carpet I’d given him specially, the one with the twining pattern that reminds you every time you walk on it (or lie on it, sulking) of the beauty of a true story. It is so difficult, he would mutter, pulling at the carpet’s threads with those dirty fingernails of his. (And how did they get that way, with him always in his tower? I’ve always wondered. Never asked.)

  “Difficult,” he would mutter. “And think how easy it is, Snow, to… to…to do the other.” Here he would groan again, and my heart would hurt a little to think I had hurt him, no matter how little I’d meant it. Then Wilder would shake his head. “To build up a good life, or even a story on which to rest a good life—that, Snow, is hard.”

  You’ll see that Wilder the Bard, at least in private, never calls me ‘Queen Sophia,’ as does everyone else in the court, or ‘Sophia the Wise,’ as everyone does who views me from a desirable (to them, anyway) distance. Wilder doesn’t even call me ‘Sophy,’ which has been my nickname since I was a little girl. Devindra, who was my mother’s own Chief Counselor, and is mine as well, calls me Sophy. And Clare, my oldest friend. Of course, it was what my own nurse called me, my own dear Kim the Kind.

  In our researches, long before I’d ever told Wilder about my most secret times alone with my mother, I did tell him of her private name for me. She called me ‘Snow,’ which was, she whispered, short for ‘Snowflake,’ and Wilder, delighted for some unknown reason with that, took it over for himself. I let him, of course. Th
ere’s no lèse majesté involved in one artist acknowledging another as an equal. And I can tell you, one of the most exasperating aspects of being on stage as a Great Queen is that there aren’t too many fruitful friendships on offer. You take what you can get.

  Lily found it really hard, taking what you can get. She found it not just hard to be alone, as Goddess knows I do—alone in her particular courage and hopes, both of which were so much greater and more visionary than my own. Her loneliness was to her like a harsh and endless wind, pushing against her, no matter how determinedly she braved it, no matter how hard she tried to get past it uphill to her goal. It pushed her back two steps for every one and a half that she managed to win.

  But she was a shrewd woman, and her judgment always led her to aim for the possible—which is amusing to me, who has discovered the many impossibilities of her life. Still, being a queen, she used to say, was the art of the possible.

  I can still hear her voice, as she bent over me while I lay in that little trundle bed next to her own vast queen’s bed: “Snow, always remember: you can’t tell someone a truth they’re not ready to hear. It’s dangerous.” And she reached out, smiled, and took my hand in hers. I held it, feeling cautiously, the way I always did, for her missing finger. When I felt the place that finger should have been, I knew, even in the dark, that my mother was with me. And I would sigh with happiness, with content, and listen to her advice with all my small child’s heart.

  She meant, if I remember that particular evening right, a loving correction of my babyish habit of impertinent frankness. I think that time I’d gotten in trouble for innocently commenting on how much I liked the Lord High Chancellor’s characteristic stammer. Pompous old Michaeli took offense, even though it was obvious I meant the sound was beautiful to me, the way he called me, “P-p-p-pr-pr-princess.” It was, truly, my favorite version of my title. But, of course, he hated me for calling attention to what he thought of as a shameful defect, and I always wondered later if it wasn’t a large part of the barrier that grew between us in later years. He was always so sensitive, Michaeli. They say he started out the owner of a sweet shop in Cockaigne, but that he came to prominence during the Invasion. Anyway, he was always careful of his dignity, much more careful than I ever have managed to be of my own, and I think he always disliked me for that. As a child I couldn’t see the need for silence about the truth, about truths of any kind.