And therefore, war does not come.
Or not so often. Talis made many changes to the world, many things that pushed war toward ritual. The Children of Peace are only part of it, but we are the keystone. Between us and the orbital weapons, the great AI keeps things pretty well in line. What wars occur—perhaps two or three a year—are symbolic, short, and small-scale. Global military casualties per annum are normally in the low thousands, civilian casualties almost nil. This is the treasure and crown of our age: the world is as peaceful as it has ever been.
The world is at peace, said the Utterances. And really, if the odd princess has a hard day, is that too much to ask?
There followed, then, a series of hard days.
The boy with bound hands was, we were told, from a new state called the Cumberland Alliance. We knew better than to ask anything more, even when the boy did not immediately appear. We did not discuss the boy, or what might be keeping him. But of course there was nothing out of line in discussing geopolitics, so we talked Cumberland to death.
Sidney’s nation had won the war that killed him, which I suppose would have pleased him. The Cumberland Alliance emerged from a regional shakeup among the losing parties. Like many nations it was defined by water: in this case, the drainage of the Ohio River basin. It stretched south to Nashville and north to Cleveland, with a capital at Indianapolis and a military-industrial center at Pittsburgh.
The details do not really matter. What mattered to me was the border. The northern border of Cumberland was defined by a trickling ditch and a wattle fence, down the edge of the mined and marshy bed of old Lake Erie. On the other side of that fence were the watchtowers of the Pan Polar Confederacy: my nation. Unlucky for the Cumberlanders, to border a superpower.
Unlucky for me, if they were thirsty enough.
I needed only another sixteen months, and I would be of age. I would be released from the Precepture, my mother’s throne falling to regency (taken most likely by some pampered cousin with a conveniently hostage-aged child) until I could produce an heir and hostage of my own—a thing I did not care to dwell on.
If there was no war in the next sixteen months, then I would live. Sixteen months is not long.
And yet . . . the Cumberland hostage had been dragged to the Precepture in chains. He’d had a strong face and desperate eyes. He’d looked like a Christian being dragged to the lions, like someone who’d been told he was going to die.
And maybe he had been. Maybe the war was that close.
Maybe they’d sent him here intending to throw him away.
A boy, I told my classmates. The new hostage was a boy. About our age. I skipped the part about him being dragged in in chains. Thandi looked at my flushed face and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. But she was wrong. There was nothing of romance in the way I thought about this boy, though I thought about him all the time.
“Are you thinking about him?” said Xie from nowhere.
I jumped. “Sorry, what?”
“Careful,” she said. “Don’t break the curds.”
We were working together in the dairy. I was straining whey. Xie was heating pitchers of water and lowering them into the big tray of raw milk, to warm it gently and thereby nourish the friendly bacteria that would turn the milk to cheese.
The day was hot, and the dairy was positively steaming, and sweat was dripping down Da-Xia’s nose. From the solar injector to the milk tray, she carried pitcher after steaming pitcher. I stopped for a moment to watch the blue enamelware moving like a bead on an invisible thread—that smooth, despite its weight. Xie’s rolled-up sleeves bunched above her elbows. Muscles ran like tapestry cords through her forearms and wrists.
She flicked a look over her shoulder. “Greta?” Her hair was done in the tiny, glossy braids traditional to the royalty of the Himalayan slopes. One of the braids had fallen forward and slashed across her face like a wound. “Now you’re staring into space,” she said.
And Thandi drawled from the doorway, “Who are you, and what have you done with Greta?” The screendoor whapped shut behind her as she came in with a pail of milk.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll focus.”
“Oh, don’t, please.” Xie smiled. “It’s a rare treat to see you dreamy. We can spare a batch of cheese.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Thandi. But Xie just smiled at her and pushed the slashing hair back behind one ear.