The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  When they came out of a wooded thicket, they saw the swell of the foothills ahead.

  “Race you to the top of that rise!” challenged Cerúlia, removing her hat and urging Smoke to a gallop.

  With the head start she gave herself and a faster mount, she instantly pulled ahead of Ciellō. Smoke’s gait was smooth and effortless, and she gave him his head to choose his path and he flew up the incline. The deerhounds caught up to Smoke in a moment; as Cerúlia waited for the others, a flat rock outcropping that promised a view called to her. So she dismounted and ventured out for a look on the shelf that stretched twice the size of her closet chamber. Below, she spied the white palace towers and tiny people going about their daily routines. Stable lads were exercising the horses and turning some into paddocks. Carts were delivering goods through the Kitchen Gate. Beyond the grounds rose the jumble of rooftops of the city of Cascada with the abbey steeples and the Church of the Headwaters providing landmarks but the Fountain obscured from this angle and far in the distance the glint of the Bay of Cinda and Cascada Harbor.

  She sat cross-legged to study the view and didn’t turn around when she heard Nightmist’s hooves clatter on the rock. Whaki, panting heavily, came padding out on the escarpment, nosing her arm for a caress, and flopped beside her, his chest rising and falling. Ciellō made no noise, but she knew that he too had come to lounge a few paces behind her.

  “The palace and the city look pretty from here,” she mused. “You can’t see the ugliness, the sewers, the garbage, the slums, all the roads I must find a way to fix. When I was a child in Wyndton, I pictured Cascada as all that was comfortable, well-ordered, and beautiful. I didn’t know…”

  “What?” he prodded.

  “I didn’t know how much ugliness lingered here. How many people were happy to cooperate with Matwyck for their own selfish reasons. How many were greedy, sadistic, or cowardly or just didn’t care about injustice so long as their own bellies were full.”

  “Weirs are no different than other people,” Ciellō said.

  “I guess not,” replied the queen. “But I thought—I imagined they were better. Perchance because I wanted them to be.”

  She lay back on the warmed rock a moment, closing her eyes against the direct sun, which made her sight fill with the red glow of her inner eyelids. “The sun feels so good.” She wasn’t sleepy, but the warmth rising from the rock softened the focus of her thoughts, and her mind drifted a little under Saulė’s gift.

  A shadow in front of her face prompted her to open her eyes. Ciellō leaned over her; he had removed his doublet and folded it up.

  “Lift your head, damselle,” he said, so she angled her neck up, and he slid the garment under her head like a pillow. For a half tick longer than necessary Ciellō stayed so close that she could smell his sweat.

  She guessed that his chief purpose was to make her more comfortable, but the gesture sent a current of sexual desire through her. She wouldn’t put it past Ciellō to know exactly the effect he would create. She lay still another few moments, listening to Whaki lap rainwater left over in a depression in the rock. As soon as seemed polite, she sat up, opened her eyes, and stretched. Ciellō sat a few paces away, surveying her with alert eyes.

  “Let’s mount up again,” said Cerúlia, moving to gather her feet underneath herself. Ciellō, faster than she, was on his feet and offered her his hand to assist her rising. She shook her head that she did not need it and purposely addressed the dogs. “Had enough time to catch your breath, you lazybones?” she asked.

  As they started to ride the ridgeline, the day grew warmer. Cerúlia made a note of the birds’ nests that hung in the trees and inhaled the scents of horse and crushed grass. Then despite her wishes, her thoughts turned to all the meetings and tasks awaiting her inside. Answering her unspoken wish, Smoke turned onto a deer path that headed back down.

  Cerúlia cleared her throat. “Ciellō—”

  “Do you wish me to leave Cascada?”

  “What? No! That’s not what I was going to say; I have so few real friends I could not bear to lose both you and Gunnit.” She cleared her throat again. “I think, however, if we are careful to keep more distance between us” (she had practiced this sentence in her mind and was pleased with the choice of wording) “we can better control the—the spark that arises.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I will be more mindful.”

  “Ciellō!” she rebuked him, and Smoke broke off his stride at her tone. “You always call me ‘damselle’ when we are alone.”

  “No,” he said, staring down at the path, “‘Your Majesty,’ I think, is better.”

  Cerúlia had been through too much emotional drama the last few moons to put up with these enigmatic pronouncements.

  “I. Have. Had. Enough!” she snapped. “First you say you’ll never desert me; then you offer to leave. You tell me to confide in people, and then you get sullen. You treat me informally, and then you pull away and act the courtier. You bed me, and then you say this is dishonorable!”

  She had gotten angrier and angrier as she went through the list; the dogs gazed up uneasily, and the horses halted without instruction, their ears moving in all directions to find the source of such strife.

  “Ciellō of Zerplain, I command you to tell me why it was dishonorable! Was it because I was your employer?”

  Ciellō made a dismissive shrug. “Damselle Phénix had no power over my body.”

  Her cheeks had grown hot from anger and embarrassment, but Cerúlia would not back down now. “Then what?”

  “In your country village,” he began, in the patronizing tone of voice that irritated her so, “what did they teach you about men and women?”

  “You mean, about sex?” she said, wanting to shock him with her directness. “Very little. They are loath to discuss it.”

  “Foolishness! In Zellia, we say ‘Both partners must dance the same dance.’”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know that now,” he said, “but on Misty Traveler, I was bodyguard and manservant and weapon instructor, not grandfather.”

  He clucked Nightmist to walk on down from the hill; in a few moments the path broadened sufficiently so that she could urge Smoke to catch up and ride alongside.

  “Ciellō—”

  “Damselle.” He sighed with exaggerated patience. “In Zellia when a boy or girl comes of age, the grandfathers and grandmothers pull them aside. They explain that there are many dances between adults: a dance for when wine stirs the loins; a dance for tonight only; a dance until the next moon or season for sailing; a dance for a begetting of children; a dance for forever. Many different dances. All are sweet. But in Zellia it is not honorable for one person to sway to one and the partner to dance to another.”

  “And we were not dancing the same dance?”

  “Correct.” He rolled the r’s with exaggeration.

  Cerúlia sat back in her saddle and cast her mind back on their night together, which, given all that had happened since, seemed like ages ago. She had never considered what kind of commitment—if any—she was offering when she invited her bodyguard into her bed.

  “But what if you don’t know how you feel? What if dancing is accidental or spontaneous? What if you don’t want to talk about it or don’t know how?”

  “The dance is never truly accidental. That is a pretty lie dishonorable people tell themselves, ofttimes with drink. You must not invite a partner until you are clear in your own heart and mind because people can get hurt.”

  “That night, were you clear in your own mind…?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And I hurt you with my muddle and confusion?”

  “Ah.”

  “People can get hurt when they are mysteriously shoved away too!” she said with clenched teeth as she pretended she needed to free tufts of Smoke’s mane from the back of his bridle.

  A long silence was punctuated only by the ripping and chewing noise of Nightmist naughtily t
aking advantage of their slowed progress to grab mouthfuls of fresh forage.

  “This is true,” Ciellō said. “I pray you forgive me, damselle.”

  A group of blue jays jabbered for the queen’s attention, but she closed herself off to them. More angry words formed in her mind, but she shunted them away too.

  “I pray you forgive me, Ciellō,” she said after a pause.

  “Oh, I forgave you the next day,” he said with irritating cheerfulness. “Holding anger makes the jaw and neck tense—like you, now.” He grinned at her.

  “Besides, I cannot hold anger at you,” he continued. “No grandparents to teach you. Why are the Weirs so foolish about desire and so casual about honor? Such a bad upbringing you had.”

  Cerúlia was yawning to stretch her jaw and rotating her neck in a circle to work out the tension, but his insouciant comment made her laugh. “Oh, don’t tell Stahlia that!”

  “Mistress Stahlia raised you? She is a woman of much backbone and honor. Often I think you were raised by curs.”

  “Did you hear that, Whaki?” Cerúlia said, leaning to the side on Smoke to address the dog and to hide the slight spring of tears that moistened her eyes. “Ciellō thinks you’re a cur.”

  Whaki wagged his tail. Thy heart be lighter now?

  Smoke and Nightmist moved forward again, matching their strides. Cerúlia stretched her arm, pleased that it didn’t hurt and realizing that her back and left shoulder did not ache from riding as they had in Salubriton.

  To change the subject away from their night of lovemaking, Ciellō began describing an animal native only to Zellia. It had a long striped tail and fingers that were almost humanlike. Cerúlia was intrigued, but after a while her mind ran on a different course.

  Cerúlia interrupted, “Ciellō, in Zellia, do people actually dance? I mean dance, to music?”

  “Not as Lady Percia dances. We dance to the mandolin. The Zellish, we are the best dancers of all peoples in Ennea Món.”

  “I thought we were going on this ride so I could get a break,” Cerúlia said, with laughter that was only slightly forced, “but you are so full of ego and lessons, I’m not going to ride with you anymore; I’m going to race you back to the stable!”

  And she urged Smoke forward, delighting in his speed, and—for those brief moments—outrunning her complicated worries.

  18

  Cascada

  “Your Majesty wished to see me,” said Vilkit, bowing low to the queen as she sat in her Reception Room, her feet propped up on a footstool, reviewing sheaves of papers.

  “Ah, Vilkit, yes. I sent for you because I’d like to make changes in palace routines.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “It is my understanding that the servants dine in the servants’ common room and the gentry and administrators eat either in the Banquet Hall or order food to their rooms?”

  “Indeed, that is the practice.”

  “Well, I think this creates unnecessary divisions. Why can’t we all eat together in the Banquet Hall as we did my first night back?”

  “Your Majesty, that was a special occasion. For every day, many administrators would object to dining alongside of a dirty stable lad or a scullery maid. And I don’t believe that the staff would enjoy its mealtime either. This way, the servants relax and joke around; they don’t have to worry about their manners or coarse talk. Before you assume that the servants would appreciate your gracious invitation, you might inquire as to their wishes. Besides, there would be the question of the price of the food; the kitchens use one set of provisions for the gentry and another set for the servants’ meals.”

  “Ah, Vilkit, that’s just what displeases me most. I believe that if the chimney sweep dines on turnips, then I should dine on turnips. I’ve dined on turnips and worse in my day. If I sup on quail, then Nana should sup on quail. But couldn’t we all meet in the middle with chicken?”

  Vilkit was so flummoxed by the parade of poultry that he stared at his liege in astonishment.

  “What about the wine?” he asked faintly.

  “Aye.” The queen nodded as if he had made a solid point, but Vilkit had a suspicion she might be mocking him. “Wine. Well, I believe we should do away with wine at midmeal for the gentry and administrators. It makes everyone sleepy, and I don’t get as much work out of anyone in the afternoons. At dinner we should all be able to drink wine, or ale, or mead, each to her own preference.”

  “Your Majesty, as always, your ideas are bold and exciting. But perchance this mealtime plan might be a wee bit too foreign? Folk like the customs they are familiar with.”

  “Humor me, Vilkit,” said the queen, without a smile, and the chamberlain realized that this was not a discussion.

  “Of course, Your Majesty. When would you like this experiment to begin?”

  “Tomorrow. And I intend to set an example of getting to know workers who are new to me by moving around and sitting at various tables. I would like you to follow my example.”

  “Your Majesty, I know all the employees.”

  “Really, Vilkit? Then wouldn’t you care to know them better? Know them as people?”

  “Whatever you command, Your Majesty.” Vilkit bowed. “Though I believe that breaking down barriers can lead to lax discipline.”

  He arranged for midmeal to be served in the Banquet Hall for everyone the next day. The stable lads and chimney sweeps surprised him by washing up very carefully; though their clothes were none too clean, their hands and faces shone, and they had wiped their feet with great care.

  The queen entered, escorted by Nana and her foreign bodyguard, who watched over her like a hawk. While everyone stood, she looked around the room with unhurried consideration and chose to join a group of gardeners. In a short time Vilkit heard a lot of laughter arising from that table.

  Lord Marcot and Lady Percia rather self-consciously sat themselves at a table of chambermaids. Marcot ate his food quietly, but Vilkit overhead Lady Percia talking with the girls about dancing.

  Vilkit was so occupied making sure that the platters came out of the kitchen hot and in good time he did not have a chance to seat himself.

  Dinner went off about the same. The queen and Nana sat with plasterers and painters while the Zellishman watchfully stood by. This time, Lord Marcot steered his lady toward the stable staff and found a common interest in talking about horses.

  Vilkit’s own habit was to take his meals privately in his office accompanied only by the head cook, but tonight, tired and hungry, he approached a table of the Queen’s Shield. Captain Yanath energetically waved him to a seat at his side.

  “Hey, Chamberlain, I need your advice.”

  “My advice, sir?” said Vilkit, genuinely surprised.

  Yanath launched into a story about a farm and a family outside Cascada. He didn’t want to give up the farm, he didn’t want to leave his family alone in the countryside, and he missed them. Vilkit suggested that he move his family into South Park (right close to the palace) and lease the farm for a time. Yanath acted very grateful for the suggestion.

  The next day, as Vilkit was checking that the Queen’s Closet had been tidied to his standards, he noticed a nosegay of daisies and lavender. He asked the maid about it; she said the head gardener had himself brought them up this morning. Of course, if Vilkit had known that the queen desired flowers in her rooms, he could have easily ordered them, but for the gardener to send them spontaneously as a present …

  He needed to stop underestimating this young queen. Her upbringing in rural Wyndton had given her a touch with the common people, and who knew how her travels in foreign lands might manifest.

  19

  Tidewater Keep, Lortherrod

  Mikil was scrubbing the salt crust off the wall of the keep’s Dwelling of Lautan (all of Lautan’s churches being built over coastal abysses, so that the ocean ebbed, flowed, and splashed within their walls), when a page dashed through the door.

  The lad gasped, “The king—” but
he did not have the ability to continue.

  “You’ve found me,” Mikil encouraged. “Catch your breath now. Whatever the message, it is probably not worth panting over. My brother always says to pages, ‘Race away’ over trifles; once it was merely to ask whether wild boar at High Table would suit my wife.” Mikil dropped his scrub brush and wiped his hands on a towel.

  This brought a lopsided grin to the face of the winded boy. He started again, “The king requests that you join him (gasp) in the Map Room (gasp) immediately.”

  “Im-me-di-ate-ly, eh? Then I don’t want to hear any guff about my work robe. Do you know what this is about?”

  The boy could talk now. “All I know is that there was a ship and a letter for the king on it.”

  “Interesting. Well, I’m off.” Mikil pointed to a stone shelf carved in a nook of the wall. “There’s a jug of water over there, lad, and meat and biscuits. I’ll probably end up dining at the keep and that’s no reason for good food to go to waste.”

  Mikil set off on the cobblestone path for the center of the castle at a quick but not frantic pace. The Dwelling sat at the edge; most of the royal buildings were tucked farther away from the ocean. The interior paths and courtyards were gray and austere, as befitted a keep constructed for defense rather than comfort or show. His heart had leapt at the news of a letter, but it was prudent not to get his hopes up. In the moons since he had sent Cerúlia to Wyeland, he’d heard nothing about her, and Lautan wouldn’t allow him to ask questions.

  His father, who was mostly confined to his sickbed, had managed to precede him into the Map Room, a solar on the second floor of the stone castle, suitable for small conferences. Nithanil sat by the fireplace, which had probably been fed to chase away the damp chill; a roaring fire made the crossed walrus tusks on the mantel gleam. Nithanil, as usual, was compulsively tying knots in a ragged piece of rope. Rikil, the king, who was generally of imperturbable disposition, today sat jittering his crossed foot, holding a sheaf of papers. Several ministers clustered around the family group, looking grave.