“Your Majesty,” said Mikil, with a small bow. “What’s the news? Is it truly urgent?”
“It is urgent that I share it with you, for it is of great moment. I have here a letter from our envoy, Bakilai, stationed in Cascada. It was written a moon ago.” Rikil paused, and then added with a dramatic flourish, “Cressa’s daughter, Cerúlia, has returned to claim the Nargis Throne!”
Mikil cried out, “Lautan the Munificent!”
“Shh,” said Rikil, raising his palm, wanting to get out the whole story. “Bakilai writes he heard news of fighting in the palace. Lord Matwyck is in hiding, and many of his followers imprisoned! He attended—”
“Is ‘he’ Bakilai or that Matwyck?” interrupted his father.
“Bakilai attended an event in the middle of Cascada at which Cressa’s daughter presented herself to the people. Her Talent involves communicating with animals; she demonstrated this by commanding the birds of the sky to fly in flamboyant patterns. He, Bakilai, waxes quite poetic about this address.
“Here, read this part.” The king shoved a page at Mikil, who read aloud:
In the Courtyard rainbows shimmered around her. A pendant of Nargis Ice lit up her face—one sees a marked resemblance to the late queen. Her hair shone with that particular shade of blue-green. The dress of pinkish, the robe of gray—as if a nymph of sunset decided to pay a visit to Weirandale. No one there ever will forget the sight or her speech. She entranced the city.
A smile broke through Nithanil’s stern face. “My grand-girl! Alive!”
“Yes, Sire,” said Rikil. “Such great news. And I am so relieved to be rid of that regent. He was impossible to treat with.
“Well, at least she was alive and triumphant a month ago,” continued the king. “Sounds as if powerful forces are arrayed against her. Let’s hope she overcomes them.”
“Sail to her aid,” urged his father.
“Now, Sire. That’s not practical. It would take more than three weeks just to muster the fleet, and more than a moon to sail there. By then she will either have defeated her enemies or succumbed to them. We are just too far away to provide timely assistance.”
“She is beloved of the Spirits,” Mikil broke in, grinning. “She will win out. What we can and should do is offer a libation and thank Lautan. I will prepare a High Tide Mass for tonight.”
Nithanil was stubborn. “We should sail to Cascada.”
“Sire, we should wait for an invitation,” rejoined Rikil. “Once Cerúlia has established control, naturally she will reach out. We have never met her, but we are her only kin.”
“I met her! Sailed there for the Naming. Held her when she was a babe in arms. Little wispy blue hair, like Cressa’s,” said the king-that-was, as he mimicked rocking a babe. “Not the whole blasted fleet, not your armies. My ship. I still have my own ship. I will sail to Cascada. Cressa’s daughter may need me.”
“Sire,” said Rikil, in a tone of patient reasonableness his father would find doubly aggravating, “you are too weak for such a voyage. You are just this day out of your bed after such another bout of pneumonia. You wouldn’t help Cerúlia by arriving there for her to nurse or arriving there dead.”
This angered their father, who always railed against his increasing infirmities. “I’m not dead yet,” he snapped at Rikil. “And by Lautan’s Beard, I will see Cressa’s child before I dive.” He thundered out of the room, his dignity somewhat compromised by a fit of heavy coughing that forced him to accept the arm of a nearby footman.
Rikil addressed his ministers. “Please withdraw. I would have a few words with my brother,” he said, and the men and women took themselves away, with polite murmurs about what a glorious day this was for Lortherrod.
The king shrugged at his younger brother. “I don’t think I handled that skillfully. But Bakilai is one of our brightest envoys. He will know how eager we are to hear news—why, more letters may at this very moment be heading this direction. Let’s not impetuously jump on ships without more information. If Bakilai even thought that we should make preparations, he would have suggested the same. He must have thought that our ‘sunset nymph’ had the situation well in hand. If I didn’t know Bakilai to prefer men in his bed, I’d say he was smitten with her.”
Seeing Mikil hungrily eying the letter, Rikil passed it to him. “Here, read the whole thing.”
Mikil devoured every detail. “Though I too am eager to greet Shrimpella, I agree with your interpretation. I’ll suggest to Sire that he make her a present. Mayhap he can channel his impatience in that direction.”
“That’s a grand idea,” Rikil said. “Don’t think that I too am not stirred by this development. And a renewed, strong alliance with Weirandale will remake Ennea Món for the better. I’m sure realms will immediately start scheming about marriage alliances. But you know our father has other grandchildren nearby, grandsons he takes for granted.”
Nithanil’s emotional remove from Rikil’s sons was a sore point in the family; Mikil tried to think of how to soothe that wound. “Oh, you know how he doted on Cressa, in a way he never favored either of us. He also pays no attention to Gilboy.”
Rikil’s brow stayed furrowed. “It’s not that he likes women more than men, for he generally takes no interest in our wives either.”
“I see that every day.” Mikil nodded. “Such a shame. I wonder if Sire cares only for certain Weir women—Catreena, Cressa, and now, Cerúlia. They hold a particular appeal for him. I wonder why.…” As Lautan’s Agent, Mikil had insight into the particular pull of Magic. “Perchance he responds to their Talents.…”
Rikil returned to his polished wooden desk. “How is your wife? She doesn’t often join us at High Table. You know she is more than welcome.”
“Arlettie is having a little trouble adjusting: her new position, and the fact that my duties keep me so busy. A little more time…”
“Of course. No pressure.”
Mikil swiftly added, “Your boys have been very kind to Gilboy, very kind indeed, to include him in all their activities.”
“I would whip them if they weren’t, but they genuinely like and admire their new cousin. Ingenious and good-humored, they tell me.”
Being of such opposite personalities and both vying for the scraps of affection from their father, Rikil and Mikil had never been close. Since Mikil’s miraculous return they had tried their best to remedy their past—settling into a scrupulous, if a little forced, cordiality.
Mikil said, “I would like to run and tell Arlettie and Gilboy about Shrimpella. They will be so happy. Your family will join us at High Tide Mass tonight?”
“Of course, Mikil.” Rikil smiled with genuine warmth. “The Sea keeps giving us back treasures. First a brother and now a niece. We know where gratitude is due.”
Mikil stopped by his father’s suite on his way, discovering that his father had independently struck on the idea of a present. He was sitting up at his worktable with a thick woman’s shawl wrapped around his shoulders, and he had his jewelry tools out. He was grumbling at Iluka, the simple fisherwoman he had invited to be his bed wife after the failure of his marriage to Queen Catreena.
“What’s the problem?” Mikil asked the room.
Iluka had her hands on her hips. “The old walrus wants diamond chips, and there ain’t any in the jewel chest. So he says I’m a blind old biddy.”
Mikil peered into the wall cabinet where his father stored the gems he worked with, patiently opening drawers and opening wrappers.
His father had made Arlettie a ring studded with emeralds as a wedding present. She had never received such a costly gift, and she marveled at it. The ring, however, was about the only thing in Lortherrod that pleased her; ofttimes Mikil regretted dragging her so far away from the Green Isles. And his new love, his total devotion to the Spirit of the Sea, cast his former passion for Arlettie into shadow.
Mikil finished poking around in the drawers. “Iluka’s right, Sire. No diamonds. But I see several blue sapphire
s. Were you saving them? Maybe this is the time to use them.”
“Bring them to me,” ordered his father.
Mikil sorted through the stones and carried them to his father, who picked them up and studied them in the light coming through the window.
“They’ll do,” he grunted grudgingly. “Old Biddy, find me some silver wire.”
“Good. Crisis averted, then. Don’t sit up too long, Sire.”
His father waved him away without looking at him, and Iluka saw him to the door with a grateful wink.
Softhearted Arlettie cried a bit with joy at the good news. Although Mikil had never told her the identity of the castaway they had rescued, she still remembered Queen Cressa fondly, and she had been worried about the fate of her daughter.
At High Tide Mass, Mikil led the court in prayers of gratitude to Lautan and poured bottle after bottle into the churning surf. His own heart felt nigh to bursting, to learn that Cressa’s daughter had survived and had won back her throne.
20
The Scoláiríum
Thalen was disappointed to discover that he could not immediately immerse himself in the Scoláiríum’s books because the books were still housed in the limestone caves where the students had hidden them from the Oros.
So the first and most crucial task the Raiders took on was emptying the caves and bringing the volumes back to the library. Thalen had absorbed enough about pulleys from the tutor of Engineering to be able to set these up again. The nine men didn’t have scores of students to help, but the strong and disciplined Raiders worked with less chatter and less wasted motion, ferrying cartload after cartload.
Once the books had been unloaded from the wagons, tutors set about reorganizing them on the shelves. Occasionally Thalen had to prod them back to their task; often he would find Tutor Andreata, Gustie’s former teacher, sitting on the floor, dreamily lost in reviewing a treatise she’d feared mislaid forever. Tutor Helina, a newcomer hired to teach Poetry, worked with the most discipline and will; during breaks she and Thalen would discuss the merits and drawbacks of alternative categorization schemas.
With Granilton gone, Thalen assumed responsibility for organizing the History collection. He found the job satisfying, as if by creating orderliness in one corner of the library he could restore a sense of order in the world at large.
During these weeks each of the Raiders settled in and chose interests to keep him busy. Tristo found his way to the kitchens, offering himself as the cranky cook’s assistant, and to balance out his boss’s sourness he took on the role of master of revels amongst the village children. Between bouts of rigorous sword practice Kambey slept in the sunshine for long hours, rebuilding the muscle strength he’d lost to the woros. Kran and Fedak, with Jothile helping as much as he was able, started making long-needed repairs to the Scoláiríum buildings. Cerf tended to the ailments of the school’s and village’s people.
In the absence of a midwife, Cerf even helped birth a babe, an event that provided an occasion for joy all round.
The rector came to find Thalen in the library one morning as he moved a shelf of monographs. Concern clouded her jovial face.
“Three students are arriving this week and another four next week. You will serve as our History tutor, I assume?”
“I would be a fraud as a tutor.”
“Ha!” barked Meakey. “Just as you were a fraud as a commander?”
Thalen held his hands up, surrendering without even suiting up for battle.
“Your adequacy doesn’t perturb me,” continued Meakey, tapping her foot. “I just don’t know how the students will get here, what with the ferry down and coach service disrupted.”
“Let’s send Wareth to rendezvous and guide them here,” suggested Thalen, who had been worried about the scout’s lack of finding satisfying occupation.
This plan proved agreeable to both Wareth and the rector. And once students chattered in the refectory and left broken quills scattered about in the library, the Scoláiríum slowly came back to life, regaining its rhythm and habits.
After much searching, Thalen laid his hands on the library’s slim holdings on Alpetar. He read the four tracts cover to cover. Then he searched through the Religion section for everything on the sun Spirit, Saulė. But he put the books down in frustration, not finding anything that answered the questions he obsessed over.
“Commander Thalen.” Tutor Helina’s little shoes clicked on the floor one afternoon, when he had laid aside another tome on religion without finding anything useful. “Could you help me reach a top stack? I could hunt around for a chair or step stool, but I’m just too lazy in this heat.”
“I’m delighted to be useful.” He accompanied her to the bookshelf. “Which one?”
“The one with the gold binding. It’s a volume of Kentros I’s sonnets.”
He grabbed the book she desired. Afterward they walked together to the refectory, deep in discussion of Rorther sonnets and how much they did or did not capture the true history of that kingdom. Helina, he couldn’t help but notice, had a comely face and Rorther red streaks in her hair. Her voice, low and husky for a woman, held a special allure.
At the dining hall, Wareth, recently back from an excursion to a larger town, passed around a broadsheet that relayed the news of the sudden appearance of the Weir queen.
“Now she appears,” Thalen said bitterly, glancing sideways at the broadsheet as he poured Helina a tankard of ale. “After all the fighting is over.”
“No,” said Wareth. “She’s had her own fight seizing power.”
Cerf had grabbed the sheet and read aloud about a skirmish and a fire in the Weir palace. But the bottom of the paper, which seemed about to launch into more details about the queen herself, got splotched with gravy when Jothile grabbed the platter on the other side of Cerf.
21
Cascada
The day Cerúlia finally assembled her complete roster of councilors in the Circle Chamber, the air smelled of summer. They opened the room’s windows, and occasionally a warm gust blew through, disarranging their papers.
Master Alix, who—to her surprise—had been overwhelmingly elected steward, beating an influential lordling from Patenroux, sat on the queen’s right. Thus far, his energy and intelligence impressed her, and she found that his desire to improve the lot of the people matched her own. Master Fornquit (a middle-yeared and thoughtful cheese wholesaler from the duchy of Lakevale) and Mistress Nishtari (younger and bolder in temperament), whom Cerúlia had decided to appoint as her councilor for diplomacy, completed the Circle. Nishtari hailed from a family of shipbuilders in Maritima; she had already traveled Ennea Món seeking commissions for the company’s ships.
However, just as her Circle closed, Naven sought Cerúlia out to tell her that he had come down homesick for his family in Androvale; he was willing to serve her for a year, but asked that afterward she replace him. Since she had chosen him more for his loyalty and common sense than for his reputation in the realm or superior intellect, a year’s duration suited her fine.
Overall, she was pleased at how balanced the council had turned out: men and women, young and older, gentry and commoners, and representatives from several different duchies. Most importantly, she trusted them all.
“The first and most pressing item of business, Your Majesty,” Steward Alix began, “is the problem of what to do about General Yurgn. Duchess Latlie has fled; reports indicate that she bribed a shipmaster and bolted. Other than confiscating her properties and ill-gotten gains, we need do nothing more about the duchess. Lady Fanyah will serve a three-year term in prison and all her goods have been confiscated. But General Yurgn was not only one of the original traitors, he has been the instigator of most of the worst treatment of the populace in recent years. And we believe him to be sheltering Matwyck—though we cannot be certain. At any rate, we have found no other trail that leads to the Lord Regent.”
“Marcot?” Cerúlia asked. “Can you tell us anything about where your
father would hide?”
“If he still lives—and I hope he doesn’t—I agree he would slink to Yurgn’s manse.”
“Moreover,” argued Wilamara, “the longer the general remains free, the longer he serves as a flag of defiance to Your Majesty’s authority. This raises questions about the loyalty of the army.”
“Even without the Stone,” said Marcot, “we have been making progress getting our stable guests to inform on one another. I’ve learned that the worst offenders in terms of fingering innocent people as ‘agitators’ were army officers. They need to be brought to justice.”
“Ah, but the problem lies in how to bring these renegades to heel,” Fornquit removed his unlit pipe to say. “The queen does not command a force equal to the numbers in the barracks under Yurgn’s direct influence.”
“But do we know that all those troops are loyal to him?” asked Wilamara. “I would wager that many of those lads and gals would prefer to get themselves straight with Nargis and bend a knee to the queen.”
“Well,” Fornquit commented, “we can hardly just march up the valley to South Fork and take our chances on an insurrection.”
“We’re in dry cask, there’s no denying,” said Steward Alix.
“There must be a solution,” Cerúlia said, rising but motioning for her councilors to stay seated. She stared out the open window as if the answer lay in the bright blue sky or the birds pecking on the grass.
“I suggest,” said Nishtari in a meditative manner, “that we write to both General Yurgn and the officers of the cavalry and pikemen, assuring them that if they were to turn themselves in to face questioning they would find justice.”
“And why would they do that,” said Marcot, “when their just deserts would be harsh? Yurgn, at the very least, would be hung. Though we could offer to spare his family—well, not Burgn, but the rest of them. I wonder if clemency for his family would sway him.”
The Cerulean Queen Page 15