The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  The pitcher was half-empty. Cerúlia paused, savoring the moment. “Matwyck, your crimes are so heinous and so many that you have forfeited all claim to the Waters of Life.”

  “You dog-fuckin’ cunt!” he howled as she resumed spilling the contents away.

  Although she shook with rage, Cerúlia had time to think about her action, to reconsider, to show compassion to an injured and dying man. She kept pouring away the water.

  The pitcher was nearly empty when Matwyck began to plead, “Please! I beg you. Leave me some—leave me a little. Just a few swallows!”

  Perchance her mother or father, who by all accounts were very decent people, would have shown leniency. Certainly softhearted Wilim or Percia would have been unable to resist such a piteous plea. Just moments earlier, she had worried her people would judge her a monster. Were these actions not monstrous? Wise in the paths of pain and the trials of thirst, Cerúlia could well reckon the amount of suffering the lack of water would cause her captive. But her character had been forged by her losses—losses this man had set in motion. Wilim was not here to plead for mercy, because he was dead. If Matwyck had had his way, Percia would be dead too.

  She measured not only her own sorrows, but the agonies of all of Matwyck’s victims—the murdered, the tortured, the wounded, the raped, and the bereaved—against the liquid left in the vessel, and wished she had more to pour away.

  When it was completely empty, she threw the pitcher against the wall, where it shattered into a dozen shards, and Cici yelped in fear. Matwyck startled at the crash and then crumpled back on the bedding.

  Cerúlia looked from Ciellō to Sewel with her eyebrows raised, asking if either of them wished to speak for clemency. Neither of them uttered a sound. Would she have relented if they had? No.

  “Come,” she said. “We are finished here.”

  And they left the room.

  Cerúlia turned to Ciellō. “He had enough energy to mock us; I believe, despite what the healer predicted, that he is far from his last breaths. I saw with Sezirō at the Bread and Balm how long it can take a strong will to leave even a very weak body. Have the door barred shut and station guards at the head of the stairs to ensure that no one goes to his aid.”

  26

  Sutterdam

  “Norling, you just don’t understand,” said Hake. “It’s not that I don’t want Thalen at my wedding. Of course I’d like my brother to stand beside me. It’s just—I don’t want Commander Thalen at my wedding.”

  “Hake, you’re talking in riddles!”

  “No, listen! If Thalen comes, the wedding will be about him: ‘Look, isn’t it sweet that the hero’s crippled brother has found a woman to marry him.’ I don’t want Thalen’s long shadow at my wedding. Can’t I have that day just for Pallia and me?”

  “I do understand, Hake, but I still think you’re making a mistake. Thalen has to carry that shadow around with him all the time, the way you have to carry that chair. It’s a burden. Such a burden that his own brother doesn’t want him at his wedding. How would you feel if Thalen didn’t want you at his wedding because of your chair?”

  “This is different.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, because being a glory-dappled, national hero is a position most people would envy, whereas being a cripple is not something anyone wants.”

  “I’m not sure I see the difference, Hake. Both of you went to war. Both of you came back changed by happenstance, not by choice. I’m not sure that Thalen wouldn’t be happier in your chair, reading his books, and you happier in his position, garnering acclaim. Everyone has been affected by the war, Hake. Look at your father. Look at me. The question is, will our family crumble because of these changes, or pull together? Thalen’s holing up in Latham worries me so.

  “But I’ll say no more about it. I want you to be joyful at your wedding, not fretting that everyone is looking at your brother. Or fretting over whether your bride is looking at your brother.”

  Hake thought that Norling’s last thrust was unfair. Of course he worried about Pallia and undamaged men, but he didn’t think she would yearn after his brother. At any rate, it was going to be a very small, quiet affair. Just family, a handful of neighbors, a few of the most senior workers from the pottery. Less than twenty people. Hardly worth Thalen or Quinith traveling all the way to Sutterdam.

  Yet a week before the wedding, with Norling’s chastisement eating at him, Hake sent for Thalen. He compromised by inviting just his brother and not his armed and adoring followers.

  Pallia thought it strange that Hake wanted to be married in a Courtyard of Vertia. On occasion she joked that she should go to Pozhar’s Worship Citadel so that her candles would burn properly (she was back to making candles in a corner of the pottery), but religion didn’t figure strongly in her family. But when Hake told her that his friend Olet had prayed for this union and blessed it before Vertia, she grew comfortable with a Courtyard ceremony.

  About a moon after Pallia found him, everyone—including Quinith, who rode all the way in from Jutterdam, and Thalen, who arrived the night before—gathered in Vertia’s one Courtyard in Sutterdam. Pallia’s little sister gravely carried a basket of fruit for the Spirit. The resident gardener spoke about Pallia and Hake nurturing one another and growing together like two entwined trees. She bound their hands together with a green vine. She closed by saying, “And let the love of Pallia and Hake create a garden of abundance, a haven to all in this troubled world,” to which the assembled small crowd murmured the correct response, “May ye grow strong and grow fruitful.”

  Hake and Pallia needed their blessings. He wasn’t confident about his feelings for his bride. He had wanted to marry her for so long that the goal had outstripped the original infatuation. He no longer knew if he loved this woman, almost a stranger, bravely holding on to a smile in her new pink dress.

  Pallia ruffled his hair and leaned down to speak softly to him. “Hake, don’t look so anxious. I will make you happy.”

  The wedding party took carriages back to Lantern Lane for the party. Norling had prepared a cold midmeal in advance, and as per usual, all the dishes were delicious. Hartling was much taken with Pallia and her little sister; their presence brought life back into the house and a bit of a light into his father’s eyes. Pallia’s great-uncle brought several bottles of sparkling wine; after a while Hake found it hard to tell if the room’s gaiety was forced or genuine. Thalen stayed in the background, speaking only when spoken to by a guest, jumping to help Norling with heavy platters.

  Hake wheeled over to converse with his brother. “Thank you for traveling all this way. Not a grand ceremony.”

  “It was lovely, Hake. I would have been devastated to miss it. I’m jealous that you’ve found someone.”

  “Yes, I guess in this I am fortunate,” said Hake.

  Thalen was following his own train of thought. “I keep thinking of Mater. Wouldn’t she have been happy to see this day! To have a daughter in the house at last! And Harthen would be teasing you unmercifully. You’d find garter snakes in your marriage bed.”

  When the wedding guests finally left, Pallia insisted on helping Norling with the cleanup. Hake realized that it had been years since Norling had anyone to talk to or help in the kitchen. Thalen, Hake, and Pater sat outside in the small backyard in the early evening light. Hartling had his pipe.

  “I remember my wedding night,” his father abruptly broke out, lucid as can be. “Jerinda looked so beautiful, Eldest, that I felt I would never be good enough for her. I was so nervous about proving myself. Just be gentle and patient, lad, and give it time. All will be well.”

  Hake and Thalen shared a glance over his head. His brother’s face echoed Hake’s own sentiments: astonished pleasure that Hartling had surfaced from his fog to give fatherly advice, mixed with anger that he didn’t acknowledge that Hake’s wedding night would inevitably be much different from his own. Thalen closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead a moment in frustration.


  For their honey “trip,” Hake had rented a small, one-story house across the lane and down the way for him and his bride, so they would have privacy, if not travel. After the dishes were washed, Pallia came to the back courtyard to fetch him. She kissed Hartling on the forehead in farewell, making his father glow. Then she wheeled Hake across the bumpy cobblestones and up the ramp into the little house. One of their friends had festooned the house with daisies, but the flowers were already starting to wilt.

  Now, after all these years, I am alone with her, yet I can’t take her in my arms. What if she finds my limp, withered legs repulsive?

  They talked a few minutes, delaying. Hake told her how much her presence had meant to Hartling and Norling, which pleased her. She told him that while she would miss her sister, she was glad to be parted from her mother, a cold and grasping woman.

  “Do you know what she said when we arrived at Vertia’s Courtyard? She hissed at me: ‘You should have bought the cheaper dress and given me the extra money!’”

  “You look lovely in that gown,” said Hake, dutifully and almost truthfully.

  Pallia’s smile was sad, as if she knew she had lost her youthful sparkle, but appreciated Hake’s pretense.

  “Do you know what I’d like to do now, Husband?” she asked.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’d like to go to bed with you.”

  “Look, Pallia—if during the Occupation, anything happened to you…” Hake couldn’t bear the idea of lying with her if she would shudder at his touch. “I mean, there’s no hurry.…”

  Pallia shook her head vigorously, but Hake didn’t know whether she was denying she had been raped or refusing to revisit the past. “Husband, I would like to go to bed with you,” she repeated.

  “I think that can be arranged,” he answered, in a tone that came out sounding more hesitant than he wished.

  Hake wheeled himself into the bedroom, scratching the doorway only a little. He was skilled and strong enough to lever himself from the chair onto the side of the bed. Pallia knelt to take off his boots and then left him to wrestle with his own clothes.

  Though light still streamed through the unglazed bedroom windows facing this house’s back courtyard, Pallia lit several sandalwood candles on a side table. Hake liked the scent. Very slowly and deliberately, she let down her hair from the top of her head. She unfastened her pink dress and stepped out of it. Knowing his eyes were on her, she slowly took off her shoes and unrolled her stockings. Then she slid out of her underclothes, standing before him totally nude, trembling a little.

  In a husky voice, Hake said, “Come here.”

  She came and sat next to him on the bed. He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. She smelled like lilac soap and the wine they had been drinking. He moved around to her throat.

  “Everything’s going to be all right,” she whispered fiercely. “We lived. We’re damaged, but we’ll start life over. We will make it all right.”

  “To me, you’re not damaged,” said Hake. “You’ve just been, well, tempered into someone stronger.”

  “Ah, Hake.” She kissed him on the mouth. “And can’t you see that this is true of you as well?”

  27

  Cascada

  Tilim missed Gunnit after he sailed away, but he was not homesick for Wyndton. He enjoyed the knowledge that instead of living in a backwater village, he was witness to important events.

  As soon as Lemle recovered a modicum of strength, Mama insisted that Tilim, Lemle, and she move into the house in West Park that Marcot had leased for them. She wanted to establish a private home away from palace people (whom she distrusted), and she hankered to get back on a loom.

  When the carriage with their meager belongings pulled up to the house—modest compared to the houses nearby, but still imposing by Tilim’s standards, since it was constructed of brick with three chimneys and glass in every window—a brown-haired, middle-aged woman in a servant’s apron came rushing out.

  She curtsied. “I’m Tovalie,” she said. “Lord Marcot hired me. I come with the house to take care of your needs.”

  Tilim and Mama exchanged a glance; they had never lived with a servant before and they weren’t at all sure they wanted to. But Tovalie had already grabbed parcels and cases and led the way up the stairs. Mama put her arm around Lemle’s waist while Tilim heaped the rest of their packages in his arms in a high pile.

  “This is the main bedchamber,” Tovalie said, showing them to a nice room on the second floor and gently setting down Mama’s cases on a bench. “The young men are just across the hall.”

  “There are two extra bedrooms!” Tilim discovered. This would be the first time that he had a room to himself.

  “Tilim, you choose,” said Lemle. “I’m only going to stay until Lord Marcot finds me another apprenticeship, so I don’t care.”

  Tilim chose the room facing the street, from which he had a view of the palace. He bounced on the bed a few times and explored the rest of the room’s features.

  “Lem—you all right?” he shouted down the hall.

  Getting no answer, he dashed in to check on Lem. Tired from their short journey, Lemle sat resting in a chair pulled up by a window, smiling at the view of the sunshine and tiny back garden.

  “Do you need anything before I go exploring?” Tilim asked.

  A small knock on the door announced Tovalie. “Begging your pardon, I brought the young man tisane and sweet cakes—something a little fortifying after all this shifting around. And I’ll unpack your parcels.”

  “Thanks, Missus Tovalie. Do you know where my mother is?”

  “I saw her head toward the workroom in the back of the first floor.”

  Tilim found Mama crouched down, studying the mechanism of the loom that was set up in a room with newly set-in large windows that let in heaps of light.

  “Mama, is it all right?”

  “Well, it’s not mine own. The weight feels all wrong in my hands, and it’s a little stiff. But in time, I think it’ll suit fine.” And she smiled one of the first full smiles Tilim had seen in a long time.

  “Let’s go find the kitchen!” he urged, running through the house.

  “Oh, gracious!” said Mama, when they found the basement room, as she surveyed the gleaming pots and stocked shelves and ran her fingers over cutting boards and a panoply of knives.

  “Bet you could cook anything here!” said Tilim.

  “Ma’am?” said Missus Tovalie, entering. “Can I help you?”

  “Now let’s get one thing straight,” said Mama, crossing her arms and preparing for battle. “I do the cooking for my family.”

  “Of course. As you wish, ma’am,” said Missus Tovalie. “Is it all right if I do the washing up?” A smile lurked in her eyes.

  Mama saw it and grinned back. “Yes, that would be all right. Wonderful, in fact.”

  “And mayhap, just now and again, a fastbreak or a tidbit for the young gentlemen?” Missus Tovalie suggested. “Just so, ma’am, you aren’t disturbed at your loom, or when you are consulting with Her Highness?”

  “Missus Tovalie”—Mama’s tone grew warmer—“they aren’t gentlemen, and you can’t call me ‘ma’am.’ We’ve never had a maid before.”

  “That don’t matter. I want the job. It’s a small house, easy to maintain, and a small family that don’t put on airs. We’re going to do just fine,” said Tovalie, “so long as you tell me whenever you find me in the way or overstepping.”

  “Thank you. And you’ll tell us if we’re wrong-footed by Cascada customs?” Mama held out her hand, and the two women shook on it.

  Mama unpacked for herself, and then she came outside with Tilim to explore the green space in the back.

  “Not big enough, or sunny enough, for a garden,” Mama sniffed. “I guess we’ll have to buy all our vegetables. I wonder if they’ll be crisp. And our eggs and our dairy. Will they be fresh?”

  “Mama, it’ll be great not to fuss over the chickens!” said Tilim.<
br />
  “I guess,” she agreed, in a dubious tone, “but chickens always were the sound of home to me.”

  The next day, Percia and Marcot arrived in a carriage, bringing a basket of wine, bread, and salt as a housewarming present.

  After they had admired every room and every cupboard, the family gathered around the wooden dining table over tisane.

  “I also bring news,” said Marcot. “Lemle, Steward Alix knows a fine engraving company on the outskirts of town, High Road Engraving. He’s explained that you are a little older than most apprentices, and that right now you need gentle tasks. The master—her name is Kinorya of Riverine—is willing to take you on as a trial. Next week, if you’re ready.”

  “Did you have to bribe her?” Lemle asked suspiciously.

  “I would have, if I needed to,” Marcot admitted. “I would do anything to make up to you what my father has done. But Kinorya lost her nephew to Matwyck’s Marauders. She is truly eager to take you on.”

  Lem looked around the room for everyone’s opinion. “Say yes,” Percie urged.

  Mama spoke to the tisane leaves in the bottom of her cup, “Getting back to work is how one recovers.”

  “I don’t want you to go so soon!” said Tilim. “But I suppose you could still visit. We could keep your room ready for you, for whenever you have a free day.”

  “Ah,” said Marcot. “The queen has a plan for you too, Tilim. She says she knows that the under school in Wyndton was very weak, and she wants you to grow up well-educated. She proposes that you study each morning with Tutor Ryton, who will teach you things like mathematics and geography.”

  “I don’t wanna go to more school or have a tutor! I want to be a soldier.”