The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  Mama and Minister Destra joined the group, interrupting an intense conversation that ricocheted from one country to another with disorienting speed.

  “Good. You are getting reacquainted, I see,” said Minister Destra.

  Percia caught a hint of a knowing smile. “You knew all along,” she accused the Minister. “You knew the queen was alive when Commander Thalen didn’t; you knew who ‘Skylark’ was.”

  Minister Destra turned her soft gray eyes on Percia. “You are correct, my dear. But I never knew about ‘Wren.’ When your queen was young, she was in your keeping and that of your lovely mother’s. Such careful safekeeping. Queen Cressa chose so wisely.” Percia felt a surge of pride.

  Commander Thalen turned to his countrywoman as if he were going to be wrothful with her for withholding this information, but then he just held his head in his hands.

  “Your Majesty, the afternoon ebbs,” interjected Mama in an unsubtle hint. “Perchance you need to reenter to attend to your other guests and prepare for this evening?”

  “Indeed. There is much too much information to exchange in one afternoon,” Cerúlia agreed.

  Then she turned to her sister. “Percie, I know the Raiders so well, I could tell you how each holds his reins. But strangely enough, the subject of dancing never came up in the midst of the canyons of Oromondo. So I must leave them in your capable hands.

  “Teta, will you escort me inside?”

  When the queen and her mother departed, Percie stood up. “Tonight at the fest we will all dance the Fountain Reel. I can teach you the steps in a few moments.”

  “Perfect,” said Minister Destra. “Because I want the Raiders to have time to return to their inn to change. I planned their wardrobes with such care, for maximum effect.”

  While Percia began demonstrating the basic step, she thought, Minister Destra was responsible for those dashing black outfits? Has she been orchestrating Thalen and Cerúlia’s reunion? Does she hold everyone’s Fate in her hands?

  45

  Wareth couldn’t wait to get Thalen alone to discuss the way the world had turned upside down.

  “What the fuck!” shouted Kambey as soon as he, Wareth, and the commander had climbed in their return carriage. “She just about gave me a heart attack! If our other losses are going to start jumping out of the bushes, tell me now, so I can keel over and be done with it.”

  “Did you know?” Wareth asked Thalen, trying to study the face that resolutely gazed out the window.

  “It had occurred to me, but I’d dismissed the idea as too far-fetched to be true,” said Thalen. “You know what? Peddler once said to me, ‘Sometimes I suspect the Spirits have a sense of humor.’ I realize now that he was right.”

  At the Rare Talents Inn, they changed into a second outfit Destra had provided them: black-and-silver waistcoats over white silk shirts with puffed sleeves, accompanied by black trousers that puffed out from their boots accented with a silver stripe. When Wareth had first seen these ensembles, he’d found them too dandyish for the rugged Raiders; now he was glad that he had sumptuous silks to wear in front of the queen and court. The silver stripe made them all look tall.

  As the Raiders finished dressing, they all wound up in Thalen’s room, the largest in the inn.

  “We need to make up for our uncouth behavior earlier,” said Thalen. “We will look sharp and act like gentlemen—yes, even you, Kran, can pretend for one night.”

  “Swords or no?” asked Kambey, fussing with his sleeve to make it puff just perfectly.

  “No swords,” said Thalen. “They would hamper our dancing.”

  The men hooted at the thought of dancing, though the queen’s sister had made it sound easy and almost fun.

  “Do I have to dance?” Jothile asked.

  “No,” said Tristo, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Could I stay here tonight,” Jothile said, “instead of going back to there, where everyone is watching us?”

  Thalen gave him his full attention. “You could, if you really want to. But the rest of us will be going, and I wonder if the queen would miss you.”

  Jothile bobbed his head and allowed Cerf to finish fastening his waistcoat.

  “The sister is very lovely,” Wareth remarked, as he pushed Fedak away from the mirror to pull at his curls to make them lie nicely.

  “She’s a wedded woman,” said Fedak, throwing a towel at him. “Don’t start any trouble.”

  “I’m just saying,” replied Wareth, with exaggerated innocence. “Maybe all Weir women are lovely.” Again he looked sideways at Thalen, trying to read his thoughts.

  “Well, the mother certainly is,” said Cerf. Wareth threw the towel at him.

  “Well, the queen certainly is,” added Dalogun. “My jaw almost dropped to the floor. How did Skylark change from that scrawny, quiet pal who you never thought of as a girl—I mean obviously she was a girl, but you never had to worry about that—to someone so, so…”

  “Breathtaking?” offered Kran.

  “Right,” said Dalogun. “She stole my breath right out of my chest. We spent hours alongside a queen. What do you think of that? No wonder all the horses adored her.”

  Wareth purposely did not look at the commander. “She was attractive before too,” he said. “More of a quiet beauty, though. And clever.”

  “Apparently, the prince of Rortherrod has come to court her,” said Kran.

  Thalen whirled around. “What?”

  “That’s what I heard from a group of folk chatting in the lobby outside the Throne Room,” said Kran, oblivious. “They said that the people honored before Destra was called in were Rorther royalty, and that this Filio Kemeron was totally smitten with our bird gal.”

  “Fellows, don’t forget to move the gold pins from your coat to the weskit,” Kambey remarked. “They gave us extras too, didn’t they? For the others?”

  “Yes,” said Thalen, pulling himself together. “Councilor Nishtari gave me pins for all the survivors who didn’t make the voyage and also ones for any kin we can locate.” The commander crossed over to his packing case and pulled out a leather sack, “Dalogun, here. Take one now to give to your parents, for Balogun.”

  Dalogun blew moist air on the pin and polished it a moment with his sleeve. “Our parents—they’ll show this off to everyone in the village. A golden eagle. A gift from the queen of Weirandale, for their son’s bravery!”

  “As they should, lad,” said Cerf.

  “Kambey,” said Thalen, vigorously rubbing his already-glowing boot, “the queen’s little brother is sword crazy. Maybe you could pay special attention to him tonight?”

  “Sure,” answered their sergeant. “If I’m not too busy dancing with pretty Weir women and showing off my silken duds and fancy stepping.” Cerf threw the towel at him but missed. “Earring in or out?” Kambey asked the room, nudging Wareth aside to look in the mirror.

  Half the Raiders replied, “In,” while the others said, “Out.”

  * * *

  Carriages arrived to fetch them and Minister Destra back to the palace. Wareth noticed that Destra had changed into a long waistcoat with a brocade pattern of interlocking circles over a full white skirt.

  The Great Ballroom was abuzz with people when they entered. In the center Wareth saw a large fountain of five stacked basins. Two men were proudly demonstrating that if they turned a hand-crank they could pump water up to the top, and then it would flow down over each consecutive basin to the bottom.

  The other guests seemed to have lost their wariness of the Raiders now that they no longer wore naked steel. A seamaster brought Wareth a glass of fine wine and engaged him in friendly conversation. Over his glass Wareth noted that Jothile and Dalogun were shyly sticking together; Tristo already had a large group of Weirs laughing; and people were eagerly surrounding the commander for a word with the heroic leader.

  When Skylark—the queen, that is—entered, the room fell si
lent. She now wore a flowing dress of shades of blue. Her blueish hair was held back from her face only with a thin circlet of silver and tumbled down to her shoulders. Everyone bowed.

  People sat themselves at round tables with twelve seats. Wareth noted that several of the Raiders had clustered together, but others had dispersed themselves amongst the other guests. Cerf had managed to seat himself at a table with the queen’s mother. Thalen sat at a table where several of the diners had amber hair, but he was deep in conversation with a brown-haired young man with a smart face. Wareth himself was invited by Shield Pontole to share a table that was partly kin of the Queen’s Shield, and partly mariners. He asked Pontole, “Who is the commander talking to?”

  “Oh, that’s our Steward Alix. He was elected by the people as the queen’s first councilor. He used to write for the Cascada News.”

  The food was delicious. “Pontole,” Wareth muttered to his neighbor, “what are the customs here about second helpings?”

  Pontole smiled broadly. “All of you Raiders look a tad gaunt. Let me serve you more. This is Harvest Fest! A time for feasting till your buttons pop!”

  “So much of our crop was stolen by the Oros,” explained Wareth. “And when we were in Oromondo, many days we survived on thin soup.”

  “Tell us about your encounters with the enemy,” said Shield Pontole.

  So Wareth described a few of the skirmishes, enjoying the whole table’s attention and respect. In his stories, Codek and other lost Raiders lived again.

  The queen started the evening sitting next to Minister Destra. Later she moved in between two red-haired men in rich clothing. Once Wareth saw this pattern, he guessed it was only a matter of time before she moved next to the commander, so he excused himself from his current table to offer whatever emotional support Thalen would accept. When he settled on Thalen’s left, the commander did not break off his animated conversation with the steward, but he briefly squeezed Wareth’s shoulder.

  Servers had taken away the dinner plates and served a sweet. Wareth tried a bite—the pastry was filled with apples and cinnamon custard.

  The queen approached their table, so everyone stood up and bowed.

  Steward Alix said, “My liege, perhaps you would like my seat next to our honored guest?”

  “Thank you, Steward Alix,” said the queen. She slipped into the just-vacated chair, and Thalen pushed her chair in.

  Once everyone was reseated, however, an awkward silence followed.

  “Tell me, Commander Thalen, what happened after I was parted from Tristo, you, and Eli-anna.”

  Thalen cleared his throat. “We three rode down the coast of Melladrin until we came to a town called Tar’s Basin. I’m sorry—I had to sell the horses for ship’s passage back to the Green Isles. Even Cinders.”

  “So Cinders survived the fireball? I didn’t know. That’s welcome news; she was a lovely filly.”

  “When we finally got back to the Free States, there were still a few trials ahead. But as you can see, we prevailed.”

  Wareth interrupted. “We were in a big battle outside of Jutterdam—you should have seen it—uh, Your Majesty. I had to pull him back before he challenged a whole city. Then he and Minister Destra cooked up this trick that made all the Oros surrender.”

  “Wareth, as usual, overstates my contribution.” Thalen again put his hand on Wareth’s shoulder. “In the final confrontation, Wareth here made the biggest sacrifice.”

  “Another time, perchance, you’ll tell me the whole story?” said the queen, and her eyes moved from Wareth back to Thalen.

  “I’m sure it is not half as interesting as your story about the sea creatures, recovering in Wyeland, and regaining this throne,” said Thalen. “I wish that the Raiders had been by your side, to offer any assistance within our power, but I see that you have managed the impossible beautifully.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about beautifully,” she replied. “There were deaths along the way. I have made grievous mistakes. But in the end, with a great deal of assistance, we managed.”

  Just then, their conversation was disrupted by a small group of musicians who began tuning up, and by the pretty sister, who ordered all the tables pushed to the sides. Then the sister cajoled the diners to join hands in several concentric rings around the replica Fountain; the rings were formed only of women or only of men. Wareth found himself holding hands with an older man whose name was Fornquit and a slim engraver named Lemle.

  The craftsmen made the Fountain flow, and the dance began. Under Lady Percia’s direction, the circles danced round the Fountain in opposing directions, then a ring of women dropped hands and moved under the arches formed by the raised arms of men, so that, in a complicated pattern, each ring moved closer and farther away from the flowing water.

  Hilarity ensued when people headed the wrong way or missed a step. Finally, everyone ended up more or less back where they started and the dance was completed.

  Lady Percia, standing on a chair, called out, “That was truly the worst Fountain Reel I’ve ever seen. Nargis deserves better! I’ll let you take a break, and then we are going to repeat it and do it right this time.”

  Wareth, like everyone else, groaned and complained, but he also now got the picture of what the dance would be like if performed properly—an intricate pattern around the emblem of Weirandale’s Spirit, a dance that was not about any individual’s grace or skill, but that celebrated every circle moving in unison. He gulped at a flagon of mead to quench his thirst and looked around for a place to hang his weskit.

  Cloaks, robes, doublets, shawls, and scarves now hung like flags on chairs as the guests decided to get serious about the reel. Looking about, he saw the commander tying back his hair, which had come loose. Jothile, in between Fedak and Dalogun, had even joined in and—wonders!—he was the first person who had resumed his place, like a dog overeager to go on a walk.

  Lady Percia clapped her hands and they formed up in circles again with new partners. Wareth now held hands with a sailor and a fragile old gentleman named Ryton. The music started. Wareth concentrated, determined not to mess up. Every dancer must have felt the same, because the circles spun, the arches raised and fell, and the circles re-formed much more smoothly. Wareth felt transported by the rhythm and simple beauty of the reel, which made him feel as if they were all ripples in a pond, spreading out and moving in.

  When the reel ended, this time everyone broke into applause.

  That ended the formalities. The tables were pulled out again, and cheeses and nuts were passed around while wine flowed liberally. The musicians played quietly in the background.

  Wareth walked around the room to check on the Raiders he felt protective about. Tristo reported that his missing arm hadn’t been a problem while dancing—everyone had graciously held on to his empty sleeve. Dalogun kept gushing about the food and about the fact that the queen had invited him to view her stables tomorrow. Jothile looked nervous and uncomfortable as he always did around strangers, but no more so than usual. From what Wareth could judge, the other guests were patient with Jothile’s twitches and frightened glances. And Fedak was also keeping close to their comrade.

  “Raider,” said a middle-aged uniformed man with a walrus mustache, as he approached Wareth. “I am Captain Athelbern of the palace guard. Would you be so kind as to join our table? We want the chance to hear about your adventures.”

  Wareth agreed. He was telling the story of the attack on River Road when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Thalen had approached the musicians and was conversing with their conductor. Wareth broke off placing cutlery in the position of troops to pay closer attention. One of the players handed Thalen a fife, which Thalen toyed with silently until the musicians finished the air they were playing.

  The chatter, laughter, and people moving about covered over the sound of a single fife. The musicians’ conductor rapped his wand on a nearby chair, making a sharp noise that asked for quiet.

  Thalen began again. W
areth recognized the music, but it took him a few moments to realize that this was the opening of “The Lay of Queen Ciella,” the love song Thalen had played on one of their last nights in Emerald Lake Camp. He played to the end of the introduction.

  The room hushed.

  For a third time, Thalen played the opening of “The Lay of Queen Ciella.” Wareth frantically scanned the room for the queen.

  Slowly, almost as if compelled, the queen stood and walked close to the musicians.

  “Who will sing the echo?” she asked the large and silent hall. A pause ensued while everyone looked around.

  “I would be greatly honored,” said a man wearing a hexagon pin that had something to do with Queen Cressa’s Shield. “At your service, Your Majesty. I am a troubadour from Barston.” He crossed to stand next to Queen Cerúlia by the musicians in the front of the room.

  The musicians’ leader raised his baton, and all the instruments joined the fife, playing the lay’s introduction now for a fourth time. When she sang, the queen’s voice was weaker than Wareth recalled (though before he’d been standing within paces of her and now she was straining to fill a large room). But what her voice had lost in force or tone, it had gained in emotional quality.

  “The Lay of Queen Ciella,” Wareth relearned, was about love surviving death. The first time he’d heard it, he’d understood it only in terms of himself and Eldie; now he understood the song as being about all the Raiders and all the Free Staters who had died in the Occupation.

  Wareth was ashamed of the tears that began to dribble down his cheeks until he realized that practically everyone in the room was weeping, each for their own losses. They wept for the comrades, husbands, fathers, sons, and daughters they had lost. Many a guest put a hand across their eyes; others covered their faces with their napkins; a few wept on the shoulders of their neighbors.

  The queen finished her last verse: “And I will hear your voice in the murmur of the Waters always.” The troubadour sang the last echo. The room was deadly silent except for the sound of sniffling.