The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  “I should think not!”

  Alix plunged on, “Should the time come that you”—Plink!—“consider marriage, since Queen Cressa is not alive to evaluate the fitness of the match, it would be expected, traditional—at least customary—for you to present your choice to the council.”

  “The council can tell me whom to marry?”

  “Not precisely. But we have a duty to persuade you to think through all the ramifications.”

  “I see.” Cerúlia made her tone neutral.

  Plink!

  “Your Majesty.” Alix shifted a little closer to the edge of his chair. “You must admit that this is reasonable. Weirandale can’t have a young, besotted queen run out and marry a striking-looking goose boy.”

  Instead of angering her, this comparison struck Cerúlia as droll, and she burst out laughing.

  “Not, of course, that Commander Thalen—” Alix tried to take back his unfortunate remark, but she waved him off, laughing harder, drowning out the plinks of the Weeping Swan.

  When she conquered her mirth, she addressed her steward. “So, in sum, I have the council’s permission to welcome the commander into my bed—though you’d prefer this be done discreetly—but not to wed him precipitously?”

  Her foot tapped against the carpet a few times. “You may tell your fellow councilors that I will take this all under advisement.”

  Alix smiled weakly. “Thank you. That is all we ask.”

  “You are dismissed now,” she said, not too gruffly, because much as this presumption grated upon her, her steward had obviously taken no joy in the conversation.

  When he left, Cerúlia massaged her forehead, giving way to her fatigue and anxieties. She longed to be alone with Thalen for a moon, to unburden herself of all her secrets, to lay all her uncertainties out for his analysis, and—most of all—to entangle herself in his long limbs. But how could she manage to carve out time for them together, beset as she was by all eyes watching and judging?

  “Darzner!” she called to her secretary, who waited outside her door. By the time he entered and offered his services, she knew who could help her.

  “Find Lady Percia,” she said, “and ask her to attend me.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, per Percia’s advice and arrangements, the queen’s carriage, transporting the sovereign, her sister, and Kiltti, and escorted by a squad of shields, pulled up outside the Rare Talents Inn.

  Thalen stood, waiting for her in the courtyard, dressed in the same black coat he had worn when he entered the Throne Room. He opened the carriage door himself, not giving a footman a chance, and stretched out his hand to help her descend.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “A little overtired,” she admitted, pulling her warm but cumbersome cloak down the steps.

  “Lady Percia.” Thalen turned to greet her sister as she climbed out lifting her skirts.

  “Oh, I’d prefer you just called me ‘Percia,’” she smiled, “or even ‘Percie,’ if you wish.”

  “Only if you will drop ‘Commander’ and just call me ‘Thalen,’” he responded.

  He turned back to help Kiltti, but she had jumped down herself, and dipped him a small curtsey. Whaki leapt out last, sniffing Thalen’s leg, recalling his scent, and finding him acceptable.

  The party passed through the Rare Talents’s tiled foyer and its arched hallway—Percia greeting and thanking the innkeeper so that Cerúlia did not have to pull her attention away from Thalen’s profile and the warmth of his arm. Thalen led her to the private dining room in the back of the inn, where they found a vaulted, half-timbered ceiling, a large table lit with many candles, a sideboard bedecked with steaming platters, and the Raiders standing about, waiting for them.

  “Well, Your Majesty,” said Cerf, after they had risen from their courtesies, “we’re awfully honored to have you to ourselves.”

  Thalen, stepping behind her, lifted off her cloak and its hood, which revealed that underneath the luxurious outer garment of black velvet and fur she wore canvas trousers, a simple linen shirt (whiter and cleaner than all previous incarnations), and a black bodice. Her hair was pinned low on the back of her neck so that at first glance it looked to be cut short.

  “Skylark!” Tristo gasped. “You’ve come back to us!”

  “That’s the idea,” said Cerúlia. “Tonight, I have run away from the palace. I need … to be among friends, old friends, good friends, who don’t judge my every word or gesture.”

  “All righty. So, take a load off those tender feet of yours, girl,” said Kambey, easily falling into the game and pulling out the chair at the head of the table.

  “The victuals here are really quite tasty; shall I fix you a plate?” asked Wareth.

  Thalen seated himself beside her, quietly but firmly taking her hand underneath the table, while Fedak and Kran used their best manners to seat Percia and Kiltti. Kiltti tried to pull away to go sit in the kitchen with the other servants, but no one would hear of such a thing, so she sat between Jothile and Fedak, perched on her seat as if Vilkit were going to burst through the door and reprimand her at any moment.

  Wareth placed a plate overloaded with food before Cerúlia, while Cerf poured wine all around.

  “Is there a traditional Weir toast?” Thalen asked as he stood and lifted his glass.

  “May ye never know thirst,” Percia supplied.

  “We’ve already known thirst,” Tristo said in a dark aside, “and it was awful.”

  “Ah. That’s why it is a great sentiment,” Thalen said. “Raiders and guests, may ye never again know thirst.”

  “Or thirst for absent friends,” added Cerúlia, her eyes resting first on him and then taking in the rest of the table.

  Wareth stood and raised his glass. “And may you always live in freedom!”

  The Raiders pounded the table with their fists and drank from their wineglasses.

  Between big mouthfuls of food, conversation began to swirl. Cerúlia had so many questions about her friends’ escape from Oromondo and their driving the Oros out of the Free States that the Raiders talked over one another, interrupting and correcting, joking and cursing. Percia’s eyes grew round with amazement at the tales that unfolded.

  Informality ruled. Kran unhooked his waistcoat, which had begun to pull too tightly across his middle; Tristo speared his meat and nibbled off the dagger he held straight up in the air; after a long pull of ale Kiltti belched and everyone applauded. No one seemed to notice when Cerúlia tried to tuck a lock of Thalen’s hair back into his leather tie. Whaki circled the table, begging with his big eyes for tidbits, and despite Cerúlia’s scolding, everyone gave in. Finally accepting that his belly was full nigh unto bursting, the dog lay down to sleep with his head on Jothile’s boot. In rare moments of silence the diners could hear him snoring.

  The queen partook of the partridge and greens, ham and corn, bass and squash, sweet cakes and pie, finding it all uncommonly delicious, as if her taste for food had been renewed. Much of her comfort came from Thalen’s closeness—if he needed his right hand to eat he moved his leg next to hers so that they were always in contact—but she also relished the easy company of their companions. She leaned back in her chair, feeling the tenseness she habitually carried in her neck drain away.

  Fedak and Wareth had started to argue over which meal was worse at the Scoláiríum—midmeal or dinner—when Cerúlia interrupted them.

  “You can’t leave me, you know,” she burst out to the table at large. “You have to stay in Weirandale. You can’t ever abandon me.” Midway through this presumptuous statement she tried to smile as if she were joking, but her plea’s seriousness sounded in everyone’s ears.

  “I’m your man,” said Kambey, without delay, and several others nodded, but Tristo, Wareth, and Jothile first looked to Thalen for his reaction.

  Thalen brought up her left hand to his lips and kissed it. “I am yours to command. I will stay or go according to your wishes.”

 
Percia clapped and emitted a little squeal in excitement.

  Beaming, Cerúlia waved her fork, pointing at individuals. “Cerf! I need you to take over as palace healer; the person they foisted on me is an aggravating fool. Kambey! My shields could use a weapons master. Dalogun! What about the stables? The rest of you, would you join the Shield? Or really, any position you prefer.”

  Tristo addressed Thalen. “You ain’t never going back to the Free States, are you?”

  “Oh, I would go for visits and to help the Scoláiríum,” he answered. “But my life lies with Queen Cerúlia as long as she’ll have me near her.”

  “My home is with you,” Tristo said slowly, “so if you stay, I stay. But with my arm, I can’t be in the Shield; I’d druther stay as your adjutant.”

  “And if you weren’t by my side, who would find my books or maps? I couldn’t function without you,” Thalen said.

  “Wareth?” Cerúlia asked, biting her lower lip.

  “To be honest,” he answered, “I was bored at the Scoláiríum—all those books and serious, thoughtful faces.” He put his chin on his fist, mimicking deep study. “In Cascada exciting things seem to happen every day.” He grinned that good-natured, sloppy grin that Cerúlia had always treasured. “And the food’s much better here.”

  Fedak and Kran exchanged looks. “Do you think we could have those fancy uniforms with the blue silk and glowing breastplates like those fellows standing outside the door now?” asked Fedak.

  “What? Have you become a dandy so quickly, man?” joked Kran. “I don’t care about the uniform, but I must say I find Weir women easy on the eyes.” Kran wriggled his eyebrows at Kiltti in a clownish manner, prompting laughter all around.

  Cerúlia bounced in her seat as if she were a child given a present.

  However, Dalogun’s face clouded. “Hold on a tick, everyone. My parents. They’ve already lost Balogun—I can’t desert them while they are still living.”

  “Of course, Dalogun,” Thalen said. “We’ll miss you, terribly, but I respect your decision.” Cerf squeezed the youth’s shoulder.

  “I understand,” nodded Cerúlia. “We will keep in touch. You may marry and settle down in—?”

  “Jígat,” he supplied.

  “Jígat,” she affirmed with her fork. “But I want you to know that the offer will always be open. There will always be a place in the Royal Stables for you, if after your parents pass on you wish to join us. I will send a ship from the Royal Navy just to fetch you.”

  The people at the table turned to the one Raider who had not yet spoken up.

  Jothile’s hands began shaking at finding himself the center of attention. The splashes of food around his plate showed that mastering his utensils to eat had already been a trial. He tucked his hands under his armpits to try to quell their movement.

  “You don’t really want me, Skylark—ah, Your Majesty,” he said. “The way I am now, I’m no use to anyone. You’re just being gracious.”

  “Jothile,” she said, “we’re all injured in different ways. Life is hard enough in normal times, and we’ve just been through a vicious war. I don’t know about what you suffered in the Iron Valley, but clearly you’ve taken a blow to your psyche. Perchance in time, with Nargis Water, you’ll improve; perchance you won’t. But Raiders never throw away their injured, and neither do Weirs. Together we would find you a position that is calm and quiet, where you could feel safe. I trust you in a way I trust only a fraction of the people around me: I need your experience and your loyalty. And losing Dalogun already leaves a hole in my heart—don’t make it larger.”

  “You make it awful hard to say no,” said Jothile.

  “So say yes,” urged Wareth, and when Jothile gave a quick nod, the rest of the Raiders shouted and pounded their fists on the table again.

  “Commander,” Tristo asked, “are you going to direct the queen’s army or be her councilor or what?”

  Kiltti dared to speak up. “Queen Cressa’s consort, Lord Ambrice, he was Lord of the Ships.”

  “Really?” mused Thalen, looking at Cerúlia. “Your father was a mariner? I’d forgotten that; there’s so much I don’t know.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Obviously, I’m not a mariner. And I’ve no hankering to be lord of anything. We haven’t had time to discuss this or a thousand other things, Tristo. As Cook would say, we’re ‘im-pro-vi-sing’ moment by moment.

  “Speaking of our lack of time together…” Thalen used his weight to make his own chair slide away from the table on the wooden floor. “Much as I’ve delighted in your company”—he nodded his head especially at Percia—“now I am going to claim our queen’s undivided attention.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Cerúlia said flirtatiously, as he moved her chair so she could rise.

  “Percia,” she began, “will you—”

  “Go!” ordered her sister. “I will see to everything, and I’ll send back the carriage and a maid in the morning.”

  As Cerúlia walked on Thalen’s arm to the door she heard a discussion break out behind her as to whether the shields would stay to guard the inn or whether the Raiders would take over their new duties immediately, but she recognized that she didn’t need to worry about these arrangements.

  In a dignified manner, Thalen escorted her up the Rare Talents’s central staircase, passing a sprinkling of servants and guests who looked surprised by her donkey boy garb and blue hair. However, when the couple reached the third floor and realized they were completely alone except for Whaki snuffling the floor, Thalen’s pace quickened, and in a moment he was dashing backward down the long hallway pulling both of her hands in his. Cerúlia’s hair fell down, and she began laughing like—like a carefree, besotted village girl, running off with her handsome goose boy.

  * * *

  In the morning, she woke to find herself lying in Thalen’s arms, staring up at the half-timbered beams of the room’s ceiling.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Morning.” She blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes. Then, marveling at finding him next to her, she buried her head in his chest, luxuriating in his warmth and distinctive scent. He quietly stroked her hair.

  She reached her free hand up to tug on his own unruly locks, then picked up a conversation that had gotten dropped the previous night when they’d moved on to more serious business.

  “You know,” she said into his chest, “the Raiders are the easy ones to broach, because I lived with them for moons. They already knew me. It’s going to be harder to introduce you to my Wyndton family. To Teta Stahlia, you might as well have dropped out of Mother Moon.”

  “Will they like me?” he asked.

  “Of course. Percia already does. But prepare yourself for a thorough examination.” She raised herself up on one elbow. “And what are we going to do about that hair, Thalen of Sutterdam? It’s shorter on one side than the other, and it never stays tied.”

  “I’ve noticed that men’s hair is kept more formally here.”

  “In Cascada, though not in the country,” she said through a big yawn. “City styles. Courtier primping. It’s all so frivolous, but in these moons I’ve become accustomed to it.

  “You know,” she continued, “we could wait a while before I take you to visit my family.”

  “I’d rather not,” said Thalen. “I want to get this over with as soon as possible.”

  The queen sat up, holding the covers to her bare front, and stretched. “I probably need to get back now. I have to see the Rorther party off and check if there’s any news about the ship from Lortherrod. I wonder if a maid has arrived yet with a gown and the carriage.”

  Thalen’s hand traced the burn scars on her back as if he were drawing a map.

  “I won’t be sorry for Filio Kemeron to leave. And I heard your carriage come hours ago.”

  “Really? I thought you just woke up.”

  “No. I held still; I wanted you to get as much sleep as possible. Now that you’re awa
ke, I’m free.”

  Thalen leapt out of bed, vigorously splashed around in the basin, and began scavenging his clothes from the floor.

  “’Tis very strange,” mused Cerúlia, moving more slowly, “to consider that I do have blood kin. A grandfather and two half uncles. I don’t know how to feel about my ‘real family’ versus the family that raised me.” She tugged ineffectually at the bed cover, wanting to pull it loose and wrap it around herself for warmth and modesty. “I do hope no harm has come to them.”

  With only trousers and one boot on, Thalen interrupted his own toilette to detach the cover and drape it around her. As he finished tucking a corner about her upper chest, he kissed her on the top of her head.

  “Families are always complicated, even when you’re raised with your own kin. The fierceness of the love also creates hurts and rivalries, all mixed up.”

  He sat down to pull on his second boot. “I’m going out for a walk so your maid can fuss over you.” Through the shirt that he was pulling on over his head he said, “If Jothile is awake, I want to follow up on your suggestion and take him to the Fountain.”

  “Don’t be disappointed,” cautioned Cerúlia. “The Waters are capricious: they healed Percia’s leg but did nothing for my burns. And take all the Raiders; you never know whom the Waters will heal. Even if the Waters don’t heal you, just drinking at the Fountain tends to raise everyone’s spirits.”

  Grabbing his cloak, he asked, “You’ll send a message later?”

  “Aye, Commander,” she responded, mock-saluting. He grinned and ducked out the door.

  Once she was washed, dressed, and coiffed as befitted her station, Cerúlia returned to take up the duties of a busy day at the palace. She had Darzner write to Stahlia, informing her mother that she planned to bring a guest to West Cottage for family dinner that evening. Then, reluctantly, she turned to her schedule of meetings and consultations.

  * * *

  A light rain had wet the streets by the time the carriage brought Cerúlia, Marcot, and Percia to Stahlia’s brick house. Covered lanterns flared a welcome at the top of the stoop, but Tilim answered the door with a cat-in-cream grin on his face.