Claus didn’t lie to himself. He knew that the color of his skin wouldn’t make the Fjern accept him, knew that the Fjern would hate him more than any of us. Our father had taken Claus with him on all of his meetings across the islands. He showed Claus and his son’s lighter skin with pride. Claus had hated our father. He told me this, plainly, when I asked my older brother to tell me about the man who had given us our name and our freedom. He said that our father lovingly kissed the feet of the Fjern, who would kick him in the mouth. Koen Rose didn’t want to be seen as a threat. He was happy to be treated like a dog if it meant he could continue his family’s legacy in the sugarcane business.
My father, though an islander, wasn’t a kind master. He would have the slaves beaten, just like any of the other Fjern, and though he wouldn’t torture the slaves as some might, Claus knew it was because he saw each slave as an investment and a profit. It didn’t matter that their skin was as dark as his own. My father had no feeling for them and did whatever he could in the eyes of the kongelig to distance himself from them—to make it clear that, though he looked like an islander, he’d still had an ancestor of the Fjern generations before. He had tried to marry into any of the Fjern families, but none would have him, so he decided on my mother, the most beautiful islander he had seen, even with her scars.
Claus didn’t want to inherit the sugarcane business or the island of Rose Helle if it meant he had to pretend to hold love for the Fjern. Claus would tell me the histories he learned, since I was still too young to read about the north myself. There are seven nations to the north, three more to the east, and two to the west; only our islands cross the sea. Claus explained to me that the Fjern came from their empire of Koninkrijk, which was the farthest north and by far the coldest of them all. The northern empire is oppressive, with little mercy for those who disobey the laws of the land, which they believe come as direct orders from the gods above. Claus had laughed when I asked if the Fjern envied the heat of our islands—if this is why they took the land from us.
My bedroom door opens without a knock, and Marieke strides in as she always does, a pan of water in her hands. “The girls are gossiping about how your guard was seen walking barefoot down this hall,” she says. “You need to be more careful. You don’t want these rumors spreading to your betrothed, do you?”
“Good day to you, too, Marieke.”
She sucks her teeth when she sees my clothes strewn across the floor, white dress stained yellow and brown from the island, ash from the fires. “It’s not too hard to pick up and fold your own clothes, is it?”
She walks into the adjoining room, and I hear her pour water into the tub. I stand, naked, and walk across the marble to join her.
“Why do you feel the need to mess with that boy?” she asks me.
I hesitate. I’d needed a distraction from the memory of the girl, a memory that returns to me now. Marieke is the only person I can trust with the truth, but there are some truths even she won’t want to hear. Instead, I change the topic, telling her to prepare new clothes for a visit to Jannik Helle in the morning.
“You’re visiting Elskerinde Jannik again?” she says. She believes I’ve accomplished enough with the woman.
“It’s not really your place to question, is it?” I ask. I sink into the white clawfoot tub and withhold a contented sigh.
“I’ll question whatever the hell I want. This isn’t only your life you’re playing with, Sigourney, and I have no plans to follow you to the gallows.”
“Good. Maybe then I’ll have a break from your nagging.”
Marieke begins to scrub at my arms, my shoulders, my back.
I ask, my eyes still closed, “Why do you stay if you hate me so?” Marieke is the first and only slave of the Rose household whose freedom I have granted—and yet, over the years, she’s remained.
She doesn’t pause in her scrubbing. “You already know that I have nowhere else to go.”
I can’t help but smile. This is why I love Marieke—her honesty, perhaps knowing there’s no point in trying to keep the truth from me, is refreshing. She stands and pours more water into my tub, and I open my eyes now and look at the wrinkles of her brown skin, the thick curls escaping her bun. She’d been the woman who found me waiting by the bay so many years ago, the night that my family had been massacred and Tante whispered that my mother would’ve wanted me to live. I’d climbed down the ladder, falling the last few feet and twisting my ankle so that it swelled and throbbed. I limped through the brush, thorns catching my dress and hair and skin, tripping over roots and rocks. Every now and then, I would hear a crunch, and I would stop, trying hard not to cry, fearing the guards had found me; and when no one came with their machete, I would keep moving—following the salted river as Tante had told me to, straight to the bay. I found the cave and sat motionless, knees to my chest. The entire night had passed and the sun was starting to rise, and Marieke found me there, covered in dirt and scratches and salt from my tears. A safeguard, I realized as I got older—a slave of the Rose family who had never come within the manor walls, and who knew to come to the cave if anything ever happened.
Marieke brought me to Lund Helle. I didn’t yet have my kraft, but it was plain to see that my cousin Bernhand Lund was shocked to see me alive. He’d watched the fires of Rose Helle in the early morning and had heard word of the massacre. He’d been told my entire family, myself included, had been killed. Marieke asked for shelter, but Bernhand Lund didn’t think this wise. In retrospect, it’s possible that he didn’t want to be tangled up with my family’s deaths, didn’t want my assassins to come back for me and decide to take his life as well. I’d been numb in those days, and have little memory of the conversations between my cousin and Marieke, but I imagine now how terrified Marieke must have been; scared that my cousin might simply decide to make both of us his slaves and take the coin of Rose Helle for himself. It would’ve been easy. My mother was no longer alive to stop him, and I was supposed to be dead.
But he did not. To this day, I honestly can’t see why he didn’t. It wasn’t out of love. My Lund cousins didn’t love us, and were often embarrassed to depend on my family for the sugarcane business, and if Bernhand Lund was afraid of my assassins, he could’ve offered me to the kongelig in exchange for his life. Perhaps he’d already considered the fact that he had no heir, and as shaming as it would be for him, he would need me to continue the Lund legacy. Maybe he simply decided to do what was right. Whatever his reason, my cousin sent me away for my protection. He gave Marieke coin so that I could travel the northern empires, from villas to cottages to cities. We became the guests of Bernhand Lund’s acquaintances, spending months in the grandest of manors; we would travel to a city and spend just as much time in an inn that smelled of ale. We lied about my roots to anyone who asked, and allowed the rumors to spread. The bastard child of Bernhand Lund’s and a forgotten slave, perhaps, or an orphan of the northern empires that Bernhand saw in the streets and took pity on. I became known as Sigourney Lund.
The northern mass of land is carved up into its own separate empires. Koninkrijk—home of the Fjern—is the farthest north, and the smallest of the other empire nations. Perhaps it’s because of this that the Fjern have spread themselves across the world, starting wars and claiming more land for Koninkrijk on behalf of their gods. The Fjern give those lands to regents so that coin and trade can be sent back north. The regents rule without mercy, slaughtering anyone who attempts rebellion. The islands of Hans Lollik are far from being the only lands that have suffered under the hand of the Fjern.
My islands are well known in the north for their beauty. Some strangers Marieke and I met even knew of my mother, the woman who had been a slave but rose among the kongelig. It was possible that some were spies, sent from my family’s killers to murder me. Marieke insisted that if I was to truly hide, I should change my birth name as well, but even as a child, I refused. It was the name my mother had given me, the name she had whispered as she kissed my forehead at ni
ght.
I’ve met some who have wondered—thought on how there was once a little girl named Sigourney Rose, who might’ve been the same age as me if she hadn’t been killed nearly ten years before, found dead in a pretty little dress beside the rest of her family, but no one has stepped forward with such a claim. No one has attempted to kill me for being a daughter of the Rose.
I spent seven years traveling the north with Marieke. I was thirteen when I decided I would sacrifice my freedom to return to the islands and take the power from the kongelig. I studied each of the kongelig: the Niklasson, Nørup, Solberg, Årud, Larsen, and Jannik families. My plan required the inheritance of the title of Elskerinde. Bernhand Lund didn’t have any plans to retire his title, and I held no love for him, as he held no love for me. I asked Marieke to slip a drop of poison from oleander flowers purchased from the Solberg markets into my cousin’s tea, and over the months he became ill. He left me everything in his will when he died. I could sense at his deathbed that he was grateful to have a name to write down on his paper, embarrassed that he’d lived such a long life but hadn’t grown to love anyone but himself, ashamed that he had no choice but to ensure his legacy continue by placing his wealth and land into my hands. Now only Marieke knows with any certainty my true identity.
Marieke’s rough fingers make their way into my hair. “And I don’t hate you,” she says. “You already know that.”
There’s an unexpected warming in my chest. I’m tempted to slip into her mind to see if she really means what she says, but Marieke is the one person whose privacy I’ve always respected. Besides, she has a way of knowing when I’m reading her thoughts, and she always has harsh words for what she calls “evil’s trickery.” Any other kongelig would have her killed for slandering what they consider the divine gifts.
“If only more people were like you, Marieke,” I tell her.
She sucks her teeth again. “What’s this? The grand Sigourney Rose, worried about what people think?”
I don’t answer. She’s silent, waiting for me to speak my worries. “Someone with kraft was found at the uprising today.”
Marieke pauses for a brief moment before her hands continue to make their way through my hair. “Someone is always found with kraft.”
I try not to think of the others—dozens—who had been brought to me over the years since becoming Elskerinde Lund after my cousin Bernhand’s passing. I had to announce their rightful deaths and listen to their screams and cries, their pleas for mercy. They would’ve been honored, once. Before the Fjern came and declared these powers belonged to only them, an islander with such a gift would be considered blessed by our ancestors. They would devote their lives to using their abilities to help others. Now an islander with such an ability only becomes ash.
“It was a girl this time—young, couldn’t have been any older than thirteen.”
Marieke’s fingers are stiff. Disgust emanates from her. I was right. Marieke wouldn’t have wanted to hear about the death of a child. The death of a child by my own hand, no matter if I have a choice in declaring her execution or not.
Still, she tries to comfort me. “It was your responsibility as Elskerinde.”
“Yes, it’s my responsibility to kill my own people. How many will have to die because of me, while I kiss the feet of the Fjern who enslaved our people and killed my family?”
“What do you propose you do?” she asks. “You knew what was in store the day you decided to return to Lund Helle. This shouldn’t come as any surprise,” she tells me.
I raise my hands and stare at my wet palms as if I can see the blood that stains them. The next words I can’t speak aloud, so I risk slipping into Marieke’s mind, implanting a thought of my own: It isn’t easy to be so heartless.
“You’ve never cared before,” she says, her voice lowering. “Why start now? There’s no harm in keeping your goals in sight.” Marieke tips another pan of water slowly over my head, water cascading over my face. She likes to nag, but I know Marieke holds the same wishes as I do. Her family had been inside my mother’s manor that night, too.
“Focus only on yourself and your ambitions,” she says, “and soon you’ll find that you care not what a single person thinks. Not even your gods.”
CHAPTER THREE
My guardsmen and I race across the fields of Lund Helle, cutting through valleys where goats graze on guinea grass and houses dot the horizon. We travel to a bay and its crescent alcove of white sand. A private ship is anchored at sea, the clear blue water reflecting the cloudless sky. Friedrich rows me out on a smaller boat, and we climb a ladder to the top deck, floorboards swollen with salt beneath my feet. The islands of Hans Lollik are grouped nearly in a circle while the royal island of Hans Lollik Helle rests in the center. It can take only hours to reach any of the neighboring islands, but to venture farther out to the other end of the circle, the journey can take days. Ludjivik Helle is one of the islands farthest away from all the rest. Malthe told me no ships that the executed slave girl had mentioned were found. It’s difficult to believe the Ludjivik family could truly have been behind the uprising.
Jannik Helle is only half a day away. Rose Helle is at our backs as we pass Niklasson Helle, then Solberg Helle, until finally the faded green of Jannik Helle is in the distance. Lund Helle is known for its farmland, its plantations and crops; Jannik Helle is known for its gambling dens, brothels, and rum. Jannik Helle had once thrived, providing the Fjern with entertainment, but when we arrive at the docks, it’s empty of sailors; the few anchored trade ships appear to be abandoned. Malthe leads me to an awaiting carriage, its arrival prepared in advance. Though Malthe is the captain, Friedrich is my bodyguard, trained to be at my side at all times; he follows me into the carriage, while my remaining guardsmen wait behind. It would be an affront if I brought them all to Elskerinde Jannik’s manor.
We ride for some time, out of the town of uneven streets that become dirt roads, the carriage clattering into the rocky countryside of Jannik Helle, until finally we arrive. Yellow elders of the Jannik insignia bloom on the path leading to the Jannik manor, Herregård Mønsted. The house is a pale blue, two stories tall, with a balcony that wraps around each floor, windows dark with their gauzy curtains. We step from the carriage and walk through the garden, blossoming with its fruit and flowers, bees and hummingbirds flitting through the air, flies surrounding the overripe mango and guava that hang from their branches and fall to the ground to rot.
Friedrich knocks on the door and announces us to the answering slave, who allows us into the manor. It’s not so different from my own. Dead family members, sitting in their portraits, line the opening hall here as well, and the wooden floors gleam in the dim light that manages to shine through the cracks in the curtains—yet there’s a smell here that’s sunken into the walls. The smell of decaying skin, yellowing teeth, of fruit rotting in the heat.
The slave is a woman with graying hair. She has one hand, warped with white scars. When I send myself into her mind, it’s only to know whether Elskerinde Jannik is awake and well enough to take visitors; instead, I’m overwhelmed with a memory that sits with this slave woman in the forefront of her mind, always lingering: She was a baby, barely able to stand on her own two feet, not yet sold to another island or Fjern family, when her mother—young, not any older than me—spilled hot tea on Elskerinde Freja Jannik’s hand. The woman’s pale skin blistered and stung. And so she had the young girl’s child—the woman who stands before me—taken to the kitchens, her hands forced into a pot of scalding-hot water. One hand had to be cut from the bone. The other is barely usable. The young mother was sold away, and the child remained here, serving Freja Jannik by sweeping and opening the door and carrying shaking trays of tea. She wonders about her mother sometimes, blames her for the loss of her hands. She doesn’t think to blame Freja Jannik.
The woman won’t meet my eye. She’s heard that I executed a little girl for having kraft, and she’s afraid I’ll somehow believe she has kraft as well.
She believes that I’m evil, unworthy of the power I hold. Most of my people hold hatred for me, hatred that feels like water from the sea filling my lungs. I leave her mind so that I won’t have to see these thoughts.
“Herre Aksel Jannik is away,” she says.
“I’m not here for Herre Aksel Jannik.”
The woman stares at the ground beneath her feet. “The Elskerinde isn’t well enough for visitors.”
“The Elskerinde will never be well again,” I say, “which is why I must see her while I still can.”
She steps to the side and allows me into the shaded heat of the house. The smell of rot gets stronger as the slave leads us down the marbled halls. The windows are closed, the gauzy curtains attempting to block the sunlight. We turn corners and climb a flight of stairs until we stop outside the grandest door of all, the heavy mahogany wood even darker in the hall’s dim light.
The slave bows and leaves, and Friedrich waits in the hall beside me. “Would you like me to come inside with you?” he asks, even though I always have the same answer for him. It’s curiosity that makes Friedrich want to see the dying Elskerinde Jannik.
“No,” I say, ignoring the pinch of disappointment from him. “Wait outside. I’ll only be a moment.”
He opens the door and, after I step in, clicks it shut behind me.
The room is cluttered. The Elskerinde Jannik had been a collector when she was young, and bells of every possible color and shape sit atop their shelves, and painted dolls with pale skin and red lips brought from the Elskerinde’s homeland of Koninkrijk line the wall in their own private glass cases. The dolls are precious antiques. They aren’t made quite the same way anymore, and they’re worth thousands of coin in the northern empires—coin that could’ve helped to settle the debt of the Jannik family, if only the Elskerinde had not refused to part ways with the dolls. They bring memories to her, memories that are forever slipping away, however much she grasps at their edges.
Queen of the Conquered Page 4