Queen of the Conquered

by Kacen Callender

  My skin has always been dark, even darker after spending days in the sunlight on the shore, playing in the clear seawater. There was no hope for me to be treated with love by the Fjern, I knew from a young age, and so I never bothered to dream of being in one of their fairy tales, never expected or hoped for their smiles. Still, a resentment began to rise. Resentment, that even after being born with my freedom, I would never be considered their equal. Marieke wonders if a spirit left my mother’s body and entered my own, but this anger has always been inside my bones.

  I’m not excited to marry Aksel, but this is a necessary step in my plans, as necessary as moving here to the royal island for the storm season, as necessary as having my betrothed killed. And so I’ll marry him. All the kongelig of Hans Lollik Helle will be in attendance. My heart begins to thunder at the thought. I shouldn’t be so afraid to meet the men and women responsible for my family’s deaths, and yet unease flows through my veins.

  Marieke selects a simple, modest dress of white, and wraps my hair in white cloth as well. The sun has faded away by the time Aksel and I leave the little house on the cliffs, Malthe following us closely behind. I try to ignore Aksel, but the knowledge that he tried to have me killed pricks me every time I look at him. The sky is a deep purple with streaks of fire coloring the clouds red and orange, the chorus of the night birds and frogs filling the air. The cooling trade-winds breeze presses my dress of white against my body, tickling my skin. A path leads directly from the house and through the groves, to the manor of Konge Valdemar. Walls and towers dip and curve as they follow the slope and rise of the hill itself. Green climbs up the white stone of the tower walls, as if the island is attempting to swallow the manor whole.

  Herregård Constantjin seems to glow even in the setting sun; the windows are warm yellows, and as we walk up the path toward the entrance, torches flicker with the wings of gnats and moths, lighting the enclosed garden that surrounds the courtyard of cobblestone and carved benches and a sparkling fountain, tables of fruits and meats and wines, and where each kongelig family and their members of court await. The kongelig of Hans Lollik and their family and friends—nearly twenty in all—have come to bear witness. I know each and every one of their names; I’ve studied their portraits, their kraft, their legacies. It’s disorienting to see them all before me, not simply as figures in paintings, or facts about each written on paper.

  The elite stand in celebration of themselves, in their glittering gowns of white and sparkling jewels, drinking the sugarcane wine that has cost the blood of my people and our lands. There’s a tinkling of dishes, a burst of laughter, a trail of music floating through the night. Slaves with skin as dark as mine stand along the walls, eyes fixed ahead.

  As Aksel and I walk into the courtyard, Malthe trailing behind, I can feel the turn of heads, the widening of eyes. It’s like they’ve seen a ghost. I’m the exact image of my mother—the spirit of the woman they killed, returned for her revenge. The kongelig who had their hands in her death implicate themselves. They’re pale, sweating, as they turn away with sips of wine. Other kongelig lean into one another with smiles. The rumor that I’m the survived daughter of Mirjam Rose has spread faster than brushfire, and seeing me now is all the proof they need. Chatter ends, laughter stops. It’s been years now since I’ve unwillingly been overwhelmed by the thoughts of others. My kraft once overpowered me daily when I first discovered the ability in my veins, but as I grew used to my ability I learned to control it, to choose when I would read the thoughts of others. It’s only in moments of stress and fear that my kraft takes control of me again, just as it takes control now.

  The stream of thoughts begins. The questions, the exclamations, the shock and curiosity and hatred—it bowls into me. The hatred, most of all—this hatred is as thick as smoke, bitter on my tongue, burning my eyes and clogging my throat. Hatred for me, for thinking myself their equal; hatred for the way I walk with my chin raised, eyes not fastened to the ground; hatred for the darkness of my skin, gleaming in the yellow lights. It becomes a living thing, this hatred, come to strangle me, and for a moment I begin to think that they’re right. That I don’t deserve to stand here among them. That I should be nothing more than ash and bone, dirt beneath their feet. Their hatred becomes my own.

  Malthe puts a hand on my shoulder, steadying me. He speaks, but I can’t hear his words, because the thoughts—they’re too loud, echoing against one another, drowning out all other sound. I struggle to recollect Marieke’s training. Though she has no kraft in her blood, she does hold the ability to calm my mind. To help me remember myself when the thoughts of others attempt to overpower my own. Breathe, she would say, hand on my back after facing a particularly busy street in our travels. You are your own person. Focus on your own thoughts, your own mind. The thoughts of others—they matter not.

  “Are you all right?” Malthe asks me, his voice low.

  The kongelig before me still watch, whispering to themselves, craning their necks to get a look at me, but their thoughts have become a low hum, until they’re silenced altogether. I take a breath, nodding to Malthe, biting back the curse that almost leaves my tongue. This is the kongelig’s first impression of me, and now they’ve all witnessed me walking into the courtyard, looking as though I’m about to faint. They’ll see my weakness as opportunity.

  The ceremony begins. I stand in my dress of white, Aksel beside me. He doesn’t bother to hide his thoughts now when I sink into his mind. He wishes I’d been killed in the groves, as the Jannik guards and his half brother had been ordered to do. He wishes he’d never agreed to his dying mother’s wishes—that he’d proposed to Beata Larsen instead, and that they’d escaped these islands for the north years before. I can feel the heartbreak in him now. The fear of trapping himself into a life he doesn’t want, and for what? For the approval of parents he no longer has? For the admiration and esteem of royals he cares nothing for? Aksel Jannik doesn’t want this. It’s only his sense of duty that binds him to these islands.

  There’s the exchange of vows, and the official pronounces us wed. Aksel and I press our lips together for the first time, and what I wish could be the last. He tastes like lemongrass and sweat. We step through the crowd, hand in hand, toward the front of the courtyard so that the celebrations may begin. In the courtyard, candles flicker around the fountain, music tinkling beneath the pale blue of the night, white stars shining. I stand beside Aksel as the guests come forth to greet us, wishing us well in our marriage. Lothar Niklasson, Patrika and Olsen Årud. Faces I recognize from Freja Jannik’s memories, from the portraits I studied. The Fjern before me once stood in a room as they discussed my family’s coming death. It was a bloody affair, but necessary; none argued with the proposal of Herre and Elskerinde Jannik. The kongelig can’t meet my eye now. They’ll kill me the first chance they’re given—finish what hadn’t been completed so many years before. They’ll ensure that I don’t survive the storm season. The courtyard fills with laughter and music, chatter as pairs begin to dance, sweeping across the stone. It doesn’t seem that the death of Dame Ane Solberg rests heavily on anyone’s mind. Death is too common an occurrence here.

  There’s a clatter, a shatter, the stiffening of bodies. A slave girl with trembling hands has dropped a tray of sugarcane wine. The glass glitters prettily on the cobblestone. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, as though she hopes that if she stays still enough, no one will notice her, no one will have seen. A woman with white hair twisted into a bun, cousin and guest of Niklasson, marches to the girl across the courtyard and slaps her. The girl’s head twists and she falls, hand flying to her cheek, tears already in her eyes as she begins to murmur her apologies. She bows her head, begins to pick up the pieces of the glass with shaking fingers, saying again and again that she’s sorry. The Niklasson woman isn’t listening. She’s humiliated—all gathered know the girl belongs to her; they’ll whisper and sneer that she doesn’t properly train her slaves as she should. The woman snaps her fingers at a guard w
ho stands against the wall. He comes forward hesitantly. I can see the dilemma in him: He has no whip.

  Lothar Niklasson steps toward the woman, hand on her shoulder, as he whispers to her, “Another time. The girl can be punished another time.” His cousin snatches the slave girl by her hair while all the other kongelig watch. Entertainment, I realize, bile burning in my throat. I’m not any better, for I’m also watching. The woman pushes the girl back down, into the glass, splinters puncturing her hands, her arms and legs. Blood mixes with the spilled wine. The girl cries as the kongelig snaps again at the guard, gesturing at him to take the slave away. Even as she leaves, limping with shards of glass stuck in her skin, it’s clear to all that her punishment isn’t over, far from it. The slaves still lining the wall haven’t moved, haven’t blinked, have barely breathed.

  There’s uncomfortable laughter all around. The music never stopped, so the dancing continues, along with the chatter and gentle smiles. It’s hard to ignore the eyes that flit to me. That scene has only served as a reminder to the kongelig. I, too, should be a slave, stripped of my beautiful gown and whipped for all to see.

  There’s a thunderous laugh. Konge Valdemar himself has stepped into his courtyard. At seventy-nine, Konge Valdemar is an old man with a head without hair and a wiry beard of white, wrinkles lining his face and spots on his hands; but the muscle of his youth remains on his frame, and with a height that towers over everyone in his courtyard, he’s undoubtedly an intimidating man. He looks like he could live for another fifty years—but still, he declared that a family of his choosing would take the crown once he turned eighty at the end of the storm season, ending the Valdemar era of rule and beginning another with a new regent. Konge Valdemar has a notable kraft: an ability to speak with and see spirits of the deceased. The dead would come to him and share their messages with him, ask him to speak to loved ones on their behalf. The Fjern have always claimed that the spirits of these islands do not exist, and so the regent’s power was feared, and Konge Valdemar would not share his kraft with others. Yet when the spirits wouldn’t leave the king alone, he sought help from the divine gods and prayed for the spirits to leave him be. Konge Valdemar became a religious man because of his kraft, devout, and merciless when it comes to the punishment of those who have sinned. When the king lost his wife and child, he didn’t remarry. Without any children of his own, and with no noticeable kraft in his relatives, Konge Valdemar will choose a new family to pass Herregård Constantjin to and the ruling powers and responsibilities of the islands of Hans Lollik that come with it.

  If I can become close to him, Konge Valdemar might begin to trust me enough to invite me to his daily affairs—afternoon gatherings in the gardens, or trips out to sea to watch the passing of the whales, as I hear he’s so fond of—giving me a chance to slip into his thoughts, as I did with Elskerinde Jannik. He’s too strong of heart and mind to sway easily. Elskerinde Jannik was dying, making it simple to plant thoughts of my own. The regent will know of my power and it will be more difficult to trick him. But it couldn’t hurt to send notions to the king—thoughts of how the other kongelig families are weak and Jannik is strong.

  A gaggle of courtiers and royal families surround Konge Valdemar, speaking over one another, seeking attention—as if the affairs of a courtyard wedding ceremony will affect his final decision. Konge Valdemar sips wine, eyes sweeping over his lavish party, the men and women who would throw themselves to the ground to kiss his feet if asked—and his gaze finds my own.

  His eyes stick as he smiles. And I smile back, but my mouth trembles—because while he looks at me, I realize I can’t hear any thought or feel any emotion. There’s nothing at all. This isn’t like Malthe, with his naturally quiet mind; or Aksel, attempting to hide his thoughts. This isn’t even like the man who tried to take my life, with a block preventing me from knowing what he thinks and feels. With Konge Valdemar, there’s nothing at all. As if there’s no soul to feel, no mind to hear—as if I’m looking at a dead man. Nothing more than an animated corpse. And the silence of Konge Valdemar—it sweeps over the party, until his nothingness fills me like a swirling tide.

  The night grows long, and my feet grow weary. Questions sear me, and I can’t stop staring at Valdemar, who doesn’t look at me again for the rest of the night. The party ends, edges of pink light glowing on the horizon. Aksel and I return to our darkened house on the cliffs. I know we’ll have to spend our first night as husband and wife. I’m more than tempted to suggest to him that we tell all we performed the act of marriage as required, but I know, too, that Malthe will be listening for the truth from outside the house walls, as is his duty. Neither of us speaks as we walk up the stairs to his chambers. He pauses at the doors.

  “We don’t have to do this.” He sounds sober now—I suppose the idea of sharing his bed with me is a sobering reality.

  “To legitimize the marriage, we do.”

  “No one besides us will know whether the marriage is legitimate or not.”

  “I won’t have you use the lack of consummation as an excuse to force me out of Hans Lollik.”

  He watches me for a long moment before he pushes open the doors. I follow him into his chambers, darkened in the night, the room itself spare, with only a bed and a chair, balcony doors open so that the cool night breeze drifts through the room. This won’t be the first time for either of us. Aksel hasn’t lain with the one woman he’s always wanted to, but he’s spent many nights in the brothels of Jannik Helle, enjoying the treatment he receives as Herre Jannik, regarded like a king. I feel a pinch of pain at the memory of Friedrich, but even before him there were other guards of Lund Helle whom I welcomed into my bed. I never saw much point in attempting to hold on to my purity for the Fjern, when the Fjern would never consider purity a possibility for someone like me.

  We don’t need to draw this out longer than necessary. I begin to undress, and Aksel follows suit as we look at each other in silence. My dress slips to the ground, crumpling in a pile. I’m not ashamed of my body and don’t feel the need to hide it. He steps out of his breeches, pulls off his shirt, and folds both, leaving them on the chair.

  I step toward his bed, sitting on the edge, and wait for him. He pauses, as though considering whether he’ll tell me no once and for all, though I can feel desire quickening his pulse—shocking, overwhelming, he didn’t want to think of me this way. He should be disgusted by me. He’d been taught that my skin, the thickness of my hair and wideness of my nose and lips, are ugly—inhuman, belonging to the savages of these islands. But he can’t continue the lie he tells himself. I see myself as he sees me: I’m beautiful, dark skin luminescent even in the night. But still, even with the attraction he begins to feel, he can’t ignore that I’m not the woman he loves. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine that it’s actually Beata he’s about to lie with for the first time, and he leans toward me, but I put a hand to his chest.

  “I won’t be substituted for her.”

  Frustration ripples through him, but he nods his agreement as he leans toward me again, letting me wrap my legs around his waist. He hides his face in my shoulder now as he pushes into me, but I can feel the pleasure that grips him. It seeps into me, and I can’t be sure if the pleasure I feel is his or my own. He moves, but this isn’t something for either of us to savor and enjoy for hours until the sun is high in the sky. It’s over quickly. Aksel collapses to the bed beside me, content, but satisfaction sours into disgust once again.

  I stand, using his sheets to wipe between my legs before discarding them on the floor, picking up my dress and slipping into it. The wine has made Aksel dizzy. The night’s been long, and he’s spent in this heat. He falls asleep on the bed, breathing easily. He’s a fool for trusting me as he does. I’ve just married him before all of the kongelig of Hans Lollik Helle. I now have his name, the only thing I’d needed from him—no one can dispute this. I don’t need Aksel to face the kongelig, not when I’m now Elskerinde Jannik. It’d be easy to kill him now. Stop the
air in his throat and, once he’s died, wrap a sheet around his neck so that it seems he decided he would rather be dead than be married to an islander. The kongelig wouldn’t argue this possibility. I planned to kill Aksel once Konge Valdemar had chosen the Jannik name to follow as regent, but why couldn’t I simply kill him now?

  It’s cowardice that stops me. I worry that the kongelig will know the truth too easily, worry that the slaves might hear Aksel wake and struggle to breathe and tell the Fjern the truth of his murder. I’m afraid that even though I have the name I need from him, I might still need Aksel’s body as well—the fact that he’s a man, along with his pale skin—to convince the kongelig of my worth.

  I watch Aksel as he breathes, eyes roaming beneath his lids, lashes fluttering against his cheek. I don’t often slip into another person’s mind when they sleep—it can often be unsettling, to see their dreamscape, to fall victim to their nightmares—but I slip into Aksel’s mind now. I see Hans Lollik Helle from his mind’s eye: Herregård Constantjin, fused with the Jannik Helle manor. The former Elskerinde Jannik, walking the halls in her white dress, dirt staining her feet and hands, roots tangled in her hair, as though she crawled from her grave. She stops walking and turns her head to look at me.