“News from the hilltop,” he says. Marieke’s girl has already heard—a series of her thoughts come to me, but I push them aside, waiting for Malthe to speak the words. “Elskerinde Beata Larsen,” he says. “She’s been found dead, my lady.”
“Drowned?”
Malthe is unsurprised, nonjudgmental, that I’ve seen his thoughts. “Yes,” he confirms.
I see the image again: Beata Larsen, skin already turning blue, resting upon the shore. The very beach where we’d stood only hours ago. Lifeless, eyes open and staring at the gods, yellow hair tangled with sand and seaweed and shells. She’s the first of the kongelig in direct line for the crown to die this storm season. Perhaps a dream was placed in Beata Larsen’s mind and she imagined walking from her bed and into the arms of Aksel Jannik, only to wake and find herself at the bottom of the ocean floor.
Aksel. By the gods, I hate him as much as I hate any of the Fjern—more, since I’m tied to him and depend on his name—but I can’t help but think of the pain he must be in now, having learned of the death of his beloved. I feel ill. How easily could that have been me, drowned and dead on the shore?
I walk farther down the hall, away from Agatha and the gathering crowd of slaves. Malthe knows to follow.
“Do you have any idea who might’ve killed her?” I ask, voice lowered.
“The other heads of guards felt—assumed—that she’d—”
“Killed herself?” She’d told me she was leaving in the morning—but she never said how she would be leaving Hans Lollik Helle. Still, though it’s possible that she killed herself, I know from the peace she felt yesterday—the joy, the excitement at being alive, the possibility of finding a new love—that Beata Larsen wouldn’t have willingly died.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he says, “but it’s well known that she’d been the mistress of Aksel Jannik. Most felt she’d succumbed to heartbreak.”
“An assumption like that only pulls suspicion away from a possible murder,” I tell him.
“Elskerinde Larsen had no enemies.”
Except, he thinks, you.
I nearly laugh, but the amusement dies in my throat. All on Hans Lollik know that Aksel Jannik loves only Beata Larsen. All know that I’m the only person on this island who has any true reason to dislike Beata as much as I truthfully do. None of the kongelig viewed the girl as a threat. She had no ambitions for the crown. She’d only stayed on this island out of a feeling of responsibility to the Larsen name, and since she’d planned on renouncing any claim to the crown, the kongelig had even less reason to kill the girl.
“You don’t think I did it, do you?” I ask Malthe.
He pauses. It’s the first time he’s considered being dishonest with me. “I have my suspicions,” he adds after a moment, “but I don’t think you’d be careless or foolish enough to murder Beata Larsen. However,” he adds, “my beliefs aren’t shared by all, I will admit to that. You’ll need to be careful, Elskerinde Jannik. It’s clear that someone means to have you blamed for Elskerinde Larsen’s death.”
Malthe marches out of the hall, leaving me to the tide of thoughts. Death on Hans Lollik Helle isn’t surprising or new, but Beata’s murder has left me shaken. Even more frightening is that I know I had a dream last night. A dream where I was, once again, in a maze that led me away from my home—perhaps away from my bed, down the halls, to wrap my hands around Beata Larsen’s neck.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The air of Hans Lollik Helle has shifted. The wind grows stronger, and waves crash onto the shore. I stand among the kongelig, their pale skin turning red in the heat, slaves lined up behind us. Beata Larsen’s body is placed on a boat and pushed into the sea. The waves carry her away quickly, the fire that was sparked growing fiercely in the breeze, consuming the white flowers that covered her hair and her dress and the boat itself until it’s nothing more than a red flame careening into the distance. The flame, this ceremony, is one that’s meant for the bodies of the Fjern. They stay atop the sea, eyes turned to their gods, while my people, with their dark skin, are forced to walk the ocean floor. And when I die, where will I be?
The kongelig around me cry to themselves, wiping their eyes and patting their cheeks. I can feel that for most of them, it’s an act—it would be insensitive not to cry at a moment like this. Aksel can barely breathe. He struggles not to let grief overtake him. But he can’t stand next to me without letting his hatred leak from his skin. He’s also heard the rumors. The rumors that I’m the one who killed Elskerinde Larsen in a jealous rage. He believes them. He wants to wrap his hands around my neck—to shout at Løren, who stands behind us, to cut his machete into my stomach. Aksel’s hands twitch with the effort to stay still at his sides.
Many had seen me leave the gardens the night before, Beata following me. There must’ve been an argument, a fight. I must’ve asked Beata to meet with me on the shore that very night, or followed her without her noticing, and wrapped my hands around her neck and pushed her into the waves, hoping she would be drawn out into the ocean. The ocean betrayed me, they say, by bringing her body back to shore. Some even whisper that though Elskerinde Larsen had returned to the gardens the night before, is it not possible that my kraft, which I shouldn’t rightfully have, could’ve tricked them all? Perhaps I made them see a vision of Beata Larsen walking into the gardens, when the girl was already dead.
We’re meant to stand in remembrance of her, and some of the kongelig do. Beata was beloved. They believe that she never had a wicked bone in her body. Even from a young age, most agreed that had it not been for her family’s lack of coin, she would’ve made a most benevolent queen. Her parents had been kindhearted, and all of the Fjern gathered have empathy for her, since she had been orphaned as a child and was forced to become an adult long before she ever came of age. They have always shown Beata Larsen kindness. Maybe this is why she had so much love in her, while rage has always filled my veins. Though I had the same fate as the girl, I was never shown the same kindness.
As soon as the ceremony is complete, Aksel leaves. He walks across the shore, in the opposite direction from the Jannik house, disappearing into the groves. I don’t know where he’s going, and I suppose I don’t much care. I’m grateful that he isn’t returning to the house, where I’ll have to feel his constant hatred for me. I should leave as well, but I linger. I want to show the kongelig that I’m not afraid of them and their rumors, even though I am. The kongelig stay where they are as well, watching me. I want to show them that I’m innocent, looking each of them in the eye, even as doubt vibrates through me. It’s easy, when surrounded by people who question you, to begin questioning yourself. And the nightmare—the maze, the roots, Freja Jannik’s open mouth twisting in her silent scream, my fingers reaching for her throat…
The kongelig believe I did it. They believe I strangled the poor girl out of envy, out of fear that she would be chosen by both Aksel Jannik and Konge Valdemar. And even if the kongelig hadn’t believed this, they would’ve proclaimed it anyway. They want me dead. They eye me, all of them, images of my death coming to me with every pulse. My body will hang from a tree like a spoiled fruit, and once my body swings in the breeze, they won’t put me on a boat, or even let the waves carry me away. They’ll let me rot there, under the sun and in the salt air.
Jytte Solberg is the first to speak, under the gaze of all the kongelig. Her voice doesn’t shake when she asks me, “Why did you do it, Elskerinde Jannik?”
I tell her I did not. The kongelig murmur to one another. None believe me. Jytte narrows her eyes. Beata Larsen had always been a good girl. Jytte, ten years her senior, had looked over her like a little sister. The Solberg family had adopted Beata into their home once her parents were killed, and though Jytte didn’t grow up with Beata in their home—the girl had lived with cousins on a nearby plantation—the two had spent many days together, sipping lemongrass tea on the Solberg manor porch, enjoying the breeze in their white lace dresses.
As the last surviving h
eir of the Larsens, Beata had become Elskerinde as a child, and came to Hans Lollik Helle for the storm season. The girl had no family and, sitting at the table of kongelig, she was afraid. Jytte had taken her under her wing, told her whom she could trust and whom she should be wary of; how to sit with a straight back and how to meet the eye of the other Fjern. For though she had always been a timid and kindhearted thing, the other kongelig would likely pick her apart if she showed any sort of weakness. Jytte believes I killed Beata Larsen, but she blames herself as well. She should’ve told Beata to run: leave the islands, giving up her family’s position within the kongelig, and save herself. Not many survive this island of Hans Lollik Helle.
I think to myself that I’ll stand here as the kongelig do, proving to them that I won’t be scared away, that I deserve to be here on the shore in mourning as much as they. Jytte Solberg is the first to turn away from me, and then finally all the rest leave as well.
The wait isn’t long. I sit on my balcony with Marieke, feeling the question in her pulse whether I want to or not: Did I kill that girl? I want to tell Marieke that I did not, with all my certainty, but I think again of the dream that had taken me into the depths of my mother’s maze, where I’d wrapped my hands around Freja Jannik’s throat.
“You’re distracted by the kongelig’s games,” Marieke tells me. She’s never hesitated to chide me. “You’ve forgotten why you came here to Hans Lollik Helle.”
“I haven’t forgotten. The game is changing. The rules are different. I can’t simply convince the king that I’m worthy to become regent. Konge Valdemar isn’t real. It’s like he’s an illusion, or a corpse returned to life. One of the kongelig controls him. If I can discover who it is—figure out what’s happened to the king—then maybe I’d have a chance of taking the crown.”
I tell her that I’m sure it’s the same kongelig who attempted to walk me over the cliffs of Hans Lollik Helle, and who means to blame me for Beata’s death—the same kongelig who has killed Beata Larsen, and perhaps even Dame Ane Solberg and Herre Jens Nørup as well. “Jytte Solberg wants to see me burn more than any of the other kongelig, besides Aksel, but I can’t see how she could have the power to conjure a false image of the king. Her kraft controls pain. And it couldn’t be Aksel—he’s weak, barely has the ability to sense another’s power.”
“All of these questions,” Marieke says, “and no closer to your answers.”
“I’m trying, Marieke,” I tell her, and regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. I sound too much like a child, crying to Marieke about the hardships of my life. We’d been in the north, traveling across the empires, when one night she told me to stop my whining—she was tired of listening to me complain. Yes, you have hardships, she’d told me. Now, what will you do about them?
“You’re trying,” she repeats, “but you’re not trying hard enough. This is a game the kongelig play, and you’re losing. Have you forgotten yourself, Sigourney?”
“No,” I tell her.
“Have you forgotten your mother? Your sisters, your brother?”
I can feel the frustration building. “Of course I haven’t.”
“Then continue to fight,” she tells me. “Fight until you win.”
We sit in silence. Marieke takes my hands. If the kongelig come to kill me, there isn’t anything she can do now but pray that the spirits will welcome me. She prays that my mother will be one of those spirits, waiting for me with a smile, arms wrapping around me; my sisters and brother, who would look exactly as I’d seen them last—not ushered into the gardens with their tears and screams—I don’t want to think on that—but rather the way they looked as we were getting ready for the party earlier that night: Inga in her pretty dress of lace and Ellinor with ribbons in her hair, Claus with his buttoned shirt and smile. They’d look exactly as they had that night, and the islands would be the paradise they’d once been before the Fjern ever came: the land free of plantations; the people walking back out of the sea with their freedom; houses and villages hidden in the groves, lush with mango and guava and bananas. I would walk the shore with my mother, her hand in mine.
Before the sun reaches its height in the sky, they come for me. A messenger and the kongelig’s guards arrive in a line, ready to escort me. We walk the path, dirt burning the bottoms of my feet through the soles of my sandals. The slaves working the groves don’t look my way as I’m led to my death. Malthe and Løren follow, and I’m surrounded as I’m brought to the courtyards of Herregård Constantjin. I have no friends here. I know that no one will save me. If I’m declared guilty, Malthe’s first loyalty is to the crown always, as is that of all of the guards on this island. Løren will happily see me dead. None of the kongelig will speak in my defense. They’ll lie to see me killed; they’ll lie, and they’ll say that I deserved it.
We gather in the courtyard. White flowers are strung around the walls, petals beneath our feet. The feeling that grasps me now is breathlessness, a calloused hand over my mouth, a whisper in my ear—my mother would’ve wanted me to live. But here I am now, before the kongelig, with their pale, unsmiling faces.
And there’s the husk of the king. Konge Valdemar sits in a grand chair at the end of the courtyard, thorns and flowers on either side of him. The crowd of kongelig part, and there’s a passage I must walk alone. My legs tremble, my hands shaking. I hold them together as I walk, all of the eyes of the kongelig on me, and the king himself, with his empty gaze, the corners of his lips upturned into the slightest smile. I stop before him and bow until I’m kneeling. The courtyard’s stone scrapes my knees through the thin material of my white dress. My eyes should be kept to the ground, this I know, but I let them rise to meet the king’s gaze.
The man is a corpse without a soul. His chest moves as though he breathes, and his eyes blink as though he sees, but he’s nothing but skin and flesh and bones. The kongelig are fools. This is the true threat to them—this and whoever controls the king now, perhaps even standing here among us in this very courtyard—and they don’t realize it. They only bow in their ignorance, hoping for scraps, a chance to rule. And yet here I am, kneeling before the puppet king, waiting for him to sentence me to death. Perhaps I’m the greatest fool of all. I’d come here to Hans Lollik Helle thinking that I would have to play one particular game—but the rules of that game have completely shifted. I need to know who among the kongelig controls the king. If I can discover who holds the puppet’s strings, then I can discover the true murderer of Beata Larsen. I can take their power—fight until I earn the title of regent.
The ruling begins. Konge Valdemar speaks, his voice echoing through the courtyard, even filled with all the kongelig of the island and their families and friends. “Elskerinde Sigourney Jannik,” he says, “you’ve been accused of murdering the Elskerinde Beata Larsen.”
My voice is thick, my throat raw. “Who accuses me?”
Aksel steps forward. My eyes meet his, and I can see it plainly, how much he wants to see me dead. He’s never wanted anything more. Even his desire for Beata pales in comparison to his need to see my body hanging from a tree.
“My king,” I say, “though it’s humiliating for me to admit as his wife, we all know that he loved Beata Larsen. My husband is sick with grief, desperate for someone to blame.”
“I blame the one who killed Elskerinde Beata Larsen,” Aksel says, his eyes back to the regent. “My wife is a hateful woman. She told me she would kill me. Cut my throat in my sleep.”
“Is this true?” Konge Valdemar asks.
Aksel continues. “She wishes me dead—all of us. She hates the kongelig, blames us for the deaths of her family. Whoever killed her mother and her siblings should have killed Sigourney Rose that day as well. She never should’ve stepped foot on Hans Lollik Helle.”
“Whoever killed my mother and my siblings?” I repeat. “Was it not your family’s guards, Aksel, who killed them, and tried to kill me as well?”
I get to my feet, though the king has not yet given me pe
rmission to rise, and turn to face the rest of the kongelig. “Was it not each family who agreed? You all know what you’ve done. You all know that you’re guilty. Yet you accuse me, ready to sentence me to my death, knowing that I’m innocent.”
The kongelig are silent, their hatred burning. The king makes an expression, as though he isn’t pleased, though I feel no emotion from him. Still, he says nothing of it as he tilts his head and calls forth anyone else who would like to speak. Jytte Solberg steps forward.
“Sigourney Rose connived her way onto this island,” she says. “She’s a snake. I hear it was only once she began meeting with the Elskerinde Jannik that the woman made it known that Sigourney Rose was to marry her son. It was no coincidence, and we all know of this woman’s kraft. Kraft to read minds, kraft to control. Who is to say that she didn’t force the late Elskerinde Jannik to speak these words?”
“I did not,” I say, my voice rising. “I made my wishes known to Elskerinde Jannik, hoping for a union, and she agreed.”
Elskerinde Solberg ignores that I’ve spoken. “Sigourney Rose should be nothing but a slave. Slaves are executed for having kraft, not rewarded with positions of power. She doesn’t deserve to stand as a member of the kongelig.”
“And so because I’m an islander, you’ll have me killed?” I ask. “I’m not on trial for the color of my skin. You can lie to yourselves, but I refuse. I will speak the truth. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Jytte Solberg returns to her place in the crowd with the kongelig.
There’s silence but for the blowing of a breeze. The king asks if anyone will step forward on my behalf. All eyes are on me. The slaves, waiting against the wall, stare at the ground—all except for Løren, who watches with a darkened gaze.
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