Marieke doesn’t speak. She can’t even look at me. She holds her hands together tightly, breathless. She loved me—still does love me, she can’t help that. But she also knows the cost of freedom, not just for herself but for all of the islanders. If my death means the freedom of her people, then Marieke will sacrifice me.
“You can let me live,” I tell them. I should be above begging for mercy, begging for my life, but I can’t stop the words. Agatha’s smile widens. “I don’t have to die for this uprising to be a success.”
“You never planned to free your people,” Malthe says, his voice low. Even now his mind is steady and quiet. I wonder how many years of practice it must have taken him to prepare to work as captain of my guard, knowing of my kraft. “You would have taken the title of regent and you would have allowed all of us to remain enslaved.”
“This isn’t true,” I say, but Løren can feel the guilt in me. Had Konge Valdemar offered me the crown and had I kept the power over all of Hans Lollik, I can’t know for sure what I would’ve done. Freeing my people would’ve meant losing control of these islands, and isn’t that what I’d been working for? It’s the reason I studied the kongelig and the Fjern, why I prepared for nothing else for nearly half of my life: to inherit these islands in the name of the Rose, to honor my mother’s legacy, to fulfill my family’s revenge. It’s easy, I think, for anyone to say what they would’ve done if put in a situation other than their own, easy to look away from the suffering of others and avoid the truth, to pretend that they’re not the villain of their own story.
Agatha stands from her seat. It is, I realize, the seat I’d taken for so long in each council meeting. Agatha had attended quite a few of these meetings, standing against the wall with her sugarcane wine, refilling glasses whenever asked. She knew I hadn’t even noticed her, had barely recognized her as one of the slaves who so often helped Marieke in the Jannik house.
“Let me kill her,” she says, her eyes on mine.
Malthe hesitates. “Løren would be better suited. His kraft would protect him if Elskerinde Jannik attempts to fight back.” He realizes he has called me by my former title. I’m not an Elskerinde anymore. Hans Lollik Helle is now under the islanders’ rule, and the kongelig are no longer. But this is an old habit that will take time to break.
Marieke stops herself from speaking. Maybe I could be locked away, kept alive as a hostage as they keep Lothar; but she already knows that the Fjern would have no desire for me. I wouldn’t be useful kept alive.
Agatha’s kraft builds in her veins. “I can protect myself. I’m the most powerful person in this room, am I not?”
Malthe is concerned. The child has been growing fond of her power. She’s already disobeyed his orders several times, and Malthe is certain that she’ll continue to disobey him. If he doesn’t learn to control her soon, Agatha could become another problem he hadn’t anticipated, and he doesn’t relish the thought of having to kill the child. Still, he knows it doesn’t matter who takes my life. Løren was supposed to—he was in the best position to do so—but instead he has brought me here, and Malthe is impatient with Løren’s hesitancy. If the girl will kill me, then so be it. He waves his hand, and Agatha’s smile widens.
“Elskerinde Jannik,” she tells me, “you should start to run.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There’d been a fire on Rose Helle when I was young. I’d stood in the gardens alone, watching the fire spread across the groves. The flames looked as though they were coming to take me to the gods. I had heard them calling my name frantically—my mother, Ellinor, Inga, Claus, and the slaves of the manor, searching for me as the fire raged, terrified that I had walked toward the flames. I still don’t know why I didn’t answer them. I waited where I stood—waited for them to find me or the fire to take me, whichever came first.
My mother found me first. She slapped me and demanded if I hadn’t heard her calling my name. She didn’t wait for a response before sweeping me up into her arms, into the manor, ignoring my cries from the sting on my cheek.
No one is here to save me now, to take me into their arms, as I run into the fire that sweeps across the groves. The flames have heated the dry, cracked ground, stones like embers blistering the bottoms of my feet. Sweat slicks my skin in the heat. The air is so full of smoke that my eyes and throat burn, and I cough as I run, stumbling over the brush that hasn’t yet been taken by the flames. Bodies greet me. Bodies of the Fjern and islanders, necks and guts cut open. It’s impossible to know what’s real and what’s another of Agatha’s games.
I slow down, breathless, fire sparking in the brush beside me and crackling through the trees. I cough as ash flies into my throat. I hear the laughter, and I know I have to keep going—but I can’t run forever. Agatha will catch me and take pleasure in killing me herself. I could run toward the sea, but I know that I would never survive the ocean’s waves, and I don’t want to die with water filling my throat, my lungs, pressure building in my chest as I gasp for breath—
I burst out of the groves, looking over my shoulder, and though I see no one, it’s the fear that Agatha could be only a few paces behind me that makes me run faster. I race toward the Jannik house on the cliff. I’m surprised that the house still stands. I run up the porch, into the hall—the bodies that had been spread across the ground are now gone, never there to begin with—and I hurry to the kitchen, where I find a knife. I spin around, expecting to see Agatha, but instead there’s nothing but the spark of flame, building—overtaking the wood and spreading toward me.
I back out of the kitchen and down the hall, up the stairs to my chambers, the fire growing around me, boiling the wallpaper and cracking the wood. I make it to the balcony, wind whipping my hair. Agatha laughs, though I can’t see her. A sting of pain burns my arm—blood drips, and there’s another cut across my stomach, my shoulder, my chest. Red stains my skin and dress as the fire rages. The laughter grows louder and stops only when I stab my knife into the air before me, pushing into flesh.
Agatha hadn’t seen the knife. She appears before me now, looking down at her stomach where the knife sticks from her gut. She looks back to me, fury and pain in her eyes. She throws herself at me. The railing is at my back as she claws at me, the knife’s handle digging into my ribs. I fall over the railing, Agatha on top of me.
Air is knocked from me. Pain flourishes across my back. There’s a wetness on my head, my vision darkening and lightening all at once. Agatha is on the ground beside me, on her stomach, eyes wide and unmoving. I scramble to my feet, palm to my head—it comes back red, and the cuts across my skin aren’t shallow. I’m losing blood. I can’t return to any of the houses, can’t hide in the groves—if any islander sees me, they’ll kill me where I stand. I have to go to the beach. The hidden alcove where Alida had once found me. I’ll hide there and wait until I can attempt to run again.
I barely take another step before there’s a scream. Agatha stands, wavers, then runs at me, knife pulled from her stomach and in her hand. I fall back to the ground, kick at her—try to crawl away, but she pulls at my feet. I manage to kick her in the stomach, where blood still pours—she doubles over in pain as I run, through the gardens, looking over my shoulder.
She catches me, pulling at my arms. Agatha won’t let me go—even if it means she’ll die, she won’t let me leave this island alive. The edge of the cliff is only a few feet away, crumbling into the ocean below, waves crashing into the rocks. I wrap my arms around her middle, and I jump.
We fall through the air. I miss the rocks. Cold water hits me like a shock, salt rushing down my throat. I open my eyes, try to see, but the water is black as night. The only light is from the fires of the Jannik house above and from its gardens. I try to swim toward the light, but something tugs at my foot. I kick, but the harder I kick, the stronger the pull. My chest burns, and I feel as though my lungs may burst. Darkness covers me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My mother sits in the center of the maze.
She’d been reading a book. Slaves had never been allowed to read, and so she was happy for the chance to learn once she was freed. I came to her, and she rewarded me with a smile. I sat on her lap. The book she read was meant for a child—a fairy tale, one of my favorites, though Ellinor didn’t like it as much. The fairy tale told the story of a girl who had grown up alone in a tower, with no one to love but her own reflection in a mirror. She couldn’t stand the sight of her reflection for some time, and she waited for a knight to save her, to rescue her from this tower and take her away into a foreign land. But a knight never came, and so she slowly learned to love the reflection. Loved it enough to pick the mirror up and hold it close to her chest. She died in her sleep this way, with no one to love her but herself. My mother said she’d so wished she could have read as a slave. Then, she told me, she would’ve known what it was like to be free.
I stand before my mother now, a woman. I ask my mother if she can forgive me. She doesn’t have an answer for me. She only turns the page of her fairy tale, and she continues to read.
Sunlight floods my eyelids, sending a pain through my scalp and down my neck. The pain is a living thing, wrapping itself around my skin and into my chest, shifting with every breath.
I crack my eyes open, staring through my lashes. I’m in a room. There is no window; the stone wall is half-crumbled, vines crawling toward me. The blue of the sky is above me. I’m in a bed, thin mattress as hard as dirt ground, sheets so ragged they begin to tear.
Løren is also here. He’d woken me by saying my name and waited for me to open my eyes and look at him as I do now. He looks older, lines around his mouth and on his heavy brow, but not so much time has passed—only two weeks.
Marieke had argued with the others to let her nurse me. She’d wiped me clean, tipped broth into my mouth until I would swallow. She’d stitched my wounds: the cut in my stomach, which had ripped open again, the gashes on my legs and arms where Agatha had cut me. I shouldn’t have survived. The fall, the ocean waves, the blood—I should have died, but I’m still alive. Marieke told Malthe and Løren that this was for a reason. The spirits wanted me here, even if they wouldn’t reveal the reason yet. She argues that now, with Agatha’s death, they need someone like me—need my kraft if they’re to continue their fight against the kongelig. It can’t be a coincidence that I survived the fall from the cliffs, while Agatha’s body was found on the rocks.
“Malthe wants to kill you,” Løren lets me know. “He’s waiting for Marieke to turn her back.”
I can’t speak; Løren knows this, and he’s glad. He’s always hated the sound of my voice. I speak as though I think I’m better than he, more important than my own people. He leans back in the chair he’d dragged to this room: a tower, broken and forgotten after a passing storm, in one of the wings of Herregård Constantjin.
“Agatha is dead,” Løren says.
There’s no emotion in me, no anger, remorse, or even gladness. Agatha had been a child. She’d wanted to fight for her freedom. I can’t blame her for this. Still, I also can’t fault myself for wanting to live, and if Agatha were still alive, I would not be.
“Marieke believes it’s for a reason. She thinks that Agatha died and you lived for some greater purpose. She thinks you can be redeemed.”
Air catches in my throat, and I cough, unable to breathe. Løren watches me as I choke. He waits for the coughing to end. I can feel him hope that I will die now. It would end this constant debate between Marieke and Malthe, a debate where he has been trapped in the middle for some time.
“She thinks you’re meant to replace Agatha,” he says. “To join our revolution.”
I manage to force out a question, hoarsely. “And what do you think?”
Løren has a knife in his lap. Malthe has asked him to kill me many times now, and today he came to my room, unsure himself what he should do. I wasn’t meant to survive. I’m a kongelig, enemy of my people.
He picks up the knife by its handle and stands. I close my eyes again. I can only hope he’ll be quick, merciful. I’ve fought for my life for so long now, and I’m tired. This isn’t a fight I’ll win. There isn’t any point in trying.
Løren rests the knife on the bed beside my hand. He doesn’t say anything else as he leaves the room, clicking the door shut behind him. The knife’s meaning is clear: Join the islanders, and fight for the freedom of my people, or accept my death here and now. It seems a question that’s haunted me for all of my years, since the night my family was ushered into the gardens. I know that it’s a question that’ll follow me until my last breath.
The story continues in…
King of the Rising
Book 2 of the Island of Blood and Storm series
Keep reading for a sneak peek!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve been fortunate to have the love and guidance of so many. My agent, Beth Phelan, who is always patient and understanding of my lofty goals, offering steady advice as well as a treasured friendship. I’ve also had the support of the entire Gallt & Zacker team, who have welcomed me into their family.
Thank you to my editor, Sarah Guan, who saw the potential in Queen of the Conquered and gave me the courage to explore Sigourney’s complexities. Thank you to Paola Crespo and Laura Fitzgerald, my Caribbean people! Thank you to Ellen Wright, Alex Lencicki, Andy Ball, Lisa Marie Pompilio, Lauren Panepinto, Derrick Kennelty-Cohen, and everyone who has touched Queen of the Conquered at Hachette Book Group and helped put Sigourney’s story into the world.
Thank you to Nikki Garcia, the first reader of a very terrible draft, as well as fellow authors who have shown early support by shouting about their excitement online: Justina Ireland, Tasha Suri, Kate Elliott, Aliette de Bodard, K. S. Villoso, Tochi Onyebuchi, Mark Oshiro, and Evan Winter.
When I begin to question myself and my ability, I can feel my family’s love pushing me to continue. Mom, Dad, Auntie Jacqui, Curtis, and Memorie—thank you all for believing in me.
Finally, thank you to the readers for supporting me and other authors like me, so that we can put the stories that we need to see into the world.
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extras
meet the author
Photo Credit: Beth Phelan
KACEN CALLENDER was born two days after a hurricane and was first brought home to a house without its roof. After spending their first eighteen years on St. Thomas of the US Virgin Islands, Kacen studied Japanese, fine arts, and creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College and received their MFA from the New School. Kacen is an award-winning author of books for children and teens. Queen of the Conquered is their first novel for adults.
interview
When did you first start writing?
I’ve always loved to write. When I was a teenager, I wrote and shared fanfiction online. Fanfiction offered a lot of people in my generation the space to tell the stories that we wanted seen but weren’t available in mainstream media, and that was also the first time I was able to share my stories and get feedback from complete strangers. I started working on original novels towards the end of high school and in my first year of college, about ten years ago now. This was around the time I’d first come up with the initial idea of Queen of the Conquered.
Who are some of your most significant authorial influences?
It’s difficult to pinpoint only a few authors. Every book that I write tends to be in conversation with another book. Queen of the Conquered is in conversation with Marlon James’s The Book of Night Women, for example. I also wrote Queen of the Conquered in response to the overwhelming number of fantasies with white main characters in worlds that use slavery and different forms of oppression, though this is something that people of color have primarily experienced. So many of these books would have stories of slavery as entertainment, with white heroes who need to fight back against the oppressive kingdo
ms, without acknowledging the pain and struggle of black and brown bodies—throughout history and now, currently, as people of color are still being oppressed by these same systems. Black and brown characters also very rarely survive, or even exist, in the white imagination. Seeing the deaths of these black and brown bodies, both in real life and in white stories, over and over again creates a physical pain in my chest—and witnessing this was definitely a primary influence in writing Queen of the Conquered.
How did you come up with the idea for Queen of the Conquered?
The first spark of inspiration was the realization that black slave owners once existed alongside white slave owners. It was enraging and intriguing, the idea of someone who could know the pain of their own people, but then cause that same pain when given the chance to gain power by oppressing others. I then began to wonder what I would have done if I had been black in a time of slavery. What would I have done if having slaves meant receiving some of the same power and privileges and comforts that white people experienced?
I know what I hope my answer would be. I know that I hope I would have been the hero in this situation and done what we all know would have been the right thing to do. I also think that it’s a habit of a lot of people, myself included, to say how they would have done differently, how they would have acted courageously, if faced with the same questions and dilemmas humans faced in the past. We would have fought against slavery, fought against the Jim Crow laws, fought against Japanese internment. We would have been braver than our ancestors and would have done what was right. We say and think this without considering the fact that we’re all in a time and place where slavery and concentration camps and genocide exist right now. We live our lives of comfort, watching TV and eating out at our favorite restaurants and reading books at leisure without thinking of the people who are suffering to give us the things we currently enjoy. It’s easier to think of atrocities like slavery as a thing of the past, or as something that can only exist in a fantasy novel—as something separate from ourselves, something we can’t do anything about. I personally feel a helplessness in my privilege and know that I’m a hypocrite, as we all are, for being a part of this system—for thinking we would have done better than our ancestors, when we aren’t doing better right now. I wanted to face that uncomfortable truth by creating a character like Sigourney Rose.
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