Queen of the Conquered

by Kacen Callender

  This is also a vulnerable story for me, because it takes a lot from my experiences as a black person who often felt in between worlds, and who has often had the privilege to find myself in spaces I’ve been able to afford, like college and graduate school and a publishing job in New York City—but to then also feel implicit bias and discrimination, because being in these privileged spaces often meant I was one of the only, or the only, black person in the room. The initial idea of a hypocritical, privileged black person who owns slaves began to evolve into a story about the interaction of privilege and oppression, and who is allowed to have literal power.

  What research, if any, did you do in preparation for writing this book?

  I didn’t do any research for Queen of the Conquered, except for names and words from the Danish language. The setting of the islands of Hans Lollik is inspired by the United States Virgin Islands, where I was born and raised, and which had once been a territory of Denmark, before being sold to the United States. I chose this setting because the US Virgin Islands is a space that I know well, and is, like Sigourney, in between worlds: a group of islands that is considered “too American” (or in other words, too privileged) by many other island nations to be considered a part of the Caribbean, and a group of islands that simultaneously experiences the oppression of the United States by being a literal territory—owned, like a slave—with its people not having the same rights as other citizens of the United States.

  How did you develop the fascinating and unique magic system of this fictional world?

  The magic system of kraft (translated as “power” in Danish) was a metaphor not just for supernatural power, but for literal power as well, and who is allowed and not allowed to have this power. Anyone is able to have kraft, regardless of race or identity, and the system is based in mental abilities only (mind reading, body control, seeing the future, seeing others’ dreams, etc.) because mental abilities and talents are evenly distributed in real life also. Though islanders could have this power, and their own abilities could be even stronger than the abilities of the kongelig and Fjern, the islanders with kraft are routinely rooted out and executed, for the kongelig declared that only they are allowed to have this power. It’s a metaphor for not only systematically hoarding power through oppression, but for how many with abilities and talents are often overlooked and ignored because of their identities.

  A major theme of Queen of the Conquered is complicity: to what degree is participating in and benefitting from a system that oppresses your peers justifiable if it is believed to be the only way to thrive? Is it morally acceptable to perpetuate oppression in the course of overthrowing it? What compelled you to write about this topic?

  As I mentioned before in discussing what inspired Queen of the Conquered, I think that, chances are, anyone reading this is currently benefitting from a system that oppresses our peers, and that we’re all perpetuating that oppression by not doing anything to stop the atrocities that are happening—not only around the world, but many times right in our backyards.

  I also faced this question a lot in specific situations when I found I was the only black person in a room of privilege, telling myself that I wanted to work to create change that I think is important, by writing more books that featured diverse characters, helping to diversify publishing, and more. I do think that this work is also important, but as Løren would question Sigourney, when is the point that you stop perpetuating that system and you tear and burn that system down instead? I was compelled to write about this topic because I wanted to face the uncomfortable truth of my own privilege and what that means in the face of oppression.

  Viewpoint characters are usually written to be sympathetic to the reader. Sigourney, however, is not an especially likeable protagonist. How did you reconcile these ideas?

  I’ve spoken a bit about my inspiration behind Sigourney’s character as a person of privilege. Knowing that she would be an unlikeable character who would make selfish choices, working in a system that oppresses her own people, doing things—such as having Løren whipped—that would be unforgivable, I knew that it would be equally important to attempt to make her sympathetic so that the audience can have a reason to continue reading Sigourney’s story.

  Unlikeable but sympathetic characters have always intrigued me, and I take their creation as a challenge. I knew from the beginning that I’d have to make Sigourney as sympathetic as possible, and to give her a motivation that could seem understandable, besides selfishness and greed, that would make her oppress her own people and want the throne of Hans Lollik Helle. To make her suffer great loss at the hands of the kongelig, and to make her believe that she means to oppress her own people so that she can ultimately free them, seemed like the only possible answer to make her actions understandable, even if they are wrong, and make them actions that we would personally think we would never commit ourselves.

  Do you have a favorite scene in this book? Which part was the most difficult to write?

  My favorite scene was the reveal of the twist at the end, which I won’t write too much about in case there’s anyone who decided to flip to the back—but to me, the reveal, and Sigourney’s realization that she has been wrong in multiple ways (both in who the killer is, and also in her actions as an oppressor), was satisfying to write.

  The most difficult scenes were anything involving the pain of the islanders. I didn’t want to gloss over the atrocities of slavery. I wanted to portray Caribbean slavery for what it was: horrific. I also didn’t want to write about the horrors of slavery for the sake of shock value or entertainment. I wanted to be careful to navigate that line with respect.

  Queen of the Conquered is the first volume in the Islands of Blood and Storm series. What’s in store for us in the next book?

  King of the Rising will be from Løren’s perspective, starting one month after the final events of Queen of the Conquered. I can’t say much without spoiling both books, but the first book’s question of whether Sigourney can be redeemed will be answered, and another question will be asked: Can Løren try to save everyone in the inevitable revolution, or are sacrifices necessary when burning the system down?

  Lastly, we have to ask: if you could have any form of kraft, what power would you choose?

  This is a surprisingly difficult question. I think I would want the power to read and write entire novels within seconds. I’d get a lot more work done, a lot more quickly.

  if you enjoyed

  QUEEN OF THE CONQUERED

  look out for

  KING OF THE RISING

  Islands of Blood and Storm: Book Two

  by

  Kacen Callender

  It seems that Løren just will not die.

  After the revolutionary events that rocked the island of Hans Lollik Helle, Løren doesn’t know how many more times he can cheat death. He leads the fight against the Fjern in a bid to free the islands from colonial control forever, but his people’s oppressors are relentless in their attacks on the rebels. Løren and the islanders are running out of food, weapons, and options.

  As the leader of the rebellion, Løren is faced with difficult choices, including whether to release the captive traitor, Sigourney Rose, to her own people. When Sigourney proposes a daring scheme to infiltrate the islands still under Fjern control, he defies warnings from his fellow rebels and seizes the chance to change the course of the revolution for good—even if it might mean the escape and betrayal of their most dangerous prisoner.

  But there’s a spy among the rebels on Hans Lollik Helle, and as the Fjern tighten their grip on the islands, inching closer to reclaiming the royal island with every battle, Løren doesn’t know who to trust.…

  They chased me through the groves. My heart pumped, fear slowing the blood in my legs, air caught in my throat. Sharp stones cut the undersides of my feet. Branches and brush and thorns ripped into my legs and arms and cheeks. Wet dirt sank beneath me, the root of a mangrove tree twisting around my ankle. I fell to the ground hard, roc
ks digging under the skin of the palms of my hands. I could hear their laughter. I knew that if they caught me, I would die. I’d made the mistake of reminding the boy that we shared blood. This wasn’t something he liked acknowledged. He didn’t like what I’d implied. That he and I weren’t so different, even if he called himself master and me slave.

  Their footsteps crunched and paused. I hunched in the thorns of brush, air wheezing from my lungs. I could sense the power that that filled my father’s son. His kraft let him see the abilities of others. He could see the ability in me. He could sense me as I sensed him. He felt me hiding. He walked closer.

  “I see him.”

  I didn’t wait for my brother to grab me, to pick me up and tie his rope around my neck. I leapt to my feet. I ran in the only direction I could, through the thorns and weeds and the tangled roots of the mangrove trees. I burst out of the green and into the sloshing water that pulsed onto the rocky shore. I dove into the seawater, salt burning my eyes and the cuts across my skin, heavy on my tongue. I swam as if I meant to swim to the northern empires and to freedom.

  I stopped because my arms and legs were too heavy and weak. I turned to see my brother and his friend standing on the shore, their hair and clothes and skin pale in the white moonlight. They waited, and then they left, bored with the game they’d played. I should have felt relief, but I knew this wouldn’t be the last time they would chase me through the groves of Hans Lollik Helle. It was impossible to feel relief when I knew I would forever have this body and forever have this skin.

  The thought crossed my mind. It’s a thought that often does. The question of whether there’s a point to living this life. I’m going to die, whether it’s by the hands of my brother or by the whip of my father or by the years that always manage to catch up with us, regardless of the color of our skin. Does it matter if I die in a few days or a few years or now, saltwater filling my lungs? The result will be the same. The result, if I were to allow myself to sink beneath the waves, would be a death that would bring mercy. No more racing through the brush of this island, hiding from my brother. No more beatings and whippings, layers of scars growing on my back like the rings of bark covering the trees, marking how many years I have lived and what I have survived. And there would be no more nights when I was called from the corner of the wooden floor I slept on, marched through the groves to the pain that waited. Letting myself sink into the sea would bring me peace. It would bring me freedom.

  The thought had crossed my mind so many times, but so had the urge to live. My desire for death and life was a contradiction. Both desires battled inside of me. In the end, life always won. Not because I loved life so much, despite the pain. So many wanted me dead. My brother, my father, and even other islanders waited for me to die. I wanted to live out of spite.

  I began to swim back for shore, but I didn’t notice that the waves of the ocean had already begun to suck me farther away from the island. The tide moved against me as I kicked. Waves became higher, knocking me beneath the surface. Seawater forced its way down my nose and into my mouth, filling my lungs. I choked with every gasp. Blackness covered my vision. I’d decided to live, but fate disagreed.

  When I opened my eyes again, I sat on the sand of a shore. It was powdered white without any sign of sea shells or footprints or life. The ocean was as still as glass. The sky was red with fire. Islands grew from the sea. Waves rippled as the hills formed, spreading toward the black clouds. My mother was there with me. She stood in the shallows. I could only see her back and the thick scars that wove over her skin, but I knew that it was her. This was often how she came to me, in my nightmares and in my dreams. She would tell me stories. Stories forgotten. Stories buried. My mother told me to listen.

  “You’ll want to save them all,” she said, “but you can’t help the ones who think they’re already saved.”

  I woke coughing, vomiting saltwater that burned my throat. Hot sand stuck to my face and my wet skin and clothes. The sky was blue again, the white sunlight scalding through my skin. Waves pushed and foamed around my legs. No one was on the shore with me. I couldn’t see anyone who might’ve saved me.

  It wasn’t a surprise that I hadn’t died.

  It seemed the spirits weren’t done with me yet.

  if you enjoyed

  QUEEN OF THE CONQUERED

  look out for

  THE COURT OF BROKEN KNIVES

  Empires of Dust: Book One

  by

  Anna Smith Spark

  It is the richest empire the world has ever known, and it is also doomed. Governed by an impostrous emperor, decadence has blinded its inhabitants to their vulnerability. The Yellow Empire is on the verge of invasion—and only one man can see it.

  Haunted by prophetic dreams, Orhan has hired a company of soldiers to cross the desert to reach the capital city. Once they enter the palace, they have one mission: kill the emperor, then all those who remain. Only from the ashes can a new empire be built.

  The company is a group of good, ordinary soldiers for whom this is a mission like any other. But the strange boy Marith who walks among them is no ordinary soldier. Though he is young, ambitious, and impossibly charming, something dark hides in Marith’s past—and in his blood.

  Chapter One

  Knives.

  Knives everywhere. Coming down like rain.

  Down to close work like that, men wrestling in the mud, jabbing at each other, too tired to care any more. Just die and get it over with. Half of them fighting with their guts hanging out of their stomachs, stinking of shit, oozing pink and red and white. Half-dead men lying in the filth. Screaming. A whole lot of things screaming.

  Impossible to tell who’s who any more. Mud and blood and shadows and that’s it. Kill them! Kill them all! Keep killing until we’re all dead. The knife jabs and twists and the man he’s fighting falls sideways, all the breath going out of him with a sigh of relief. Another there behind. Gods, his arms ache. His head aches. Blood in his eyes. He twists the knife again and thrusts with a broken-off sword and that man too dies. Fire explodes somewhere over to the left. White as maggots. Silent as maggots. Then shrieks as men burn.

  He swings the stub of the sword and catches a man on the leg, not hard but hard enough so the man stumbles and he’s on him quick with the knife. A good lot of blood and the man’s down and dead, still flapping about like a fish but you can see in his eyes that he’s finished, his legs just haven’t quite caught up yet.

  The sun is setting, casting long shadows. Oh beautiful evening! Stars rising in a sky the color of rotting wounds. The Dragon’s Mouth. The White Lady. The Dog. A good star, the Dog. Brings plagues and fevers and inflames desire. Its rising marks the coming of summer. So maybe no more campaigning in the sodding rain. Wet leather stinks. Mud stinks. Shit stinks, when the latrine trench overflows.

  Another burst of white fire. He hates the way it’s silent. Unnatural. Unnerving. Screams again. Screams so bad your ears ring for days. The sky weeps and howls and it’s difficult to know what’s screaming. You, or the enemy, or the other things.

  Men are fighting in great clotted knots like milk curds. He sprints a little to where two men are struggling together. Leaps at one from behind, pulls him down, skewers him. Hard crack of bone, soft lovely yield of fat and innards. Suety. The other yells hoarsely and swings a punch at him. Lost his knife, even. Bare knuckles. He ducks and kicks out hard, overbalances and almost falls. The man kicks back, tries to get him in a wrestling grip. Up close together, two pairs of teeth gritted at each other. A hand smashes his face, gets his nose, digs in. He bites at it. Dirty. Calloused. Iron taste of blood bright in his mouth. But the hand won’t let up, crushing his face into his skull. He swallows and almost chokes on the blood pouring from the wound he’s made. Blood and snot and shreds of cracked dry human skin. Manages to get his knife in and stabs hard into the back of the man’s thigh. Not enough to kill, but the hand jerks out from his face. Lashes out and gets his opponent in the soft part of the thro
at, pulls his knife out and gazes around the battlefield at the figures hacking at each other while the earth rots beneath them. All eternity, they’ve been fighting. All the edges blunted. Sword edges and knife edges and the edges in the mind. Keep killing. Keep killing. Keep killing till we’re all dead.

  And then he’s dead. A blade gets him in the side, in the weak point under the shoulder where his armor has to give to let the joint move. Far in, twisting. Aiming down. Killing wound. He hears his body rip. Oh gods. Oh gods and demons. Oh gods and demons and fuck. He swings round, strikes at the man who’s stabbed him. The figure facing him is a wraith, scarlet with blood, head open oozing out brain stuff. You’re dying, he thinks. You’re dying and you’ve killed me. Not fair.