A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  Nana took both his trembling hands in hers and looked at him closely. Branwise hung his head for a moment, then blew out the breath he was holding and gave a slight nod.

  “Shields,” Nana said, “’tis grand to see you.”

  “Tell us, Nana, what’s going on,” said Yanath.

  “Nothing’s going on this instant,” she answered. “But someday the princella will return to claim the Nargis Throne. And ’tis not bloody likely that bastard—drought damn his eyes!—will give up power easily. He’ll try to stop her. The moment she steps on Weir soil she’ll be in danger.

  “All I can hope is that she’ll make contact with me. That is where you’ll come in. I want you to be the core of a new Queen’s Shield, defending her through any trouble.”

  “Nana, we would die for her,” said Yanath. “But with only three of us against the whole corps of palace guards, much less the Marauders, we will die before we can be of much use.”

  Pontole jumped in. “On our way here, Yanath and me, we was talking about allies. When we scoured the harbor dives looking for Branwise, we thought … what about the mariners? Those that didn’t drown off the Pellish coast—they was loyal to Queen Cressa and Lord Ambrice. Could we recruit from their ranks to bolster our numbers? True, they don’t have as much training in hand-to-hand as us shields, but during our years in the Green Isles we saw ’em fight with real guts.”

  Brother Whitsury and Nana looked at one another, surprised at the new idea.

  “How would you go about it?” asked Whitsury.

  Yanath answered, “I would first approach the seamasters like Wilamara, who distinguished herself so that time she led the raid on Jade Isle. I asked around; I hear she still lives.”

  Nana said thoughtfully, “Mariners was always on the steadfast side. I’d wager they’d want to protect Ambrice’s daughter.… What would you tell them?”

  “Just exactly what Pontole told me,” Yanath answered.

  “And what if one of the seamasters, or one of their sailors, betrays us?” asked Whitsury. “We’d all be thrown in one of Yurgn’s pits.”

  “We have to take that chance,” said Yanath. “Because three against hundreds isn’t bravery—’tis idiocy. And we don’t want to die trying to get the princella on the throne. We want to live, succeeding.”

  Nana nodded. “That we do. I’ve been thinking we need more allies. I’d thought of that former councilor, a man named Belcazar. Mayhap you remember him? Ach, it makes no never mind ’cause I don’t know how to reach him. Besides, yer idea is more practical. Sailors are better fighters.”

  “We need to put ourselves in training,” said Yanath, looking at Pontole and Branwise. “Hone our skills again. Once upon a time, we was pretty slick.”

  “And we can be again,” said Pontole eagerly.

  “Mebee now,” Branwise interrupted, “would be a good time to pledge ourselves once again? I want to be a shield again.”

  “Aye,” Yanath agreed. “Nana, you’re our leader now—will you stand in for Captain Clemçon and the queen?”

  Walking with a slower and more dignified gait than her usual trot, Nana moved next to a half-finished sarcophagus. A shaft of light revealed that it was open and vacant except for a blue silk lining and a blue pillow. Yanath grasped that it had been meant for the queen he had failed, the queen whose body floated forever alone and lost in the Gray Ocean. He grasped the bottom edge of the coffin in a tight grip.

  “Queen Chinika’s shields…” Yanath said, recalling the lore he had learned. “There was only three of them left, and they laid her body on a stretcher and carried her back from Northvale. That’s about five hundred leagues. Even when they got to more populated areas, those shields wouldn’t lay down their burden or accept help. She died under their watch, but they brought her home. They fulfilled their duties; we’re the ones who failed.”

  “One never knows,” said Whitsury, turning his head from his lookout, his gray eyes kindly, “when there’s an opportunity for valor or what form it will take. Those shields rest in unmarked graves and we don’t even know their names, but the deed lives forever. And someone like Nana, now, she’s done nothing so showy, but she’s stood by faithful for years. Waiting patiently can be another kind of heroism.”

  “I want to be a shield again,” Branwise repeated. “Let’s pledge.”

  The three men, all past their prime and with shoulders weighed down by regrets, bent a knee before Nana and piled their hands on top of one another’s. Together they spoke the words that Yanath had first learned twenty years earlier, when Captain Clemçon—rest his soul—had first invited him to join the ranks.

  Henceforth, I know my purpose. I join the Queen’s Shield with pride, eager to uphold its trust.

  My Queen is but blood and breath, yet she serves as Cupbearer of the Waters.

  I dedicate my eyes, wide and watchful; my arms, strong; my nerves, steadfast in the face of fear.

  I pledge these talents to my post, in life or in death, so that the Queen may reign in peace and the Waters of Life flow never ceasing.

  Yanath lifted his head, feeling a flood of strength and the steadiness of duty.

  It must have been the glass portals bending the light beams from the abbey above, but he saw a hint of a rainbow mist around the figure of the stout nursemaid.

  PART SIX

  Reign of Regent Matwyck, Year 15

  SPRING

  37

  Cascada

  If anyone had been watching—and no one was—all they would have seen was a young woman, informal in trousers and a black bodice; her manservant, wearing a uniform with white fringe epaulets and holding a case; and a large brown dog with one floppy ear stride forward off a wooden dock and onto the soil of Cascada.

  Nothing happened. No bells tolled, and no one marked her. The people bustling about the harbor area went on about their business and paid her no never mind. Cerúlia looked around, hoping that something about the layout of the port would say “home” to her, but all she saw was another harbor—less well-managed than some, considering the chaos of noise and crowds.

  Well, she thought, at least I have returned unobtrusively.

  Today, despite Ciellō’s protestations, she wore her donkey boy garb. Really, due to his care, she had no choice, because as she had regained weight and muscle her stylish Wyeland outfits had grown too tight.

  “Damselle, will not you let me into your confidence still?” After they passed the rocky Cormorant Isles and the coast of Weirandale had become visible, her advisor had grown avid to know her plans.

  “No, Ciellō,” she said. “I cannot. I hired you to escort me here, and you have done so, most assiduously. I have profited from your care, but per our contract your duties now are at an end. What I have to do in Cascada, you cannot help me with. Besides”—she tapped the purse at her waist—“as you know well, we’re nearly out of money.”

  “I do not wish to be discharged,” Ciellō insisted stiffly. “I will wait for you to finish your business so mysterious and to realize that I am invaluable.”

  Cerúlia regarded him. Often these moons she had thought that he would be relieved to complete his commission and regain his freedom, and sometimes she suspected that the multiple ties between them had grown too complicated to be easily severed.

  “I already know you are invaluable. If you insist on staying in Cascada, I cannot stop you. Actually, for the next few days, it would be a boon if I were not burdened with my case or with Whaki. Could you keep him for me?”

  A narrowing of Ciellō’s eyes showed that he was offended.

  “You think I am not capable of a thing so simple?”

  “I should have said, ‘Would you do me that service?’”

  “Of course.” Ciellō tapped a sailor on the shoulder. “Excuse my interruption, could you tell me of the decent inn?”

  “Right in town?” asked the sailor. “Most everything is full, what with the wedding and all. But the Sea Hawk has a big hall of bunk beds.
It’s a safe bet.”

  Ciellō turned to Cerúlia. “That is where a dog and I will be. When you finish your private affairs and you want me again.” He took the rope they had affixed to Whaki’s neck. Whaki pulled back toward Cerúlia with pleading eyes.

  One wants to stay with thee.

  No. Go with Ciellō and obey him until I send for you. Go on. Don’t give me that look.

  She could not afford to be distracted by either Whaki or Ciellō today. She walked off the quay, past the fishmongers and the sailors’ taverns, into the city itself. Above her she saw the chunk of Nargis Ice held aloft by the spray of Nargis Fountain—it mesmerized her. She thirsted for Nargis Water.

  Glancing around for a horse-drawn carriage, she spotted many engaged, but none free, waiting to pick up passengers. The streets were thronged; but at least Cerúlia took slight comfort in the sight of horses rather than gamels, and in familiar fashions rather than the dust-coats, craftans, or pinafores of foreign lands. She chose a side alley, instead of the major boulevard. Within a few moments of walking, she found her path impeded by two women chatting to each other, blocking the passage between two stone buildings.

  “Just the grandest occasion ever!” exclaimed one.

  “Excuse me,” said Cerúlia, trying to bypass their gowns stretched wide by petticoats. They stared at her and shifted their feet a fraction.

  She had almost succeeded in squeezing by when she realized what they were talking about. Cerúlia halted, whirled, and addressed them.

  “Ladies, pray excuse me. I just arrived by ship. Is something going on, such as a fête or a wedding?”

  The older woman looked askance at her informal and salt-stained clothing. The younger was more polite. “Oh, yes, it’s so exciting. The son of the Lord Regent is getting married tomorrow. There is going to be such an enormous celebration! All the gentry have gathered, and Lord Matwyck will be throwing such a party for them, and a feast for the townsfolk and even fireworks. Lucky for you you’ve arrived in time.”

  “Indeed,” Cerúlia dryly remarked.

  “And it is such a romantic love match!” continued the woman, barely pausing to catch her breath. “You’re a stranger? You don’t know the story? You must be the only soul in Weirandale who doesn’t. You see, Lordling Marcot was traveling in Androvale, and he met this just beautiful young woman, and even though she’s only a commoner and he’s a lordling, he was adamant that he was going to marry her—”

  “Come along,” said her companion, pulling at the arm of her garrulous friend and starting to move away.

  A shiver of premonition ran down Cerúlia’s spine. She importuned them again: “You didn’t say—who is the bride?”

  “Really, Ifany, we’ve been inconvenienced enough by this person.” The older woman pretended she couldn’t see or hear Cerúlia.

  “Tell me!” said the princella, grabbing on to the younger woman’s trailing hat ribbon.

  “Her name is Percia of Wyndton,” said the chatty one. “Fancy that!”

  The older woman pulled the ribbon out of Cerúlia’s hand, which had gone slack. “Ifany! Stop encouraging the riffraff.” She scowled at Cerúlia. “You! Leave us alone now, or we’ll call the city watch.” The two proceeded on their way.

  “Fancy that!” echoed Cerúlia faintly, and she stood struck dumb in the crowded alleyway, oblivious to the people trying to pass around her.

  Recovering her wits, Cerúlia ascended the hill to the Nargis Fountain.

  The Courtyard of the Star buzzed with guards, tourists, and vendors, but Cerúlia’s gaze focused only on the Fountain. She feasted on the Water’s graceful high arcs. She cupped her hands, dipped them in the pool, and drank of the icy water—her overheatedness, fatigue, and anxiety dropped away. The cold liquid she splashed on her cheeks tingled. She sat inside the rainbows of mist; they watered her—roots, stem, and branch. She listened to the Water’s splash, a song half remembered and sorely missed.

  Since Femturan she had harbored a secret dream that once she got home, Nargis Water would erase her burns and heal her shoulder. Sitting on the Fountain’s quartz ledge, however, she could perceive no change to her body—the Water refused to work its Magic on her. She felt refreshed, but not renewed or remade.

  Cerúlia refused to indulge any sense of disappointment.

  All right then. I earned these scars and the memories that go with them. If Nargis had to heal only one of us, I’m glad the Spirit chose Percie’s leg.

  A blue tanager preened itself in the spray. It swooped down to the Fountain edge in front of her.

  He cocked his little head this way and that. Your Majesty, high time thou returneth.

  So animals keep telling me! But you! You can’t be the same tanager I knew as a child.

  One has never met thee. But one has been waiting for thee just the same.

  Well, here I am. At last. But I have no plan to regain the throne.

  All through the moons at sea she had puzzled over the task ahead. She was no Strategist. She had no way to make people believe in her identity. She had no means to force Matwyck to give up power. All she had was a fixed destination—the Throne Room—and her Talent.

  And now out of the blue she was presented with this wild complication of Percia’s marriage. Didn’t this mean that the Wyndton family was close by? Would this help or hinder her?

  The scents emanating from the vendors’ carts reminded Cerúlia that she was hungry. She had a few foreign coins in her purse. She bought apple fritters from a countrywoman, hot and greasy, redolent of home. The fritters tasted so wonderful that she went back for two more.

  The worn-looking woman smiled at her. “Hit the spot, did they? This time let me slide this bit of cheese between them, summat to fill the belly.”

  Cerúlia accepted the food gratefully. She stood next to the woman as she ate the second helping more slowly. “I’ve been traveling. How is Cascada?”

  “Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?” said the vendor.

  “Here,” she replied. “But I left many years ago. It seems … different … now.”

  The woman glanced at her sideways. “The harvest came full last fall. What we get to keep. The Lord Regent’s men are heavy-fingered and heavy-handed.” She seemed to make up her mind to trust the traveler. She hissed, “My neighbors’ son protested the tithe.… He’s been missing four moons now.”

  “‘Missing’ kilt, or ‘missing’ imprisoned?”

  “No one knows. You can ask at the jailhouses, but you don’t get answers. Lots of folk go missing; anyone who raises his voice about the way the country is run. It’s kind of safe by Nargis’s Fountain. My, it runs fierce today. Don’t run afoul of Matwyck’s Marauders.”

  “I am grateful for the food and the warning,” Cerúlia replied.

  The vendor gave her a friendly wink and turned to another customer.

  Cerúlia set out again up the hill and headed toward the palace, whose white towers she could now see at the top of the hill. But since she’d already walked up from the harbor, she wasn’t eager for the tramp. If there were no carriage cabs to be hired, could she find other means of conveyance?

  Alert for an opportunity, she scanned the streets for several minutes. Eventually she saw a wagon train of four carts, each heavily loaded with supplies. Roughly dressed haulers dangled their feet off the open backs. The first cart was just starting to move. The driver’s seat of the third cart sat empty—the driver probably answering a call of nature. Relying on her experience from the carters’ yard in Slagos, she climbed aboard the cart as if she belonged, nodded to the haulers in back, picked up the reins, and clucked the horses to pull out into the street.

  She kept in line following the cart ahead. These streets and buildings offered the scenes of her childhood, but she could not gawk at the sights. (Like that bell tower to the right, which looks so familiar—I think it is part of the abbey. Or the Church of the Headwaters—I know it lies down that street!) Despite the need to concentrate o
n steering the cart away from collisions, she realized that Salubriton’s streets had been cleaner, and in Slagos store owners took more pride in their decor and flowers.

  She felt a stab of fear when the carts turned off the main thoroughfare to the palace. Then she grasped that the lead driver was just avoiding the most crowded byways and bringing his load in a circle around by the Kitchen Gate.

  Indeed, the carts clattered up to a squad of soldiers who blocked the roadway, demanding to see the papers of the head driver. Once inside the cobbled yard, Cerúlia watched the other cart men to ascertain if they stayed with the horses or helped unload. They stayed with their teams; a couple lit pipes. One of the other drivers kept glancing at her with puzzlement written on his brow; obviously she wasn’t the person he expected.

  More carts jostled in noisily, bringing in more goods. A footman yelled at the haulers to work faster, get their pig-fuckin’ wagons unloaded and out of the way, didn’t they know this was a busy day?

  Cerúlia spoke to the cart horses. I’m getting off here. Follow your fellows out of the grounds. She jumped down from her seat, grabbed a random cask up onto her shoulder, and carried it to the loading area, which was filling up with wooden boxes and racks of hanging geese. Kitchen workers armed with checklists marked off items as they arrived.

  She tried to saunter through the porch way into the kitchen itself.

  “Hey, you! Where do you think you’re going?” A beefy palace guard blocked the door.

  “I was just going to get a drink. Thirsty work, this,” she answered in an aggrieved tone.

  “Get along with you,” ordered the guard, unsympathetic and suspicious. “There’s a pump in the yard. Or are you blind as well as lazy?”