A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  The guards still harbored suspicions. “The bridal party didn’t invite any guests from Androvale, except for the duke and duchess, and they’re already in residence. Besides, how’d the likes of you get into the grounds? Show us your pass.”

  Cerúlia ignored the question about entrance, again relying on the truth. “They didn’t know how to reach me. I have been traveling. Nevertheless, they will want me at Percia’s wedding, I am certain. Send for them and see.”

  A bit of doubt crept into the guards’ eyes.

  “Keep the minx here and keep a close eye on her,” said the shorter one, “while I check with the sergeant.” He disappeared inside.

  The footman told her to “rest her arse” on a stone bench in the small patio outside the entrance. Cerúlia sat, trying to ignore such insolence and calm herself by looking around at the garden plantings, some of which were just coming into spring bloom. An azalea bush was studded with buds, each offering a tiny slash of pink.

  A short walk to the left, down a stone pathway, she recognized the palace’s Church of the Waters. The building called to her; she longed to visit its Fountain to wash her face and drink cool water. She must have attended Waterday services there as a girl; some buried memory stirred.

  She wiped her hands on her trousers and tried to think of how Percie’s Wyndton friend, Dewva, would handle this situation. How would she convince the guards that she really was part of the wedding party?

  The guardsman returned after an absence of only a few minutes.

  “Sarge says that the gentry are busy and he thinks it would be his head—or rather, our heads—if they were disturbed. He says to bring the dirty wench to him.”

  “I don’t want to see any more of you fathead guards.” Cerúlia flared up with what she hoped would sound like a country woman in a huff. “Actually”—she stamped her foot—“I refuse. You’ve treated me so rudely! The Wyndton visitors are going to be angry. Where does your sort get the nerve!” She thought of Dewva and put her hands on her hips.

  “Look, fatheads, why don’t you give me a piece of paper and a quill and I’ll write a note you can pass to the bridal family? Then they can decide. The longer you lot ill-treat me, the more trouble you’re gonna be in.”

  The footman shuffled uneasily, exchanging glances with the guards. “I don’t see too much harm in that.…” He disappeared inside and came back with a sheet of paper, a quill, and a pot of ink, which he thrust at her.

  Cerúlia stared at the writing implements a moment; her mind tumbled, empty of stratagems regarding how—all of a sudden—to address a note to her Wyndton family.

  “I can’t write on this rough stone bench; I need a wooden surface,” she mumbled to the men watching her, before leaping up and speeding off into the Church of the Waters.

  The taller of two guards and the footman followed after her, muttering “What’s this nonsense, wench!” But she didn’t care; she just wanted to be inside Nargis’s house. There she would be able to quiet her nerves, and she’d find the words to write to the family she had deserted.

  The palace Church of the Waters was modest-sized, intended only for the private prayers of the palace community; but even so it possessed its own unique elegance and aura of peacefulness. Light flooded in through stained glass windows, making the polished walnut paneled walls and benches shine. The Fountain situated in the center stood as tall as Cerúlia herself; it had waterfowl images carved into rose quartz and water lilies blooming in its lowest basin; the water flowing down nine levels made a tinkling sound. At this midmorning hour on a hectic day at the palace, the room stood empty, its air soft and refreshing.

  Cerúlia walked up to the Fountain, letting its movement and murmur soothe her.

  The guard growled, “Hey! Wench! We’ve more pressing duties. If you’re going to write this letter do it now; otherwise we’ll tumble you off the grounds posthaste!”

  Cerúlia found a smooth wooden bench to use as a desk and knelt on the floor beside it. She still didn’t know how to phrase this note, but the church had comforted her enough to start.

  Teto Wilim and Teta Stahlia,

  Fate has washed me up in Cascada. I’ve learned that you are here too, for Percia’s wedding. If you could find it in your hearts

  At this moment they all heard a commotion outside the church of laughter, voices, and bustle. Cerúlia’s first instinct was to hide herself, but that was impossible in this open nave and, besides, her wary escorts stood watch over her. She just stiffened in her kneeling position like a terrified doe who hopes if she keeps completely still no one will see her half-hidden behind a shrub.

  The double front doors opened from an energetic yank, letting in a flood of bright sunlight that edged a group of ten people in fancy dress, led by a Brother of Sorrow. Duke Naven’s bulk made him easy to recognize. And gliding in behind him … Stahlia, Percia, and Tilim.

  Cerúlia’s breath caught in her throat. The guard and the footman bowed to the entering party, but busy with their own matters, the newcomers ignored the bunch of palace workers.

  Quietly, Cerúlia stood up from the floor.

  The Brother of Sorrow spoke to the assembly in a mild but authoritative tone. “Now, Duke Naven, you will escort the bride down this center aisle, while Lordling, you and your father and Master Tilim will be waiting at the end of the north aisle.” He was pointing out the locations to everyone. “We need to practice the pace of the walk so that everyone reaches the Fountain, where I will be standing with the nuptial cup, at the same moment. All right? Why don’t we take our places? Duchess Naven, would you oblige us by standing in for Lord Matwyck this morn?”

  “I’d be honored,” said the duchess.

  Chattering and laughing amongst themselves, the wedding party dispersed as he had directed them. Stahlia and a few others seated themselves on wooden benches to watch, while Duke Naven and Percia retraced their steps to the front entrance. Duchess Naven and a handsome young man walked toward the opposite lane without passing near the three onlookers, but Tilim chose the aisle that led him closest to the Fountain and thus closest to where Cerúlia, clutching the writing implements against her chest, stood, her heart thudding.

  The guard gripped her upper arm to protect the gentry from this stranger under his supervision. As Tilim neared the grouping, his forward pace faltered.

  Wonder at seeing the boy she had helped raise overcame Cerúlia. In three years he had grown much taller and his face had matured, losing the baby roundedness that had been so dear to her.

  Almost without meaning to speak, she burst out, “You’re going to be as tall as your father or taller.”

  Tilim’s shock rendered him mute.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Tilim?”

  His face came alight. “I knew you’d come back. I knew it! I told everyone. I knew it! I knew it!” Tilim launched himself at her, gathering her in a hug so forceful it almost knocked her over, while the inkpot spilled all down her leg.

  “This is my sister,” Tilim shouted at the man holding her. “Let go of her! This is my sister! Mama! Wren has returned to us!”

  40

  When the tempest of shouting and embracing started to slacken, Stahlia realized they were no longer in the Church of the Waters.

  Someone—had it been Marcot? it must have been Marcot—had ushered her family out of public scrutiny and into a nearby antechamber of the palace. Oil cloaks and umbrellas lined the wall; rows of boots sat in labeled cupboards. She found the vestibule’s order and privacy a comfort at a moment when her world had gone askew.

  Stahlia pulled her wayward daughter back from the embrace to look at her again. Here she was, live as day, not a phantom or a dream. Yet so changed.

  “Where have you been? How could you leave us?” Stahlia gave her a little shake.

  Wren just mutely shook her head.

  “Why didn’t you write to us? Don’t you know how much we fretted? Three years!” Stahlia demanded, shaking her again. “You like to broke our h
earts! And the worry!”

  Wren looked stricken, but resolute. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t write to you or have any contact with you.”

  “Why? What possible reason could there be for being so heartless?”

  “Mama! Mama, leave off! She’s here now,” said Percia, pulling her sister from her mother’s grasp, hugging her and rocking side to side almost in a dance step. “What a miracle! I always pictured you returning to us in Wyndton, and when we moved I left a message for you at the Wyndton Arms. But you’ve appeared out of smoke, here in Cascada, just in time for my wedding!”

  “Are you really getting married tomorrow, Percie? Are you happy? Do you love him?” Wren asked, speaking into her tall sister’s neck.

  “Oh, Wren, if you’d been home I would have had someone to talk to about how wonderful Marcot is.”

  Tilim broke in, “She’s told us often enough. Do you mean you wanted to talk about him more? Percie’s been a lovesick cow.

  “But Wren, he is a swell chap. I wouldn’t let Percie go to just anyone.”

  Perhaps Wren caught something in Tilim’s inference that he would grant his sister permission to wed. She looked at them all with her forehead scrunched.

  “But why is Duke Naven walking you down the church pathway? Where is Wilim?” she asked. She pulled back, stood still, and glanced around the room. She asked again, “Where is Wilim?”

  “She doesn’t know,” Percia told her mother quietly.

  Stahlia sighed, took Wren’s hands, and sat her down on a rough, low bench made for pulling on boots. “Birdie, Wilim is not with us here in Cascada. He joined the Waters shortly after you left us.”

  “No! No, that can’t be true.” Shaking her head, she looked around at Tilim and Percia for confirmation. “What? Why?” She must have read the truth on Percia’s face. “How did he die? Did he sicken?”

  “He killed himself,” Stahlia said, biting the words. “We don’t know why.”

  Wren’s face began to crumple like a broadsheet being wadded up. She hid it in her hands.

  “This happened—when?” she spoke into her fingers.

  “About a moon after you disappeared,” Stahlia answered. Her voice hardened. “He couldn’t recover from your disappearance. Do you know anything about it? I need answers. I’ve gone nigh crazy not understanding how he could leave us.”

  “But it’s not your fault, Birdie, of course it’s not your fault.” Percia jumped in to protect her sister from Stahlia’s probing. “You couldn’t know what he would do after you left.”

  “All this time … while … I’ve been gone I’ve pictured him at Wyndton. I thought he was riding Syrup, keeping the duke’s peace, caring for the ward. You mean, all this time he was already gone?” She started rocking herself back and forth on the bench.

  “Hush now, hush now,” said Percie, sitting next to her and patting her shoulder.

  “You mean I’ll never get to thank him for … everything. I never dreamed—” Wren choked out.

  Tilim broke in, his voice strained. “Stop crying! Everyone stop crying! I mean it. I can’t take any more tears! This is a happy day! I order you all to stop this crying this instant!”

  Her son had inherited some of Wilim’s sense about people, and Stahlia knew he was right. The remnants of this family would shatter under the strains of joy, guilt, and recrimination. It was hard enough to be here in Cascada, hard enough to deal with these gentry and their strange customs, hard enough to think of Percie getting married and leaving them. And now to have Wren suddenly rejoin them and to dig up all the past heartache!

  It’s up to me to pull us together. Wilim would want me to weave us back whole.

  Stahlia found her linen kerchief tucked in her belt. She wiped her own tear tracks, then turned Percie’s face up to the light from a narrow transom and wiped hers.

  Kneeling by the bench, she said, “There now, Wren. I’m sorry. Get aholt of yourself. I know you feel the pain now, but this happened long ago. Wilim has been safe in the embrace of the Eternal Waters for years now. We four are here. Tilim’s right. Let’s be thankful for being reunited at last.”

  Wren took a few ragged breaths.

  “Come on, Birdie. Wipe your eyes and blow your nose,” said Stahlia. “I know this came as a shock. We’re all having a few shocks today.” She let out her breath in a noise that became a ragged laugh. “We’ll hang on tight to one another and see each other through.”

  “Good girl,” said Tilim, encouraging, patting Wren’s knee. “You don’t want Percie to look a mess when all these strange people are staring at her and judging her, do you?”

  Gradually, Wren’s distress quieted enough for conversation to resume.

  Deliberately changing the subject, Stahlia said, “Tell us. What about your babe? What about your sailor?”

  “There was no babe. There was no sailor.”

  “I knew it!” cried Percia. “But then why did you leave us?”

  Wren shook herself and stood up, twisting her hands together.

  “I’m sorry. You must know that I didn’t leave you out of choice, and I’ve thought of you every day, regretting the pain I caused you. But the night I left I learned I was in danger, danger that might spread to you.” She held up her hands. “I can’t tell you anything now; I will tell you everything as soon as I am able.”

  “What? Why the delay?” Stahlia asked. “You owe us—”

  Tilim interrupted her harsh tone. “Because Percia will be safely married off, and Marcot’s father won’t call off the wedding because of our feckless sister!”

  Wren managed to half smile at him. “Something along those lines. I know it’s unfair. I know I owe you all an explanation. But I can’t give it now.” She stood even straighter now. “And I ask—this is serious now, Tilim—that you not talk about how closemouthed I have to be. I ask that you just tell everyone that I am your foster sister who lived with you in Wyndton and recently took a sea voyage to settle some personal affairs. By the Grace of the Waters, I managed to arrive in Cascada for the wedding.” Her expression was steady and searching. “Can you do that? Will you promise to do that?”

  Percia spoke up. “You are very mysterious, Birdie, but I’m so happy to have you back, you could ask for Nargis Ice and I’d climb up the Fountain to give it to you.”

  Stahlia gazed at Wren, so familiar and yet so changed, with narrowed eyes. “You’ll tell me everything after the wedding?” she probed. “You’ll hold nothing back? You won’t disappear? Your word on the Waters?”

  Wren held out both hands to Stahlia and looked her straight in the eyes. “I vow, Teta.”

  A soft knock on the outside door interrupted their treasured retreat.

  Stahlia swiftly glanced around to ensure that all of her charges had arranged their faces for public scrutiny. “Enter,” she called out.

  Brother Whitsury opened the door with an apologetic expression. “I am so sorry to intrude, madam. But the chamberlain worries about our keeping to the day’s schedule.…”

  Lordling Marcot joined Brother Whitsury in the open doorway. “The day’s schedule be hanged! We’ll change the damn schedule if need be. Mistress, take all the time your family needs. Is there anything I can get you—do you need anything?”

  “No,” said Stahlia firmly. “We are recovered now. It was quite a shock to have my other daughter appear like—like an apparition in the church. A wonderful shock … Thank you for granting us these precious moments to catch up. We are sorry to have kept everybody waiting. We are ready now to return to the rehearsal.”

  “But, Teta, I’m not fit for grand company,” Wren said, with a significant glance at her own clothing. She looked very rustic indeed, and she had ink splashed down her trouser leg. “Might I, perhaps, be excused to join you later…?”

  “Chamberlain Vilkit would be pleased to see to your guest’s comfort,” said the lordling. “Percia, would you be so kind as to introduce me to the apparition?”

  Although her face was still bl
otchy, Percia glowed. “This is the best marriage gift ever! Lordling Marcot, may I present my sister, Wren of Wyndton. Wren, this is my betrothed, Lordling Marcot.”

  Marcot made a formal bow to Stahlia’s second daughter.

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” said her future son-in-marriage. “Percia has often spoken of you. I am so happy that you are able to join us for this occasion. The Waters have blessed us with their favor.”

  Wren curtsied in return, with downcast eyes. “You are too kind, milord.”

  Now that’s the quiet, humble Wren I know, Stahlia thought. But can this modesty be put on and off, like one of these oil cloaks hanging here?

  41

  An under-footman stood before Vilkit’s desk in his office, the “command post” of a massive campaign. The room, usually a paragon of order, showed the stress of combat, with heaps of bills of lading bedecking tables, masses of flowers that had yet to be arranged temporarily left in buckets on all his chairs, and a table linen with a burn mark wadded up and thrown in the corner.

  Vilkit had been chamberlain of the palace for three years. This wedding presented the biggest challenge of his career. If all went off well, he might retain this position for life, and laurels would be heaped upon him. If a terrible slipup occurred, he would be held responsible, regardless of actual fault. Lord Matwyck probably wouldn’t have him killed, but Vilkit had discovered that the Lord Regent was not above a small physical cruelty, such as a broken hand or a punctured eardrum. This hardly endeared the Lord Regent to his chamberlain, but Vilkit was prepared to tolerate a modicum of terror for this prized position. Besides, he didn’t intend to fail.

  The trouble with food was that ingredients had to be fresh; thus only so much could be delivered in advance. The head cook worried so over whether the provisionaries would deliver enough geese, his anxiety had become contagious.

  On the day before the wedding, however, everything had elapsed according to Vilkit’s schedule and plans. The two paltry mishaps—a visiting duke complaining his rooms were not grand enough and the wine steward noticing that the vintner had overcharged them—Vilkit had handled with his usual efficiency.