The Deepest Blue

by Sarah Beth Durst

  He barely ate, and what he did eat, he didn’t taste. He got used to a constant ache in his not-yet-healed wrist. He slept at the table he’d set up as his workstation, by a window with a view of the castle—or a view if you leaned out and looked left between two other buildings.

  Then you could see a sliver of the tallest spire.

  He wasn’t looking up that much anyway.

  When he finished, it was two o’clock in the morning, three days later. He leaned back in the rickety chair, rubbed his neck, and looked outside at the quiet street. Firemoss lamps bathed the broken mother-of-pearl walls and street in an amber glow.

  He’d never made anything more beautiful.

  It wasn’t the kind of statement he would have said out loud. He knew it would sound like boasting. But he knew his work, and he’d never done better.

  He wished he could show it to Mayara.

  He had no way of knowing if she was even still alive. I have to believe she is. Crossing to the window, he leaned out to glimpse the sliver of a spire, a shadow against the night sky. He wanted to rush there with his creation . . . but he knew that would make him look unprofessional and unmannered. Or, more likely, crazed. Certainly no one who should be allowed near the queen.

  I’ll present it at dawn.

  Please, Mayara, stay alive a little longer.

  He tried to sleep, laying himself down on the lumpy cot. Staring up at the cracked ceiling, he listened to the sounds of the city: the murmur of voices carried on a breeze, the atonal chime of bells, the bark of a dog, other clangs and thumps and squeaks that he couldn’t name. . . .

  He woke when the scent of cinnamon curled into his room from the bakery downstairs. Getting up, he felt stiff, worse than when he’d slept at the table. But the art piece was finished, perched on the desk where he’d left it the night before, and just as ready. It was barely dawn, but he’d waited long enough.

  Wrapping the carved shell in soft linen, Kelo scanned the room to see if there was anything else he needed to bring. There wasn’t. Just himself and his masterpiece.

  He’d worked feverishly for this moment, but now that it was here, he was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life. But he thought again of Mayara—when she committed to a dive, she didn’t back down and she didn’t hesitate. Take the dive, he told himself.

  Leaving the inn, he nodded at the sleepy innkeeper, who ignored him. Shrugging, he then strode to the palace as if he felt full of confidence. I am an accomplished artist, bringing my magnum opus as a gift for my queen. My work is worthy of the woman who keeps a whole nation safe. I have no space in my heart for doubt or fear.

  He crossed the blue stone bridge and joined the line of those seeking to enter the palace. At this hour, most were workers: cooks and cleaners, as well as a few courtiers carrying scrolls and books. He waited his turn, outwardly polite and patient, even though his insides churned like a whirlpool.

  “State your business,” the guard said.

  It wasn’t the same guard. This was a woman with no-nonsense eyes, a scar that obliterated her left eyebrow, and a prosthetic left leg. She had three knives strapped to her waist, and their scabbards had seen use. Kelo had the feeling that if he’d come to her with the same request as the prior guard, she wouldn’t have been as kind. She would have dismissed him without a word of explanation or comfort.

  “I am Kelo, master artisan and charm-maker, visiting from the island of Olaku, and I bring a gift for the queen.” He held up the package with the shell. It wasn’t heavy, but he kept a firm grip on it with his uninjured hand. “May I be permitted to present it to her?”

  “It will be inspected for poison and given to the queen.” The guard took the package and passed it to a courtier who looked too small for his uniform.

  Kelo pressed again. “I would prefer to present it myself.”

  “If the queen wishes to buy more of your wares, you’ll be contacted. Leave your name and where you can be located.” Sounding bored, the guard nodded toward a moustached man who sat on a bench with an open book.

  He’d guessed it had been too much to think that he’d be allowed to present his gift in person. He had to hope his work spoke for itself and that she’d want more—and want to speak to him.

  Nodding his thanks to the guard, he moved to the moustached man and gave his name. All the while, he watched the young courtier carry the package with Mayara’s life into the palace.

  THE SUMMONS FROM THE PALACE CAME THE NEXT MORNING.

  Kelo woke to a knock on his door. When he opened it, the sleepy innkeeper, now looking very awake, was bouncing from foot to foot. “You’re wanted at the palace! The queen wants to see you! Why didn’t you tell me you were a master artist? I’m moving your room. You’ll have our best view. Our best bed!”

  Kelo interrupted. “Thank you. But I should dress. I don’t want to keep the queen waiting.”

  “Oh yes, of course, can’t delay a summons, and when you return, I will have a meal prepared. Perhaps you should have breakfast on your way, so you aren’t meeting the queen on an empty stomach. . . .”

  He closed the door while the innkeeper was still babbling.

  Kelo dressed quickly, ignoring the twinge in his wrist, and then hurried out, nodding a quick thanks to the innkeeper, who hadn’t moved from the hall outside his room. He guessed it wasn’t often that a guest at a cheap inn was summoned to the palace. “I’d be delighted to accept your hospitality when I return,” he said as he ran down the stairs, two at a time.

  “Of course!”

  He strode quickly through the street, nearly at a run, and reached the palace in half the time it had taken yesterday. His heart was beating hard in his chest.

  This is it. My chance. Mayara, you’ll be home soon.

  Presenting himself to the guard—yet a third soldier—he stated his name and his business. “Kelo of Olaku Island. The queen requested to see me.” He pitched his voice to sound confident, as if this sort of royal summons happened to him every day. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

  The same moustached man as yesterday consulted his book, then gave a nod, and the guard stepped aside. Kelo continued across the blue stone bridge into the palace, slowing as he stepped inside the grand entry chamber.

  Whereas the outside of Yena was scarred by weather and wear, the inside of the palace looked exactly the way it was supposed to: sheathed in polished shell, lit by chandeliers of firemoss, and draped in sumptuous ivory-colored buntings. A broad staircase led up, and four gilded doors led away. It was absolutely gorgeous . . . and he had no idea which way he was supposed to go.

  “Artist Kelo of the island of Olaku?” a voice asked briskly. He turned to see a woman in a gold tunic that mimicked the doors. Her face was smooth, as if she never laughed nor cried. “You will follow me, please. Her Majesty has a full schedule, but she insisted I make time for you.” The woman sounded as if she didn’t approve.

  Kelo wondered if she was one of those people who believed art was frivolous, an extra to life rather than central to it. He’d never understood those kind of people. But he trailed after her obediently. Obviously, Queen Asana can’t be like that, or I wouldn’t be here. That thought gave him hope.

  He was led to another chamber, just as stunning as the entryway, but much smaller in scope, with murals of glass on the walls and two chairs carved of a red-colored wood he’d never seen. The woman left him there, with instructions to wait until he was summoned.

  He didn’t sit. Instead he studied the artistry of the mosaic and tried to stay calm.

  He heard a door open. Another, older woman entered. Unlike his smooth-faced escort, this woman had laugh lines in her cheeks and around her eyes that looked like the tracks of a sandpiper. She also wore clothes utterly unlike anything he’d ever seen an islander wear: a yellow concoction with ruffles on top of ruffles. It made her look as if she were drowning in fabric. She also wore a hat of feathers that was so garish it made his eyes hurt. She studied him openly, as if assessing an outf
it she wanted to buy. “So you’re the one who carved the shiny shell. You made the queen cry.”

  Kelo felt a flutter of worry. He’d meant to touch her heart, but he’d explicitly set out not to add to her sadness. Had he mis-carved? “That wasn’t my intent.”

  The court lady snorted. “Of course it was. All art is about manipulation. Tricking someone into seeing things your way.”

  Offended, Kelo couldn’t let that comment slide. “That’s not how I’d describe it.” Yes, he’d had certain goals with his carving, but it wasn’t about manipulation. Art was about reaching out, connecting with another person, and giving them what you knew they needed, even if they didn’t know . . .

  Wait—was she right?

  “Luckily for you, Queen Asana was impressed with your tricks. She’ll see you now.” She gestured to the door she’d come through. “Just as a reminder, you should bow, be polite, and don’t say anything you’ll regret later. Regret is for those who lack conviction.”

  Unsure if that was a warning or advice, his heart pounding harder than he’d ever felt, Kelo walked through the door to face his queen. The courtier followed behind him, closing the door. She then plopped herself onto a chair next to Queen Asana. Her ridiculously voluminous ruffles poofed up around her.

  Queen Asana sat straight-backed on a thronelike chair. His carving was displayed in front of her on a table made of suka wood. It lay in a nest of black velvet.

  In some ways, Queen Asana looked like a work of art too: the skirt of her dress was paneled with painted scenes of the sea, and the bodice was embroidered with countless pearls. Her hair was wrapped in intricate braids and woven with strands of both white and black pearls.

  In other ways, though, she looked like she could be any woman from his village. Her cheeks were soft and lined with wrinkles. Her eyes looked weary, and her smile was as kind as Kelo’s own mother’s.

  Kelo bowed. “Your Majesty, you honor me.”

  “It is I who am honored. You are the artist who made the shell portrait? Am I correct to think it is a portrait of me?”

  “It is you, my queen, embracing Belene, as you do every day.” He added, “And it was made with the hope of speaking with you.”

  Her lips pressed together, and he could sense her withdrawing. “I see.”

  He glanced at the court lady, who looked smug. It’s not manipulation. “And the hope of bringing you joy. I think”—he took a risk and plunged on, thinking of Mayara diving into the cool blue sea—“you don’t have enough of it in your life.”

  Her expression didn’t change. “And you see that, without ever having met me?”

  “You’re our queen,” he said. “You bear the burden of the world. One of the guards, when I first asked to see you, said he couldn’t allow me to add to your sorrow.”

  “This is a curious conversation,” the queen said. “I expected you to ask for my patronage. I am prepared to offer it, you know. Yet I don’t think that’s why you’re here. Why did my guard think you would add to my sorrow?” She’d brought him here to praise his work, he knew, perhaps commission more, which should be what any artist would dream of. But that’s not my dream, not now, he thought.

  All he wanted was a return to the life he should have had, with Mayara.

  “Because I have come to plead for my wife’s life,” Kelo said. “And he believed you wouldn’t grant me that. Your Majesty, I am an artist. A charm-maker. A craftsman. I spend my days making mobiles for newborns, to keep them safe and keep them calm and make them smile. I sew bits of shell onto dresses to make brides feel beautiful and loved. I carve runes onto ships and into houses to keep the spirits at bay and give people the hope that they’ll survive to see another dawn. I craft joy and hope, and I cannot do that if my joy and hope is gone.”

  The queen’s face was unreadable.

  The ruffle-wearing courtier looked oddly entertained.

  Ignoring the courtier, Kelo dropped down to his knees before his queen. “Bring my wife home from the Island of Testing. Let others become heirs. Her destiny is with me. We’ve known it since we were children. We make each other better. We make each other whole.”

  For a moment there was silence, and Kelo worried his audience was over. Then the queen spoke.

  “You wish me to do this because your wife is your muse? That is one I haven’t heard.” She looked even more weary than she had before, and Kelo realized he’d done exactly what the guard had feared: he’d added to her sorrow. She’s going to say no.

  He’d had so many words prepared. Fine, poetic words. He’d planned to convince her to save Mayara on behalf of true love. Before he’d hit on the idea of the shell carving, he’d planned to bring Mayara’s storm-ravaged wedding dress to sway her. He stood up, feeling his face burn. I was trying to manipulate her, he admitted to himself. But it was for Mayara. And it hadn’t worked. Yet. “Your city’s a mess,” he said bluntly.

  “Excuse me?” The queen raised both eyebrows.

  Perking up, the courtier said, “Ooh, that’s new. I like him.”

  “Mother-of-pearl makes a terrible paving stone, and you can’t cover a city that’s exposed to wind and rain in it. It’s a tradition that may have made sense at the time it began, but it can’t withstand the test of time.” When the queen didn’t stop him, he continued. “The Island of Testing is the same way. It may have worked once, but now it’s just destroying all that is good and beautiful about your people. Everyone with power lives in fear, and so do their families. But it doesn’t have to be this way. You’re the queen! You can change it!”

  The queen looked sorrowful. “It is the way it must be.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Liking him less now,” the courtier said. She looked at Kelo. “You do not tell the queen how to do her job. She’s the queen! She knows the extent and the limits of her power. You make pretty stuff and believe that grants you emotional and intellectual depth. Trust me—it doesn’t.”

  The insults hit home. I’m failing. One chance, and I’m messing it up.

  “Lady Garnah, be gentle with him,” the queen admonished. “He’s worried about his wife.” She favored him with a sympathetic smile.

  “Bah. Everyone’s worried about someone,” the ruffled courtier, Lady Garnah, said. “Your pain is no more important than anyone else’s, young man. The queen cannot change the world to appease you. And you should know better than to ask her to.”

  He bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. But if you know your people are suffering, then why don’t you fix it?”

  “Because the world is more complicated than that,” Queen Asana said, her voice tired.

  “End this audience, Your Majesty,” Lady Garnah said, rising. She patted down the ruffles of her skirt. “You don’t owe him any explanation. You’re queen. He’s not. End of story.” She turned to Kelo. “Many condolences. Much sympathy. And so forth. Please leave.”

  Crushed, Kelo began to retreat. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. It truly was not my intent to add to your sorrow.” The guard was right. I failed. And I caused my queen pain. He knew little about being queen or about the decisions she had to make every day. He didn’t understand her burdens, other than to know they were there. Still, he looked to Queen Asana, hoping against hope that she’d change her mind in the last minute . . . and knowing that he had no right to believe in that hope.

  “I mourn every death,” Queen Asana said as he neared the door. “And if it were within my power, every spirit sister would live long, beautiful lives, with their families around them. No one should ever have to be separated from a loved one.” She nodded at the carving he’d done. “I will treasure what you have made me, and hope that someday you will think better of me.”

  Lady Garnah sighed dramatically. “Just throw him out already.”

  “You are dismissed,” Queen Asana said.

  Kelo backed out of the room and shut the door. He then stood outside, in the beautiful chamber, and stared at the closed door as if it had answers.
How had that gone so very wrong? He’d won an audience with the queen. He’d prepared what to say.

  He didn’t know what he had expected—a list of reasons, maybe. Facts that he could argue with. A defense of tradition. He thought the queen would say she wouldn’t end the test.

  He never expected her to say she couldn’t.

  QUEEN ASANA PICKED UP THE CARVED SHELL. SUCH A BEAUTIFUL thing. She hadn’t expected it to come with a heap of guilt and a shovelful of sorrow. “That was a mistake.”

  “Just to clarify: do you mean inviting him or saying no?” Garnah sounded conversational, even bored, as she examined her chipped nails. Unlike most of the court, both the women and men, Lady Garnah did not have lovely, manicured nails. Hers were blackened and broken. When Asana had asked why once, Garnah had cryptically answered, My work.

  “You don’t approve?” Asana allowed an edge to creep into her voice. While she enjoyed Garnah’s honesty, occasionally she also forgot who was queen here. Asana wondered if she spoke to the queen of Aratay in the same way, and if the other queen had tolerated it.

  Or did she let her come here just to be rid of her?

  “Of inviting him or saying no?” Garnah flashed her a smile. “I thought he was a delight. So much earnest need! Really, I could listen to him orate for hours. Or at least a quarter of an hour, before it grew old and I had to silence him. I do know some species of lichen that will cause temporary damage to vocal cords. Tastes terrible, though, so it’s tricky to get your target to ingest it.”

  “Garnah.” She pinned her with her gaze. Asana had mastered her no-more-nonsense look not when she became queen but before, when she became a mother. Her daughter had had strong opinions from a very young age. I wonder if she still does. “Enough.”

  “You invited me to be your adviser. Don’t you want my advice?”

  “You seemed to agree with me when I spoke with him,” Asana said.

  Garnah rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to contradict you in front of the peasantry.”