“Thank you.” She frowns, not realising I’m speaking to Scar, ordering her execution. His hands go to her head and chin, a smooth, fast twist breaking her neck.
Scar drags her body past me and out of the tent. We’ve had some quiet while the drudhas have been spooning out the droop to the prisoners, stupefying them for a while. Many are in persistent agony as a result of our work, the price of progress on any frontier.
A cold wind enters the tent as Scar leaves. This camp is high in the Sathanti Peaks, away from the scrutiny of all but the wretched tribes that live in these heights. The drudhas make good progress for they are working with living slaves that I have provided them. The soldiers they will soon learn to make from these slaves will be more than a match for any army this world could muster. The Lord Yeismic Marghoster has been as generous in the provision of slaves as his word. It took very little to fix the deformities of his younger daughter and his gratitude has been predictably ample. I recall he wept and kissed my feet as she ran about us for the first time in her life. Who alive, after all, has met a magist such as I? Their myths make us out to be gods, understandable given their limitations. His wife, more sensibly, screamed, a horrified suspicion on her. For some time she thought it must have been a trick, some potion that would wear off. I wish I could feel as these people do, their mortality generates such heat.
As I ate and nodded where required at a feast to celebrate the miracle of her straightened bones, Marghoster shared his fears for the prospects of his oldest daughter, a potential marriage to the heir to the throne of Farlsgrad, young Prince Moryc Hildmir. As I told him how little the Hildmirs would soon matter I felt his wife next to me grow more disturbed by my proximity, shifting in her seat, sweating. Yeismic would not have approved of some of her thoughts. She suffered the memories that come unbidden while in proximity to a magist for two whole courses of our dinner before excusing herself, tears streaming from her eyes. We agreed that the joy of seeing a crippled child cured could be overwhelming to a woman’s more sensitive disposition.
Scar returns, giving a short grunt as he forces his huge frame through the flap of the tent. He stands once more, silent, eyes following me as I wipe the Ososi woman’s piss off the only chair here.
“I don’t like this place. I wish I could return home.” I don’t expect a reply but I need, sometimes, to say it out loud. I unstopper the wine flask and pour a cup. Taste is the second most interesting thing about taking the form of a human.
“I hope we’ll find those escaped Oskoro with that old woman’s tribe.” Scar remains silent, watches me drink. I see a subtle shift in his eyes, a tenth of a smirk, a mote of annoyance. We had tried to capture or kill the Oskoro that lived across the sea in Citadel Hillfast. Bigger than the Ososi, an older race, all of their kind are as dangerous as Scar, and their chief, the Master of Flowers, far moreso. With Scar’s crew we butchered all the Oskoro we could find, for they could not withstand me. They cried out for Lorom Haluim, even his master, Sillindar, one that I dared not hope would appear. Sillindar is one of the Accord’s own kind, their great enemy and the reason for my search for Haluim, who has made his home on this world. I quelled as many Oskoro as I could, my dust taking their strength so they could be tied up. But a handful of them saw their chance, aided by the Master of Flowers, drawing in and killing two of our mercenaries, wounding even Scar. The Master, a drudha and five others fled. Worse was still to come, for as we threw lime bombs into the houses that remained, one of the women came out holding a great prize in her arm, a baby girl, her skull newly cut, the skin sewn back and a seed in her skull – clearly marking her as their future leader, the next Master of Flowers. Her mother saw us, saw me and raised a knife. I raised my arms up, a supplicating gesture, waving to instruct my men to stay back. In the sudden stillness, all of us focused on the child, I felt it, like a gossamer skin on every particle of air and tree, flower and body. Sillindar. Sillindar was here not many years past, within the life span of the woman before us. Then she brought the knife down. The baby didn’t make a sound. I threw forward my arms, the dust of creation from my hands, a moment too late. The air spun savagely, my thought made material, a force to tear the knife from her fingers. But she’d stabbed herself in the gut, the force I’d applied pulling the knife up through her stomach instead of into the air. She fell to her knees gasping, letting her baby fall to the ground. Scar rushed forwards to it, kicking her back. He took the baby up in an arm while the other reached for a pouch, a salve that hissed hot on the tiny body. He hummed and shushed her as he did so. I ran to them, smoothing my dust over the hole in her chest but she was already dead. Reversing death is beyond me. I attempted it nevertheless. I always do.
The wind scuffs and kicks at the tent flap. I stand and take a fur from the desk nearby. Scar remains still. He’s elsewhere, eyes vacant.
“You’ll leave tomorrow. Tell your soldiers. I will return to Farlsgrad’s capital, Autumn’s Gate. The High Red, Yblas, has returned from the Old Kingdoms. I must be at his administrator’s side.”
BY KACEN CALLENDER
ISLANDS OF BLOOD AND STORM
Queen of the Conquered
King of the Rising
Hurricane Child
This Is Kind of an Epic Love Story
King and the Dragonflies
Felix Ever After
Praise for
QUEEN OF THE CONQUERED
“A brilliant analysis of power and privilege set against an alternately beautiful and brutal background, you will root for Sigourney even as you question both her actions and motives. Searing and painful, Kacen Callender has managed to create a book that will stick with you long after the last page.”
—Justina Ireland, New York Times bestselling author of Dread Nation
“Callender’s heart-wrenching work is a story that refuses easy answers, trope saviors, or all-is-well endings. Lofty as it seems, if you imagine Hamlet and Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None fused in a narrative that finds its soul from the pain of our cruelest histories, you’ll have captured a piece of the powerful fantasy Callender has wrought in Queen of the Conquered.”
—Evan Winter, author of The Rage of Dragons
“Told in gorgeous strokes of color and emotion, rendering even the most disturbing scenes of horror and loss with haunting insight.… It’s a fine balancing act, and the book’s absorbing setting, captivating lead, and relevant themes of race and class complement each other with alternating delicacy and savagery. At turns philosophical and feral, Queen of the Conquered represents the scope and spectacle of the fantasy genre with a vengeance.”
—NPR Books
“Kacen Callender depicts colonialism, rage, and the terrible price of power with haunting, unflinching eloquence. Queen of the Conquered is a heart-stopping masterpiece.”
—Tasha Suri, author of Empire of Sand
“A fascinating exploration of how power corrupts and drives a person toward self-betrayal.”
—Kirkus (starred review)
“Dynamic characters and rich, spellbinding action come to life in this epic story.… It’s a thrilling supernatural adventure.”
—Women’s World
“An ambitious, courageous, and unflinching novel that uncovers the rotten core of our colonial heritage and yet also celebrates the fierce resistance and heroic endurance of the most abused and exploited.”
—Kate Elliott, author of Black Wolves
“Callender’s first adult novel draws race relations, conquest, magic, and politics into an imaginative, layered story that will keep readers twisting until the end.”
—Library Journal (Pick of the Month)
“An utterly compelling look at slavery, power, and complicity. Uncomfortable, heartrending, and utterly necessary.”
—Aliette de Bodard, Nebula Award–winning author
“From the very first paragraph, Callender’s adult debut stuns. A complex and furious examination of colonialism, Queen of the Conquered is a storm of a novel
as epic as Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo. I’ve been looking for this book half my life.”
—Tochi Onyebuchi, author of Beasts Made of Night
“Callender deftly handles the subjects of rank and racism, cruelty and privilege, while also providing an exciting whodunit in the fashion of Agatha Christie’s classic And Then There Were None or the more recent Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir.”
—BookPage
“Set against a lush Caribbean-inspired backdrop, this critical and multilayered story features Sigourney Rose, whose devastating losses compel her to risk her life fighting slavery and injustice and kick some colonizer ass in the process. This is resistance reading at its most entertaining.”
—Ms.
“Intricate, powerful, and brilliant, with vivid worldbuilding, compellingly flawed characters, and a plot full of exciting action and creepy twists!”
—Melissa Caruso, author of The Tethered Mage
“Sinks its teeth in early and forces the reader to confront privilege and revenge through an electrifying voice. With an unforgettable ending, Queen of the Conquered is one of the most refreshing fantasies you’ll read this year. There is simply nothing else like it.”
—Mark Oshiro, author of Anger Is a Gift
“Gripping and emotionally compelling; a stunning novel about power, privilege, and survival in a world where you must fight even after everything has been taken from you. If you can only read one book this year, make it Queen of the Conquered.”
—K. S. Villoso, author of The Wolf of Oren-Yaro
King of the Rising Page 35