Queen of All

by Anya Josephs

  When she does speak, what she says is so staggeringly unbelievable that my ears can scarcely process what they hear. “The letter from the Prince—he was inviting me to come to the City, to the palace itself, on Midwinter’s Day. The King hosts a ball then, apparently, and I’ve been asked to join him. As the Prince’s personal guest.”

  “But why?” I ask, which is possibly a stupid question. “I mean, why you?”

  “It was in the letter,” she says, her voice quiet. Then she begins to recite. Clearly, from the flat, bitter tone in her voice, she’s reading back the words on the letter. She must have turned it over and over in her mind so many times that she has every word memorized. “To Lady Sisi of Eastsea, Four Hundred and Fifty-Third in the Kingdom, from His Most Royal Highness, Lord Ricard, Second in the Kingdom, greetings. Rumors of your beauty having reached even the capital City, I write to invite you hither. My brother, the King of all the Earth, hosts a great ball on Midwinter’s Day, and I hope you will do me the honor of being my guest. Kindly send word of your decision by dint of one of my servants, who await your reply. Monies will be sent for your travels.”

  “Wow.” I blink at her. “That’s a lot.”

  “You say that like I don’t know it already.”

  “But…” I have a thousand questions, and I know she won’t suffer them all. I have to choose my words carefully. “How did he even find out you were here? I mean, rumors of your beauty…How do rumors of your beauty, or anything else for that matter, get all the way from our little town in the middle of nowhere to the City? To the palace? And the Prince?”

  She sighs. “I don’t know. I always thought no one knew, or cared, that Jorj and I were out here. But after what happened to our parents…”

  As far as I know, her parents were killed in the pox that swept the country that year—nothing that the King’s own brother would take note of. And it’s not like they were particularly important, though they were Numbered and therefore technically in the line of descent to the throne. Only technically, though—Sisi’s Number, which she’s just recited and I have, of course, promptly forgotten, is somewhere in the Four Hundreds. Jorj’s is lower, and therefore nearer the throne, because he was technically the heir to their House when their parents passed away, making him, in pure theory, the Lord of Eastsea.

  The thought is positively baffling, as the last time I saw the Lord of Eastsea he was scratching his rump at the breakfast table since we’ve got a nasty case of fleas going around. Sisi and Jorj are just like the rest of us now, part of the life of the farm, and that’s how they want it. It shouldn’t matter how they were born, and I really thought it didn’t. They’re our family now, just ordinary people, for all their high birth and all Sisi’s beauty.

  “I always thought we’d gotten away from that. Jorj certainly told me often enough how lucky I was, that I was going to grow up with none of the pressure, none of the danger that was our birthright as those Numbered so close to the throne…but it seems like that wasn’t true. Even though my family was never in the first Hundred nor likely to inherit, we’re still not safe. Even here, far from the palace, they want something from us. Or worse, from me.”

  “Why would that be worse?” I feel foolish for having to ask so many questions, but, on the other hand, Sisi seems to be almost deliberately avoiding telling me what is actually going on.

  “Because Jorj has the name, he’s the heir to the title, he’s the one in line for the throne. There’s only one thing I have that he doesn’t.”

  “And that is?”

  She only shakes her head in response to that. Clearly, then, I’ve asked the wrong thing, although I still don’t understand why. I don’t dare any more questions. We fall back into silence as we walk together to the stream, where we scrub the dirty rags against the rocks using a hard cake of soap. I keep my eyes on my work, watching my hands redden as the lye foams around them. We return home without any more conversation. As we once again pass the ruins of Kariana’s house, I can’t avoid seeing how Sisi’s eyes linger among the ashes for a long time. I wonder what she’s thinking—what she, the bravest person I know, could possibly be so afraid of.

  Chapter Three

  On the day Sisi changes her mind, we receive two visitors. The first comes to see my father in the middle of the day. The second enters our bedroom in the dead of night.

  Because I’m high up in the apple trees working, I’m the first to spot the town’s innkeeper, Zenel, as he hurries up the narrow path to our house. Zenel is a stout man, usually cheerful, but today his quick pace and hunched shoulders make him seem a stranger to me. I call down to Uncle Willem, letting him know we have a visitor, and he and my father stride toward the house.

  As I start to climb after them, though, my father orders, “Stay here. Work needs to get done.”

  Of course I’m stuck here while they go off to swap secrets. Work needs to get done—more like Jeni doesn’t get to know anything interesting. As usual.

  The three men are gone for over an hour. I keep careful watch, hoping to be able to piece some of the truth together from what I can see from my high vantage point. I spot Zenel first, storming away from the house, his round face red with rage. My father and Uncle Willem return to their work perhaps twenty minutes later, their heads bent close together in counsel. They fall completely silent as soon as they’re within my view, so I can’t even try to eavesdrop.

  My best shot at getting the full story is from the most reliable source of gossip around, so I volunteer to help Aunt Mae get dinner ready. The rest of the family sits around the table, relaxing after a long day’s work, while Aunt Mae and I are alone in the kitchen. It’s the perfect opportunity to get some answers.

  “What did Zenel have to say?” I ask, trying to sound casual, like I’m just making conversation.

  “He wanted to talk to your father. Stir those beans faster, or they’ll stick to the pot, and I’m not going to be the one to scrub ‘em out.”

  I do as I’m told, though my arm is growing sore from the task after a long day of pruning the trees. Sisi and my aunts, who don’t work in the orchards, usually take care of the cooking while we rest. Today, though, I’m willing to trade my evening respite for a little news.

  “Just about some troubles they’ve been having down at the inn, is all.” Aunt Mae says, not meeting my eyes.

  “Why would he need to talk to Papa about something going on at the inn?”

  “He thought your father might be able to convince the—er, the customers that are giving him trouble to go on their ways.”

  I dare to push a little further. “And Papa can’t? Or didn’t want to?”

  “Stop asking foolish questions and start serving up that stew.”

  No luck with Aunt Mae, then. Disappointed, I do as I’m told. We eat quickly and silently, as we usually do after a workday, and afterward Sisi and I head out the door and up the ladder to our loft.

  “Do you know anything about this Zenel business?” I ask as I close the shutters behind us, without much hope that she’ll either have the answer or care to share it if she does.

  “Hmm? Oh, aye.”

  I decide my wisest course is just to wait, hoping she’ll explain on her own. Lately, it seems like I can’t talk to Sisi at all without annoying her, and pushing gets me nowhere. My ploy works, though, as she continues.

  “I was in the garden when he came. There was lots of shouting, so I heard most of what passed between him and Uncle Prinn. It’s the soldiers.”

  “What?”

  “The Golden Soldiers. You know, Lord Ricard’s men?”

  “I know who the Golden Soldiers are, Sisi, I’m not stupid.” Everyone knows them, with their neatly choreographed marches, their beautiful shining uniforms. They’re the first standing army the Kingdom has had in living memory—King Balion’s rule stretches across all Four Corners of the Earth, so what would he need an army for? There’s no one to fight.

  But Lord Ricard insisted a threat could arise. He trai
ned, maintains, and pays the troops out of his own pocket. Uncle Willem says he’s a genius, keeping the people safe from the go’im, especially the powerful ruak of the adirim, and the threats they might pose if ever they return. On the other hand, Aunt Mae, like many of the other women in town, spits on the ground whenever the army is mentioned.

  “What in Gaia’s name do the Golden Soldiers want with old Zenel?” I ask.

  “Well, they were sent to bring me that letter. The invitation to the ball that we saw them reading that night we snuck out. You remember.”

  “Yes, I remember all thirty seconds of conversation we had about that letter quite clearly.” I regret my sarcasm right away, afraid it might drive her back to silence, but fortunately Sisi has more to say.

  “Apparently they didn’t leave.”

  “What?” I’m bewildered.

  “They’ve been staying at Zenel’s since they brought the letter here.”

  “The soldiers?”

  “Aye. All four and twenty of them.”

  “But it’s been two weeks!” I exclaim.

  “So it has. And—well, you’re probably wondering what all that screaming was about? Well, because they’re royal servants, they technically don’t need to pay for their rooms. Apparently, they’re eating Zenel out of house and home while they ‘wait on their answer,’ and there’s nowhere for him to put his paying customers, since he can’t even tell them to leave.”

  “But you gave them your answer already. Didn’t you?”

  “Not one they like.”

  I frown. “I still don’t understand what Zenel wanted from Papa. Does he think Papa can make the soldiers leave?”

  “No.” A shadow passes over Sisi’s face. “No, he wanted Uncle Prinn to make me change my answer. So that the soldiers will go away.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Apparently I ought to be made to think about others and not myself. As if that isn’t what I’m expected to do every day of my life!” She seems to realize that she’s nearly shouting and, catching herself, continues in a whisper, neither of us wanting to attract too much attention to ourselves. “I wouldn’t do it when the family asked, and I’m certainly not going to go just because the town’s innkeeper wants me to. But this…it makes me furious. No one cares what I want. I’m only a girl. I’m expected to think of everyone else in the family before myself. And I don’t know if I can …” She trails off into silence at that.

  “Sisi?”

  “Forget it. It doesn’t matter—your father promised, and we both know Uncle Prinn would never break his word. He isn’t going to make me go, so it’s not worth getting upset over.”

  Well, there is a sentiment I never thought I would hear my cousin express on any subject.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she says, and I’m not sure if she’s talking to herself or to me. It doesn’t seem like a statement that invites a response either way, so I say nothing, letting her brood while I change out of my day dress and into my nightgown. I resolve to ask her about it tomorrow, when she’s had a little time to calm down. That’s usually the way to handle Sisi’s moods.

  We climb into bed together, and I tuck the quilt up over both of us. Sisi reaches over, squeezes my hand gently, and then goes to blow out our candle.

  Just as the flame begins to waver, there’s a knock on the wall by the casement. I assume it’s our most frequent visitor, Jorj, who once in a while comes to tuck Sisi into bed like she’s still a baby, or perhaps Aunt Mae coming to remind us of some forgotten chore that must be done before we can sleep.

  “Come in,” Sisi calls, and a face appears in the dim light of our room, rising up the ladder. But it isn’t Jorj or Aunt Mae—it’s Merri.

  As she climbs up into the room, she looks like something out of one of my aunt’s old stories, a haunted dibuk from a myth. Her cheeks are pale, as though she’s exhausted from the effort of climbing even that brief distance. Her cheeks are sunken and her pregnant stomach casts a shadow on the floor in front of her, distorting her appearance even more.

  Sisi reacts at once, almost leaping out of the bed to offer Merri a seat there, but Merri shakes her head. Her long brown hair hangs over her face, obscuring her features.

  “I won’t bother you for more than a moment or two, Sisi. I know it’s late, and you both have to rise early and work hard in the morning.”

  “You’re never a bother,” Sisi replies, smiling warmly at her sister-in-law.

  “Well. I’ve come to ask you something I fear may change your mind.”

  “I’m sure it can’t be so terrible.”

  “It is. I hope…I hope even if you can’t agree, that you’ll forgive me for asking. Sisi, I’ve come to ask you to reconsider your answer to the Prince.”

  I turn toward Sisi, waiting for her response. If I didn’t know her so well, I might think she had none, for she steadies her expression carefully to prevent Merri from noticing. It’s nothing like the shouting rage from earlier, but for a split second I see her eyes flash with an anger so bright and cold that it almost frightens me to see her capable of it. When she speaks, though, her voice is perfectly calm. “May I ask why?”

  “Of course. I would never just—I know how you feel, believe me, maybe more than anyone else I understand. I had to leave my home too, to go work for your mother and father. It could have been a lot worse for me, I know, and I know how hard it is. I just…there’s no other choice. There’s no other way. I’d never ask, if it weren’t for—” And her voice breaks. “For the baby.”

  “I don’t follow,” Sisi says, and there’s a flat note to her voice that makes me flinch.

  “We’re barely making do as it is,” Merri continues. “And I’m about to bring a little tiny person into this life, someone entirely helpless, who will need to be nurtured with the utmost care for years to come, and I don’t know if there will be enough to keep the farm going till the baby’s grown. If things continue the way they have been, then…”

  “It’s going to be all right,” Sisi soothes. “I know you’re nervous about the little one. Of course you are. But we’ve always made ends meet before—”

  “But not now!” Her voice is raspy and intense, and in the dim light there’s something almost frightening about it, almost supernatural about sweet, quiet Merri whom I’ve known all my life. “We have to face it sooner or later, even if Uncle Prinn doesn’t want to. The fact is, the farm is failing. We’re going hungry already. And I’m about to bring a child into this house, into this family, into this life, when I know that what we have isn’t enough.”

  “We have the house. We have a farm. We have a family. What more could any child need?” Sisi asks, the slightest waver in her voice.

  “I want Jorj’s son to have the best life he can. I want him to be raised like…like one of the Numbered. The way his father was, the way you should have been.”

  “You don’t need that to be happy. If Jorj has taught me anything, he’s taught me this—we were lucky to escape that life. There are things more important than silken sheets and Midwinter balls. Like family, and caring for others above yourself, and being able to choose,” Sisi says, but there’s something hollow in her voice.

  “Yes, and yet there are some luxuries you cannot be happy without. You cannot be happy if you don’t have enough food to eat, if you don’t have a bed to sleep in, if you don’t have a roof over your head in winter. If I need to go back into service, wear out my hands and my back washing dishes in some Numbered lord’s scullery until I’m bent and gray so that I can send a few zuzim home, if Jorj ends up one of His Royal Highness’ Golden Soldiers because we need a little of that gold, then what kind of life am I offering this child, who never asked for any of this?”

  There is a long pause while Sisi considers. Finally, sounding small, she asks, “You really think all of that is going to happen?”

  “I think it could. And it is not a risk I am willing to take with my child’s life, when there is any hope. When there i
s any other way.”

  “You think I’m being selfish,” Sisi says quietly. “To refuse, when it could do so much for us. Not just the Ball. There could be much more where that letter came from, and we’ll never see a bit of it unless I do as I’m told by the Second in the Kingdom.”

  “No. I had hoped you wouldn’t think—that you wouldn’t feel I’m judging you. You have a right to be afraid, or resentful, or whatever it is that you feel. I understand what it is like, to be young and a woman and to fear, to know that you are at the turning point and think it can all be taken away from you. That at any moment you’ll be pushed into the arms of some man and it’ll matter to no one at all whether you like it or not. I would never think less of you for not making that sacrifice.”

  Merri pushes on. “I know what I’m asking for, Sisi, sister, I do know. But still, still, I am asking. Please. Tell Uncle Prinn you’ve changed your mind. You’d like to go, you’d be willing to try, you want him to take the money and you want to know what Lord Ricard wants. Say it’s your curiosity. Say you just want to see the City. Say you’re a young girl, and your head is turned at the prospect of a royal ball. Say you have a plan to murder His Royal Highness in his bed. Say what you have to, do what you have to, Sisi, just…go, please go.”

  Sisi can’t meet her eyes. She looks down at the floor, at the wall, even briefly at me, but she doesn’t look at Merri. “I’ll think about it,” she says.

  Merri looks as though she wants to thank her, fall to her knees and kiss her hand, but she knows my cousin well enough to understand just how unwelcome that would be. Instead, she nods once and says, “Thank you,” then goes without another word, disappearing as suddenly as she came.

  In the moments that follow, I expect Sisi to fall silent and cold again, the way she did when we first learned of the letter. Instead of pushing me away again, though, she picks up the candle from the bedside table and sits upright next to me, holding the light between us. Her face is barely illuminated as she says quietly, “Do you think I’m a good person?”