He organized three dozen staff members to search the palace and outbuildings from top to bottom. They brought in captives who had been hiding in the far reaches of the building such as the pantries, the storerooms, the root cellar, and the attics. So Tilim and Hiccuth stationed themselves at the stables, gathering weapons, searching each prisoner, making sure each stall had water and straw, while Vilkit set up a cask as a temporary desk and neatly wrote down their names and catalogued any injuries.
“Vilkit, this is horseshit! Tell these cads and curs to release me!” hollered a muscular man wearing the jacket of a palace guard, embroidered with much braid, but no trousers.
“Captain Murgn, how nice that you are alive when so many of your men are dead,” replied Vilkit.
Another man had the physique and pallor of a person who worked indoors, not a military man.
“Hostler! You know me!” he protested.
“Indeed, Councilor Prigent,” answered Hiccuth. “I’ve curried your white-stocking mare a thousand times. You’ve never thanked me and never learned my name.”
“Let me loose, man. Fetch me my mare. I’ll reward you well! You know I’m good for it.”
“Aye,” said Hiccuth. “I know you’ve siphoned off a fortune from the royal treasury. In you go, now.”
“Vilkit!” The man appealed to the chamberlain. “At least find Vanilina. When I last saw her, she was fleeing the dogs. I don’t know what happened to her. For the love of Water, man!”
Vilkit regarded Councilor Prigent dispassionately. “If we find her, I’ll let you know.”
More prisoners arrived—some sullen, others weeping, quite a few injured with dog bites or sword cuts. Vilkit’s crew of servants returned to do another sweep of the building.
Vanilina eventually turned up in the grip of two footmen; she had been hiding in her maid’s quarters under the bed. She wore only her nightshift, but still she dripped with jewels. She screamed as if they tortured her when Hiccuth and Tilim relieved her of her seven rings, five bracelets, and two necklaces.
Regarding her intently, the chamberlain said, “Vanilina, I’d hate to order these men to strip you. Give up the rest.”
“I gave you everything, you impudent wretch!”
“Van-i-lin-a,” said Vilkit, in a warning tone.
Leaning on Vilkit’s cask, Vanilina slid off her shoes, each of which was so crammed with jewels Tilim wondered how she’d gotten her feet inside.
“That’s not all,” said Vilkit. “Where is that ruby ring you show off so often?”
It was hidden in her trussed-up hair, as was a ring of sapphires.
“That’s all, I swear,” she said. Vilkit didn’t completely believe her, but he turned her over for locking up.
Hiccuth fashioned bolts for each stall, but they didn’t have to worry much about escape, because the palace dogs had taken it upon themselves to patrol the aisles and watch the stable’s doorways.
Tilim walked down the corridors regarding his prisoners (many of whom had been rude to his family during the wedding week) with no little satisfaction.
Several of the stable’s new residents began coughing, and Tilim realized his own throat felt dry and scratchy. He looked up and realized that the fire had burst out into wicked flames, with smoke darkening the bright morning overhead.
7
Cerúlia allowed herself to relax as Ciellō, guided and escorted by shields, carried her to the Queen’s Bedchamber and laid her on her uninjured side as if she herself were a piece of precious glass. Nana and Stahlia miraculously appeared close behind them. Everyone’s face looked grim.
“Perhaps mine will be the shortest reign ever,” Cerúlia joked with gallows humor. The arrow hurt a great deal, but she had no intention of dying.
“Hold still, damselle,” Ciellō said. Using his sharp dagger, he cut off the arrow’s head where it protruded through the back of her arm. Whaki leapt up on the bed from the other side and began licking her ear, which was annoying, distracting, and very sweet. Stahlia crouched on the floor beside her face, trying to shoo the big dog away.
“Prepare yourself,” Ciellō warned.
Cerúlia reached for Stahlia’s hand.
“One, two, three.” He yanked the shaft of the arrow out. Cerúlia screamed at the pain but managed not to pass out. Nana had grabbed a cloth to stanch the bleeding.
“Now I need the things to sew,” Ciellō said to the women.
“Oh, no! If there’s going to be any sewing, I’m the one who’ll do it,” said Stahlia. “You, whoever you are!—and you, guards! Get out of here! Go outside and watch the door or do something useful. Nana and I have her under our care now. Go! Get! Shoo!”
Such was Stahlia’s forcefulness that even Ciellō backed down. As the crowd of men left the room, Cerúlia called after them, “See to the fire! Ciellō! The fire!”
“Hush now. Let me get a good look at your injury, Birdie,” said Stahlia, sitting on the bed and peering closely at the jagged arrow wounds, front and back. Nana already had water and soap at hand.
“Shouldn’t we send for a healer?” Stahlia whispered to Nana, talking over Cerúlia as if she couldn’t hear and didn’t matter.
“No. You just need something to disinfect it,” the patient managed to insert through clenched teeth.
“I’ve got a nip of brandy in my room,” said Nana. When she returned with the flask, Stahlia hesitated.
“Go ahead,” Cerúlia encouraged, although when the alcohol hit the torn flesh, she screamed lustily. Whaki whined in sympathy.
After too many long moments the burning sensation lessened. “Well!” Cerúlia pulled in a lungful of air. “I think that’s the worst. Sorry if I scared you. Now, you can stitch it up.”
Stahlia threaded her needle, but hesitated before commencing.
“Go ahead, Teta; I’m sure you are the best person with a needle in the palace,” Cerúlia encouraged her. “And I can handle it. I’ve learned a lot about pain.”
“Where did you learn about pain?” murmured Stahlia, talking to distract herself as she planted the first neat stitch and pulled the ripped skin closed.
Cerúlia had seen several Raiders get stitches; now she didn’t understand how they had kept from screaming and cursing. “Lots of places,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut and biting her lips. “Leaving Wyndton for one. Matwyck’s men had chased me down. Wilim warned me. That’s why I left.”
“Hmm,” said Stahlia. “We’ll talk about this another time. Hold still. Stop breathing. Your chest keeps moving.”
“Kind of hard not to breathe,” muttered Cerúlia. “And you were the one who wanted to know everything.”
“Hold still, I said!” admonished Stahlia, biting her tongue in concentration.
Through the intense discomfort, Cerúlia realized that if Stahlia was sewing her wound and chastising her, her foster mother had not disowned her even though now she knew the reason behind Wilim’s suicide.
Nana’s voice floated into Cerúlia’s dizzy consciousness. “You’ve got her, missus? Looks like the fire is getting worse. I’ve gotta go and see if I can help.” As she was almost out the door she threw over her shoulder, “I’ll send up some victuals. You’ll both need fortifying, I’d wager.”
Cerúlia took shallow little pants while the stitching proceeded. She grabbed Whaki’s ruff for comfort.
In idle moments on Misty Traveler she had predicted that when she became queen she would feel transformed—grander, nobler, wiser—but she still felt disappointingly just like herself, only a version of herself jabbed in the arm. She tried to relive the moments when Whitsury anointed her and when she pulled out her very own token of Nargis Ice. She reached her free hand up to make sure she still had the necklace. The events of the morning had happened so fast that she’d hardly had time to absorb them.
“There!” said Stahlia, tying off and snipping the thread from the more jagged exit wound. “It’s still bleeding, though.”
“Yes, it will, for a few days.
Let me see.” Cerúlia scooted to the side of the bed. “Help me up?”
Stahlia put her arm under her shoulder. Cerúlia led the way to the large looking glass, but the shreds of her white shirt obstructed her view.
“Get this off of me?” she asked Stahlia.
“I need to cut it,” she answered. “No loss. ’Tis ruined anyway.”
“Here. Use my dagger,” offered Cerúlia.
Stahlia pulled the dagger from its sheath. “Oh, the Waters! Look at this!” She marveled at the golden catamount heads. Then she cut the fabric from the neck down the shoulders so it fell away without Cerúlia needing to move her arms or torso.
Turning sideways and stretching to look over her shoulder, Cerúlia examined the wounds on both sides of her arm in the mirror. “Nice job, Teta,” she said. “Cerf would be pleased.” But in the glass she saw that Stahlia was not listening; her foster mother was distracted by the burn scars on her back.
“We’ll talk about that some other time,” Cerúlia announced firmly. “Right now you want to put a soft bandage on the stitches and find a cloth to wrap around my arm so it will stay.”
Cerúlia sat down on a chair while Stahlia finished dressing the wound with fabric she tore from linens she found in the wardrobe.
From the lower floor of the palace the new queen heard screams, the sound of running feet, and growls. The smell of smoke also grew more pungent. Cerúlia yearned to be in the midst of the action, but she accepted that right now her shaky presence would only hamper others’ efforts. She had to trust that the dogs and her supporters could deal with the remnants of Matwyck’s forces and this unforeseen fire.
“Now,” said Cerúlia. “Yonder is my moth—Queen Cressa’s wardrobe. You’ve never fancied how I dressed. Find a gown for me to wear, the more regal the better.”
Cerúlia sat, holding her throbbing arm, while Stahlia pulled out various possibilities. They decided on a loose, dark blue velvet sleeveless shift (which wouldn’t bind her wound), and its matching robe with a trim of soft white feathers.
After Stahlia helped her dress, her foster mother turned to her hair, grabbing the loose locks from each side of Cerúlia’s face, twisting them, braiding them together in the back, and tying off the braid.
Cerúlia stood and gazed at herself in the looking glass. The gown fell too short; everyone’s eyes would immediately be drawn to the scuffed leather boots she still wore. But then she looked up from this defect.
Who is this woman in velvet, with cascading blue hair and a shimmering necklace of Nargis Ice?
I’ve played other roles so long: now I must play Queen. Or finally … is this not a role, but the real me?
A knock on the door woke her from her self-contemplation.
Cerúlia glanced at Whaki, who looked alert, but whose ruff lay smooth. She nodded at Stahlia, who called, “Enter.”
A blue-caped shield held the door for a servant carrying a heavy tray.
“Who are you?” Cerúlia asked.
As the servant carefully set the tray down, the guard made a formal bow. “Your Majesty, I am Yanath of Riverine. I was a member of Queen Cressa’s Shield. It is my honor to lead your Shield until such time as you choose your own captain.”
“No. I don’t want a new captain—you and your men performed admirably today. But I am afraid I don’t remember you from my childhood. Whom do I recall?…” She rummaged in the storehouse of long-ago memories. “There was a sergeant who protected us that night—a Sergeant Bristle. And I was quite taken with Shields Pontole and Seena.”
Captain Yanath gave a dim smile at the familiar names. “Your Majesty, most of those are no longer with us. From Queen Cressa’s original troop, myself, Branwise, and Pontole are all who remain. Shield Pontole was injured in the Throne Room just now.”
“Would you find out how he is doing? And after I have eaten, I wish to talk to you more.”
She turned to the servant, whom she didn’t recognize. The servant sank into a low curtsey. “Your Majesty, Nana asked me to bring you this tray.”
“Good. You’ve brought enough for an army; I can feed my guards too. You are?”
“If it please you, I am one of the under-cooks. My name is Kiltti.”
“Kiltti, I need you to find me a bottle of willow bark syrup and either oil of thyme or oil of tarragon to ward off miasmas in my wound. Those would be in the healers’ cabinets. Can you do that?”
The under-cook nodded, smiled, and curtsied again. “Welcome home, Your Majesty. Most of us is overjoyed to see you. Anything we can do.”
“Thank you,” said Cerúlia, but neither Yanath nor Kiltti left the room.
The captain cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but it is customary to say, ‘You are dismissed,’ when our presence is no longer required.”
“Ah! Yanath and Kiltti, you will be my private tutors in royal protocol. For now, though, you are dismissed.”
They departed. Stahlia made her sit, poured her tisane, and bade her eat. Cerúlia had lost her appetite in worry over what was happening throughout the building, but she forced herself to eat a few pieces of cold meat and fruit. Whaki sat on the floor beside her, resting his head on her knee, gazing up at her face with sighs of adoration.
Thou shouldst not have sent this dog away for these days, Your Majesty, he sent. Thou canst get hurt without one to look after thee.
I feel much safer having you by my side now, Cerúlia told her dog.
Wiping her mouth with a napkin, she glanced at Stahlia and straightened her shoulders. “Well. Here we are. I’ve claimed the throne, but this turns out not to be the end of struggle, just the beginning.
“Are you all right, Teta?” she asked. “You’ve just been through your first battle.”
“And sewn up my first arrow wound and had my world turned upside down,” said Stahlia. “But never you fret over any of that. I’m of sturdy stock.”
And to Cerúlia she looked sturdy; her capable hands were as steady as ever around her cup.
“Then drink up your tisane, Teta; we’ve got to get to work.”
8
After Nana had delivered the message about a tray for the new queen, she followed the smell of burning, running outside the Kitchen Door, glancing about.
The darkest smoke wafted from the Administration Wing; the heart of the fire lay near the offices of the royal treasury.
Scores of men and women were already engaged in fighting the blaze. People filled buckets in Pearl Pond and passed them from hand to hand, and men swung axes to clear the burning debris. As Nana moved closer, the crackling noise grew louder and the heat became fierce. While she watched, the stranger with the braids ran into the accounting chamber, tearing down curtains to prevent the fire from spreading upward.
Yet for all the firefighters’ efforts, the conflagration appeared to be winning out. Nana spotted sections of the floor above burning, with sparks reaching toward the roof—if the roof caught ablaze, nowhere in the palace would be safe.
With her senses enhanced by her status as Agent, she heard Pozhar’s growl in the fire’s noise. So, Water Bearer, you think you have the Weir Witch back? What a price you will pay!
“Gunnit,” Nana shrieked. “Gunnit! I need yer help!”
He didn’t hear her; he had just run inside to throw a bucket of water on a burning wall. Calling and waving frantically to get his attention, Nana dashed closer to him.
“There’s a force behind this Fire, boy. We can’t fight it by earthly means. Help me, lad.”
She led the way back through the commotion to the Dedication Fountain in the Throne Room. Gunnit had to support her; she was taxed from everything that had already happened this day.
She cast around for a container to catch Nargis Water. Healers kneeling on the floor tended to the myriad of wounded. On her direction, Gunnit tore a bowl right out of a healer’s hand, dumping out its contents of soapy water and wiping it with his shirt.
“Is this too small, Water Bearer?”
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br /> “’Tis not the size that matters, lad. Fill it from the Fountain. But we need something else; we need seawater too.”
“No time to get to the harbor,” said Gunnit.
“Right, right.” Nana chewed her own fingers. “The harbor’s too far, so rush to the kitchen, get a bucket of water, and pour in a handful of salt. I’ll wait here.”
Nana waited, oblivious to the moans around her, trying to still her heart so she could hear the voice of the Dedication Fountain.
Three Spirits. To conquer any One, you must have Three.
She had Nargis Water and a bucket that mimicked Lautan’s Seawater. Nana couldn’t think of anything Vertia or Saulė could do against Fire. Restaurà couldn’t heal a Fire or put it to sleep. Ghibli could blow it out, but why would Ghibli help them? Her mind skittered. ‘Chamen—earth, stone, rock, marble. You could smother a fire with sand, but how could she quickly lay her hands on a bucket of sand? Did any of the palace tradesmen use sand?
Gunnit came back, his arm stretched by a heavy bucket. Together they made their way through the corridors once again, slowly, guarding their precious containers. Now this wing was empty because everyone had fled from the heat and smoke that rose around them.
They exited through the Administration Door. Even more volunteers had joined the firefighters; despite their efforts the blaze had grown in strength and fury. The first-floor ceiling of this wing collapsed. The Fire crackled louder in triumph.
“Make way! Make way!” shouted Gunnit.
He got as close as he could to the flames and dashed in his bucket of salt water.
Lautan! Help us! Nana pleaded.
She then walked close with her bowl of Nargis Water, passing the magenta-haired stranger, whose clothes and face were covered in soot. He was doubled over at the waist, coughing. Moved by she knew not what, Nana offered him a sip of fresh water from the bowl. He drank sparingly for a moment; his breathing eased.
Nana trod as close to the Fire as she dared and splashed in her bowl of Nargis Water.
Nargis! Yer palace! The palace of yer queens! Don’t let Pozhar burn it down!
The Cerulean Queen Page 4
