The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  The Fire drew back; it paused as if regrouping.

  The sooty stranger had also given up on fighting the burning rooms by physical efforts. He knelt before the flames deep in prayer. Nana wondered which Spirit he venerated.

  The stranger opened his cupped hands and blew on the air between them.

  All of a sudden, a mighty gust of wind blew down upon them. One by one each burning plank, furnishing, roof tile, and ember shuddered … and winked out.

  Ghibli, the Spirit of the Wind, has come to our aid. Why? Because of the stranger’s prayer? Due to pure caprice?

  Mysterious are the ways of the Spirits.

  Exhausted, Water Bearer fell to her knees next to the stranger who worshipped the Wind and joined him in giving thanks.

  9

  Later that afternoon Cerúlia gathered all of her closest allies in the room called the Nymph Salon, a spacious chamber with an elaborate ceiling painting of water nymphs holding hands as they danced above a long conference table.

  The new queen gingerly seated herself in a plush chair at the head and looked around at the people arrayed on either side of her. For family, she had Stahlia and Tilim. For trusted retainers, Nana, Hiccuth, and Brother Whitsury. For allies from her travels she had Gunnit and Ciellō. Captain Yanath and Seamaster Wilamara represented the Queen’s Shield; the eighteen others who hadn’t been injured or killed currently patrolled the Royal Wing. And Whaki, lying with his head on her foot to keep in physical contact with her, represented her Talent.

  She started the meeting by going around the table with identifications and explanations, because at the present moment she needed the secret histories to be shared and the separate compartments of her life to be thrown open.

  Stahlia and Tilim explained that Cerúlia had grown up with them, but had disappeared from Wyndton almost three years ago. Brother Whitsury and Nana spoke of their gathering together the New Queen’s Shield. Cerúlia was delighted to learn that Seamaster Wilamara, a trim woman considerably taller than herself, with leathery skin that peeled back from a raw, red nose, had known her parents from their days fighting the Pellish pirates. Gunnit offered Tilim back the metal soldier that he carried as a keepsake, though Tilim, bemused, politely refused his forgotten childhood toy. Nana merely raised her eyebrows at learning that the magenta-haired man was actually a Zellish bodyguard Cerúlia had hired during her stay in Salubriton. And if Ciellō was surprised to discover that “Damselle Phénix” was in reality the missing queen of Weirandale, infuriatingly he gave no indication whatsoever.

  Whaki got up and wandered beneath the table, sniffing each person so that he would know their scent forever. Hiccuth and the boys were the most eager to get acquainted, but the dog wouldn’t let Nana alone until she petted him, with many fake grumbles about how she never liked dogs.

  Good pack, Whaki told Cerúlia, brave, loyal.

  Cerúlia transitioned the meeting from introductions to current crises. “Does Matwyck still live?” she asked.

  “The healers are with him now,” Captain Yanath answered.

  “How many prisoners did the dogs capture?”

  “About fifty,” Tilim said. “Chamberlain Vilkit has the complete list.”

  “How many people have been kilt today?”

  “About thirty in the Throne Room,” Captain Yanath said. “And the dogs took down several more. Maybe half a dozen.”

  “So many? So many people were so enmeshed in Matwyck’s regime that they fought to the death or had to be captured by the dogs?” Cerúlia cursed herself for her lack of foresight; she should have expected that Matwyck would never have stayed in power this long without supporters who would fight to keep their wealth and status.

  Aloud, she said, “I need to know the dead’s names and stations. Nana, will you work with the New Shield to get me a complete list?”

  “If it please Your Majesty. But as to who’s who, Chamberlain Vilkit would know better than me, since he knows both the visiting gentry and the regular folk.”

  “That’s the second time Vilkit has come up. Should we ask him to join us?”

  “I dunno if’n we can trust him, Your Majesty,” Hiccuth said. “Matwyck had a spiked bit in his mouth.” The stableman mimed a horse’s bit by sticking his own thick finger between his wide-open jaws.

  “Hmm. Send for him and we’ll find out.”

  Nana rose to speak to a guard stationed outside the door.

  “If it please Your Majesty, there are other knowledgeable people I’m certain we can trust,” said Brother Whitsury, “such as Sewel, the royal chronicler.”

  “Send for him too.” Cerúlia looked around the table. “How do our injured fare?”

  “Four of my Shield are with the healers now,” Yanath said.

  “Who is the palace’s head healer?”

  Nana replied, “A man named Finzle—and yes, I’ll send for him.”

  “Tell me about the fire,” Cerúlia asked, shifting a bit in the chair, trying to rest her arm comfortably since she had refused to wear a sling. She elicited from several sources theories about who might have started the fire and why, learned that it had been deliberately set, and that it had started in the accounting chamber. Exactly how it had been quenched was more of a mystery.

  “How many rooms were destroyed or damaged?” When no one immediately answered, Cerúlia sighed and said, “I’ll ask Vilkit.”

  Sewel, however, arrived at the Nymph Salon first, covered in soot stains and nursing burns on his forearms and ear.

  “Chronicler, you are welcome to our conclave,” Cerúlia said, inwardly wincing at the sight of his burns. She could well imagine how much they would hurt, blister, and scar.

  “Your Majesty, might I—might I approach?”

  When she nodded assent, he came up to her chair and bowed to the ground.

  “Your Majesty, you must recall I failed you when you were young. Every moment under the Usurper, I have prayed for your safe return. This is the day I have pinned all my hopes on.”

  “Please rise, Chronicler Sewel, and take a seat at our table. You have a wealth of information about royal customs that may help our deliberations. With your experience, what do you think my first steps should include?”

  Seating himself near the end of the table and mastering his emotions, the chronicler offered, “Your Majesty, might I suggest that you quickly form a Circle Council of respected leaders to support you?”

  “Councilors betrayed my mother,” said the new queen, looking down and toying with the feather fringe on her robe. What she didn’t say aloud was that having finally achieved her position, she was loath to have anybody boss her around.

  “Yes, because she left the selection of them to Lord Matwyck. You must choose for yourself and choose more wisely. If well-known and respected leaders or gentry would rally to your side, their standing in the realm would solidify yours. And their advice would be valuable. No one can rule alone.”

  Stahlia spoke up. “I can think of two such leaders right now: Duke Naven and Lordling Marcot.”

  “Yes, I’d say those are an excellent beginning,” Sewel said, nodding. “Of course, we’ll also need to hold an election for a new steward.”

  “Ma’am,” Hiccuth broke in, “excuse me. Why is the steward only elected by the big landowners? Why can’t the people vote for someone to sit on your right side?”

  The queen considered. “One of the ways that Weirandale went awry is that the gentry, with the steward egging them on, accrued too much power. I will need to balance the interests of all the people, so I think that’s an excellent idea, Hiccuth.

  “Sewel, how do I make that happen?”

  “You issue a proclamation, Your Majesty.”

  “Really? As simple as that? I wonder why no queen has done it before.”

  “No one before would have thought the folk were wise enough to have a say in their government,” Sewel answered. “They may have thought that their votes could be purchased by the highest bidder.”


  “Hm-mmm. We will have to change this situation, in several ways. As for councilors, Seamaster Wilamara, I would like a representative of the military—a person of your bravery and experience who, like you, knew my parents. Would you be willing to serve on my council too?”

  “I—I—I would be honored, Your Majesty,” Wilamara sputtered. “But, you should know, I’m used to speaking my mind straight out. I’m not a courtier.”

  “All the better,” said Cerúlia. “Then I will speak my mind straight back. There. Now the council begins to take shape. We will wait a bit to fill in the last two seats. What else do you suggest, Chronicler?”

  “I would suggest that you share the news of your return to the city dwellers and the entire country, that you get the people on your side.”

  Brother Whitsury said, “Indeed, I’ve been wondering what the Cascadians are thinking right now. Surely they heard the bells and saw the smoke, so rumors must be running rampant and people may be anxious. Have the gates been locked all day?”

  “The gates!” replied Cerúlia. “I never gave them a single thought! Captain Yanath, do you know?”

  “Your Majesty, I ordered them locked shortly after the battle in the Throne Room. I didn’t want any of Matwyck’s allies escaping, nor any reinforcements coming in. But I don’t have the manpower to keep policing the gates with only the New Shield. We need to determine double-quick who amongst the palace guard we can trust. I wish there was a way to find out who is telling the truth.”

  Cerúlia toyed with the pommel of her dagger, pondering. Who is telling the truth. A way to know who is telling the truth.

  “Aha!” cried the queen. “There is. Lady Tenny once told me she had an object called a Truth Stone. Does anyone know where it is?”

  Everyone looked blank. Nana said slowly, “I once heard tell of such a Stone. It was stolen from Rortherrod, and the Rorthers want it back.”

  “Well, we must search for it. Until we find it, we will have to use dogs to tell us who is deceptive. But Sewel’s key point—that we must spread the news to Cascada and beyond—must be acted upon at once. I am open to suggestions.”

  Ciellō, standing watchfully behind her chair, offered, “In Zellia, we use town callers.”

  “We don’t use those,” Brother Whitsury explained. “Tidings are usually disseminated by broadsheet. The major broadsheet in the city is the Cascada News. We must issue an official proclamation and get it to the News, which will print it and spread it far and wide. The News will make a windfall today; all and sundry will want a copy.”

  “Very well,” said the queen. “Sewel, you will write it, and Whitsury, you will take it into the city. Hiccuth, you will find the horses more tractable now; be sure Whitsury has a good mount. And Whitsury, I give you leave to bring back to the palace a large handful of trusted Sorrowers. The injured will need comfort, as will any bereaved.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Chronicler Sewel. “There is another way of informing at least the city that the queen has returned. When the footman found me I was on my way to unpack the Queen’s Flag and have it hoisted from the highest pole.”

  At the mention of the flag, many of her allies around the table broke into smiles, and Nana issued a small cry of delight. As a foreigner, however, Gunnit was bewildered. “What? What are you all talking about?”

  Sewel responded, “There is a long-standing tradition that when a princella is Defined (that is, when we recognize the Talent that Nargis granted her), we fly a special flag from the top of the palace. It has an emblem of the Fountain stitched in silver on a blue background. If we fly it today—at long last!—everyone looking at the palace will know that the queen has returned. After all, I Defined her a few hours ago, and we all saw a demonstration of her Talent.”

  Nana turned to Gunnit with tears in her eyes. “You can’t know, lad, how much her mother yearned to see that flag fluttering on high.”

  “Chronicler Sewel,” Cerúlia smiled, “you have my permission to return to your duties. But please get your burns tended right after you see to the flag.”

  As Sewel departed, the palace healer, Finzle, entered. He reported that Matwyck was in critical condition, with a broken pelvis and internal bleeding. The four injured shields, whose hurts he described in great detail, would most likely survive (including Pontole), but three servants and two of the gentry being tended were so grievously wounded their hours were surely numbered. His team of healers had not yet examined the more minor hurts of the prisoners held in the stable, but they planned to do so before nightfall.

  Cerúlia didn’t suspect Finzle of disloyalty, just of painful long-windedness. She made a mental note to herself that she needed to replace him with someone smarter as soon as possible. She realized she also needed a scribe to keep reminders for her.

  The third knock on the salon’s door foretold a guard’s announcement: “Chamberlain Vilkit.”

  “Your Majesty.” Vilkit entered, bowing low and gracefully. “How may I be of service to your gracious self?”

  “There are several matters I would speak to you about, Vilkit. Stahlia and Ciellō, I wish you to remain beside me.

  “Tilim and Gunnit, here’s a new task for you two: go examine the palace dogs. Decide on those that are the smartest and most responsive to people. I’d like to meet your selections first thing tomorrow.

  “The rest of you, I believe you know your immediate duties, so you are dismissed for now. I ask you all to come with updates to this salon before supper.”

  Everybody bowed their way out, except for Ciellō, who stayed beside her coiled with watchfulness, and Stahlia, who moved her seat to sit closer to Cerúlia at the head of the conference table.

  “Approach, Chamberlain,” Cerúlia ordered. “From what I hear you hold many strings of power and most of the information in the palace.”

  “This is true, Your Majesty,” Vilkit said, “and I place my skills and knowledge totally at your service. I was slightly delayed in coming here because I was completing the lists you asked for.” He held out a sheaf of papers in his hands.

  Cerúlia ignored the papers for now.

  “Totally, Vilkit? Less than a day ago you were Matwyck’s right-hand man.”

  “Lord Matwyck was my superior and I respected his intelligence. I also feared his wrath; but as you see, my eyes hold no tears for him.

  “Now you are the ruler of the realm. I am in awe of how brilliantly you carried off your rustic disguise. If I offended you yesterday in even the slightest way, I most humbly pray for your sweet forgiveness.” He bowed again, even lower.

  “You feared Matwyck. Do you fear me, Chamberlain?” asked the young queen.

  “I fear your dog and the Talent you hold over animals. What a magnificent demonstration!”

  “But not my wrath.”

  “Your Majesty,” parried Vilkit. “I have observed that rulers govern more effectively by making people love them, rather than fear them. Matwyck’s cruelties might have won him allies, but no friends.”

  “Matwyck. Who pushed Matwyck over the balcony?” the queen asked.

  “I saw: ’twas Duke Inrick. He did it for revenge against Matwyck’s insult, not, I would hazard, out of loyalty to you. He is in the stable prison at the moment. I would suggest you tread very carefully with that one.”

  “Who shot me?”

  “I’m afraid I did not see.”

  Cerúlia made a gesture of impatience with her hand. “What would you suggest—what steps should I take to make myself a ruler who is loved, rather than feared?”

  “I would suggest that you address the palace tonight and the city as soon as possible. You’ve been missing a long time; the people felt … abandoned. You must show you trust the people, you are eager to be among them, and you are overjoyed to have returned to Cascada. The townsfolk must have an opportunity to see you and appreciate your loveliness.”

  “Go on,” Cerúlia prompted.

  “I would suggest that you go lightly in punishing the prisoners in
the stables. Some may need to be exiled.” Vilkit shook his head and made tsking sounds. “But hangings or beheadings would not show mercy befitting a young, beautiful, and gracious queen.”

  Cerúlia had grown irritated by all this flattery and Vilkit’s stress on her femininity but heard the practical wisdom in his advice. “Pray, continue.”

  “I would suggest”—here he paused as if trying to find the smoothest way of imparting bad news—“that you allow me to provide you with a wardrobe and maids appropriate for your station. You are a dazzling queen: many people have longed for your appearance, pinning their hopes and future on you. Let us show you off to full advantage so that the people will fall in love with you. Your garb at the Dedication was not … regal. If you had been dressed as you are now, mayhap you would have received more respect. Possibly, there might have been less bloodshed.”

  This topic surprised Cerúlia, who had learned many things during her travels but not the power and influence of rich clothing.

  “I could not have climbed down ropes or wormed my way through the catamount tunnel dressed like this,” she said, defending her choices.

  He stayed quiet, merely bowing lower.

  Should she trust this palace functionary? She looked at Ciellō, who read the question in her eyes.

  “He speaks too sweet,” her bodyguard murmured.

  “Yes,” said the chamberlain. “How very perceptive you are, foreign sir. I know I am officious and ambitious. Ofttimes a flatterer—especially to those above me. But inquire of the palace workers if I have treated them fairly.”

  Whaki, is this man to be trusted?

  He will always find a tricky way to the food bowl and eat the best scraps first. Then he will roll over and show his belly.

  Cerúlia made her decision. “Vilkit, you are on probation. I will see how well you serve me, and I will indeed ask the staff about your past performance. Give your paperwork to Mistress Stahlia for me to peruse later.

  “Now.” She cast her mind back on what she had learned from Commander Thalen as to how a leader behaves. “I need to show myself around the palace as hale and in control. I will visit the wounded and tour the fire damage. Ciellō, you and Whaki will be my only escorts. That will indicate I fear no one.”