The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  In less than an hour of gentle climbing they came out on the crest of a hill in a large clearing. A magnificent structure, demolished and then further destroyed by countless years of weathering, lay in heaps of gigantic stones, scattered as if someone had broken a shelf of pottery.

  “What is this?” asked Dalogun.

  “This,” said Thalen, gesturing all around, “is all that remains of the Castle of the Kings. Iga’s Castle. Sacked and burned in the Bloody Revolution, three centuries ago.”

  Kran whistled. “Huge. Think of the work to build it! How did they get these marble blocks up here? Hundreds, thousands of workers?”

  “The kings of Iga could command such a workforce. But they also had the power of Transformation, remember?” Thalen said. “For all we know, they built a toy castle out of clay, mumbled magic words, and turned it into a real castle.”

  Kran said, “Then think of the work the rebels had to tear it down! They had no Powers.”

  “Just the power of hatred and anger,” said Cerf. “Which we’ve learned is pretty fuckin’ strong.”

  Wareth had been poking around. “This would be a good place to spend the night, ’Mander, if you like it. There’s shelter. And a magnificent view.” He gestured back over Clear Lake, whose whole expanse rippled in the glow of the afternoon.

  Thalen agreed, and they set up camp in a circular hollow, now covered with soft moss, which might once have been the bottom of a turret.

  While the Raiders tended to the horses and started a cook fire, Thalen neglected his share of the chores and went to wander among the tumbled rocks, trying to determine the outline of the original castle. The marble endured, but wind, rain, and vegetation had left it pockmarked and dull. Sunset found him wondering how many people had died in taking this objective, and thinking about Cerf’s insight into the power of fury and the transience of men’s ambition.

  He meandered on. On the far side of the castle, down a path that led away from the main building, he came across an awesome sight: nine giant rectangular stones set in a circle. These were untouched by the rebels and barely marked by the passage of time. They stood tall—silent and judging.

  From his evening discussions with Destra, Thalen realized that he had stumbled upon an ancient Circle of Mìngyùn. There was a more modest Circle in Jutterdam—the Oros had hung bodies from the tallest stones and built a fire in the middle, so now everyone walked blocks out of their way to avoid the sight. Thalen had read that others had been placed in diverse regions of the Free States, but this must be the biggest and best preserved. He almost called the rest of the Raiders to share his discovery, but then he decided to spare them. The stones radiated an unnerving sense of appraisal. A person who submitted himself to a Circle of Mìngyùn opened his thoughts, intentions, actions and inactions, and their consequences to the Spirit for weighing.

  With steady steps he walked into the middle of the Circle, took his hat in his hands, and knelt. He lost track of time as he laid bare his soul. Master and Apprentice Moon shone on the timeless stones and his human shoulders.

  * * *

  The next day, high scattered clouds kept interrupting the sunshine, so they rode from brightness into shade every few paces. After many hours, Latham appeared in the distance. Thalen pulled his hair back into his leather and brushed the woodland spider threads and leaf litter off his sleeves. As the Raiders traversed the town they could see that this fairly remote area had been spared obvious sacking; most of the buildings and farms remained intact. People hoeing their vegetables in their kitchen gardens looked up at the troop of mounted men with surprise and not a little trepidation.

  The front gates of the Scoláiríum stood open and unmanned. Thalen led his squad right through up to Scholars’ House. At the sound of their hoofbeats, Rector Meakey came dashing out the front doors. She wore a gown of yellow-and-red stripes, and a bright yellow kerchief on which she’d affixed several seashells held back her dark ringlets. She shaded her eyes to try to see the men’s faces; then her hands flew over her mouth.

  Thalen reined in.

  “Rector,” he said, “you are a cheering sight. I can’t remember when I’ve seen anyone look so—so bright and colorful.”

  Rector Meakey replied, “Part of my job is to keep spirits up. Thalen, how are you?”

  “That’s a complicated question,” he answered as he dismounted. “The short answer would be hale in body and troubled in mind. How have the tutors fared?”

  “You’ve heard about Granilton?” she asked. When Thalen nodded, a tightness in her face relaxed. “The rest of us are well enough. Two tutors who had left have even returned to us in recent weeks. I’ve hired a new tutor for Literary Arts, and I’ve had six letters about students returning or coming to take entrance exams! We might start up again before the end of summer.”

  “Rector, I do not ride alone,” Thalen said. “May I introduce my companions?”

  “They look fierce enough to be Thalen’s Raiders,” she said, with wide eyes and a touch of girlish flirtation.

  “Indeed. It was these and others who did all the daring deeds.” Thalen introduced his followers, who tipped their hats. Meakey welcomed them warmly for themselves and as Thalen’s colleagues.

  The daylight began waning. Thalen pointed the way to the stables, the dormitory, and the kitchens, and the men scattered to get settled.

  Meakey said, “Come into my chambers, Thalen. I will send Hyllidore for tisane—or hard liquor if you prefer, now that you’re a grown fighting man—and we will have a good long chat. I have sooo many questions.”

  Just then Tutor Irinia, the master with whom he had originally studied Earth and Water, with her pinned-up hair askew (as always) but much more gaunt, came flying around the corner of Scholars’ House and skidded to a stop.

  “It’s true,” she said, at the sight of Thalen.

  “Yes, Tutor,” said Thalen. “Here I am.”

  “Welcome home, my dear, dear boy,” said Irinia as she stepped forward to embrace him. “Welcome home.”

  And in her bony hug, Thalen knew a sense of homecoming that had eluded him since they had landed in the Free States.

  17

  Cascada

  A moon after Cerúlia’s Dedication, the cautious healer declared that her arrow wound had knit well enough for her to go riding. But by then the early summer rains had arrived, so the outing was further delayed.

  As she strode to the stables this morning, accompanied only by Ciellō and the dogs, she realized how much she needed this break from the pressures of her new life. She spent her days either conferring with others or making decisions on her own. But her decisions were, at best, stabs in a fog at invisible targets.

  Money was the prerequisite for every action, but no one could offer a tally of how much funds remained in the treasury, because Matwyck had solidified his power with a web of bewilderingly intricate, financial cross-obligations that were now completely opaque due to Prigent’s destroying the most important ledgers. Naven set a team of Cascada’s best calculators to work on untangling the realm’s finances.

  As for the chief plotters, Lord Matwyck and General Yurgn, responding to her plea for assistance in the Courtyard of the Star, villagers had sent the palace news that these two were barricaded within Yurgn’s estate, out of reach of her justice. Although Cerúlia chafed at the admonitions, all who counseled her insisted that she prove herself adept at governing before she challenged them directly.

  And twenty times a day, someone—usually Darzner, Marcot, a judiciary, or Vilkit—needed to consult with her about a problem or get her permission before he or she took a certain action. In many ways, shaking off the fake timidity she had been forced to assume for so many years came as a relief, but she found that always being constantly deferred to brought its own burdens of responsibility.

  When the new queen wasn’t dealing with matters of state, she was besieged by emotional tumult. Percia nursed her sense of betrayal that her sister had never confided in her.
Meanwhile, to set her own heart at rest, Stahlia needed to piece together, in exacting detail, the chronology that had led to Wilim’s suicide. And Lemle and Master Ryton deserved all the time and comfort Cerúlia could spare as they haltingly recovered from captivity.

  (One rainy afternoon, she had felt so besieged that she’d run away to the stables and hid in Smoke’s stall for hours. They didn’t talk; she had patted him and crooned to him and he had smelled her all over, lipped at the edges of her sleeves and collar, and huffed into her neck. She returned to her duties refreshed and defiant about the state of her gown.)

  On the way to the stables now Cerúlia and Ciellō passed Gunnit and Tilim, who were absorbed in a game involving horseshoes. After their initial wariness, the boys had become fast friends. Usually, they served as her personal pages, streaking through the palace shouting, “Make way for the queen’s messenger!” just to cause a ruckus, but she had sent them away this morning for their own holiday. They grinned at her as she approached, but with the insouciance of children and old friends, neither bothered to bow.

  “Gunnit, you didn’t change your mind overnight?” she paused to ask.

  “No, Your Majesty,” the boy said. “It’s not my druthers ’cause I’m happy here, but my job is done. I’m needed elsewhere now. Gardener once told me that it’ll be my lot constantly to roam about, kind of like the Sun.”

  “I can’t argue with Gardener’s wisdom,” Cerúlia sighed. “Well, your passage has been bought on a ship that sails tomorrow morning. Nana is arranging a little farewell fete, so I’ll see you later.” What gift could she possibly give the Alpetar boy that would reward him for the shouts that had saved her life?

  “Boys,” she called over her shoulder, “make Cici stay with you. She can’t keep up with horses.”

  “Have a great ride,” Tilim called.

  Hiccuth had Smoke saddled for her and Nightmist ready for Ciellō.

  Cerúlia rushed to their heads and stroked their glossy black skin; they stretched their long necks down to her level and lipped her riding hat.

  You remember me; do you remember my mother, Queen Cressa?

  One remembers her, answered Nightmist.

  What do you recall?

  The aging mare sent her a jumble of sensory impressions about how lightly Cressa had perched on her back; the way she smelled; the sound of her voice when she said, “Good girl”; and a confused image about a fight on a sandy beach.

  The queen rubbed the broad bone up from the horses’ noses. I must make more time to talk to Nana and Yanath, and I must visit with Sewel. If I am to know who I am, I need to know more about my parents as people and rulers. And if I am going to succeed as queen, I need to know why she failed.

  Ciellō interrupted her thoughts. “Damselle, may I assist you into a saddle?”

  She nodded. Ciellō knitted his hands and gave her calf enough of a boost that she could grab the saddle pommel and throw her other leg over. The movement did not reawaken the pain in her arm, so she exhaled with relief.

  On top of Smoke she breathed more easily and felt more comfortable than she had in moons. This was her horse—even if from years ago—not Pillow. Hiccuth had warned her that the gelding had returned from the Green Isles with a bitter temperament, but he showed none of this to Cerúlia. His gait moved through her like a half-forgotten tune, and he anticipated the direction she wished to go before she even put any pressure on him, as if he were aching to please. She led the way, exploring the grounds, wondering at groupings of trees or shrubs that whispered of long-ago playtimes, even if the greenery now stretched higher. Her scent hounds and deerhounds ricocheted around the two horses, sniffing and peeing everywhere, and their happiness at their freedom was contagious.

  She spent too much time indoors, in meetings and reading reports. She needed to get outside more: this sparkling summer morning welcomed and quieted her.

  One of Ciellō’s most excellent qualities was that he knew when to be silent. He merely scanned the surroundings with watchful eyes.

  She laughed at his protective posture. “Ciellō, if assassins lurked in the honeysuckle, the dogs would have sniffed them out. I think you’ve also earned a few moments of relaxation.”

  “Habits, damselle, keep one alive,” he replied, but he grinned back.

  She led the horses around a stand of trees. “Ciellō, why do you stay with me? I am as safe now as I probably ever will be.”

  “I will not leave your watch.”

  “Why?”

  “I do many things in my life, damselle.” Ciellō sighed. “At the time, I feel they were right. Now, many I regret. Some of the men I have killed perchance they be better men than me. With my regrets, I stew and drink. Sad music I play. Then a young woman walks into a tavern shabby. She is smart; she is strong-willed; she is beautiful. Peril hangs over her like—like a parasol. And I realize: if I can keep this body alive I will make up for all those deaths. Ghibli may look on me again with favor.”

  Cerúlia rode next to him in silence as they climbed a low hill. The dogs joyously chased squirrels; the rodents ran up trees and scolded, Your Majesty! How canst thou allow this? Control thy canines!

  Her bodyguard spoke again. “Also, I think, damselle is the most solitary person I have ever met. If I leave her, her cup would overspill with loneliness.”

  Cerúlia glanced up at him in surprise. “True, I had only a few friends in Salubriton, and on the ship I had only you and Whaki, but now I am surrounded.”

  “You are surrounded by people who love you, but you no talk to them.”

  “What? I spend hours talking, trying to explain why I did what I did, said what I said.”

  Ciellō snorted. “I do not try to overhear, but I stand very close to you. Never do you tell them what is in your heart. You do not give confidences.”

  “That’s not fair, Ciellō! Just because I couldn’t tell anyone my true identity … Drought damn it, I can’t handle another person angry at me for the disguises that kept me alive!”

  “Oh, I am no angry about ‘Damselle Phénix.’ From the moment I see her eyes, her dagger, I am no fooled by her. Not I, to need the blue hair or shiny necklace. But now the Big Secret be out, and you still keep secrets. You talk only to animals.”

  Cerúlia’s protest didn’t make it past her lips. In all her years of exile, Ciellō was one of the only people who had seen through her disguise. Gardener and Healer had wielded Magic, but Ciellō had recognized her without it. He understood her better than others, so she’d be wise to respect his insights.

  Has my life of secrecy cut me off from everyone? Has my Talent really cut me off from people?

  “Habits, Ciellō. Habits keep one alive,” she quipped, but he didn’t smile back at her.

  Their path took them around a stand of weeping willows, each with a curtain of leaves that trembled in the bit of a breeze. Had she played a hiding game with her real father here?

  Thou art tense, Your Majesty, but no scents linger that should nay be here, sent Vaki, the hound. All is well.

  “Well, what would you have me confide?” she asked Ciellō.

  Ciellō paused, as if to make the most of this opportunity. When he spoke, his voice was solemn. “Your thoughts. Your feelings. How you feel to be queen?”

  “Terrified. I am so afraid of making mistakes.”

  “You will make mistakes. Then you will fix them,” he said. “Unless you kill people. That cannot be fixed.”

  “But I will embarrass myself. Everyone will say, ‘She doesn’t know the right way to address an architect or promote an officer.’”

  “Who will say such things?” he asked. “The court people who allowed a usurper his rump to set on your throne?” Ciellō spit to the side in contempt. “Foolishness!”

  “Matwyck didn’t actually sit on the throne, but I take your meaning—that these are hardly people whose judgment should concern me.”

  “Also,” he added, “if the thing is important, you will learn. It has only be
en weeks that you wear the pretty necklace. Being queen is like learning the dagger. One practices and then one practices more.”

  Cerúlia felt a lightness bubble in her chest. They crossed a small stream and paused to let the horses and dogs drink. Whaki and Vaki strode into the water, drinking by biting at the hurrying liquid, but Mimi, the deerhound, didn’t like getting her feet wet; she found the place where the bank was driest, and then she leapt to the opposite bank.

  Now that Cerúlia had begun disclosing her worries, she didn’t want to stop. “Ciellō, how will I know whether people truly care for me, or whether they are drawn to the power of the throne? Vilkit flatters shamelessly, but he’s only one end of the spectrum. Everyone flatters me, if only by bowing and scraping.” She paused, aware of the contradiction: “Yet, if they don’t, I wonder if they disrespect me.”

  “Damselle,” Ciellō spoke through gritted teeth.

  Cerúlia looked him in the eye and yanked back on Smoke’s reins. “And if you get angry with me, I will never confide in you again—only in Whaki.”

  Ciellō held his hands out cupped in front of his chest, the gesture he used when praying to Ghibli. He must be either praying for patience or swearing on the name of his Spirit.

  “Damselle, I understand now. It is important to know if people say the truth.” He took up Nightmist’s reins again. “You can trust people who were your friends before you had position. Then you must learn (as all people must learn) to watch eyes; to hear the words not said; to smell the lies. You rely too much on your dogs. You must learn to smell people’s hearts.”

  The queen tried sniffing in the air and smiled at the image. They rode on for a time while Nightmist swished away flies, the queen recalling that Sergeant Rooks, in Wyndton, had also tried to teach her to school her senses.