The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

“But soldiers need to know all these things,” said Percia. “If you are going to be a strong soldier, a clever soldier, and a help to Cerúlia, you need to study.”

  Lem joined in, “He’s just the sweetest old man. And I’ll wager that the queen believes that he too will recover more quickly if he has a young mind to instruct. Tilim, you can’t refuse—he was imprisoned for fourteen years! You must at least give this a trial, like I’m going to try at High Road Engraving.”

  Tilim knew when he was trapped. He tried to give in with good grace. “All right, I guess.”

  “Good,” said Percia. “Here’s the thing. The queen wants to spare Ryton any travel, and she has a sentimental attachment to her old schoolroom, so she’d like you to work with the tutor there.”

  “That’s fine,” said Tilim, realizing that in the palace he’d be close again to the Queen’s Shield.

  “Ah, but the trek there every morning would eat up a lot of your day. So come outside a moment, would you?” Marcot invited.

  Wonderingly, Tilim followed Marcot; the rest of the family, curious, stepped out behind them. The groom who had driven the young couple over now held the reins of a young gelding, so glossy black that he looked almost blue.

  “What’s this?” said Tilim, drawing in a deep breath.

  “This,” said Marcot, going over and throwing his arm around the horse’s neck, “is Indigo. He is one of Nightmist’s offspring. The queen, Hiccuth, and I thought that the queen’s brother should own a horse.”

  “You mean, he’s for me? He’s mine?”

  “That’s right.”

  Tilim walked up to the horse slowly, allowing the gelding to sniff him all over. Then he pressed his face into the animal’s neck. Indigo nodded his head vigorously several times.

  Dimly, Tilim heard Tovalie say, “Ma’am, I’m not real used to—I’m not real comfortable around—”

  “Not to worry, Tovalie,” his mother replied crisply. “The boy knows the drill; he will take care of the horse himself. If he can’t do that, he can’t have a horse.”

  “Indigo,” Tilim whispered. “Indigo.”

  “He looks awful fast,” his mother said.

  “Not to worry, Mama,” said Percie. “The queen talked to the horses before she chose this one. Indigo knows all about boys and how to keep them safe.”

  * * *

  Thereafter Tilim’s day started with an exhilarating ride to the palace. He turned Indigo over to the stable lads for the morning, while he rushed up to his lessons. Ryton spent the first week testing Tilim to find out his strengths and weaknesses, then decided on a lesson plan that actually was rather interesting, especially since it only lasted until midmeal.

  Midmeal he ate in the barracks with the Shield. He tried not to make a pest of himself, but these were the men and women he admired; these were the men he wanted to be. He hung out in the guardroom, watching them play cards. He studied them, copying the way they wore their capes, the way they bowed to the queen, the way they spoke. If a shield was free, he or she would spar with Tilim or give him an archery lesson. Whenever they practiced drills on horseback, Indigo and Tilim joined their ranks.

  The other reason to hang out at the palace all afternoon and evening was the dogs. Since Tilim had helped pick them out, he felt responsible for them. The dogs, like the guards, rotated being on duty. When they were off, Tilim would take them romping out-of-doors, letting them have fun just being free.

  When the timing worked out, he brought one home with him for the night to the brick house they named “West Cottage.” In many ways, this was best, because he suspected Mama was lonely. If he stayed too late at the palace, he would feel a twinge of worry about her.

  Lemle reproved him one night when they were alone after supper. “I know, Tilim, that to you the queen’s soldiers and their doings are fascinating. Could be, they fill the emptiness left by your father. But you have to think of your mother, all alone in this new house, in this new city.

  “She’s lost Wilim; Percia got married; and the queen is always busy. That leaves you and me, boy. I come by as much as I am able, but you know I can’t set my own hours. ’Twas your mother, Tilim, who kept you fed and safe all those hard years in Wyndton. Don’t you go deserting her now for new amusements.”

  Tilim didn’t mean to desert his mama. He saw that she didn’t really know anyone here, or at least not like the way she’d known everyone in Wyndton all her life. He saw how she worried about Cerúlia “running herself into the ground,” and how she perked up whenever the queen or Percie came to visit. But he would be hanging around with Branwise, who was teaching him how to care for his sword, and time would just fly, and it would be late before he got home, and he would find his mother sitting alone in the dark, rubbing her sore neck.

  Eventually he took this problem to Captain Yanath.

  Yanath listened to the whole situation as if this was the most serious problem he had to consider today. He thought for a while before he answered.

  “Tilim, one thing a soldier must have is discipline. He must be able to control his own desires to follow his duty. You have a duty to your mother—and from what I have seen, a fine mother she is. I suggest that you set up a schedule, kind of like I put shields on duty-schedules.”

  “A schedule for my mother?”

  “No, no! A schedule for yourself. So. Say you decide that the first and third day of the week, instead of staying here after lessons, you will go straight home. Soon your mother will get used to this, and the two of you will go to the market those days, and you’ll cheerfully carry her basket and tell her all about what you’ve learned. Say that on Waterday you decide that you will go to church with her, have a nice midmeal, and go out for a stroll to the Fountain. That way you will be around more, and most importantly, she will know when to expect you, so she isn’t waiting and wondering.

  “The discipline comes in sticking to this schedule, no matter what. You can’t say, ‘Oh, just this time, I want to stay at the palace because—’”

  Tilim finished his sentence. “There is no ‘because’ for a shield on duty. When you’re on duty, you show up and do your drought damn best.”

  “Right! So although you’ve been learning many skills that will hold you in good stead later in life, this is actually one of the most important. And you can practice it with your own mother. I’d rather have a shield who faithfully kept to his duty than one who was a perfect swordsman.”

  “Aye, Captain. I understand,” said Tilim.

  “I’m sure you get the gist, because you’re a bright lad. But what you may not realize is how many of the soldiers here would give anything to have their mother or father back. While you might look at this schedule as your duty, I hope you also realize how lucky you are.”

  Thereafter, Tilim kept to a routine. Occasionally, he missed an exciting happening in the training yard. But his mother looked quite a bit happier; when he went to market with her he could choose his favorites; and chatting with her as she wrapped skeins of yarn around his hands was not actually a hardship. He put Mimi, Nini, and Haki on a schedule too, taking one of them home to West Cottage at a time. Soon the proper deerhound would be waiting outside the lesson chamber, eager for his or her day following Indigo to the cottage for a chance to live as a pampered pet. The dogs’ expectancy helped remind Tilim what day it was.

  Both Lemle and Captain Yanath commented that they were proud of him.

  28

  Cascada

  Like a lady-in-waiting, Percia assisted the queen at the end of her day. Night was the only time when Percia could reliably catch Cerúlia alone, and Cerúlia often said that—no matter how fatigued by her duties—she looked forward to these moments with her sister. The ritual carried a whiff of their whispers and giggles as children put to sleep in the same bed.

  Tonight the queen had dined late with all the foreign ambassadors.

  Percia sat with a piece of needlepoint in the Reception Room. Cerúlia’s personal maid, Kiltti, had already tur
ned down the bed and lit the lanterns. It was too warm to need a fire this summer night.

  Cerúlia swept in, her fancy gown itself making a stir, but she was also accompanied by her shields, her bodyguard, and her cloud of canines. She wore yellow lace, made over from a garment in Queen Cressa’s wardrobe. Her hair was mostly down—the better to show off its color to the ambassadors—and fixed in ringlets. Percie knew how much Cerúlia hated to sit for hours while Geesilla curled her hair.

  “Percie.” Cerúlia smiled. “Kind of you to stay so late for me.” The women left the men in the antechamber.

  “How was your event?” Percie asked as she closed the door.

  “Interesting. The Lorther envoy hinted that my family would want to visit. Odd to recall that I do have blood relations. I thought of seeking their protection once. But I never truly needed them as family, because I had you all in Wyndton.”

  Percia unhooked her trailing train.

  “Never mind affairs of state, Percie, how are you? Don’t you have a new husband waiting for you in bed?”

  “Oh, he can wait for me tonight. ’Twill do him good. Married three moons, and he is already taking me for granted! This morn he left without stopping for a kiss.”

  Cerúlia sat down at the dressing table, kicked off her shoes, laid her dagger aside, and began removing pieces of jewelry. Percia took the pins down from the front of her hair, rubbed her head a moment, and started on the back of the gown. When she got it all unfastened, Cerúlia stepped out of it with a sigh of relief. Percia laid the gown on a bench and fetched a night-robe.

  Unexpectedly, Cerúlia pulled up her undershift.

  “Percie,” she asked softly, “would you mind—would you take a look at my scars?”

  Percia was surprised. “Mama says you won’t talk about them or anything.”

  “I’ve been wondering,” said Cerúlia, “how bad they look these days. When I saw them in Wyeland, they had just started to heal. Are they red, puffy, blistered, and disgusting?”

  “Not at all. Some are faint; mostly the skin is hard and ridged.” Percia described each scar to Cerúlia as she traced them with her finger. The longest scars were the thinnest and lightest—almost unnoticeable white lines down her side and from her underarm to her elbow. The biggest lay right on top of her shoulder blade, extending a hand’s width in all directions, a puckered area of dark, discolored, and thick tissue. Smaller, scattered but raised scars laced the rest of the left side of her back. As she could see herself, the burned area of her neck had a reptilian texture and a reddish color.

  “How did this happen, Birdie?” Percie asked as she held out a night-robe, hoping that her sister would stop hoarding her secrets and confide in her.

  In a few dry sentences, Cerúlia told her a hair-raising story about fighting the Oros, being imprisoned, and being hit in the back by a fireball thrown by a Magi.

  Percia could not imagine surviving such peril. She wanted more details about this misadventure, but her sister cut her questions and exclamations short.

  “That’s over now, Percie. Can I tell you what’s on my mind? I want to know—I need to know—Would you tell me?—You are the only person who could tell me—”

  “What?”

  “You’re a married woman now, so you would know,” mumbled Cerúlia. Then she blurted out, “Would any man ever find me appealing? I mean, would any man ever want me, or would he just pity me?”

  Hearing Percia’s pause, Cerúlia demanded, “You have to tell me the Water’s truth.”

  “Your scars are not your most attractive feature,” admitted Percie. “When I first saw them I was a little shocked, but I’ve gotten over that. They’re not repulsive, but they tell a story of pain that might distract a lover.”

  “Thank you for speaking aboveboard with me,” Cerúlia said with a nod. “That’s what I thought.”

  Percia shook her head. “No, no, no, no. I don’t think you understand. If you loved a man and he had these scars on his back, would you love him less? If Marcot had these scars, I’d still want him in my bed! I didn’t fall in love with him because the skin on his back was perfectly smooth!”

  “Didn’t Marcot fall in love with you because you’re so pretty?” Cerúlia threw back at her.

  “Mayhap. Yes. So you think these scars destroy your beauty? Perchance in Wyndton for all those years you hid as a plain brown wren, and no one saw you and you didn’t see yourself. But by the blessed Waters, haven’t you looked in the mirror these weeks?” She twirled Cerúlia around so she faced the looking glass at her dressing table again. “Now. Even without your gown or your hair fixed, just look at yourself in the mirror, and tell me, honestly, that you are not beyond fetching.”

  Percia leaned her head next to Cerúlia’s so they both stared in the mirror at their reflections. Percia knew herself to be fair of face, with regular features. But her sister! Her hair’s color provided a dramatic frame, and the Nargis Ice necklace gave her a kind of glow.

  The young women regarded themselves in the mirror for a long moment, and then Cerúlia stuck out her tongue. This sent them both into hysterical giggles.

  Cerúlia rose and poured them both glasses of lilac wine.

  A flash of intuition struck Percia. “Are we talking about some unknown future husband, or are we talking about an actual person? Birdie?”

  Cerúlia threw herself on the bed and sipped her wine for a few moments. Percia curled her legs up on the couch and held her breath. Already tonight her sister had confided in her with more openness than ever before. Had she pushed too hard? Would the distancing gates come crashing down again, shutting her out?

  “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never, ever spoken about. I’d like to tell you … about what happened before I was burned. I’m going to tell you about my time with the Raiders and Commander Thalen. So many times, I’ve longed to unburden myself to you.”

  Out gushed a story of separation and love unspoken. As Cerúlia narrated and Percia asked questions, the bottle of wine emptied.

  “My goodness, Birdie!” cried Percia when she reached the end. “This is so sad. This story: ’tis almost like one of the ballads you sang to the Raiders.”

  Cerúlia threw a pillow at her. “You’re not to tell a soul, Per-ci-a. Do you hear me! That’s a royal command.”

  Her sister flopped back on the bed melodramatically. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do? There is no man in the world for me but Thalen, and he thinks I’m an Alpetar shepherdess.”

  “And drowned,” said Percia. This matter-of-fact statement brought forth such a shriek of giggles that a dog woke up and looked at them reproachfully.

  “And burned to cinders,” said Cerúlia, topping her, and the black humor elicited more laughter.

  “Besides,” said Percia, sobered by a sad thought, “do you even know that he’s alive? Or where he is?”

  “I know he’s alive, though I was terribly wrong about Wilim, wasn’t I?” Doubt had crept into her voice, but she continued firmly. “Thalen, Tristo, Eli-anna—what a formidable team. If they could penetrate to the heart of Femturan to rescue me, I’d bet my golden dagger they still live.

  “Oh, Percie, what am I going to do? What if he never cared for me? What if we never find one another again? What if he’s found someone else? What if he can’t adjust to my being who I am, or if he’s angry about my disguise and lies?”

  Percia stood up, a tad wobbly from all the liquor. “You are going to go to bed, because it is getting very late and you have a full day tomorrow. Give me a little time to think about this.”

  “Fine,” mumbled Cerúlia as she crawled to the head of the bed. “I’ll take care of the country, and you can take care of me.”

  “I plan to, Birdie, if you’ll just let me.”

  Percie blew out the lanterns and was almost to the door when Cerúlia’s voice floated to her through the dark.

  “Percia, you don’t recall the day we met, do you?”

  “Of course I do,”
said Percia. “We played with kindling dolls in the workshop.”

  “No,” said Cerúlia. “My mother Enchanted you to make you forget. I mean the first time. It was here, in Cascada. Here on the palace grounds. We met one day by chance in a play park. My mother tried to separate us and we both screamed. That’s how she knew about your family; that’s why she brought me to Wyndton. She trusted Stahlia and Wilim, but you and I, we chose one another first.”

  “Huh! Which just goes to show,” said Percie, “that we should never be separated. We’re better than blood sisters, because actually I found you, and you found me.”

  29

  The Scoláiríum

  In conversation with a student from Jutterdam, Thalen learned about the new queen of Weirandale’s Talent of communicating with animals. After a day of mulling over the information, he sat in his (actually, Granilton’s) study at Scholars’ House, his thoughts askew.

  White mounds, a frightful waste of expensive paper, accented the wood floor.

  This is the most impossible thing I have ever attempted. Much harder than attacking Femturan.

  Dear Queen, of course you don’t know me, but could you possibly be the quiet, sore-footed woman who rode with the Raiders in Oromondo? I played the fife and you sang? I fell for you but was too much of a coward to admit it? By the way, I saw you die from the Magi’s fireball so how did you get to Cascada and on the throne?

  Naturally, he couldn’t write something so ridiculous to the Weir queen. Her secretaries would never even pass such blithering idiocy forward. They would think he was a madman. He probably was a madman to even consider the idea, based solely on the ability to converse with animals, which, for all he knew, might not be that uncommon a skill.…

  Though in all his studies, he had never come across any mention of such an ability.

  Maybe Skylark was the queen’s long-lost twin?

  This thought made him snort.

  A knock on his door interrupted his useless ruminations.