The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  “They let you eat with only one arm?” asked the Oro, surprised into speech.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “In my country, if you are not intact you are worthless—just a mouth that can’t contribute.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what you can do with just one arm,” Tristo said in his confiding way. “For instance, I’m a very good cook.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen men cook here. In the Land, only women cook.”

  “Really? Are they good cooks?”

  “They would be, but food is short.”

  “Hey, did anyone feed you last night? Do you want anything special this morning? How about I make you beef soup? What’s your name?”

  “Alnum.”

  “Fine. One bowl of soup for Master Alnum.” Tristo scooted off toward the kitchen.

  Cerf said, “Young man, what about your arm? Unlike our friend Tristo, you’ll have a stump of your upper arm; that’s useful and will give you even more mobility. We could take the forearm today or wait till tomorrow, try to build your strength up with more food. Your choice.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Alnum.

  When Tristo came back with the soup, Thalen took a seat a distance behind him with writing implements. Tristo chatted as he fed the patient. Alnum’s biggest concern was for his friend; he wanted to know if his comrade was being treated well. Tristo promised to check on him soon, and in the meantime he casually steered the conversation to topics that interested Thalen.

  Alnum thought he was nineteen summers old. He had grown up on a cattle ranch in the heart of the Iron Valley of Oromondo, but the blights had killed off all the cattle. Alnum’s two brothers and his sister had died from tumors brought on by the Weir witch. His mother had turned to midwifery to support the family; the fifth time she delivered a stillborn babe, Protectors had slaughtered her, claiming that she herself was in league with the witch, a charge Alnum couldn’t quite believe, though he had no other explanation for the stillbirths. His father, the only person remaining in the family, had sent him off at age fourteen to enlist with the Protectors, believing that this was the only way to ensure he would eat.

  Alnum had been too young to be involved in the first invasion of Alpetar. He had crossed Melladrin under the leadership of General Sumroth. All the troops feared Sumroth; he would whip a man as soon as look at him—take the skin right off his back with a barbed whip. Though he was so hungry many times he thought he couldn’t move another step, he had tramped across all of the steppe. His best chum in his squad was killed by a Mellie arrow that had hit him out of nowhere in the middle of the night. Alnum was frightened of and despised the Mellies, who would never fight man-to-man in the daylight.

  Tristo gave Alnum swallows of whiskey; he was rewarded with the story of the harrowing crossing of the Causeway of Stones and the Oros’ delight at finding the causeway unguarded.

  They learned that Alnum had not participated in the Rout; he’d been stationed behind the lines tending aurochs. In the aftermath, desperate for food, he had done his share of pillaging of houses around Sutterdam. His fifth-flamer was ordered to move his company inland; they had arrived in Latham about a year and a half ago. Latham was his best posting, because for the most part the men were well fed and enjoyed comfortable lodgings. He hadn’t been involved in killing Granilton, though he had enjoyed burning a pile of books in the library lobby—they made such a nice blaze, and burning blasphemous books was payback for his siblings’ deaths.

  When the order came to pull out and meet up in Jutterdam, he and his comrade had been reluctant to leave the area that had provided them the most food they had ever enjoyed in their lives. They had deserted six moons ago, but having exhausted the supplies they stole, the demon of hunger crept back, causing their stealing, which attracted attention.

  By afternoon, despite the draughts Cerf gave him, the young man raved with fever. Thalen could directly ask him any question he wished, because the boy was too sick to be guarded about his answers. Thalen learned that Pozhar was the mightiest of all the Spirits because he gave them Fire that fought off the cold of the high mountains. People who didn’t worship the Magi had no souls; they would never join the Eternal Flames, so one could treat them like animals or worse. Raping a Free States woman mattered less than killing a goat: both had been created only for the Protectors’ needs and pleasure.

  Every time a Magi died, Pozhar would find a replacement. Alnum had never been to school nor learned to read, but before the blights nearly everyone learned to read so that they could study the sacred texts. Only strength, obedience, and piety counted as virtues. When Thalen offered other qualities, such as studiousness or empathy, Alnum dismissed these concepts as signs of weakness. Because he had broken the commandment of obedience by deserting, and because he had lost his strength by neglecting his practice drills, he might be exiled from the Eternal Flames, but the way he was burning up with fever now, perchance Pozhar was already coming for him.

  By afternoon he lapsed into unconsciousness. Cerf decided delay was too risky; he took advantage of Alnum’s coma to saw off the arm a little above the elbow.

  “Will he live?” asked Thalen.

  “I don’t know,” answered Cerf. “And to tell you the truth, after spending so much sweat slaving to save Free Staters harmed by those bastards, I’m not sure I care.”

  Thalen then repaired to see what progress Tristo had made with the other captive, whose name turned out to be “Unvelder.” It had taken Tristo no time at all to break down Unvelder’s reserve, because he was so extremely worried about Alnum. He would tell them anything they wished if they would let him visit the infirmary. Thalen got the distinct impression that his friendship with Alnum was the most significant relationship in his life.

  Unvelder had been born in Femturan. His mother had a position as a servant to Magi Four, so he grew up in a collective child asylum, a loveless and abusive place. Because of his proximity to powerful people, as a boy he ate somewhat better than many Oros, especially those in remote mining villages.

  He had met his mother’s Magi twice. On the first occasion Four tried to get him to swallow dried lava, but he spit it out when he left her quarters. On the second the Magi had asked Unvelder if he was possessed by the soul of a goat. From these close interactions, and from what his mother told him on her infrequent visits, Unvelder became convinced that the rulers of Oromondo were dangerous lunatics. He had joined the Protectors (not that he really had any choice) to get as far away from the Magi as he possibly could. He had been elated when they marched through the Mouth of the Mountains and left his country behind.

  Unvelder had served as a pikeman in the Rout (during which he had been terrified of the Free Staters and just tried not to get killed), and then he had been assigned to a scavenger team, putting down wounded enemies, countrymen, or animals. He disliked that assignment but knew that if he didn’t obey he would be killed. He put on a tough swagger like the other members of his team and kept his eye peeled for items of value. He’d found a jeweled dagger and several rings, all of which he traded for extra food.

  Stationed in Latham, he was struck by the countryside’s plenty and peacefulness. He had fallen in love with Alnum (those were not the words he used), and worried that if they reported to Jutterdam as ordered they would be separated. So he had instigated the plan to desert.

  Unvelder had never heard anyone speculate that the water in Oromondo was poisoned, though they did notice that certain streams tasted bad. Mining jewels and ores was the key source of the Land’s riches, and these riches brought it power against enemy countries; his people would never stop digging.

  At the news that Alnum might die, Unvelder broke into shuddering sobs. Thalen took him out of his lockup to his comrade’s bedside and let him hold his friend’s good hand for a while.

  As he sat in the infirmary, watching Unvelder weep over Alnum’s peril, Thalen reflected on all he had learned that day.

  Blighted boys. These fearsome soldiers were really
just blighted boys. Warped by hunger, surrounded by religious fanaticism, and subjected to a cruel military regime. Their lives had been stunted through little fault of their own; the pressures were too strong to resist, and the regime locked them in a worldview that allowed them no alternatives.

  The face of the wounded Oro that Thalen had executed in the Raiders’ first skirmish in Oromondo reappeared in his mind. With a sinking heart he realized that boy had been no more guilty than Alnum or Unvelder. Even less culpable, because he was merely minding his own business in his own country. Thalen knew that the Raiders could not have kept prisoners, but now he writhed to recall that he had killed the boy with only a fleeting moment of pity and regret. Maybe the murder was unavoidable, but he’d had no right to commit it so damn casually.

  Thalen didn’t ask Unvelder if he had participated in Granilton’s death, because he didn’t want to know. Even if Unvelder had, he hardly would have had a choice, nor did he possess the moral compass to understand that the act was wrong.

  Can people like this be reeducated? At least the boy is capable of love and loyalty. That’s a start.

  A student arrived, sent by Kambey to find Thalen. With the fall of darkness, about twenty-five townspeople had worked themselves up to gather at the gate armed with torches, pitchforks, and clubs, demanding that the captives be turned over to them. As he walked to the gate, Thalen reflected that Free Staters could be just as bloodthirsty as Oros.

  Thalen nodded to Kambey and Fedak to open the fence of iron posts enough for him to slip out to talk to the crowd. His head throbbed as he contemplated the complications of this situation. Other than the Raiders (and even they would support Thalen only out of loyalty, not out of conviction), he couldn’t be assured of the Scoláiríum community’s backing. He must not betray Meakey or the standing of the institution by alienating the populace of Latham. And yet, at all costs he couldn’t allow passions to lead to more strife and bloodshed. He wished he had Destra’s touch with negotiating.

  “Good evening, Wrillier. Good evening, all,” Thalen said.

  “Evening, Master Thalen,” Wrillier answered. “We hear you found our thieves, that they be Oro deserters, and that you’re sheltering them here.”

  “You heard correctly, Wrillier. You asked me to get involved in this matter, and I have proceeded as I saw fit.”

  “Thankee for capturing the Oros. We’ll take them off your hands now.”

  “I’m sorry, but no,” said Thalen, careful not to raise his voice. “These two are under my protection.” He made sure his tone conveyed unshakable conviction.

  Wrillier tried to reason with him. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, you weren’t living here this past year. You didn’t see the Oros kill us, beat us, steal everything in sight, and subject all of us to a hundred insults.”

  Other villagers’ voices broke out, so inflamed that Thalen suspected they had already done a great deal of drinking, to bolster their courage. “My sons died in the Rout!” called a man in the back.

  “My sister died while she was hiding in the forest. She should never have suffered that cold and wet!”

  “They slaughtered my milk cow and laughed at me when I complained.”

  “THEY TOOK MY GIRL.” A woman broke out in loud wails.

  The litany of grievances kept pouring forth, and with each one, the crowd got angrier.

  “They must pay for what they done to us! Why should they have life? Even if these two didn’t do it, they have to pay!”

  Thalen let the mob voice all its losses, then raised his hands for quiet. Kambey had to bang his sword on the metal gate to get attention.

  “Your sufferings have been horrendous,” Thalen said. “Unfair. Unbearable. We all agree. I know this in my own bones, because I too have been directly affected by the Occupation. My mother was stabbed to death by would-be rapists. One brother was killed at the Rout, another crippled. My father was tortured when he was enslaved. I completely understand your desire for vengeance. I’m no different from you: at one point I was so consumed by this hunger I licked Oro blood off my sword.”

  The crowd had grown quiet to listen. He wasn’t scolding or shaming them for their bloodlust; he had heard their anguish. He knew what they felt.

  “Then don’t talk to us about forgiveness!” shouted a villager.

  “No, I won’t,” said Thalen, for how could he describe to them the tiny seedling of fellow feeling for the Oro captives he’d only just discovered in himself? “But I will talk to you about all the other villages, all the other families in the Free States that have suffered just as you have suffered. You have heard enough tidings to know that if anything, Latham escaped rather lightly. I could tell you tales about Jutterdam that would keep you quaking at night for months.”

  “All the more reason,” said Wrillier, “for you to hand over those two. We’ll enact justice for all our countrymen.”

  “I only point out the losses of other towns so you will understand that Latham’s sorrows are not unique. And to point out to you that in Jutterdam, the people decided that restoring the peace was more important than enacting vengeance.”

  The crowd listened, but stirred restlessly, not wanting to be swayed from their purpose. Tristo had slipped through the opening in the gate and now stood beside him.

  Thalen licked his dry lips, knowing that his argument rested on concepts of time, history, and planning for the future that would be unfamiliar to those who lived for today, tomorrow, or at most next season’s harvest. He pitched his voice louder. “What I want you to consider is this: we have two Oro soldiers under our control. I have already talked to them enough to know that they possess valuable information about why the Oros invaded, their strategies, their military command. I have a chance to cross-examine them, to extract knowledge that might keep future generations safe.

  “You are thinking only about what you have already endured. But what if the Oros attack again in twenty years? And what if from the data I glean, we could forestall that future misery, the misery that your children would bear?”

  The villagers began talking all at once. Thalen caught only snatches: “Let the future take care of itself”; “We owe a debt to those who died”; and “Don’t Oro pigs lie?”

  Mam Setty pushed herself to the front of the crowd and turned to face her fellow villagers.

  “I’m just a blind old woman,” she said. “I have no kin left; you all know. I’m not clever. I never had no education.” The crowd had to quiet down to hear her; “shhh” broke out on many sides.

  “But I’ve counted,” continued Mam Setty, holding up the gnarled fingers she had counted upon. “Thirty-two younglings live hereabouts, from the new babe to near-grown gals. I would do anything to keep them safe. Commander Thalen defeated the Oros in Oromondo and at the siege of Jutterdam. He found these deserters while you sat on your arses. If he says he needs them alive, then—well, for me, that’s that.” She brushed her hands as if dusting off flour.

  Wrillier wasn’t so easily dissuaded. “How long will it take you to question them? A week? Will you turn them over to us then?”

  Thalen said, “I think they possess enough information that I would want to write a book about what I learn, to save this information for posterity. I would need to keep them handy throughout this process.”

  Kambey cut in as if a new thought had just occurred to him. “This is the Scoláiríum, you know. Think how many students and scholars might be drawn by the chance to question our captured Oros. Myself, I’d like to ask them about their armor. Of course, that’s on top of the students who are going to want to come here to study with Master Thalen, of the world-famous Thalen’s Raiders.”

  Thalen marveled at Kambey’s cleverness; he had just subtly touched on Latham’s economic self-interest, a string Thalen himself had not thought to pull. And his sword master’s words conveyed just a touch of threat: Do you really want to defy or drive away the Raiders?

  “How will you insure that these wretches don’t escape o
r murder us all in our sleep?” shouted a man.

  Wareth spoke from a few paces behind Thalen, chuckling. “Do you really think that Thalen’s Raiders can’t handle two Oro pikemen—one of them on death’s door? Hey, folks, I’m a little insulted by that.”

  This brought answering chuckles from the crowd. The townspeople began, almost unconsciously, to step back a few paces from the gate.

  Thalen spoke up loud enough for all to hear. “Wareth, Kambey, Tristo, I’m tired tonight, and I still have that headache. Could I ask you to stand these good folks a round at the Humility Tavern?” He tossed Tristo a gold coin.

  “Our pleasure, Commander,” said Tristo. Wareth pushed the gate wide open, sauntered out, and draped his arms around two shoulders. “Hey, what did you name that new babe? It was a boy, wasn’t it? Isn’t ‘Wareth’ a grand name? Much better than ‘Cerf’ or ‘Kambey.’”

  Rubbing his aching head, Thalen turned back in the direction of his cheerless room; he had spoken truly about his fatigue.

  All day, while questioning the Oros, a thought had chilled him. As long as those blights persisted, as long as the Oros starved, they could not prosper, and they posed a peril to other realms.

  He wondered if Irinia would help him set up more experiments, looking for elements that would bind with cadmium and lead suspended in water. Could they turn these toxic metals into inert compounds?

  30

  Cascada

  Sewel had been pressing Cerúlia to visit the royal library. She was eager to do so—after all those years of hunting down bits of information about her lineage and history, she finally had, ready at hand, a trove of wisdom. But establishing security and dealing with emergency financial issues pressed more urgently.

  The days had been hot, and Cerúlia had slept fitfully the previous night. She was weary of meetings, talking, tabulating figures, and performing under public scrutiny. More than anything she wanted to sit alone with a book. At fastbreak she decided to clear her schedule, and she sent Darzner to tell Sewel to expect her.