The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  When he finished, She was standing upright. She patted his nose once.

  Well done, Smoke. Your speed saved the day.

  She said to the man who had just watered him, “Pour a clean basin of water, Pontole. And everyone, gather round. We need to thank Nargis and pray for Home, Health, Safety, Comradeship, and the Future of the Realm.”

  54

  Considerate as always, Marcot had sent a messenger to West Cottage in the late afternoon to tell Stahlia and her family that the battle was over and the Weirs had triumphed. Forgetting all about their half-prepared meal, Percie, Tovalie, and Lemle ran to the quayside to see if they could succor the wounded.

  Stahlia decided not to go. The thought of all the blood and gore sickened her. She would finish the stew, add the potatoes at the right time, set the bread for its second rise, and prepare an apple pudding. Her kin would be hungry when they returned.

  Perchance I’m a shirker. But they also serve who feed the warriors and the healers.

  When she could think of nothing more to do, she sat alone at the long table in the autumn dusk, rubbing the tension in her aching neck, picking crumbs off the table, and thinking of Wilim.

  Wilim, could you ever have imagined all these things happening to our little family? Could we ever have foreseen the way the threads of our lives would have woven into this larger tapestry?

  When did this all start? Could it have been her vow to serve Nargis after the Fountain healed Percia?

  Flickering motion and the noises of carriage wheels and baying dogs startled her from her reverie. The queen herself had arrived. Stahlia was deeply pleased that after such an ordeal Cerúlia sought solace not in the palace but at West Cottage. As Cerúlia came running in the door, Stahlia held her at arm’s length to examine her: her face looked drawn and her blue hair had pulled out of its plait and snarled, but the creased and dirty military-style outfit that Editha had designed showed no bloodstains.

  And she had brought with her a whole parcel of people. The cranky old man with a thin gray braid and surprisingly warm smile was Cerúlia’s grandfather, and the competent, heavyset woman who started helping Stahlia set refreshments on the table turned out to be his wife—though not actually his wedded wife. The middle-aged man cracking jokes, in dashing but blood- and sea-stained silks, was almost Cerúlia’s uncle, but not quite.

  Stahlia gave up trying to puzzle out the relationships and just concentrated on offering washcloths, basins of warm water, chairs, and tankards while she weaved around the dogs that kept getting underfoot until she thought to set out bowls of water and food for them in the kitchen.

  They settled the old king in Stahlia’s most comfortable chair. Stahlia noticed Cerúlia’s eyes sparkling with an overexcited brightness.

  “Shrimpella,” said the almost-uncle, Prince Mikil. “Let me feast my eyes on you.” He grabbed both her hands and held her in front of himself. “Can you forgive me for not recognizing you on Island Dreamer? You can’t know how much and how often I’ve rued my blindness.”

  “Nothing to forgive,” said Cerúlia. “You saved my life out of disinterested kindness. How are Arlettie and Gilboy? They were so good to me.”

  “Arlettie, well Arlettie—”

  “Here, Cressa’s girl,” the grandfather interrupted. “I have a little gift for you.” He handed her a small box he carried inside a pouch tied by a string to his neck. She opened it and showed it around. The box contained the most beautiful broach Stahlia had ever seen: a dolphin made out of silver and blue sapphires. When Cerúlia pinned it on her collar, the old man shone brighter than all the lanterns.

  “Oh, my Shrimpella!” said the uncle, embracing Cerúlia. “You look so much like your mother! To see you hale and sparkling! Would that your mother could see through my eyes!”

  “Can we talk about her someday soon? I’m so eager to hear about her, and you knew her best.”

  “That would gladden my heart,” said the uncle.

  Then Stahlia’s own family surged in, returning from the nursing stations. After jumbled introductions all around, Stahlia pulled Percia and Lemle downstairs into the kitchen to question them privately.

  “Was it bad?” Stahlia asked.

  Percie answered, “Not that bad for me; I just wrapped broken limbs. And Tilim’s friends in the Shield kept him running errands, not working in the healers’ tents after all. Tovalie decided to stay, to roll more bandages. Lem, though—Lem volunteered to hold the hands of the dying.”

  Lemle’s face had lost its healthy nutmeg color, and his eyes lacked focus. Stahlia gently smoothed his hair and poured him a glass of wine. He put the glass down and came into her arms for a hug.

  “The toughest and kindest of them all,” she whispered to him. “I mean it, now. No one else is strong enough to do what you did.”

  When they rejoined the others upstairs, the half uncle confessed that his head was hurting from a bad blow he’d taken earlier. Food was ready, and food would help everyone. A knock on the front door revealed servants dropping off baskets of pies, bread, and wine sent along by Chamberlain Vilkit. The family crowded round the table to eat. Stahlia did not have enough chairs, so Tilim, Lemle, and Iluka leaned against the wall.

  Just as they were starting on the sweets, another knock on the door came from Marcot, who said the situation was well enough in hand that he could take a break. Percia ran into his arms with relief. Before Stahlia could close the door after her son-in-marriage, Commander Thalen and his close friend Raider Wareth, freshly washed, walked up the steps.

  Stahlia had never before believed that this enormous house could be too small, but right now it overflowed with people.

  “Goodness, do you think we should move this gathering to the palace?” she asked.

  “No, no. I want to be here,” said Cerúlia. “Come sit, Commander—you must be starving.”

  Several people jumped up to give Thalen their chair with exclamations about how whatever he had done had “saved the city.” Stahlia couldn’t follow the jumbled explanations about battle strategy, but that was partially because she turned a deaf ear—she didn’t want to picture the deadly peril they had all just undergone.

  She noticed that Thalen had ended up seating himself beside Cerúlia and that under the table the two of them held hands.

  The sight of young sweethearts together always makes me miss you more, Wilim. These young folks think that love is their very own invention.

  Well, every time it happens it seems like a miracle.

  Marcot poured wine all around. “To our queen, Commander Thalen, King Nithanil, Prince Mikil, and our magnificent victory!”

  Cerúlia raised her glass. “To the help of the whales and the gulls and pelicans. Without them, we never would have won the day.”

  “To my Cressa,” the grandfather said, looking down into his glass. “Gone but never forgotten.”

  Prince Mikil added, “To Lautan the Munificent, who cares even for shrimps such as us.”

  Percia added, “To my mother, the best cook in Weirandale.” This brought a chorus of laughter and requests for second or third helpings.

  “You are going to have to tell us everything, Shrimpella,” said the uncle. “How you escaped capture, how you survived your injuries. How you won this battle. Your strength amazes me.”

  “Strength? Often I have felt so weak,” said Cerúlia. “But an old friend of mine would say that my roots got a start in good soil: here, with my mother, father, and Nana; and then in Wyndton, where I was transplanted and nurtured by my second family.”

  Feeling restive, Stahlia carried a stack of dishes down to the kitchen. She leaned against a table, finding her shoulders shaking and her eyes wet. Looking around upstairs just now she had experienced such a stab of loss. Both girls were complete and grown; they’d found love (and now, new blood family connections); they no longer needed her. And Tilim! So long as he had a swordsman around him, the boy would be content. The three might love her still in a muted manner, but this a
ffection was just the long trailing echo of children’s all-encompassing love for the one who cared for them. She felt so lonely without Wilim.

  She cried harder, ashamed that in the midst of this national emergency, she had turned inward to a personal and selfish grief.

  “Mother Stahlia?” said Marcot at the door, catching her sobbing into her apron. Marcot, who had probably never carried a dirty dish before in his whole life, had followed her with another load.

  “Oh, but it’s been a day,” said Stahlia, waving away his concern with her hands.

  Marcot put down the plates he carried and drew her into a hug.

  “A day of tension and sorrow, which brings out all our other heartaches,” he said. Stahlia leaned against his shoulder a moment, soaking in warmth and comfort, and giving some in return to the young man who had lost a mother he dearly loved.

  As the evening progressed and everyone’s hunger slackened, the guests spoke reverently of the people taken from them. Seamaster Gourdo had fallen and Duke Naven too. Stahlia was heartsick to hear about Naven, but comforted to hear tales of his unexpected and impressive battle courage.

  They prayed for Nargis to take their souls to the Eternal Waters.

  Cerúlia stood and raised her glass. “Ciellō of Zellia, who will live in my heart forever.”

  “Ciellō too!” Percia cried. “Oh, no! That’s awful!”

  “Worse,” said Commander Thalen, “he died after saving me.”

  Stahlia found herself reaching across the table to pat the commander’s hand. “Sometimes,” she said, thinking of Wilim, “big-hearted people forfeit themselves to protect others. If we grieve over this too much, we lose sight of the important part. You have to accept their actions as their choice, or you dishonor their sacrifice.”

  The queen raised a tearstained face. “Wise as always, Teta.”

  They all drank to Ciellō’s honor.

  Then her rascal Tilim, who had drunk too much wine, launched into a long tale about everything he had seen and done from his perch on top of Indigo.

  Nithanil of Lortherrod rapped on the table for quiet. “I am an old man,” he said, “and old men can’t wait around. We might dive the depths any moment. You two”—he pointed at Cerúlia and Commander Thalen, whose shoulders touched—“look mighty cozy there.”

  “Oh, hush, you old buffoon!” said the almost-wife. “Remember your manners. Don’t start trouble, now.”

  “I will not hush!” He banged on the table. “I am that woman’s closest blood kin, and I demand to know: When is the wedding?”

  Cerúlia sat up straight and spoke with clipped anger. “Grandfather, Weirs have our own customs. We do not allow our lives to be ruled by patriarchs”—she softened her tone as she continued—“no matter how glad we may be about being reunited.”

  “Well?” Thalen asked Cerúlia, ignoring the testy exchange to concentrate on the subject that had been raised. “I am yours to command. Name the hour.”

  “If you must press me, what about tomorrow at noon?” she whispered, staring into his blue eyes.

  “Water’s sakes, Birdie! Not tomorrow!” Stahlia cried, allowing all the stress of the past days to burst forth. “What kind of malarkey is in your head? Give us all a chance to recover. A royal wedding can’t just be thrown together in a rush. I’d hate to think I raised such a thoughtless young woman!”

  “Mama,” said Tilim with his devil grin, “I think she’s joking.”

  “Indeed,” answered Cerúlia, winking at Stahlia. “We can wait two days.” This struck most everyone as remarkably funny, and such laughter ensued that Lemle choked on his ale and Wareth had to pound him on the back and all the dogs started barking in excitement. And Thalen kissed Cerúlia’s hand and then her forehead.

  “That’s fine. That’s fine,” said the almost-uncle, rubbing his forehead with both palms. “You know, I drank a bit of wine, but it hasn’t exactly helped my head; I’m going outside for a breath of air.”

  The others returned to talk about a wedding, but Stahlia kept her eye on Prince Mikil out the window. He waved to the guards and walked a few paces, one hand on each side of his head. When he staggered a bit, she started to rise. By the time Stahlia flung open the doorway, he had vomited copiously in the grass; by the time she reached his side, his lips had gone bloodless and his eyes rolled back. By the time she screamed for help, he had gone limp in her arms as she sought to hold him up. By the time everyone huddled round with advice and concern, he was gone.

  Cerúlia rushed outside and took the body from her, sitting on the dark, cold grass, holding Mikil’s head in her lap, stroking his forehead and gray temples. Guards had gathered with torches. Inside the cottage, the grandfather wailed as if his heart had been torn out of him. Stahlia knelt so close, her hand pressed on her daughter’s shoulder, she may have been the only one who heard her girl softly singing an unfamiliar song with a repeated chorus of “Beloved of Lautan.”

  PART FOUR

  Reign of Queen Cerúlia, Year 2

  SUMMER

  55

  Moot Table

  Peddler looked around Moot Table, registering new participants since the Agents’ last meeting. He saw a new Sailor—a woman this time; a new Water Bearer—a young boy; and a new Gardener—a man in his prime. Peddler sighed, knowing that the former Agents had passed on. He wasn’t surprised about losing the former Gardener, who had leaned like a gnarled tree about to fall, but he would miss him.

  Pozhar, Ghibli, ‘Chamen, and Restaurà were represented by the same humans as the last time the Agents had gathered. And he recognized Spinner, whom he had met in the flesh as Magistrar Destra in the Garden in Slagos. Her gossamer cape floated about her.

  Healer spoke. “I believe it was you, Spinner, who called this meeting?”

  “Aye,” she replied. “That I did. Mìngyùn sent me with this offer.”

  She stepped into the middle of the flat rock.

  “For hundreds of years Oromondo and Weirandale have been at war. Most of this conflict stems from deep friction and ancient grudges between the two nations. But the recent hostilities have been exacerbated by the blights and food shortages in Oromondo. These blights have intensified the rivalries, leading to open warfare and much loss of life.

  “Oromondo believes that the Weirs are responsible for the blights. To the contrary: Pozhar’s people have brought this catastrophe on themselves by polluting their own water with toxic minerals from their mines.”

  “You lie!” shouted Smithy, instantly defensive.

  “Please, hear me out,” Spinner entreated. “It does no harm just to listen.”

  “Of course no one deliberately caused this pollution. Pozhar and Pozhar’s people had no way of knowing that disturbing these metals would lead to their dispersal in the water. And in their search for a reason for their suffering, of course it was totally understandable that they would blame their ancient enemy.”

  Mason scrunched up his face, deep in thought. “Everyone thinks that rocks are rocks. No one pays attention to how very different they are. Smithy, your mountains are volcanic—and the years of lava and ash on top…”

  Peddler had always thought of Mason as rather dull and stolid; he realized that he may have underestimated his colleague.

  “In hopes of lessening the tensions and earning peace for future generations,” Spinner continued, “the greatest minds in Weirandale and the Free States have worked on solutions to this pollution. Water Bearer?”

  As she ceded the floor, the young boy stepped forward, rainbows spilling wildly from his bowl because he held it in one hand. “Smithy, I have here a gift from the people of Nargis to the people of Pozhar.” He held up a small sack in his free hand. “This contains a compound that you can mix in your contaminated water. If you then pour the water through a filter before allowing people or animals to drink, the filter will catch the toxic metals. The water will be sweet and healthy. Your people and your livestock—or at least those that are not already sick—will thr
ive.”

  Peddler held his breath and stroked his beard braids. Would Smithy accept the gift?

  The new Water Bearer intuited how much this offer injured Smithy’s pride. The boy went down on one knee, put down his bowl, bent his face to the ground, and held the sack out in a supplicating manner.

  Smithy grabbed the sack suspiciously, opened it, and peered inside. “How do I know that this is not poison?”

  Water Bearer answered, “Your land is poisoned now. You know this, though you push away the knowledge. We beg you to sample this solution.”

  “Why would your people do this for Oromondo? Why would you not pursue conquest while we are weak and hungry?”

  “Nargis desires no conquest.”

  Healer added, “An illness anywhere threatens the health of people everywhere.”

  Smithy’s eyes still squinted in suspicion.

  The new Gardener stepped forward. “Smithy, I hear your crops and trees crying out in distress. Wouldn’t it be grand to have lush fields again?”

  “Wait,” Mason interrupted with authority. “The soil in the fields will hold on to the poisons for a long time even if the water runs pure now. Don’t make promises the earth can’t deliver. Also, Smithy, you may need to permanently close down many of your mines so as not to pollute more water sources. Is Oromondo prepared to do this?”

  Peddler could tell that Smithy found Mason’s warnings and caution more convincing than Gardener’s grand vision.

  Pozhar’s Agent hefted the sack in his hand, considering.

  “What does Nargis want in return? Will you expect a fortune in jewels for more of this compound? And you, Spinner—we invaded Mìngyùn’s ancestral homeland. What will you demand of us? Reparations?”