Queen of the Conquered

by Kacen Callender

  “You’ve always supported me,” Aksel says, “even when all the other kongelig were elitist snobs who looked down on me and my family.”

  Erik’s eyes slide uncomfortably to Patrika and Olsen Årud. The two watch without expression, hiding the ripples of anger at the insult, amusement now gone. Erik nods to Aksel, raising his own glass. “Here, here.” He takes a sip.

  Erik Nørup has always hated coming to Hans Lollik Helle, and all that he ever looks forward to are these parties with their sugarcane wine. He feels sorry for Aksel, but Erik is the only guest who doesn’t laugh at his friend. They’d been friends once, anyway, long ago; children, racing through the groves of Hans Lollik Helle, putting spiders in Alida’s hair and laughing as she screamed, chasing the brown boy who had Aksel’s eyes. Erik had heard the rumors, of course—everyone had—and Erik had been particularly good at hiding under tables to listen to the adults’ affairs. He and Aksel chased the boy through the groves, threatening to hang Løren Jannik by his neck. Erik had thought it had all been in jest, nothing but a game, but one day Aksel had actually brought rope and told Erik how they were to catch Løren before he could run back to the slaves’ quarters. Erik had wanted to tell Aksel no, he wouldn’t help the boy kill his brother, but he’d been too afraid. Aksel had a fury in him that Erik had never witnessed in anyone else—besides, perhaps, Aksel’s father, Engel Jannik.

  They were both twelve years old, the slave boy only ten; it was easy to catch him, easier than Erik thought it would be. They slipped the rope around Løren’s neck, and he screamed and cried and fought, biting and scratching—Erik still had a pale, thin scar on his collarbone, even all these years later—but Aksel was determined. He threw the rope over a branch, pulling, and Løren was lifted into the air, feet kicking, hands to the rope around his neck as he choked, his face swelling—until the branch snapped, and he fell to the ground with a gasp.

  Aksel could have tried again: The boy’s fight had left him, and he was gasping for air and crying. Erik was relieved when Aksel, instead, decided to run. Aksel and Erik had done many cruel things on this island as boys, Erik could admit; but somehow, this was what had split their friendship apart. Erik couldn’t quite look at Aksel again after the two nearly took Løren Jannik’s life. If he continued to play with Aksel, it was because his father, Johans Nørup, now dead, told him to.

  But it took the death of Beata Larsen for Erik to become allies with Aksel Jannik once again. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man, and though Erik did enjoy sugarcane wine, I notice that he’s been drinking from the same glass all afternoon, though he laughs just as loudly as Aksel does when he stumbles.

  Aksel points at the slaves lined up and demands that they sing a song. “You’re always singing,” he tells them, “making your loud music in the fields. Sing for us now. We need music, and I want to dance.”

  The slaves hesitate. One starts a shaky tune, and the others know it, so they join in. It’s a slow song, one that makes my heart ache. I’d heard Tante singing it long ago. A song about a woman who, on her deathbed, isn’t sure she’ll live long enough to see her daughter, who must cross the sea. Aksel either doesn’t listen to the words or he’s too drunk to care; he claps his hands and twists around to his imagined beat, grin split across his face, as though the song is festive and full of joy. He pauses. He’s spotted Løren, standing in the shade of the porch.

  Aksel claps his hands once again, then points at his brother. “You aren’t singing,” he says.

  Løren doesn’t respond, not right away. The kongelig are watching, however, even Patrika and Olsen Årud, and he knows he’s expected to respond to his master. “I don’t know this song,” he tells Aksel.

  “Don’t all you slaves know the same songs?” Aksel asks.

  Løren doesn’t reply this time. This angers Aksel, it’s easy for everyone to see. Aksel takes another glass of sugarcane wine from the slave girl, then makes his way up the steps and to the porch, into the shade. He speaks only to Løren, but his voice carries on the wind.

  “Maybe you should learn it,” he tells Løren. The slaves are still singing in the garden, under the hot sun. “See? There are the words, and the tune. You can learn it, can’t you?”

  Løren tells Aksel, “I don’t want to.”

  Aksel slaps Løren’s cheek, and Løren’s fist flies back, knocking Aksel in the mouth.

  The slaves stop singing. There’s an intake of breath from everyone, islanders and kongelig alike. Aksel has been hit so hard that he stumbles backward, into the railing, another glass of sugarcane wine falling to the ground, though this one doesn’t break. It rolls, down the stairs and into the grass. Aksel straightens now, shock filling his being. The rage in Løren settles, and I can see it plainly on his face: the realization of what he’s done.

  Aksel doesn’t speak. For a long while, he doesn’t move. When he finally does, it isn’t to throw himself at Løren, to beat the boy into submission, as I thought he would. He leaves—walking down the dirt path, toward the groves. The kongelig share my confusion, but it’s clear to all that the party is now over. Glasses are handed back to Marieke and Agatha, and they give me tightened smiles as they curtsy and bow with their gratitude, Erik now sober. Patrika compliments me on a lovely party with a smile.

  When the guests and their slaves are gone, I turn to the porch, but Løren has disappeared. Marieke hurries to me. “We have to find him,” she says. “We won’t have a lot of time.”

  I’m not sure what she means, and in her impatience, she pushes an image at me, her thoughts: Marieke has seen this before. A slave dares to rise their hand against their master, and the master returns with a group of men, ready to hang that slave from the nearest tree. She believes Aksel is looking for those men now. Some kongelig, perhaps, but likely other guards from the slaves’ quarters. Marieke wants me to find Løren now—to hide him and save him.

  We hurry into the house, through the halls, calling Løren’s name. He isn’t in the kitchens, or even the library. I realize where he might be, and leave the house again, taking the path that cuts into the groves, trees leaving patterns of shadow and light on the ground, flickering sunshine into my eyes, until I reach the shore. He stands on the rocks again, a figure so still he may be nothing but a shadow, and whereas before I wondered if he might be waiting for a wave to come and take him into the sea, now I’m sure he’s trying to find the courage to jump.

  I take off my sandals, clutching them in my hand, and race across the rocky grains, ignoring the sting of stone cutting into the bottoms of my feet as I call his name. There’s no block between us. He doesn’t care to keep me from his thoughts now. He knows I’m there, but he doesn’t look at or acknowledge me. I stand behind him, willing him to turn.

  “I’ll make your brother see my way,” I tell him. “I won’t let him touch you.”

  But Løren knows Aksel far better than I do. Aksel has wanted his brother dead for years, and he’s attempted to kill Løren multiple times. Racing through the groves, telling all of Løren’s power. Aksel had been so sure that his father would have the slave boy hung from his neck when Engel found that Løren had kraft in his veins, and it was to be so, at first; Løren had been locked in a room, and Engel had decided to hang his son the following morning. It was the law of Hans Lollik, the law of the kongelig, and there were to be no exceptions. The noose was set up, the slaves gathered to watch. Aksel was happy to not have a boy his father would compare him to, yelling at Aksel, hitting him across the face, telling him that his brother, subhuman, was faster and smarter and stronger than he.

  But even as Løren was brought from his room, hands tied, Aksel could see his father’s waning determination. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and his voice wavered as he began to speak of the law of the kongelig. The boy didn’t fight or struggle—he must’ve realized that there was no chance he would win this fight, and so there was no point. He stood on the chair obediently as his father came to him and placed the noose around his neck. But he
re, Aksel saw with a dropping heart, Engel hesitated. He wouldn’t look away from the boy’s face, and Løren wouldn’t look away either. He held his father’s stare with courage, anger, and hatred burning, as though Løren meant to let Engel Jannik know that his own spirit would haunt his father until the end of time. Engel took the noose from around the boy’s neck and ordered him released. He might be a slave, but he was still a descendant of the kongelig, and so Engel announced that Løren would live. Even all these years later, Løren’s eyes looked too much like his own.

  Engel Jannik was no longer here to hesitate. Fever, a storm-season illness, had taken the man years before. A pitiful way for Engel Jannik to go. Løren could see that Aksel didn’t mourn his father. Løren, in a sick way, had. It was because of Engel Jannik that Løren had lived. Engel had been the only barrier between Løren and Aksel, even after the man had nearly beaten Løren to death for so many years. Aksel refused to look at the truth within himself: He couldn’t help but feel a connection to this man with his brown skin and dark hair and eyes, knowing that he and this islander shared the same blood and flesh. Aksel wanted the boy dead, but every time he tried to kill Løren himself, he would hesitate, just as his own father would.

  Løren and I both know that, right now, Aksel won’t hesitate. He has too much sugarcane wine in his stomach and rage flowing through his veins. Løren will be dead by nightfall, he is sure of it, and if Løren is going to die, he wants to die on his own terms: making one last bid for his freedom, even if it means he will drown.

  I ask him to come down from the rocks. “I won’t let Aksel kill you.”

  “There were witnesses. If he doesn’t have me executed, they’ll consider him weak. He would never allow anyone to consider him weak.”

  “Come back with me,” I tell Løren. “I won’t let anyone come near you. I promise you that.”

  Løren hesitates—but if there’s a chance he might live, he’ll take it. We hurry back to the house, the other slaves continuing their work but unable to keep from watching us race past. I walk Løren to the library, where he’s been sleeping these last weeks in his corner with his blanket and pillow. Løren watches me as I close the door behind him. I can see how his eyes might’ve looked when he was young—how there might’ve been a mixture of rage and fear and hope. Though the rest of his face is blank, and I can’t feel any emotion because of the wall he holds between us, I can see in his eyes that he feels like a child again, and that he hates that he has to depend on me now.

  I go outside to wait for Aksel on the rocky path. The wind grows stronger in the setting sun, whipping my dress around my legs and my thick hair into my face so that it brushes against my cheeks. I can see Aksel coming up the path from afar, a line of men trailing behind him. As they get closer, I count ten. They’re mostly kongelig, Erik included. A few are guards, one of them Malthe.

  Aksel doesn’t bother to speak. Malthe steps forward, his expression grim.

  “My lady,” he tells me, “Herre Aksel Jannik has requested the presence of the slave named Løren.”

  “Aksel can’t have him,” I tell Malthe.

  Malthe hesitates, looking to Aksel, who only continues to watch me. Malthe turns back to me again. “My apologies, my lady,” he says. “I know that Løren is your personal guard, but he attacked Herre Aksel Jannik. This can’t be overlooked.”

  “Aksel attacked Løren first,” I say. There’s an uncomfortable shifting of feet. “Is that not so?”

  Aksel speaks, though he still doesn’t look at me. “Løren is a slave,” he says, “my family’s slave, and so it’s impossible for me to attack him. Does the butcher attack the goat when he cuts the animal’s neck?”

  “Løren is mine,” I say. “He’s been mine since the day you sent him to kill me.”

  The kongelig who are gathered had heard the rumors, of course, the same as everyone else: how much Aksel and I despised each other, how Aksel had tried to have me killed so that he could be free of our marriage and escape with Beata Larsen; how, though Lothar Niklasson had declared me innocent, most on the island still believe I found my revenge by strangling the girl and leaving her body to the sea. They believe that I’m a black snake, think that I’d somehow found a way to deceive the kongelig. The hatred Aksel and I have kept for each other, and his attempt to take my life, was a secret I’d so desperately wanted to hide in the face of the king, with the chance that Jannik might be named regent; but now that it’s obvious to me that he’s a puppet king, it’s not a fact worth hiding.

  Faced with the truth, Aksel turns red with rage, still unable to look at me.

  “Do you deny it?” I ask Aksel.

  “I don’t,” he says.

  “Løren reacted in self-defense,” I tell all gathered.

  “A slave has no right to defend himself against his master,” one of the kongelig, a Solberg cousin, tells me. He’s disgusted that he even has to address me, an islander. “The boy should be dead.”

  Aksel is a coward. He’s too afraid to fight me on this. He knows of my kraft and knows I’d best him before all gathered. He knows I would delight in the chance to humiliate him and force him to his knees to kiss my feet if he attempts to attack me here and now. I would prove to all of them that my power is stronger than theirs—not in spite of the darkness of my skin but because of it, because of my ancestors and the fury filling my bones.

  My husband finally looks at me. He clenches his jaw, then walks, boots crunching the rocky dirt, and stops so close beside me that I can smell the sugarcane wine on his breath. “He can’t go completely unpunished for what he’s done,” he says.

  A negotiation. I shake my head. “I won’t let you touch him.”

  “The guests of my party saw him hit me. What will it do to the Jannik name, for him to hit his master and no harm come to him? I won’t kill him,” he says, and here his voice is lit with rage, “but I want to see him punished.”

  I’d promised Løren that no harm would come to him, but I can see that this is the compromise that Aksel expects, the compromise that will allow Løren to keep his life without this spectacle of a standoff between me and Aksel. I agree to Aksel’s terms with a stiff nod. This is the best way to end this quarrel, and the safest. I tell Malthe where Løren is hiding. Aksel snaps his fingers impatiently at Marieke, and all the slaves who work the Jannik house are gathered from the kitchens and the groves, as is custom. Marieke stands with her hands folded one atop the other, her yellowing eyes empty. She doesn’t look at me because she doesn’t want me to feel her judgment, and so I give her the privacy she deserves, but even then the disgust radiates from her skin. Was there really no other way, Sigourney? Is watching my fellow islanders whipped how I spend my time on the island of Hans Lollik Helle now, instead of finding a way to make the kongelig pay for what they’ve done? Marieke wants to know, but she doesn’t see how I’m twisted in this game the kongelig play.

  Løren is dragged out from the library. Malthe binds his hands, though the boy doesn’t fight back, doesn’t struggle. He’s a fighter, yes, but Løren has never fought back when he’s known it was a fight he wouldn’t win. There’s no point in wasting the energy. He won’t look at me as he’s forced into the center of all who stand to watch. Aksel is handed a whip.

  I leave. I know that, as the Elskerinde Jannik, it’s my duty to stay and see that this punishment be carried out, but I can’t watch. Already I feel a sickness churning in me, and I can’t trust myself not to enter Aksel and force him to stop, to turn the whip on himself and the other Fjern. Even from inside, in the shadowed hall and up the stairs, in my chambers with the doors closed, I can hear the crack of the whip. It’s a long time before Løren lets himself scream.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I don’t visit Løren, because the first time I tried to, he let me feel the fullness of his hatred. I’d felt the hatred waver in his questions, his wondering of whether I do, after all, care for my people—whether I could ever find redemption in helping the islanders find freedom
from the Fjern—but now, he lets me see what he thinks of me: this woman who has fooled herself for her own comfort, who has tried to pull others into her lies so that she can use them for her own gain, this islander who has betrayed her people out of what she pretends is love. There’s no one in this world who is worse than I am, he wants me to know. Though I tell myself I saved him, this is just another lie to make me feel like I’m the heroine in my own fairy tale. I didn’t save him: I allowed my husband to whip him.

  Marieke says that Løren remains in the library and that she goes to him every morning, and afternoon and night to reapply salves of aloe to his back and legs. Løren already has a webbing of pale, raised scars covering his skin. This doesn’t surprise Marieke. She’s seen boys like Løren before: reckless, fearless, believing they don’t care if they die but knowing they really do want to live, just like anyone else. She’d once known a boy like this, on Rose Helle, before my father married my mother. The boy had belonged to my father, when Koen Rose was just about my age. Marieke was told that this boy was her brother, though she didn’t see many similarities between them. Marieke preferred to hide the anger and hatred within her, to keep patience for the day she might finally find an opportunity for revenge. This boy, who might’ve been her brother, wasn’t patient. He’d whispered to the other slaves in the night. They’d collected their machetes and knives and buried the blades in the sand by the bay. They had planned to kill Koen Rose.

  It had been Marieke who told her master the truth. She told her master, knowing that if she didn’t, Koen Rose would have killed not only her brother and his friends but more of his slaves as well. It was common practice to kill islanders who hadn’t been a part of the rebellion, both in punishment and to create fear so that there would never be another uprising again. Marieke didn’t want innocents to die. She didn’t want to risk that she would be one of those innocents killed. And so she told Koen Rose of her brother’s plans.