Queen of the Conquered

by Kacen Callender

  When I leave my room, the halls are shadowed, windows shuttered and closed, curtains pulled. The heat and dust swirls with every step. It’s hard to breathe. Water and mold swell in the wallpaper. The sitting room furniture is pushed to the side, dirt spread across the floor. I go to the kitchens, and a slave stirs a pot of stew. I ask for Marieke, and the girl tells me she’s in the gardens.

  Marieke bends over a basket filled with weeds, sweating in the heat. She stands, eyes wide, when she sees me.

  “You shouldn’t be on your feet, Sigourney,” she says.

  I see the state of the garden: the uprooted trees and dead brush. There’d been a second storm while I slept.

  She walks with me, back into the shade of the house and to my room, my balcony so that we can enjoy the breeze.

  “The house is all right, for the most part,” Marieke tells me, “and the manor on Lund Helle is still standing.”

  “What about the kongelig?” I ask her. “Konge Valdemar?”

  “No one else has been killed, if that’s what you mean to ask.” The murderer hasn’t been found yet, either. I think of the nightmares—wandering a maze in my dreams only for Beata Larsen to die; Løren, knife in his hand, when the only hand that had held the knife was mine. I’ve thought the other kongelig have been behind the deaths, the killings, and Konge Valdemar himself—but it could all be me. This could all be my paranoia, my imagination. This is what I think, for the briefest of moments—but no. Nothing is a coincidence on Hans Lollik Helle. This is the kongelig, the same who want me dead, playing their games with my head.

  Marieke hesitates to tell me something, but I don’t read her thoughts. I want to respect her privacy, especially since I owe her my life. “Aksel refuses his duties as Herre Jannik. He’s allowed the house to fall into ruin. He won’t give us the tools to fix it. And there’s something else,” Marieke tells me. “His brother, Løren, has run away.”

  Løren had waited until the height of the storm. The slave girl Agatha had seen him leaving, walking through the lashing wind and rain, knowing no one would dare to follow him. He went to the shore. No one has seen him since. It’s possible he jumped into the waves, or took a boat he’d dragged there, but the end result must still be the same: Løren wouldn’t have survived the sea.

  “His body still hasn’t washed ashore,” Marieke tells me.

  Løren shouldn’t have survived the sea, but he’s always been under the protection of the spirits. It’s possible he finally found his freedom, escaped Hans Lollik Helle and is on his way to the north. He could find happiness there. Simple work that would allow him to earn coin, a house he could call his own. Løren wouldn’t need much to be happy, I can tell; he would leave his memories of Hans Lollik behind, like a distant dream that would only return to him in his nightmares while he slept.

  I ask Marieke to pass a message to Malthe: Have the guards search the shores and groves of the nearest islands, and especially Larsen Helle.

  The kongelig sit around the mahogany table of the meeting room. While I was healing, Patrika had attacked Ludjivik Helle, just as she promised she would. She left Hans Lollik Helle on a ship that met with ships of Niklasson and Solberg Helle. There were over five hundred guards at her command with the guards of the combined houses, and she didn’t plan for mercy. The killings were easy. The guards marched from the bay, walking into villages, killing the Fjern who attempted to fight, finding the children who hid beneath their beds. They marched to the failing plantations and estates, rounding up each of the masters. They were all executed, tied to stakes and burned before their slaves. Only the slaves were kept alive: They were taken onto the Niklasson ships, to be sold for a profit; the coin would be split evenly among the Årud, Niklasson, and Solberg treasuries. Patrika Årud is certain that no one survived the massacre of Ludjivik Helle.

  They’d considered the attack a success at first—but while they focused on Ludjivik Helle, the cousins of Gustav Ludjivik had already moved on. Patrika had taken all of her guardsmen from Årud Helle, and so it was an easy attack. Most of the plantations on Årud Helle were burned, many of the masters and their slaves killed, and the Ludjivik cousin at the helm of the battle, Hannes Skov, took the manor of the island, Herregård Mord, for himself. The manor is like a fortress, I’ve heard. He’s comfortable there.

  Patrika is quiet at the meeting as she listens to the updates on Hannes Skov. She’s embarrassed that she was tricked so easily, and while she won’t admit it, she’s still in mourning over the loss of Olsen. She’s not as adamant on finding her revenge, nor as determined to win the crown as she had been. Now she silently questions why she is still on Hans Lollik Helle; thinks to herself on the many times Olsen had wondered why she wanted this throne. She can’t remember her answers now, what she’d told him, but I can see them in her memories: how she’d wanted the power of a crown over the most beautiful lands in all the world.

  Lothar describes the most recent attacks. Smaller rebellions have started on Nørup and Solberg Helle, though each has been stamped out. It seems Hannes Skov means to attack each island of Hans Lollik, taking control in the kongelig’s stead, until he finally reaches the royal island itself. Lothar tells us we’ll have to attack Årud Helle, of course; we have no choice if we want to regain control of the situation, which is rapidly disintegrating before our very eyes.

  The false king is silent today. If the kongelig who controls him has any thoughts, they keep those opinions a mystery, having Konge Valdemar add nothing to the discussion as the guards of the families are chosen to battle for Årud Helle. No one asks for the Jannik or Lund families to join the fight; all know that the guardsmen are untrained in comparison to the armies that Jytte Solberg and Lothar Niklasson have built for themselves.

  I could leave the meeting without having to worry about the oncoming battles at all—but I also know where the real fight lies. I hadn’t planned it, but the opportunity presents itself.

  “Valdemar Helle is closest to Solberg Helle,” I say.

  Jytte looks annoyed at the interruption in their plans. She asks why this matters. “The island has been abandoned since Konge Valdemar moved onto Hans Lollik Helle at the beginning of his reign.” She’s impatient. Everyone knows this.

  “That could suggest the perfect position for the Ludjivik to hide as they plan their next attack. If I’m wrong, your campaign won’t have suffered at all,” I say. “But if I’m right, it’s worth me taking some Jannik guardsmen to scout the island and ensure there are no spies. Perhaps even rebuild fortifications for ourselves, so that when they attempt to fall back, we’ll be ready to attack.”

  I can see plainly that Lothar agrees—there’s no harm in sending me to Valdemar Helle—but Jytte doesn’t trust my intentions. She wonders what secret plans I might have in wanting to be on Valdemar Helle, away from the other kongelig and away from potential witnesses. She doesn’t know, but if she can, she’ll find out. The king doesn’t speak his opinion. As I peer at the king through my eyelashes, I believe I can see my vision of him flicker. I wonder if the kongelig who controls him is growing weaker from the amount of energy it must take to uphold this lie, and for so long, too.

  The meeting is adjourned, the plans set. I stand to leave along with the rest of the kongelig, but the king stays seated. “Elskerinde Jannik,” he says, “a word.”

  The kongelig are surprised. I can see it in their glances, in the flare of thought around the room. Lothar Niklasson wonders what the king could have to say to me. He and Konge Valdemar have always discussed their tactics and plans. The king would never have spoken to any of the other kongelig without Lothar first knowing he would. Cristoff Valdemar has changed, yes, that much is certain; changed from the friendship the two had once shared, generations before under the rule of a different king an entire era ago. They had planned and schemed, Cristoff and Lothar, two young boys who envisioned a future where all of Hans Lollik would belong to them. Their friendship was close; their alliance was natural. They don’t have to wo
rk to convince anyone that they belong to this world and that the world belongs to them. They aren’t like Jytte Solberg: emotionless so that no one will question her ability to rule. They are nothing like me, certainly. What could two pale-skinned Fjern boys have in common with a dark-skinned islander like myself? They’d been taught my people are savages—that we have an inability to think for ourselves, to feel as other humans do. Both boys had been taught that they own the world, and that I’m a part of the world they own.

  Lothar is confused. He and Cristoff had been handed the power they were owed, and Lothar was ready to be passed the title of regent, as they’d agreed so many years ago. The Niklasson family would continue in the vision the two boys had for these islands: the profit in crops, in sugarcane and tobacco, would reach a height previously unseen. These islands could become so strong in coin, so abundant in crop, that the Koninkrijk Empire would come to rely on Hans Lollik. Though Lothar hadn’t shared his thoughts with Cristoff, Lothar was certain that his own successors could even declare independence from the Koninkrijk Empire, that the Niklasson name could become regent of its own nation of islands, the wealthiest in all the world. There were still steps to follow, plans to be made, but they were both so close to reaching their goals, the islands under Cristoff’s rule with Lothar’s guidance—and as the king had promised so long ago, Lothar and his nephews were to be in line to take the crown.

  But now, Lothar’s trust in the king wavers. He worries that Valdemar’s promises won’t be met. Konge Valdemar has been cold to Lothar—and confusing. The first moment of confusion, certainly, had been the invitation to Mirjam Rose to join Hans Lollik Helle for the storm season all those years ago.

  Lothar had asked why, and the king had been compelled to answer honestly: “I wonder, sometimes, if the islanders might be better fit to rule themselves.”

  There’d been no reason for it, no inspiration for him to betray Lothar and the Fjern people; and now, here I am in my mother’s place. Lothar is prepared to take the regency for himself, rather than rely on his alliance with Valdemar. He’s worked nearly all his life for this moment, and he won’t let go easily.

  All of the kongelig leave slowly, their questions and curiosity following each out the door, but Lothar hesitates, unmoving.

  “Leave, Lothar,” the king commands.

  Lothar jolts—he’s become increasingly used to this anger in the king, this anger that Valdemar shows, but it still sends a shock through him. They’d been the closest of friends as children, the best of allies and partners as they grew. Lothar watched as Cristoff was married to a Niklasson cousin. Lothar watched as they had their child, though the girl had been sickly and didn’t live past her first year. The woman fell ill and passed away as well, and Cristoff never bothered to remarry or have another child; he’d already agreed to pass the regency to Lothar at the end of the era. Lothar had sometimes wondered if he should ask Cristoff if he’d ever, at any point in their friendship, considered Lothar the way that Lothar considered him: in the way that both boys were expected to look at the women of these islands. Lothar had felt this, when they were young. It was difficult not to love Cristoff Valdemar. He’d been golden, filled with light and laughter. He exuded the confidence only a person who knows the world belongs to them can exude: There’s no need for self-consciousness, or to second-guess your actions, or the words that fall from your mouth, when you know there will be no consequence—when you know that the world will still be yours. Cristoff held this confidence, though it started to shake once he was visited by the voices he called the spirits of the dead. They must’ve whispered things to him that made him question his standing in this world, for him to turn to the gods for help. Lothar wondered, too, if perhaps these spirits had influenced Cristoff’s when he invited Mirjam Rose onto his island.

  Lothar had loved him, but he knew that such a love between them could never be. Lothar’s love for Cristoff Valdemar had to be kept a secret; he couldn’t risk asking his friend if he might’ve felt the same, couldn’t risk the humiliation if Cristoff had declared Lothar’s love a sin, as the empire of Koninkrijk had done many eras before.

  Lothar leaves the table and makes his way for the door. He glances at me, and he thinks that I must have something to do with this change in the king. It’s too much of a coincidence for him, that the storm season I, an islander, am wrongfully brought onto Hans Lollik Helle is the same storm season that Konge Valdemar has begun to push Lothar away. Herre Niklasson wonders if I’m behind everything: the murders, and perhaps even the Ludjivik uprising. Though Lothar had questioned me himself, he doesn’t trust me; he never has, but especially now, he wonders if I plot to destroy Hans Lollik Helle.

  The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone with Konge Valdemar.

  I stay seated. The lay of the room—the shining mahogany and velvet and gilded gold, the chandelier above us—remains, and I think this is more chilling than if the false vision had finally dropped, revealing what I know is the truth.

  The king doesn’t smile at me. His mouth, I realize, has started to sag, his eyes have yellowed, his pale skin turning blue. He looks the way his corpse should look, just as it’s beginning to rot.

  “Are you surprised that I’ve asked you to sit with me, Elskerinde Jannik?”

  I’m not sure what he expects me to say. “Yes, my king, I suppose so.”

  “Why is that?”

  He watches me emptily, without any presence or life, and I know the risk I take now—but I know, too, that whoever controls the king must also suspect me of my truth. “I’m surprised because I know that you’re not real, my king.”

  He smiles, slowly, waiting for me to continue, and so I do.

  “You have no presence, no life. I look at you and I see a corpse.” The longer I watch him, the more he seems to rot before my eyes, skin drooping around his cheeks. “Why don’t I feel life from you?” I ask him. “Why don’t I feel any presence?”

  The king thinks it’s funny that I’ve dared to ask outright. His smile widens, his eyes bright. He tells me that I’m brave. He doesn’t answer my question. Instead he asks one of his own. “Why are you going to Valdemar Helle?”

  I’m startled by the quick change in topic. “It’s as I said before,” I tell him. “It’ll be useful to our campaign against the Ludjivik if I’m stationed there.”

  “You’re not a very good liar, for someone who depends so much on lies.”

  I don’t answer, and so he continues.

  “You stayed here on Hans Lollik Helle, even knowing I wouldn’t pass along the regency to you, even knowing the other kongelig want you dead. I was giving you a chance to escape this island, but you didn’t take it. Why didn’t you, Elskerinde Jannik?”

  “Do you want me to leave?” I ask him. “Leave, before I figure out your truth?”

  “I was showing you a mercy,” he says. “That mercy won’t be extended much longer. Leave,” he tells me. “Leave Hans Lollik Helle and return to your home. Better yet, leave the islands of Hans Lollik altogether. You’ll be giving up your potential power, your coin—but you’ll have your life.”

  I can’t pull my eyes away from him. “Who controls you?” I ask him. “Who among the kongelig?”

  He laughs at this, his voice rasping, as someone might on their deathbed. He only stops when I say that I’ll tell the kongelig. “And what will you do then?” I ask him. “If the kongelig know the truth, and Lothar can see that I’m not lying?”

  “Go ahead,” he tells me. “Let the kongelig know the truth.”

  The words hang in the air. “Do you mean to kill until we’re all either dead or we’ve left the island and given up our claim to the throne?”

  He stands to leave, his chair scraping behind him. “Let it be known that I did give you a chance.”

  Konge Valdemar vanishes before the words are even fully from his mouth. The room turns to rot, the wallpaper peeling, dark without the light of the chandelier that hangs from the ceiling, buried in unlit candle w
ax. I stand, expecting to see an assassin ready to cut my throat in the shadows, but no one comes. I leave the room, run into the hall, once again fallen beneath the lie, dirt smearing the floor—and I hear the echoes of footsteps. I follow them, running, but the footsteps are quicker, farther and farther away down the darkened and rotting halls, until I can’t hear them any longer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  There are eighty guardsmen under the Jannik and Lund names combined, not nearly as many as the Solberg’s three hundred, but enough for a small scouting expedition. Malthe takes command of the men as our ships arrive at the bay of Valdemar Helle. There’s no wind. The sea is still, unmoving. The guards have to row the boats, and though I expected to arrive before dawn, by the time we reach the sand, the sun is already high above us in the sky, sweat running down my back. The men make camp on the seashore, ready for their orders. At least if there’re enemies hidden in the brush, they’ll have to make themselves known before they attempt to strike. The island is small, and made mostly of volcanic rock. The Valdemar family had been poor and relied mostly on the trade of fishermen. As a boy, Cristoff Valdemar had wanted more. He’d believed he deserved more.

  Malthe is silent and steady as he follows me away from the clatter of the making of camp. I walk along the shore, the sand ashy and mixed with sharp black stones. I’ve grown to appreciate Malthe’s calming presence. His mind is meditative in its silence. He doesn’t pass judgment and he doesn’t expect anything of me, except for my command, which he will follow, as is his duty. Malthe’s mind is so carefully curated that when I sink into his thoughts, I can only access a few memories that I can sense he wants me to see. It’s the mind of someone who has something to hide. I think that Malthe would want to hide the hatred he has for me, and the disgust. He’s by my side every day—has sworn his loyalty to me. His hatred isn’t something he would want me to know.

  Malthe had never known his mother or father. He’d been sold, like most of the boys in the guard, from the moment he’d barely been able to walk on his own two legs. Sold and trained and beaten and whipped with every mistake he made. He wasn’t afraid of the beatings. He didn’t follow the gods of the Fjern. He believed in his ancestors, the spirits, and he knew that he had been blessed. They wouldn’t allow him to be killed, not so easily; they would help him find his peace and happiness. Malthe knew that the spirits would even grant him his freedom, without him even needing to escape.