Queen of the Conquered

by Kacen Callender

  “Elskerinde Nørup,” he says, keeping his seat, “I’m surprised.”

  Alida is unsure what to say. She’s surprised, too—surprised that she has actually followed me on this plot of mine.

  “Where is the king?” I ask.

  “Do you mean to take Konge Valdemar’s life?” Jytte asks.

  “There’s no life to take,” I say. “The king is already dead.”

  Jytte nearly laughs in her confusion, her disbelief, but Lothar remains still, frown deepening. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Konge Valdemar hasn’t been at the kongelig meeting in over a week. He wasn’t at the passing of the whales, nor was he with us for the battle against the Ludjivik. Where is he?”

  “The king doesn’t need to come to such trivial—”

  “The king is dead,” I say again, my voice echoing against the walls, even filled with so many bodies, the guards and the Fjern. “I’ve seen his corpse. The king that we’ve seen in the past months has been nothing but a figment of imagination.”

  Silence and confusion meet me. The guards glance at one another, and Malthe waits for the order to take Jytte and Lothar. Before I can speak—before another thought can pass through me—emotion shudders through the air. Alida’s hand trembles, then goes to her neck, her eyes widening. I feel the shock that jolts through her, the stopping of her heart. It stops for a full second before it begins to pump again. She screams. She screams so loudly her voice pierces my skin. The anguish that passes from her and into my chest is a physical pain. I clutch at my neck as well, tears spilling from me, and Alida’s scream lowers to an agonizing sob.

  All in the room are alarmed. Questions, thoughts, emotions bombard me, and my vision begins to blacken. I force myself through the bodies of the guards that crowd the room and out into the hallway, leaning against the walls until I stagger out the front doors and into the heated night. I make it to the gardens, where I heave into the grass. There’re shouts behind me—they’ve made the discovery, I can feel the shock and disgust that fills the courtyard.

  It was cruel, I think—even crueler than simply killing Erik Nørup and leaving his body to be found: His head, abandoned on the ground beside the fountain, leaves a stream of red, his eyes closed and his lips parted, as though he’d been beheaded in his sleep. Alida screams from within the manor’s walls, again and again. She can feel the absence of her twin. She’s always been able to feel her brother, as though his spirit was her own. They’d been born with this connection, this kraft that runs through their veins. Most come into their power when they’re around ten years of age, but Alida and Erik had always known of their ability. It’d been even stronger when they were younger, and both could feel in themselves and each other what a shame it was that their kraft had become weaker as they grew older. They weren’t as close as when they were children. This alone was a tragedy, but at least Alida could sometimes feel how Erik wondered to himself how he might be able to become closer to his sister one day, and Alida knew Erik could also feel this desire in her. The twins didn’t want to hate each other. After the deaths of their parents, they were all the other had.

  Alida had never considered that she might find herself alone in this world. It was an illogical thought, to be sure, but she’d always felt her brother would be a part of her. No matter how distant they became, the possibility of finding their way to each other again had always remained.

  I try to block the emotion that explodes from her and all the guards, Jytte who runs out into the courtyard and covers her mouth, Lothar who follows and shakes his head, unsurprised but still angry on behalf of Erik Nørup. Malthe runs down the path and into the groves that surround Herregård Constantjin looking for a sign of anyone who might be hiding behind a tree, watching the devastation that’s unfolded, but no one is there.

  News has already spread by the time I reach the cliffs. Slaves whisper to one another of this third murder of the kongelig. Aksel has already left. His things are cleared from the front of the house, where chests had been stacked. The house is quieter now that the slaves who’d been bustling about for his departure have finished their work. It seems that even the usual chatter and laughter has been covered by silence. The sun sets red, and when I close my eyes, all I can see is Erik Nørup’s parted mouth, the serenity of his brow. He hadn’t died fighting. I hope that when my murderer comes for me, they aren’t so cowardly as to take me with my eyes shut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The days pass on Hans Lollik Helle, and I don’t leave the Jannik house. I sit in the quiet, enjoying the coolness of the breeze that passes through the open windows. I listen to the crashing of the waves below from my balcony, my eyes closed, my eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks. I should leave the royal island. I can feel the thought in Marieke each time she comes into my room with newly folded sheets. I should leave while I have my life. But still I don’t. There’s a stubbornness in me. My mother had always called me a stubborn child: I wouldn’t take a bath when I was ordered to; wouldn’t eat my food, screaming that I wasn’t hungry; wouldn’t put on the pretty little dresses of lace. She’d called me stubborn—with love sometimes, anger others—but I think she mostly said this with pride, perhaps knowing this was a trait she’d passed on to me. I would be too stubborn to let myself be ignored; too stubborn to allow the Fjern to take my voice, my power, my life. The stubbornness I inherited from my mother pulses in my blood. I have a desire not only to live, to force others to hear my voice, but also a need to see myself succeed—to prove my worth to myself and all the Fjern and my own people. A need to see the kongelig burn.

  Neither Jytte Solberg nor Lothar Niklasson have sent their guards after me. I thought that they would, but perhaps it’s out of respect for Erik Nørup’s death that they hesitate—or maybe they’re only waiting for the right time to strike. I received a letter from a messenger, Konge Valdemar’s signature scrawled along the paper. The false king is to choose the regent who will replace him in one week’s time. It seems impossible, this fact. All of my life has led to this moment. I’d planned for years. Once I decided that I wouldn’t let myself die, I knew that I had to return to the islands of Hans Lollik Helle; so I learned. Learned of the kongelig and their descendants. I looked for the weaknesses of each family, plotted how I’d convince Elskerinde Freja Jannik, finally, of my worth. I returned to the island of Lund Helle, and I killed my uncle. Poisoned his tea every morning, slowly, so that no one would suspect me when he became sick. I didn’t have to do much to convince the man to name me Elskerinde of Lund Helle on his deathbed; he had no one else to name. I met with Elskerinde Jannik for two years, taking her memories and inserting my own thoughts. And finally I’m here. It goes beyond ambition: Getting onto Hans Lollik Helle and surviving this island long enough so that the king might choose me as regent was my reason for living. Even as a child, when I thought on how Tante had whispered to me that my mother would’ve wanted me to live, I’d wanted to die. I’d wished that my mother hadn’t sent me back to my bed that night. That I’d stayed in the gardens, dancing to the music with Ellinor, laughing beneath the stars.

  The kongelig are called to the meeting room by the false king. A final meeting, before he’s to declare the new regent. I sit at the table with Patrika Årud, Lothar Niklasson, Jytte Solberg. There’re no guards in sight, no desire of Jytte or Lothar to find their revenge against me. I can feel their questions, their suspicions. It’s true that the king hasn’t been seen for some time, and they remember my accusations—but at the forefront of everyone’s mind is the memory of Erik Nørup’s head.

  Patrika’s face is pale, her lips blue, her eyes red. She hasn’t put on her cracking makeup as she normally would, and I can see the lines of her face, around her eyes and mouth. Lothar is lost in his own thoughts, his mouth set, gray-and-white-speckled hair uncombed and tangled. Jytte doesn’t look away from me. Her pale-blue eyes capture my every movement.

  We are only four, out of the nine kongelig who’d originally starte
d the storm season on Hans Lollik Helle. I’m not surprised that Alida didn’t come. I’d be surprised if she didn’t leave Hans Lollik Helle immediately that morning. I can’t help the pinch of fear that Alida might not have any plans to leave Hans Lollik Helle alive. Her brother had been a part of her soul. They hadn’t been as close in recent years, and she’d regretted this; now she mourns his loss so violently that I fear she’ll take her own life, just to be reunited with him.

  Not much time passes before the door swings open again. Konge Valdemar—his ghost, his corpse, the puppet of the false king—enters. The eyes of each of the kongelig flit to meet my own, and they think: Here is their proof against me and my accusations. The king is alive and well. He stands before us all. None of them notice that he brings with him the strong scent of wet, overturned dirt. We barely manage to stand in respect before he takes a heavy seat, waving at us to sit down again.

  “Alida Nørup has withdrawn as a kongelig of Hans Lollik Helle,” the false king tells us.

  There’s no measure to Jytte Solberg’s ambition. She sits straighter in her seat, the desire for the regent’s power emanating from her. She’d been told, since she’d been a child, that she’d been made to rule. Her father had been older than the other girls’ fathers on these islands; he had white hair, a face lined by age, a fragile back. The girl’s mother had been dead since her birth. Jytte had never truly belonged with the other little girls of Hans Lollik. She stayed on Solberg Helle, content in her isolation. She studied war. She studied politics. She studied how she might one day become regent, earning the honor for the Solberg name. The Solberg line had once been kings of Koninkrijk; hundreds of eras ago, a rebellion forced the family into exile, but royalty remained in their veins. Jytte Solberg doesn’t care about these islands of Hans Lollik. She sees only a plan that will take many generations: She’ll take Hans Lollik Helle, allowing her future descendants to come one step closer to growing their power and taking back the crown of Koninkrijk.

  The king speaks. “It won’t be an easy decision,” he tells us. “Each of you has the true qualities of regent, and yet I must choose.”

  “My king,” Patrika Årud says, “if I may.”

  My eyes glance to both Jytte Solberg and Lothar Niklasson, watching their expressions as Elskerinde Årud speaks.

  “I, too, would like to withdraw from your consideration as regent,” Patrika says.

  Her voice doesn’t tremble or shake. There’s no emotion in her tone, or beneath her skin. She’s embraced numbness. If she doesn’t embrace numbness, she can’t escape the questions that eventually haunt us all: whether there’s any point to life, when we will inevitably be found by death in the end.

  Patrika hadn’t really been in the running, not more than the others; but still, I can feel the relief from Jytte, the increased focus in Lothar. I myself am not eligible, after the king’s decision and announcement weeks before, so now the choice is between the two of them.

  “Lothar, you’ve been my trusted ally for many years now,” the Konge Valdemar says. “It’d only be natural if I chose you.”

  “It would be an honor, my king.”

  “But of course,” Valdemar continues, “Jytte Solberg would also be a strong candidate. Fresh eyes, which is so needed in these islands.”

  “Thank you, my king.”

  Careful words, gazes fixed on the surface of the table. The king asks for updates on our respective islands, our crop and coin. I relay that the latest storms had done more damage to the Lund Helle plantations than before. There’ll have to be rebuilding, replanting, and perhaps a higher taxation of the Fjern who live on my island. Jytte speaks of her plans to expand her army, after the success of the battle against the Ludjivik.

  While she speaks, Lothar thinks that it’s strange the king hasn’t acknowledged the murder of Erik Nørup. Erik had been up for strong consideration, after all; the Fjern would’ve wanted a king like him, regardless of whether the boy had the intelligence or the talent for ruling. Lothar thinks on the murders of Beata Larsen and Olsen Årud, the attempted assassination of Jytte Solberg. He meets my eyes. He hasn’t wanted to admit it, not when the suggestion implies a weakening in his kraft, but he wonders if I’ve figured out a way to deceive him, just as the others have suggested.

  “My king,” Lothar says, “there was an incident. Before the discovery of Erik Nørup’s death, Elskerindes Jannik and Nørup had brought their guards onto Hans Lollik Helle. They stormed Herregård Constantjin.”

  Konge Valdemar makes no expression, speaks no words. His reaction is calm and still.

  “I believe that either Jytte Solberg or Lothar Niklasson are to blame for the murders of the kongelig,” I say. I don’t speak to the king. I know that he’s false. I look between the two, seated at the table.

  “It could just as easily be you, Elskerinde Jannik,” Jytte says.

  The king speaks. “What do you propose?”

  “Punishment,” Lothar answers. “Execution. Exile. Anything to get her off of Hans Lollik Helle.”

  “One of you is the murderer,” I say, “and the other a fool. If you aren’t to blame for these killings, then trust me now. All that I say is true.”

  “The king sits before us in perfect health,” Lothar says. “What answer do you have for this?”

  I can’t honestly say. It becomes easy to think that I’ve fallen into madness when the king, who should be dead, sits before me—an illusion, a spirit, I’m not sure which. Lothar says again that I should answer for my crimes. Kongelig aren’t supposed to bring their guards onto the island. It’s an affront, and besides that, I used my guards to threaten both him and Jytte.

  The king leans back in his seat, studying Lothar. “I could have Elskerinde Jannik punished,” he says, “but I’d rather this fall to the next regent. Whoever inherits Hans Lollik Helle will have the task of deciding Sigourney Jannik’s future. Is this agreeable?”

  Lothar and Jytte have no choice but to agree with the king’s command, and so they nod dutifully. I can feel in them easily what each would decide: Jytte would have me killed immediately, of course, there is no question in that; but Lothar has never had much stomach for blood, and he’s never seen me as a true threat, even now. He only wants me gone, and it would be easy enough to send me into exile—force me to leave these islands, never to return again. I would have to find a new home elsewhere, perhaps in the north. I wonder if I would finally find my peace.

  The Jannik house on the cliffs is stark white against the setting sun and the darkening sky. The breeze lifts into a wind, threatening to grow stronger into a storm for what would be the last of the season. The house is silent as I approach, but I don’t think anything of it until I open the door. It creaks, and I pause. There’re no footsteps, no laughter, no chatter or shouted orders. I step inside. A slave girl sits on the couch by my fireplace, her throat cut open. Red spills down her front and to the floor, and her eyes are wide, staring. I swallow a scream and step into the shadows. My breath becomes uneven, ragged. I force myself to close my eyes and breathe in, slowly. This could be another trick, another dream or vision.

  I don’t feel a presence with murder on its mind, don’t feel anyone alive. No life, when this house is usually filled with bustle, chatter, laughter, Marieke shouting her orders. My heart pumps harder, faster, as I walk down the hall. Another slave, the stable boy, has been cut across his chest. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, blood spreading across the floorboards. The women who worked in the kitchen are spread across the ground, stomachs open, eyes stuck open in death. When I walk through the door to the gardens, it’s all I can do to stop myself from heaving. There’re dozens dead here, sprawled on their backs and sides as though they had been running for their lives. The killer mocks me. They know that the last time I saw so many dead like this, taken to the gardens to bleed, was the last time I’d seen my family.

  And when I climb my stairs, I can already feel the fear building at what I know I will see. The floorboards cre
ak beneath my feet, the smell of the dead already rising in the heat. I open the door to my chambers. Marieke lies as though asleep, eyes closed and neck cut. I must’ve screamed, must’ve cried, because my throat feels raw, but I hear nothing. I run to her, afraid to touch her—afraid to harm her—but wanting to stop the flow of blood. It’s only when I touch her neck that I realize the blood that covers her and the sheets stopped pumping long ago. It pools like a jewel in the hollow of her collarbone, stains her skin, and drenches the sheets of the bed like its own salted sea. I crumple to the ground, the floorboards sticking to my skin with her blood, and I stay there, even after the tears have dried. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. I wait there for some time, wait for the horror to end, for my eyes to open once again and find myself in the groves or on the rocky shore, another trick of the kongelig who wants me dead; but the longer I stay, the stronger the scent of blood becomes, and I know that this is no lie.

  And so I’ve lost. Marieke was the only person in this world who had any love for me, the only one who cared for me at all—and now she’s gone. I’ve lost, and I can’t stay on Hans Lollik Helle—not anymore. The kongelig can take what they want. They can have these islands. They can have my people. I’m done.

  I don’t know if Malthe is alive or dead, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. I leave my chambers, ready to walk to the barracks and ask for a boat to take me from this island. I want to leave Hans Lollik Helle and all of the islands under its rule—return to the northern empires, live the rest of my life on Bernhand Lund’s coin. I’ll buy a house in a city, far away from Koninkrijk, with the hope that I’ll never lay my eyes on the Fjern again. I’ll have a life of solitude. I can’t see any reason I would need to attempt to make alliances or friendships. I can’t imagine wanting to touch or be touched—imagine wanting to speak to another person again. Thoughts and emotions will come to me, and I’ll know strangers’ lives as thoroughly as I’ll know my own, with all their sadness and heartbreak and joy, and I’ll try to pretend their life is my own so that I won’t have to remember this pain. This is what I want most of all now: to forget everything.