A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  When Lemle came in, she added logs to the fire, hung the kettle, and lit the lantern.

  Of the many people who had stuck by them since the double tragedies, Lem and Rooks had been the most stalwart. It had been Lem who had encouraged Percia to start her school and who had helped her surmount every obstacle. Rooks spent a great deal of time with Tilim, teaching him the weaponry skills the boy was so keen to master.

  Lemle appeared to be as eager for a good chat as she was. He told her the whole story of how he’d brought down the doe. When she topped off his cup he reported the gossip swirling around town that Thom had gotten the Daverly girl with child and was refusing to marry her.

  Stahlia tsked her disapproval. Then she asked, “How is your uncle faring this week?”

  Lemle lost his wicked grin. “His ankles look awful swelled up, and his breath comes short. We had the healer round four days ago—cost a drought damn fortune—but he just said something cruel about nature taking its course.” Lemle’s brow darkened as he muttered, “Goddard’s a greedy, heartless fellow.”

  “I’ve never liked him neither,” said Stahlia. “I’m sorry to hear about Rooks; I’ll make a broth with the venison bones and ride up tomorrow or the day after to give it to him.”

  “You’ve no need to trouble yourself, missus,” said Lemle.

  “No, no. Do me good, and do Syrup some good to move about,” said Stahlia. “Come look at my latest tapestry. This one’s for the Millerville Church of the Waters.”

  Stahlia took him out to her workroom. He admired the tapestry on her loom, his finger lovingly tracing some of the outlines.

  “I think, for the top of the waves, where they crest,” Stahlia pointed, “I need to work in lighter colors. Lavender, maybe. Not white. Or yellow, though I don’t have any on hand and I’d have to order some.” She squinted at her weaving from several angles.

  “It’s really splendid,” Lemle enthused.

  “You know, just now, when I was outside, an image of a new piece came to me. ‘The Lay of Queen Chilandia’ describes light just like this afternoon, solid rays streaming through the clouds, when she is returning from burying her father in a crypt in Rortherrod. I’ve never attempted Chilandia’s Trail of Mourning. She would be dressed in gray, her blue hair all falling down with grief, wearing a mourning circlet.… Attendants would be in the background, uncertain of how to help their queen. And it would be late fall, exactly like this.”

  She laughed at herself with a touch of bitterness. “But who would want to hang the Trail of Mourning in their great room?”

  “Lots of people can relate to mourning, missus,” said her young visitor, wise beyond his years.

  “I suppose it would all depend on whether I could capture this light precisely. The light would make her grief grand, not gnawing and fretful.”

  “There’s an engraving in your book about Chilandia,” said Lemle, pulling the wrapped volume out of his waist apron. “I brought it back to you today.”

  He started to turn to the page, but Stahlia forestalled him. “Let’s go in the cottage for some more tisane.”

  Inside, Lemle found the page quickly, and he pointed out the crosshatching that gave the queen’s horse depth and volume. Stahlia wondered how many times he had studied each engraving. When Percia had told her that Lem’s dream was to apprentice to an engraver, Stahlia had worried that the young man was now too old for any master to take on as an apprentice, but he certainly appreciated the craft.

  “Well,” she said, “I’ll tuck Chilandia in the back of my mind. I need to finish this one about Queen Cressa’s last voyage first.” She slapped her knees. “I’ve got to get supper started, Lemle, but you’ll join us tonight, won’t you? It would be so nice to have company.”

  “I’d best get home. I hate to go because your house is so cozy, but I don’t like being gone from my uncle too long. Thanks for the tisane—I always say that yours is the best brew around.”

  Lemle opened the door. “Ah! Here comes your family, missus,” he called over his shoulder as he exited.

  And in a moment Tilim and Percia tumbled inside, with cold cheeks and happy eyes, flooding the small, shabby house with cheerfulness. Stahlia was pleased to be able to promise them venison steaks—that is, after they took care of Barley, mucked out Syrup’s stall, and finished all the other chores they had neglected earlier.

  She secretly relished her children’s grumbles as she set about fixing them a good supper.

  5

  Cloverfield, Alpetar

  Gunnit was watching the goats in West Pasture when his young dog, Kiki, alerted him that someone approached. He held his crooked staff at the ready as he watched the trail at the far end of the pasture. Eight-summers-old Aleen, his companion from the journey on the High Road, appeared, gasping for breath after the steep climb up the hillside.

  “Gunnit!” she panted. “You’re wanted.”

  “Has anything happened?” he asked, alarmed, as his thoughts flashed back to the time he was minding the goats when Sweetmeadow was raided.

  “Nothing like that—everyone is safe. It’s just that Peddler is here, and he wants you. Right away, he says.”

  “He wants me? I wonder why,” said Gunnit, grabbing his rucksack. “Are you staying with the flock?” he asked.

  “No, a lad is coming. I just got here quicker.”

  Gunnit offered her some water, and then Aleen and he started down the trail at a good clip, Kiki bounding ahead. Aleen was doing well keeping up with him; they nodded wordlessly at the replacement shepherd on his way up to resume Gunnit’s post. Thereafter, if Aleen slowed at steep spots, Gunnit grabbed her hand and helped her.

  When they got back into Cloverfield, Gunnit expected to see the peddler’s cheerful wagon parked in the village square. Instead, the man with round green eyes and bells tied into his light yellow hair and darker yellow beard stood beside a tall horse, dun-colored with a white face and socks. Its white silky mane and tail were fancy plaited and tied with bells, and Peddler was holding the reins of another horse that looked almost its twin, but sporting a smaller saddle.

  Dame Saggeta and his mother stood near the sundial, talking to Peddler, while other villagers watched from a discreet distance. His mother had baby Addigale on her hip, while Limpett clung to her skirts, sucking his thumb.

  “It’s up to the boy,” Gunnit overheard Saggeta telling his mother, right before they spotted him and Aleen.

  “What’s up to me?” Gunnit asked.

  His mother turned to him, distress in her face. “This peddler says he is going on a journey and he needs you to come with him.”

  “Come with him where and for how long?” asked Gunnit.

  “That’s just it,” Dame Saggeta answered. “He won’t say. Nor will he say why it has to be you and no one else.”

  His mother chewed her lip, “And he wants you to leave right now. This instant. Gunnit, you don’t have to go, just because he asks for you. We need you here; you’re only ten, too young to leave home. Even if this man is Saulė’s priest or some such—I’m your mother.”

  Aleen came over and entwined her arm around his mother’s waist, which appeared to comfort her a bit.

  “Peddler also says that he will protect you with his life,” Saggeta put in, “which is supposed to be reassuring, but makes me suspicious where he’d be taking you that you’d need such protection.”

  The horses pranced a few steps, as if eager to be off. “Whoa there, Sunbeam,” said Peddler, who had crouched down to pet Kiki while the others conversed. He stood, saying, “Well, Gunnit, lad, nice to see you again. These ladies summed up the situation tidily. Naturally, you don’t have to join me. But I’ve been called on an urgent mission, a rescue mission, and I judge it wise to take you along.”

  The boy looked in Peddler’s face, where he saw impatience but also warmth. Gunnit and his mother had only made their home in Cloverfield a few moons ago; while he didn’t want to be stuck here for always, he wasn’t particularly e
ager to leave just yet. After their trip on the High Road, maybe he’d had enough adventures and traveling … at least for a few years. But he remembered the last time he had spoken with Peddler, when the older man had told him he was “kissed by the Sun,” presented him with the golden Sun Bracelet, and made him feel special.

  Under his shirt he felt his Bracelet give his upper arm a slight squeeze. If you were “kissed by the Sun” did that mean you had a duty to go on rescue missions?

  “Gunnit,” his mother said, planting her foot. “I don’t want you to go.”

  The boy looked back and forth from Peddler to the grouping of his mother, the little ones, Aleen, and Saggeta, torn and confused.

  “Dame, I surely don’t mean to cause you pain; I know how much you’ve already endured,” said Peddler.

  Next he turned to the young goatherd. “Before I go, lad, why not come say hello to Sunbeam? You’ll never again see a horse so fine.”

  Gunnit walked the few paces away from his family to Peddler and the mounts. The horse’s neck felt softer than silk. Its large eye blinked at him, then it nodded its head up and down.

  A thought hit Gunnit. “Is this—could this be about Finch?” Gunnit whispered to Peddler around the horse’s neck.

  “Aye. Her life hangs by a thread.”

  “Where is she? What can we do?”

  “I’m not certain, but I must try, and the Mirror told me that with you, I’d have better odds.”

  Gunnit drew in a deep breath and blew it out; he then strode back to his mother and leaned against her front, one arm around her neck, the other including Addigale in his hug.

  “Ma, someone’s in danger, and I might be of help. You wouldn’t have someone die, just so’s you can keep me home?”

  “I don’t know, Gunnit, I guess I wouldn’t … but it’s a wicked hard thing to ask me to watch my last child ride away with a man who’s practically a stranger on the chance of helping another stranger.”

  “Ah, but you’re a wicked brave ma!” Gunnit said, kissing her cheek and drinking in her scent and softness.

  In their small hut Gunnit took off his rucksack and threw in his few clothes. Outside again at the square, he rubbed four-summers-old Limpett’s head, kissed Addigale’s fat baby cheek, and embraced his mother once again. She was trying not to sob but not succeeding very well. He then enfolded Aleen in a hug, even if practically the whole village now hung around watching these outlandish events.

  Aleen hugged him back and then reached down and grabbed Kiki around the neck so she wouldn’t follow the horses.

  Peddler finished the ale that a Cloverfield woman had offered him and handed back the large mug. “That hit the spot. I thank you, dame,” he said so gravely it sounded like a benediction.

  Peddler continued, saying, “Here, lad, let me adjust the stirrups.” He lifted Gunnit up to the back of the second horse and shortened the stirrup strap to his leg. Then he walked around the front of the horse to fix the other side.

  “Test your foot. Did I get the length right? Are the straps even?”

  “I guess so,” Gunnit answered, dubious about this large horse. He was so much higher from the ground than on Butter or Taffy.

  “Not to fret, Gunnit,” Saggeta called out. “I will watch out for them all.”

  Gunnit replied, “I know that, dame, or I couldn’t go.”

  Peddler touched his brow in leave-taking and turned his horse to the road.

  “Goodbye, Ma, goodbye, everyone,” called Gunnit. Without a command his horse followed its fellow. The horses moved so fast and their bells chimed so that Gunnit could hardly hear the villagers’ calls of farewell.

  They cantered along the road as Gunnit tried to take in the events of the last hour, events that had upended his life.

  Saulė’s horses flowed down from the meadows toward the High Road in a torrent of hoofbeats and dust, their silky manes and tails streaming behind and their bells jingling, while Gunnit, who had lost his left stirrup almost immediately, bounced about wildly and held on to his pommel for dear life.

  6

  On the Seas

  The sun was not yet over the horizon, but its imminent arrival had turned the sky a luminous gray-white. Arlettie was still asleep in the bottom of the Shrimp, snugly covered with cloaks, but Gilboy kept Mikil company, silently passing the water bag and bringing out dried fruit and smoked fish for their fastbreak.

  Taking pleasure in the perfect sailing conditions, Mikil scanned the horizon. Thus far, Lautan had kept the Spirit’s side of the bargain: their four days at sea had been uneventful except for their rapid progress, and while their stored provisions tasted monotonous, they were holding up well. Mikil taught Gilboy the rudiments of star navigation (as his father had once taught the skill to him), and during dull stretches Arlettie regaled them by elaborating on her dreams of the pleasures of civilization, such as wine, hair oil, and new cotton underdrawers.

  Gilboy pointed off to the starboard. Mikil saw something breaking the surface of the water, but he couldn’t discern what it was. Gilboy mouthed, “Dolphins.” Mikil smiled. Dolphins were fine; he just didn’t want another encounter with those hammerhead sharks that had threatened the Shrimp the last time they had tried to flee their deserted island.

  The dolphins set a course that would intersect with their little vessel, Mikil realized, but he wasn’t concerned because he had seen dolphins escort many a sailing ship and enjoyed their antics. He watched them come closer and grow larger.

  “There’s something on the middle one’s back!” Gilboy said, with surprise.

  The light grew stronger, and the dolphins drew nigh, aiming straight at them; in another moment Mikil also could spy what looked like wet fabric plastered on the middle dolphin’s back.

  Mikil frowned, thinking he had never seen dolphins swim this far along the surface without submerging. This was just … not normal.

  He reached down and shook Arlettie’s ankle. “Best wake up,” he said. “Something is going on.”

  “Not sharks again!” she cried, transitioning from full sleep to full panic.

  “No, no,” answered Gilboy. “Dolphins. With a queer object on their backs. Or … maybe it’s a person. But how could that be?”

  As they squinted at the odd blotch of color, details began to resolve—a scrap of sodden white, could be a shirt; a scrap of sodden brown, could be breeches. And clearly the dolphins were purposely ferrying whatever it was straight to the Shrimp.

  “I see boots!” cried Gilboy. “They are carrying a person!”

  “A castaway!” said Mikil. “Arlettie, shift over to leeward so that we can pull him up over the starboard gunwale. Gilboy, move to amidships while I tie off the tiller.”

  The dolphins closed to within ten paces. The escort dolphins stopped and only the carrier dolphin approached, swimming alongside the Shrimp, so near Mikil could have reached over to touch it. Mikil and Gilboy saw a slight, half-drowned figure lying limp, facedown, on the sleek gray back. The dolphin matched its speed to the boat’s movement and rode the same swells.

  “Kneel down, Gilboy, so we don’t overbalance. When I count three, you grab an arm, and I’ll grab a leg. We want to do this smoothly, so we don’t drop him and we don’t capsize. Arlettie, as counterweight, lean far out to port. Ready? One, two, three, heave!”

  The castaway was not heavy. Although the boat tipped for a second, Gilboy and Mikil barely struggled in raising him over the side of the boat.

  They laid the poor wretch on the keel faceup.

  Arlettie whispered in shock, “Vertia save us! ’Tis a woman! Let me take care of her.” She crawled over, putting a cloak under the rescue’s head to pillow her and pulling the sodden hair off her face. She felt at the neck for a pulse and then put her head down on the chest to listen.

  “She’s barely alive.”

  Mikil spoke to the dolphins. “We’ve got her,” he said. “We will do all we can for her.” The dolphins jumped into the air making dramatic splashes as if t
o show they understood. Then they sped off in another direction.

  The water-soaked girl’s hold on life ebbed. Her brown face had a gray-blue tinge, and her skin was crusted with sea salt. Her eyes were puffed closed. Even in the bright morning sunlight, Mikil found it difficult to get any impression of her features.

  “She’s too cold,” said Arlettie. “Help me get her wet clothes off and wrap her up.”

  Mikil pulled off the ruined boots and stripped away the wet stockings, rubbing her icy feet and toes vigorously for a moment. Meanwhile Arlettie and Gilboy peeled off her ragged shirt, in the process discovering that she had burn blisters down her back, across one shoulder, and licking up one side of her neck under her chin.

  “Oh, for Vertia’s sake!” cursed Arlettie, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

  They laid the girl on her uninjured side and covered her up with all their spare clothing. Gilboy chafed her hands and forearms; Mikil returned to work on her feet and lower legs, trying to get the cold blood moving.

  Arlettie wet a cloth from their freshwater store and washed the salt from her face and from her burns. She smoothed the aloe paste they had brought along on her sunburn and burn blisters.

  “She’s still too cold to the touch,” said Mikil.

  “Could be my heat will help warm her up.” Arlettie got in under the cloaks and pulled the drowned girl close.

  “Her best hope is a skilled healer,” said Mikil, untying the tiller and raising their sail.

  By midmorning their passenger’s eyelids fluttered now and again, and once in a while she made indistinct sounds. Her color improved enough that Arlettie could crawl out from under the blankets. She offered the girl sips of water, which she swallowed. But her breathing was shallow and she remained semiconscious.

  Mikil caught every breeze, heading the Shrimp northeast as fast as it could go.

  They speculated endlessly about the castaway: who was she? Her dull brown hair gave them no clue as to her nationality. How had she been injured, and how had she survived for them to find her in the middle of the ocean? How had she come to be floating on the back of a dolphin? How had the dolphins known to bring this person to their little craft?