A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  But she did not have the opportunity to kill as many as she wanted to. The quicklime grenades incapacitated most because the powder reacted with the moisture in their eyes and lungs to cause severe burning. The Oro soldiers screamed in agony until they could push no more air through their damaged throats.

  If it had been windy, the quicklime would have killed the Free Staters involved in the mission too. Gustie shuddered at the chances Norling had taken.

  The customhouse squad took a dozen prisoners and marched them over the ice patches developing on the river’s shore and through the cold water.

  The Free Staters rendezvoused in the dim wheelwright shop.

  The captured weapons and prisoners pleased Norling. Then the young messenger reappeared, and they learned that one of the other coordinated attacks that night had also been successful, though with many more Free States casualties. Muted congratulations and back-slapping ensued.

  “Ikas, ’tis very late. I need to take my houseguest to her bed; this is her first day fully up, and now her feet are sopping wet,” said Norling. “Keep these prisoners securely tied. And take a count of the swords and pikes.”

  “As you wish, mam,” said Ikas. He shook off the man who was trying to bandage the slash he had sustained on his upper arm. “Wait one moment—there’s something I promised to do.” He squished through the shop in his own wet boots to a set of tools. He rummaged through the mess, finally hoisting a metal cutter.

  The brigadier chain was so tight against Gustie’s skin Ikas had to snake the lower blade under it while she held her chin stretched up. With a mighty snap, he freed Gustie of the accursed necklace. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Ikas bent to retrieve it and handed it to Gustie with a bow.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, holding the chain in her hand and feeling its weight.

  “Much more becoming, my dear,” agreed Norling, with a satisfied sigh. “Though we must do something about that red gown. For one thing, it makes you a target, even in the depths of night. And for another—’tis so immodest! I really don’t know how you can go around in it. Really, the fashions young women wear nowadays!”

  “I didn’t choose it for fighting!” said Gustie. Norling’s condescension grated on her. “I selected it for distraction at the banquet. It helped me poison one hundred Oro officers—which is more than we killed tonight!—so I’ll thank you to keep your criticisms to yourself.”

  9

  Aboard Island Dreamer

  Skylark woke from her unconscious state intermittently. She became aware of a woman feeding her spoonfuls of broth. Another time someone tried to move her left arm, and the agonizing pain briefly brought her round. “The bone’s broken right below her shoulder,” a male voice said, and then he bandaged her left arm and shoulder tightly against her body, even though she tried to tell him that the bandages’ pressure on the burn blisters was excruciating. Someone sponged her forehead. Later, they gave her milk of the poppy.

  The next evening, Skylark surfaced from the drug to greater awareness of her surroundings. She was in a bunk bed, on a ship. A woman with bangs of leaf green flecked with brown sat sitting by a lantern in the tiny cabin. The color of her hair brought back memories of her Slagos friend Zillie.

  “Water,” Skylark croaked.

  “Ah, darlin’, you’re awake again. I’ll get you a cup of water. Oh, rot, this pitcher’s empty. I’ll be back in a tick.”

  When she left the cabin, the ship’s orange cat pushed the door open and jumped on the bed.

  Your Majesty, he purred. Your Majesty. He kneaded the bedclothes next to her, then walked in a tight circle in front of her face.

  Hullo, cat. What’s your name?

  The sailors call me Lazy, because they do nay see me catching rats.

  Hullo, Lazy.

  Your Majesty, your hair grows in blue at the roots.

  Has anyone noticed it?

  Not yet.

  Skylark tried to think. She had returned to brown before the Battle of Iron Valley because she’d run out of chamomile.

  Coal tar, acorn water, and bergamot oil. That’s what I need to cover it up.

  One does nay know these things, sent Lazy.

  Probably not on the ship, anyway, she told the cat.

  What else couldst thou use?

  Skylark closed her eyes and drifted off a moment, hovering on the verge of consciousness; with milk of poppy fogging her mind, she found it hard to care about anything. The cat batted her nose to rouse her; when Skylark didn’t open her eyes, he batted again with a touch of claw.

  Ouch. Don’t do that. Does the captain write in his log with black ink?

  Yes.

  Can you bring me the ink bottle?

  One does nay know how, but one will try.

  Thank you, Lazy.

  Exhausted from the conversation, Skylark fell back to sleep before the water arrived, with her good arm holding the cat close to her heart.

  The next time she woke (perhaps the next morning), a young man dozed in the chair.

  “Please, could I have some water?”

  “Ah, you’re awake!” said the young man, starting up with a grin. He filled a glass of water, propped her up a little, and held it to her lips. She gulped long swallows, grateful that it was not seawater, even if it did taste slightly brackish.

  “Good! How did you come to be riding on a dolphin in the middle of the ocean?”

  “I don’t remember,” answered Skylark truthfully.

  “How did you get burned?”

  That, she did remember, but she didn’t want to say, so she just shook her head.

  “I’m Gilboy. Me and my mother and sire pulled you from the ocean. We rescued you at sea. It was the most exciting thing, ever. This ship is headed toward Pilagos in the Green Isles.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” said Skylark. “And for the water.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m called Phénix,” she said, her caution kicking in sufficiently to choose a new name.

  “Odd name,” said Gilboy. “Never heard it before. Pleased to meet you, Mistriss Phénix.”

  “Aye,” she agreed. “I had unusual parents.”

  “Oh, I know all about that,” he answered. “Will you eat something? I could fetch you a bowl of porridge?”

  “Please,” said Phénix, and this time she was hungry enough to stay awake during a caretaker’s absence.

  Yet even those few words had left her panting. When she pushed herself up higher in the bed each breath brought sharp pain. Her burns felt on fire, and her shoulder and side ached terribly. The sun-exposed skin on her face itched. When she scratched, she noticed large strips of dead skin peeling off. The uncovered burns that she could touch along her neck must look ghastly (they felt disgusting to her exploring fingers)—blistered, bleeding, and oozing.

  Gilboy reentered with an older man on his heels. This second man had the bearing of a nobleman, but she couldn’t tell what country he might be from because she couldn’t see his hair color in the dim room. He took the bowl to feed her himself. She found it hard to eat; she needed to pause for air after each spoonful.

  The nobleman waited patiently and unconsciously mimed her mouth and smiled approval at each swallow she got down. “Mistriss, we should arrive in Pilagos in another week or two,” he told her encouragingly. “There we will be able to get you seen by a real healer. You just need to hold on a little longer.”

  Phénix found his steady gaze disconcerting. She began to worry about her blue roots.

  “The light hurts my eyes,” she managed to gasp out, between mouthfuls.

  “Oh. Of course,” the man said, “I’m sorry. I should’ve realized you’d have eyestrain.” He nodded to the lad, who rushed to cover the porthole.

  “I will send Arlettie to care for you this evening,” the man continued. “And the mate who comes, he serves as the ship’s healer. I appreciate that he doesn’t pretend to more knowledge than he has. He’s doing his best for you.
”

  Phénix nodded and lay back on the bed.

  Lazy crept in when the crew and passengers were eating their evening meal. He held a small, stoppered bottle in his mouth as if it were a mouse he’d killed. He dropped it in her hand triumphantly.

  Phénix poured small amounts in several places around her scalp. Then, with great difficulty, she single-handedly tore an edge off the bandage that was wound around her torso and shoulder. She covered two fingers with the bandage to try to keep her hand clean, and rubbed the ink all around her head, stopping frequently to catch her breath. She recapped the bottle for Lazy to return, and hid the ink-stained rag under her mattress, all the while leaning on her elbow, holding her inky hair off the mattress until it dried.

  But the ink had soaked through the rag and stained her fingers. Looking about the cabin she spied a pitcher, basin, and soap just a pace across the narrow room, but to Phénix they might as well have been on Mother Moon.

  Lazy started licking her stained fingers with his sandpaper tongue.

  Don’t, said Phénix. It can’t possibly be good for you.

  One will eat some roughage and throw up later. One throws up all the time. One has favorite places.

  The cat licked and licked, and gradually the worst of the stain wore off.

  When Arlettie joined her after their meal, Phénix was exhausted from her efforts and holding Lazy’s purring form tightly. She was grateful for the watered rum that Arlettie gave her to drink and the small bites of cheese she gave her to eat. She was even more grateful for the cooling poultices placed on her burns, and the sponge wash that took the sweat and grime (and ink) from many parts of her body.

  “Darlin’, I really should wash your hair,” Arlettie commented.

  “Not now. I’m so worn out,” Phénix pleaded, and the kindly woman accepted the excuse.

  * * *

  Fire. In the night her body caught on fire with fever. Her breath came in shallow pants, and she coughed too much to sleep. Arlettie changed her sweat-soaked shift when she grew unbearably hot and piled on more blankets when she shivered. Phénix became too nauseated to eat any longer.

  Consciousness slipped away, but in her fevered doze her dreams turned evil. A Magi branded her shoulder with a hot iron again and again, though she begged him to stop. In the distance she saw the Nargis headwaters; she was crawling over rocks trying to get to the pool of cold, clean water while wolves laughed at her mockingly. The flaming brand burnt through her skin and into her heart.

  In her dream a low rumble spoke to her. Thou hast been touched by my Power. If thou useth thy Talent thou wilt burn!

  She woke screaming with terror, “No! No! Never!!” The frightened galley boy ran to fetch the nobleman.

  “I hear you’re having nightmares. There is no fire here. You’re safe on the Island Dreamer. We are doing all we can for you. Lie back, now. Relax, mistriss. Lie back. Good. That’s good.

  “Shall I sit here to watch over you a bit? Will you mind a pipe? Some people say that tobacco is good for the lungs. This is the first smoke I’ve had in eight years.” The man went on, more to himself than to Phénix, “I too know about frightening dreams of Fire.”

  The tobacco smell reminded her of home. Wren slipped into a dream about the Wyndton cottage on hot summer evenings, just as the dark brought in the cooler air and night swallows cavorted through the sky. Stahlia sat with her darning on the step while Wren and Percia played “chase the fireflies” with Tilim out in the yard, the little boy shrieking, “Ire lies! Ire lies!” all the while. Wilim watched over them all from the chair he had brought outside and propped slantwise against the house, a contented smile spread across his face, smoking his pipe.

  She woke and dozed again. This time Skylark dreamed of Thalen. She dreamed that Thalen was covering her face with kisses.

  Lie still, Lazy ordered, one needs to lick you clean. Stop this coughing. The sandpaper tongue worked on the sweat and the tears that pooled under her eyes.

  Someone held a lukewarm tisane to her lips. She drank as much as she could, slurping greedily, spilling all over the bedclothes.

  “I’m sorry,” she half shouted over the fever ringing in her ears. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t do it.”

  “You’re raving, Phénix,” said Zillie, the owner of the Blue Parrot in Slagos. “You’ve naught to apologize for.”

  “Oh, but I do! I failed. I tried! I tried so hard,” she cried, sure that she was dying with her task unfulfilled, her people condemned to suffering, and the line of Nargis Queens judging her harshly.

  “’Tis the fever plaguing you. Hush now.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said before another spasm of coughing, each cough like a knife wound of pain.

  “Hush now. Go back to sleep.”

  “Oh, Zillie, I’m so glad you’re here. Perchance Gardener can help. I can’t use my Talent anymore. It’s tainted. I’m Powerless.”

  “You’re making no sense at all, darlin’. Try to relax. Here, I’m going to give you more milk of the poppy.”

  Kestrel lay back down, but her eyes stared at the small cabin’s low wooden ceiling.

  “Vertia the Bountiful,” Zillie prayed aloud, “let this woman, thy child, walk among thy green fields, growing in strength and peace, under your protection.”

  “Please, Vertia, let me grow strong,” Kestrel intoned.

  She dreamt again, but this time of sitting with Gardener in his courtyard. Fire licked against the stone walls—desperate to get in and burn all the lush and precious plants—but Gardener ignored it, instead droning on in his pedantic way about separating bulbs.

  “Bulblets must be separated off from one another or they will never reach their full size,” he said. “They will cling to one another and grow misshapen.”

  10

  Tar’s Basin, Alpetar

  Thalen, Eli-anna, and Tristo had been waiting in Tar’s Basin for about a week, long enough both to recover from the rigors of their journey down the coast and to worry over whether a vessel would ever pull into this tiny excuse for a harbor. They ate in the general store cum tavern, which called itself “Everything You Desire,” and received permission from the guard of the one warehouse to bunk down on the piles of goat hair stored near the dock. The people of Tar’s Basin assured them that a ship would stop, sooner or later. Tristo whiled away the time by playing games with the village children, though Thalen preferred to keep to himself.

  On a chill and windy day, while the sun played hide-and-seek amongst gray clouds, Eli-anna spotted the shape on the horizon first. Thalen watched as the speck grew bigger and more substantial, turning into a midsized trading ship that unshipped its oars and tied up at the wharf.

  “Island Song,” called Thalen. “A word with your seamaster, if you please.”

  The seamaster came down the gangplank to join them on the wharf. He was a stout and grumpy man. “Well, what’s your pleasure?” he asked.

  “I’d like to book passage for my two companions and myself.”

  “Book passage to where?”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Back to Slagos, our home port.”

  “Perfect. That’s where we want to go.”

  “We ain’t a passenger ship. We have no staterooms.”

  “We’ll bunk with the crew.”

  “What about the woman? She with you?”

  “Not in the way you mean, but we’ll look after her.” Thalen knew that any sailor who dared molest Eli-anna would get the surprise of his life—that is, if he managed to escape with his life.

  “We ain’t a passenger ship,” said the seamaster. “I keep saying this, but no one ever listens. Put us out something awful to take you aboard.”

  Thalen had sold Dishwater, Sulky Sukie, and Cinders to the liveryman in town, after receiving many assurances that Culpepper would see to it that their horses found good homes. Thalen’s money pouch was heavy with coin. He threw the pouch at the seamaster. The man hefted it, opened it, and opened his mouth
to whine that the funds it contained weren’t sufficient.

  Thalen’s temper flared. He hadn’t gone through all this fighting, lost so many friends, starved and thirsted and saved the Free States, only to bandy words with a greedy lackwit. His face grew taut, and his hand moved toward the hilt of his rapier.

  “I have given you enough to make this worth your while, twice over. I will brook no further discussion.”

  “You look like rough characters,” said the captain, stepping backward. “I’ll have no trouble on my ship, I’m warning you. On Island Song, I’m in command.”

  “Right now we stand in Tar’s Basin, not aboard your territory. But even here there will be no trouble,” said Thalen, pinning him in a fierce stare, “as long as you agree to take us to Slagos.”

  “Hmmpf.” The seamaster hefted the pouch again, and avarice won out. “We’ll shove off after we off-load commissioned cargo and upload the fleece. Cool your heels here awhile on the dock, Master Impatience.”

  While the sailors took care of those chores and refilled their water casks, the seamaster drank the morning away at Everything You Desire. Two of the mates grabbed the chance for a hot bath in the bathhouse while the crew, in rotation, was given leave to come ashore for a few hours.

  Thalen slipped back to the stable, to bid one more—now final—goodbye to the horses, even though he knew the visit would just make him sad. Dish huffed into his hand, and Cinders leaned her heavy head on his shoulder. Sulky Sukie showed her teeth and pulled away when he tried to stroke her.

  Afterward, the Raiders had no choice but to wait idly on the weathered dock. Thalen threw a handful of little pebbles at a piling, testing if his aim was true. Eli-anna, who had never before been to sea, drew in on herself with trepidation.

  Once the Song’s cargo was stowed securely, the first mate bought all the crew fresh rolls from the tavern and invited the would-be travelers to come aboard. “We need to shove off with this high tide,” he explained. “I’ll fetch the captain.” He ordered the sailors to ready their oars and prepare to depart.