A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  Oh, he’s a hopeless fool, thought Smithy, not attending to the responses as he turned his body around to gaze at everyone surrounding him. Healer avoids my gaze. She’s in league with them too, even if she didn’t travel to the Green Isles.

  Mason walked over to prod Peddler and Gardener with his questions. Detecting a break in the formal proceedings, the new Sailor crossed to bow to the new Spinner; then they whispered together like old friends. Only Healer and Water Bearer kept their positions at the edge of the circle, though both assumed uneasy frowns, and Water Bearer chewed her finger.

  Hunter took advantage of the pause to beckon Smithy, who gave up his central speaker’s position to cross to her side.

  “I confess I am troubled by this news,” Hunter said in a low voice. “The Wind treasures freedom. My Spirit is not pleased by factions and hidden meetings.”

  Although he was not skilled with words, Smithy tried to find the right note. “Ghibli grasps the heart of the matter. The issue lies not just with this or that pet human, however favored or disfavored. It is the principle of Spirits being in league against each other in conspiracies. In this case they team up against Pozhar, but what if at some later time, factions teamed up against Ghibli and tried to hem in the Wind?”

  Hunter stood still, consulting with her patron through the interior connection they all shared with their individual Spirit. “We agree, Smithy, that factions violate the fundamental trust of Moot Table. How would you have us help you?”

  He whispered, “Where do you abide in waking life?”

  “I was born in Agfador, but I ran away from home when I was quite young. When need arises I make my living as a street performer—juggling, acrobatics, that kind of thing. I move from one nation to the next.”

  “If you tracked down the pet woman who is the root cause of the quarrel…”

  Hunter laughed. “I’ve already picked up her trail. She leaves a distinctive scent behind her: a mixture of many animals with bergamot and chamomile. Ghibli, as usual, moves faster than all of the other Spirits.”

  Spinner interrupted the separate conversations with a raised voice. “Mìngyùn prompts me to speak,” she said. “Am I correct that to take the floor I should enter the center of the circle?”

  Healer, who presided over proceedings at Moot Table, answered, “Yes, Spinner. That is our way.”

  The new woman walked into the middle and addressed them all in ringing tones. “Mìngyùn bids me speak of something much more important than Green Isles meetings or dinner parties.

  “Your Spirits may believe that their destructive actions have passed unnoticed—a small fire here, an earthquake there—these things often happen without ill will, from human causes or from our Spirits’ casual stretches, releasing natural tension. However, Mìngyùn has noticed. Mìngyùn is displeased. More than displeased.

  “Mìngyùn bids me convey that your Spirits will cease these attacks upon each other’s realms. Immediately.”

  “Your Spirit has no right to order us about!” Smithy shouted. “Why is Mìngyùn even meddling? What’s this sudden interest in humankind?” His loud outburst was followed by stunned silence.

  Smithy tapped his fire tongs against his chain mail, making (to him) a pleasing clank. “Our Spirits will be at peace when the Nargis heir is dead.” As ever, when he became very angry at Moot Table, a crown of flames appeared upon his brow.

  “All of this destruction over one woman?” said Spinner, still calm, indeed maddeningly so. “This is more than irrational. It is folly. You are using her as a proxy for long-term grievances, is that not the case?”

  “‘Chamen only started the quakes because Weirandale has not returned its Truth Stone,” Mason put in defensively. “‘Chamen has a right to insist that its treasures be returned.”

  Spinner held up her hands for silence.

  “In Pilagos, where I have lived for many years, we cherish a funny anecdote. It goes like this: Two brothers set sail for Orchid Isle, but soon they lose their way. The younger brother says to the older, ‘We’re lost.’ The elder brother says, ‘Aye, you’re right. We’re completely lost.’

  “Then the older brother says to the younger, ‘The most important thing to do now is figure out who’s to blame.’”

  Several of the Agents chuckled at this story. Smithy realized that Spinner had succeeded in turning the meeting away from his goal.

  “Who started this conflict and who is to blame are not material facts when Spirits toy with disaster,” she continued with quiet authority. “Mìngyùn insists that this destruction cease forthwith.”

  “Oh, yes, please, it must stop,” put in Gardener, who to Smithy’s mind had always been a weakling. “The trees, the fruits, the grains—drowned, burned, or swept away. Such a waste.”

  “And so many innocents have died and suffered,” added Healer.

  “If Pozhar stops starting fires, Lautan will create no more tidal waves,” said Sailor as if he—a first-timer at Moot Table and wearing that ridiculous sea-foam hat—had the right to bargain. Smithy couldn’t quite place this new Sailor; his hands and skin showed the marks of hard labor, but his bearing was proud, almost regal.

  Smithy had called for this Judgment to expose other Agents’ sneaking around, conspiring against his country and his Spirit. He certainly had not called this Moot Table for Mìngyùn to give Pozhar orders. Instead of shaming his fellows and calling a halt to their deceitful behavior, Spinner had put him in the wrong, stealing the floor away from him.

  Smithy strode back into the center of the flat stone, tapping his tongs against the ground while his crown of flames stretched higher.

  Frightened, Gardener covered his eyes while Water Bearer took a couple steps backward, spilling more rainbows. Though he towered over her, Spinner did not yield the speaker’s position.

  Healer broke in, “Can we come to some resolution? What say you, Peddler? Will you promise not to break our protocols in the future?”

  Peddler hesitated, and that Spinner—who seemed too smart for her own good—answered instead. “Protocols are important,” she conceded. “We all work better when we can trust one another to abide by the same rules. But one might inquire if procedures per se are the highest aim of this gathering. Pray, forgive me; I am new to your company—what is our foremost goal?”

  “We meet whenever one of our Spirits believes another has encroached on its realm, powers, or people,” Healer answered Spinner. “We gather to reason together and come to a Judgment. Smithy called this meeting.” Healer cleared her throat. “By our traditions, if you and Mìngyùn wish to raise different matters, our procedures would have you convene a separate meeting.”

  Spinner inclined her head toward Healer and ceded the middle of the stone, though she did not step all the way back to the circle’s perimeter.

  “I demand a Judgment censuring the plotters and forbidding future meetings or putting into action any plans that were discussed outside Moot Table!” shouted Smithy. “All in favor?” He held his fire tongs high in the air. None of the other Agents voted with him, though Hunter turned sideways and whistled into the sea breeze, detaching herself from the proceedings.

  The moment grew intolerably tense. Healer shifted her weight on her feet and said, “I think we can make no more progress at the present time. Let us return to our lives and consult with our patrons. Perchance, at a later time, we can find the harmony and agreement that prove elusive at this moment.”

  With a clap, Healer dissolved Moot Table. Smithy woke up in his tent in Alpetar, grinding his teeth.

  But his first thought was not anger at the other Spirits, but a flash of self-consciousness. In his waking life he had long ago adjusted to his deafness and knew himself complete, even superior to those who didn’t use their other senses as well as he did. Every time he left Moot Table, Smithy had to reexperience an unsettling transition. After the noise of voices, wind, and surf, a welcome silence pressed in upon him, familiar and warm.

  This reminded hi
m of his proud separation from others, as Pozhar stood alone against all the other Spirits.

  18

  Salubriton, Wyeland

  When Phénix came out of her weeks of fevers and drugs, she discovered herself lying in a large bed, with lusciously cool, clean linens. When she opened her eyes, she noticed that the room—much more expansive than any of the cabins she had occupied during the sea voyages—remained quite still. An open window let in a view of sky and trees and the scent of an herb garden.

  The whitewashed chamber was sparsely furnished. Her dagger, her headband, and her hair tonic sat on a table just to the side of the bed.

  She wore only underdrawers; her upper body, which was everywhere damp with a light sweat, boasted various bandages. Her movements made her aware of areas of soreness. She lay down in the bed, taking inventory of the various dressings around her arm and her chest. What was this knifelike pain under her left breast?

  Her memories of the last weeks came only in snatches—painful coughing, gasping for breath; terrifying dreams that haunted her days and nights; cooling poultices laid on her burns; a cup of fish chowder spooned to her one night; and a tonic from a tin cup that left gritty residue in her mouth.

  She heard footsteps and tried to compose herself; she could not say why, but she felt guilty for examining her own wounds and embarrassed by her state of undress.

  A woman of about forty years old with a quick step entered the room. She wore her hair pulled back into a snood, yet Phénix could tell that her hairline was mostly lavender. Her face was disfigured by a jagged cleft through her upper lip area, pulling the lip up and showing teeth careening in the wrong directions. Trying to be polite, Phénix looked away from the visitor’s face to the tray of food she carried in her hands.

  “Good morn to you, Damselle Phénix. I knew it was time to taper off the milk of the poppy. I’m pleased to see you awake.”

  “Good morn to you. Have you been the one caring for me?” Phénix struggled to her elbows. “What is your name?”

  “My name is ‘Myrnah,’ but you can just call me ‘Healer’; that’s the name I prefer.”

  Phénix couldn’t repress a chuckle. “I have a friend who once said something similar to me. In his case, I was to call him ‘Gardener.’”

  “Indeed?” said Healer, carefully setting the tray down on the bedside table.

  “Yes,” said Phénix. “I miss him terribly.”

  Healer changed the subject. “Well, you’ve been through quite an ordeal. Most of your burns became infected, and then your left lung did too. Those who tended you on Misty Caravan worked day and night to keep you alive.”

  She helped Phénix into a straighter sitting position, laid a soft shawl around her shoulders for warmth and modesty, and put a large cloth over the younger woman’s lap. “They told me they often despaired. But you just would not slip into the final sleep, the ultimate refuge. Some force or Spirit wants you to live.”

  “I barely recall the journey, but I must thank those healers. What are these bandages here and here?” Phénix pointed to the various dressings.

  “Scar tissue had grown between your arm and your left side because someone taped your burned arm to your burned side to set the broken bones. Undoubtedly, whoever did this meant well, but he should have wrapped the injured skin to keep it separate.”

  Healer gestured from her armpit down her side on her own body. “We had to slice through the scar tissue to free the arm—you have these long gashes that must heal, though they are not very deep. At least the broken bones set well enough, though it will take much work to build back mobility and strength.

  “That,” she said, pointing to a spot to the left of her own sternum, “is the incision we made into your chest. We drained out the corruption that had formed an abscess in your lung and pleural cavity. Such a tricky procedure, and we are quite proud we pulled it off! We just closed that hole three days ago, so yes, it is still tender.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Five days since your ship docked and your surgeries.”

  “How long…?” Phénix had lost all sense of time.

  “Did you sail on Misty Caravan? It takes close to three moons to travel from the Green Isles to here. Today is the fifth day of the moon we call Spring Renewal.” Healer moved the tray onto her patient’s lap.

  Phénix eyed the food with appetite, but she also hungered for information.

  “The fevers? My coughing?”

  “Your fevers are gone. You probably will still cough as the lung dries out more, but less than before.”

  “And the burns?”

  “You’ve been seriously burned, Damselle,” said Healer. “If I’d had you the first day after your injury I could have mitigated the scarring, but by the time you arrived in Salubriton, ’twas much too late. The burns, which must have been bad enough to begin with, festered and broke repeatedly. Scar tissue has grown to close the wounds, but it is fragile and we will have to watch that it doesn’t break and tear more.”

  Phénix closed her hand around the warm cup and averted her face from the older woman. “I hope you don’t think me very vain, but how do I look?”

  “Whatever burned you didn’t touch your face. You look gaunt: your cheekbones are pronounced, and your complexion has a grayish tinge. I’d very much like to see more healthy color and roundedness there. As for your hair, we kept up applying your tonic once a week, because even in your fevered state you insisted on it.”

  Phénix half expected a scolding or some curiosity about her preoccupation with her hair while she was so ill, but Healer passed over the subject without comment.

  “Your eyes…” Healer paused. “Your eyes hold a shadow that distresses me.”

  Phénix touched the lizardlike skin on her neck with her fingers. Her arm was wrapped, and she couldn’t reach her back to judge the texture. “My neck? My arm? My back?”

  “You will always wear the scars of your accident. Some of the scars are ridged; some discolored.”

  “I’d rather know the worst,” said Phénix. “Can you bring me a looking glass?”

  “As you wish,” said Healer. “But aren’t you hungry? I really want to get some flesh on your frame; I imagine that, being so undernourished, you’ve lost your courses?”

  Phénix nodded. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she had had her moon blood—it might have been in Alpetar, before she crossed into Oromondo.

  Once she started eating she discovered that, indeed, she was famished. She ate everything on the tray and asked for more, but Healer refused; she wanted to ease her into eating solid food. After the meal, she brought Phénix a night-robe and clogs and bid her rise. Phénix found she could hardly make it the six steps to the window and back. From the window seat she noticed that her bed was oddly constructed—it had curved runners along the bottom, like a rocking chair. She fingered the scars on her neck several times, trying to learn their new texture and ridges and incorporate this change into her self-awareness.

  For the next several days, Healer fed her, checked her bandages, and encouraged her to move about as she regained her strength. The older woman reminded her of Nana in her firm but gentle ministrations. Soon she could look the woman in the eyes, no longer even registering her facial disfigurement. Phénix felt safe under her care, as if the touch of her hand or the sound of her voice provided an extra medicine.

  When she voiced this thought to Healer, the older woman smiled. “In this Healing Center you are under the protection of Restaurà, Spirit of Rest, Sleep, and Recovery. ’Tis the Spirit that comforts you, not I.” Then she gave the foot of the bed a strong push, and the bed rocked. As Phénix relaxed she began to piece together the similarities between Restaurà’s Healing Center and Vertia’s Garden, and between Healer and Gardener, but these were subjects best not spoken of out loud.

  Within two days Phénix had grown strong enough to venture into the corridor. She almost didn’t want to leave her room, which connoted safety to
her, but Healer had mentioned a washing room. And there it was, decorated in hand-painted tiles: a small room that, to her amazement, offered water spigots and indoor plumbing like the palace of her long-ago childhood. She wanted to luxuriate in the running stream of water, but a large sign on the door warned “Remember the Drought!”

  On the fifth day, Healer brought her two large looking glasses and held one behind her; by moving the front one carefully, she could see that the side of her neck was red, leathery, and creased, but not too unsightly, while the worst-affected area—the left half of her back and the back of her left arm down to the elbow—was puckered with lumpy, angry scar tissue. Phénix let out a long sigh of regret but refused to weep.

  A few hours later, she sat by the window. A flock of swallows dipped in wild circles through the gathering evening gloom and then began to gather in a stand of birches that rose outside the herb garden. Their nighttime calls echoed. Phénix yearned to speak to them, and for a long moment she considered reaching out with her Talent. But she feared her Talent had been corrupted, either by direct contact with the Magi’s fireball or by the fevered dreams she suffered on board the ship. The last animal she could recall speaking to had been the ship’s cat.

  * * *

  The sixth day, instead of Healer, a short young woman with brown hair pinned up entered Phénix’s safe cocoon.

  “Damselle, I am Betlyna, an apprentice healer. It’s the custom here, when patients are on the mend, to move them to a recovery house where they can profit from being around other patients,” she said. “At present Healer is busy with other, more critical cases; but she sent you her good wishes. The Bread and Balm Recovery House has reported a vacancy. I have been instructed to take you there this morn and get you settled.”

  Phénix did not want to leave her sanctuary (and she experienced a twinge of unreasonable jealousy at the thought of anyone else receiving Healer’s attention), but she recognized she had no choice. She reached for the folded clothing that Betlyna proffered. The top was an odd rectangle of cloth with a hole for the neck and then long pieces like sashes sewn on the bottom corners. As these sashes tied around, closing up the sides, Phénix discovered that the shirt would fit people of many sizes and be soft against any injury. Then she pulled on a floor-length, loose skirt that also tied at the waist. Both were of a soft material dyed in different swirls of lilac.