A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  “Less than a week? How’d you know that?” asked Dalogun.

  “I sat next to Hake part of the time last night. ’Mander says we must hurry back to the Free States where there’s still Oros and fighting going on. After all, we can’t lounge around, kicking up our heels in the Isles while our people are fighting an occupation.”

  “Makes sense,” Cerf grunted. He continued, “You know Hake from before, right?”

  “Right,” said Wareth. “I spent a few days with him after the Rout. When he was first crippled and all.”

  “Is the commander very close to him?”

  “I dunno. Why?”

  Cerf looked abashed. “I’m shamed to admit it, but I find it hard to share the commander. A blood brother might mean more to him than brothers-in-arms.”

  Since Wareth felt something similar, he smiled through his headache.

  The three Raiders then wandered into the heart of the old town. They pooled their coins and discovered they had enough to buy fastbreak at an outdoor stall. The vendor sold them what he described as a local specialty: a flapjack rolled over and filled with strange fruit with lots of cinnamon. They took their flapjacks and tisane mugs and sat on a stone balustrade with an overview of the large and busy harbor, which sported all manner of vessels, warships and traders, heavily oared or bearing multiple sails. Overhead, flocks of swifts swirled and twirled in dizzying patterns.

  “He looks grim,” said Cerf to Wareth, and Wareth understood immediately that “he” was Thalen.

  “Aye,” Wareth answered. “They must have had a time in Femturan. Compared to their trials, our sneaking through Needle Pass was easy times. Especially since all the Oro soldiers immediately scooted out of our way, heading toward the Femturan Conflagration.”

  “Easy times!” scoffed Cerf. “Well, maybe you thought it so, being full of poppy milk, but I worked my sweat dry to keep you and Kambey breathing, and the others had to keep their eyes on Jothile every moment. Ask Dalogun here how easy he had it with all those horses.”

  Dalogun didn’t complain about his labors. Instead, he interjected, “I feel awful about Skylark.”

  “Hm-mm,” said Wareth. He had liked the Alpie girl too. But she no longer seemed real or substantial, more a dream connected to another place. Nor could he see how Thalen and she could have built a life together. Or maybe he just felt grim about women in general since Eldie had chosen to stay in Melladrin with her own people, rather than accompany him. He couldn’t make her board Island Breeze—and he understood the attachment to one’s homeland and kin—but his heart ached as much as his shoulder and head.

  Cerf looked sideways at Wareth. “Your shoulder throbs? You’re lost in thought.”

  “Huh?” said Wareth, returning to the balustrade. “I was thinking how glad I am to be on land, not tossed about on a cramped, stinking ship. I’m not looking forward to another long voyage.”

  “But to go home!” said Dalogun, kicking his heels against the stone wall. “Mind you, my folks, they’ll probably whip me for running off to fight. And what will they say when it’s just me that returns? They’ll look behind me for Balogun and it’ll break their hearts that he’s not there.”

  “Your mention of folks reminds me: I have Nollo’s letter to post. When we finish, let’s look for a postal business.”

  “Why would we post it from here? Why not when we get back to the Free States? Better yet, shouldn’t we take the letter to his mother and say nice things about Nollo to her?” asked Dalogun. “Isn’t that how things should be done? Deliver the news personal-like.”

  Wareth answered, “Nollo didn’t hail from the Free States. The letter is addressed to a woman in Cascada.”

  “So that’s how he knew all those Weir ballads,” said Cerf. “Remember them singing together? The three of them?”

  “Aye,” Wareth agreed. “Hard to forget.” He finished his last swig of tisane and gathered the mugs to return to the vendor.

  “Let’s keep a lookout for a bathhouse too,” said Cerf with a side glance. “A warm soak will ease that shoulder. From now until we embark, I prescribe hot baths every day for you, Kran, and Kambey.”

  “And what about Jothile?” added Dalogun. “Mayhap the water would help him relax a bit.”

  “Good thought, boy,” said Cerf. “And you too.”

  “Why?” asked Dalogun.

  Cerf probably had been thinking about the loss of his twin, but Wareth was sick of dwelling on losses. “You smell,” Wareth said, and he cuffed the boy, gratified to see his grin.

  21

  Wyndton

  Although her mother had warned a storm looked imminent, Percia waited outside the Wyndton Arms for the post wagon, as she did every delivery day, rain or shine. The rest of her life had lost its color; her heart revolved around these treasured letters. Marcot was a faithful correspondent, and she rarely walked away empty-handed. This morning, with a friendly wink, the driver handed her an envelope, which she ripped open.

  She read through his news about continuing to hunt for a home for her family in West Park and his father’s keeping company with a woman named Duchette Lolethia, but lingered over and reread his avowals of affection, then tucked the letter into her purse.

  As she walked through the familiar streets toward her dance barn, tugging Barley’s reins, she wondered if it was selfish of her to expect her mother and Tilim to move to Cascada just because she happened to have fallen for Marcot’s dimples. But Marcot was doing everything he could to make them happy. And her mother kept reassuring her that a change would be good for all of them: that the house reminded her too much of Papa, and that in the capital Tilim would have broader opportunities.

  And Marcot had promised that if they weren’t happy in Cascada or at the palace, he would approach his friends, the duke and duchess of Maritima. He said he was eager to earn his keep with honest work and would welcome the opportunity to supervise their estate and holdings. Percia could open a dance school in Queen’s Landing. But then Mama and Tilim would have to move a second time.

  Percia dawdled, staring through a window at a dressy hat, but not really seeing it. The windowpane reflected the dark sky behind her. She would take cover in her dance barn in a minute. She pulled her cloak closer around her as the wind picked up.

  Goody Gintie, on her way to the market, hailed her. Talkative as ever, Gintie regaled her with the latest bits of local news, raising her voice as the gusts made more noise.

  They were just chuckling over the tale of a new father’s faint upon discovering that his wife had borne twins—“We all shoulda guessed; that gal was as big as a house, but Ribat, he just falls like a tree!”—when Percia suddenly realized that the horizon looked strange. Ackerty, driving by in a cart, reined in his horse; he too stared in consternation. Goody Gintie’s story about reviving the father died on her lips. The old lady who owned the sweetshop came to her doorway, and Kittie, her hands still covered with flour, dashed out of her house into the street. Before long, all the shopkeepers and their customers had come pouring out-of-doors to point and gawk.

  A light patter of leaves and twigs began falling on them, but that wasn’t what was disturbing. The sky had turned decidedly greenish.

  “What is it? What’s happening?” villagers called to one another in alarm.

  “Look there!” someone called, pointing to a black, funnel-shaped cloud, wider at the top and narrow at the bottom, that whirled around in a most unnatural manner.

  Percia stared at the cloud openmouthed. She had never seen its like nor imagined that such a thing could exist.

  Sister Nellsapeta appeared in the doorway of the Church of the Waters. “Take cover! Take cover!” she screamed, motioning that they should join her inside. Percia grabbed Goody Gintie’s arm; together they fell in with the crowd hustling down the street. No one objected when Percia pulled Barley inside after her. Barley wasn’t the only animal; one boy had brought his dog, and one lady carried in the calf she’d been bottle-nursing.

>   By the time they were all inside, the wind had grown so it took four people to push the door closed. Everyone ran about trying to latch the wooden shutters on the side windows; they rattled ferociously, and three immediately tore out their hinges, pulling away from the wall and letting gales of wind inside. The glass window behind the little fountain broke with a hail of fragments and these shards, mixed with Nargis Water, flew around the room.

  Just at that instant a ferocious slap of rainwater hit the roof, drumming down hammer strokes. Rain came pouring in through the open windows, making deep puddles that quivered on the floor. Even above the sound of the rain, however, they heard a horrible, unearthly noise—a noise that Percia could only compare to carts hurtling headlong down the cobbled streets of Gulltown. Percia, like everyone else, dived for the floor. She took cover with Gintie, Dewva, and Dewva’s toddler under a wooden bench. They held on to the bench tightly, though the wind sucked at it, trying to pull it away. The roof creaked ominously. The loose shutters slammed against the wall with a tremendous clatter. Barley screamed and reared.

  And then the strange, loud cloud had passed over them, heading southwest, and the horrible noise abated, though the rain still fell in torrents.

  Percia sat up and looked around. Everyone was wet because of the rain, and a few people had sustained cuts from pieces of airborne glass. Gintie brushed a piece of glass out of her own hair and reached over to pull a shard out of the back of Percia’s hand where it had impaled itself.

  “Is everyone all right?” Sister Nellsapeta called out.

  Dewva, Percie’s friend since childhood, sat up, the child in her arms too frightened to fuss. Dewva’s eyes tracked the direction the funnel cloud had moved, and she screamed, “The school! It’s headed straight toward the school!”

  Disregarding the heavy storm, the villagers poured out of the church, taking in that a few of the stores and cottages had collapsed. Ackerty’s cart had been blown into the door of the dry goods shop, and his horse—sounding vigorously aggrieved—was all tangled up in the traces. Chimney bricks littered the street. The old oak tree in front of the church was uprooted and leaned precariously against the roof. Watering troughs overflowed.

  The blacksmith’s helpers stopped to rescue Ackerty’s horse, but everyone else took off in the direction of the school. The wind and rain slowed the townsfolk’s progress, and the street had turned to mud, snatching at their shoes. People from outlying farms joined the crowd, everyone racing toward the school.

  Downed trees snapped in two blocked the road to the schoolhouse. The men vaulted them and ran ahead; the women, dragging their wet skirts, helped each other over the obstacles, crying out the names of their children or kin.

  By the time they neared the building, set half a league outside of town, the sky behind them had started to brighten to a light gray and even the rain had slackened. Percia saw some black-and-greenish clouds scudding away in front of them, but nothing as ominous as Wyndton had just faced.

  Finally, Percia and Dewva turned a corner in the road and the building came into sight. It had lost its roof, and one wall looked as if it had been smashed in by a giant fist. The men who got there first were busily untangling the heap of sixty-some children huddled on top of one another in a corner.

  “Tilim!” Percia shouted as she ran the last paces. “Tilim!” He turned at the sound of her voice. He looked uninjured; at least he was walking. The light rain washed just a trickle of blood off his temple.

  “Percie!” he said, grabbing her around the waist. “Are you all right? Is Mama safe?”

  “I’m sure Mama’s fine. The cloud didn’t go that way. What happened?”

  “This thing, this wind hit the school out of nowhere. Help me with Daverly, would you? I think he broke his elbow and he looks near to puking.”

  It took a while to sort out the students and masters and take stock of the casualties. This task was made harder by the children’s fear: several had hysterics so badly no one could calm them down. By the Grace of the Waters, no one had perished. One master had a concussion from being struck on the head by a wooden strut. The healer, Goddard, who had had the presence of mind to bring his bag, set a few broken bones, the disaster making him less gruff-tempered than usual. Carneigh, the blacksmith, fetched a carriage to take the injured and distraught to town; and Hecht, the peacekeeper, formed men into a crew to clear the roadway for the horses.

  The master who wasn’t concussed informed everyone that this kind of storm was called a “tornado,” and to his knowledge this was the first such event in the Eastern Duchies.

  “Will it happen again?” Dewva, clutching both her toddler and her five-summers boy, asked him repeatedly, but she could get no answer.

  The rain stopped altogether and the sun came out, making all the broken glass sparkle amidst strewn-around slates, chalk, hats, and books. Percia and Tilim, feeling weak in their knees, sat morosely on the edge of the school grounds on a downed tree trunk, watching some neighbors examine the damage to the building and conclude that it would need to be totally rebuilt.

  Finally, Percia stood up and gave herself a little shake. “Can you walk to town, Tilim?” Percia asked. “I’m really anxious about Barley—I left him inside the Church of the Waters. I hope he’s not drinking from the fountain or pissing on the floor, but I suppose, given everything, that if he did, no one would be wroth today. Then we must get home; Mother must be frantic. No one will be dancing today. And I’m dying to take off my sopping hose.”

  “I can walk,” said Tilim, and he stood up to prove his hardiness.

  “Are you sure? I could fetch the horse and ride back for you.”

  But Tilim had already taken a few strides. Then he bent down to pick up something that had glittered in the sun and caught his eye. He held it out to Percia. It was a tiny bird, just a common nuthatch, with its characteristic white throat and the black stripe on its head.

  The innocent little thing’s neck was broken. Percia bit her lip at the waste and cruelty of the sudden calamity.

  PART FOUR

  Reign of Regent Matwyck, Year 14

  SUMMER

  22

  Sutterdam, The Free States

  In the commercial city on the Sutter River, where nightly battles raged between the Free States Defiance fighters and Oro occupiers, Gustie of Weaverton did not catch a grippe from her wet feet after the skirmish at Sailmakers Bridge. This was fortunate, because she would never have heard the end of Norling’s chiding if she had. Besides, she needed to be healthy for the tasks ahead. A few days after that battle Norling’s brother had grown strong enough for Ikas’s crew to move him to his house on Lantern Lane, where the women also relocated, leaving behind their temporary quarters upstairs at Sutterdam Pottery.

  Hartling was in a sorry state. One of his hands had been crushed, and the bones had reknit distorted and useless. Also, blows had knocked out many of his teeth. But his most grievous injury was his splintered mind. Norling hoped that familiar surroundings would comfort him; yet mostly he lay wherever they put him, still and impassive. He had to be spoon-fed. They had to remind and assist him in using the chamber pot. Intermittently he would surface from his fog, recognize his sister, and speak to them lucidly; it always broke Norling’s heart when his personality slipped away again into a dull apathy.

  Gustie wandered through the dusty house, unoccupied for more than a year, opening windows and airing out the musty smell. The room that Thalen had once shared with his brothers sat untouched, its very neatness a sign that no one lived there now.

  In the days that followed, when she wasn’t occupied Gustie would leaf through Thalen’s books, bemused by his eclectic collection. She wondered whether he was still alive, and she wondered how her life would have turned out if she had had a love affair with him rather than Quinith. She had heard nothing of Quinith’s whereabouts, and every day his image in her mind grew fainter, though she found that if she closed her eyes and concentrated she could still hear his voice in
her head—not any specific words, but the music of his mellow inflections.

  Nursing and homemaking hardly lay within Gustie’s ambit; still, she did what she could to help, whether this meant heating broth or sponging Hartling clean. Now, suitably attired in a more modest though slightly moth-chewed dress that had come from an upstairs chest, she was also the person who went out daily, both to scan the sparsely stocked markets for food and to gather news of the latest skirmishes.

  She knew that when General Sumroth had left the Free States he had taken with him most of his best troops. At the Poison Banquet, Gustie had killed a large proportion of the officers stationed in Sutterdam, and the fighting with the freed Sutterdam slaves had further reduced the strength of the Oro garrison. Still, the leaderless Oro soldiers fought back against the Defiance with skill, discipline, and weapons the civilians did not possess. The Sutters lost as many engagements as they won and took more casualties.

  Finally, the Oros—deciding they could no longer defend themselves against raids in Sutterdam—decided to pull out.

  The news spread that the occupiers, more than two thousand strong, had retreated en masse behind the ancient walls of Jutterdam, the largest city in the Free States. Through torture they uncovered the names of the most highly placed figures of the Defiance there; the Oros burned the bodies of the Crones and children in the town square and left them hanging as an object lesson to Free Staters not to plot against them.

  Ikas told Gustie that Mother Rellia had relocated her headquarters to the outskirts of Jutterdam and that fighters from all over the Free States flocked to her banner, the Free States four-quadrant flag. Two days later, Ikas and his troop gathered their sparse weapons and departed Sutterdam to lend their might.

  Gustie wanted to leave immediately, but her conscience pricked her at the idea of Norling alone, caring for such a sick man. Besides, she admitted to herself, the Defiance needed Norling’s strategic mind more than one semi-skilled archer, no matter how eager she might be. Gustie tried to swallow her pride and impatience.