A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  Head for the nearest park as fast as you can.

  “Damyroth, hold on!” she warned.

  Pillow and Cotton took off down the street at a gallop—or at least, the closest gait they could manage. In truth they ran at a speed that would have drawn even old Syrup’s contempt, but at least their pace was faster than a person could run, and that was what mattered.

  Cerúlia snuck another look behind. As if blown by a magic wind the smoke cloud kept pace above and behind them, pointing. In the distance Cerúlia could see the woman with the bow loping on a diagonal from a street that stretched east. She had cut them off and was almost approaching bow range.

  Veer left around that building, Cerúlia sent to the horses.

  She heard an arrow thunk into the wooden slat with tremendous force.

  “Damyroth, duck down!”

  We just have to outrace the archer. Cotton, how much farther to the park?

  One smells the grass ahead, sent Cotton.

  They had reached a more populated district of Salubriton, and people stared in shock at the running horses. Another arrow, shot with tremendous force, struck Pillow’s pannier, the one with the white dog inside. The dog yapped so Cerúlia deduced it had missed getting skewered. Ahead she saw an archway labeled “Park of Peaceful Risings.” Pillow came dangerously close to running over walkers with parasols, while Cotton jostled a mother holding a baby.

  “Watch out! Make way!” Cerúlia shouted, motioning with her arms, and then finally they raced through the archway. A third arrow struck the stone on the archway’s side, missing the princella by the span of a hand. Pedestrians screamed and rushed about wildly at the attack, and many cried out, “Help!” “Guards!”

  Gamels! I beg you! Create a big pileup of carriages at the archway.

  At last they were inside the park. The Pointing Hand hovered outside, apparently prevented by Restaurà’s Power from entering. Cerúlia hoped that the chaos at the gate and the guards racing in that direction might delay the woman hunting them.

  The horses, exhausted from their unaccustomed exertion, had slowed to a walk. Scanning around her, Cerúlia saw a group of well-dressed, chatting riders coming around a bridle path toward them.

  “Damyroth. There’s no time for any questions.” She pulled her foot out of the stirrup and slid down the side of the horse, then gathered up Cotton’s reins, which she passed to her friend. “Take the horses and mingle with that group of riders for as long as you can. Then just give Pillow her head and she’ll take you back to Vigor Hostelry. Cotton will follow along.”

  Damyroth gazed at her with grave concern. “Who is after you and why? Will you be safe?”

  “Yes. I’ll meet you at the Bread and Balm after I’ve shaken off pursuit. Go, now!”

  Whaki raised the basket’s top by pushing his nose through, saw that she was walking away on foot, and leapt the distance to the ground.

  Strollers shrieked, “Look out! There’s a dog!” but Cerúlia was already running for a wooded area in the park with the offending animal streaking at her heels. With any luck the archer would follow the horses a ways, until she discovered that Cerúlia was missing; then she would double back, searching for her prey, leaving Damyroth alone. But while the archer might have her scent, she didn’t know her footprint.

  Cerúlia ran as far as she could, but like the horses, she was not in any condition for such exertion. She needed to hide, but where? This park was smaller and not as manicured as the one earlier in the day; the landscapers had settled on a more rustic look. All she saw were trees and shrubs, bridle paths and footpaths, and a few small rolling hills.

  She turned to head back toward the park’s center. Between some trees she spied a small Pavilion, its white curtains swaying in the breeze.

  I’m going to hide in there, she told the dog. But what about you?

  This tree be empty, said Whaki, nosing a hollow log. Raccoons once lived here, but not this day. One can hide inside.

  Trying to walk calmly, Cerúlia angled her way onto a walking path that led to the Pavilion. Inside, she saw a small table that held burning incense that smelled of lavender, and a stack of damp, folded towels that smelled of lemon water. Two of the rocking beds were occupied: a young Wyelander lay comfortably reading a book in one, and a middle-aged woman slept in the other, a lemon cloth spread over her face. Seeing that they had both removed their shoes and covered themselves with the lilac-colored blankets that lay neatly piled in the Pavilion’s center, Cerúlia followed suit.

  After what seemed like forever, Whaki sent to the princella, She comes.

  Cerúlia covered her face with the lemon cloth and breathed rhythmically. Under the blanket she pulled her dagger.

  If the woman even looked inside the Pavilion, she did so noiselessly.

  She passed thee by.

  Be sure you get her scent, Whaki.

  Cerúlia must have dozed off for a little while. When she awoke the other occupants of the Pavilion had left. Whaki assured her the archer had disappeared from as far as his sharp nose could detect, so they both crawled out of their hideaways.

  All right. Now we need to get off the streets. Whaki, stay in the shadows, behind bushes or trees. I suspect fewer people are out strolling this late.

  Cerúlia led them back to the main walker’s path. Ahead stood another archway gate, leading back into the city streets, but the princella had lost her sense of direction. She sent Whaki to hide behind a bush and approached an elderly couple.

  “Excuse me. I fell asleep in the park, and now I’m disoriented. Do you know High Street? Could you point me in that direction?”

  “High Street runs for leagues through the center of the city,” said the old man, peering at her shortsightedly. “What part of High Street would you be wanting?”

  “I’m not sure. I do know a jewel shop near where my friends are staying. It’s called Many Facets. Does that help?”

  “Many Facets, Many Facets,” repeated the old man, and shook his head.

  “I know the place,” said his wife. “It’s near the cobbler’s where I got your clogs repaired. That’s Upper Middle High Street, damselle.” She pointed. “If you head that direction you can’t miss it. Once you hit High Street, will you recognize your way?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m certain I’ll be fine. You’ve been most kind.”

  Cerúlia, with Whaki keeping to shadows, slunk back to the Bread and Balm. Anxiously, she considered that the archer had seen the livery stable name on the horses’ blankets and panniers, but she didn’t think she’d ever told the stableman where she lived. But the crowd had seen Damyroth’s leg—how many recovery houses lay close to Vigor Hostelry?

  No one accosted the woman and the dog, but the gamels’ incessant cries of Yoo-hoo, Queenie, echoed through the dark streets, pointing her out to anyone with ears to hear.

  32

  Jutterdam

  The sun had just sunk behind a horizon of trees when Destra arrived at the checkpoint on the Post Road outside Jutterdam. She had laid aside the flowing white robe she habitually wore as magistrar of the Green Isles, and as she had no idea what Mìngyùn’s “Spinner” should wear, she’d settled on an outfit that could have come out of an ancient painting from the years of a royal court in Iga: a ruffled collar of white silk, a surcoat of beige velvet brocade with wide sleeves, and a wide, split-legged skirt of the same material. The pattern on the fabric swirled in a circular motif, flecked with gold thread. The only aspect of her appearance unchanged from her previous life was her long braid of hair, but she now wore an elaborate hat, and the gold streaks in her hair winked and shimmered next to the material.

  She found these clothes stiff and confining, especially for so many days on horseback from Sutterdam. The Defiance soldiers at the checkpoint, however, were sufficiently impressed by this costume that they immediately led her to the farmhouse that they identified as “Headquarters.” A bald man with an earring stood guard outside the door. He looked her over, satisfying himself
that she carried no weapons. Then he knocked on the door, announcing, “A lady asking for the commander.”

  The door was opened by a young lad. “Won’t you come in?” he invited her, rubbing eyes that looked heavy with sleep.

  As he led her closer to the fire and lanterns, Destra saw that one of his white shirtsleeves hung empty. “Forgive me for waking you,” she said. “I do need to consult with Commander Thalen.”

  The lad said, “He is sleeping now, milady. We sleep when we can. Is the matter so urgent I should wake him?”

  “I regret disturbing him, but yes,” Destra replied.

  “Very well. Won’t you take this chair by the table, milady? And may I offer you some wine or ale?”

  “Wine would be most welcome,” she smiled.

  The lad poured her a glass.

  “You are very kind,” she said. “You are?”

  “I am Tristo, milady, Commander Thalen’s adjutant. I should tell him who wishes to speak to him.”

  “My name is ‘Destra,’ lately of Pilagos, but originally of Jígat,” she answered. “But that name won’t mean anything to him. Tell him—tell him, I also claim the title ‘Spinner.’”

  As she waited, Destra sipped her wine and gazed around the room. It was a large Free States farmhouse common room. Its ceiling pressed lower, its walls stood thicker, and its hearth stretched wider than the Green Isles spaces she had lately occupied. The furniture appeared helter-skelter; a knitting basket and children’s toys had been jumbled in a corner, and assorted chairs and stools clustered around the large table. Pictures were stacked in a pile leaning against a corner, and someone had used the barren wall as a canvas for a hand-drawn map.

  In a few minutes a tall man entered the room. He was young, but his face was already careworn and hardened. Though he held his shoulders straight, his eyes showed not only fatigue, but also pain.

  Destra stood, and they regarded one another across the room for a long moment.

  “Tha-len of Sut-ter-dam,” she said, savoring the syllables. “At last we meet. I have heard of you since before the Occupation of the Free States. Master Granilton was my tutor, my friend, and a faithful correspondent.”

  “Milady, then you have me at a disadvantage,” said Commander Thalen. “Tell me, is a ‘Spinner’ analogous to a ‘Peddler’?”

  “Ah, so you have met Peddler and he revealed himself to you?”

  “Yes, on a ship sailing to Slagos.”

  She nodded. “We must have missed one another by moments, then, because I convened with Peddler and Gardener in Slagos.”

  “Oh, there’s a ‘Gardener’ too?” The commander raised his brows. “Won’t you be seated, milady? I see we have much to discuss. But first—Tristo!”

  “Aye, Commander,” said the adjutant, appearing at a doorway.

  “Could you fetch us some food?” Thalen pulled his hair back into a band and gestured with his chin. “And another wineglass.”

  He poured himself a glass and topped off Destra’s. “Now, milady, you have my attention until we finish supping; afterward, I’m afraid, there are scores of things I must attend to.”

  Destra needed to win this commander’s trust. She knew that showing trust was a method of winning it in return: she could demonstrate her faith in this stranger by putting her life in his hands.

  “I know you are fatigued, and you must have many things on your mind,” she said. “Pray indulge me a moment. I will sketch my tale quickly.

  “I was born in Jutterdam not too far from here. My father was drawn to statecraft; he served as mayor and then as an elector; my mother, however, was the scholar in the family. She specialized in birds. I showed aptitude in both areas.

  “I attended the Scoláiríum, where I read history with Tutor Granilton. In his house, I met his only son, Graville. Graville was—well, Graville became very dear to me. We made plans for a wedding. But first we undertook a trip to the Green Isles. It was part holiday and part a favor for my mother. She studied birds, as I told you, and she wanted us to pick up several specimens. When we sailed to a small isle to purchase a rare black parrot, our ship was boarded by Pellish pirates. They killed Graville.

  “I did not have the heart to return to the Free States. I made my home in the Green Isles and tried to make myself useful to the people there. Not many years after I settled in Pilagos, the Islanders nominated me as magistrar. I served in that post for nearly twenty years.

  “If it was not the life I planned, it was a useful life. Oh, often wrangling about tariffs or harbor dredging grew tiresome, but I built up relations between the isles. I played a role in the Allied Fleet’s efforts to defeat the Pellish pirates. And when my friend Master Olet came to me for advice and help in setting up a supply chain for a special team of Raiders, I did everything in my power to help him and his associates, a Master Quinith and a Master Hake.”

  Thalen had listened intently, staring at her face, leaning forward, his hand in his chin. The last sentence moved him to speak.

  “You know my brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hake is in Sutterdam at present, but Quinith is here. Well, not in this farmhouse, but somewhere close by. He’s supervising our provisions and arms.”

  “That’s good news,” she answered. “He’s very capable. And he would vouch for me, if you need someone to confirm the public parts of my story.”

  Thalen made a gesture with his hand that this was not necessary.

  “So,” she continued, “I had made good use of my talents, such as they are. I thought I had contributed enough. Living so long in the Green Isles I had adopted their ways—their dress, their food. I gave thanks to their Spirit, Vertia, the Spirit of Growth, for the blessings bestowed on the islands.”

  The adjutant interrupted them at this point by bringing in two steaming plates. They waited in silence as he set one before each of them and left the room.

  “Please continue your story,” Thalen said, attacking his food with hunger, though his eyes didn’t leave her face.

  “Three moons ago, however, I was summoned to Slagos. There I met with a man I had known for decades, Gardener, who tends the Garden of Vertia. And he introduced me to a visitor, a man who termed himself ‘Peddler.’”

  “What does Peddler look like?” Thalen asked, and he nodded assent when she described the bells in his hair and beard and his round green eyes.

  “He’s very clever at Oblongs and Squares,” Thalen remarked.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that.” Destra quirked an eyebrow. “Anyway, in Vertia’s Garden, I underwent a change. I became Mìngyùn’s Spinner. And Mìngyùn ordered me to return to the Free States.” Destra drew a breath. “More specifically, the Spirit ordered me to return home, find you, and help you drive the Oros from our country.”

  There. As fantastic as the whole tale sounded once spoken aloud, she had followed Mìngyùn’s order, revealed herself, and delivered her offer.

  Thalen rubbed his hands over his eyes and face. The silence grew long.

  “That’s quite a story,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Yes. Do you believe me?” Destra sought to read his face.

  “I believe that you are telling me what you believe to be true—I see no lie in your eyes. But I’ve always had some … difficulties with the Spirits. And I’ve barely even heard of this ‘Mìngyùn.’”

  “A skeptical mind,” Destra smiled. “Granilton and Graville too. So.” She held her palms up in the gesture one would use to order “halt,” and then pantomimed moving something in front of her to the side. “Set the Spirits aside for now.

  “I served as magistrar for twenty years—a fact that you can easily confirm with Quinith if you summon him.”

  “I shan’t wake him,” said Thalen, shaking his head. “There’s no need. You carry authority on your shoulders.”

  “Although I am not a warrior, I counseled Queen Cressa and Prince Mikil,” Destra replied, “throughout the Allied Fleet’s war with the Pellish
pirates. Are there any aspects of this campaign that worry you? What’s the state of affairs? How stands the siege?”

  Destra ate her cooling food and listened while Commander Thalen described the morning’s battles and his fears of what would happen next.

  “I don’t know what I would do, faced with a hostage situation,” he admitted. “Nor do I know if the Defiance will stand firm. But if we fold, the Oros will resupply and even retake more territory. All the sacrifice to corner them in Jutterdam will have been wasted.”

  “Commander,” Destra said, “I have a question for you.” She pushed her plate away and leaned forward on both elbows.

  “Is it necessary to kill more Oros to assuage your anger, or is it sufficient that the invaders leave the Free States?”

  Thalen took a few moments before he started to speak. He had to clear his throat.

  “Yesterday, I learned that one of my closest friends from the Scoláiríum had been killed by the Oros. I had thought that I was done with vengeance. Yet on top of all my other losses, this death shook my sanity. I roared with bloodlust. I wanted to hack as many of them to pieces as I possibly could.”

  He looked at his hands and Destra followed his glance, but his hands were clean and she did not see whatever image filled Thalen’s mind. “Milady Destra, this now seems monstrous. I have already killed hundreds, if not thousands of my enemies. I helped burn a city of civilians to the ground. That … is not the person I thought I was. Killing more Oros will shatter me.

  “All I want is to save Jutterdam. Perhaps saving Jutterdam would balance burning down Femturan.”

  “I know well the desire for vengeance, Commander.” Destra folded her hands and rested her chin upon them. “I have taken no husband, no lovers, for twenty years. Vengeance has been my nightly companion. Earlier I claimed I have lived a useful life. Useful, perhaps. But hollow and lonely, because I could not let go of my phantom. Believe me, I tried; but it always crept back.”

  “I tried too,” said Thalen, his eyes distant, “and thought I had succeeded. And then you lose more, and fury roars again.”