A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  Nana noted with mingled approval and disappointment that despite her trials the girl sounded exactly as if she had been giving orders all her life. “I will start the tap for the bath, then send for a tray.”

  When she came out of the bathing room after turning on the faucet she saw that Cerúlia had taken off her boots and begun to unlace her bodice. “Nana, did you know that Percia of Wyndton is my sister, my foster sister? Do you remember the day I met her, in West Park?”

  “You know Lordling Marcot’s intended? Oh, aye, that muckwit of a footman said that yer her sister.”

  “How did it happen that I arrived the day before her wedding?”

  Nana lifted her hands in a helpless gesture at the coincidence, though privately she suspected Nargis’s intervention. “Spirits save us, Chickadee, even if we don’t know why.

  “As for garments, yer dear mother’s wardrobe lies through the passageway. I’ve been watching over it for years—turning the gowns so they don’t set wrinkles, airing them out, keeping the moths away. I imagine I can find something to suit.”

  She took a measuring look at Cerúlia. “Though girl! Yer father gave you a bit of his height! Yer taller than Queen Cressa was. If I hadn’t shrunk over the years you’d be as tall as me. I’ll have to find one of her longest skirts.”

  “Who is this?” said the princella, bending to stroke the orange cat that had just slipped in through the Passageway of Lost Babes. He arched his back and held his tail straight as he vigorously rubbed against her leg.

  “Don’t you recognize Plump-pot? He was one of yer kittens when you left. He’s an old man, now, but he seems to know you. The last thing you asked me was to watch out for yer pets, and I did.”

  “Ahhh. I knew you would. I’ve worried about many things over the years, but I never worried about that.”

  “Humph,” Nana grunted, feeling both taken for granted and gratified, as she strode to the doorway to send under-maids a-scurrying.

  43

  Matwyck didn’t like surprises. Part of his sense of control came from always being well-informed. A new guest at his table? A traveling sister who fortuitously appeared right before the wedding?

  Thus, Matwyck was relieved to see that Naven and his wife recognized the woman.

  So she really is a Wyndton lass. Very well. I will question her later.

  He might have thought more about this provincial visitor, but several knotty situations swirled about him in the Salon of Queen Cinda, one of the rooms that ringed the upper stories of the Throne Room with a balcony. Moonlight shining through the panes of stained glass of the Throne Room leaked in through large, window-like openings onto this balcony. The light added a prismatic halo to the lantern glow that shone on the guests’ jewels and gowns, on the sparkling table settings, and on the centerpiece ice statues. All in all, the room presented a magical sight, but Matwyck was beset from all sides.

  His intended, Lolethia, was jealous about the amount of money and elaborate pomp going into Marcot’s wedding. She complained that it would drain the treasury and upstage her own nuptials.

  Of course Matwyck couldn’t tell her that after the assassination attempt had failed he’d had to pretend that he was wholeheartedly behind this match in order to assuage suspicion. Marcot was no fool, and even that buffoon Naven could be wily. Besides, with the marriage going forward, Matwyck decided he could turn it to his advantage after all: it might be good for his image to embrace this commoner—show his sympathy with the little folk and such. So he had ordered a large wedding. Surely Councilor Prigent could squeeze the money out of one cache of the treasury or another. That weasel had his tricks. He smiled benignly in Prigent’s direction.

  At every course, every new bottle of wine, and every new china setting, his sweet little crumpet sent daggers at him.

  “Darling, wait until you see what I have planned for us!” he whispered in her ear.

  “Will we use the plates with golden patterns?”

  “Everything will be the best in the realm.”

  Tirinella would never have shown such petty jealousy. It would have been beneath her to dwell on such trifles.

  The room did look quite grand. The forty-odd dukes and duchesses, his own factotums and key allies, and the family of the bride sat dispersed amongst two long tables. Matwyck was seated, of course, in the middle of the High Table raised up on a dais, with Lolethia at his side, and Marcot, seated in between his betrothed and her mother, across from him.

  The bride’s family caused no trouble. They had agreed to all the arrangements, respectful and uncomplaining. No, the second problem lay in the fact that most of his invitees behaved arrogantly toward his new relations. Matwyck didn’t appreciate it when they raised their eyes at the little brother’s country manners or tittered at the mother’s unfashionable dress. He tallied up the cutting remarks; someday those snobs would pay. They had forgotten that he, Matwyck, was lowborn as well, and he took their insults as personal slights.

  But while Matwyck could watch the nobles and keep count for a later reckoning, Marcot was having a very difficult time stomaching their condescension toward his betrothed and her party. Matwyck had to keep one eye on his son, ready to intercede to keep him from speaking his mind, causing a scene, or worse.

  Duchess Latlie was sniggering about something with Lady Dinista. Matwyck couldn’t catch their words, but their glances revealed that the object of their scorn was the weaver. Marcot glared at the women and opened his mouth.

  “My son, you are failing at your host duties,” Matwyck smiled as he intervened just in time. “Pray, refill Mistress Stahlia’s glass. And let’s get your lovely bride another serving.…” He summoned the servant and managed to distract Marcot from responding in anger.

  By dint of adroit machinations, Matwyck succeeded in steering everyone safely through the main courses. Before sweets were served, preparations commenced for the evening’s entertainment, a presentation of the Wedding Pageant.

  Showing this one flash of stubbornness, Percia had insisted that the Wedding Pageant be part of the ceremonies, but she had acquiesced, with maidenly grace, to Matwyck’s suggestion that it be performed at this smaller, prenuptial banquet rather than tomorrow. Marcot (so besotted) insisted on dancing with her, and had arranged for Cascada’s troupe of Royal Dancers to fill out the corps.

  The meek sister helped Percia by tying her hair up in a ribbon that matched her peach-colored gown, detaching her outer skirt, and sliding on a pair of golden wrist cuffs. Marcot took off his constricting jacket and handed it to a servant. The musicians took up their instruments to play a prelude. Many of the guests stood up or turned their chairs so as to have a better view of the entertainment. The dancers took their places in the portion of the large room purposely left uncluttered by tables.

  The Wedding Pageant, Matwyck discovered, is a narrative dance. Percia and Marcot walked to meet one another in the middle; they danced with their raised hands just barely touching one another’s. Then the troupe separated them—Percia to the left and Marcot to the right of the room. The dancers surrounded the lovers with obstacles by enclosing them in rings of crossed arms, or by having new people try to entice them away from their betrothed. As the music rose to a crescendo, the lovers evaded the obstacles and came together again in the final figures, to dance arm in arm under a canopy of sprays of willow branches held by the troupe.

  Marcot’s joyous face when the dance brought him back to Percia tugged (a bit) at his father’s heart.

  I wonder if they will be happy together after the initial infatuation has worn off. But why not let the boy follow his groin for his first wife? I will have many opportunities to get rid of her if a better match comes along.

  Matwyck thought the folk dance rather pretty, but he saw his guests smiling to one another condescendingly.

  As the Royal Dancers departed and the wedding guests regained their seats, his own betrothed wrinkled her darling nose at the elegant pastries sculpted in the shape of swans, wh
ich arrived on silver trays decked out with blue silk. When her pastry was set down in her plate, Lolethia leaned forward and caught the eye of General Yurgn’s younger son, Burgn. Yurgn had snubbed the wedding, sending this substitute in his place, claiming—or feigning—illness. Lolethia gave him a smoldering glance while licking custard off her spoon with long strokes of her little red tongue.

  You can misbehave in private, my little kitten, but never in public.

  Matwyck snuck his left hand under the table, grabbed a pinch of her soft flesh from her inner thigh through her silk gown, and twisted it, hard. She put the spoon down with a slight clatter.

  “Forgive me.” Matwyck turned to Duchess Pattengale on his right-hand side. “I didn’t hear your last comment.”

  “Oh, I was just saying how delightful the young couple looked dancing together,” repeated Pattengale, whom Matwyck had chosen as an inoffensive table companion, and one whose loyalty he rarely got the chance to put to the test.

  “Indeed!” agreed Matwyck, bringing his left hand back on top of the table and raising his glass in a half toast to his son and the flushed bride-to-be across the table.

  Pattengale moved on to discussing the financial stability of her duchy, a topic that interested Matwyck more than topics she had previously offered. He was occupied with trying to calculate in his head whether the taxes she remitted to the royal treasury were on the square; otherwise he might have noticed the stir at the Lower Table earlier.

  Duke Naven, whose face showed the effects of quite a bit of wine, presided there as host of the lesser nobles and lesser guests, such as Favian and Gahoa of Maritima, who had tottered out of their reclusive snootiness to attend this event. Percia’s sister had been hastily seated at Naven’s right hand. (Matwyck had moved Prigent to sit on her other side to try to draw her out, but she appeared too meek to converse with him.) Naven’s lady-wife sat at the foot of the table, with the gauche brother at her side.

  Someone had said something, and Naven had retorted and banged his hand down on the table in anger, which was what caught Matwyck’s attention. Silence fell at the Lower Table. Marcot had overheard the jibe; he turned around in his chair and sprung up—the chair falling down behind him—a look of righteous indignation on his face.

  “How dare you, Duke Inrick!” cried Marcot in a fury. “Your thoughts would shame a tavern rat! I will not have my bride insulted by a lickspittle like you—a corrupt lickspittle!”

  Inrick rose too, swaying slightly, his hand reaching toward his sword’s hilt. “Lordling Marcot, you may have a taste for country flesh—I’ve sampled those wares often enough in my youth—but, my fine fellow, surely you can’t object when people of quality find humor in your buttermilk craving!”

  Marcot launched himself down the dais straight onto the tabletop of the Lower Table, landing with a crash. He then leapt off the table to stand facing Inrick. Dishes and glasses flew everywhere, breaking and splashing the guests’ finery. Marcot grabbed a nearby water flagon and threw the contents into Inrick’s face.

  Meanwhile, the young brother jumped from his seat, pulling his sword from its scabbard. It was only half size, but its glint showed its quality as fine steel.

  “My sister is worth twelve of you!” cried Tilim. “Take it back—whatever it was you said.”

  Inrick lazily wiped the water from his face and laughed at the lad, pointedly ignoring Marcot. “Oh, bravo, the milkmaid is defended by the pig’s boy!” He clapped his hands slowly and dramatically, looking around the tables for appreciation of his jibe.

  Duke Favian stood up on his tottering legs. “Gentlemen, gentlemen—” he began with his hands outstretched, taking a placating tone.

  Marcot had pulled his sword and started to advance on Inrick. “You will answer—”

  Matwyck had to take charge before events got further out of hand; certainly he was not going to let Maritima interfere. “Duke Inrick,” he interrupted, speaking calmly, even lazily, “I know you have a pressing engagement elsewhere. It was so kind of you to join us this long.” He paused and sipped his wine. “We won’t keep you from it.”

  Inrick looked thunderous; he pushed Marcot out of his way and strode out of the room, his whole body stiff with fury. Burgn threw his napkin into the closest pastry swan, breaking its delicate neck, and followed with deliberate swagger.

  Matwyck motioned to the guards in the room with his eyes so that they followed Inrick. Then, before the guests could stir or discuss the scandal, the Lord Regent stood up, holding his wineglass.

  “My friends,” he said, “I can’t tell you how touched and honored I am to have you at my table to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of my only son, Marcot, to the lovely Percia of Androvale.” He turned to the Lower Table. “Naven, your duchy grows fine hardwoods and fine apples, but nothing nearly so fine as its womenfolk.

  “Although personally, another duchy’s bountiful beauty has caught my eye.” (A ripple of polite laughter made Lolethia smile with her little white teeth.)

  “Before us tonight we are graced with several exquisite examples: your lovely lady-wife, the duchess (polite applause); my newest and dearest friend, the tapestry artist Mistress Stahlia, who is as talented as she is gracious (polite applause); and my lovely daughter-to-be, Percia of Wyndton (polite applause). Oh, and her sister, her sister…” Prigent mouthed the name to him. “Her sister, Wren, another forest marvel.”

  “You will join me in a toast to the loveliness of the ladies of Androvale!” Matwyck raised his glass. His guests dutifully moved to raise theirs, but Matwyck was not satisfied. “Gentlemen, please!” He looked around the room. “Is this the gallantry of Weirandale? When we toast beautiful ladies, we rise to our feet!”

  Marcot and Tilim still stood in anger. His nobles, stuffed with his fine food, sleepy with his fine wine, knew who held the strings of power in Weirandale. They all obeyed his tug—the puppets rose off their comfortable seats at his command and raised their glasses.

  Matwyck’s eyes flicked over the assembly. Percia and her mother looked embarrassed. Marcot’s knuckles were bloodless around his wineglass stem. Naven, mollified, quaffed down his glass. Duchess Naven, who had a quicker mind, was more aware that she had just been used as a distraction; she averted her face. The duchess of Maritima had placed a calming hand on Tilim’s wrist, which was trembling.

  The plain sister in an ill-fitting green gown looked down at her plate and then looked up. For half a second her glance met Matwyck’s; then she looked down again. He’d had a fair bit of wine himself; for a moment he couldn’t think of the word to describe the expression on her face.

  Weighing?

  A common wench from Wyndton judging me?

  44

  A remembrance of bedtimes past—of her mother’s affectionate visits—pervaded Cerúlia’s old bedchamber, so despite the tension of the banquet, her heartbreak over Wilim, and her dread over trials to come, she slept soundly in the bed she had used as a child.

  Nana woke her up with a tray in the midmorning sun, and when she opened her eyes, the first thing she realized was that today was Percia’s wedding day.

  In yesterday’s flurry, Nana had not had the opportunity to fit the green gown to Cerúlia’s form. However, Nana had insisted on pinning the dress she’d selected for the wedding—a beige-colored brocade gown with a brown lace overlay—and during last night’s supper she had cajoled her friends amongst the seamstresses to use the lace from the back panel to add an extra flounce at the bottom and wide circle lace cuffs. These three extra thumb-widths were all the dress needed to fit.

  Cerúlia complimented Nana on her choice and her hard work (though what mattered most to her was if a gown allowed her to secrete her dagger on her person under the lace panel). She had felt naked without it last night and would feel doubly naked without it today. Especially after attracting Lord Matwyck’s attention. She feared he would grow suspicious of her and that he would try to question her today.

  And he had—or Lady Tenny had had—
a magic stone.

  “Nana, you recognized me immediately. So too, once long ago, did a noblewoman, Lady Tenny, who spoke with me in Gulltown. Will she be at the wedding today?”

  “Lady Tenny! Haven’t heard that name in years. No, Tenny has joined the Eternal Waters.”

  “What? Her too? How did she die?”

  “The rumor is that she jumped off of SeaWidow Cliff. But there’s them that wonders if she crossed Matwyck and was pushed. Tenny was smarter than most. And she knew your sweet mother well; I can see how she’d be able to recognize you.”

  Nana lay the dress down carefully and picked up both a hair ribbon she had chosen to accompany it and an argument she kept harping on.

  “Girl, I don’t understand. Why won’t you use the distraction of the wedding to breach the Throne Room?”

  Cerúlia strode over to the window, looking out at Nargis Mountain for strength.

  “All my life I have used people, Nana,” she said. “Put them in danger to hide me. Lied to them. Deserted them. My foster father died to protect me; he was as dear a man as drew breath, and his suicide has devastated my Wyndton family. Perchance even this Lady Tenny died because she protected me.

  “I always believed that I had the right to do whatever I had to do because of the higher calling of reclaiming the Nargis Throne. This has to stop sometime. It has to stop today. It’s dishonorable.

  “I will not assume the throne by disrupting my sister’s wedding. I can’t believe that Nargis would want me to.”

  Nana made disapproving tongue clicks. “Sometimes duty comes before druthers. And it’s hard to know what a Spirit wants.” She gave a huge sigh. “Sometimes I’m not sure the Spirits know what they want.”

  Cerúlia felt her nursemaid’s pressure, but she kept quiet. She had decided, and she did not intend to yield.