Northern Lights, Southern Stars

by C. S. Johnson

  If I do not have his heart, or the heart of my people, what more do I have left?

  Maru left me shattered after Rion’s father died. He’d told me upfront he would never love me as he had loved his first wife, and the more determined I was to get him to break his promise, the more stubborn he was about keeping it.

  When Hortensia informed me he’d died from a broken heart, I was tempted to tell her the broken heart in question was mine.

  “We can also use this to mend our kingdom’s inner struggles ... ”

  Rion is still talking to me, telling me of his plans. I already know I will grant him his wish, and I get the feeling, as he goes silent and looks up at me expectantly for an answer, he already knows this too.

  That is when I notice it.

  “What happened to my tree?” My words are harsher than I mean, but I am rightfully angry.

  My garden is my own; it is a place I’ve cultivated and grown, a place where I can retreat from the rest of the world.

  And now its premises have been desecrated, and its fruit had been stolen.

  “What’s wrong, Mother?” Rion looks confused, and, not for the first time, I feel the temptation to hate him, too.

  It is too easy to remember how, when they were younger, Rion and Ebony would come in here and rustle things up, sneaking a treat like it was nothing.

  This was the one place in all the world I could be myself—where I could admit my heart’s unhappiness and, later, my face’s dimming beauty—and they just had to ruin it for me, didn’t they?

  Ebony just had to ruin everything for me. Maru broke my heart and died, and with him died all my dreams of embracing the Maruli. They were only traitors, complicit parties in my heart’s demise, all of them.

  “This is Ebony’s fault, isn’t it?” I step up next to the trunk of my favorite tree, looking at where an apple used to hang. I can see the large gap where it should be, and I feel my anger stir.

  “Perhaps the apple just fell?” Rion’s voice sounds strangely light, and I know he is protecting her. “Or perhaps you—”

  “Perhaps I what?” My lips curl into a snarl as he falls into silence. Rion has an inkling of Hortensia’s influence on me, but he does not know how much I have been working on progressing my magical talents.

  Reaching out, I grab the branch and yank it. The wood snaps off quickly, thanks to the help of my inner rage and the magic it fuels.

  Rion takes a telling step back as I throw it on the ground in front of us. Visceral pleasure courses through me at his shocked expression, and I revel it putting him in his place. A small whisper of smoke blows between us, leftover power from my body.

  “Should I call for Hortensia?” Rion asks. His voice is flat and disproving. “Or perhaps another one of your ladies in waiting?”

  “No.” I clasp my hands together, letting my fingernails dig into my knuckles. “I am in complete control of myself, my son—this time.”

  I feel even more triumphant as he gives me a curt nod.

  Rion does not approve of my magic. He does not approve, and that is because he does not understand.

  But then, how could he ever understand? When others love you for your beauty, and then your beauty fades, there is no longer any power you can wield over them.

  Rion has always had someone to love him. I was always here for him, a point I’ve striven to make time and time again throughout his life. I wasn’t the only one who was here to love Rion, either.

  Rion had me, but he was a young boy who’d lost his father. Many of the servants here rallied around him, eager to shower the boy with affection in hopes of replacing the force of love that had been shut off.

  It didn’t take long for the rest of the world to follow, thanks to Rion’s cunning and his natural good looks, which he got from both me and his father. Even Maru adored him as a son, telling me how he approved of him.

  Of course, then there was Ebony and her songs ...

  Oh, how I hate that girl!

  I never knew how lovely the dark skin of a Maruli could be until I met Maru, and I never knew how ugly it could be until I saw Ebony.

  Early on I’d learned she was heralded as the heir to her mother’s mythic beauty, I always felt a keen disgust and pity for her, especially after I saw the sickening affection her father and nation had for her. They would fawn over her, but she was nothing special. Her skin was as dark as her father’s, her hair always curling out in black clouds or braided back and woven with a sense of pride and security that made me retch. When she first came to Pommier, it seemed everyone was willing to follow Maru’s lead into idol worship of her, and my son was not immune.

  All while I suffered, and no one noticed.

  No one notices now, either.

  Rion doesn’t know what it is like to be me, where everyone only sees a fair face as I go about the business of running the kingdom; all the while, my own heart is breaking and my future is dying.

  And here is my son, discussing how he will go about celebrating while my future is dying, too. He will have us throw a party to show off our wealth and wonders here in Pommier, and we will even show our goodwill by inviting the Maruli, including those in the Colonial Equality League and the Refugee Return Moment.

  I almost pity my son for how foolish he sounds.

  But I know I can use this against him, and I can also use it as a way to keep him from Ebony, and with the world leaders here, I will be in a position of strength to argue for their daughters’ hand in marriage to my son.

  Anything to keep him from being happy with Ebony.

  Anything.

  “So you are agreed to this, Mother?” Rion’s voice is hopeful again.

  “Yes. That is fine,” I tell him. “I will have Horatio call for your assistants in this endeavor.”

  “Assistants?”

  “There’s more to planning a party such as this than simply deciding on it,” I remind him. “There is the food to prepare and the rooms to clean, the invitations to send, and much, much more. Of course you will need assistants for all of this.”

  I add several more items to his list. I enjoy watching his hopeful eyes dim with the realization that, if there is any joy to be had in this world, it is only obtained through careful planning and sacrifice.

  “Thank you, Mother,” he says, as he bows and excuses himself.

  “I will tell Horatio to come to you in the throne room,” I say, hiding a smirk. “I will see if I can find Enri, too, and seek out his council.”

  “Thank you.”

  I can count on Enri to keep Rion busy; Enri will not be happy with Rion’s return, especially since my son is already concerned about the Maruli here in Pommier. Enri will not like changing our set practices for dealing with the Maruli, and I can count on him to delay any real change significantly, if not indefinitely.

  As I leave the garden, I silently add another chore to my list.

  I will see to it that Ebony is reminded of her place.

  She will not be allowed to have any joy of her own, especially if it comes at the cost of mine.

  *6*

  Ebony

  I’VE BEEN POLISHING the silver in the den of the West Wing for hours, but I feel lighter than ever. I hum constantly and brightly, any and every song I know, from the most solemn of hymns to the most bawdy of drunken ballads. It keeps me company and takes me away from the drudgery of work to the joyfulness of dreams. As I sing and work Rion’s apple, tucked safely away in my apron’s front pocket, jostles next to me, as if keeping time and rhythm for me.

  “You’ve always had such a cheerful heart, even after your father died, Miss Ebony.”

  I smile, turning toward the far end of the room. “Vi. There you are.”

  Her voice is coming from a grand mirror, its finery unmatched as it lords over all the other items scattered throughout the room. Viola, my speciava, has come to watch over me.

  “Were you waiting for me?” she asks. “I might’ve come sooner, if you’d started in here. You kn
ow I can’t go where there are no mirrors.”

  “Adele told me to take care of the library and the lavatories first since I was late getting started this morning,” I explain. “Word has it that we are expecting some important guests.”

  “The prince is not a guest in this house, I’ll remind you,” Vi says with a huff.

  “Fabrice came today and said that there’s going to be guests coming to the palace from several countries.” I put down the spoon I have been polishing. “He’s the Queen’s personal dresser, so he would know for sure. You might not have heard yet, since you don’t like to go near the Queen’s rooms.”

  Vi’s purple-glowing eyes dim at the mention of the Queen. “That is true,” she admits. “But I did see the Prince is here, too. His rooms are getting aired out and arranged as we speak.”

  “I know he’s here.” I debate whether or not to tell her I’ve already met with him when she laughs.

  “Well then, that’s the reason for all your liveliness today, is it?” Vi studies me carefully. “You’re a girl content to dream her way out of this world, but when you’re forced to be stuck with the rest of us mortals, you’re able to bring a bit of Heaven down with you. And today you have an extra reason to be here.”

  “Well, thank you for the compliment.” I wipe my hands off on my apron. “But you’re wrong, you know. You’re an immortal yourself, like the rest of us humans. We are just cloaked in mortal dressings.”

  “I have already had my mortal dressings stripped away,” Vi reminds me. “How else do you think a speciava gets trapped in a mirror?”

  “But you’re not dead.” I frown. “I suppose I’m not entirely familiar with the mirror magic. It is magic, after all, and forbidden to those who follow Christ.”

  “I’ll agree it’s demonic, and you’re better in staying away from it.” Vi shakes her head, letting the wisps of her white shadow flow all around her. “There’s a reason it’s something only the Queen’s shamans and other practitioners mess with. It’s pretty complicated.”

  “I’ll take your word on that. The only magic I know of is love, and that can be confusing and complicated, too.”

  “You know more than love,” Vi says. “You know of hope and faith, and others, too.”

  “But all of those are born out of love,” I reply. “And God himself is love and those in his love he moves in accordance with his will.”

  Vi’s face twitches. She doesn’t like it when I talk of God. Given that the reason she is trapped in the mirror is because of demonic magic, and there is no mercy possible for her other than the release of death, I can understand her displeasure. No decent folk would engorge themselves on sweets while a starving audience stood watching.

  “I already talked with Rion,” I say, divulging my secret. “He told me he’ll talk to his mother about me and the other Maruli people.”

  “Good. It’s awful that she’s reduced you to a servant in the palace.” Vi scowls. “Hopefully, he’ll be able to convince her to stop such nonsense. I still don’t know why you’ve submitted to her in this regard.”

  Vi probably thought I could try to return to Marula on my own, but my request to return with my father’s body had been denied four years ago, and, since then, Queen Varyes made sure she closed that option completely. But Rion promised me he would come back and take me with him next time, and now that he is home, I might have another chance at returning.

  That would be wonderful. My heart leapt at the thought of seeing the wide, open plains, the scattered desert trees, the high grasslands and the smaller scattered cities of the tribes.

  I sigh as I look around the room I am in. The Queen would never let me return to Marula; in many ways, I am fortunate that I have as much as I do, though I wonder if Vi would say the same. She was allowed to stay as my speciava once I became a maid, and I am certain it was only because the Queen can use her to spy on me.

  “I don’t have much choice right now,” I finally say, which is part of the truth. The other truth is that I have been waiting for Rion to return. And in the meantime, I kept submitting to Queen Varyes’ requests. First it was that my wardrobe allowance be cut in half; next, I was asked to move to a smaller room; and then my staff was reduced, and I had to learn how to do the things they did. And now, of course, I was one of them.

  For a moment, I feel like crying. The changes had started out slowly and reasonably enough but Vi’s outraged reaction on my behalf makes me realize how shockingly poorly I was being treated.

  My father would never have stood for this.

  I push back my tears and turn back toward Vi. “Others have it worse, I’m sure,” I say, which is the truth. I have Rion, and my friends, and my faith.

  It is enough, and it has been enough for the past several years.

  I look at Vi and giggle. “Let me check my hair,” I say, and she steps off to the side of the mirror so I can see my reflection. After the long day, my headscarf has loosened with my sweat and work.

  “You look even more beautiful than usual today,” Vi says.

  “Thank you.”

  She sniffs loudly, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s not a compliment so much as an observation.”

  I duck my eyes, pleased with her comments despite the curt tone.

  Vi was always more of a governess to me, even when she was given to me. I’d been seven years old at the time, with full status as Princess of Marula. Now that I am indentured to the Queen, I respect Vi even more.

  Friendly relations between the light-skinned Pommierians and the dark-skinned Maruli were highly discouraged. Once both nations had been friends, but since my father’s death, tensions between the two groups had risen. Queen Varyes told me before part of it was the Maruli unhappiness at Prince Rion as their regent, but I do not know if I believe her; there are several Pommierians who are happy to coexist with the Maruli.

  I begin to hum a song as I work on securing my headscarf. It’s an older song, one I remember my mother singing to me as a lullaby, and I suddenly ache for her. Father told me that she was alive in our music, but it was still hard to know what she would think of Pommier, or of what was happening to our people, and what she would think of Prince Rion.

  I run my hands over my hair, fluffing it out. The tiny, tight curls delight in their freedom as they bounce, hanging down to my shoulders. My hair is rougher than most Pommierians’, but I enjoy its spirited defiance. Like my songs, it gives me hope and reminds me of who I am, and those who love me. As I tie it up in my headscarf again, binding my hair in the colors of my home nation, I feel as though I am not just securing my hair; I am solidifying my identity.

  “There.” I finish and smile up at Vi again. From the softened look on her ghostly face I know I’ve done an acceptable job. “That’s better.”

  “It goes well with your song.”

  “Thank you.” I don’t tell her how much I agree. “Father asked that I keep singing, even after Mother’s death. My mother loved music and I think it pained him when he had to sing without her.”

  “Is that why King Maru would never perform for Queen Varyes?”

  “I think so,” I say with a quick nod, before working on adjusting the slant of my headscarf once more.

  Though it is innocent enough, Vi’s question plagues me. I suspect the Queen wasn’t as sad as she insisted she was when he died. Father told me shortly before he died that he had failed to love her as she’d wanted.

  Even now, after living more than half my lifetime away from Marula, a life completely unrecognizable to my seven-year-old self, I fall back into the wonder of my family’s loss, false redemption, and tragic hurt.

  It wasn’t long after the death of my mother that Queen Varyes appeared with her ships, eager to establish her rule over Marula. We had been trading partners ever since Pommierian missionaries first made contact with us a few generations ago. The Queen wanted to make our kingdom hers, and my father, distraught over the thought of war, negotiated with her for days and hours before they came to
an arrangement—a marriage arrangement, to be precise.

  The story goes that Queen Varyes was at first repulsed by our people, but eventually grew to be amused by my father. When it was time to sign their treaty, Father asked her not to make him sing for her. In her haste, the Queen granted his request.

  She did not understand how much she would regret that as the years passed and her love for my father remained stubbornly unrequited.

  I look at the mirror again, looking at my reflection. In that regard, I truly pity Queen Varyes, no matter how much she has demeaned me. I doubt I would enjoy life as much, if I did not have the security of my father’s love, echoed so sincerely and certainly through his songs.

  Recalling Rion’s earlier request of me, my cheeks grow warm. As much as I might question his attraction to me, there is no doubting he would know the kind of request he was asking of me.

  “What is it?” Vi asks.

  “Nothing,” I murmur, knowing my answer is the worst lie I could’ve told.

  Before I can ask Vi if my headscarf looks good, another maid comes barreling into the den. Vi slips away from the face of the mirror as I recognize the bundle of bubbly energy dressed in a spotted skirt, with her hair’s auburn waves flying toward me.

  It is my friend Damaris. She is a newer worker at the palace, having joined the staff in the last year. Whenever she is able, she follows me around like a little duckling; she tells me she likes the company, while her many other siblings work in different parts of the castle.

  “Ebony, there you are!” Damaris radiates glee as she grabs my hands and pulls me into a spin. “I just heard the news! Prince Rion is home—”

  “Yes, I know—”

  “And he’s throwing a ball next week! Can you believe it?”

  “A ball?” I ask, as a small, nervous giggle escapes me, but Damaris doesn’t seem to hear me. She is already chattering on about the gowns, the decorations, the famous guests, and all the extra ribbons she will be able to buy with her pay.

  “Oh, Ebony, it will be so lovely,” Damaris says. “And you will look beautiful—”